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The Commissioners took their seats at 10 a m., and complaints Nos. 17, 79, 96, 129, and 134, relating to the Heretaunga block, were called on for hearing.
The following were the complaints, as published in the Hawke's Bay Provincial Government Gazette:—
No. 17—Te Waaka Kawatini against Messrs H. Parker, T. Tanner, J. N. Williams, J. N. Wilson, G. E. Lee, and J. Cuff—Complainant states that they have taken his land from him, and begs that the matter be looked into.
No. 79—Henare Tomoana, Peni te Ua, and others, against the put chasers. Nature of complaint: Sale, 300 acres of land; £500 promised to complainants, which has not been received. They beg that the transaction may be looked into.
No. 96—Manaena Tinikirunga against the purchasers. Complains that he never received payment for his share—the other grantees kept the money.
No. 129—Kaiaitiana Takamoana against Thomas Tanner, James Williams, J. D. Ormond, J. G. Gordon, Capt. Russell, and Capt. Hamilton Russell. Complaint—that alienation was made under circumstances of unfair pressure by and at the instigation of the parties complained against, or persons acting for and on their behalf; that complainant and several of the grantees were most unwilling to part with this the most valuable block of land in the province; that the price was greatly inadequate, and the consideration was not paid to the grantees in money, but was in a large proportion handed over to publicans and storekeepers, whose bills and demands arose to a great extent out of the supply of spirits and other liquors, which the grantees had in few instances an opportunity of examining; and
No. 133—Renata Kawepo and two others against the grantees. Complaint—that the land was leased, mortgaged, and sold without consulting outsiders on the division of the money.
No. 134—Hohepa te Ringanohu and eight others against grantees—complain that land was sold without consulting outsiders, and beg that it be returned.
Mr Sheehan appeared for the complainants; Mr Lee for Mr J. N. Williams; Mr Lascelles for Capt. W. R. Russell, and Caps. A. H. Russell; Mr Tanner, one of the respondents, appeared in his own behalf.
Mr Sheehan said that though Te Waaka's case appeared first on the list, he would prefer to open with another witness. It would greatly add to the convenience of these proceedings if all the complaints were treated as one case; and possibly the reason why so many separate complaints appeared in relation to the one series of transactions was this—that the natives imagined they were showing their personal importance by making a separate report. Yesterday he had obtained by the indulgence of the Commissioners a few horn's further adjournment, to the purpose that he might state his case fully at its opening; but he regretted to say that such was the magnitude of the case—so great the number of the witnesses to be examined,—and so large was the quantity of documentary evidence to be gone through—that it was impossible to give at the outset such a succinct outline of facts as he desired. Inasmuch as this Heretaunga block was possibly the most valuable that had been dealt with in this Province—that the grantees were leading natives, holding positions of considerable influence—and that the complaint would affect not merely publicans or storekeepers, like most of the others, but men of high public position, both in the province and colony—he thought it desirable at the opening of the cases, to lay the fullest possible explanation before the Commission. The question bad been asked how it was that this Province alone appeared to be the spot whence these complaints had arisen, and why there should be here a kind of general uprising of native owners in protest against the transactions which had taken place—but he confessed he had been unable to find a satisfactory answer. He was anxious—for the sake of other work than that on which he was at present engaged—to arrive at the real facts concerning these complaints—of the truth or untruth of which he was at present unable to satisfy himself. Up to the passing of the Native Lands Act very little native laud here had been alienated, and there appeared to be a strong objection
hapu on the subject, he applied to Europeans for advice, and was recommended by them to take the matter to a Court of law. On the best advice he could procure, action was taken in the Supreme Court to set aside the transaction. The case was ripe for hearing when Mr Tanner and his friends stepped in between the native and his counsel; procured a withdrawal of the action, and a transfer of Parker's arrangement to themselves. When the Commission became more fully acquainted with the particulars of this transaction, it would have no difficulty in coming to the conclusion that it was one of a very extraordinary character indeed. During hapu, a reserve of about 1,600 acres. These promises were kept entirely secret, both by the purchasers and the three grantees. It would be a part of his case to show the reason why these promises were given, which was this—these three were the leading men in the district and of the tribe to which Heretaunga belonged; and, their consent being obtained, little or no persuasion would be required to induce the remainder of the grantees to consent. Of the consideration Karaitiana received £1,500; Tomoana nothing in cash, Manaena—concerning whom he spoke with some degree of reservation—also alleged that he received nothing. The amount received by Karaitiana was much smaller than had been promised by the purchasers, but—and this was one of the extraordinary features of the case—he, Tomoana, and Manaena, were at present in receipt of annual payments amounting in the aggregate to, £300, which they had been informed were to last for ten years. Such was the state of ignorance in which they remained respecting the whole transaction, that they did not even know the name of their generous benefactor, and were not in possession of a tittle of evidence to show that they were entitled to this annual sum. Another grantee, Pahoro, was amongst those who had not the pleasure of handling any part of the consideration. In justice he must state that he was aware that £600 was paid to this native's order by the purchasers; and the Commission—one of the functions of which was to elicit facts relating to these transactions—might well look into this matter. In some mysterious manner the money—which Pahoro never sees—is transferred to a publican named Harrison, who invests in a flax-mill. He becomes bankrupt, and the concern, in which Pahoro is informed he is interested to the amount of, £600, is sold by auction for a nominal sum—and Pahoro never hears again of his money. He had not had time to master the whole of the numerous details, and facts might come out in evidence which would cause him to modify some of these opening remarks; but it would be clearly shown that throughout the whole of these transactions undue and unfair influence had been used to induce the natives to consent to the sale. The chiefs were being pressed for their debts, some of which were incurred for supplies for sections of the tribe which had gone out at the request of the Government to meet Te Kooti and the rebel natives. These claims, he was advised, had not yet been recognised by the Government, though application had been made by Karaitiana both to Mr Ormond and Mr M'Lean, to step in on behalf of the Government, and prevent their land going in that way. He
Karaitiana Takamoana, examined by Mr Sheehan, deposed: l am a grantee of Heretaunga block—one of ten. The grantees were—Henare Tomoana, Manaena Tinikurunga, Waaka Kawatini, Tareha, Matiaha Tuhutuhu, Paramena, Pera Pahoro, and Arihi. How many of these represent your own hapu?—Myself, Te Waaka, Tareha, and Manaena; Henare belongs partly to our side, and partly to another. I remember the land being passed through the Court. At the first land Court was anything said about tying the laud up?—Yes, at that time I objected to the names of Tareha and others; at the third Court Mr Tanner told Henare and I that the rest had no power to sell—it all rested with Henare and myself. I objected to the names of the proposed grantees. Mr Tanner suggested that I should allow their names to remain, because they would have no authority. They were the names of Tareha and others—I was opposing Tareha. When the land passed through, what was said as to tying it up?—We agreed to what Tanner said, and I asked Henare to tie the land up. Where was the Court sitting?—In Napier. Who was the Judge?—Judge Munro. I was not present at the Court, and I do not know of my own knowledge what took place. Did you afterwards find that a grant had been issued without restriction?—I heard that from Henare while the Court was sitting. Was Tanner then in occupation of any of the land?—Yes, he had a lease. After the land had gone through, was a, new lease given him?—Yes, he asked for it and we agreed to it. It was for 21 years, at £1,200 rental for ten years, beginning again at £1,500. Where was that lease signed?—I do not remember, the writing of that deed was not shown to us. Do you know where it was signed?—I cannot remember distinctly; some documents were signed at Napier, and some at Pakowhai. Was the deed sufficiently explained?—All in the lease was explained; but I objected. Nevertheless, you signed?—I objected to the documents when they were read to me; because they included the whole land; not only the portion leased. I told them it was only the portion leased, and already occupied by Tanner. What portion of the whole block?—I do not know the acres; it was the largest portion of the block that had been leased to Tanner before the block passed
Mr Sheehan here withdrew the statement made in his opening address—that Mr Ormond had recommended the witness to sell his land. He had been wrongly instructed, and on this point the evidence did not bear him out.
The Commission then (5.45 p m.) adjourned.
Mr Sheehan continued the examination of Karaitiana: During the time you were pressed to sell the block, was any pressure put upon you by your creditors? were any summonses issued?—Yes, for my debts. Do you remember the names of any creditors who summoned you?—Knowles and Sutton; they are the two. You told us you went to Auckland to see M'Lean?—Yes. Do you remember the occasion when the summons was served?—At the time I went to Auckland. How long before yon went on board the vessel?—The same day. (The Chairman: Were they for large sums?—Perhaps £100 each; I do not know how much more.) Do you know whether at this time Tanner and others were inquiring in Napier who your creditors were?—I thought at that time that they were doing so. Have you been informed so? [Question disallowed.] (The Chairman: What reason had you for thinking so?—Because Tanner was very strong at that time to get me to sell.) You said yesterday that you went to Wellington with Mr Stuart, and that there was a word that you should not take money from him for Heretaunga?—Yes. By whom was that said?—Mr M'Lean told Henare Tomoana and myself in Wellington, when we desired him to give us money. He replied that Tanner and Ormond said we had been taking money from Stuart, and he said, "Do not take money from Stuart; if you desire any money, come to me and I will give, it." Did M'Lean say that Tanner and Ormond had told him this?—He told us that Tanner and Ormond said we were not to take money from Stuart.
Mr Sheehan said he had now arrived at the question of accounts, and applied that he might be allowed to retire for a short time with the witness and an officer of the Court, to examine the vouchers which had been put in by Mr Tanner, This, if permitted, would greatly simplify the examination—Mr-Tanner was not only willing, hut desirous, that the application should be granted—The Chairman said he would grant the application. The course proposed was unusual; but the whole proceedings were of an unusual kind, and the Commissioners would make their own precedents.
Mr Sheehan accordingly retired, with the witness, the secretary, and the interpreter to the Commission After an absence of 45 minutes, he returned, and stated that the first side of the sheet handed in referred entirely to amounts paid to persons, other than the grantees, and to those accounts alone the vouchers related. Of those amounts, only one concerned Karaitiana—an item of £100, which he admitted. The vouchers before the Court only covered a sum of £5,800, out of £19,726. Did the other side intend to produce the cheques and other documents showing payment of the balance?—Mr Tanner: Certainly. Mr J. N. Williams took charge of the payments, and will produce the bank-book in proof.
Karaitiana's examination resumed: You have seen the vouchers handed in?—Yes. There is one for £100, signed by you, which you admit?—Yes. Have you ever received a statement of account similar to that now handed in by the other side?—A document, was shown to me. Do you know whether it was similar to the one in Court?—Yes. Was it merely shown to you or left in your possession?—It was shown to me. Yon were informed that of the £2,000 you were to receive £1,000 at the rate of £100 per annum?—Yes. Do you know what is to become of the £1,000 at the end of the ten years?—I will then get the body of that money.
Cross-examined by Mr Tanner: You stated that Knowles and Sutton issued summonses before you went to Auckland?—Yes. Was not this on the occasion of your attempted, not actual going?—No, it was when I went. Did you not put off your going?—No, not on any occasion. Did you not meet me at the toll-gate, and did I not ask you how it was you had not gone?—Yes. Te Heu Heu went, and I remained on account of the summons. He went in one steamer, and I went in the next. Did you not tell me that you were resolved before going to see how your debts were be paid, as you would not go with a load on your back?—I do not remember tip's taking place at the time. I do not remember meeting you there; I am not quite clear about it. Did I not ask you to have a meeting of natives at Pakowhai, in reference to the sale of Heretaunga?—I remember that clearly. When was that?—When the sale was first spoken of. Are you sure you do not remember meeting me at the toll-gate, by the horse-trough, and my expressing surprise that you were not gone to Auckland?—I am not quite clear about it—it may be so. Do you remember my asking you, at the same time and place, what you purposed doing to relieve yourself of the debt?—Those words took place on some occasion when I met you; I cannot say when; I met you frequently. Did you not reply, "I must either sell Heretaunga, or some other block of sufficient size to pay these debts"?—I did say so; but the particular occasion I do not remember. I did not
mana of the land had been broken by Tareha's and Waaka's sale?—I did not say that respecting my consent to sell. (The Chairman: Did you not complain that, the mana of the land was broken?—My words were that the land should not go; we would upset the work of Tareha and Waaka) Did you ever consent to sell the Heretaunga block?—I consented to your words, when you came to get our names, when Henare and I signed. Did you then know that the others would consent?—I did not know; the reason of my signing was the document showing mo Henare's debts. I was not agreeing to sell the land; I did not talk about selling. Was that the first occasion on which you became aware that Henare had debts?—I was not aware until you showed me: you were always showing them to me. Were you aware of them from any other person?—You were the only person wanting to buy, and it was from you only that I heard of the debts; you did not say what we should receive, but showed the debts as payment. Did you not hear of Henare's debts from himself?—Yes, on that occasion. Were you not aware, previously to this, that a writ had issued against Henare?—I was aware of it; the time you wished me to sell was the time of the summonses. Were they issued before or after the negociations to sell?—There was no period when you did not ask us to sell Heretaunga; and the summonses continually came to Henare—let him speak about them. Did you not raise particular objection to selling your interest, and ask us to let it remain conjointly with our own?—Those were my words, when you came to Pakowhai; I said my share should not go. Did you not say you would be quite satisfied if the others sold, so long as you retained your own share?—When you explained the debts the others owed, I said, "Let them be, it is their matter; but let my share remain." Did you then understand that the others were willing to sell?—I. was not aware of their consent. When did you first hear of Paramena and Pahoro's consent?—When we came in and finished the matter. Do you remember, when the agreement, was signed by Henare, allotting the money to the different members of the tribe?—No. Did you ever agree what should be the shares of the other grantees?—I did say so but it was not at the time of signing this document; it was when I came here to sign that I asked what the shares were to be. Was it at Cuff's office?—Yes. At the time of payment and final signing?—Yes. Do you remember, when the balance of the purchase-money was placed on the table, your taking it up and saying you would appropriate it to your own use?—Yes, clearly; that is quite correct—I said I would appropriate it. Yet you say that was the occasion when I asked what each person was to get?—Yes. What was the answer to that question?—The shares were arranged. Who did you ask what the shares would be?—They were all sitting at the office table, and I asked them. Who was the interpreter present?—Martin Hamlin. How came you to ask what each man was to get, when all the shares had been arranged? Who replied to your question about the shares?—There were two persons who could speak Maori, Hamlin and Williams; Mr Williams spoke to me. What did he say?—He showed me the amounts each person was to get. Do you remember those amounts?—No. Did you not tell Williams and I not to discuss the division of the money, as you intended to appropriate the balance,
Commission adjourned at 4.15 p.m.
Cross-examination of Karaitiana by Mr Tanner continued: You have stated that you were not aware that the annuities were secured to you: are you not aware that that they were purchased from the Government, and that it is from the Government you receive them?—I know that. Then why did you state that you did not know they were secured to you?—On account of the number of years during which the money has not been paid since the selling. You said you expected the body of the £1,000, at the end of ten years?—Yes. Was it not explained (hat you were to receive the £1,000 in instalments of £100 per annum?—I was not clear. Was it not my reason for paying Henare in that way, that he was of extravagant habits, and would spend the whole at once if he got it?—I do not know Who told you that the £1,000 would come back to you after ten years?—That was my own idea.
Karaitiana examined by Mr Ormond: Did you offer, in Auckland, to sell Heretaunga to M'Lean?—Yes. Did you propose an actual sale?—The Government were to pay the debts, and M'Lean take the land on lease, the rent to pay the debts. Were you authorized by the other grantees to make this proposal?—No. Had not several of the other grantees already sold?—Yes, they were in debt. Did M'Lean promise you any money on these conditions?—He consented, but he did not arrange about any particular money. Then what you proposed to sell M'Lean for £3,000 was your interest in the lease, and what else?—I was desirous that he should pay the debts of all the grantees that would agree. Who was with me when I saw yon at
By Mr Commissioner Manning: I do not know who delivered the letter to me.
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: Did you ever send for Paramena or Pahoro to consult with them, before the sale?—No. After you had agreed and taken some money, did you send for them?—Yes, when we came to Napier. Was this that they might join in the sale?—Yes, that
hapu, or your private property?—It was to be in our names, but for the whole of our hapu, the hapu of Henare and me.) Was anything then said about keeping this secret from the other grantees?—Yes. By whom?—By Tanner and Williams: The four of us were talking together.
By the Chairman: Are Paramena and Pahoro in your hapu?—No. Is Te Waaka?—Yes. Is Noa?——No.
Mr Tanner asked to be allowed to cross examine the witness on the question of the Karamu reserve. Permission being given, the following additional evidence was elicited: I am not aware that Paramena and Pahoro were present at Pakowhai at the time that F. E Hamlin and you were there: they were not there at that time. Were they there just before?—I cannot say; if they were I did not see them. You have said that yon never sent for me, and that I went to every place: what places did I go to?—To various places, to see the different persons; they were not all written at once. What do you mean by saying they were not all written at once?—That
hapu. Was it not your proposition that you should be made trustee, and that it should not be mentioned?—(The Chairman: The wrong would be the same in either case, no matter from whom the proposals came; I. observe that the terms of the deed of trust ate sufficiently extensive to include the natives) Was it not your wish that you should be left to divide the reserve amongst the people, and that we should not interfere?—I said we were sufferers because we did not know how the land had been surveyed; it was not your wish, we proposed it, lest the land should be devoured by the other natives; you consented to that request. Has not that arrangement of yours been carried out; the reserve surveyed into hundred-acre allotments; and the people settled upon it?—It was my idea to divide it like that. Has it not been done?—It was surveyed before. But into 100-acre blocks?—It has been so done, and the people are living there; I wanted Crown Grants for each person.
Henare Tomoana, sworn; examined by Mr Sheehan: Was not Heretaunga leased to Tanner before it was passed through the Native Lands Court?—Yes; at the first Court the Crown Grant was not obtained; and it was not finished at the second Court, on account of my not agreeing to the names of some of the persons being in the Grant. What persons?—Tareha, Te Koko, Paramena, and Arihi. Was it on account of this disagreement that the first two applications fell through?—Yes. Was a third application made?—At the time of the second application Tanner asked Karaitiana and mo to allow Tareha's name to be placed on the Grant, but we refused; at the next sitting of the Court Tanner continued to ask us; he said that the authority would not rest with Tareha, he would only be a minor person in the Grant. Did Tanner give any reason for wishing to have Tareha's name in the Grant?—No; my reason for objecting was that I was afraid Tareha would sell if his name was in the Grant. What took place on that occasion?—It was finished satisfactorily; I then stood up to speak, and asked the Court to make the land inalienable. The Court said "We are not strong enough; if this was the finishing of your lands we should be able." Then the Court refused?—They did not consent; I told them the reason of my application was that I feared the land would be sold. When the Crown Grant was ordered, the Court sent us outside to arrange about, the names that should be put in the Grant. We, about a hundred of us, went outside and consulted, and selected the persons whose names should be in the Grant; myself for my hapu. What were the names of your hapus?—[The witness here enumerated in detail the names of the hapus, some twenty in number, represented by himself and the other nine grantees respectively, as agreed upon by the natives assembled.] These hapus were all written down by me and given to the Court, together with the names of the persons as I have stated them, and those names were
tikanga of the land; I replied, 1 had. He said "Would you not be willing to let me have the land?" I replied, "If you can give me guns I will agree." He said, "How many guns?—I said, two guns and the race horse, the Bishop's son. (Mr Tanner explained that "The Bishop" was the name of an entire horse.) He agreed and said he would give me the guns; I held on to his consent, and went to his place at Ruataniwha. Did you show him the boundaries?—Not at that time; he came again some time after with Karaitiana to ask us to agree, and it was agreed that he should have the land; he said he was to be our parent, and we were to be his children; then we talked about the price of the laud; and the sum mentioned for the lease was £700, but I am not quite clear on that point. We then pointed out the boundaries of the land to be leased. Was this lease larger or smaller than that given after the land went through the Lands Court?—The second lease was the largest, it took in all the ground, the first lease was small. Was the reserve in the first lease larger than the present Karamu reserve?—Yes, it included another piece. When the new lease was read at Pakowhai by F. E. Hamlin, Karaitiana objected. Why did he object?—Because it did not provide that the land should return to the natives at the end of 21 years; they had told us that that should be written, but it was not done, and we feigned it with the understanding that those words would be added. Myself, Noa, Karaitiana, Paramena, and Pahoro were present at that signing. You understood the terms to be as Karaitiana has described them; rental £1,250 per annum for the first ten years, and £1,500 per annum for the remainder of the term of 21 years?—Yes. At that time the rents that had become due were paid?—Yes. Do you remember giving a mortgage over this block?—It had been mortgaged previous to the lease being signed. Do you know the amount of the mortgage?—£1,500. For what purpose was that money borrowed?—For sugar, Hour, blankets, clothing, ploughs, &c. Was the cost of fencing the Karamu reserve included also?—Yes. After that did you hear any talk of selling Heretaunga?—Yes. When did you first hear it? Tanner first spoke of it to me at Pakowhai; Hamlin was with him. Had you sent for Hamlin?—No; the wrong was their own. Were any of your people present?—No; there were persons of the Crown Grant, myself, Karaitiana, Pahoro, and Paramena. What reason did Tanner assign for his coming?—He said "I have come respecting the sale of Pahoro's share of Heretaunga." I thought he wished Karaitiana and I to consent to Pahoro's selling. Can you relate the conversation?—Yes; Tanner said, "I have come to ask you to consent to the selling of Pahoro's share; the money for Pahoro and Paramena to be £700." £300 was taken to pay their debts; I inquired of Paramena and Pahoro if their debts were correctly charged, and Pahoro said no; his debts were but £27. That was all that was said; we did not consent that Pahoro's share should be sold; and the pakehas left. That was all that was done then; the next I heard was Stuart's desire to
"Me hoko Heretaunga."—Mr Commissioner Manning considered the expression too strongly rendered.) I said I would not consent to sell. He said, "What is to be done about your debts?" I said, "Leave that to me; I have plenty of Crown Grants with which I can pay my debts." He said, "The only land by which you can settle your debts will be Heretaunga." I said, "Let the persons to whom I am indebted speak about that; my creditors are not pressing me; you are the one who is always speaking about my debts." I got angry, and went away, leaving him at Karaitiana's. On the second day Tanner and the interpreter came again, and spoke about selling; myself, Karaitiana, and Manaena were present. Did Karaitiana remain during the conversation?—No, he had gone into the kitchen. What conversation took place?—Karaitiana said to me, "You talk to those pakehas respecting their business; I am not able to talk to them." Manaena also got up and went outside. I said to Tanner "I have three words to say to you respecting this block; if you consent to £12,000 for myself I will agree; if you agree to give me 5,000 acres, I will consent." Did you require both £12,000 and 5000 acres of land?—Yes, the money for myself, the land for my hapu. When I mentioned that sum he laughed, as though I had asked too much. I became angry at his laughing, and went out. My reason for asking so large an amount was that I did not wish to sell. Tanner came out after me, and wanted
Mr Lee asked if search had been made for this document, and said that no proof of its existence had been given.
Commission adjourned.
Examination of Henare Tomoana by Mr Sheehan, continued; Was it in town, or at Pakowhai, that you saw Karaitiana with that letter?—In town. Did you see the letter?—Karaitiana gave it town. Did Karaitiana say what he purposed doing when he received the letter?—He said it was on account of that letter that he agreed to sell. This was after he returned from Auckland?—Yes. During the absence of Karaitiana in Auckland, did any Circumstance take place relative to the sale?—Yes, the first thing during that time was Tanner's coming to me at Pakowhai, to get me to sign a document of agreement. He came alone. I said I would not consent, and he left. He came again alone, and asked me to sign an agreement of sale. I said I would not consent in the absence of Karaitiana. Tanner said Karaitiana would be wrong, and that if I took the document into the Supreme Court, the Court would decide the correctness of my having signed, and that then I should not get the £1,000 which was to be paid during the ten years. That was all that he said on that occasion. I said "Never mind, wait till Karaitiana comes." Tanner then went away. He came a third time, accompanied by F. E. Hamlin. His object was to get my consent to sign. Hamlin said "Why do you delay consenting to sign your name?" I said that it was because of the absence of Karaitiana, and that if he were here and consenting, I would sign. Tanner said again, that Karaitiana would be really wrong: and that it would be left to the Supreme Court to decide, and then he would not get the annuity. He also said "You will be taken to jail for your debts; I am the person preventing this." I replied "You are the only person talking in that way; my creditors are not talking to me about my debts." They then left me. On another day I came into Napier and saw Cuff, who told me to call on him at his house at noon on the next day. At his office?—No, at his residence at Waitangi. I asked for what purpose, and he said to show mo some way of saving myself from my debts. At eleven o'clock next day I went to Cuff's, and arrived there shortly before twelve. I went in and waited. I had been there a long time when Cuff, Tanner, and Hamlin came from the direction of Napier. They found me sitting on the sofa. As soon as I saw Tanner I understood that what Cuff had said about clearing mo was a device. When they came in I ran to the door, for I wanted to get away. Hamlin ran to the door to prevent my going out, and we pushed each other about at the door. Tanner said "Why do you want to go? our talk is good." I said "You have deceived me." Tanner said "You must remain quiet, and not go." Hamlin was then holding the lock, and I was still pushing him away. His hand was strong to bold on, and mine was strong to put him away. I then saw
Mr Lascelles complained of the way in which the ground was shifted in these complaints. They had just heard a long story of Henare's signature having been obtained by intimidation, of which no hint had been given, either in Henare's complaint or in the opening address of the learned counsel for the complainants. He was not prepared for this new matter, and should require Mr Cuff's evidence to answer this part of the case.—Mr Tanner said he was only desirous that the fullest latitude should be given to the complainants.
On the application of both sides, the Chairman consented that the Commission should not sit on the following Wednesday and Thursday; those days being public holidays. He acceded with great reluctance, the work before them being so great and the time so limited.
The Commission then adjourned.
Henare Tomoana, cross-examined by Mr Tanner: Who was Te Koko, to whom you referred as objecting to, as being one of the grantees in the original giant?—I did not wish his name includeed. Had he no influence?—He had a claim, he was senior to me, and I could have represented him. Why did you object to Paramena?—I did not wish his name to appear. Why not?—Because formerly, when Hapuku was selling land, Paramena belonged to his party, and had authority. After wards we fought and defeated them; that is why I objected to Paramena, Arihi, and Te Koko. Another reason was that at the time of fighting, Paramena took Moananui's wife. Had he a large claim?—Originally he had, but he lost it by defeat. Why then did you afterwards allow Paramena in the grant?—By your advice, I consented because you said he would merely remain on the grant, and have no authority. Why did you want Arihi excluded? did you think she had no claim?—She had a claim, but I have already stated the reason of my objecting to her. Did you consider that her interest became absorbed in yours, at the time of the fighting?—My answer will be long; do you wish for it?—I do—Te Hapuku was chief; all the land belonged to him. That land was mine, but he had it. After the fighting, it came back to me, and his relatives and the junior people had nothing to do with it. Was Arihi any relation of Hapuku's?—She is in the position of a grand-child to him. Did you allow her name to be put in without recognizing her claim?—It was only at the third sitting of the Court that I consented; I had refused on the two previous occasions. What relation was Arihi to Hapuku?—Grand-daughter. When you consented to her being in the Grant, was it not on the understanding that she was to remain under you, without rights of her own?—No, What then was the understanding?—That she should be a principal person. Why then did you allot her only £1,500 out of the purchase money?—I do not know anything of that arrangement. How much did you give her out of the annual rent?—£100. How much did you keep for yourself?—£200. How then can you say that her claim was equal to yours?—There was £100 for me, and the other £100 for my hapu, the Ngatikaiutu. Arihi always, in every year, received her £100, What did you consider should be her share of the purchase money, if any?—I did not know that that could be affected
mana of the block rested with you, and that you would not allow others to sell?—Yes. Did the other natives that were present agree?—I mentioned it in their presence, but I did not
pukapuka kohuru—and laughing at your joke?—No. Why did you sign?—I was afraid of you; I sat there from 12 till 4 o'clock, and you were urging me all the time; I wished Karaitiana to be present, that we might see each other sign. Why did you sign at last?—Did you not make a prisoner of me, you at one door, and Hamlin at another? I signed to get free. Were we not sitting round the table, doors and window being open, when you signed?—Yes; that was at 4 o'clock, but I knew that if I rose you would shut the doors. Was that proper conduct, to make me prisoner? I think you are ashamed now. Had any one else signed before you?—I was too much frightened to see. (Mr Commissioner Manning: Why did you not go at once to a magistrate?—Because all the people here were alike; that was my thought.) [Deed produced and shown to witness by Mr Tanner] That is not the deed I signed at Cuff's—to my sight it is much larger; but if you say so, it is. The signature is mine; but the deed is not the same. You signed two; is that one of them?—I do not know it; my idea is that Tareha's name was first, because my signing was after Tareha had sold. Was there any discussion about consideration-money between the time of our interview at Pakowhai and the signing at Cuff's?—No. After your signing the agreement to sell, at Pakowhai, did I not ask you to sign the conveyance first as all the natives looked on you as the chief man in the block?—No; you said that all the others had signed. [The Chairman explains to the witness that it is not an agreement which is now referred to, but a parchment deed of sale.] No. Why did you sign the deed without discussion, if not on the understanding that the matter was already settled?—I have already said. Was there any more discussion between the signing at Cuff's house, and the final signing at Napier?—No; I remained in fear. Did you sign the last deed willingly?—You asked me to sign—otherwise I would not have done it. Did I force you?—You were strong to continue asking. Did you not send for Paramena, Pahoro, and others, at the last signing?—I did not send for them. Was there any pressure?—We signed it in fear, because you said a warrant was issued to seize Pakowhai Did you mention to me that you bad received a letter?—No; I saw it on the day Karaitiana received it, and on the following day, when we came in to sign. Do you know who sent that letter?—No. Did you see the signature?—Yes. What was it?—The name Karaitiana has mentioned. Whose name?—The name of Ormond was at the bottom. Do you know Ormond's writing?—No. You said it was long after the sale when you first heard that Karaitiana was to receive £100 for ten years—bow long after?—I bad taken two years' money when Karaitiana received his
The Commission then (5.35 p.m.) adjourned.
The Chairman said that before proceeding with the business of the day, he wished to make a statement. The Commissioners desired to express their entire disapproval of the terms of one of the new notices of complaint. In fact, it could only have passed in its present form through inadvertance on the part of Mr Locke, whose services the Commissioners took this opportunity of acknowledging, as being of great value. The complaint in question contained expressions of a highly objectionable character. He requited that persons bringing their grievances to that Court should express their complaints, however serious the charge they might convey, in the language of gentlemen, and avoid slang and irritating expressions. He particularly objected to the expression, "pocketing £500"—it was vulgar, unbusiness like, and uncalled-for. He was aware of the great rancour existing on the subjects of these
The Chairman said that before going into the accounts, he would take occasion to remark upon the imprudence of the purchasers, in not paying the purchase-money to the natives direct, instead of involving themselves in storekeepers' accounts. The Government, in conducting land purchases, had always taken the precaution to pay the natives in hard cash, so that, though seized by the storekeeper at the door, the purchase-money had been duly paid.
Mr Sheehan re-examined Henare on the subject of accounts: The order for £53 10s, in favor of Maney, is mine; I cannot say whether the amount is correct. The order in favor of Peacock is correct; also the order for £450, in favor of D. E. Lindsay. I admit my signature to the order for £1,119, in favor of Sutton; but do not know how my account reached that amount. I admit the orders in favor of E. W. Knowles, for £39; of Maney for £89 10s; and Tuxford for £138 15—I come now to the cash payments: you are charged with £10. a cheque, given by Mr Ormond; do you remember getting that sum?—Yes. Next, a cheque, for £207, from Williams, on the
Cross-examined by Mr Lee: You say you do not remember how Sutton's account was made up. Do you not remember Sutton suing you in
Cross-examined by Mr Tanner: Do you remember drawing an order on me for £5 in favor of Tuke?—Yes. [Mr Sheehan objected to the question as irregular—Mr Tanner said he had paid many accounts of which he retained no record, and should actually require Henare's assistance—The Chairman said the examination bad better go on; he would give Mr Sheehan an opportunity of re examining on this point—Mr Tanner, in answer to the Chairman, said this was all under the general head of £781 4s.] Do you remember an order on me to pay Coleman £25?—Yes. One in favor of Reardon, for £55 11s.?—Yes. One to Boyle, £110, for horses?—Yes. And one in favor of Robinson, for £93 5s.?—I do not know of that. [Mr Tanner: I cannot give any account of the items composing this amount. I went to Mr Robinson before he left; but he told me that his books had been burnt] Did you not go with me several times to Robinson's and get goods?—Yes, but not to the amount of £30 or £40 at a time. On one occasion I took largely, but cannot remember the amount. I don't remember going with you frequently. When Heretaunga was being sold, I asked you for an account; you replied that I. was always-asking for goods and accounts. Did I not get Robinson to give .me a memorandum of the amount, which I handed to you?—No. Did you not know the amounts at the time?—No; you used to say to Robinson, "Let Henare have credit, and put it in my account." I complained of not receiving any account. Newton and Irvine, £194 13s. 5d.?—I have the same complaint against that account. When I put these amounts in my pocket-
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: Is the Karamu reserve larger or smaller than when the land went through the Court?—It is not as large. Is the difference in size considerable?—Yes; it was at first considerably larger. Have you, or any of the people, consented to a reduction?—No. Has it been made with your knowledge?—Yes. How were you aware of it?—I became aware when the survey was finished. How did you become aware?—It was divided off in 100 acre pieces. Did you then first become aware that it was smaller I—We all knew at that time that it was less. Are you aware of Tanner and Williams ever volunteering to increase the area of the reserve?—Yes; I know of their increasing it, and also making it smaller. They decreased it to 1,700 acres. Did they ever propose to you to increase the reserve, because it was not huge enough?—No. Do you remember Tanner proposing this?—No. Yesterday Mr Tanner said so. Do you remember going to Taupo?—Yes. What month?—August. What month was it when you returned?—November. You said, yesterday, that when you were asked to sell, you told Tanner of other blocks—mentioning Tautitaha, Kakirawa, Kaukauroa, Mangateretere, &c?—Yes. Do you know the acreage of Kakirawa?—I have only an imperfect knowledge. How many grantees are there?—Eight. What extent of interest?—I had the largest claim. There were three of us with equal claims—myself, Paramena, and Hone, Hone was the chief. Mangateretere—how many grantees?—Eight. What was the extent of your interest?—I was the principal person; the land was mine. Both Mangatereteres belonged to my ancestors. We were always in possession of that land. You have said that Kaukauroa was mortgaged?—Yes. Do you remember the acreage?—4,000 acres. Is it still mortgaged to Sutton?—Yes. What is the acreage of Tautitaha?—3,000 acres. What was your interest?—Mine was greater than the others. You came back from Taupo in November, and on December the 6th you signed the agreement?—Yes. Did you, in the meantime, make inquiries respecting the sale of these blocks?—Yes. Did you not, at the request of the Government, take a large number of your people to Taupo?—Yes. Were not your debts largely incurred for supplies for this expedition?—Yes. [Mr Lascelles objected to the introduction of new matter; he would have no opportunity of cross-examining.—Question allowed; respondents to have the privilege of cross-examination on the subject.] The greater portion of my debts was incurred in consequence of that expedition. I gave authority to the storekeepers, and the debts of all the people were put down to my name. Had you not at that time large claims against the
By Mr Lascelles: You say you went to Taupo in August?—Yes. When did you begin to purchase these goods?—When the natives first went to Tauranga. Then it was not for the Taupo expedition alone?—No; we also went to Tauranga, to fight Te Kooti. Were you not paid in full for Tauranga?—Yes. What portion of these Heretaunga debts were incurred for the Taupo expedition?—Sutton's £1,000. But you were sued for £900 before you went to Taupo—The debts commenced with Tauranga and Wairoa; the Government paid that. Did not Sutton's debt commence eighteen months before the Taupo expedition?—I do not know that; I was in debt before, but not to the extent of £1,000. Were you not summoned before you went, for £900?—Yes; just as we were leaving for Taupo, some of the people came from Pakowhai and got things, and Sutton summoned me What was the value of the things bought on that last occasion?—I can only say that one hundred men went to buy. Can you swear it amounted to £20?—No. Was the debt to Manoy and Co., £53 10s, incurred on account of that expedition?—I did not say so. Knowles, £33?—That was for Taupo. How long before the expedition was that debt incurred?—A portion was just before leaving. What portion?—I cannot say. You say the Government owe you money; did not the Government give daily pay to your men?—No; the money was merely handed over to us; on the first
This closing Henare's evidence, the Commission adjourned to 2 p.m.
On the Commission resuming, Mr K. M'Lean said he wished to place in the hands of the Commissioners a number of withdrawals of complaints in certain cases relating to the Ngatarawa and Mangaroa blocks, in which the Hon. D. M'Lean was concerned One of the parties who withdrew his complaint was bedridden, and had made an affidavit, which had been taken before a Justice of the Peace—Mr Sheehan objected to the admission of any such documents without notice. A recent Gazette contained four withdrawals of complaint, and he had since received letters from three or four of the natives whose names appeared in that Gazette, utterly repudiating having signed any such retractation.—The Chairman said that the withdrawal should be made by the parties themselves in open Court. It would be the only fair and satisfactory way—Mr Sheehan added, that the natives in question admitted having signed a paper, but denied that it had been explained to them as a withdrawal; and they had further stated that they had received money for signing—Mr K. M'Lean said that Paora Nonoi, one of the alleged complainants, denied ever having put pen to paper (The Commissioners, having examined Nonoi's complaint, said the signature was not in a Maori handwriting.) He would like Mr Stevens to be examined on the subject, the complaint having improperly appeared in the Gazette, without the authority of the so-called complainant—Mr Sheehan said the Court was the proper judge on the subject of genuineness of complaints. It would strengthen the respondents' case if the retractations were made in open Court, and it would be done if they were teal—The Chairman said that it would be only fair, in cases where a retractation was made, to give it the fullest publicity.
Manaena Tini, examined by Mr Sheehan: When did you first hear anything concerning the sale of Heretaunga?—When Tareha sold. From whom did you hear of Pahoro's sale?—From Tanner. I saw him in Napier. He said, "You are the only person who will listen to my request; sell me your share of Heretaunga " I said, "I am not willing." We had nothing more to say on that day. I next heard of Henare and Paramena selling. Do you remember Hamlin and Tanner going to see Henare at Pakowhai?—I saw them there, but did not hear their talk; Tanner was unwilling that I should. He invited Henare away from me; I said, " Perhaps I should go to he said, "No, you remain." I did not hear what took place between Tanner, Henare, and Hamlin. Did they afterwards apply to you about your share?—Hamlin asked me to sell. Tanner and Hamlin came to my house at Pakowhai. Tanner asked me to let him have my share of Heretaunga, and sign a document. I said I was not willing. Tanner said, "Won't you show your love to your friend; do not you know that I am your parent?"—I refused, and told him to return. He did so. Karaitiana was then in
kainga?—Yes. That is how the £1,000 has been expended; I do not know if all my debts were paid. These orders came to £660; what has become of the balance?—Mr Williams could tell. Do you consider yourself still entitled to the balance?—I heard Karaitiana say he would take the balance, so I suppose that is where it has gone. If Karaitiana asked Tanner for it, he would say, "All right; Karaitiana received whatever he asked for." Have you received from Tanner, or other parties, any account, showing how the £1,000 went?—I was told it went to pay our debts; to Newton, Maney, Sutton, and Tanner. The documents were shown to me; I took them, so that I should know how much was paid. I took Sutton's account from his own house. I don't know about Newton's account, whether I got it myself, or whether Tanner showed it to me.
Commission adjourned to Friday, 14th March, at 10 a.m.
Manaena, cross-examined by Mr Tanner: Do you remember Hamlin and myself going to Pakowhai, to talk over the sale of Heretaunga?—Yes. The first occasion, when Karaitiana and Henare were there?—Henare was there; Karaitiana was in Auckland. Before that; the time mentioned by Karaitiana and Henare, when I went three successive days?—I only know of Henare being there. Do you remember the time I came three days in succession?—Yes. Do you remember coining into Henare's house in a colored blanket, and sitting on the floor?—Yes. Do you remember what was spoken about on that occasion?—No. Did you hear us talk at all?—No. Were we not talking?—I do not know; it is true I was there; but I cannot say. If we had been speaking, would you have heard us?—Yes. Did I not speak then to Henare about the sale of Heretaunga?—There was no conversation with him on that subject in my presence. Do you know what we were talking about?—No. Did you know the occasion of our coming?—I knew it was about Heretaunga. How did you know it, if you did not hear me speak?—I had heard previously that you were trying to get Heretaunga for yourself. Did not Henare give you some hints to leave the room?—No. Was there no mention of Heretaunga during all the time you were there?—I did not hear any. Would you have heard it if it had taken place?—If you had said, "I have come to talk of Heretaunga; slay and listen," I should have known. I did not stay long in the room; but went out almost immediately, and have no recollection of the subject of conversation, (The Chairman; Did you see Karaitiana leave
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: Had you any knowledge from Karaitiana or Henare Tomoana, before Karaitiana went to Auckland, that either of them were receiving more than £1,000 per share?—I did not hear. Between the times of Karaitiana's going to Auckland and the signing of
By the Chairman: Did you ever receive an account of what was paid on your account?—Yes; to Sutton and Maney. Any others?—They were the only ones I received. Do you know what accounts were paid for you?—No; perhaps they did not reach £1,000. Did Tanner pay money on your account to Robinson?—Yes. And Newton?—Yes, but I did not see the accounts. Did he pay other small accounts besides?—I do not know. Have you received small sums of money from Tanner from time to time, during
Te Waaka Kawatini, examined by Mr Sheehan: Do you remember leasing your land to Tanner?—Yes. Had you anything to say against it?—I objected to it. For some years I had received my money and paid my debts to Sutton; but afterwards my share of the rent was stolen from Tanner by Parker, The lease itself was right, and was agreed to by us. How came Parker to steal your money?—He was going about signing my Crown Grants and stealing my money. I said he must be driven off Waikahu. Had not you and Parker some dealings about land?—Yes. Did you not sign a deed handing over to hint Heretaunga and other lands?—No. (Witness here named a number of blacks, including Heretaunga.) These were the grants belonging to me that Parker signed. Had you not some talk with Parker, In reference to leasing all your lands to hint?—I had no talk with him; but he came to me with a document relating to all my lands. Did you not sign a lease of all these lands to Parker, which was interpreted by Martin Hamlin?—No; I gave Parker the writ. Do you know the deed produced? is It like the document showed to you by Parker?—He did not give mo this; the document he showed me was a lease. This is a lease: did you in Lee's office sign a document handing over your land to Parker?—No. I signed my mark; but this laud, Waikahu, was not there. Did you ever go to Lee's office with Parker?—I came to get my money—£100. I went to the house
hapu, Ngatihinemoa, came in to take all the money. I went and asked Mr Tanner to put the money on a large table. He said he would put it on a very large table. I said we were hungry, and he gave us £5 to buy food. We received no more money that day, and returned. Tanner fixed a day to come again. When that day came we returned. The persons sat round the table; I again asked Tanner: "Be quick to give me £100, that I may pay my debts." He gave me £5, and on another occasion £5, making £15 in all. I had a quarrel with Tanner, and that was the end—the money was not received. I have had no money since. The money was devoured by?
Murray.—I owed him for five gallons Tanner says he has paid you in cash at various times, £35.—Tanner perhaps knows; I only know of having received £5 three times. Yon told the Court you signed a document to turn Wilson out of some business in which he was engaged.—Tanner asked me to sign it. Did he give any reason?—No. Did you know at the time you signed it that there was a Supreme Court action pending between yourself and Parker?—No. Did you get all the rents for Heretaunga till the time of sale?—No. Did you get the last £120?—No. Do you know what became of the last payment of that money?—If I had received it I would know; perhaps Tanner or some of the others know.
Cross examined by Mr Tanner: Was it not a condition of the sale of Heretaunga that we should recover from Parker your interest in all the other blocks, and hand it over to you Where was this conversation? In Napier.—In what house? In the street, I believe.—Parker was not a person that I cared about, that I should give him my land. (The Chairman: Did you not agree that if Tanner got back for you Petane, Waikahu, Ohikakarewa, and other blocks, you would sell him your share in Heretaunga for £1,000?—No; the Government were helping these people to get back the land. Did not Tanner agree to help you to get back the lands from Parker?—I do not know. Tanner was Parker's friend. I should have been clear if Tanner had allowed me to keep my lawyer. They drove him away, and said the words were mine. Tanner was wanting Lee and Cuff. Did you not yourself go to Wilson's office?—Yes.) Mr Tanner: Do you not remember meeting Williams and myself in Cuff's office, and going through the accounts?—Yes. I disputed some of the accounts, and when we came to Me Murray's, I laid it aside. Do you remember us asking you to show us what you disputed, and we
The Commission then adjourned.
Mr Sheehan said that he had experienced great difficulty with regard to the account". He did not say that the other side had not rendered assistance; but he found the accounts very imperfect, and the natives could give no assistance. The Court was entitled to a full account; and if there were shortcomings in it, they could be pointed out and allowed for. He asked that such an account should be rendered,
John Nathaniel Wilson, sworn: I am a solicitor, in practice in Napier. Some time about the end of locus. I appeared, and complained of the irregularity; but his Honor held that Waaka's letter and affidavit was a sufficient termination to my retainer. I then ceased to act farther on Te Waaka's behalf. At the time I was asked to undertake these proceedings I had more than one interview with Tanner. He professed a great interest in the suit, and made inquiries as to its progress. He objected greatly to the land passing into Parker's hands. I saw him about the time of the discontinuance of the suit; the subject was discussed; I had previously been informed in some way that the matter was settled. Some of the circumstances have escaped my memory; but they are correctly stated in paragraph 8 of my affidavit. Tanner called upon me, and told me the matter had been settled by his interference. I had made considerable inquiries into the circumstances of the agreement with Parker. I have resided thirteen years in the Province, and had at that time a good general idea of the quality and extent of the lands transferred to Parker by deed. I considered that the transaction was clearly one which the Supreme Court would set aside. Did your application to the Supreme Court ask any-thing regarding the future management of the property?—I thought of doing so, but did not; I considered it necessary, in the first place, to set Parker's deed aside. It was understood that, if he succeeded in the suit, some means would be adopted to settle the land upon him. I knew that no person had acted as separate solicitor for Te Waaka in the settlement. Are you still of opinion that he is unfit to transact business without professional assistance?—Certainly; he would sign anything for a small gum of money. He has repeatedly offered all his worldly goods for a small consideration—two gallons of rum, for instance, he has frequently mentioned. Waaka had spent, on this business, far more time than was necessary in my office—at least a whole week. I used to be assisted by Mr M'Lean and Mr Samuel Williams, as well as regular interpreters. I have not since acted in any way as his solicitor. I have had no direct dealings with the Heretaunga block, except that I am a trustee for Arihi's share. I have never acted directly for either purchasers or natives. Possibly one or two deeds of confirmation may have been prepared in my office. I remember a deed, signed by all the grantees, and not carried further. Was it prepared by Cuff?—I believe so. Was it amongst the deeds submitted to you while the business was on foot?—Yes; I believe I was a party to that deed; but refused to execute it. One of my reasons was, that the last two names, and, I believe, others, had been added after the execution of the deed. Neither my name nor Purvis Russell's were signed, and I would certainly not sign a deed after it had been executed. There were other reasons, but that was sufficient. I was not certain that the consideration had been properly stated. There had not been any proper arrangement as to reserve; the whole block being conveyed. Were you consulted by Karaitiana, in reference to a deed of conveyance of Heretaunga, signed by himself and Henare?—
On the application of Mr Tanner, the cross-examination of this witness was deferred till after the examination of Mr. James Watt; who was to leave on the following day by the "Dakota." For the sake of connexion, however, we insert it in regular order.
J. N. Wilson, cross-examined by Mr Tanner: Do you remember how you became aware of the transaction between Waaka and Parker?—I cannot say. The first regular intimation I received was from Mr Williams. Did you not send for Te Waaka in the first instance?—No; I should have been sorry to have done so. He came, I believe, with Mr Williams. Did you otter to go into the case for him?—No, I merely said I would examine if he had any case. I wrote to the Government, suggesting this as a matter for interference. Did you undertake it for charity?—No; I consider it would have been very wrong to have done so. I took it up to carry it through, and took my chance of being paid. I did not tell him it would cost him a great deal of money. You said you took it as a matter of business; did you not think him wronged?—I considered him cruelly wronged; but would not have taken it up if he had not brought it to me. Did you get paid?—Yes. Did you ever furnish him with your bill of costs?—No; Mr Carlyon made it up. An amount was agreed upon—a little over £100, and I afterwards received a cheque for that amount. Do you remember my coming with Waaka, and speaking of the rent, when Waaka asked me to pay the rent into your and Carlyon's account?—That sum, by agreement, was paid into the Bank of New Zealand in the names of Mr Lee and myself. I did not know Carlyon in the matter. It might have been Carlyon. You are not clear, then?—I consider myself perfectly clear. That was a year's rent, nearly due, £120. What became of that rent?—I cannot say. After the order of discontinuance was made, a cheque was brought by Carlyon, and was drawn either by him or myself. Where did you get the £100 for costs?—From Carlyon; it might have come out of the £120—I have no doubt it did. What became of the balance?—I do not know. I signed a cheque for the whole amount. Has not Waaka often asked you for that rent?—Yes; so lately as yesterday, after the rising of the Court. Have you ever told him what became of it?—I
By Mr Sheehan: Do you remember Hamlin calling upon you with Waaka, in reference to the discontinuance of the suit?—Yes; Mr Tanner had called some days previously. Did you understand Tanner to ask you to sign the deed of withdrawal; or that the native had already done so?—I understood throughout that the native had already signed, and that I was only expected to prepare the necessary deeds. He afterwards brought me a memorandum how the £1,000 was to be applied. You understood that some of Waaka's money was to go to pay the costs of Parker's defence?—Yes. Was it at Tanner's request you drew up the draft, showing a fair method of conducting the sale?—Yes. You proposed that the deed .should be under the sanction of the Land Court,
At the close of Mr Wilson's cross-examination, the Commission adjourned.
James Watt, sworn, examined by Mr Sheehan: I am a merchant, carrying on business in Napier. Are you acquainted with the facts connected with the purchase of the Heretaunga block?—I advanced the money for the completion of that purchase; but, of all the grantees, I only came in contact with Arihi and her husband. What time did your connection with the purchase begin?—In
Cross examined by Mr Tanner: What first led to negotiations for the purchase of Arihi's interest?—Mr H. R, Russell proposing to me to purchase it on our joint account. Did you accede to that request?—Yes. Do you remember going to Waipukurau for the purpose?—Yes, in
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: Independently of £2,500 being a fair price, was it not an inducement to you to purchase that sole outstanding interest existing?—There were many other interests to extinguish.
Paramena, examined by Mr Sheehan, deposed; I remember Heretaunga passing through the Native Lands Court, and its subsequent leasing to Tanner. When did you first hear of the selling of the block?—A good while after. What did you first hear?—Of Stuart's purchase; his sending Grindell to Pakipaki I was there when Grindell came; he spoke to Pahoro, and I listened. Did he ask Pahoro to sell his interest in Heretaunga?—Yes; the price named was £1,100 for his share, which would be given at once if he consented. Pahoro did not agree to sell. After that, Mr Williams, the minister, came. He is a relative of Williams, one of the purchasers of Heretaunga. He said Williams and Hamlin would come, and we were to sign a document, disposing of Heretaunga, and prevent its being sold to another person. Did he mention any person as desirous of purchasing it?—He said it was in reference to Stuart's talk. Did he give any other reason why Pahoro and you should sign?—No. After this did Williams and Hamlin come?—Yes, to Pakipaki. Did they see you?—Yes. They told us to sign our names, and those of our hapu, to hold on to the land and prevent its being sold. Did Pahoro and you sign the documents?—Yes. That was all that took place at that time. What next did you hear about the sale of the block?—After that, Tanner came with Martin Hamlin to Waitahora. They came to ask me to sign the selling. What conversation now took place?—When they arrived, they said to me, "Let us go to Coleman's house, and sign there." I said, "What is this writing for? we have already signed a document to prevent this land being sold, and now you ask us to sign a document to sell it." Tanner said, "Noa and Henare Tomoana have already signed; you must go and sign it there." I said, "How is it that Henare and Noa are the only persons of Pakowhai who have signed? how is it that Karaitiana and Manaena have not signed?" He said that was no matter; when he returned from Waipukurau he would get Karaitiana's signature. He said the reason of his coming was
Cross-examined by Mr Tanner: When Samuel Williams came, did you not understand that it was to get you to sign some deeds of trust?—Yes. Did you not understand that the wish was that yon were not to sell Heretaunga at all?—I did not wish to sell it. Did you not understand that this was to prevent the sale?—I have already said that. When James Williams and Hamlin went with the deeds of trust for signature, was not the same reason given?—Yes, Was any desire expressed to purchase Heretaunga at that time?—No. Do you remember, a long time subsequently, previous to my meeting you at Waitahora, any discussion between you and I about selling Heretaunga?—I saw you and spoke to you. I said, "I am always writing; it is nothing else but writing." Do you not remember meeting mo between Waitahora and Napier, and my saying that there was some talk about selling Heretaunga?—I do not know; but you have documents, you can write it down and remember. Do you remember saying you could not talk about it without Henare and Karaitiana—it must rest with them?—I do not know of that conversation. Do you say no such talk ever took place?—It did not take place. I know nothing about it. Did you not know the sale was spoken of previous to my going with Hamlin to Waitahora?—No, I did not know of it peviously. Did any one, other than myself, tell you there was a proposal to sell Heretaunga?—You and Hamlin were the persons; you came with the documents. You told us just now that Stuart came.—That was a different purchase. After the signing of the deeds of trust, did I not speak to you about Stuart?—No; our talk about Stuart ended when the documents were signed. Did I not tell you if ever you sold Heretaunga, to sell it to those in possession; not to Stuart, or any other speculator?—That was not said on that occasion; it was said when all the hapu were signing; you only said, on the occasion you name, that we were not to sell. Do you remember my saying those words on any occasion?—I do not know of that conversation; I was not willing to sell that land, Were you taken by surprise
mana?—I was not aware that he had. You heard about the shooting?—I did not suppose there would be any talk of selling after that. Did I not ask you how Henare came to possess the mana over the block, and did you not say it was because Henare had conquered Hapuku, and taken possession of his land?—It is true that Hapuku was defeated by Henare; I said so to you. Do you not admit that Henare and Karaitiana had power to sell or withhold the Heretaunga block?—I am not clear about the selling; I am about the lease. [Mr Tanner asked for a decision on the words me haere—We must go. The question had arisen before.—Mr Commissioner Manning: It entirely depends on the context and the accent. In the present instance we would understand—It is necessary that we should go.] To return to Cuff's office. When the deed was signed, did you not see Williams put a cheque on the table as the balance of the purchase-money?—No; when the deed was being signed, it was said there was £1,000 for Pahoro and myself. What amount did you expect out of the purchase-money, when you signed:—I thought it was for you, who had knowledge, to count out the money for each person. You heard the deed read and explained by Hamlin?—Yes. Did you raise any objection to signing on that occasion?—No. Was it not because you saw Karaitiana appropriate the cheque, that you left the room, under the impression that you would not get any?—No, My reason was, that when I asked what was to come to me, you said £500 was all my share. I went outside; but I did not return; I did not see Karaitiana get the money. Did I not tell you Karaitiana had the balance?—You said that when I asked you for the balance of my money. I said it was for you to give it to me. What did you mean by the balance?
hapu?—Yes.
By Mr Sheehan: Had Karaitiana and Henare the power to dispose of the land, including your share, without consulting you?—If all the people consented. The management of the lease had been left with Karaitiana and others, when the land was first leased. What rent were you receiving from the lease?—£100 for myself and Pahoro. It was for us and our hapu. I had to divide it. Who settled that you and Pahoro were to have £100?—Karaitiana and Henare. You received the same amount after the land went through the Court?—Yes. Was it after Henare and Karaitiana had their conversation in the other room, that you were told your amount was expended?—It was when Hamlin and Tanner came out that I inquired. Had you then, or at any other time, consented to accept £500 as the price of your share?—No. You said the £700 to Sutton was secured by mortgage?—Yes. The commencement of the debt was the mortgage of Mahanga. How came you to mortgage it; did you not owe him money?—Not at first, when he asked me to mortgage it. From whom did you purchase the steam flax machine?—Harrison. Where did Harrison get it from?—Watt. Then the price of that was not part of the money owing to Sutton?—Yes, it was £200 of the debt. At any time before the sale, did you give Tanner to understand that you had given Henare and Karaitiana authority to make a binding engagement in regard to the sale?—No. At the time the deed was signed in Cuff's office, are you quite clear Tanner told you you had no more money to get?—Yes. Do you remember afterwards signing the deed to which your hapu were parties?—Yes. Was it then that this £400 was obtained, which went to Sutton?—Sutton had received the money before the signing of that deed. How was it, after signing at Cuff's, and being told that there was no more money for you, that this other £400 was paid?—It was through a summons of Sutton against Tanner that the money was paid. Sutton and I talked of it, and we wrote it on paper. [An order.] Then, when you were disappointed of your purchase-money, you went to Sutton for advice?—I went to Sutton; he asked me how much money I had from Heretaunga; I said " £500. I am very sad about this money, only having £300." Sutton advised me to write to Karaitiana for money, and, if I did not get any, to write to Tanner. I told Sutton to write for £700. Sutton said, "Leave it £400." Had you ever agreed to accept £500?—No. (Mr Commissioner Hikairo: Did you think the mana of Henare and Karaitiana existed after the Crown Grant was issued?—My idea is, that after that we all had equal authority.)
Pera Pahoro, examined by Mr Sheehan: Do you remember Heretaunga going through the Court, and afterwards being leased to Tanner?—Yes. After that, when did you first hear any talk in reference to selling your interest in that block?—Mr Grindell came to Pakipaki, to purchase the land for Smart. Whose share did he want to buy?—Mine. Did he name any price?—Yes; £1,100. For your share only?—Yes. I told him I would not consent. What occurred next?—Williams, the minister, came and asked us to sign a document, for us to hold on to the land for our people. He said it was to prevent our selling the land for liquor. He did not bring the document—he said James Williams and Hamlin would bring it. After this we were asked to meet at Pakowhai, in reference to a statement that I had sold to Stuart. Paramena and I went there; Tanner was there. Henare Tomoana said it would not be well for any one to sell—if they did so they would be shot. I said I did not know anything about the selling of the land. We went back to Pakipaki, and, after a good while, came to Napier, to receive the money for the land. Tanner said if I wanted anything for myself, I might have it; his reason for this was, that he heard I had been selling to Stuart. I said, "Let the money for the lease be paid." Tanner paid me £20. We went to Worgan's office to sign. Tanner said it was for a sale; Rota said, "No." He told Karaitiana and the others that he had given me £300. Karaitiana and the others asked if it was true that I bad £300. I said I would not be able to take that money. After this, Martin Hamlin came to Pakipaki, and requested me to sign a deed, selling Heretaunga. I refused, saying I should be shot if I did. He said, "The amount is £13,000." Tanner stayed at Waitahora; Hamlin was the only one who came to me. Hamlin said, "All the persons in the grant have consented." I asked, "Who are they?" He replied, " Henare and Noa." I said, "I will not consent." He went on then to Arihi; I did not sign. When he came from inland, Paramena came to me and said he had consented. I asked Hamlin how much each person was to get, and he said, "£1,000." I then agreed to sign, and I did so. A good while after this, Tanner sent a messenger for us two. The letter said, "If you two do not come in, the money for Heretaunga will not be placed before Karaitiana." We came in; Harrison came with us. To look after your interests?—Yes. We went to Cuff's office, and were asked to sign. Mr Tanner, Cuff, James Williams, and Martin Hamlin were the pakehas present. Were the deeds read over to you?—I do not know; all I remember is, that I had first to sign this and then that document. Noa, Karaitiana, Henare, Manaena, and Paramena were present. For some time we were all together; afterwards, Tanner, Williams, Cuff, Karaitiana, and Henare went into another room. After the signature of the deed, it was said that each person was to get £1,000. Was anything said about the debts?—To some of the others, not to me—I had no debts. It was Tanner who said we were to have £1,000 each. Did you get any money?—No; it was arranged that Harrison should take care of it for me. Had it been so arranged?—No; it was his saying. He said he would take care of the money for a long time. I did not consent to it; it was his proposal. Paramena said that Harrison should take care of his money for a flax mill. Was that the sum of £273 that I find put down to your
hapu signed another deed?—I do not remember. You spoke of Samuel Williams telling you to put your land under protection, and saying that James Williams and Hamlin would bring the papers?—Yes. Did they bring those papers?—Yes. Were they signed?—Yes. I signed another document in Cuff's office, Mr F. E. Hamlin being the interpreter. Did you understand that you were signing an absolute conveyance of all your interest, and the interest of your hapu in the Heretaunga block?—No; I understood it to be on account of the lease that I received the £20 when I signed. The deed says you received £750; is that correct?—No; that is the £700 that Sutton got—£400 for Paramena, and £300 for me. Were you offered more than £27—£20 for yourself, and £7 for Rota?—No. Shortly after this, a meeting took place at Pakowhai?—Yes. Was Tanner present?—Yes. You said there that you had not sold?—Yes. Did Tanner object to that statement?—Not that I am aware of. The deed was signed about nine months before the meeting of the grantees in Cuff's office, and conveyed your interest for £750.—When I received the £20,I signed on account of the lease; I cannot say whether I received that money before or after the meeting, where Henare said he would shoot us. The conveyance I signed at Pakipaki, after Paramena had signed, was the first conveyance of Heretaunga signed by me. You were then told by Hamlin that you would receive £1,000?—Yes. And you afterwards told the same thing to Tanner, in Cuff's office?—Yes. Up to the time you signed at Cuff's, had you heard that Karaitiana and Henare were to receive much more than £1,000?—No, not till long after. You have heard it since?—Yes. If you had known that Karaitiana and Henare were receiving these large sums, would you have agreed on the terms you did?—I would not have agreed. And you
Mr Tanner said that this man was one of the witnesses for the respondents, and that Mr Sheehan had taken the wind out of their sails. He had not been aware that he would be called in support of the complaint.
The Commission then (4.45 p.m.) adjourned.
Pahoro's examination continued, by Mr Sheehan: You mentioned a recent interview with Tanner; how did the meeting take place?—I was going home, and Tanner asked me to consent that Karaitiana was the person who had the control of the land, and the division of the purchase-money. I said I was not aware that it had beer, agreed that Karaitiana should be the person to do this. He said, "What are you afraid of?" I then went to the hotel—Paramena was there, and Mr J. P. Hamlin was sent for him, to take him into Hamlin's office. It was after this that Tanner and I went into Hamlin's office. Who did you see there?—Josiah Hamlin and Tanner, and Martin Hamlin. Paramena was there; they were talking, and he was not agreeing to what they said. They wished me to speak about Karaitiana having the management and disposal of the monies for Heretaunga. I said I did not know of that talk—we had made no such agreement. Tanner said, "Do you not remember our meeting with Paramena at Waitangi Bridge?" I replied that I did not know. Hamlin said, "Why do you not speak of your consenting to leave the management of the money of the Crown Grant with Karaitiana and Henare?" I said, "I do not know anything at all about those monies." I said to Tanner, "If you persist in asking me to speak those words, you will have to pay me." Tanner said it would not be right. He said, that would do, and I replied, " Very well, I will leave." Tanner, Paramena, and I went away together. Tanner said to Paramena, "How is it you know me?" Paramena said to Tanner, "I do not know of this talk," That is all I remember; there were other words, but I forget them. You spoke of receiving £20, previous to the sale?—[Mr Lascelles objected to the question. Mr Tanner said that on his own behalf, he would not offer the slightest objection to any course pursued by the learned counsel. The objection was then overruled.] Where was that £20 paid to you?—In Napier, by Tanner. Where?—The cheque was written in a house. Did you sign anything at the time?—No. How long afterwards, was it, when you signed?—Another day. Where did you sign?—In J. P. Hamlin's office In whose presence?—I do not remember. I cannot say which son of Hamlin's was there. I think it was F. E. Hamlin. Tanner asked me to bring Rota and Patarika. This was after the £20 was paid. £7 was paid to Rota. I cannot remember what sort of deed I signed; I cannot identify it; but that
hapu with you when you signed?—I do not remember; I think I may have signed before. When Rota came, the £7 was given. They told Rota I had sold my Crown Grant. Rota said it would not be right. Rota came to say to me that I had sold. I said, "No; I have asked for money to be paid out of the lease." It was said at that time, to Karaitiana and others, that I had sold my share; this was not true; I asked for money on account of the lease. This document says you sold all your interest in Heretaunga for £750; is that true?—No, all I received was £20. Did you, at that time, sign any document which you understood to be a conveyance of your interest in Heretaunga?—No; it had been previously said that I was to be shot, so that I had no desire to sell the land.
Cross-examined by Mr Tanner: You remember Grindell coming to see you at Pakipaki?—Yes. He told you what he came about?—Yes. He took you to a public house?—Yes. He told you he had come to buy your share for Stuart?—Yes. Did you get something to drink?—Yes, we drank a good deal; there were twenty persons drunk. Before commencing business, were not both you and Grindell very drunk?—Not when he spoke to me. Do you remember the day of the week?—No. Was it not a Saturday?—I do not remember. Was not the next day Sunday?—I have no document, so I could not write it. Were many people present at the time of the conversation?—I do not know the number of persons; he was speaking to mo. It was when we got to Havelock that I told Paramena Grindell had come for us to sell Heretaunga. I said I had not agreed. When Grindell came, did he take you at once to Havelock?—Yes. Did you not got some spirits as soon as you got there?—Grindell got drunk there, and Paramena and I returned. Have you a very clear recollection of what took place there?—Yes, Did Grindell produce a deed on that occasion?—No. How long were you at the public-house before Grindell got drunk?—I was not drunk at the public-house at Pakipaki. Were you drunk at Havelock?—Not quite. Did you not commence drinking at Havelock as soon as you arrived?—Yes, we had some rum. Did Grindell not produce a deed, and ask you to dispose of your share for £500?—No, £1,100 was the price named. We will now come to the time of Samuel Williams's visit: do you remember being recommended to sign a declaration of trust, knowing you were an intemperate character?—Yes. He said it was for the hapu to sign, as Grindell had drawn up a deed for the purchase You signed those deeds, and understood that you could not deal with the land without the consent of the hapu?—Yes. Some two or three months after, you remember coming to Napier, and seeing me?—Yes. You also saw James Williams?—I do not remember. Did you not sec him by the pakeha club?—I do not remember. I remember seeing you only. I was drunk during all those days. Do you not remember saying to James Williams—"Why does not Tanner come and buy my share? If he does not, I will sell it to Stuart, or Some one else?"—I did not say those words. Nor anything like that?—I did not talk with Williams. Do you remember my coining and asking if you were willing to sell your share in Heretaunga?—You did not say that to me. What did I say?—That I might want something for myself; I said, "It is well; let me have the money for the land." You asked, "What does Paramena do
hapu. Give me £20." You said, "Yes, let Rota and Paramena come." They came, and you gave them £7. Was nothing said about the sale?—You told the others I had sold. Karaitiana charged me with selling my share for £300, and I denied it. Was nothing then said about selling your share?—Samuel Williams told me to hold on to it; you said nothing except what I have stated. Do you remember signing this deed?—It is my signature; but I have no knowledge of the signing. Did you sign when you got the £20?—It was after the day I received the £20. Were Rota and Patarika present when you signed that deed?—It was on another day that they came; you paid the second balance; I did not see it paid. Do you remember my saying to Rota and Patarika, when they objected to the sale, that my object in purchasing the share was to prevent their selling it to any one else?—Henare had said before, and it was a law at Pakowhai, that any one selling should be shot; hence my saying that it was money for the lease. When Rota and Patarika signed, were you present?—No. Were you not told that my reason for purchasing the share was that you might not sell to any one else?—Rota and Patarika told me that a document was shown them, and that I had sold. Did I not tell them I should hold that to protect their interests till the whole Heretaunga block was sold?—They did not tell me that, nor anything else. Did they not say they did not wish their interests disposed of until the whole block was sold?—You continue saying these things; but I know nothing of them; there is nothing more behind what I have said. Do you not remember meeting me between Waitangi and Ngaruroro?—No. Do you remember speaking to me about your conversation with Karaitiana?—No; Karaitiana and I did not talk. You just told us that you and Karaitiana did—that he accused you of selling for £300—That was at Pakowhai, not Waitangi. Did you not tell me of this talk of Karaitiana's?—I do not know; it was just a question of Karaitiana's to me. Did you not tell me that Karaitiana would not consent to the sale, and said that you must revert to your original position, as a grantee who had not sold?—Karaitiana did not say so, and I did not say so. Do you not remember my asking you if you wished to be as before, and to sell when the rest hold?—No. Do you remember signing this deed, of mana?—At the time of the lease it was so, but I had at this time mana over my own Crown Grant. Karaitiana and Henare did not say they would have the mana. Did you not tell me that if Karaitiana and Henare were willing to sell, you would also agree?—No. Did you tell Williams so?—No. Why did you not tell me on Saturday that Mr Sheehan was going to call you as a witness?—You had known, long before, that I was with Sheehan. How?—You were speaking in fear in Hamlin's office, knowing that I was to speak afterwards of Heretaunga. Did you tell me you were to give evidence in this case?—I did not say so there; but you knew. How?—I remember now that I did say so; I said that when I came to give evidence, I would speak to this effect. Did you say you were going to give evidence for Sheehan?—Yes. When we were tiding to Napier did I not ask you if you would give evidence, or if you were afraid of Karaitiana?—No. Were you sober on that day?—Yes. Has any one told you to say all this?—It is my own. Did you have a conversation with Henare last night?—No. Has he told you anything to say in Court to-day?—I did not ask him for any talk, and he did not give me any.
Cross-examined by Mr Lascelles: Have you made any complaint to this Court?—No, i told my complaint to Russell Why did you not complain in the same way as Karaitiana and Henare have done? Do
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: The first thing in Cuff's office was to sign the deeds?—Yes. Was it after that that you and Paramena were informed that you were only to get £1,000 between you?—Yes. And when you asked for money, you were told there was no more to get?—Yes, and my companion ran away; he was angry. Did you see any cheque in the room?—No. Any money?—No. You were asked if you had not complained to a number of people; had not the whole of the grantees of Heretaunga been complaining of the way in which the business was done?—Yes. Had they not had meetings on the subject?—Not Paramena and myself. Were there not meetings of the tribe to which you belonged, about this land and others?—Yes Did you not send petitions to Parliament, asking for a Commission?—Yes. Were you aware that the present complaints were being lodged by Karaitiana and others?—I had heard of them. Had you not gone to H. R. Russell in reference to your own complaint, previous to the sitting of the Commission?—A long time before, and several times. Were you satisfied when you got the £300 from Sutton?—I did not receive it. Would that sum have been full satisfaction for your claim?—If £700 had been paid me, it would have been very near it.
By the Chairman: Paramena and you live together?—Yes. Paramena used to receive and divide the rent?—Yes. Which was the largest hapu, yours or Paramena's?—They were equal. You said you received £30 of £100 rent?—That was for myself individually. Was not Paramena's share of Heretaunga larger than yours?—It was.
Noa Huki, examined by Mr Sheehan: Do you remember the Herelaunga block passing through the Court; and afterwards being leased to Tanner?—Yes. After that, when did you first hear anything in reference to the sale of the block?—I did not hear anything about selling for a long time after; it was quite lately when I heard. What was the first thing you heard?—It was after my signing, that I heard of the selling. Where did you sign?—At Owhiti. Do you remember F. E. Hamlin calling on you, about the sale of Heretaunga?—Yes; he said, "I have come to get you to sign; Karaitiana and all the rest have signed." To sign what?—The document. For what purpose?—I have been thinking about that conversation all the time I have been here, and cannot remember; the only thing I can remember is, Hamlin's request for me to sign my name. To what kind of document?—I am not clear. Was it a document like this?—Perhaps. Is the signature like your writing?—It is like mine—it is my writing. Did you know the object of the document?—I did not know. Was it read and explained?—I do not know; perhaps it was. Was there any pakeha with Hamlin?—No, he was alone. Did the document concern any piece of land?—I
Cross examined by Mr Tanner: You said, just now, that it was after your signing—quite lately—that you first heard of the selling?—I said I was not quite clear what took place at the first writing, on account of so many people coming for me to sign different things. Are you in
Cross-examined by Mr Lascelles: If Renata wanted money, would you give it to him?—Yes. If he asked you to pay his debts, would you do so?—Yes. When you signed those documents, was it not explained what Renata owed, and what you owed?—Yes. And you agreed?—Yes.
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: Did you agree that you and Renata owed Maney £345?—No. Did you agree that you owed Peacock £667?—No. Did you know how much Renata owed Peacock?—No. Had Renata told you how much it was?—He had not spoken to me about it.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: According to Maori custom, have Karaitiana and Henare any mana over the end belonging to you and Renata?—No. Do you think that now a Crown Grant is issued for it, they have a mana over your share?—No. Explain what you meant when you said you would not sell without Henare's and Karaitiana's consent?—At the time of the lease, Karaitiana and ourselves were one; Karaitiana would take the money, and I would send Renata for my share. Renata and myself received £150. Some years Karaitiana would retain the £50, and we would only get £100. Did Henare and Karaitiana claim by Arihi's side?—Not Karaitiana, but Henare. When the Crown Grant was issued, Arihi got her own. My reason for saying I would not sell unless Henare and Karaitiana sold, was because I was unwilling to sell. Who divided the rents?—Karaitiana and Henare.
The Commission then, at 5.40 p.m., adjourned.
Tareita Te Moananui, examined by Mr Sheehan: When were you first spoken to about your interest in Heretaunga?—After I had been two years in Parliament in Wellington. Who first spoke to you about it?—Maney, Peacock, and Tanner. Did they come to Wellington while you were attending the session?—Yes. Which of them was it you first saw?—They, the three, came together. Where was it in Wellington that they spoke to you?—In an hotel in the town; the name of the place where the hotel was is Kaiupoko. Did they come to see you, or you go to see them?—No, I went there to Parliament. But when they met you at the public house?—They came to me. What was said at that time?—F. E. Hamlin was with them. They said their coming was to ask me to give up my Crown Grant of Heretaunga. I said I was not willing. They said, "How is that?" I said, " Because your word is wrong; coming to me away from my own place." That was all I said to them on the first day; I ran away. On another day I was brought from my house at Te Aro; I came to their place in the public house. Who brought you?—Maney and Peacock. I was led into a room in the public-house, and the talk of these two commenced, the same as on the first day. They asked me to consent to give up my Crown Grant, and I would not agree. They urged me to consent, as my debts were unpaid; if I did not agree to give up my share, perhaps a summons would issue against me. They continued from breakfast to dinner time urging me to consent. We dined there; after dinner the talk began again. I was sad on account of the work of those people. I then consented that they should have my grant. At the time I consented that Maney and Peacock should have my Grant, I saw Tanner; he then came in for the first time on that day. I had seen him before, on the first day. Tanner and the others talked in English, and then Tanner spoke to me. I said, "Have you finished your talk with Maney?" He said, "Yes." I said, "Where is my strength now? you are killing me." Tanner said, "It is well; the matter rests with you, you have consented." When we saw Tanner, we had finished our talk, and come down stairs. What took place further?—Tanner's word ended, and so did mine. He at first said to me, "What is your thought about the Grant?" I said, "My money is £2,000." Tanner said he would not be able to consent to that sum; that the money that was arranged for each person in the Grant was £1,000. I said, "If you knew that, why did you come here to murder me? why did you not wait till I got back to my own place?" We contended over it, and Tanner agreed to give £1,500. This was the end of that conversation, Tanner consenting to the £1,500. Who was the interpreter?—F. E. Hamlin. The management of the £1,500 was with Maney and Peacock. The £1,000 was divided—one side to Maney, and one to Peacock; out of the £500, £300 came to me; the £200 went with the £1,000. I said to Tanner, "You hold the £300. Wait till I go back to my own place, and when I meet you, and ask you for it, pay me." Tanner consented, saying, "It is well." Maney, Peacock, and Hamlin heard all this. Our conversation about the money ended there, and we went to another room—myself, Maney, and Peacock, perhaps Hamlin, for they were never separated. My talk with Tanner was then
hapu. My idea, after all this, is that my money has been stolen, and I request that Tanner and Maney give back my money—the £300—that is my word now. You have described their proceedings as a murder [_patu]—for what reason?—Because I was living in another district, on another person's land, and they came to me there. Were there any of your people in Wellington, whom you might have consulted at the time?—Do you think that is a place where my friends are to be found? I had no friends there; I was alone. Do you remember speaking to Wilson, the lawyer, in Wellington?—I do not remember, and will not speak of anything that I do not remember definitely. H. It. Russell is the person I remember speaking to; he spoke to M'Lean—this was at the same time, when I was in Wellington, in Parliament. You were indebted to Maney and Peacock?—Yes. When you went to Wellington, did you know how much you owed them?—That is what I did not know. When they were talking to you in Wellington, did they show you any papers relating to the state of the accounts?—Yes, they brought them with them. Did they ask you to sign those papers?—No. Did you know, of your own knowledge, that you owed them £1,200 when you signed the deeds?—All my debts to them were paid by that £1,200—that was my idea, Did you then receive from them
kohuru?—There were two days during which they pursued me, and I ran away. At last I was tired out; I was there alone, and that is the reason I say I was murdered. At the time they applied, had you any idea of selling Heretaunga?—No; I had no thought of selling my share. Who spoke to you about being summoned?—Maney, and Peacock, and their interpreter. Was that said more than once?—During the second day it was once mentioned; not on the first day. Who did you understand would summon you?—The persons who said that to me. That is what all the pakehas in this place say; they take a bottle of rum with them, and go hunting after each grantee, telling him that if he does not sell, he will be summoned, and sent to prison for his debts. When the Maoris come into town, these pakehas take them into public-houses, make them drunk, and place documents before them to sign.
Mr Tanner complained that he was quite taken by surprise by Tareha being called. He was in possession of important documents bearing upon this statement. Mr Sheehan said that after Karaitiana's complaint, setting forth the particulars so minutely, the other side could not complain of being taken by surprise. The Chairman said he would see that the surprise, if it look place, should be only temporary.
Cross-examined by Mr Tanner: Did you not see Maney and Peacock in Wellington, and have a good deal of talk with them about the sale of Heretaunga, before you saw me?—On the first occasion it was Peacock, and not you. I then ran away. You say all the talk about the sale of Heretaunga had concluded when I first saw you?—You ask what I have already stated. Had not the price been settled before you saw me?—No; it was only my conbenting, with them. When we came
The Chairman said that Mr Tanner must give the Commissioners credit for some degree of intelligence. Both sides had examined Tareha to an extent not warranted by the importance of his testimony.
By Mr Lascelles: You say Tanner told you he had received a letter from Maney; how long ago was this?—I cannot say. Soon after your return from Wellington?—No. Since Karaitiana has been a member?—Yes. Did you go to Maney and ask if he had received that £300?—No. If Maney says you did, and that he showed you how the money had gone, will that be untrue?—Wait till Maney has his say, and I will know. [Question repeated.]—If Maney says that, I will say that he did not inform me—that it is not true. If a man takes your money, do you not know you can go to Court and get it?—That is the reason of all our troubles—you pakehas know all these things, while we remain in ignorance. That might have been done if I had gone to Maney, but I did not do so. I thought of that, and that 1 would not be able to get it. Have you ever mentioned this to Locke or M'Lean?—No. They are friends of yours?—Yes. Is Wilson a friend of yours?—No; he is a lawyer. Is Kinross?—No; he is the same as the rest. Have you mentioned this £300 to any one except H. R. Russell?—To no one except Tanner—he was the person who gave my £300 to Maney.
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: You told us it was said in Wellington that the grantees were to receive £1,000 each; was there a talk of the others having sold?—No; I was the beginning.
By the Chairman: What amount of rent did you receive from Heretaunga before the sale?—£100. From whom?—Karaitiana and Henare, the persons who managed the lease and the money. When the rent was paid, they used to send for me, and give me that money to divide among ourselves.
Rota Porehua, examined by Mr Sheehan: You belong to Pahoro's hapu?—Yes. Do you know anything of the circumstances under which a deed of trust was executed by Pahoro, on behalf of himself and Patarika?—On a Friday, Tanner asked me in Napier to go and fetch Patarika from Pakipaki. How came you to be in town?—I followed Paramena and Pahoro. On the Saturday, Patarika and I arrived. Did Tanner tell you what you were to bring Patarika for?—No. Where did you and Patarika go?—To F. E. Hamlin's office. Hamlin was writing a document. Had you received any money about this time?—After I had been standing a good while, Hamlin opened the document he had been writing, and laid it on the table. He said it related to the sale of Heretaunga by Henare, Karaitiana, Tareha, and Manaena. I said that I was not willing, and would not agree. That was all he said, and I went out, followed by Tanner. He gave me £7 on account of the rent. Did he say anything to you when he followed you out?—He said there was £700 remaining for Pahoro. To whose selling were you asked to consent?—I did not hear of the selling. (The Chairman: What was the £700 for—the rent?—I do not know.) Did you consent to the sale?—No. Did you knowingly sign any document at that time consenting to the sale by Pahoro?—I do not know of so doing. You are said to have signed this document, giving consent. [Document read to witness.]—I do not remember any such document. I cannot write. Was anything said by the pakehas about any share of the £700 to which you or Patarika might be entitled?—Nothing was said by Tanner, except that there was £700 to Pahoro. Who told you that Henare, Karaitiana, Manaena, and Tareha had sold?—I did not say they had sold; it was in the event of those persons selling. I said, "I am not willing to sell Heretaunga." No pakeha came afterwards to speak to me about the selling of Heretaunga. Did you not sign a second document, after Paramena and Pahoro came in to get their share of the money?—I did not sign, and did not go to their signing. Do you not remember signing another document after that?—No; since the first signing I have not seen Tanner till now. You have heard that Heretaunga has been sold?—I heard it afterwards. How much of the purchase-money have you received?—None at all. Do you not remember, perhaps a year after receiving the £7, signing a document about Heretaunga, Worgan being the interpreter?—I have no recollection of it; it is Worgan's own talk. It is said that about fifteen months after receiving the £7, you, Patarika, and Pahoro, signed a conveyance of Heretaunga for £300, Worgan being the interpreter—The signing when Worgan was present was about giving £500 to Harrison. I did not go to that signing. [While waiting for the deed to be produced, another witness was called.]
Patarika Rehua, examined by Mr Sheehan: You are one of Pahoro's hapu?—Yes. Do you remember being asked to come into town by Rota?—Yes; Tanner sent the old man for me, and I came. To what place did you go when you came?—To G. Worgan's office. What persons did you see there?—Tanner and F. E. Hamlin—they were all I knew. What took place?—I do not remember the words. Did you do anything?—I remained there. For what purpose?—Because I had been sent for about the £7 for myself and the old man—that was the reason of my staving Did you sign any pukapuka?—No. Is this your signature?—It is not my writing; but it is like it. [Document read.] Do you remember signing any such paper as that?—No. You have heard that Heretaunga has been sold?—It was when Paramena, and Pahoro, and others came in, that I became aware of the sale. What did you do with your share of the money?—I received none whatever,
Mr Tanner declined to cross-examine this witness,
The Chairman here asked Mr J. N. Wilson if he ever gave Karaitiana any information as to the amount due to him out of the purchase of Heretaunga: whether he explained to him that he was to receive £3,000—it having been so stated in evidence. Mr Wilson replied in the negative.
Richard David Maney (called, by permission, by the respondents), examined by Mr Tanner: Do you remember telling me you were going to purchase Tareha's interest in Heretaunga?—Yes. Mr J. M. Stuart commissioned me to purchase two or three shares in Heretaunga, and gave me £2,000 for the purpose. I was then aware that Tareha's share could be bought, and believed that Pahoro also would sell. Tareha was at that time in Wellington. Peacock, to whom Tareha was indebted, accompanied me, with an interpreter, to Wellington. The subject was the matter of conversation between Tareha and ourselves for several days. Was I present on any of those occasions?—No. I had seen you in Wellington, but had no conversation with you. The negociation with Tareha, which occupied some two or three days, resulted in his agreeing to sell to Peacock and myself, his share in Heretaunga, for £1,500, for the purpose of paying his debts to Peacock and myself. When we had received Tareha's consent to the sale, I saw Tanner in reference to the matter. He at first objected to the price, saying it was too much; he said he did not think he could give more than £1,000, or at most £1,200, for each share. I then informed Tanner that Tareha had agreed to sell his share for £1,500, and that if he refused to take it, there was another person, for whom Peacock and I were acting, who would take it at that amount; that we did not want it ourselves, but merely to receive the amount of our debts—in proof of which, I showed Tanner my pocket-book, containing Stuart's cheques. Tanner agreed to the amount, and, at Tareha's request, the money was paid to us. Mr Tanner: Did I not require an order from Tareha for the amount?—Yes. Was anything said about outsiders?—You stipulated that Tareha's people should get some of the money, and, as a matter of fact, they did. Did I ask that they should endorse the deed?—Yes. Did they do so?—Yes. Do you remember what I said to Tareha at the hotel?—I remember a long conversation.
Mr Sheehan said he could not undertake the cross examination of Mr Maney this evening.
By the Chairman: What conversation took place between Tareha and Tanner about his consent to the sale?—Tareha told Tanner, in my presence, that Peacock and myself had worried him into the sale about his debts. Can you remember anything about the gig?—Yes. "When was the £1,500 paid by Tanner?—Immediately after the arrangement was made. Was Tareha aware that the whole of the money was paid to you and Peacock?—Perfectly aware. Who was your interpreter?—Martin Hamlin. Did Tanner go to Wellington at the same time as yourself and Peacock?—Not so far as I know.' Who engaged Hamlin?—Peacock and myself. For what purpose?—Expressly to negociate with Tareha. Did you hear any arrangement that £300 was to remain with Tanner?—No. Tareha's only stipulations were that the money should be divided between myself and Peacock; that we were to buy the gig; and that he was to have a small sum given to him for his own use Have you heard before about this £300?—Not until now. At this time I held a promissory note from Tareha, for £1,004, which he has admitted; and it was to obtain payment of this that I went to Wellington.
The Commission adjourned at 4.40 p.m.
R. D. Maney's examination continued by Mr Tanner: I remember, now, that Tanner was on board the steamer, with myself, and Peacock, on the voyage to Wellington. Had you ever, before going to Wellington, any discussion with Tareha as to his sale of his interest in Heretaunga?—Yes. After Stuart had given me the £2,000, I was in a position to treat with Tareha. Peacock and I went to Petane, where Tareha was staying, and spoke to him about selling his share He agreed to sell, and gave Peacock and myself a written memorandum of agreement, in the Maori language. (The Chairman: Is that agreement in existence?—I have it at home. Can you fix the date?—About a month or two months previous to Tareha's going to the Assembly, the year after I went to Wellington about Waipiropiro.) Did you speak to Peacock and myself about Tareha's interest, before going to Wellington?—Yes. You expressed some doubt of my getting Tareha's share, and I told you I already had the promise of it. Did you ever see this document before?—I remember your writing it, and Tareha signing it, after considerable conversation [The document referred to was an authority to Mr Tanner to pay Maney and Peacock £1,500, dated
Cross-examined by Mr Sheehan: You told us yesterday that you had a commission from Stuart to purchase interests in the Heretaunga block, and money of Stuart's in your hands for that purpose?—Yes. You were to receive remuneration from Stuart for so doing?—There was scarcely a definite understanding, but I was to receive commission. When you went to Tareha, at Petane, did you have an interpreter?—I believe I had Hamlin with me, but cannot say; it might have been Villers. Is Villers licensed?—No. Did you go there on behalf of Stuart?—There
hapu getting a share of the money?—Yes; he asked if the hapu was to get any. My reply was, that the hapu had already received their share of the money; that I had found labor and fencing material for their land. Did not Tareha make any stipulation?—What we gave to the tribe was according to the stipulations made by Tareha—that when we returned I was to give Taraipene £20, and some provisions during his absence, as he would not be back for a month or six weeks. Were any stipulations made with Peacock?—Yes, something similar, but it was a private arrangement, I do not know what it was.
By the Chairman; Did Stuart ever complain of the course you adopted?—No. Did he place a limit on the purchase-money?—Yes, £12,000. What was your motive in preferring Tanner to Stuart?—I always held that it would be a betrayal of my duty as a settler to purchase a share in a block from the natives as against the person in occupation, because one or two shares taken out often will deteriorate the value of the block. I have consistently adopted the course of allowing the occupiers of the land to take it of me at the same price as I gave for it myself. I never received a bonus except once, from Russell Brothers, and that was because I held a mortgage. My real reason for objecting to purchase for Stuart was, that he was not a resident in the place. At the time you purchased Tareha's share in Wellington, had there beer, any revocation of the original instructions given by Stuart?—No. Did you tell Stuart that you had these scruples at the time?—No. Did you leave Stuart under the impression that you would use reasonable exertions to obtain the interests for him?—Yes, and I believe I faithfully carried it out; but he would not have accepted less than five shares, and I had no wish to have debited against me the purchase-money of three or four shares of Heretaunga. [Mr Tanner objected to this line of examination.—The Chairman thought it was not relevant to go into the case as between
Re-examined by Mr Tanner: You said you considered the purchase entirely for yourself, and that if I did not buy it, others would. Did you, in any way, act as my agent? (The Chairman: That is partly a legal question—the question has arisen in a former case, when a controversy arose between a cross-examiner and witness, on a point exactly similar. Put it what way you will, it involves legal questions, on which the witness's opinion is of no value. It is a mixed question of law and fact.) Concerning Noa's account, the witness swears that the orders were not read to him: is that true?—They were read and explained to the full extent of the interpreter's ability. Did Noa read them?—Yes. Is he a careful man?—Yes. When he signed those orders, did he express himself perfectly satisfied?—He did not dissent. Nor object?—He said he did not think he owed so much.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: You see Tareha's name to this deed?—Yes. It was signed by himself?—Yes. In your presence?—Yes. Did the interpreter write the other portion of the deed?—I believe so. It is signed with a cross?—Yes. Did you not say, in the Waipiropiro case, that you were not satisfied unless he signed his name?—Yes, in cases where I was concerned. Did not Tareha say in that case that he only made the cross where he was doubtful of the nature of the document?—Yes. Was Tanner to pay your expenses if he bought the land?—Yes. Were .you not working for Tanner?—Partly; not in a strict sense. What did Stuart agree to give for each interest?—He did not mention; some would receive more than others. His limit was £12,000. Was Tanner aware that you were engaged for Stuart?—Not from me until the very day of the sale He might have known from outside talk; it was pretty generally known here. (The Chairman: Did you receive, outside of your expenses, any commission or bonus from Tanner?—No; I believe I received £10, for passage-money and expenses.)
Renata Kawepo, examined by Mr Sheehan: I produce two papers: Do you understand that one of these is an order for £667, and the other for £345, out of the purchase-money of Heretaunga?—Yes. Do you wish to say anything about them?—The signature is like mine, but it is not my writing. It is a forgery, by some one who has knowledge of my writing. My debts were not the amounts mentioned. (The Chairman: The money was received by Maney for you: there has been no theft of the money, for it has been put against your debts in Maney's books.) I wrote my name to that document. If Maney had said £200, and Peacock had said £100, it would have been correct.
Mr Sheehan said that if the other side would call Mr Sutton, and the Rev. S. Williams, he would close the case for the complainants here.—Mr Tanner said he had no such intention.—Mr Sheehan said he would have to call these witnesses.
Samuel Williams, examined by Mr Sheehan: You are a relative of one of the purchasers of the Heretaunga block?—Yes. Are you interested in that purchase?—I have an interest in it. Along with whom?—Mr James Williams. Is it a considerable interest?—Yes. Did it begin with the lease?—My interest was left an open question at the time of the lease. It was left open for you to go into the lease?—Yes. And you did so?—I had money in my brother's hands. I was urged to go into it by the natives. It is difficult to define, but I give it as my answer, that I had an interest in the lease. Who were the natives who urged you?—Karaitiana, as spokesman for the whole, asked me to share the original lease with Tanner. This was before the land went through the Court. I declined; but after some pressure, I asked if they would allow me to name Mr James Williams. They agreed to James Williams joining Tanner and the other gentlemen. Do you remember when the question of putting it through the Court was discussed by the natives?—Yes, but I was never present as any of these discussions. Do you remember being applied to by Karaitiana for advice as to whether the land should be put through the Court?—Generally, but not with respect to that particular block. Do you remember Karaitiana expressing has fear that putting the land through the Court would facilitate the grantees in disposing of their individual interests?—I have no recollection of it; the apprehension on that subject is of considerably later date. I have no recollection of his applying to me on that point; he did on others. If Karaitiana said he did, and that you told him it would not rest with the grantees, would you say he was correct?—I would tell him, in such a case, that the grantees could do as they pleased; I told them it would place them in the same position as the pakehas. Renata Kawepo spoke to me on the subject; I told him I had complained to Mr Smith, the Judge of the Native Lands Court, of so few names being placed on the grants. I strongly advised Henare Tomoana to eat the Heretaunga block up among the whole of the owners, before putting the land through the Court. I never said a word to lead Karaitiana, or any other native, to suppose that the individual grantees could not dispose of their land. I also advised them generally to sell their land; not on any account to let it except for a very short period, as it would interfere with the sale. Your interest really began when your brother went in as co-lessee with Tanner?—Yes. After the land went through the Court, and the lease was granted, what was the first you heard of any grantee disposing of his interest?—I believe the first I heard was of Waaka Kawatini disposing of his interests to Parker. I will not be quite sure whether he or Tareha was the first I heard of. The first time I heard the question raided was by Henare telling me that Mr Henry Smith had assured them that individuals could not sell. I did not hear Smith say so; I only hear I it from Henare. When you declined to go into the lease, and mentioned your brother's name, did you know he was anxious to go in?—No. Had you previously ascertained from him whether he desired to go in?—I cannot say; I was only present at the negociation with Tanner, at Karaitiana's urgent request, to see that no misunderstanding between himself and Tanner should arise Had you not heard, up to the day of the meeting, that it would take place?—I cannot say positively; I had no intention of going. Did Tanner consent to the in-
hapu. Which did you see first, Wilson or James Williams?—Wilson, I
The Commission adjourned at 5.20 p.m.
Mr S. Williams made the following statement in addition to his evidence yesterday: I have stated that I had an interest in the original lease. To guard against a wrong inference, I wish to stale that I had nothing to do with the negociations, nor was I consul led by either party on the subject. The proposition, by Karaitiana, that I should take part in it, was made after the execution of the deed. I was asked my reason for asking Pahoro to sign the deed of trust. One, reason I omitted to mention was, that I had heard of Pahoro offering his share in Heretaunga for sale in the street, and a gentleman told me he could purchase
By Mr Sheehan: After this business with the grantees, what was the next matter concerning the sale with which you had connexion?—I cannot say; I was never brought directly in contact with any of the negociations, and took no part in them whatever. Were you aware, from any of the co-lessees, that negociations were on foot for the purchase of Tareha's share?—I was in Wellington, snbpœnaed to the Native Lands Court at the time; I may have been informed there by Tanner. Were you aware that he was about to purchase?—Yes. Did you see Tareha on the subject?—No. You are well acquainted with Tareha?—Yes. You have mentioned that you considered the sale by one grantee, in the absence of the other owners, objectionable.—Yes. Did you make any suggestion to Tanner to that effect?—I heard Ormond advising Tanner on that subject. Did you also?—I am not aware that I did; I felt they had incurred such heavy debts that it was impossible for me to assist them in any way. Do you remember the advice Mr Ormond tendered?—Ormond advised Tareha very strongly not to sign any document whatever during his residence in Wellington; that he should be allowed to return, and meet his own people, before disposing of his land. Where was this advice given?—In Wellington. I met Ormond and Tanner in the street, and heard their conversation on the subject. Ormond asked Tanner to send Tareha to M'Lean, and he would use his influence to prevent Tareha selling. Did Tanner promise to do so?—I do not remember any such promise. Did he object?—No. Next time I met Tanner, and spoke to him in the street, he mentioned that when he got to Tareha's house, he found he had either signed or agreed to sign. How long was that afterwards?—I fancy it was the next day; I was on my way to the Native Lands Court, as near as I can remember, when I passed him. You were aware, before you left Wellington, that Tareha's share had become the property of the lessees?—I was told so by Tanner. At what time did you leave Wellington?—I was detained in Wellington a fortnight after this, attending the Native Lands Court. Then you would leave some time in August?—I cannot say. While Parliament was still sitting?—Yes. Having seen Tanner and Ormond, and afterwards seen Tanner, were those two the only occasions on which you have conversed with Tanner on the subject of Tareha's interest?—I cannot say; it was by mere accident that I met them on those occasions. I carefully abstained from having anything to do with the negociations; and used my influence to prevent the natives from selling. That was previous to this time?—Until the natives told me they were so heavily involved that they could not help it. When was that?—Shortly before
By Mr Tanner: You mentioned that you took no part in the negociations; explain how you came to be present at the signing of the lease at Pakowhai? What position did Karaitiana occupy in regard to the lease?—He was the representative of the tribe, and controlled the matter. Concerning the declarations of trust: were you aware that they would militate as much against our purchasing as Stuart's?—Yes; the advice was given to prevent the natives from squandering their property, without reference to any purchaser in particular. Concerning the conversation with Noa: was it in reference to the Heretaunga block?—Not entirely. I told Noa I had not been at Pakowhai for some time, and enquired after the people there He told me that Karaitiana had called the people together to talk over the question of the advisability of selling Heretaunga. I asked "Are you thinking of selling Heretaunga?" His reply was, "We have left it with Henare and Karaitiana to decide, and to do as they please" I do not think anything further passed on the subject. Did Noa mention the names of the people present?—I am not aware that he did; he spoke generally of people concerned in the block. Did you understand from Noa that he had been sent for by Karaitiana?
By the Chairman: Tareha was in the Grant as well; do you say his position was inferior, as regards this particular block?—I do not think he put himself forward at all, though he was a large owner He appeared to leave the management in Karaitiana's and Henare's hands. Regarding the Heretaunga block in particular, should you say that the grantees were generally looked upon, both by themselves and other natives, as representing their hapus?—Certainly, for several years; but were afterwards looked upon more in the light of owners. Owing, I suppose, to representations made to them by Europeans?—Yes. Are you aware that sandy and shingly portions you spoke of are within the boundaries of the purchased block?—Yes.
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: How long was it after your return from Wellington that you went to Omahu?—I have a distinct recollection of the circumstance, but cannot fix the date. Do you remember the first visit you paid to Omahu on your return?—I cannot say, unless the one I spoke of was the first. Which place did you first visit on your return?—Most likely Pakowhai. Were any persons present at the interview with Noa?—I cannot say; I merely put a casual question to him. Then how came you to have such a clear recollection of the conversation?—I was very likely struck by the information that they had decided to sell Heretaunga. Why should that strike you, when you were aware that two interests had already gone, and the natives had, to your knowledge spoken of the subject?—I believe, it was the first time I had heard that these other natives had actually decided to sell. Did not these conversations with Henare and Karaitiana take place before your visit to Omahu?—I cannot say positively whether it was before or after. [At Mr Sheehan's request, the witness here gave the Maori words used by Noa in the conversation, as near as he could recall them] It was left then to Henare and Karaitiana to decide whether the land should he sold or not?—Yes. Did you understand that it had been left so absolutely in the hands of Karaitiana and Henare that they could sell if they pleased, and only call the others together to receive the purchase money?—From my acquaintance with the natives, I cannot answer. [Mr Commissioner Manning: In some cases natives, by virtue of this authority, will sell without consulting others, and not be called in question; and in other cases, with precisely similar authority, the agents will he under the thumbs of other grantees] Would not Noa and the other natives expect to be consulted again before the final decision was given?—I considered a general authority had been given, the nature of which would be shown by subsequent facts. A native asked to sign a deed, if dissatisfied, will express it, not considering himself bound by the others. Did you inform the lessees of the fact that Noa had said the matter was left in the hands of Karaitiana and Henare?—I do not believe I mentioned the fact to any lessees till the other day, when I heard the question had been raised here. Will you undertake upon your
By Mr Tanner: Do you consider Noa an intelligent native?—Yes, I do. Not one to be led blindfold into a transaction, like Waaka Kawatini, for instance?—Certainly not. What do you consider the chief reason why Noa and the others left in Karaitiana's and Henare's hands the mana of Heretaunga?—They were the leading men. Do you consider they left in their hands the terms of sale, as well as the consent to sell? [Question disallowed by the Chairman.]
By Mr Sheehan: From your experience of Noa, do you consider him truthful?—Perfectly so.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: What did you advise the natives about mortgaging?—I was constantly advising them not to mortgage. Did you caution Noa against selling Heretaunga?—I have already stated what took place between Noa and myself. Was he a friend of yours?—Yes. When you heard that the natives were about to sell, did you go and caution them not to do so?—My caution to the natives was against the mortgaging for debt; when the debts became so large, I ceased to caution them. Which of the other grantees did you caution?—Paramena and Pahoro especially; I also spoke to the others. Were you concerned in the preparation of the trust deeds?—No.
Noa Huki recalled, and examined by the Commissioners: Do you remember meeting Samuel Williams at Omahu, some time after his return from Wellington, a short time before the sale of Heretaunga?—I do not remember. Do you remember Samuel Williams going to Wellington, about the time Tareha's interest was sold?—I do not quite know of his visits to Wellington. You have stated that you were staying at Pakowhai one time when Henare and Karaitiana spoke to you about the sale, of Heretaunga—did you ever mention the fact to Samuel Williams at Omahu?—I do not remember it. Mr Williams has said that he had a conversation with you at Omahu to the following effect: [Convocation repeated to witness, in Maori]—I do not know of that conversation.
By Mr Sheehan: do you think it likely you made such a statement to Mr Williams?—If I had heard those words I would have repeated them; but I have still no recollection of the circumstance.
Mr Sheehan had an application to make He was desirous that some of the registered documents should be copied, and copies accepted by both sides put in as evidence, to be published by the Commissoners as an appendix to their report.—The Chairman said the Commissioners were bound to report the evidence, and must take notice of documents, but would not encumber their
Frederick Sutton, called by Mr Sheehan, complained that he had appeared on a subpoena, and had not been paid. Mr Sheehan said he was only bound to tender one shilling; he had already paid the witness £1 Is., which he regretted He would undertake to pay any such sum, over and above £1 Is., if any, as the Court should award. The witness was then sworn, and the examination proceeded with. You heard of the sale of Heretaunga?—Yes. You had a good deal to do in connexion with it?—I received some portion of the purchase monies. Did you receive any from Henare Tomoana?—I did; over £1,100. From Manaena Tini?—£604. Pahoro and Paramena?—Yes, amounting to £700. Do you produce detailed accounts, as required by the subpoena?—No; my ledger is in the possession of the Court. I did not consider myself called upon to do so; judgment was given by the Supreme Court for Henare Tomoana's account. You have a detailed account?—It could he made up from my books. You have taken a good deal of interest in this case?—Yes. You have expressed your opinion that this case, like others, is without foundation?—I have done so, in the most public manner. When did you first hear of the contemplated sale of Heretaunga?—Early, I believe, in
Mr F. Sutton's examination by Mr Sheehan, continued: When did you get the particulars of the consideration to be paid to the natives, from Tanner?—The day before I went to Pakowhai. At the time you offered to obtain Manaena's signature?—The same time. After that you received the order from Manaena, for the amount of his debt—£594, and an order from Henare Tomoana about the same time, which orders were accepted by the purchasers?—Yes, provisionally. Did you retain the orders yourself, or transfer them in the course of business?—I retained them till two or three days before the final settlement, and then handed them to Watt for collection. So that you had no occasion to be present when the money was paid?—No; I was not present. Some time afterwards you had an interview with Paramena and Pahoro?—I met them immediately after the settlement, near Cuff's office. They explained their grievance to me, and asked me to assist them. They said they had not received so much money as they were entitled to, by about £1,000. I am not certain as to the exact amount; the balance was £1,750, less the amount guaranteed, which would bring it to £900 or £1,000. The order; I understood, had been accepted by the purchasers In favor of Harrison and others. They gave you authority to act for them?—They did, and appointed me attorney by deed, with full authority to sue, or take any other necessary steps. I wrote a letter to Tanner, on behalf of the natives, signed by them, informing him of the fact, and one on my own behalf, stating the amount I claimed. Your application to Tanner was for a lump sum?—Yes. The letter produced is the one signed by the natives. Did you determine the amount for which you would make application?—Yes, after consultation with the natives. Did you see Tanner, or the other purchasers, while this was going on?—I sent letters immediately; about a quarter of an hour after meeting the natives. What did you ascertain in answer to your application?—In about a month, we having taken some steps preparatory to taking an action, if necessary, Watt called on me, and said he had been requested by the purchasers to try and arrange the matter. Had you any reply to your application before this?—I believe I had no reply whatever. You believed they intended to dispute the claim?—Certainly, otherwise I would not have taken steps to commence an action. As the only means of enforcing payment?—Yes, at that time. Watt offered, on behalf of the purchasers, to give £700 if I could get the natives to sign confirmative deeds. Had you a solicitor employed in regard to the intended action?—Yes; I am under the impression it was Wilson. Was Watt aware that these proceedings were to be taken?—He was aware that proceedings were threatened. You were first to obtain the signature of the grantees, secondly of the hapus, and, thirdly, that deeds should be passed
5s. was for liquor. Since you received the £594 from Manaena, has he received any acknowledgment from you?—I believe I gave him a receipt for the amount. Has Henare Tomoana received from you any statement how the £1,100 was made up?—I am not sure that he has; but before he signed the order for the amount, he went through every item in my ledger. You remember stating that, after issuing the writ, shortly before Henare left for Taupo, Tanner called on you, in reference to it?—Yes. Did any other person call on you in respect to it?—F. E. Hamlin, immediately after the writ was issued. On whose behalf?—I understood it to be on Ormond's. I had some words with Hamlin; I told him that neither Ormond nor he
By Mr Tanner : Did you consider the sale of Heretaunga the natives' own act?—I am not in a position to answer. Did not Henare often tell you to wait for payment till the block was sold?—Repeatedly; I never would have allowed so large an amount as that to run up, but for that assurance. Did you hear of it from other natives—any of the sub- claimants?—Many of them; Manaena and his son, Renata, Reihana, and others. Long before the sale?—Months before. Renata (generally called Big Jim) owed me an account, which was transferred to Karaitiana's account, where it remains. Did you understand that the sale rested with Henare and Karaitiana?—I looked upon them as the principal men in the transaction. Did you look upon it as a settled thing among the natives, that Heretaunga was to be sold?—For months previous to the sale. Referring to Manaena; did you hear from him first of the £50 per annum?—No; from yourself, first, the day before I went to Pakowhai. You have shown the details of Henare's and Manaena's accounts; have you a similar account with reference to Karaitiana?—Yes, but not in connexion with Heretaunga. Was the proportion of wine and spirits much the same?—Much larger. Are you not aware that the native chiefs were in the habit of treating their European friends liberally with liquor?—Yes. What do you suppose is the percentage of liquor drunk by Maoris, as compared with Europeans—the percentage, say, on £1,000?—So far as my experience goes, the percentage of wines and spirits is larger in my business with pakehas than with the natives. (Mr Commissioner Manning: Which do you think would kill most—ten gallons drunk in ten months, or half-a-gallon in half-an-hour?—I cannot say from experience.)
By Mr Lascelles: How long have you lived in this district?—Fifteen or sixteen years. Are you acquainted with the grantees of Heretaunga?—Well acquainted. And the other principal natives?—Yes. You are doing as large a native business as any storekeeper in town?—Perhaps larger. Had you heard the sale of Heretaunga complaine I of, previously to Seeing the notification in the Gazette?—Not until the sitting of the Commission. You are still in communication with the grantees?—Henare has lately made several unsuccessful attempts to renew the acquaintance. I told him I had looked over my books, and found I had to summon him for every sixpence I had received. The complainants state that they were threatened with extreme measures—is Henare in the habit of paying his debts without being summoned?—No. Has he not been in the Resident Magistrate's Court five or six times within the last few months?—More often than that. Is Manaena fond of paying his debts?—He is different from Henare; he has always shown himself very honorable. On one occasion he brought me £640 in notes, and settled a debt He is about £200 in my debt now. Do you find Karaitiana pay generally?—No; I have had to adopt the same unpleasant process us with Henare. A writ was issued before his departure for
By Mr Commissioner Manning: Do you consider the natives as safe pay as the Europeans?—About on a par; I have had, perhaps, to use legal proceedings oftener in the case of natives; but have made fewer bad debts. Legal proceedings have been taken almost only in the cases of Henare and Karaitiana.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo; Do you know the Heretaunga block well?—I do not; I have been on it once or twice. You gave the natives a good deal of credit?—Yes; they showed me they had certain properties, and certain revenues, with which to pay their debts—and upon that I gave them credit. Did you know when they were to receive their money?—I generally knew when their rent was due. Did you know the amounts?—Yes, I was aware of the rent received by the principal natives for the different blocks. You gave them credit, knowing the amount they were to receive?—Yes; I would not have given them credit without. You know, perfectly, the rent of Heretaunga?—I knew it was £1,250, out of which something had to be paid on a mortgage. I believe I never received anything out of the rent. I knew the
George Davie, examined by Mr Sheehan, deposed: I am a resident in Napier, formerly an hotel and storekeeper at Waitanoa, on the other side of Havelock, where I carried on a European and native trade. I knew Paramena Oneone; but was not aware that he was a grantee of Heretaunga till a person called upon me. I see you had an order for £40, signed by him; is this the paper?—Yes. Was Paramena in debt to you in that sum at the time?—No. How came you to get an order for a larger amount than was due?—Martin Hamlin called at my house, and asked if Paramena and Pahoro were indebted to me. I said, yes, a little; Paramena about £30, and Pahoro, about £20; as for Paramena's, I could get it any time I asked for it He asked me if I would try and get orders from them, as they had signed a conveyance, had received nothing on account, and were getting frightened. I asked him who I was to give the order on, and he said the Twelve Apostles—if Mr Williams would not pay me, Ormond would. Did you agree at once?—No, we rode off together; I went on alone to the pa, where I saw Paramena; I told him he owed me £30, and that I would feel obliged if he would give me an order on Williams for £40; and that in two days I would return the £10. Why did you ask for £40?—Because it was thought £30 was a small sum to ask a purchaser of Heretaunga for. It was useless to ask Paramena for an order for £30, as I could get that sum from him at any time. Who wrote the order?—Hamlin, who arrived afterwards. Paramena objected to give an order on Williams; he would give an order on Sutton or Kinross, for a larger sum, if I liked. After Hamlin came, he consented, and signed. Why did you not accept an order on Sutton or Kinross?—Because Hamlin wanted the
By Mr Lascelles: So you considered yourself conferring an obligation by receiving £40?—From the way it was put, certainly. Were you involved at that time?—No. Were you in debt to Kinross?—No; he was in debt to me. Did you owe Neal and Close anything?—A trifle. What commission did you offer Hamlin if he would recover this amount from Paramena?—None, certainly, it was not necessary. Did you not distinctly refuse to take an order on Kinross or Sutton?—Yes. Why?—Because Mr Hamlin particularly wanted the order to be on Williams. What was the difference between Kinross's money or Williams's?—None. I obtained the order on Williams solely to oblige Hamlin. How did you suppose you were obliging the purchasers?—That was the way Hamlin put it, and I suppose they sent him. (The Chairman: Was Paramena willing to give an order on Williams?—No, he was very reluctant, offering to give an order rather on Sutton or Kinross.) Did he give any reason?—No. Which Hamlin was it?—Martin. Are you certain?—Yes. (The Chairman; What did you do with the money?—It was two or three days after the order was given before I got the money; I paid a portion to the carpenters working at my place, I used another portion in settling accounts; but cannot exactly state how I applied it.) Have you given Kinross a different account of this transaction—mentioning another Mr Hamlin?—No; I never mentioned the transaction to Kinross at all, in any way. Have you mentioned it to any other person?—Not that I am aware of, till Mr Sheehan asked me about the £40—I do not know that I have mentioned it to any European. Have you spoken to H. R. Russell about this?—Not that I know of. Why was £40 the exact sum you required; when £30 was all that was owing?—Because £30 was a small sum. Did you ever return the balance to the native?—Yes, in
By Mr Tanner: You were a party to the arrangement with Paramena—you told him you would give him the balance back?—Yes, Then how was it that Paramena, who objected to give an order at all on Heretaunga, should give an order for nearly £10 more than he owed you—can you account for that?—I do not attempt to account for it. After that, we went to Pahoro, who positively refused to give us an order on account of Heretaunga.
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: You had claims against Hapuku's estate?—Yes. I came to town, and went to Mr Lascelles' office, in answer to a letter from Lascelles. Was it he who suggested that you could get your accounts settled if you gave evidence against Kinross and the other people?—Yes. Have you been promised, directly or indirectly, by any European or native, any fee or reward for coming here to give evidence?—No. Have you been promised the ordinary costs?—No; I have not been promised a sixpence by any man. You say that at this time you had no intention of asking Paramena for payment?—Not the slightest. Had you any idea whatever that Hamlin was coming to you on that subject?—No. Was Paramena fully aware that he was giving an order for a larger amount than was due?—Yes. Have you since had a settlement with him?—He has paid me other money, and given me wheat, long subsequent to this affair.
Mr Sheehan said he proposed to close his case here, with a reservation on the matter of accounts—Mr Tanner said that the original accounts were not in his possession He had destroyed them when the matter was settled, merely keeping a memorandum of the gross amounts, gathered from receipts given by the storekeepers—Mr Sheehan said that he would also put in a valuation.—The Chairman, being here about to adjourn the Court to the usual hour (10 a.m.) on Monday, Mr Tanner objected He would have to send for Mr Williams and Mr Ormond He suggested an adjournment till 2 p.m. on Monday—The Chairman said he was very loth to lose a whole forenoon, and there was surely time without this—the sun rose at six o'clock in the morning, still He knew of no small case to occupy the time of the Commission meanwhile—Mr Lascelles hoped that in this important case the Court would give him an opportunity of giving a full opening—The Chairman said he looked with anxiety at the prospect of a lengthy opening, and did not think it would do any good. It should be merely an index to the case—Mr Tauner asked that one hour additional, at least, might be allowed.—Mr Sheehan had no objection to this, and the Commission, accordingly, at 2.25 p.m, adjourned to 11 a m. on Monday.
Mr Lascelles complained that evidence as to adequacy of consideration had not yet been produced; though there had been plenty of time—Mr Sheehan said that the valuation was being made, and would, no doubt, be completed in about two days—Mr Lascelles wished a limit fixed, and asked that the estimate should be rendered by tomorrow evening, at the latest—The Chairman suggested noon, on Wednesday—Mr Sheehan said it might, possibly, be prepared before that time.
Mr Lascelles said that, Mr Lee being unable to attend, he now represented the whole of the respondents. In a law ease he would be content with a bare opening, but in this case the proceedings were so very extraordinary—(The Chairman recomended Mr Lascelles to keep to the regular line of an ordinary opening).—Mr Lascelles said he would require to show clearly what had been stated in the complaints, and how far it had been supported by the evidence, Though thirteen days had now been occupied with this inquiry, and fourteen witnesses had been examined, he would, if these proceedings had taken place in a Court of Equity, have no hesitation in leaving the case as it stood in the hands of the Court; for he maintained, the respondents had been completely exonerated by the complainants' own witnesses. But the complaints were of such a nature as to cast reflections on the character and reputation of the gentlemen engaged in the purchase; and on this point he felt bound to remark; and in addition to this, the learned counsel on the opposite side, in his opening address, had east reflections of a kind altogether uncalled-for on these gentlemen, making pointed and special allusion to their position and character He would, in the first place, advert to the gazetted complaints in their order, and would remark that Karaitiana's complaint in particular was a rare specimen of special pleading. The first charge was that pressure had been brought to bear upon them to induce them to sell. Not by the purchasers. The only pressure which had been shown was that which was inevitable—the pressure of their own liabilities. It was alleged that a large portion of the consideration had been paid to publicans and storekeepers; but every penny paid in this way, was under written instructions from the sellers of the block. The bills were principally for spirits, he read. Not an atom of evidence had been adduced in support of this charge—on the contrary it was entirely disproved. In Sutton's bills against Henare Tomoana and Manaena the proportion due for spirits had been proved to be so small as to be utterly insignificant. The charge that no opportunity had been given to inspect the accounts had been utterly disproved, Mr Sutton having proved that he had gone carefully through the accounts with the principal parties, who were fully satisfied of their correctness, and who had since continued to deal with him. Next he found it stated that threats of extreme measures had been used—and here again, the evidence utterly failed to support the charge. In only one case—that of Henare Tomoana—had any legal proceedings been taken; and then they went no further than the judgment being recorded—it was not even registered against the land. No precipitancy had been shown—no undue haste—nothing more than the ordinary course pursued in similar cases. As regards Manaena, there was no evidence that legal proceedings were even threatened—Mr Sutton had merely asked how he was going to pay; there ban been no urging, threatening, or pressing of any kind. Karaitiana's evidence showed that he had been summoned; but he did not slate that he had been threatened or pressed. It was alleged that certain private arrangements agreed upon had not been carried out. Really the evidence upon this point had been so very compli-
Joshua Cuff, examined by Mr Lascelles: I am a solicitor, residing at Poverty Bay. During the negociation for the purchase of the Heretaunga block, I was resident in Napier. I acted as solicitor for Tanner and the other purchaser's, in that negociation. As far as I remember, the first transaction was the preparation of a lease, there being a prior lease in existence. I prepared this lease, from the grantees to Tanner, after the land had passed through the Native Lands Court; the rental was £1,250 per annum. Did you see the deed executed by any of the lessees?—No; the deed was prepared by me, and handed to the interpreter. Some months elapsed, and the next, transaction took place after Tanner's return from Wellington He brought a deed, prepared by Brandon, and signed by Tareha, and instructed me to prepare a deed for Pahoro's signature, Pahoro being present at the time. I had previously, heard that negociations for the sale were pending. The deed was one of conveyance of his share for £750. The deed produced is the one; it was signed by Pahoro in my presence, and that of F. E. Hamlin. The first entry in my diary, after this, is on the v. Parker; action discontinued by consent, subject to the pay-
runanga was held on the subject; on the third day, Tanner and Williams were sitting at the table, making out and checking the accounts. Karaitiana was also going into the accounts. I believe the whole of the grantees were present. Karaitiana, Henare, Manaena, Paramena, Pahoro, and Noa were all present.) What were those accounts?—Vouchers, receipts, and orders. They were very voluminous, including accounts between Parker and Waaka, and very complicated. (The Chairman: Can you recollect the division of the money?—No, I paid no attention; I had nothing to do with that.) Were the accounts discussed on the first and second day?—No, not till the third day. They were there, but were not gone into. Were there any disputes?—No. Karaitiana did just as he pleased. A dispute occurred outside, afterwards, Paramena declaring that it was not fair; he had not received his share; and I afterwards received a notice from Sutton on the subject. Did any of the natives leave the office in a dissatisfied manner?—Paramena did; he left the office, growling. The purchasers had from time to time paid monies on account of the natives, and on the third day the accounts were gone into, and the balance ascertained. The balance was struck, and the money paid, except £1,000, reserved on account of Matiaha, deceased. I afterwards saw that paid; I cannot say to whom. Was the deed signed willingly by all?—I afterwards received a notice from Sutton, as Paramena's attorney. Have you had conversations since with the natives?—Yes. In the Native Lands Court, Rata was appointed the representative of Mataha, deceased. Myself, Tanner, Williams, and Martin Hamlin were present A cheque for £1,000 was paid by Williams to Rata, who handed it at once to Karaitiana. That was on the 19th September. Have you ever seen Henare since?—Often. Have you always been on friendly terms?—Yes. Have you seen Karaitiana since?—Yes, both in Napier and Poverty Bay, and have had long conversations with him about this same matter. I asked him if he had known me to do anything unfair to the natives, instancing the Heretaunga case as the only one in which I had been directly engaged against the Maoris He said, "No; there is only one thing I am not quite clear about; I want you to tell me—that is about the £1,000 Williams was to pay me; I do not know whether I got it or not." I replied, "I do not know; I think he must have paid you. When you go to Napier, see Mr Williams; if he has paid the money, he will show it to you in the accounts—if he has not paid you, he will pay you at once." Did he refer to any other case?—No, he did not make any complaint about the sale; he only said he was not sure he had received all the purchase money. I never heard any complaint, and always considered it a fair purchase. I was constantly doing business for the natives.
This closed the examination-in-chief of this witness, and the Commission took the usual mid-day adjournment. Before the Commissioners rose, at Mr Sheehan's request, the portion of Mr Cuff's evidence relating to the interview at Waitangi was read to Henare.
On the Commission resuming, at 2.45 p.m., Mr Sheehan intimated that Henare was anxious to put some questions to the witness himself He (Mr Sheehan) had his own opinion as to the expediency of this
Joshua Cuff, cross examined by Henare: Are you quite certain that it was at Pakowhai it was arranged that I should meet you at your house?—Yes, at 5 o'clock the same day, but you did not come till the next day. Who was present at Pakowhai at the time?—Edwards Hamlin. Any Maoris?—I do not remember. What was your reason for coming to Pakowhai?—As my book states, to get you to execute the conveyance. What conversation took place at Pakowhai?—It was principally between Hamlin and yourself; you did not want to sign there; you preferred to go to my own house. Did you go with reference to the deed of the hundred acres?—No; the conveyance of the whole block. Were you one of the persons to speak about the sale?—No; I went merely as solicitor for the purchasers, to obtain your signature. Who were they?—Tanner, Captain Russell, and others. Then by your going, we had not agreed?—Yes, you had already signed an agreement. On what occasion did you come about the deed of the hundred acres?—I do not remember doing so. Do you not remember going to Karaitiana's house about the deed for the child?—Not specially. Do you not remember me signing it there?—I do not believe you did; Tanner and the others did. Did you know that Karaitiana was present when you went with the deed?—I do not remember going with the deed at all. Do you not remember giving me a gold ring after I signed?—No, I never gave a gold ring to you or any other Maori. Did you not give me a gold ring from Tanner?—I have no recollection of so doing Do you remember meeting me in town, at your office?—Often. Did you not arrange there that I should go to your place at Waitangi?—No, it was arranged at Pakowhai. Also the deed for the hundred acres?—I do not remember that deed being signed at all. Who first arrived at your house that morning?—Either Tanner or Hamlin; I was there all the time. Tell me clearly whether it was Tanner, Hamlin, or myself?—I do not remember. Did you not ask me to sit on the sofa?—Very likely. Did not Tanner and others come after me?—I cannot say,—possibly they did. Did I not speak to you when Tanner came under the veranda?—I cannot say. Do you not remember my saying you had deceived me?—No; you never said so. Did I not stand up then, and run to the door?—No. Did not Hamlin hold the door?—No. Did you not say that was not the work of a gentleman—you and Tanner?—No. Did you not clap me on the shoulder and tell me to sit down?—No; there was no cause for it. Did you not ask me to take a glass of wine?—Very likely, if it was there. While we were disputing?—We did not dispute at all. If there was no disputing, why did I not ask for money?—I had nothing to do with the money; I do not know. You say our talk was very quiet—how long did I remain before I signed?—We had dinner, and you stayed an hour or an hour-and-a-half after. You remember me having dinner?—Yes, and Mrs Cuff remembers it too. How is it we were so long, if there was no dispute or anger?—For some little time after dinner we were smoking our pipes, and conversing Why was not the signature obtained at once, if all was so quiet?—The subject was not broached till after dinner; then
Cross-examined by Mr Sheehan: How long had you been here when you were first consulted about Heretaunga?—I first came here in hapu signed. You were acting, you say, only as solicitor for Tanner?—Yes. You remember that Tanner was to hold the purchase-money until the whole of the signatures were obtained?—Yes. You believed that to be an absolute conveyance?—Yes, unconditional. Was anything given to Pahoro, to show that the purchase-money had not been paid?—No, there was a verbal understanding. I believe Te Waaka's business was next?—Mr Lee conducted that business; I knew nothing of it; I was kept in the dark purposely, by Parker. I am speaking of what took place when the suit was instituted in the Supreme Court. When did you first become connected with that?—I believe the only thing I did was to attend the Supreme Court, when the order of discontinuance was granted. Up to the time of the action, you were aware that Wilson was acting for Waaka?—I knew Wilson instituted the suit. After the order was granted, you came in contact with the matter?—Yes From whom did you have your instructions?—Tanner. What was the next thing in that business?—On the 26th November there was an attendance on Tanner. To advise him about this affair of Waaka's?—Yes. Did Tanner not advise you that the suit was to be discontinued?—I must have been told of it about this time. Had not the agreement for the withdrawal of Waaka's action been come to?—Yes. Were you not aware of this?—Probably so. What was your retainer for?—To watch the case, and, if necessary, to address the Court in support of the application for discontinuance. Up to that time, then, you had nothing to do with the negociations which led to the discontinuance of the suit?—I believe not. After the order for discontinuance you had to do with the rest of the negociations?—Yes, to prepare the deeds. Under the deed, Waaka's interest in Heretaunga was sold for £1,000?—Yes; I believe that was the sum. Had you much to do with Waaka before that time?—No. In this instance Waaka came to your office?—Yes, on the
The Chairman said that, as to the duration of the sittings, they should be ended on Saturday week, the 6th of April. The Commissioners had decided to take no new case after that date. The value of their labours would more likely be found in their general recommendations than in individual cases Individual cases of fraud could probably only be dealt with by the ordinary tribunals of the Colony; and it was, therefore, quite unnecessary to go through the whole mass, but merely to take a sample of each class of cases. If this decision could be brought home to what was called the "native mind," he would be glad—Mr Sheehan said he believed the natives would be quite willing.
Joshua Cuff, continued: I find, by reference to my call book, that the man who came on behalf of Waaka was Bruce, who acted as Waaka's secretary, and is since dead; he was a man well conversant with accounts.
By Mr Sheehan: You stated that Henare Tomoana came the next day after your leaving Pakowhai?—Yes. How came it that yourself and Hamlin were in readiness, when no appointment had been made?—Hamlin waited overnight, and when Henare did not come, I believe I asked him to call in in the morning, and wait awhile, in case of Henare's calling before going to town. I suppose you and Hamlin usually rode in about the ordinary office hours?—Yes. Then how do you account for the presence of Tanner?—I can swear he was there, but cannot account for it. It might have been by chance, or I might have sent specially for him. Is your memory so perfect that you can swear it was the day after your visit to Pakowhai?—I can swear positively from my book—I would not otherwise remember; the entries were made that day or the next. Did it never happen to you to miss a day or two in entering up charges?—I kept a large pocket-book on my office table, in which I used to make entries at the time; I would not tax my memory with them. You used occasionally to let a day or two pass before entering up?—Occasionally; but, as a rule, I used to enter daily. Assuming, than, that you made a correct entry in your book, and that your clerk copied correctly, the meeting took place next day?—Yes, but I can swear to the correctness of my book. It has been stated in evidence that the appointment was made in town; can you swear that you did not meet Henare in town the next day, and then make the appointment?—I cannot swear I did not. Would not that account satisfactorily for the presence of Tanner?—I cannot remember what time the Europeans came, or whether Henare came first—I cannot recollect. I might have been in town that morning, and have returned; but cannot say. Can you recollect what time you dined?—No, except that it was in the middle of the day. Can you give any idea how long you sat before lunch?—I cannot fix the time; I have only a general recollection. Can you state what time in the evening the party broke up?—About two hours after lunch; it might have been 4, 5, or 6 o'clock p.m. My impression is that it broke up at 4 or 5 p.m. it might have been 3. You and Hamlin had spent a considerable time at Pakowhai on the previous evening, explaining the terms of the sale?—Yes; and at Waitangi, explaining the same thing. Can you recollect any of the matters referred to you for explanation at the Wai-
taihoa so long. Do not you remember how often I have come and advised you?—Why did you not ask me for advice before signing the agreement? Having done that, you want me to advise you how to get out of it. That agreement is as binding as a conveyance—the best thing you can do is to come to town, and meet the purchasers boldly, face to face. "You entered into the conveyance knowingly, and it cannot be set aside, except for fraud." He replied, "I did not intend to go to town; but as you ask me to, I will." I said, "When will you come?" He replied, "I do not know; but I will send a letter,"—which he did, a few days after, making an appointment. I spoke to him as a friend; not advising him to sell. I am very clear about this, because less than twelve months after, at Poverty Bay, Karaitiana and I talked the whole matter over. Did you tell him you had brought a writ in one hand, and the money in the other?—I laid them both on the table; I went for the express purpose
James Nelson Williams, examined by Mr Lascelles: I am a sheep-farmer, residing in Hawke's Bay. I am one of the purchasers of Heretaunga. What was your first knowledge of the transactions regarding the purchase of Heretaunga?—I took no leading part in the negociations until a considerable time after they had begun. When the purchase was first spoken of, before the agreement was signed, I went to Pakowhai with Tanner. Tanner went to Karaitiana's house, and I went and saw Henare, who was lying sick in a whare on the river bank He told me Tanner had offered £10,000 for Heretaunga He thought it should be £15,000, but was not anxious to sell. I said, "Why do you sell; why not keep to the lease?" He said, "I must still something, on account of my debts." Had you any further conversation with him on the subject?—No. What was the next transaction?—With Pahoro. I heard, in Napier, that his share could be bought for a small sum of money, without much trouble. We were anxious, at the time, to prevent individual grantees from selling. We were desirous of purchasing the block as a whole, but not piecemeal. I went to Wilson, and told him, offering to go and buy for as small a sum as Pahoro would be willing to take, to leave it in the hands of the grantees, or leave it till the whole was bought, and at that time pay a fair valuation on it. Wilson did not fall in with my suggestion. Paramena and Pahoro afterwards signed a trust deed. I went to them at the time. I met Pahoro some time after, in Napier; he came to me, and said, "Why has not Tanner been to me about selling Heretaunga?" I advised him to see Tanner. Were you present at any of the transactions at Pakowhai which have been described?—No. When was your next connexion with the negociations? When the money was paid, in March. I can recollect the principal circumstances on that occasion. I came in from the country, expecting to pay the money and complete the transaction, and felt disgusted at having to return and come back on the second day. I remember Karaitiana asking me for money, and my giving him £100 I remember a good deal of talk at Cuff's office; what about, I cannot say; but no business was done on that day. On what day were the deeds signed?—On the following day. Was the balance of the money paid on the same day that the deed was signed?—Yes. What took place on that day?—The grantees were all present in the room with Tanner, myself, Captain Russell and his brother, and Mr Hamlin. The orders that the natives had drawn on us were placed on the table, and a cheque, or cheques, for the balance of the money—I think it was one cheque. The vouchers were shown to the natives by whom they were drawn. What was done with the cheque?—It was placed on the table with the orders. The orders having been shown to the natives, the deed was explained to them, and signed. After the signing, Karaitiana stood up and addressed the natives, saying that Heretaunga had gone through their debts; be had not paid any of his debts out of that money. Pointing to the cheque, he
Cross examined by Mr Sheehan: I believe you are, in conjunction with your brother, the largest freeholder in Heretaunga?—I think not; Tanner has the largest interest. You are next to Tanner?—About equal to Gordon and Russell. When did you first acquire an interest in Heretaunga?—After Tanner had leaded it from the natives. I was offered a share in the lease; I received a note from Samuel Williams to the effect that, if I came to town and spoke to Tanner, I might take a share in the Heretaunga lease, and asking that he might have an interest in the block with me. I came down about a week after; saw Tanner, and ascertained that I could have a share. Did you know what other persons were interested at that time?—I believe Captain Russell and Captain Gordon; Ormond and Purvis Russell, I know, came in afterwards. Do you remember the circumstances under which Ormond and Purvis Russell became interested?—I have an indistinct recollection that when they were admitted into the lease, Karaitiana demanded an increased rent. Did the offer come from them, or was it made to them?—I do not know; I do not know that I was consulted. The thing was almost going begging at the time; one person did not care to hold, and sought others. This was the lease obtained before the land went through the Court?—Yes, in
By the Chairman: Are you aware whether the annuities were, at any time, looked upon as a gratuity?—No. The arrangement was to pay £1,500, £1,000, and £500 to the three?—Yes. Did you deduct from the consideration-money, £3 000 for that purpose?—Yes. Were you aware that this was made that they should have a partially permanent provision?—Yes, I had heard Tanner speak about it.
The Commission adjourned at 5 10 p.m.
J. N. Williams, continued: I wish to add to my former statement that the conversation in the Masonic Hall was partly in reference to Matiaha's share. By Mr Sheehan: Did you not discuss, with Karaitiana, the amount he was to to receive, over and above his share?—No, I believe not. Did you not discuss what was to be done with the £15,000 consideration-money?—It might have been so, but I do not think so. Did you not, on the same occasion, go into the question of apportioning the money out to the different grantees?—You were aware that Tanner was negociating for the purchase, with your approval—he reported to you, from time to time, the progress of the negociation?—Yes He reported to you the fact of obtaining an agreement from Henare and Karaitiana?—Tanner must have told me. Did he not, at the same time, inform you of the disposition of the purchase-money?—I have no doubt he did. You have spoken of an arrangement by which Karaitiana and Henare were to get £1,000 extra?—At an early stage of the proceedings there was an agreement by which Karaitiana and Henare were to receive £2,000 each, Paramena and Pahoro £1,000 between them, and the other grantees £1,000 each. This was only a proposal; not an arrangement. Was it not actually arranged that Karaitiana and Henare should receive £1,000 each, over and above their share? You have mentioned Karaitiana's calling upon you about this £1,000?—Yes. You were not taken by surprise at that application?—I was. You understood that that £1,000 was the one he was to receive over and above the other grantees?—If you like to put it so. You could only remember the conversation about the reserve, and the application made to you by Henare—can you remember anything further?—Only about Matiaha's share. When you came out, did not Paramena ask you where the money was that he was to get?—Yes. What reply did you make?—I told him Karaitiana had got all the money that was left. Did not Noa Huki also speak in similar terms?—I have no recollection of it; but distinctly remember his
Re-examined by Mr Lascelles: You knew that Tanner negociated the purchase?—Yes. Was the matter left with Tanner?—Yes, principally. Did you ever interfere?—I think not. Was any alteration made in the amount paid for Arihi's share?—Yes, the original amount, proposed was £1,500; the amount paid was £2,500. Were you consulted about this alteration?—No. Were you acquainted with any arrangement by which the reserve was to be for the sole benefit of Henare and Karaitiana?—No. At the time of the sale was the Province in a flourishing state?—No; everything with regard to the natives was very unsettled. What was the state of property?—Extremely depressed. Was properly easily saleable?—No. The property was used as a sheep farm?—Yes. What was then the price of wool?—My wool was sold that year for 1s. 2d. per
By Mr Commissioner Manning: Is this 600 acres which you mentioned, the same quality as the rest?—Better in quality than the average.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: You say at the time of the purchase of Heretaunga there was a good deal of trouble among the natives?—Yes. What trouble?—About the Hauhaus. With reference to the fighting?—Yes. Was that the reason that land was thought of little value?—Yes, because it deterred people from settling. Did you tell the grantees at the time that you were afraid of the Hauhaus?—Certainly not. Was there trouble among the natives to whom the land belonged?—No. Between the Government and the Hauhaus?—Yes.
The Commission then took the usual mid-day adjournment of one hour. On resuming, at 2.15 p.m., the evidence as to the value of the block was gone into.
Edmund Tuke, examined by Mr Sheehan, deposed: I am a settler, residing in this district; I have been here twenty years. I have been engaged in sheepfarming. Have you had much experience in selling lands?—I have bought, sold, and leased; but have not had the experience of a broker. Do you consider yourself qualified to give an opinion as to the value of land in the district, in which you have experience?—Yes. You are acquainted with the Heretaunga block?—Yes. What would you consider a fair price for the freehold of the block between
By the Chairman: Are you personally acquainted with the block?—Yes. Is it drainable?—The greater part, I should think, is; but I am not acquainted with the levels. It has always been looked on as the best block in the vicinity of Napier. From your experience, do you consider it reasonable to expect that, at the end of the lease, it will be worth £40 or £50 per acre?—Certainly. Are the valuations those at which you would have bought the land, had circumstances suited?—Yes—certainly.
Cross-examined by Mr Lascelles: What is the largest block you ever bought?—Sixty or seventy acres. What is the largest you ever sold?—Perhaps 100 acres. In what part of the Province?—Meanee. Township lands?—No, suburban lands. How far is Meanee from Napier?—Five miles. Is there a good road?—Yes. And omnibusses running daily?—Yes. Are these all the land transactions you have had?—I have leased large blocks. The first block I leased was eighteen years ago; I paid £60 per annum; it was unsurveyed; I do not know the acreage. Have you sold or leased land since
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: Is any part of this laud suitable for agriculture?—Yes; the greater part of it.
By M r Commissioner Hikairo: Was it only in the Meanee district where you purchased land?—It is so long ago, I almost forget. I have purchased land there. Do you know the price paid formerly in that district?—About £6 per acre. Is it subject to floods:—Yes; and some, subject to floods, has been sold for £12. How far from Napier?—About five miles. Were you sheep farming during
Henry Stokes Tiffen, examined by Mr Sheehan: You are an old settler in this distinct?—Yes, since 5 2s.
bond fide transactions, in which I myself was concerned; and, in the case of Home-wood, the purchasers agreed to take the entire cost of fencing. What did the land originally cost you?—I bought it from Mr Tollemache, under a purchasing clause, at 30s. per acre; he bought it nominally at 10s. per acre, and paid for it in scrip. What is the comparative quality of the land?—Heretaunga is much the better of the two. Do you know how laud in the vicinity sells?—Two years ago, one of my tenants gave me notice, as he could get land of Tanner, for £5 per acre. His last year's rental was 30s. per acre. I would willingly have exchanged Home-wood land for Heretaunga, if the title had been good; but I have never dealt with native land, not trusting the title. Have you any idea of the rental of land within ten to twenty miles of Napier?—Various—averaging about 6s. per acre. Assuming that you were in possession of a block in
Cross-examined by Mr Lascelles: When did you buy the property known as Greenmeadows?—In
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: Did you not hear that Heretaunga was bought by a number of persons?—Yes, by the Twelve Apostles; but I did not know the names of all of them.
Re-examined by Mr Sheehan: You bought in
Karaitiana, recalled, examined by Mr Sheehan: You sold a piece of land—the Pakowhai block?—Yes. In what year?—I do not know. Before or after Heretaunga?—A long while before. How much did you sell?—400 acres. At what price?—£10 per acre. To whom did you sell?—M'Hardy. (Mr Commissioner Manning: Was it sold to one man in one piece?—Yes.) Is it near Heretaunga?—It is divided from it by a stream. How came you to sell Heretaunga so much lower?—That selling was through fear. Was Pakowhai grassed when you sold it?—Grass was growing on portions; but it had never been sown—the cattle had wandered over it. How was the rent under Tanner's lease divided?—To Henare, £400, perhaps; he had the management of the money for Pahoro, Paramena, and Arihi; Te Waaka, £100; Noa, £150; Tareha, £100; Manaena, £100; and Matiaha's was included with mine, the other £300 was with us. Who paid the mortgage?—I do not quite know. I do not think it was paid out of the rent, but went on increasing.
The Commission adjourned to 9 a.m. on Thursday.
The Commission opened at 9 a.m., and was occupied for about an hour with the Te Kiwi (Wairoa) complaint, which was then adjourned till the next day, and the Heretaunga inquiry proceeded with.
John Davies Ormond, examined by Mr Lascelles, deposed: I am one of the owners of the Heretaunga block. I originally held one share, 1,200 acres. I first came in under the lease, before the land went through the Native Lands Court, and continued interested in the lease till the time of purchase. I came into the lease about six months after Tanner. I have had nothing to do with the negociations for the purchase. I never spoke a syllable to a Maori on the subject. I knew very little of the negociations as they went on. I knew something of the purchase of Tareha's share, and a little about Alibi's. The only active part I took was this, I was deputed by the other purchasers to sign orders on Watt, on behalf of James Williams. I was at Wellington, attending the General Assembly, when Tanner came. I heard from him that Maney and Peacock were endeavoring to purchase Tareha's share. I advised Tanner to do all he could to prevent Tareha from selling in Wellington; but one day he came to me, and told me Tareha had sold his interest to Maney
Cross-examined by Mr Sheehan: Do you remember the time you first joined in the lease of Heretaunga?—About six months after Tanner's original lease. How long before the land wont through the Court?—I cannot say. The first leasing was, I should think, a year or eighteen months before the land went through the Court. It would not be more than two years?—I do not think so. You were at that time a member of the Provincial Council and Executive?—Yes. From whom did the proposal emanate that you should be connected with the speculation?—From myself. I wrote to Tanner, telling him I had already been in the block; that I wished to have a place near town, &c He replied that I could have one share, and telling me the names of the other persons concerned. There were himself, Brathwaite, Captains Russell, Messrs. Williams, and Gordon. Purvis Russell came in shortly after; he called on me, and told me he was anxious to join, and that Tanner was willing. Were the conditions on which you joined, that you should take an allotted share, and pay your proportion of the rent?—Yes. There was nothing special in the terms of your admission?—Not that I am aware of. Did you pay any bonus to get in?—No. Do you remember, when the land was passing through the Court, a discussion as to whether it should be made alienable or not?—No. Had you no conversation with Tanner, or the others, on the subject?—No. Was not considerable objection raised by the Messrs. Williams to the admission of you and Purvis Bus-sell?—Not that I am aware of. At the time you entered, who had charge of the negociation with the natives?—I believe it was Tanner. When the rent was due, I used to have to pay in my share to his credit. And this arrangement continued till the land went through the Court?—Yes, and after. After it passed the Court, a fresh lease was granted?—Yes. It contained an improvement clause?—Yes, I heard of it after it was done. I lived in the country, was seldom in Napier, and was not consulted as to terms—I simply knew that a lease was to be obtained on the best terms possible. Were you surprised to hear of the improvement clause?—No, because it is usual in leases. After the completion of the title, your share was definitely ascertained?—Yes; the block was surveyed, and the selection took place. Mr Tanner had the first choice, and the rest drew lots. The meeting took place in Napier. Had not Williams the second choice?—I believe not; I believe he came second, but drew like the rest. I drew, and came third. I drew also for Purvis Russell. Purvis Russell sold out to Captain Russell, after a time—after he came back from England He received £1 per acre for his interest in the lease?—I believe so. What was your idea of the reasonableness of the transaction?—I did not think of it as a matter of value, but was disappointed at his selling out, after the trouble I had taken for him. Tareha's was the first transaction towards the acquisition of the freehold?—Yes. Had any understanding been, at that time, come to about the purchase?—I believe it was understood that, if we could buy for about £12,000, we should do so; I remember no meeting to discuss the subject. Can you remember who made the first proposal to convert the lease into a freehold?—No. Tanner?—It may have been; but I think it did not come more from him than from the others. Who conducted the business?—Tanner. The others were living out of the way; I do not remember any arrangement that he should do so; it was understood; I
bond fide purchaser, with money, would have stood no chance against one who operated through middle-men. I know of no purchase effected in any other way. These middlemen supplied the natives with stores, and they would rather sell to them than to a bond fide purchaser for cash. When we saw this, we did not neglect any measures for obtaining the whole. Do you remember Karaitiana applying for £40 to redeem his gig?—Yes. You refused the money?—Yes. Did you know he was about leaving for Auckland?—I do not know that I did. You were then aware that the agreement was obtained?—If it had been obtained, I was. I had repeatedly refused Karaitiana similar applications, previously. Did you ever use Government money or influence for a similar purpose?—Yes; but under different circustances. Karaitiana was a leading chief, was he not?—Yes, and better able to raise the money than I was to find it He was in receipt of considerable revenues. When you rendered similar assistance to Hapuku, he was also a leading chief?—Yes; but there was no money advanced. I became aware that Hapuku's gig was not his own property, and that the horse was the property of another person. Had not Karaitiana rendered the Government valuable assistance?—Yes. I heard, afterwards, that he just went across the road, and got the advance required. On his return, the fact that he was sulkily disposed induced you to go and see him?—Yes. I heard that he was sulky and angry at the pressure put upon his people to pay their debts. Were you not aware that Henare and he had signed an agreement to sell Pakowhai?—Yes. Were you not aware that he had gone to Auckland, to get assistance from M'Lean, to avoid the sale of Pakowhai?—No; I did not know what he went to Auckland for; I heard it was something about debts. Did you not hear that he objected to the sale, almost immediately after signing the agreement?—Yes, I must have heard of it about that time. Were you aware that proceedings were taken in the Supreme Court, to compel the fulfilment of the agreement?—I never heard of it before now. You were never consulted, then, in reference to the issue of the writ?—I never heard of it. Wore you not aware that he was using his influence to prevent the sale of Heretaunga?—I have no doubt I was aware of it. Were you not aware that one of the main reasons for Karaitiana's staying away was in reference to Heretaunga?—I did not think so at the time. Karaitiana asked me if he was not to have some money; saying M'Lean said I was to pay him £3,000 on account of Heretaunga. Have you ever had any communication with M'Lean on the subject?—No. Then you do not know, of your own knowledge, that his statement was incorrect?—I do not know, at all, what took place between Karaitiana and M'Lean. You assumed, without inquiry, that nothing of the kind had taken place?—Certainly, I knew I should have been advised of it. M'Lean had said, "E pai ana," did that mean so very little?—It was an answer that M'Lean has very frequently given. That is the common practice of the Native Office?—Not of the Native Office only. You have heard evidence of a letter, purporting to bear your signature?—I
The Commission then (5.15 p.m.) adjourned to 9 a m. on the following day. During the whole of Friday the Commissioners were occupied with the inquiry into the Te Kiwi complaints,
Josiah Pratt Hamlin, examined by Mr Lascelles: I am a licensed interpreter, residing in Napier. Have you had any interview with Paramena and Pahoro since the Commission sat?—Yes, in my office, on a Wednesday or Thursday, about a for might ago—just before Paramena and Pahoro gave evidence in this Commission. What took place?—Paramena, Tanner, my brother Martin, and myself were present—Tanner told me to ask Paramena if he remembered meeting him at Waitangi, and telling him that he had seen Noa, Karaitiana, and Henare, at Pakowhai; and telling him they had left the management of the Heretaunga block in the hands of Karaitiana and Henare. Paramena replied that he did not remember, and, in fact, did not wish to have anything to say about it He went out then, and Pahoro came in. I asked him the same question—if he remembered meeting Tanner at Waitangi bridge, and telling him he had left the management of Heretaunga in the hands Karaitiana and Henare He replied that he remembered the circumstance very well, and also remembered telling Tanner so He followed it up by saying, "If I should be called upon to give evidence, you will hear what I have to say, because Paramena and I are at variance with Karaitiana and Henare Tomoana." Was anything said about money?—Not a word, by either party, Was any such expression made use of by Tanner to Paramena as "How is it that you know me?"—No, nothing of the kind. Did Pahoro say, "If you persist that I say those words, you will have to pay me?"—No, nothing of the kind; on the contrary,
Cross-examined by Mr Sheehan: Have you been engaged in any way in the Heretaunga purchase?—No. I have been engaged by Tanner only so far as Arihi's interest is concerned. Are you not practically engaged for them, as regards the Heretaunga block generally? Do you consider yourself open to receive a retainer from parties of adverse interest to Tanner's?—Yes, except in so far as Arihi's business is concerned. [The Chairman explained to the witness that an interpreter can no more act for or against a man, than a dictionary can He could not understand how an interpreter could be retained in the interest of one side—he must have a dreadful tendency to slip into the position of a negociator.—Mr Tanner said the interpreters had a double office; they were negociators as well. This was a matter of necessity, as they were the only medium of communication with the natives.] I considered myself retained by Tanner, and others, on behalf of Arihi's share, alone, of the Heretaunga block. Are you in partnership with any person?—No. Your office is used by yourself, only?—Yes. Is it not also largely used by your brother, Martin Hamlin?—No. Are you not frequently associated with your brother in native business?—No. Are you not in this case of Heretaunga?—Yes, so far as Arihi's share is concerned. Did you receive any retaining fee?—No; I have been spoken to. But you expect a fee?—Decidedly. If any person of adverse interests to Tanner should ask you to do business in regard to Arihi's share, would you not be in a position to do it?—No. Other interpreters are in the habit of practising in this way, are they not?—[Mr Lascelles objected to the question—The Chairman allowed the question. For the general purposes of this inquiry, the Commissioners thought it necessary to ascertain, as fully as possible, the position assumed by the licensed interpreters]—I do not know how others act; but that is my practice. If a person asks for me to interpret the lease of a particular block of land, I consider myself retained, and not at liberty to act for a person with an adverse interest in the same matter. I ask for no retaining fee. (The Chairman: Do you consider the buyer and seller as holding a I verso interests?—I merely interpret what they say to each other.) You say Tanner sent you for Paramena?—Yes; he said, "I wish you would ask him to come into your office; I want to ask him a question." I went in, and said, "Will you come into my office, I want to speak to you." He said, "Taihoa." You did not say, "Tanner wants to speak to you"?
Henry Martin Hamlin, examined by Mr Lascelles, deposed: I am a licensed interpreter. You were considerably concerned in the negociations for the purchase of Heretaunga?—I have been interpreter a good many times. Can you recall the first occasion on which you heard anything about the sale?—The first time I had anything to do with it was after Henare's return from the Taupo expedition. Tanner and I had a long conversation with Henare, first about the expedition, secondly about the debts. Henare said he was very pouri (sad) about them, and thought he would have to sell Heretaunga; but would like to talk to his people about it. Tanner said he would be willing to buy it, if all the natives were agreed; but would not press them to sell. If the natives made up their minds to sell, he, and others, would buy. Had you more conversations of this kind?—I saw him nearly every day, but do not remember any further conversation on this subject. (Mr Commissioner Manning; Was this the beginning of the negociation?—I believed so.) When next were you concerned?—About the end of
Cross-examined by Mr Sheehan: The negociation for Tareha's share was the first matter with which you were concerned in the purchase of Heretaunga?—I cannot say whether Tareha's or Waaka's was first. Had you anything to do with the negociations between Waaka and Parker?—I do not remember whether I had to do with it, or my brother. Did von not hear that Stuart was in the market?—I was told so. Were you not employed by him?—No. Nor any person on his behalf?—No, I think not. I heard it talked about, and may have been asked; but was not employed, and received no fees. Did you proceed to Wellington with Maney and Peacock?—Yes. Tanner was on board the same vessel?—Yes. Were you not aware that Tanner was going to await the result of the negociation?—I believe Maney and Peacock told me they had made the first offer, if they suceeded, to Tanner and the others. Had you no conversation on the subject on board?—Not that I remember. Did you go as interpreter?—Yes. Was any part of you work to assist in negociating?—I only acted as interpreter. You saw Tareha three or four times?—Yes. All the interviews, except the last, were unsuccessful?—Yes; he desired (hat the matter should be left till he came back. Was he very strong on that point?—Yes, at first. Maney and Peacock discussed the matter with him, I presume?—The argument they used was this—he was in their debt—they were very much in want of money, and he must find them some. Where did this last interview take place?—In the Empire Hotel. How long were you engaged with Tareha that day, before he consented?—About an hour. Did the inter-view begin before dinner?—No. And was not, therefore, interrupted by dinner?—So far as I. can recollect, it commenced after dinner. Can you remember what took place?—Not word for word. I. suppose the same arguments were used as before?—No; Tareha seemed much more willing, and had some quiet conversation about it, after which he consented, and said, "Let the matter rest till to-morrow morning." At what time would this be?—About 4 or 5 p.m. Did either Maney or Peacock leave, and return shortly after with Tanner?—No, they did not. Did nothing transpire of the fact that they were purchasing for the purpose of handing it over to Tanner?—I believe they were divided on that subject, for, after signing Peacock was in favor of selling to the highest bidder; Maney said, "Give Tanner the first offer." Did all the inter-views take place in the Empire Hotel?—I believe so; one might have taken place in the Maori kainga. Did they occupy considerable time?—Perhaps two hours—some shorter, some longer. During this period they urged, and he refused to consent?—He said he would prefer to wait till his return. Did not Tanner come very shortly after the signing?—Next day. Was only one deed signed?—Only one deed, and the order. Was that the only deed you were asked to interpret?—Yes; there may have been another deed, but that was the only one I interpreted. Would you not have noticed if, on the next day, a deed of conveyance to Tanner
The Commission (at 5 p.m.) adjourned.
H. M. Hamlin, continued: I said, on Saturday, that I believed the deed signed by Tareha was in favor of Maney and Peacock. I am not quite sure, now, that it was not to Tanner. By Mr Sheehan: You mention that Cashmore was present at the interview at Pakowhai—when did he join the party?—In town He said he wanted to see Karaitiana, and I told him I was going. Did he mention that he wanted to see him about money owing?—Not at that time I concluded that that was his object, knowing that Karaitiana was in his debt. Did you tell Cashmore what you and Cuff were going for?—No, I do not think I did. Did you not tell him that it was a favorable opportunity, as you were taking him money?—I believe not. Was Cashmore present during the interview with Karaitiana I believe he was in the room the whole time. After our business was finished, Cashmore asked him, through me, when he could let him have some money He was then owing Cashmore, I believe, £670. You mentioned going to Wilson's office with Waaka, to take proceedings to upset Parkers deed; in whose interest did you accompany him?—In Waaka's own. Had you any previous conversation with him, as to what his grounds of complaint were?—If I remember right, Wilson asked me to get Waaka, and bung him to the office. Did you converse with Waaka at all, in reference to the matter of complaint?—I may have had a talk with him before—I cannot remember now. Did you then examine Waaka, in reference to the matter of which he complained?—I believe so, and also that there was some writing, giving Wilson instructions to act on his behalf. Can you recollect the general tenor of Waaka's complaint?—That he did not like the arrangement with Parker, and was drunk when he signed the deed. You know Waaka well?—Yes. It is a fact that he has been drinking heavily for years past?—He had been intoxicated at different times, but not more than other natives. Had he not contracted the habit of drinking frequently to excess?—He rather likes spirits, but I cannot say I have seen him frequently drunk. Did you often see him about town at that time—
Re-examined by Mr Lascelles: Was any agreement, or paper, signed by Tareha on the preceding day?—I have some idea that there was; hut I cannot positively say. Are you able to state whether Tanner had been present at any interview before the deed was signed?—I do not believe he was. Prior to your meeting Cashmore, had any conversation taken place between you and him on the subject of going out?—No; we met accidentally; I happened to mention that I was going to Pakowhai, and he said he thought he would go too. Did you interpret for Cash- more, in your interview with Karaitiana?—I do not think he said much; he had heard the interview; he came away with us.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: Do you say that Paramena signed without making any distinct arrangement as to his share?—Yes. What did he sign for?—The sale of the block for the amount named in the deed. £13,000?—I believe co. Did he expect to get the whole?—No; only his share; but no arrangement was made as to what, that share was to be. Was he merely throwing it away?—No, he expected to get some money. Did he not ask what he was to get?—No. Is he a common man, or a person of position?—At Pakipaki he is a person of position.
By Mr Commissioner Te Wheoro: When Karaitiana took the cheque, who was the money for?—I understood it was for all, until Karaitiana said he would keep it. How many cheques did he take away?—Only one that I know of—for the whole of the balance due. After this, was the £700 paid on account of Paramena and Pahoro?—I did not see any paid to them afterwards.
By Mr Commissioner Hikairo: Was it after it was laid on the table, that Karaitiana's name was written?—I think it was all written at one time. Was it in Karaitiana's name?—Yes.
By the Chairman: Where did your conversation with Karaitiana- about the £1,000 supposed to be deficient in the payment of the purchase-money, take place?—In the Superintendent's office.
J. D. Ormond's cross-examination resumed by Mr Sheehan: In mentioning the value of lands, you spoke of certain blocks leaded by the Provincial Government. Were not those blocks leased and sold by Government, under special regulations?—Yes; there was an Act of the Provincial Council on the subject. Were the regulations issued under that Act?—Yes. Were those blocks leaded by Government before the flood?—Yes. The valuations were post-diluvian?—Yes; but the flood did
Re-examined by Mr Lascelles: What did you mean by saying that the arrangement of the £1,000 to Karaitiana was unfair to the other natives?—That it was unfair on the part of Karaitiana. Was it only on the report of the Trust Commissioner that you brought Hapuku's matter before the Government?—Yes. Did you take any steps in the matter before you received that report?—I think not; but cannot say. By whom were the Papakura and Hikutoto valuations principally made?—In the first place, Weber, the Chief Provincial Surveyor, made a valuation, by sections, for the Government. These valuations were open to inspection by the purchasers, who sent a deputation to the Superintendent, complaining that the valuation was excessive. The Government then sent for Mr Park, who knew the district well, and who come up from Wellington, and made a valuation. Mr Weber's valuation, if adhered to, would have just secured the Government against loss; Mr Park's valuation came up to the purchase money; but did not cover the duty on the purchase. Mr Park's valuation was also refused by the purchasers; new valuators—competent persons—were appointed, and their lists of valuations are in existence. What is the comparative value of Hikutoto, Papakura, and Heretaunga?—Hikutoto and Papakura were far more valuable—Hikutoto the most valuable of the three. Papakura begins about four or five miles from Napier; Hikutoto, about six miles, by good roads. The best part of Papakura was covered with English grass; it was as good as any land in the Colony, and was valued
Francis Edwards Hamlin, sworn, examined by Mr Lascelles: I was a licensed interpreter at the end of
The Commission adjourned at 4 p.m.
F. E. Hamlin, continued: I wish to make a correction in my evidence given yesterday I did not take the deed to Karaitiana before he left for Auckland. After the memorandum of agreement was signed, a man named Beyer advised Karaitiana not to sell. I heard this from the natives themselves; Karaitiana and Henare stated that Beyer had advised them not to sign the conveyance. Grin-dell told me that he would oppose me in every way, in trying to get the land. The first occasion I went to Pakowhai, was when I went with Cuff, when Henare made an appointment to come at 5 o'clock the same day; at Cuff's private house. After I told Grindell that the memorandum of agreement was actually signed, he waived any objection he had previously entertained. [The Chairman referred to his notes, and read the portion of the evidence to which the correction applied.]
Cross-examined by Mr Sheehan: When were you first engaged for the purchase of Heretaunga?—About the end of
By the Chairman: Had you the deed with you when you and Sutton went to Manaena?—Yes.
By Mr Commissioner Manning: Did Stuart's coming in give you much extra trouble?—A very great deal. Do you consider that Stuart's competition raised the price of the block?—I believe it did affect it that way. On what grounds do you suppose so?—Because the general opinion was that the outside value of the block was £10,000. Do you, then, think it made £5,000 difference?—I should not like to say so. It would be hard to make an estimate; but it greatly increased the native idea of the value of the block.
By Mr Sheehan (by permission): What reply did you give Stuart when he proposed to you?—An evasive answer. And at once went and told Tanner?—Yes; I believe Tanner saw Stuart the same evening.
H. M. Hamlin (recalled): I wish to correct my evidence in regard to Tareha's transaction. On what point?—I stated, on Saturday, that it was a deed of conveyance which was signed by Tareha; on Monday I was not quite sure. A short lime afterwards I saw Sutton, who, when I said there was only one deed, asked me if I did not remember writing out a deed in Wellington I now perfectly remember that after Tareha's consent was given, in the evening, Maney wrote out for him a paper, consenting to hand over his share to Maney and Peacock. This was the deed executed by Tareha the next morning. (The Chairman: Had it a plan?—Not at that time. The translation was written on blue foolscap.) Tanner came during the day, and agreed to the price; a new deed was drawn out, and was signed by Tareha about three days after.
By Mr Sheehan: Do you recollect that I put the deed to Maney and Peacock in your hands, and you recognized it as the first deed by Tareha?—I remember recognizing the deed. You had the deed in your hand when you gave the answer?—Yes. Do you not remember being asked by Tanner if there was any other document, when you replied that you fancied so, but could not call it to mind?—Yes. How long after going out of Court did you see button?—About an hour-and a-half; I told him I had made a mistake about the deed. When did you first consider you made a mistake?—When the deed was put into my hand. Why did you not then say .so?—I wanted more time to consider. Did you see anyone else, beside Sutton, on the subject?—I mentioned it to Tanner. Did no one suggest to you that your evidence did not correspond with that of the other witnesses?—No. Sutton said, "Do you not remember Maney and Peacock writing a deed in the Empire Hotel?—I then remembered, and told him the whole story.
Mr Commissioner Hikairo: You appear to correct your statement a great many times—is this the last?—I hope so.
Henare Matua here came forward and asked what was to be done with the cases remaining unsettled—The Chairman explained that they must be left to the wisdom of Parliament. The Commissioner's had decided that the next case (if any) they would hear, would be that of Mangateretere or Ngatarawa.—Mr Lascelles said that Mangateretere would take longer than Heretaunga—Mr Sheehan said, no; only about a week—ten or twelve days, at the outside.—The Chairman said that would be too long.—Mr Sheehan said he knew of no important case that could be disposed of within a week. The Commission might take one of Henare Matua's cases, and bring out a fact not yet apparent—that signatures of children, often and twelve years old, had been obtained to conveyances of their Crown Grants.—The Chairman said that such proceedings were monstrous, it true. If they came into a Court, the purchasers would, of course, find their deed void. It was scarcely necessary to bring such matters before the Commission—any gentleman having a seat in Parliament, if well informed on the subject, might make use of his knowledge on that point.—Mr Sheehan believed the best, thing for the natives would be for the Commissioners to decide to hear no more cases. Quite sufficient evidence had been taken to lay before Parliament on the subject.—The Chairman: If we take any ease after Heretaunga, it will be either Ngatarawa or Mangateretere. We do not know, without consultation, whether we will take them.
Thomas Tanner, sworn, deposed: l am a sheep-farmer. My first connexion with Heretaunga began some time in hapu, as it gave them no interest after his death. Wilson said that, whether Waaka could, or could not deal with his interest, he could upset the deed, and he sent for Waaka, and offered to do it. A suit was then commenced, and when Parker saw that he was likely to be involved in a lawsuit, he came to me He said the last thing he ever contemplated was the purchase of a lawsuit, and that, rather than have anything to do with one, he would hand over to us his position, on condition that we refunded his advances to Waaka. I replied that I would see Waaka and his lawyer on the subject, and see what they would do in the matter. I saw Waaka, and told him what Parker proposed. I said, "If you consent to that, and will sell to me your interest in Heretaunga for £1,000; take hack from us your interest in all your other blocks, and stop the suit, I may do so." He said he was quite willing to sell his interest in Heretaunga, and that his people would be quite satisfied if all the other blocks were returned to him. I asked him if he would go with me to his lawyer, Wilson, and state the proposal, and his wishes in reference to it. We went to Wilson's, and told him the terms of the proposal. Wilson replied, that he had commenced the suit, and would not allow it to be stopped He said he did not care what the proposition was, and refused to discuss it. I then consulted Cuff, and Lee, and also told Parker what Wilson had said. Parker said he would not stand a lawsuit to gratify Wilson, if I would not take it, he would offer it to some one else—to J. M. Stuart, I understood. I then talked the matter over with Cuff and Lee, who thought the proposal very reasonable—Cuff, especially—Lee, I think, had been acting for Parker. We asked Parker to leave the matter open a few days, and we would see what arrangement could be made. I then went alone to Wilson, to discuss the subject, but he told me he did not mean to drop the action—he would carry it on. I then asked Cuff to go and see if he could get Wilson to go into the merits of the case He went, and was unsuccessful. I went again, myself; I told Wilson that Parker was going to offer the share to Stuart, and that if he sold to him, it would seriously prejudice my interest He said he did not care. I then told him I would act without further reference to him—Waaka being still willing He said I might do as I liked. I then suggested to Waaka to write a formal letter to Wilson, instructing him to discontinue the suit. In an upper room in this building, Waaka dictated the letter to Wilson, which was written by F. E. Hamlin He stated that the arrangement proposed was for the benefit of his people, and that, if Wilson carried on the suit, it must be at his own expense. These were the two principal points in the letter. Mr Carlyon afterwards appeared on the scene, as Waaka's solicitor and adviser, but not till some time after the negociations bad begun. During the early part of the negociation, Cuff acted both for Waaka and myself. Carlyon appeared as Waaka's solicitor long before the conclusion of the negociation. I met him, on one occasion, in Cuff's office, with Waaka, in reference to this settlement. I only recollect Carlyon as Waaka's solicitor—in no other capacity. Lee was acting as Parker's solicitor. We had a meeting, on, I think, the 2nd December, in Cuff's office, in order to
The Commission adjourned at 4.35 p.m.
On the Commissioners taking their seats, Mr Sheehan said he could not say that Ngatarawa and Mangateretere presented points essentially different from those in the Heretaunga case, though perhaps move aggravated. It was only fair to say that neither case could be disposed of under seven or eight days.—The Chairman said the Commissioner had made up their minds that they would take no more cases. It would be, in one sense, an incomplete work; and it would be for the Legislature to decide whether, at any future time, the work should be resumed.—Mr Sheehan said he wished it to be understood that he had advised the Maoris to accept this result, informing them that sufficient evidence had been taken to lay before Parliament—that they had cast their bread upon the waters, and it remained to be seen if they would find it after many days.—The Chairman said there was one more matter—the alleged withdrawals. He appointed Saturday morning to enquire into the subject, so that if they were bonâ fide, they might be struck out of the list, and mentioned in the report. There was still one short. Government case remaining unsettled; and the justice of the complaint had been admitted by Mr Locke.—Mr Locke engaged to report the case to Parliament—about forty two acres had been wrongly included in the survey. The native complainant had expressed himself satisfied.
Thomas Tanner, continued: A day or two before this message arrived, on going to my run at Karamu, I met Paramena and Pahoro. T asked them if they had seen Henare or Karaitiana lately. They said Henare had sent for them to Pakowhai; that they went, and found Noa there, and had a talk about Heretaunga I asked what was the result of the meeting, and they told me they had agreed that Heretaunga should be sold, and had left the matter in Henare's and Karaitiana's hands. I asked Pahoro if Karaitiana had said anything about the deed given to us. He said yes, that he must revert to the tribe. I asked Pahoro if he was agreeable to that; he said yes, he would take his chance with the rest—meaning, as I understood, that he would just take what Karaitiana would give him. Pahoro was the chief speaker; Paramena said very little, but did not offer any objection to what Pahoro stated. As far as I remember that was all that passed. I now come to the interview at
meaha"—never mind, or what does it signify. He then asked about the 100 acres for his son Panita. Previously I had asked Karaitiana to give me about 100 acres of the Karamu reserve, next the Awahou, for 99 acres elsewhere, to facilitate fencing, and it was agreed upon. Henare had asked that this hundred acres should be granted to Panita, his son, and the exchange had been agreed to; it was agreed further that Panita's name should be put upon it; but I had nothing to do with that. At Waitangi Henare merely referred to it, but the subject lapsed by mutual consent, and the engagement to convey it to his son was never carried out; but the exchange was effected, and my hundred acres became part of the reserve. No other alteration has ever taken place in the Karamu reserve. Nothing else was spoken about. I am aware that Hamlin stated there was some discussion about Henare's debts, but I heard none. The business did not occupy more than ten or fifteen minutes. Henare told us, after signing, that we might tell Sutton he had signed the deed. Before dinner he might have said something to Hamlin unknown to me, but after dinner certainly nothing took place, beyond what I have related. We then had a few minutes chat on other subjects, and left for our respective homes. It was the most friendly meeting I have ever had with Henare Tomoana. I never saw him in a better temper. His story is pure imagination; he did not attempt to leave the room, and no language such as he has described was used nor anything approaching it. Of all men I ever came in contact with, Karaitiana and Henare are those who would most impede a negociation it they say any desire to hasten it. That was my reason for always allowing them to open the negociation, and making them feel that the
whare. While we were speaking to Henare, Manaena left. After a while, being told he was in Karaitiana's house we went there and saw the minister, who told us he was not in. Seeing that he was avoiding me, I left the deed with Hamlin, and determined not to go again. A day or two after, I saw Sutton, who asked if Manaena had signed. I told him the circumstances, and in conversation I said I would not have refused £50 per annum if he had asked it. Sutton said he would have to see him himself about a debt, and if I consented to let, Hamlin go and take the deed, authorizing him to offer £50 per annum for ten years, he would likely sign without hesitation. I said "Very well; you may do so" Next day Sutton and Hamlin returned and told me that Manaena had signed at once, and that he had
kainga. (The Chairman: Was your interview with Karaitiana, when baulked of his journey to Auckland, your first conversation with the Pakowhai natives, with respect to the sale?—No, I had heard Henare, and others, speak of it before. The sale was in contemplation when Wilson's Utopian scheme was drawn. I knew that we could not buy if they were not willing to sell. I have a recollection of Karaitiana coining frequently to my house, before the sale, for advances of money and goods. He used to say, "Oh, you will get it all back again when Heretaunga is sold.") Regarding the value of the land, the block was in a very rough state when first purchased. My portion was the best, for I had burnt and drained considerably. From the time of the earthquake, the river had begun to turn; but it did not take its new course till tutu land, would at this time be two-thirds of the block. There is now from 1,500 to 2,000 acres of light gravelly land, and there would then be about 4,000 acres of swamp. I have expended nearly £12,000 in improving my share, and the others' expended in like proportion. My share is about one third of the whole block. There were originally twelve shares—hence the soubriquet of tire "Twelve Apostles." There never were twelve engaged. Tiffen's estimate of £3 per acre—for a good title, with no incumbrance, and in Small blocks, is about fair. At that time, if cut up, a large portion could not have been sold at all. I was employed as the principal valuer for the purchasers of Hikutoto and Papakura, and received a regular fee of £2 2s. for each section. I valued these Hikutoto sections at from £3 to £4 10s. per acre in
As this concluded Mr Tanner's statement, Mr Sheehan suggested that the Commission should now (4 p.m.) adjourn. By so doing, they might shorten the cross-examination. As the Commissioners were rising, Mr Lascelles stated that he claimed to appear on behalf of certain complainants, who wished to withdraw their complaints. Mr Sheehan said that he claimed the complainants as his clients, and he therefore requited that Mr Lascelles should hand in the names of those to whom he referred. The Commission then adjourned.
Before proceeding with the Heretaunga inquiry, the case of the Tamaki block was called—complaints Nos. 26 and 138, Henare Matua, complainant. The Chairman said that Mr Locke had reported on this case. The complaint amounted simply to this—that the Native Lands Court had been made an instrument of land purchase by the Government—that the persons willing to sell had been admitted into the Grant, and that those objecting were excluded. Mr Locke's report was ordered to he handed, to Mr Sheehan—observations in reply, if any, to be received on the following day.
Reverting to the Heretaunga inquiry, the Chairman said he still failed to understand how the balance was arrived at—he could not make the figures come right anyhow. From the information now before him, the purchasers seemed to have paid £1,500 more than the balance.—Mr. Tanner said they had paid more than that amount over—perhaps £2,000; Mr. Williams had raised some strong objections to this overpayment at the time. Large sums had been paid to the natives, of which no account had ever been kept.—The Chairman said that if this was the actual state of the case, the fact ought to be laid before the Commission—Mr. Tanner: I did the talking, and Williams the calculating, and I have never gone into the subject since. The accounts were confused and complicated; but we were satisfied that we had paid a great deal more than was expressed in the deed. I never understood it myself, and never shall—all I know is, chat I have paid a great deal more than was agreed upon. Independently of the annuities, I have paid upwards of £17.0,00.—The Chairman said that whether right or wrong, it should be shown how the balance of £2,300 was arrived at.
Mr. Tanner continued: I wish to add to my evidence yesterday a remark regarding the question of value. Mr. Tiffen has stated that he purchased land from Tollemache, 35 miles from Napier, at 30s. per acre. I would explain that that purchase-money was to remain for ten years at three per cent, interest—this reduces the value to 9s. per acre. Tollemache said it would have paid him better at 10s., at ten per cent, interest. The purchase of Heretaunga at ten per cent, interest—the rate at that time—would have made the rental £5,000 per annum, which no one could have paid. I could produce native evidence on the subject; but it would be unfair to the witnesses, as they would be persecuted by the other natives.—Mr. Lascelles said that this morning a native had come to him complaining of ill-treatment by the chiefs, in consequence of his having been seen speaking to Tanner.—The Chairman said that wherever we met with a tribe or a clan the practice of intimidation would be found to exist among them. If the Commissioners had been sitting in Tipperary they would have had instances of the same thing—it was the necessary consequence of a certain state of society, which a higher civilization would do away with.
Cross-examined by Mr. Sheehan: Your connexion with the land began about matua, a request which I fully understood. I had then been eight years in the province. I knew that the request meant that I was to keep my purse-strings open to the most extravagant demands, and I laughed at the idea. You have heard the statements of Manaena, Henare, and Karaitiana, that you offered to be their parent, and guardian—are they true?—No; they pressed me to accept that position. You practically accepted it by making advances?—Yes. Did you present Henare with a horse and two guns?—I believe I gave hint a colt of "The Bishop's;" and sold him a gun, for which I had a permit. This took place years after the lease was signed. You undertook the lease single-handed?—Yes. The first man who came in with you was Samuel Williams, for his brother-in-law?—Yes. Who was the next?—Captain Hamilton Russell. Who was the next?—I think three were admitted together—Ormond, Brathwaite, and Purvis Russell. When was the block divided into twelve shares?—I cannot say. Was it your idea to divide it?—Yes. The other gentlemen were admitted entirely as an act of friendship on my part. How long after Williams' and Russell were these three gentlemen admitted?—I cannot say—perhaps some months. Brathwaite was manager of the Union Bank?—Yes. And Purvis Russell and Ormond were members of the Provincial Executive?—Ormond was; I cannot say about Purvis Russell. Purvis Russell had done me a service regarding a Maori lease while I was in England; Brathwaite was a particular friend of mine; and Ormond wrote a letter asking to be admitted. I don't remember Purvis Russell ever being in the Executive; I know he was in the Council. Was there any opposition on the part of the other proprietors to the admission of these three?—No; I simply told them I wished it, and they acquiesced. I thought it my duty to inform Karaitiana, and he required, £100 rent per annum additional. I told these gentlemen of it, and they agreed to bear the £100 extra among themselves. Had there been a division of the land, or were the shares undivided?—Undivided. When Samuel Williams came in, to what extent was he interested? I had selected nearly one-half, about 6,000 acres, and left the other portion of the block to be divided between Williams and Captain Russell. My boundary was the old track through the block. When Williams first associated with you, before Purvis Russell came in, what interest did Williams take?—We went about halves; I told him he might take all the land on the other side of the track, if he paid half the rent. When Captain Russell came in it did not alter your boundary?—No, lie divided the reminder with Williams, We both agreed to his admission. After
raupo swamp was mostly rough fern, toi, and tutu land. Wilson drew the improvement clause, and thought it reasonable. You had a conversation with Wilson, which led to the preparation of what you call the Utopian scheme?—Yes, I presume so; but have no recollection. Did you never speak to him about the best means of acquiring the freehold?—I do not remember. Was not that proposal made in consequence of a conversation with you on the subject?—I really do not recollect; if he says so, he is most likely correct. I have a very indistinct recollection of it. I had forgotten it till it was brought up by Wilson. I abandoned all idea of it when Waaka broke into the interests Up to that time I believed no single grantee could dispose of his share. Was that the first instance of the kind you became aware of?—I believe it was. Wilson states in effect that after a conversation with you, at your request he made this draft, and submitted it to you, and that you declined to act upon it?—No, my belief is, that he simply drew it as his notion of how the sale should be effected if the grantees ever became inclined to sell. Was not that draft prepared in consequence of a conversation with you?—It probably was, because early in 18G9 there was some talk on the part of the natives, about selling Heretaunga, which would naturally lead me to talk over the matter with my solicitor, and ask him his idea, of the best means of doing so. When Wilson showed you his idea, you rejected it?—I cannot say I did. You did not act upon it?—The results have shown that. What opinion did you express on the draft to Wilson?—That is more than I remember. Did you then consider it Utopian?—At the time I probably approved of it; but the circumstance of Waaka selling his interest to Parker altered my views on the subject. Do you remember the date of that transaction? I find it was prior to the preparation of the draft; but I did not know of that transaction till some time after. Parker kept it quiet for some months, till the rent became due, when he sent me notice. I then went into the subjection which Wilson had a doubt, whether a single grantee could sell. Time solved those doubts?—Yes. The first dealing of yours in reference to those interests was with reference to Tareha?—Yes. What was your arrangement with Maney and Peacock?—That if they purchased Tareha's share, and sold to me, I was to pay their expenses, and if not they were to pay mine. Was that arrangement reduced to writing?—I believe not. You arranged to take Tareha's share for £1,500?—No, I went down to get the first refusal. You knew the price?—They told me they would possibly offer him £1,500. It was agreed that I was to have the first refusal. Was the condition not this, that if they failed to make the purchase they Should pay your expenses there and back?—If the sale did not take effect. If they failed to effect the purchase from Tareha?—
pakehas were entitled to the money, and would want it at once; that his own people would agree, as they had shared the goods. Was anything said of the way the money was to be divided?—No. Did you hear anything about what part, if any, of the £1,500 was to be handed back to Tareha himself?—No; there was no discussion on that point at all in my presence. Did your conversation with Tareha, as to his willingness to sell, take place in the presence of the others?—I believe not; my impression is that Hamlin and I saw him privately, first. Was nothing said, between yourself and Tareha, as to any monies to be payable to him after the sale?—Nothing whatever; the only discussion about money matters was, my requiring him to give me a written authority to pay Maney and Peacock the £1,500. Did he ask you for any money?—No. Did he tell you that Maney and Peacock had agreed to let him have any portion of the purchase-money?—No. Did you see him after the deed of conveyance had been signed?—I have no recollection of so doing. About £500 was paid, between the time of sale and the 29th of the same month—what was the arrangement as to the balance?—That, when the sub-claimants had endorsed the deed, Maney and Peacock should receive the balance of the purchase-money. Was that agreement expressed verbally, or in writing?—I cannot remember; most likely verbally. You cannot say that the balance was not given in an order payable in Napier, so soon as the necessary signatures were obtained?—I have no recollection of it. How long did you remain in Wellington after the deed was signed?—Not long; possibly a week. How long after your return to Napier, was it, when you next saw Maney and Peacock in reference to the matter?—I cannot tell. How were, they paid the balance of the purchase-money?—I suppose I paid them myself, but believe I got a proportion of the purchase money from the others. Did you know that Martin Hamlin was to accompany Maney and Peacock as interpreter?—Very likely I did; I know he did go. Was it any part of the arrangement between yourself and Maney and Peacock how his expenses were to be paid?—I believe not; he was engaged and paid by them, and I believe those expenses were never paid by me; Hamlin's expenses were certainly not paid when I gave them the cheque for their travelling expenses. After hearing Martin Hamlin's evidence, you are still of the same opinion?—Yes; I have not the slightest recollection of paying. At that time had the arrangement been made between you and the Messrs. Hamlin?—I believe not; it was not
hapu on another day?—I do not think so. You mentioned your reason for obtaining the declarations of trust—that Pahoro was improvident and intemperate—had not Stuart, at this time, begun to move in the matter?—I believe so. This was one of the causes which induced you to take action?—Possibly it may have had some influence that way. You have heard Hamlin's reason for the increase of their fee from £100 to £300—that in consequence of Stuart, their work would be increased—Stuart was at work when these declarations were obtained?—I think he was at rest then—he had been at work. Was it not very likely that the Hamlins were not then under engagement to you?—It is just possible. Had you any information about Pahoro, from Samuel Williams?—I have no recollection of it. Did you not ask him to see Wilson on the subject?—I may have done so. Are you aware whether he saw Wilson?—I have an indistinct recollection that he did. Are you aware that he was the bearer of a message to Pahoro and Paramena?—I have no distinct recollection, though I heard him say so. Had you anything to do with the discussions with the natives on the subject?—I believe I asked J. N. Williams to do that. Were the instructions to draw the deeds given by
The Commission adjourned at 4.45 p.m.
The Chairman said that this was the day which had been fixed for the bearing of the alleged retractations.—Mr. Sheehan claimed notice of
sui generis. Some of the natives had sent in complaints as the agents of others, and if Mr. Sheehan had been instructed by these agents he was entitled to notice. The proceedings differed from those of the ordinary Courts.—Mr. Sheehan reminded the Com—missoners that Mr. Lascelles had undertaken to give the required notice, without any reservation. The Court was aware of the circumstances at the time the order was made, and in failing to give notice, the other side had shown a great want of courtesy, besides prejudicing the case.—The Chairman asked if Mr. Sheehan was prepared to go on.—Mr. Sheehan replied that he would do so.
Mr. Lascelles said that he appeared for Ihaka Kapo, primd facie evidence that the party he represented was entitled to lodge the complaint, he had a standing in the case, and was entitled to cross-examine Ropata on the subject.—Mr. Lascelles quite agreed with the ideas of professional courtesy expressed by Mr. Sheehan; but the case was different where the party came and said, "I have not engaged a solicitor at all"—The Chairman said it was not time to go into that point yet; when these cases had been gone further into, the Commissioners would see their way better.
Henare Matua, sworn, examined by Mr. Sheehan: Did you prefer certain complaints on behalf of Ropata Whakakari, in the case of the Mangaroa and Mangarau blocks?—Yes. Why did you do so?—Ropata gave me those lands to send in. The document I produced is the letter Ropata sent to me. Have you seen Ropata himself in reference to these matters?—After his letter I spoke to him, and he to me. Did he say anything about his letter?—He spoke about it, saw it, and said it was his. (The Chairman: Did Ropata see this paper?—Yes, it was shown
Ropata Whakakari was then called, and a letter bearing his signature was handed to the Commissioners by Mr. Sheehan. The letter was read aloud by Mr. Commissioner Hikairo, and at once recognized by the witness, who, when it was finished, said "Yes; that is correct." The letter, which bore date
Henare Matua, recalled, examined by Mr Sheehan; Have you, since that letter, received any document from Ropata, recalling, revoking, or limiting it in any way?—No; I received no letter after this; I saw himself. Did you, up to the time of the formal complaint, receive any instructions from Ropata, altering those instructions?—No; all he did was to ask respecting his letter. His letter asked me, "Have you not my petition?" I said, "Yes, perhaps they are among the other documents." He brought a paper of Kinross's, for me to write on, saying I had no petition of his in my possession. I said, "Wait till I have searched." I did so, and found it. I brought it to him, showed it, and said, "Here is your letter." I have no more to say. He did not say he wanted me to withdraw the complaint, but Kinross brought me a document for me to withdraw it. This was after the complaint had been sent in?—It was after the complaints had been gazetted. Before the complaints had been gazetted, was anything said by Ropata about the withdrawal?—No, nothing of the kind was said till the complaints had been seen in the Gazette.
By Mr Lascelles: That document, then, is the authority on which you made these complaints?—What is contained in the document is one, and his speaking to me is another. Was the Commission known, when that document was written?—No; but the work of Henry Russell and myself, about land which had been stolen and mortgaged, had been commenced long before.
The Chairman said he did not think they ought to look very critically at this. Henare was an agitator before the Commission was appointed; many natives had apparently placed their affairs in his hands, and when the Commission sat, he simply brought them for ward, being, as it were, retained.—Mr Commissioner Manning: Any native would take that letter as an authority to take such steps as he thought proper.—Mr Lascelles said he would show that the authority was given for a totally different purpose—The Chairman said that if the Commissioners found that Henare was authorized to right a supposed injustice, he would, in their opinion, have authority to act, though it might be a year after.—Mr Lascelles said he would ask Henare if it was upon the authority of this letter that he disputed all the alleged alienations.
Mr Lascelles (to Henare Matua); Did you infer, from that letter, that Ropata disputed all the sales?—It was not for me to do that—tho complaint was his own; the Committee merely gave all the land to the Commission to investigate. Ropata, in his letter, gave, the land to the Committee. Did you ever acquaint Ropata with the terms of the complaint?—
The Chairman: You had better not put that question—our minds will not be affected by it. Speaking for myself and Mr Commissioner Manning, I have no doubt that the land was handed over for the very, purpose of making a complaint. This letter, if it justifies anything, justifies a general complaint on the common grounds. The way is quite open for retractations. In a state of society such as is here presented to us, intelligent men will take the lead.—Mr Commissioner Manning: It is more than a mere general authority. Henare is that man's chief, relation, and protector; it is an authority to Henare to do the very best he can for him; and no blame can attach to Henare in the matter.
Cross-examination of Henare continued by Mr. Lascelles: Did you not ask Locke to strike out that complaint if Ropata had any objection?—I am not aware of that—if Locke has any document saying so, let him produce it. Did you not say so to Locke?—I am not aware of having done so. Did you not write on the leaf of a pocket-book that Ropata could withdraw his complaint if he liked?—No; what I wrote was that I did not think f had Ropata's complaint in my possession; bur when I found it I went to him again, and said, "Friend, I have that document."
The Chairman: This is totally beside the purpose. Ropata had a perfect right to retract if he thought proper.—Mr. Sheehan: Henare Matua, two or three days ago, told me that he had no objection to the retractation if Ropata desired it; but that he required it to be made in open Court, for his own protection, that it might be shown that he had perfect authority to make the complaint.—Mr. Lascelles (to the witness): At that time were not certain deeds being drawn referring to Mr. Russell and yourself——The Chairman: Perhaps so, but I am against the question being put—it does not affect the matter. You seem disinclined to accept the ruling of the Commission. The only point remaining to be prove I is, whether Ropata retracts. Let hint stand up and say so, if it is the case. This authority was enough to justify Henare in lodging the complaint. I propose this—let him simply he asked if he retracts. Questions may be put to show whether in so doing he is a free, voluntary agent, or not. Any means which may have been used to induce him are outside the question; the point is whether he now retracts with his free will.—Mr. Sheehan: The Court is now aware that Henare is a representative man, and was duly authorized to make these complaints. I wish to show among other things, that the idea of retractation was suggested to the natives by Mr. Kentish McLean, a Government officer, subordinate to the Hon. Donald McLean, and that some of them have received money for so doing—one of them being a man of weak intellect and advanced age. The Chairman: We are loth to enter on such a point—it would open the way to extensive investigations. These are civil proceedings, and open to compromise.—Mr. Sheehan: In a court of equity it would be a
Ropata, examined by Mr. Lascelles: With regard to the complaints made in your name to the Commission—would you wish them withdrawn?—Yes—only my complaints. (Two documents, withdrawals of complaints, produced) Is that your signature to these papers?—Yes; that is the signing of the mortgage.
Mr. Sheehan: This is a scientific mode of stopping a lawsuit. Ropata cannot now raise a question concerning these land transactions without committing perjury. Proof has already been given of general authority, and here we have a contemporaneous document put in, by which all possible ground of complaint is disposed of.—The Chairman: These documents, in my opinion, are entirely irrelevant to the present inquiry.—Mr. Commissioner Manning: The documents are of such an astounding character that I do not know what to think of them.
Ropata, examined by Mr. Sheehan: You have preferred complaints respecting Mangaroa, Mangaran, Ngatarawa, and Raukawa?—Yes. Do you withdraw your complaint regarding Ngatarawa?—Yes; but there are many other owners of that land. Do you withdraw your complaint concerning Mangarau?—Yes; I have the reason within me for that withdrawal. (The Chairman: If the reason is within him, it is all right.) Regarding Mangaroa?—ft is only one piece of land all through. Do you abandon your complaint in reference to Raukawa?—Yes—I am not the only person on that land; you will hear from others. Why do you wish these complaints withdrawn?—
The Chairman (to Ropata): Do you come here freely, not being forced by any oilier person?—Yes. It is my own complaint; there are plenty of other people who own the land.
Mr Sheehan: I would point out that this witness always mentions other people, who he seems to expect will carry the matter out.—The Chairman: It is a question of inference. We are in this predicament—that we are dealing with individuals, when the tribe is concerned.—Mr Sheehan requested the Chairman to take a note of the reason why his question was disallowed, which was done.
Mr. Lascelles: With regard to Ihaka Kapu's matter, I retract in his name all complaints.—Mr Sheehan objected to this proceeding.—The Chairman: In older to make the retractation of any moral value, you must have your man here—Mr Lascelles asked if this would apply also to Paora Nonoi, who was physically unable to attend.—The Chairman: "We have already laid down the rule that no retractation can be accepted unless the person retracts his complaint openly in Court; and in this case Mr Sheehan has a standing to prove his authority. I am sorry that the length of these matters will oblige us to adjourn the Heretaunga case till Monday at 10 a.m.—Mr Lascelles: I will now call Ihaka Kapu; and have to state, in the first place, that it is a case of simple retractation.—Mr Sheehan: I wish it understood that the other side do not allege that these complaints were laid without authority—Mr Lascelles said that Ihaka applied to withdraw all his complaints against Mr McLean in all cases.
Ihaka Kapu, examined by Mr Lascelles: Do you wish to withdraw all your complaints against Mr McLean'!—Yes.
By Mr Sheehan: Do you withdraw your complaints against Mr McLean in respect of the Ngatarawa, Mangaroa, and Manukaroa transactions?—Yes.
By the Chairman: Do you withdraw these complaints of your own free will, and without compulsion?—Of my own will.
The Chairman: This is a case of clear and simple retractation; and the press should draw a clear distinction between repudiation, which goes to the root of the complaint, and retractation, which admits that the complaint was properly made.
Mr Lascelles said that the next case was that of Paora Nonoi. He handed in a certificate from Dr. Gibbes that the complainant was ill, and could not attend the Court.—Mr Sheehan: It is only fair that the inquiry in this case should be made personally, as the evidence is contradictory. Karaitiana and Hapuku have asked that Paora should be examined by persons appointed by the Court; and if no pressure is used on either side, he will confirm his complaint. When the agitation commenced, Paora handed over his land to Hapuku. His sister came to town with the complaint, and is here to testify to it. Within the last twenty-four hours Nonoi has confirmed the complaint.—Mr. Lascelles would agree to the proposition that the Court should appoint some one to take evidence.—The Chairman: Never was a Court in such a difficulty as this—we have to decide not only on litigation, but on the litigants. Could a person be sent up this afternoon?—Mr Sheehan: Yes. The Chairman: The Commissioners are disposed to entertain the application.—Mr. Sheehan: To show that the preliminary proceedings were taken with Paora's authority, I would wish to call his sister and Hapuku; but as it is necessary that the personal application should be made without delay, I will consent to take that evidence after the return of the parties.
Mr Young, the interpreter to the Commission, was appointed to represent the Commissioners; and after considerable discussion a series of questions was drawn up by the Chairman, to be put by Mr. Young, who received definite instructions for his guidance, and was directed not to stray beyond the limits laid down for him by the Court. To accompany Mr Young, on behalf of the respondents, Mr Lascelles appointed Mr J. P. Hamlin, interpreter; and Mr Stevens, interpreter, was appointed on the other side by Mr Sheehan.—The Commission then, at 1.30 p.m., adjourned.
Cross-examination of Mr Tanner, resumed by Mr Sheehan: Who negociated this business with Waaka?—I was the prime arranger of it all; I left it to Lee and Cuff to say whether it was a good arrangement; for Waaka, as well as myself; they talked it over with him. In the arrangement with Waaka, had you any discussion with him about the price he was to receive?—No, the discussion we had was principally in reference to his debts to Parker, for advances, and bills paid. Waaka, by this arrangement, knew it would take his interest in Heretaunga to pay his debts—neither he nor I knew that it would take the whole; but his object and desire was to get his other property free. Was no higher price asked by Waaka, than the .£1,000?—Never; he asked no price at all—I made him the offer. Was no other sum ever mentioned?—No other sum. The first overtures were made by yourself?—Yes, I told him what Parker said, that we were willing to take over the lands; that we only wanted Heretaunga, for which we would give, £1,000, and re-convey the other blocks to him. That offer was made by yourself?—
The Chairman: No doubt, in English law, if an agent for a sale was to stipulate for a secret bounty, it would vitiate the sale. But there is a difficulty in applying this rule to native cases—some of the natives made an independent bargain for their own share, and all repudiate the alleged agency. Arihi, Paramena, and Pahoro, all made independent arrangements; and Manaena, also. There remains only Noa, whose case presents some difficulty. I throw this out, to shorten the cross-examination. Taking the indubitable principle of equity, I strongly recommend purchasers to make no secret bargains with vendors. Such are made at their peril, and entail great risks. The Commission will be
Cross-examination continued: In your evidence in-chief, you said, that no reference was made to the Karamu reserve. When was that spoken of?—I cannot say, positively; I think on the second day. By whom was the question introduced?—I cannot say; most likely myself; I remember telling them that the reserve must be secured, so as to prevent alienation by the grantees. I suggested that it should be conveyed to us with the rest of the block, that it might be re conveyed by us to trustees. Were any trustees named?—Yes; Karaitiana and Henare were anxious to have it conveyed to them, as they would prevent the other grantees selling. Was any limitation made of the parties to be beneficially interested in the block? Did you not agree to convey it to Karaitiana and Henare, for themselves?—No, I did not bear of it till it was stated in Court. Not to them without restriction?—Most positively not. Was it not understood that it was to be handed to them, leaving them to apportion it as they thought proper?—No; as trustees for all the grantees and persons entitled to be interested. Did you hear Hamlin's evidence, as to the limitation?—I took the view that all the grantees, who had not already disposed of their interests, were concerned. This did not include Waaka and Tareha, as we had already bought their interests in the whole block, including the reserve. Is that account given by Hamlin, correct?—Substantially so; his recollection is not so detailed as mine. Did not Karaitiana and Henare ask for a larger reserve than 1,700 acres?—No; 1,600 acres was the size of the reserve, and they did not ask for more. Can you recollect the conversation in which it was settled?—No. I can recollect the details of the arrangement. Henare and Karaitiana expressed a wish to be trustees, as they would take care that none of the other grantees should dispose of the block, or encumber it in any way. Karaitiana remarked that, if they mortgaged or sold any part of the reserve, they would come to him to keep them on his property at Pakowhai. I considered that they would make good trustees, and made no objection. I told Karaitiana that I was actually in possession of two tenths of the Karamn reserve, which I intended to give up. Did you not leave it entirely to Henare and Karaitiana, to do what they thought proper with the block?—No, I discussed the subject. I said all the grantees, except Waaka and Tareha,
suaviter in modo, as well as the fortiter in re. Have you any recollection of the amount?—No; I believe it was a sum on account. Next came the final settlement; what natives were present?—I cannot say; I believe all were there; but I have not a distinct recollection. Have you a distinct recollection of what you did on the first day?—No; I believe we were examining accounts, and hearing and answering questions—showing the natives the different amounts of the debts contracted, and the accepted orders. Will you swear that this was done on the first day?—No. Who was the interpreter present?—I cannot say. You remember that Cuff mentioned three days?—Yes; it was on the third day that Henare had the long talk about the debts. (The Chairman: Do you remember the discussion on the first day, as to the division of the money?—I cannot say; I do not remember.) [The Chairman here read from his notes the witness's evidence regarding the first day's proceedings] Will you swear that that is correct?—To the best of my recollection. You say that the account against Henare Tomoana, amounting to £781 4s., was submitted to him that day for inspection?—To the best of my recollection, that was the case; but I had previously spoken to him on the subject. That you submitted an account for, £781 4s., which was agreed to by him, and deducted from the purchase-money?—Yes. You did not keep any regular account?—A very irregular account; what I put down
Mr. Carlyon wished to be allowed to make an explanation regarding the Mangateretere complaint. It had been said that the features of the case were similar to those of Heretaunga. He wished to state that it bore no resemblance, so far as one grantee, whom he represented, was concerned. The complaint of the other nine might be similar; but the complaint of the tenth severed completely from the others, and was in fact hostile to them.—The Chairman said he had not understood Mr Sheehan's statement to mean more than that the case presented no new or peculiar features.—Mr Carlyon: I wish also to know if I may be permitted to put in writing a few remarks concerning the institution of licensed interpreters.—The Chairman: It is quite possible that your suggestions on this subject may be of value; and we will be glad to receive them. We will read and consider them, and may possibly find some suggestions which we may incorporate in our general report. As a matter of necessity, we must go very fully into this subject.
Mr Sheehan said he had just been informed that certain natives, whose names had been appended to the withdrawals published in the Gazette, had come into town, and were anxious to come into Court and disavow those withdrawals—never having authorized their signatures to be attached to them.—The Chairman said it would be more convenient to hear them in the morning—he did not wish to break into the cross-examination. He would hear them at the close of Mr. Tanner's examination, before the addresses of counsel.
The Commission adjourned at 5.15 p.m.
On the Commissioners taking their seats, at 10 a.m., Mr. Young's report of his interview with Paora Nonoi was read. According to the
pukapukas, which ultimately found their way into the Gazette as retractations.—Mr Lascelles said he was not prepared to go into this matter in the absence of Mr Hamlin, who had gone to Mohaka. He thought we had heard the last of these matters last week.—The Chairman: As regards the offer of money, we are not in favour of going into the subject, but will
The first case called was that of the Pekapeka No. 1 block, a notice having appeared in the Gazette, dated 22nd February, bearing the signatures of Merania, Hemi Purei, and Pane, stating that they had nothing to do with the complaints lodged in their names. Merania and Pane were females.
Merania, sworn, examined by the Chairman: Are you one of the grantees of Pekapeka?—Yes, of Pekapeka No. 1. Had you a complaint against it?—Yes—perhaps. Who made that complaint?—Myself. Did any rangatira make it for you?—No. Did you put it into anyone's hands to take care of for you?—Yes. Whose?—I did not give that land to the Commission. Did you give it to Henare Matua to
Hemi Purei, examined by the Chairman: The Commissioners have received a panui from Henare Matua in your name, regarding Pekapeka No. 1—do you wish to withdraw it?—it is well that it should be investigated—it has not been sold or anything else.
Pane, examined by the Chairman: Henare Matua has lodged a complaint in your name regarding Pekapeka No. 1—do you wish it investigated?—The complaint is correct—I wish it to be gone into. [The witness, an elderly dame, was beginning to enter into her grievance, when she was informed that this was all the Commissioners required, and that she might stand down. This she declined to do, making a long statement, in a loud voice, and with great volubility. The interpreter explained that she was expressing her indignation at the Commission refusing to hear her complaint, when she had, in answer to their inquiry, expressed her readiness to go on with it at once. She considered herself insulted, after coming to town expressly to have her complaint investigated. If they did not intend to investigate it, why did they ask her if she wished it gone into? If she had known she was to be treated in this way, she would not have answered the Commissioners, &c., &c. She was informed that this could not be tolerated, and that she must leave the Court. She did so, still talking in the same strain, and continued her complaint, in the open air, for a considerable time]
The next case called was Pekapeka No. 2. In this matter a withdrawal, signed Paurini te Witi, had been published in the Gazette.
Paurini te Witi, examined by the Chairman: You haves sent in a complaint regarding Pekapeka No. 2?—Yes. Do you wish the complaint to be withdrawn, or gone on with?—I wish the matter to be investigated.
Thomas Tanner continued: If I gave the Court the impression that I was not present when the deed was read to Paramena, it was not my intention to convey that impression. I believe I was present, but would not swear to it.—Cross-examination by Mr. Sheehan resumed: What am I to understand as the extent of your knowledge of the interview with Paramena—was your statement in your evidence-in-chief from actual knowledge or mere impression? It was to the best of my belief. We will now resume the subject of the accounts. £781 4s. was the amount of the account submitted to Henare Tomoana on the first day?—I will not swear positively that it was on the first day; it might have been the second; but it was shown before the settlement. He remarked that he did not think it would have been so much; but he
tapis. But not on the register. Had they no security?—Our word; and one deed of Henare's was signed. We did not wish to encumber the property with a second charge, and were casting about for some better method of securing the annuities. This plan had been thought of some time before it was carried into effect. Then while you were casting about, the natives had only your verbal security. You will not undertake to say that the annuities were not discussed in this inner room?—No; my impression is that they were not. It has been stated that a solemn silence ensued after the disappearance of the cheque.—How long after this did you retire?—I cannot say—a very short time. Was anything said in the meantime?—Not a word, before we retired. Did Noa Huki not say anything?—No. Not to the others?—Not to my hearing. I can remember it well, it was an exciting moment. Why exciting?—Because I did not know that some of the others might not rebel. I waited in anxious silence. With the exception of Paramena, outside the office, you say no objection was made?—None whatever. How long did you remain in the inner room?—It might have been half-an-hour. When you returned were any of the other grantees waiting?—Yes. Did any of them speak to you?—No.—In reference to the partition of the money at Pakowhai, what amount was set apart by Henare for himself?—Finally, £2,000. And the same amount for Karaitiana?—Yes. Did any conversation take place between yourself and Henare in reference to any alteration in this sum?—No. Subsequent to that, and before the final payment, did any conversation take place between you and him on that subject?—None whatever. The account you have handed in shows appropriations by you on his account of nearly .£3,000?—Yes, but until that time I had no idea it was so much. You knew of the accumulation of these separate accounts?—I had never taken any memorandum of the amounts we guaranteed. I knew the advances were in excels; but had no idea that they were so largely. Karaitiana was to receive £2,000 also?—Yes. And the account shows appropriations to £2,790 odd?—Yes. At the appropriation of the money, Karaitiana and Henare set aside £ 1,000 for Arihi; you objected, on the ground that her trustees would object, whereupon it was altered to £1,500?—Yes. And you considered yourself
£250, who described it as an immense morass, and would not look at it. Yet Brathwaite was glad to get a portion of it after?—When it was improved. (The Chairman: He might have been a good banker, yet not a good judge of land. We can also understand the objection to a native lease.) You have told us that Heretaunga was passing some time before it did go—that the owners were incurring debts which they were unable to meet?—Without selling something. Was it not at the time of selling—between
The Chairman: If you could prove the purchasers to have been on the verge of insolvency, it should not prove that the property was undervalued, or obtained by unfair means. It is against general experience that it is poor men who drive a hard bargain, it is the rich man—the millionare In a criminal court it is never held that a man being in a state of poverty, can be taken as an inference that he has committed an illegal act. The question was ruled to be irrelevant, and a note taken of the ruling.—Mr Sheehan said he could not finish the examination tonight—he would require to go extensively into the point of the £1,500, now, for the first time, alleged to have been paid in mistake.
The Commission ajourned at 4.50 p.m.
Cross-examination of Mr Tanner continued, by Mr Sheehan: I under stood you to say that you had no copy of Watts account?—Yes. Has not one been obtained?—Not to my knowledge—nothing more than has been produced in Court. Referring to the meeting with Pahoro and Paramena on Waitangi bridge, described in your evidence-in-chief—can you quote the native words used by Pahoro, signifying that he would take his chance with the rest?—He said that the land was to revert to the tribe, "whakahoki ki te hapu," I believe were the words used. I remember this, because it was the first I had seen of the grantees since
there not such an application to the Trust and Loan Company, who refused to advance?—Yes, but not until long after. They refused to take an incomplete title. Before the legal lease was obtained, you purchased out Brathwaite for 1,000 sheep?—Yes; at the then value of sheep, 15s. to 17s. 6d.—that was under £1,000. What was the extent of Brathwaite's interest?—1,236 acres, three-fourths of which was under water. After the legal lease, and before the completion of the purchase, you disposed of certain small areas of your share, subject to the lease?—Yes. Ploughing was not £1 per acre, but I gave them one acre for each three acres of ploughing; I continued to pay the full rent, and guaranteed to sell the land at the close of the lease for the price it cost, find, if not, give them the advantage of the improvement clause. Two of these sections were the best of the whole block, and it was light land which was given to them to plough. I had sections open, on these terms, for two or three months before any of them were taken up. This was in tutu?—Yes—the whole, excepting the swamp, and a small quantity of grass land within my boundary. You are now speaking of the land under the native lease?—And also at the time of the legal lease. We had been burning; but did no draining till the legal lease was obtained. It was not till after the flood, in
Re examined by Mr Lascelles: Wilson's scheme provided for the signatures of the sub-claimants. How many do you suppose there were?—One hundred, at the least. Would it be practicable to get the signatures of the whole?—No; but I do not think Wilson intended that more than the leading sub claimants should sign. You have stated that you only bought in self-protection. As regards your financial position; would you have been in preferable circumstances as a leaseholder or a freeholder?—Instead of having a load of debt on my shoulders at present, for which I am paying eight per cent, interest, I should now, as a leaseholder, have been out of debt. As a speculator, I would be in a better position; but as a sheep-farmer, deriving a revenue from wool, I am in a worse. (The Chairman: I cannot appreciate the distinction) Regarding your engagement with Grindell—did he make any objection to it?—Stuart had withdrawn from the contest, and Grindell was free, when I retained him. A Maori letter of Grindell's was produced; were you acquainted with that letter?—Grindell told me he would write to Arihi; but I knew nothing of the contents of that letter, till I heard it in Court. Regarding Parker—was the notice from Parker absolutely your first intimation that Waaka had parted with his share?—Yes. You say that Wilson considered it was not a legal transaction?—Yes. Did he then express an opinion that it could be upset?—Not till a subsequent occasion, I believe. What was the condition of Waaka's intellect when sober?—Pretty sharp; the last three years—the last year particularly—has made a wonderful difference in him. In these transactions concerning the withdrawal, did he understand, and enter into them?—Fully—he dictated his own letter, quite unprompted. (The Chrirman: Had you prompted him beforehand?—No. I. will not say that the idea might not have been previously mentioned in conversation. Who was Waaka's regular lawyer?—He has tried all. He appears to have formed an unfavorable opinion of the profession?—Not until his rent dis-
George Buckland Worgan, examined by Mr Sheehan: You were a licensed interpreter in Napier, in carte blanche to take such steps as I thought fit. Was £12,000 the absolute limit?—It was the price to which he was willing to go. Did he say anything about going further?—He intimated that I might go further if I chose, but my commission would be reduced £100 for every £1,000 extra. What became of that projected purchase?—After taking some trouble about it, I abandoned it. What were the causes of that abandonment?—Purely personal; I did not wish to interfere with a number of gentlemen who had taken already a great deal of trouble, and had vested interests in the block, and to upset the arrangements of a large number of tradespeople, who were depending on their success. I have no shadow of doubt that I would have succeeded if I had pushed the matter, though perhaps not for £12,000. £15,000 was, I believe, Stuart's outside limit. I wrote to him on abandoning the matter, briefly giving my reasons. Had you any communication on the subject of the negociation with the Heretaunga purchasers or their agents?—None.
Henare Tomoana, recalled by Mr Sheehan, by permission: In the accounts handed in by Tanner, there is a sum charged to you, in Tanner's name, of £781 4s. Do you know anything of that amount?—I do not
Cross-examined by Mr Lascelles; Can you state how long before the sale this mortgage took place?—I do not quite know—perhaps a year, or a year-and a half. Between the mortgage and sale, did you not get advances and things through Tanner?—Yes. Do you remember what things?—I do not quite know. I received cash in various sums, £2, £3, and £5. Any goods?—Yes. Did you owe James Boyle any money?—Yes. How much?—I do not know—something above £100. Did you owe anything to Robinson, the draper?—Yes. Had you any goods from Newton?—Yes. Have you any idea how much you owed Newton and Robinson?—I cannot say. I did not know the amounts of those things from Newton and Robinson, till Tanner showed them to me at Cuff's, and I then agreed. It was the £700 account that I wanted from him, and he did not give it to me. I agreed to Robinson's account, but it was the account of Tanner's own debt that I wanted. I was shown Newton, Irvine, and Co.'s account. Did you get a number of staples from Boylan?—Yes, but Tanner did not pay for them. Did you?—Yes. Did you have 500 galvanized iron bolts for fencing?—Yes. I know of all my debts to Boylan; I paid for all those. That was after the sale of Heretaunga—a ton-and-a-half. We are speaking of two years before the sale.—I do not remember any. Did you receive money in Wellington, from M'Lean?—Yes, £30. Did you receive any in Wellington from Ormond?—No. Do you remember receiving from Tanner, on the
Re examined by Mr Sheehan: Do you know which of these things were obtained before the mortgage, and which after?—Newton's and Robinson's were after the mortgage—it is Tanner's £700 I want to know about. (The Chairman: It is a singular fact that the cheque for £210, is dated the day after the cheque given to Karaitiana, for the balance. It possibly may have been on the rent account.)
Karaitiana Takamoana, recalled, examined by Mr Sheehan: Among the accounts handed in by Tanner, is one for £307 8s, said to be for money and goods, obtained by you from Tanner-do you know anything about it?—I do not quite know about it. Do you remember anything being said about it at the time of the sale?—No. Did Tanner show you any account, making up that total?—Perhaps he did; I cannot say. Do you remember any such account being shown or explained to you?—I cannot say; there was only one person there to explain the accounts—Air Williams. My debts ended with Neal's mortgage. You do not know of such an account?—I do not quite know.
Cross-examined by Mr Lascelles: Do you remember how long the mortgage was before the sale?—No. Was it before the land went through the Court?—I think it was after the new lease. Between the mortgage and the sale, had you any money, or goods from Tanner?—Not that I am aware of. Had you not goods from Robinson, to the amount of £60?—I do not know the amount. Had you £31 worth of fencing wire from Kinross?—I do not know; Kinross was always putting down goods I received in my own name. I was continually taking wire from him. Did you ever get wire from Richardson?—Not that I know of; it was from Watt and Kinross that I got wire. Did you receive ten bags of sugar from Sutton?—Yes. Did you receive any cash from Tanner, before going to Wellington, about two years ago?—I do not know of that money; at that period I had money. Do you remember receiving any other sums of money from Tanner?—Perhaps so, who is to know? I never asked him for it; he was the person who asked me if I would have any—that is what I would consent to. Have you received any that way?—I believe I have; but cannot remember. Did you ever get twenty-one wethers from Tanner?—It is correct that I got sheep; but I do not know the number.
The Commission adjourned at 4.40 p.m.
The Commission met at 10 a.m.
Mr. Tanner male some further explanations respecting the items of his account with Henare Tomoana.
Mr. Lascelles then addressed the Commission on the whole case. Before summing up the evidence he felt he would not be doing his duty to his numerous clients if he did not advert to the position in which they had been placed by the institution of this Commission. While on their behalf acknowledging with gratitude the uniform patience and courtesy, with which the inquiries of the Commission had been conducted, he could not refrain from comment on the state of things which had made such an inquiry possible—under which any and every man might be called upon to defend not only his title to his property, but his character and reputation; and in which if successful his success would be limited to clearing himself at his own loss and expense. This, he urged was a matter which should be brought prominently before the notice of the Legislative, if at any future time it should be proposed to call this Commission once more together. In this special instance a most searching inquiry had been made; extending over a month, and under
waipiro and other requirements. We find him plunged into this lawsuit—his solicitor declining to discuss any grounds of settlement, when they are suggested. It was plainly stated in evidence that Mr. Wilson positively refused to listen to the subject at all; and could not be induced to discuss the matter in any of its bearings. It had further cropped up that Mr. Wilson had a strong personal feeling against Parker, who had threatened him with personal violence; and we were therefore at no loss for an object—Mr. Wilson had no wish to part with the means of subjecting Parker to very considerable annoyance. We next find the case settled, and £120 of Waaka's money gone in legal expenses—and we find the old man still harping on this one string—"What has become of my £100?" At the very least he was entitled to
protégé of Mr. M'Lean—a member of the Assembly, then in session—if by course of law or equity there was any means open to him to resist the pressure brought on him, he was in the position of all others the most favourable to obtain the best advice and assistance. Other evidence showed the truth of one little statement made by Tareha—"I came to complain when I heard this discussion going on." He did not assert that he was pressed or defrauded; but "I want my £300." (The Chairman reminded Mr. Lascelles that Tareha said the transaction was a kohuru, because he was off his own ground.) It was true that he sold when from home, and considered it a hardship; but it was inexorable necessity which compelled him to do so; and he no doubt looked upon it as a great hardship to pay his debts at all—to do anything beyond giving one promissory note after another. He now came to Paramena and Pahoro; and must confess he totally failed to see any hardship in their cases. Pahoro—a drunkard, who flaunts his share of Heretaunga for sale in all the public-houses—is persuaded by the lessees to execute a deed of trust in favour of his hapu, a document as much in the way of their becoming possessed of the interest, as of any others. He and Paramena are dissatisfied with the settlement, and their discontent merges into an authority to an intelligent European, who demands, £700 in full payment for their share. The demand is complied with and the money duly paid—they draw on it, and a small balance still remains. Then on what ground did they now come into Court? He could only account for it on the supposition that the idea of wholesale repudiation had taken possession of the minds of these unfortunate men; and it was doubtless in furtherance of the same idea that they had concocted the account of the interview in Mr. Hamlin's office, in which they alleged bribes had been offered them to give false evidence. A negative falsehood was had enough—a simple denial of fact; but if there were degrees in falsehood, a possitive concoction of this kind was far worse, and would have the effect of casting considerable doubt on the whole of their statement. There still remained four grantees—Karaitiana, Henare, Manaena, and Noa. As regarded Noa, no pressure had been alleged. He and Renata owed money and paid it honorably—and seemed to have regretted it ever since. Their equivocation in the witness-box must place these natives in a very unfavourable light. But he was now only dealing with the subject of pressure, of which in this case there was not the slightest evidence. He now passed on to Manaena, and it was with difficulty that he could speak seriously on the subject of the statement made by this chief—a man large enough in body, but apparently with a very small soul, who was fain to hide in a willow tree when sought by his pakeha friends. No pressure had been shown; yet because Mr. Sutton went in a friendly manner to speak about his debt, it would no doubt be assumed
runanga was denied, there was evidence that, before they signed, the approaching sale of the block had been discussed, and was known to each grantee. The negociation with Karaitiana was carried on in his own house, with natives passing in and out the whole time, and nothing to prevent the whole Pakowhai world being present if they had thought tit. The evidence of the Rev. Samuel Williams showed that Noa told him there had been a meeting, at which the disposal of the block was placed the hands of Karaitiana and Henare; a similar statement was made to Mr Tanner by Paramena and Pahoro; and, still later, the statement was confirmed by Pahoro in Mr Hamlin's office. All this was strong evidence in favor of the supposition that they knew a lump sum was to be paid, the division of which rested not with the purchasers, but with the principal grantees. Throughout the whole transaction it was clearly proved that Karaitiana not only claimed the right to divide the money, but to deal with it when divided—as was shown when he took possession of the half of Matiaha's share. At the settlement of accounts, there was no attempt on the part of any of the vendors to say, "How much of my share remains?" or, "Where is my £1,000?" but the whole dealing showed that Karaitiana was recognized as having the supreme right to deal with the land. On this point there was the clear evidence of four witnessess—Messrs. Cuff, Tanner, Williams, and Hamlin. Noa's statement, that he spoke at the meeting, was denied by them all. After the close of the meeting, Pahoro and Paramena objected; but this could be accounted for. A distinct bargain had, at one time, been made with them, and though it had since been set aside in favor of the general arrangement, it was possible that they might still think they were entitled to something on their own account—at any rate he was willing to grant them the benefit of the supposition. Karaitiana, it was evident, took the cheque as representing the distinct balance due; and never disputed the transaction until long after, when the idea occurred to him that £1,000 had somehow gone astray. No proof of anything of the kind had been attempted by the complainants; and, on the other side, it was positively and clearly denied. As for Noa, who afterwards said he wanted £100, this was accounted for by his ineffectual attempt to obtain Mr Peacock's consent to retain £100 douceur, but as an extra consideration on account of an extra share. If, in dealing with an agent, it had been said, "If you agree to my terms, I will give you so much," it was one thing; but to say to an owner, whose share was not clearly defined, "I will give you £1,000, or £1,500, in addition to your general share, if the bargain is completed," was another thing. Unless it could be shown that the extra consideration had never paid duty, there was no ground for the imputation either of concealment or fraud. Still further, he must urge upon the Court that, outside of this extra consideration, a value had been attached to each share in the minds of the owners, and it was not until the whole was arranged, that it was decided to give additional consideration to the chief owners, and that this sum entered into the amount of the general consideration, and appeared in the deed. On one point he would be obliged to revert to Henare's evidence—the question of tie Karamu reserve—and, on this point, the statement of the Rev. Samuel Williams was very strongly against him If it bad been shown that Mr Tanner promised 1,600 acres of land to Henare and Karaitiana as a free gift, it would have supported the charge of impropriety, brought by the other side. But it was spoken of as a reserve, and what did that term imply? That it was to be for the whole of the grantees. Plainly, the agreement was, that it should be conveyed to Henare and Karaitiana as trustees for the whole of their people, and the grantees generally, with the exception of Waaka and Tareha, who had disposed of their whole interest already, and possibly one man beside. What the other side sought to make out was a second secret promise to Karaitiana and Henare, and in this they wholly failed. It was not altogether clear, nor had it been fully explained, to whom the reserve was to apply; but it was quite clear that it was only to be held for the benefit of others. Henare's evidence principally related to the subject of the hundred acres, and the sole point apparently at issue on this subject appeared to be, whether the hundred-acre block referred to, way to come out of the original reserve, or Mr Tanner's portion. At any rate, this arrangement, whatever it was, had been abandoned; the grantees were now in quiet possession of the reserve, and, up to the time of the sitting of this Commission, the question had never been raised. The fact was, that Henare, having a recollection of this hundred-acre arrangement-which, to be of any weight in law, should have been reduced to writing—had attempted to hang an accusation upon it. Another complaint was, that the consideration was not in money—but to what did this amount? If, when an order was shown to a party, and acknowledged by him, it was not considered sufficient, it ought to be, and would be, in any court of law. The next subject was the question of price The Commission would remember that the learned counsel opposite had said that there was nothing objectionable in the lease. The fact could not he disguised, that the whole Colony had taken a prodigious stride since this purchase was effected. Only yesterday, a transaction had come to his knowledge, in which a loan of £6,000 had been effected, on real security, at six per cent., and it was in evidence that the rate then ruling was 12½. As regarded the valuations,
Hoc volo, sic jubeo," as shown by his going to Auckland, and there dealing with the block as though it were his own individual property. Finally, he would remark, that if Maori evidence was to be accepted in a court of law, and the property, character, and lives of British settlers were to depend on native testimony, their false statements should not be allowed to pass unpunished. Both as a deterrent to evil doers, and an encouragement to those who did well, they should be brought to account for the perjury they had committed. In some cases, he was ready to admit, Europeans had taken advantage of the ignorance of the natives; but such could not be asserted in this instance, where the utmost equity, good-faith, and honor had prevailed throughout. And he could add that, in no case of their dealing with Europeans, had they sustained such damage, as they had, by their false testimony in this case, inflicted on themselves, in tendering themselves objects of distrust and suspicion to their British brethren.
Mr Sheehan said it now became his duty to contribute his portion towards closing this inquiry, by directing the attention of the Commissioners to some of those points to which they would no doubt find it necessary to refer in their report. When he considered the extreme length to which this investigation had extended, he felt he could not help congratulating the Commissioners on the prospect of the speedy conclusion of their arduous labours; but at the same time, looking back on the five weeks through which this inquiry had extended, he saw no reason to regret that it had been so prolonged—nor would the other side have any reason for objection, should a decision be given in their favor after an inquiry in which every material fact connected with the whole transaction had been evoked. He had come into this case himself almost without notice, and it was scarcely necessary for him to remark upon the difficulty of arriving at anything like a correct appreciation of the facts and circumstances upon which the complainants relied, in a transaction of such magnitude, at the outset of the case. It bad been repeatedly stated during these proceedings, and the statement had been triumphantly brandished in his face, that up to a very recent date these complaints had not been heard of. In reply, he had only to refer the Commissioners to the printed records of the colony for the last three years, which afforded ample evidence of the storm which had so long been brewing. In hapu was obtained but he greatly doubted whether his real object was the benefit of the hapu. Mr Tanner was perfectly aware that Tareha's name only appeared on the Grant as a representative, and that there were others behind him with an equal claim, whoso interests were also entitled to consideration. The next sale, in order of time, was in connexion with the chief Waaka; and in reviewing his opening speech., he could not see a single expression, regarding this transaction, that he would wish to withdraw. He had spoken of Waaka's transaction with Parker, as one of the most extraordinary in his experience, and the motives of which, on the part of the European, were open to great
£15. So, the purchasers of Heretaunga not only oblige the old man by spending his money, but debit him with the cost of attending and showing him how it went. Again, Waaka was to receive £1,000 for his share in Heretaunga. Accounts had been offered as showing what had been done with that money. One of the items was £789, debts to Parker. He would not say that the advances, payments, &c., of which that amount was composed, did not apply to that purchase; but this he did say, that where a purchaser took upon himself the responsibility of paying the accounts, and undertaking the business generally of a native, the least he could do was to keep and furnish correct accounts—in fact, that in equity he was bound to do so It had been said, that Waaka had sent a man—since dead—who looked through the accounts for him; but he could not receive from Waaka himself any information on that point. The whole circumstances were of a very suspicious kind, and the only satisfactory answer—that Waaka acted under the disinterested advice of some competent person—was not forthcoming. The next matter, was the purchase of Pahoro's interest. They had heard a good deal from the other side, of the complainants shifting their ground—but he thought
hapu from the thriftless Pahoro, and—the reason of which did not so plainly appear—from Paramena also. Mr Tanner, again assuming the paternal character, has deeds of trust prepared, which, being placed on the register, would have the effect of preventing hasty sales. The Rev. Samuel Williams calls on the natives, and prepares them for a visit from his brother, who duly arrives with the deeds, and obtains the signatures. It had been argued that this transaction was evidently bonâ fide, inasmuch as the trust deeds would not only act as a barrier to outsiders, but to the lessees themselves. He confessed he could not see it in this light. Possessing the influence they did, with the advantage of being in possession of the block, they would necessarily be able to acquire the interest of a native like Pahoro, on better and easier terms than any competitors. We next drop on Pahoro, either just after a heavy debauch, or meditating one; for he is met by Mr James Williams in the neighborhood of a public house, expresses his anxiety to sell, and asks why Mr Tanner Las not bought his share. Mr Tanner meets him, and comes at once to the point—either his great policy was not then initiated, or it was departed from in this instance. As at first described, Mr Tanner's object was not to acquire, but to protect the native interest; but by this time that suggestion is done away with—the protection is to be effectual only till the interests are merged in the deed of sale. The evidence of the interpreter furnished the particulars of the intricate bargain made with Pahoro. He is asked to sign an absolute conveyance, a verbal provision being made that the purchase-money is to bear interest till the other grantees should sell; and the deed is produced and executed. It was worthy of note that, while Pahoro was in the box, the subject of interest was not mentioned. The deed is promptly placed on the register, and the startling fact remains that this native has divested himself and his hapu of their property, without receiving a single shilling in consideration, and has received nothing whatever of a binding character to show that he is entitled to it
At this point the Commission rose. On account of the following day being Good Friday, the proceedings were adjourned to Saturday, 12th April, at 10 a.m.
Mr Sheehan continued his address. In reference to the negociations at Pakowhai he would point out that the attitude of Karaitiana throughout, so far as he took part in the proceedings, was that of an exceedingly unwilling man. There was a wonderful difference between the statements of Mr Tanner and Henare Tomoana, both as to the amount of the consideration, and the amount each party was to take. According to Mr Tanner, the consideration expressed in the deed was not the real amount, but there remained outside it considerable sums of money to be paid to Karaitiana and Henare. But, he would again ask, if the whole matter was in their hands, why were they so anxious to receive this secret service money. While we were told by Mr Tanner that there was a distinct allotment of £1,500 for Arihi's share an absolute setting aside of that sum, and specific authority to offer it—that statement was entirely at variance with that given by the natives: and while Mr Tanner's theory was that he dealt only with Karaitiana and Henare, it was greatly damaged by the fact that his statement of having offered £1,500 for Alibi's share from the first, on the express sanction of Henare and Karaitiana, did not correspond with the facts elicited in cross-examination. On the day after the negociation, while it is still fresh in his memory, we find him writing a letter in which he states that Arihi's share is £1,000. In his explanation of this, he said it was a piece of finesse—that he sought to obtain the share for £500 below the allotted sum in order that there might be so much more for Henare and Karaitiana. On the grounds of equity and good conscience this proceeding could not be defended for a moment. While statements had been made all round of the rapacity of Karaitiana, only to be appeased by a secret bribe, we had it in evidence that Mr Tanner,—not even under pressure—voluntarily attempts to reduce the amount payable to Arihi, for Karaitiana's benefit. In fact, to borrow rather a strong metaphor from his learned friend, while Henare and Karaitiana were reeking with annuities, and foul with secret service money, Mr Tanner goes out of his way to still further gorge these worthy gentlemen with an extra £500, to be "finessed" out of the sum, which he tells us they had agreed to set apart for this girl-an orphan and a minor. He maintained that this narration was sufficient to cast, suspicion on the whole statement. He could have better understood it if this had been made a condition by Henare and Karaitiana, and would not have thought so badly of Mr Tanner; but that he should have acted as a volunteer in so discreditable a transaction, was almost beyond belief. He submitted that this agreement was contrary to sections 15 and 16 of the Native Lands Act Contradictory as that enactment was, one thing it plainly provided—that a binding contract could only be made by a majority in value of the owners. The agreement was a violation of equity and good conscience, as it did not show the full amount of the purchase money; thus prejudicing the interests of the other grantee; and even supposing it fair in other respects, it was objectionable as tying down the natives to convey the land, while silent as to three material points of the consideration. As regarded the reserve, the testimony was conflicting, but Mr Hamlin's statement showed that some conversation on the subject took
pouri. The individual grantees might have left the leaders to fix upon the total, reserving a right to decide upon the sufficiency or otherwise of the portions allotted to them.) There was no doubt that the fact that two or three shares had already gone, and that Henare and Karaitiana had been applied to for theirs, had been the subject of conversation at Pakowhai, and the decision of the general question of sale had been left by common understanding with those chiefs, without any agreement that they were to sell, and absolutely dispose of the purchase money. (The Chairman did not think that any such plenary authority had been set up by the other side.) Yet the amounts, which had been settled with considerable trouble at the Pakowhai meeting, as the portions due to each share, could scarcely have been unknown to the grantees when they gave their consent. He would now look at the transaction on the supposition of agency on the part of Henare and Karaitiana. If lie had the time and inclination to enter into the subject of their assumed veto, lie would doubtless find interesting matter for consideration. It certainly rested on no legal power. (The Chairman said that, in dealing with a race like the Maoris, in a state of transition from barbarism, their ancient theory and practice, that might constituted right, must necessarily be to some extent acknowledged. Legal title was an idea of difficult appreciation by barbarous peoples; though some of the natives appeared, by this time, to be gaining a pretty distinct conception of it.) He was not prepared to admit that the ancient theory and customs of the natives could be relied on in this case—it was against the policy of the native land laws to allow them. The Native Lands Act professed to provide a means for wholly extinguishing the tribal title. He would first consider the case as stated by Mr Hamlin, that Henare and Karaitiana possessed a full and ample authority, by virtue of which they could execute a binding and valid conveyance. In that case, he could say at once, the
mana of the block rested with him.) He had already stated his opinion, with which the Commissioners had coincided, that this writ was the letter, supposed to emanate from Mr Ormond, to which reference had been made by Karaitiana The document described was not one to which M r Ormond could, by any possibility, have assented; but his name appeared, with others, in the writ—a document containing ague expressions, well calculated to give rise to the mistaken idea which it
Et tu Brute!" must have been his thought on that occasion, even if it did not find expression. It must have been, indeed, trying to his feelings to have this new and outrageous demand made at the very time when he thought his straight forward dealing completely settled. The fact that a compromise was effected and, £700 paid, was pregnant with comment as to the loose manner in which the transaction had been conducted. The explanation offered—that it was in order to cover the deeds of trust—was not sufficient; for in Pahoro's case, at any rate, the concurrence of the hapu had been obtained. He had put a question to Mr Ormond, in his cross-examination, which he had not followed up, relating to tire part he had taken in amending an Act of the Assembly, during the previous session, it was curious that the very provision which Mr Ormond was instrumental in introducing, should have supplied the means by which this sum could be claimed—in this case, at any rate, the engineer had been hoisted with his own petard. In his opening address, he had made allusion to the subject of Government influence; and after a careful examination of the facts, and fully allowing for the withdrawal of the statement that Mr Ormond had attempted directly to persuade Karaitiana to sell—he still asserted that there was evidence of such influence, which had been shown in a very objectionable way; and he would fail in his duty if he did not draw the attention of the Commissioners to it. It would also give them the opportunity, if they thought the charge was not sustained, of reliving gentlemen in public positions from the imputations cast upon them. In the purchase of Heretaunga, Mr Ormond was one of the prime movers throughout. He held a public position of great importance, for which his previous services had fully qualified him. He would not argue that the fact of a man holding a public office should shut him out of the land market of the Colony—it would be absurd for him to do so—but he submitted that any transactions in which public
tutu. This latter feature could hardly be held as a defect, as this kind of growth was the best evidence of a good strong soil. With no other means of judging than Mr Tanner had given, one would hardly suppose that a dry lodgment could have been obtained on the block; but from this dismal view of the case, he would turn to what the parties themselves had done—a far safer guide in estimating the value of the property. While the lease was still illegal, and the title not worth sixpence in the Supreme Court, we found Mr Ormond—an old settler, and no mean judge—giving upwards of £1 per acre for a share in it of 1,260 acres; and we found Mr Tanner giving sheep to nearly the same value for a share of Mr Brathwaite's. Here was plain evidence that the land was leased far below its real value. If the mere right to run sheep on the block, so long only as the Government and the natives chose to allow it, was worth £1 per acre, what, he would ask, would have been the freehold value of the land at that time, with the title based on a Crown Grant? After the legal lease, we find that Mr Brathwaite sells out for £800, and Mr Ormond and Mr Purvis Russell for £1 per acre—the lease, at this rate, being then worth a premium of about £17,000—and it had been shown that Mr Tanner held the cream of the block. What did this amount to? Taking off £1,000 to allow for shingle, &c., it came to this—that the lease was at that time worth £2,500 more than Mr Tanner afterwards agreed to pay for the whole freehold. (The Chairman said there, was nothing absurd in the supposition that a lease for a long term might be worth more than the freehold value of the land subject to that lease. A necessary element to be considered in all calculations of this nature was, the shortness of human life. Adopting a more moderate estimate of the value of the lease than had been given by the learned counsel—supposing it to be worth £8,000 or £10,000, that would be so much to be deducted from the value of the reversion.) We next had Mr Tanner disposing of portions of this land at £3 per acre, subject to the lease. Although the purchase was effected in a time of temporary depression, there did not appear to be one of these men but had calculated on more prosperous times; and certainly no more favorable opportunity could have been chosen for the purchase
whakamaori the English expressions into the nearest Maori equivalents they could think of—a species of translation in which the spirit of the original must inevitably be lost. Their solo qualification being a knowledge of the Maori language, they were often destitute of the commonest rudiments of education; and with such blind leaders of the blind, the wide spread discontent which had arisen was no matter for surprise. On the other hand it was rather a matter for wonder that the natives had brought their grievances quietly to the proper authorities, and had not taken some more dangerous means of obtaining redress. The records of courts of equity contained numerous cases in which they had interfered to protect illiterate men from the fulfilment of bargains into which they had entered unaware of their force and effect. In general knowledge and information a European child of six or seven years was immeasurably in advance of a native. (The Chairman: Hut not in the capacity to drive a bargain) Any rule in courts of equity relating to the protection or relief due to an illiterate European would apply with far greater force to these natives in their dealings. Many of the objectionable transactions in this town had been carried on by men whose moral instincts might not perhaps be expected to be so clear as those of Messrs Tanner and Ormond; but in the present case the Commissioners could not afford to disregard the position and influence of the purchaser. On the one side of this transaction there were these
kohuru [murder], he being away from his own people; next followed the purchase of Waaka's interest—a muru [robbery]; and next, the purchase of Pahoro's, described as a tahae [theft] In the transaction with Tareha there appeared to be in Mr Tanner's mind a kind of indistinct perception of his duty to the hapu, that they should be aware of the purchase. What was to have prevented him, in the first instance, from calling together the whole of the grantees, and seeing that a fair and equitable distribution of the money was made. As it was, he was a party with Henare and Karaitiana to the perpetuation of abuses which the law had set aside. He would now recapitulate the grounds on which he contended that this purchase was contrary to equity and good conscience. In the first place, the sale was urged on the natives at a time of great depression and trouble, and when they were being pursued by European creditors. Secondly, the sale being made by persons ignorant of our laws and our language, it was incumbent upon the purchasers to have taken care that the vendors were represented by some solicitor, or other person who would watch the bargain in their interest. Not one of the Europeans would have stirred a step without a solicitor at his elbow, yet they had not the slightest scruple in permitting these unfortunate natives to enter unadvised and unassisted upon transactions of most unusual magnitude and intricacy. Thirdly, it was contrary to equity and good conscience that the natives had been shut out practically from communication with other European purchasers, and with the land market, by the monopoly which the purchasers had created in reference to the interpreters. It was contrary to equity and good conscience that the purchasers had grabbed up the grantees, one by one, instead of dealing with them as a body, and had obtained some of the signatures by improperly concealing the fact that Karaitiana had declined to complete the agreement of the
Mr Lascelles said he had an application to make concerning the evidence of Henare Tomana. He wished the Commission to execute its authority, and commit him for perjury.
The Chairman doubted whether any such power resided in the Commission.
Mr Lascelles said that the Chairman possessed the same power as a Judge of the Supreme Court, and had, in fact, warned one of the witnesses that he had the power to commit him for perjury.
The Chairman said the power of committal for perjury was quite outside the power of taking evidence. In the case referred to, he had merely given the native a warning, and would not have done more than have instructed the Crown Prosecutor on the subject. In a case so mixed up as the present, he would be very lath to execute the power, even if he felt sure he possessed it; and Ins did not consider Henare's evidence to be of such a character as to call for any
The public sittings of the Commission were then closed.
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St. Olaf is the highest of these Norway Kings, and is the last that much attracts us. For this reason, if a reason were not superfluous, we might here end our poor reminiscences of these dim Sovereigns. But we will, nevertheless, for the sake of their connection with bits of English History, still hastily mention the names of one or two who follow, and who throw a momentary gleam of life and illumination on events and epochs that have fallen so extinct among ourselves at present, though once they were so momentous and memorable.
The new King Svein, from Jomsburg, Knut's natural son, had no success in Norway, nor seems to have deserved any. His English mother and he were found to be grasping, oppressive persons; and awoke, almost from the instant that Olaf was suppressed and crushed away from Norway into Heaven, universal odium more and more in that country. Well-deservedly, as still appears; for their taxings and extortions of malt, of herring, of meal, smith work and every article taxable in Norway, were extreme; and their service to the country otherwise nearly imperceptible. In brief their one basis there was the power of Knut the Great; and that, like all earthly things, was liable to sudden collapse,—and it suffered such in a notable degree. King Knut, hardly yet of middle age, and the greatest King in the then world, died at Shaftesbury, in Saxon Chronicle says: '
Svein's tyrannies in Norway had wrought such fruit that, within the four years after Olaf's death, the chief men in Norway, the very slayers of King Olaf, Kalf Arneson at the head of them, met secretly once or twice; and unanimously agreed that Kalf Arneson must go to Sweden, or to Russia itself; seek young Magnus, son of Olaf, home: excellent Magnus, to be king over all Norway and them, instead of this intolerable Svein. Which was at once done,—Magnus brought home in a kind of triumph, all Norway waiting for him. Intolerable Svein had already been rebelled against: some years before this, a certain young Tryggve out of Ireland, authentic son of Olaf Tryggveson and of that fine Irish Princess who chose him in his low habiliments and low estate, and took him over to her own Green Island,—this royal young Tryggve Olafson had invaded the usurper Svein, in a fierce, valiant and determined manner; and though with too small a party, showed excellent fight for some time; till Svein, zealously bestirring himself, managed to get him beaten and killed. But that was a couple of years ago; the party still too small, not including one and all as now! Svein, without stroke of sword this time, moved off towards Denmark; never shewing face in Norway again. His drunken brother, Harda-Knut, received him brother-like; even gave him some territory to rule over and subsist upon. But he lived only a short while; was gone before Harda-Knut himself; and we will mention him no more.
Magnus was a fine bright young fellow, and proved a valiant, wise, and successful King, known among his people as Magnus the Good. He was only natural son of King Olaf; but that made little difference in those times and there. His strange-looking, unexpected Latin name he got in this way: Alfhild, his mother, a slave through ill-luck of war, though nobly-born, was seen to be in a hopeful way; and it was known in the King's house how intimately Olaf was connected with that occurrence, and how much he loved this 'King's serving-maid,' as she was commonly designated. Alfhild was brought to bed late at night; and all the world, especially King Olaf, was asleep; Olaf's strict rule, then and always, being, don't awaken me:—seemingly a man sensitive about his sleep. The child was a boy, of rather weakly aspect; no important person present, except Sigvat, the King's Icelandic Skald, who happened to be still awake; and the Bishop of Norway, who, I suppose, had been sent for in hurry. "What is to be done?" said the Bishop, "here is an infant in pressing need of baptism; and we know not what the name is: go, Sigvat, awaken the King, and ask." "I dare not for my life," answered Sigvat. "King's orders are rigorous on that point." "But if the child die unbaptised," said the Bishop shuddering; too certain, he and everybody, where the child would go in that case! "I will myself give him a name," said Sigvat, with a desperate concentration of all his faculties; "he shall be namesake of the greatest of mankind,—imperial Carolus Magnus; let us call the infant Magnus!" King Olaf, on
Magnus, a youth of great spirit, whose own, and standing at his beck, all Norway now was, immediately smote home on Denmark; desirous naturally of vengeance for what it had done to Norway, and the sacred kindred of Magnus. Denmark, its great Knut gone, and nothing but a drunken Harda-Knut, fugitive Svein and Co., there in his stead, was become a weak dislocated Country. And Magnus plundered in it, burnt it, beat it, as often as he pleased; Harda-Knut struggling what he could to make resistance or reprisals, but never once getting any victory over Magnus. Magnus, I perceive, was, like his Father, a skilful as well as valiant fighter by sea and land; Magnus, with good battalions, and probably backed by immediate alliance with Heaven and St. Olaf, as was then the general belief or surmise about him, could not easily be beaten. And the truth is, he never was, by Harda-Knut or any other. Harda-Knut's last transaction with him was, To make a firm Peace and even Family-treaty sanctioned by all the grandees of both countries, who did indeed mainly themselves make it; their two Kings assenting: That there should be perpetual Peace, and no thought of war more, between Denmark and Norway; and that, if either of the Kings died childless while the other was reigning, the other should succeed him in both Kingdoms. A magnificent arrangement, such as has several times been made in the world's history; but which in this instance, what is very singular, took actual effect; drunken Harda-Knut dying so speedily, and Magnus being the man he was. One would like to give the date of this remarkable Treaty; but cannot with precision. Guess somewhere about Munch gives the date Saxon Chronicle is dated 3rd June of that year. Magnus at once went to Denmark on hearing this event; was joyfully received by the head men there, who indeed, with their fellows in Norway, had been main contrivers of the Treaty; both Countries longing for mutual peace, and the end of such incessant broils.
Magnus was triumphantly received as King in Denmark. The only unfortunate thing was, that Svein Estrithson, the exile son of Ulf, Knut's Brother-in-law, whom Knut, as we saw, had summarily killed twelve years before, emerged from his exile in Sweden in a flattering form; and proposed that Magnus should make him Jarl of Denmark, and general administrator there, in his own stead. To which the sanguine Magnus, in spite of advice to the contrary, insisted on acceding. "Too powerful a Jarl," said Einar Tamberskelver—the same Einar whose bow was heard to break in Olaf Tryggveson's last battle ("Norway breaking from thy hand, King!"), who had now become Magnus's chief man, and had long been among the highest
burnt those two ineligible suitors of hers both at once, and got a switch on the face from Olaf Tryggveson, which proved the death of that high man.
But all this high fortune of the often beaten Estrithson was posterior to Magnus's death; who never would have suffered it, had he been alive. Magnus was a mighty fighter; a fiery man; very proud and positive, among other qualities, and had such luck as was never seen before. Luck invariably good, said everybody; never once was beaten,—which proves, continued everybody, that his Father Olaf and the miraculous power of Heaven were with him always. Magnus, I believe, did put down a great deal of anarchy in those countries. One of his earliest enterprises was to abolish Jomsburg, and trample out that nest of pirates. Which he managed so completely that Jomsburg remained a mere reminiscence thenceforth; and its place is not now known to any mortal.
One perverse thing did at last turn up in the course of Magnus: a new Claimant for the Crown of Norway, and he a formidable person withal. This was Harald, half-brother of the late Saint Olaf; uncle or half-uncle, therefore, of Magnus himself. Indisputable son of the Saint's mother by St. Olaf's stepfather, who was himself descended straight from Harald Haarfagr. This new Harald was already much heard of in the world. As an ardent Boy of fifteen he had fought at King Olaf's side at Stickelstad; would not be admonished by the Saint to go away. Got smitten down there, not killed; was smuggled away that night from the field by friendly help; got cured of his wounds, forwarded to Russia, where he grew to man's estate, under bright auspices and successes. Fell in love with the Russian Princess, but could not get her to wife; went off thereupon to Constantinople as Vœringer (Life-Guardsman of the Greek Kaiser); became Chief Captain of the Væringers, invincible champion of the poor Kaisers that then were, and filled all the East with the shine and noise of his exploits. An authentic Waring or Baring, such the surname we now have derived from these people; who were an important institution in those Greek countries for several ages: Væringer Life-Guard, consisting of Norsemen, with sometimes a few English among them. Harald had innumerable adventures, nearly always successful, sing the Skalds; gained a great deal of wealth, gold ornaments, and gold coin; had even Queen Zoe (so they sing, though falsely) enamoured of him at one time; and was himself a Skald of eminence; some of whose verses, by no means
This character of Waring much distinguishes Harald to me; the only Væringer of whom I could ever get the least biography, true or half-true. It seems the Greek History-books but indifferently correspond with these Saga records; and scholars say there could have been no considerable romance between Zoe and him, Zoe at that date being 60 years of age! Harald's own lays say nothing of any Zoe, but are still full of longing for his Russian Princess far away.
At last, what with Zoes, what with Greek perversities and perfidies, and troubles that could not fail, he determined on quitting Greece; packed up his immensities of wealth in succinct shape, and actually returned to Russia, where new honours and favours awaited him from old friends, and especially, if I mistake not, the hand of that adorable Princess, crown of all his wishes for the time being. Before long, however, he decided farther to look after his Norway Royal heritages; and, for that purpose, sailed in force to the Jarl or quasi-King of Denmark, the often-beaten Svein, who was now in Sweden on his usual winter exile after beating. Svein and he had evidently interests in common. Svein was charmed to see him,—so warlike, glorious and renowned a man, with masses of money about him too. Svein did by and by become treacherous; and even attempted, one night, to assassinate Harald in his bed on board ship: but Harald, vigilant of Svein, and a man of quick and sure insight, had providently gone to sleep elsewhere, leaving a log instead of himself among the blankets. In which log, next morning, treacherous Svein's battle-axe was found deeply sticking; and could not be removed without difficulty! But this was after Harald and King Magnus himself had begun treating; with the fairest prospects,—which this of the Svein battle-axe naturally tended to forward, as it altogether ended the other co-partnery.
Magnus, on first hearing of Væringer Harald and his intentions, made instant equipment, and determination to fight his uttermost, against the same. But wise persons of influence round him, as did the like sort round Væringer Harald, earnestly advised compromise and peaceable agreement. Which, soon after that of Svein's nocturnal battle-axe, was the course adopted; and, to the joy of all parties, did prove a successful solution. Magnus agreed to part his kingdom with Uncle Harald; uncle parting his treasures, or uniting them with Magnus's poverty. Each was to be an independent king, but they were to govern in common; Magnus rather presiding. He to sit, for example, in the High Seat alone; King Harald opposite him in a seat not quite so high, though if a stranger King came on visit, both the Norse Kings were to sit in the High Seat. With various other punctilious regulations; which the fiery Magnus was extremely strict with; rendering the mutual relation a very dangerous one, had not both the Kings been honest men, and Harald a much more prudent and tolerant one than Magnus. They, on the whole, never had any weighty quarrel, thanks now and then rather to Harald than to Magnus. Magnus too was very noble; and Harald, with his wide experience and greater length of years, carefully held his heat of temper well covered in.
Prior to Uncle Harald's coming, Magnus had distinguished himself as a Lawgiver. His Code of Laws for the Trondhjem Province was considered a pretty piece of legislation; and in subsequent times got
Grey-goose. The Norway one is perhaps of date about
Magnus did not live long. He had a dream one night of his Father Olaf's coming to him in shining presence, and announcing, That a magnificent fortune and world-great renown was now possible for him; but that perhaps it was his duty to refuse it; in which case, his earthly life would be short. "Which way wilt thou do, then?" said the shining presence. "Thou shalt decide for me, Father, thou, not I!" and told his Uncle Harald on the morrow, adding that he thought he should now soon die; which proved to be the fact. The magnificent fortune, so questionable otherwise, has reference, no doubt, to the Conquest of England; to which country Magnus, as rightful and actual King of Denmark, as well as undisputed heir to drunken Harda-Knut, by treaty long ago, had now some evident claim. The enterprise itself was reserved to the patient, gay and prudent Uncle Harald; and to him it did prove fatal,—and merely paved the way for Another, luckier, not likelier!
Svein Estrithson, always beaten during Magnus's life, by and by got an agreement from the prudent Harald to be King of Denmark, then; and end these wearisome and ineffectual brabbles; Harald having other work to do. But in the autumn of
As for Harald Hardrade, 'Harald the Hard or Severe,' as he was now called, Tosti's proposal awakened in him all his old Væringer ambitions and cupidities into blazing vehemence. He zealously consented; and at once, with his whole strength, embarked in the adventure. Fitted out two hundred ships, and the biggest army he could carry in them; and sailed with Tosti towards the dangerous Promised Land. Got into the Tyne, and took booty; got into the Humber, thence into the Ouse; easily subdued any opposition the official people or their populations could
Snorro gives vividly enough his view of it from the Icelandic side: A ring of stalwart Norsemen, close ranked, with their steel tools in hand; English Harold's Army, mostly cavalry, prancing and pricking all round; trying to find or make some opening in that ring. For a long time trying in vain, till at length, getting them enticed to burst out somewhere in pursuit, they quickly turned round, and quickly made an end of that matter. Snorro represents English Harold, with a first party of these horse coming up, and, with preliminary salutations, asking if Tosti were there, and if Harald were; making generous proposals to Tosti; but, in regard to Harald and what share of England was to be his, answering Tosti with the words, "Seven feet of English earth, or more if he require it, for a grave." Upon which Tosti, like an honourable man and copartner, said, "No, never; let us fight you rather till we all die." "Who is this that spoke to you?" inquired Harald, when the cavaliers had withdrawn. "My brother Harold," answers Tosti, which looks rather like a Saga, but may be historical after all. Snorro's history of the battle is intelligible only after you have premised to it, what he never hints at, that the scene was on the east side of the bridge and of the Derwent; the great struggle for the bridge, one at last finds, was after the fall of Harald; and to the English Chroniclers, said struggle, which was abundantly severe, is all they know of the battle.
Enraged at that breaking loose of his steel ring of infantry, Norse Harald blazed up into true Norse fury, all the old Væringer and Berserkir rage awakening in him; sprang forth into the front of the fight, and mauled and cut and smashed down, on both hands of him, everything he met, irresistible by any horse or man, till an arrow cut him through the windpipe, and laid him low forever. That was the end of King Harald and of his workings in this world. The circumstance that he was a Waring or Baring, and had smitten to pieces so many Oriental cohorts or crowds, and had made love-verses (kind of Camden, Rapin, &c., quote.iron madrigals) to his Russian Princess, and caught the fancy of questionable Greek queens, and had amassed such heaps of money, while poor nephew Magnus had only one gold ring (which had been his father's, and even his father's mother's, as Uncle Harald noticed), and nothing more whatever of that precious metal to combine with Harald's treasures:—all this is new to me, naturally no hint of it in any English book; and lends some gleam of romantic splendour to that dim business of Stamford Bridge, now fallen so dull and torpid to most English minds, transcendently important as it once was to all Englishmen. Adam of
The new King Olaf, his brother Magnus having soon died, bore rule in Norway for some five-and-twenty years. Rule soft and gentle, not like his father's, and inclining rather to improvement in the arts and elegancies than to anything severe or dangerously laborious. A slim-built, witty-talking, popular and pretty man, with uncommonly bright eyes, and hair like floss silk: they called him Olaf Kyrre (the Tranquil or Easy-going).
The ceremonials of the palace were much improved by him. Palace still continued to be built of huge logs pyramidally sloping upwards, with fireplace in the middle of the floor, and no egress for smoke or ingress for light except right over-head, which, in bad weather, you could shut, or all but shut, with a lid. Lid originally made of mere opaque board, but changed latterly into a light frame, covered (glazed, so to speak) with entrails of animals, clarified into something of pellucidity. All this Olaf, I hope, further perfected, as he did the placing of the court ladies, court officials, and the like; but I doubt if the luxury of a glass window were ever known to him, or a cup to drink from that was not made of metal or iron. In fact it is chiefly for his son's sake I mention him here; and with the son, too, I have little real concern, but only a kind of fantastic.
This son bears the name of Magnus Barfod (Barefoot, or Bare-leg); and if you ask why so, the answer is: He was used to appear in the streets of Nidaros (Trondhjem) now and then in complete Scotch Highland dress. Authentic tartan plaid and philibeg, at that epoch,—to the wonder of Trondhjem and us! The truth is, he had a mighty fancy for these Hebrides and other Scotch possessions of his; and seeing England now quite impossible, eagerly speculated on some conquest in Ireland as next best. He did, in fact, go diligently voyaging and inspecting among those Orkney and Hebridian Isles; putting everything straight there, appointing stringent authorities, jarls,—nay, a king, ' Kingdom of the Suderöer' (Southern Isles, now called Sodor),—and, as first king, Sigurd, his pretty little boy of nine years. All which done, and some quarrel with Sweden fought out, he seriously applied himself to visiting in a still more emphatic manner; namely, to invading, with his best skill and strength, the considerable virtual or actual kingdom he had in Ireland, intending fully to enlarge it to the utmost limits of the Island if possible. He got prosperously into Dublin (guess A.D. i 102). Considerable authority he already had, even among those poor Irish Kings,
Magnus Barefoot left three sons, all kings at once, reigning peaceably together. But to us, at present, the only noteworthy one of them was Sigurd; who, finding nothing special to do at home, left his brothers to manage for him, and went off on a far Voyage, which has rendered him distinguishable in the crowd. Voyage through the Straits of Gibraltar, on to Jerusalem, thence to Constantinople; and so home through Russia, shining with such renown as filled all Norway for the time being. A King called Sigurd Jorsalafarer (Jerusalemer) or Sigurd the Crusader henceforth. His voyage had been only partially of the Viking type; in general it was of the Royal-Progress kind rather; Vikingism only intervening in cases of incivility or the like. His reception in the Courts of Portugal, Spain, Sicily, Italy, had been honourable and sumptuous. The King of Jerusalem broke out into utmost splendour and effusion at sight of such a pilgrim; and Constantinople did its highest honours to such a Prince of Væringers. And the truth is, Sigurd intrinsically was a wise, able and prudent man; who, surviving both his brothers, reigned a good while alone in a solid and successful way. He shows features of an original, independent, thinking man; something of ruggedly strong, sincere and honest, with peculiarities that are amiable and even pathetic in the character and temperament of him; as certainly, the course of life he took was of his own choosing, and peculiar enough. He happens furthermore to be, what he least of all could have chosen or expected, the last of the Haarfagr Genealogy that had any success, or much deserved any, in this world. The last of the Haarfagrs, or as good as the last! So that, singular to say, it is in reality, for one thing only that Sigurd, after all his crusadings and wonderful adventures, is memorable to us here: the advent of an Irish Gentleman called 'Gylle Krist' (Gil-
This Gylle Krist, the unconsciously fatal individual, who 'spoke Norse imperfectly,' declared himself to be the natural son of whilom Magnus Barefoot; born to him there while engaged in that unfortunate 'Conquest of Ireland.' "Here is my mother come with me," said Gilchrist, "who declares my real baptismal name to have been Harald, given me by that great King; and who will carry the red-hot ploughshares or do any reasonable ordeal in testimony of these facts. I am King Sigurd's veritable half-brother: what will King Sigurd think it fair to do with me? "Sigurd clearly seems to have believed the man to be speaking truth; and indeed nobody to have doubted but he was. Sigurd said, "Honourable sustenance shalt thou have from me here. But, under pain of extirpation, swear that, neither in my time, nor in that of my young son Magnus, wilt thou ever claim any share in this Government." Gylle swore; and punctually kept his promise during Sigurd's reign. But during Magnus's, he conspicuously broke it; and, in result, through many reigns, and during three or four generations afterwards, produced unspeakable contentions, massacrings, confusions in the country he had adopted. There are reckoned, from the time of Sigurd's death (A.D.
Sigurd himself seems always to have rather favoured Gylle, who was a cheerful, shrewd, patient, witty and effective fellow; and had at first much quizzing to endure, from the younger kind, on account of his Irish way of speaking Norse, and for other reasons. One evening, for example, while the drink was going round, Gylle mentioned that the Irish had a wonderful talent of swift running, and that there were among them people who could keep up with the swiftest horse. At which, especially from young Magnus, there were peals of laughter; and a declaration from the latter that Gylle and he would have it tried tomorrow morning! Gylle in vain urged that he had not himself professed to be so swift a runner as to keep up with the Prince's horses; but only that there were men in Ireland who could. Magnus was positive; and, early next morning, Gylle had to be on the ground; and the race, naturally under heavy bet, actually went off. Gylle started parallel to Magnus's stirrup; ran like a very roe, and was clearly ahead at the goal. "Unfair," said Magnus; "thou must have had hold of my stirrup-leather, and helped thyself along; we must try it again." Gylle ran behind the horse this second time; then at the end, sprang forward; and again was fairly in ahead. "Thou must have held by the tail," said Magnus; "not by fair running was this possible; we must try a third time!" Gylle started ahead of Magnus and his horse, this third time; kept
On Sigurd the Crusader's death, Magnus naturally came to the throne; Gylle keeping silence and a cheerful face for the time. But it was not long till claim arose on Gylle's part, till war and fight arose between Magnus and him, till the skilful, popular, ever-active and shifty Gylle had entirely beaten Magnus; put out his eyes; mutilated the poor body of him in a horrid and unnameable manner, and shut him up in a convent as out of the game henceforth. There in his dark misery Magnus lived now as a monk; called 'Magnus the Blind' by those Norse populations; King Harald Gylle reigning victoriously in his stead. But this also was only for a time. There arose avenging kinsfolk of Magnus, who had no Irish accent in their Norse, and were themselves eager enough to bear rule in their native country. By one of these, a terribly strong-handed, fighting, violent, and regardless fellow, who also was a Bastard of Magnus Barefoot's, and had been made a Priest, but liked it unbearably ill and had broken loose from it into the wildest courses at home and abroad; so that his current name got to be 'Slembi-diakn,' Slim or 111 Deacon, under which he is much noised of in Snorro and the Sagas; by this Slim-Deacon, Gylle was put an end to (murdered by night, drunk in his sleep); and poor blind Magnus was brought out, and again set to act as King, or King's Cloak, in hopes Gylle's posterity would never rise to victory more. But Gylle's posterity did, to victory and also to defeat, and were the death of Magnus and of Slim-Deacon too, in a frightful way; and all got their own death by and by in a ditto. In brief, these two kindreds (reckoned to be authentic enough Haarfagr people, both kinds of them) proved now to have become a veritable crop of dragon's teeth; who mutually fought, plotted, struggled, as if it had been their life's business; never ended fighting, and seldom long intermitted it, till they had exterminated one another, and did at last all rest in death. One of these later Gylle temporary Kings I remember by the name of Harald Herdebred, Harald with the Broad Shoulders. The very last of them I think was Harald Mund (Harald with the Wry-Mouth), who gave rise to two Impostors, pretending to be Sons of his, a good while after the poor Wry-Mouth itself and all its troublesome belongings were quietly underground. What Norway suffered during that sad century may be imagined.
The end of it was, or rather the first abatement, and beginning of the end, That, when all this had gone on ever worsening for some
Birkebeins, came upon the scene. A strange enough figure in History, this Sverrir and his Birkebeins! At first a mere mockery and dismal laughing-stock to the enlightened Norway public. Nevertheless by unheard of fighting, hungering, exertion and endurance, Sverrir, after ten years of such a death-wrestle against men and things, got himself accepted as King; and by wonderful expenditure of ingenuity, common cunning, unctuous Parliamentary Eloquence or almost Popular Preaching, and (it must be owned) general human faculty and valour (or value) in the overclouded and distorted state, did victoriously continue such. And founded a New Dynasty in Norway, which ended only with Norway's separate existence, after near three hundred years.
This Sverrir called himself a Son of Harald Wry-Mouth; but was in reality the son of a poor Comb-maker in some little town of Norway; nothing heard of Sonship to Wry-Mouth till after good success otherwise. His Birkebeins (that is to say, Birchlegs; the poor rebellious wretches having taken to the woods; and been obliged, besides their intolerable scarcity of food, to thatch their bodies from the cold with whatever covering could be got, and their legs especially with birch bark; sad species of fleecy hosiery; whence their nickname),—hisBirke-beins I guess always to have been a kind of Norse Jacquerie: desperate rising of thralls and indigent people, driven mad by their unendurable sufferings and famishings,—theirs the deepest stratum of misery, and the densest and heaviest, in this the general misery of Norway, which had lasted toward the third generation and looked as if it would last for ever:—whereupon they had risen proclaiming, in this furious dumb manner, unintelligible except to Heaven, that the same could not, nor would not be endured any longer! And, by their Sverrir, strange to say, they did attain a kind of permanent success; and, from being a dismal laughingstock in Norway, came to be important, and for a time all-important there. Their opposition nicknames, 'Baglers (from Bagall, baculus, bishop's staff; Bishop Nicholas being chief Leader),' 'Gold-legs,' and the like obscure terms (for there was still a considerable course of counter-fighting ahead, and especially of counter-nicknaming), I take to have meant in Norse prefigurement seven centuries ago, 'bloated Aristocracy,' 'tyrannous Bourgeoisie,'—till, in the next century, these rents were got closed again!—
King Sverrir, not himself bred to comb-making, had, in his fifth year, gone to an uncle, Bishop in the Faröe Islands; and got some considerable education from him, with a view to Priesthood on the part of Sverrir. But, not liking that career, Sverrir had fled and smuggled himself over to the Birkebeins, who, noticing the learned tongue, and other miraculous qualities of the man, proposed to make him Captain of them; and even threatened to kill him if he would not accept,—which thus at the sword's point, as Sverrir says, he was obliged to do. It was after this that he thought of becoming son of Wry-Mouth and other higher things.
His Birkebeins and he had certainly a talent of campaigning which has hardly ever been equalled. They fought like devils against any odds of number; and before battle they have been known to march six days together without food, except, perhaps, the inner bark of trees, and in such clothing and shoeing as mere birch bark:—at one time, somewhere in the Dovrefjeld, there was serious counsel held among them
Baresark, where was there ever seen the parallel? In truth they are a dim strange object to one, in that black time; wondrously bringing light into it withal; and proved to be, under such unexpected circumstances, the beginning of better days!
Of Sverrir's public speeches there still exist authentic specimens; wonderful indeed, and much characteristic of such a Sverrir. A comb-maker King, evidently meaning several good and solid things, and effecting them too, athwart such an element of Norwegian chaos-come-again. His descendants and successors were a comparatively respectable kin. The last and greatest of them I shall mention is Hakon VII., or Hakon the Old; whose fame is still lively among us, from the Battle of Largs at least.
In the Norse annals our famous Battle of Largs makes small figure, or almost none at all among Hakon's battles and feats. They do say indeed, these Norse annalists, that the King of Scotland, Alexander III. (who had such a fate among the crags about Kinghorn in time coming), was very anxious to purchase from King Hakon his sovereignty of the Western Isles; but that Hakon pointedly refused; and at length, being again importuned and bothered on the business, decided on giving a refusal that could not be mistaken. Decided, namely, to go with a big expedition, and look thoroughly into that wing of his Dominions; where no doubt much has fallen awry since Magnus Bare-foot's grand visit thither, and seems to be inviting the cupidity of bad neighbours! "All this we will put right again," thinks Hakon, "and gird it up into a safe and defensive posture." Hakon sailed accordingly, with a strong fleet; adjusting and rectifying among his Hebrides as he went along, and landing withal on the Scotch coast to plunder and punish as he thought fit. The Scots say he had claimed of them Arran, Bute and the Two Cumbraes ("given my ancestors by Donald Bain," said Hakon, to the amazement of the Scots) "as part of the Sudöer" (Southern Isles):—so far from selling that fine kingdom!—and that it was after taking both Arran and Bute that he made his descent at Largs.
Of Largs there is no mention whatever in Norse books. But beyond any doubt, such is the other evidence, Hakon did land there; land and fight, not conquering, probably rather beaten; and very certainly 'retiring to his ships,' as in either case he behoved to do! It is further certain he was dreadfully maltreated by the weather on those wild coasts; and altogether credible, as the Scotch records bear, that he was so at Largs very specially. The Norse Records or Sagas say merely, he lost many of his ships by the tempests, and many of his men by land fighting in various parts,—tacitly including Largs, no doubt, which was the last of these misfortunes to him. 'In the battle here he lost 15,000 men, say the Scots, we 5,000'! Divide these numbers by ten, and the excellently brief and lucid Scottish summary by Buchanan may be taken as the approximately true and exact.Buchanani Hist., i. 130.
To this day, on a little plain to the
Hakon gathered his wrecks together, and sorrowfully made for Orkney. It is possible enough, as our Guide Books now say, he may have gone by Iona, Mull and the narrow seas inside of Skye; and that the Kyle Akin, favourably known to sea-bathers in that region, may actually mean the Kyle (narrow strait) of Hakon, where Hakon may have dropped anchor, and rested for a little while in smooth water and beautiful environment, safe from equinoctial storms. But poor Hakon's heart was now broken. He went to Orkney; died there in the winter; never beholding Norway more.
He it was who got Iceland, which had been a Republic for four centuries, united to his kingdom of Norway: a long and intricate operation,—much presided over by our Snorro Sturleson, so often quoted here, who indeed lost his life (by assassination from his sons-in-law) and out of great wealth sank at once into poverty of zero,—one midnight in his own cellar, in the course of that bad business. Hakon was a great Politician in his time; and succeeded in many things before he lost Largs. Snorro's death by murder had happened about twenty years before Hakon's by broken heart. He is called Hakon the Old, though one finds his age was but fifty-nine, probably a longish life for a Norway King. Snorro's narrative ceases when Snorro himself was born; that is to say, at the threshold of King Sverrir; of whose exploits and doubtful birth it is guessed by some that Snorro willingly forbore to speak in the hearing of such a Hakon.
Haarfagr's kindred lasted some three centuries in Norway; Sverrir's lasted into its third century there; how long after this, among the neighbouring kingships, I did not enquire. For, by regal affinities, consanguinities, and unexpected chances and changes, the three Scandinavian kingdoms fell all peaceably together under Queen Margaret, of the Calmar Union (A.D.
The History of these Haarfagrs has awakened in me many thoughts of Despotism and Democracy, arbitrary government by one, and self-government (which means no government, or anarchy) by all; of Dictatorship with many faults, and Universal Suffrage with little possibility of any virtue. For the contrast between Olaf Tryggveson and a Universal-Suffrage Parliament or an 'Imperial' Copper Captain has, in these nine centuries, grown to be very great. And the eternal Providence that guides all this, and produces alike these entities with their epochs, is not its course still through the great deep? Does not it still speak to us, if we have ears? Here,
The violences, fightings, crimes—ah yes, these seldom fail, and they are very lamentable. But always, too, among those old populations, there was one saving element; the now want of which, especially the unlamented want, transcends all lamentation. Here is one of these strange, piercing, winged-words of Ruskin, which has in it a terrible truth for us in these epochs now come:
"My friends, the follies of modern Liberalism, many and great though they be, are practically summed in this denial or neglect of the quality and intrinsic value of things. Its rectangular beatitudes, and spherical benevolences,—theology of universal indulgence, and jurisprudence which will hang no rogues, mean, one and all of them, in the root, incapacity of discerning, or refusal to discern, worth and unworth in anything, and least of all in man; whereas Nature and Heaven command you, at your peril, to discern worth from unworth in everything, and most of all in man. Your main problem is that ancient and trite one, "Who is best man?" and the Fates forgive much,—forgive the wildest, fiercest, cruellest experiments,—if fairly made for the determination of that. Theft and bloodguiltiness are not pleasing in their sight; yet the favouring powers of the spiritual and material world will confirm to you your stolen goods, and their noblest voices applaud the lifting of your spear, and rehearse the sculpture of your shield, if only your robbing and slaying have been in fair arbitrament of that question, "Who is best man?" But if you refuse such enquiry, and maintain every man for his neighbour's match,—if you give vote to the simple and liberty to the vile, the powers of those spiritual and material worlds in due time present you inevitably with the same problem, soluble now only wrong side upwards; and your robbing and slaying must be done then to find out, "Who is worst man?" Which, in so wide an order of merit, is, indeed, not easy; but a complete Tammany Ring, and lowest circle in the Inferno of Worst, you are sure to find, and to be governed by."Fors Clavigera, Letter XIV. pp. 8-10.
All readers will admit that there was something naturally royal in these Haarfagr Kings. A wildly great kind of kindred; counts in it two Heroes of a high, or almost highest, type: the first two Olafs, Tryggveson and the Saint. And the view of them, withal, as we chance to have it, I have often, thought, how essentially Homeric it was:—indeed what is 'Homer,
Rhapsody of five centuries of Greek Skalds and wandering Ballad-singers, done (i.e. 'stitched together') by somebody more musical than Snorro was? Olaf Tryggveson and Olaf Saint please me quite as well in their prosaic form; offering me the truth of them as if seen in their real lineaments by some marvellous opening (through the art of Snorro) across the black strata of the ages. Two high, almost among the highest sons of Nature, seen as they veritably were; fairly comparable or superior to god-like Achilleus, goddess-wounding Diomedes, much more to the two Atreidai, Regulators of the Peoples.
I have also thought often what a Book might be made of Snorro, did there but arise a man furnished with due literary insight, and indefatigable diligence; who, faithfully acquainting himself with the topography, the monumental relics and illustrative actualities of Norway, carefully scanning the best testimonies as to place and time which that country can still give him, carefully the best collateral records and chronologies of other countries, and who, himself possessing the highest faculty of a Poet, could, abridging, arranging, elucidating, reduce Snorro to a polished Cosmic state, unweariedly purging away his much chaotic matter! A modern 'highest kind of Poet,' capable of unlimited slavish labour withal;—who, I fear, is not soon to be expected in this world, or likely to find his task in the Heimskringla if he did appear here.
Who sent the food, and who the cooks, is a matter of history. A good cook is the Black Swan of domestic life; she is an epoch, an era; we date from her; we are ready to write her name in gold and sardonyx on sandalwood. 'That was when Jane Stubbs was cook,' we say, and memory casts a fond halo over the feats of that female
It was said by one of the ancients (I think Tacitus in his 'Germania') that the Teutons were distinguished by having the largest volume of intestines of all the peoples of Europe (I feel a certain hesitation in quoting these words, which, writ in elegant Latin, might pass muster); but certainly no one who has lived in Germany can aver that the modern Teuton has degenerated from his ancestors in powers of absorption. Take, for instance, the every-day experience of a table-d'hôte, where gentle and simple are gathered together, and where the manners of the majority will impress themselves on the mind of the impartial spectator. Quantity, not quality, appears to be the motto of the repast; to eat, if possible, twice of every dish, to splutter over the soup, to seize the sauce en passant, to perform tricks of knife-jugglery that might strike awe into the breast of a Japanese adept; to lap up the gravy, to drink salad dressing off knife-blades, to scour the inside of the dish and the platter with lumps of bread, to swallow breathlessly, and after a fashion that somehow suggests the swallowing is a mere preliminary operation, presently to be supplemented in leisurely ruminating hours; to fill up the pauses in the interminable ceremony by picking the teeth and the dingy dessert with alternate impartiality, is a picture so true as to be trite, and so unattractive as to be scarcely excusable, except upon historic grounds. Everyone who has spent even only a few weeks in Germany must have beheld and suffered from such scenes.
It is not my intention to intrench upon the prerogatives of the cookery-book, or to give in any detail the list of German dishes with which I might easily furnish my readers. To speak otherwise than generally, in a paper of this kind, would be out of place; but we may be amused by noting the various points of difference and similarity between our neighbours' modus vivendi and our own.
There are three great characteristic divisions of German food—the Salt, the Sour, and the Greasy: the salt, as exemplified by ham and herrings; the sour, as typified by Kraut and salads; the greasy, as demonstrated by vegetables stewed in fat, sausages swimming in fat, sauces surrounded by fat, soups filmy with fat. If we were to go into the philosophy of food, we should probably find that the salt gives the appetite for the grease, that the grease is necessary for warmth-giving purposes, as well as to supplement the absence of nutritive quality in what may be roundly spoken of as a potato diet; and that the sour acts as a digestive agent on the grease. The food of the lower orders in Germany is poor and coarse in the extreme:—thin coffee without milk or sugar (sugar is an expensive item, and is looked upon as a luxury; except in seaboard towns, white colonial sugar is unknown, the brown sugar rarely used and little thought of); black rye bread, which is always more or less sour (being made without yeast); potatoes stewed in fat, with a mixture of onions, apples, carrots, plums, or pears; now and then a bit of fat pork with treacle; a mess of Sauerkraut; lentils, beans, and a piece of 'Blutwurst'; mysterious entrails of birds, and beasts, and fishes that might have puzzled the Augurs of old; Mehlsuppe, Biersuppe; cabbage boiled in grease, and a slice of raw ham. No beer for the women; no white bread. Schnapps for the men, distilled from corn or potatoes; a fiery, coarse spirit that would be disastrous in its effects but for the mass of food with which it is mixed. It has already been seen how domestic servants fare, the food in private houses being as superior to that found in the peasant's hut, as the table in an English middle-class kitchen is superior to the scanty meal of the underpaid agricultural labourer. In mountainous districts the people live almost entirely on milk, flour, eggs, butter, cheese, and cream. To taste meat is an event in their lives; nor do they feel the deprivation; for the pure mountain air, the fresh out-door life of the Alm, the healthy exercise of climbing and descending, of rowing across the lakes, and tending the cattle, makes them healthy, vigorous, and cheerful after a fashion unknown to, and impossible for, the dweller in towns and cities. In proof of this we have not to go to foreign countries for convincing examples. We have only to look at what things may be done in a kilt, on 'whusky and parritch,' to be convinced of the important part fresh air and abundant exercise play in the matter of muscular development.
Let us begin in our survey with the first meal of the day, and see of what it consists.
There is no family breakfast table as with us, where sons and daughters gather round the board, letters are received and read, newspapers scanned, and the great affairs of the world, as made known by telegram, imparted and commented upon. We look in vain for the damask table cloth, the steaming urn, the symmetrical arrangement of plate and china that welcome us in the middle class English household. No trim girls in bright cotton or well-cut homespun gowns; no young men, whose fresh faces tell of tubs and Turkish towels, are here to greet us. There may be a linen cloth upon the table (though even this detail is far from general), and there will be a coffee pot, and a milk jug, and sugar basin, set down anyhow anywhere; a basket, either of wicker or Japan, piled up with fresh Semmelen, perhaps a stray plate or two; a disorderly group of cups of different colours and designs; no butter; no knives and forks; possibly a plate with a few
Schlafrock and Pantoffeln) will help her, or himself, to coffee and rolls, probably eating and drinking like peripatetic philosophers, for there is no inducement to 'sit down and make yourself comfortable.' If it be winter time, the coffee pot and milk jug will be placed on the stove instead of on the table, and the next comer will go through the same formula of solitary feeding, departing, as the case may be, for the enjoyment of the post-prandial cigar, or to supplement the somewhat scantily represented 'mysteries of the toilette.' The last comer will enjoy the dregs of the coffee pot and the drains of the milk jug on an oil-cloth cover or crumpled table cloth, slopped with the surplusage of successive coffee cups, and besprinkled with the crumbs of consumed rolls.
The déjeuner à la fourchette, which is an institution in France, dwindles, so far at least as the ladies of the household are concerned, into a surreptitious shaving of sausage, or a sly sardine, partaken of in solitude and haste between the conflicting claims of the kitchen and the Friseusinn. The young (old or middle-aged) military heroes, who will probably represent the male portion of the household, will prudently 'restore' themselves on their way home from drill or parade in a more substantial manner than that which suffices for the weaker vessels; thus relieving the much be-plagued Hausfrau from any more elaborate sacrifices on the gastronomic altar.
But though breakfast, as we have seen, may leave much to be desired, it yet contains elements of excellence not to be overlooked. Imprimis there are no cows with iron tails in Germany, and the rich pure milk makes the well-flavoured, if somewhat thin, coffee taste excellent. The sugar is beet-root sugar, and does not sweeten so well as the real colonial article, but is white and sparkling. The crescent-shaped milk rolls (Hörnchens) are crisply baked, and make it easy to dispense with butter; the Semmel in its fresh state is not to be despised, though, as the day advances, it becomes leathery and tough, and at nightfall you will long for an honest slice from a good wheaten loaf. The sour rye bread, ranging from black to a light brown, is much condemned by some as affording little nourishment; nevertheless one may acquire a taste for it, and many persons declare that they prefer it to the tasteless insipidity of the white roll. In some parts of Germany you can get what is called 'Englisches Brod' baked in small cakes; it is made of very fine white flour, with a mixture of butter and milk and a dash of sugar in it, that quite destroys any resemblance the name might lead you to expect. Bakeries are under Government supervision; not only the weight of the bread, but the quality of the flour is tested; and as neither the day nor the hour of the inspector's coming can be calculated upon, evasion is almost impossible, and cases of adulteration and light weight so exceptional, as not to be worth quoting.
I shall, perhaps, surprise the prejudiced amongst my readers when I say that I found the matériel, as a rule, excellent in Germany. Bread, butter, milk, and eggs abundant. The market well stocked with fruit and vegetables of the commoner kind (several of the latter unknown to us might be adopted with advantage into our bills of fare). Poultry, as a rule, is poor, but cheap. Pigeons to be had for a few pence; game, in season, generally plentiful. No one who has ever tasted in a private house
Rehbraten with cream sauce, will dispute its excellence; the claims of roast partridge with Sauerkraut (this latter not the greasy mess table-d'hôte dinners may suggest, hut a delicately tempered digestive) to recognition have been acknowledged by the descendants of Vatel and Ude, for it is a dish to be found in every well compiled French menu of the present day. What housewife would not gratefully hail the fact that she might buy a saddle of hare just as we buy a saddle of mutton, which, well larded and baptized with sour cream, is so mellow and melting a morsel that you might unhesitatingly set it solus before a king. The hare is never trussed and sent up to table with its long ears, lean head, and unpleasantly grinning teeth, as with us; if you buy the whole animal (and unless you want some small and appétisant addition to your dinner you will probably do so), the head will be taken off, the legs broken at the joints, and the interior of the animal will be utilised for the servants' dinner, forming a dark and 'wicked broth' called Hasenpfeffer, into the mysteries of which occult preparation I never ventured to pry, though frequently I saw and heard it partaken of with sounds of succulent approval in the kitchen. Sweetbreads, for which your butcher calmly demands ten shillings a pair during the London season, are to be procured for such a price as need not wound the conscience of the tenderest Hausfrau; veal kidneys (who ever knew how delicious a veal kidney could be until he partook of Nierenschnitte ?) need not exercise your mind on the score of economy, nor need you even hesitate much about 'caviare to the general,' or pâté de foie gras to the particular. The tables of the world have recognised the merits of Strasbourg pies, Westphalia hams, Pomeranian goose-breasts, Brunswick sausages, Bavarian beer, Lübeck marchpane, and Hamboro' beef; no contemptible list of exportable edibles. Of the beef and mutton I cannot speak in glowing terms. Nevertheless they are to be had fairly good, and in the days of the small Residenz towns the reigning Duke or Prince would generally have his beeves and sheep fattened after approved methods, so that with a little interest and civility, one could usually so far soften the heart of the slaughterer (Schlachter) as to have an English-looking sirloin and a mature leg of mutton as often as one wished upon one's table. In the same way there would be a poultry farm or Fasanerie, where the doomed birds would be shut in little pens and 'genudelt,' a la mode de Strasbourg, for the Royal or Ducal table, so that a plump roast capon or pheasant was quite within the region of recurring possible good things. On a changé tout cela, however, and doubtless such concessions are reckoned amongst the corruptions of the past. Veal is better in Germany than with us; and though at all times unwholesome and indigestible as food, forms a pleasing variety in the list of ordinary dishes that appear on the homely board. It is a drawback, to use a Hibernicism, that all the roasts (like those that did coldly furnish forth the Queen of Denmark's marriage tables) are baked. Yet, baked meat, well-basted and not overdone, forms a concentrated kind of food that use makes almost as palatable as the spitted joint, and seems to be making its way to popularity here. Pork is not a favourite dish on the tables of the rich; that is, not in its simpler form; in its more complex preparation pig is a popular meat with all classes. Schlachtwurst, Mettwurst, Blutwurst, Rauchenden, Leberwurst, (this latter being pigs' livers, prepared like pâté de foie gras, delicately spiced and truffled) are only
zähe), and involves more mastication than is agreeable.
Some years ago a cry went abroad of whole districts suffering from try china; and in some parts of the country not only was the mortality alarming, but the sufferings of the afflicted so frightful, that Government commissions with properly appointed medical officers were told off to inquire into the subject. The result was, that in every town a medical officer was appointed to certify the wholesome condition of all the pigs slaughtered before the butcher was permitted to offer the meat for human food. In this country, where pork and ham are not eaten raw, such measures are unnecessary. Unpleasant as the idea of such parasites must be, we know that the boiling would destroy their dangerous qualities; but in Germany, where uncooked ham is the rule and not the exception, and where the sausages that are eaten cold are invariably only smoked, the precaution is an emphatically necessary one.
Fish, except in seaport towns (and these are few and far between in Germany), is a scarce and doubtful commodity; the Elbe and Rhine salmon very inferior in flavour to our own, and always dear. When produced on great occasions, this fish is almost always served cold, encased in a sour jelly if whole, or accompanied by varieties of mayonnaise sauces if only portions of it are presented to the guests. Carp and tench, those muddiest of the fresh-water finny-tribe, are spoken of with bated breath, as of delicacies fit for the table of Apicius himself; but they are generally so disguised with vinegar and complicated flavourings, that the mud may be said to yield to treatment. Not only are the salt-water fish very inferior to our own, but of infinitely loss variety. No sloping marble slabs, sluiced with fresh water, adorned with mountains of ice and forests of fennel; no piled-up lobsters in gorgeous array, splendid salmon, many tinted mackerel, delicate whitings or domestic soles, colossal cod, ministerial white bait or silver sprats, will tempt at once your eyes and your palate; you will probably have to dive into an obscure shop, whence issues anything but invitingly 'a most ancient and fishlike smell,' when, in answer to your demands, a doubtful-looking marine monster will be pulled out of a mysterious tub at the back of the counter, with the remark, Heut' giebt's nur Schellfisch ('how unpleasantly,' as Thackeray's schoolboy says of the monkeys, 'they always smelt'), or Dorsch, or Barsch, as the case may be. In the so-called fish-shop there will be all kinds of pickled herrings (these form the foundation of that most popular of German dishes, Häring-salat), bloaters (Bücklinge), small dried sprats (Kieler Sprotten), perhaps even pickled salmon and a pot of caviare may tempt you; for the love of Germans for every kind of salt and dried fish (perhaps in default of fresh) is apparently an appetite that grows by what it feeds upon.
I remember tasting in Mecklenburgh a most dainty dish of dabs, or flat fish, smoked in nettle-smoke (this gave them a peculiar delicate flavour) and stewed in fresh cream; the accompaniment being a delicious kind of black bread, short and rather sweet, liberally bespread with
Gries, and different sorts of farinaceous food, cooked with milk, as we serve vegetables, with roast meat, is one that we might well imitate; we have the beginning of it in our bread-sauce with birds, but in Germany it is introduced in a variety of forms. Rabbits are rejected by the poorest as vermin, unfit for human food; by which means a cheap and not unwholesome dish, when partaken of occasionally, is lost to the labouring man.
Potatoes in bucketsful, and prepared in fifty different fashions, form the staple of the food of the lower orders.
Dinner, which in Germany is often a painfully protracted business, lasting on occasions even three or four hours, is, in a general way, partaken of between the hours of twelve and two, according to the occupation of the master and the school hours of the children of the house. It is scarcely served in a more appetising manner than the scrambling breakfast. There is a want of cleanliness, of order, of propriety; if I may say so, a want of dignity about the table arrangements that would almost suggest the total absence of any æsthetic feeling in those who sit round the ill-appointed board. The servants are noisy, the cloth is crumpled, the dishes are slammed down upon the table, the gravy is tilted over, the glass is miscellaneous, the knives and forks are put in a heap, the plates are not changed frequently enough. No crisp watercress or curly parsley adorns your cold joint, or sets off the complexion of your butter; it is thought no solecism for every one to plunge his knife into the salt-cellar, to pick his teeth at table, to stretch across and reach for whatever he wants. Everything seems to be done in a hurry, and yet everything is served separately, so that there is nothing to distract the attention from the matter in hand. There is a sense at once of repletion and emptiness in a German dinner. Your stomach has been filled, but not fortified. You have begun with a soup which, mathematically speaking may be said to represent length without breadth; this has been followed by the boulli, or soup meat, out of which all nourishment has been flayed, accompanied by a sour sauce, of Morscheln (a debased kind of mushroom), boiled in butter and vinegar; you will have abundance of vegetables stewed in fat or butter; sausages and lentils; some little dumplings called Klösse, compotes of cranberries and bilberries, stewed plums or cherries; a piece of roast veal, or a fowl (for roast read baked), with potato-salad, cabbage-salad, or Sauerkraut, and a Mehlspeise, this representing a rather better than average dinner in an ordinary German household.
At four o'clock coffee will be brought in; after which the master of the house will depart for his club, and the mistress will pay visits amongst her friends, until the time comes for the theatre. The family will not reassemble until supper, which will be taken between the hours of seven and nine, depending on the length of the opera or comedy, the days on which the ladies of the house are abonnées, and the various other family engagements and exigencies. This is a pleasant meal, resembling high tea. In many houses tea is served as with us, and though the flavour of it is very different from what we are accustomed to consider good, I confess I always hailed its appearance with satisfaction.
Abendessen. Bordeaux, or beer, or the wines of the country, are generally taken by the men in preference to tea. Cigars follow; the ladies retire into the withdrawing-room, and at ten o'clock everyone is in bed. All the housewives, as autumn wanes, lay in a goodly store of vegetables to last through the winter months, when nothing of the kind is to be procured for love or money. Potatoes are banked up in the cellars, cabbages, carrots, turnips, onions, are buried in layers of mould, whence your cook will extract them, uninjured by damp or frost, for the daily meal. Vegetables of the finer sort, such as French beans, peas, &c., are, as they come into season, preserved for winter Use in tins, the process observed being a very simple one; the vegetables, with a little salt and water, are put into the tins, which are then hermetically sealed by a man who comes to solder them down; the tins are placed in another pan with boiling water, and if air bubbles rise to the surface when the water boils, you know that there is a flaw somewhere in the soldering; your man takes out the offending tin, ascertains where the defect is, and repairs it.
These tins of preserved vegetables may be bought now in nearly every English grocer's shop; but our simpler method of preparing their contents has not helped them to popularity. In Germany, where the flavour is aided by all sorts of spices, cinnamon, and nutmeg, sugar and butter, their flatness is much disguised, and they prove a welcome substitute for the real thing. Dried apples and pears and plums, which all take the place of vegetables, and enter largely into the ordinary domestic fare, are also bought wholesale for winter storage; and these with peas, beans, lentils, and rice, not to speak of Gries, Grütze, buckwheat, and other farinaceous sorts unknown here, afford a fair scope for variety in the domestic cuisine.
It will be objected that Germany could never have produced such fighting men, such deep-chested, loud-voiced, well-belted, straight-limbed, clanking, swaggering, awe-inspiring warriors as she has lately shown the world, on a fare of veal, vinegar, and chickens. Surely, these martial heroes, with the front of demi-gods and the endurance of Titans, show a valour, a high courage, and a well-fed confidence, whose muscularity speaks volumes in favour of the flesh pots of the Fatherland. 'Wine to make glad the heart of man, and oil to make him a cheerful countenance,' sings the warrior-king, David, who himself belonged to fighting times and to a fighting race, and was able to appreciate the fact that an ill-fed body makes a lily-liver and a craven, heart. We must have the healthy body if we are to have the healthy mind; we cannot expect doughty deeds without muscular development.
'Have you,' said a learned Theban once to me, 'observed (I am speaking as a physiologist) how inferior, in our country, is the woman-animal to the man-animal?' When a great physician, whose name is writ on the scroll of twenty learned societies in your own country, stoops to ask you such a leading question as this, you are bound not to take exception at the form in which he frames it, and to give him the answer he expects. 'Well,' he went on to say, 'the cause and the effect lie very near together. Observe, how do we feed our man-child, and how do we feed our woman-child? You will say, pretty much alike. They start fair. The
turns (many an Englishman might be astonished at the feats of young German athletes in their Turn-hallen), makes walking-tours in his holidays, drills, marches, goes through his spring and autumn manoeuvres, develops the muscles of a Hercules and the appetite of a Briareus. His active, out-door life, the oxygen he breathes, the fatigue he undergoes, the discipline to which he submits, all contribute to develop a strong straight body, to enrich his blood, and to help him to assimilate his food. The brain is nourished, the muscles are nourished, the organs become strong and healthy. Look at our young officers, and say if their appetites be not heroic. Observe that they eat with large comprehensive hungriness; they restore themselves as they come from parade with a good basin of beef-bouillon, with a deep draught of Bavarian beer, with an orgie of oysters. Don't you remember Heine's 'Lieutenants and Fähndrichs, die sind die klugen Leute,' who come and lap up the Rhine-wine and the oysters, that were rained down in a beneficent hour on the Berlin Steinpflaster ? My most gracious, those are the typical men, the coming men, the useful men. Their great frames and loud voices are the outcome of healthily active lives. What has your woman-child been doing all this time? She has been sitting behind the stove (hinterm Ofen), sucking sugar-plums, and swallowing sweet hot coffee; nibbling greasy cakes in a stifling stove-exhausted atmosphere. She does not, as do your young English ladies, ride, walk, swim, take what you call 'the constitutional,' garden, boat, haymake, croquet, enjoy all those diversions we read of in your English books. The grease that nourishes her brother disagrees with her; she has no digestion; her teeth decay; she spoils their enamel with vinegar and lemonade; she pecks at an ounce of exhausted soup-meat; she takes here a snick and there a snack; she becomes bleichsüchtig, she is ordered to take the air; she totters out on high-heeled shoes to her coffee Kränzchen; she sits in a summer-house and tortures cotton round a hook; she goes to the theatre; she passes from one heated, exhausted atmosphere to another gas-and-oil-heated one. How can she be hungry? How can her food nourish her? Is it a wonder that she has no chest, no muscles, 110 race, no type, no physique?' cried my excited friend. 'Would the young man have been any better with such a life? And this is only the beginning of the story; between the Alpha of food and the Omega of planting new generations in the world there is a series of disastrous mistakes,' said Dr. Zukünftig, presenting me with a pamphlet On the Comparative Assimilative Powers of the Races of Modern Europe. I leave him in his professional enthusiasm, which led him into an eloquent and exhaustive verbal treatise on the complex causes of physical female degeneracy, together with a fine comprehensive scheme for the rehabilitation of the human race, by the abolition of gaslight, stove-heat, high-heels, coffee, corsets, scandal, and chignons, since in this paper food alone may reasonably engage our attention.
Of the drinks of Germany not much need be said. Rhine-wine and Bavarian beer are accepted liquids, and need no bush. But whilst upon the subject I may men-
Bowle, for which nectar a vessel has been specially created and consecrated, and without which no convivial meeting or daneing-party would be held complete.
In many parts of Germany tea is looked upon as medicine. 'Is, then, the gracious lady ill?' is no uncommon question, if by chance an irresistible longing should overtake you for the 'cheering cup.' It is only to be had good in Russian houses; but even here not always quite according to English taste. Some take lemon instead of milk with it; others substitute red wine; the tea is often scented; and I remember once having a pound of tea sent me which I was told cost three pounds sterling, having come overland, and been bought by the kind donor at the fair of Nishni-Novgorod, of which I will only say, that a little Vanilla boiled in hay would have pleased me quite as well.
Fruit, as we see it in Covent Garden, or in the shop windows of Paris, is unknown in Germany. Perhaps the nearest approach to the super-excellence of which I speak may be found in the Hamburg market, but then the fruit is imported. Oranges, in the interior, cost twopence and threepence each, and even then are small, and of a very inferior quality. Gardening is a science very little understood; the outlay of manure, labour, time, and so on, which is necessary to produce anything like perfection in trees, plants, or vegetables, would be looked upon as thriftless waste. The pears, apples, plums, and cherries grow almost wild. To dig about them and rake them, to produce varieties, and to improve by selection of earths and manures the standard stocks, seems an almost unnecessary trouble, since you can pull up the old tree when it is exhausted, and plant another in a different spot. Quantity, not quality, is what you want; and certainly if quality were presented to you at the fraction of a farthing more than its rival quantity, you would, on merely conscientious grounds alone, reject the former for the latter.
If ever the happy time should come (and I doubt it, short of the millennium) when our cooks will permit the young ladies of the household to learn how to prepare the food that they seem paid to spoil, I hope a Median and Persian law may be passed at the same time to prevent these fair creatures from carrying the history of their culinary prowess and exploits beyond the dinner table. Let a stand be made against the persistent talk of food that poisons any attempt at conversation where two or three German housewives are gathered together. The unction with which greasy de-
Civis Romanus sum of the old Romans, 'I am a German Hausfrau' is the last pæan of pride which these patient spouses know; and what wonder if they resent your unwilling homage, and think scorn of a temper that is contented to leave the discussion of dinner to the table or the kitchen?
'Sir,' said old Samuel Johnson, 'give me the man that thinks of his dinner; if he cannot get that well dressed, he may be suspected of inaccuracy in other things.' So he may. You don't think better of that man who boasts that, to him, the salmon is as the sole, the turnip as the truffle. On the contrary, you pity or despise his want of culture. You may put up with Lucullus and his lampreys, or Epicurus and his suprême de volaille; you will, perhaps, even smile indulgently on M. Gourmet's gastronomic reminiscences; but this is the poetry of food. You will, on the other hand, bitterly resent the process of it being forced upon you at all times and seasons. We may be sure that the honest, arrogant, tea-drinking old Doctor would have been the first to put his conversational extinguisher on that man who should dare to dilate gluttonously on the food he loved.
Laughable, and yet characteristic, is the fact, that on returning from a dinner, ball, tea, supper, or Kaffee-Gesellschaft in Germany, the first question formulated by the non-revellers awaiting you at home will always have reference to the food. Former experiences in other climes will have prepared you for such frivolous queries as—'Well, were the A.'s overdressed, as usual? How did Mrs. B. look? Did the C. girls dance a great deal?' and so on. But strangely on your unaccustomed ear strikes the solemn question, unerring, ponderous, and punctual as a clerk's amen, Na! was hat's gegeben?—'What did you get?'
During the past month we have lost a man of rare and individual genius in an art in which England can boast of few distinguished names. We are not without our claims to respect as a musical nation, in regard to the interest in the art manifested in our best educated society, for some time back. We have been among the earliest to recognise the genius of one or two of the world's greatest musicians; and in the present day an executant or interpreter of music of the highest class can nowhere be more sure of a cordial welcome and of appreciative audiences than in the city which has been not inaptly termed 'the meeting-place of souls.'
We have had our own great executants too; in vocal music (a traditionary heritage of the country) some of the highest rank; and among instrumental executants we can show not a few who are at least very high. But if we turn from the interpreters to the creators of music, we are forced to confess that, in comparison with the great masters of the art, our native composers seem for the most part but as children playing with it as an amusement. Writers whose temperament is rather patriotic than critical have, it is true, made plausible efforts to prove the contrary; and there is no question that a considerable list may be made up of names not to be mentioned without respect, appended to compositions not to be listened to but with pleasure, by all discreet hearers. But scarcely among any of these can we recognise that individuality of style, that distinctly original mode of feeling and form of expression, without which no artist, however pleasing and genial his productions, can claim a niche in the temple of genius, or achieve a general and permanent renown. The early English school of part-writing, noble and dignified as it is, is but an echo of Palestrina; and its greatest representatives, Gibbons and Byrd (we may perhaps add Wilbye), are scarcely distinguishable from each other in style, and are only marked out from their contemporaries by a greater breadth and power in treating the materials common to all. For in those early days of music, as in mediæval architecture, individuality was not; the art was the production of the time, rather than of special minds. Then we have the later cathedral composers, whose best works were mostly echoes of Handel, modified in manner to some extent by the musical limitations of a cathedral service in regard to executive; among whom the prominent names of Boyce and Croft are followed by a host of lesser lights, now in the limbo of forgetfulness, or only preserved, mummy-fashion, by being embalmed among the relics of cathedral worship. Handel's 'pellows-plower,' Greene, survives chiefly in virtue of one fine and striking movement ('Therefore will not we fear,' from the forty-sixth Psalm); and at a later date Crotch and the elder Wesley struck the same chords with considerable power and effect. But of not one of these can it be said that they had a style of their own, or that they have obtained any wide or general recognition out of the range of the sounds of the cathedral organ. The English Cathedral Service music (anthems especially) is, taken collectively, a distinct contribution to the forms of musical composition, and has its precise parallel nowhere else; but its composers have to be taken col-
lied, and that the latest successful contribution to oratorio, Macfarren's John the Baptist, with all its very great and solid merit, can be said to be original in style only in virtue of the logical results of certain theories of harmony held by its composer. And if we seek, in the annals of English music, for instances of that distinctive genius which speaks its own original language, and sets its own hand and seal to all which it utters, we find no name to interpose between those of Henry Purcell and William Sterndale Bennett.
And yet it seems strange even to write the two names in the same sentence: so utterly diverse were the two men in regard both to the nature of their powers and to the circumstances which have stood in the way of their general or popular recognition. That Purcell was, potentially, one of the world's great 'tone-poets' must be obvious to all who are familiar with the fragmentary works which he has left, and who can distinguish between the accidental and the essential, and recognise the voice of genius from behind the mask of an antiquated style. Purcell's misfortune was the double one of having both lived and died too early'. He was born at least half-a-century too soon, before the resources of the art had been so expanded as to afford him the,' sail-broad vans' which the flight of his genius required; and he died too soon to have become fully conscious of his own power or of the extent to which he might have enlarged its borders. But even as it is he has left on almost everything he undertook an impress of concentrated power of imagination and expression which goes far to make us forget the restricted nature of the means at his command—as in the best of his anthems, in his Te Deum, in the extraordinary mad-man's song, or in his colossal duet for basses, 'Awake, ye dead.' Beside works, which, however imperfect in form, are so great in scale and idea, we cannot place the works of the late lamented representative of modern English music. The earlier composer reached sublimity of expression; the later one has attained to beauty, finish, and individuality of form, and to sentiment of the highest and most refined type; but something beyond these qualities, something not very easily definable, is needed to secure a place among those great artists who have spoken deep things to our souls, and have moved the heart of the people, 'as the trees of the wood are moved by the wind.'
Of these, then, it must be admitted that Sterndale Bennett was not. But he had this in common with his greater predecessor, that what he gave us was eminently his own. He spoke no borrowed language; and nothing can be more unjust than the flippant and ignorant criticism (so called) which sets him down as a mere imitator of Mendelssohn; an opinion we have often heard authoritatively pronounced on the strength of an acquaintance with some one solitary
The popular idea that Bennett was a pupil of Mendelssohn has been contradicted in print, on good authority, over and over again: yet we never go to a concert whore any composition of the former is given without hearing the story repeated among the audience.Woman of Samaria' or the 'May Queen' as specimens of Mendelssohnian manner.
If we endeavour to define the characteristics of Sterndale Bennett's genius, we become conscious of two conditions in his practice of his art, which colour all his works, and one of which fully accounts for their comparative unpopularity with the ordinary run of amateurs and concert audiences. The fact is that the composer belonged to that rare and interesting class of men of genius (rarest of all perhaps in music) who may be termed in a special sense artistic artists—men who write or paint or compose for the sake of the art, and with whom the means are of almost as much interest as the end, in whose eyes finish of form is one of the most important objects, and whose works therefore present to other producers in the same art a special interest which is only partially comprehended by the dilettante mind. It was with a just sense of this that Lord (then Sir John) Coleridge, in his speech on the occasion of the testimonial to the composer in
Most of those who were listening to him were cultivated, intelligent, and critical musicians, who could appreciate the value of Sir Sterndale Bennett's compositions; but, not being a musician himself, he could only listen to them, feeling something of their grace and beauty of order—fancying, indeed, in some dim and distant way, that he could distinguish something of their scholarly character and finished structure; but still feeling more as a child towards them than as possessed of that full and intelligent knowledge which belonged to those whom he was addressing.
In such works musicians find the same kind of pleasure which most literary men find in the writings of Jane Austen, of whom Scott observed that though 'he could do the big bow-wow business himself as well as anyone, those delicate touches of hers were beyond him.' In music the 'big bow-wow business' is at present in full career; nor would we wish to see it checked until it has fulfilled its mission for bad or good. But for the present the result is that the spirit and intent of a musical work is everything, the form nothing, both with composers and hearers: and 'æsthetic' frequenters of concert-rooms are indifferent as to balance of form in composition or correctness and finish in performance, if only they can be thrilled and astonished by 'powerful' scoring and 'impassioned' execution. There is a 'soul of goodness' in all this perhaps, as a reaction which may leave fruit behind it; but we must be pardoned for saying that the feeling which underlies it is essentially amateurish, not artistic. It is no wonder that such unobtrusive yet finished workmanship as Bennett's obtains little popular favour at present. For the composer falls short too (and this is the second point we alluded to) in another demand of the day, which wills that all music
Paradise and the Peri, is, of course, a declared exception, in which the passages illustrated are pointedly interwoven with the music; and the composer has lent himself to the modern theory of music to some extent in his latest pianoforte work, the Maid of Orleans Sonata, in which quotations from Schiller's play form the key to the intent and meaning of the respective movements. It is very interesting to see the composer taking up this new ground, and the sonata is in the main equal to anything he has written for pianoforte alone, combining as it does breadth and intensity of expression (in the second movement especially) with his own peculiar grace of detail. In regard to finish of form, however, it must be admitted that in this work Bennett a little lost the old balance and completeness which marked his own proper manner. It is interesting to hear, as we do on good authority, that this work attracted the frank admiration of the prophet of the new German school, Lizst, and that it was mainly owing to his recommendation that Dr. Von Billow, who has so fluttered the dove-cots of the pianoforte-playing world here of late, made the Sonata one of his prominent performances in London and the provinces, though not handling it, to our thinking, with the care and finish it deserved. But, in the main, Bennett is for the present the last representative, perhaps, of that purely intellectual school of music which illustrates no fixed idea, but addresses itself to the hearer's general sense of melodic beauty and sentiment, of harmonic proportion and logical relation. Hence he has found little favour with the literary prophets of the new school, who have generally named him with covert sneers or impertinent patronage. But in art, as in morals, Time 'brings in his revenges.'
And if, in a journal not specially devoted to art, it may be permitted to go a little beyond generalities in speaking of the gifted country, man whom we have lately lost, we should say that the genius of Sterndale Bennett was essentially that of the pianoforte. He was, so to speak, a pianist by nature. His numerous compositions for his favourite instrument have not that orchestral largeness and breadth of manner which belongs to the pianoforte compositions of Beethoven, and in a lesser degree to those of Mendelssohn. But they are remarkable and most interesting, in addition to their intrinsic beauty, as specimens of composition in which the capabilities of the instrument are strictly consulted—which represent precisely what the pianoforte can best do, and that only, and what no other instrument can imitate. There is not anywhere in art an instance of a nicer perception of means to an end than is furnished by the pianoforte works of Bennett. The hardness and glitter which characterises some of these compositions, and which amateurs of the sentimental school (if they are acquainted with them, which they generally are not) find so cold and unsympathetic, are only the result of this consideration of the peculiar genius of the instrument, pushed to its completest result. For the
concerto, where the pianoforte passages seem to glance and sparkle against the sustained and heavier tones of the band, like the play of a fountain against a background of dark foliage. And it is the specially clear perception of this characteristic of the instrument that renders Bennett's pianoforte concertos so effective, and makes it not improbable that the principal one, in F minor, will eventually be recognised as the most successful contribution to this class of composition since Beethoven. With less breadth of manner than Mendelssohn's concertos, it is marked by a truer artistic instinct and a more refined handling of the instrument. That the composer could use the piano in its borrowed character, as an instrument of melody and sentiment, in equal perfection, is proved by the barcarolle in this same concerto, one of the few of Bennett's compositions which has found its way to the popular mind. And not less exquisite here are the characteristic touches of effect; the contrast between the broken chords from 'the strings' in the orchestra and that rippling phrase for the solo instrument which, once heard, can never be forgotten; or the joining of the flute with the piano at the return of the leading melody, suggesting, according to Mr. Macfarren's pretty fancy in his analysis of the work, 'the reflection of loved faces in the sleeping water.'
It was in these 'delicate touches' that Bennett excelled; touches which appeal only to cultivated listeners, and which even cultivated ears, if too much drenched with the strong doses of the contemporary Sturm-und-Drang school of music, may easily fail to appreciate. For with Bennett nothing is thrust forward or disproportionately emphasised; what he intended is there if you have ears to hear it, but he will be at no pains to force it on his listeners' apprehension. And this reticent character extends to his larger works for the orchestra also. We do not find in these that irresistible sweep and power with which Beethoven, and in his greatest moments, Schumann, carry us away like Elijah, 'in a whirlwind to Heaven.' In that one published symphony which was played to perfection by the Crystal Palace band, before a delighted audience, only the week before its composer's lamented death, we find the same reserve, the same sensitiveness as to the specialities of the various instruments, which combine in a total effect not of the grand or colossal order, but of perfectly Greek finish and symmetry, and in which every note plays its own part in the ensemble. This beautiful work, so distinct from every other composition of its class, is steadily progressing to fame, and will be ere long an accepted item in the programmes of our highest class of concerts, by general listeners, as it is now by musicians and connoisseurs.
We must only shortly advert to the two principal choral works of the composer. The short oratorio, under the title of the With a laugh as we go round;Woman of Samaria, must be admitted to be the most individual contribution of this kind to English music, in point of style, even if the force and fervour of portions of Mr. Macfarren's later work, before referred to, may seem to give the latter a claim to higher public estimation at present than
Woman of Samaria, with its remarkable combination of chorale and instrumental movement in opposing rhythms. We look confidently to the time when this work will be returned to, after more recent and popular productions of the same class have gone the way of all mediocrities, as one deserving renewed study, and which only requires to be better understood to receive its due recognition. The cantata, the May Queen, we never hear without a double regret; first, that the music should have been wedded to such feeble words and such a foolish story (written by one who should have known better), in which any interest for its own sake is impossible; and, secondly, that (supposing the 'book' improved) the composer did not make an opera of it. If the work as it stands is not to all intents and purposes an operetta without the stage action, it at least serves to prove what an opera Bennett might have given us, could he have been induced to turn his thoughts to the lyric stage. Music more happily illustrative of scenic effect and of character has seldom been written—of scenic effect in the buoyant Maypole chorus, where we almost seem to see the merry group of dancers swing past
and in the stately pageant music, especially the passage at the words 'Thames is proud,' when the pompous flotilla seems to come suddenly upon us, as it were, round a bend of the river ('Hark! what fine change is in the music;') and of character and feeling in the exquisite air of the lover, in the jovial bragging song of the supposed 'Robin Hood,' with its genial touches of humour in the accompaniment, and in the beautiful trio, now an established favourite in concert-rooms, and which even the inanity of the words can hardly blemish. But we cannot quit the subject of Bennett's vocal music without a word for those two groups of songs 'with English and German words,' only one or two among which can be said to be popularised. And perhaps we have no wish that the others should be; we would almost prefer to see them kept for a more select enjoyment. These songs have the advantage of having been written to good and suggestive words. To say that a musician has given adequate expression to Shelley's sad, regretful lines, 'Wilt thou forget the happy hours,' is to say that he is himself a poet. But, in truth, we never know which one to prefer out of these two garlands of song. When we consider the pure and spontaneous flow of the melody, the delicate suggestiveness of the accompaniments, and the distinct individuality of design and of sentiment in each of these little compositions, so concentrated yet so complete in form, we could fancy them the spiritual essence of some lost fragments of Greek art, which have thus contrived to get themselves translated into music.
Of the probable future position of Sterndale Bennett's compositions it might seem premature to pronounce an opinion, were it not that they have already to some extent received the test of time, the most important and best of them dating far-enough back to afford us already some ground for conclusions as to their progress in the appreciation of those best able to form a judgment. Indeed, the long intervals of silence during the later portion of the composer's life are remarkable
The high and tender Muses may accept With gracious smile, deliberately pleased.
The Methods of Ethics. By Henry Sidgwick, Lecturer and late Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. London: Macmillan & Co.
Mr. Henry Sidgwick has recently published a book which, apart from its intrinsic value, is an interesting display of rare intellectual virtues. He almost seems to illustrate a paradox which would be after his own heart, that a man may be too reasonable. His merits, at any rate, may possibly interfere with the immediate popularity of his book. He is the perfection of candour; and I must confess that candour is one of those virtues towards which I have a mixed feeling. I can admire without reserve the candour which consists in the frank expression of your own sentiments; but I am not quite so clear about the candour which leads to a toleration of the opinions of others. This quality is combined in Mr. Sidgwick with a singular subtlety and many-sidedness. It seems to be impossible for him to lay down any propositions without immediately recollecting all the objections, qualifications, and refinements that could be suggested by an inveterate opponent. So far from resenting any such suggestion, he would give it a hearty welcome as affording new opportunities for once more examining and adjusting his whole apparatus of argument. To qualities of this kind, which would have made Mr. Sidgwick a master in the art of casuistry, he joins the advantages of thorough intellectual training and wide knowledge of the various schools of ethical speculation. And finally, the design of his book, differing, I imagine, from that, of any previous writer upon the same topics, gives full scope for the display of his faculties.
The book, he says in his preface, is not in the main metaphysical or psychological, nor is it dogmatic or practical or historical, or even primarily critical. It is an exposition, such as could only be given by a thoroughly impartial and accomplished writer, of the various modes by which various philosophers have professed to solve the great problems of ethics. He takes each of the great systems, endeavours by a careful investigation to get them stated in the most consistent forms of which they are severally capable, and then carefully tests their coherency and completeness rather than their ultimate justification. He inquires, for example, whether a consistent scheme of conduct can be devised upon the intuitional or the utilitarian base, and only asks incidentally whether the psychological doctrines more or less implied in either of those systems are really sound. His aim is rather to clear the argument and to bring into relief the precise issues involved in the debate, than to state a rival or a harmonising theory of his own. And as one consequence, the tendency of the book is somewhat sceptical, as a dialogue of Plato is sceptical. We have been in labour for a satisfactory definition of morality, and cannot get delivered of any consistent result. A certain reconciliation, indeed, is suggested as possible between two schools which have long been at war; but Mr. Sidgwick himself seems, so far as I understand, to leave off in what to most minds would be an uncomfortable, though to him perhaps it is an enjoyable, attitude. He is face to face with an insoluble antinomy: and his last sentence is, that, on a certain hypothesis, 'the prolonged Effort of the human intellect to frame a perfect ideal of rational
It is not easy to give within any reasonable limits a fair criticism of such a performance. The whole book represents good hard thinking. Mr. Sidgwick never throws away a word upon superfluous illustration or irrelevant rhetoric. Once only does he deviate from the tone of passionless discussion into a brief burst of something like rhetoric. This exceptional gush of feeling occurs, when he is arguing that selfishness is destructive of happiness. But he seems characteristically to repent of his momentary lapse into what might be taken for an appeal to the feelings, and adds a note to say that we are not justified in stating this doctrine 'as universally true,' inasmuch as 'some few thoroughly selfish people appear at least to be happier than most of the unselfish.' I shall be content, for my part, to follow out, more or less consistently, a particular thread of reasoning which appears here and there in Mr. Sidgwick's elaborate web of logic, and to consider how far its soundness or weakness affects his general conclusions.
There is one set of questions which Mr. Sidgwick has refrained from examining, though they would give ample room for his ingenuity. He tells us that he assumes that there is something which, under any circumstances, it is 'right or reasonable' to do; an assumption which he finds in all ethical treatises. I confess, however, that I should like to see a judicial investigation of several preliminary questions. Has 'right' the same meaning as reasonable? Are all the feelings or judgments which we class together as moral of the same kind and generically different from all other feelings? What is the proper sphere of morality? Does it include all conduct, so that, as Mr. Sidgwick seems to say, there is a right and a wrong in every case, or are many actions indifferent? Where is the point at which ethical considerations shade off into prudential or æsthetical? Is not my feeling the same when I blush at being detected in a lie as when I blush at missing fire with a witticism? Why, then, is one proceeding called immoral, another imprudent, and a third simply ridiculous? Do all the various codes by which we are bound, the strictly legal, the religious, the code of public opinion, of honour, of fashion, or of the particular profession or clique to which we belong, appeal to the same sentiments? If not, which of them are entitled to be called moral? and why? I do not ask these questions as suggesting that a coherent answer is impracticable or even difficult; but because I have a suspicion that many people would answer them differently, and that in the difference of the possible answers lies the explanation of some differences between Mr. Sidgwick and myself. I suspect that the popular classification assumed in the word moral is often incoherent and inconsistent; and that a scientific morality would therefore require to be based upon psychological and social data, which we too often overlook.
If I were to make a general criticism upon Mr. Sidgwick's book, it would be that his method is too purely metaphysical. He investigates moral questions by starting from definitions rather than from observation; and assumes too easily, as I think, the unity and simplicity of our conceptions of morality. I believe, for example, that this difference in the point of view is at the bottom of my first unequivocal disagreement
Mr. Sidgwick, here as elsewhere, has the merit of stating fairly the position of his antagonist. He tells us that the cumulative argument in behalf of determinism is 'so strong as almost to amount to complete proof.' But, after stating it very clearly, and obviating certain popular objections, he informs us that, strong as it is, it seems to be 'more than balanced by a single argument on the other side, the immediate affirmation of consciousness in the moment of deliberate volition.' Mr. Sidgwick cannot distrust his 'intuitive consciousness that in resolving after deliberation he exercises free choice as to which of the motives acting upon me shall prevail.' An appeal to consciousness is, of course, the staple argument upon this side of the question. It is the answer of the metaphysician to the empirical psychologist. If consciousness makes a deliberate affirmation which contradicts all other arguments, we must, I fear, be left in Mr. Sidgwick's state of mind, oscillating between two irreconcilable modes of thought. But what is the question which consciousness answers thus emphatically. Sometimes the advocate of free will falls into a familiar paralogism which has often been exposed. From his consciousness that he can do what he wills, he infers that he can will what he wills; from the fact that his actions will, within certain limits, follow his wishes, he infers that his wishes are themselves arbitrary. But Mr. Sidgwick does not lead us round this old circle of argument. The question, as he states it, is simply this: given my character and my internal circumstances, does my action follow? Could anyone who knew both those sets of conditions foretell my volition, or is there 'a strictly incalculable element' in it? Mr. Sidgwick, therefore, holds that his consciousness informs him that there is a strictly incalculable element. Given the man and the conditions, the action is still a matter of chance; of chance, in the sense that, as a matter of fact, the event varies when the antecedents are fixed. Now to the argument when thus stated, the answer seems to be simple; namely, that consciousness is not an adequate judge. Mr. Sidgwick himself states the fact which shows that it is not adequate. A great many of our acts, he says, are done unconsciously. It would perhaps be better to say that a great part of every action is done unconsciously. We judge of the character of all men except ourselves, says Mr. Sidgwick, on the principle of causation by character and circumstances. It is not because we can, in any case, account entirely for their actions, any more than we can account entirely for any other phenomenon. After calculating as carefully as possible the initial velocity of a bullet, and the circumstances of its flight, we can only predict its fall within certain limits. We do not assume that the unexplained residuum is due to the bullet's possession of free will, or to the objective existence of chance. We simply recollect that there were small forces which we could not accurately measure, and whose effect was therefore incalculable. We follow precisely the same method in dealing with our fellows. Know-
Mr. Sidgwick's appeal to the consciousness is, therefore, an appeal to a judge not in possession of the necessary facts. That little thread of conscious thought of which we think when we talk of the 'ego,' includes generally but a part, sometimes an insignificant part, though sometimes it may be the whole, of the elements which determine our actions. We cannot say, therefore,
I must remark, in passing, that one result of this view seems to be scarcely appreciated by Mr. Sidgwick. He admits that a determinist can give a definite and intelligible meaning to such a word as 'desert;' I should add, that a determinist gives the only intelligible meaning. 'Desert,' on the free will hypothesis, seems to me to be a self-contradictory assertion.
I must pass on, however, to another question, nearly connected with this. Mr. Sidgwick discusses the statement common to Mr. Mill and other utilitarians, that, as the will is always determined, so the cause which always determines it is pleasure. We desire a thing, it is said, in proportion as it is pleasant. To this it has been replied, by Shaftesbury and many later writers, that if pleasure means whatever attracts the will, the statement is tautological; and that if pleasure means some special kind of sensation, it is untrue. Mr. Sidgwick dismisses the first meaning of pleasure upon this ground, and proceeds to argue that other things besides 'agreeable sensation' may attract the will. The ordinary examples may serve to explain the point. I eat, it is said, because I am hungry, not because I look forward to the pleasure of eating. I do good because I love virtue, not because I calculate upon that reflected glow of agreeable self-complacency which attends the consciousness of a virtuous act. The distinction sometimes appears to be refined, but I think that it points to a real and important fact. If we ask, in short, why a man cats his dinner, the reply would be very complex if it were perfectly exhaustive. He eats it, in the first place, because he is accustomed to cat it, and because nine-tenths of our actions are more or less automatic. He eats it, again, because the attempt to resist this unconscious impulse would be productive of pain. We are like bodies moving along an accustomed groove partly by the mere momentum previously acquired and partly because the slightest deviation produces an instant pressure. There is here, perhaps, a little puzzle: how, it might be asked, can the discomfort operate when it is not felt?
Here I believe that I am in substantial agreement with Mr. Sidgwick. But I have insisted upon the point, because it introduces a more general remark. The difficulty of this, and some other questions, seems to arise in great measure from the relics of certain metaphysical assumptions which were almost universally accepted in the days of Clarke and Butler. Without attempting an accurate statement of a theory which appears in various forms, I may venture to say that we find in their writings some such assumptions as the following: The soul, as they assumed, was a kind of spiritual atom. Its substance was perfectly simple; or, as Butler calls it, 'indiscerptible,' and therefore immortal, because incapable of resolution into simpler elements. Its essence was thought; and it was a question to be argued on à priori grounds, whether it could cease to think, even in sleep; and whether a cessation of consciousness would not imply a destruction of individuality. It was the one vital force which moved the unit mass of the physical organism. The thought of which it was the vehicle, was that thread of conscious reflection which joins together our lives, though, as I have said, we cannot now regard it as containing all our motives. Further the human soul, as distinguished from the mere animal soul, being
Various difficulties arose from a theory which thus denied the extremely complex character of human nature. Thus, for example, the doctrine excludes the possibility of an unconscious motive; and therefore, as we have seen, makes it difficult to understand the determination of motives. Or, again, it seemed to follow that as we are frequently not conscious of any deliberate calculation of pleasure in determining upon our actions, the soul must be determined by some motive, differing from pleasure in kind: by logic or by virtue considered in themselves, without any reference to 'agreeable sensation.' And, again, it led to what Mr. Sidgwick calls the 'fundamental paradox of egoistic hedonism,' though I should add that he solves it in a manner sufficiently in harmony with my own. The paradox is this: that as 'pleasure only exists as it is felt, the more we are conscious of it the more pleasure we have;' whereas experience teaches us that knowledge and feeling are in some sense antagonistic; or that, by attending too much to our pleasures we diminish their intensity. The difficulty arises from the assumption of the absolute unity of consciousness. If knowing that we are happy is the same thing as being happy, there is an obvious contradiction in supposing that an increase of knowledge diminishes happiness. If the soul is self, and the essence of the soul is in knowing, to increase consciousness of happiness is the same thing as to increase the knowledge that we are happy. But if the fundamental assumption is unfounded, if consciousness is in reality a highly complex instead of a perfectly simple process, the difficulty disappears. The feeling may be intense, though the intellect be quiescent or too much occupied to think about the emotion. I can believe in the happiness of an oyster, though I suppose that oyster has no reflective faculties whatever, and can therefore suppose that part of my nature which I share with the oyster to be happy when the 'mind's eye' is closed; and I can equally hold that an intellectual pleasure is greatest when the mind is too much absorbed in contemplation to affirm its own happiness. The question is one to be decided by experience, though there are some obvious difficulties in bringing the matter to the test of experience. But I can see no absolute logical bar to an egoist accepting even the doctrine of utter self-sacrifice. The ordinary tendency of egoism has, of course, been very different; but if it could be proved to me that I should be happiest by entirely suppressing all calculations of my own interest, and abandoning myself to the life of the severest ascetic, selfishness would prompt me to set about the task at once. There is, I think, no real contradiction in saying that such calculation proves that I ought not to calculate. It is merely to say that, having once marked my course on the chart, I had better throw away my instruments; or that, as seeing may be proved to give more
There is another conclusion from the metaphysical assumption which is of more importance. If the soul, or 'thinking principle,' is always drawing up syllogisms, and if happiness be the only determining motive, the conclusion or 'last act of the judgment' would always be in the form, this or that action will make me happiest. And by 'me' is meant this indissoluble unit which survives all changes, which will be the same a thousand years hence as now, to which a minute of happiness at the end of an indefinite period should, in the eye of reason, be of precisely the same value as a minute of happiness now. Therefore the course is reasonable which gains for me the maximum of happiness, however distributed. The argument seemed conclusive to many moralists, and gives the philosophical foundation for what Mr. Sidgwick calls egoistic hedonism. It is agreeable to find a writer who distinguishes emphatically between this doctrine and that of utilitarianism, with which it is so often and persistently confounded. I fear that he is himself too much tainted with utilitarianism to gain for his protest the respect which it deserves. And yet there seems to be a formal contradiction between the doctrine which regards the happiness of the individual, and that which regards the happiness of the race, as the sole end of moral conduct. The strong point of the former or egoistic theory is the appearance of logical consistency, and even Mr. Sidgwick, whilst repudiating it as degrading, seems to be impressed by its appearance of flawless rotundity. Good Unmitigated selfishness has an almost appalling coherency, which makes it a hard nut to crack. One
flaw, however, may be at once detected. The statement may be either psychological or ethical. It may be said 'a man cannot help acting with a sole view to his happiness,' or 'a man ought to act with a sole view to his happiness.' Without now asking what 'ought' means in this last connection—a rather difficult question—I may observe that the other meaning seems to be the commonest. The ethical view is, in that case, superfluous. If, as Bentham seems to have thought, a man's own happiness is his only possible motive, it matters little whether it is also the right motive. To tell us that we ought to have altruistic impulses would, on that supposition, be as absurd as to tell us that we ought to have wings, or that we ought not to obey the laws of gravitation. Nor do I think that any moralist who believes in the possibility of unselfish instincts, denies their propriety. The chief question, therefore, is whether, as a matter of fact, they are or are not possible. The answer would not, I think, be much disputed by any modern psychologist. Hume's argument against the selfish theory is sufficiently decisive. He remarks substantially that the theory, if it means anything, means that every motive must of necessity terminate in our own personal interest. If any impulse of a purely altruistic kind can be shown to exist, the à priori argument is refuted and becomes a mere question for experience to determine how great a part such impulses perform in our nature. If it is true, that is, that the prospect of my suffering a toothache fifty years hence does not affect my mind as powerfully as the prospect of a thousand of my fellow-creatures being tortured to death to-morrow, I must allow that there is some unselfish instinct in my nature. What the proportion may be between the interest which I take in my own future and the
Mr. Sidgwick, in fact, guides us through a long investigation to bring us face to face with selfish reasoning, and would then half admit that it is unanswerable. His discussion of the intuitive and utilitarian methods tends to the conclusion that they may be fused into theory, but that when this consummation has been effected, the contrast between the egoistical doctrine and its now united rivals stands out more forcibly than ever. Here is the knot to be untied; but before trying my hand at that difficult task, I must say a few words upon the supposed reconciliation. The intuitional method, according to Mr. Sidgwick, may take three different forms. The first assumes an internal monitor, which says of each individual action, this is right or this is wrong. The second supposes that we have an intuitive perception of a certain list of moral axioms, which may be compared to the primary axioms of mathematics, and which are given us by common sense. The third attempts to discover one fundamental and undeniable principle from which the various minor truths of morality may be deduced by rigorous logical process. Passing over, for the moment, this last and, Mr. Sidgwick holds, most philosophical form of intuitionism, each of the others appears to mo to express a certain truth. We assume certain moral rules on the ground of common sense; and we have an instinct which guides our judgment of particular actions. I may admit the general maxim that I ought to speak the truth, without always attending to any ulterior reason, and perhaps without being able to assign any conclusive reason. I may again feel ashamed when I tell a lie, without even referring to the general maxim about speaking the truth. There are, however, as Mr. Sidgwick remarks, three questions about such intuitions which are frequently confused. We may argue as to their existence, their origin, or their validity. One school of intuitionists assumes that, if a moral rule is accepted by the common sense of mankind, it has a kind of supernatural authority and must be regarded as an ultimate truth. In a series of careful and elaborate chapters, Mr. Sidgwick gives his reasons for rejecting this conclusion. Taking the chief moral axioms in turn, he shows, by a minute analysis, that they have not those characteristics of clearness, self-evidencing power, consistency, and universality which mark a primary truth. I cannot give even an example of this argument, of which the general nature is easily conceivable. To examine the
The question, however, remains, whether these rules, however they have come to light, may not be exhibited as deductions from some undeniable first truth. The process would be analogous to that exhibited in other inquiries. In the physical sciences we discover by degrees the more general formula; under which we range the doctrines to which mere empirical observation has enabled us to approximate roughly; and the general truth once discovered enables us to define more precisely the subsidiary formula, and to get rid of the incongruous elements with which it was at first associated. Can we find such a truth in the case of ethics?
And what, we may ask, is the general nature of the truth at which we are thus arriving? A utilitarian would say that to frame a scientific code of morality, we must have a complete calculus of happiness. You must be able to say, that is, what are the ultimate laws which determine the consequences of our actions in regard of their 'felicific' (I use a word coined by Mr. Sidgwick) quality. The formula that morality implies the pursuit of the greatest happiness of the greatest number will then enable you to draw up the moral code. The intuitionist substitutes the psychological for the sociological view. He would say that we require a complete theory of human nature. We must, therefore, discover what is the nature and function of the moral sense, and we can then disentangle its genuine utterances from the confused clamour of evil passions. There is nothing necessarily antagonistic in these methods. Hutcheson, for example, the first systematic exponent of the moral sense doctrine, was also the first man to lay down Bentham's sacred formula. According to him there was a kind of pre-established harmony, in virtue of which the moral sense always pointed out the line of conduct which in fact was most productive of happiness. Mr. Sidgwick says that the result of this teaching was to distract attention from the 'objectivity of duty;' and quotes Hutcheson as innocently asking, 'why the moral sense should not vary in different human beings as the palate does? 'Now, innocent as the question may be, I am disposed to ask it myself, and even to reply that, as far as I can judge, the moral sense does vary like the palate. I can understand, indeed, that such a reply has an objectionable sound; but I do not think that the consequences when fairly stated conflict with the ' objectivity of duty'—at least, if I
gourmet presents a striking analogy to the code of the moral philosopher; and if his act bore more directly upon ordinary human happiness, I suspect that heresy in matters of meat and drink would be speedily condemned like heresy in religion. Nor is the sentiment altogether irrational. The simple preference of one taste to another may connote marked differences in the health or sensibility of the organ. A love of sweets, it has been said by a great authority, shows a nature which has not yet lost its childish innocence. I will take, however, a less offensive, and perhaps more instructive, example. The sense of hearing should, on Mr. Sidgwick's hypothesis, give us no more objective result than the sense of smell. I like this sound and you like that; we can neither accuse each other of error. Suppose, now, that I, being an absolutely unmusical person, had made such a remark to Handel. You, I might have said, are shocked by a discord; I like discord just as well as harmony; you prefer tweedledee to tweedledum; I am perfectly impartial. Would Handel have been left without an answer? He would, I rather imagine, have replied in substance that my incapacity showed a greater dulness of sense. If I had denied this, he would have observed that all persons who had a certain faculty agreed in their judgment of harmony and discord, and found one pleasant and the other disagreeable. If I had replied, you are begging the question and inferring that people hear better because they prefer certain sounds, and that the sounds are preferable because the best hearers prefer them, he would have appealed to objective facts. He could have shown mathematically that when the number of vibrations of two strings bore certain relations, the sounds produced were harmonious, and in other cases discordant. I should therefore have been forced to admit that a good ear could instinctively recognise certain qualities of sound which could be proved by other means to have an objective existence. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that, in this case, the ear of Handel gives results which are confirmed by his senses of seeing and touching, whereas my ear is incapable of appreciating relations perceptible by my other senses. But, at any rate, I should have to admit my inferiority or to deny that a fine ear was a blessing. Against this last doctrine Handel would of course urge all the pleasures which are obtainable by music. If
If we apply this analogy, it will appear, I think, that a belief in the moral sense need not make morality in any dangerous sense 'subjective,' though it implies what cannot be denied, that the judgment of morality varies widely with the individual. Perhaps there are some harmonies in the nature of things, the perception of which gives intense delight to a man of fine moral sense, whilst they are but dimly perceived by his more obtuse fellows. But it does not follow that the thick-skinned man denies them because he cannot perceive them. There is, it is true, this important difference; the moralists have not yet been able to discover, and in all probability they will never be able to discover, laws analogous to the mathematical theorems of music. A good action has often been compared to a beautiful harmony; but a man is more complex than a piece of catgut, and the vibrations of his brain and nerves follow more intricate laws. Still, it would not be altogether fanciful to assume that there is some real analogy between the two cases; and that part at least of the pleasure derivable from a virtuous action depends upon the play of underlying forces whose secret we cannot penetrate. I think, indeed, that the ordinary principles of judgment imply some such tacit hypothesis. There is, as Mr. Sidgwick occasionally observes, a close relation between our æsthetic and our moral sentiments which would be an interesting subject for fuller discussion. We assume a kind of standard in art. In music we take it for granted that Mozart and Handel are better judges than we; in painting we judge people by their agreement with Titian or Raphael; and in poetry, we believe that the supreme excellence of Shakespeare or Dante is not, in the ordinary sense, a mere matter of taste. If I do not enjoy some great author, I assume, for my part, that I am stupid, not that the world is wrong. I am as convinced that any scientific test—if such a test could be applied—would prove Shakespeare's incomparable superiority to Tom Moore, as I am that, a similar test would prove the sun to weigh more than Venus. In moral questions I imagine that we frequently judge in the same way. We recognise the moral beauty of an action before we even think of its utility. As a sculptor might design forms which combined the highest degree of strength and activity; or an architect discover the best constructive arrangement; though in the mind of each the utility of the forms might occupy a subordinate place to beauty; so a man of moral genius perceives the laws which are in fact most conducive to the happiness of mankind, though he neither has made nor could make any calculation of consequences. The ideal standards of perfection which have influenced the character of mankind have been constructed by a process which resembles, if it is not identical with, the process of poetry or art. The instinct outruns the reasoning process, and jumps at conclusions which reason reaches by elaborate engineering works. Reason itself teaches us to be guided by this divining power, when we cannot work our prepared logical formulæ If a given form or sound is pleasing to all men whose eyes and ears have reached a certain pitch of sensibility, we may infer that the pleasure probably corresponds to some harmony too fine for our balances and microscopes. And similarly, if qualities which are obviously good—strength of understanding, quickness of sympathy, and so on—are generally combined with certain moral quali-
And hence we may infer the genera nature of the process by which the intuitionist and the utilitarian theories may be ultimately fused. We must distinguish between the cause and the reason of an opinion. In an ideally perfect intellect the two would be identical. The logical demonstration of a doctrine would be the only thing which would cause us to believe it. But as mankind are not as yet perfect reasoners, the two seldom coincide. Logic goes for very little in the acceptance of an opinion, and all manner of irrelevant motives for a great teal. Only in the long run, and as we take in a great number of people, does the reasonableness of an opinion become a more important element in inducing its acceptance, because it is permanent and uniform, whilst the other motives may be temporary and conflicting. Now
Mr. Sidgwick would, I imagine, agree generally with these statements; but he has another mode of reconciling intuitionism and utilitarianism. I must say something of his conclusions, though I confess frankly that I speak with some nervousness. For here we are treading by the side of certain metaphysical gulfs, into which a single false step may precipitate us; and I am sensible that a struggle with Mr. Sidgwick would be only too likely to send one or both of the combatants into that bottomless abyss. I have, indeed, a certain difficulty in catching his meaning, which is due, not to any fault in his writing, nor, I would hope, to stupidity of my own of more than ordinary intensity, so much as to the familiar fact that thinkers belonging to different schools, or even to different sections of the same school, are always liable to be at cross-purposes. However, treading carefully and avoiding unnecessary digression, I will endeavour to state Mr. Sidgwick's conclusions and my own view. Following in the steps of Clarke and Kant, and refining away certain crudities of expression, he concludes finally that we have two fundamental moral intuitions: 'First, that nothing can be right for me which is not right for all persons in similar circumstances; and secondly, that I cannot regard the fulfilment of my own desires or my own happiness as intrinsically more desirable (or more to be regarded by me as a rational end) than the equal happiness of anyone else.'
I will take the formulæ separately. The first, I may remark, is liable to be misunderstood, if taken without further explanation. It does not, with Mr. Sidgwick at least, mean to assert that the same moral law is necessarily true for men and women, blacks and whites, old men and babies. That may or may not be the case. He only asserts that if the action be not right for a person in other circumstances, 'the difference of circumstances must contain the ground and reason of the difference in the moral character of the action.' Further, 'difference of circumstances must be taken to include difference of nature and character—in short, all differences beyond the individuality of the individual.' I confess that when I come to 'the individuality of the individual,' an individuality which does not include his specific differences from other individuals, but only his numerical identity, my head begins to swim. It is too ethereal a conception to be easily grasped by thick brains; and similarly when, in discussing his second formula, Mr. Sidgwick tells us that it means that the fact that I am I, or that he is he, is to make no difference in the objective desirability (whatever that may be) of my or his happiness, I fear that I am breathing air too thin for me. I am at first disposed to say, If you mean that law must be the same for you and me, the proposition is false; if you only mean that, if I were you, I should be subject to the same laws as you, you are merely making an identical proposition. Mr. Sidgwick, however, has neither of those meanings; and, upon making another effort, I begin to see light. The first proposition, says Mr. Sidgwick, 'is a necessary postulate of all ethical systems, being an expression of what is involved in objective rightness and wrongness in conduct.' If it is a necessary postulate of all ethical systems, it cannot help us to recon-
à priori intuition. We could not know that black differed from white, except from the testimony of the senses, and we could not know that right differed from wrong except from the testimony of the emotions. If we were purely reasoning beings, without any emotional nature, it seems to me that right and wrong would be meaningless phrases.
I will try, however, to exhibit what I conceive to be the true meaning of Mr. Sidgwick's conclusions It must be admitted by everybody that there are certain assumptions implied in all reasoning. I need not ask whether they are properly to be regarded as intuitions as truths given by universal T.s is perhaps inconsistent with Mr. Sidgwick's doctrine of free will; but that is notny concern.
Moreover, it is consistent not only, as Mr. Sidgwick says, with the acceptance of any ethical system, but with the repudiation of all ethical systems. It follows, indeed, that any moral feeling of which I am conscious would exist in my fellow-creatures under similar circumstances. So would the most transitory taste or fancy. If I think of a hippogriff in a certain way, others would have the same conception modified by their various idiosyncrasies. And the 'objective' character of morality no more follows than the objective character of a hippogriff, unless you merely mean by calling it 'objective' to signify that the same thought or feeling will be found in other minds than my own. Indeed, I cannot help thinking that an ambiguity in the use of that unfortunate word produces the confusion upon this subject. The only senses in which I can suppose a man to maintain the
The second proposition appears to me to be of similar character. Mr. Sidgwick says that it is the fundamental proposition of utilitarianism. To clear up this point, I must ask what is this fundamental proposition. Mr. Sidgwick's proposition is that I am not to regard my own happiness as intrinsically more desirable than the equal happiness of anyone else. Of course, the same caution is to be applied here as before. Mr. Sidgwick does not mean that the happiness of St. John is just as desirable as the happiness of Judas Iscariot; but that we are not to regard the 'individuality of the individual.' And he identifies this with Bentham's theory that each one is to count for one. Bentham's meaning may be perhaps made a little clearer by comparing happiness to a material currency. His theory was that the condition of society was the best in which there was the greatest quantity of such coinage, irrespectively of the distribution. If, for example, a hundred people had a thousand pounds of happiness, their state would always be better than that of an equal population who had only nine hundred pounds' worth; whether in the first case each man had ten pounds, or half of them had fifteen pounds a piece and the other half only five. Now this doctrine obviously assumes the truth of the postulates already considered. It assumes, that is, that happiness is a real thing, which does not change its nature by the mere fact of its distribution; so that two similar individuals in similar circumstances may be assumed to be equally happy. So far, however, we have not advanced a step towards utilitarianism. We are merely stating the most general of all truths in particular terms. We are stating in regard to the special phenomena of happiness what holds of all phenomena whatever. It may be added that, as in every conceivable moral system happiness has to be considered in one way or another, the postulate is equally necessary for all systems. How then is the next step to be made? Mr. Sidgwick says that the happiness of all men is 'intrinsically desirable' in the same degree. What is meant by desirable? Happiness, as we have seen already, is the object of all desire. When then
Say more or less
Than this, that happiness is happiness?
The virtue of the phrase, it is obvious, must be in the word 'intrinsically;' but I confess that the word seems to me to cover an unintentional evasion. I cannot form to myself any conception of a thing as 'desirable,' except in so far as it is desirable to some definite person or persons.
That happiness is desirable seems to me to be almost tautologous. It means merely that happiness is desired breach individual. When I add that the general happiness is desirable, I still am only saying that if everybody is happy more desires will be gratified. To say that each person 'ought to' desire the general happiness would—in every sense—be still really tautologous. By 'ought' I mean obedience to the moral law; by the moral law I note the fact that I do not mean the actually existing moral law of any given society, but that law which I desire to see accepted.
How, then, should I 'prove' utilitarianism? Happiness is the end; observance of the law is the means. I can prove that the end exists, or, if Mr. Sidgwick prefers, I know it intuitively, or as a necessary postulate. I know that there is such a state as happiness. I can prove again in detail by experience that the various special rules of morality contribute to that happiness. And, finally, I know by experience that most people do, in fact, desire the general happiness sufficiently to prompt them to take within certain limits the necessary means for the desired end. If you ask me to prove anything more, I admit my incapacity; but I add that I cannot see what more there is to be proved. As metaphysicians have thought that the utility of a political institution was not a sufficient reason for loyalty without a social contract; they naturally think that the utility of a moral law is insufficient unless you can show that to deny its validity is to fall into a contradiction in terms.
And here I come to the final question which Mr. Sidgwick discusses, and which is connected with the most important of all questions. Unluckily it brings out what is, I fear, an irreconcileable difference between Mr. Sidgwick and myself. I am glad that if my view is wrong it seems to mo at least to lead to a less sceptical conclusion. The question which has always more or less puzzled utilitarians is, what are your sanctions? How do you propose to make men moral? I may say at once that it is impossible for me to give here what I hold to be an adequate answer. In general terms, I should say that the question can only be answered by experience; and that experience does not give one definite categorical reply. It appears to me that the sanctions must vary widely according to the intellectual stage of mankind. There have perhaps been periods at which a belief in the old-fashioned hell was absolutely necessary. There may be a period, if the positivists are right, at which an organised public opinion will be sufficient to enforce the moral code without an appeal to further motives. The discussion becomes religious, psychological, and histo-
But there is another point of view from which the problem may be considered, and which Mr. Sidgwick considers—though I confess that I do not quite follow him—to be one of great importance. The question which he asks may perhaps be stated thus: can we show moral conduct to be reasonable? After fusing intuitionism and utilitarianism, the old difficulty crops up undiminished. It is reasonable, so our intuitionists please to tell us, to do what is right as right, and to desire the general happiness. But then it also seems to be reasonable for each man to desire his own happiness. These two principles are left at issue on the last page; and as I do not believe in Mr. Sidgwick's utilitarian intuitions, he will perhaps think that I ought to be an egoistic hedonist. I will try to show why I am not.
Two schemes of conduct, says Mr. Sidgwick, may be suggested; each of which is apparently 'reasonable,' and which yet lead to irreconcileable results. I have felt all along that in this conception of the 'reasonableness' of conduct, considered as an alternate end, there lies the real difference between Mr. Sidgwick and myself. I must try to bring it into clearer relief. Mr. Sidgwick seems to regard it as possible that all moral law should be represented as a series of logical deductions from some one or two self-evident propositions. To me it seems to be obvious that a really scientific body of moral doctrines would imply a scientific psychology and sociology. We cannot know what to do in this world till we know what we are and what it is. Starting from the thin air of abstract propositions you can never get within reach of the tangible earth. The process by which ontologists affect to perform that feat always reminds me of the old story about the man who made excellent soup with a stone and some hot water. He simply asked leave to flavour his soup by shredding into it a few scraps of meat and herbs, and the result was excellent. By a metaphysical sleight of hand of the same kind, philosophers contrive to flavour the colourless element of abstract logic with ingredients really derived from experience of the concrete. To elaborate a moral philosophy by such methods seems to me to be just as hopeless as to elaborate a science of medicine in the same way. In medical as in ethical science we have a body of rules, of the utmost importance to health. As they were discovered before physiology was born, and by purely empirical methods, the very absence of a definite logical groundwork might seem to give them a kind of mysterious and independent authority. Further inquiry will, no doubt, tend to establish them in the main, as to modify them in particular points. But I do not think that any real advantage would be gained by announcing as first principles the objectivity of sanitary rules or the intrinsic desirability of physical comfort. It might be important to announce that the object of medicine was to procure health, if some previous superstition had sacrificed sanitary considerations to some prejudice which called itself divine, because it was not reasonable. But even that formula would be useful rather as defining the end of our researches, than as an axiom from which the laws could be deduced by a direct method. If such an attempt were made, I think that we might fall into a difficulty analogous to that of which Mr. Sidgwick speaks. The existence of a disease would appear to involve a contradiction, and we should find that the body, so far as
To desert an analogy which is yet, perhaps, something more than an analogy, I come to Mr. Sidgwick's statement. Right and reasonable conduct, he says, are synonymous. I have some difficulty in understanding what is meant by conduct which is reasonable, unless by it is meant conduct which is consistent, and which does not assume the truth of some inconsistent proposition. Reason must, as it seems to me, have some materials to work upon, whether provided by the senses or the perceptions. Reason in itself seems to me to be reason Mr. Sidgwick notices this question, but does not decide it. In my mind it is] one which requires to be decided.in vacuo—a very good thing, it may be, but incapable of affecting human conduct. But, at any rate, when conduct is called reasonable, it must, I think, be meant that it is reasonable in regard to the agent. Otherwise it would seem that the same conduct would be reasonable for men and beasts, angels and devils. The difficulty, then, which troubles Mr. Sidgwick seems to resolve itself into this: is it reasonable for an immoral agent to be moral? If there is a devil—an agent the law of whose being is the hatred of good—can it be reasonable for him to love good? Or if we suppose men to exist who are absolutely devoid of benevolent motives, can it be reasonable for them to be unselfish? In spite of all intuitions to the contrary, it seems, says .Mr. Sidgwick, to be ultimately reasonable to seek one's own happiness. In popular language, it is true, this seems to be obvious. All self-regarding morality is enlightened prudence; and most of the rules of extra-regarding morality would be obeyed on purely prudential grounds. A man is not wise who declares war upon his species. But if we look a little closer, the maxim requires qualification. Reason, in my view of the case, is not, properly speaking, a faculty which can directly prompt to action.
My earliest recollection of the stage dates from the time, in the early part of this century, when I was a little boy at school in a small town in Warwickshire. A barn in a suburb had been fitted up for a company of strolling players. With feelings of curiosity and wonder, I and some of my schoolfellows often ran to this barn, to read the bills posted on the doors, try to peep into the interior, and gaze at the actors and actresses who entered or emerged. Well do I remember their pale faces, lank forms, easy hilarious manners, and somewhat showy, shabby-genteel attire. We looked at them with great admiration; they appeared to belong to a world very different from ours, and we pictured to ourselves the delight of those fortunate mortals who could gain admission to the playhouse and see them perform.
One day two of the actors known to us by sight passed through our playground to call on the vicar, our schoolmaster, and our excitement was great in speculating on their errand. At dinner our master announced to us that he had bespoken a play, and that on the evening of its performance we should all be taken to see it. I can recall my sensaion on awakening on the morning o that day; those pleasurable flutteings at the heart which came with the revived consciousness of a pronised treat, now close at hand.
The play was Richard III. Probably in the acting, and in every other respect, the representation was extremely poor. But to my in-experenced mind neither faults nor deficiencies were visible, and nothing detracted from the interest with which I attended to the plot and language of the tragedy. Besides, ! had more than once been at Statford-on-Avon, and the name of the great bard was a household word. Bosworth-field, too, was within a few miles of my birthplace, and in the last scenes of the play whatever thought—unabsorbed in the action—may have glanced to the place where it occurred, had probably more colouring from local memories than from the art of the scene-painter. This first experience of play-acting, in the poor little makeshift theatre, was a great enjoyment; became firmly fixed in my memory, and an often recurring subject of my dreams.
My second visit to a theatre happened when I was between eight and nine years of age. My parents took me with them to the metropolis, travelling from Leicestershire with their own carriage and horses. Whilst in London I often went to the stables, as I had been in the habit of doing at home, to see the horses and chat with my friend and patron, John the coachman. He entertained me now by talking about the sights and wonders of the town, and one day he asked me if I should like to go with him to the play and see the famous Mrs. Siddons. Eager for the pleasure, I soon asked and obtained permission, and one fine spring afternoon, by the side of the stalwart and kind-hearted man, trotted merrily from Bolton Street to Covent Garden Theatre, where we were amongst the first to post ourselves before the doors of the 'two-shilling gallery.' When these at last opened, John half dragged me up the many flights of steps, and we succeeded in gaining front seats. I remember the motto—'Veluti in speculum'—over the proscenium, and John's being gratified by his young master telling him the meaning of the Latin words. The play was Macbeth, with Mrs. Siddons the tragic heroine. My attention soon became especially fixed on her acting. I have never
The third time I went to the theatre was in the winter of A New Way to Pay Old Debts, with Edmund Kean in the part of Sir Giles Overreach. Soon after the play had begun, Lord Byron, then one of the committee of management of Drury Lane Theatre, came into the box. My father bade me rise to give him my seat, but he insisted on my keeping it, and as he did so I remarked the sweetness of his smile. Recalling to mind that smile in after years, I could not help believing there must have been much kindliness in Lord Byron's nature; so slight a thing often is enough to bias our judgment of others.
It was the first time I had seen Lord Byron, of whose renown as a poet I had latterly heard much, and my boyish curiosity was excited, though naturally I had but imperfect conceptions of his genius. His pale face, glossy and curly dark hair, and handsome and most expressive features, irresistibly attracted my gaze; in fact, throughout the evening he fascinated me quite as much as did Kean. Lord Byron several times left the box and returned to it. He was present there during the scene where Sir Giles Overreach is unmasked, and in his fury, and choking, as it were, with rage at finding himself foiled, tears away the collar from his neck. Kean's acting, I remember, made me tremble; my attention was riveted; and as he stood near our box, with his face turned towards it (perhaps because he knew Lord Byron was there), it is no wonder I was deeply affected. When the play was at an end I heard Lord Byron, in lively conversation with my father, highly extol the acting of Kean; and I remember, too, his remarking, that 'the youngster' had felt his power.
As Lord Byron sat opposite to me, I could not, as I have said, help gazing much at him, particularly when the curtain was down, as if under a fascination, in a way that I should not have ventured to do had I been older. His beautiful and animated face was full of attraction, and I noted with admiration the longitudinal wrinkles which, when conversing with my father, he frequently threw up on his brow. They seemed to me at my age so beautiful that, before I went to bed that night, I tried before a looking-glass to produce similar wrinkles in my own forehead, and felt disappointed at the want of success.
We remained in Lord Byron's box till the end of the performances. The play, which had interested me so much, was followed by a farce, the name of which I have forgotten. I only recollect that Mrs. Mardyn acted in it, and that she was very sprightly, graceful, and handsome. Subsequently I heard reports mentioned in my father's house that Lord Byron not only greatly admired, but, for a newly married
My first three visits to theatres, of which I am able only to give this meagre and pallid account, nevertheless formed episodes of my early life. The impressions received were
Where recalling to mind, further, these first three visits to theatres, as also many others in London that son followed—at a time when grand scenery and elaborate stage effects were not held to be of such importance as at present—I cannot but share the opinion of those who maintain that too much value may be attached to the getting-up of plays. By crowding the stage with supernumeraries in processions, dances, &c., even in play's of Shakespeare, instead of the pleasure derivable from their representation being enhanced, the attention from essential beauties and good acting is to a considerable extent withdrawn.
From the time when, from Lord Byron's box, I first saw Edmund Kean, my education having been continued at home, I had frequent opportunities of visiting London theatres. The reading, too, in which I most delighted was that of dramatic works. Besides Shakespeare, my father's library contained the works of Ben Jonson, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other dramatists, all of which I read with avidity, often fancying myself acting some of the characters, and thus, perhaps, was better prepared than most boys of my age for relishing dramatic representations.
From The Wheel of Fortune. He seemed to me a very grand and powerful actor, perfect in all his parts. Perhaps he most interested me as Wolsey and King John. Mrs. Siddons I saw once more (in
Miss O'Neill I have repeatedly seen on the stage, and in nearly all her principal tragic parts—as Lady-Constance aforesaid, as Juliet, as Isabella, Belvedera, Mrs. Haller, and Jane Shore. She may not have been so grand as Mrs. Siddons in some of the parts which both these actresses have undertaken, but for pathos and tenderness Miss O'Neill can scarcely have been surpassed by any actress. A more fascinating and touching Juliet was, perhaps, never seen; and indeed in all her principal characters she strongly enlisted one's sympathies. I have seen her too in less serious parts; for instance, with much pleasure as Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew—in which play Charles Young acted with her, as Petruchio, most admirably—and also as Lady Teazle. In the latter part, excepting in the later scenes, she did not interest me particularly, having seen Miss Brunton in the same part with more pleasure. The School for Scandal on the whole has probably never been better performed than in the days alluded to. Charles Kemble and Young were admirable representatives of the characters of Charles and Joseph Surface, and W. Farren acted Sir Peter Teazle to perfection. In all three the bearing of polished gentlemen was conspicuous, and whilst Charles Kemble fully represented his character, in animal spirits, open-heartedness, and wit, Young was quite as effective for the ease and refined speciousness he displayed in the part of Joseph.
All the performances just mentioned were at Covent Garden Theatre, but I also frequently visited its rival, 'Old Drury,' and saw Edmund Kean in all his principal parts; especially remembering him in Richard III., Othello, Macbeth, Lear, Shylock, Sir Edmund Mortimer, Bertram, and, as already mentioned, Sir Giles Overreach. He thoroughly realised all the characters I have seen him perform, and by giving in certain scenes the freest expression to his inspirations of the moment, he often aroused his audiences to an extraordinary pitch of enthusiasm. Although small in stature, his limbs were well proportioned, his face handsome and expressive, his eyes full of fire. More than once I have seen him at Drury Lane as Othello—in which part he displayed much pathos—and Charles Young at the same time as Iago. The latter performed his part with such life-like ease, and brought out the satirical and humorous features of it so admirably, that, in the earlier scenes, one could hardly help regarding the clever villain with feelings akin to liking. It is not possible, I think, that any other actor in the part of Iago could ever have displayed more perfectly than Young the consciousness of superior intellectual power, contempt for others, and wickedness of purpose, yet masked withal by the semblance of honest candour. One could well understand how Cassio and Othello were as wax in the hands of so specious a villain. I once saw Kean and Young at Drury Lane reverse their parts in this tragedy, but with less satisfaction.
Kean was likewise admirable in comic parts. I liked him particularly in The Honeymoon; and on his benefit nights I have seen him as Paul in Paul and Virginia, as Sylvester Daggerwood, and I once saw him dressed and dance as a harlequin, I think in an afterpiece called the Admirable Crichton, and had thus an opportunity of admiring the remarkable grace and agility of his bodily movements.
Macready I have also many times
The Slave he was very effective. In The Lady of Lyons. On this occasion Miss Helen Faucit acted with him, and was very effective and fascinating as Pauline. I was not only much moved myself by the acting of these two, but I remarked the great effect it produced on the feelings of the audience in general. Only a true conception of his parts, earnestness of purpose, and high histrionic art could enable an actor to make such impressions on an audience as Macready was capable of making; though, at the same time, there was a certain mannerism—though quite original—in his style of acting, and his movements and postures were often far from graceful. Nevertheless in impassioned moments he always greatly fixed the attention, and enlisted the sympathies of the audience by his force and pathos. Like the Kembles and Charles Young, Macready was noted, in private life, as well as on the stage, for gentlemanly bearing. I have not had the pleasure of his acquaintance, but with Charles Kemble and Young I have had many opportunities of agreeable intercourse.
When I think of the other actors and actresses whom I have seen in early life, I am almost bewildered by the number and variety of my recollections. I am unable, however, to do much more than recall to mind general impressions of their powers, and the pleasure I have derived from the performances of their famous parts. Elliston, Dowton, Munden, Emery,—each of these was gifted with a well-marked individuality, and a special power of pleasing. Elliston, I remember particularly as Archer, in Beaux' Strategem; as Young Rapid, in Cure for a Heartache; as Rover, in Wild Oats; and as vapid, in The Dramatist. Although he was no longer young at that time, yet the ease and buoyancy of his acting were still truly remarkable. As Archer, his acting must have been almost as captivating as, by all accounts, that of Garrick had been in this part. Dowton played in more solid and gravely humorous parts, and indeed for more lively and mercurial, neither his mental gifts nor his figure would have suited him. I particularly remember him as Dr. Cantwell in The Hypocrite, representing the sensual pretender to godliness with great fire and unction. Having seen M. Bressant in London (in the spring of 18 71) in the character of Tartuffe, and compared, as well as memory would allow, his acting with that of Dowton in the English counterpart of the character, I came to the conclusion that the Frenchman acted the religious hypocrite in a far more refined and subtle manner than Dowton did. But probably the English version of Molière's great play is coarse compared to the original. In the latter, the character of Mawworm, for instance, belonging rather to broad farce than comedy, and which Liston acted so ludicrously, is not to be found. I have seen Dowton, too, act Sir Anthony Absolute to great perfection. Munden, of the dry and racy humour, lives vividly in my memory. He was excellent as Old Rapid (on the occasion when I saw Elliston as Young Rapid), as Justice Woodcock, as Dornton in The Road
to Ruin—on which occasion I again saw, and greatly admired, Mrs. Mardyn's Sophia. I twice saw him and Dowton in The Beggars' Opera, the first as Peachum, the second as Lockit, and the enjoyment these two humorous actors gave the theatre was very great. Emery, too, was a comedian who not only provoked much hilarity, by acting entirely free from buffoonery, but likewise could touch the heart and draw tears by his earnestness and pathos. He was admirable in particular when representing unsophisticated rustic characters, Yorkshiremen, &c. Tokeley I also well remember as an excellent comic actor. I have seen him, together with Emery and Liston, in A Midsummer Night's Dream, he as Snug, the others as Quince and Bottom, when they convulsed the house with laughter. These three likewise acted together with great force at Covent Garden, in the parts of Dirk Hatteraick, Dandie Dinmont, and Dominie Sampson, in the musical drama founded on Walter Scott's Guy Mannering. Liston, as the Dominie, was irresistibly comical; and in this piece Mrs. Egerton was very forcible and effective as Meg Merrilies. I have also seen with much enjoyment other plays founded on Scott's novels in which Miss Stephens (subsequently Countess of Essex) sang Scotch melodies with great plaintiveness and sweetness of expression. These dramas were very popular at the time now alluded to, and they were frequently given at Covent Garden in the same season. But it was not then the custom, as now, to run a popular piece hundreds of nights in succession, whereby the actors are at length almost necessitated to perform their parts mechanically. Macready was very effective and popular in the part of Rob Roy, Mrs. Egerton as the freebooter's wife, and Liston as Bailie Nicol Jarvie. The latter was certainly very droll in this part, but I have since seen the part of the Bailie far more characteristically though less comically performed in Edinburgh by a Scotch actor, Mackay.
Mathews I saw repeatedly on the boards of Covent Garden, and have never known an actor of more versatile comic power. He could thoroughly stimulate and sustain the hilarity of an audience. "Very amusing he was in Love, Law, and Physic, and particularly in the Scene where he sang, in a mock pathetic way, the song of 'Poor Miss Bailey,' using pestle and mortar the while; and no less so as Lenitive in The Prize, as Puff in The Critic, and as Sylvester Dagger-wood. After his engagement at Covent Garden was over, I saw him three or four times at the Lyceum, in an original entertainment, called At Home, in which his drollery, wit, and power of mimicry literally convulsed everybody with laughter. For myself I remember on one occasion having to leave the box to recover from the effect produced on me of too strong a dose of vis comica.
Other comedians, whom I well remember on the stage, were Harley, Alfred Jones, Russell, Wrench, Yates, Terry, and, as already mentioned, Liston, who, perhaps, was the most generally popular comic actor I have ever seen. The first four of the actors I have just named, and whom I have seen chiefly in broad farces, excelled in representing lively, dashing characters, and if they were not gifted with great originality or versatility of power, they were always highly entertaining. Harley and Russell were the most humorous of the four. Harley was highly amusing as Risk in Love laughs at Locksmiths, and as Puff in The Critic. Russell I remember causing great laughter as Jerry Sneak in The Mayor of Garrett, in which piece Terry, too, was admirable as Major Sturgeon. Jones was good as Vapid, and as
Where shall I dine ? Jones was amusing, too, in A Roland for an Oliver, in which piece he acted with the fascinating Miss Foote as Maria Darlington. I can vividly recall to mind the scene where Maria, feigning to be deranged, with her long hair down her back, and her head between the boughs of a weeping willow, sang to the air of a popular waltz and ended with dancing. In this scene Miss Foote succeeded in turning the heads of the jeunesse dorée of that day. But she was still more admirable in better parts; for instance, Imogen, Miss Neville, in She stoops to Conquer, and Letitia Hardy. Terry was an earnest and intellectual actor, of a higher stamp than those above mentioned. I remember to have seen him at the Haymarket with admiration as Mephistopheles in an English version of Goethe's Faust, and as Mr. Green in a piece called The Green Man. This latter piece, like Paul Pry—in which Liston was so famous—had a great run at that theatre.
Miss Brunton I saw several times after she had married Mr. Yates, and the latter and Terry had taken the Adelphi Theatre. Yates was considered to be an excellent actor and mimic; but, though he had a good position at Covent Garden, and I remember him very amusing in a piece written to caricature the officers of a certain Hussar regiment, reputed to be excessively extravagant, fine, and conceited, he did not, on the whole, impress me greatly. Far otherwise was it with his wife. Her acting of the chief character in Victorine; or, I'll sleep on it, was very touching, and in other so-called Adelphi pieces she deeply moved the hearts of her audiences.
Whilst recalling to mind pieces of a sensational character—far removed from such as are now so designated—I must speak of the melodramas which, in my early play-going days, were very popular as after-pieces at the 'patent theatres.' Miss Kelly, in The Maid and the Magpie, in The Innkeeper's Daughter (founded on Southey's exquisite ballad, 'Mary the Maid of the Inn'), in The Forty Thieves, and other pieces of that stamp, has often thrilled me to the core. There was something peculiarly touching in Miss Kelly's voice, so clear and of a quality which goes direct to the heart. In this respect it resembled that of some dramatic singer's I have heard of late—of Mile. Nilsson, for instance. Her pantomimic action, too, was very impressive and never overdone. The illusion produced by her acting was every way perfect; and after the feelings of her audiences had been long kept in a state of harrowing suspense, and many tears had been shed over her trials and dangers as melodramatic heroine, great was the relief when the happy denouement came.
In recording thus warmly my reminiscences of Miss Kelly's acting, it is not to be supposed that I have ranked her above the great tragic actresses I have seen. Possibly melodramas would not interest me now, certainly not unless I could again see in them an actress like Miss Kelly, and such performers as Munden, Dowton, Wallack, and Oxberry—who appeared with her in The Maid and the Magpie—as likewise Tokeley, Farley, and T. P. Cooke, whom I have repeatedly seen in pieces of that class. Still, if only moderately well performed, a melodrama—like The Innkeeper's Daughter—would please me far better than some of our modern sensational pieces with their confused plots, mechanical attempts at realism, and their tableaux vivants. Indeed, as regards the latter point, if a drama be good and well acted, I know of nothing better suited to dispel illusions, than to see the per-
Although melodramas, such as I have had experience of, can greatly affect the feelings, yet the impressions they leave on the mind are not so strong and lasting as those produced by a good tragedy. This naturally must be the case, if only for the reason that melodramas end cheerily, thus dispelling previous saddening impressions. Perhaps Miss Kelly would not have succeeded well in tragedy (she acted, however, Ophelia, though I have never seen her in that part). Her histrionic talent was not concentrated in the expression of one class of emotions, for she was quite as fascinating in comic characters as in representing grief and the deeper feelings of the heart. I remember her as Kitty in High Life below Stairs, as Miss Peggy in The Country Girl, as Lucy in The Beggars' Opera, and in other comic parts, in which for naturalness, piquancy, and sprightliness she was inimitable.
There is another city in which, in early life, I have had great opportunities of seeing good plays thoroughly well acted. In the autumn of
Edmund Kean I have never seen to greater advantage than in the moderately-sized theatre of Edinburgh. There he had no far-seated 'gods' on whom to make an impression, and had not to strain his voice, as in the large arena of Drury Lane, the auditorium of that theatre being much larger at that time than it is now. I cannot conceive anything more perfect than his acting of Othello, along with Mrs. H. Siddons as Desdemona. Charles Young, and Charles Kemble also, I have never seen act to greater perfection than in Edinburgh.
The experiences now gained of actors and actresses not only eminent on the stage, but remarkable in social life for various admirable qualities, led me to reflect on the connection between the natural character of an actor and his power of embodying particular creations of great dramatic authors. It is generally admitted, I believe, that John Kemble displayed neither versatility on the stage, nor in social intercourse. His admirable impersonation of Coriolanus, and of other strong-willed characters, agreed, I presume, with his own strong and somewhat proud disposition. Of Mrs. Siddons I have heard it said by some of her contemporaries, that she was always the 'tragedy queen.' This may have been an exaggeration, though her manners and deportment in society, as I remember them, were certainly very earnest and formal. Subsequent to her retirement from the stage, I passed a fortnight under the same roof with her in a country house. Her reserved and stately manners impressed me almost painfully. I never ventured to speak to her, nor do I remember her ever addressing a word to me. I remember that at dinner one day an impudent boy just arrived from the Charter-house School, on hearing Mrs. Siddons addressed by her name, repeated it, as it were to himself, and then turning to her said, 'Mrs. Siddons, ar'n't you a player?' Draving herself up in her stately way, she replied, 'I was, sir!'
Had the mind of Mrs. Siddons been versatile, less concentrated on the deeper feelings of the human heart, she would not have been able to display that lofty and peculiar tragic force which has been felt by all who have seen her,
Mathews may be cited as an instance, in another line of acting, of natural gifts being in harmony with success on the stage. In socia circles he was generally hilarious, witty, and most entertaining, especially whenever he felt himself at ease, and no demands were made on him for exertion. I remember him at Mrs. H. Siddons' dinner table, overflowing with witty sallies, with anecdotes and jokes, causing quite as much laughter as when 'at home' on the stage. Charles Mathews, the son of this celebrated comedian, has owed a great part of his popularity to having inherited his father's temperament. Although he was brought up to be an architect, his natural bent led him to give up that profession for the stage. I recollect Mrs. H. Siddons asking the elder Mathews about his son, then a pupil to an architect. 'Oh,' he replied in his humorous way, 'Charley can now draw a house almost as well as I can.'
I also heard Mathews give Mrs. H. Siddons an account of a party in the house of a rich Writer of the Signet, a kind of northern Mæcenas, with whom he had dined the day before. In the drollest way, Mathews, speaking of this dinner party, said that neither host, hostess, nor any of the guests knew how to promote conversation. With the dessert, he added, came in a body of young children, who arranged themselves, according to their size, or each side of their mother. After this, the conversation flagged more than ever, and the eyes of young, as well as old, became fixed on the unhappy comedian. At length the lady of the house, in her eagerness to have her darlings amused, turning to Mathews said, 'Oh, dear Mr. Mathews, pray begin to be funny, for the children soon must go to bed.' This, added Mathews, was the climax; so pleading indisposition, he made his escape from the party as soon as he could.
Liston, on the other hand, whom I likewise met in Mrs. H. Siddons' house, was a comic actor of a very different stamp. His great popu-
The foregoing recollections of the English stage may be supplemented with a slight mention of some theatrical experiences on the Continent, chiefly in Germany. In Munich I have repeatedly seen the tragedians Esslair and Madame Sophie Schroeder in many of their principal parts, and in Vienna have witnessed many admirable performances of classical plays in the Burg Theatre. At this latter, the company (Fidelio, and in the serious operas of Gluck, Spohr, and Meyerbeer, as well as in operas of the modern Italian school; and apart from her musical gifts, her touching voice, particularly in its middle tones, and her power of vocal expression, she displayed histrionic talent of the highest order. I have known her likewise in private life, and ranked her with the most genial of her sex.
Of the stage in France I have had but little experience, but have seen the great Talma as Orestes, and, though too young at the time to have been critical, can remember to have felt his power; and subsequently, in Paris, have seen and greatly admired the actresses Jenny Vertpré and Leontine Fay at the Gymnase in the vaudevilles of
Valérie, being the heroine of that name, who until the last act, when she is restored to sight by the skill of her lover, is represented as blind. In one of the scenes, when female beauty is mentioned, nothing could exceed the charm of her expression, and the sweetly naive way in which, addressing her lover, she says, 'Et moi, suis-je jolie?'
A German actress, Caroline Bauer, whom I have frequently seen on the boards of the Dresden theatre, and met in the saloon of Tieck, the poet and dramaturgist, has reported a conversation she once had with the latter about Mademoiselle Mars. Aus meinem Bühnenleben, 'in the periodical Ueber Land und Meer. Stuttgart, esprit. The good Parisians admire in their heavenly Mars (to be sure without knowing it, for otherwise the pride of la grande nation would not permit admiration) German art, German soul, German acting.' That German political writers claim for their nation a pre-eminence for Geist und Tugend, I have long been aware, but the above instance of national exaltation in an actress is as striking as it is ludicrous.
To offer, in conclusion, a few observations on the English stage, according to my experiences of late years, I must express the pain it has given me to see the great falling-off since the days of Garrick, of which I have only historical knowledge, One of the most fascinating accounts of Garrick's acting with which I am acquainted is that by Lichtenberg, a German author of the last century, celebrated alike as a mathematician and astronomer, and as a witty, humorous, and critical writer. In his Briefe aus England (published in his collected works) the acting of Garrick as Hamlet, as Sir John Brute in The Provoked Wife, as Archer in The Beaux' Stratagem, as Abel Drugger in The Alchemist, and in some other of his celebrated parts, is admirably described; and the bodily, mental, and other causes of Garrick's pre-eminence as an actor are well explained. These letters, translated by me, have been published, with some omissions, by Mr. Tom Taylor in his article on 'The Great Actors of Victoria Magazine, Poor Nobleman.
In the summer of The Porter's Knot. My companion, though but little acquainted with our language, was extremely interested in Rob-son's acting. He had never seen, he told me, an actor who in his par-
Perhaps there may be some clever actors on the English stage at present whom I have not seen, or not to best advantage. Mr. Phelps, whose name stands high, I have only seen in one of Shakespeare's characters, in which, although I perceived that he was a thoughtful and good actor, he did not answer my expectations. But I have not seen him as Lord Ogleby, nor as Sir Pertinax Macsycophant, said to be his best parts.
As to 'the decay of the drama' in England, and the possible 'revival of the drama,' so many and complicated considerations present themselves, that, at least for the present, I must pretermit them.
Many things have contributed lately to draw attention more than ordinary to the position of Egypt and the intentions and aims of the Khedive, but none more so than the recently published book by Sir Samuel Baker. 'Ismailia' goes over to some extent the same ground as this great traveller's 'Albert N'yanza,' but it has an interest peculiar to itself to which that fascinating book could lay no claim. Sir Samuel went forth on his last journey no longer as a private adventurer taking his life in his hand for the glory of being recorded discoverer of the sources of the Nile, but as a high official of the Egyptian Viceroy backed by an army and bent on conquest. This position puts a meaning on his story and gives his actions an importance which they could not otherwise have possessed; and as reviewers have hitherto touched but slightly upon this side of the subject, I should like to dwell upon it for a little. Ordinary literary criticism of this book we have had enough of, and it has had much well-deserved praise for its style, the vigorous personality it displays, and the keen interest which its author manages to excite and maintain. There is, however, this other aspect of the subject—that which deals with what Sir Samuel did as Baker Pacha, and to this I shall address myself.
It must have been difficult for a reader of Sir Samuel Baker's other books to suppress a feeling of surprise and astonishment on hearing that he had accepted a mission of conquest on behalf of the Viceroy of Egypt. Surely this was a strange conversion—Sir Samuel Baker going to put the heart of Africa under the heel of the Turk! Impossible! Had he not always denounced the Turk with the utmost bitterness as a being incapable of governing, rapacious, and bloodthirsty, quoting with approval the proverb,' The grass never grows in the footsteps of a Turk,' as a sample of the popular feeling about this dominant race? And yet here he was himself one of them, a Turkish official full of zeal for the Egyptian service. He had become Baker Pacha, and was to conquer the whole Nile basin to the dominions of the Khedive. Ah! but he was to put down the slave trade: this is the scroll on his banner; he goes to set the poor aborigines free. Well, that only added to the puzzle; for were not the Mahommedan rulers of Egypt the main cause of that slave trade? The Turks did not themselves kidnap, and so the Arabs kindly did it for them; but the Arabs alone could not have pursued the traffic without strong support. Slave-holding was a necessity in the social life of the Turk race: thus only could menials be procured; the palaces of the Khedive, the houses of his ministers, the bazaars, private dwellings—all swarmed with slaves, with men, women, and children brought from the Upper Nile valleys, from the far African inland. These beings are kept to do degrading work, or for their master's pleasure, or as sources of profit; and as they are apt to die of pulmonary diseases in the climate of Lower Egypt, the supply of these human commodities has to be constant and large. To conquer the great slave countries, therefore, and to bring them under the direct government of the Turk, what was it but to secure this supply? With such a condition of things, it was rather a misnomer to call such a raid with a view to annexation, an
This uncomfortable feeling, both as to the character of the mission Sir Samuel undertook, and as to his own judgment in accepting and conducting it, does not grow smaller as one reads the vigorous history in which, now that his work is done, Sir Samuel tells what he did and how he fared. Sometimes, as when he describes the solemn ceremony of 'annexing' a piece of territory with flag flying, troop reviewing, and gun firing, the sensation produced in the reader's mind is one bordering on the comical, but mostly this story makes one sad. We ask continually what good has Sir Samuel Baker done by all this expenditure of energy and resolution—this marching, fighting, slave-boat capturing, haranguing, and wrangling on the Upper Nile? He has brought the country little or no nearer civilisation; passing through it as he did much like a meteor in the midnight sky, he has left the darkness seemingly greater than he found it. Hatred from the slave-dealers; and amongst the miserable tribes, fear that these dealers would know how to utilise to their own profit the disorganisation produced when the 'conqueror's' back was turned—these effects he produced plentifully; but not a score of such expeditions as his under the auspices of the Turk could put slave-hunting down. The constant wrath with which he alludes to the doings of his archenemy, the prince of Arab slave-hunters, Aboo Saood, is itself a confession of his impotence to effect the purpose for which he ostensibly came. This wrath becomes almost a wail towards the close of the book. Perhaps this presence of a power other than his own, and, up to a short time before he left the country, as legal as his own—for Aboo Saood carried the licence of the Government—might have opened Sir Samuel's eyes to the true nature of his position, had he not been blinded, as one must, I fear, conclude, by a somewhat inordinate vanity. He denounces the deeds of his enemy, but he does not cease to boast of his own conquests, of the fear he inspired, of the tribes he conquered, and the savages he shot. How could this hater of the Turk in other days become thus his boastful servant, unless from being intoxicated with the part of a puppet Alexander, of despot over lands enough to make an empire? That this 'passion of the mind' in part accounts for it is what I fear and believe. But there were other reasons that influenced him—reasons which show, I think, the nobler side of Sir Samuel Baker's character, and which probably at the outset of his work predominated. They are to be found in the peculiar position of Egypt, and in the idiosyncrasies of her present ruler, rather than in Sir Samuel himself. He was led away, as other Englishmen without number have been led, to think that a new era had dawned in the valley of the Nile.
To understand fully the meaning of this exploit, therefore, and to measure in some degree the consequences of it, both when Sir Samuel Baker headed the advance, and now that the government of the annexed territory has passed into the hands of a man of an altogether different mould, we must turn our attention to Egypt herself. What is her position, what is the character of her ruler and his aims? If these are understood, then it will be easier to sum up, the work of Baker Pacha. It needs
The key to the double-lined policy of the present ruler of Egypt is this ambition: this makes him court alike civilisation and extensive dominion. No other province of the Turkish Empire can at all compare with Egypt in the orderliness of the government or in the extent to which it has succeeded in introducing civilising agencies amongst the people. In this respect the conduct of Ismail is in marked contrast to that of his nominal master, the Sultan; and although under him Egypt has become loaded with a vast public debt—as yet almost the chief monument of progress in civilisation that she can show—in nothing is the contrast more marked than in the uses to which Turkey and Egypt have severally put the money that has been lent to them. In the case of Turkey, hardly any of it has been used wisely, and the reckless folly and waste with which, even when a good end was in view, it has been misspent, has made the money borrowed by Turkey a curse to her. But in the case of Egypt hardly any of her borrowings have been laid out on a foolish purpose, although much of it may have been rather wastefully lavished on a good one. Egypt has, for example (according to an able little pamphlet recently printed by an eminent Egyptian banker), paid about seventeen and a half millions on
In spite of drawbacks, therefore, Egypt has to be treated as a growing power. She is greater in not a few ways to-day than she was ten years ago, every year becoming more powerful than the empire to which she has been forcibly tied, and, blunders and misrule notwithstanding, promises to be greater still in the future—if Ismail live. That if is, however, all-important.
The problem which the Viceroy has set himself to solve as the means of reaching the goal—of founding a new empire—is a very difficult one, and he cannot be said yet to have solved it. The efforts which he has unceasingly made to mingle Western ideas with the whole mass of Mahommedan ideas and habits have not yet borne any perceptible fruit so far as the population is concerned. In his European leanings and policy of scientific progress he is far ahead of his people, and even of the most of his subordinates. Their ideas are still far from his. But, being absolute, he has produced superficially a great and notable change; for the Oriental bows submissive and silent to the will of his master, and the sight of the great changes he has wrought has bewitched Europeans, and kindled their enthusiasm. These seek to see with the Khedive's eyes, to hope with his hopes, and, believing in his honesty and in his power to do what he will with the country, forget that the very absoluteness of that will increases rather than lessens the danger which the State may be in from probable reaction against his reforms. The Arabs have no parliament, and government by a majority is not an institution that the Khedive has succeeded in establishing; but they contrive at times to have their will by means of the assassin's knife, and to turn the current of politics, mechanically as it were, when a new head gives place to an old.
Europeans, and most of all Englishmen, seem to forget this, however; and it was doubtless a belief in the power of the ruler of Egypt to do as he willed even with slavery, strange though it might seem, that induced Sir Samuel Baker in the first instance so readily to undertake the annexation of territory at discretion to his dominions. Sir Samuel had come
It was a mistake too on the part of the Viceroy to ever think of organising such an expedition, and argued a degree of impatience which hardly consists with breadth of intellect. His cry almost from the outset of it was for returns—revenue; and he has turned round with some "bitterness on the English Pacha since he came back for leading him to so great expense with nothing to show for it. But how could it be otherwise? It will be long before Central Africa can repay the trouble taken—longer still before Egypt obtains any substantial grasp of the country. So far as putting down slavery is concerned, the position taken by Sir Samuel under the Viceroy's protection was from the first singularly anomalous; and unless he were carried away by a rather maudlin philanthropic dream, he was remarkably short-sighted too. The slave systems of Egypt and Turkey will only disappear with the Mahommedan creed. The utmost that can be hoped for from this ambitious scheme is that henceforth the slave trade will be hotter regulated, that the rulers of Egypt will see that the poor blacks are no longer herded together like swine in wretched dhows, or compelled to march wounded, fainting, and dying through weary stretches of desert country, or that the cattle of one tribe are not stolen to pay for the women and children of another. The war between the old institutions and the new ideas in Egypt will become deadly indeed if more than that be attempted.
An expedition of this kind reveals, however, the character and the ambitions of the ruler of Egypt; and the new and peculiar attitude which he has assumed towards his country as civiliser, his passion for European habits, his unremitting desire by all means, but chiefly by European means, to build up the greatness of his country, have in them something that fascinates the mind. We do not wonder that Sir Samuel Baker has been led away by the spectacle, for many more besides him have been induced to believe that here the impossible might be accomplished. In spite of the fact, obvious to those who look on dispassionately, that all which Ismail has done hitherto has had for aim the building of a great Mahommedan power (with whose peculiar constitution Western ideas cannot permanently consort), men will believe that some vital change has been wrought—that the new wine is after all going to be stored in the old bottles without their bursting. But Egypt is being consolidated, her riches eagerly developed, her borders extended beyond what men dreamt of half a generation ago, by English gold largely, and English enterprise, solely in order that Egypt may one day become great as an independent Mussulman power. Nothing is more obvious than that fact: that is the goal of the Khedive's policy as it was of Mehemet Ali's—that the secret of his persistence. More than once he
Hence, by reason of this very ambition, although always pushing onward, eagerly adopting reforms of every material kind, building railways, cotton mills, sugar refineries, canals, doing all that would in his esteem tend to make the people rich, the Khedive dare not break with his people in furtherance of a philanthropist's dream. He knows too well the limits of his power to so run counter to all the thoughts of their hearts and habits of their lives as to follow Sir Samuel Baker in his enthusiasm about suppressing the slave trade; but he was adroit enough to use that enthusiasm for his own ends. How narrow is the range of his reforming spirit is seen well enough in the fact that his heir apparent has had no European education, and can speak no language bat Arabic. The Khedive himself is a true Turk still; and though he may not foresee all the consequences of the changes he is making, looking as he does but to the one object, assuredly his aim is not to subvert the present social order, and to cause himself to be looked upon as the degrader of his co-religionists. But he has thrown a glamour over the minds of Europeans—of Englishmen—so that many miss altogether the real drift of the man's life, and, like Sir Samuel Baker, fondly hope that they are ushering in a new day when they lend all their strength to, and put their own gloss upon, the schemes of the Viceroy. Possibly there may be a vital change working up, but assuredly if it be so, it is because new forces are at work which neither he nor they take much heed of.
The Khedive Ismail, in short, means, before all things, to make Egypt a great modern power, capable of holding its own amongst the nations when the crack of doom comes for the empire of which his country is now nominally but a province; and it is worth while to consider if it seems likely that this able man will succeed in his intention. The question is profoundly interesting, indeed, on far wider grounds than those embraced in the discovery of what false steps Sir Samuel Baker and men like him may have taken; still it has a bearing upon that narrower topic, and is worth some thought in that connection, because Baker, chief amongst others, has given encouragement to a particular policy which must become important to England in certain eventualities.
The spectacle of a revivified Mahommedanism giving life to a new empire in Africa, bringing order and some kind of honesty of government into the wilds of the far inland, teaching the tribes there to reverence authority; of a power able to keep its independence, to open the centre of a great continent to commerce and civilisation, and to hold the key of the East as firmly as it was ever held by the House of Othman at Stamboul, when men thought the centre of the earth lay there—such a spectacle would be a most alluring one on many grounds to the political stu-
his personality almost in a day. No empire can be built upon a basis so shifty as that. The work which has been done, granting it one of progress, needs the presence of a ruler who cannot capriciously change things, to keep it from being
But this state of perpetual dependence is just the one that gives significance to a political raid like that of Sir Samuel Baker. Egypt has been coming more and more under European influence, and Europeans have so wound themselves about it, that it is theirs more than the Egyptians'. The French have made the Suez Canal, and by so doing placed the country in a position to hold the key of the far East; and as she has no power to hold it herself, some one must see that it is held for her. This greatest step in her advance to importance has thus placed her supremely in the hands of strangers. Egypt has become the prey of 'scientific progress' men, of adventurers, mercantile and others, but most of all it has become essentially subject to the great maritime powers who have interests east of the Red Sea, and to England beyond all others. Our interest in the Canal is not approached by that of any maritime power in the world; and we are consequently compelled by sheer self-interest to keep a close hold over the native rulers of Egypt, to prevent any other powers obtaining the paramount influence there to our hurt. We dared not even allow a private company, such as that of the Suez Canal, to maintain shipping tariffs and tonnage dues inimical to our interests. In the event of a struggle over the partition of the Turkish empire—by no means an unlikely or remote eventuality—England could not allow any of the combatants to lay hold of Egypt; if the neutrality of that country could not be guaranteed, there would be no resource but for her to hold it against all comers at the point of the bayonet. The interests of our Indian empire, of our vast Chinese trade, would not leave us any alternative, and the fact that such a contingency always faces England brings conspicuously into light the weakness of this ambitious tributary State. She could not defend herself nor make her own terms. Even should self-interest induce the contending powers on the continent of Europe and in Asia to sign a compact to hold Egypt neutral, it would not make her strong; the arranging of that compact would be an affair to which Egypt could be no weighty party; her duty would be simply to obey. And there is always a contingency which English statesmen ought to face, and in which action must be prompt—the complete occupation of the country. Still I admit it is not by any means an immediate or pressing contingency; and even did it occur, it would be perfectly compatible with our own safety that Egypt should be permitted to look after its internal affairs itself. We might hold the country so far as it
Now it seems to me that the expedition of Sir Samuel Baker, looked at on its political side, gives just the impulse wanted to place us in the false position of being compelled to rule Egypt as well as hold it neutral during a fight and always. His conduct raises new questions, and, whether he meant it or not, places upon this country new obligations towards Egypt which need not otherwise have been heard of. For our trade with the country, although great, is not much more than a transit trade, which would have been sufficiently protected by holding the ports and the Canal, so that, in any ordinary event, disturbances, unless they arose within the country, should not have made us take upon ourselves its government. But Sir Samuel has done his best to force that government upon us. When he became a Pacha, he could not divest himself of the position of an 'English citizen,' nor did he seek to. He, on the contrary, gloried in his citizenship, and boasted that he had gone forth to put down a great evil as an Englishman; and many, doubtless, will be disposed to say that England, for the honour of the country, must not let his labour be lost. He has interfered in the internal affairs of Egypt nominally as an Egyptian official it is true, but with all the weight of his country's philanthropy loudly proclaimed as at his back; and this knight errantry of his has virtually committed us to the task of suppressing the slave trade in Central Africa. He has implicated us thereby in the affairs of Egypt to an extent that must make action unavoidable should any political cause arise for drawing relations closer between the two States. Nothing stirs popular sympathy more in this country than a good 'cry' about the wrongs of the slave trade, and Sir Samuel has painted these wrongs in so black a light, has vaunted so loudly his own services in sweeping them away, that should it turn out after all that he has done next to nothing, people will tease the Government into attempts on its own account—attempts that may be ill-timed, and that may lead to many troubles. Nay, we have further committed ourselves to the policy this English Pacha inaugurated by suffering a Royal Engineer officer to go and take up his work, so that these civilisers under the wing of Mahomet and the Turks cannot now be allowed to fail. Col. Gordon is not, indeed, going about his task so fiercely as Sir Samuel did, and seems to see that slavery cannot be suppressed by a march through the hunting-grounds of inner Africa. He is indeed pleasing the Khedive much by paying more attention to quieting the country than to subduing it by force of arms—by looking to the main chance, revenue, rather than to the 'annexation' by beat of drum of some tribe's pasture grounds. But, although he works quietly, and probably sees that slave-holding must be tempered rather than abolished, none the less have the language and actions of the 'mighty hunter' who preceded him made the clanger of our ultimate intervention in Egypt over this question a very real one. The Mahommedans will not, we may rest assured, give up their slaves; it was a dream ever to suppose that a mere scamper over the sources of supply would conduce to making them do so, however it might for a moment cause them to shift the source whence they drew their main supply; but people will nevertheless say that they ought to give them up, and that the honour of England is enlisted in the cause of the oppressed
I may be told, indeed, that I have, in saying this, much exaggerated the importance of 'Baker Pacha's' work; that it was merely a passing episode soon to be forgotten. In a country less bound up with our material interests than Egypt it might have been so; but here, I think, the force of what he has done and said can hardly be exaggerated. He has appealed to a popular English craze or superstition with all the vigour of which he is master, and the progress of political events will by-and-by open up the way for that superstition to act upon English statesmen with perhaps irresistible force. I honour Baker for his enthusiasm and his bravery, but I cannot admire his judgment nor believe that by doing as he has done in this episode he has done wisely or well.
The Commission appointed to I examine public and private collections for MSS. of historical interest continues its useful labours, and the report recently issued (consisting of 856 folio pp.) greatly exceeds its predecessors in bulk, and equals them in the interest of its contents. Since the Commissioners commenced their labours, in
We propose first noticing the collections which contain documents relating to the Middle Ages, treating that period, for convenience, as extending to the end of the fifteenth century. Of these the 'miscellaneous' portion of the muniments of Westminster Abbey is the most interesting, and Mr. Burtt has made a careful inventory of the documents composing it, based on the catalogue of Widmore, compiled in the last century. One pacquet contains eleven warrants or letters from Henry III. to Masters John of Gloucester, Edward of Westminster, and Robert of Beverley, 'our masons and wardens of our works at Westminster,' directing that marble columns and blocks of freestone should be sent to St. Martin's. London, to make a pulpit; that the Friars Preachers should have 1,000 freestones for their works, and all the cinders of all the lead for the Church of Westminster, to make an aqueduct. Another paper states that the cost of the works at Westminster, from their commencement under Henry III. to his 45th year, was 29,345 Fenry III.'s second coronation took place at 'Westminster. Little had been done to this nave since the death of Edward I. Under the direction of Whittington, Lord Mayor, it was continued, by command of Henry V., in the style of two Iean Stanley calls this 'the last relic of the lingering Plantagenet affection for their foreign home.'—l. 19s. 8d. There is an Indulgence promulgated by Abbot William de Humez to all contributing towards the building of the Lady Chapel between l, annually to the 'new work,' the Crown gave the abbot the Priory of Stoke-nigh-Clare. A Letter Patent, Historical Memorials, 132.
Among the Indulgences are those by Reynard, Archb of Armagh, in
A few documents refer to disputes between the Abbot and the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishops of London and Winchester, respecting jurisdiction. The three latter protested that by coming into the Abbey at the royal request to say mass and do service at the burial of Avelina, wife of Edmund Earl of Lancaster, and at the coronation of Edward II., the privileges of the Abbey should not be affected.
The abbots were often obliged to borrow, and appear to have resorted to Italian merchants for the purpose. Richard de Berking ( This golden It was not an unusual circumstance for a monastery to lend its relics for the benefit of sick persons. The Abbey of St. Albans possessed a sardonyx with a representation of Jupiter holding a Victory in his hand, which was lent to women in labour. (Dugdale's ampulla, or eagle, said to have been brought from Sens Abbey by Thomas à Becket, is still among the regalia. It was used to contain the holy oil or balm for anointing our sovereigns at their coronation. The gold anointing-spoon is likewise preserved, and is an interesting example of twelfth century work. (Figured in Shaw's Dresses and Decorations of the Middle Ages.)Monasticon, ii. 185.)
An indenture (d. per day, and each archer 6d. Some of the documents at Westminster are in the original turned wooden boxes called skippets.
Among the MSS. of Lord Fitzhardinge at Berkeley Castle is a cartulary Registrum seu potius historia fundationis hujus cœnobii a Joanne Newland, abbate contextum.—Tanner, It is a reckless (Notitia Monastica.temerarius) departing from the state of faith, obedience, or re-
A deed among the family papers of Richard Pine Coffin, Esq., of Porledge, North Devon, is of a very remrkable character. It relates to a brgain with a champion for a due, and the following is a translation from the Latin:
Know all who the present writing shall see c hear that it is thus agreed between Richrd de Cokematone and Letice, his wife of the one part, and Richard do Poulsholte, of the other part, namely, that he aforesaid Richard de Cokematone and Letice, his wife, are bound unto the aforesaid Richard do Poulesholte in twenty mark sterling for the duel which the same Richrd de Poulesholte shall wage for the same Richard do Cokematone and Letice agaist William Fitz-Jordan for one messuag and one plough-land, with the appurtnances, in Cokematone; so that if the aforesaid Richard shall complete the aforesaid duel, the Lord so granting, then the aforesaid twenty marks, the day on which the aforesaid duel shall take place, shall be delivered unto Richard de la Will before the said duel shall be begun, to be paid to the said Richard de P.
From another deed it appears that the duel did not take place; but it is probable that such a method of settling disputes was not uncommon at that period.
The muniments in St. Catherine's College, Cambridge, are not numerous; but from a book compiled by Robert Woodelarke, the founder of the college, The date of the foundation is generally given as In the first place, a large super-altar, hallowed. Also a green set of vestments for week-days of bustian.domibus framatis) from Coton. The present College buildings are chiefly c. corporax (cloth for the consecrated elements in the Sacrament), of black silk on one side and green bustian on the other. Another corporax of chekere work of gold and silver cloth. Eleven towels to lie upon the altar, with black crosses in the middle, the same being two yards and three-quarters in length. Two steynd clothes, one of which contains two yards and a quarter in length, and the other two yards; having a crown in the middle and at the end of the cloth. A carpet containing two yards in length; also five linen cloths.
Among the gifts to the same college are the following:
Master Percy gave to us and the college one mazer cup. Master Symsom gave five marks for the souls of John Wayde and his wife; also forty shillings for the repair of the chapel. Doctor Myddelton, rector of Balsham, gave a tablecloth of dyaper, with twelve hand-napkins. Dame Alice Tayllur gave five nobles. Dame Claryvay gave a mazer of the value by estimation of four nobles. John Hosyer, mercer, gave to the college a set of vestments, value 6s. 8d Master Garnel gave a silver piece of the value of four nobles; the same Master gave in money forty shillings. Master William Wode gave twelve spoons and one silver saltcellar, 3li in value. Master Spycer gave a silverllar saltce parcel gilt, value 40s., with a cover.
Robert Woodelarke gave the college some books which he had chained in the library; among them One great breviary without notation; another breviary, chained; a Legend of the Saints, chained; a primer, with Placebo and Derige ( The Lincolniensis (Grosteste) de Oculo Morali, Franciscus Petrarcha de Remediis utriusque Fortunœ; Stephanus Cantuariensis (S. Langton) super Ecclesiastem; Distinctiones Holcoti (executor of R. de Bury) super Sapientia; Policronica, cum aliis; Johannes Salisburiensis de Pollicrotico; Bocasius (Boccaccio) in Anglicis de Viris Illustribus; Historiœ Cronicales Angliœ, Franciœ, et aliarum regionum. Some works of Aristotle are mentioned also. In the chapel, besides three missals, were:
sic), chained; a small gradal, with masses of S. Katharine, and of S. Mary, and of Requiem, bound in boards; another small gradal, bound in parchment, with the same masses; a sequence, with notation; a manual; a History of S. Katharine, with notation; a Legend of S. Katharine, with the History; a gradal, the gift of Master John Leche; a breviary, with notation, the gift of the same; a printed breviary, bound, the gift of Master Halle; a little book of Synodals, bound, the gift of Master Balderston (elected Master in Breviary, or portous, contained whatever was to be said by all in holy orders, either in public or private, i.e. of the canonical hours; the Legend lessons out of Holy Writ and works of the Fathers, read at matins; Gradal, or graduale, portions of the service sung by the choir; Sequence, a companion to the gradal; Manual, the occasional offices, as baptism, matrimony, visitation of sick, &c. By the statute 3 and 4 Ed. VI. those were threatened with fine and imprisonment who had in their possession any 'antiphoners, myssales, scrayles, processionales, manuelles, legends, pyes, portuyses, prymars in Lattyn or Englishe, cowchers, iournales, ordinales, or other books or writings whatsoever, heretofore used for service of the churche.' In Springfield Church, Essex, an antiphoner was recently discovered in the roof, hidden by the priest, doubtless, who hoped for better times.
It is carious that the library of the same college should have the register of the Corporation of New Romney in the reigns of Edward III. and Richard II. It contains such rules as this: If a person be found cutting wood within the franchise he is to have the pillory the first time, to have his ear cut off, and be taken to the other end of the town, and made to abjure it. On a second occasion he is to lose the other ear; and on the third offence be punished with death. A letter in Norman-French to Sir R. de Mortimer states that the bailiff and barons, in accordance with his wish, have searched all the cellars of the town for the six tuns of best Gascon wine he required, but can only find four tuns a nostre tast and they have purchased them for thirty-four marks.
It is much to be regretted that the records of the Cinque Ports have been greatly neglected and in part destroyed. Those in an iron chestat New Romney are evidently part of a much larger collection, while those in a chamber over the porch of the parish church at Hythe have been rendered almost illegible from damp. From very early times the ports had to provide seventy-two ships, each manned by twenty-one sailors, to serve the king freely for fifteen days, and after that period to receive
Eleven pounds of wax for the Paschal taper and torches, 5This was the germ of the Royal Navy. A great deal of interesting information respecting the ports and the curious customs connected with them will be found in Boys' History of Sandwich. Among the papers at Hythe quoted in the Report is a churchwardens' account for the year s. 01/2d. For two men watching the Lord's Sepulchre, 8d. For a cloth of hayre for one of the altars, 10½d. Paid John London for mending the organs, 10s. 2d. Paid the parish clerk for keeping le chyme and le clok. 13s. 4d. Paid the same clerk for keeping the organs, 10s. Paid Sir Thomas Howlet, for praying for the soul of Master Drowis, 6d. Paid Sir Richard, the Priest of the Mass of Jesus, for his wages of the preceding year, 3s. 3d. Paid the same Sir Richard his wages in full for three-quarters of a year this year, 3s. 1d. Paid Thomas Bedeman, for cleaning the church this year, 2s. Paid the same Thomas for his gown, for lying in the church, 4s.
It is probable that mediæval churches were rarely left at night. This will explain the fact that many doors have ponderous bolts which could only be drawn from the inside.
From a jurats' book of the same town, c. Paid John Godescale for a porpeys Porpoises (derived from French d., 'that he might speak to his lordship good words for this town.' On other occasions
porc-poisson, hog-fish) appear to have been considered a delicacy in the middle ages. As they were conveniently considered fish, ecclesiastics could eat them on fast-days. In the reign of Edward I. the price was regulated at 6s. 8d.: a high price, when we know that turbot was sold at 6d., mackerel 1d., and haddock 2d,s. 4d. Paid for fish bought, namely, whytyng, haddok, and salt makerel, for the Lieutenant of Dover Castle when he came through this town to Romene, 20d.
From a careful examination of thirty-two fourteenth-century fragments of court books of Hythe, consisting chiefly of declarations by married women relating to property, Mr. Riley gives some interesting conclusions respecting Christian names at that time:
The name Johanna or Joan seems here, as in London, at the same period, to have been the most favourite name for females in the fourteenth century; out of 130 names occurring it appears 32 times. It had, however, become less popular at the beginning of the fifteenth century. The name Alice occurs 19 times, Agnes 12. As in London at the same time, the Christian name Mary never occurs. Christina is met with 11 times, Margery 10, Isabel 8, Philippa 5, Lucy 4, Magota 4, Cecily 3, Juliana 3, Margaret 3, Matilda 2, Dionysia 2, and Avicya, Beatricia, Elena, Elianora, Elizabeth, Emma, Juliana, Letitia (or Lettice), Lore, Mabilia, Martha, and Yadilda, once each. As London in the fourteenth century, John was by far the most common Christian name for males, and it so continued for at least the first half of the fifteenth.
The By charter of Edward I., There is yearly in September the worthiest herring fishery in Europe, which
Custumal, temp. Henry VI., among the archives of the Corporation of New Romney, is very different from the volume of that title printed in Lyons' History of Dover Castle. The same body has a diary of the bailiffs sent by their town on behalf of the Cinque Ports to the Michaelmas Free FairChronicle,
Manship, The Cinque Ports exercised in turn the right of nominating the bailiffs, who, on the vigil of the feast-day of S. Michael, repaired to Yarmouth, to a house hired for the purpose, bringing with them their learned counsel, town clerk, two serjeants hearing white rods, a brazen horn-sounder, one carrying a banner of the arms of the ports, and a jailer. On being come thither the bailiffs of Yarmouth the same evening and some of their brethren attended at their lodging and courteously did entertain and welcome them. Next morning all repaired to church to hear divine service, they of Yarmouth inviting the others to take their places with them in their seats. . . . And here I may not overpass with a silent pen the exceeding bountiful fare, feasting and royal cheer and open house keeping wherewith the Cinque Ports bailiffs do give entertainment in their fair house, in, by, and during the one and twenty days of their abiding at Yarmouth.History of Great Yarmouth,
Their jurisdiction ceased soon after.
We are glad to see that Mr. Riley has discovered among the records of Balliol College several references to Wycliff. The date of the commencement of his Mastership of Balliol has been up to this time given as At the Husting of Common Pleas holden on Monday next after the feast of our Lord's Ascension, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of King Edward, after the Conquest, the Third (
There are no less than 13,000 old deeds in the muniment-room in the Cloister Tower of St. Mary Magdalene's College, Oxford. Their number is easily explained. Bishop "Waynflete founded the college in The history of the MSS. of these interesting letters is curious. Mr. (afterwards Sir) Richard Fenn, in Letters.
Amongst this mass of documents are several sales and manumissions of serfs. In the beginning of the thirteenth century a serf at Brackley, Northampton, was sold for three marks, and another later in the century for twenty shillings. Mr. Mac-ray remarks that to a deed dated
A confirmation by Richard II. ( The cloister not to be a thoroughfare for persons of both sexes. None to go to public hunts or keep hunting dogs. None to be absent from services on pretence of convent business without leave. Common seal to be kept under five keys. None to be godparents without the Bishop's leave. None to wear precious furs or gathered (nondulatis) sleeves, or silk girdles, with gold or silver ornaments. Chaucer's Monk had—
as it is wont to be. Relies, vestments, vessels, and books not to be pawned, and those that are now in pawn to be recovered.
Among the relics in a chapel at Wanborough, c.
The reasons assigned in the Report for the destruction of many monuments of the illustrious family of Argyllare the forfeitures of Archibald, eighth earl and first Marquis, in
By charter, dated This was not the first time that a Campbell had done good service for his king. Sir Colin, father of Sir Neill, in into a free burgh of barony, with power to the tenants and inhabitants thereof of buying and selling within the same wine, wax, wool and linen cloth, and other merchandise, with liberty of having bakers, brewers, fleshers, and other craftsmen belonging to a burgh of barony, with a right also to elect bailies and officers. They were also to have within the said burgh a cross and market weekly, and also public fairs yearly, to wit, markets at the feast of Michaellmas, and another fair at the feast of St. Branden, in the month of May and through the whole octaves, with all other privileges, as freely as any other burgh of barony.
One document of the Middle Ages in this collection only claims our attention.
This is a verdict of an inquest held at Kandrochid, When arranging the charters of the Earl of Airlie, some years ago, Dr. Stuart found two deeds relating to another of these bells. 'By the first, dated Quigrich of St. Fillan had a right to certain payments of meal from the inhabitants of the district. St. Fillan founded a monastery at Glendochart in the eighth century, and the quigrich was his pastoral staff. It was the custom to cover the staves of the early Irish and Scotch missionary saints at a later period with elaborate metal-work, and in like manner their hand-bells were enshrined. Certain families became keepers of these relics, which were religiously handed down from father to son. There is a tradition that the bell of St. Fillan used to be laid on a gravestone in the churchyard of Killin, and when mad people were brought to be dipped in the Holy Well there, it was placed on their heads, after they had passed the night in the chapel.Archœological Journal, viii. 50.) The documents are printed in the Spalding Miscellany, iv. 117-8.
A similar relic is described by Mr. Gilbert as in the possession of Sir R. O'Donnell, Bart., of Newport,
It is deposited in the Museum of the Royal Irish Pray for Cathbarr O'Donnel, for whom this casket was made, and for Sitric, son of MacAedha, who made it; and for Donal MacRobartaigh, successor (of St. Columba as abbot), of Kells, at whose house it was made.cathach,cathach, from Irish cath, a battle. It must not be supposed that the casket is as old as its contents; the former was added by Cathbarr O'Donnell late in the eleventh century. An Irish inscription upon it has been thus translated:
The O'Donnells believed that if it was carried on the breast of a 'sinless cleric' three times round their troops before a battle, victory would be certain.
We quote Mr. Gilbert's careful description of this casket:
It is 9¾ inches long, 7½ broad, and 2 in Dr. Rock thinks the custom of placing a circular piece of crystal in these ancient caskets and bindings is derived from the Druids. It is probably the æstel of the following extract from King Alfred's translation of Gregory's Liber Pastoralis: 'To every bishops see in my kingdom I will that one [copy of the book] be sent; and upon each there is a æstel, and I bid in God's name that nobody that æstel from these books shall undo.'
From the period of the fabrication of the casket until
The psalter appeared to have been originally stitched together, but the sewing had almost entirely disappeared. On one side was a thin piece of board covered with red leather, very like that with which Eastern MSS. are bound. It was so much injured by damp as to appear almost a solid mass. By steeping it in cold water I was enabled to separate the membranes from each oilier, and by pressing each separately between blotting-paper and frequently renewing the operation, at length succeeded in restoring what was not actually decayed to a legible state.
Sir W. Betham gives the above account in
Irish Antiquarian Researches,1862 , 109-11.
This book does not appear to be illuminated, like other MSS. of the period, Professor Westwood's magnificent volume, Fac-similes of Miniatures and Ornaments of Angle-Saxon and Irish MSS., may be consulted with advantage by those who wish to study the peculiarities of the marvellous examples of early Irish art which have been handed down to us. See also H. O'Neill's Fine Arts and Civilisation of Ireland,
The Book of Kells is certainly the gem of the magnificent collection of MSS. at Trinity College, Dublin. This important library was commenced in Westwood's Fac-similes. These charters have been printed in the original Irish, with a translation and notes by Mr. O'Donovan, in Miscellany of Irish Archaeological Society, vol. i.
The Book or Gospels of Durrow, in the same collection, is also said to have been written by St. Columba. It was preserved at that place until the Reformation, when it was given to Trinity College Library by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Meath.
The It is described in Sir W. Betham's Cethar Leabhar, or Garland of Howth, is supposed to be older than either of the preceding volumes. It belonged to the church of Inis Meic Nessain, or Ireland's Eye. It is a New Testament, and came into
Irish Antiquarian Researches, and also in West-wood's Polæographia Sacra.cumdach, or casket of brass and silver. Until the Reformation it was preserved in the Abbey of Roscrea. The Royal Irish Academy purchased it of Sir W. Betham.
We must allude to one more MS. in the library, mentioned by Mr. Gilbert. This is an important Greek MS., the Codex Montfortianus—from a former owner, Montfort, a D.D. of Cambridge—which is one of the MSS. which contain the passage of 'the three that bear record in heaven' (I John v. 7). Montfort had it just before Ussher, and it had also belonged to Froy, a Franciscan friar. Erasmus is supposed to have known it under the name of Codex Britannicus. Dr. Barrett, Vice-Provost of the College, printed in
Turning to the Report for notable documents of the sixteenth century, we find in the account of the Westminster Abbey muniments some documents relating to disputes between the abbey authorities and the heralds as to who should have the hearse and its furniture used at great funerals. It appears to have been the custom to set up in the church a framework of timber, covered with silk and velvet hangings, and decorated with waxen images, banners of arms, and a great many lights. A good idea of the appearance of the hearse may be obtained from the engraving of that of Abbot Islip, Gough's The names of the counsel in Qu. Mary's time that did take order that the latte abbot and convent of West', should have the herse, &c. at my L. Anne of Cleves funerall.Vetusta Monumenta, vol. iv.Sepulchral Monuments, vol. i.
Another:
"See description of this hearse in Excerpta Historica, p. 303. Hearses were generally square in form, but that of Anne of Cloves was hexagonal. (Parker's
In the following year this decision seems to have been reversed, for there is an order made
Professor Brewer continues his report of the unique collection of historical papers at Hatfield House, bringing the series down to special arid unique interest), and the two casket letters of Mary Queen of Scots filling up the blanks in the collection at the State Paper Office.
The following lines are said to be by Robert Earl of Essex, and appear among the papers of Sir Hervey Bagot:
Lord Fitzhardinge's MSS. comprise letters of Henry VIII., Queens Mary and Elizabeth, James I. and II., and William III. Mr. Horwood says it is well known that Henry VIII. frequently used a stamp for his signature during the latter years of his life, but two letters here show that he began that practice when a young man, probably to save time and trouble. A letter from Sir George Carey to his wife, The physicians say poison, and partly witchcraft. The witch is in prison. They have found his picture in wax with one of her hairs prict directly in the heart. Order is taken for the appointment of a Commission for the examination and trial of the Earl's death.
One of the most interesting results of the labours of the Commission, as given in this Report, is the discovery, in a manuscript in the possession of Col. Towneley, at Townley Hall, Burnley, of a hitherto unknown fact relating to Edmund Spenser. Mr. Knowles found this in a MS. containing the payments of the executors of Robert Nowell, Attorney-General of the Court of Wards, Reader of Gray's Inn, and Steward to the Dean and Chapter of St. Paul's, who died Gownes given to certeyn poor schollors of the scholls aboute London, in number 32, viz. St. Paul's, Merchant Taylor's, St. Anthony's Schole, St. Saviour's Grammer Schole, and Westminster School.
First on the list of scholars of Merchant Taylors who had a gown is To Edmonde Spensere the xxiiij of Edmunde Spenser. It is well known that Spenser entered Pembroke Hall Faerie Queene by three other entries:
Given to poor schollers of dyvers gramare scholles.s.s. a peace, in the whole xijs. by the hands of Mr. Thomas Now, fellow of the same howse.s. vjd.
So little is known of Spenser's early life that the discovery of the name of the school in which he was educated is of particular interest. According to Oldy's MS. additions to Winstanley's Lives of the most Famous English Poets, copied by Isaac Rood, Spenser was born in East Smithfield, A.D. Works of Edmund Spenser (Aldine, edition i. 10), thought that he was educated at Kingsbury, because he found an E. Spenser named in the Muster Book of the Hundred of Kingsbury, in
Some papers in the possession of the Countess of Rothes relate to the murder of Cardinal Beton (or Beaton), which took place
It was not likely that George Earl of Rothes would escape suspicion. Among the Rothes MSS. is a Commission by Mary Queen of Scots,
Papers among the MSS. of the Earl of Selkirk, at St. Mary's Isle, refer to the gold and silver mines of Scotland. James IV., in Pennant says that in the reigns of James IV. and V. great wealth was obtained in the Lead Hill district from the gold washed from the mountains, and estimates its value at 300,000l.
We now turn to notices of papers of the seventeenth century.
Messrs. Monro and Thorns continue their report on the MSS. of the House of Lords. It occupies no less than 170 pp. of the Report, and comprises documents extending from the beginning of the reign of Charles I. to the end of the year
The English Parliament which was now assembled, being willing to awaken the people's tenderness by exciting their fears, immediately took the alarm, as if the malignants, so they called the king's party, had laid a plot at once to murder them and all the godly in both kingdoms. They applied, therefore, to Essex, whom the king had left general in the South of England, and he ordered a guard to attend them.History, vi. 429.
The depositions were read in both Houses on November 5, but do not appear in the Journals. Such an omission was most unfortunate, for the depositions disappeared, and Isaac Disraeli conjectured this was designed, for the honour of the king, to bury the transaction in impenetrable obscurity;' It would be of great consequence to the memory of Charles I. (since such historians as Mr. Hallam still persist in pointing the obscure calumny against him), if the depositions in question could yet be discovered in the State Paper Office.Commentaries on the Life and Reign of Charles I., ed. Montrose and the Covenanters, ii. 148.
These documents have now been discovered, and, as Sir Edward Nicholas wrote to Charles I. ( Evelyn's Memoirs, II. pt. ii. p. 59, ed. in extenso. We select, as a fair example of the whole, a portion of the deposition of Captain Stewart, and that of W. Murray, a favourite groom of the bedchamber to the king; the former showing the nature of the plot, the latter the king's connection with it.
Captain Stewart said that Lieu-tenant-Colonel Stewart entered into discourse with him,
schowing that the haill cuntrie was governed be two, the Marques of Hamiltonne and Earle of Argyll; bot now ther was ane factionne stronge aneugh to suppress thame, for ther was thrie or four hundreth men wponne that cours, and it was resolved that the Marques of Hamyltoune and Earle of Argyll sould be drawine into the withdrawing rowme in the abbay, whair the Lord Amound sould come vp the privie way from the privie gardine and sould enter in discours with tham, that they haid assumed to thameselffes the haill governament of the cuntrie and haid wrougit the same, and therfor was co
.mandit to putt thame jn arreist, and theraponne it was resolved that hands sould be layed wponne thame, and becaus the castell was full of prisoners, thay sould be conveyed to the Kinges schipe. The said Stewart said that William Murray, of the bedchamber, sould have drawine the Marques and Earl of Argyll, wponne the pretence of some discourse unto the with-
W. Murray:
Being callit before the comittee declairit that casualie being in the castell with the Earle of Montrose, and discoursing on the publict bussines, his Lo. was pleasit to bemoane the delayes that the publict did suffer, and protestit if he had the happines to speik with the king himselff, he wuld not only discover the caus of these difficulties hot also thnges of very hich nature concerning his Ma. and his state and honor. The deponer told him the propositione was of so hich ane nature that he durst not intrust it to his memorie, bot if his Lo. wuld be pleasit to sett it down in wreat he wuld cary it to the king and delyver it. And howsoever the deponer thocht himselff obligit to tell the King, it being a matter of so hich a straine and that samen nicht did impairt the samen to his Matle. The Kinges Ma. told the deponer that qn he receavit the Earl of Montrose his lre, he wuld then considder qt ansr his Ma. thocht fitt to returne. The nixt day in the efter-noone, a letter was brocht to the deponer inclosit within two lynes of ane directione, and directit to his Ma. The King did reid it, and told the deponer that the letter was not so home or so hich as the deponer had told by word of mouth; his Matle had considderit of the thing & wuld not interrupt his owne bissiness which were in so fair ane way, with any more project. The deponer did returne both the lre and this ansr, & within two or thrie dayes yr after the Earl of Montrose sent ane vyr lre directit to his Ma. And howbeit the secound lre wes more full, yet his Ma. gave th samen ansr to the deponer, and sd that becaus yr wes surmises that his Ma. wes come to mak divisione he wuld yr for lett his people see that he wuld not interteyne any motiones that micht seeme to mak interrup-tunes. And sicklyk his Ma. sd. that his purpose micht mak mentione of some by past busnes, and he would have all by gones, by gones, and fair play in tymes to come, as also his Ma. did say that he beleavit that ane man in the conditione of the E. of Montrose his restraint wuld say very much to have the libbertie to come to his Ma. pns. The deponer, as he rememberrs on Setterday the 9 oclo. returned the effect of this his Ma. ansr to the sd Earle of M. & hard no farder of it till Monday yreft in the efternoone at four ane clok, and then ane vyr leé was brocht directit to his Ma. which the deponer delyvrit. And qn His Ma. had red the thrid lre, he sd this is very hich and deserves some consideration. His Ma. did lett. the deponer reid the lre who thocht is very hich. His Ma. sd he wuld tak tyme to consider of it, for it wes ane mater not to be rashlie jugit of. And at nicht qn his Ma. went to bed he sd he thocht he wuld communicat the samen to some of his lords, bot that he wuld speik more of it the morrow morning. On the Tuysday morning so soone as his Ma. was awake, the deponer went in to him and then the King told him he had thocht vpon it, and that he wuld communicat the samen to the Lo. Chanr, the Dooke of Lennox, the E. of Argyll, the E. of Mortoun and Roxburgh, and to the Lord gnll. and commandit the deponer to send for the gnll becaus he thocht the rest would be yr. His Ma. owne opinion was thet they sould call ane certaine number of the noblemen, barrones and burrowes togidder before qm the E. Montros should be brocht in his Ma. pns with his keeper, and desyrit to explaine qt his meining of his lre wes, bot wald resolve nothing till he had consultit with these Lordis qm his Ma. had named. And as the deponor conceaves this his Ma. resolu°nn wes intruptit with the incident fell on the Mononday at nicht.
The papers relating to Archbishop Laud's visitations ( Item, whether the munimcnts and evidences of your church be safely kept and preserued from the knawing of ratts, mice, and other such like vormine, and be kept drye from the iniury of rayne and other such like offensiue weather, and whether they be soe ftttly and orderly disposed in your muniment house or bee soe regist'red in your bookes and ledgeors as that when need shal be you may easily find out the same without much search?in extenso in the Report, and afford interesting particulars respecting the state of the cathedrals at that period. The Archbishop knew the importance of the preservation of records, and accordingly one of the articles submitted to the cathedral authorities of Salisbury was:
The reply was favourable. The same Chapter wrote to Laud:
The body of our church is much pestered with diu One of the earliest pews for the use of the congregation is in the north aisle of Geddington St. Mary, Northamptonshire, dated rs ranckes of moveablo seates not many yeeres since erected, and too much roome is taken vp, and the convenience of hearing thereby taken from many, and the preacher many times troubled wth noise in opening and coming into the seates; and
Dell, Laud's secretary, writes beside this:
His Mats com' and is for ye taking downe of all fixt seats within the Body of any Cathedrall. And such as are moueable are not to stand, but for ye use of Sermon tyme onely.
The Dean and Chapter of Bristol thus refer to the same subject:
There is in the opinion of many of sound judgment a graund enclosure in our church by reason of certaine seats set vp in our sermon place by the citezens by vertue of a long lease from the D. and C. (scilz. for ever) conteyning 29 foot and a half in length and II foote in breadth on the south side of the said church for the maior, aldermen, and comon councell wth 20 foot in length on the north side and 11 foot in breadth for their wives weh seates are appropriated to them, so that neither knight nor esquire, lady nor gentlewoman have any proper place where to heare the sermon. Thies seates for the manner of site, stand soe remote fro the pulpit that they betray the cheefest place of audience where the maior &c. were wont to sit on benches with backes, moveable, to the more vulgar and meaner auditory.
The Archbishop enjoined the cathedral authorities at Gloucester:
In regard it is his Mats express pleasure yt the bodyes of ye cathedrall churches should not be pestered wth standing seates contrary to ye course of cathedralls and ye dignity of these goodly piles of building, wee must & doe require you yt all standing and fixt seates, as well those where ye mayor and aldermen's wyues use to sitt as others between ye pillars be taken downe, and other moueable ones fitted into theyr roome according to such directions as wee gaue to ye deane by our late Lrs witten to him.
The growth of the Puritan party is shown in a passage in a reply from Salisbury:
Yu may please to take notice that in most parishes in Wiltshyre Dorcetshyre and the Westerne partes, there is still a puritane and an honest man chosin churchwardens together. The puritane alwayes crosses the other in ropayres and adorning the church, as also in the presentments of vnconformityes and in the issue putts some trick or other vpon the honest man, to putt him to sue for his charges hee hath been at for the church.
The designation of the Puritan's co-churchwarden, simply as 'an honest man,' is very amusing.
The same authorities say:
There are no coapes in or church most of them were sould away about 66 years since & the rest turned into pulpitt clothes and cushions, neither have any been provided since. There was an anncient ordinance that every dignitary, archdeacon and prebendary should at theyr installation pay a summe of mony according to theyr severall taxe, which was for the maintenance of coapes, but about the year pro capâ.
Laud's reply is very significant: Bishop Cosin, at Durham, used to wear a cope 'of plain white satin without any embroidery upon it.' The late Bishop of Winchester said, in Convocation, that the Eucharist was never celebrated at Durham without the vestments until the time of Bishop Warburton. Copes of rich materials were used at the funeral of George II., at Westminster Abbey. Such vestments are preserved at Carlisle, Ely, Lichfield, Salisbury, and Westminster Abbey. I thinke the fabrick was repayred before yt and the coape money may returne to the proper use and supply them in tyme.
The Dean and Chapter of Wells state
that there are very few or noe auncyent vestmentes or ornaments belonging to this church. But there have been of late yeares dius bought, vizt, one greene vellvett pullpitt cloth and cushions to the same, one red vellvett cushion, one other of purple, one other faire pullpitt cloth for the Lord Bussopp and canons only when they preach, one faire carpett for the comunion table, one crimson vellvett cloth our the same, wth three crimson vellvett cushions.
Laud directed the Dean and Prebendaries of Rochester 'to have
At Bristol great respect seems to have been shown to the Mayor:
It hath long been a comon practice if Mr. Mairr come before our divine service is ended, abruptly to breake off service, if the service chaunce to be ended before his comyng, all the congregacon stay, and expect his comyng before the sermon begin.
Land very properly says, 'I like neyther of these two, and require yt both be remedyed.'
Among petitions presented to Parliament are many relating to the ritual controversy of the period. Clergymen are frequently complained of (c. mensarie' Court by the minister and churchwardens of Sutton Valence, Kent, for not coming to evening prayer till the service was begun for the space of six weeks, though he was prevented by his duties as constable. He was excommunicated, even to the millers refusing to grind his corn. After imprisonment in Maidstone gaol he was seized under warrant of the High Commission Court, and when he appeared before it, for refusing to take the oath ex officio, he was sent to prison, where he has been, says the petition, for thirteen years.
Here is a curious scene in a church. William Townsend says, l, of half a .year's rent, Lady Waldegrave had a writ served upon petitioner during Divine service on Sunday in his seat in the church. Lady Waldegrave was present; and being patroness of the church, commanded the keys from the parish clerk after the service, and sent them by her servants to the bailiffs, keeping him prisoner in the church until twelve o'clock at night.
A petition of John Stanesby, Gent.,
The Coventry Papers among the MSS. of the Marquis of Bath, at Longleat, are of considerable importance. In temp. Eliz., in which the Queen is called a hare; Cecil, fox; Bacon, slow-worm; Knowles, knewt; Sussex, spider; Leicester, viper; Essex, snail; Shrewsbury, lobster; Bedford, toad; Sadler, moth; Clinton, otter, &c. There are five volumes of official letters and papers relating to the Treaty of Nimeguen.
Few collections examined by the Commissioners have yielded documents of so interesting a nature as that of the Earl of Denbigh, at Newnham Paddox. Four volumes of letters of the reigns of James I. and Charles I. supply Mr. Knowles with materials for a lengthy report, and we hope he will return to the collection at a subsequent period. Two of these volumes consist of Family Letters—235 in number—and though our space will only allow us to give a few extracts, we hope they will induce our readers to turn to the Report for the remainder.
Here is a letter from George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, to his mother (undated):
Dere mother, I humblie kiss those hands that guided your pen when you writt last, and with reverence thanke that holie speritt of union which put so harmonious a resolution into your hart not to part till the saints & angels in heven should rejoyce at our mutual affection, the contrarie whereof would sone a made me werie of this world. But now .that I see there can be no change of that more then ordinario naturall love of a mother which you have ever homo mo even from that infancie when I did nothinge els but unresonablie and frowardlie rangle—now I say, I dare take the bouldnes againe to tell you with my ould free and frolicke stile that the same naughtie boy, Georgo Villiers, who mett you att St. Albons on Tuesday, by the grace of God will caste himselfe at your feete with the same hart, without adition or diminution that then he mett you with; onelie there will be this alteration, that his joy will be greater, for that absence then was but personall, but this I did fore had bine loss and absence of affection which, if I should justlio deserve I should be ashamed to aske what now I crave, your blessing, and in dispare of pardon from Him who hath the onlie absolute power to pardon the offences of your one (own) collricke but humble and obedient sonne, G. Buckingham.
Lord Fielding (afterwards second Earl of Denbigh) was ambassador in Italy from In I reseved a letter of yours 8 or 10 monthes sines which med mentioun of ane other studio of pictures, but ye said ye woold not advyse me to by them, fering lest I might be too much bewiched with those intysing things.
In another (undated):
I informed the King of that amatyst (amethyst) cup which is to be soold. The pryse is so great as we dare not so much as think of itt, bot he inquyred of that rare pictur which ye wrytt of a yeir a gooe.
The following letter refers to the purchase of an important collection:
ttie having seeine the the noot (note) of Delanave's collectioon, is so extremly takine ther with as he has persuaded me to by them all, and for thatt end hes furnished me with munnis. So, brother, I have undertakin that they shall all cume into Ingland, booth pictures and statues, out of which he is to make choyes of whatt he lykes, and to repay me whatt they coost if I heave a mynd to turne marchand, bot for thatt ue (we) shall agree. He hes desyred me to got you thies cansioones which he hes found by experiens to heave bein practised: First thatt sumo of the rarest peeises be not conseled; secondly that the originates be not retened and coppies given in ther place; Thirdly, thatt extraordinarie kayre be taking in the packing of them upe; Forthly, thatt the frames of such peeisis as is to bige to cume on the pictures, thatt they be putt up in casis and so sent a loong; fifly, thatt if itt be posabill, the shipe wher in they cume may heave no quicksilver nor coraanes in her, bot, if thatt can not be, then take kayre thatt they be so plased wher they may cach least hourt. Now I ame lykuys to lett you knoe thatt ther hes cume feu or no marbiles to England frome Italy bot they heave bein com'only brook. By yours I fyind they ar held att 20 m. ducketes, bot thatt itt is probabill the price may be broght doune to 12 m. duckets which make 2 m. pound (2,000l.) sterling. In my last to you I said I woold be content to give 1,500 pound bot now sines itt is his Matti plesoure, joyned to my ooune inclinatiooun, thatt I shall by them whatt sum ever they coost lett them not gooe by you for I ame resolved to heave them.
He goes on to counsel haste, for 'my Lord Marshall'—i.e. Lord Arundel—the greatest collector of the period, had heard of the collection, and would probably order his agent to secure it. That nobleman seems to have been a very clever buyer, for a subsequent letter informs us of his The way thatt he takes to procure them is by his agent, Pettie, who doueth weikly give him advertisement of all pictures thatt ar to be sould, the prysis of them, the ouneres names and thoes thatt uoold by them. So, if he lyk anie of them, he gives directiunes to P. to make greatt & large offers a pourpos (to) rayes ther prysis by which meaines the buyarres ar forsed to loaive them and the pictures remain with ther oanners, he weill knoing thatt no Inglishman stayeth long in Italy nor you long to reseid wher you are.modus operandi:
The MSS. of Earl de la Warr, at Knole Park, form a collection of seventeenth century papers of great importance. They consist chiefly of correspondence and documents of Lionel Cranfield, first Earl of Middlesex, His daughter Frances married Richard Sackville, Earl of Dorset.l. Prince Charles and the Duke of Buckingham, on their journey into Spain, expended 47,847l. In l. The natural result of such an expenditure is the arrear of official salaries, and those who could not recoup themselves by the grant of monopolies—a fruitful source of the oppression of the people—were in great distress. Sir Robert Lane, l. per annum, has not been paid for twelve years, and his wages as Captain of Southsea Castle are in arrear a like period. About the same time Francis Ingleby, 88 years of age, keeper of the armoury at Greenwich, petitions that seven years' pay may be granted him. Such cases are frequent in these MSS.
A letter, He alighted at the house of Lord Bristol, remained there until Sunday last, when he made a solemn entry into the Town from a monastery (where we that day dined). He passed on horseback thro' all the town having the King on his left hand and a canopy carried over them both. The Prince desires him to speak to the King at once about building a chapel at St. James for the Infanta and her family.Lope de Vega.
Buckingham does not appear to have pleased the Spaniards, for the Marquis of Inijosa wrote to James especially to complain of his conduct.
A memorandum (c. l, and 500l. a year. She was made Viscountess Maidstone, which cost her, says the Duchess of Richmond and Lenox, in a letter to the Earl, the surrender of Copt Hall, 7,000l., and a suite of tapestry hangings. The Duchess in another letter asks him to get money for her husband, by compelling some one to be a baron or a baron to be an earl, or forcing some one to lend. This was analogous to the practice of Edward VI. and Elizabeth, who compelled all persons possessed of lands yielding an income of 40l, to receive knighthood or pay a fine!
It is stated in a petition of W. Shipman to Sir John Ferne, l. spent in this country on tobacco annually. It is probable he does not overstate it, for he offers 5,000l. a year as a present to a nobleman for an exclusive patent! James's Counterblaste to Tobacco was published nine years before.
In order to check its importation he imposed a duty of 6s. 8d. on every pound in addition to the twopence which had hitherto been charged.
The seventeenth century papers of the Duke of Argyll relate to Archibald, seventh Earl It is interesting to note that Archibald, fifth earl, married Lady Joan Stuart, sister of Mary Queen of Scots, and daughter of James V. Playfair ( Wasp's nest. Vagabonds.Family Antiquity, vol. iii.) says that if he had had issue one would have succeeded to the English throne on the abdication of James II.
Here we must close this notice of the fourth report of the Historical Manuscripts Commission.
Probably no more appalling tragedy of its kind than the burning of the emigrant ship
It is all the more the duty of officials to lessen these dangers by every possible arrangement which practical science can suggest. Too many theories, along with gross disregard to their application, seriously increase the perils of the sea, while lulling people into a sense of false security. Of what service are boats in an emergency if they be turned bottom up inboard on ships, or placed athwart-ships, frequently in situations where the greatest skill is required, even under ordinary circumstances, to hoist them in and out? Given a heavy sea, the horrors of a fire, and last, as is too common, an undisciplined, disobedient, and unseaman like crew to work with, and the results are easily calculated. What is required is not more boats, but more precautions and arrangements, to make their, at best, doubtful aid unnecessary. I will ask anyone who has the slightest knowledge of that wild piece of water between Queenstown and New York, if the expensive system of boats, which crowl our magnificent ocean steamers, materially lessens the chances of danger? The sea of that stormy region requires them to be securely swung inboard, and secured with six or eight chains each; yet with these precautions a bad winter never passes without a serious loss or injury to these cumbrous fittings. When a distressed vessel has to be boarded to take off or relieve the crow, the greatest care is necessary to get the boat safely clear of the ship; and in hoisting up damage generally occurs to such an extent as to cause abandonment. Several instances have occurred during the present winter.
With such facts before us it is evident that other life-saving appliances are worthy of mature consideration by the Board of Trade; and in appointing a committee they will act wisely in giving the merchant nautical element every opportunity to bring their experience to bear, in lieu of depending so much on the testimony of naval officers who, as a body, really know nothing of the difficulties shipmasters have to contend with under such trying circumstances as a fire, or the abandonment of a ship at sea. From my own knowledge of the subject, I unhesitatingly say the late Royal Commission on ships and seamen have, in the evidence of an old Liverpool shipmaster (Mr. Ballantine), all that is required to point out the alarming condition of the personnel of the mercantile marine of this country, and the entire absence of power on the part of the masters. The loss of the Cospatrick points out a singular anomaly in maritime law, viz. the emigrants are entirely under the authority of the surgeon, not the commander.
The writer of this article is personally cognisant that many of the young surgeons who hold this responsible appointment are only a year or so from college, and is not aware of any existing law to debar them from obtaining it immediately they receive their diploma. Such a system places all authority and discipline in the hands of an inexperienced youth who has no idea of the responsibility of his situation, or the knowledge and tact it requires to rule a large body of men by moral force alone. Maritime law provides no other. To the commander should all power be given to make what regulations he thinks best for the safety of the large number of lives committed to his care, and on the arrival of a vessel in a British colony, at least, any infraction of them by the emigrants or abuse of them by him personally should be rigidly enquired into. A few examples would quickly work a salutary effect on the delinquents; and should be posted up on the lower deck of all emigrant ships as a warning to offenders, just as we see them in railway stations.
As a general rule, the emigrant is provided with a straw mattress. The Board of Trade should compel the vendors of these articles to soak the straw in a solution which would prevent its kindling into a blaze. He also stocks himself with a large quantity of cheap lucifer matches of the most inferior quality. There is a law against the carrying of the latter dangerous article by passengers, but anyone who has made a voyage in an emigrant ship will remember the constant crackle and flash of the match as the smoker lights his pipe, at a companion way, or other sheltered spot. A few months back, a startling instance of the danger of fire from this cause alone came under my observation in an emigrant ship. The luggage was being hurriedly struck into the hold, and a portmanteau on being unslung emitted smoke from the interstices of the cover. It was hoisted on deck, opened, and among its contents were two boxes of wax vestas, each containing several hundred matches, which had caught fire by the shock of the portmanteau striking the lower deck. These had set fire to the linen, and it is highly probable that had the smoke not been noticed the ship would have been on fire in a few hours. Such gross infractions of the law require prompt punishment, but what power has the shipmaster to meet such cases? It is not uncommon in bad weather to catch some reckless or thoughtless individual smoking in his berth with his head wrapped in a blanket to avoid the observation of the steward on watch, if the supervision on board be sufficiently vigorous to enforce such a judicious precaution.
It is to be regretted that in all classes of merchant ships smoking below is an acknowledged custom. Jack lies on his dirty bed of straw with pipe in mouth, reading some old scrap of a newspaper, or the pages of a novel, and not unfrequently falls asleep with the burning embers beside him. The mystery is not why the Cospatrick was burned, but why such accidents are not constantly occurring from this and other causes. To mention one which happened not long since in a magnificent steamship. During a gale of wind a steward was unpacking a cask of wine, when a sudden send of the vessel unhooked the glass lantern from the beam overhead; it broke in the fall, set fire to the straw, and in a few minutes the smoke rolled in volumes from the hatchway. Fortunately, the fire hose was always ready near the spot, and in a short time the flames were got under. Immediately adjoining the store room, and sepa-
President, the Pacific, the City of Boston, whose mysterious disappearances remain amongst the secrets of the great deep.
The Board of Trade might do much by judicious management to alleviate or lessen the chances of fire and shipwreck, but it is a matter of doubt whether their present system is not productive of more annoyance to the shipowner than benefit or safety to the passengers and crew, except in regard to victuals, where it is rigorously carried out in the majority of inspections by emigration offices. In this particular branch the matter is simple enough; anyone can tell good meat from bad, old biscuit from new, and the passengers would soon find out if they were badly treated, and complain of it. It is right, no doubt, to look after such things, even though their inferiority would seldom endanger human life. More essential, however, than quality of food, and less easy to examine into, are the arrangements for the instantaneous extinguishing of a fire, the ordinary handiness of the boats' positions for lowering or hoisting out, and the position, construction, and adjustment of the standard compass. It will be best to take these subjects in their regular order of precedence.
Of all the perils of the sea, fire is decidedly the most to be feared. Men fight cheerfully to the last against wind and sea, but there is something in the cry of fire on shipboard which damps the energy of the bravest, because, in many instances, its origin or position are unknown. In the coal-laden ship it may have been silently increasing for days before the flames burst forth from the charred deck. As coals increase in price the danger from spontaneous combustion appears to increase in an equal ratio. The reason is evident. When they could be had for a few shillings per ton there was no object in weighing the scales down with iron pyrites, which, when damped, cither with sea or freshwater, and excluded from the atmosphere in the hold of a ship, are at all times liable to ignite, especially in the tropics. It has, however, been known to do this on the steamers plying between Liverpool and New York in mid-winter, after being a few days in the bunkers. With this fact before them, insurers are to be blamed for allowing shippers to insure above the market value.
On the cotton ship the stevedores men are proverbial for their recklessness in smoking amongst the bales. It is the general belief that the majority of accidents occur from this cause, not only in port, but at sea, as it is a well established fact that cotton will smoulder for days, if excluded from the air, before it bursts into a flame. Another source of danger is the presence of tar, oil, and cotton waste in the store-rooms. In emigrant ships these inflammable articles should be stowed in a deckhouse, as the records at Lloyd's distinctly prove that a large number of ships have been destroyed from this cause. It is the old story of a naked light, a sudden plunge of the ship, and the mischief is irretrievably done. In all ships, if possible, but especially in the emigrant, spirits, wines, and beer should be stowed aft, in order that they may not be broached by the crew, many of whom openly declare that stealing 'grog' is no sin. It would be well, by-the-bye, for the shipowner
Where a large number of lives are at stake, more than ordinary precautions should be used, and all respectable shipowners will cheer-fully meet the views of the Board of Trade, if they be founded on a proper basis.
It may not be amiss to suggest a few additions to the present arrangements of emigrant ships. Under the deck, in each compartment, a pipe of a certain bore should run fore and aft. At intervals, couplings with a short hose screwed on should be placed so that in the event of a fire two streams of water could be brought to bear on any place where it might break out in the emigrants' quarters. Again, a small taut or scuttle butt, with a baler hanging over it, should be placed in each store-room and the forecastle. A fire is easily put out at first, but every fitting of a ship being more or less inflammable it soon gathers head.
Experience confirms what nantical men have so often asserted, that boats are a sorry resource in the hour of danger, and often lull people into a state of false security, owing to the undue value which is attached to their presence. In all sailing emigrant vessels at least one-half of the boats are stowed bottom up on skids, and in positions which require great care and skill to get them out free of damage (witness the case of the Cospatrick, where these were destroyed before an attempt could be made to extricate them). As a general rule, the oars, sails, and other essential fittings are stowed below, often in some unknown place. In the case of the Cospatrick a woman's petticoat formed the sail of one boat.
Such a state of things ought not, for one moment, to be tolerated. A penalty should be attached if any of the fittings of a boat were removed from her after the Government officers had inspected her. In a merchant ship there is so much to do, and so few to do it, that nothing should be left to chance. It may well be doubted whether boats afford the most efficient means for saving life when a large number of people, without discipline, suddenly meet with a great disaster which compels them to abandon the ship. In every instance we hear of the violent rush to the boats, of the strong trampling down the weak, of overcrowding, and finally upsetting. Some two years since the writer saw a man leap overboard from an emigrant ship which probably had twelve or thirteen hundred souls on board. The boats had been swung inboard for bad weather, and the crew immediately commenced to swing one out. Under ordinary circumstances this would have been done in a few minutes, but the yelling of the emigrants and their unskilful eagerness to aid the crew rendered all exertion useless for some time; not a command could be heard, and it was not until some of them had been violently thrust aside that order could be restored, and the boat lowered. Had that ship been in danger, a legion of boats would not have aided her. In addition to these perils is the serious one of previous damage by heavy weather. It is a well-known fact, as I have before stated, that on the Atlantic a winter never passes without accidents to the boats of steam-ships. The present winter has been prolific of them.
On the other hand, pontoon rafts are easily secured and disengaged, will support a much greater number of people than boats of corresponding dimensions, can generally be launched without damage,
Ville du Havre, for example—rafts would have saved numerous lives, whereas boats were from many causes useless. Other cases might be quoted, but none which is more vividly impressed on the mind of the public than the accident to this unfortunate ship.
Shipowners would gladly substitute a certain number of rafts in lieu of boats, as this would be more serviceable and economical than the present expensive system. By a few simple fittings a certain quantity of bread and water could always be in place, as it is in the quarter boats of all men-of-war. It is idle to expect more; the leaving of a ship at sea is not a picnic, but the result of grim necessity where one holds his life in his hand, often on conditions which some would think unendurable. In the recent case of the coal-ship Euxine the poor Italian sailor, after drawing the fatal lot, meekly and without a murmur bared his breast to the knives of his starving associates, who eagerly drank his blood and ate his quivering flesh. Most of us read such things with a shudder, and presently forget them; and what the old song says is still true—
No questions, within the entire range of literature, are more important than those of the date, the authorship, and the authority, of the book which, in its earliest extant copy, is headed by the simple title
The question is more ancient than any distinct proof that we possess of the existence of the book in its present form. Late in the second century occur independent references to four gospels, and expressions closely similar to some parts of the language of the fourth. A Syriac version is ascribed to the same age. But the Sinaitic codex is, as yet, See introduction to the Tauchnitz edition of the New Testament, p. xi.
The dispute has been embittered by the fact, that the contest has originated in the hearts rather than in the heads of the disputants. The true method of patient historic re-search has, therefore, been too tardy for their ardour. By one party, the Fourth Gospel is regarded as the very Magna Charta of the Christian faith. It excites, in their minds, deeper feelings of love, awe, and tenderness than any other written language. From early infancy the ear has been trained to listen to the voice of a Divine teacher in its mystic phrases. So much of orthodox doctrine depends exclusively upon this gospel, that a belief in its authentic and venerable character has become an essential element of the entire system known as orthodoxy.
On the other hand, very grave doubts are entertained, by men whose studies are rather critical than doctrinal, as to the possibility that the book in question could have been written by a personal disciple of Jesus, or, indeed, by any inhabitant of Palestine. The crucial importance of the question is due to the minute detail with which this Evangelist professes to narrate the very words of Jesus. None but a constant attendant on His person could be a trustworthy witness to such an extent. And if, in the study of this gospel, it should become apparent that a course not uncommon amongst ancient historians has been followed, and that the opinions and reflections of the writer have been conveyed by him under the guise of speeches from the Subject of his narrative, the work would be not only untrustworthy, but something more.
It does not, however, follow that, even in such a case, the stigma of forgery should be applied to the writer. For a considerable period in the history of literature, the assumption of an imaginary personality was a license commonly accorded to the
It ought to be distinctly borne in mind, from the commencement of the enquiry, that the Fourth Gospel nowhere contains a statement that it was written by a personal follower of Jesus. It includes no direct avowal of authorship, such as is to be found in the Apocalypse, and in the Epistles of Paul, James, and Peter. It contains no implied avowal of authorship, such as is the case with the Third Gospel, and the Acts of the Apostles. The writer makes use of the third person, in a manner not called for by the natural flow of the narrative, as an anticipatory protest against disbelief of his account; and adds an argument which, before any existing tribunal, would tell against his veracity. 'He that saw it bare record, and his record is true, and he knoweth that he saith true, that ye might believe.' John xix. 35, xx. 31. John xxi. 24.testamur from unnamed and unknown witnesses;
While thus indistinctly indicating, but not plainly claiming, an Apostolic authorship; and accepting the character, not of a history, but of a doctrinal treatise; the book commences with a commentary on the first words of the Pentateuch, couched in the language of the Cabbalistic writers. It was the doctrine of the Cabbala (as may be seen in the book Jetsira),Prolégomènes de la version du, Talmud. Par l'Abbé L. Chiarini, p. 92.
That the Fourth Gospel presents a view of the person, life, and
There is no indication in either of the Four Gospels that the writer was aware of the existence of any other record of authority equal to his own. The writer of the Third Gospel implicitly undervalues the many attempts made before his time, by referring to his own perfect know-ledge, Luke, i. 3. John, xx. 30.
If we seek for any reason, afforded by the course of either narrative, for the special division of subject existing between the two accounts, we find ourselves altogether at a loss. In the passage which refers to the testimony to be borne by the apostles, the eleven are alike addressed. In the Synoptic Gospels, Peter is spoken of as the first of the apostles; but it is not clear that anything more is intended than a reference to the historic fact in point of time. On three cardinal occasions—namely, at the raising of the daughter of the Ruler of the Synagogue, at the Transfiguration, and at the Agony in the Garden—Peter, James, and John are alone mentioned as present. That in a narrative written by the latter these important events should have been described we might fully anticipate. To neither of them is any reference made in the Fourth Gospel. On the other hand, in the account given by the fourth Evangelist of the conversation with the woman of Sychar, it is stated that the apostles were absent; John iv. 8
If we look with proper attention at the leading features of the character of Jesus, as drawn by the Synoptic, and by the single, writers, we shall find it hard to believe that the same historic Personage can be contemplated by the two accounts. Of the hope and expectation of Israel; of the portents preceding and accompanying the Advent; of the Nativity and Circumcision; of the youthful promise; of the Baptism, Fasting, and Temptation; of the Agony and bloody Sweat; of the darkness, and rending of the veil of the Temple; of the glorious Trans-figuration, and Ascension; and of the coming of the Holy Ghost; the Fourth Gospel has not one syllable. Of twenty-eight distinct miracles
John vi. 15. Matt. xiii. 34.
In omitting the most important incidents of the history narrated by the accordant Evangelists, and in making the laboured course of argument depend on occurrences not referred to by them—such as the marriage at Cana, the healing of the blind-born by making clay, the raising of Lazarus, and the washing of the disciples' feet—the Fourth Gospel does not afford the means of constant collation with the Synoptic narrative. There are, however, a certain number of incidents, or of periods, which can be identified as spoken of by the contrasted ac-counts; and there is, moreover, a further number of incidents as to which it is uncertain whether they are, or are not, so to be identified. An honest comparison of these ac-counts is essential to the formation of a sound judgment as to their harmony or discrepancy.
Take first the chief cases of doubtful identity. These are the cleansing of the Temple, and the anointing of Jesus with a precious unguent. In the Synoptic narrative, the fame, the wonder, and the authority of Jesus appear rapidly and naturally to augment with each new display of His miraculous powers. The march of the narrative increases in its grandeur and awe from the commencement to the close. In His last visit to Jerusalem, when already hailed by the populace as the Heir of their native kings, the exertion of His authority to correct abuses that might have crept into the discharge of the wise provisions of the Law, for providing victims for the sacrifices of the worshippers, and legal money for the payment of the annual Temple tax, is in no way out of place. That an unknown provincial Teacher could have attempted such a service, without interruption, is highly improbable. The Synoptic writers place this incident at the close; the fourth writer at the commencement; of the public life of Jesus. The apologists for the Fourth Gospel assume a repetition of the act, for which there is no authority in either text; nor does the expedient obviate the difficulty as to its early occurrence.
The anointing of Jesus, shortly before the Passion, occurred, ac-cording to the first Evangelist, on the day before the Passover, at the house of Simon the Leper, in Bethany. Matt. xxvi. 6.; Mark xiv. 1, 3. Luke vii. 37. John xi. 2.
When we pass to those few points as to which the identification is unquestionable, it is only to find the accounts to be in open and positive contradiction of one another. Thus the date and occasion of the commencement of the public life of Jesus is a leading feature of His history. According to the accordant Evangelists, Jesus was baptised by John, and immediately afterwards was rapt into the desert, where he underwent the mysterious temptation of forty days. Thence He went into Galilee; but did not begin to preach until He had heard of the imprisonment of John, Matt. iv. 17; Mark i. 14.
In the contrasted account, the baptism is not mentioned; but the visit of Jesus to John is identified by the reference to the descent of the Spirit. Two days later, Andrew, on hearing the testimony of the Baptist, brings his brother Peter to follow Jesus in Bethabara. Three days later, Jesus is represented as making a beginning of miracles in Galilee. The Passover follows, when He goes to Jerusalem, drives the dealers from the Temple, is visited by night by Nicodemus, and then goes into the land of Judea, tarries with His disciples, and baptises. It is expressly added that John was not yet cast into prison. John iii. 24.
No contrast can be more direct than that between these two ac-counts, the latter of which, by its reference to day after day, precludes the possibility of the forty days' sojourn in the desert, and represents Jesus, not as the successor, but as the rival, of the Baptist in his public functions.
The account of the close of the public life of Jesus, given by the fourth Evangelist, is as irreconcilable with that in which the other three narratives agree, as is that of the commencement of that life. The dates given are totally discrepant, and so are many of the special incidents narrated. Thus the supper at Bethany, before referred to, is described in the first and second Gospels as within two days of the Passover; in the fourth, as six days before the Passover. The supper at which the sop was given to Judas is stated by the Synoptics to have been the Passover. In the contrary account it is called 'before the Feast of the Passover,' and it is proved that such was the meaning of the writer, by the statement that the eleven thought Judas had gone out to buy what was needed for that feast. To purchase anything, or even to carry forth money in a purse, on the night when the Passover was eaten, would have been not only a sin, but a crime punishable by the law. Again, the accusers of Christ are spoken of as intending to eat the Passover after the betrayal; and the day of the Crucifixion is called the preparation of the Passover. These facts explain the meaning of the expression 'that Sabbath day was a high day' to be, that, in the year of the Crucifixion, Pasque fell on the Sabbath. According to the Synoptics, it fell on the fifth day of the week, our pre-
The result of a dispassionate comparison of this nature has the certitude of a sum in subtraction. It is no question of possible explanation, or of minor and unimportant discrepancy. Whenever positive comparison is possible, as to date, order, doctrine, the two accounts are absolutely irreconcilable. It is no more possible that both should be historic, than to take away two from four, and yet leave four remaining. The next step in the enquiry leads us to ask which, or whether both, of the two accounts are contradicted by other sources of information.
A tacit and instinctive sense of the impending result of more accurate study may be detected in the language of some of the most recent writers on the subject of the harmony of the Evangelists. Ebrard may be cited as an example. It is betrayed by a disposition to speak somewhat lightly of the authority of the Synoptic Gospels, on the points where, as in the instance of the year, day, and hour of the Crucifixion, they are contradicted by the fourth Evangelist. But it is certain that the question of comparative credibility can only be truthfully investigated, by means of a careful and accurate comparison, of the documents in question, with that ancient literature of similar or nearly identical date, which bears on the subject-matter of the gospels.
Research for this purpose must be directed to documents less familiar to the general reader, and somewhat less accessible even to the student, than is the Greek Testament. But, in compensation for the difficulty, the information which is afforded by those treatises of the Mishna, which throw light on the laws, manners, and opinions which prevailed in Jerusalem during the last century of the existence of the Jewish polity, is so minute, precise, and exhaustive; the date of each new 'fence' to the written Law is so securely fixed by the name of the Doctor who proposed, and of those who opposed or who sanctioned it, that the ground is firm beneath the tread. A comparison of the Mishna and the gospels has a further result beyond that derived from the comparison of the gospels themselves. It shows that while the first three gospels are in fall and unbroken concord with the testimony of Hebrew literature, the reverse is the case with reference to the Fourth Gospel.
The First Gospel, from its commencement to its close, is instinct with Jewish life, doctrine, and feeling. The more fully we become acquainted with the literature of the time, and with the contemporary state of the synhedral legislation, the more simple, luminous, and pointed become those passages in the narrative of the Evangelist which have long been confessedly obscure, References, slight indeed, but numerous and unmistakable, to the laws, the habits, and the opinions of the contemporaries of the Evangelist, sparkle in every page. That the writer of the First Gospel was a Jew, educated in Jewish learning to a point far above the common people, orthodox in Judaism, neither a Pharisee nor a Sadducee, but very probably a Karaite, and deeply imbued with the Jewish belief in oneiromancy, or the authoritative teaching of dreams, no student of Jewish literature can doubt. The Second Gospel,
The author of the Third Gospel is indicated in the Acts of the Apostles. By that Evangelist alone is the first person employed; in the singular, in the two short introductions; in the plural, towards the close of the narrative. At Lystra, the writer informs us, Paul met the son of Eunice, a Jewess, by a Greek father, whom he adopted as his companion. At Troas, a few verses later, the first person is used by the narrator, when Paul, Silas, and Timotheus are the only names suggested by the narrative to whom it can refer. But at Philippi, directly afterwards, when Paul and Silas only are mentioned as cast into prison, the third person is resumed. It is maintained during the account of Paul's solitary travels, until he sails for Philippi with five companions, including Timotheus, but not including Silas; when the Asiatics, Tychicus and Trophimus, coming beforehand, no doubt from Asia Minor, awaited the apostle and his little party at Troas. Thence to the close of the book the continued presence of the writer with Paul is indicated by the constant use of the first person. It would be difficult to acquit the author of the narrative of a great want of candour, if he were any other than Timotheus.
This view of the authorship of the history, regarded by the light of that classification of Jewish opinions which we described in a former number, Matt, x 5.Fraser's Magazine, No. Ixi. New Series.
When we turn to the Fourth Gospel, we find the case altogether reversed. The very first verse of the narrative speaks the language of a stranger to Judea: 'The Jews sent Priests and Levites from Jerusalem.' No Jew could have written such a sentence. A Jew would have designated the authority which instituted the enquiries, and the appropriate agents of its prosecution. To a foreigner, regarding the occurrences of which he spoke from a distant locality, and, possibly, at a long posterior time, the expression was unconsciously natural. Throughout the entire book the keynote here struck is kept up. 'The Jews' are always spoken of from without; not from within, as by the other Evangelists, and by Peter, James, and Paul. Instead of being spoken of as the Sons of God, the sacred nation, of whom Jesus claimed to be, by birthright, the anointed King, and to whom the writer was proud to belong; they are everywhere described as a party hostile to the truth, and even as the children of the Devil. No personal follower of Him who bade His hearers obey the Law and the Sanhedrin could thus have written.
Not only is hatred to the Jews a distinctive feature of that gospel which even omits the prayer of Jesus on the Cross for his misguided murderers, but positive un-acquaintance with Jewish law, habit, and thought is very frequently betrayed.
Thus, in the account of the marriage at Cana, we are told of the Architriclinos, or master of the feast; a festal office proper to the Greeks, but unknown to the Jews. The entire course of a social meal, from the rinsing of the hands at the commencement; the 'indication,' or prescribed prayer, uttered by the most honorable rabbi present, the blessings proper to the various viands, down to the final service of the ewer, was ordered by a distinct legislation, the enactments of which we possess. John ii. 6.Vide Beracoth, section 6; the whole of the eight Mischnaioth, and the accompanying Ghemara.
The utter contrast between the ideas expressed by the writer of the Fourth Gospel, and those which were universally entertained by the Jews of Palestine, is even yet more distinctly shown by those passages in which Jesus is represented as claiming a character, of which the Synoptic Gospels are far from giving the slightest indication. It is not in pages like these that it would be proper to express any personal opinion as to the sanction for such a claim. The only question we attempt to answer is, what would have been possible, and what impossible, in Judea, in the first century. As to this, the language of the fourth Evangelist is such as to encounter a double impossibility. 'The Jews,' he writes, 'sought the more to kill him because he said also that God was his Father, making himself equal with God.' John v. 18.
This passage, however, must be read together with the last two verses of the 8th, and the 28th of the 20th, chapters. With these must be contrasted the accordant account given by the Synoptic writers of the condemnation of Jesus by the great Sanhedrin, for blasphemy. The cardinal fact of the rending of his robe by the High Priest is mentioned by the first and second Evangelists. The import of the whole is this: The great Sanhedrin, consisting of 71 members, reserved to itself the right of jurisdiction in three special cases, of which the question of a false prophet was one. Matt. xxvi. 61; Luke xxii. Mark xv. 62, 63.Tractatus de Synedris, i. 5. 64.De Synedris, vii. 5.
Viewed in this light, the whole narrative, as given by each of the Synoptic Evangelists, is perfectly consistent, both with itself and with the provisions of the Jewish law. The account of the fourth writer is widely different. He omits all those points by which, in the other gospels, the harmony between the teaching of Jesus and the law is illustrated. Of the baptism, undergone 'to fulfil all the injunctions of
Matt. iii. 15. Matt. v. 19. Luke xvi. 17. Matt, xxiii. 2. Mark. xii. 37. John viii. 58. Levit. xxiv. 16; De Synedris, vi. 4, 5.
In face of this formal and vital contradiction between the narrative of the Fourth Gospel and every other literary authority, it is scarely necessary to refer to the numerous remaining marks, contained in that work, of unacquaintance with the law and customs of Palestine. Such is the reference to the Divine law as 'your law,' or 'their law.' John xv. 25, x. 34, viii. 17; Cf. John viii. 17, x. 34.Avoda Sara. f. 130.
For the question is not as to the truth or justice of the expressions; but as to their irreconcilability with the character of a Teacher who gave honour to the law. Such emphatically was Jesus, as represented by the Synoptic Evangelists. As such, He always refers to the Law, with the usual forms of citation. As such, He quotes it truly, although in the language, not of the Hebrew original, but of the Septuagint. As such, He would never have perverted the merciful provision, that forbad capital punishment to be inflicted on the testimony of a single witness, into a statement that the witness of two men must be true. As such, He would have had no occasion to draw, from a misread passage, an argument in defence of an expression used in the Temple liturgy, and in the Pentateuch itself. As such, He taught that he who used to his brother expressions far milder than those above cited, was in danger of condign punishment. Matt. v. 22.
As to the expression 'cast out of the Synagogue,' it is one of those which is a very probable mark of the late date of the book in which it occurs. During the existence of the Jewish polity, although the power of life and death, in the three specially reserved cases, had been taken from the Sanhedrin, Wagensheilius, in Acts vii. 59, v. 18, 40.Sotah, ix. 12.See Buxtorff's Lexicon of the Talmud, under and the three kinds of excommunication.
It has not been attempted, within the brief limits of the foregoing pages, to present an exhaustive analysis of the Fourth Gospel. The object of the writer has been to compare, first, the accounts given by the four Evangelists of incidents which can be distinctly identified; and, secondly, the several statements, with the provisions of the Jewish Law as they were in force during the lifetime of Jesus, and down to the destruction of Jerusalem. As to these points no doubt is possible to the patient and honest student. The result of the comparison appears in the pure white light of truth. With those who are content to accept the awe-inspiring dogma of the existence of a canon of sixty-six books, all directly and equally inspired by the Holy Spirit, on the authority of the Councils of Carthage and of Trent, our remarks will have no value. But to those who consider that accurate investigation of any work, said to be historic, should precede its full acceptance, as authoritative, enough has perhaps been said to lead them to study for themselves those irrefragable facts, which it is impossible to reconcile with the verdict of an unlearned and superstitious period as to the apostolic origin of the treatise After John.
Note.—Courteous enquiries having reached the author as to the Aramaic word which Caiaphas professed to take for the Tetragrammaton, it may be mentioned that either might be fairly represented by but that the proof of the misrepresentation is the rending of the pontifical garment according to the provisions of the treatise De Synedriis.
Sir,—In his reply to the letter you were so good as to insert for me in your January number, the Prime Minister of the New Zealand Government admits what I therein stated in regard to military expenditure being defrayed out of loan and excluded from consideration as affecting the question of deficit or surplus. The amounts which have been so paid for native and defence purposes during the past four years he gives
Page 257 of Mr. Vogel's letter to you, last column but one.
Mr. Vogel further admits what I affirmed as to there being no prospect of the public works in progress yielding a return in any way approaching interest on their cost. Eight million pounds will soon have been applied to this purpose, involving a yearly charge or interest of four hundred thousand pounds, and the best Mr. Vogel ventures to hope for is their making some contribution towards that enormous liability.
My two main points are therefore conclusively established.
With reference to the chronic excess of disbursements over receipts, Mr. Vogel enters into explanations with the view of showing that the native difficulty renders it impracticable for New Zealand to meet her entire expenditure out of revenue. That, however, I submit, is hardly the question. It is needless to discuss whether exceptional circumstances may not sometimes compel a State to exceed its income. What I urged, and what I still hold, is—that in such cases the excess of expenditure over receipts should be acknowledged. Deficits, where really existing, should be admitted, not kept out of sight by the process I have described.
On reference to the alleged surplus, I read Mr. Vogel's letter with much interest. After admitting that during the last financial year no less than 258,121l. had been paid out of loan for native and defence purposes, I was anxious to observe whether he would reiterate his statement with reference to the 'surplus.' I hardly know whether to construe his observations on pages 265 and 266 as affirming its existence. I observe, however, that he calls in as a witness 'the Colonial Treasurer,' and gives a long extract from a speech delivered by that officer, in which the alleged surplus is set forth in all its glory, as if the Colonial Treasurer were a person offering independent evidence. Naturally, therefore, it would not be supposed that Mr. Vogel and 'the Colonial Treasurer' were one and the same person. Such, however, is the case.
Proceeding to particulars, I find Mr. Vogel, in his financial statement for . . . I have a more agreeable task this year than I had on the last occasion, for I have not to speak of deficiencies of or impaired revenue;
and farther on he affirmed the existence of a surplus of 10,562l.Financial Statement of the Hon. the Colonial Secretary,
In contrast to this, however, Mr. Vogel now admits 'there can be no doubt that, until the last two years, the finance of New Zealand was exceedingly embarrassed' (p. 255). How the existence of a 'surplus'
Passing on to the accounts of the preceding year, which I endeavoured to analyse, Mr. Vogel admits the payment of defence expenditure out of loan. He passes over in silence the omission of 52,000 to provide for a payment to be made by the province of Otago to the New Zealand Government, on account of the late province of Southland, and for other debts duo by that province.l. for interest on the debt, and only makes a sort of half-protest against the miscellaneous or 'other' expenditure being classed with ordinary disbursements. The total sum so expended out of loan for the year in question was 118,572l., and one item of it for which the payment of 50,000l. was authorised was, as Mr. Vogel states,
Now, to show for what purposes these debts of Southland were incurred, I will simply subjoin an extract from a report made by Dr. Knight, the Auditor-General of New Zealand, who was commissioned to investigate the subject. The province of Southland, I should premise, originally formed part of Otago, from which it seceded with a population of about 8,000. After a few years' separate existence it re-united with Otago, bringing, as its dowry, debts amounting to some-thing like half a million pounds. After stating that the 'ascertained liabilities' of Southland amounted to 470,359 Taking the whole revenue and expenditure of the province since its separation from Otago, we find thatl., 'besides others,' bearing interest partly at 5 per cent., partly at 8, Dr. Knight's report proceeds:
While the expenditure for the same period.
It will thus be seen that the expenditure on Departments exceeded the ordinary revenue by 73,883l. 10s. 6d., and the outlay on public works, roads, and railways exceeded the Land Fund receipts, after deducting the cost of surveys, by no less a sum than 427,205l. 10s. 7d.Appendix to Journals of the House of Representatives,
In regard to the railway which figures for 367,168l., I would merely observe that it is the one I have spoken of as yielding a net revenue of 1,200l. a year. I note that Mr. Vogel disputes my accuracy in calling it the 'first' railway constructed in New Zealand. I believe I am perfectly correct in so terming it, but shall not waste time in discussing the point.
The statistics given by Mr. Vogel on page 257 of this letter to you are of a highly instructive character, and I would invite the attention of your readers to the following table, which I extract therefrom :
The progressive increase of these figures cannot fail to strike the reader, and they become still more instructive when viewed in connection with Mr. Vogel's statement that, during the recess of
Thus far I have confined myself to reviewing Mr. Vogel's admissions. Now I will solicit attention to what he endeavours to deny. He says in one part of his letter:
The statement that borrowed money is used to pay interest, on the public debt is a scandalous perversion of fact;
qualifying that statement, however, by adding:
The only ground for it is that authority was given by the Legislature to charge to borrowed money interest on the cost of railways during the course of construction.
Mr. Vogel, as already mentioned, abstains from noticing the 52,000l. for interest, omitted from the accounts in the manner I explained. However, suppose we pass by that, and take Mr. Vogel on his own ground. Now, I do not question that where there is a prospect of a railway or public work remunerating to the extent of interest on its cost, the interest during construction may justifiably be capitalised. But where there is no such expectation, where the undertaking is never expected to return interest, or anything like it, I fail to see that the interest may be more properly paid out of capital during construction than at any subsequent period.
To show that this consideration fairly applies to the case in point, I will quote Mr. Vogel's own speech made in proposing the initiation of the railway scheme.
He said:
Is it unreasonable to suppose that at the end of the third year a sum of 10,000l. will be the result, over and above working expenses, from the railways opened up to that time by the expenditure of two millions und a half?Financial Statement of the Hon. the Colonial Treasurer,
And then, extending his glance to the future, he proceeded to conjecture what might be the result in ten years. Well, the best he ventured to hope for was, that during that period the direct receipts from railways, over and above working expenses, might average a little more than a third of the charge they involved for interest. I subjoin the exact figures as given by Mr. Vogel:
With such a result in anticipation I am certainly unable to consider that the interest can properly be capitalised, and must accordingly adhere to my opinion that the payment of such interest out of loan can be made with no more propriety during construction than after the works are completed.
I note that Mr. Vogel says that a sum of 300,000l. is all that has been, authorised by the Legislature to be paid out of loan for interest on works under construction; but I may be allowed to remark that, if the scheme is carried out, much larger amounts will have to be provided.
Mr. Vogel further says :
The charge that borrowed money 'is applied to maintain the regular establishment of Government' is quite untrue, unless by it is meant a reference to the fact that the cost of a considerable portion of the staff engaged in the Public Works Department is defrayed out of loan.
In like manner with the capitalised interest he contends that this payment is legitimate; and in each ease I find myself totally unable to
But, indeed, it is superfluous to prolong discussion on this point; for though Mr. Vogel denies the application of borrowed money to maintain the regular establishment of Government, he admits, in almost the same breath, that borrowed money is so applied. Take the Native Department, for instance. Mr. Vogel acknowledges (p. 257) that the following sums have been devoted to it out of loan during the last four years :
Does not the Native Department, I would ask, form part of the regular establishment of Government? Then look at the amounts of borrowed money applied to defence, which Mr. Vogel allows have averaged, during the last four years, 160,000l. per annum. Is not providing for defence one of the ordinary functions of Government? On what ground, therefore, can Mr. Vogel deny the application of borrowed money to maintaining the regular establishment of Government, when simultaneously admit-ting that during the last year more than a quarter of a million pounds has been so devoted?
In reference to the unfortunate results that have attended so many public works thus far constructed, Mr. Vogel deprecates the idea of anything similar happening in future. The extravagance of the past was the work of Provincial Governments, whereas now the public works policy is being con-ducted by the General Government. But, if those works yield no better result than Mr. Vogel's anticipations lead us to expect, it is not easy to see that they promise much improvement. He speaks approvingly of railways being undertaken 'without a thought of their yielding interest on their cost,' and that only promise 'to relieve to some extent the charge for interest on their cost.' If they are only to pay something 'in excess of working expenses,' as much might be said of the dock which cost 55,000l. and returned 400l. a year, or of the railway which cost 367,168l, and was leased for 1,200l.
Generally speaking, I think I might characterise Mr. Vogel's arguments as being not to the purpose; but it would be unjust to apply that designation to the whole, as there are some points he adduces which tell heavily against himself. For instance, Mr. Vogel complained of the period I took in comparing the relative growths of debt and population, and solicited attention to more recent statistics, which he gave as follows :
Mr. Vogel mentions that of the 12,500,000l. one million was unexpended, though it is possible there may have been liabilities to set against it. However, we will call the debt 11,500,000l. This shows an increase of fifty-six per cent, on what it stood at three and a half years before, but the population increased simultaneously from 248,400 to 308,000, or at the rate of only twenty-four per cent. That is, debt increased at nearly two and a half times the rate of population. I do not fail to notice that the amount of revenue per head shows an increase, but I think I may take exception at the year selected for comparison. That ending l. 5s. 9½d., or fifteen per cent, more than at present, and the year before that it was 5l. 12s. 1d., or twenty-two per cent, more than at present. I subjoin a table giving the particulars; thus :
The net result of the comparison is, that whilst the amount of debt chargeable per head increased from 25l. 1s. 5d. to 43l. 10s. 103/4d., the revenue simultaneously declined from 5l. 12s. 1d. per head to 4l. 12s. 2½d. In other words, the proportion of debt increased seventy-four per cent., whilst that of revenue declined eighteen per cent.
Notwithstanding, therefore, Mr. Vogel's statements as to increase in the revenue per head, &c., it transpires that, as compared with
Mr. Vogel dwells at some length on the natural resources and happy climate possessed by New Zealand. Nether of these have I any inclination to dispute, but I submit that their consideration is foreign to the present question. The genial climate of New Zealand will not be improved by bad financial administration, nor are her resources likely to be increased by the reckless accumulation of debt, whatever show of 'prosperity' may for a time be produced by a lavish expenditure of public money.
The newspaper from which I extracted the passage concerning the immigrants is the Bruce Herald,
In reference to my former letter Mr. Vogel states:
Were the article to appear in New Zealand with Mr. Fellows' signature, very little, if any, notice would be taken of it, for he is known there as a person who, under the nom de plume of Master Humphrey, wrote, for an Opposition newspaper, letters attacking the Government.
I, however, fail to see how the soundness of my views is affected by their being expressed in an Opposition newspaper. Those letters were perfectly spontaneous, and neither the writing of them nor the contents of them were in any way suggested to me by the conductors of the journal or by any other person. For the purpose, however, of showing that I was not altogether singular in my views, it may be sufficient to subjoin the following extract from a speech delivered at the time by Sir David Monro, a gentleman who, I understand, formerly occupied the post of Speaker in the New Zealand Assembly. Sir David Monro at Waikonaiti. Otago Daily Times,
The great question which overshadows every other at the present moment is the financial position of the colony, and the effect upon its finances of the policy of public works and immigration. It is a question of life and death. We owe an amount of money greater per head than that of any of the Australasian colonies, greater than that owed by the people of Great Britain, greater than the debt of any people I know of. And this amount of indebtedness increases from year to year. There can be but one end to this, gentlemen. When a man's debts constantly exceed his income, it may be a question of time and the amount of property which he has to borrow upon, but it is the high road to insolvency, and the terminus will inevitably be reached. It will be said, 'Oh, we can easily raise more money by taxation.' We are an exceedingly well-taxed people at the present time. The Customs revenue could hardly be increased without injuring the resources of the country, and local taxation—a land tax, for instance—will press upon the
bond fidesettler, curtail his income, and diminish the value of his property. This is not pleasant, gentlemen, but it will have to be submitted to. More money will have to be got somehow or other—either by borrowing or taxation, or both. But if we go on as we are going at present, finding at the end of each year a largo balance to our debit, it must come to this—that sooner or later our credit and our capability of taxation will both be exhausted, and we shall be in a position of unmistakable insolvency.
Speaking of the advantages afforded by railways, Sir David remarked :
Where there is a large amount of goods to be carried (or passengers) the superior appliances enable the transport to be done both cheaply and quickly. But, with every possible economy, a railway is an expensive road, and, in thinly populated and poor districts, is as much out of place as a steam plough would be in a cabbage garden. The early settlers in a new country may manage to get along with their ordinary wheeled carts without a sixpence of expenditure on the surface, and, as their means increase, they will dig ditches, and cart metal, and make in time a good macadamised road. But you can't go to work in this way with a railway. The thing must be made complete from the first. A break of a single yard in any length of a railway effectually interrupts the traffic. It means a large amount of capital in hand, annual interest, and a large sum annually to keep it up. It is the best of roads, and the cheapest, when there is a large haulage business to be done; but for the poorer districts it is much too expensive, and, like the Launceston and Deloraine line, will prove a curse instead of a blessing.
Alluding to the introduction of the railway scheme, Sir David proceeded :
I had knowledge enough of railways to know that the Colonial Treasurer (Mr. Vogel) was talking about a matter with which he was very imperfectly acquainted. I did not in the least believe in his figures and his calculations; and, so far as we have gone yet, they have proved utter delusions.
Speaking of the manner in which the public works scheme was forced on the country, Sir David remarked :
What would be thought of the directors of a joint stock company who suddenly, and without consulting the shareholders, should create a very large mortgage upon the whole property held both individually and in common? The thing, of course, is so monstrous that it is inconceivable, and yet this, or something very like it, was done by the Fox-Vogel Government in coup d' ètat upon the table of a moribund Parliament, with all the Bills to give it effect ready drafted, and the whole required to be passed, and actually passed, in a ridiculously short period of time. I cannot, for my part, understand how conduct of this sort can be held to be in accordance with the usual practice of constitutional government, or can be justified by any reference to prudence or common sense.
As Mr. Vogel has affirmed that the expression of my views was received in New Zealand first with surprise, then with amusement, and finally with weariness, I may be permitted, perhaps, to adduce some further evidence showing that they were shared by per-sons of position and intelligence. At the time I was making public my views a protest against the passing of the Railways Bill was signed by several members of the Legislative Council, or Upper House, and handed to the Speaker for transmission to the Governor. The following are the reasons that were urged against the passing of the Bill:
1. Because the present Bill authorises the Governor to impose on the colony liabilities on account of railways to the extent of 3,886,900 2. Because no sufficient data have been supplied, such as are usually laid before Parliament, in reference to measures of this kind, to enable it to form an accurate judgment upon the various railway schemes to which effect is given by this Bill. 3. Because this Bill empowers the Government to incur liabilities so large in amount without reserving to Parliament its proper constitutional control over the expenditure. 4. Because the Bill empowers the Government to pledge the credit of the colony to a large amount without provision being made to meet its engagements. 5. Because this measure has been hurried through the Legislature without due deliberation, at the close of the session, when many members have returned to their homes, against the declared opposition of large minorities. 6. Because no opportunity has been given to the people of the colony of reconsidering the subject of the public works policy under the present altered circumstances, and having special regard to the difficulty experienced in the introduction of immigrants, the unexpected advance in the price of railway material, and the necessary increase in the cost of railways.l. (being 1,886,900l. in excess of the amount already authorised by law), in addition to the existing debt of 9,985,936l., and to further sums amounting to 2,800,000l., authorised to be raised under the Defence and Public Works Loan Act, so as to raise the indebtedness of the colony, actual and authorised, to upwards of fourteen millions and a half sterling—an amount disproportionate to the population, and creating, for the time, an undue strain on the revenue and resources of the colony.
With reference to my incredulity as to the reality of Mr. Vogel's surplus, it is easy to show I am not the only one taking that view. In the monthly summary of the In this temper people are more disposed to cavil than to be contented. They ridicule the surplus as a test of solid financial prosperity, attributing it very largely to the unhealthy practice of paying last year, out of loans, the interest on works in course of construction. The surplus is thus regarded as borrowed, in reality, to that ex-
The writer of this, and those he writes about, are apparently unaware of the sums paid out of loan for native and defence purposes. The extract serves to show that many people in New Zealand are under the impression that the loans are incurred only for public works and the interest upon them, and have no idea that there is an additional accumulation of debt for other purposes. What will be their feelings on learning, upon Mr. Vogel's authority, that last year no less than 258,120Otago Daily Times, published for transmission to Europe, of l. was paid out of loans for the Native and Defence Departments, besides the interest on the public works in progress?
From the general tenor of Mr. Vogel's letter it would seem to be implied that I have some unworthy motive for depreciating New Zealand. Such an insinuation, however, is entirely destitute of foundation. Not to speak of the valued friendships I am so fortunate as to possess there, it will be enough to say that there is no one in England whose interest in the colony is more immediate than my own. My principal business relations are with New Zealand, and with her welfare my own is inseparably bound up. Wantonly to disparage New Zealand would therefore be an act not merely of ingratitude, but one of the most suicidal folly. Being, however, bound to the colony by strong ties of attachment and the most grateful recollections, having a distinct and immediate interest in her welfare, and being sincerely of opinion that the present financial policy does not conduce thereto, I consider myself at liberty to give expression to my views without incurring the imputation of sinister motives.
Mr. Vogel alludes to my having resided in Vancouver's Island, and then having left it. It is true that I passed more than three years in that colony, and left it, early in
Mr. Vogel concludes his letter by saying that, if he has pressed hardly upon me, it has not been from a desire to do so. I would beg to assure Mr. Vogel that any pressure which he may think he has exercised towards me is perfectly harmless, and does not excite my smallest resentment. Considering Mr. Vogel's admissions in regard to the payment of current expenditure out of loan, and the ignoring of that payment as affecting deficit or surplus, I think I may dispense with his somewhat ostentatious forbearance; and shall be perfectly content if the case I have adduced prove so fortunate as to obtain a hearing at the bar of public opinion.
[The subject having now been discussed rather fully, on both sides, in this Magazine, we cannot pursue it farther.—Ed.]
Although it may be impossible, immediately after the removal from the midst of us of a man of genius, to determine with certainty the permanent position which he will hold, or even to measure the extent and depth of his influence on the generation through which he has lived, it sometimes happens, especially if the character has been one of great openness and simplicity, that its essential qualities are more easily recognised at such a time than at any other. We awaken all at once to a sense of what we have lost; and a clear instinct leads us to fasten on the highest and most distinctive characteristics of the life whose circle has just been completed.
There have perhaps been few Englishmen of letters whose sympathies have extended throughout so wide a range as Charles Kingsley's, and who, with a remarkable power of accumulating detail, have shown themselves so governed, let the subject be what it might, by one great, commanding principle and passion; few, indeed, whose teaching can be so plainly read. It is, of course, this singleness of aim and of nature which has been so generally recognised. Vigorous and earnest (a much abused word, which was from the first accepted as characterising the school of which he was the chief interpreter), the whole range of active and energetic life was for him the truest academy, full of the highest and noblest lessons. It was life with a background of nature; or rather all nature, from the highest to the lowest, formed in his mind but one whole, and could not be separated from the human life set in the midst of it. What seized on him, and what he set forth in whatever he wrote, was the sacredness of this life in all its relations—in its relations to the natural world no less than in those between human beings 'after their kind'; the eternal goodness of God; and the certainty that a thread of true guiding, if but simply followed, will lead the honest, open-dealing man to the development of his best self, half unconsciously it may be, but none the less surety. This is the way, he insists, in which all the highest characters have been formed—the grandest Englishmen of Elizabeth's day—the Englishmen who have never yet failed in the land, who fought and fell in the Crimea, whose justice and honour hold India for us. This is the way in which he has drawn his own Amyas Leigh, contrasting him with his cousin Eustace, the Jesuit:
There, dear readers. Ex pede Herculem; I cannot tire myself or you with any wiredrawn soul dissections. I have tried to hint to you two opposite sorts of men. The one trying to be good with all his might and main, according to certain approved methods and rules, which he has got by heart; and, like a weak oarsman, feeling and fingering his spiritual muscles over all day, to see if they are growing. The other, not even knowing whether he is good or not, but just doing the right thing without thinking about it, as simply as a little child, because the Spirit of God is with him. If you cannot see the great gulf fixed between the two, I trust that you will discover it some day.Westward Ho! ch. iii.
We have here that 'breath of open air' which places his ideal in such sharp contrast with the trained, directed 'product' of the schools to which he was most opposed; that natural freshness which formed his own life, and which makes us feel, on opening any one of his books, as if we had passed from crowded streets or close, overshadowed lanes, to some wide-stretching heath, fresh with the
His intense love of nature was part of himself; and to the influences of nature he assigned a power even greater than Wordsworth had claimed for them. Here again we may turn to his own words. The talk in 'For me, my friend' (says the Abbot Pambo), 'it is the day, and not the night, which brings revelations.' 'How, then?' 'Because by day I can see to read that book which is written, like the Law given on Sinai, upon tables of stone, by the finger of God Himself. . . . My book is the whole creation, lying open before me, wherein I can read, whensoever I please, the word of God.' 'Dost thou not undervalue learning, my friend?' 'I am old among monks, and have seen much of their ways; and among them my simplicity seems to have seen this: many a man wearing himself with study, and tormenting his soul as to whether he believed rightly this doctrine and that, while he knew not with Solomon that in much learning there is much sorrow, and that while he was puzzling at the letter of God's message the spirit of it was going fast and faster out of him.' 'And how didst thou know that of such a man?' 'By seeing him become a more and more learned theologian, and more and more zealous for the letter of orthodoxy, and yet less and less loving and merciful, less and less full of trust in God, and of hopeful thoughts for himself and for his brethren, till he seemed to have darkened his whole soul with disputations, which breed only strife, and to have forgotten utterly the message which is written in that book, wherewith the blessed Antony was content.' 'Of what message dost thou speak?' 'Look,' said the old Abbot, stretching his hand toward the Eastern desert, 'and judge, like a wise man, for thyself.' As he spoke a long arrow of level light flashed down the gorge from crag to crag, awakening every crack and slab to vividness and life. The great crimson sun rose swiftly through the dim night-mist of the desert, and as he poured his glory down the glen, the haze rose in threads and plumes, and vanished, leaving the stream to sparkle round the rocks, like the living, twinkling eye of the whole scene. Swallows flashed by hundreds out of the cliffs, and began their air-dance for the day; the jerboa hopped stealthily homeward on his stilts from his stolen meal in the monastery garden; the brown sand-lizards underneath the stones opened one eyelid each, and having satisfied themselves that it was day, dragged their bloated bodies and whip-like tails out into the most burning patch of gravel which they could find, and nestling together as a further protection against cold, fell fast asleep again; the buzzard, who considered himself lord of the valley, awoke with a long, querulous bark, and rising aloft in two or three vast rings, to stretch himself after his night's sleep, hung motionless, watching every lark which chirruped on the cliffs; while from the far-off Nile below the awakening croak of pelicans, the clang of geese, the whistle of the godwit and curlew, came ringing up the windings of the glen; and last Of all the voices of the monks rose, chanting a morning hymn to some wild Eastern air; and a new day had begun in Scetis. . . . 'W hat does that teach thee, Aufugus, my friend?' Aufugus was silent. 'To mo it teaches this : that God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all. That in His presence is life, and fulness of joy for evermore. That He is the giver, who delights in His own bounty; the lover whose mercy is over all His works—and why not over thee too, O thou of little faith? Look at those thousand birds—and without our Father not one of them shall fall to the ground : and art thou not of more value than many sparrows, thou for whom God sent His Son to die? . . . Ah, my friend, we must look out and around to see what God is like. It is when we persist in turning our eyes inward, and prying curiously over our own imperfections, that we learn to make a God after our own image, and fancy that our own darkness and hardness of heart are the patterns of His light and love.'Hypatia between the two old monks in the glen of Scetis tells us what he thought of God's ever open book, and gives us one of his most vivid pictures :
Hypatia, ch. xi.
Here the same note is struck as in the passage already quoted from A. H., in Westward Ho! but under different circumstances. The 'muscular Christianity' of which Amyas Leigh
Macmillan's Magazine for
For himself, he declared that he did not understand what was meant by the 'clever expression. . . muscular Christianity.' It might signify simply 'a healthy and manful Christianity—one which does not exalt the feminine virtues to the exclusion of the masculine'—and he insisted that chivalry, with all its shortcomings, because it asserted 'the possibility of consecrating the whole manhood, and not merely a few faculties thereof, to God,' was a far higher ideal than the monastic, which is essentially feminine; or it might mean 'something which is utterly immoral and intolerable.' And here it is desirable to give the rest of the passage at length. It is from one of a course of sermons on the character of David, preached before the University of Cambridge. His own ideal needed no defence; but Amyas Leigh has had unworthy successors, and the excess of modern athleticism has produced some results which are not the most satisfactory:
There are those (he continues) who say, and there have been of late those who have written books to show, that, provided a young man is sufficiently brave, frank, and gallant, he is more or less absolved from the common duties of morality and self-restraint. That physical prowess is a substitute for virtue is certainly no new doctrine. It is the doctrine of every red man on the American prairies, of every African chief who ornaments his huts with human skulls. It was the doctrine of our heathen forefathers when they came hither, slaying, plundering, burning, tossing babes on their spear-points. But I am sorry that it should be the doctrine of anyone calling himself a gentleman, much more a Christian. It is certainly not the doctrine of the Catechism, which bids us renounce the flesh, and live, by the help of God's Spirit, a new life of duty to God and to our neighbour. It is certainly not the doctrine of the New Testament . . . neither, though the Old Testament may seem to put more value on physical powers than does the New Testament, is it the doctrine of the Old Testament, as I purpose to show you from the life and history of David. Nothing, nothing can be a substitute for purity and virtue. Man will always try to find substitutes for it. He will try to find a substitute in superstition, in forms and ceremonies, in voluntary humility and worship of angels, in using vain repetitions and fancying that he will be heard for his much speaking: he will try to find a substitute in intellect, and the worship of intellect, and art, and poetry; or he will try to find it, as in the present case, in the worship of his own animal powers, which God meant to be his servants and not his masters. But let no man lay that flattering unction to his soul. The first and last business of every human being, whatever his station, party, creed, capacities, tastes, duties, is morality. . . . Believe it, young men, believe it. Better would it be for any one of you to be the stupidest and the ugliest of mortals, to be the most diseased and abject of cripples, the most silly, nervous, incapable personage who ever was a laughing-stock for the boys upon the streets, if only you lived, according to your powers, the life of the Spirit of God, than to be as perfectly gifted, as exquisitely organised, in body and mind, as David himself, and not to live the life of the Spirit of God, the life of goodness, which is the only life fit for a human being wearing the human flesh and soul which Christ took upon Him on earth, and wears for ever in heaven, a man indeed in the midst of the throne of God.University Sermons, I.
The heroes of his best romances are such as he has here described. But while setting forth his own ideal, he was ever ready to recognise what was good in systems most opposed to his own. Witness his pictures of the 'Hermits' of the Egyptian desert.
It was this which perhaps most strongly individualised him. Neither the ideal which he painted—attractive because it is really the picture of the truest and best Englishmen—nor the animated, impassioned strain in which it was upheld in novel, in poem, and in sermon, would have given Canon Kingsley the great hold which he had on all who came within his influence, and especially on the young, but for that rarest of all gifts—certainly rarest in the extent to which it was manifested in him—the sympathy which seemed to breathe from him, and which knit himself and his hearers—the great assemblage which hung on his words, or the chance companion in a country walk—for a time, at any rate, in the closest bonds. It has been often said that a very short personal acquaintance sometimes does more to sweep away the bitter feeling engendered by controversy, and especially religious controversy, than any amount of moral determination; but in the company of Charles Kingsley all points of difference seemed to sink away utterly out of sight, whilst those on which he was sure of the sympathies of all good men gathered new force and pertinence, and you left him refreshed and strengthened, as by a touch of the true 'earth-mother.' His was a wide range of interests, and it sufficed that his companion should have but the slightest hold on the especial subject which was uppermost, so long as he really cared for it, to ensure him as complete attention and respect as if he had been the most learned of professors or the profoundest theologian. It was this sympathy which led him to be tolerant of all men, and to find points of common interest where none, to ordinary sight, might seem possible. He had his own ideal, but was anything but narrow-minded in his judgment of others.
Charles Kingsley, the eldest child of his parents, was born on the The passage occurs in an article on Plays and Puritans, contributed to the North British Review (Miscellanies, vol. ii.)Sir Walter Raleigh and his Time (Miscellanies, vol. i.)
From Holne the elder Kingsley removed with his family to Clifton in Nottinghamshire, of which parish he became rector in
The five or six years that followed were perhaps the most important in the early training of his son Charles. At Clovelly he was surrounded for the first time by all the influences of a really picturesque country. One of the grandest of English coasts, cleft with deep, wooded combes, stretching into long wall-ranges of rock, and towering into great headlands, on which the whole force of the Atlantic rolls and breaks, extends itself on either hand; whilst in front the mass of Lundy, changing in colour with every change in the sky above it, lies like a long ark on the water. It is impossible to estimate too seriously
One is accustomed to connect with the North Devon (Miscellanies, vol. ii.)
During the greater part of this period Charles Kingsley was educated at home, under his father's eye. In
From Helston, recollections of which place were afterwards worked up in one of his best novels— The single eye, the daughter of the light; Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made By daily draughts of brightness inly bright; The taste severe, yet graceful, trained aright In classic depth and clearness, and repaid By thanks and honour from the wise and staid, By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight, And high communion with the eloquent throng Of those who purified our speech and song—All these are yours. The same examples lure You in each woodland, me on breezy moor, With kindred aim the same sweet path along, To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.Two Years Ago—Charles Kingsley passed to King's College, and thence to Magdalene College, Cambridge, with its famous Pepysian library. He became well known as a boating man, and was one of the first to interest himself in what are now recognised as 'athletic sports'—very different in his day to what they have since become—a development against which he has protested in more than one place. He certainly did not allow his proficiency in such sports to become the main object of his university career. He soon won a scholarship, carried off more than one important prize, and came out at last in Westward Ho! he wrote of 'Sir Richard Grenvile, Granville, Greenvil, Greenfield, with two or three other variations'), and from that time until his death the rectory of Eversley remained his real home, 'the pleasantest,' in his own words, 'that God ever gave to an undeserving man.' He soon 'made his mark' throughout the district; and one of his neighbours—Miss Mitford—writes of him in several of her letters with that full appreciation of true genius which she was always ready to bestow so ungrudgingly, only hoping that' he would not be spoiled.' He was not spoiled; there were too many correctives of his earnestness to allow of that; and here is his own recognition of the authoress of Our Village:
His 'breezy moor'—and by it we are to understand the whole country round Eversley—is as interesting and peculiar a district as is to be found in England, not less remarkable in its way than Dartmoor or the coast of Clovelly. The rectory, and the little church adjoining, in which lies buried the learned Alex-
There was an ancient sage philosopher Who had read Alexander Ross over—Hudibras—
are sheltered from the north by a ridge of heathy moor, which stretches away into wide tracts, half common, half clothed by woods and thickets of Scotch fir, which cover this borderland of Hampshire and Berkshire, where the chalk meets the sands and clays of the so-called 'London basin.' On higher ground, but not far from the rectory, Bramshill, the stately house built for Prince Henry, the eldest son of James I., looks out 'from its eyrie of dark pines' over all the rich low-lands. These great fir trees are coæval with the house; and when Canon Kingsley wrote of Bramshill as 'the only place in England where a painter can know what Scotch firs are,' he might have added, as he himself allowed, and that on the testimony of one of the Queen's most experienced foresters, that not oven on the shores of Loch Rannoch or in the great woods of Speyside are pine trees to be found of nobler form or of grander proportions. A peculiar droop of the branches, which it is said the tree only assumes at great age, and gnarled, contorted, oak-like limbs, such as, according to Sir Walter Scott, sometimes characterise the primæval fir of the North when left to its own growth on its native site, distinguish these pines of Bramshill from any others in England, and the changes of colour among their grey boughs and red-scaled trunks are enough to drive a painter to despair. These trees are the parents of the fir-woods that extend, and are still extending, over the surrounding country. They must not be called plantations. Nearly all are self-sown—'young live nature,' in Kingsley's words, 'thus carrying on a great savage process in the heart of this old and seemingly all-artificial English land, and reproducing here as surely as in the Australian bush a native forest, careless of mankind.' This is the 'winter garden' which he has made the subject of one of his pleasantest papers :
The March breeze is chilly, but I can be always warm, if I like, in my winter garden. I turn my horse's head to the red wall of fir stems, and leap over the furze-grown bank into my cathedral .... where are endless vistas of smooth red, green-veined shafts holding up the warm, dark roof, lessening away into endless gloom—paved with rich brown fir-needle. . . . There is not a breath of air within, but the breeze sighs over the roof above in a soft whisper. I shut my eyes and listen. Surely that is the murmur of the summer sea upon the summer sands in Devon far away. I hear the innumerable wavelets spend themselves gently upon the shore, and die away to rise again. . . . The breeze is gone awhile, and I am in perfect silence—a silence which may be heard. Not a sound, and not a moving object; absolutely none. The absence of animal life is solemn, startling. That ringdove, who was cooing half a mile away, has hushed his moan; that flock of long-tailed titmice, which were twinging and pecking about the fir-cones a few minutes since, are gone; and now there is not even a gnat to quiver in the slant sun-rays. Did a spider run over these dead leaves, I almost fancy I could hear his footfall. ... I seem alone in a dead world. A dead world : and yet so full of life, if I had eyes to see! Above my head every fir-needle is breathing—breathing for ever, and currents unnumbered circulate in every bough, quickened by some undiscovered miracle; around mo every fir-stem is distilling strange juices, which no laboratory of man can make; and where my dull eye sees only death, the eye of God sees boundless life and motion, health and use.My Winter Garden (Miscellanies, vol. i.) was first published in Fraser's Magazine for
Such a country as this, with its chalk hills and 'chalk streams' close at hand, its open moors and close fir-woods stretching away for miles, and with pleasant villages, farms, and halls dotted all over the landscape, is one of the highest interest and variety for the naturalist. Miss
The clod of these parts delights in the chase, like any bare-legged Paddy, and casts away flail and fork wildly to run, shout, assist, and interfere in all possible ways out of pure love. The descendant of many generations of broom-squires and deer-stealers, the instinct of sport is strong within him still, though no more of the king's deer are to be shot in the winter turnip-fields, or worse, caught by an apple-baited hook hung from an orchard bough. He now limits his aspirations to hares and pheasants, and too probably, once in his life, 'hits the keeper into the river,' and reconsiders himself for a while over a crank in Winchester gaol. Well, he has his faults, and I have mine. But he is a thorough good fellow nevertheless; quite as good as I: civil, contented, industrious, and often very handsome; and a far shrewder fellow too, owing to his dash of wild forest blood—gipsy, highwayman, and what not—than his bullet-headed and flaxen-polled cousin, the pure South Saxon of the chalk downs. Dark-haired he is, ruddy, and tall of bone; swaggering in his youth; but when he grows old, a thorough gentleman, reserved, stately, and courteous as a prince. Sixteen years have I lived with him, hail fellow well met, and never yet had a rude word or action from him.My Winter Garden.
The commons, and the green roads, some of them of great antiquity, that pass through the fir-woods, are the favourite haunts of a great gipsy tribe, and it is rarely that the smoke from one of their encampments is not to be seen curling upwards against the forest back-ground. The rector's power of attracting to himself men of all ranks and classes was strongly shown in the devotion borne to him by this 'race of the wandering foot.' Mr. Borrow had hardly more influence with them. They sought him in all their troubles. They came to his church to be married, and they would be buried in no other churchyard. Some of them mingled with the crowd at his funeral, and mingled too their tears with those of his parishioners. He will long be remembered among them; and if a second Borrow should arise, two or three centuries hence, to collect their traditions, he will doubtless find among them sundry records of the tall, springy-stepped 'Giorgio,' in the grey knickerbockers, whose wise counsels were so gladly welcomed by their forefathers. This dark grey dress was his ordinary wear at Eversley. 'I am glad,' he said, after he became Canon of Chester, 'that they have not made me a dean; then I suppose I must have put myself into less comfortable leggings.'
His intense love for this country, and his delight in his own people, came of course by degrees; and it is not, perhaps, very surprising to find him confessing that in the first heat of youth 'this little patch of moor, in which I have struck roots as firm as the wild fir trees do, looked at moments rather like a prison than a palace; that my foolish young heart would sigh, "Oh that I had wings," to swoop away over land and sea in a rampant and self-glorifying fashion, on which I now look back as altogether unwholesome and undesirable.' The period in which he first settled at Eversley was one of great excitement and disturbance, religious and political. 'Young England' was displaying its white waistcoats, and was attempting, in somewhat dilettante fashion, though with honest and true intention, to check the 'feud of rich and poor' that seemed to be the great question of the day. The Lives of the Saints were issuing from the Oxford press, and the religious discussions that had been stirring
Saint's Tragedy, the first, and by no means the least important, of his works. It was published, with a preface by Professor Maurice, in Saint Elizabeth, and a comparison of the drama and the history will show what different pictures may be drawn from the same materials. Something of Goethe studies and of the music of Faust may be traced in the Saint's Tragedy, to which perhaps full justice has never been done.
The dramatic power and life-like painting which were to find full scope in the novels are already conspicuous in the Tragedy. The hesitation and the mingled feeling of Conrad, the stern director of the saint, in whom the author found 'a noble nature, warped and blinded by its unnatural exclusions from those family ties through which we first discern or describe God and our relations to Him,' are finely indicated.
In the Saint's Tragedy Charles Kingsley addressed himself to the religious question of the time. He had already shown himself active and zealous in the cause of what he believed to be the oppressed classes of society by associating himself with Mr. Maurice, Mr. Hughes, and some others, who for the better carrying out of their views, had established a magazine called Politics for the People, and a weekly newspaper under the name of the Leader. They also set up the 'College' in Red Lion Square, with the especial object of promoting the education of adults. Alton Locke was written at this time; and remains a striking picture of the mental condition of a 'poet and tailor'—a sensitive and meditative youth of the working class, such an one as was likely to become the leader of a Chartist movement. Yeast, which was first published in the pages of this Magazine, but which, owing to the sudden failure of the author's health, was never completed, belongs to this same period of 'Sturm und Drang;' and, insisting as it does on the iniquities of game-preserving squires and on the comparative helplessness and innocence of poachers, draws much of its inspiration from what he saw passing under his own eyes at Eversley. There is, as he would afterwards have been one of the first to allow, something of a one-sided feeling in both these books; and probably in all his labours at this time on behalf of the working men, and in all his passionate pleading for them, he was too eager and too impassioned to see the full bearing of the great questions he was stirring. Yet both Alton Locke and Yeast unquestionably did good, crude as the latter seems now to be, and un-finished as it remains. Some of the greatest evils pointed out in Alton Locke have been abolished, and the indignant tone of both books was in great measure justified. The true teaching of both was the
Over-work and over-excitement produced at last their natural result, and the rector of Eversley was compelled to give up for a time all writing and all labour in his parish. He returned to the scenes which his early life bad most endeared to him; and whilst passing some time at Bideford he revisited all that wild coast as far westward as Morwenstow, filling his mind with scenery and associations which were soon to bear fruit in the most widely known of his novels. The first of these which appeared, however (for Alton Locke and Yeast were but 'lesser lights'), was not Westward Ho! it was Hypatia (published in Hypatia was followed, at due intervals, by Westward Ho! (Two Years Ago (Hypatia—whether such warriors ever existed or not—are as alive for us as his Eversley 'clods' or his Clovelly fishermen. Devonshire men know well that in Amyas Leigh and his companions he has but called into vivid reality the floating traditions which had come down from the 'golden age' of the west country; and in his bands all the struggle of that mighty time becomes once more present to us, and is a concern of our own. In Two Years Ago, which for some reasons may perhaps be considered the best of the three stories, we are landed in our own days; but Tom Thurnall is hardly more of a living, breathing man than Sir Richard Grenvile or Cyril of Alexandria. He himself looked upon Grace Harvey, the Cornish schoolmistress whose simple, undoubting faith and self-denial converts at last the self-reliant and unbelieving Tom Thurnall, as the highest and best of all his creations; and studied as she may have been from the life, she is surrounded by an atmosphere of the same true saintliness and womanly purity as he had thrown round his Elizabeth of Hungary. He never preaches, but he never forgets the lessons most needed for the time; and the healthiest spirit of duty, of courage, and—last, not least—of submission runs through all his novels. The last chapters of Westward Ho!—which we should like to quote at length—fully justify all that has been said. He never wrote anything finer. The beauty and the truth of the description have never been exceeded, and he is here, it must be remembered, on his own ground, putting at last into words what had been haunting his imagination from his schoolboy days.
It is hardly too much to say that in Westward Ho! Charles Kingsley has done in a measure for North Devon what Sir Walter Scott has done for the Scottish Lowlands. His pictures and his characters have be-come inseparably connected with all that country; and the pilgrim who now wanders along the lovely coast, and looks towards Lundy, will surely remember Amyas Leigh.
Hereward, the last of his novels, which did not appear until some time after its author had been appointed, in
He held the professorship, how-ever, until
Throughout all this time, in the intervals between the appearance of the novels, a long succession of lesser writings, the varied subjects of which show over how wide a range his sympathies extended, was given to the world; some of them, including those delightful essays afterwards collected in his Miscellanies, which have already been quoted, and which are pages from his own life—the 'Winter Garden,' the 'Chalk, stream Studies,' and the 'North Devon Idylls'—in this Magazine. Alexandria and her Schools was the result of the reading he had gone through for Hypatia. Glaucus shows him in another light; and here he gives us his lofty ideal of the 'perfect naturalist'—'strong in body, able to haul a dredge, climb a rock, turn a boulder, walk all day, uncertain where he shall eat or rest;' a rider, a good shot, a skilful fisherman; 'and for his moral character, he must be gentle and courteous .... brave, enterprising, and patient, of a reverent turn of mind;' and possessed of such a combination of noble qualities as can fall to the lot of but few.
In his charming If I am asked why the poor profess God's Gospel and practise the Devil's works, and why, in this very parish now, there are women who, while they are drunkards, swearers, and adulteresses, will run anywhere to hear a sermon, and like nothing better, saving sin, than high-flown religious books—if I am asked, I say, why the old English honesty, which used to be our glory and our strength, has decayed so much of late years, and a hideous and shameful hypocrisy has taken the place of it, I can only answer by pointing to the good old Church Catechism, and what it says about our duty to God and to our neighbour, and declaring boldly, It is because you have forgotten that; because you have despised that; because you have fancied that it was beneath you to keep God's plain human commandments. You have been wanting to 'save your souls,' while you did not care whether your souls were saved alive, or whether they were dead and rotten and damned within you; you have dreamed that you could be what you called 'spiritual' while you were the slaves of sin; you have dreamed that you could become what you call 'saints' while you were not yet even decent men and women.Water Babies he revels in his own knowledge of natural wonders, and in many of his sermons he makes some bit of natural history—some insect development, or some plant distribution which he had just been observing—'point a moral' in a way that his most unlearned hearers could not fail to follow. In these sermons, of which many volumes are published, delivered in his own village church, before the Univer-
Intense Englishman as he was, it is perhaps no great wonder that Canon Kingsley was not strongly attracted towards ordinary foreign travel. But there was one longing desire which he had cherished from his earliest years—the desire to see with his own eyes something of that tropical beauty and luxuriance on which the old discoverers of the 'new-found world' had gazed with so much wonder, and which they had described in such glowing words. The South American forests, with all their marvels, had for him hardly less mysterious attraction than they had for Raleigh himself, though his 'El Dorado' was a somewhat different one. He had pored over Raleigh's own descriptions, and those of many another adventurer, long before he set to work on In strange contrast with the ragged out line, and with the wild devastation of the rainy season, is the richness of the verdure which clothes the islands, up to their highest peaks, in what seems a coat of green fur; but, when looked at through the glasses,
Westward HO! but wonderfully accurate as are the pictures of tropical scenery which that book contains, there is between them and his North Devon pictures just the difference, as he was told by a naturalist who had spent the best part of his life within the tropics, that there will always be between scenes drawn from the life and those elaborated from books. Had he known the West Indies as well as he knew Lundy, he would have described the same things, but in different fashion. 'At last' he was able to put his long-formed desire into execution; and the result was one of the most delightful books of modern travel which exists—full of pictures which it is curious and interesting to compare with those of Westward Ho! and full too of a subtle, personal charm, which never allows us to forget in whose company we are visiting the 'Islands of the West.' Great was his excitement when preparing for this expedition. 'I shall feel,' he said, 'when I meet the first beds of sargasso, like Jacob when he saw the waggons which Joseph had sent to carry him, and his spirit revived.' It is not easy to choose from a book every page of which is bright with colour, but here is a brilliant sketch of tropic vegetation :
At Last, vol. i. ch. 2.
This was the last of his important works. Other books followed—Town Geology, Madam How and Lady Why, lectures and addresses on all kinds of subjects, geological, social, and sanitary—all interesting and all marked by the same bright, earnest spirit which had inspired his earliest writing, just as fearless and just as plain-spoken. Again he visited America; but this time to make acquaintance with scenery of a very different character from that which he had described in At Last. His only son had just married and settled in that country, following the example of certain of his Puritan ancestors, who, after the Restoration, found their way to New England, where their descendants are still flourishing. On this occasion Canon Kingsley crossed the Rocky Mountains, and from exposure to storm and rough weather laid, it is thought, the foundation for the pulmonary illness which attacked him on his return to England, and which, after some weeks of suffering, ended as we know, on the 23rd of January.
For many reasons a resting-place might have been claimed for his body under the great arches of Westminster Abbey; but it is far more fitting that it should lie, as it does, in his own quiet churchyard, where cloud-shadow and sunshine rest on his grave, and where each breeze from the hill-side brings with it the murmur of his own fir-woods.
The annals of our party dissensions do not supply an instance where the victory of the conquerors was more complete, or the submission of the vanquished more prompt and decided, than in the case of the great fight that was fought out within the walls of Parliament fourteen years ago. The beneficent fruits of the Corn Law Repeal were so palpable in their evidence, and so rapid in their growth, that the men who prophesied all manner of evil from the measures of
They undoubtedly fought at a disadvantage. The men in whom they had been accustomed to repose their confidence suddenly moved from their side, and went over to the camp of their adversaries. It was not the ministers alone, though that would have been aggravation enough; but almost every man of their party who had been accustomed to address the House with anything like acceptance announced his intention of following in the ministerial track. Upon, the bulk of the party the new doctrines had made no impression; but then they were of the class whom nature had formed for the lobby rather
that he neither could nor would do! The Free Traders therefore hugged themselves in the expectation of an easy and rapid victory, not because they hoped to convince their opponents, but because they believed their opponents would have nothing to say. The speeches, they asserted, as well as the arguments, would be all on me side. On that point, however, the; were mistaken. Surprised, abandonee, deserted—as they believed, betrayed—the Protectionists still showed in that lour of their extremity the characteristics of their English blood and breeding. Though cowed, they were not panic-stricken; deprived of their old leaders, and hardly as yet knowing in whom to trust, they closed their ranks, stood shoulder to shoulder, and determined to fight it out to the last. Not even on that fearful morning when the British army on the heights of Inkermann fought and won their glorious "soldier's victory," did the stubborn endurance of our race stand out in stronger relief than was manifested by the county members in the hour of their surprise. With the character of the arguments they used we have here nothing to do. History can charitably afford to forget them; but those who would most condemn their perversity will ever be forward to ad-mire the courage with which, believing what they said and did to be right, they devoted themselves to their task, the energy they flung into their cause, and the pertinacious resistance which contested to the last inch of ground what was from the first a manifestly hopeless battle.
After all, there was found to be no lack of speakers. Out of the wreck of the party a few tolerable orators were still found remaining on their side, among whom Mr. Disraeli, having an envenomed personal quarrel to fight out with the Minister, was then as now facile princeps; and there were plenty of youthful aspirants for fame ready to fill up the gaps caused by the desertions. The men who had been for years in the House of Commons and the men who entered yesterday were in some respects on a level; a short and direct way to distinction was open to any one who might have the boldness to snatch and the intellect to retain it. A new party was shaping itself out of the wreck of the old, and its adherents were fully conscious that their success depended on organization, discipline, and, over and above all,—as agents in enforcing both,—leaders. But for the present the leading staff lay on the ground, waiting for the bold hand to grasp it. The glittering prize was displayed full in view to tempt the young and ambitious politician. Who was to be the fortunate man that in this hour of chaos would step forth to assuage the jarring elements, assign each man his place, and concentrate and direct the energies of those sanguine but perplexed politicians, who, helpless in their disorganization, stood ready to welcome the first who should prove himself fit for command, to elevate him on their shields, and proclaim him for their chief. Aspirations after such a
But the subject of all these comments admitted of no such misgivings. So many of them as came to his ears only the more nerved him to undertake the task. He came of a race which had ever been conspicuous for warm and strong feelings, and who often concealed under a cold exterior the most chivalrous devotion to a desperate cause. The qualities which Macaulay has immortalised as possessed by the Dutch head of the family had been preserved by him in all
These were skirmishes. The pitched battle was fought on the second reading of the bill, when the whole forces of the opposition were brought into action. The squirearchy, to the astonishment of their opponents, and not less, perhaps, of themselves, displayed an extraordinary amount of the speaking faculty. Instead of the discussion being all on one side, as the Free Traders had somewhat boastfully predicted, the hitherto silent Protectionists took to the trade of oratory with a will, and maintained the wordy contest for three full weeks, debating night after night incessantly, and to the very last showing no lack of aspirants for parliamentary fame. Of the quality of those speeches, as we have already hinted, there is not much to be said; but quality was at that time only a secondary element in the matter. What was wanted was speakers; good, bad, and indifferent, all were welcomed alike who had the courage to face the House, and address "Mr. Speaker." It was touching to witness the devotion of some of these martyrs, who had done violence to their strongest feelings in offering themselves to the notice of the House; but they did not go without a martyr's consolation in the enthusiasm with which platitudes the most trite, paradoxes the most astounding, and sophistries the most glaring, were cheered by common consent of the whole party. Most of these men have since that time sunk back again into the obscurity from which they for the moment emerged; but there are others who, then making their first essay in the House, have since maintained the footing then gained, and have even become men of weight and authority there. Among these may be mentioned the right honourable member for Oxfordshire, Mr. Henley, who on that occasion made the first exhibition of that sharp, shrewd, quick intellect, obtuse enough in dealing with great principles, but marvellous in its power of detecting small flaws in points of detail, which has since rendered him the terror of all who have the charge of bills in the House of Commons. But in the main the debate went along drearily enough. It was the policy of the Free Trade minister to make no attempt to shorten the discussion, but to give the fullest scope to all speakers on both sides, as he rightly considered that one full debate at the outset would smooth the way to more rapid progress hereafter. Nevertheless, towards the close of the third week, it began to be felt by all parties that they had had enough; and by common consent it was arranged that the Friday night of that week should witness the division. The delay that had occurred allowed Mr. Cobden, who had previously been laid aside by indisposition, to take his place among the Free Trade orators who with so much spirit and ability vindicated the measure, and to bring his "unadorned eloquence" to the final triumph of the cause it had contributed so largely to win. The minister had made his reply; all his subordinates had contributed their quota of argument—Sir James Graham, in particular, having tossed off from his shoulders a whole pile of inconsistencies, quoted from Hansard, with the one defiant reply, "I've changed my mind, and there's an end on't;" and at midnight on Friday the question seemed ripe for settlement. But all this while the hero of the Protection party had kept in the background. In the language of the turf, which he at least would not have resented, "the dark horse" was now to be brought out. Lord George Bentinck had waited till this time, that he might have the credit of closing the debate, and send the members to the division lobbies with his words still ringing in their ears, and the spell of his eloquence, if that might be, fresh on their spirits. And now, before an exhausted House and in the midst of loud calls for a division, he arose. With what feelings he contemplated the task before him—how he looked around the House, where he had been so long a quiet listener to the
"Honeying to the accents of a lord."
So for an hour or so due order was kept, and a respectful, if not an enthusiastic, audience given by his opponents to statements and arguments which, not very new in themselves, derived little advantage from the way in which they were presented. Here and there, in-deed,' scattered at irregular intervals through the address, there was a rough but apt metaphor, or a vigorous thought, enough to show that the choice of the party was not wholly without excuse; but for the most part all was a dull, dreary level of commonplace, and attention was kept alive only by the interest felt in the speaker's evident struggle to give those commonplaces birth. It was not in human nature to endure much of this. Men got tired at last of listening to a repetition of often refuted arguments, that had not even the merit of being set forth in a now dress : of piles of figures produced, without regard to order or arrangement, but tumbled forth before the House all in a heap, a crude, indigestible mass, while the speaker went stammering, faltering, blundering on, till men's minds grew dizzy, and the very scope and bearing of his argument was lost. At first there were muttered shouts of "time" and "divide," which were instantly treated as a defiance, and drowned in the vehement cheers of his partisans. By-and-by the dissentients became more decided in their opposition, which his friends, nothing disheartened, met again with counter shouts, breathing defiance to their antagonists and encouragement to their champion. As the time went on, these opposing shouts became more continuous and more loud, till at last they swelled into one continuous roar, in which the voice of Lord George Bentinck was wholly drowned. But in the midst of it all, calm, collected, and smiling, Lord George might be seen upon his legs, moving his head, and gesticulating with his arms, as if with them to piece out the imperfections of his tongue, but otherwise as little moved by the din and hubbub that raged all around him as if he had been discoursing with a few friends in his own
Such as Lord George Bentinck was on that eventful night, such he continued to be through the remainder of his brief career. After this he spoke often and long, showing traces of a vigorous mind, which, if disciplined by early training and practice, might have been capable of great things. But he could never overcome the defects arising from his long silence in the House. He never became a smooth and graceful speaker; to the last his hesitation was painful to the listener. He had one still more capital defect, which seemed innate in his mind, and which would have permanently disqualified him from taking a high place among parliamentary orators; to the last he was incapable of grappling with great principles, and lost himself as well as his hearers in an ocean of details, which he was not able to master or arrange. His notion of a statesman, borrowed in some degree, it must be confessed, from the example of Sir Robert Peel, was that of a man who was deep in a knowledge of" imports and exports—who had the range of manufacturing prices at his fingers' ends; and, from the moment he resolved to embark in politics, he buried himself in a mass of blue-books. Over these he pored by day; and with the undigested results he had obtained from these he surfeited the House by night. It is generally Understood that his insane devotion to them affected his health, and brought to a premature grave a man who, with all his faults and all his perversities, deserves to be regarded by his countrymen as the model type of a high-souled, frank-hearted, manly Englishman.
A Second Part.
The reader will not have forgotten our young New-Yorker, Mr. William Bedlow, in sketching some of whose adventures at Yale College, Connecticut, we had an opportunity, not long ago, of giving a little information, which may have been new on this side the water, respecting American College-life, and the ways of young Americans generally. As American matters are stirring considerably at present, perhaps a few more reminiscences of the same gentleman may not now be unwelcome. Taking Mr. Bedlow up, therefore, at the point where we left him,—namely, at the conclusion of his first year—let us follow him rapidly through the rest of his College course, beginning at his second year, known, it may be remembered, in the vocabulary of the Yalensians, as the "Sophomore year, or year of the Sophs."
Bedlowsoon perceived that, if he continued to be a professed joker of jokes, he would end by losing the respect of his class nates, and forfeit all pretension to superiority, and all claims to office and honour. Therefore, in his sophomore year he set to work in earnest on he serious business of the place.
That is to say, he applied himself diligently to the academic course of studies?
Well, reader, not exactly. I was not thinking of that at all. I mean, that he went largely into the "speaking and writing."
Some prtion of this certainly does enter into the academic course. The students wite compositions once a week all the " It is sohomore" year; debates once a week all the junior year; debates or compositions once a week all the senior year. Writing English prose is as standing a dish at an American college as writing Latin verse at an English public school. Numerous composition prizes are given during the second year; there used to be eighteen in a class of a hundred or less. Still, the students, thinking these exercises had not sufficient influence on the final academic honours, and also finding no provision made for the art of extempore speaking, undertook to supply the deficiency among themselves; and they certainly did so. They edited a magazine, electing the editors annually from each successive "junior" class. To be one of these editors was an honour eagerly coveted and sought. To be president of one of the large debating societies was another great card; to be the first president of the three annually elected was an extraordinary distinction, and fearful struggles took place for it. It was no sinecure post of mere honour either, for the president had to read his "decision" of every debate, like a judge charging a jury, before the question was put to vote. Such honours as these, and the membership of the secret societies, were more thought of than any that the "faculty" had to bestow. And the faculty themselves had to acknowledge the power of the societies, particularly of the big "literary" societies, indirectly, in various ways. You, O cantab reader (you know I made up my mind at first that you are a cantab), would have some difficulty in realizing this state of things. You must look at the matter in this light As the original theory of an English university is that the majority of its alumni are to take orders, so the
political human nature especially.just possible that the above remarks may be somewhat rashly generalized, and that what is undoubtedly true of Yale, may not hold good of other colleges. Graduates of the American Cambridge, alias Harvard, have assured me that the undergraduates there do not think more of the societies than of the academic work. At Columbia College, New York, the regular studies certainly had the best of it, and perhaps for that reason were carried on more thoroughly. But Columbia, for local reasons, can never be more than a superior class of day-school. I have never seen an account of any American college commencement, or other celebration, in which the literary and secret societies did not figure largely. Besides, Yale, being the largest and most in repute of all American colleges, may not improperly be taken as our type and example of the system.
Bedlow did very well at this business. He was decidedly quick and immensely confident; had a capital memory, and a convenient faculty of assimilation and adaptation. He could cento speeches and essays out of the multitudinous newspapers and reviews which he was always reading (you must indulge me in that new verb), just as one of your crack scholars centos Iambics out of the Greek Tragedians and Elegiacs out of Ovid. So he was elected secretary, and in duo course of time, president, of his society, and editor of the magazine—not without a hard struggle in each case, for he was far from a universal favourite, and the "beneficiaries" generally voted dead against him.
At the same time you must not sup-pose that Bedlow neglected his "recitations" entirely, or that he only just managed to pass muster at them. And here you may ask what sort of collegiate course it was that was so undervalued and so over-ridden by other pursuits. The best I can say of it is, that it was quite as good as you could expect under all the circumstances. The professors, as a general rule, were capable men enough, but they laboured under two great disadvantages, without counting the rivalry of the societies. In the first place, not being sufficiently numerous for the work, they were obliged to have recourse to the aid of tutors. These tutors were graduates of a few years' standing, regarding their tutorship merely as a pecuniary aid during their brief term of professional study, and having no permanent interest in the place, save only the comparatively few of them who looked forward to professorships. But a worse difficulty was the insufficient preparation of most of the students. "The greater part of them are spoiled before they get to us," were the very words of a professor's complaint to me. The best prepared generally came from the private schools, which I fancy do not differ much from English private schools, except that more attention is paid to the modern languages, and that the principal is not necessarily, or even generally, a clergyman. Some of our best classics came from the public school at Boston. It used to be rather "the business" for rich Bostonians to send their sons to the public school. It was a peculiarity of Boston; I never heard of such a thing in New York, or any other city. Whether they did so from motives of economy, or democracy, or simply because it was the best school in Boston, I am not able to say. They themselves gave the last reason.
But many of the students, particularly the beneficiaries and other Three ears is the orthodox term of classical opsimatheis, were self-prepared; which is nearly tantamount to saying that they were un-prepared. Some of them had gone through, or were supposed to have gone through, in one year, without a teacher,
with one.from the time of beginning Latin, and the professional career to commence at the age of twenty-two.
By way of mending matters, the undergraduate is not compelled to begin at the beginning. He may enter the senior (the fourth.) year, if he can pass the not very difficult examination of the class before. Take notice that these are not merely cases of migration from other colleges, as a man might go from Cambridge to Oxford, or vice versâ, and have his terms allowed. There is a good deal of such migration going on among the American colleges, and some of them, like Certain halls at Oxford, have a Botany Bay reputation. But, independently of this, you may enter in the middle or towards the end of the academic course without having ever been connected with another college.
The consequence of all this was that a very appreciable fraction of each freshman class was extremely ignorant, and, as there were no divisions in the class, but all had to go on together, these kept the rest back. Still, the highest honours were difficult to obtain; but it was not the difficulty of a wranglership or a first class—having to know a great deal well: nor the difficulty of the Poll-Captaincy (when that institution existed)—having to know a little remarkably well. It was a matter of regularity and attention, little originality or research, but a molerate amount of work fairly prepared every day; for the honours were given according to the sum of the "recitations—" in other words, the lessons, collectively throughout a period of nearly three yea's in the first instance, and nearly four in the second. All vivâ voce; and the yearly examinations little more than a formula. (This is now changed for the better; I am happy to say, there are some pen and ink examinations, which take a wider range, and have their share in determining the honours.) The result may be stated thus—that, while it was certainly difficult to be among the first three of a class, it was easy enough for any one coming up decently prepared to be among the first fifteen or twenty. And this was all Bedlow wanted, as it gave him a right to a badge, and also an opportunity of delivering a speech of his own composition in public. He was not obliged to study much for it, but it was further desirable for his reputation and popularity that he should appear to have got his place without studying at all, or with scarcely studying at all. And this he did, 'exactly reversing the operation of the schoolboy, who pretends to study when he is idle. He had a knack of economizing odd ends of time—fifteen minutes here and fifteen there—when nobody suspected him. He smuggled books into chapel under the all-useful cloak, and learned his lessons during service. He was luckily gifted with a power of attraction and concentration, and could cram a page of mathematical formulæ while waiting to "cut in" at a rubber, with half-a-dozen men laughing and talking around him.
After Bill had gained his presidency and editorship, and been elected into every possible secret society, and had carried off all the first prizes for English composition, and even one for Latin—for he was fond of making shots at every thing (there were just five of us who wrote that year, and the three prizes were divided among us all)—his crowning glory was attained as a "senior" when he was chosen bully of the class, the original occupant of that honourable station, a fine' young southern gentleman, being compelled, by the state of health or other reasons, to finish his college course prematurely. The formidable name of this post had no reference to our friend's freshman exploits, nor did his holding it require him to perform any similar feats at the
bully certainly did have its ordinary popular signification, of the best and readiest fighting-man in the class; hut at this more civilized epoch it signified simply the regular official president or chairman of the class meetings, nor was the post by any means a sinecure. The Yalensians had a vast aptitude and predilection for class-meetings. There were magazine editors to be chosen, or ball managers, or exhibition committees; or a member of the class had died; or a "recitation" had lasted three minutes beyond the hour; or they wanted to make a present to a tutor who was retiring; or they did not want to make a present to a tutor who was retiring. Somehow or other there was provocation for a class-meeting about once a fortnight. It has been remarked that preparation for public life was the theory at the foundation of our system, and in accordance with this we took every opportunity of playing at public business. This early practice is one of the ways in which Americans attain their remarkable patent for organization and despatch of work. Remarkable it certainly is, though the evil demons of loquacity and party spirit conspire at times to spoil it. When Bedlow took the chair, he quietly observed, that "he took it as a dictator of the class;" and nobody could be quite sure whether he said it in jest or earnest.
For Bill thought well of himself, as one rather born to command than otherwise, and was a very aristocratic sort of republican. American aristocracy is not a very easy thing to define anywhere; yet some approach at least to an aristocracy probably exists everywhere, and certainly exists in the colleges, although the authorities, as we have already re-marked, most positively do nothing to encourage it. In one sense, Bedlow represented the "swells" of the class, and in another sense the irreligious, or anti-religious party, and in another, the smaller and more exclusive secret societies, and he imposed on the collegiate world generally by his good looks and confident, yet not undignified, manners; and he had a little knot of us, his more intimate friends, who used to sound his trumpet for him, and electioneer in His behalf, and altogether his influence was sufficient to secure a working majority (though with not much to spare), and make him always safe for manager or committeeman, or whatever was to be chosen. Next to the admirers above mentioned, his principal associates were from among the Southerners, almost the only students of avowed and notorious aristocratic pretensions.
I must add, however, that not Bed-low only, but our Middle-State men generally, were disposed to fraternize with the Southerners more than with the New Englanders; and it was probably owing to this, as well as to their pulling all together, that these Southerners, though not above one-eighth of the whole number of students, had got the control of some of the societies above mentioned, and had an influence generally out of proportion to their mere number. As this inclination of the other free-state students away from the New Englanders, who formed the bulk of the college, and towards the youth from the slave states, struck me from the first as a singular phenomenon, I was led to reflect upon it, and study it out. It has a wider application than one college at a particular time, or all the colleges at any time; and, therefore, I give you my conclusions upon it, which may possibly tend to upset some of your established ideas about the American character.
You have, doubtless, been accustomed to hear the "Yankees" spoken of as "sharp" in business; and, because dexterity in bargains and speculations is often supposed (though not always with reason) to connote closeness and meanness, these terms also, by an easy transition, become affixed to the American character. Now, there cannot be a greater mistake than this. That the national mind has a business turn—that Americans, when they are men of business, are clever and hard-working ones—
alieni appetens, the American is sui profusus. It may help you to correct the popular notion, if you consider that Americans are notorious speculators, and that, so far from a speculator being necessarily a mean man, the chances are that he turns out just the opposite. Also it is worth observing, that the most striking examples on record in America of men approaching to the conventional type of the miser, have been foreigners, or sons of foreigners. Throughout the list of avaricious millionaires, you will find with difficulty an American name; if you do find any, they are New England ones. In public charity and private hospitality, the Americans are far ahead of any European nation; indeed, all European nations seem mean to them in these respects, particularly in the latter. The early New Englanders, however, formed a marked exception to this national trait; they certainly were close-fisted—which was owing, in a great measure, to sheer necessity, and the poverty of their country. City New Englanders have got pretty well over this; but the thing still exists in some of the country towns, and the name of the thing has stuck to all New Englanders, and diminished the popularity to which their enterprise and other virtues would else have entitled them. This I believe to be the true reason why so many middle-state men prefer the Southerners as associates, though it may not be the one usually assigned.
Bedlow, being a swell, was better lodged than most of us. When a student "roomed" out of college, his apartments generally consisted of one large room, which served both for bedroom and study. The arrangement for those who occupied the college buildings Was that each two had three rooms between them—a bedroom a-piece, and one sitting-room in common. The freshmen were "chummed" together at random; in the subsequent years every man selected his mate; but Bedlow appropriated all three rooms to himself, by the simple process of buying-out his room mate, who had previously agreed with him to have his lodgings paid elsewhere—no very immense outlay, something like £6 for the whole year. These Yale College apartments were not quite up to Trinity or Christ Church standard, as you may suppose. They rather resembled continental barracks. Carpets, though not so rare as at a German hotel, were by no means de rigeur. Bill, however, had furnished his sitting-room comfortably, and even elegantly; in the one article of looking-glass, I fancy it was stronger than most English rooms. Likewise, our bully did not clean his own boots—a rare and aristocratic luxury, which shows you how primitive our habits were, not-withstanding our propensity to flash toilettes.
There were no female servants employed about the college, unless there may have been two or three in the kitchen. The beneficiaries waited in hall as I have already told you; the rooms were supposed to be taken care of by three or four men called "sweepers," whose duty extended only to making the beds daily, and sweeping the rooms occasionally. But there were some half-dozen servants, who, though unattached to, and unrecognised by, the college, were virtually the scouts or gyps thereof; each of them served eight or ten masters, brushing their clothes and boots, lighting their fires, &C. These servants were mostly "persons of colour," and found their patrons chiefly among the Southerners and the law-students.
Many of us "boarded," i.e. took our meals out of college. The price was little more at a boarding-house, the provender decidedly better; we could form our own set, and there was a sprinkling of ladies' society. Bill was in his glory at our boarding-house.
Thus far I have said nothing about Bedlow's sports and exercises. The chapter of them would be as short as the traveller's account of the snakes in
your idea of exercise and recreation, he, we, all of us, could scarcely he said to take any at all. Most of us could ride tolerably; yet we scarcely ever mounted a horse; indeed, there were very few in New Haven to mount. As to walking, I doubt if you would consider Bill's swaggering saunter, with his hands in his pockets and his cap on his left ear, from the college to the boarding-house, and from the boarding-house to the post-office, worthy of that name. It was more to show off himself and his clothes than for any other purpose. Boating was unknown; such games of ball as once existed had fallen into disuse. The national ten-pin alley was doubly illegal, municipally as well as academically; billiards, of which Americans are nearly as fond as Frenchmen, lay under the same law. Even those great institutions of the country, the "fast crab" and the trotting waggon, had not penetrated into our academic seclusion.
One cause of this state of things was undoubtedly the sour, anti-jovial, puritanic spirit, which regards all liveliness, and noise, and romping, as positively wicked. If I were to tell you that, the evening after Bedlow's elevation to what he had chosen to term the office of dictator, some of his friends assembled under his window, and gave "three cheers for our new bully!" in good old Anglo-Saxon style, and that, at a prayer-meeting then going on in a neighbouring recitation-room, a special prayer was immediately put up for the cheerers, the proof of their lost and desperate condition being that they had cheered as aforesaid, you might be inclined to suspect me of exaggeration; yet such is the simple and unvarnished fact. To be sure, a large number of the students, perhaps a majority, would certainly not refrain from any practice, but rather the reverse, because it was forbidden by the "blues," as the religious portion were sometimes called. But then came in that absurd idea of sham dignity. These youths of eighteen were men, and men must now play like boys! Catch Mr. William Bedlow pulling off his coat for a game of ball, or endangering his fine new pantaloons by jumping a fence! Still, if he did not take exercise, he required some amusement. A good deal of that he took at the secret societies, where eating and drinking occasionally relieved the feast of reason. A little of it he took in ladies' society at his boarding-house, or in families that he knew; it was a great provocation to dress, and Bill had an easy flowing style of conversation, nor was he averse to an occasional dance after the mild manner permitted in New Haven—for the polka was not yet invented, and even the old triple-time waltz would have been too much for New England propriety. The American students are almost as fond of singing as the German students; on moonlight nights, small parties of us would ramble out to serenade with our most sweet voices the young ladies' schools, of which there were several in different parts of the town. If we could catch the outline of some white draperies flitting about in the unlit bedrooms, our innocent vanity was highly gratified. When we felt hungry after these excursions (which might very well happen with our one o'clock dinners and six o'clock teas), we supped at one of the half-grocer, half-confectioner establishments with which the place abounded, on oyster stews, poached eggs, and similar unexpensive viands. We could not have had supper in our rooms, unless we had cooked it ourselves—a feat for which our stoves were not precisely adapted. We did have certain convivialities in our rooms however; the greatest possible "spree" was to brew punch (hot or cold, according to the season), and play long whist without stakes. Perhaps the knowledge that we were doing something utterly forbidden supplied the requisite zest. There was not much ready money among us, to be sure—very little in proportion to our swell attire : but I suppose there never was a collegiate town in the world where the great institution of Tick did not exist to some extent. And here, while I am touching on the question of expense, it may be remarked,
Since that day, young America has grown wiser in some things, and wilder in others. I am afraid young America gambles occasionally, possibly to a very mischievous extent. On the other hand, he has learned that it is not unmanly, but the reverse, to play ball and patronise the gymnasium.
If Bedlow had any other amusements in the vacations of a more exceptionable character than the above-mentioned, I never know anything about it; and he took can never to tell me. Young American, perhaps all Americans, have a reputaton for bragging, and they do brag
And this brings us to the most important mtter of all. You may be curious by his time to know what were Bedlow's ideas and opinions on the subject of religion. Here I cannot give you a favourable report; indeed, to tell the truth Bill was an avowed infidel. I do not mean that he professed himself such on the green in front of the college, of in any other place whence it might come to the ears of the "faculty." Had he one so, he would have been expelled s certainly as if it had been known tht he kept playing-cards in his room. Tere was an express clause in the colle code to that effect. But among his friends he made no secret of his unbelif, and he was far from being the only septic. The thrice-unfortunate system wlch arrayed the "professors of religion," and the "unconverted" in two hostile camps, tended to drive every student into one of the extremes, fanaticism or infidelity. The non-professors charged the "blues" (very unjustly, I believe) with being spies for the faculty; the "professors" charged the "impenitent" (of whose actual mode of life they had an extremely vague and limited knowledge) with all things horrible and awful. Religious considerations embittered the college politics. When we elected Bedlow first president of our literary society (by a majority of only six votes out of a hundred and twenty) all the members of the college church belonging to the society voted against him in a body. There were some half dozen of us, episcopalians, who mixed with both parties, and, though we were the lowest kind of Church, our congregational fellow-Christians regarded us with much suspicion and many misgivings, because we were known to eat suppers occasionally and did not join the tee-totallers.
Of course Bedlow and I had numerous theological discussions. We were always discussing something, and I fancy religion, after politics, was what we argued most about. We used to go at it hammer and tongs for hours together—the old school of course; neither of us knew anything about the Germans; it was Paley and Watson on one side, Paine and Volney on the other. We left off generally about where we began, and began next time where we had left off. Bill looked upon me as a very good fellow, only a little weak in that particular point. If he had possessed all the learning and ability of Mr. Mill, Mr. Buckle, and two or three continental philosophers combined, he could not have talked in a more patronising, pitying way of Christianity and Christians.
And now that we have pretty well sketched Mr. Bedlow's antecedents, it may be time to inform you that he is no longer an undergraduate. He and his friend your humble servant are bachelors of some nine months' standing, and members of the law school. An American A.B. is not still considered
This merits notice also as about the only American instance of alma mater may generally be considered as terminated, unless he remains one, two, or three years in one of the professional departments. We may here remark that, though Yale has always been called a college, it is a complete university according to the American acceptation of the term.anything being called by a less ambitious name than the reality.courts of an English college.
The professional students, in virtue of their graduateship, are released from all undergraduate discipline. They have only a couple of lectures to attend daily, and even at these their presence is not very rigorously exacted. Chapel has no more terrors for them.; if they lodge near enough to be awakened by the once formidable bell, they turn over and go to sleep again with a very suave mari magno feeling. It is hardly necessary to say that their tendencies are more oratorical and argumentative than ever; they begin to write in the local papers, and to take part in political meetings. The life of the law students, in particular, may be defined as a perpetual discussion.
We will now, if you please, shift the scene from the public street to the public parlours (which also serve as reading-rooms) of the Tontine Hotel. Time, ten in the evening, or thereabouts. Besides some outsiders from the town, a knot of students are assembled there. They are all members of the law-school. You will rarely see an undergraduate in the hotel. Dining there is expressly prohibited to them by the college laws, but there is another and a more potent reason. Class distinctions, that is to say, distinctions of seniority, are strangely and strongly marked. Seniors consort with seniors, juniors with juniors, sophomores with sophomores, graduates with graduates. It is decidedly infra dig. to mix with the years below you.
Some of the party have been drinking at the bar, several of them are smoking, most of them talking. The staple of their conversation is politics, with an occasional interlude of tailory.
"You say you have all the intelligence and education of the county. Why, we have more of the literary men on our side. There's Cooper and Bancroft, and Willis and Irving—"
"Washington Irving isn't a Locofoco."
"What did he write that article in the Knickerbocker for then?"
"I don't care. I know him, and I know he isn't a Locofoco."
"Oh! you know him. What does he say about the slavery question?"
"He says it's a black business, and he washes his hands of it."
Verbatimfrom a letter to the writer of this article. Irving was fond of old jokes, but he introduced them with such a grace that they appeared almost original. He was claimed by all political parties and acknowledged none.Bothsides were always ready to give him diplomatic appointments, when he would accept them. Among the strange perversions of fact recently circulated about America, none is more striking than the assertion that literary men are shut out from all political advancement—the truth being directly the reverse, that continual efforts are made to drag them into politics in spite of themselves."Hollo! here's Clark! Why, where have
youbeen this last age?Anticipating the vacation?""Yes, I went to New York for two weeks." (An American never says
a fortnight.)"And what spree were you after there?"
"Nothing particular. Played billiards mostly. Used to go to the Washington Hotel."
"And did you lay them all out?"
"No, some of them were a little too many for me, especially one very cool fellow—an illustrious foreigner he was. I saw he was a foreigner by his moustache" (we have already observed that those articles of luxury were then a rarity in America); "and, as he never said anything, I thought perhaps he didn't speak English; but, bless you, he speaks it as well as you or I when he chooses. I felt rather curious about him and asked, and who do you think it was? A Buonaparte, a nephew of
theNapoleon! He had been kicking up a mess in Switzerland or somewhere; so they sent him over here to keep him out of mischief.""Poor devil! To think he might have been a great man somewhere now, if Waterloo had only turned out the other way!"
"I say, Clark, did you get those pantaloons made in New York?"
"Of course, at Francis, the French tailor's; and, do you know, Stone, the new tailor here had a pair making at the same time. He means to put them on and stand at his door to draw customers : people will think he made 'em himself."
"Look here, boys! John Bell's nominated for governor of Tennessee. Who'll bet a supper that he doesn't get five thousand majority?"
"I say any man that utters such a sentiment as that is a scoundrelly demagogue."
"And I say any man that applies such an epithet to the President of the United States, who is a personal friend of mine, is a d——d liar."
The last assertion, of a character decidedly tending to "disturb the harmony of the meeting," must be set down to the credit or discredit of Mr. Bedlow. It was brought about in this wise.
A Very large majority of the Yalensians belonged to the Whig (that is the Conservative) party. Students usually are in opposition to the Government; under despotisms revolutionary, under democracies reactionary. But Bill was a stout democrat, either because it was rather distingué to be so where almost every one was on the other side, or for the good old reason that his father was so before him.
There was then residing in New Haven a young English doctor named White. He was not known as the "Britisher,"—that being one of the Americanisms never heard except out of America. He was at all respectable-looking man—nothing particularly remarkable about him, unless his taking some interest in the political discussions then going on might be called remarkable, considering his country; for, generally speaking, the English and French emigrants abstain from politics as notoriously as the Irish and German emigrants plunge headlong into them. On the present occasion he had been severely criticising some economical dicta of the president. The great political disputes of that day were on questions of finance and economy : the slavery question, now so formidable, was only just beginning to develop itself. Bedlow, when a schoolboy, had once been patted on the head by the president (then vice-president, and on a visit to Bill's father); hence his claim of personal friendship and his eagerness to take up the matter as a private quarrel.
Political discussion was so much our daily exercise and amusement that no one ever so far forgot himself as to use coarse language. Bill's unusual out-break caused a dead silence. Satisfied, however, with having put down for the moment his antagonist, he relapsed into the study of a newspaper. The doctor, taken all aback at first, speedily rallied, and, advancing to Bedlow, touched him on the shoulder. The New-Yorker was on his feet in an instant.
"That was a very impertinent remark of yours," said White.
Either Bedlow in his turn was at a loss for words, and, like many greater men, saw no clearer way of getting through the scrape than fighting it out;
White was too angry, and perhaps also too much out of practice (that kind of practice) to make a regular boxing match of it. He threw himself, "quite promiscuously," upon Bedlow; the men clinched, and would have gone off into a rough and tumble, had not the five or six of the company nearest promptly interfered. The feeling among all respectable classes at the North leads them to stop combatants rather than form a ring for them. The belligerents were speedily pulled apart and pacified by their respective friends.
The disturbance was over almost as soon as it began; indeed, a stranger who had arrived five minutes after the blow was struck would not have suspected that anything unusual had taken place, unless he had noticed the doctor's black eye, or his antagonist's ruffled plumage. In no part of Anglo-Saxondom is the Anglo-Saxon calm on occasions of difficulty or danger more conspicuous than in the northern states of the Union; and it often serves them in good stead.
Our Tontine party, therefore, broke up very quietly. Everybody was sup-posed to have held his tongue, and, as duelling is not a custom of the northern states (never having been since Burr shot Hamilton), nobody supposed that the affray would have any further consequences. But, two or three days after, the rumour spread rapidly that Dr. White, probably over-advised by some of his friends, had laid an information against Bedlow, and that the pugnacious student was summoned to appear next morning at eleven before old Justice Atwater, there to answer to the charge of assault and battery, breach of the peace, &C. &C.
Old Atwater was one of the few remaining relics of a type and generation then nearly, and possibly by this time quite, extinct. He wore long worsted stockings and knee-breeches—the latter a most uncommon sight in America, where, for lack of "cross-country" habits and habiliments, a man may very well live all his life without seeing any other species of "continuations" except the ordinary pantaloons. He was obviously of "the old school," yet by no means the clean, well-brushed, neatly got-up figure that early reading and tradition leads one to associate with the idea of the old school. Indeed, he might rather have been described by the epithets which tourists are wont to apply to Italian monks and other picturesque mendicants—"venerable but dirty,"—only he did not carry either adjective to the extent that they do.
I had seen a good deal of the justice during my Freshman year at a hoarding-house which he used to frequent. As I was then a youth fresh from the city, with no experience out of it, he seemed to me a most extraordinary animal. His language was as odd as his dress. When he asked if such a one was a fore-handed, farmer, I, in my greenness, wondered if any of the Connecticut cultivators were really quadrumanous. All manner of vegetables he indifferently denominated sarce (sauce); and his pronunciation deviated even more from the Johnsonian standard than the specimen of modern New-English in the "Biglow Papers."
The locality of Justice Atwater's court was as primitive and unpretending as his own personal appearance. It was a small office very partially and roughly portioned off from, and opening into, the grocery store of his relative, Mr. Horace Atwater.
A Yankee grocery, or a Yankee "notion store," is an epitome of almost
second-hand pulpit, and was immediately shown the article. Mr. Horace Atwater's grocery was not quite so extensive in its range; his stock in trade comprised only the following commodities :—first, every variety of eatable except butcher's meat, that is to say, all kinds of groceries, green-groceries, and spiceries, salt provisions, bread, and rustic confectionary; secondly, divers wines and spirits; thirdly, tobacco in its various forms; fourthly, all manner of clothing, with the thread, needles, and buttons requisite for repairing the same, also boots and shoes, hats and caps : fifthly, books of different sorts, especially Bibles, hymn books, and spelling books; sixthly, all kinds of cutlery; seventhly, cheap imitation jewellery; eighthly, wooden clocks; ninthly, patent medicines; and possibly some other articles which do not now occur to me.
Not a very dignified place to hold a court in, however petty; but legal and judicial natters have always been con-ducted in America with little respect for official trippings. The forensic wig is everywhere unknown; gowns are only worn in the Supreme Court of the United States. Even in the oldest states there is what must seem to a European a very free-and-easy way of administering justice. You would do wrong, however, to suppose that this unconventional style prevents the officers of law from being respectable or respected. An American judge (I speak of course of the older states), albeit without a wig, is very like an English one. Like him, he represents the strong common sense of the law. When the American lawyer is promoted to the bench he,
"
throws away his long-winded flourishes and over-lxuriant flowers of Hibernian-like eloquence, and gives straight-forward, sensible decisions. Projict ampullas et sesquipedalia vera,"
Like some other statements in this paper, the above remarks must, I fear, be taken partially in the past tense. The American judiciary is already beginning to descend from its pride of place. The unfortunate system of election recently adopted in some of the most important free states, the reign of terror as regards all subjects connected with slavery in the south, have done much to debase and paralyse it. But we are getting too far away from our subject. Let us return from this too ambitious digression to the people of Connecticut, vs. William Bedlow, student, &C.
There was some excitement on the eventful morning, and the law-school determined to attend court in full force, that is to say, about thirty strong. No-thing very awful could happen to our comrade, for the highest penalty which the justice had power to inflict was a fine of 7 dollars—say 1l. 8s. But Bedlow,. wishing to play hero or martyr, had hinted his desire that we should "stand by him," though what we were to do by so standing did not precisely appear; however, our esprit de corps was sufficient to bring us there, putting curiosity out of the question. It was rather an occurrence, too, for the natives, and by half-past ten the office was considerably more than full, the students taking the best places, and the "town-loafers," including a sprinkling of small boys to fill up the chinks, occupying the back-ground. Justice Atwater was throned in state behind the light railing which constituted the bar, and just within which sat the doctor and the "counsel for the commonwealth," a lawyer of note in the town. Just without sat a closely packed line of students on such chairs and benches as the premises afforded; behind these a similar line; and the "balance" of the audience flowed all over the grocery, the partition between which and the office was more conventional than real, for such part of it as was not occupied by the door consisted chiefly of a framed open space, originally
bottines, almost too delicate for a lady's wear.
Ten minutes more and no defendant. It was a clear case of contempt of court, and the constabulary force was des-patched to arrest the offender. The constabulary force of New haven consisted of one man; he was a middle-aged tailor with a large family; we all looked at one another with a smile and a common appreciation of the chance of his fetching Bedlow in case Bill should not be willing to come. Our anticipations were perfectly realized, for in less than a quarter of an hour, Mr. Tryon reappeared—alone. Bill then boarded at the Tontine and was accustomed to order breakfast in his room, another very aristocratic habit of his. The constable had found the door locked, and, on his intimating his errand through the keyhole, Bill had given him some very bad advice through the same channel. Mr. Tryon, whose position as a member of the Church prohibited him from visiting the locality recommended by Bedlow, came incontinently back to court—an indirect reflection on the justice which that functionary did not detect—and reported his non-progress. It was a case not of non inventus exactly, but, to use a phrase of Texan law, non comeatibus. For some minutes more things remained at a dead-lock. Old Atwater beckoned to the counsel for the state, Mr. Higgins, and whispered something to him. "He's going to call out the posse comitatus," said one of us; but Higgins, who had recognised me as a friend of the delinquent, applied to me to act as ambassador.
"Mr. Benson," said he, "will you have the goodness to step round to Mr. Bedlow and ask him if he can't contrive for once to finish his breakfast by half-past eleven, and not keep us waiting till dinner-time?"
Of course I assented, and, after duly charging a neighbour to "keep my place," made the best of my way through the crowd; but I had hardly gone ten steps in the street when my journey was cut short by meeting the object of it. Bedlow took the last whiff of his cigar at the door, spit out the stump into the mouth of a stray cur, swaggered into the grocery, uncovered himself by a nod that made his cap fall off, took one hand out of his pockets just in tune to catch it, elbowed the throng right and left, and dropped into a chair near the bar which a friend had instantly vacated for him.. He was more dressed and looked more impudent than ever. The rear rank of students stood up on their benches; the town-loafers nearly got upon one another's shoulders. The whole audience raised itself on the stilts of expectation and stretched out the neck of anxiety.
Higgins opened the case in a "neat and appropriate" speech, setting forth the enormity of the assault. Under ordinary circumstances he might have indulged in a bit of demagogueism against the students, but our comrade's known democracy (in politics) cut off that resource. The doctor was then examined, and stated the circumstances of the scuffle. Bill, in defiance of the proverb about the man who is his own lawyer, had undertaken to manage his case himself. He cross-examined White pretty sharply, with the view of making; it appear that the doctor had used expressions calculated to provoke a breach of the peace; but the attempt was not very successful. Bedlow then rose to address the court in his own defence. This was the great feature of the pro-
They were doomed to disappointment. Bedlow, to use one of our own slang phrases, got upon the high notes. He altogether mistook his line. He began by quoting Horace to the great edification of the "town-loafers;" he went on to assume a difference of position between himself and the doctor which would have been untenable in the eyes of the law had he been a member of the privileged class in a country of privileged classes, and under actual circumstances was simply insufferable. Our party looked blank; Higgins sneered; Bill saw that he was "putting his foot into it," and his habitual self-possession seemed on the point of failing him. At that moment his good genius came to his relief and created a diversion.
Four students were standing together on a small bench in the front row. The court furniture was not of the newest description and probably never intended to be put so such a use. Quite unequal to the occasion, the ancient movable relaxed its joints. The supports spread slowly our on each side, and the four men were gradually let down upon the uncarpeted and unswept floor amid a cloud of dust and sundry strong interjections.
The audience were slightly hilarious. Bedlow joined in the laugh, observing that he "really didn't suspect his oratory was so efficacious." The justice, aroused by the damage done to his furniture, raised a lusty cry of "Order!" which was feebly echoed by the constabulary force. Johnson, from his porch on the stove made a dumb show of applauding with his kid-gloved hands. Rash youth! In a moment of forgetfulness he lost his balance, tried to recover it with a desperate wriggle, slid further down, finally clutched at the stove-pipe to save himself; and just succeeded in pulling the crazy machine after him upon the crowd below.
Tom, brought up on the toes of the man immediately under him, commenced an apology, supposing the pedal extremities upon which he had lighted to be those of a fellow student; then, finding his mistake, for the injured party was a "town-loafer" who had managed to squeeze into the front, he changed his tone, and began to curse him stoutly for being in the way. The stove-pipe was not so speedily arrested on its travels. Johnson's struggles had cast it quite loose on society, and it continued to circulate erratically, bruising shins, upsetting chairs, and causing men to back over one another, till it made its final rotation in front of Bedlow, and came to rest at his feet, as if to do him honour. "Damnation!" ejaculated old Atwater, starting off his seat, and losing head and temper together, at this fresh devastation committed on his property.
Bill's voice was heard amid the con-fusion suggesting that there was a fine "made and provided" against profane swearing in public.
The justice threatened to clear the court. How to do it might have puzzled him, even supposing the attorney for the prosecution had united his forces with those of the tailor-constable. However, something like order was speedily restored, and the old fellow then cut short any further attempts at harangue on Bedlow's part, pronouncing the assault fully proved, and inflicting "the highest penalty of the law," namely, a fine of seven dollars.
"I say, boys," quoth the incorrigible Bill, "which of you has seven dollars to lend mo?" He had come, doubtless out of pure bravado, without a cent in his pocket.
And now it looked as if the problem how the court could be cleared was to receive its solution, so general was the retrograde movement. I have said that we were not famous for having much ready money about us, and our state of
plus fifty cents costs.
It was whispered that this would be only the preliminary step to a more serious civil suit for damages on the doctor's part. That, however, never came off. A few months after circumstances compelled me to leave the law school, and I lost sight of Bedlow, as indeed of most of my associates. Once I heard dimly that he had been aide-de-camp to the Governor of New York, and had sported the handsomest uniform and best horse of the procession on that occasion; afterwards that, during a political tour, he had fallen in love, married a country girl, forsaken his profession and the chances of a public career, and settled down as a gentleman-farmer somewhere "up the river." Six years later, happening to be up the river myself, I accidentally encountered Bill at a dinner-party. He wore an old cutaway, and his boots might be described as a compromise between clean and dirty. He had a houseful of children, was a great authority on the price of apples, and talked seriously of "taking the law of" a neighbour who had trespassed on his grounds.
I have noticed that the sayings and doings of young gentlemen, before they come to the age of, say seven or eight, are hardly interesting to any but their immediate relations and friends. I have my eye, at this moment, on a young gentleman of the mature age of two, the instances of whose sagacity and eloquence are of greater importance, and certainly more pleasant to me, than the projects of Napoleon, or the orations of Bright. And yet I fear that even his most brilliant joke, if committed to paper, would fall dead upon the public ear; and so for the present I shall leave Charles Ravenshoe to the care of Nora, and pass on to some others who demand our attention more.
The first thing which John Mackworth remembered was his being left in the loge of a French school at Rouen by an English footman. Trying to push back his memory farther, he always failed to conjure up any previous recollection to that. He had certainly a very indistinct one of having been happier, and having lived quietly in pleasant country places with a kind woman who talked English; but his first decided impression always remained the same—that of being, at six years old, left friendless, alone, among twenty or thirty French boys older than himself.
His was a cruel fate. He would have been happier apprenticed to a collier. If the man who sent him there had wished to inflict the heaviest conceivable punishment on the poor, unconscious, little innocent, he could have done no more than simply left him at that school. (Mack worth was long before he found out who was his benefactor—with all his cleverness he was long in finding out that. When he got into the world again he soon knew whose livery the footman who brought him wore, but he was quickly abroad again, completely baffled.) English boys are sometimes brutal to one another, (though not so often as some wish to make out.) and are always rough. Yet
To say hat the boys at poor John Mackwort's school put all these methods of torture n force against him, and ten times more, is to give one but a faint idea of his sufferings. The English at that time were hated with a hatred which we n these sober times have but little idea of; and, with the cannon of Trafalgar rnging as it were in their ears, these young; French gentlemen seized on Mackworth as a lawful prize providentially delivered into their hands. We do not know what he may have been under happier auspices, or what he may be yet with a more favourable start in another lift; we have only to do with what he was. Six years of friendless persecution of life ungraced and un-cheered by domestic love, of such bitter misery as childhood alone is capable of feeling or enduring, transformed him from a chill into a heartless, vindictive man.
And then, the French schoolmaster having roughly finished the piece of goods, it was sent to Rome to be polished and turned out ready for the market. Here I must leave him; I don't know the process. I have seen the article when finished and am familiar with it. I know the trade mark on it as well as I know the
The red-bt ultramontane thorough-going Cathobism of that pretty pervert, lady Alicia, was but ill satisfied with the sensible, old English, cut and dried notions of the good Father Clifford A comparison of notes with two or three other great ladies, brought about a consultation, and a letter to Rome, the result of which was that a young Englishman of presentable exterior, polite manners, talking English with a slightly foreign accent, made his appearance at Ravenshoe, and was installed as her ladyship's confessor, about eighteen months before her death.
His talents were by no means ordinary. In very few days he had guaged every intellect in the house, and found that he was by far the superior of all in wit and education; and he determined that as long as he stayed in the house he would be master there.
Densil's jealous temper sadly interfered with this excellent resolution; he was immensely angry and rebellious at the slightest apparent infringement of his prerogative, and after his parents' death treated Mackworth in such an exceedingly cavalier manner, that the latter feared he should have to move, till chance threw into his hand a whip wherewith he might drive Densil where he would. He discovered a scandalous liaison of poor Densil's, and in an in-direct manner let him know that he knew all about it. This served to cement his influence until the appearance of Mrs. Ravenshoe the second, who, as we have seen, treated him with such ill-disguised contempt, that he was anything but comfortable, and was even meditating a retreat to Rome, when the conversation he overheard in the drawing-room caused him to delay, and the birth of the boy Cuthbert confirmed him in his resolution to stay.
For now, indeed, there was a prospect open to him. Here was this child de-livered over to him like clay to a potter, that he might form it as he would. It should go hard but that the revenues and county influence of the Ravenshoes should tend to the glory of the church as heretofore. Only one person was in his way, and that was Mrs. Ravenshoe; after her death he was master of the situation with regard to the eldest of the
Meanwhile, his behaviour towards Densil was gradually and insensibly altered. He became the free and easy man of the world, the amusing companion, the wise counsellor. He saw that Densil was of a nature to lean on some one, and he was determined it should be on him; so he made himself necessary. But he did more than this; he determined he would be beloved as well as respected, and with a happy audacity he set to work to win that poor wild foolish heart to himself, using such arts of pleasing as must have been furnished by his own mother wit, and could never have been learned in a hundred years from a Jesuit College. The poor heart was not a hard one to win; and, the day they buried poor Father Clilford in the mausoleum, it was with a mixture of pride at his own talents, and contemptuous pity for his dupe, that Mackworth listened to Densil as he told him that he was now his only friend, and besought him not to leave him—which thing Mackworth promised, with the deepest sincerity, he would not do.
Master Charles, blessed with a placid temper and a splendid appetite, throve amazingly. Before you knew where you were, he was in tops and bottoms; before you had thoroughly realized that, he was learning his letters; then there was hardly time to turn round, before he was a rosy-cheeked boy of ten.
From the very first gleam of reason, he had been put solely and entirely under the care of Mr. Snell, the old vicar, who had been with his mother when she died, and a Protestant nurse, Mrs. Varley. Faithfully had these two discharged their sacred trust; and, if love can repay such services, right well were they repaid.
A pleasant task they had though, for a more loveable little lad than Charles there never was. His little heart seemed to have an infinite capacity of affection for all who approached him. Everything animate came before him in the light of a friend, to whom he wished to make himself agreeable, from his kind old tutor and nurse down to his pony and terrier. Charles had not arrived at the time of life when it was possible for him to quarrel about women, and so he actually had no enemies as yet, but was welcomed by pleasant and kind faces wherever he went. At one time he would be at his father's knee, while the good-natured Densil made him up some fishing tackle; next you would find him in the kennel with the whipper-in, feeding the hounds, half-smothered by their boisterous welcome; then the stables would own him for a time, while the lads were cleaning up and feeding; then came a sudden Hitting to one of the keeper's lodges; and anon he would be down on the sands wading with half a dozen fisher-boys as happy as himself—but welcome and beloved everywhere.
Sunday was right pleasant day for him. After the sublime felicity of seeing his father shave, and examining his gold-topped dressing-case from top to bottom—amusements which were not participated in by Cuthbert, who had grown too manly—he would haste through his breakfast, and with his clean clothes hurry down the village towards the vicarage, which stood across the stream near the church. Not to go in yet, you will observe, because the sermon, he well knew, was getting its finishing touches, and the vicar must not be disturbed. No, the old stone bridge would bring him up, and there he would stay looking at the brown crystal clear water rushing and seething among the rocks, lying dark
But now would the country folks come
The villagers were pleased enough to see the ladin the old carved horsebox (not to be he were hir."
Any boy who reads this story, and I hope many will read it, is hereby advertised that it is exceedingly wrong to be inattentive n church in sermon time. It is very nughty to look up through the windows at the white clouds flying across the blue sky, and think how merrily the shaows are sweeping over the upland laws where the pewits' nests are, and the blackcock is crowing on the grey stones among the heather. No boy has any rigt to notice another boy's absence, and spend sermon time in wondering whether he is catching crabs among the green and crimson sea-weed on the rocks, or bathing in the still pool under the cliff. A boy had better not go to church at all, if he spends his time in thinking about the big trout that lies up in one of the pools in the woodlands stream, and whether he will be able to catch a sight of him again by creeping gently through the hazel and king fern. Birds' nests, too, even though it be the ringousel's, who is to lay her last egg this blessed day, and is marked for spoliation to-morrow, should be banished from a boy's mind entirely during church time. Now, I am sorry to say that Charley was very much given to wander in church, and, when asked about the sermon by the vicar next day, would look rather foolish. Let us hope that he will be a warning to all sinners in this respect.
Then, after church, there would be dinner, at his father's lunch time, in the dark old hall, and there would be more to tell his father and brother than could be conveniently got through at that meal; then there was church again, and a long stroll in the golden sunshine along the shore. Ah, happy summer sabbaths!
The only two people who were ever cold to Charley, were his brother and Mackworth. Not that they were openly unkind, but there was between both of them and himself an indefinable gulf, an entire want of sympathy, which grieved him sometimes, though he was as yet too young to be much troubled by it. He only exhausted all his little arts of pleasing towards them to try and win them; he was indefatigable in running messages for Cuthbert and the chaplain; and once, when kind grandaunt Ascot (she was a Miss Headstall, daughter of Sir Cingle Headstall, and married James, Lord Ascot, brother of Lady Alicia, Densil's mother) sent him a pineapple in a box, he took it to the priest and would have had him take it. Mackworth refused it, but looked on him not unkindly for a few minutes, and then turned away with a sigh. Perhaps he was trying to recall the time so long, long ago, when his own face was as open and as
Cuthbert was at this time a somewhat good-looking young fellow of sixteen. Neither of the brothers was what would be called handsome, though, if Charley's face was the most pleasing, Cuthbert certainly had the most regular features. His forehead was lofty, although narrow, and flat at the sides; his cheek bones were high, and his nose was aquiline, not-ill-formed, though prominent, starting rather suddenly out below his eyes; the lips were thin, the mouth small and firmly closed, and the chin short and prominent. The tout-ensemble was hardly pleasing even at this youthful period; the face was too much formed and decided for so young a man.
Cuthbert was a reserved methodical lad, with whom no one could find fault, and yet whom few liked. He was studious and devout to an extent rare in one so young; and, although a capital horseman and a good shot, he but seldom indulged in those amusements, preferring rather a walk with the steward, and soon returning to the dark old library to his books and Father Mackworth. There they two would sit, like two owls, hour after hour, appearing only at meals, and talking French to one another, noticing Charley but little; who, however, was always full of news, and would tell it too, in spite of the inattention of this strange couple. Densil began to respect and be slightly afraid of his eldest son, as his superior in learning and in natural abilities; but I think Charley had the biggest share in his heart.
Aunt Ascot had a year before sent for Cuthbert to pay her a visit at Ranford, her son's, Lord Ascot's place, where she lived with him, he being a widower, and kept house for him. Ranford, we know, contains the largest private racing stud in England, and the Ascot family for many generations have given them-selves up entirely to sporting—so much so, that their marriages with other houses have been to a certain extent influenced by it; and so poor Cuthbert, as we may suppose, was quite like a fish out of water. He detested and despised the men he met there, and they, on their parts, such of them as chose to notice him, thought him a surly young book-worm; and, as for his grandaunt, he hated the very sound of that excellent lady's voice. Her abruptness, her homœopathic medicines, her Protestantism (which she was always airing), and her stable-talk, nearly drove him mad; while she, on the other hand, thought him one of the most disagreeable boys she had ever met in her life. So the visit was rather a failure than otherwise, and not very likely to be repeated. Nevertheless, her ladyship was very fond of young faces, and so, in a twelvemonth, she wrote to Densil as follows :—
"I am one mass of lumbago all round the small of my back, and I find nothing like opodeldoc after all. The pain is very severe, but I suppose you would comfort me, as a heretic, by saying it is nothing to what I shall endure in a few years' time. Bah! I have no patience with you Papists, packing better people than yourselves off somewhere in that free-and-easy way. By-the-bye, how is that father confessor of yours, Markworth, or some such name—mind me, Ravenshoe, that fellow is a rogue, and you being, like all Ravenshoes, a fool, there is a pair of you. Why, if one of Ascot's grooms was to smile as that man does, or to whine in his speech as that man does, when he is talking to a woman of rank, I'd have him discharged on the spot, without warning, for dishonesty." "Don't put a penny on Ascot's horse at Chester; he will never stay over the Cup course. Curfew, in my opinion, looks by no means badly for the Derby; he is scratched for the Two Thousand—which was necessary, though I am sorry for it, &C. &C. &C." "I wish you would send me your boy, will you? Not the eldest: the Protestant one. Perhaps he mayn't be such an insufferable coxcomb as his brother."
At which letter Densil shook his honest sides with uproarious laughter. "Cuthbert, my boy," he said, "you have won your dear aunt's heart entirely; though she, being determined to mortify the flesh with its affections, does not propose seeing you again, but asks for Charley. The candour of that dear old lady increases with her age. You seem to have been making your court too, Father; she speaks of your smile in the most unqualified terms."
"Her ladyship must do me the honour to quiz me," said Mackworth. "If it is possible to judge by her eye, she must like me about as well as a mad dog."
"
Pour moi, mon père," said Cuthbert, curling up the corners of his thin lips sardonically, "I shall be highly content to leave my dear aunt in the peaceable enjoyment of her favourite society of grooms, horse-jockies, black-legs, dissenting ministers, and such-like. A month in that house, my dear Charley, will qualify you for a billiard marker; and, after a course of six weeks, you will be fit to take the situation of croupier in a low hell on a race-course. How you will enjoy yourself, my dear!""Steady, Cuthbert, steady," said his father; "I can't allow you to talk like that about your cousin's house. It is a great house for field sports, but there is not a better conducted house in the kingdom."
Cuthbert lay over on the sofa to fondle a cat, and then continued speaking very deliberately, in a slightly louder voice,—
"I will allow my aunt to be the most polite, intellectual, delicate-minded old lady in creation, my dearest father, if you wish it; only, not having been born (I beg her pardon, dropped) in a racing stable, as she was herself, I can hardly appreciate her conversation always. As for my cousin, I consider him a splendid sample of an hereditary legislator. Charley, dear, you won't go to church on Sunday afternoon at Ranford; you will go into the croft with your cousin to see the chickens fed. Ascot is very curious in his poultry, particularly on Sunday afternoon. Father, why does he cut all the cocks' tails square?"
"Pooh, pooh," said Densil, "what matter; many do it, besides him. Don't you be squeamish, Cuthbert—though, mind you, I don't defend cock-fighting on Sunday.
Cuthbert laughed and departed, taking his cat with him.
Charley had a long coach-journey of one day, and then an awful and wonderful journey on the Great Western Railway as far as Twyford—alighting at which place, he was accosted by a pleasant-looking, fresh-coloured boy, dressed in close-fitting cord trousers, a blue handkerchief, spotted with white, and a Scotch cap, who said,—
"Oh! I'm your cousin, Welter. I'm the same age as you, and I'm going to Eton next half. I've brought you over Tiger, because Punch is lame, and the station-master will look after your things; so we can come at once."
The boys were friends in two minutes; and, going out, there was a groom holding two ponies—on the prettiest of which Charley soon found himself seated, and jogging on with his companion towards. Henley.
I like to see two honest lads, just introduced, opening their hearts to one another, and I know nothing more pleasant than to see how they rejoice as each similarity of taste comes out. By the time these two had got to Henley-bridge, Welter had heard the name of every horse in the Ravenshoe stables, and Charley was rapidly getting learned in Lord Ascot's racing stud. The river at Henley distracted his attention for a time, as the biggest he had seen, and he asked his cousin, "Did he think the Mississippi was much bigger than that now?" and Lord Welter supposed, "oh dear, yes, a great deal bigger," he should say. Then there was more conversation about dogs and guns, and pleasant country places to ride through; then a canter
The house was very full; and, as the boys came up there was a crowd of phaetons, dog-carte, and saddle-horses, for the people were just arriving home for dinner after the afternoon drive, and, as they had all been to the same object of attraction that afternoon, they had all conic in together and were loitering about talking, some not yet dismounted, and some on the steps. Welter was at home at once, and had a word with every one; but Charley was left alone, sitting on his pony, feeling very shy, till, at last, a great brown man with a great brown moustache, and a gruff voice, came up to him and lifted him off the horse, holding him out at arm's length for inspection.
"So you are Curly Ravenshoe's boy, hey?" said he.
"Yes, sir."
"Ha!" said the stranger, putting him down, and leading him towards the door, "just tell your father you saw General Mainwaring, will you, and that he wanted to know how his old friend was."
Charley looked at the great brown hand which was in his own, and thought of the Affghan war, and of all the deeds of renown that that hand had done, and was raising his eyes to the general's face when they were arrested half-way by another face, not the general's.
It was that of a handsome, grey-headed man, who might have been sixty, he was so well conservé, but who was actually far more. He wore his own white hair, which contrasted strongly with a pair of delicate thin black eyebrows. His complexion was florid, with scarcely a wrinkle, his features were fine and regular, and a pair of sparkling dark grey eyes gave a pleasant light to his face. His dress was wondrously neat, and Charley, looking on him, guessed, with a boy's tact, that he was a man of mark.
"Whose son did you say he was, general?" said the stranger.
"Curly's!" said Mainwaring, stopping and smiling.
"No, really!" said the other; and then he looked fixedly at Charley and began to laugh, and Charley, seeing nothing better to do, looked up at the grey eyes and laughed too, and this made the stranger worse; and then, to crown the joke, the general began to laugh too, though none of them had said a syllable more than what I have written down; and at last the ridiculous exhibition finished up by the old gentleman taking a great pinch of snuff from a gold box, and turning away.
Charley was much puzzled, and was still more so when, in an hour's time, having dressed himself and being on his way clown stairs to his aunt's room, who had just come in, he was stopped on a landing by this same old gentleman, beautifully dressed for dinner, who looked on him as before.
He didn't laugh this time, but he did worse. He utterly "dumb foundered" Charley by asking abruptly,—
"How's Jim?" "He is very well, thank you, sir. His wife, Nora, nursed me when mamma died." "Oh, indeed," said the other; "so he hasn't cut your father's throat yet, or anything of that sort." "Oh, clear, no," said Charley, horrified; "bless you, what can make you think of such things? Why, he is the kindest man in the world."
"I don't know," said the old gentleman, thoughtfully; "that excessively faithful kind of creature is very apt to do that sort of thing. I should discharge any servant of mine who exhibited the slightest symptoms of affection as a dangerous lunatic;" with which villainous sentiment he departed.
Charley thought what a strange old gentleman he was for a short time, and then slid down the banisters. They were better banisters than those at Ravenshoe, being not so steep, and longer; so he went up, and slid down again; after which he knocked at his aunt's door.
It was with a beating heart that he waited for an answer. Cuthbert had described Lady Ascot as such a horrid
"So you are Charley Ravenshoe, eh?" she began. "Why, my dear, you must be perished with cold and hunger. I should have come in before, but I didn't expect you so soon. Tea will be here directly. You ain't a beauty, my dear, but I think I shall like you. There never was but one really handsome Ravenshoe, and that was poor Petre, your grandfather. Poor Alicia made a great fool of herself, but she was very happy with him. Welter, you naughty boy, be still."
The Right Honourable Viscount Welter wanted his tea, and was consequently troublesome and fractious. He had picked a quarrel with his grandmother's terrier, which he averred had bitten him in the leg, and he was now heating the poker, in order, he informed the old lady, to bum the place out, and prevent hydrophobia. Whether he would have done so or not we shall never know now, for, tea coming in at that moment, he instantly sat down at table, and called to Charley to do likewise.
"Call Miss Adelaide, will you, Sims?" said Lady Ascot'; and presently there came tripping into the room the loveliest little blonde fairy, about ten years old, that ever you saw. She fixed her large blue eyes on Charley, and then came up and gave him a kiss, which he, the rogue, returned with interest, and then, taking her seat at the table, she turned to Welter, and hoped he was going to be good
Such, however, it soon appeared, was not his lordship's intention. He had a guest at table, and he was bound in honour to show off before him, besides having to attend to his ordinary duty of frightening his grandmother as nearly into fits as was safe. Accordingly, he commenced the repast by cramming buns into his mouth, using the handle of his knife as a rammer, until the salvation of his life appeared an impossibility, at which point he rose and left the room with a rapid, uneven step. On his reappearance he began drinking, but, having caught his grandmother's eye over his teacup, he winked at her, and then held his breath till he was purple, and she begun to wring her hands in despair. All this time he was stimulated by Charley's laughter and Adelaide's crying out, continually, "Oh, isn't he a naughty boy, Lady Ascot? oh, do tell him not to do it." But the crowning performance of this promising young gentleman—the feat which threw everything else into the shade, and which confirmed Charley in his admiration of his profound talents—was this. Just as a tall, grave, and handsome footman was pouring water into the teapot, and while her ladyship was inspecting the operation with all the intense interest of an old tea-maker, at that moment did Lord Welter contrive to inflict on the unfortunate man a pinch on the leg, of such a shrewdly agonising nature as caused him to gnash his teeth in Lady Ascot's face, to cry aloud, "Oh, Lord!", to whirl the kettle within an inch of her venerable nose, and, finally, to gyrate across the room on one leg, and stand looking like the king of fools.
Lady Ascot, who had merely seen the effect, and not the cause, ordered him promptly to leave the room, whereupon Welter explained, and afterwards continued to Charley, with an off-hand candour quite his own, as if no such person as his grandmother was within a hundred miles,—
"You know, Charley, I shouldn't dare to behave like this if my tutor was at home; she'd make nothing of telling him, now. She's in a terrible wax, but she'll be all right by the time he comes back from his holidays; won't you, grandma?"
"You wicked boy," she replied, "I hope Hawtrey will cure you; Keate would have, I know."
The boys slid on the banisters; then they went to dessert. Then they went up-stairs, and looked over Welter's cricket apparatus, fishing tackle, and so
There were two tables in the room, at one of which a pool was getting up, while the other was empty. Welter was going to play pool, and Charley would have liked to do so too, being a very tolerable player; only he had promised his old tutor not to play for money till he was eighteen, and so he sat in the corner by the empty table, under the marking-board, with one leg gathered under him, and instantly found himself thinking about the little girl he had seen upstairs.
Once or twice he was surprised to find himself thinking so much about her, but he found it a pleasant subject, too, for he had sat in his corner more than half an hour without changing it, when he became aware that two men were taking down cues from the rack, and were going to play at his table.
They were his two friends of the afternoon, general Mainwaring and the grey-headed man who laughed. When they saw him they seemed glad, and the old gentleman asked him why he wasn't playing.
"I musn't play pool," he answered. "I should like to mark for you."
"Well said, my hero," said the general: "and so Jim's an honest man, is he?"
Charley saw that the old gentleman had told the general what had passed on the stairs, and wondered why he should take such an interest in him; but he soon fell to thinking about little Adelaide again, and marking mechanically though correctly.
He was aroused by the general's voice.—"Who did you mark that last miss to, my little man?" he said.
"To the old gentleman," said Charley, and then blushed at the consciousness of having said a rude thing.
"That is one for you, Methusaleh," said the general.
"Never mind," said the old gentleman, "I have one great source of pride, which no one can rob me of; I am twelve years older than I look."
They went on playing. "By-the-bye," said the General, "who is that exceedingly pretty child that the old lady has got with her?"
"A child she has adopted," said the old gentleman. "A granddaughter of an old friend who died in poverty. She is a noble-hearted old soul, the jockey, with all her absurdities."
"Who was she?" asked the General. "(That was rather a fluke, was it not?)"
"She! Why, a daughter of old Cingle Headstall's, the mad old Cheshire baronet—you don't remember him, of course, but your father knew him. Drove his tandem round and round Berkeley Square for four hours on a foggy night, under the impression he was going home to Hounslow, and then fired at the watch-man who tried to put him right, taking him for a highwayman. The son went to France, and was lost sight of in the revolution; so the girl came in for what money there was : not very much I take it. This poor thing, who was pretty and clever enough, but without education, having been literally brought up in a stable, captivated the sagacious Ascot, and made him a capital wife."
"I suppose she'll portion this girl, then; you say she had money?"
"Him," said the old gentleman, "there's a story about the aforesaid money, which is told in different ways, but which amounts to this,—that the money is no more. Hallo, our marker is getting sleepy."
"Not at all, sir," said Charley. "If you will excuse me a moment I will come back."
He ran across to Welter, who was leaning on his cue. "Can you tell me," said he, "who is that old gentleman?"
"Which old gentleman?"
"That one, with the black eyebrows, playing with General Manwaring. There he is taking snuff."
"Oh, him," said Welter; "that is Lord Saltire."
Time, the inexorable, kept mowing away at poor Charley's flowers until the dis-
The litle flirt, she must have waited till she heard him coming out of his room, and then have pretended to be coming up stairs all in a hurry. He got a kiss
It was terrible day, though he did not notice it at first. He was thinking how pleasnt it was that the people were all so kind to him, just as kind as they were at home. He thought of Adelaide, and wondred whether she would ever think of him. He was rather glad that Welter was such a naughty boy (not really naughty you know), because she would be less likely to like him. And then he thought how glad the people at home would be to see him; and then he looked out of window. He had left Lord
He got out to go to the refreshment room, and began wondering what the noise was which prevented hint from hearing any one when they spoke, and why the people looked scared and talked in knots, then he found that it was the wind in the roof; and some one told him that a chimney had been blown across the line, and they must wait till it was removed.
All the day the brave engine fought westward against the wind, and two hours after time Charley found himself in the coach which would take him to Stonnington. The night crept on, and the coach crawled on its way through the terrible night, and Charley slept. In the cold pitiless morning, as they were going over a loftily exposed moor, the vehicle, though only going foot's pace, stood for an instant on two wheels, and then fell crashing over on to a heap of road-side stones, awaking Charley, who, being unhurt, lay still for five minutes or so, with a faint impression of having been shaken in his sleep, and, after due reflection, made the brilliant discovery that the coach was upset.
He opened the door over his head and jumped out. For an instant he was blinded by the stinging rain, but turned his back to it; and then, for the first time, he became aware that this was the most terrible gale of wind he had ever seen in his lifetime.
He assisted the coachman and guard, and the solitary outside passenger, to lead the poor horses along the road. They fought on for about two hundred yards, and came to an alehouse, on the sight of which Charley knew that they were two stages short of where he thought they had been, for this was the Watershed Inn, and the rain from its roof ran partly into the Bristol channel and partly into the British.
After an hour's rest here Charley was summoned to join the coach in the valley below, and they crawled on again. It was a weary day over some very bleak country. They saw in one place a cottage unroofed on a moo and the
At last, at three o'clock, the coach drove under the gate of the Chichester Arms, at Stonnington, and Charley, jumping out, was received by the establishment with the air of people who had done a clever thing, and were ready to take their meed of praise with humility. The handsome landlady took great credit to herself for Charley's arrival—so much so, that one would have thought she herself had single-handed dragged the coach from Exeter. "She had been sure all along that Mr. Charles would come." A speech which, with the cutting glance that accompanied it, goaded the landlord to retort in a voice wheezy with good living, and to remind her that she had said, not ten minutes before, that she was quite sure he wouldn't; whereupon the landlady loftily begged him not to expose himself before the servants. At which the landlord laughed, and choked himself; at which the landlady slapped him on the back, and laughed too; after which they went in.
His father, the landlord told him, had sent his pony over, as he was afraid of a carriage on the moor to-day, and that, if he felt at all afraid to come oil, he was to sleep where he was. Charley looked at the comfortable parlour and hesitated; but, happening to close his eyes an instant, he saw as plain as possible the library at home, and the flickering fire-light falling on the crimson and oak furniture, and his father listening for him through the roaring wind; and so he hesitated no longer, but said he would push on, and that he would wish to see his servant while he took dinner.
The landlord eyed him admiringly with his head on one side, and proceeded to remark that corn was down another shilling; that Squire West had sold his chesnut mare for one hundred and twenty pounds; and that if he kept well under the walls going home he would be out of the wind; that his missis was took poorly in the night with spasms, and had been cured by two wine-glasses of peppermint; that a many chimneypots was blown down, and that old Jim Baker had heard tell as a pig was blowed through the church window. After which he poked the lire and retired.
Charley was hard at his dinner when his man came in. It was the oldest of the pad grooms,—a man with grizzled hair, looking like a white terrier; and he stood before Charley smoothing his face with his hand.
"Hallo, Michael," said Charley, "how came you to come?"
"Master wouldn't send no other, sir. It's a awful day down there; there's above a hundred trees down along the road."
"Shall we be able to get there?"
"As much as we shall, sir."
"Let us try. Terrible sea, I suppose?"
"Awful to look at, sir. Mackworth and Mr. Cuthbert are down to look at it."
"No craft ashore?"
"None as yet. None of our boats is out. Yesterday morning a Bill boat, 52, stood in to see where she was and beat out again, but that was before it came on so bad."
So they started They pushed rapidly, out of the town, and up a narrow wooded valley which led to the moor which lay between them and Ravenshoe. For some time they were well enough sheltered, and made capital way, till the wood began to grow sparer, and the road to rise abruptly. Here the blast began to be more sensibly felt, and in a quarter of a mile they had to leap three uprooted trees; before them they heard a rushing noise like the sea. It was the wind upon the moor.
Creeping along under the high stone walls and bending down, they pushed on still, until, coming to the open moor, and
As they were proceeding thus, with Michael on the windward side, Charley looked up, and there was another horse-man beside him. He knew him directly; it was Lloyd's agent.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Lewis, any ship ashore?" he shouted
"Not yet," said the agent. "But there'll be many a good sailor gone to the bottom before to-morrow morning, I'm thinking. This is the heaviest gale or forty years."
By degrees they descended to more sheltered valleys, and after a time found themselves in the court-yard of the hall. Charley was caught up by his father; the agent was sent to the housekeeper's room; and very soon Charley had for-gotten all about wind and weather, and was pouring into his father's ear all-his impressions of Ranford.
"I am glad you liked it," said Densil, "and I'll be bound they liked you. You ought to have gone first; Cuthbert don't suit them."
"Oh, Cuthbert's too clever for them," said Charley; "they are not at all clever people, bless you!" And only just in time too, for Cuthbert walked into the room.
"Well, Charley," he said coolly, "so you're come hack. Well, and what did you think of Welter, eh? I suppose he suited you?"
"I thought him very funny, Cuthbert," said Charley timidly.
"I thought him an abominable young nuisance," said Cuthbert. "I hope he hasn't taught you any of his fool's tricks."
Charley wasn't to be put off like this; so he went and kissed his brother, and then came back to his father. There was a long dull evening, and when they went to complines he went to bed. Up in his room he could hear that the wind was worse than ever, not rushing up in great gusts and sinking again as in ordinary gales, but keeping up one continued unvarying scream against the house, which was terrible to hear.
He got frightened at being alone; afraid of finding some ghostly thing at his elbow, which had approached him unheard through the noise. He began, indeed, to meditate upon going down stairs, when Cuthbert, coming into the next room, reassured him, and he got into bed.
This wasn't much better though, for there was a thing in a black hood came and stood at the head of his bed, and, though he could not see it, he could feel the wind of its heavy draperies as it moved. Moreover, a thing like a caterpillar, with a cat's head, about two feet long, came creep-creeping up the counterpane; which he valiantly smote, and found it to be his handkerchief—and still the unvarying roar went on till it was unendurable.
He got up and went to his brother's room, and was cheered to find a light burning; he came softly in and called "Cuthbert."
"Who is there?" asked he, with a sudden start.
"It's I," said Charley; "can you sleep?"
"Not I," said Cuthbert, sitting up.
"I can hear people talking in the wind. Come into bed; I'm so glad you're come."
Charley lay down by his brother, and they talked about ghosts for a long time. Once their father came in with a light from his bed-room next door, and sat on the bed talking, as if he, too, was glad of company, and after that they dozed off and slept.
It was in the grey light of morning that they awoke together and started up. The wind was as bad as ever, but the whole house was still, and they stared terrified at one another.
"What was it?" whispered Charles.
Cuthbert shook his head and listened again. As he was opening his mouth to speak it came again, and they knew it was that which woke them. A sound like a single footstep on the floor above,
"A gun!"
Charles well knew what awful disaster was implied in those words. The wind was N.W., setting into the bay The ship that fired that gun was doomed.
He heard his father leap out of bed and ring furiously at his bell. Then doors began to open and shut, and voices and rapid footsteps were heard in the passage. In ten minutes the whole terrified household were running hither and thither, about they hardly knew what. The men were pale, and some of the women were beginning to whimper and wring their hands; when Densil, Lewis the agent, and Mackworth, came rapidly down the staircase and passed out. Mackworth came back, and told the women to put on hot water and heat blankets. Then Cuthbert joined him, and they went together; and directly after Charley found himself between two men-servants, being dragged rapidly along towards the low headland which bounded the bay on the east.
When they came to the beach, they found the whole village pushing on in a long straggling line the same way as themselves. The men were walking singly, either running, or going very fast; and the women were in knots of twos and threes, straggling along and talking excitedly, with much gesticulation.
"There's some of the elect on board, I'll be bound," Charles heard one woman say, "as will be supping in glory this blessed night."
"Ay, ay," said an older woman, "I'd sooner be taken to rest sudden, like they're going to be, than drag on till all the faces you know are gone before."
"My boy," said another, "was lost in a typhoon in the China sea. (Dam they lousy typhoons!) I wonder if he thought of his mother afore he went down."
Among such conversation as this, with the terrible, ceaseless thunder of the surf upon his left, Charley, clinging tight to his two guardians, made the best weather of it he could, until they found themselves on the short turf of the promontory, with their faces seaward, and the water right and left of them. The cape ran out about a third of a mile, rather low, and then abruptly ended in a cone of slate, beyond which, about two hundred yards at sea, was that terrible sunken rock, "the Wolf," on to which, as sure as death, the flowing tide carried every stick which was embayed. The tide was making; a ship was known to be somewhere in the bay; it was blowing a hurricane; and what would you more?
They hurried along as well as they could among the sharp slates which rose through the turf, until they came to where the people had halted. Charley saw his father, the agent, Mackworth, and. Cuthbert together, under a rock; the villagers were standing around, and the crowd was thickening every moment. Every one had his hand over his eyes, and was peering due to windward through the driving scud.
They had stopped at the foot of the cone, which was between them and the sea, and some more adventurous had climbed partly up it, if, perhaps, they might see further than their fellows; but in vain : they all saw and heard the same—a blinding white cauldron of wind-driven spray below, and all around, filling every cranny—the howling storm.
A quarter of an hour since she fired last, and no signs of her yet! She must be carrying canvas and struggling for life, ignorant of the four-knot stream. Some one says she may have gone down,—hush! who spoke?
Old Sam Evans had spoken, He had laid his hand on the squire's shoulder, and said, "There she is." And then arose a hubbub of talking from the men, and every one crowded on his neighbour and tried to get nearer. And the women moved hurriedly about, some moaning to themselves, and some saying, "Ah, poor dear!" "Ah, dear Lord ! there she is, sure enough."
She hove in sight so rapidly that, almost as soon as they could be sure of a dark object, they saw that it was a ship—a great ship about 900 tons; that she was dismasted, and that her decks were crowded They could see that she was unmanageable, turning her head hither and thither as the sea struck her, and that her people had seen the cliff at the same moment, for they were hurrying aft, and crowding on to the bulwarks.
Charley and his guardians crept up to his father's party. Densil was standing silent, looking on the lamentable sight; and, as Charley looked at him, he saw a tear run down his cheek, and heard him say, "Poor fellows!" Cuthbert stood staring intently at the ship, with his lips slightly parted. Mackworth, like one who studies a picture, held his elbow in one hand, and kept the other over his mouth; and the agent used his pocket-handkerchief openly.
It is a sad sight to see a fine ship beyond control. It is like seeing one one loves' gone mad. Sad under any circumstances, how terrible it is when she is bearing on with her in her mad Bacchante's dance a freight of living, loving human creatures, to untimely destruction!
As each terrible feature and circum-stance of the catastrophe became apparent to the lookers-on, the excitement became more intense. Forward and in the waist there were a considerable body of seamen clustered about under the bulwarks—some half-stripped. In front of the
The slip was going straight upon the rock, not only marked as a whiter spot upon the whitened sea, and she was fear-fully near it, rolling and pitching, turning her head hither and thither, fighting for her life. She had taken comparatively little water on board as yet; hut now a great sea struck her forward, and she swung with her bow towards the rock, from which she was distant not twenty yards. The end was coming. Charley saw the mate slip off his coat and shirt, and take the little girl. He saw the lady with the baby rise very quietly and look forward; he saw the sailors climbing on the bulwarks; he saw the soldiers standing steady in two scarlet lines across the deck; he saw the officers wave their hands to one another, and then he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed as if his heart would break.
They told him after how the end had come; she had lifted up her bows defiantly, and brought them crashing down upon the pitiless rock as though in despair. Then her stern had swung round, and a merciful sea broke over her, and hid her from their view, though above the storm they plainly heard her brave old timbers crack; then she floated off, with bulwarks gone, sinking, and drifted out of sight round the headland, and, though they raced across the headland, and waited a few breathless minutes for her to float round into sight again, they never saw her any more. The Warren Hastings was gone down in fifteen fathom. And now there was a new passion introduced into the tragedy, to which it had hitherto been a stranger—Hope. The wreck of part of the mainmast and half the main-topmast, which they had seen, before she struck, lumbering the deck, had floated off, and there were three, four, five men clinging to the futtock shrouds; and then, with a shout, they saw the mate with the child hoist himself on to the spar, and part his dripping hair from his eyes.
The spar had floated into the bay, into which they were looking, into much calmer water; but, directly to leeward, the swell was tearing at the black slate rocks, and in ten minutes they would be on them. Every man saw the danger, and Densil, running down to the water's edge, cried,—
"Fifty pound to any one who will take' em a rope! Fifty gold sovereigns down to-night! Who's going?"
Jim Mathews was going, and had been going before he heard of the fifty pound—that was evident; for he was stripped, and out on the rooks with the rope round his waist, He stepped from the bank of slippery seaweed into the heaving water, and then his magnificent limbs were in full battle with the tide. A roar announced his success. As he was seen clambering on to the spar, a stouter rope was payed out; and very soon it and its burden were high and dry upon the little half-moon of sand which ended the bay.
Five sailors, the first mate, and a bright-eyed little girl were their precious prize. The sailors lay about upon the sand, and the mate, untying the shawl that hound her to him, put the silent and frightened child into the hands of a woman who stood close by.
The poor little thing was trembling in every limb. "If you please," she said to the woman, "I should like to go to mamma. She is standing with baby on the quarterdeck. Mr. Archer, will you take me back to mamma, please? She will be frightened if we stay away."
"Well, a deary me," said the honest woman, "she'll break my heart, a darling; mamma's in heaven, my tender, and baby too."
"No, indeed," said the child, eagerly; " she is on the quarter-deck. Mr. Archer, Mr. Archer!"
The mate, a tall, brawny, whisker-less, hard-faced man, about six-and-twenty, who had been thrust into a pea-coat, now approached.
"Where's mamma, Mr. Archer?" said the child.
"Where's mamma, my lady-bird? Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"And where's the ship, and Captain Dixon, and the soldiers?"
"The ship, my pretty love," said the mate, putting his rough hand on the child's wet hair; "why the good ship, Warren Hastings, Dixon, master, is a-sunk beneath the briny waves, my darling; and all aboard of her, being good sailors and brave soldiers, is doubtless at this moment in glory."
The poor little thing set up a low wailing cry, which went to the hearts of all present; then the women carried her away, and the mate, walking between Mackworth and Densil, headed the procession homeward to the hall.
"She was the Warren Hastings, of 900 tons," he said, "from Calcutta, with a detachment of the 120th on board. The old story,—dismasted, both anchors down, cables parted, and so on. And now I expect you know as much as I do. This little girl is daughter to Captain Corby, in command of the troops. She was always a favourite of mine, and I determined to get her through. How steady those sojers stood, by jingo, as though they were on parade. Well, I always thought something was going to happen, for we had never a quarrel the whole voyage, and that's curious with troops. Capital crew, too. Ah, well, they are comfortable enough now, eh, sir?'
That night the mate arose from his bed like a giant refreshed with wine, and posted off to Bristol to "her owners," followed by a letter from Densil, and another from Lloyds' agent, of such a nature that he found himself in command of a ship in less than a month. Periodically, unto this day, there arrive at Ravenshoe, bows and arrows (sup-posed to be poisoned), paddles, punkahs, rice-paper screens; a malignant kind of pickle, which causeth the bowels of him that eateth of it to burn; wicked-looking old gods of wood and stone; models of Juggernaut, his car; brown earthenware moonshees, translating glazed porcelain bibles; and many other Indian curiosities, all of which are imported and presented by the kind-hearted Archer.
In a fortnight the sailors were gone, and save a dozen or so of new graves in the churchyard, nothing remained to tell of the Warren Hastings but the little girl saved so miraculously—little Mary Corby.
She had been handed over at once to the care of the kind-hearted Norah, Charles's nurse, who instantaneously
After having hugged him violently, and kissed him till he laughingly refused to let her do it again till she had told him the news, she began,—"The beauty-boy, he gets handsomer every day" (this might be true, but there was great room for improvement yet), "and comes and sees his old nurse, and who loves him so well, alanna? It's little I can tell ye about the little girl, me darlin'. She's nine years old, and a heretic, like yer own darlin' self, and whose to gainsay ye from it? She's book-learned enough, and play she says she can, and I axed her would she like to live in the great house, and she said no. She liked me, and wanted to stay with me. She cries about her mother, a dear, but not so much as she did, and she's now inside and asleep. Come here, Avick."
She bent down her handsome face to Charley's car, and whispered, "If my boy was looking out for a little wee fairy wife, eh?"
Charley shook his hair, and laughed, and there and then told Norah all about Adelaide, which attachment Norah highly approved of, and remarked that he'd be old enough to be married before he knew where he was.
In spite of Densil's letters and inquiries, no friends came forward to claim little Mary. In a very short time Densil gave up inquiring, and then he began dreading lest she should be taken from him, for he had got wonderfully fond of the quiet, pale, bright-eyed little creature. In three months she was considered as a permanent member of the household, and the night before Charley went to school he told her of his grand passion. His lordship considered this step showed deep knowledge of the world, as it would have the effect of crushing in the bud any rash hopes which Mary might have conceived; and, having made this provision for her peace of mind, he straightway departed to Shrewsbury school.
(To be continued.)
It is probable that before long there will be a call for a revision of the Eton constitution. In age, wealth, prominence, and importance to the country, Eton comes next to the two universities of Oxford and Cambridge : it was to be expected, therefore, that her turn would follow theirs in the process of educational reform. And, indeed, the Cambridge Reform Commissioners were invested with powers for examining, if necessary, the case of Eton, and proceeding accordingly; but they appear only to lave used this power in terrorem, to overcome the reluctance of the Eton authorites to consent to the reforms of King's College, Cambridge. Probably they found the task of bringing Cambridge University to accept even a slender modicum of reform quite difficult and disagreeable enough : and had no desire for an extension of it. We have had, however, various signs, from the most different quarters, that the public mind is turned or turning to this subject. Ordinary remonstrances, with the average admixture of error and exaggeration, can often be silently crushed by the weight of influence which old, famous, and independent bodies possess; but such treatment could hardly be applied to the pamphlet of Sir J. Coleridge. That eminent old Etonian has written with a most thorough knowledge of the subject, and in a strain of affectionate though not indiscriminate
It will be well, in discussing this question, to disconnect it entirely from the general controversy between public and private schools. The arguments for both have been frequently well put forward, and appear adapted rather to balance than to meet each other; in the case of individual boys the choice between them may often be determined by individual circumstances; but it is almost certain that, in England, public schools will always maintain their advantage. There can be no doubt that they are a most natural outgrowth of the English mind; that they embody most characteristically that spirit which pervades our whole political and social system; and which draws from foreigners so loud a note of mingled wonder, censure, and admiration. But the general public school system is considerably modified in the case of each school by its peculiar institutions; and it will be more profitable, as well as more convenient, to discuss these separately.
The only danger lest the question should not be thoroughly examined arises from the fact, that there has been of late so much written, said, and done, about educational reform. The upper classes, the middle classes, the lower classes—all have had their turns in the general sifting that the education of the country has undergone. The average mind, whose interest for the public Weal is more or less largely adulterated by the desire of hearing some new thing, is beginning to get tired of the whole business, and to think that we might now let it rest awhile. It may be doubted whether we ought ever to let it rest; whether we ought not to accept a continual state of change, not as an ideal condition of our educational system, but as the best thing that we can practically get. We have by this time outgrown the presumption of imagining that we can ever make institutions for all time; and the worst evils of change are less than those that result from forcing one age to work in the harness of another. And let no one point, in the serenity of self-satisfaction, to the great and glorious results produced by any institution in former times. Such an appeal is appropriate in Cathay, but certainly not among us. All that now exists, all that we hold most precious, is derived from changes, against which the same appeal might have been made with equal force.
But it may be asked, Why not trust to the wisdom of the educating bodies themselves, and the indirect pressure of public opinion, to effect the necessary changes, without any direct external action? And there can be no doubt that the great improvement which has taken place, during the last thirty years, in our public schools has been effected almost entirely in the former way. But some of these bodies are so predisposed by their constitution to retain the old and refuse the new, without fairly considering the intrinsic merits of either, that they cannot be entirely trusted with the work of their own reform. A plain statement of the case will, perhaps, enable us to judge whether Eton be one of these or not.
The first fact we have to notice, which will, we think, much amaze the uninitiated, is this; that, although the Eton masters are justly considered the best paid members of their profession, the salary that each receives for his regular work in school is under 45l. per annum. This is the only part of their income which is fixed; the remainder, which is derived from private pupils, is fluctuating, and, therefore, hard to estimate. As, however, it has been much exaggerated, we shall try to approximate to it. We believe the income of an assistant master, who has not a boarding-house, to vary between 600l. and 900l. per annum, while one who has a house makes
l. may be reckoned as taking up a third of his time. For this work, therefore, he is ludicrously underpaid; it follows, as a matter of course, that he must be paid very highly for the remainder. This discrepancy between the two payments is evidently in itself an evil: it must tend to produce a proportionate inferiority in the underpaid work. With a high-principled and conscientious body like the Eton masters, this tendency will, of course, be much weakened, but operate it must, to a certain extent. Again, it is desirable that a schoolmaster's income should be partially fluctuating, and influenced by competition; but that it should be liable to so great variation, from the effect perhaps of mere fancy or fortune, while his work is by no means increased or diminished in the same ratio, is unfair and unadvisable. But the worst result, to which we shall again have occasion to allude, is this; that, since the masters are thus almost entirely dependent on their pupils for support, and since each fresh pupil, while he adds 20l. to their income, adds very little to their work, they are naturally inclined to take more pupils than they otherwise would, and, as we think, more than they ought.
How, then, is the money of this royal and wealthy foundation absorbed, that it pays its misters at the rate of the lowest usher in the commonest grammar school?
The answer is easy. The foundation supports, besides the masters and seventy scholars, seven fellows and a provost. The exact income of a fellow is of course known only to his fortunate self and l
Let us look into the relations of this sinecurist and absorptive body; we may find that we have here a great cause of the evils of Eton, or at least a great obstacle to their removal.
The simple fact of sinecurism, with-out excuse, gives us a presumption against them. They form a perfect specimen of those "comfortable bodies," which our ruthless reforming age has insisted upon making uncomfortable, where it has not swept them away altogether. They are a useless relic of past ages—a remnant of the monastic life; ideally, a life of self-denying and learned seclusion, actually so often a life of luxurious and unlearned sloth. It is one of the jus test praises of our own times, that we are honest, sincere, and earnest, in endeavouring to give "a fair day's wages for a fair day's work;" and not otherwise.
It is true, that the fellowships at the universities have escaped thé general destruction; but only for two weighty reasons, viz. as prizes to stimulate youth to intellectual exertions, and means for assisting it, when talented and poor, through the early unproductive years of our learned professions. The income of these fellowships, too, is comparatively small, and in most cases only sufficient to answer these two ends. It is true that these reasons do not cover the case of a bachelor retaining his fellowship through life; but here we must speak our own decided opinion—the opinion of a large and influential body at both universities—that in this point the reform has not been thorough. Here, however, another strange relic of monasticism, in itself objectionable, exercises a counteracting force; and the public, while it does not compel these sinecurists to: work, has at least a grim satisfaction in not allowing them to marry.
But it is said in favour of the Eton fellowships, that they are useful as re-tiring pensions for the masters. Let us examine this excuse.
The simplest answer is, that retiring pensions are not needed at Eton. An Eton master begins with an income of usually about 800l. and rises to one of usually about 1,500l. a year. When we consider how much lower are the payments given to others of the same profession, of at least equal ability, who have no retiring pension to look forward to, we feel that there is no hard-heartedness in saying, that every Eton master ought to save enough to support him in his declining years. We may remember, too, that he is in a situation of peculiar advantage with respect to that which every paterfamilias feels to be the chief source of his expense and anxiety, namely, the education of his children.
But even supposing that retiring pensions of this large amount were desirable, we can easily show that the present system is very ill adapted for properly bestowing them.
In the first place, these fellowships are confined to clergymen. Now, in every school, the lay element among the masters is, or ought to be, very considerable. The necessity of this, and the evil that would result from leaving our education entirely in the hands of clergymen, is now fully recognised; and from the present course of public feeling, we may infer that it will be daily more and more felt. While we protest against the extreme view, which some hold, We are sorry to hear that Bishop Villiers refuses to ordain schoolmasters in his diocese. But the law at present allows individual bishops too much licence of private tyranny : and Lord Shaftesbury's protegés are beginning to make this generally felt.
We have alluded to the resources possessed by clerical schoolmasters of retiring to easy parochial work. If the fellowships were done away with, these resources might be most conveniently and fully secured to the Eton masters. The numerous livings, now in the gift of the fellows, might be offered to them in succession as they fell vacant. Under the present system they would of course be rejected with scorn by all who could look forward to a fellowship. It might naturally be supposed that the corporate body would give these livings away in its corporate capacity; as it is, they form a nice piece of patronage for the friends and relatives of the fellows, as a casual reference to the Clergy List will prove.
But there is another reason which would render the Eton fellowships a bad system for the award of retiring pensions, which also constitutes an objection against their existing at all; the fact that the fellows form a small cooperative body, with perfectly uncontrolled freedom of choice, and no subsequent tests of their election. Bodies of this kind are peculiarly liable to the temptation of choosing for other reasons than that of simple desert. The abuse we allude to has been known to creep in even at the universities, where the co-opting bodies are larger, where they distinctly profess to elect according to proficiency in learning, and where a bad choice may reflect subsequent disgrace on themselves. There is a clanger of such a body being unduly influenced by merely social reasons: there is a still greater danger of family motives making themselves felt—a greater danger, both because the abuse is worse in itself, and because it is harder to eradicate. This
But it may be urged that the fellows actually have some slight amount of work—they administer the college re-venues, and preach in chapel to the boys. This is true; but so unfortunate is their relation to the school in its present state and with its present wants, that their work is almost equally undesirable with their idleness. In the first place; being a number of old men, who have lived from boyhood within a narrow circle of traditions—as they have all proceeded from Eton to King's College, Cambridge, and back again to Eton—it may easily be conceived that they are an ultra-conservative and obstructive body. But, as the force of this general objection will not be felt by all, in order to particularize, it will be necessary to enter more fully into the constitution of the school, and allude to some of the practical complaints which have been brought against its present working.
There are at Eton about 70 collegers, or boys on the foundation, who live in the college buildings; and about 750 oppidans, i.e., boys living in dames' or masters' houses. The oppidans are, therefore, ten times as numerous as the collegers; and there is no doubt, that, in the eye of the world, they are more than ten times as important. It is they that have made Eton what it is; it is to their class, without a single exception, that the long roll of names belongs in which an Etonian glories. Sir J. Coleridge, in his admirable lecture, has told us that oppidans were provided for in the original design of the founder. This is a new and interesting view of the subject: the rigidly mediæval mind has hitherto regarded the collegers as the only boys belonging to the foundation, and, therefore, the true Etonians; and the oppidans as really only the private pupils of the head master.
Now the natural result of the Eton system is, that the school is under a kind of double government; of the provost and fellows on the one hand, as administrators of the college funds, and the head master on the other. This double government is not in itself an evil. Most public schools are similarly under the control of trustees or governors, who, if they are sensible men, do not clog the working of the school; they form a useful check on an imprudent head master, while they let a wise one have pretty much his own way. But the result of the peculiar constitution of Eton, and the narrow sphere in which the fellows have lived, is that they are imbued with the above-mentioned mediæval theory: and, while they are not wanting in care for the collegers, they refuse to consider themselves bound to do anything at all for the oppidans. A short-sighted and unfair policy, even on their own grounds; for the first-rate teachers, of whose instructions the collegers reap the benefit, are paid, as we have seen, chiefly by the oppidans : not to mention the enormous social advantages which the collegers derive from the fact that Eton is what it is, instead of a mere grammar school of seventy boys. But such is the policy too often pursued. For instance, there is now an imperative need of new school buildings at Eton. Various evils result from the present confined state of the school. Sir J. Coleridge has alluded to one, viz. that mathematics has now to be taught in a private building, so that an important branch of education is degraded in the eyes of the boys. The new buildings would cost at least 10,000l. Will it be believed that the fellows will only furnish a very small portion of this sum from the funds of the foundation? so that, for the rest, recourse must be had to private subscription; that is, an appeal ad misericordiam must be made to old Etonians, or the parents of the oppidans, who already pay so much,
Let us now turn to the case of the assistants. It is against them that the heaviest complaints have been brought; against their quality, their number, and their work.
With regard to the first count there has been considerable exaggeration. It is, no doubt, an evil that they should all up to a late period have been taken from a single college at Cambridge, and that a small one; but no Cambridge man would have questioned the classical reputation of King's. Obscure it may be called, as it made no appearance in the class lists, and was so much cut off from the rest of the university; but a slight reference to the list of university scholarships and prizes in the Cambridge calendar—the only honours formerly open to King's men—will speedily place its merits on their true footing. The Triposes were, a few years ago, thrown open to the King's men; and, though it was some little time before they entered with alacrity into the novel competition, they are now bidding fair to stand second to none in classics, as the classical Tripos list for
It is not merely that, even under his system, the supply of fit candidates barely equals the demand. The best scholarship will not compensate for the general narrowness produced by such a selection, a narrowness tending to perpetuate routine, however obsolete, and oppose reforms, however desirable. That there should be a preponderance among the assistants of Etonians, who can best understand and appreciate the system under which they were trained, is natural and right; that all others should be excluded, unnatural and wrong.
In the other two complaints, which, in fact, amount to one—that the number of assistants is too small and consequently their work too great—there appears to be more truth. They are led to take so many private pupils, that they cannot give to each the attention that the parents have a right to expect. This probably arises, as we before observed, from the fact that this "private business," as it is called, is the only lucrative part of an assistant's work. No doubt, Dr. Goodford has done much by making a rule, that no new master shall have more than forty pupils; but we wish he had put the limit lower, and made the rule apply to all. We sympathize with his motives in not disturbing old masters who had already more; but it does seem a peculiarly inappropriate application of the principle of vested interests. If the limit was a lower one, say thirty, there would be about five more assistants required, and the incomes of all would be diminished : to compensate, we would propose an increased rate of payment for school-work, which would also remedy the already noticed inequality in the ratio of the two kinds of payment. This might be easily done if a portion of the money now absorbed by the fellows were set free; but, as long as the system remains unaltered, there is no chance of it.
But, further, supposing the new masters procured, where are they to be lodged? Here again the obstructiveness of the fellows meets us. Each new assistant
Such work is exactly that which this wealthy unoccupied corporation is called upon to undertake; and we cannot but regret that its principles or prejudices lead it to throw this work on the shoulders of busy individuals.
Again, Sir J. Coleridge draws, with perhaps unconscious irony, the following ideal of what might take place, if the assistants had less drudgery, and more time for self-cultivation, and could hold reunions for mutual converse and counsel. "I presume," he says, "that such a movement on their part would be met in a congenial and co-operative spirit by the higher authorities; the college library should be thrown open to them—there could be no better place for their meetings—and they should be admitted into free and friendly council in whatever improvement was contemplated for school or college." We dare say that the Eton fellows ignore, as a body, the assistants, out of whom they have immediately risen. We know that they have refused, though solicited, to admit them to the college library; and that the most Utopian assistant, would not, in his wildest moments, dream of being admitted to "free and friendly council," &C.
We must now close our remarks on this part of the subject. We should deeply regret, if what we have said should cause pain to any one, but we have thought it best to speak plainly. We believe that the actual fellows of Eton are entitled to our highest respect; which, of course, only makes our case stronger. It only shows the universality of the rule that men are sure to be injuriously influenced by being placed in unfortunate relations. Few men, suddenly transferred from a sphere of confined drudgery to 1,000l. a year, and nothing to do, would be likely to become useful members of society. Few men, who had grown old within a narrow circle of traditions, would avoid overestimating their value; and few men, with these and other disabling circumstances, would be likely to make good governors to a school like Eton, which, more than any other, ought to keep pace with the advance of the age. That a Royal Commission will be called for, sooner or later, to revise the Eton constitution, we do not doubt; we only hope that it may be sooner rather than later. When it is appointed, the first thing it will have to consider will be whether the fellowships are to exist at all in their present state; and if so, whether their value, their number, the work attached to them, and the share they confer in the government of the school, are to be left unaltered.
Of course, an obvious suggestion is, that some additional definite work should be given them; but it is hard to see how this is to be done. Even the function of preaching in chapel which they at present fulfil, seems hardly adapted for them. Dr. Arnold's view—now generally acted upon—was that the head master should be also the preacher; and this plan, if occasionally sermons from assistants are admitted, is surely the best. The difficult task of influencing boy-nature through sermons can only be well performed by those who are brought into daily contact with their hearers. And as to anything else, when Sir John Coleridge suggests that the fellows should conduct the half yearly examinations, and also improve the boys' minds by lecturing on
We have not yet spoken of the provost; and we have not indeed much to say about him. The most ruthless reformer could not have the heart to prevent the realisation of the charming picture, which Sir J. Coleridge draws of him; nor need the most conscientious one object to a single sinecure, of this kind, in the gift of the Crown, which might always be so well bestowed. One likes to think of some old diplomatist or statesman, world-worn and longing for retirement, here devoting himself to study, and to the infusion of a new and cheering element into the social life of Eton. There would always be many an old Etonian—perhaps one who, though earnest and talented, had not been thoroughly successful in the great struggle of the world—who would thankfully hail this opportunity of returning to dwell in the lovely and beloved spot, where he might quietly, and without effort, be of so much real service. It is interesting to be told that the saddened and humbled spirit of the fallen Bacon yearned after this office. Had King James granted his request, it would have derived fresh lustre, from the most signal instance on record of fame lost in the forum and won in the closet.
There is one more point deserving especial notice. It is the fact, observed with regret by several old Etonians, that the scholastic attainments of the oppidans, as compared with the collegers, have lately so markedly declined. To inquire into the causes of this, and to attempt its removal, would be among the first duties of any revising Commission.
The decline is to a great measure only comparative, being due to the improvement effected in the foundation by throwing it open to competitive examination; but it is also positive, we fear, to some extent. Sir J. Coleridge is disposed to attribute it vaguely to general neglect. But two definite causes can he assigned for it : first, the want of any incentive for the oppidans to work, while the collegers have their progress continually tested by successive examinations, up to the time of their leaving the school; secondly, the fact that the concentrating into one body, separate from the rest of the school, talent and application above the average, tends to injure these qualities among the rest, by forming a contrast between talent and application on the one hand, and wealth, rank, and idleness on the other; and this contrast itself, when once formed, tends perpetually to increase. With regard to the first of these causes, two remedies may be suggested : first, the foundation of exhibitions for the oppidans, to be held at school. These exhibitions must evidently be considered merely as honours and rewards of merit, and not at all as charities, or their effect will be neutralised. Next, the prizes for essays, poems, &C. may be made more operative as a stimulus to work, by giving them more publicity, and more éclat. A simple method of doing this would be to publish the successful compositions, as is done at the universities, and at some schools. The second cause seems to show that the reforms of the foundation, most commendable in themselves, have not produced unmingled good. It is hard to see how to remedy it thoroughly, except by doing away altogether with "college," as it now exists, i.e. by transforming it into a number of scholarships, perfectly open (so that the stigma, to which boys are peculiarly sensitive, of receiving charity, might be removed), and by destroying as much as possible the social separation that now exists between foundationers and non-foundationers. It will of course be said, that it would be wasting the funds of a charity thus to
On the night which our hero spent by the side of the river, with the results detailed in the last chapter, there was a great ball in Brook Street, Mayfair. It was the height of the season; and, of course, balls, concerts, and parties of all kinds were going on in all parts of the Great Babylon, but the entertainment in question was the event of that evening. Persons behind the scenes would have told you at once, had you happened to meet them, and enquire on the subject during the previous ten days, that Brook Street was the place in which everybody who went anywhere ought to spend some hours between eleven and three on this particular evening. If you did not happen to be going there, you had better stay quietly at your club, or elsewhere, and not speak of your engagements for that night.
A great awning had sprung up in the course of the day over the pavement in front of the door, and as
Then came the lighting up of the rooms, and the blaze of pure white light from the uncurtained ball-room windows spread into the street, and the musicians passed in with their instruments. Then, after a short pause, the carriages of a few intimate friends, who came early at the hostess's express desire, began to drive up, and the Hansom cabs of the contemporaries of the eldest son, from which issued guardsmen and Foreign-office men, and other dancing-youth of the most approved description. Then the crowd collected again round the door—a sadder crowd now to the eye of any one who has time to look at it; with sallow, haggard-looking men here and there on the skirts of it, and tawdry women joking and pushing to the front, through the powdered footmen, and linkmen in red waistcoats, already clamorous and redolent of gin and beer, and scarcely kept back by the half-dozen constables of the A division, told off for the special duty of attending and keeping order on so important an occasion.
Then comes a rush of carriages, and by eleven o'clock the line stretches away half round Grosvenor Square, and moves at a foot's-pace towards the lights, and the music, and the shouting street. In the middle of the line is the comfortable chariot of our friend, Mr. Porter—the corners occupied by himself and his wife, while Miss Mary sits well forward between them, her white muslin dress looped up with sprigs of heather spread delicately on either side over their knees, and herself in a pleasant tremor of impatience and excitement.
"How very slow Robert is to-day, mamma! we shall never get to the house."
"He cannot get on faster, my dear. The carriages in front of us must set down, you know."
"But I wish they would be quicker. I wonder whether we shall know many people? Do you think I shall get partners?"
Not waiting for her mother's reply, she went on to name some of her acquaintance, whom she knew would be there, and bewailing the hard fate which was keeping her out of the first dances. Mary's excitement and impatience were natural enough. The ball was not like most balls. It was a great battle in the midst of the skirmishes of the season, and she felt the greatness of the occasion.
Mr. and Mrs. Porter had for years past dropped into a quiet sort of dinner-giving life, in which they saw few but their own friends and contemporaries. They generally left London before the season was at its height, and had altogether fallen out of the ball-giving and party-going world. Mary's coming out had changed their way of life. For her sake they had spent the winter at Rome, and, now that they were at home again, were picking up the threads of old acquaintance, and encountering the disagreeables of a return into habits long disused and almost forgotten. The giver of the ball was a stirring man in political life, rich, clever, well connected, and much sought after. He was an old schoolfellow of Mr. Porter's, and their intimacy had never been wholly laid aside, notwithstanding the severance of their paths in life. Now that Mary must be taken out, the Brook Street house was one of the first to which the Porters turned, and the invitation to this ball was one of the first consequences.
If the truth must be told, neither her father or mother were in sympathy with Mary as they gradually neared the place of setting down, and would far rather have been going to a much less imposing place, where they could have driven up at once to the door, and would not have been made uncomfortable by the shoutings of their names from servant to
As they were returning towards Mrs. Porter, Norman was pulled by the sleeve more than once, and begged to be allowed to introduce first one and then another of his friends.
Mary gave herself up to the fascination of the scene. She had never been in rooms so perfectly lighted, with such a floor, such exquisite music, and so many pretty and well-bred looking people, and she gave herself up to enjoy it with all her heart and soul, and danced and laughed and talked herself into the good graces of partner after partner, till she began to attract the notice of some of the ill-natured people who are to be found in every room, and who cannot pardon the pure, and buoyant, and un-suspecting mirth which carries away all but themselves in its bright stream. So Mary passed on from one partner to another, with whom we have no concern, until at last a young lieutenant in the guards, who had just finished his second dance with her, led up a friend whom he begged to introduce. "Miss Porter—Mr. St. Cloud;" and then, after the usual preliminaries, Mary left her mother's side again and stood up by the side of her new partner.
"It is your first season I believe, Miss Porter?"
"Yes, my first in London."
"I thought so; and you have only just come to town?"
"We came back from Rome six weeks ago, and have been in town ever since."
"But I am sure I have not seen you anywhere this season until to-night. You have not been out much yet?"
"Yes, indeed; papa and mamma are very good natured, and go wherever we are asked to a ball, as I am fond of dancing."
"How very odd! and yet I am quite sure I should have remembered it if we had met before in town this year."
"Is it so very odd?" asked Mary, laughing : "London is a very large place. It seems very natural that two people should be able to live in it for a long time without meeting."
"Indeed, you are quite mistaken. You will find out very soon how small London is—at least, how small society is; and you will get to know every face quite well—I mean the face of every one in society."
"You must have a wonderful memory?"
"Yes, I have a good memory for faces, and, by the way, I am sure I have seen you before; but not in town, and I cannot remember where. But it is not at all necessary to have a memory to know everybody in society by sight; you meet every night almost; and altogether there are only two or three hundred faces to remember. And then there is something in the look of people, and the way they come into a room or stand about, which tells you at once whether they are amongst those whom you need trouble yourself about."
"Well, I cannot understand it. I seem to be in a whirl of faces, and can hardly ever remember any of them."
"You will soon get used to it. By the end of the season you will see that I am right. And you ought to make a study of it, or you will never feel at home in London."
"I must make good use of my time?
then. I suppose I ought to know everybody here, for instance?" "Almost everybody."
"And I really do not know the names of a dozen people."
"Will you let me give you a lesson?"
"Oh, yes; I shall be much obliged."
"Then let us stand here, and we will take them as they pass to the supper-room."
So they stood near the door-way of the ball-room, and he ran on, exchanging constant nods and remarks with the passers-by, as the stream flowed to and from the ices and cup, and then rattling on to his partner with the names and short sketches of the characters and peculiarities of his largo acquaintance. Mary was very much amused, and had no time to notice the ill nature of most of his remarks; and he had the wit to keep within what he considered the most innocent bounds.
"There, you know him of course," he said, as an elderly soldier-like looking man with a star, passed them.
"Yes; at least, I mean I know him by sight. I saw him at the Commemoration at Oxford last year. They gave him an honorary degree on his return from India."
"At Oxford! Were you at the Grand Commemoration then?"
"Yes. the Commemoration Ball was the first public ball I was ever at."
"Ah! that explains it all. I must have seen you there. I told you we had met before. I was perfectly sure of it."
"What! were you there, then?"
"Yes. I had the honour of being present at your first ball, you see."
"But how curious that you should remember me!"
"Do you really think so? Surely there are some faces which, once seen, one can never forget."
"I am so glad that you know dear Oxford."
"I know it too well, perhaps, to share your enthusiasm."
"How do you mean?"
"I spent nearly three years there."
"What, were you at Oxford last year?"
"Yes; I left before Commemoration : but I went up for the gaieties, and I am glad of it, as I shall have one pleasant memory of the place now."
"Oh, I wonder you don't love it! But what college were you of?"
"Why, you talk like a graduate. I was of St. Ambrose."
"St. Ambrose ! That is my college!"
"Indeed! I wish we had been in residence at the same time."
"I mean that we almost lived there at the Commemoration."
"Have you any relation there, then?"
"No, not a relation, only a distant connexion."
"May I ask his name?"
"Brown. Did you know him?"
"Yes. We were not in the same set. He was a boating man, I think?"
She felt that he was watching her narrowly now, and had great difficulty in keeping herself reasonably composed. As it was she could not help showing a little that she felt embarrassed, and looked down; and changed colourslightly, busying herself with her bouquet. She longed to continue the conversation, but somehow the manner of her partner kept her from doing so. She resolved to recur to the subject carelessly, if they met again, when she knew him better. The fact of his having been at St. Ambrose made her wish to know him better, and gave him a good start in her favour. But for the moment she felt that she must change the subject; so, looking up, she fixed on the first people who happened to be passing, and asked who they were.
"Oh, nobody. Constituents, probably, or something of that sort."
"I don't understand."
"Why, you see, we are in a political house to-night. So you may set down the people whom nobody knows, as troublesome ten-pounders, or that kind of thing, who would be disagreeable at the next election, if they were not asked."
"Then you do not include them in society?"
"By no manner of means."?
"And I need not take the trouble to remember their faces ?"
"Of course not. There is a sediment of rubbish at almost every house. At the parties here it is political rubbish. To-morrow night, at Lady Aubrey's—you will be there, I hope?"
"
No, I think not""I am sorry for that. Well, there we shall have the scientific rubbish; and at other houses you see queer artists, and writing people. In fact, it is the rarest thing in the world to get a party where there is nothing of the kind, and, after all, it is rather amusing to watch the habits of the different species."
"Well, to me the rubbish, as you call it, seems much like the rest. I am sure those people were ladies and gentlemen."
"Very likely," he said, lifting his eyebrows; "but you may see at a glance that they have not the air of society. Here again, look yourself. You can see that these are constituents."
To the horror of St. Cloud, the advancing constituents made straight for his partner.
"Mary my dear!" exclaimed the lady, "where have you been? We have lost you ever since the last dance."
"I have been standing here, mamma," she said; and then, slipping from her late partner's arm, she made a demure little bow, and massed into the ball-room with her father and mother.
St. Cloud bit his lip, and swore at himself, under his breath, as he looked after then "What an infernal idiot I must have been not to know that her people would be sure to turn out some-thing of "Well, St. Cloud, I hope you're alive to your obligations to mo." "For shunting your late partner on to me? Yes, quite."
"You be hanged!" replied the guards-man; "you may pretend what you please now, but you wouldn't let me alone till I had introduced you."
"Are you talking about the girl in white muslin with fern leaves in her hair?" asked another.
"Yes; what do you think of her?"
"Devilish taking, I think. I say, can't you introduce me? They say she has tin."
"I can't say I think much of her looks," said St. Cloud, acting up to his principle of telling a lie sooner than let his real thoughts be seen.
"Don't you?" said the guardsman. "Well, I like her form better than any-thing out this year. Such a clean stepper! You should just dance with her."
And so they went on, criticizing Mary and others of their partners, exactly as they would have a stud of racers, till they found themselves sufficiently refreshed to encounter new labours, and broke up, returning in twos and threes towards the ball-room.
St. Cloud attached himself to the guardsman, and returned to the charge.
"You seem hit by that girl," he began. "Have you known her long?"
"About a week—I met her once before to-night."
"Do you know her people? Who is her father?"
"A plain-headed old party—you wouldn't think it to look at her—but I hear he is very solvent."
"Any sons?"
"Don't know. I like your talking of my being hit, St. Cloud. There she is; I shall go and try for another waltz."
The guardsman was successful, and carried off Mary from her father and mother, who were standing together watching the dancing. St. Cloud, after looking them well over, sought out the hostess, and begged to be introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Porter, gleaning, at the
St. Cloud made the most of his time. He exerted himself to the utmost to please, and, being fluent of speech, and thoroughly satisfied with himself, had no shyness or awkwardness to get over, and jumped at once into the good graces of Mary's parents. When she returned after the waltz, she found him, to her no small astonishment, deep in conversation with her mother, who was listening with a pleased expression to his small talk. He pretended not to see her at first, and then begged Mrs. Porter to introduce him formally to her daughter, though he had already had the honour of dancing with her.
Mary put on her shortest and coldest manner, and thought she had never heard of such impertinence. That he should be there talking so familiarly to her mother after the slip he had made to her was almost too much even for her temper. But she went off for another dance, and again returned and found him still there; this time entertaining Mr. Porter with political gossip. The unfavourable impression began to wear off, and she soon resolved not to make up her mind about him without some further knowledge.
In due course he asked her to dance again, and they stood up in a quadrille. She stood by him looking straight before her, and perfectly silent, wondering how he would open the conversation. He did not leave her long in suspense.
"What charming people your father and mother are, Miss Porter!" he said; "I am so glad to have been introduced to them."
"Indeed! You are very kind. We ought to be flattered by your study of us, and I am sure I hope you will find it amusing."
St. Cloud was a little embarrassed by the rejoinder, and was not sorry at the moment to find himself called upon to perform the second figure. By the time he was at her side again he had recovered himself.
"You can't understand what a pleasure it is to meet some one with a little freshness"—he paused to think how he should end his sentence.
"Who has not the air of society," she suggested. "Yes, I quite understand."
"Indeed, you quite mistake me. Surely, you have not taken seriously the nonsense I was talking just now?"
"I am a constituent, you know—I don't understand how to take the talk of society."
"Oh, I see, then, that you are angry at my joke, and will not believe that I knew your father perfectly by sight. You really cannot seriously fancy that I was alluding to any one connected with you;" and then he proceeded to retail the particulars he had picked up from the lady of the house, as if they had been familiar to him for years, and to launch out again into praises of her father and mother. Mary looked straight up in his face, and, though he did not meet her eye, his manner was so composed, that she began to doubt her own senses, and then he suddenly changed the subject to Oxford and the Commemoration, and by the end of the set could flatter himself that he had quite dispelled the cloud which had looked so threatening.
Mary had a great success that evening. She danced every dance, and might have had two or three partners at once, if they would have been of any use to her. When, at last, Mr. Porter insisted that he would keep his horses no longer, St. Cloud and the guardsman accompanied her to the door, and were assiduous in the cloak-room. Young men are pretty much like a drove of sheep; any one who takes a decided line on certain matters, is sure to lead all the rest The guardsman left the ball in the firm belief, as he himself expressed it, that Mary "had done his business for life;" and, being quite above concealment, persisted in singing her praises over his
The test was a severe one. Two months of constant excitement, of pleasure-seeking pure and simple, will not leave people just as they found them; and Mary's habits, and thoughts, and ways of looking at and judging of people and things, wore much changed by the time that the gay world melted away from Mayfair and Belgravia, and it was time for all respectable people to pull down the blinds and shut the shutters of their town houses.
The last knot of the dancers came out of the club, and were strolling up St. James's Street, and stopping to chaff the itinerant toffee vendor, who was preparing his stand at the corner of Piccadilly for his early customers, just about the time that Tom was beginning to rouse himself under the alder tree, and stretch his stiffened limbs, and sniff the morning air. By the time the guardsman had let himself into his lodgings in Mount Street, our hero had undergone his unlooked-for bath, and was sitting in a state of utter bewilderment as to what was next to be said or done, dripping and disconcerted, opposite to the equally dripping, and, to all appearance, equally disconcerted, poacher.
At first he did not look higher than his antagonist's boots and gaiters, and spent a few seconds by the way in considering whether the arrangement of nails on the bottom of Harry's boots was better than his own. He settled that it must be better for wading on slippery stones, and that He would adopt it, and then passed on to wonder whether Harry's boots were as full of water as his own, and whether corduroys, wet through, must not be very uncomfortable so early in the morning, and congratulated himself on being in flannels.
And so he hung back for second after second, playing with any absurd little thought that would come into his head and give him ever so brief a respite from the effort of facing the situation, and hoping that Harry might do or say something to open the ball. This did not happen. He felt that the longer he waited the harder it would be. He must begin himself. So he raised his head gently, and took a sidelong look at Harry's face, to see whether he could not get some hint for starting, from it. But scarcely had he brought his eyes to bear, when they met Harry's, peering dolefully up from under his eyebrows, on which the water was standing un-wiped, while a piece of green weed, which he did not seem to have presence of mind enough to remove, trailed over his dripping locks. There was something in the sight which tickled Tom's sense of humour. He had been prepared for sullen black looks and fierce words; instead of which he was irresistibly reminded of schoolboys caught by their master using a crib, or in other like flagrant delict.
Harry lowered his eyes at once, but lifted them the next moment with a look of surprise, as he heard Tom burst into a hearty fit of laughter. After a short struggle to keep serious, he joined in it himself.
"By Jove, though, Harry, it's no laughing matter," Tom said at last, get-
Harry only replied by looking most doleful again, and picking the weed out of his hair, as he, too, got up.
"What in the world's to be done?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Master Tom."
"I'm very much surprised to find you at this work, Harry."
"I'm sure, so be I, to find you, Master Tom."
Tom was not prepared for this line of rejoinder. It seemed to be made with perfect innocence, and yet it put him in a corner at once. He did not care to inquire into the reason of Harry's surprise, or to what work he alluded; so he went off on another tack.
"Let us walk up and down a bit to dry ourselves. Now, Harry, you'll speak to me openly, man to man, as an old friend should—won't you?"
"Ay, Master Tom, and glad to do it"
"How long have you taken to poaching?"
"Since last Michaelmas, when they turned me out o' our cottage, and tuk away my bit o' land, and did all as they could to break me down."
"Who do you mean?"
"Why, Squire Wurley as was then—not this one, but the last—and his lawyer, and Farmer Tester."
"Then it was through spite to them that you took to it?"
"Nay, 'twarn't altogether spite, the' I won't say but what I might ha' thought o' bein' upsides wi' them."
"What was it then besides spite?"
"Want o' work. I haven't had no more 'n a matter o' six weeks' reg'lar work ever since last fall."
"How's that? Have you tried for it?"
"Well, Master Tom, I won't tell a lie about it. I don't see as I wur bound to go round wi' my cap in my hand a beggin' for a day's work to the likes o' them. They knowed well enough as I wur there, ready and willing to work, and they knowed as I wur able to do as good a day's work as e'er a man in the parish; and ther's been plenty o' work goin', but they thought as I should starve, and have to come and beg for't from one or to'ther on 'em. They would ha' liked to ha' seen me clean broke down, that's wut they would, and in the house," and he paused as if his thoughts were getting a little unmanageable.
"But you might have gone to look for work elsewhere."
"I can't see as I had any call to leave the place where I wur bred up, Master Tom. That wur just wut they wanted. Why should I let 'em drive m'out?"
"Well, Harry, I'm not going to blame you. I only want to know more about what has been happening to you, that I may be able to advise and help you. Did you ever try for work, or go and tell your story, at the rectory?"
"Try for work there! No, I never went arter work there."
Tom went on without noticing the change in Harry's tone and manner—
"Then I think you ought to have gone. I know my cousin, Miss Winter, is so anxious to help any man out of work, and particularly you; for—" The whole story of Patty flashed into his mind, and made him stop short, and stammer, and look anywhere except at Harry. How he could have forgotten it for a moment in that company was the wonder. All his questioning and patronizing powers went out of him, and he felt that their positions were changed, and that he was the culprit. It was clear that Harry knew nothing yet of his own relations with Patty. Did he even suspect them? It must all come out now at any rate, for both their sakes, however it might end. So he turned again, and met Harry's eye, which was now cold and keen, and suspicious.
"You knows all about it, then?"
"Yes; I know that you have been attached to Simon's daughter for a long time, and that he is against it. I wish I could help you with all my heart. In fact, I did feel my way towards speaking to him about it last year, when I was in hopes of getting you the gardener's place there. But I could see that I should do no good."
"I've heard say as you was acquainted with her, when she was away?"
"Yes, I was, when she was with her aunt in Oxford. What then?"
"'Twas there as she larnt her bad ways."
"Bad ways! What do you mean?"
"I means as she larnt to dress fine, and to gee herself airs to them as she'd known from a child, and as'd ha' gone through fire to please her."
"I never saw anything of the kind in her. She was a pleasant, lively girl, and dressed neatly, but never above her station. And I'm sure she has too good a heart to hurt an old friend."
"Wut made her keep shut up in the house when she cum back? ah, for weeks and weeks;—and arter that, wut made her so flighty and fickle? carryin' of herself as proud as a lady, a mincin' and a trapesin' along, wi' all the young farmers a follerin' her, like a fine gentleman's miss."
"Come, Harry, I won't listen to that. You don't believe what you're saying, you know her better."
"You knows her well enough by all seeming."
"I know her too well to believe any harm of her."
"What call have you and the likes o' you wi' her? 'Tis no good comes o' such company keepin'."
"I tell you again, no harm has come of it to her."
"Whose hair does she carry about then in that gold thing as she hangs round her neck?"
Tom blushed scarlet, and lowered his eyes without answering.
"Dost know? 'Tis thine, by—" The words came hissing out between his set teeth. Tom put his hands behind him, expecting to be struck, as he lifted his eyes, and said,—
"Yes, it is mine; and, I tell you again, no harm has come of it." "'Tis a lie. I knowed how 'twas, and 'tis thou last done it."
Tom's blood tingled in his veins, and wild works rushed to his tongue, as he stood opposite the man who had just given him the lie, and who waited his reply with clenched hands, and labouring breast, and fierce eye. But the discipline of the last year stood him in good stead. He stood for a moment or two crushing his hands together behind his back, drew a long breath, and answered,—
"Will you believe my oath then? I stood by your side at your mother's grave. A man who did that won't lie to you, Harry. I swear to you there's no wrong between me and her. There never was fault on her side. I sought her. She never cared for me, she doesn't care for me. As for that locket, I forced it on her. I own I have wronged her, and wronged you. I have repented it bitterly. I ask your forgiveness, Harry; for the sake of old times, for the sake of your mother!" He spoke from the heart, and saw that his words went home. "Come, Harry," he went on," you won't turn from an old playfellow, who owns the wrong he has done, and will do all he can to make up for it. You'll shake hands, and say you forgive me."
Tom paused, and held out his hand.
The poacher's face worked violently for a moment or two, and he seemed to struggle once or twice to get his hand out in vain. At last he struck it suddenly into Tom's, turning his head away at the same time. "'Tis what mother would ha' done," he said, "thou cassn't say more. There 'tis then, though I never thought to do't."
The curious and unexpected explanation brought thus to a happy issue, put Tom into high spirits, and at once roused the castle-building power within him which was always ready enough to wake up.
His first care was to persuade Harry that he had better give up poaching, and in this he had much less difficulty than he expected. Harry owned himself sick of the life he was leading already. He admitted that some of the men with whom he had been associating more or less for the last year were the greatest blackguards in the neighbourhood. He asked nothing better than to get cut of it. But how?
This was all Tom wanted. He would see to that; nothing could be easier.
"I shall go with you back to Englebourn this morning. I'll just leave a note for Wurley to say that I'll be back some time in the day to explain matters to him, and then we will be off at once. We shall be at the rectory by breakfast time. Ah, I forgot;—well, you can stop at David's while I go and speak to my uncle and to Miss Winter."
Harry didn't seem to see what would be the good of this; and David, he said, was not so friendly to him as he had been.
"Then you must wait at the Bed Lion. Don't see the good of it! Why, of course, the good of it is that you must be set right with the Englebourn people—that's the first thing to do. I shall explain how the case stands to my uncle, and I know I can get him to let you have your land again if you stay in the parish, even if he can't give you work himself. But what he must do is, to take you up, to show people that he is your friend, Harry. Well then, if you can get good work—mind it must be real, good, regular work—at farmer Grove's, or one of the best farmers, stop here by all means, and I will take myself the first cottage which falls vacant and let you have it, and meantime you must lodge with old David. Oh, I'll go and talk him round, never fear. But if you can't get regular work here, why you go off with flying colours; no sneaking off under a cloud and leaving no address. You'll go off with me, as my servant, if you like. But just as you please about that. At any rate, you'll go with me, and I'll take care that it shall be known that I consider you as an old friend. My father has always got plenty of work and will take you on. And then, Harry, after a bit you may be sure all will go right, and I shall be your best man, and dance at your wedding before a year's out."
There is something in this kind of thing which is contagious and irresistible. Tom thoroughly believed all that he was saying; and faith, even of such a poor kind as believing in one's own castles, has its reward. Common sense in vain suggested to Harry that all the clouds which had been gathering round him for a year were not likely to melt away in a morning. Prudence suggested that the sooner he got away the better; which suggestion, indeed, he handed on for what it was worth. But Tom treated prudence with sublime contempt. They would go together, he said, as soon as any one was up at the house, just to let him in to change his things and write a note. Harry needn't fear any unpleasant consequences. Wurley wasn't an ill-natured fellow at bottom, and wouldn't mind a few fish. Talking of fish, where was the one he had heard kicking just now as Harry hauled in the line. They went to the place, and, looking in the long grass, soon found the dead trout, still on the night line, of which the other end remained in the water. Tom seized hold of it, and, pulling it carefully in, landed another tine trout, while Harry stood by, looking rather sheepish. Tom inspected the method of the lines, which was simple but awfully destructive. The line was long enough to reach across the stream. At one end was a heavy stone, at the other a short stake cut sharp, and driven into the bank well under the water. At intervals of four feet along the line short pieces of fine gimp were fastened, ending in hooks baited alternately with lobworms and gudgeon. Tom complimented his companion on the killing nature of his cross-line.
"Where are your other lines, Harry?" he asked; "we may as well go and take them up."
"A bit higher up stream, Master Tom;" and so they walked up stream and took up the other lines.
"They'll have the finest dish of fish they've seen this long time at the house to-day," said Tom, as each line came out with two or three fine thick-shouldered fish on it; "I'll tell you what, Harry, they're deuced well set, these lines of yours, and do you credit. They do; I'm not complimenting you."
"I should rather like to be off, Master Tom, if you don't object. The mornin's
"Well, Harry, if you're so set on it off with you, but"——
"'Tis too late now; here's keper."
Tom turned sharp round, and, sure enough, there was the keeper coming down the bank towards them, and not a couple of hundred yards off.
"So it is," said Tom; "well, only hold your tongue, and do just what I tell you."
The keeper came up quickly, and, touching his hat to Tom, looked enquiringly at him, and then at Harry. Tom nodded to him, as if everything were just as it should be. He was taking a two-pound fish off the last line; having finished which feat, he threw it on the ground by the rest. "There, keeper," he said, "there's a fine dish of fish. Now, pick 'em up and come along."
Never was keeper more puzzled. He looked from one to the other, lifting the little short hat from the back of his head, and scratching that somewhat thick skull of his, as his habit was when engaged in what he called thinking, conscious that somebody ought to be tackled, and that he, the keeper, was being mystified, but quite at sea as to how he was to set himself straight.
"Wet, bain't 'ee, sir?" he said at last, nodding at Tom's clothes.
"Dampish, keeper," answered Tom; "I may as well go and change, the servants will be up at the house by this time. Pick up the fish and come along. You do up the lines, Harry."
The keeper and Harry performed their tasks, looking at one another out of the corners of their eyes, like the terriers of rival butchers when the carts happen to stop suddenly in the street close to one another. Tom watched them, mischievously delighted with the fun, and then led the way up to the house. When they came to the stable-yard he turned to Harry, and said, "Stop here; I shan't be ten minutes;" adding, in an under tone, "Hold your tongue now;" and then vanished through the back door, and, hurrying up to his room, changed as quickly as he could.
He was within the ton minutes, but, as he descended the back stairs in his dry things, became aware that his stay had been too long. Noise and laughter came up from the stable-yard, and shouts of "Go it keper," "Keper's down," "No, he bain't," greeted his astonished cars. He sprang down the last steps and rushed into the stable-yard, where he found Harry at his second wrestling match for the day, while two or three stablemen, and a footman, and the gardener, looked on and cheered the combatants with the remarks he had heard on his way down.
Tom made straight to them, and, tapping Harry on the shoulder, said—
"Now then, come along, I'm ready."
Whereupon the keeper and Harry disengaged, and the latter picked up his cap.
"You bain't goin', sir?" said the keeper.
"Yes, keeper."
"Not along wi' he?"
"Yes, keeper."
"What, bain't I to take un?"
"Take him! No, what for?"
"For night poachin', look at all them fish," said the keeper indignantly, pointing to the shining heap.
"No, no, keeper, you've nothing to do with it. You may give him the lines though, Harry. I've left a note for your master on my dressing-table," Tom said, turning to the footman, "let him have it at breakfast. I'm responsible for him," nodding at Harry. "I shall be back in a few hours, and now come along."
And, to the keeper's astonishment, Tom left the stable-yard, accompanied by Harry.
They were scarcely out of hearing before the stable-yard broke out into uproarious laughter at the keeper's expense, and much rude banter was inflicted on him for letting the poacher go. But the keeper's mind for the moment was full of other things. Disregarding their remarks, he went on scratching his head, and burst out at last with,
"Dang un; I knows I should ha' drowed un."
"Drow your grandmother," politely remarked one of the stablemen, an acquaintance of Harry Winburn, who knew his repute as a wrestler.
"I should, I tell 'ee," said the keeper as he stooped to gather up the fish, "and to think as he should ha' gone off. Master '11 be like any wild beast when he hears on't. Hows' mever, 'tis Mr. Brown's doin's. 'Tis a queer start for a gen'l'man like he to be goin' off wi' a poacher chap, and callin' of un Harry. 'Tis past me altogether. But I s'pose he bain't right in's'ead;" and, so soliloquizing, he carried off the fish to the kitchen.
Meantime, on their walk to Englebourn, Harry, in answer to Tom's inquiries, explained that in his absence the stable-man, his acquaintance, had come up and begun to talk. The keeper had joined in and accused him point blank of being the man who had thrown him into the furze bush. The story of the keeper's discomfiture on that occasion being well known, a laugh had been raised in which Harry had joined. This brought on a challenge to try a fall then and there, which Harry had accepted, notwithstanding his long morning's work and the ducking he had had. They laughed over the story, though Harry could not help expressing his fears as to how it might all end. They reached Englebourn in time for breakfast. Tom appeared at the rectory, and soon he and Katie were on their old terms. She was delighted to find that he had had an explanation with Harry Winburn, and that there was some chance of bringing that sturdy offender once more back into decent ways;—more delighted perhaps to hear the way in which he spoke of Patty, to whom after breakfast she paid a visit, and returned in duo time with the unfortunate locket.
Tom felt as if another coil of the chain he had tied about himself had fallen off. He went out into the village, consulted again with Harry, and returned to the rectory to consider what steps were to be taken to get him work. Katie entered into the matter heartily, though foreseeing the difficulties of the case. At luncheon the rector was to be sounded on the subject of the allotments. But in the middle of their plans they were startled by the news that a magistrate's warrant had arrived in the village for the arrest of Harry as a night poacher.
Tom returned to the Grange furious, and before night had had a worse quarrel with young Wurley than with his uncle before him. Had duelling been in fashion still in England they would probably have fought in a quiet corner of the park before night. As it was they only said bitter things, and parted, agreeing not to know one another in future.
Three days afterwards, at petty sessions, where Tom brought upon himself the severe censure of the bench for his conduct on the trial, Harry Winburn was committed to Reading gaol for three months.
Readers who will take the trouble to remember the picture of our hero's mental growth during the past year, attempted to be given in a late chapter, and the state of restless dissatisfaction into which his experiences and thoughts and readings had thrown him by the time long vacation had come round again, will perhaps be prepared for the catastrophe which ensued on the conviction and sentence of Harry Winburn at petty sessions.
Hitherto, notwithstanding the strength of the new and revolutionary forces which were mustering round it, there had always been a citadel holding out in his mind, garrisoned by all that was best in the toryism in which he had been brought up—by loyalty, reverence for established order and established institutions; by family traditions, and the pride of an inherited good name. But now the walls of that citadel went down with a crash, the garrison being put to the sword, or making a way to hide in out of the way corners, and wait for a reaction.
It was much easier for a youngster, whose attention was once turned to such subjects as had been occupying Tom, to get hold of wild and violent beliefs and
You generation of young Englishmen, who were too young then to be troubled with such matters, and, have grown into manhood since, you little know—may you never know!—what it is to be living the citizens of a divided and distracted nation. For the time that danger is past. In a happy hour, and so far as man can judge, in time, and only just in time, came the repeal of the corn laws, and the great cause of strife and the sense of injustice passed away out of men's minds. The nation was roused by the Irish famine, and the fearful distress in other parts of the country, to begin looking steadily and seriously at some of the sores which were festering in its body, and undermining health and life. And so the tide had turned, and England had already passed the critical point, when
Is any one still inclined to make light of 'the danger that threatened England in that year, to sneer at the 10th of April, and the monster petition, and the monster meetings on Kennington and other commons? Well, if there be such persons amongst my readers, I can only say that they can have known nothing of what was going on around them and below them, at that time, and I earnestly hope that their vision has become clearer since then, and that they are not looking with the same eyes that see nothing, at the signs of to-day. For that there are questions still to be solved by us in England, in this current half-century, quite as likely to tear the nation in pieces as the corn laws, no man with half an eve in his head can
But such matters need not be spoken of here. All I want to do is to put my younger readers in a position to understand how it was that our hero fell away into beliefs and notions, at which Mrs. Grundy and all decent people could only lift up eyes and hands in pious and respectable horror, and became, soon after the incarceration of his friend for night poaching, little better than a physical force Chartist at the age of twenty-one. In which unhappy condition we shall now have to take a look or two at him in future numbers.
To be continued.
Trade Societies and Strikes. Report of the Committee on Trade Societies, appointed by the National Association for the Promotion of Social Science, presented to the Fourth Annual Meeting of the Association, at Glasgow,
Part First.
I suppose there is no subject on which it is so easy to find equally sincere and able men holding diametrically opposite opinions,—none on which it is so easy for the same men sincerely to pass from one extreme of opinion to the other,—as that of trade societies. No doubt opinion runs on such a subject in great measure according to class, and varies according to position. The workman is in favour of trade societies, the employer is adverse to them; the strong trades-unionist who merges into the rank of an employer—witness Lovejoy the bookbinder in Mr. Dunning's interesting account of the Bookbinder's Trade Society (Report, p. 83.)—often becomes in turn the strongest of anti-unionists; and probably, if the passage from the position of employer to that of journeyman were not as rare as the inverse transformation is frequent, the anti-unionist employer of to-day would, if reduced to weekly wages, deem many an argument on behalf of trade societies weighty which he now holds worthless. But class interests are far from accounting for the diversity of opinion which exists. There are employers who deem trade societies beneficial; there are working men who combat them with all their might.
The fact is, I take it, that trade societies will be found, at some one place or time or the other, to have justified almost every most opposite opinion which has been held respecting them. They have been schools of assassination; they have been schools of morality. They have promoted drunkenness; they have vigorously checked it. They have encouraged laziness and bad work; they have strenuously battled for solidity and honest workmanship. They have been composed of the dregs of the trade; they have gathered together the pick of it. They have been led by selfish and designing spouters; they have had for leaders the most virtuous men of the class. They have thwarted the most benevolent employers; they have been their best of friends, their main support against the unprincipled. They have promoted and organized strikes; they have kept the trade free from them during the life-time of a generation.
And who, that knows what the working classes of this country are to the present day—how various in intelligence, education, morality, manliness, from trade to trade, from district to district, from town to town,—ay, from one end of a large town to the other—will wonder
To form an opinion, therefore, as to the tendencies of trade societies in general, it is absolutely necessary to discard those accidentals which belong, not to the instrument, but to the material out of which it has to be wrought; just as it is absolutely necessary, judging of the value of any particular trade society, to bear those accidentals in mind. Now the mischief is, that the very reverse process is generally followed. Trade societies in general are condemned, because some "Edinburgh Reviewer" has brought together half a dozen raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories against a few particular sets of trades-unionists; an unjust and injudicious strike by a trade society is supported by workmen of other trades, because they know their own society to be moderate and beneficial. For myself, I confess, so thick are the clouds of prejudice, arising from their own narrow experience, which I find generally to dim the sight of so-called practical men especially, that I mostly remain quite satisfied when a man comes simply to the negative conclusion, that "there is a great deal to be said on both sides," especially if coupled with a firm determination never again to take on trust any rhetoric of Times' or other "able editors" on the subject of any strike or society, but carefully to examine the facts for himself.
It is not, indeed, for want of inquiry that such ignorance continues to prevail. Parliamentary committees on trade combinations have sat and reported in minimums of disagreement;—rather by the mass of materials which the Committee has brought together, in somewhat handier shape, and in something more of order, than a Blue-book would probably have afforded. No doubt that mass of materials exhibits all the discordance of which I have spoken,—proving thereby, indeed, its value as a mirror of the facts;—no doubt prejudice and bad faith will be able to use it as an arsenal for the support of the most opposite views. But, for the thoughtful and candid, the very juxta-position of so many jarring elements will induce the effort to reduce them to unity,—like a
Looking, therefore, from a higher point of view, the first question that offers itself is this:—Is it requisite, is it advantageous that the operative classes should thus seek to realize for themselves a distinct corporate or quasi-corporate class existence? Prom the point of view of the old guild system, the answer must decidedly be a negative one. The principle of that system is, that the distinction between master and journeyman should be simply one of degree. We have so long outgrown that system, that we use the one remnant of it which still lives in our language—the word "masterpiece"—without, for the most part, a thought of its real meaning, and of the vastly different sphere of commercial ideas and practices from those of the present day to which it bears witness; so that, indeed, for most of us, it is only by way of Germany, whore that system, though effete, still lingers, that we realize the meaning of the term. But at a time when the difference between master and workman was not that the one had capital and the other only labour, but that the one had a skill and experience which the other had not yet attained to, and of which the last tangible demonstration was required to be some work of peculiar excellence in the common calling, there were properly speaking no classes of masters and workmen; and a society embodying the class interests of either would have been simply out of place. The class was the trade—tailors, coopers, weavers, or the like; in the guild which embodied it, the master-tailors, master-coopers, master-weavers, had the natural pre-eminence of skill and seniority; if they were privileged to employ others, it was simply by virtue of that pre-eminence, and of the acknowledged right which it gave them to direct and instruct the less able and less experienced.
But such a state of things can never last long in its efficiency. It has for sure dissolvent the accumulation of capital, which the progress of society at once calls into being and renders necessary, and of which the inevitable result is to change the conditions of mastership, and to transfer the privilege of employing others in a given labour from the skilled man to the moneyed one. From the moment that, to establish a given business, more capital is required than a journeyman can easily accumulate within a few years, guild-mastership—the mastership of the masterpiece—becomes little more than a name. The attempt to keep up the strictness of its conditions becomes only an additional weight on the poorer members of the trade; skill alone is valueless, and is soon compelled to hire itself out to capital. The revolution is now complete; the capitalist is the true master, whether he calls himself such or not; the labourer, skilled or unskilled, be he called master or journeyman, is but the servant of the former. Now begins the opposition of interest between employers and employed; now the latter begin to group themselves together; now rises the trade society.
From Mr. F. D. Longe's sketch of the "History of Legislation in England relating to Combinations of Workmen," reprinted in the volume I have referred to, it will be seen that the beginning of this great social revolution may be traced back somewhat over five centuries, and that as early as the reign of Edward III. our building operatives were at work combining to raise wages. Mr. Longe quotes the 34th Edward III. c. 9, to show us the legislature forbidding "all alliances and covines of masons and "carpenters, and congregations, chapters, "ordinances, and oaths betwixt them." The statute is remarkable as showing the co-existence of the two masterships, that of skill and of capital; thus, the "chief masters of carpenters and masons" are to receive fourpence a day, and the others threepence or twopence according as they be worth; but every mason and carpenter, "of whatever condition he be," is to be compelled by "his master whom he serves" to do every work that pertains to him,—where, as it seems to me, the guild-masters are designated by the former expression, and the capitalist-
But there is another important conclusion to be drawn from the statute which I have just referred to, as confirming what reflection would naturally suggest as the historical development of the subject Evidently, from the moment that the element of capitalist-mastership came in, it was one which not only claimed supremacy over that of skill-mastership, but which tended to reduce the whole idea and system of the guild to a lower level, and to confine, it to the operative class, so that the guild would necessarily merge in the trade society. And this is precisely what the statute exhibits to us. The statute is directed against the requiring of weekly wages, and of too high an amount; it enacts that they shall be paid by the day, and fixes the rate of them; and for this purpose it endeavours to break up the machinery of the wages-receiving class for insisting on other conditions. Now the attempt, on the part of the wages-receivers, to fix the conditions of labour and the amount of its remuneration, is precisely the work of a modern trade society. But when we notice that the wages of master-masons and carpenters are sought to be fixed,—when we pay attention to the "congregations, chapters, ordinances, and oaths" which are forbidden, it is impossible, I think, to mistake the fact, that we have before us precisely such an instance as I have sketched out, of guilds sinking to a, lower level; forced, after embodying the collecive interests of the whole trade, to
Much light is, I think, thrown upon the subject, when we thus see that the trade society of our days is but the lopsided representative of the old guild, its dwarfed but lawful heir. The historical pertinacity of its struggle against statutory prohibition,—its assumptions of authority,—are thus in great measure explained. It has fought the law on the ground of a prior title; it has dictated to the masters in the name of the shadow of a past corporation. No doubt, when it had once assumed its present character, organizations for the same purpose would spring up, entirely destitute of any historical filiation. But whoever reflects on many common terms of the workman's language,—the word "trade," as signifying the collective operative portion of the trade, the word "tradesman," as synonymous with the workman in a trade,—will see in them additional evidences of the connexion between the old guild and the modern trade society. In some cases, indeed, there is historical proof of the identity between the two; as will be seen in Mr. F. H. Hill's very valuable "Account of Trade Combinations at Sheffield," in which the filiation of the modern trade societies of that town from the "Fellowship of Cutlers in Hallam-shire" in the reign of Queen Elizabeth is clearly shown.
Of course the claim of the wages-receivers, when, through the introduction of capitalist-mastership, they represented only a portion of the trade, to act in the name and with the authority of the old guild, when it embodied the whole, was one perfectly untenable. If working-men's combinations were to stand, they must stand upon some other ground than that of representing a paramount collective authority. But the scission of interests between the capitalist-employer and his workmen at once afforded such a ground. Putting the subject of wages for the present entirely out of the question, it is evident that the whole burthen of the charitable purposes flowing out of the guild system must henceforth fall mainly, if not exclusively, on the wages-receivers. The capitalist-employer, even if nominally still a member
Be this as it may, it will easily be seen how, apart from those trade societies which are directly descended from the old guilds or fellowships, another class must have arisen from the need of providing amongst working-men for those purposes which were formerly embraced in those of the guild, which are now mostly reached by the machinery of the Friendly Societies' Acts. Accordingly, the Committee's volume affords several instances of trade societies which began by being benefit societies. In discussing the question of the advantage of a connexion between benefit societies and trade societies, the Committee appear to me to have overlooked this fact, which is nevertheless not without importance. Friendly societies having been only endowed with legal existence in the latter half of the last century, it is obvious that during 400 out of the 500 years during which the trade societies' struggle has lasted, it was only by means of a trade society organization that the workers in a given trade—other than such as might here and there have retained some old legal corporate privileges—could compass the purposes of a benefit society. The connexion between the two is, therefore, historically not an external accident; it flows, on the contrary, primarily from the mere effort to band the workers together for purposes of common benefit. The accident, on the contrary, has been the enactment of the Friendly Societies' Acts, which, by affording peculiar facilities for securing certain benefits by combination, has disconnected those purposes from the others, and raised the question of disconnecting also the machineries for attaining them.
Of the extent to which trade societies, so called, which are also benefit societies, dispense relief for what are strictly benefit society purposes, few who have not examined into the fact can have any idea. I take up the volume of the yearly reports of the Amalgamated Society of Engineers, and I find that it spent in l., making 11s. 3d. per member; in l., making 10s. 7d. per member; in l., making 11s. 6½d; in l., making 11s. 11½d.; in l., making 13s. 5½d.; in all, for the five years, upwards of 37,000l., which one must hold to have been directly saved to the public in the shape of poor-law relief or charity, by the providence of these much-abused agitators.
But there is one mischance to which the worker is subject, more dreaded, more frequent, more constantly recurrent than sickness, disabling accident, or any other evil attendant upon his calling,—
Now this function of trade societies, in maintaining the unemployed, and equalizing the pressure on the labour market by supplying them with the means of travel, is one of enormous importance to themselves, and it is only by dwelling upon it that we can understand the totally opposite points of view from which trade societies are looked at by the working classes, and by the general public. The general public practically never sees them but through the heated and distorting medium of a strike atmosphere; or, to use a different image, the strike is the sole point of contact between the one sphere and the other. For the working man on the contrary, it can never be too often repeated that the strike is but an accident in the history of his trade society. I cannot help regretting the multiplication in the Committee's volume of accounts of strikes, as compared with those of trade combinations in themselves, as being likely to foster the error which I am combating.
We have thus three classes of trade societies already—trade societies lineally descended from the old guilds,—trade societies formed for general purposes of mutual relief,—trade societies formed originally, or mainly existing, for that purpose of mutual relief which the Friendly Societies' Acts do not recognize, viz. the maintenance of the unemployed. All these three forms, it will be observed, have in them nothing aggressive, nothing militant. There remains to examine the fourth form, that which rests upon or is developed out of the actual antagonism between capital and labour.
I say the antagonism between capital and labour. There are writers and speakers, who talk glibly of political economy, and yet complacently assert that there is no such antagonism. Such men either never have read political economy—I speak simply of the present plutonomic school—or are incapable of understanding it, or seek to befool their hearers. If there is one thing which, while plain to the child, is patent to any student of Ricardo or Mill, it is that the interest of the buyer of labour is to buy cheap, that of the seller to sell dear; or, to speak in Mr. Mill's more imposing language, that "the rate of profit and the cost of labour vary inversely as one another." The fact of capitalist-master-ship, therefore, in constituting an employer-class interested, for the sake of their own profits, in buying labour cheap, developed necessarily in the wages-receiving class a counter-interest in selling their labour dear, and tended to organize the latter on the ground of that common interest. Hence the latest, most characteristic form of trade society—that which aims at regulating the conditions of the sale of labour, from the sole point of view of the interest of the labourer. The four chief fields of operation for such a society are obviously: 1st. The hours of labour; 2nd. The admission of workers to the market; 3d. The rate of wages; 4th. The methods of work.
Now, so long as the capitalist-class as such subsists,—so long as it claims to act in the bargain of labour upon the dictates of its class interest,—it is insulting to common sense to say, not only that the workers have no right to combine against it on the ground of their class interest, but that they are not likely to be benefited by such combination. If they are not, then Æsop was an idiot, and the fable of the bundle of sticks is a madman's raving and not the teaching of the commonest experience, and Mr. Mill's or Mr. Wakefield's paragraphs on the subject of "co-operation, or the combination of labour," must be consigned to the flames. For what is, to begin with, any capitalist-employer towards the workers, but as many employers rolled up in one as there are workers whom he seeks to employ; employers bound together into a harmony, and power, and fixity of purpose such as no sworn brotherhood of assassins could attain to? Suppose he has employment for three hundred men; suppose no more than that number apply to him, but singly and without previous concert: He has practically the pick of all their several necessities and weaknesses, through which to obtain in every case those minimum wages which best suit his interests—his immediate interests at least—as a profit-maker. The wariest and boldest of them have no such chance
I am not, of course, drawing from nature. I am supposing a cast-iron employer—a pattern plutonomist—entirely occupied with the problem of reducing his cost of production so as to enhance his profit, and ready to descend to any meanness for the purpose. I am supposing a set of operatives—the model men of newspaper-writers and master builders' associations—entirely devoted to the assertion of the "right" of the employed "individually to make any trade-engagements on which they may choose to agree." I know well enough that in our factory districts especially the process is far other; that the preponderance of capital asserts itself there in quite an opposite shape, the mill-owner rather taking a pride in not descending into particulars in fixing a rate of wages which the operatives may take or not as they please. I know indeed also that extreme as the case is, it could be very nearly paralleled in several instances taken from those employments where machinery has not been introduced, especially those which are carried on by home labour. It has happened repeatedly, it may happen to this day—in the various trades connected with clothing particularly, but also in others, the cheap East-end gilding-trade, for instance—that workers have been brought together on a placarded offer of employment, with the direct purpose of extracting from the miseries of the neediest, and then imposing, if practicable, upon the others, the lowest obtainable rate of wages.
At any rate, the abstract possibility of the process is sufficient to show that, when the bargain and sale of labour is treated, upon the principles of modem political economy, as a struggle between adverse interests, the interest of the worker cannot be adequately supported against the interest of the employer, except by a combination of as many men as the employer is ready to employ. Many sincere and well-meaning employers stop at this point. They are willing to admit, in the fullest manner, the right of their own workmen to associate together, and to deal with them as a quasi-corporate body; they deny the right of their workers to associate themselves with any strangers from without the mill or factory. Such persons forget, in the first instance, that mighty overweight which I have pointed out on the master's side, of his singleness of will and continuity of purpose. Hut the master has generally various other advantages. To say nothing of superior intellect and education,—in all the less paid trades, where wages scarcely, if at all, above the minimum requisite for the support of life, by no means imply a rate of profit below the average, he has often a power of reduction of personal expenditure, till it reach that minimum, sufficient to countervail the collective retrenchments of very many of his operatives. If his firm he a well-established one, he has, moreover, generally "something to the good,"—a nest-egg in the funds, in railway shares or debentures, gas shares, mortgages, land, &C.,—constituting an additional reserve-power, which may easily be more than equivalent to the collective savings of all his workpeople. Lastly, if, before even he has saved anything out of profits, he is known to be prosperous, or deemed capable of prospering, he possesses, in the shape of credit, reckoned not only upon his business capital, which is supposed an equivalent force to the labour it could employ, but upon his fixed capital, and upon any other resources which he may be presumed to have, a further power, against which his workmen have nothing to set off but the collective amounts of the slender credit of
No doubt the scale weighs often the other way. There may be peculiarities in the manufacture, which render the labour required a practical monopoly. The employer, instead of having money saved, may be trading upon borrowed capital, in mortgaged mills, with mortgaged machinery; or he may be simply young and inexperienced in the face of an old and well-disciplined trade society. But, beyond himself, the employer—unless quite exceptionally unpopular—is sure to find support in that "tacit but constant and uniform combination" of masters, spoken of by Adam Smith, which, indeed, full often now-a-days takes the form of an organized society. The inexperience or imprudence of one employer is therefore made up for by the experience and shrewdness of others, and it may safely be said that seldom can the workmen of a single employer engage in a contest with him one day, without having to face the chance of seeing the whole employer-class (in their department) of the town or district arrayed against them on the morrow. I forbear to push the hypothesis any further; but any one who studies the history of the late London building strike, for instance, will see that the indirect assistance from without the trade afforded to the master builders, in the shape of forbearance to enforce contracts, can scarcely have been less, if at all, than the direct assistance supplied in money subscriptions from without to the building operatives.
As a mere question, therefore, of the ponderation of forces in the bargain of labour, I do not see how any dispassionate man can fix a limit beyond which trade combinations of workmen are not justified in defence of their class interest. I do not pretend for a moment to say that, by means of such combinations, the class interest of the worker may not preponderate. However it may suit some employers to gloss over the fact that trade societies often have the better of them, the number of successful strikes which take place is surprising, when the question is looked into; the number of concessions to the fear of a strike may be surmised, but cannot be reckoned. Sometimes the inferiority of the employers is patent and avowed; as may be seen in the history of the Padiham strike, from the circular of the "Committee of the Lancashire Master Spinners and Manufacturers Defence Society" (see pp. 447-8), which declares that "the" Padiham masters could not have made head" against the men's union without the support of the masters of other towns; or, again, in the history of Shipwrights' Trade Combinations in Liverpool, which shows us the Liverpool shipwrights practically masters, not only of their own employers, but of the town itself for a series of years. But these instances—most of which indeed are explainable by peculiarity of circum-stances—do not in the least impair the worker's plea for combination, as his main safeguard against the overweight of capital in the bargain of labour.
Newspaper political economists, in-deed, never tire of teaching the working man that wages depend on demand and supply, and, therefore, that trade societies cannot affect them. Why, it is precisely because they depend upon demand and supply—the demand of living men's capital, the supply of living men's labour—that trade societies can affect them. A leading defect in the science of political economy, as taught by the plutonomic school, is its frequent—not indeed constant—forgetfulness of the human will, as an economic force. It generally strives to drag man and his actions from the sphere of spontaneousness down into that of fatality; to treat him as a blind creature led by
It is extremely well put by Mr. Dunning, in his pamphlet on "Trades Unions and Strikes," that although, when the supply of labour "permanently much exceeds its demand, nothing can prevent the reduction of wages; and conversely when the demand for it permanently much exceeds its supply, nothing can prevent their rise," There is something quite childish in the way in which would-be instructors of the working classes incessantly point them to the rise of wages, among classes in which no trade societies exist, in proof that such societies are superfluous. Of course Mr. Dunning, and all other society men not wholly idiotic, as fully recognize the fact as they distinctly deny the conclusion.will not work, whilst he will not, is as complete a zero in the labour supply as if he were dead, or had never come into the world. It is simply their trust in the fragility of the human will which inspires employers ever to resist a strike, otherwise than by the mere importation of labour from without. If they in turn had to deal with cast-iron men, men whom they knew ready for actual suicidal starvation in preference to concession, they would feel at once that the scarcity of labour was as much an absolute one, as if the earth had swallowed the working men who resist them. The real grievance of such employers against trade societies is, that by disciplining the will of the working man, they tend to harden the spontaneous scarcity of labour which they produce or regulate into a rigidity more and more approaching to the absoluteness of a fatal scarcity.
Do you blame the working man for this? Erase then first from your volumes of plutonomic oracles, all those pages and
It is often objected, that whilst the endeavour to narrow the labour-market by combination may be successful in a given trade, yet it does not benefit the working-classes at large; that the limiting the number of competitors in one trade only tends to cause an overflow in others; that the high wages of the few only cause the low wages of the many; and writers and speakers on the subject, who deal in moralities, thereupon proceed to lecture trade societies on their selfishness. The trade society may well retort: Address your lecturing to your own class, first of all. Bid the merchant, the manufacturer, be content with the most moderate profits, lest by taking too much, he should depress the money demand for his neighbours' goods and wares; bid him abstain from enlarging his own establishment, lest by driving weaker men out of his own trade he should only be increasing the number of competitors in another. In your let-alone political economy,—in your gospel of buy-cheap-and-sell-dear,—there is no room for such moralities as you attempt to foist upon us, whilst you never recollect to quote them to our employers.
But apart from such tu quoque argumentation, I venture to say that, even if it were true that trade combinations, to use Mr. Mill's words, are to be "looked" upon as simply intrenching round a
l. should be received in wages by ten well-to-do workmen at thirty shillings, or by thirty starvelings, at ten shillings. The higher wants of the former give a stronger impulse to the circulation of capital, secure its healthier and more beneficia employment, than the abject necessities of the latter, which throw them upon inferior and often unwholesome food, inferior and insufficient clothing, and such shelter as can be but a nursery of disease and infirmity. So strongly am I convinced of this fact that, much as I loathe slavery, I consider that there is a worse social state even than that robbery of the many by the few which slavery represents,—a state of absolute universal wretchedness, in which self-sacrifice itself becomes impossible. But indeed it is obvious on a little reflection that the position, that trade combinations merely shift locally the rate of wages without being able to raise it generally, is a mere petition of principle. For it assumes that the circulating capital employed in the purchase of home labour is all that can be so employed; that the rate of profit has reached its minimum. Our enornous investments of capital in foreign funds, railways, &C. are as sufficient a practical answer to such an assumption, as the speculations of economists "on the tendency of profits to a minimum'—evidently not supposed to have hem reached,—are a sufficient theoretica one. So long as there is accumulated capital to spend upon anything beyond labour, so long as there is profit realized in any trade beyond the minimum out of which to renew such accumulations,—the trade society of that trade have the right to repel any accusation of selfishness towards their class at large, for seeking to raise their wages, their condition generally, at the expense of the profit-maker. No doubt the interest of one particular trade may often be opposed to that of another; thus, the interest of the working engineers, as machine-makers, is primâ facie antagonistic to that of most at least of their fellow craftsmen, and it is logically absurd for the Amalgamated Society to make grants, as it has done, for the support of a strike against machinery. But the working men have a full right to say that the question is one that regards themselves, and to claim to meet it simply by a further application of their own machinery of combination. The "National Association of United Trades"—a body now very much dwindled from the importance it once possessed, but which still numbers some 6,000 affiliated members in various trades—represented an important step in this direction; other local ones are indicated by the Trades Committees of Glasgow and Liverpool, formed of delegates from the various trade-societies of their respective towns, from both of which the Committee of the Social Science Association received hearty and intelligent assistance.
The sticks, in short, claim the right to be bundled together as they please, without limit as to number, as to the shape of the bundles, or as to the tightness of the ligature. The working man claims to fix for himself by combination, from trade to trade or in any number of trades, the conditions which he shall demand, and, if he can do so, obtain for the sale of his labour. He does so at the bidding of that political economy, which teaches him to look upon wealth as the ground and subject matter of a nation's or house-law; to look upon the relation of employer and employed as the mere result of a struggle between hostile interests; to recognize, in his employer's "rate of profit," the rival force which is always endeavouring to outweigh that of the "cost" of his own "production;" to recognize the dependence of "price" on the relation of demand and supply; to study the effects of a scarcity of labour in raising its price; and in the effects of a combination of labour to note the means of increasing its productiveness. In other words, that political economy teaches him that his class-life is a bat-
(To be continued.)
I was rather disappointed, if the truth must be told—so indeed we all were at home—at his scanty flow of words, when he returned to us from that grim Crimean campaign.
As for the general story of the war, we did not want that from him, as they might have done whose kinsman should have returned to them from so distant a scene of warfare in the old days when electric telegraph and express trains and steamers were not, and when the Times had not invented its "Own Correspondent" We used to send him that general story, in comprehensive chapters on that journal's broad sheet, and with the pictorial panoramas of the London Illustrated News. He and his comrades read it thus, so I have heard him say, with curious, eager, and intense delight. I think his heart must have beat quick one day upon reading, in one of its very noblest chapters, his own name, scored under by my pen as I had read it proudly, before sending him that paper.
But what we wanted were particulars of what had personally befallen him; for we knew that, though it was hard, indeed, to be preeminent in discharge of duty or daring of danger amidst that flower of the world's soldier hood, he had been noted as noteworthy, even among such, by those who had the best means of appreciating his courage and his industry. In explanation of the latter word, I may remark that his arm of the service was one of those which our then allies designate as "Armes savantes," or "Scientific Arms."
I have found this modest manly silence, touching personal exposure and achievement, an almost invariable characteristic of our noble fighting men. My reader will, therefore, kindly bear it in mind that the detailed and continuous narrative I put under his eyes here is of my writing rather than of his telling, short as it is. But I have interwoven in it, so far as I know, nothing but authentic threads of recollection. I picked
He had been under fire continuously, for seven hours and more, on one of the most hard-fought days of all that hard-fought struggle, and, as he rode away at evening towards the camp, rode bareheaded, in reverent acknowledgment to Heaven for the marvel that he was riding out of that hail of iron himself unhurt.
As for the unobserved incidents of that day's danger, from which so merciful a preservation had been vouchsafed, they would be hard to reckon; but upon three several occasions during those seven exposed hours, it really seemed that the messengers of death avoided him, as in some legend they turn aside from the man who bears a charmed life. There was a six-pound shot, which he saw distinctly coming, as a cricketer eyes the projectile which threatens his middle wicket. It pitched right in front of him, and rose as a cricket-ball when the turf is parched and baked, bounding clean up into the air, and so passing right over his untouched head. It fell behind him, and he looked at it more than once that day, and, but for its inconvenient bulk, thought of carrying it away for a memento. There was a four-and-twenty-pound shot next, a sort of twin-brother to that which, some three weeks before, had actually torn his forage-cap from off his head; but it came too quick for sight. He was at that moment hacking towards the shafts of an ammunition eart a horse, whose reins he hold close to its jaw, as he spurred on his own to make it give way in the right direction. Smash! came the great globe of iron, and as the bones and blood and brains bespattered him, he almost himself fell forward; for the poor brute was restive no longer: headless horses don't strain against the bit, although 'tis just as hard as ever to back them into the shafts.
Then there was a moment, one of those of direst confusion, of what other than such soldiers as fought that fight would have reckoned a moment of dismay,—a moment wherein regimental order itself was in part broken and confused; guardsmen mingled with linesmen, linesmen with blue-coated artillery.
There had been fearful havoc among those noble servants of the deep-voiced cannon, and men were wanted to hand out the shells from a cart he had himself brought up, replenished, to a breastwork. He called in some of the linesmen. One of them stood by him foot to foot, almost or actually in contact. They were handing ammunition, from one to other, as men do fire-buckets when fires are blazing in a street. He leant in one direction to pass on the load he had just taken from the soldier's hand; the soldier was bending towards the next man in the chain; a Russian shell came bounding with a whirr, then burst and scattered its deadly fragments with terrific force. One of its great iron shreds passed—there was just room for it—between his leg and the soldier's that stood next him. They looked each other in the face.
"A near shave that, sir!" said the man, "Nearer than you think for, per-haps," he answered; for he had felt the rounder surface of the fragment actually bruise him as it passed, whereas its ragged edge had shaven, with a marvellous neatness, from his trouser, part of the broad red stripe upon the outer seam.
I venture to give these minute details, because they may help other civilians, as they helped me, to "realise," as they call it now-a-days, more vividly the risks of a day of battle, and the large drafts they draw upon a man's fund of nerve and composure, just as he stands, without coming into any close encounter.
But at last the firing was done; and, bareheaded, as I have said, he turned and rode back towards the camp.
It was before the famine period there, and though there was no superfluity of food, there was food to be had, and that
It was dusk, and he was lighting a candle to sit down to his meal, when the voice of a French soldier called some-thing like his name from the outside. He was himself a perfect master of that language, as the "Soldat-du-train" who stood outside found to his great relief upon his first utterance of inquiry.
The Frenchman held a mule by the bridle, and across the creature's back lay something which looked like a heavily filled parti-coloured sack. It was a far otherwise ghastly burden. The body of an officer, stripped bare all but the trousers, the dark clothed legs hanging one way, the fair skinned naked shoulders and arms the other, the face towards the ground.
"I was directed, mon officier, to bring this poor gentleman's corpse to you. They say you were a friend of his—his name is Captain X——"
Even at that early stage of the campaign such shocks had lost the startling effect of novelty; nevertheless, there were few names among those of his friends and comrades which it could shock and grieve him more to hear pronounced under such circumstances. The light was fetched He raised the poor body; then, with a sigh, let it once more gently down. There was a small round hole in the very centre of the forehead, whereat the rifle ball had darted into the brain of his hapless friend.
He called an orderly, and directed him to accompany the Frenchman to the dead man's tent. He would himself soon follow and see to his receiving a soldier's obsequies. His weariness and exhaustion were such as to render it imperatively necessary that he should first take his food, to which he returned, with what increased weight at heart, who shall rightly tell? It needs not that the tension of a man's nerves should have been strung tight by the hand of battle, for him to know, from his own experience, what is the strange, and awful, and weird feeling of the first relaxation of them in the early after-hours of responsibility, danger, or important crisis of decision. If apparitions and visions of things unearthy be indeed mere fictions of men's brain, such after-hours are just those wherein the mind is readiest to yield to the power of illusion, illusion or reality more startling, more unaccountable by far than it? Whether of the two was this?
There entered at the curtain of his tent the dead man, towards whom, in some few minutes more, he should have been showing the last sad kindnesses. The light fell full and clear upon his face. He took off his forage cap as he came in. The broad white forehead showed no longer any trace of the murderous incrash of the ball which had slain him. Into the poor dull glazed eyes the gleam had returned—could it indeed be the gleam of returned life? Or do the eyes of ghosts gleam life-like so?
"What made you send that French-man with my corpse to me? At least, he would insist that it was mine."
"X——! Good heaven! Can it be you, indeed?"
"Who should it be? What ails you, man? Why do you stare at me so?"
"I cannot say what ails me; but I am surely under some strange delusion. It is not half an hour surely, since I saw you stretched lifeless across a mule's back, with a rifle bullet between your eyes. What can this mean? You are not even wounded."
"No, thank God! nothing has touched me for this once; but that French soldier—did you then send him up, indeed?"
"Indeed I did."
Hideous comico-tragic episode in the awful drama of war! They discovered by-and-by that their slain brother soldier was no comrade of their own corps, but a brave officer of another arm. Neither of them had known him personally, nor had they heard before that between him and X——existed, in his lifetime, the most remarkable and close resemblance—such an identity of feature as is rarely seen save in twin-brothers. Now, it has struck me sometimes as I have turned over in my mind this strange but true
A careful study of the colonial history of the British Empire would suggest many grave and strange reflections. For a period of more than three centuries we have been a colonizing nation; yet, until Sir William Molesworth and various political writers who may be said to have been connected with the party in politics and literature that looked up to that gentleman as its leader, forced the question upon public attention, the most profound ignorance prevailed amongst our statesmen in reference to colonization upon systematic principles. It was not alone the Tudors and Stuarts who neglected this great question, but even the present family, until a recent period, are liable to the same charge; and the obstinate pertinacy of the third George, in oppressing the finest colonial dependency ever possessed by any nation in modern times, lost it to Britain, and completely divided the Anglo-Saxon race, thereby materially weakening the influence it would have had as one great united power. Now, colonization has come to be considered one of the great social and political questions of the day; in those great trans-Pacific colonies which have recently been planted, our statesmen have treated their compatriots who have settled in them with frank and candid consideration; and Australia and New Zealand are upon the whole contented under British rule, and promise to become a colonial dominion scarcely second to that so foolishly lost by the ministers of George III. Indeed, the countries named are already far more important than America at the period she declared herself independent. The whole exports of that country at the period named were under a million, while those of one of our Australian colonies alone (Victoria) amount to fifteen millions. In
Many persons are disposed to think that the serious disturbances amongst the New Zealand natives will seriously impede the progress of the new settlements in the south. They have
Previous to any effort at colonization in New Zealand, at the period when there had been a threat to seize it for France, we acknowledged its independence under the chiefs of the tribes. The latter merely looked up to Britain as the parent of their little state, and its protector from all attempts upon its independence. The Committee of the House of Commons, which sat in
Had the New Zealanders been a poor, ignorant race, like the aborigines of Australia, they would soon have been driven to the wall in the bustle of settling the new colonies there; but the Maories were found to be alive to their interests, and they have defended their supposed rights inch by inch with the British settlers. They have never even hesitated to resort to arms in cases where they deemed themselves aggrieved. The majority of the Maories have viewed with extreme dissatisfaction the increase of European population; and, although the authorities have strictly adhered to the principle of purchasing every foot of ground from the legitimate owners before allowing it to be used for the purposes of colonization, yet the native chiefs have felt keenly the alienation of so vast a portion of the lands of their ancestors. Many of the larger tracts of land had been disposed of before the Maories had begun to realize the fact that it would be occupied by a race superior to them in civilization. They were well disposed to the British so long as they were but a few scattered settlers dependent upon them; but they had never conceived it possible that the time would come when they would cease to be the dominant race. The growing jealousy of the European people has exhibited itself upon various occasions, the ostensible cause of quarrel being the right of the purchasers to the land which had been bought from time to time. The Land Commissioners, having found that many of the purchases made by private persons from Maories had been obtained by improper representations and for inadequate prices, declared them void; and great doubts existed for many years about the legality of all the titles to the land, not excepting that of the New Zealand Company which encouraged the native chiefs to maintain claims over territory that had been fairly sold.
Before we consider the present un-fortunate disturbances, it may be inter-
A lamentable tragedy occurred in
In the year H.M.S. Hazard after a brave resistance by the latter, who had the misfortune to have their commander severely wounded early in the action. This disaster was chiefly caused by the behaviour of the military officer in charge of the block house; who, on hearing guns fired, quitted that fortification, the key of the position of the Europeans, to proceed towards the spot from whence the sound proceeded; and thus this most important post fell into the hands of the natives. In this encounter there were thirteen Europeans killed and eighteen wounded; of the New Zealanders fifty were killed and a large number wounded. At a public meeting held in Auckland a resolution was passed by acclamation, giving Com-
Hazard the greatest credit for their gallantry in defending the place at such dreadful odds. Indeed, they did not abandon the town until the magazine in the stockade blew up and the ammunition failed, when the order was given for the troops and inhabitants to embark. The native chief who commanded on this occasion, Ehara, murdered nine English people who fell into his hands after the embarkation had been effected.
Much alarm was caused by the annihilation of our settlement at the Bay of Islands—not so much to be deplored for the sacrifice and the destruction of property as for the loss of prestige that had now for the first time really fallen on the British power; and great fears were entertained that the excited aborigines would everywhere rise and massacre our defenceless fellow-countrymen, scattered up and down from the North to the South Cape. It was deemed necessary to enrol the white inhabitants and drill them daily. It was known that Heki had fortified a new pah which he had six guns to defend, while in his rear was an interminable forest to fall back upon if driven from his stockade; the natives throughout the country were quietly waiting the result of the attack of the British on the prime mover in this insurrection, and ready, if Heki were successful, to rise everywhere and expel the colonists from the country. The stronghold of this predatory chief was attacked on the 1st July, and our troops were repulsed with heavy loss, one-third of them having fallen before the order to retreat was given. The British had no guns that could be of service; and, although they repeatedly pulled down portions of the outer stockade or pah, yet there was an inner stockade lined with men firing through loopholes which resisted all their efforts. Having obtained some guns and ammunition from the Hazard, our troops conveyed them to the top of a hill which commanded the pah, which was then abandoned by the natives in the night.
At this time Governor Fitzroy was recalled, and his successor tried to soothe the natives. Heki, however, continued for nearly two years to disturb the peace of the country—the affair at Wanganai being the last of these outbreaks. So expensive, however, had been the operations of Government for exterminating this spirit of rebellion against British authority and protecting the English residents, that it was calculated their safety cost the Empire at the rate of 15l. a-head per annum.
The present contest between the British Government and the national or Maori party is clearly to be traced to the jealousy of the latter of the power of the English settlers. The avowed objects of the confederation of native chiefs who acknowledge the Waikato prince, Te Whero Whero (or, as he is more generally named, Potatan) as king of the northern island of New Zealand, are the subversion of the authority of Queen Victoria, and the prohibition of further alienation of territory to the Crown for purposes of colonization. The present Taranki war has been caused by the native king movement, and the real issue is, whether Victoria or Potatan shall be the future sovereign of New Zealand. The settlement of New Plymouth, where the present outbreak has taken place, was founded in Niger came up at the critical moment, headed by Captain Cracroft, and rushed on the natives with cutlass, bayonet, and revolver, and, having carried the pah, extricated the troops, with whom they returned to head-quarters.
The military rendered but little
The distress of the poor in London has been recently brought before the whole world with unusual prominence, through the space devoted by the Times to various attempts to relieve it. There is always a lamentable amount of distress prevailing in London, and especially during the winter season; and the distress has lately been much aggravated by the bitterly cold weather, and the suspension, through the frost, of many kinds of labour. It is not without good reason that hearts have been touched and purses opened in behalf of the poor. But it is important to understand that the Charity columns of the Times furnish no safe criterion of the comparative pressure of distress. "Metropolitan Distress" had already assumed appalling dimensions in the columns of the Times before the hard weather set in; and yet at Christmas time it was shown by the average statistics of all the London workhouses, that there was no unusual degree of suffering amongst the poor. It was perfectly easy to the Times to create the Distress movement, by opening its columns to appeals and re-porting donations, with the occasional stimulus of a thorough-going leading article. It is a striking, and in many respects a hopeful, fact, as a sign of the tendency of the public mind, that this great power should have been applied directly to the help of the needy and miserable; but, unfortunately, the good is not gained without grievous injury to our social order, and without the danger of inflicting permanent damage upon the class it is designed to benefit.
There is one injustice which the Times has itself committed, and encouraged others to commit, which ought not to be left without a protest. We are told that our Poor-Law administration has evidently failed. The proofs of that failure are the appeals in the Times, the crowds at the police-courts, and the par-ties of "frozen-out" labourers asking relief in the streets. That contributions should be asked for, and should still pour in to the Field Lane Refuge, and
The Times, with its usual breadth, assumes that the parishes and unions in London are quite inoperative as regards the relief of the poor, and that the poor-rates are paid for nothing. The Saturday Review believes all London guardians to be a set of niggardly shopkeepers, privately employed in scraping together small gains, and dealing in a "barbarous" manner with the poor. It is very different, we are told, in the country and in Manchester, where the Poor-Law works admirably. Now, as regards this contrast between London and the country, it will probably be allowed that no place, unless it be Liverpool, presents so many difficulties to Poor-Law administration as London, with its unsettled colluvies gentium. This being considered, it is probable that an average London Board would not be at all behind any country Board either in intelligence or in humanity.
If we take the parish of St. Marylebone is an illustration, it will not be suppoed, by Saturday Reviewers at least,
Every Board of Guardians, moreover, acts under many checks. The reporters know very well that any complaint or scandal makes better reading in their newspapers than the most exemplary freedom from reproach. The Poor-Law Board makes inquiry upon every appeal addressed to it, even from a single poor person. Clergymen and philanthropists are jealously on the watch to protest against any cruel treatment of their neighbours. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the complaints which are brought to the notice of the Board are disposed of by correcting the alleged facts. In any exceptional case, redress is instantly given.
I admit, however, that, notwithstand-
l. This does not look as if the guardians of the poor in the metropolis were doing nothing. It is inevitable that, in the execution of so enormous a task, we should be too much in the hands of our paid officers, so long as the power and the responsibility are diffused equally through thirty members. If a salaried chairman were appointed, to give his whole time to the business of the workhouse, he would probably soon save his salary by the economies he might introduce, besides guarding the parish from frequent troubles and scandals.
But even if such blots were more numerous and discreditable than they are, it is obvious—and no well informed person could forget it—that the substantial relief of the poor is, and must be, the work of the guardians, and that the better this work is done the less the public hear of it. At the same time, the public have ample opportunities of knowing what is going on at the workhouse, through the meetings, open to ratepayers and reporters, at the workhouse and the vestry, and through the reports in the local newspapers. But the Poor-Law administration does not exterminate distress, nor pretend to do it. No system, of relief, however charitable, could possibly put an end to distress. The causes of physical misery, whilst they remain, make that misery inevitable. In those instances of undoubted destitution which have been detailed before the magistrates and elsewhere, we do not know how much is due to drunkenness, that plague and curse of our poor. And how can you keep a drunkard out of want? Another cause of distress is scarcely less difficult to cope with—the imbecility and want of energy which infects some persons like a disease. Then there is the downright idleness of not a few, which keeps them from seeking work, and throws them out of occupation when they get it. The destitution which arises from sickness and misfortune—the character of the sufferers having been reasonably good—ought to be relieved humanely by the workhouse, if not more indulgently cared for, as one might surely hope it would be, by the kindness of friends and by Christian charity.
Let me add, somewhat abruptly, the following suggestions :—
1. It seems to be necessary to revive the old warnings against unguarded and too ambitious almsgiving. Of course, the magistrates who have laboured so generously during the last few days in the summary relief of crowds of applicants, will be compelled to discontinue those unprofitable labours. It is a very inconsiderate benevolence which has imposed so hopeless a task upon them. But there is great fear lest societies, rich in means and eager to help the needy, should be tempted to stimulate mendicancy and vagabondage. No greater harm can be done than this to our labouring population.
2. In dealing directly with distress, the efforts of charitable persons should be based as far as possible upon personal knowledge, and should chiefly aim, I submit, at assisting with judgment and delicacy those whom a temporary gift or a little pension may save from pauperism, and make more comfortable, without encouraging vice or idleness;—not at supplying the wants indiscriminately of the needy or unemployed. Exceptional distress, like that at Coventry, may, of course,
3. Gentlemen of leisure and public spirit may do much service by obtaining a knowledge of our public relief-system, by watching its administration, and by offering themselves for election as guardians of the poor.
4. By far the best way of battling with destitution and misery is to labour in those efforts which are likely to better the condition of the poor. Whatever institutions and practices have a tendency to educate and encourage the poor, and to promote their self-respect, are more useful agencies "for the relief of distress," than those which may hold out a delusive hope to the improvident. A sober and industrious working man, even of the poorest class, ought to be able to stand against a fortnight's loss of work without running a risk of starvation We may all remember, for the spring and the summer, the importance of sound efforts to encourage hope, and knowledge, and self-reliance amongst our poorer neighbours; and so, when the dangerous and irregular charity-work of this winter is over, we may be labouring beforehand most effectually to mitigate the sufferings of the next.
The manner in which my name is noticed in a review of Mr. Darwin's work in your number for December, is liable to lead to a misapprehension of my view of Mr. Darwin's "Theory on the Origin of Species." Though I have always expressed the greatest respect for my friend's opinions, I have told himself that I cannot assent to his speculations without seeing stronger proofs than he has yet produced I send you an extract from a letter I have received from my brother-in-law the Rev. L. Jenyns, the well-known author of "British Vertebrata," as it very nearly expresses the views I at present entertain, in regard to Mr. Darwin's theory—or rather hypothesis, as I should prefer calling it. I have heard his book styled "the book of the day," on more than one occasion by a most eminent naturalist; who is himself opposed to and has written against its conclusions; but who considers it ought not to be attacked with flippant denunciation, as though it were unworthy consideration. If it be faulty in its general Conclusions, it is surely a stumble in the right direction, and not to be refuted by arguments which no naturalist will allow to be really adverse to the speculations it contains.
"I see, in Macmillan's Magazine, you are arranged with Lyell, Hooker, and others in the list of those who have espoused Darwin's views. I was not aware you had become a convert to his theory, and can hardly suppose you have accepted it as a whole, though, like myself, you may go the length of imagining that many of the smaller groups, both of animals and plants, may at some remote period have had a common parentage. I do not, with some, say that the whole of his theory cannot be true—but, that it is very far from proved; and I doubt its ever being possible to prove it."
By a mistake in the article on "Diamonds" in the last number (p. 189), the weight of the Koh-i-noor in its cut state was given as 10¼ carats, instead of 103¼.
The Battle of Lützen,
It was well, no doubt, for a curious posterity, that an action of this importance occurred in a civilized period, and in the heart of much-enduring and much-writing Germany, the home of "la nation écrivassière." But the result is nevertheless somewhat perplexing. The literature of Lützen would alone furnish out a small catalogue. The presses throughout Germany, France, and Italy, seem to have gone to work simultaneously and immediately on the receipt of the news. "Flying sheets," containing professed descriptions of it, swarm in every library. Preachers, Protestant and Catholic, improved the occasion from a thousand pulpits, and every one of them, that could afford it, resolved that the world should not lose the benefit of his pious eloquence. Then the caricaturist and the ballad-monger got hold of it, whose fugitive but sometimes authentic hints must be studied in the bulky republications of modern antiquaries. Nor did the interest cease when the graver class of authors came on the stage. Political historians, religious historians, dynastic historians and genealogists, topographers, biographers, all had something to say on so renowned a catastrophe, and everyone was in duty bound to add something new, of fact or speculation, to what had been ascertained by his predecessors. Next, in the last century, followed the herd of German professors and other literates, whose quaint little Latin dissertations in quarto darken so many a question, and deepen so many a paradox. These attached themselves, by predilection, to
de dubia cœde Gustavi Adolphi Regis," furnished materials for many—and I have the titles of two at least under my eyes, about the king's magic sword: "de gladio magico, quocum Gustavus Adolphus in prœlio apud Lützen pugnaverit." Lastly, the Wallenstein mania, for which Schiller has to answer, produced in our own times such a number of biographies of that personage, and of controversial essays on the questionable points of his history, garnished with original correspondence and extracts from archives, that these alone furnish a mass formidable to contemplate.
The writer of these pages must not pretend to anything like an extensive acquaintance with the vast corpus historicum of which he has just sketched (and skimmed) the circumference; but he has read enough to find himself bewildered by the utterly irreconcilable accounts of every main feature of the day. It was a stand-up fight, with little of previous manoeuvring, fought between midday and sunset, by two armies drawn out in a perfectly open field. "Daylight and champian," one would have thought, could "discover no farther." And yet this swarm of ingenious
The little town of Lützen lies between several intersecting lines of railroad, and at some distance from each. The ordinary tourists' approach to it is consequently by carriage or omnibus from Leipzig, ten or twelve English miles away. But, for my own part, I walked to it from the station at Corbetha, on the line between Halle and Weimar—a pleasant two hours' stroll, along footpaths and cross-roads, through a land of teeming fertility, alive with the whole population of the neighbourhood busy at their potato harvest. The pedestrian crosses the Saale by a rope-ferry—here a sullen deep stream, cutting its way through strata of diluvial gravel, about the size of the Severn at Worcester; traverses the pretty bowery village of Vesta, with its aged lindens; and thence across the open plain which extends to the neighbourhood of Leipzig, and in the middle of which Lützen is placed. A rich and joyous-looking expanse of land, studded with villages and tall ungainly church steeples; here and there, bedded in the soil, one of those problematical boulders of dark-red granite which the glaciers transported hither, according to modern belief, from distant Scandinavia, and which now chiefly serve as landmarks: far in the south, the first blue outlines of the Erzgebirge faintly show themselves. Such is the aspect of the vast battle-field of Northern Germany, the scene of the greatest military events of modern history; of which it may be said, with even greater truth than of the plains round Fleurus and Waterloo, that "not an ear of corn is pure from the blood
Those of Jena and Auerstadt, though not actually in sight, may be added from their proximity.
Approaching Lützen on this (western) side, the traveller is able to estimate the optical error which, as we shall presently see, misled the Swedes, and partly disconcerted their plans. The lofty old towers of the church and castle, and the high-pitched roofs, rising in an open field, and on the farther side of a slight depression in the ground, seem much nearer than they really are.
Lützen itself is a thoroughly old-fashioned forgotten-looking little Saxon town, with walls and fosse partially preserved, and the open country on all sides extending close up to them. It has now about 500 houses, and is traditionally believed to have been more considerable in old times; as indeed must have been the case, or else the municipality indulged in a fine spirit of local exaggeration when, in a report dated in i.e. the Marvels of Merseburg), "but their strength was exhausted."
Arrived at the Schwedenstein, the visitor may make himself master of the details of the action, with but little difficulty, thanks to the level character of the ground and absence of hedges. No doubt there are ciceroni to be had; but, for my own part, I found that a two groschen-piece and a shake of the hand, administered to a beautiful nymph of seven, who was out potato-gathering with her family, sufficed to bring about me enough of her friends and admirers to impart all the information I wanted, and more than I could understand—although the pure Saxon dialect is a civilized one, and comprehensible, with some attention, by one who possesses
In order to make the battle intelligible, it is not necessary to weary the reader with much preliminary dissertation. It is enough to remember that in
thence through Thuringia to Erfurt, which he occupied, at the end of October, just as Wallenstein was restoring Leipzig and its neighbourhood. On the 1st of November the King arrived at Naumburg, a town on the Saale, offering a commanding position, of which he prepared to avail himself by intrenchment. Wallenstein was then at Weisenfels, a few miles below, on the river. Satisfied by this proceeding of the King and by the lateness of the season, that he had no cause to dread immediate attack, he detached Pappenheim with a considerable portion of his army to Halle, in order to open a communication
On the evening of the 4th of November, therefore, matters stood thus:—Wallenstein was at Lützen, covering the approach from the west to Leipzig, with a force variously estimated, but probably not less than 25,000 men; Protestant writers say 40,000; Catholics, 20,000. The latter number seems very improbably low. The detachment of Pappenheim to Halle was a gross blunder at best; but we may safely assume that Wallenstein would not have ventured on it in the face of the redoubtable Swede, if his army had been thereby reduced below the number of the latter.
Wallenstein would rather have avoided fighting; but this day's delay gave him time to prepare for the contest, by sending a messenger or messengers to hurry Pappenheim's return, and by intrenching his position as well as he might. His army was drawn up on a line of about a mile and a half: its right, to the south-west, resting on the town of Lützen, which was an impediment to his being turned on that flank; his left, north-east, on the western bank of the "Flossgraben," a deep drainage ditch and mill-stream (not a canal to float timber, as Mitchell supposes); his front covered by the high-road from Lützen to Leipzig, of which he had deepened both the side ditches, and filled them with musketeers. But it is important to observe (what neither Harte nor Mitchell was aware of, but Philippi distinctly shows) that this high-road did not coincide exactly with the present. It diverged from the straight line of the present highway, close to the Schwedenstein, curved to the south, and swept back again into the present road near the point where this crosses the Flossgraben. The country-people still point out the old road, rising in a slight ridge on the corn-fields. The consequence would appear to be, that the two armies, being separated by this winding road, were not drawn up in straight lines, but the Imperialist front slightly concave, the Swedish convex; giving the latter something of that advantage which Marlborough turned to such decisive account at Ramillies. The most salient part of the Swedish line would, on this supposition, have been close to the Schwedenstein.
Wallenstein's position was, however, not a bad one, for an army of equal force
In thus uniting spearmen with musketeers, Wallenstein only followed the fashion; but his enormous squares, constructed, no doubt, with a view to resist the dreaded impetuosity of the Swedes, seem to have been condemned in his own age as pedantic and unwieldy. They formed, in fact, the last appearance, on any modem stage, of the classical and mediæval phalanx; capable, no doubt, of resisting cavalry attacks, but unable to move themselves in attack or pursuit, and exposed to utter destruction when artillery could be brought to bear on them. His own artillery consisted of about eighty heavy pieces, 24-to 48-pounders, as some inform us: it was disposed in front of his troops along the whole line of the road. His cavalry were on the flanks, consisting (as then usual in the Austrian service) of four classes: cuirassiers, as they were termed, but who wore, in addition to the cuirass, the vizored helmet, gorget, brassarts, and cuisses; carbineers, with cuirass and carbine; dragoons, few in number; and light horse, then termed Croats, as in later times Hussars, on the extremities of the line—troops whose special genius lay in the line of plundering, which they executed with a vigour perhaps unequalled in military history. His right wing was strongest, as he expected on the left the almost immediate reinforcement of the Pappenheimers. His front was covered by musketeers in the deepened ditches, on both sides of the way.
Notwithstanding all the successes of the Swedes, the spirit of his army ran high. Wallenstein was still to them the unconquerable one, who had baffled, if not defeated, the Swede himself. Gorged with plunder, and made frantic by the promise of more, inflamed with that peculiar pride of mercenaries, who feel themselves for the hour elevated into the masters of princes and governments,
It might be asked why Gustavus, with his skill as a tactician and his well-trained army, did not outmanoeuvre and take in flank Wallenstein's helpless masses, instead of attacking them in front? But the answer is plain. Time was wanting for the purpose. It was necessary for him to gain his victory before Pappenheim came up. Pappenheim was to him what Blucher was to Napoleon at Waterloo; and he had not even a Grouchy to oppose to him. To have turned Wallenstein's right, with Pappenheim coming up on Wallenstein's left, would have been to march head foremost into a snare. There remained only the front attack, and for this, bloody as it must prove, he prepared himself at once.
The King passed the night of the 5th—6th, in his carriage in the open field, west of Lützen. At daybreak he crossed the country behind, or south of, Lützen, and drew up his army in a double line, facing that of Wallenstein, and south of the highroad so often mentioned. In order to effect this, part of his force had to cross the deep "Flossgraben," which forms a curve from a point south-east of Lützen to the bridge where it is (and was) crossed by the high-road so often named. Here it would seem as if Wallenstein might have checked his adversary by a bold advance; but his defensive tactics rendered this impracticable. The Swedes passed the mill-stream, and the army was drawn up, in "battalia," while the morning fog yet concealed the enemy.
The Swedish army was the very opposite of the Austrian. Everything was done to promote rapidity of movement and promptness of execution. The infantry (in the centre) was not, however, formed in line, according to modern ideas: that invention was reserved for the "old Dessauer," as the Germans call him, a century later. The system of Gustavus consisted rather in macadamizing the great blocks of the ancient army into small and compact, but still solid masses, drawn up in general six deep. The front rank was formed by the famous Swedish black, yellow, green, and blue brigades, concerning which the accounts are contradictory, whether they were so denominated from the colour of their casques, or of their jackets. Colonel Mitchell says, "The blue brigade were composed of British;" but, it is to be feared, without authority. The British, especially the Scots, formed a very important portion of the so-called Swedish army, but they are not particularly mentioned in the accounts of Lützen. The second line, or reserve, was chiefly composed of German infantry. The cavalry were placed on the flanks: Swedes on the right, towards the Flossgraben; Germans on the left, nearest to Lützen. The Swedes seem to have had only two classes of cavalry: cuirassiers, armed with the light cuirass, carbine, and broadsword; dragoons, with musket and sabre. The German horse are described as carrying, in addition to other weapons, a hammer hooked at one end, to drag the enemy off his horse. Platoons of musketry, 100 to 150 strong, were posted between the squadrons; and this is the only rational sense in which we can understand the plan of "mingling cavalry with infantry," attributed by some military writers to Gustavus—a plan which, if carried out in any literal sense, could only have had the effect of crippling the movements of the cavalry altogether. The artillery was stationed along the front, and consisted of only twenty heavy pieces, and about eighty of the common Swedish "flying artillery," 4-pounders only, we are told. The king's famous "leathern cannon," which have puzzled modern tacticians almost as much as they astonished his enemies, do not seem to have been used at Lützen. Probably the invention never got beyond the character of an experiment.
The heavy fog lasted until eleven in the morning: it may easily be conceived with what impatience the King watched for its disappearance, expecting Pappenheim on his right flank every hour. Meanwhile, morning prayer was held, and the King rode along the line to encourage his men. With the Thucydidean speeches which sundry historians put in the mouths of both generals, it is unnecessary to trouble the reader. It is more to the purpose to note that the Swedes sang Luther's Hymn, and that other, well known in Lutheran Germany, which begins—
"Verzage nicht, du Haüflein klein," "Fear not, thou little chosen band,"
of which the words are traditionally said to be Gustavus's own.
At eleven in the morning the heavy fog dissipated, and each army beheld the faces of the other. The artillery began to play, but seemingly with no great effect. Wallenstein's cannon, we are told, were pointed too high, and harmed the Swedes but little. The Swedish were doubtless better served, but it is singular that so little is said of the havoc which they might be expected to have made in Wallenstein's helpless quadrangles. At length the Swedish infantry charged, in the centre. They forced their way across the ditches and the road, broke by the suddenness of their attack two of Wallenstein's squares, and enlangered a third, when the cuirassies of Wallenstein's right wing charged in support of their infantry; the Swedes wavered, were driven back across the road, and a battery of seven cannon, immediately east of the Schwedenstein, taken by the Imperialists. Gustavus now placed himself at the head of Stenbock's Smaland regiment of cuirassiers—its commander had just fallen—which was stationed in the right wing, nearest to the infantry. He called out to his favourite, Colonel Stahlhantsch, a soldier of fortune, who had risen from the condition of a serving-man, "Charge those black fellows (Piccolomini's cuirassiers), else they will do us a mischief;" crossed the road, galloped on before his men, and threw himself on the flank of another cuirassier regiment. The spirit of the religious champion, the Gideon of Protestantism, had, in this his last hour, sole possession of his fiery nature: he exclaimed, "Now, in God's name, let us at them! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, let us fight for the honour of Thy holy name!" and dashed at the enemy. At this moment, four comrades are noticed as having been at his side, besides one or two grooms: these were, Hof-Marschal Kreilsheim, Chamberlain Truchsess, a young Nuremberger named Löbelfing, of whom we shall hear more presently, and Duke Francis Albert, of Saxe Lauenburg. This last, of sinister name, was a cadet of one of the oldest and poorest sovereign houses of North Germany, connected rather nearly with the royal blood of Sweden. He had taken arms, a mere adventurer, under Tilly; but, on the arrival of his royal kinsman in Germany, changed sides, went over to the Swedes, and obtained a pension from Gustavus, with whom he lived on terms of intimacy. They were at once enveloped in the hostile ranks. The Swedish cuirassiers, staggered for a moment by the fire from the ditches, followed in hot haste; but too late: a pistol-shot broke the King's arm. He continued, for a moment, to encourage his comrades; but, his strength failing him, he turned his horse's head, and muttered to the Duke, "Mon cousin, tirez moi d'ici, car je suis fort blessé." As he turned, an Austrian
mélée. The actual spot of the death is fixed by Philippi, conjecturally, just within the angle formed by the divergence of the new and old roads to Leipzig. The body, stripped and mangled, was found at last by his victorious countrymen. It was brought in the night into the village church of Meuehen; the troopers who escorted it did not dismount, but rode by torchlight round the altar, before which it was deposited. Thence it was finally carried to rest with the remains of his ancestors in his own land.
Such, or nearly such, seem to be the circumstances of the royal soldier's death. But the belief that he perished by treachery became in after years so general, that it is impossible to avoid referring to them, even in the most cursory narrative. More is unnecessary; since Schiller, in his well-known history, has said nearly all that need be said respecting this once favourite historical puzzle. There is no affirmative evidence whatever in favour of the supposition that the deed was perpetrated by Francis Albert of Saxe Lauenburg, or any other traitor. The negative evidence against it consists mainly in the fact that no eyewitness of the battle, and no immediately contemporary writer, refers to it. The suspicion arises afterwards, and makes way to the light from various and distant quarters—first as a vague report, afterwards as a definite charge—until at last it becomes universally received, if not absolutely believed, among the Swedes, and has great currency even among the Germans.
"He who ate my bread," so ran the mystic verse in the mouth of the people, "hath lift up his heel against me: thus did it befall Gustavus from the "Wer mein Brod isst, der mit Füssen mich tritt; So geschah es Gustavo von dem Vierten, Der mit ihm ins Lager eintritt."fourth man, who entered the enemy's lines along with him."
It was not until The devil's advocate might have a word to put in here. If the cuirassiers only came up "thereupon," it was not a cuirassier who fired the fata shot.
Such a suspicion was hardly needed to embitter the universal feeling of inconsolible grief. "The sorrow," says Philippi, "which the death of the King occasioned throughout Protestant Germany and in Sweden is depicted by contemporaries in the liveliest colours. Country and town, citizen, peasant, and soldier, all united to mourn the irreparable loss. They wandered about like a flock without a shepherd, loudly bewailing the death of their prince, their liberator; for such was Gustavus Adolphus to them all. Never was a sovereign more revered, more loved, or more wept for. Every one would have his portrait, and there was not a cottage in Germany where it was not to be found." And that popular impression was as deep and enduring as it was general. As late as
And most deservedly. History has grown cold and critical: the Clio of our times seems to have an old-maidish pleasure in decrying the subjects of our early enthusiasm, in lowering by a few pegs the special heroes of our imaginations. She has not ventured even to attempt this operation on Gustavus Adolphus. A halo of something like superhuman dignity surrounds him. So it was even with his contemporaries. Those who saw him every day seem still to have regarded him rather as an agent of Providence—the embodiment of a great purpose—than an ordinary man. He was thus marked by destiny from the beginning: when his father, Charles the Ninth, exhorted in council to designs to which he felt unequal, would lay his hand on the fair hair of his boy, and say, "Ille faciet; " when he relinquished the love of his youth and all the temptations of a throne, married for reasons of state, and set himself doggedly to the task of taming, one by one, his hard-mouthed neighbours of the North, as a preparation for the mightier destinies which he alone foresaw. Such
il ré d'oro, the Italians called him—produced the effect of an angelic messenger. Not that he was affectedly superior to other men, or had anything of the prophet in his demeanour; on the contrary, every account represents him as simple, affable, free spoken among his associates, even to a fault. The Jesuits of Munich recounted with pride how he had disputed with them for an hour or so "concerning transubstantiation and communion sub utrâque," ending, as they were pleased to assert, with high compliments to their order. The peasants of Bavaria would long tell the tale, how, as he forced them to drag his artillery, he would come among them with kind words and instructions how to place the lever, accompanied with occasional florins. But, in truth, he was an example, such as most of us may have witnessed in common life, of that class of men whose exceptional superiority of character is such that, no familiarity seems to diminish the distance between them and others. Much of this was, no doubt, owing to that deep religious conviction which, when openly avowed and consistently acted on, always awes minds conscious of their own falling short. Cromwell could not have been more convinced of his own divine vocation, or more fearless in his expression of reliance on it; but there is something of the earth, earthy, in the zeal of Cromwell even when taken at its best, which contrasts unfavourably with the earnest, manly, single-minded piety of Gustavus. And the consequence is, that, while Cromwell's enemies made him out a hypocrite, and have left great part of the world persuaded that he was one, no detractor has ever endeavoured to fasten the like imputation on the Swede. With him, as with Cromwell, the constant sense of religion led to a familiarity of utterance respecting it which, to the ears of our reserved generation, seems almost startling. "Pray constantly: praying hard is fighting hard," was his favourite appeal to his soldiers. "You may win salvation under my command, but hardly riches," was his encouragement to his officers. He "preached," in short, so much—though without the shadow of affectation—that a Michelet might perhaps say of him, as of our Henry the Fifth at Agincourt, "le plus dur pour les prisonniers, c'était d'entendre les sermons de ce roi des prêtres, d'endurer ses moralités, ses humilités."
But he was not content with preaching: his conduct was throughout a noble exemplification of the religion which he professed. To take one trait only: his strict maintenance of discipline. The Thirty Years' War was a hideous time, in which the military were not only permitted to indulge in every excess, but encouraged in it as a matter of policy;—it being the received principle of noted leaders to employ their armies as a scourge, not only to intimidate the enemy, but to keep in order doubtful allies or personal foes, through the system of "free quarters." Of the unhappy agent of this system—the soldier—it might be said, in the language of the Norfolk Island convict, that when he entered the service "the heart of a man was taken from him, and there was given to him the heart of a beast." From the beginning of his wars Gustavus set himself determinedly to the task of extirpating an evil which had become unendurable, while every campaign seemed to root it more firmly in the land. And he succeeded to an extent which seems almost miraculous. No army under his command was ever disgraced by unpunished enormity; and it was not until long after his death, when his example had ceased to act, that the Swedish forces became equally a terror to the country with the Imperialist.
Had so noble a character the alloy of earthly ambition? Was it his purpose to extend the Swedish dominion, or to become the first Protestant Emperor of Germany, or to achieve supremacy in Western Europe? It may be so. He was a conqueror by profession—an ab-
If, in fact, religious zeal had a rival in his temperament, it was not ambition, but warlike ardour. He was passionately devoted, if such a phrase may be used, to military science. In his short life (he died at eight-and-thirty) he had leisure almost to reconstruct the art of war. And the art of war, as understood and practised by him, comprehended everything, from the conception of a campaign to the construction of artillery-harness or camp-kettles. That minute attention to detail which seems to us pedantic was then almost unavoidable; for he lived in an age when the art of carrying on war on a grand scale had been long forgotten; when, consequently, the division of labour in the soldier's profession was comparatively unknown; and no one would have passed in the eye of world as a great commander who was not also an accomplished corporal. And hence some of his critics have thought that his chief superiority lay in the lower part of his vocation; that he was "a greater tactician than strategist." But the highest authority is against them. Napoleon placed Gustavus among the eight great captains of the world; that list of colossal celebrities which begins with Alexander and ends with himself.
Nevertheless, one thing we have against him; and that was a fatal imperfection, venial as we may deem it. His ungovernable impetuosity of temper manifested itself in various ways; he could not command himself, when he had righteous cause of anger, or when he had danger to encounter. He confessed himself guilty of the first charge. All commanders, he said, had their weaknesses; such a one his drunkenness; such a one his avarice; his own was choler: and he prayed men to forgive him. He was sometimes terrible to behold in one of these fits; the old fury of the sea-kings seemed to come over him: eye-witnesses so described him in a scene at Nuremberg, when, in wrath against plunderers, he dragged forth a delinquent corporal by the hair of his head, exclaiming, "It is better that I should punish thee, than that God should punish thee and me and all of us on thy account;" and ordered him off to instant execution. But his intemperance of courage, in exposing his person in action, was a greater sin than his intemperance in anger. No prayers, no representations, could wean him from his constant habit of taking the foremost place in time of danger. And he was singularly unlucky into the bargain. While Wallenstein, the favourite of fortune, who, however inferior in other respects to Gustavus, did not lack personal courage, seems never to have received a wound, the King, like the Napiers, scarcely ever went into serious action without being hit. His fate at Lützen was but in accordance with this habitual disregard of sterner duty. He perished in a blaze of glory, which by its very excess of light dazzles the historical inquirer, and converts into a martyrdom that which was in truth both an error and a crime. There have been generals as prudent as brave, who have nevertheless risked their lives by daring exposure, deliberately, because the rallying of a broken army, or the necessity of personal presence at a menaced spot, seemed to require it. Gustavus had no such excuse. His Smalanders needed no such prodigality of life to encourage them in the charge. His place was not at their head, but at that of his whole army. He ran on almost certain death, in the mere animal spirit of valiant intoxication, like the Berserkar of old, or the savage Malay. "Died Abner as a fool dieth?" The traveller who stands by the Swedes' Stone may not without
To be continued.
Buckle's "History of Civilization," vol. ii.It has long been a prevalent notion, that Political Economy is a series of deductions from the principle of selfishness or private interest alone. The common desire of men to grow rich by the shortest and easiest methods—to obtain every gratification with the smallest sacrifice on their own part, has been supposed to be all that the political economist desires to have granted in theory, or to see regulating in practice the transactions of the world, to insure its material prosperity. A late eminent writer has described as follows the doctrine of Adam Smith, in the "Wealth of Nations:" "He everywhere assumes that the great moving power of all men, all interests, and all classes, in all ages and in all countries, is selfishness. He represents men as pursuing wealth for sordid objects, and for the narrowest personal pleasures. The fundamental assumption of his work is that each man follows his own interest, or what he deems to be his interest. And one of the peculiar features of his book is to show that, considering society as a whole, it nearly always happens that men, in promoting their own, will unintentionally promote the interest of others."
But, in truth, the acquisitive and selfish propensities of mankind, their anxiety to get as much as possible of everything they like, and to give as little as possible in return, are in their very nature principles of aggression and injury instead of mutual benefit: the mode of acquisition to which they immediately prompt, is that of plunder or theft, and the competition which they tend to induce is that of conflict and war. Their first suggestion is not, "I will labour for you," but, "You shall labour for me;" not, "Give me this, and I will give you what will suit you better in exchange," but, "Give it to me, or else I will take it by force." The conqueror rather than the capitalist, the pirate rather than the merchant, the brigand rather than the labourer, the wolf rather than the watch-dog, obey the impulses of nature. The history of the pursuit of gain is far from being the simple history of industry, with growing national prosperity; it is the history also of depredation, tyranny, and rapine. One passage in it is thus given, in the early annals of our own country: "Every rich man built his castle, and they filled the land with castles. They greatly oppressed the wretched people by making them work at their castles, and when they were finished they filled them with evil men. Then they took those whom they suspected to have any goods, seizing both men and women by night and day; and they put them in prisons for their gold and silver, and tortured them with pains unspeakable . . . The earth bare no corn; you might as well
"Anlo-Saxon Chronicle."—Bohn's Edition.
But, if misery and desolation are the natural fruits of the natural instincts of mankind, how has the prosperity of Europe steadily advanced in spite of the enemy to it which nature seems to have planted in every man's heart? How has the predatory spirit been transformed into the industrial and commercial spirit? Under what conditions are individual efforts exerted, for the most part, for the general good? These are the chief problems solved in Adam Smith's "Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations." He has been careful to point out that "the interests of individuals and particular orders of men, far from being always coincilent with, are frequently opposed to, the interests of the public;" and he observes that "all for themselves and nothing for other people, seems to have been, in every age, the vile maxin of the masters of mankind." The
The treatise on the Wealth of Nations is, therefore, not to be regarded, as it was by Mr. Buckle, as a demonstration of the public benefit of private selfishness. Adam Smith denies neither the existence nor the value of higher motives to exertion. The springs of industry are various. Domestic affection, public spirit, the sense of duty, inherent energy and intellectual tastes, make busy workmen, as well as personal interest. And personal interest is itself a phrase for many different motives and pursuits, deserving the name of selfishness or not according to their nature and degree; just as wealth under a single term in eludes many things of very different moral quality, according to their character and use. The aims of men in life may be high or low; they may seek for riches of very different kinds and for very different purposes. This paper was written before the publication of M. de Lavergne's Essay, De l' Accord de l' Economic Politique et de la Religion, in the Revue des Deux Mondes of the 15th of November last. It may not be out of place, however, to notice here a misconception, as the present writer thinks, which runs through that essay. Political economy and religion are, according to M. de Lavergne, though essentially distinct, related to each other as the soul and body are. Wealth, he says, means food, clothes, and houses; and religion, though it treats of higher things, does not teach that men should be left to perish of hunger and cold. Political economy has for its special end the satisfaction of the bodily wants, and religion that of the spiritual wants of man. M. de Lavergne seems to have been led astray by the economic use of general terms, such as material wealth, material interests, and material progress. For wealth is not really or properly limited in political economy to such things as satisfy the bodily or material wants of humanity. It comprehends many things, the use of which is to minister to man's intellectual and moral life, but which have, notwithstanding, a price or value. Books, for example, as well as bread and meat, are wealth. Spiritual and other instructors are paid for as well as butchers and doctors. Wealth means, in fact, many different things, more or less material or immaterial, in different ages and countries. The highest kinds of wealth will be found where there is most general freedom for the development of the highest powers of humanity, and where no class have a licence for the gratification of their selfish passions at the expense of any other class.
The system, therefore, which is most subversive of the doctrines of political economy, as taught by Adam Smith, is that most selfish of all possible systems—slavery. The political economist must condemn it as loudly as the moralist. It attacks the life of industry, and prevents the existence of exchange. It robs the labourer of his patrimony; it robs those who would hire him in the market of their lawful profits; and it is a fraudulent abstraction from the general wealth of nations, the quantity and quality of which depend upon the degree of industrial liberty secured to every individual throughout the world for the exercise of his highest powers. Of the property of the slaveholder in the industry of his slaves, the paradox, An American apologist for slavery invokes Political Economy on the side of the "domestic institution," in the following terms:—"Would it not be better that each—Great Britain and the Slave States of America—should go on in the career which they are now following, and (acting upon that fundamental principle of Political Economy which commands nations to develop their own resources at home, to sell where they can realize the greatest profit, and to buy where they can buy the cheapest) content themselves with their present prosperity, instead of seeking a doubtful prosperity from the destruction of the prosperity of others" ( Paper read before the British Association at Cambridge, by Mr. H. D. Macleod. "The definition of Political Economy is the science of exchanges or of values . . . The general conception of wealth is exchangeability. Hence, if Political Economy is the science of wealth, it must be the science of the exchangeable relation of quantities. . . . Exchanges form the domain of economic science. . . . The whole body of exchanges which take place within a country, and with foreign countries, constitute what the majority of economists now hold to be pure economic science."— "Principles of Political Economy." By J. S. Mill. Fifth Edition, "Logical Method of Political Economy." By J. G. Cairnes, Professor of Political Economy in the University of Dublin. The "Wealth of Nations" contains the substance of the last division of a complete course of lectures upon moral science, in which Adam Smith expounded, in succession, Natural Theology, Ethics, Jurisprudence, and Political Economy. His lectures on Jurisprudence have not survived; but his pupil Dr. Millar states, that "he followed in them the plan suggested by Montesquieu, endeavouring to trace the gradual progress of jurisprudence from the rudest to the most refined ages, and to point out the effect of those arts which contribute to subsistence and to the accumulation of property, in producing corresponding improvements or alterations in law and government." From this it is clear that his conception of the true scope and method of jurisprudence agreed with his conception of the true scope and method of economic inquiry. "It is a mistake," says another high authority, "to suppose that the African is by nature idle and indolent, less inclined to work than the European. He who has witnessed, as I have, their indefatigable and provident industry, will be disposed to overrate rather than underrate the activity of the negro and his love of labour."— The following statement, affording evidence as to the character, capacity, and enterprise of the negroes, is contained in a letter to the writer of this paper from one of the principal English residents in Victoria, the capital of Vancouver's Island. It formed part of a general description of the Colony, furnished without any reference to the question of slavery:—"Before the gold excitement, but during the same year (la propriété c'est le vol, is a literal truth according to political economy as well as common morality, and as regards not only the slaves, but the whole commercial world.The South Vindicated, p. 127). Great Britain does, undoubtedly, owe her present prosperity to her obedience to that fundamental principle of Political Economy which commands nations to develop their resources at home by freeing domestic industry from every fetter. It would have been happy for the Southern States of America had they been content with a similar prosperity, instead of "seeking a doubtful advantage by the destruction of the prosperity of others."Abstract from Mr. Macleod's Paper in the Parthenon, November 1, 1862The West Indies as they Were and as they Are. Edinburgh Review, April, 1859l. to 40l. a month from rents. They are industrious, economical, and intend to make the colony their permanent home; the outskirts of the town are well sprinkled with their humble but neat dwellings, and their land is yearly increasing in value. By this showing they are a quiet, industrious, and law-abiding people; but there is a drawback, taking them altogether as citizens, which arises from their earnest desire to be on a perfect social equality with the whites at church, the theatre, concerts, and other public places of assembly. When you consider the strong disinclination for their company, not only of our large American population, but also of Englishmen, who very quickly imbibe the American prejudice, you can readily conceive that a number of disagreeable scenes occur.
In the Slave States of America Mr. Buckle might have seen the economical results of a society based upon selfishness instead of justice. The negro shows elsewhere, as we have seen, his capacity to take his part in the free division of labour, and the consequent multiplication of the productions of the different arts, which occasions, in the words of Adam Smith, in a well-governed society that
Mr. Hopkins, in his introduction to "The South Vindicated," puts the total free population of the Southern States at 6,300,000. The number of free "families" he puts at 1,114,687, of which 345,239 own slaves. He then asks what becomes of the 5,000,000 whites referred to by Mr. Cairnes as "too poor to own slaves"? Mr. Hopkins, however, has taken his figures from the census of The South Vindicated.
Once it was the prayer of every planter that slavery might soon cease to degrade his habitation. Now the
Slavery and Secession, by T. Ellison, 2nd Ed., pp. xvi. xviii. The South Vindicated, p. 82.Times perhaps, but in defiance of English humanity? It is strange that those who fear a powerful commercial Republic in the North should have no fear of a powerful military Republic in the South. But no reasonable Englishman who has read Mr. Cairnes's Essay can doubt that the latter is the Power to be really dreaded by England, or can wish otherwise, for the sake of his country and for the sake of humanity, than that the Southern States should only separate as defeated, straitened, and impotent for future conquests over human happiness and prosperity.
It has been said that we moderns have lost as much by the discontinuance of the system of bodily exercise of the ancients as we have gained by our knowledge of physiological science. This is one of the aphorisms which men are never weary of repeating, but which will not stand criticism.
No price can be set upon our knowledge of physiological science; no estimate can be formed of its value; scarcely any of its extent. The extent, the importance, and the value of the system of bodily exercise practised by the Greeks and Romans we can appraise exactly—can gauge with almost mathematical accuracy, because we know entirely of what it consisted, and for what purpose it was organized and maintained. We can therefore tell, by a comparison of the want experienced with the thing produced to meet the want, if the object desired were accomplished.
But how can we do this? By what agency is this power placed in our hands? Chiefly, if not wholly, by physiological science, which has revealed to us what exercise is, and what its suitable administration can accomplish in the human frame.
It is generally admitted that this system of bodily training—unguided, undirected as it was by a ray of science deserving of the name—accomplished the object desired. How did they who framed it, thus groping in the dark, grapple with and hold fast by the truth? By the observation of results. Let no one undervalue this source of information: it gives the seal to all experimental knowledge; it confirms or refutes all theories.
This was the lamp which guided the ancients in the selection of the exercises which formed their system of bodily training. They observed that the strength of the body, or of any part of the body, was in relation to its muscular development, and that this development followed upon, and was in relation to, its activity or employment. They did not know that man's material frame was composed of innumerable atoms, and that each separate and individual atom had its birth, life, and death, and that the strength of the body as a whole, and of each part individually, was in relation to the youth or newness of its atoms. And they did not know that this strength was consequently attained by, and was retained in relation to, the frequency with which these atoms were changed, by shortening their life, and hastening their removal and their replacement by others, and that, whenever this was done by natural activity, by suitable employment, there was ever an advance-in size and power until the ultimate attainable point of development was reached. They simply observed that the increased bulk, strength, and energy of the organ or limb were in relation to the amount of its employment, and they gave it employment accordingly.
They must have observed, however, that this did not apply in equal degree to all kinds of muscular employment, and that it applied most directly to those where the action was rapid and sustained. They did not know that this rapidity of muscular contraction and expansion was the chief agent in quickening the circulation of the blood, from which the whole body derived its nourishment—the tide on which was brought up all fresh material for incorporation into its tissues, and on which was borne away all that was effete and waste—brought up and borne away most rapidly in those parts which were being most rapidly employed; for they did not know that the blood was a moving
But they must have observed, also, that there was a form of physical employment which did not give physical development, or yield its natural fruits of health and strength; and that was the slight, effortless occupations of many arts, callings, and crafts. They did not know that without resistance to be overcome there could be no full demand for muscular contraction, no full call therefore for material disintegration and renewal, with proportionate increase in bulk and power. They simply observed that development was in relation to the quality as well as to the quantity of exercise—that, where energy was exacted in the practice, energy was the fruit of the practice; so, for their system, they selected exercises where energy was voluntarily called forth in the highest possible degree.
Other essential constituents of exercise owed their recognition to the same source—the observation of results. They observed that during certain kinds of physical exertion the act of breathing became greatly affected, that each inspiration was larger in volume, and that each followed each in quicker succession than when the body was inactive. This they must have observed, although they may have viewed it but as a drawback to physical ability, a hindrance to be overcome, or in the same light in which our schoolboys now view it—as a condition of "bad wind" or "internal fat": for they could not know that, in every breath they breathed, a load of the wasted material of the body was given up by be blood, and its place supplied by the life-giving oxygen from the surrounding atmosphere; and that just in proportion to the rapidity and energy of the muscular movement was the rapidity and volume of the current of blood rushing through the lungs, and that therefore, for this current of blood to be a rated, proportionately large and proportionately rapid must be the current of the air respired. They, probably, simply observed that the power to sustain this accelerated process of respiration was obtained in proportion as the exercises which excited it were practised; so exercises which required the sustaining of accelerated breathing received an important position in their system.
They must have observed, further, that energetic physical exertion and quickened respiration caused the skin to be suffused with moisture, and that this gave instant relief from a discomforting sense of heat. They did not know that this augmented heat was in a great measure caused by the accelerated breathing—the fanning of the fire which is ever burning in the living frame; and they did not know that this moisture was water drawn from the blood and poured out over the skin's surface, in order that the discomforting heat might be with it eliminated. They did not know that the skin itself was a covering of marvellously woven network, presenting millions of interstices and apertures, and that each of these apertures was the open débouche or outlet of a duct or tube that, striking deep its convoluted roots among the underlying strata of bloodvessels, separated from their accelerated currents what might prove injurious to the health of the body, and poured it forth through these myriad mouths. But they observed that these skin-exudations proved a powerful aid in the acquisition of permanent health and strength, and notably so to the health, elasticity, purity, and beauty of the skin itself. So, without exception, every exercise in their system is of that kind which readily contributes to this result.
Finally, they must have observed, that just in proportion to the amount of clothing worn during exercise were the processes of respiration and the evaporation of this moisture from the skin retarded. They did not know the structure or functions of either lungs or skin; still they saw that they both acted together, were stimulated to ac-
Thus, then, by the observation of results alone were the ancients guided with sufficient accuracy in the comprehension of the chief features, and in the estimation of the relative value, of certain modes of bodily exercise; and thus were they enabled to choose, on assured grounds, those exercises which were most suitable for the system which they desired to organize. They desired a system specially applicable to individual culture, individual exertion, individual excellence, individual distinction—a system which should cultivate personal courage, presence of mind, and decision—a system possessing the utmost limit for individual effort, presenting the fullest opportunities for personal display and personal distinction. Therefore was the hand laid upon all exercises of high competitive effort—wrestling, boxing, throwing the discus, racing on foot, on horseback, and in chariot. The System is as simple, as practical, and as serviceable as the Roman sword.
But in those days, as in our own, there must have been men of unsound constitution and imperfect growth, from original weakness of organization, or from illness, ignorance, neglect, accident and other causes. What system of bodily training was framed for their behoof? None. Here the observation of results was unequal to the requirement. They could reach no higher, they aimed no higher, than the production of a series of athletic games, suitable to the young, the brave, the active, the strong, the swift, and the nobly-born.
Our knowledge of physiological science is something more valuable than this. A system of bodily exercise which should give added strength to the strong, increased dexterity to the active, speed to the already swift of foot, is not what is alone wanted now. It is not to give the benefit of our thoughts and observations, and the fruit of our accumulating information, to the already highly favoured, and to them only, that we aim. On the contrary, it is the crowning evidence of the divine origin of all true knowledge, that, in benefiting all within its influence, it benefits most bountifully those whose wants are the greatest. It must have been the strong conviction of the value of this attribute of knowledge—so strong that it seared and scorched where it should have radiated genial light and warmth—that warped the judgment and overheated the imagination of Ling, the enthusiast Swede, when he gave the freewill offering of a laborious life to the preparation of a system of bodily exercise in its main characteristics suitable to the invalid only.
With the perseverance peculiar to the possessor of a new idea or of an unique and all-absorbing object of study—a quality which often outstrips Genius in the race of usefulness—he laboured, unwearied and unrelaxing, elaborating and exemplifying the principles of his system of Free Exercises. Accepting that exercise is the direct source of bodily strength, and that exercise consists of muscular movement, he therefore conceived that movement—mere motions—if they could be so systematized that they could be made to embrace the whole muscular system, would be sufficient for the full development of the bodily powers. Carrying out this principle still farther, and extending its operation to those who, from physical weakness, are incapable of executing these movements of themselves, he argued that Passive exercise might be obtained—that is, exercise by the assistance of a second person or operator, skilfully manipulating, or moving in the natural manner of its voluntary muscular action, the limb or part of the body to which it is desired the exercise should be administered.
That this last application of his theory
him the chicken too. Such exercises are but a mockery—but a tantalization—to the great requirements of a healthy individual—soldier or civilian, child or man.
Nevertheless, this system, incomplete, inadequate as it was, possessed The Central Academy of Gymnastics at Stockholm was instituted in one of the essentials of exercise; and therefore, as soon as it was instituted, good sprang from it, and good report was heard of it; and, after much disheartening delay, and many rude official rebuffs, Ling saw it accepted by his country.
The echo of this good report was heard in Germany; and Prussia, eager to avail herself of every agent which could strengthen her army, adopted it, with some additions and limitations, to form a part of the training of her recruits. But, going even beyond Ling, the supporters of the Prussian system maintain that a few carefully selected movements and positions alone are sufficient for the development of the human frame; and, "simplicity" being the object chiefly held in view, this system aims merely at giving a few exercises, these to be executed "with great precision." There is no change in any art or branch of science, custom, or usage, common to ancient and modern times, so great as in these systems of bodily exercise The ancient was all for the cultivation of individual energy, individual strength, individual courage; the modern aims at giving to a number of men, acting in concert, the lifeless, effortless precision of a well-directed machine.
And yet this precision of movement, tedious as it must be to the performers, has its charm to the spectator, and I have heard it loudly lauded: "It is so simple;—a few exercises, and those executed with the most clocklike regularity;—no tours de force." Why, what are tours de force ? Something hard, something difficult for a man to aim at, to work at, to struggle for, to take pride and pleasure in? Every exercise, however simple, is a tour de force to the learner until he can do it; and, if the system of exercises be properly graduated, the hardest exercise should be no harder to the learner, when he arrives at it, than was the first attempt in his first lesson.
But the Prussian soldier's period of service is so short (three years), that every agent to hasten his efficiency must be seized; and it has been found necessary to provide means, in the shape of large buildings resembling riding-schools, in which drill may be carried on throughout the year. And, as this Gymnastic system is viewed but as drill, aims but at being drill, it is in winter carried on in these buildings,—the few articles of apparatus employed, for the sake of the advantages which they specialty offer to the soldier, being erected in a corner of them. And this continuity of practice increases manifold whatever good it can yield; and thus, although meagre and inadequate, its fruits are valuable. It is found that no other form of drill so rapidly converts the recruit into the trained soldier, and the greatest import-
The Central School of Gymnastics was first established in Berlin in
There is a general impression that this system forms the basis of the French. It would be difficult to make a greater mistake; for not only have they, either in principle or practice, nothing in common, but in many respects they are the very antitheses of each other. So far from the boasted "simplicity" of the Prussian system, and the desire to limit it to "a few exercises to be executed with great precision," being adopted by the French, they have elaborated their system to such an extent, that it is difficult to say where it begins or where it ends; or to tell, not what it does, but what it does not embrace. For quite apart from, and in addition to, an extended range of exercises with and without apparatus, it embraces all defensive exercises with bayonet, sword, stick, foil, fist, and foot—swimming, dancing, and singing—reading, writing, and arithmetic, if not the use of the globes. The soldier is taught to throw bullets and bars of iron; he is taught to walk on stilts, and on pegs of wood driven into the ground; he is taught to push, to pull, and to wrestle; and, although the boxing which he is taught will never enable him to hit an adversary, he is taught manfully to hit himself, first on the right breast, then on the left, and then on both together with both hands at once; and, though last, not least, he is taught to kick himself behind—of which performance I have seen Monsieur as proud as if he were ignominiously expelling an invader from the "sol sacré" of La belle France. Now, I know no reason why a soldier should not be taught all these acquirements, and I know many important reasons why he should be taught some of them; but it would be difficult to assign any reason, either important or particular, why they should be called Gymnastics, or included in a system of bodily training.
The fundamental idea of the French system is sound, for it embodies that of preparation and application: it is primarily divided into two parts—Exercices Elementaires, and Exercices d' Application. The first of these, designed to be a preparation and prelude to the instruction and practice on the fixed apparatus, begins with a long series of exercises of movement and position, propres à l'assouplissement. "What is this all-important process of "assouplissement"—this idea, shared at home as well a3 abroad, of the necessity of suppling a man before strengthening him? What is it to supple a man? What parts of him are affected by the process, and what change do they undergo? It would be very desirable to have these questions answered, because the phrase is, I fear, sometimes made to cover a multitude of sins.
To ascertain the full meaning of a word or phrase, it is sometimes useful, first, to ascertain its opposite or antithesis; and the opposite of to be supple is, I think, to be stiff. If any one is in doubt as to what that means, let him take a day's ride on a hired hack along a country road, or, for the space of a working day, perch himself upon an office-stool, and the results will be identical and indubitable—stiffness in the column of the body and in the lower limbs. And why? Because each and every part so affected has been employed in a manner in opposition to its natural laws. The joints, which are made for motion—which retain their power of motion only by frequent motion—have been held motionless. The muscles, which move the joints by the contraction and relaxation of their fibres, have been subjected to an unvaried preservation of the one state or the other—the muscles of the trunk in unremitting contraction, those of the limbs in effortless relaxation. Now, one of the most important of the laws which govern muscular action is, that it shall be exerted but for a limited continuous space, and that, unless the relaxation of the muscles shortly follows upon their contraction, fatigue will arise as readily, and to as great an extent, from want of this necessary interruption to contraction as from extent of effort. And,
i.e., exhaustion: each has had one only of the two essential conditions of muscular action. The stiffness in the trunk of the body is caused by the ceaseless contraction of the muscles, and this state is not conducive to the rapid local circulation indispensable to the reproduction of the force expended. The opposite phase of stiffness, arising from continuous muscular relaxation, is the immediate result of causes which may be called negative—the non-requirement of nervous stimulus, the non-employment of muscular effort, entailing subdued local circulation.
The second cause of this stiffness in the trunk of the body and limbs is, that the joints have been held motionless. Viewing the joints in the familiar light of hinges, we know that when these are left unused and unoiled for any length of time, they grate, and creak, and move stiffly; and the hinges of the human body do just the same thing, and from the same cause; and they not only require frequent oiling to enable them to move easily, but they are oiled every time they are put in motion, and when they are put in motion only: the membrane which secretes this oil, and pours it forth over the opposing surfaces of the bones and the overlying ligaments, is stimulated to activity only by the motion of the joint. And, like the rest of the body, the membrane itself is preserved in functional vigour only by frequent functional activity.
But, it may be argued, stiffness may arise from extreme physical exertion which has embraced both conditions of muscular action, with frequent motion of the joints—stiffness such as a man may experience after a day of unwonted exercise. The stiffness in this case, also, is simply temporary local exhaustion of power from extreme effort: the demand suddenly made has been greater than the power to supply—the waste greater than the renewal.
Therefore, stiffness is, first, a want of contractile power in the muscles which move the joints; and, secondly, a want of power in the joints; to be moved. It may be temporary stiffness, arising from exhaustion of the parts by extreme or unnatural action, as in the illustrations just given; or it may be permanent stiffness, arising from weakness of the parts, caused by insufficient or unsuitable exercise; but the nature of both are identical. It is a lack of functional ability in the parts affected.
To supple a man therefore is, first, to increase the contractile power of his muscles; and, secondly, to increase the mobility of his joints. And as the latter are moved by the former—can only be moved by the former—all application for this purpose should be made through them.
Now, it has already been shewn that mere movements and positions are altogether inadequate materially to develop the muscular system—materially to add to its contractile power: and there is a still greater drawback than mere insufficiency in their effect upon the joints; and that is in the danger of straining and otherwise weakening the inelastic ligamentary bindings, and galling or bruising the opposing surfaces of the bones. For every effort of mere position has the simple and sole effect of stretching that which, from its organic structure, object, and place in the human body, is not stretchable—is not intended to yield. To recapitulate: All exercises of mere position act directly on the joints, instead of acting on them through the muscles. Such exercise is, therefore, addressed to the wrong part of the body: it is addressed to the joint, when it should be addressed to that which moves the joint. It is the old and exploded treatment of disease revived for the treatment of an abnormal physical condition—subduing the symptoms instead of waging war with the cause.
I should consider the extension-motions, as practised in our army, as the limit to which this mode of exertion should be carried;—I mean where the movements and positions are given as exercise in themselves, and not merely
bonâ fide exercises yet to be learned, and thus practised separately for the facility and safety of acquisition.
It is also said that these exercises of movement and position have the effect of "opening the chest." That they do promote its expansion is undoubtedly the case, but it is so to a very limited extent only—quite incommensurate with the time and labour of instruction and practice. Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.
The other exercises in this first division of the French system—even if they were valuable, even if they were capable of being classified under any distinct head, or arranged in any progressive order, or admitted of graduated instruction and practice—are entirely out of place here, because from their nature they court and incite to inordinate effort It needs no argument to prove the inconsistency of directing that men, sitting or standing, hand to hand or foot to foot, singly or in batches, shall strain and strive against men, lift cannon-shot and hold them at arm's length "as long as possible," Instruction pour l'enseignement de la Gymnastique dans les corps de troupes et dans les etablissements militaires. Paris,
Of what use, then, is this preparatory course—this elaborate system of preparation, for the bodies and limbs of full-grown men, of soldiers—for exercises on apparatus which an English schoolboy might be led to in his first lesson? It is simply of no use at all. I do not, of course, mean to say that all its exercises are valueless; but I do affirm, as plainly as I can get words to express my meaning, that an elaborate series of initiatory exercises like these, for men youthful in frame and sound in wind and limb, is absolutely and entirely a mistake. Nay, more: this preparatory course, as a whole, is a flat and self-evident contradiction; for many of its exercises are in themselves immeasurably harder to execute—immeasurably more liable to excite to over-exertion in their performance, than many of the most advanced exercises on the fixed apparatus to which these are presumed to be preparatory. And certain of them, such as the lifting and throwing of weights, and pushing and pulling of man against man, as they admit of the most stimulating and exciting form of emulation, if retained at all, should be brought in at the very close of' the practice.
The Exercises of Progression, although they belong to the second division, may be noticed here. The Leaping is excellent, in all its forms and in all its modes of practice and application, but the Walking and Running are strikingly absurd. Let the reader judge.
At the "double" or in running, the men are advised to breathe through the "nostrils only, keeping the mouth shut." That is, while the blood is driven with redoubled speed through the lungs, and the lungs are consequently excited to extraordinary activity—inhaling and expiring air in larger quantity and with greater rapidity in order to meet this sudden demand—they are directed to close as much as possible the aperture through which this air is to be admitted. Now, perhaps the first thing which strikes an Englishman in watching the natural action of Deerfoot while running, is his open mouth and hanging jaw: the very throat seems held open, giving a free passage from lip to lung. Again: "In "the moderate and quick cadence the "foot comes flat to the ground, the "point of the foot touching it first; in "the running cadence it is an alternate "hopping on the points of the feet." It would be difficult for a clever man to invent anything more utterly opposed to the natural structure of the lower limbs, or of their natural action in these modes of progression, than the instructions here given; which are, indeed, only to be defended by the Irish "rule of
The second division of the system, consisting of applied or practical exercises (Exercices d'Application) embraces a very extended series, to be executed on a wide range of apparatus; and it may be fairly stated that all these exercises are valuable in either an elementary or a practical aspect—that is, either as they are calculated to cultivate the physical resources of the man, or as they may be applied to the professional duties of the soldier. I repeat, that the exercises of this division of the system are intrinsically valuable in one or other of these aspects; but it must ever be viewed as a grave error, that, so far from the special aspect of each being designated—so far from their being separated and grouped, each under its proper head—they are all retained under one head, under the single designation of Practical Gymnastics.
The evil which naturally and inevitably springs from this want of arrangement is the undue importance which it gives to all exercises of a merely practically useful character, above those whose object is the training and strengthening of the body. This is emphatically the case in the earlier stages of the practice, where the whole attention of the instructor should be devoted to the giving, and the whole effort of the learner should be devoted to the acquiring, of bodily power. Increase the physical resources first, and the useful application will follow as a matter of course. A pair of strong limbs will walk north as well as south—uphill as well as down dale: the point is to get the strong limbs.
Let not this principle of classification be undervalued. The question of "What's the good of it when I've done it?" is one not unheard in the Gymnasium, and one not always easy to answer; for, even could you be at all times ready with a physiological explanation of motive, process, and result, your questioner is not always a man who could understand it, and the difficulty is increased manifold when the exercise questioned has place among others of the practical value of which there can be no question. But such classification gives at once the answer: "It is of no use at all as a thing "acquired; but, if you should never do it, "or see it done again in all your life to "come, it has served its purpose; for "you are altered, you are improved, "you are strengthened by the act and "effort of learning it." It is not every eye that can detect the crystal concealed in the pebble. Therefore, in every military system the principle should be carefully recognised from the outset that there are two distinct kinds of exercises: the one of an elementary character, which have for nature and object to develop the physical powers—to do this without reference to any other object; and the other of a practical character, having for aim to teach the soldier to overcome material obstacles and difficulties, similar to those which he would be likely to encounter in the performance of his professional duties—each kind of exercise standing on its own merits.
It is to the want of this principle in the French system that we may, in all probability, look for the reason why a number not exceeding 25 per cent, of the learners attain to the performance of the more advanced exercises, whilst a considerable proportion fail even to reach those of medium difficulty. And it is undoubtedly one of the chief causes why this system has the effect of cultivating activity, dexterity, and what is called "nimbleness," without in any corresponding degree increasing the physical resources as regards strength, vigour, and constitutional endurance.
But this classification has another advantage. If the work of the Gymnasium is to be intelligently sustained, the main features at least of the system, with as many of the minor ones as may
But men so intelligent as those who are entrusted with the administration of the French system have perceived the propriety of a special application of the exercises practised at the close of the course of instruction. And, therefore, to the bonâ fide exercises of the system are added certain practices, in which the men are employed in "storming works, and in undergoing an examination of their general proficiency."
Such is the French System:—a system of bodily exercises, but not a system of bodily training; based on, in many respects, erroneous principles of physical culture; yet productive of great benefit, physically and morally, to the soldier: with much that is useless, much that is frivolous, much that is misplaced and misapplied, and much that has no claim whatever to be admitted into any system of bodily exercise, military or civil; yet, upon the whole, national in tone and spirit, and, as has been proved by the avidity with which it is practised, not unsuited for the men for whom it has been organized. The French system of Gymnastic Exercises was organized in
In pointing out the errors, shortcomings, and inconsistencies of these systems, it will have been apparent that they all spring from one cause—the absence of any clear theory of exercise itself, of any clear comprehension of what it is, of what changes it effects in the human frame, or of its mode of accomplishing them. It is now many years since I was impressed with this conviction; for, before the formal adoption of either of the two last-mentioned systems by their respective Governments, the elements of which they are composed were known and irregularly practised. I was impressed with the conviction that, until this were done—until a theory of exercise based upon a knowledge of the structure and functions of the body, and in perfect accordance with the laws which govern its growth and development, were formed—no system of bodily culture deserving of the name could be established.
A military system of bodily training should be so comprehensive, that it should be adapted to all stages of the professional career of the soldier.
It should take up the undeveloped frame of the young recruit as he is brought to the depot, and be to him, in all respects, a system of culture—a system gradual, uniform, and progressive—a continual rise from the first exercise to the last, in which every exercise has its individual and special use, its individual and appropriate place, which none other could fill in the general system:—exercises which will give elasticity to his limbs, strength to his muscles, mobility to his joints, and above all, and with infinitely greater force than all, which will promote the expansion of those parts of the body, and stimulate to healthful activity those organs of the body, whose
But while, as experience has fully shown me, three months' training at this period of life is equal to six in any aftertime—by taking the body at a time when its susceptibilities for improvement are at the highest, and thereby giving an impetus, a momentum, to its development not obtainable at any other—yet, as the great bulk of our army is posted in inattractive camps or quartered in large cities, where incentives to idleness and temptations to dissipation are, to men in their position, both numerous and strong, therefore the system should be equally suitable in its higher grades to the trained soldier—should be a system which will ensure regular and unbroken practice at all times and in all seasons, and which, taking into consideration the amount and distribution of the time available for the purpose, should make that serviceable which is now wasted. And then, but not till then, should the practical application begin—an exposition earnest, ample, and varied, which will shew him how every article of commonest use may be utilized on emergencies to important purposes; how obstacles of every form and character may be surmounted, and how burdens of every size and shape and weight may be borne; which will shew him also—and he will now see without much showing—how every exercise in the system has added something to this end, contributed something to this attainment, twofold in its character, single in its object—to strengthen the man in order to perfect the soldier.
For all these reasons the system should be national; that is, it should be real, it should be rational, it should be manly. Real—that is, they should be exercises indeed, and not in name only; rational—that is, befitting the soldier, befitting his age, his health, his strength, his position and purpose in life; manly—that is, such as a man may be proud of doing, with plenty of room for winning and losing distinction, and only fair play to decide. An Englishman could no more be brought to practise the aimless formalities of the Prussian system and call it exercise, than he could be expected to practise the elementary exercises of the French (which begin with spinning the head round and round, as a clown does in a pantomime, and end with the "Danse Pyrrhique"—Anglicé "Cobblers' Dance,") and retain his self-respect.
These are the principles which I have held in view while preparing the system of exercise now being introduced into our army as rapidly as is desirable, indeed possible, under the direction of a Commander-in-Chief whose care knows no limit for the wellbeing and efficiency of the soldier. I have thought it practicable to produce a system of bodily culture on strictly scientific principles, with a spirit of this manly character pervading it and giving tone to all its rules. For it is of the very essence of our organization that health and strength shall be owned, won and held in the highest degree, by him whose daily life is most directly regulated by those qualities which we call manly, which we call English. The system itself should shew the mens sana in corpore sano.
An obvious effect of the kindness which had been interchanged between Signor Onofrio and Vincenzo during their respective illnesses, was a fresh growth of friendship and intimacy, which made each more desirous of the company of the other—a desire, however, not so easily realized, considering the unintermiting occupations of both, which left than but little leisure for visits. Onofrio had more than once urged Vincenzo, since the latter's return to Turin, to come and live with him; a very tempting proposal to the student, which he had, however, bravely withstood, out of good will, or, we might say, compassion to Signor Francesco and Co., whose circumstances were just then at the lowest ebb.
But, when Signor Francesco's establishment went to the dogs—which it did in the beginning of that year
Vincenzo had not been quite two months with Signor Onofrio, when he received a letter which set his head working like a windmill. It was from the Signor Avvocato, and said briefly:—
"If not absolutely impossible, pray start on the receipt of this, and come to me. I have something particular to say; I require advice and help. I shall not detain thee longer than four-and-twenty hours. If you leave Turin immediately on getting my letter, you will arrive at Ibella by the five o'clock train, p.m. Giuseppe shall be waiting at the station with the chaise.
"Thy affectionate Godfather.
"P.S.—No one is ill."
Vincenzo left word for Signor Onofrio where he had gone, and put himself immediately en route. It was the first time he was thus summoned from his studies. The business which called for this innovation must be important and pressing indeed. What could it be? A proposal of marriage for Miss Rose from Del Palmetto? But if so, even admitting that his advice was wished for, which was going almost beyond the limits of probability, what help could he be expected to give, what help could he give in such a matter? No, it could not be that. Some difference with the Marquis perhaps? Most unlikely. Del Palmetto was far too solicitous to please father and daughter to admit of that conjecture. Some quarrel with Barnaby? ah, that must be it. With that absurd head of his, no telling what scrape the old man might not have floundered into himself, dragging his master after him—and to get out of this scrape something had to be done or undone, towards the doing or undoing of which Vincenzo's assistance was in some manner needed—probably by using his influence with the obstinate old fellow to do or undo. But no; neither could that be. Rose's ascendancy over Barnaby was far more potent than that of Vincenzo; and what was the use
The revolving of these and other hypotheses, no sooner accepted than rejected, served at least to beguile the way. Giuseppe was at the station with the chaise, and drove off at a smart pace. Vincenzo was too discreet to ask the driver any questions beyond the usual ones as to the health of the family, and Giuseppe was too prudent and little talkative by his nature to volunteer any information or guesses of his own, supposing he had any, on private matters. The day was on the wane when Vincenzo alighted at the gate of the palace. There was some one crouching on the terrace wall opposite. Taking it for granted that it was Barnaby, Vincenzo was going to call to him, though unable to identify him at that distance, when he heard his own name pronounced from above. "Is that you, Vincenzo?" The young man rushed up stairs like lightning, and met his godfather on the landing.
"How do you do?" said the Signor Avvocato, as Vincenzo kissed his hand, as he had been used to do from childhood; "very kind of you to set off directly; I knew you would; come in, my boy," and he led the way to his sanctum sanctorum, his musical retreat. "We shall be more private here; sit down—not there, take the easy chair; you must be tired—no? so much the better, wish I could say as much for myself; and yet I have scarcely set foot out of doors these two days; walking up stairs puts me so much out of breath. I am breaking, my boy, I am."
This assumption was not new in the Signor Avvocato's mouth, any more than Vincenzo's mode of meeting it with a sonorous laugh of incredulity.
"If all breaking constitutions were like yours, physicians and apothecaries would have to seek a new trade. Come, come, my dear sir, you feel a little nervous and weak; who does not occasionally? If I am not mistaken, you have had of late some cause of uneasiness."
"You may say so," cried the elderly gentleman, with an emphatic burst of self-commiseration, "and from the very quarter upon which I had relied for support and consolation. But I am very selfish;—you must be hungry, I am sure."
Vincenzo protested he was not.
"Have a crust of bread and a glass of wine in the meantime till supper is ready."
Vincenzo again protested he was not hungry, and preferred waiting for supper. He was on thorns to know what had gone wrong at the palace.
"Well, then," resumed the Signor Avvocato, "I may as well tell you the doleful story at once. Here it is in two words;" and, dropping his bulky form at ease into the capacious arm-chair, he went on in a more business-like tone, "You know, as indeed everybody knows—lippis et tonsoribus—that for some time past, especially ever since his father's death, young Del Palmetto has been paying—how shall I say?—a good deal of attention to my daughter." (Vincenzo's heart started off at full gallop.) "Nor has it, I dare say, escaped your penetration, that for the last year I have rather encouraged than not, the young man's suit. Yes, the match met all my views and wishes. Federico has all the qualities for making a good son-in-law to me, and an excellent husband to Rose—he has an agreeable exterior, an unimpeachable character, an easy temper, and a most honourable position in the world. I am too much of a philosopher, besides being the son of a self-made man, to lay more stress than it deserves upon a title—still a title spoils nothing. Then he has known her from her cradle, so to say—he has been brought up with her, is familiar with her ways of thinking. He is not rich, to be sure, but that is not his fault—and then, what do I care for a fortune? Rose will have enough for two, thank God. Well, then, to come to the point. Federico, like the honourable man he is, proposed to Rose at the expiration of his mourning; and what did the silly minx do?—refused him flat."
Had not the zone of shadow projected by the screen round the lamp, extended
"Refused him flat!" repeated the old gentleman with increasing animation; "and for what? on grounds too nonsensical for any rational being to listen to vith patience; first, because he is an officer in the army—as if the profession of arms was not, next to the bar, the most honourable—and secondly, that he had boxed her ears when she was a child. Risum teneatis."
'Miss Rose's prejudice against the army," said Vincenzo, in order to say something, "is one of old standing. I remember, as far back as
'Then, I am not the man for that wok," quoth Rose's father; "I have los all patience with the girl. She is so opinionated—has a quiet impermebility to reason quite her own, which
Vincenzo's contention of thoughts and feelings during this earnest appeal challenges description. To undertake the mission, and perform it, whatever it might cost him, was a piece of heroic folly, quite unwarranted by the circumstances—to undertake it, and, while acting up to the letter, fall short of the spirit, was, for one so upright, a moral impossibility. To decline it, and give no special plea for so doing, was to lay himself open to the charge of ingratitude in the present, and to that of equivocation in the future. There remained for him, as the young man conceived, only one honest, though dangerous course, whereby to reconcile his duty to his godfather with the claims of truth—that was to explain his refusal by laying bare his heart Accordingly, he met the sentence with which the Signor Avvocato had ended—"win Rose's consent to this match, and you will have laid me under obligations for life!"—with a passionate, "I cannot—I will not—it is impossible."
"What do you mean? why impossible?" asked the other sternly.
"Because," faltered Vincenzo—"I would a thousand times rather incur your anger than play false with you—because," he wound up firmly, "I love your daughter."
The Signor Avvocato was struck dumb by this announcement. All other feelings for the nonce were swallowed up by one of immense surprise. Had Vincenzo, instead of the handsome, rather abundantly whiskered young fellow of two-and-twenty that he was, had he been a girl, the notion of his loving beautiful Rose could not have taken her father more unawares.
"You love my daughter, sir!" at last gasped the amazed sire, dropping the familiar thou for the more formal you.
Vincenzo bowed his head humbly.
"You are an aspiring youth, by Jove; more aspiring than wise. And so, you have availed yourself of the intimacy I allowed you in my fatherly blindness,
"You wrong me without cause," said Vincenzo steadily, yet respectfully. "I owned to you that I loved your daughter, not that I had made love to her—the word 'Love' has never passed my lips to her since I knew what love was. Ask her; she will tell you."
"Thank you—it only needs that I should set on foot a public inquiry as to what you have done or not done. I believe you. I will do you the justice to say you have always behaved honourably—played fair-with me. I will be above board with you, and tell you in so many words that I have other views for my daughter. I am sorry that you love her, but you shall not have her. You have had your way with me so long, and in every thing, that no aim, it seems, is too high for your hopes."
"My hopes?" repeated Vincenzo dejectedly. "Have I expressed any, sir? Do you know if I ever entertained any? Bear in mind, sir, if you please, that the avowal I have made was not of my own choice. It has been forced from me by an entanglement of perfectly unforeseen circumstances. After what you have told me, could I, with the feelings I have, keep back the truth without duplicity? Put yourself for an instant in my place, sir, and say, would you have acted otherwise?"
"Eh, dear me!" said the Signor Avvocato, fretfully, as he rose from his chair; "you stick to it just as if the admission of its necessity was a cure for every evil. When you have demonstrated mathematically that, by falling in a certain manner, I could not but break my leg, will that remove the smart or the injury? Disappointment upon disappointment in the present, discomfort upon discomfort in the future, that is the consolatory vista your disclosure has opened before me. Discomfort of all kinds for me and for you—because, to begin with, you surely don't expect, things being as they are, I can allow my house to be your home, as I have done up to this day."
"On that, as on all other points, I shall abide by your orders, sir." The words were rather gasped than spoken, and so mournfully, so forlornly, that the Signor Avvocato had a glimmering of the immense sacrifice they implied, and accordingly said, much softened, "I don't give you orders. I am not angry. I only suggest what seems to me best for all parties. It is especially for your sake—to spare your feelings—that I advise a separation, a temporary one of course, only until—at the most, one vacation or two. We'll find some reason—some pretext, I mean—to account for your not coming here as usual. Nobody must suspect, you know—"
"God forbid!" said Vincenzo, energetically; "not for me, but—"
"Of course, of course, I catch your meaning," interrupted the godfather; and this will be the only alteration in our intercourse; as to the rest, nothing is changed; I shall be for you to the last what I have been to this day. Pursue your studies steadily; make yourself a man. The hand which has supported you from a boy will not be withdrawn until you are in a fair way of acting and providing for yourself, and not even then."
Vincenzo's tears were flowing fast. The door burst open, and Barnaby announced supper in as sepulchral a voice as if he had been announcing Doomsday instead. "We are coming," said the master. Barnaby, stiff as a poker, stood rolling his goggle eyes. "We are coming," again said the Signor Padrone. Barnaby did not budge. "You may go," added the master of the house. Barnaby lingered another moment, then turned sharply round and banged the door after him. The Signor Avvocato, his right hand raised in the direction of the door, stood listening to the sound of the retreating steps, and, only when they could no longer be heard, said in a whisper, "For God's sake, not a word to Barnaby!" The accent and look betrayed a real terror.
"Not a word to any living soul!" replied Vincenzo. "Rely on me."
"When do you go back to Turin?' asked the Signor Avvocato.
"To-morrow. I shall be off by break of day."
Rose's greeting of Vincenzo was most cordial, though not unmixed with surprise. She hoped he had come to make some stay. Vincenzo said he much regretted that it was out of his power to do so. He had come on business, and on business he must return. He was not ill, was he; he looked so pale. Vincenzo said he was very well, only he had felt a little chilly on the road. March winds were rather biting. The poor young man strove manfully to look natural, nay, cheerful, a task in which he succeeded tolerably well, save when the thought intruded upon him that this was possibly the last time he should set eyes upon her for God knew how long. Then his face fell, and a knot in his throat made utterance impossible. Rose's father took no pains to conceal his intense preoccupation. He scarcely spoke during the meal, and as soon as it was over left the table. Vincenzo, pleading his dullness, did the same, and took leave of Miss Rose for the night. Godfather and godson exchanged a few parting words and good wishes for the night on the landing; then the former entered his apartment, and Vincenzo went up to the third storey, locked himself into his room, put out the candle, dropped into a chair, and fell into thought—if thought could be called the perpetual revolving of one fixed idea, "Separated for ever."
Anticipating a visit from Barnaby, which he would willingly avoid, Vincenzo had locked himself in, and extinguished the candle, in order to make believe that he was sleeping. Not long after, in fact, there was an attempt from the outside to lift the latch, followed by cautious taps at the door. Vincenzo did not stir—indeed, scarcely dared to breathe. The tapping was renewed with intermissions for nearly half an hour, then it entirely ceased, and Vincenzo, left to himself, jogged on once more on his mental treadmill.
Towards midnight the paroxysm of passon abated a little, and he could think—oh! with what fondness—think on the many happy hours he had spent in that happy Eden, from which he was now expelled; and along with that thought came a gush of passionate thankfulness towards him, to whom, after God, he owed all that blessed time, to whom, in fact, he owed all that he was; and then followed a qualm of remorse at his own late unfeelingness, and a yearning to go and make amends, and pray for pardon. Acting upon this irresistible impulse, the young man lighted his candle, opened the door softly, and stole down to his godfather's apartment. He must be still awake, for there was a light in the bed-room, visible from beneath the door. Vincenzo knocked gently. "Who is that?" called a voice from within.
"It is I," said Vincenzo, opening the door. The Signor Avvocato was sitting up in his bed, his arms crossed over his chest. "What do you want?" said he, somewhat sternly. For all answer Vincenzo threw himself on his knees by the side of the bed, and, burying his head in the coverlid, cried in a voice convulsed with sobs, "Your pity, your forgiveness, your blessing."
There was no resisting the passion of this appeal. The old gentleman put both his arms round the aching head, saying, "I do pity thee; I do forgive thee; do bless thee with all my heart."
"To think that I should give you pain," continued the young man, almost frantic with grief; "I who would willingly die for you, it is too hard, too hard, too hard;" and he swayed his head to and fro without raising it from the bed. Then, suddenly lifting himself up, and staring at his godfather through his tears, "Do you believe me when I say that I would willingly die for you? Do you believe that I do love you with all my heart and soul?"
"I do, I do," answered his godfather, soothingly.
"Indeed, indeed, it has not been my fault; it has grown up with me like a part of my being."
"What, my dear boy?" asked the Signor Avvocato.
"This love, this love," cried the
"Well, well," interrupted the old gentleman, with some embarrassment; "no more of that; better avoid the subject, both for your sake and mine. It is painful and exciting; I am agitated enough as it is. Calm yourself, my dear boy; go and try and sleep. I will do as much on my side; I feel far from well. Let us say no more, and part in the faith of our mutual attachment. Go; good night."
Vincenzo was struck by the worn out expression of the speaker's countenance, and more than that by his look of age. There was no mistaking the fact, the Signor Avvocato had grown quite an old man. The bloom of his once florid complexion was all gone, and there were wrinkles on each side of his mouth, round his eyes, on his forehead, everywhere. Vincenzo was scared by the discovery, and rose to obey. The old face and the young one were once more pressed together in a long and fond embrace, and Vincenzo departed.
He stole quietly to his garret, put the light on the table, and found himself face to face with Barnaby, standing on the other side of it. "So thou art skulking, art thou?" said Barnaby, in his bitterest tones. This was Vincenzo's finishing stroke—the poor fellow, faint already with emotion, dropped into a chair with a groan.
"Why didst thou lock thyself in?" pursued the old man with the look of an inquisitor.
"Some water. I am fainting," faltered Vincenzo. Barnaby pounced on a jug full of water, and kneeling by the youth's side so as to support him, made him drink out of the jug, and bathed his temples. "Poor dear, how white he looks! No wonder; all right in a twinkling; poor clear!" the old man kept murmuring to himself, while with the right hand, now free from the jug, he fondly parted the hair glued to Vincenzo's brow by a cold sweat
"Thank you. I feel much better, thank you," said Vincenzo, reviving.
"Another sip of water," suggested Barnaby in the sweetest of voices, "it will do you good."
"I am now quite well," said Vincenzo, swallowing some more water; "thank you, my good friend, I don't know what has been the matter with me."
"I do," said Barnaby, emphatically.
"Do you?" said Vincenzo, perplexed.
"Yes, I do;" and the old man added in a suppressed shout, "I know everything."
Vincenzo started to his feet in a new terror, grasped Barnaby by the arm, and cried, "If you do, promise that no living soul"—
"Del Palmetto shall not have her," interrupted Barnaby.
"Promise"—
"You shall; that's what I promise."
"Promise," urged Vincenzo.
"She loves you."
Vincenzo wrung his hands. Barnaby, thus set at liberty, jumped to the door, repeated, "She loves you," and vanished into the dark corridor. Vincenzo reached it with the light just in time to hear the click of the lock inside Barnaby's room, and, well knowing the old man's obstinacy, and afraid of being overheard by the Signor Avvocato, who might misinterpret a mysterious-looking communication with Barnaby at that hour, gave up a hopeless and dangerous chase.
Vincenzo spent the rest of the night in a state of agitation, bordering on delirium; stole out of the house at dawn, walked to Ibella, took the earliest train for Turin; and when, by eleven in the morning, he found himself seated in his own room, opposite to the hills overhanging the Po, he wondered whether he had been the sport of a bad dream.
"Well, what news from the country?" asked Signor Onofrio of Vincenzo when they met for dinner. "Far from good, I see by your face. Anybody ill, anybody dead?"
"Thank God, nobody ill—nobody
'There are no hopes so positively deal, as not to be capable of reviving at your age," said Signor Onofrio. "Come, cone, let me feel the pulse of these said hopes, that I may judge if there is not a spark of life in them yet!"
Vicenzo's load of misery was just then so heavy, that he could not resist the temptation of sharing it with a friend; and for the first time in his life the sweet name of Hose passed his lips in connexion with his secret. Signor Onofrio listened sympathetically to be simple tale—then said, "Is money a sne qua non with your godfather in this matter?"
'Not in the least," replied Vincenzo; "he whom he has chosen for his daughter is far from rich—nay, comparatively poor."
'Does the Signor Avvocato hold to birth and rank?"
' No more than is reasonable in the son of a self-made man sprung from the popular classes. His father began Ids carer as a mason."
' If so," resumed Signor Onofrio, "we need not bury our hopes yet; the case is far from desperate. But before going furher, I want a frank reply to a preliminary question;—it is almost ridiculous to put it to a young man in love;
'I don't quite catch your meaning," said Vincenzo.
'I will make it plain to you," said Onofrio. "You know the sort of poor education given to our young women, even up to this day, especially to those belonging to small provincial towns. Tale the most enlightened, the most independent, the most liberal-minded of them all, and, nevertheless, in any mixed matter, such for instance as that of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction, she will blindly follow the direction of a priest—that is to say, of a man who receives his inspiration from Rome. Now Rome is hostile to us, and likely to become more so, the more this little kingdom asserts its civil independence, as it is determined to do. Now you can fully understand my meaning when I ask; Can you foresee no day when this young lady will be on one side, and you on the other of a question—when to do your duty will cost you a severe struggle? More than one of the public men of the day are in such a predicament."
Vincenzo unhesitatingly answered that he could foresee no such day. Miss Rose, he candidly acknowledged, was no exception to the rule laid down by Signor Onofrio. She was prone to defer too much to priestly opinion, or rather had been prone to do so, for, as she had grown older and her judgment ripened, this bias of her mind had sensibly diminished. According to Vincenzo, she possessed an amount of good sense, which only required to be properly directed, to bring forth excellent fruit, and a docility equal to her good sense, which gave ample security for her listening to reason. All this the young man affirmed and re-affirmed, in the fullest belief that he was saying neither more nor less than the truth. Vincenzo was not in love for nothing.
"Supposing this to be so," at last interrupted Signor Onofrio, "and that your godfather attaches no undue weight to birth and fortune, it will be easy to demonstrate to him that a son-in-law of greater promise than Vincenzo Candia it would be difficult for him to secure. Yes—of greater promise—I speak in sober earnest; not for the world would I trifle with you," resumed Signor Onofrio, replying to the young man's deprecatory gesture—"of promise, in the noblest acceptation of the word. I mean as to social distinction, influence, and usefulness—for, as to the emoluments, you will never be enriched from such a source. "We live in a country, God be praised, where a man may hold the first offices of state for years, and leave office as poor as when he entered on it. But now to explain; only premising that what I am going to tell you I have been revolving for some time in
"Twenty-two," answered Vincenzo.
"Well, by the time you are twenty-seven or twenty-eight, you will be fairly launched either in diplomacy or in the Administration; and at thirty, the legal age for being a deputy, the patronage of the Minister, with the interest of your godfather, will secure you a seat in Parliament. Once that accomplished, there is no height to which you may not aspire. Even—if you have the mettle of one in you—even to be Premier! With such prospects, am I right or wrong, in saying that the man must be difficult indeed, who would not be proud of such a son-in-law?"
"I fear," said Vincenzo, blushing, "that after all this is only a brilliant dream conjured up by your friendship for me."
"Only bring a strong will to bear upon it, and, in its main features, the dream will become a reality. To give it quickly somewhat of substance, I shall begin by presenting you to the Minister no later than to-morrow, if the thing be possible. We will see afterwards whether we cannot do something for your father-in-law that is to be. Do you know at what epoch it was that he received his cross of San Maurizio and Lazzaro?"
"He has never had it—has never had any decoration," said Vincenzo.
"What! not the cross of a Knight? Did you not tell me he was a liberal of
"Yes."
"Has he not been once or twice Mayor?"
"Twice, since
"Is he not a man of high character, of considerable landed property, and, besides all that, popular in his district?"
"All true—he is quite the leading man in Rumelli"
"Then it must have been an oversight," said Signor Onofrio. "According to all precedent, his right to the cross is unquestionable; unless there be some special reason militating against him, he shall owe it to you. It shall be your wedding gift to the good gentleman. Now cheer up my young friend," concluded Signor Onofrio, taking his hat to go out; "and put this well into your head, that from this moment a new era begins for you. It is I who promise you this, and it is my invariable habit to do more than I promise."
Vincenzo's body and mind were out of joint to such a degree that the ten hours of unbroken sleep which he had that night were not too much to recompose his troubled spirit, and rest his wearied limbs. All was no longer gloom in his mental vista when he awoke—there was a brilliant salient point now in it.
Rose had refused Del Palmetto—refused him "flat," as her father expressed it. Could it be that he, Vincenzo, had something to do with her refusal of the young Marquis? Could it be that she loved him, the penniless student? Barnaby had declared it was so. Barnaby, it was true, was a confirmed blunderer, but he was a favourite of hers, and it was not utterly impossible that she might have made him, to some extent or in some way, her confidant. Oh! if she loved him, what
This train of rosy speculations was putto flight by Signor Onofrio bringing, in lot haste, the announcement that the Minster would see Vincenzo that same evening.
"Be sure to be on the western side of the arcades in Piazza Po by seven o'clock," said the excellent friend, "and wait till we come. After I have presented you, I shall leave you to a tête-à-tête."
Vincenzo knew the personage in question very well by sight from having seen him in the Chamber of Deputies, and at Signor Onofrio's bedside during the illness of the latter.
The Minister had nothing about him of tie Jupiter Tonans—far from it—he looked like everybody else; yet the mere thought of meeting him made our hero rather nervous—a sensation that increased as he took his way to the rendezvous The man on whose impression of you nay depend your whole future—and future and Miss Rose were one and the same thing for Vincenzo,—that man, were he a dwarf or a hunchback, cannot fail to inspire you with a certain awe. Vinenzo's heart beat fast when the descried under the arcades the two familiar figures walking arm-in-arm towards him, and saw himself beckoned by Signor Onorio, who for all introduction said, "Here's my young friend. I
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance, or rather to renew our acquaintance," said the Minister graciously. "I have seen you so often at Onofrio's that I cannot consider you a stranger. Onofrio has just been telling me what a Godsend you were to him while he was ill. You have not been well yourself I hear. I hope you are quite recovered."
"Perfectly, thank you," said Vincenzo.
"You could not have bestowed care upon a more worthy person," continued the Minister. "A valuable man, is that Onofrio, and tells me many fine things of you. We'll go in here for a little quiet talk," and, as he said this, Vincenzo's interlocutor stopped before a wide entrance, drew a key from his pocket, opened the door, went in; and, as soon as Vincenzo had followed, shut the door again.
"Don't stir till I have turned darkness into light," resumed the Minister, lighting a match, and with that, a rat de cave, or coil of wax taper. This done, he led the way up to a third storey, produced another key, opened another door, and, going through a small passage, introduced Vincenzo into the salon—a well-sized room—saying,
"Here we are at last; pray sit down—where the deuce can the candles be?" looking for them in vain on the mantelpiece. "Excuse me for leaving you in the dark for an instant. Do, pray, sit down, without ceremony," added the Minister, returning with two lighted candles, and seeing Vincenzo still on his legs.
Vincenzo in silent admiration of this wonderful simplicity obeyed. The furniture was of the most unwieldy and old-fashioned kind; as far as Vincenzo could judge, there was not an article therewith any pretensions to be gay, or elegant, either as to form or colour. The armchairs, if the one on which he sat was to be taken as a specimen, were anything but soft and comfortable. The Minister took up a newspaper from the table, examined the date, made a roll of it, lighted it at one of the candles, and with it set fire to the faggot and logs of wood ready laid on the hearth, commenting upon the operation with the remark, that the evenings were very chilly. "Do you smoke?" he asked Vincenzo. "No." "Very wise of you—an uncommon virtue in a young man now-a-days. Do you mind others smoking in the same room with you?" "Not at all." "Then I will have a cigar;" and the Minister lit one, and then threw himself into a corner of a sofa, and puffed away for some time in silence. "You were brought up at a seminary, if I don't mistake?" at last issued from the cloud of smoke.
"At the seminary of Ibella, up to the age of seventeen," replied Vincenzo.
"Was it from your own wish, or from some other cause, that you studied for the priesthood?"
"It was solely because of my father's desire that I should be a priest."
"You felt none of what is called a vocation?"
"Decidedy none," said Vincenzo.
"And how did you manage to get out of the seminary?" asked the minister.
"It is a long story, and I fear little edifying," said Vincenzo, smiling.
"Never mind the length," returned the minister; "and, as for edification, there is nothing more conducive to that, alike for listener and narrator, than the history of past blunders."
Thus encouraged, Vincenzo complied. He described the intoxication produced in him by the mere names of the innovations of
Vincenzo did not tell his tale in one breath; but, whenever he stopped, fearing to tire out his listener's patience, the minister would urge him to go on, professing much interest in the narrative; and, that he was amused, his hearty bursts of laughter at Vincenzo's description of Colonel Roganti's manoeuvre, and his own sale of scapularies and songs, testified beyond all doubt.
"And, after your leader's arrest, what became of you?"
Vincenzo, in answer to this question, gave a summary account of his flight with Ambrogio, of their journey to Novara, of their taking part in the festival, and being captured in the very moment of forgetfulness of such a danger, of his return to the palace, the further struggle he had there, his eleven days' apprenticeship to the hoe, and the relenting of his godfather, who had finally sent him to study law in Turin.
"You have shown throughout all this a rare degree of perseverance, that ladder to all success," said the minister; "and, pray, what practical lessons did your experience teach you?"
"To be on my guard against boasters and perpetual fault-finders," answered Vincenzo; "and yet to give even such credit for acting better than they speak."
"You are thinking of your colonel," said the minister, smiling.
"Well," returned Vincenzo, "even he had his good points; but I was alluding to the student who was so violent against the government, yet in spite of his declamation was hastening to peril life and limb in defence of the country guided by that very government."
"Your theory," observed the minister, somewhat epigrammatically, "has at least the advantage of being pleasant. When are you to be received as barrister-at-law?"
"About this time next year."
"Have you paid any particular attention to political economy?"
"Not more than to the other branches of my course of study."
"Then, for the future, do so, and to statistics also. Do you know anything of English?"
"Not a word."
"Well, then, I advise you to set about learning it. You can teach it to yourself; it is the least complex of any language. You could easily master it sufficiently to be able in a short time to read the English blue-books, a study of which will be of the greatest future utility to you. I should like also to be able to form some idea of your style and manner of setting forth a subject When you next pay me a visit, bring me a few pages of your composing."
"On what subject?" asked Vincenzo.
"On any that you choose. Are you for absolute freedom as to education, or not?"
"In theory, for freedom; practically, for our own country, I think it best for some time yet, that public instruction should remain under the control of the government."
"Put down in writing your reasons for this way of thinking, and let me have it." The minister considered for a few minutes, then went on: "I need scarcely say that it is my intention to do honour to Onofrio's recommendation of you in the amplest manner in my power. I might give you a place under me forthwith; but to do so would be to interfere materially with your studies. I think it better, therefore, to postpone all active interference in your behalf until you have taken your degree of doctor of laws. The title itself, though there is not much in it, will smooth the road to many things. In the mean time I shall ascertain what are your talents, and see how best to utilize them for the service of the country. That I may be able to do this, you must come and see me often. Do not be over scrupulous or discreet; for I tell you plainly, if you do not remind me of yourself by calling, I am not sure that I shall not forget you. On Saturday evenings—I tell you this for your own private use—I generally make my escape from work at dusk. If you like to come and wait for me here, we can have a little quiet conversation. I may sometimes be prevented from returning home, and you may have had your walk for nothing; but you will not mind that, I dare say. Lastly, let me give you one piece of advice; do not tell any one that you are in the habit of seeing the Minister, or you will be deluged with applications for introductions and recommendations, which I shall not be able to attend to: on this point I rely on your absolute discretion."
Vincenzo professed his readiness to abide religiously on this as on all other matters by the directions the minister was so good as to give him, and, with many expressions of gratitude, rose to take his leave. The minister went with him to the passage door, cut a bit from the coil of wax taper which had served to let them see their way up stairs, gave it lighted to Vincenzo, and with a last caution not to run down too fast so as to put the light out, wished him a good night.
We should not be giving Barnaby his due if, in the enumeration of the agencies at work in favour of Vincenzo, we did not assign a signal place to the old blunderer. It often happens in this world that a blunder serves some particular end better than the most skilfully calculated move. Vincenzo's mysterious flying visit, combined with his disturbed looks and her father's pre-ocupation, had not been without arousing in Miss Pose a certain amount of curiosity—a curiosity which Barnaby had the means and the most resolute determination to satisfy; for, as you have already guessed, Ugly and Good had listened, with malice prepense, at the door of the Signor Avvocato's sancta sanctorum, and overheard the dialogue between godfather and godson. Barnaby so managed next morning as to be at work in the alley of nut trees, which was the shortest way to the summer-house, the infallible goal of Miss Rose's morning stroll.
Miss Rose came as usual, and as usual stopped for a little chat with Barnaby. In times of yore—that is, only two or three years ago—she would have taken the bull by the horns, and bluntly asked Barnaby, "Do you know why Vincenzo came last night and went away again in such a hurry?" As it was, being no longer an enfant terrible, but a grown-up young lady of nineteen, with the sense and reserve of that age, she said instead, "Did you see Vincenzo before he left?"
Barnaby, with the most comical would-be gloomy grimace at his command, said "he had not seen Vincenzo; he must have started before dawn."
"I merely wanted to know how he looked, in case you had seen him," observed Miss Rose. "I fear he has not yet recovered from his last illness. He was so pale and flurried last night."
"I don't wonder at that," replied Barnaby, with increasing gloom, "considering what he was told. Pale, indeed! It's a miracle he is still in this world, poor fellow!"
"You frighten me, Barnaby; what was he told?" asked Rose—"that is," she added, checking herself, "if I may know."
"Not only you may, but you must know," affirmed Barnaby. "The matter concerns you as well as Vincenzo. He is gone away to return no more; he is banished for ever from this place!"
"Banished!" repeated Rose, turning the colour of ashes. "It cannot be true; it is one of your mistakes, Barnaby."
"I tell you I heard the Signor Padrone say so to him in so many words. The poor lad's eyes rained tears."
"But what can he have done?" exclaimed Rose.
"Well, I can tell you that also," continued Barnaby. "The Signor Padrone wanted to persuade him to speak to you in favour of the young Marquis. Vincenzo said he wouldn't, he couldn't, it was impossible. The Signor Avvocato asked him why. 'Because,' says Vincenzo, 'I won't play a double game with you—because I love your daughter myself.'"
Rose turned scarlet, and the heaving of her bosom bore witness to the intensity of her agitation. Barnaby availed himself of her silence to go on.
"'Sir,' says the Signor Avvocato,' you love my daughter—sir—and so you have taken advantage of the intimacy I allowed to make love to my daughter.'"
"Stop," said Rose; "how did you come at the knowledge of all this, Barnaby?"
"Never mind how," growled the old man.
"Ah! I guess only too well," resumed Rose. "It was wrong, very wrong, of you to surprise a secret which was never intended for your ears; and it is wrong, very wrong, of you to repeat it to me. Good day." And she walked away.
"Wrong! wrong! wrong!" cried Barnaby, looking ruefully after her. "When that poor lad has broken his heart, which he will do one of these fine days, we'll see then who is right and who is wrong."
Barnaby's indiscretion, though punished by a whole week's severance from his young signorina's pleasant chat and bright smiles, had not the less hit the mark. A girl of nineteen does not hear with impunity that a young man is pining away for love of her, that he sheds showers of tears, and is, moreover, likely to die of a broken heart for her sake—especially if the young man be a handsome, well-figured fellow, and a tried friend of old standing. More than once did blooming Miss Rose, in her secret thoughts, revert to and dwell upon Vincenzo's plight; and the more she dwelt upon it, the more she found it hard, hard, very hard.
"By the bye," said the minister to Onofrio at the close of a long conversation on official matters, "he is a wonderful young fellow that protegé of yours. I told him scarcely two months ago he had better learn to read English, and already he translates it at sight. He had quite the best of it in an argument we had last night as to the meaning of the phrase 'with a vengeance;' he had indeed."
"He is clever, and works very hard," said Onofrio.
"I am sure he does, and then he is so clear-headed—it is a pleasure to watch his quickness in grasping a question, and his method of discussing it. You must read a few short articles on sundry matters he wrote at my request. Cavour has looked them over, and thinks highly of them. I shall be perplexed as to a choice when the time comes for employing him. He has many of the qualities which would make a capital diplomatist—but then he has no handle to his name. Perhaps the administrative career will suit him best. What do you say?"
"I say that the question seems to me a premature one; you will be able to solve it best when you see him fairly at work."
"That's true; but, whether in diplomacy, or in the administration, your protegé will make his way. Now don't
"It would do him no harm if I did," sid Onofrio; "Vincenzo is intus et in cte a modest youth."
"Yes; and straightforward. What I like in him is his independent way with one; he never humours or flatters me—vhenever we differ in opinion, he tells one so candidly, and frankly asserts his own views."
Onofrio judged that the time was now come to strike his second grand bow in Vincenzo's behalf; that is, to aquaint his godfather with the new prspective opening before his godson. Iven a change of ministry would not affect it much, for, though out of power, the actual minister so friendly to Vincenzo would still command patronage enough to push on his protegé; and he, Onofrio himself, would not be without interest with the limited number of his colleagues in the House, likely to take office in another Cabinet.
"If I could but make sure," thought Signor Onofrio, "that this Signor Avvocato has a stomach strong enough to dgest a sound piece of advice, I would willingly give it him to swallow—but in dubiis abstine. I cannot answer for a man, whom I have only seen for an hour once in my life, not being narrow-minded; and, if he be so, ten to one but that self-love and pique will prompt him to defeat the plan I have in view; and then, instead of forwarding, I injure Vincenzo's interests. I will run no such risk. After all, there is no reason why I should tell him that one of my notives for pushing on his godson is that he may many his daughter." And Signor Onofrio wrote as follows:—
"My dear Sir,—When on our first meeting at Ibella, about a year ago, you kindly expressed the wish of hearing from me now and then, I little thought that my first letter to you would be an interested one. Yes, my dear sir, I come to ask of you what in forensic language is called a sanatoria—namely, to confirm and ratify a step which I have taken in regard to your godson Vincenzo, and which, though conducive to his benefit, as I am convinced it to be, I am not sure I was quite justified in taking without having consulted you beforehand. Perhaps the general terms of your recommendation of the young man to me, on the occasion I have referred to above, might plead my justification. However, let me hasten to add that nothing has been done which cannot be undone, if you so wish it. And now, without further preamble, I come to the gist of the matter. Vincenzo, as you well know, is a remarkably clever and gifted young fellow; as to me, what strikes me in him is less the brilliancy and the extent than the rare harmony of his faculties. A more happily balanced young head than his I never met in my life. The more I have seen of him, and had opportunities of appreciating his qualities, the stronger has the impression become of how well he is suited for official life. Nobody thinks more highly than I do of the profession of a barrister—but ars longa—briefs come in few and far between to candidates for them, while in a rising State like ours advancement is rapid in Government employments. The Ministry ask nothing better than to encourage youths of talent, of activity and principle. I have, as you know, the ear of the Minister, my friend as well as chief—that was another temptation—in short, one fine day I presented and recommended Vincenzo to him; and you may judge of the progress he has made in the Minister's favour within scarcely a couple of months, from the abstract I here subjoin of a conversation (to remain inter nos) which I had lately with the minister. [Here followed an abridgment of the dialogue beginning this chapter.] You see now as clearly as I do Vincenzo's prospects. After taking his degree, he will enter on official duty; in five or six years he is sure to be a good way up the ladder of promotion—at thirty a deputy; once in Parliament, there is no saying to what eminence he may not attain. The career is tempting; what do you say? There will be no fortune to be made by it, it is true, but a treasure of honour
"Vincenzo is well, and sends his affectionate duty. Accept, my dear sir, my heartiest wishes, and believe me,
A word now as to the present dispositions of him to whom this letter was destined. At the moment of its arrival, Miss Rose's vis inertiœ? had won the day. Her father, nill-he-will-he, had abandoned virtually, if not formally, his favourite plan for her, and a passing thought of throwing the handle after the hatchet, that is, of giving his daughter to Vincenzo, and having done with all this tear and wear of spirits, had of late crossed his mind more than once. Why not, in fact? A thousand times rather to Vincenzo than to that sneaking intendente of Ibella, or to that fop, the son of the fiscal, who had no thought in his wooden head but of the cut of his clothes! Once Del Palmetto out of the question, it was a matter of relative indifference to Rose's father who should have his daughter.
But why did he so hold to Del Palmetto? The Piedmontese have of late been much likened, and not inappropriately, to the English—they have, in feet, some of the striking qualities of these latter—steadiness, perseverance, practical spirit, innate distaste of idle speculations, and last, not least, if that be a quality, the profoundest respect for the advantages of birth and title. The Signor Avvocato was not a Piedmontese for nothing, and the perspective of turning his daughter into a marchioness, and hearing her addressed as such, tickled his amour propre to an amazing degree. There was another, though secondary consideration, which militated in favour of the alliance with the young marquis, and that was the making of the two estates into one, and that one, mutatis mutandis, second to none in the kingdom.
But now that this fond dream was over, Vincenzo's aspirations after the great prize were no longer met by the non possumus of a few months back, but were beginning to force themselves upon the old gentleman's consideration. Signor Onofrio's letter was exactly calculated to make Vincenzo's chances rise twenty per cent. "Well may they call that godson of mine a wonderful lad," muttered to himself, according to his fashion, the Signor Avvocato, "and lucky as well as clever. If any one ever deserved it to be said of him that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Vincenzo does: he bewitches every one he comes across. This Signor Onofrio, for instance, one of the busiest and most independent members of parliament—the right hand of the minister—goes out of his way, and turns suitor for the boy. The minister, in his turn, takes a fancy to the boy at first sight—not much doubt of his getting on, indeed—he has only to will it, and if he takes it into his head that he will have my daughter, have her he will. However, it is only fair to say he deserves his good fortune; he has not his equal, that I know of, for ability, mettle, and real goodness. And this other original, who asks me for a sanatoria! if the request did not come from a grave legislator, I should take it for a joke. I have half a mind to go and thank this Signor Onofrio in person, and at the same time I could see Dr. Moreri."
Dr. Moreri was at that time the most celebrated physician in Turin. The Signor Avvocato had been advised, and had made up his mind to go and consult him these last two years, without ever finding the opportune moment. Growing obesity, and the slow but steady weakening of the whole left side of his body, were the Signor Avvocato's ailments. They had intensified the man's natural indolence and repugnance to exertion to a morbid degree; and the half project of a trip to Turin was no sooner shadowed forth than given up.
sanatoria, my dear sir, when all the ancient honours of the capitol would not equal your deserts? Not though I had the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero combined, could I thank you adequately for all that you have done"—and so on for two pages. Happily for the writer and his grandiloquent style, Vincenzo gave Signor Onofrio the epistle to read, which he had received from his godfather, and which proved, beyond all doubt, that, off his Pegasus, the Signor Avvocato could write naturally, simply, and feelingly. Nay, there were in this second letter touches of felicitous humour, as when he expressed a hope that his godson, when he became Secretary for the Home Department, would not visit too heavily a poor rustic mayor's peccadilloes.
The Signor Avvocato was too full of his subject not to let something of it ooze out in Rose's presence. Rose did not seem at all dazzled by Vincenzo's
Shortly after, Vincenzo applied for a sanatoria in his turn. He had taken the liberty, he wrote, acting on the advice of his experienced friend, Signor Onofrio, to send in a request for the
Let not the reader suppose for an instant that this crescendo of stirring tidings was the result of a preconcerted plot, artfully contrived with a view to gradually heating the Signor Avvocato to the proper degree of malleability for being moulded to a purpose. No such thing. Both Signor Onofrio and Vincenzo, as we know, pursued a certain object, but pursued it by legitimate means, and without the alloy of any, the least particle, of humbug. Signor Onofrio's letter to the Signor Avvocato had not been written one single day sooner or later than it would have been, had the Signor Avvocato not had a daughter, nor did it contain any single statement that was not in perfect accordance with truth: it was, in fact, only the reproduction of Signor Onofrio's conversation with Vincenzo. On his side, Vincenzo had drawn up the memorial in his godfather's behalf, when his patron, the minister, had told him to do so, and had apprised his godfather of the Cross being conferred on him the moment he had heard the news from the minister. Likewise, Vincenzo's hint to his godfather about coming to town proceeded from no deeper laid scheme, than the natural wish of seeing and partaking the gratification of one to whom his heart clung tenderly and deeply.
So far said, we resume our narrative. For the nonce, the excitement produced by Vincenzo's intelligence proved stronger than habit, ailments, and distrust of railways. The Signor Avvocato found a remnant of his activity of better days. He started immediately for Ibella, took the first train for the capital, and, by the evening of the same day, was comfortably installed, not a little to his own amazement, in one of
The Signor Avvocato's stay in town was short, but full and fraught with none but agreeable impressions. Turin was so much enlarged, so much altered for the better, since he had seen it last, that it was a real pleasure to drive through it. Then the Home Secretary, through whom he had received the decoration, welcomed him so courteously, complimented him with such tact, and used so flattering an emphasis in begging the favour of the Signor Cavaliere's company at dinner! He would have done just the same to any one, to whom he gave audience on a similar occasion; but the Signor Cavaliere took it all as a mark of personal distinction. His recollections of men in authority dated from an epoch when stiffness, self-importance, and haughtiness seemed the distinguishing attributes of power.
Still more gracious than his colleague of the Home Department, and equally hospitable to the new knight, was the minister, Vincenzo's patron, from whose official lips there fell into his guest's ear, after dinner, a confidential confirmation (not the less effective for its laconism, and the somewhat guarded tone in which it was delivered) of all the good he thought of, and the hopes he founded on young Vincenzo. Signor Onofrio took the new Cavaliere to the Chamber, found him a seat in the ambassadors' gallery, and pointed out to him all the remarkable men of the Assembly. The relations of the old gentleman's deceased wife, and the few old friends he visited, vied with each other as to who should show him most regard and cordiality. Doctor Moreri treated the indisposition, of which he complained, very lightly, and merely recommended daily exercise, and light diet, principally of vegetables. The very waiters at the hotel seemed bent on contributing their share to his happiness by never failing to call him Signor Cavaliere. Nothing pleases and flatters people accustomed to live in the country more, than the being paid a certain degree of attention by the dwellers in great cities.
In short, the Signor Avvocato left town enchanted with everything and everybody, and within an ace of throwing the handle after the hatchet, according to his favourite figure of speech—only the fear of committing himself by a promise, which Rose, after all, might not ratify, kept him from binding himself more explicitly than by what might be implied from his parting words to Vincenzo, "By the way, mind you come to the palace for the vacation." Vincenzo, for all answer, grasped the old gentleman's hand within both his own, and pressed it to his heart. The gates of Eden were open again. "But—"added the Signor Avvocato, placing his finger significantly across his lips—
"Were my secret to suffocate me," said Vincenzo, fervently, "it shall not pass my lips without your leave."
"And if I never give it?" asked the Signor Avvocato, slyly.
"Then it shall die with me."
"Yes, sixty years hence," wound up the godfather, laughing outright. In this happy mood, the Signor Avvocato set off on his journey home.
All Ibella by this time knew, from having read of both events in the Gazette, of his visit to the capital, and of his having been made a knight, and at least half of Ibella equally knew of the exact moment of his return, from having seen Guiseppe with the gig on his way to the station. This was a task de jure devolving on Barnaby, but Barnaby was in one of his most intense fits of ignorance of his master's existence, and not to have saved his own soul would he have so much as lifted his little finger in that master's service. This the Signor Avvocato well knew, "though unable to fathom the cause, and had accordingly sent word to Rose to despatch Guiseppe to the station. Well, one of those who had seen the gig pass in front of the Caffe della Posta, while sipping his coffee, was the Commandant of the National Guard of Ibella, a great friend, as we are aware, of the Signor Avvocato. "Hurrah! here
Codino. The Signor Avvocato's growing conservative tendencies since Arcicodino, the late Marquis, had greatly damaged the popularity of the owner of the palace with the youth of Ibella.
And so it came to pass that, on alighting on the platform, the Signor Avvocato met with a cluster of friendly faces, and a barricade of friendly hands, eager to press his, and bid him welcome back. Behold him presently walking up the High-street, the centre of a momentarily augmenting body guard, stopping to shake hands at every step, and nodding his head right and left to the tradesmen standing on the threshold of their shops. Other friendly faces, and other friendly hands are waiting for him at the Caffe della Posta, which cannot and will not be disappointed. A halt there becomes indispensable. "Come in, come in welcome, Signor Avvocato, welcome Signor Cavaliere." The new knight enters the Caffe, his train follows him, salutations recommence—hallo, waiters, a dozen of wine, if you please. For in this blessed world of ours there's no possible rejoicing without drinking. Corks pop, "the health of the Signor Cavaliere—long live the Signor Cavaliere." Glass clinks against glass, and the health, is drunk with hearty cheers, in which the two or three dissentient youths join. Who could find it in his heart to dim the satisfaction beaming in that honest benevolent old countenance?
In the mean time the Rumellians had not been idle; that is, in one sense they had, inasmuch as they had been dancing attendance on the Signor Avvocato for these three hours. All the population of Rumelli was there, from the parish priest, D. Natale, and the Mayor at the head of the Town Council, down to the babies at the breast. "When the Signor Avvocato reached his own gate he had to get out of the gig, which he did amid the deafening cheers of the crowd, the "present arms" of the National Guard, and a flourish from the local band, which struck up with better will than success. After that, the Mayor in esse—a rich miller retired from business—came forward and read the ex-Mayor an address; and then D. Natale stepped forth, and read the ex-Mayor another address, or rather began to read it, for at the end of the second line he took to stammering and blubbering, seeing which the personage addressed took to stammering and blubbering also, and, to save decorum as much as possible, cut short all further orations by passing one arm under D. Natale's and the other under the Mayor's, and thus supported and supporting, limped up the avenue. D. Natale, if the truth must be told, was more than half in his dotage, and with him all emotion resolved itself into tears. Rose presently appeared, and there were plaudits and acclamations again, when the crowd beheld the father and daughter in each other's arms.
The whole household, including the out-door servants, were assembled on the flight of steps leading into the palace, and came to kiss the Signor Padrone's hand, and to offer their congratulations. One familiar face alone was wanting among the number—Barnaby was conspicuous by his absence. Was he then indifferent to his master's good fortune? Far from it. Barnaby, hidden in a corner, was melting away in tears of pride and joy—Barnaby would fain have kissed the Signor Padrone's footprints, but Barnaby had fancied grievances against this adored Padrone of his, and could not, and would not give them up—no, rather die first.
By this time the conquering hero, well-nigh spent with fatigue and emotion, after ushering into the great hall D. Natale, the Mayor, the Town Council and other notabilities, sank exhausted into a chair. The scene of the Caffe-della-Posta was re-acted, bottles appeared, corks were drawn, bumpers of wine handed round, and toasts drunk secundum morem. "Thank you," said the
"Well, and how is Vincenzo?" asked she, as she was lighting her father up to his bedroom.
"Vincenzo is as brisk as a bee," said papa, "and in a fair way of becoming somebody. I wish you had seen him, my dear, at the table of the Minister, so self-possessed, every inch a gentleman. No one would ever have imagined him to be the son of a peasant."
"What does that signify?" observed Miss Rose. "Grandpapa was a peasant, was he not, and haven't you the manners of a Prince?"
"You little flatterer!" said the Signor Avvocato, pleased; "but, my dear, the figure of a man counts for a good deal in all that has to do with manners; and allow me to say, though I say it who should not, that between my figure and that of Vincenzo, that is when I was young, there is some difference—a great difference."
"I allow it, papa—Vincenzo is handsome in his way, though."
Papa looked searchingly at her; then said, "I see how it is; had I proposed him to you instead of that poor Del Palmetto, you would have given me quite another answer."
"Who knows?" said she, laughing; "but I am not in a hurry to marry."
"Do you mean to tell me you would have refused him?" urged her father.
"Him? Who?" asked Rose.
"I speak of Vincenzo, of course."
"How can one refuse that which is not offered?" said she, laughing again.
"Ah! you hypocrite—suppose, for supposing's sake, that I offer him to you?"
"What is the use of answering suppositions? Good night, papa;" and she tripped away.
To be continued.
The following pages are extracted from a journal written during a tour in the summer of
This journal was filled up day by day at the earliest opportunity, while the incidents of travel were still fresh in the recollection. The party consisted of the writer, an English friend, and his servant, Theodosius (called George, for shortness), a Greek, nimble in hand and tongue. Among other autobiographical stories, he told us how he got his second name. An English officer, bound for the Crimea, engaged him as his servant. When told his name, "Theo—what?" said he; "never heard of such an outlandish name! You shall be George!" And George he was.
We had come by sea from Constantinople to Mount Athos, and had ridden round the peninsula, visiting some sixteen of the twenty-one convents on the way, beginning with Rossikó, and ending with Chiliandari. Thence we were about to make our way along the coast to Salonica:—
Sept. 13. We left the monastery about noon. The fathers furnished us with mules and a guide, a Bulgarian, very ignorant and very stupid, scarcely able to speak a word of Greek, and not able to speak a word of any other language known to us.
Following a sandy watercourse, thickly dotted over with plane-trees, we soon came to the sea, close to the edge of which stood a monastic building now abandoned and in ruins. Our way thence led uphill and downhill, through pine-woods, over a sandy soil. Whenever we reached open ground, we saw to our right hand the deep blue sea, contrasting with the bright green of the stone pines and the white sands of the beach. Turning round, every now and then, we had splendid views of the Peak of Athos, rising white, bare, and abrupt above the successive tiers of wooded ridges which run across the promontory, rising higher and higher as they approach the culminating point. At 1.50, we passed a small guard-house, where were two men, in Greek costume—part of the police force maintained by the monks. This marks the limit of the sacred mountain. We did not, however, get clear of the hills for some time. At 3.30, we came to a little well of brackish water, as we descended the outermost hill. There we rested, and ate our brown bread (all the provisions we had), for nearly half an hour; then resuming our journey, we came to flat, marshy ground, with a low range of hills still on our left. From this time, as we surmounted each little eminence and descended into the grassy plain below, we kept looking eagerly for the traces of Xerxes' Canal. At last, just before sunset, we came to a plain where the ground was all but level, between sea and sea, and across which ran, in a straight line, what looked like the abandoned bed of a river, some twenty yards in width. "Here," we said, "at last, is the Canal!"
We had just arrived at this conclusion, when our guide called out, in articulate speech, "" Now, is clearly a corruption of , as Leake has mentioned. Here, therefore, was the long-looked-for spot. From the high ground beyond the plain, we could trace very clearly the whole course of the canal. Commencing to the north of a round, wooded lull on the Singitic Gulf—the Acropolis, doubtless, of the ancient Sane—it continues for a few hundred yards in a straight course, then makes a bend to the right, and then again runs parallel to its first direction to the Ægean sea. The distance is under a mile and a half-twelve furlongs, as Herodotus says, and the ground, which required cutting, nowhere more than fifty feet above the
It thus answers exactly to the description of Herodotus, vii. 22: "An isthmus about 12 stades wide, consisting of level ground and low hills."
We contemplated the scene as long as the light lasted; then pursuing our way on foot, for we were wearied of the saddle, we reached Erissó by moonlight, at half-past seven. It is not more than two miles distant from the Canal. We had a letter from the Abbot of Sphigménu to one Anagnostes Marin, whose house we were conducted to by the first person we met in the street. Anagnostes himself was gone that very day to Thasos to look after his bees, but we were received with great alacrity by his wife and family, who bestirred themselves to get us supper, and to prepare the best chamber for us to sleep in. The houses are all on the same plan. The lower floor, built of rough stone, is occupied by granary, store-room, and stables; the upper, built of wood and mud whitewashed, consists of two or three rooms, opening out upon a wide gallery all of wood, extending the length of the house, and resting on scaffolding projecting far over the main wall. The room in which we slept contained the arms and linen of the household, and a quantity of miscellaneous wares in barrels and jars. We had no rest, owing to the incessant attacks of the sand-flies, which sound no trumpet of alarm like the mosquitoes, but whose bite is sufficiently painful to wake one out of the profoundest sleep. "We were right glad when the morning came.
Sept. 14. As soon as it was daylight, I got up and went to look about the modern village, Erissó, for traces of the ancient city—Acanthus. I was not long in finding what remains of it—fourteen rows of granite blocks, squared and built after the Hellenic fashion without mortar. The blocks are not high compared with their length and breadth. One that I measured (being a corner stone I could measure it), was five feet long, three and a half feet thick, and only one foot and a quarter in height. This was evidently the site of the Acropolis, which was subsequently occupied by a mediaeval fortress, now more ruinous than the Hellenic.
The hill on which it stands sinks abruptly on the seaward side. Between hill and sea, are a few hundred yards of level ground The sea is a few hundred yards distant; and I thought I could see where the "long walls" of Acanthus must have run, connecting the upper town with the harbour. Nature, indeed, has provided no "harbour," but it is comparatively easy to construct one in a tideless sea. The storms of centuries have, doubtless, buried the piers deep in sand, and, excepting the above-mentioned wall, there is not a trace of the old City to be seen.
The women of Erissó wear coloured handkerchiefs, knotted so as to make a kind of turban, on the head, and for gown the heavy woollen blanket-like stuff which one sees in Greece proper. The men wear a tunic, which is to the Albanian "fustanella" what the petticoats of the women are to the crinolines of Western Europe, such a one as their ancestors wore in the days of Xerxes, greaves of embroidered cloth, a sash
We set off at eight, with four mules and three men. We agreed to give 30 piasters per mule per diem—at the rate of 110 piasters per pound sterling—a bad bargain, we were told afterwards at Salonica; but then we were strangers, and unused to bargaining, and ignorant of the value of time and labour to man and mule in those parts.
We traversed first a long plain, covered with vines and Indian corn. Part of this district had been recently the subject of a lawsuit between the town of Erissó and the monastery of Chiliandari. It had been, they told us, in the possession of Erissó from time immemorial, but, nevertheless, the monks, who dearly love a lawsuit, thought they had found a flaw in the title, and brought an action against the town.
The case was tried at Constantinople, and decided in favour of Erissó; but the victory had cost them 300,000 piasters, and the monastery had been mulcted to a still larger amount. However, the fathers were rich, and intended to appeal to some other tribunal, and the town of Erissó, being very poor, looked forward with dismay to a second suit. Moreover, of the three hundred householders (onomata is the technical word) of Erissó, fifty had no share in the land, and grumbled much at being taxed for the costs of a suit in which they were not concerned.
By-and-bye we passed a farm belonging (without dispute) to Chiliandari, where there were many white mulberry trees, the kind on which silkworms feed. As we began to climb the first slopes of the hills, we passed great heaps of refuse of abandoned gold and silver mines, which reminded us that hereabouts Thucydides had some mines in right of his Thracian wife. These, however, must have been worked in comparatively recent times.
Five years ago I met at Constantinople an Irishman who was trying to form a company for the reworking of the mines opposite Thasos, for he said it had been found profitable in England to employ the improved machinery of the present day in resifting the heaps of refuse left by the miners of ruder days. What became of the company I never heard. I trust that its liabilities were "limited."
Still climbing, and getting wider and wider views over the sea and land, we reached the mountain village of Nizvoro at half-past twelve. It lies on the northward slope of a ridge, rising, perhaps, to the height of 2,500 feet, covered towards the top with green grass, and beautifully sprinkled with trees, beech and oak. On the eastern side of the village the ground breaks away abruptly, and is seamed by deep gullies. The earth, bare of vegetation, is partly of a deep red, and partly of a shining black, like the débris of some vast mine. It is, however, merely Nature's handiwork, but I am not geologist enough to give a guess at the cause. Like Erissó, and all the villages on these hills, Nizvoro is exclusively Greek. It is governed by a proestós, or mayor, chosen annually by the heads of families, subject to the approval of the Pasha, or Modur, of the district. He keeps order and collects taxes. We went to the house of the proestós for the time being, as the person whose duty it was to receive strangers. He was himself absent, but his son, a fine young fellow of five-and-twenty, welcomed us in his stead. In the room where we dined were forty or fifty old guns, all without locks, deposited there, we were told, by order of the Government, which does not allow any one to possess a gun till he has taken out a teskere or licence, which costs 100 piasters per annum. The son of the proestós accompanied me in a walk about the village. We met with an old man of seventy, or thereabouts, who, in answer to my question about ancient remains, informed me that at a distance of an hour and a half near the sea-shore were the ruins of the ancient "Stagier, birthplace of Aristotle," at a place now called Siderokapsa. (This name is I find in Kiepert's map, given not to a village, but to a district including Nizvoro.)
Now, at the mention of the didaskalos I did not observe any alteration in the young man's countenance, nor in the house did we see any sign of trouble; yet, as we learnt on the road from our muleteers, a most tragic event had recently happened in the family. The daughter of the proestós, sister of the young man who walked with me, had been for some years married to the didaskalos, who to his functions as schoolmaster united the profession of a lawyer, and was much consulted and respected in the country. His wife, it seems, was unworthy of, and unfaithful to, him. After many scandalous disorders, she at last crowned her iniquity by first drugging him with laudanum, and then cutting his throat as he slept. She and her lover hid the body in a closet, and then fled. The suspicions of the neighbours were roused; they broke into the house, discovered the corpse, and soon after arrested the culprits, who were sent to Salonica, and, under a searching examination from the Pasha, made a full confession, and were sentenced to be hung. This crime had been committed only a fortnight before our visit. But the catalogue of disasters was not complete. The wife of the young man, the murderess's brother, was so shocked at the news that it brought on an illness, of which she died in a few days. Yet the husband wore no mourning, and showed, as I have said, no sign of grief. On our way to Elerigova we met the old father returning. He held his head down as we passed, and seemed completely overwhelmed with sorrow. (This tragic story was confirmed in all its particulars by trustworthy people at Salonica.)
Less than a mile from Nizvoro is a ruined castle, once of great extent. It is called Paleocastro, and was the residence of the Pasha of the district. The scenery is very fine between this place and Elerigova. The path lies sometimes among woods, and sometimes through green pastures surrounded by hills covered with beech or oak. Every now and then there is a slope of golden fern up to the edge of the wood, reminding one of the park scenery of Old England. A ride of three hours and forty minutes brought us to the prosperous village of Elerigova, girdled with gardens and orchards, just as the last rays of the setting sun streamed through the blue smoke that rose from all its chimneys.
We stayed at a khan kept by one Constantine Agapeta. "We had an upper room, so full of fleas that we could get no rest. We had also a tough chicken, some grapes, and coffee, for which we were charged the preposterous sum of eighty piasters. Let no one who can possibly help it stay at the khan of Constantine Agapeta.
I noticed that the old men, who meet every evening in a kind of open space which serves for "agora," though Greeks in race and religion, wear the Turkish dress, turbans and trousers, while the young men wear the Greek or Albanian kilt.
We left Elerigova right gladly at half-past eight the next morning, Sept. 15. There had been some rain during the night, and the cold mists were still clinging about the high grounds along which our road lay. But the sun soon scattered them, and enabled us to see the magnificent views which opened before us, changing at every turn. The path lies through woods, and along the southern face of the mountain, so that we saw the three peninsulas of Chalcidicé, Athos, and Cassandra, with the gulfs between and the sea around, now one and now another, and sometimes all three together, spread below us as in a map. Athos is the most mountainous,
Two hours from Elerigova is a fountain, where some ten days before our visit a party of twelve gipsies had come upon twelve others in their sleep, murdered ten, and left for dead the two remaining ones. They, however, recovered, and bore evidence against the murderers, who, we were glad to learn, were safely lodged in the prison at Salonica, awaiting their punishment. This story, which we did not at first believe, was, like the former, confirmed to us by the testimony of our friends at Salonica.
After four hours' ride we came to the fountain of Kerasia, in a grassy glade surrounded by oak woods. Spreading our plaids under a tree, we had luncheon and a brief sleep. Then, resuming our journey, we came, after a ride of four hours' more, to Galatista. The path generally falls from Kerasia, and there is quite a steep descent by a paved road down a bare hill-side to Galatista, whither we had sent our most active attendant before us to look out for a clean lodging. This he found in a house just built, and we were forthwith installed in a little room which had never been occupied before—so they told us. It was, however, provided with divans, on which we managed to sleep very comfortably. Galatista is beautifully situated on the side of a hill, looking over a wide and fertile valley, bounded on the other side by a low range of hills, over which towered the great Olympus, all rosy-purple, with the golden sunset streaming behind it. The houses are, as usual, built of rough stones and mortar, with wooden beams introduced at intervals, as a security against earthquakes. The upper part of the house is all wood, except only the tiles of the roof. The houses stand detached, with mulberry trees sprinkled among them. There are, as I was told, three hundred houses and six churches, an allowance of church accommodation larger even than is enjoyed by the City of London—only the sacred buildings at Galatista are probably small, for I did not see one of them. Near our lodging was a large ruined tower of mediæval construction, the only noticeable building in the place. The women here have a peculiar head-dress. A cylinder, of I know not what material, about the size of a common tumbler-glass, is set on the crown of the head, and then covered with a white linen veil, which in front comes down as far as the eyebrows, and behind falls in folds on the shoulders. The effect is not ungraceful.
Sept. 16. We were in the saddle—if I may dignify the wooden cradle which the mules carry by that name—before sunrise. Descending into the valley, we passed, at eight o'clock, Vasilika, a village in a well-watered place, surrounded with mulberry-trees and gardens exuberantly fertile. In the plain beyond there was nothing remarkable except some tumuli, of which I counted seven in different places, three being of enormous size, and covering, I dare say, the bones of brave men who lived before Agamemnon. We passed another very large one about a mile from the walls of Salonica. We passed, also, two Turkish baths, ruinous, but still used, built over natural sources of warm mineral water. There are now no warm baths at Salonica, although the town derived its ancient name, Thermæ, from that source. Probably the water was brought in pipes from a distance. There are many such springs in the neighbourhood, and the water issues at
At half-past ten, after a ride of five hours, we reached our promised resting-place, the fountain of Matzarvis, where we stayed for two hours under the shade of a plane-tree. A quarter of a mile off, between us and the sea, was a Turkish village and mosque ruined and deserted—a mute confirmation of what we heard on all hands respecting the decay of the Turkish population in these regions. This was to be the last of our midday al fresco halts. It came to an end, leaving behind it "the immortal memory of one happy hour" (two happy hours, in plain prose and fact). It is worth while encountering all the fatigues of a journey on mule or horseback, merely for the pleasure of the siesta—the delights of rest earned by fatigue and the gratification of real hunger and real thirst, which, in our artificial life at home, few of us ever experience. And then the travellers have many things to say to one another which they had been thinking about on the way, but could not communicate because the unsociable mules will not go abreast, and the clatter of their iron shoes along the stony road drowns the voice and enforces silence. Besides, it brought to my mind similar halts in the Morea and Northern Greece with——and——, in former days.
After a further ride of two hours and twenty minutes we reached Salonica, skirting some vineyards on the way. Any passing traveller may take of the fruit as much as he can eat; to carry away more is thieving. For conscience sake, we ate all we took. The appearance of the town is very striking. A quadrangle of battlemented walls—a world too wide for the shrunk city—encloses a space of, perhaps, two square miles on a bare hill sloping steeply from the shore. Above is the Acropolis, called, in modern times, "the castle of the seven towers," and divided by a transverse wall from the lower town. Each angle at the shore is flanked by a large white round tower. Not far from the gate we passed a huge barrack partly burnt three years ago, and, in Turkish fashion, altogether abandoned in consequence. "Why is it that the Turks never repair anything?
A few minutes more and we arrived at the gate. We had, however, to traverse the whole width of the city before reaching the British Consul's house. A long and comparatively broad street, passing from gate to gate, preserves the line of the Roman Via Egnatia. Between it and the harbour the streets are tortuous, and the population dense; above, the houses get more and more sparse, the patches of ruin more frequent, till you reach the open ground which intervenes between city and citadel. My companion took up his abode with our Consul, while I went to inquire for Mr. Robert A., a wealthy English merchant, to whom I had an introduction. Mr. A.—next to the Pasha, perhaps, the most important man in Salonica—is spoken of, and spoken to, only by the name of "Bobby." With the Jews, he is "El Senor Bobby"; with the Greeks, ; with the Turks, "Bobby Effendi." I found him in a large building, which is, at once, counting-house and warehouse, and received a hospitable invitation, which I gladly accepted; and so, after seeing some of the sights of the town, was driven out, in an unoriental phaeton at the unoriental pace of ten miles an hour, to a pleasant country-house on the shore.
The rich abundance of an English dinner-table contrasted strongly (and shall I be thought sensual if I add favourably?) with the Lenten entertainment of the monks of Athos. After nightfall, lounging on the balcony, we looked across the bay at the city, which presented a strange and beautiful sight. It was the eve of the birthday of the Prophet, and all the minarets were illuminated with a circle of lamps hung round the gallery. One might fancy them to be so many crowns of light suspended in the air over the holy places of the city. A Turkish man-of-war, in the harbour, was dressed with lamps over hull and rigging; and every now and then a rocket shot up into the
Next morning, September 17, having been wakened at dawn by the salvoes of cannon announcing the feast-day, I crossed the harbour early with Mr. A. in his boat—a little craft with which he ventures out in the roughest weather. Not a month before this he was upset, in crossing from the town, by a sudden squall, and saved himself by clinging to the floating hull for two hours; when he was rescued, at last, by a man-of-war's boat Among the ships at anchor in the bay was the French steamer, which was to take me that evening to the Dardanelles. I proposed to leave my luggage on board at once, but this I found could not be done without special permission; accordingly, after we had landed, we elbowed our way through a dense mass of men, by dint partly of physical and partly of moral force (for who would hustle or impede the owner of half-a-million?) to the chief official of the Custom-house, who was smoking a chibouque tranquilly in the midst of a tumultuous crowd of petitioners. He at once gave permission for my luggage to be taken, without examination, on board the steamer. Except by such special leave, all luggage leaving the port is examined, because there is an export duty on all goods of 12 per cent., whether they are shipped for a foreign or a Turkish port. The result of this absurd regulation is absolutely to prohibit the home trade in many articles. Thus, for example, corn from Odessa on arriving at Constantinople pays a duty of 5 per cent., while corn from Salonica pays 12, which gives an advantage of 7 per cent, to the Russian. And this duty is imposed not at Salonica alone, but in all the ports of Turkey. The authorities have at last become aware of the absurdity, the suicidal folly, of the old system, and a new tariff has just been published, which is to come into force in October next, by which the export duty is reduced to 8 per cent. The following year it is to be 7; and a similar reduction is to take place yearly, till the duty has dwindled to l per cent., where it is to remain.
Delivered from my "impedimenta," I went to the British Consul's. I found him and Mr. S. at breakfast. The Consul was about to proceed by the next steamer to Mount Athos, having been invited to act as arbitrator in the great water-question between the monasteries of Kutlumush and Pantocrator. Mr. S. determined to return with him to see the monasteries we had left unvisited.
After breakfast Mr. B. came, according to appointment, to escort us over the sights of the town. Mr. B. is a missionary " Given by Leake.sans en avoir l'air." He carried in his hand a dog-whip with which he frightened and sometimes hurt the "gamins" who came in our way. We found him full of information, for he has lived long in the place, and very glad to communicate it, for he has seldom an opportunity of doing so. He has made himself a comfortable little English home—which, of course, implies that he has an English wife—where he entertained us hospitably with Edinburgh ale. Thus fortified, we set out on our walk. First, we went to what is called the Arch of Augustus, in the western wall of the city. The masonry is excellent, and may belong either to the Augustan age or to that of Cassander. An inscription on the wall close by
"We next went to the Church of the Holy Apostles—a Byzantine church of the usual brick-and-mortar masonry with marble columns in the portico, a dome in the centre, and four smaller domes round it. The church is very small, but, like the old cathedral of Athens, it has an air of great antiquity, and enjoys a
Mr. Finlay, whom I saw afterwards at Athens, told me that he had failed also to find the hodja. The church, however, he says, is not so old as it looks. Over the door are the words , and the same words are inscribed on the pillars of the portico, with the addition of the name of this patriarch and founder—Niphon. Now, Niphon the First was patriarch from
Not far off is a curious monument of old Thessalonica, which had already fallen in my way the day before. It is a decorative facade, whether of an agora, a hippodrome or other public building, of two stories, the first columns with plain shafts and Corinthian capitals, supporting horizontal architraves and entablature, above which, at equal distances, are four pilasters, with a statue in high relief on either side supporting a cornice. The whole is of white marble, and some of the blocks resting on the pillars are of enormous size—one, for instance, which I measured roughly, is twelve feet long, four wide, and two high. The pail's of statues, which are much mutilated, appear to represent—1. Ganymede and Leda. 2. Paris, with goat and Phrygian cap, and Ceres. 3. Venus and Bacchus with his panther. 4. A winged Victory and Triton blowing a horn. The combination is somewhat bizarre; but, probably, as both figures could not be seen at once they were not intended to have any relation to each other. The work appears to belong rather to Macedonian than Roman times; but, considering the eclecticism and imitative spirit which prevailed from the time of Alexander to that of Hadrian, it is impossible to pronounce a definite opinion. The Spanish Jews who form the great mass of the inhabitants of Salonica, call these figures, "Las Incantadas," supposing them to have been petrified by magic. Several Jewish families occupy the house which is attached to the edifice, and it is only by entering and going upstairs that one can obtain a good view of the sculptures. A host of young Israelites surrounded us, begging in clamorous and shameless fashion. On a kind of terrace, on the second story of the house, they had put up a wooden frame-work intertwined with reeds. This, they told us, was for the celebration of the Feast of Tabernacles on the following Saturday. With what tenacity does this people cling to the outward ceremonies of their religion! After all their wanderings from Palestine to Italy and Spain, and thence back to the East—after all their persecutions, we find them practising in the midst of a busy commercial city a custom learnt 3,000 years ago in the deserts of Arabia. Yet, if general report may be trusted, the Jews of Salonica are a most degraded race, and have long forgotten the moral teaching of their sacred books.
The population of Salonica is estimated by the best informed of its inhabitants at 70,000, of whom 50,000 are Jews, 10,000 Greeks, and 10,000 Turks. To this we must add about 400 Turks, consuls, merchants, and refugees, Italian or Hungarian. Our next visit was to the Eski Djaniss, or "old mosque," which has been a church—what church our conductor did not know. It is in the form of a basilica. It has a nave and two aisles, and a gallery for women corresponding to our triforium. At the eastern end is an apse. The length of the nave is forty-four paces, its breadth eighteen, and that of each aisle eight. There are on each side twelve columns, with plain shafts and capitals of contorted and exaggerated foliage, with Ionic volutes. They belonged probably to a church still earlier than the present building, for the arches spring from capitals placed upon the former capitals, of much ruder design and workmanship. The only persons in the mosque beside ourselves were some Jews, who were engaged in beating the husk from some boiled wheat for the use of the Turkish hodja. They had put the corn in what had been the Christian
cippus or tombstone, on which the inscription in Greek was still legible. It would be difficult to imagine a stranger combination of creeds.
S. Sophia's—now, of course, a mosque—was built in humble imitation of its namesake at Constantinople. The Turks added a portico supported with marble pillars and a minaret. In front is a court with some plane lime and cypress trees. The entrance to this court dates from Christian times, as does the octagonal belfry tower. Inside are six pillars of verde antique with the foliage of the capitals violently contorted, as if in a high wind—the same style which we had observed in the basilica. Some short pillars support the Gynæconitis, or women's gallery above. In the dome is a mosaic of the Ascension, the Virgin and the Apostles standing round, with trees between each figure. The figure of our Lord has been obliterated by the Turks, and its place supplied by an inscription; the feet, however, are still left, supported by two angels. The whole verse, "Ye men of Galilee," &c. is inscribed on the mosaic. In the apse is another mosaic of the Virgin and Child. The great treasure of the church is a pulpit of verde antique, called St. Paul's. From the style of its rude carvings, it cannot be older than the fifth or sixth century, and may be much later.
The so-called "Arch of Constantine" spans what I have before mentioned as the main street of the old, as it still is of the modern town, the Via Egnatia. It is now reduced to mere naked brickwork, except the basement, which is covered with sculptures in high relief, unfortunately concealed for the most part by wooden shops. One of the sides represents, in the upper division, an emperor altering a town in a triumphal car. There is a touch of humour in the introduction of Cæsar's dog trotting by his side. In the lower compartment is a battle. The workmanship seems to me more like the time of Trajan. If he arch be called Constantine's on any good authority, it may be an earlier arch renamed, or the figures may have been stolen to adorn it, as in the Arch of Constantine at Rome. Only a fragment of the original gate remains. It has evidently been quadruple, in the form of the Arc de l'Etoile at Paris.
The Rotunda was, it is said, a temple of Castor and Pollux before it was the Church of St. George. The form is indicated by the name. Perhaps it was originally suggested by the Pantheon. The walls are twenty-two feet thick, and its interior diameter eighty feet. At the time of its conversion an apse was added Round the lower part of the dome are some curious mosaics, figures of Apostles, &c., in eight compartments, standing under an arcade, or portico, of highly ornamental architecture—such as Paid Veronese was fond of introducing in his pictures—with here and there a peacock or other gorgeous bird perched aloft, and in each a Greek inscription, which the distance and the dim light prevented me from reading. In the pavement of the floor are pieces of pavonazetto and fragments of pilasters, which, probably, once faced the walls.
In the precinct of the mosque is a pulpit, which disputes with that in St. Sophia the honour of having been St. Paul's. This is of white marble, larger and more elaborate than the other, but almost as rude in workmanship. It has been intended to stand against a wall, and is ascended by a winding staircase of six steps. Its height is six feet three inches. On the top is a very small space for the preacher to stand or sit, and no appearance of balustrade to prevent him falling off. In the pulpit in St. Sophia's, still used by the Turks, the preacher sits, and there is a cushion for his accommodation. This is only used as a plaything for children, half a dozen of whom were clustered about it. On the outside are three niches, rounded at top in the shape of a shell, and divided by a little column and foliated capital. In each niche is a rude, misshapen figure of a barbarian soldier in trousers and Phrygian cap, reminding one of the figures which stand over the Arch of Constantine at Rome, and were stolen,
i.e. 6989, reckoned, in the usual Byzantine fashion, from the creation of the world. The date of the Christian era is, according to this mode of counting, 5508, deducting which, we get for the date of the monument,
There is a well in the church (a very common case) of pure cold water. We can scarcely doubt that the same well had been protected by a pagan temple, as it was afterwards by a Christian church, and is now by a Mahometan mosque. In these countries water is the first necessity, and the crowning luxury; water is fertility, abundance, life; the want of water is famine, desolation, death. What wonder if so precious a thing were attributed to the popular imagination to a special bounty of a God or saint—if temples were erected to serve at once for the safe keeping of the treasure and as memorials of the gift!
The church, too, possesses another treasure in the grave of St. Demetrius himself, illustrious for many miracles, and a place of pilgrimage to this day. The Turks do not interfere with a practice which their own customs sanction, and which brings them in a considerable profit. The Turkish hodja is paid for trimming the lamp which is kept always burning over the grave. There is no inscription on the stone which is supposed to cover the saint's bones. Once a year on the feast day, the little vault is filled from morning to night with crowds of worshippers, whose hot breath, condensed into drops on the cold stone, is supposed to be the sweat of the saint's bones miraculously exuding, and of sovereign efficacy if rubbed on ulcers, or any ailing parts of the body.
"Now," said Tom, "I am ready to be off, if it's to the world's end"
"Ah!" said the fairy, "that is a brave, good boy. But you must go further than the world's end, if you want to find Mr. Grimes; for he is at the Other End Of Nowhere. You must go to Shiny Wall, and through the white gate that never was opened; and then you will come to Peacepool, and Mother Carey's Haven, where the good whales go when they die. And there Mother Carey will tell you the way to the Other End Of Nowhere, and there you will find Mr. Grimes."
"Oh, dear!" said Tom. "But I do not know my way to Shiny Wall, or where it is at all."
"Little boys must take the trouble to find out things for themselves, or they will never grow to be men; so that you must ask all the beasts in the sea and the birds in the air, and if you have been good to them, some of them will tell you the way to Shiny Wall."
"Well," said Tom, "it will be a long journey, so I had better start at once. Good-bye, Ellie; you know I am getting a big boy, and I must go out and see the world."
"I know you must," said Ellie; "but you will not forget me, Tom. I shall wait here till you come."
And she shook hands with him, and bade him good-bye. Tom longed very much again to kiss her; but he thought it would not be respectful, considering she was a lady born; so he promised not to forget her: but his little whirl-about of a head was so full of the notion of going out to see the world, that it forgot her in five minutes: but though his head forgot her, I am glad to say his heart did not.
So he asked all the beasts in the sea, and all the birds in the air, but none of them knew the way to Shiny Wall. For why? He was still too far down south.
Then he met a ship, far larger than he had ever seen—a gallant ocean-steamer, with a long cloud of smoke trailing behind; and he wondered how she went on without sails, and swam up to her to see. A school of dolphins were running races round and round her, going three feet for her one, and Tom asked them the way to Shiny Wall: but they did not know. Then he tried to find out how she moved, and at last he saw her screw, and was so delighted with it that he played under her quarter all day, till he nearly had his nose knocked off by the fans, and thought it time to move. Then he watched the sailors upon deck, and the ladies, with their bonnets and parasols: but none of them could see him, because their eyes were not opened—as, indeed, most people's eyes are not.
At last there came out into the quarter-gallery a very pretty lady, in deep black widow's weeds, and in her arms a baby. She leaned over the quarter-gallery, and looked back and back toward England far away; and as she looked she sang:
Her voice was so soft and low, and the music of the air so sweet, that Tom could have listened to it all day. But as she held the baby over the gallery-rail, to show it the dolphins leaping and the water gurgling in the ship's wake, lo! and behold, the baby saw Tom.
He was quite sure of that; for, when their eyes met, the baby smiled and held out its hands; and Tom smiled and held out his hands too; and the baby kicked and leaped, as if it wanted to jump overboard to him.
"What do you see, my darling?" said the lady; and her eyes followed the baby's till she too caught sight of Tom, swimming about among the foam-beads below.
She gave a little shriek, and a start; and then she said, quite quietly, "Yes, it is your little brother's spirit," and waved her hand to Tom, and cried, "Wait a little longer, darling, only a little longer: and we shall be all together once more."
And at that an old nurse, all in black, came out and talked to her, and drew her in. And Tom turned away northward, sad and wondering; and watched the great steamer slide away into the dusk, and the lights on board peep out one by one, and die out again, and the long bar of smoke fade away into the evening mist, till all was out of sight.
And he swam northward again, day after day, till at last he met the King of the Herrings, with a curry-comb growing out of his nose, and a sprat in his mouth for a cigar, and asked him the way to Shiny Wall; so he bolted his sprat head foremost, and said:
"If I were you, young gentleman, I should go to the Allalonestone, and ask the last of the Gairfowl. She is of a very ancient clan, very nearly as ancient as my own; and knows a good deal which these modern upstarts don't, as ladies of old houses are likely to do."
Tom asked his way to her, and the King of Herrings told him very kindly; for he was a courteous old gentleman of the old school, though he was horribly ugly, and strangely bedizened too, like the old bucks who lounge in the clubhouse windows.
But just as Tom had thanked him and set off, he called after him: "Hi! I say, can you fly?"
"I never tried," says Tom. "Why?"
"Because, if you can, I should advise you to say nothing to the old lady about it. There; take a hint Good-bye."
And away Tom went for seven days and seven nights due north-west, till he came to a great codbank, the like of which he never saw before. The great cod lay below in tens of thousands, and gobbled shellfish all day long; and the blue sharks roved above in hundreds, and gobbled them when they came up. So they ate, and ate, and ate each other, as they had done since the making of the world; for no man had come here yet to catch them, and find out how rich old Mother Carey is.
And there he saw the last of the Gairfowl, standing up on the Allalonestone, all alone. And a very grand old lady she was, full three feet high, and bolt upright, like some old Highland chieftainess. She had on a black velvet gown, and a white pinner and apron, and a very high bridge to her nose (which is a sure mark of high breeding), and a large pair of white spectacles on it, which made her look rather odd: but it was the ancient fashion of her house.
And, instead of wings, she had two little feathery arms, with which she fanned herself, and complained of the dreadful heat; and she kept on crooning an old song to herself, which she learnt when she was a little baby-bird, long ago—
It was "flew" away, properly, and not "swam" away: but, as she could not fly, she had a right to alter it. However, it was a very fit song for her to sing, because she was a lady herself.
Tom came up to her very humbly, and made his bow; and the first thing she said was—
"Have you wings? Can you fly?"
"Oh dear, no, ma'am; I should not think of such a thing," said cunning little Tom.
"Then I shall have great pleasure in talking to you, my dear. It is quite refreshing nowadays to see anything without wings. They must all have wings, forsooth, now, every new upstart sort of bird, and fly. What can they want with flying, and raising themselves above their proper station in life? In the days of my ancestors no birds ever thought of having wings, and did very well without; and now they all laugh at me, because I keep to the good old fashion. Why, the very marrocks and dovekies have got wings, the vulgar creatures, and poor little ones enough they are; and my own cousins, too, the razorbills, who are gentlefolk born, and ought to know better than to ape their inferiors."
And so she was running on, while Tom tried to get in a word edgeways; and at last he did, when the old lady got out of breath, and began fanning herself again; and then he asked if she knew the way to the Shiny Wall.
"Shiny Wall? Who should know better than I? We all came from Shiny Wall, thousands of years ago, when it was decently cold, and the climate was fit for gentlefolk; but now, what with the heat, and what with these vulgar-winged things, who fly up and down, and eat everything, so that gentle people's hunting is all spoilt, and one really cannot get one's living, or hardly venture off the rock for fear of being flown against by some creature that would not have dared to come within a mile of one a thousand years ago—what was I saying? Why, we have quite gone down in the world, my dear, and have nothing left but our honour. And I am the last of my family. A friend of mine and I came and settled on this rock when we were young, to be out of the way of low people. Once we were a great nation, and spread over all the Northern Isles. But men shot us so, and knocked us on the head, and took our eggs—why, if you will believe it, they say that on the coast of Labrador the sailors used to lay a plank from the rock on board the thing they call their ship, and drive us along the plank by hundreds, till we tumbled down into the ship's waist in heaps; and then, I suppose, they ate us, the nasty fellows! Well—but—what was I saying? At last there were none of us left, except on the old Gairfowlskerry, just off the Iceland coast, up which no man could climb. Even there we had no peace; for one day, when I was quite a young girl, the land rocked, and the sea boiled, and the sky grew dark, and all the air was filled with smoke and dust, and down tumbled the old Gairfowlskerry into the sea. The dovekies and mar-rocks, of course, all flew away; but we were too proud to do that. Some of us were dashed to pieces, and some drowned; and those who were left got away to Eldey, and the dovekies tell me they are all dead now, and that another Gairfowlskerry has risen out of the sea close to the old one, but that it is such a poor flat place that it is not safe to live on: and so here I am left alone."
This was the Gairfowl's story, and, strange as it may seem, it is every word of it true.
"If you only had had wings!" said Tom; "then you might all have flown away too."
"Yes, young gentleman: and if people are not gentlemen and ladies, and forget that noblesse oblige, they will find it as easy to get on in the world as other people who don't care what they do. Why, if I had not recollected that
noblesse oblige, I should not have been all alone now." And the poor old lady sighed.
"How was that, ma'am?"
"Why, my dear, a gentleman came hither with me, and after we had been here some time, he wanted to marry—in fact, he actually proposed to me. Well, I can't blame him; I was young, and very handsome then, I don't deny: but you see, I could not hear of such a thing, because he was my deceased sister's husband, you see?"
"Of course not, ma'am," said Tom; though, of course, he knew nothing about it. "She was very much diseased, I suppose?"
"You do not understand me, my dear. I mean, that being a lady, and with right and honourable feelings, as our house always has had, I felt it my duty to snub him, and howk him, and peck him continually, to keep him at his proper distance; and, to tell the truth, I once pecked him a little too hard, poor fellow, and he tumbled backwards off the rock, and—really, it was very unfortunate, but it was not my fault—a shark coming by saw him flapping, and snapped him up. And since then I have lived all alone—
And soon I shall be gone, my little dear, and nobody will miss me; and then the poor stone will be left all alone."
"But, please, which is the way to Shiny Wall?" said Tom.
"Oh, you must go, my little dear—you must go. Let me see—I am sure—that is—really, my poor old brains are getting quite puzzled. Do you know, my little dear, I am afraid, if you want to know, you must ask some of these vulgar birds about, for I have quite forgotten."
And the poor old Gairfowl began to cry tears of pure oil; and Tom was quite sorry for her; and for himself too, for he was at his wits' end whom to ask.
But by there came a flock of petrels, who are Mother Carey's own chickens; and Tom thought them much prettier than Lady Gairfowl, and so perhaps they were; for Mother Carey had had a great deal of fresh experience between the time that she invented the Gairfowl and the time that she invented them. They flitted along like a flock of black swallows, and hopped and skipped from wave to wave, lifting up their little feet behind them so daintily, and whistling to each other so tenderly, that Tom fell in love with them at once, and called to them to know the way to Shiny Wall.
"Shiny Wall? Do you want Shiny Wall? Then come with us, and we will show you. We are Mother Carey's own chickens, and she sends us out over all the seas, to show the good birds the way home."
Tom was delighted, and swam off to them, after he had made his bow to the Gairfowl. But she would not return his bow: but held herself bolt upright, and wept tears of oil as she sang:
But she was wrong there; for the stone was not left all alone: and the next time that Tom goes by it, he will see a sight worth seeing.
The old Gairfowl is gone already; but there are better things come in her place; and when Tom comes he will see the fishing-smacks anchored there in hundreds, from Scotland, and from Ireland, and from the Orkneys, and the Shetlands, and from all the Northern ports, full of the children of the old Norse Vikings, the masters of the sea. And the men will be hauling in the great cod by thousands, till their hands are sore from the lines; and they will be making cod-liver oil, and guano, and salting down the fish; and there will be a man-of-war steamer there to protect them, and a lighthouse to show them the way; and you, and I, perhaps shall go some day to the Allalonestone, to the great summer sea-fair, and dredge strange creatures, such as man never saw before; and we shall hear the sailors boast that it is not the worst jewel in Queen Victoria's crown, for there are eighty miles of codbank, and food for all the
"The old order changeth, giving place to the new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways."
And now Tom was all agog to start for Shiny Wall; but the petrels said no. They must go first to Allfowlsness, and wait there for the great gathering of all the seabirds, before they start for their summer breeding-places far away in the Northern isles; and there they would be sure to find some birds which were going to Shiny Wall: but where Allfowlsness was, he must promise never to tell, lest men should go there and shoot the birds, and stuff them, and put them into stupid museums, instead of leaving them to play, and breed, and work, in Mother Carey's water-garden, where they ought to be.
So where Allfowlsness is nobody must know; and all that is to be said about it is, that Tom waited there many days; and as he waited, he saw a very curious sight. On the rabbit burrows on the shore there gathered hundreds and hundreds of hoodiecrows, such as you see in Cambridgeshire. And they made such a noise, that Tom came on shore, and went up to see what was the matter.
And there he found them holding their great caucus, which they hold every year in the North; and all their stump-orators were speechifying; and for a tribune, the speaker stood on an old sheep's skull.
And they cawed and cawed, and boasted of all the clever things they had done; how many lambs' eyes they had picked out, and how many dead bullocks they had eaten, and how many young grouse they had swallowed whole, and how many grouse-eggs they had flown away with, stuck on the point of their bills, which is the hoodiecrow's particularly clever feat, of which he is as proud as a gipsy is of doing the hokany-baro; and what that is, I won't tell you.
And at last they brought out the prettiest, neatest young lady-crow that ever was seen, and set her in the middle, and all began abusing and vilifying, and rating, and bullyragging at her, because she had stolen no grouse-eggs, and had actually dared to say that she would not steal any. So she was to be tried publicly by their laws (for the hoodies always try some offenders in their great yearly parliament). And there she stood in the middle, in her black gown and grey hood, looking as meek and as neat as a quakeress, and they all bawled at her at once—
For all the other scaul-crows set upon her, and pecked her to death there and then, before Tom could come to help her; and then flew away, very proud of what they had done.
Now, was not this a scandalous transaction?
But they are true republicans, these hoodies, who do every one just what he likes, and makes other people do so too; so that, for any freedom of speech, thought, or action, which is allowed among them, they might as well be American citizens, sir!
But the fairies took the good crow, and gave her nine new sets of feathers running, and turned her, at last, into the most beautiful bird of paradise with a green velvet suit and a long tail, and sent her to eat fruit in the Spice Islands, where cloves and nutmegs grow.
And Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid settled her account with the wicked hoodies. For, as they flew away, what should they find but a nasty dead dog?—on which they all set to work, pecking and gobbling, and cawing, and quarrelling, to their hearts' content. But, the moment afterwards, they all threw up their bills into the air, and gave one screech; and then turned head over heels backward, and fell down dead, one hundred and twenty-three of them at once. For why? The fairy had told the gamekeeper in a dream, to fill the dead dog full of strychnine; and so he did.
And after a while the birds began to gather to Allfowlsness, in thousands and tens of thousands, blackening all the air; swans and brant geese, harlequins and eiders, harelds and garganeys, smews and goosanders, divers and loons, grebes and dovekies, auks and razorbills, gannets and petrels, skuas and terns, with gulls, beyond all naming or numbering; and they paddled, and washed, and splashed, and combed, and brushed themselves on the sand, till the shore was white with feathers; and they quacked, and clucked, and gabbled, and chattered, and screamed, and whooped, as they talked over matters with their friends, and settled where they were to go and breed that summer, till you might have heard them ten miles off; and lucky it was for them that there was no one to hear them but the old keeper, who lived all alone upon the Ness, in a turf hut thatched with heather and fringed round with great stones slung across the roof by bent-ropes, lest the winter gales should blow the hut right away. But he never minded the birds or hurt them, because they were not in season: indeed, he minded but two things in the whole world, and those were, his Bible and his grouse; for he was as good an old Scotchman as ever knit stockings on a winter's night; only, when all the birds were going, he toddled out, and took off his cap to them, and wished them a merry journey and a safe return; and then gathered up all the feathers which they had left, and cleaned them to sell down south, and make feather-beds for stuffy people to lie on.
Then the petrels asked this bird and that whether they would take Tom to Shiny Wall: but one set was going to Sutherland, and one to the Shetlands, and one to Norway, and one to Spitzbergen, and one to Iceland, and one to Greenland: but none would go to Shiny Wall. So the good-natured petrels said that they would show him part of the way themselves, but they were only going as far as Jan Mayen's land; and after that he must shift for himself.
And then all the birds rose up, and streamed away in long black lines, north, and north-east, and north-west, across the bright blue summer sky; and their cry was like ten thousand packs of hounds, and ten thousand peals of bells. Only the puffins stayed behind, and killed the young rabbits, and laid their eggs in the rabbit-burrows; which was rough practice, certainly: but a man must see to his own family.
And, as Tom and the petrels went north-eastward, it began to blow right hard; for the old gentleman in the grey great-coat, who looks after the big copper boiler in the Gulf of Mexico, had got behind-hand with his work; so Mother Carey had sent an electric message to him for more steam; and now the steam was coming, as much in an hour as ought to have come in a week, puffing, and roaring, and swishing, and swirling, till you could not see where the sky ended and the sea began. But Tom and the petrels never cared, for the gale was right abaft, and away they went over the crests of the billows, as merry as so many flying-fish.
And at last they saw an ugly sight—the black side of a great ship, waterlogged in the trough of the sea. Her funnel and her masts were overboard, and swayed and surged under her lee; and her decks were swept as clean as a barn floor, and there was no living soul on board.
The petrels flew up to her, and wailed round her; for they were very sorry indeed, and also they expected to find
And there, in a little cot, lashed tight under the bulwark, lay a baby fast asleep; the very same baby, Tom saw at once, which he had seen in the singing lady's arms.
He went up to it, and wanted to wake it: but behold, from under the cot, out jumped a little black and tan terrier dog, and began barking and snapping at Tom, and would not let him touch the cot.
Tom knew the dog's teeth could not hurt him: but at least it could shove him away, and did; and he and the dog fought and struggled, for he wanted to help the baby, and did not want to throw the poor dog overboard: but, as they were struggling, there came a tall green sea, and walked in over the weather side of the ship, and swept them all into the waves.
"Oh, the baby, the baby!" screamed Tom: but the next moment he did not scream at all; for he saw the cot settling down through the green water, with the baby smiling in it, fast asleep; and he saw the fairies come up from below, and carry baby and cradle gently down in their soft arms; and then he knew it was all right, and that there would be a new water-baby in St. Brandan's Isle.
And the poor little dog?
Why, after he had kicked and coughed a little, he sneezed so hard, that he sneezed himself clean out of his skin, and turned into a water-dog, and jumped and danced round Tom, and ran over the crests of the waves, and snapped at the jelly-fish and the mackarel, and ran after Tom the whole way to the Other End Of Nowhere.
Then they went on again, till they began to see the peak of Jan Mayen's Land, standing up like a white sugar-loaf, two miles above the clouds.
And there they fell in with a whole flock of mollys, who were feeding on a dead whale.
"These are the fellows to show you the way," said Mother Carey's chickens; "we cannot help you further north. We don't like to get among the ice pack, for fear it should nip our toes; but the mollys dare fly anywhere."
So the petrels called to the mollys; but they were so busy and greedy, gobbling and pecking, and spluttering and fighting, over the blubber, that they did not take the least notice.
"Come, come," said the petrels, "you lazy, greedy lubbers, this young gentleman is going to Mother Carey, and if you don't attend on him, you won't earn your discharge from her, you know."
"Greedy we are," says a great fat old molly, "but lazy we ain't; and, as for lubbers, we're no more lubbers than you. Let's have a look at the lad."
And he flapped right into Tom's face, and stared at him in the most impudent way (for the mollys are audacious fellows, as all whalers know), and then asked him where he hailed from, and what land he sighted last.
And, when Tom told him, he seemed pleased, and said he was a good plucked one to have got so far.
"Come along, lads," he said to the rest, "and give this little chap a cast over the pack, for Mother Carey's sake. We've eaten blubber enough for to-day, and we'll e'en work out a bit of our time by helping the lad."
So the mollys took Tom up on their backs, and flew off with him, laughing and joking—and oh, how they did smell of train oil!
"Who are you, you jolly birds?" asked Tom.
"We are the spirits of the old Greenland skippers, who hunted here, right whales and horse-whales, full hundreds of years agone. But, because we were saucy and greedy, we were all turned into mollys, to eat whale's blubber all our days. But lubbers we are none, and could sail a ship now against any man in the North Seas, though we don't hold with this newfangled steam. And it's a shame of those black imps of petrels to call us so; but, because they're her grace's pets, they think they may say anything they like."
"And who are you?" asked Tom of
"My name is Hendrick Hudson, and a right good skipper was I; and my fame will last to the world's end, in spite of all the wrong I did. For I discovered Hudson River, and I named Hudson's Bay; and many have come in my wake that dared not have shown me the way. But I was a hard man in my time, that's truth, and stole the poor Indians off the coast of Maine, and sold them for slaves down in Virginia; and at last I was so cruel to my sailors, here in these very seas, that they set me adrift in an open boat, and I never was heard of more. So now I'm the king of all the mollys, till I've worked out my time."
And now they came to the edge of the pack, and beyond it they could see Shiny Wall looming, through mist, and snow, and storm. But the pack rolled horribly upon the swell, and the ice giants fought and roared, and leapt upon each other's backs, and ground each other to powder, so that Tom was afraid to venture among them, lest he should be ground to powder too. And he was the more afraid, when he saw lying among the ice pack the wrecks of many a gallant ship; some with masts and yards all standing, some with the seamen frozen fast on board. Alas, alas, for them! They were all true English hearts; and they came to their end like good knights-errant, in searching for the white gate that never was opened yet.
But the good mollys took Tom and his dog up, and flew with them safe over the pack and the roaring ice giants, and set them down at the foot of Shiny Wall.
"And where is the gate?" asked Tom.
"There is no gate," said the mollys.
"No gate?" cried Tom, aghast.
"None; never a crack of one, and that's the whole of the secret, as better fellows, lad, than you have found to their cost; and, if there had been, they'd have killed by now every right whale that swims the sea."
"What am I to do, then?"
"Dive under the floe, to be sure, if you have pluck."
"I've not come so far to turn now," said Tom; "so here goes for a header."
"A lucky voyage to you, lad," said the mollys; "we knew you were one of the right sort. So good-bye."
"Why don't you come too?" asked Tom.
But the mollys only wailed sadly, "We can't go yet, we can't go yet," and flew away over the pack.
So Tom dived under the great white gate, which never was opened yet, and went on in black darkness, at the bottom of the sea, for seven days and seven nights. And yet he was not a bit frightened. Why should he be? He was a brave English lad, whose business is to go out and see all the world.
And at last he saw the light, and clear clear water overhead; and up he came a thousand fathoms, among clouds of sea-moths, which fluttered round his head. There were moths with red heads and wings, and opal bodies, that flapped about slowly; moths with brown wings that Happed about quickly; and yellow shrimps that hopped and skipped most quickly of all; and jellies of all the colours in the world, that neither hopped nor skipped, but only dawdled and yawned, and would not get out of his way: and the dog snapped at them till his jaws were tired; but Tom hardly minded them at all, he was so eager to get to the top of the water, and see the pool where the good whales go.
And a very large pool it was, miles and miles across, though the air was so clear that the ice cliffs on the opposite side looked as if they were close at hand. All round it the ice cliffs rose, in walls and spires and battlements, and caves and bridges, and stories and galleries, in which the ice-fairies live, and drive away the storms and clouds, that Mother Carey's pool may lie calm from year's end to year's end. And the sun acted policeman, and walked round outside every day, peeping just over the top of the ice wall, to see that all went right; and now and then he played conjuring tricks, or had an exhibition of fireworks,
And there the good whales lay, the happy sleepy beasts, upon the still oily sea. They were all right whales, you must know, and finners, and razor-backs, and bottle-noses, and spotted sea-unicorns with long ivory horns. But the sperm whales are such raging, ramping, roaring, rumbustious fellows, that, if Mother Carey let them in, there would be no more peace in Peacepool. So she packs them away in a great pond by themselves at the South Pole, two hundred and sixty three miles south-south east of Mount Erebus, the great volcano in the ice; and there they butt each other with their ugly noses, day and night from year's end to year's end. And if they think that sport—why, so do their American cousins.
But here there were only good quiet beasts, lying about like the black hulls of sloops, and blowing every now and then jets of white steam, or sculling round with their huge mouths open, for the sea-moths to swim down their throats. There were no threshers there to thresh their poor old backs, or sword-fish to stab their stomachs, or saw-fish to rip them up, or ice-sharks to bite lumps out of their sides, or whalers to harpoon and lance them. They were quite safe and happy there; and all they had to do was to wait quietly in Peacepool, till Mother Carey sent for them to make them out of old beasts into new.
Tom swam up to the nearest whale, and asked the way to Mother Carey.
"There she sits, in the middle," said the whale.
Tom looked; but he could see nothing in the middle of the pool, but one peaked iceberg: and he said so.
"That's Mother Carey," said the whale, "as you will find when you get to her. There she sits making old beasts into new all the year round."
"How does she do that?"
"That's her concern, not mine," said the old whale; and yawned so wide (for he was very large) that there swam into his mouth 943 sea-moths, 13,846 jellyfish no bigger than pins' heads, a string of salpæ nine yards long, and forty-three little ice-crabs, who gave each other a parting pinch all round, tucked their legs under their stomachs, and determined to die decently, like Julius Cæsar.
"I suppose," said Tom, "she cuts up a great whale like you into a whole shoal of porpoises?"
At which the old whale laughed so violently that he coughed up all the creatures; who swam away again, very thankful at having escaped out of that terrible whalebone net of his, from which bourne no traveller returns; and Tom went on to the iceberg, wondering.
And, when he came near it, it took the form of the grandest old lady he had ever seen—a white marble lady, sitting on a white marble throne. And from the foot of the throne there swam away, out and out into the sea, millions of new-born creatures, of more shapes and colours than man ever dreamed. And they were Mother Carey's children, whom she makes out of the sea-water all day long.
He expected, of course—like some grown people, who ought to know better—to find her snipping, piecing, fitting, stitching, cobbling, basting, filing, planing, hammering, turning, polishing, moulding, measuring, chiselling, clipping, and so forth, as men do when they go to work to make anything.
But, instead of that, she sat quite still, with her chin upon her hand, looking down into the sea with two great grand blue eyes, as blue as the sea itself. Her hair was as white as the snow—for she was very, very old—in fact, as old as any thing which you are likely to come across, except the difference between right and wrong.
And, when she saw Tom, she looked at him very kindly.
"What do you want, my little man? It is long since I have seen a water-baby here."
Tom told her his errand, and asked the way to the Other End Of Nowhere.
"You ought to know yourself, for you have been there already."
"Have I, ma'am! I'm sure I forget all about it."
"Then look at me."
And, as Tom looked into her great blue eyes, he recollected the way perfectly.
Now, was not that strange?
"Thank you, ma'am," said Tom. "Then I won't trouble your ladyship any more; I hear you are very busy."
"I am never more busy than I am now!" she said, without stirring a finger.
"I heard, ma'am, that you were always making new beasts out of old."
"So people fancy. But I am not going to trouble myself to make things, my little dear. I sit here and make them make themselves."
"You are a clever fairy, indeed," thought Tom. And he was quite right.
That is a grand trick of good old Mother Carey's, and a grand answer, which she has had occasion to make several times to impertinent people.
There was once, for instance, a fairy who was so clever that she found out how to make butterflies. I don't mean sham ones; no: but real live ones, which would fly, and eat, and lay eggs, and do everything that they ought; and she was so proud of her skill that she went flying straight off to the North Pole, to boast to Mother Carey how she could make butterflies.
And Mother Carey laughed.
"Know, silly girl," she said, "that any one can make things, if they will take time and trouble enough; but it is not every one who, like me, can make things make themselves."
But people do not yet believe that Mother Carey is as clever as all that comes to; and they will not till they, too, go the journey to the Other End Of Nowhere.
"And now, my pretty little man," said Mother Carey, "you are sure you know the way to the Other End Of Nowhere?"
"I recollect now, ma'am, every step," said Tom.
"But it is not as easy to get there as you think. In the first place, you may meet some very queer-tempered people on the road, who will not let you pass without this passport of mine, which you must hang round your neck and take care of; and, in the next place, you must go the whole way backward."
"Backward!" cried Tom. "Then I shall not be able to see my way."
"On the contrary, if you look forward, you will not see a step before you, and be certain to go wrong; but, if you look behind you, and watch carefully whatever you have passed, and especially keep your eye on the dog, who goes by instinct, and therefore can't go wrong, then you will know what is coming next as plainly as if you saw it in a looking-glass."
Tom was very much astonished; but he obeyed her, for he had learnt always to believe what the fairies told him.
"So it is, my dear child," said Mother Carey; "and I will tell you a story, which will show you that I am perfectly right, as it is my custom to be.
"Once on a time, there were two brothers. One was called Prometheus, because he always looked before him, and boasted that he was wise beforehand; and the other was called Epimetheus, because he always looked behind him, and did not boast at all; but said humbly, like the Irishman, that he had sooner prophesy after the event.
"Well, Prometheus was a very clever fellow, of course, and invented all sorts of wonderful things. But, unfortunately, when they were set to work, to work was just what they would not do: wherefore very little has come of them, and very little is left of them; and now nobody knows what they were, save a few archæological old gentlemen, who scratch in queer corners, and find little there, save Ptinum, Furem, Blaptem Mortisagam, Acarum Horridum, and Tineam Laciniarum.
"But Epimetheus was a very slow fellow, certainly, and went among men for a clod, and a muff, and a milksop, and a slowcoach, and a bloke, and a boodle, and so forth. And very little
"And what happened at last? There came to the two brothers the most beautiful creature that ever was seen, Pandora by name; which means, All the gifts of the gods. But, because she had a strange box in her hand, this fanciful, forecasting, suspicious, prudential, theoretical, deductive, prophesying Prometheus, who was always settling what what was going to happen, would have nothing to do with pretty Pandora and her box.
"But Epimetheus took her and it, as he took everything that came; and married her for better for worse, as every man ought, whenever he has even the chance of a good wife. And they opened the box between them, of course, to see what was inside: for, else, of what possible use could it have been to them?
"And out flew all the ills which flesh is heir to; all the children of the four great bogies,—
And, worst of all, Naughty Boys and Girls:
But one thing remained at the bottom of the box, and that was, Hope.
"So Epimetheus got a great deal of trouble, as most men do in this world: but he got the three best things in the world into the bargain—a good wife, and experience, and hope: while Prometheus had just as much trouble, and a great deal more (as you will hear), of his own making; and nothing beside, save fancies spun out of his own brain, as a spider spins her web out of her stomach.
"And Prometheus kept on looking before him so far ahead, that as he was running about with a box of lucifers, (which were the only useful things he ever invented, and do as much harm as good); he trod on his own nose, and tumbled down (as most deductive philosophers do), and set the Thames on fire; and they have hardly put it out again yet. So he had to be chained to the top of a mountain, with a vulture by him to give him a peck whenever he stirred, lest he should turn the whole world upside down with his prophecies and his theories.
"But stupid old Epimetheus went working and grubbing on, with the help of his wife Pandora, always looking behind him to see what had happened, till he really learnt to know now and then what would happen next; and understood so well which side his bread was buttered, and which way the cat jumped, that he began to make things which would work, and go on working, too; to till and drain the ground, and make looms, and ships, and railroads, and steam ploughs, and electric telegraphs, and all the things which you see in the Great Exhibition, and to foretel famine, and bad weather, and the price of stocks, and the end of President Lincoln's policy; till at last he grew as rich as a Jew, and as fat as a farmer; and people thought twice before they meddled with him, but only once before they asked him to help them; for, because he earned his money well, he could afford to spend it well likewise.
"And his children are the men of science, who get good lasting work done in the world: but the children of Prometheus are the fanatics, and the theorists, and the bigots and the bores, and the noisy windy people, who go telling silly folk what will happen, instead of looking to see what has happened already!"
Now, was not Mother Carey's a wonderful story? And, I am happy to say, Tom believed it every word.
For so it happened to Tom likewise. He was very sorely tried; for though, by keeping the dog to heels (or rather to toes, for he had to walk backward), he could see pretty well which way the dog was hunting, yet it was much slower work to go backwards than to go for-
But I am proud to say that, though. Tom had not been at Cambridge—for, if he had, he would have certainly been senior wrangler—he was such a little dogged, hard, gnarly, foursquare brick of an English boy, that he never turned his head round once, all the way from Peace-pool to the Other End Of Nowhere: but kept his eye on the dog, and let him pick out the scent, hot or cold, straight or crooked, wet or dry, up hill or down dale; by which means he never made a single mistake, and saw all the wonderful and hitherto by-no-mortal-man-imagined things, which it is my duty to relate to you in the next chapter.
To be continued.
Here is a book on religious matters, which, meant for all the world to read, fulfils the indispensable duty of edifying at the same time that it informs. Here is a clergyman, who, looking at the Bible, sees its contents in their right proportion, and gives to each matter its due prominence. Here is an inquirer, who, treating Scripture history with a perfectly free spirit,—falsifying nothing, sophisticating nothing—treats it so that his freedom leaves the sacred power of that history inviolate. "Who that had been reproached with denying to an honest clergyman freedom to speak the truth, who that had been misrepresented as wishing to make religious truth the property of an aristocratic few, while to the multitude is thrown the sop of any convenient fiction, could desire a better opportunity than Dr. Stanley's book affords for showing what, in religious matters, is the true freedom of a religious speaker, and what the true demand and true right of his hearers?
His hearers are the many; those who prosecute the religious life, or those who need to prosecute it. All these come to him with certain demands in virtue of certain needs. There remain a few of mankind who do not come to him with these demands, or acknowledge these needs. Mr. Maurice (whom I name with gratitude and respect) says, in a remarkable letter, that I thus assert them to be without these needs. By no means: that is a matter which literary criticism does not try. But it sees that a very few of mankind aspire after a life which is not the life after which the vast majority aspire, and to help them to which the vast majority seek the aid of religion. It sees that the ideal life—the summum bonum for a born thinker, for a philosopher like Parmenides, or Spinoza, or Hegel—is an eternal series of intellectual acts. It sees that this life treats all things, religion included, with entire freedom as subject-matter for thought, as elements in a vast movement of speculation. The few who live this life stand apart, and have an existence separate from that of the mass of mankind; they address an imaginary audience of their mates; the region which they inhabit is the laboratory wherein are fashioned the new intellectual ideas which, from time to time, take their place in the world. Are these few justified, in the sight of God, in so living? That is a question which literary criticism must not attempt to answer. But such is the worth
But the world of the few—the world of speculative life—is not the world of the many, the world of religious life; the thoughts of the former cannot properly be transferred to the latter, cannot be called true in the latter, except on certain conditions. It is not for literary criticism to set forth adequately the religious life; yet what, even as criticism, it sees of this life, it may say. Religious life resides not in an incessant movement of ideas, but in a feeling which attaches itself to certain fixed objects. The religious life of Christendom has thus attached itself to the acts, and words, and death of Christ, as recorded in the Gospels and expounded in the Epistles of the New Testament; and to the main histories, the prophecies and the hymns of the Old Testament. In relation to these objects, it has adopted certain intellectual ideas; such are, ideas respecting the being of God, the laws of nature, the freedom of human will, the character of prophecy, the character of inspiration. But its essence, the essence of Christian life, consists in the ardour, the love, the self-renouncement, the ineffable aspiration with which it throws itself upon the objects of its attachment themselves, not in the intellectual ideas which it holds in relation to them. These ideas belong to another sphere, the sphere of speculative life, of intellect, of pure thought; transplanted into the sphere of religious life, they have no meaning in them, no vitality, no truth, unless they adjust themselves to the conditions of that life, unless they allow it to pursue its course freely. The moment this is forgotten, the moment in the sphere of the religious life undue prominence is given to the intellectual ideas which are here but accessories, the moment the first place is not given to the emotion which is here the principal, that moment the essence of the religious life is violated: confusion and falsehood are introduced into its sphere. And, if not only is undue prominence in this sphere given to intellectual ideas, but these ideas are so presented as in themselves violently to jar with the religious feeling, then the confusion is a thousand times worse confounded, the falsehood a thousand times more glaring.
"The earth moves," said Galileo, speaking as a philosopher in the sphere of pure thought, in which ideas have an absolute value; and he said the truth; he was a great thinker because he perceived this truth; he was a great man because he asserted it in spite of persecution. It was the theologians, insisting upon
the earth moves" in spite of its absolute truth, would have become a falsehood. Spinoza, again, speaking as a pure thinker to pure thinkers, not concerning himself whether what he said impaired or confirmed the power and virtue of the Bible for the actual religious life of Christendom, but pursuing a speculative demonstration, said: "The Bible contains much that is mere history, and, like all history, sometimes true, sometimes false." But we must bear in mind that Spinoza did not promulgate this thesis in immediate connexion with the religious life of his tunes, but as a speculative idea: he uttered it not as a religious teacher, but as an independent philosopher; and he left it, as Galileo left his, to filter down gradually (if true) into the common thought of mankind, and to adjust itself, through other agency than his, to their religious life. The Bishop of Natal does not speak as an independent philosopher, as a pure thinker; if he did, and if he spoke with power in this capacity, literary criticism would, I have already said, have no right to condemn him. But he speaks actually and avowedly, as by virtue of his office he was almost inevitably constrained to speak, as a religious teacher to the religious world. Well, then, any intellectual idea which, speaking in this capacity, he promulgates, he is bound to place in its right connexion with the religious life, he is bound to make harmonise with that life, he is bound not to magnify to the detriment of that life: else, in the sphere of that life, it is false. He takes an intellectual idea, we will say, which is true; the idea that Mr. Burgon's proposition, "Every letter of the Bible is the direct utterance of the Most High," is false. And how does he apply this idea in connexion with the religious life? He gives to it the most excessive, the most exaggerated prominence; so much so, that hardly in one page out of twenty does he suffer his reader to recollect that the religious life exists out of connexion with this idea, that it is, in truth, wholly independent of it. And by way of adjusting this idea to the feeling of the religious reader of the Bible, he puts it thus:—"In writing the story of the "Exodus from the ancient legends of his "people, the Scripture writer may have "had no more consciousness of doing "wrong, or of practising historical "deception, than Homer had, or any of the "early Roman annalists." Theological criticism censures this language as unorthodox, irreverent: literary criticism censures it as false. Its employer precisely does what I have imagined Galileo doing: he misemploys a true idea so as to deprive it of all truth. It is a thousand times truer to say that the Book of Exodus is a sacred book, an inspired history, than to say that it is fiction, not culpable because no deception was intended, because its author worked in the same free poetic spirit as the creator of the Isle of Calypso and the Garden of Alcinous.
It is one of the hardest tasks in the world to make new intellectual ideas harmonise truly with the religious life, to place them in their right light for that life. The moments in which such a change is accomplished are epochs in religious history; the men through whose instrumentality it is accomplished are great religious reformers. The greatness of these men does not consist in their having these new ideas, in their originating them. The ideas are in the world; they come originally from the sphere of pure thought; they are put into circulation by the spirit of the time. The greatness of a religious
Dr. Stanley thus gives a lesson not only to the Bishop of Natal, but to the Bishop of Natal's adversaries. Many of these adversaries themselves exactly repeat the Bishop's error in this, that they give a wholly undue prominence, in connexion with the religious life, to certain intellectual propositions, on which the essence and vitality of the religious life in no way depends. The Bishop devotes a volume to the exhibition of such propositions, and he is censurable because, addressing the religious world, he exhibits his propositions so as to confuse the religious life by them, not to strengthen it. He seems to have so confused it in many of his hearers that they, like himself, have forgotten in what it really consists. Puzzled by the Bishop's sums, terrified at the conclusion he draws from them, they, in their bewilderment, seek for safety in attacking the sums themselves, instead of putting them on one side as irrelevant, and rejecting the conclusion deduced from them as untrue. "Here is a Bishop," many of Dr. Stanley's brethren are now crying in all parts of England—"here is a Bishop who has learnt among the Zulus that only a certain number of people can stand in a doorway at once, and that no man can eat eighty-eight pigeons a day, and who tells us, as a consequence, that the Pentateuch is all fiction, which, however, the author may very likely have composed without meaning to do wrong, and as a work of poetry, like Homer's." "Well," one can imagine Dr. Stanley answering them, "you cannot think that!" "No," they reply; "and yet the Bishop's sums puzzle us, and we want them disproved. And powerful answers, we know, are preparing. An adversary worthy of the Bishop will soon appear,—
Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor!
He, when he comes, will make mincemeat of the Bishop's calculations. Those great truths, so necessary to our salvation, which the Bishop assails, will at his hands receive all the strengthening they deserve. He will prove to demonstration that any number of persons can stand in the same doorway at once, and that one man can eat eighty-eight pigeons a day with ease." "Compose yourselves," says Dr. Stanley: "he cannot prove this." "What," cry his terrified interlocutors, "he cannot! In that case we may as well shut up our Bibles, and read Homer and the first books of Livy!" "Compose yourselves," says Dr. Stanley again: "it is not so. Even if the Bishop's sums are right, they do not prove that the Bible narrative is to be classed with the Iliad and the Legends of Rome. Even if you prove them wrong, your success does not bring you a step nearer to that which you go to the Bible to seek. Carry your achievements of this kind to the Statistical Society, to the Geographical Society, to the Ethnological Society. They have no vital interest for the religious reader of the Bible. The heart of the Bible is not there."
Just because Dr. Stanley has comprehended this, and, in a book addressed, to the religious world makes us feel that he has comprehended it, his book is excellent and salutary. I praise it for the very reason for which some critics find fault with it—for not giving prominence, in speaking of the Bible, to matters with which the real virtue of the Bible is not bound up. "The book," a critic complains, "contains no solution of the difficulties which the history of the period traversed presents in the Bible. The oracle is dumb in the very places where many would wish it to speak. This must lessen Dr. Stanley's influence in the cause of Biblical science. The present time needs bold men, prepared to give utterance to their deepest thoughts." And which are a man's deepest thoughts I should like to know: his thoughts whether it was 215 years, or 430, or 1,000 that the Israelites sojourned in Egypt,—which question the critic complains of Dr. Stanley for saying that it is needless to discuss in detail,—or his thoughts on the moral lesson to be drawn from the story of the Israelites' deliverance? And which is the true science of the Bible—that which helps men to follow the cardinal injunction of the Bible, to be "trans-"formed by the renewing of their mind, "that they may prove what is that good, "and acceptable, and perfect will of God"—or that which helps them to "settle the vexed question of the precise time when the Book of Deuteronomy assumed its present form"?—that which elaborates an octavo volume on the arithmetical difficulties of the Bible, with the conclusion that the Bible is as unhistorical as Homer's poetry, or that which makes us feel that "these difficulties melt away before the simple pathos and lofty spirit of the Bible itself"? Such critics as this critic of Dr. Stanley are those who commend the Bishop of Natal for "speaking the truth," who say that "liberals of every shade of opinion" are indignant with me for rebuking him Ah! these liberals!—the power for good they have had and lost: the power for good they will yet again have, and yet again lose! Eternal bondsmen of phrases and catchwords, will they never arrive at the heart of any matter, but always keep muttering round it their silly shibboleths like an incantation? There is truth of science and truth of religion: truth of science does not become truth of religion until it is made to harmonise with it. Applied as the laws of nature are applied in the "Essays and Reviews," applied as arithmetical calculations are applied in the Bishop of Natal's work, truths of science, even supposing them to be such, lose their truth, and the utterer of them is not a "fearless speaker of truth," but, at best, a blunderer. "Allowing two feet in width for each full-grown man, nine men could just have stood in front of the Tabernacle." "A priest could not have eaten, daily, eighty-eight pigeons for his own portion, 'in the most holy place.'" And as a conclusion from all this: "In writing the story of the Exodus from the ancient legends of his people, the Scripture-writer may have had no more consciousness of doing wrong, or of practising historical deception, than Homer had, or any of the early Roman annalists." Heaven and earth, what a gospel! Is it this which a "fearless speaker of truth" must "burst" if he cannot utter? Is this a message which it is woe to him if he does not preach?—this a testimony which he is straitened till he can deliver?
I am told that the Bishop of Natal explains to those who do not know it, that the Pentateuch is not to be read as an authentic history, but as a narrative full of divine instruction in morals and religion: I wish to lay aside all ridicule, into which literary criticism too readily falls, while I express my unfeigned conviction that in his own heart the Bishop of Natal honestly believes this, and that he originally meant to convey this to his readers. But I censure his book because it entirely fails to convey this. I censure it, because while it impresses strongly on the reader that "the Pentateuch is not to be read as an authentic narrative," it so entirely fails to
it proclaimed no more; because, not taking rank as a book of pure speculation, inevitably taking rank as a religious book for the religious world, for the great majority of mankind, it treated its subject unedifyingly. Address what doctrine you like to the religious world, be as unorthodox as you will, literary criticism has no authority to blame you: only, if your doctrine is evidently not adapted to the needs of the religious life,—if, as you present it, it tends to confound that life rather than to strengthen it, literary criticism has the right to check you; for it at once perceives that your doctrine, as you present it, is false. Was it, nevertheless, your duty to put forth that doctrine, since you believed it to be true? The honoured authority of the Archbishop of Dublin is invoked to decide that it was. Which duty comes first for a man—the duty of proclaiming an inadequate idea, or the duty of making an inadequate idea adequate? But this difficult question we need not resolve: it is enough that, if it is a man's duty to announce even his inadequate ideas, it is the duty of criticism to tell him that they are inadequate.
But, again, it is said that the Bishop of Natal's book will, in the end, have a good effect, by loosening the superstitious attachment with which the mass of the English religious world clings to the letter of the Bible, and that it deserves from criticism indulgence on this ground. I cannot tell what may, in the end, be the effect of the Bishop of Natal's book upon the religious life of this country. Its natural immediate effect may be seen by any one who will take the trouble of looking at a newspaper called Public Opinion, in which the Bishop's book is the theme of a great continuous correspondence. There, week after week, the critical genius of our nation discovers itself in captivating nudity; and there, in the letters of a terrible athlete of Reason, who signs himself "Eagle-Eye," the natural immediate effect of the Bishop's book may be observed. Its natural ultimate effect would be, I think, to continue, in another form, the excessive care of the English religious world for that which is not of the real essence of the Bible: as this world has for years been prone to say, "We are the salt of the earth, because we believe that every syllable and letter of the Bible is the direct utterance of the Most High," so it would naturally, after imbibing the Bishop of Natal's influence, be inclined to say, "We are the salt of the earth, because we believe that the Pentateuch is unhistorical." Whether they believe the one or the other, what they should learn to say is: "We are unprofitable servants; the religious life is beyond." But, at all events, literary criticism, which is the guardian of literary truth, must judge books according to their intrinsic merit and proximate natural effect, not according to their possible utility and remote contingent effect. If the Bishop of Natal's demonstrations ever produce a salutary effect upon the religious life of England, it will be after some one else, or he himself, has supplied the now missing power of edification: for literary criticism his book, as it at present stands, must always remain a censurable production.
The situation of a clergyman, active-minded as well as pious, is, I freely admit, at the present moment one of great difficulty. Intellectual ideas are not the essence of the religious life; still the religious life connects itself, as I have said, with certain intellectual ideas, and all intellectual ideas follow a
Zeit-Geist, as he calls it, the Time-Spirit, irresistibly changes the ideas current in the world. When he was young, he says, the Time-Spirit had made every one disbelieve in the existence of a single Homer: when he was old, it was bearing every one to a belief in it. Intellectual ideas, which the majority of men take from the age in which they live, are the dominion of this Time-Spirit; not moral and spiritual life, which is original in each individual. In the Articles of the Church of England are exhibited the intellectual ideas with which the religious life of that Church, at the time of the Reformation, and almost to the present day, connected itself. They are the intellectual ideas of the English Reformers and of their time; they are liable to development and change. Insensibly the Time-Spirit brings to men's minds a consciousness that certain of these ideas have undergone such development, such change. For the laity, to whom the religious life of their National Church is the great matter, and who owe to that Church only the general adhesion of citizens to the Government under which they are born, this consciousness is not irksome as it is for the clergy, who, as ministers of the Church, undertake to become organs of the intellectual ideas of its formularies. As this consciousness becomes more and more distinct, it becomes more and more irksome. One can almost fix the last period in which a clergyman, very speculative by the habit of his mind, or very sensible to the whispers of the Time-Spirit, can sincerely feel himself free and at ease in his position of a minister of the Church of England. The moment inevitably arrives when such a man feels himself in a false position. It is natural that he should try to defend his position, that he should long prefer defending his position to confessing it untenable, and demanding to have it changed. Still, in his own heart, he cannot but be dissatisfied with it. It is not good for him, not good for his usefulness, to be left in it The sermons of Tauler and Wesley were not preached by men hampered by the consciousness of an unsound position. Even when a clergyman, charged full with modern ideas, manages by a miracle of address to go over the very ground most dangerous to him without professional ruin, and even to exhibit unction as he goes along, there is no reason to exult at the feat: he would probably have exhibited more unction still if he had not had to exhibit it upon the tight-rope. The time at last comes for the State, the collective nation, to intervene. Some reconstruction of the English Church, a reconstruction hardly less important than that which took place at the Reformation, is fast becoming inevitable. It will be a delicate, a most difficult task; and the reconstruction of the Protestant Churches of Germany offers an example of what is to be avoided rather than of what is to be followed.
Still, so divine, so indestructible is the power of Christianity—so immense the power of transformation afforded to it by its sublime maxim, "The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life," that it will assuredly ever be able to adapt itself to new conditions, and, in connexion with intellectual ideas changed or developed, to enter upon successive stages of progress. It will even survive the handling of " liberals of every shade of opinion." But it will not do this by losing its essence, by becoming such a Christianity as these liberals imagine, the "Christianity not Mysterious" of Toland; a Christianity consisting of half-a-dozen intellectual propositions, and half-a-dozen moral rules deduced from them. It will do it by retaining the religious life in all its depth and fulness in connexion with new intellectual ideas; and the latter will never have meaning for it until they have been harmonised with the former, and the religious teacher who presents the latter to it, without harmonising them with the former, will never have fulfilled his mission. The religious life existed in the Church of the Middle Ages, as it exists in the Churches of Protestantism; nay, what monument of that life have the Protestant Churches produced, which for its
Makes us all feel, not the multitude only. I am reproached with wishing to make free-thinking an aristocratic privilege, while a false religion is thrown to the multitude to keep it quiet; and in this country—where the multitude is in the first place, particularly averse to being called the multitude, and in the second, by its natural spirit of honesty, particularly averse to all underhand, selfish scheming—such an imputation is readily snatched up, and carries much odium with it. I will not seek to remove that odium by any flattery, by saying that I think we are all one enlightened public together. No, there is a multitude, a multitude made up out of all ranks: probably in no country—so much has our national life been carried on by means of parties, and so inevitably does party-spirit, in regarding all things, put the consideration of their intrinsic reason and truth second, and not first—is the multitude more unintelligent, more narrow-minded, and more passionate than in this. Perhaps in no country in the world is so much nonsense so firmly believed But those on whose behalf I demand from a religious speaker edification are more than this multitude; and then-cause and that of the multitude are one. They are all those who acknowledge the need of the religious life. The few whom literary criticism regards as exempt from all concern with edification, are far fewer than is commonly supposed. Those whose life is all in thought, and to whom, therefore, literary criticism concedes the right of treating religion with absolute freedom, as pure matter for thought, are not a great class, but a few individuals. Let them think in peace, these sublime solitaries: they have a right to then-liberty: Churches will never concede it to them; literary criticism will never deny it to them. From his austere isolation a born thinker like Spinoza cries with warning solemnity to the would-be thinker, what from his austere isolation a born artist like Michael Angelo, cries to the would-be artist—"Canst thou drink of the cup that I drink of?" Those who persist in the thinker's life, are far fewer even than those who persist in the artist's. Of the educated minority, far the greatest number retain their demand upon the religious life. They share, indeed, the culture of their tune, they are curious to know the new ideas of their time; their own culture is advanced, in so far as those ideas are novel, striking, and just. This course they follow, whether they feel or not (what is certainly true), that this satisfaction of their curiosity, this culture of theirs, is not without its dangers to the religious life. Thus they go on being informed, gathering intellectual ideas at their own peril, minding, as Marcus Aurelius reproached himself with too long minding, "life less than notion." But the moment they enter the sphere of religion, they too ask and need to be edified, not informed only. They inevitably, such is the law of the religious life, take the same attitude as the least-
The world may not see this, but cannot a clergyman see it? Cannot he see that, speaking to the religious life, he may honestly be silent about matters which he cannot yet use to edification, and of which, therefore, the religious life does not want to hear? Does he not see that he is even bound to take account of the circumstances of his hearers, and that information which is only fruitless to the religious life of some of his hearers, may be worse than fruitless, confounding, to the religious life of others of them? Certainly, Christianity has not two doctrines, one for the few, another for the many; but as certainly, Christ adapted His teaching to the different stages of growth in His hearers, and for all of them adapted it to the needs of the religious life. He came to preach moral and spiritual truths; and for His purpose moral genius was of more avail than intellectual genius, St. Peter than Solomon. But the speculative few who stood outside of his teaching were not the Pharisees and the Sadducees. The Pharisees were the narrow-minded, cruel-hearted religious professors of that day; the Sadducees were the "liberals of every shade of opinion." And who, then, were the thinking few of that time?—a student or two at Athens or Alexandria. That was the hour of the religious sense of the East: but the hour of the thought of the West, of Greek thought, was also to come. The religious sense had to ally itself with this, to make certain conditions with it, to be in certain ways inevitably modified by it. Now is the hour of the thought of the West. This thought has its apostles on every side, and we hear far more of its conquests than of the conquests of the religious sense. Still the religious life maintains its indefeasible claims, and in its own sphere inexorably refuses to be satisfied with the new thought, to admit it to be of any truth and significance, until it has harmonised it with itself, until it has imparted to it its own divine power of refreshing souls. Some day the religious life will have harmonised all the new thought with itself, will be able to use it freely: but it cannot use it yet. And who has not rejoiced to be able, between the old idea, tenable no longer, which once connected itself with certain religious words, and the new idea, which has not yet connected itself with them, to rest for awhile in the healing virtue and beauty of the words themselves? The old popular notion of perpetual special interventions of Providence in the concerns of man is weak and erroneous; yet who has yet found, to define Providence for the religious life, words so adequate as the words of Isaiah—"In all their affliction he was afflicted, "and the angel of his presence saved "them; and he bare them and carried "them all the days of old?" The old popular notion of an incensed God appeased in His wrath against the helpless race of mankind by a bloody sacrifice, is barbarous and false; but what intellectual definition of the death of Christ has yet succeeded in placing it, for the religious life, in so true an aspect as the sublime ejaculation of the Litany: "O "Lamb of God, that takest away the sins " of the world, have mercy upon us!"
And you are masters in Israel, and know not these things; and you require a voice from the world of literature to tell them to you! Those who ask nothing better than to remain silent on such topics, who have to quit their own sphere to speak of them, who cannot touch them without being reminded that they survive those who touched them with far different power, you compel, in the mere interest of letters, of intelligence, of general culture, to proclaim truths which it was your function to have made familiar. And, when you have thus forced the very stones to cry out, and the dumb to speak, you call them singular because they know these truths, and arrogant because they declare them!
Lemuel Moss, D.D., President.
Professor of Intellectual and Moral Philosophy.
James R. Boise, Ph.D., LL.D.,
Professor of the Greek Language and Literature.
William Mathews, LL.D.,
Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature.
Alonzo J. Howe, M.A.,
Professor of Mathematics.
John C. Freeman, M.A., B.D.,
Acting Professor of the Latin Language and Literature, and Principal of the Preparatory Department.
Truman Henry Safford, B.A.,
Professor of Astronomy, and Director of the Dearborn Observatory.
C. Gilbert Wheeler, B.S.,
Professor of Analytical and Applied Chemistry.
Ransom Dexter, M.A., M.D.,
Professor of Zoology, Comparative and Human Anatomy and Physiology.
Orrin B. Clark, M.A.,
Acting Principal of the Preparatory Department.
Elias Colbert,
Honorary Assistant Director of the Dearborn Observatory.
[Assistance in instruction, within the year, has been rendered by the following persons: In Greek and German, by Mrs. Alice B. Wood, B.A.; in German and French, by Miss Esther H. Boise; in Greek, by Miss Clara H. Boise; in German, by Dr. Adolph Lœwy; in Physical Geography and Elementary Botany, by E. S. Bastin, M.A.]
Candidates for admission to the Freshman Class in the Classical Course are examined in the following studies:
Arithmetic, Algebra through Quadratic Equations, and Books I to VI of Davies' Legendre, or an equivalent. Algebra through Quadratic Equations will not be reviewed in the course, and must be thoroughly learned from a University Treatise.
Boise's First Greek Book.
Hadley's Greek Grammar.
Xenophon's Anabasis—three books.
Greek Prose Composition. (Jones & Boise.) Part I.
Latin Grammar and Reader.
Four books of Cæsar's Commentaries; or Cornelius Nepos.
Six Orations of Cicero.
Six books of Virgil's Æneid.
Allen's Latin Composition, or Harkness' Introduction to Latin Composition, first and second parts; or forty-four exercises of Arnold's Latin Prose Composition.
Actual equivalents for the books or parts of books named above will be accepted; but exact conformity to these requirements is greatly preferred, and candidates for admission should prepare themselves accordingly.
Candidates for advanced standing, whether from other colleges or not, are examined in the studies previously pursued by the class which they propose to enter.
No person under fifteen years of age will be admitted to the Freshman Class, nor will any one be admitted to an advanced standing without a proportionate increase of age.
Testimonials of good moral character are required in all cases; and every student from another College must produce a certificate of regular dismission.
To prevent disappointment to the applicant it should be distinctly understood, that a thorough knowledge of the prescribed studies is more likely to insure admission, and to enable the student to reap the full benefits of the Collegiate Course, than a superficial acquaintance with some higher branches of literature and science. A critical knowledge of Arithmetic, Elementary Algebra and Geometry, and the Grammars of the English, Latin and Greek languages, is indispensable.
I. With the University Year beginning in
II. With the University Year beginning in In addition to the requirements mentioned above, on page 7, there will be demanded:
III. The College Course will be somewhat elevated and broadened (particulars in next year's Catalogue), especially in the studies of History and the English Language, with opportunities for optional studies after the Sophomore Year.
Greek.—Selections from Greek Authors (Boise & Freeman). Greek Prose
Composition (Boise).
Latin.—Livy. Selections from the First Book (Chase & Stuart). Exercises in
writing Latin. Roman History, to the first Samnite war. (Liddell's History and Rawlinson's Manual.)
Greek.—Homer's Iliad. (Boise's edition.)
Latin.—Horace. Latin Prosody. The Lyric Metres.
Greek.—The Antiogne of Sophocles, or some other Greek tragedy (Woolsey). Essays by the Class, chiefly critiques on the principal Greek plays. Grecian History continued.
Latin.—Horace. Satires and Art of Poetry. Essays by the Class.
Latin.—Selections from the Annals and Histories of Tacitus. Roman History to the time of Trajan. Essays by the Class. Extemporalia. (Four times a week.)
Greek.—Demosthenes de Corona commenced.
French.—Magill's Grammar and Reader. (Three times a week.)
Anatomy and Physiology.—The Nervous System.
English Literature.—Taine. Lectures. (Three times a week.)
Greek.—Demosthenes de Corona completed. Essays by the Class on the leading events of the fourth century B. C., and other topics connected with the study of oratory. (Four times a week.)
French.—Magill's Grammar and Reader. (Twice a week.)
Intellectual Philosophy.
Latin.—Juvenal, six Satires; or Select Epistles of Pliny. Roman History to Diocletian. Essays by the Class. (Six weeks.)
Chemistry.—Lectures. (Three times a week.)
French.—Magill's Grammar and Reader. (Three times a week.)
Guizot's History of Civilization. (7½ weeks.)
Natural History.—Geology and Mineralogy. (Dana). (7½ weeks).
Latin.—Selections from Tacitus. (7½ weeks). Roman History to the year 476 A. D.
German.—Otto's Grammar. Whitney's Reader.
Greek.—Selections from Plato (Tyler's Apology and Crito). Essays by the Class on the leading philosophers and philosophical systems of the ancient world. (6 weeks.)
German.—Whitney's Reader. (6 weeks.)
For the Scientific Course, Students will be examined in the same studies as for the Classical, with the omission of Greek altogether, and of Latin excepting the Latin Grammar and Reader, and four books of Cæsar's Commentaries, or Cornelius Nepos, and in the first part of Harkness' Introduction to Latin Composition. In College, they will use the same text-books as those in the Classical Course, so far as the two courses coincide. (See "Announcements," page 8.)
Anatomy and Physiology.—The Nervous System.
English Literature.—Taine. Lectures.
Natural History.—Botany.
Chemistry.—Barker's. Lectures.
The Dearborn Observatory forms the Astronomical Department of the University. Its objects are to make original researches in Astronomical Science, to assist in the application of Astronomy to Geography, in communicating exact time, and other useful objects, and to furnish instruction in Astronomy to the students of the University, both those in the regular course and those who wish to give especial attention to the study.
The principal instruments of the Observatory are:
1. The great Equatorial Refractor, made by Alvan Clark & Sons, of Cambridge, Mass., the second largest telescope in this country. This instrument is placed in the Dearborn Tower, built by the munificence of the Hon. J. Young Scammon, LL. D. The Dimensions of the Equatorial are:
The circles are read by two microscopes each, the hour circle to seconds of time, and the declination circle to ten seconds of space.
2. A meridian circle of the first class, constructed by those eminent artists, Messrs. A. Repsold & Sons, of Hamburg. This instrument has a telescope of six French inches aperture, and divided circle of forty inches diameter; otherwise it is like Bessel's celebrated Koenigsberg circle by the same makers, with some late improvements in the illumination of the field and the wires, and apparatus for registering declinations.
The Observatory has a chronometer (Wm. Bond & Son, No. 279), a clock, by E. Howard & Co., and an astronomical library.
The course of Instruction includes:
This will include instruction in the following subjects:
The authors chiefly referred to on the respective subjects will be:
Practical exercises with the instruments will take place regularly.
On those who shall pursue a full course of at least two years, shall have passed a satisfactory examination, and shall prepare an original thesis on some astronomical or mathematical subject, the degree of Bachelor of Science will be conferred.
During the past three years the Director has completed a catalogue of Latitude Stars for the United States Lake Survey, and in connection with U. S. Engineers and other officers, has determined the geographical positions of Fort Hays, Kansas; Denver and Pueblo, Colorado; Santa Fe and Fort Union, New Mexico; Bismarck, D. T., and Evanston, W. T.; and has conducted operations at Chicago for local time in determining the longitudes of Pembina and of Cairo, Ills. Other work of the same kind will be undertaken in the future, so that students who desire it, and are properly prepared therefor, will probably have the opportunity of taking part in important operations in practical Astronomy, as applied to geography and geodesy.
Several of the graduates have already taken high rank as astronomical observers and surveyors. One is Director of the Cincinnati Observatory; another professor of Astronomy at the U. S. Observatory at Washington; another occupies a position in the government Observatory in Sweden, and others have done good work in surveying boundary lines in the Territories.
The preparation desirable for a student in practical Astronomy consists in a thorough knowledge of practical arithmetic, elementary algebra, and geometry, and plane trigonometry; and if possible of the German language.
In this Course provision is made for the thorough and comprehensive study of Chemistry as an art, in the belief that, aside from the practical relations of the science, the educational effect of Laboratory practice is of great value. By such practice the senses are trained to observe with accuracy, and the judgment to rely with confidence on the proof of actual experiment.
In the Laboratory of this Department, under the direction of Professor Wheeler, aided by competent assistants, the student of Applied Chemistry will have ample opportunity of becoming practically familiar with the materials, apparatus and processes of the most important Chemical arts and manufactures.
A systematic Course in Qualitative and Quantitative Analysis will be followed by practical studies with regard to the application of Chemistry to Agriculture, Mining, Metallurgy, Assaying, Medicine, Pharmacy, Toxicology, Preservation of Timber, Meats, etc., Warming, Illumination, Ventilation, Photography and other useful purposes. On those who shall complete a full course, requiring from two to three years' time, and who shall have passed a satisfactory examination, the degree of Bachelor of Science will be conferred. Certificates will be granted to students who do not graduate, stating the time they have been present, the studies pursued, and the progress made.
The Laboratory is quite new, and one of the best equipped in the West. The student will have ample opportunity of visiting the numerous manufacturing establishments of Chicago and vicinity, and witnessing important industrial applications of the science, the study of which he is pursuing.
The Laboratory Fee for special students in Chemistry is $5.00 per term; for the regular course, $1.00.
The Trustees of the University have deemed it advisable to include among its fundamental and permanent arrangements a Preparatory Department. It will be their aim to make this department a first-class school of preparation for College.
The Professors of the University have charge of the instruction in the studies be-longing to their several departments.
The requirements for admission are Reading, Writing, Spelling, Intellectual Arithmetic, Practical Arithmetic, English Grammar and Geography.
The requisite studies have been arranged in a course of three years for classical, and two years for scientific students, as appears by the following schedules:
Greek.—The preceding course of study is recommended to those who are preparing for this University at other places. As a substitute, however, for Hadley's Grammar, either Goodwin's, Kuehner's or Crosby's Grammar, or Kendrick's revision of Bullion's Grammar, is accepted; and as a substitute for Boise's First Greek Book, either Leighton's Greek Lessons, or Whiton's Companion Book, or Kuehner's Elementary Greek Grammar with exercises, or Kendrick's Greek Ollendorff, or Harkness' or Crosby's First Book in Greek, is accepted.
Latin.—Either Allen & Greenough's, or Harkness', or Bullion & Morris', or Andrews & Stoddard's Latin Grammar, will be accepted. The exercises of Arnold's Latin Prose Composition should be thoroughly mastered by the student. These exercises should first be written, and afterward translated orally. In connection, with the study of Virgil, Latin Prosody should be learned, and the difference between prose and poetical constructions carefully noted.
Students not wishing to prepare for College, will be admitted into the Preparatory Department, to pursue such studies of the course as they may choose, under the regulations of the Faculty; and special classes will be formed for them when the Faculty shall find it expedient. (See "Rules and Regulations," page 30.)
With the University Year beginning in
First Term.—Greek; French; Physical Geography; Rhetoric and Composition (once a week.)Second Term.—Latin; German; Physiology; Rhetoric and Composition.Third Term.—Greek and Latin; French and German; Elements of Moral Philosophy; Rhetoric and Composition. (Full particulars will be given in next year's Catalogue.)
The year is divided into three terms and three vacations. The first term consists of fifteen weeks; the second and third of twelve weeks each. The Christmas vacation is two weeks, the Spring vacation one week, and the summer vacation ten weeks.
Students may reside at the University and pursue studies, for a longer or shorter time, in any of the classes, at their own election; subject, however, to the regulations of the Faculty. (See Rules and Regulations, page 30.)
The College Classes have frequent exercises in composition. Instruction in Elocution is given to all the students, and declamations are required of all.
At the close of every term there are public examinations of all the classes, both Collegiate and Preparatory.
Are admitted to the classes, Collegiate and Preparatory, on the same terms and conditions as are young men. The College buildings contain no dormitories for young women, but suitable accommodations can be secured, when desired, in the neighborhood, in private families.
The degree of Bachelor of Arts is conferred upon all students who have completed the prescribed Classical Course of study, and passed a satisfactory examination therein; and the degree of Bachelor of Science upon all who have completed the Scientific Course, and passed a similar examination.
Bachelors of Arts of three years' standing may receive the Degree of Master of Arts, provided that since graduation they have sustained a good moral character, and pursued some literary or scientific calling. Candidates for this degree will be expected to make application for it through the President, and to furnish evidence of their qualifications.
There are three Societies in the University, conducted by the students—two literary and one religious.
The duties of each day are opened with religious services in the Chapel of the University, at which all the students are required to be present.
On the Sabbath they are required to attend public worship in the forenoon, with some congregation in the city, selected by themselves or by their parents. The students also sustain a weekly prayer meeting.
The University Library has been increased recently by valuable acquisitions. The London publishing houses of Sampson, Low & Co., Trubner & Co., and Longmans & Co., have generously furnished copies of their recent publications. Messrs. Sheldon & Co., of New York, have donated a complete set of their publications.
The Thompson Library, the gift of Hon. H. M. Thompson, contains a very valuable collection of books on Horticulture, a complete set of the Bohn Libraries and many tine illustrated works.
The Tucker Library, presented by the family of the late Rev. Elisha Tucker, D.D., contains upwards of five hundred volumes, mostly theological.
The Hengstenberg Library is now put up in the University, and accessible to students. It contains about three thousand volumes, and is not only one of the most valuable theological libraries in the country, but it is also rich in works of classical literature, history and philosophy.
A large and admirably lighted front room, on the second floor of the University Building, opposite the Society Hall, has been fitted up to contain the Museum, with the most modern improvements, and in elegant style.
The Museum of Human Anatomy and Physiology is well supplied. Its facilities for illustrating and teaching these departments are not surpassed by any similar institution in the country. It contains skeletons, maps, a full set of Bock-Steiger models, and other apparatus ample for the department. The facilities for teaching vertebrate Anatomy and Zoology are good. The Zoology and Anatomy of the invertebrates can be finely illustrated from specimens in this museum. In the department of the sub-kingdom of Mollusca, there are about three or four hundred species of shells, selected from the prominent or typical species of the different families of that division of animals. The department of Entomology is variously and, in some respects, elaborately represented, containing, in beetles alone, over three thousand species. In the Crustacea, and the classes lower, such
The Geological Department of the Museum has been greatly increased from several sources. It now contains several thousand specimens, judiciously selected, thus representing the typical geological and mineralogical rocks.
A Numismatic Collection, made by the late Charles D. Sandford, and containing 3,500 coins, has been presented to the University by the late Rev. Miles Sandford, D.D.
The museum is under the charge of Prof. Ransom Dexter, who has already systematized the work, and who has a sufficient corps of assistants to carry out the necessary labor with dispatch and precision. He has also, in accordance with power vested in him by the Board of Trustees, authorized several agents to solicit contributions of scientific materials for the Museum.
The Lectures on Chemistry and Natural Philosophy are illustrated by modern apparatus. To this important additions have recently been made, chiefly donations from George Hazeltine Esq., of London, and Messrs. B. O. & H. W. Chamberlain, of Boston, Massachusetts; among them a Rumkorff's Induction Coil, one of the largest ever imported; a full set of the famous Geissler's Tubes, and a powerful Grove's Battery, together with apparatus useful in the assay of ores.
The location of the University is in the south part of Chicago, directly on the Cottage Grove line of the Chicago City Railway. The site was the gift of the late Senator Douglas, and is universally admired for its beauty and healtfulness. The building is unsurpassed for the completeness of its arrangements, especially the students' rooms, which are in suites of a study and two bed-rooms, of good size and height, and well ventilated. The accommodations of the University have been enlarged by the completion of the main building, 136 by 72 feet, a structure erected at a cost exceeding $117,000, and believed to be second in convenience and elegance to no other educational edifice in the country. In this building there are a large Chapel, rooms for the various Scientific Departments, and also the Preparatory Department, spacious and airy recitation rooms, elegant suites for the Literary and Religious Societies, and dormitories for the students.
Through the liberality of the different railroads which center at Chicago, classes have had the privilege of making frequent excursions into the country, in order to examine rock strata, and to collect specimens in Natural History. These explorations have extended, during past years, to Dubuque and Burlington, Iowa; Kewanee, LaSalle and Quincy, III.; to the Wisconsin River, and along the Mississippi River, from McGregor to St. Louis.
Board may be obtained in the Club Room of the University, where many of the
The rooms are arranged in suites, consisting of a study and two bed-rooms. Bedsteads, bedding, and furniture in uncleanly condition, will be rigidly excluded. Habits of neatness and order are carefully enjoined on occupants of rooms. Damage to rooms or furniture, other than the ordinary wear, will be charged in the term bills.
Students who may prefer it, can obtain board in families on reasonable terms, or they may form clubs and provide for themselves.
Students provide their own furniture, except bedsteads,—a single bedstead being placed by the University in each dormitory. The students, also, provide their own fuel and lights. The use of kerosene and soft coal is prohibited in the University building. Gas costs about fifty cents a week for each room, and fuel from $10 to $20 per annum for each student. Washing has been, during the past year, seventy-five cents per dozen.
The rule of the Trustees requires all bills to be paid strictly in advance, before the students enter their several classes; and by failure to comply with these terms, the student forfeits the privileges of the University. (See "Rules and Regulations," page 30.)
Parents will take notice that the whole necessary expense for one year, including wood lights, and washing, varies but little from $300. This has been proved by the actual experience of students who practice economy. Any material variation from this amount may be regarded as unnecessary.
Rule I. All term bills must be settled strictly in advance.
Rule II. No deduction in tuition will be allowed on account of absence, except for a continued absence of more than six weeks, and that by reason of sickness, of which satisfactory proof will be required.
Rule III. Any student who is absent from his recitations, or from the University, for more than two weeks at any one time, except on account of sickness, or for other reasons satisfactory to the Faculty, will forfeit his position in his class, and with it all other privileges of the University.
Rule IV. Excuses for absence from recitation must be rendered to the Professor in charge; for absence from the Institution and from Chapel, to the President.
Rule V. Three unexcused absences on the part of any student during any term will render the student liable to censure or suspension.
Rule VI. Any student taking a partial course must arrange his course with the President at the beginning of each term.
Rule VII. Students will be assigned to their rooms by the Registrar, and no student can change his room without permission of the Registrar.
Rule VIII. Day students cannot occupy the private rooms of resident students except with the special permission of the Registrar, and upon the payment of a suitable room rent.
Rule IX. No repairs or alterations can be made in any room except upon the order of the Registrar, to whom all damages must be immediately reported.
Rule X. No burning fluid, or kerosene, or other oils for burning, can be used by any student except upon permission of the Registrar.
Rule XI. Students are responsible for the care of their rooms, and of the University property in their possession, and they will be required to give receipt for such property to the Registrar.
Rule XII. No student will be allowed to carry away from the city any key, book or other article belonging to the University.
Rule XIII. No student will be permitted to room in the building during the summer vacation, except by the permission of the President.
Hon. Judge Henry Booth, LL.D.,
Dean of the Law School and Professor of the Law of Property and Pleading.
Hon. Lyman Trumbull, LL.D.,
Professor of Constitutional and Statute Law, and Practice in the U. S. Courts.
Hon. James R. Doolittle, LL.D.,
Professor of Equity Jurisprudence and Pleading and Evidence.
Van Buren Denslow, Esq.,
Professor of Contracts and Civil and Criminal Practice.
Philip Myers, M.A., Esq.,
Professor of Commercial Law.
Hon. J. B. Bradwell,
Lecturer on Wills and Probate.
N. S. Davis, M.D.,
Lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence.
The Trustees of the two Universities have long felt the demand for a Law School in Illinois that should be worthy of the State and the Northwest. Since the above school passed under the energetic joint management of the University of Chicago and the Northwestern University, it has become one of the leading schools of legal study in the country. It enters upon its second year with upwards of eighty students, and promises within a brief period to equal any other in numbers, as it is already second to none in its thoroughness and variety of instruction.
The advantages afforded by a College of Law for instruction in the science and practice of Law are appreciated by both the Bar and the public. A systematic course of study, under eminent living teachers, is quite as valuable to the legal student as to the medical or theological. For laying the foundation of a thorough knowledge of the Law, the advantages of the Law College far exceed those of an office. In an office it is seldom that the student receives the attention his best interests demand. In the College the professors are specially charged with this work. The value of this instruction is indicated by the fact that about one hundred students had, prior to the establishment of this College, gone yearly from the State of Illinois to the schools of other Stales, even though these schools do not teach our system of practice, nor the statutes and decisions of our State. It is believed this demand for systematic instruction will be fully met hereafter in our College of Law.
Students entering the Junior class are expected to have at least a good common school education. It is greatly to the interest of the student to advance in general scholarship as far as practicable. A knowledge of Latin is, however, of so much service in handling law terms, that a class in Law Latin is formed and has become one of the regular classes of the School. It is believed that the Law Course as a Professional course should be a post-graduate course. Such preparation is recommended, not required.
Students who have attended another Law College one year, or spent one year in the study of law in the office of an attorney, may apply for standing in the Senior class, and may enter it if found competent on examination by the Faculty.
There are three terms in each year, the first beginning on the fifteenth of September and ending on the twenty-fifth of December, fourteen weeks; the
vice versa; but are not examined at the latter. Indeed, it is preferred that each class should attend the instruction given to the other, thereby securing four hours of tuition each day without being overworke I by an excessive amount of reading:
Class in Latin Daily at 9 to 10 A.M.
Also lectures on Medical Jurisprudence, Patents, Criminal Law, and other specialties. During the past year, among others, the following members of the Chicago Bar have delivered Special Lectures, viz: Wirt Dexter, Esq., on "Things a young lawyer needs to know, as much as to know the Law;" C. H. Reed, Esq., States Attorney, on the "Practice in Criminal Cases;" C. C.Bonney, Esq., on the "Early Practice in Illinois;" Thos. Dent, Esq., on "Equity;" Jas. P. Root, Esq., on "Parliamentary Law," and on the "Taxing Power;" Obediah Jackson, Esq., on "Contesting Taxes;" Judge M. R. M. Wallace, on the "Practice in Probate Courts;" Jas. L. High, Esq., on the "Law of Injunctions;" Emory A. Storrs, Esq., (four lectures) on the "English Constitution, as illustrating the merits and demerits of unwritten constitutions;" Thos. Hoyne, Esq., on the "Rule of Insurance in cases of Homicide, Sane or Insane;" E. B. Hurd, Esq., on "Courtesy and Dower as affected by the Statutes of Illinois;" A. M. Pence, Esq., on "Limitations on the Jurisdiction of Courts;" Gen. I. N. Stiles, on "How to try a Cause;" Josiah H. Bissell, Esq., on the "Jurisdiction of the Federal Courts;" George W. Kretzinger, Esq., on the "Effect of Evidence;" Lewis L. Coburn, Esq., on "Patent Law;" Hon. N. R. Graham, on "Fixtures;" Edward Roby, Esq., on "Sources of Title, including Indian Tit'es;" Hon. William Bross, on "Where to Practice Law;" Ex- Ass't Attorney. General Binckley, on "Evidence;" Gen. R. Biddle Roberts, on "Evidence;" and others. Lectures on Political Economy have also been given by Prof. Denslow, and on Elocution by Profs. Lyman and Armstrong.
As the classes increase in numbers they are divided into sections, so as to combine personal and thorough instruction to every student.
That the students may be versed in the practice of Law, Moot Courts are held every Saturday morning. In these they are taught to apply legal remedies,
On Saturday afternoon there is either a special lecture by some eminent member of the Chicago Bar, or an example lesson is given in examination of abstracts of title, and drawing contracts, deeds, wills, pleadings, and legal instruments required in office business.
The grammatical accuracy, rhetoric, elocution, and courtesy of deportment of the students will receive such attention as is deemed adapted to correct faults of style, without suppressing individuality, in which so often lies the secret of power. The students organize societies, holding their sessions weekly, for the discusson of questions of political policy and economy, and for becoming acquainted with parliamentary rules.
Students will find their own books. Arrangements have been made by which they may be supplied at the lowest trade prices. Many students obtain the use of books from the numerous law offices in the city, on favorable terms. Those who buy their books usually prefer to retain them, and thus start a library; but, if they choose, they can sell them at the close of the term, at slightly reduced prices, in which case the net expense for books will be small.
In addition to the daily and weekly examinations, the students will be examined at the close of the year in the presence of the Faculties and Trustees of both Universities.
Juniors who show a satisfactory acquaintance with the subjects required, will, after one year's study, be advanced to the Senior class. Seniors found worthy, will, after like period, be recommended to graduation.
The roll of both classes will be called by the several lecturers at the hours of 8, 9, 4 and 5.
Joseph W. Freer, M. D., President,
Prof, of Physiology and Microscopic Anatomy, 224 Ontario Street.
J. Adams Allen, M.D., LL.D.,
Prof, of Principles and Practice of Medicine. 503 Michigan Avenue.
DeLaskte Miller, M.D.,
Prof, of Obstetrics and Diseases of Women and Children, 926 Wabash Avenue.
R. L. Rea, M.D.,
Prof, of Anatomy, 65 Randolph Street.
Moses Gunn, A.M., M.D.,
Prof, of Principles and Practice of Surgery and Clinical Surgery, 49 Calumet Avenue
Edwin Powell, A.M., M.D.,
Prof, of Military Surgery and Surgical Anatomy, 43 South Clark Street.
Joseph P. Ross, M.D.,
Prof, of Clinical Medicine and Diseases of the Chest, 429 West Washington Street.
Edward L. Holmes, M.D.,
Prof, of Diseases of the Eye and Ear, Kentucky Block, cor. Clark and Adams Streets.
Henry M. Lyman, A.M., M.D.,
Prof, of Chemistry and Pharmacy, 533 West Adams Street.
James H. Etheridge, M.D.,
Prof, of Materia Medica and Medical Jurisprudence, 603 Michigan Avenue.
Charles T. Parkes, M.D.,
Demonstrator of Anatomy, and Assistant to Professor of Surgery, 65 Randolph Street
Chas. T. Parkes, M.D.,
Anatomy, 65 Randolph Street.
I. N. Danforth, M.D.,
Pathology, 74 South Morgan Street.
J. E. Owens, M.D.,
Surgery, 117 Twenty-first Street.
F. L. Wadsworth, M.D.,
Physiology and Histology. 192 North Clark Street
E. F. Ingals, M.D.,
Diseases of Chest and Physical Diagnosis.
L. W. Case, M.D.,
Chemistry, 332 Division Street.
Walter Hay, A.M., M.D.,
Diseases of Brain and Nervous System, 163 State St. cor. Monroe
E. Warren Sawyer, M.D.,
Obstetrics, Lamed Block, corner Cottage Grove and Douglas Aves.
A. Reeves Jackson, M.D.,
Diseases of Women and Children. 785 Michigan Avenue.
J. N. Hyde, A.M., M.D.,
Dermatology and Syphilis, 117 South Clark Street.
Norman Bridge, M.D.,
Theory and Principles of Medicine, 267 West Monroe Street
P. S. Hayes, M.D.,
Chemical Physics, 676 Wabash Avenue.
Albert Strong, M.D.,
General Therapeutics, 312 W. Indiana Street.
Philip Adolphus, M.D.,
Clinical Instructor in Gynæcology at Central Dispensary.
Since the last Session, Rush Medical College has become the Medical Depart ment of the University of Chicago; and this Announcement of the Session of
A new College building has also been commenced, on the north-east corner of Harrison and Wood Streets, diagonally opposite to the new County Hospital buildings, which are in course of erection. The close connection with the great Hospital of the West, which has, during the last three years, secured to the Students of Rush Medical College such ample clinical instruction, is thus put upon a permanent footing.
Lectures will commence in the old rooms, on the present Hospital grounds, corner of Arnold and Eighteenth Streets, but it is expected to hold the graduating exercises in the new College Building. Should the patients in the Hospital be transferred to the new Hospital before the close of the Session, Rush College will, also, move simultaneously.
Lectures will commence on Wednesday, Sept. 29th, and continue twenty weeks.
Immediate contiguity with the largest Hospital in the West affords facilities to the students of Rush College which will far more than compensate the plain, but comfortable, building which we are compelled to occupy until the Hospital is moved to its new location.
The physiological laboratory is the largest of the kind found in the western medical schools, if not in the country.
The lecture-room will scat, comfortably, over three hundred students, each seat being numbered. This plan enables the student, by sending to the Treasurer of the Faculty the matriculation fee in advance of the Session, to secure a desirable seat, and forestall the rush for seats which characterizes the ingress of the class to the lecture-room in colleges where this system does not prevail.
The Trustees and Faculty consider that the permanent proximity of the County Hospital, which characterizes Rush Medical College, and the requirements of the college for graduation, fully comply with the spirit of the age, and the demand of the profession for practical training of medical students. Cook County Hospital must ever be the largest hospital in Chicago, and the municipal character of the charity will necessarily furnish the greatest variety of diseases and accidents.
Special attention is called to the large opportunity offered to the students and
The Gynæcological clinic will occur on Mondays and Thursdays. The cases furnished by the "Central Dispensary" are numerous and multiform, all of which will be available for the class. From ten to fifteen students can spend an hour at each clinic with Dr. Adolphus in the operating room, and enjoy the benefit of a varied and instructive view of diseases of women, such as can be taken advantage of only in small classes. The facilities thus offered for instruction in this important department are superior.
Prof. Gunn conducts his weekly Saturday afternoon clinic throughout the year. Operations and advice free. Patients received from the city or country.
Profs. Ross and Powell conduct the County Hospital Medical and Surgical Clinics on Tuesday and Friday afternoons as heretofore.
Prof. Holmes will give regular clinical instruction lectures at the Illinois Charitable Eye and Ear Infirmary. More than one thousand patients were treated at this institution during the past year. Students will have rare opportunities of witnessing important surgical operations, and of studying clinically diseases of the Eye and Ear.
During the other days of the week, not mentioned above, the members of the Cook County Hospital Staff give clinics in the Hospital Amphitheatre.
Excellent opportunities will be afforded to classes for the study of Auscultation and Percussion in the wards of the Hospital.
The following are the requirements of the Degree of Doctor of Medicine, viz:
ad eundem degree, by passing a satisfactory examination, paying the graduation fee, and giving evidence of a good moral and professional character.
From Students of this College who have paid for two full courses, and from Alumni of this and other respectable Medical Colleges, the Matriculation Fee only ($5.00) will be required.
Good board, with rooms, and all the usual accommodations, can be obtained at as reasonable rates in this as in any other city. By associating in clubs, students may supply themselves with good accommodations at a material reduction from ordinary rates.
Students will sign the Matriculation List, and obtain their tickets of the Treasurer, Professor Gunn. Students may select their seats in the lecture-room when they take their tickets, or the Treasurer will select one for them, on the receipt of the matriculation fee, previous to the opening of the Session. The Janitor may be seen in the College building, and will aid in obtaining boarding places, rooms, etc. For circular, address the Secretary, Prof. DeLaskie Miller, 926 Wabash Avenue; or Prof. J. H. Etheridge, Assistant Secretary, 603 Michigan Avenue.
Special attention is called to the Summer Course. By a series of competitive trials, by lectures, before the Faculty and class during the fall of
Under the direction of the Faculty, the Spring and Summer Course, beginning the first Wednesday of March, and ending on the 30th of June, is annually conducted, consisting of lectures, recitations, and clinical observations at the Hospitals and College Dispensary. It is not intended to be in lieu of a regular course, but is established to afford greater facilities to students desiring to remain in the city during the summer for the benefit of clinical advantages.
This course is free to Matriculates of the College.
There are also abundant facilities, connected with the College, for the pursuit of special studies, by Private Courses, under competent instructors, and for Private Examinations on the subjects treated in the public lectures, of which the student may avail himself, as his inclination and advantage may dictate.
Students will find a good assortment of medical books and surgical instruments
Chemistry.—Barker, Elliott & Storer, Roscoe, Mueller's Elements.Anatomy.—Gray, Gobrecht's Wilson.Physiology.—Flint, Dalton, Draper.Materia Medica and General Therapeutics.—U. S. Dispensatory, Parrish's Pharmacy, American Dispensatory, Ringer, Stille, Waring.Medical Jurisprudence.—Elwell, Taylor, Beck, Casper.Obstetrics.—Meadows, Churchill, Cazeaux.Diseases of Women.—Thomas, Hewitt, Atthill.Diseases of Children.—Smith, Vogel, Meigs & Pepper.Surgery and Surgical Pathology.—Erichsen, Holmes, Druit, Gross, Paget, Bryant,Practice of Medicine.—Flint, Aitken, Niemeyer, Hartshorn's Watson.Clinical Medicine.—Bennett, Trousseau, Graves.Diseases of the Heart—Flint, Walsh.Diseases of the Lungs.—Walsh, Fuller.Surgical Anatomy.—Maclise, Herting.Microscopic Anatomy.—Stricker, Koellicker.Ophthalmology.—Williams, Wells, Stellwag.Otology.—Roosa's Von Troeltsch.Military Surgery.—Hamilton.
This institution, formerly known as Wayland University, located at Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, has passed under the control of the Board of Trustees of the University of Chicago, and will hereafter be conducted as a Preparatory Department of the University. This school has been in successful operation during the past year, under the direction of E. F. Stearns, M.A., a graduate of the University, assisted by a competent corps of instructors. It is the design of the Trustees to make it in every respect worthy of public favor. Competent teachers will be employed, and a complete course of preparatory studies organized, thus affording to those who prefer not to send their sons to the city, an opportunity of securing for them the best instruction and preparation for college. The school is open to the young people of both sexes, and it is designed, as soon as practicable, to provide separate buildings for the department for young ladies, and to develop a complete collegiate course of studies, graduates from which shall receive the diploma of the University of Chicago. Classes in other branches of study, besides those required in the preparation for college, will be organized as circumstances require.