FRASER’S MAGAZINE,
DECEMBER, 1859.
THE NATIONAL DEFENCES.
OF our great national questions, few were until late years con- sidered more absolutely settled than that of the liability of this country to invasion. A virtual immunity from this scourge for nearly eight hundred years might well lull a brave people, conscious of its strength, into a sense of security. Within that period, the efforts of two great empires, each at the zenith of its power and foremost in Europe, had broken before the difficulties of the attempt. The Spanish Armada andthe preparations of Napoleon had alike come to nought. What wonder, then, if, after the destruction of all the great navies of Europe during the wars of the Revolution and the Empire, the English people should for the next half century at least consider itself safe from any hostile attempt upon its shores ?
In the midst of this security we are suddenly called upon to consider whether modern science, of which we ourselves have been to the world the practical expositors, has not done more against us than for us as regards this life-or-death mat- ter. Strange, indeed, if it should beso. May it not be fairly argued that if the best engineers and the best machinery belong to this coun- try, and if the amount of its produc- tions in each kind, personal and material, be beyond measure greater than any other nation can boast of, modern inventions must rather help to strengthen the foundations of our Empire than lend a hand to pull it down? Most true. Under the in- fluence of science freely developed, coupled with freedom of commerce and that absolute personal free- dom of which we are so justly proud, the resources of this country
VOL. LX, NO. CCCLX.
have increased to an extent un- paralleled in history. But there is this difference between our doings and those of the great military nations of the Continent: our labours are mostly commercial, the result of individual enterprise, and based upon a state of peace ; theirs are more or less governmental, and have habitually in view a state of war. Thus, though lagging far behind us in manufactures and manufacturing power generally, France is at this moment our equal in naval steam machinery, and to a formidable degree our superior in the producing. power of her dock- yards. It is true that after some years of war our energies also would take that direction, and our enor- mous resources would in all proba- bility give us, as heretofore, the ultimate advantage. But the Cri- mean war demonstrated that such a change of direction in the energies of an industrial people requires time. All our past wars lead us to a similar conclusion. We have in nearly all cases been unprepared at first, and only succeeded in the end by reason of our great mercan- tile and monetary resources.
We might be content to accept this result as typical of our future wars, could we be assured that this want of instant preparation would not some day soak to a catastrophe for which no amount of previous money-saving could be any compen- sation. The advantages resulting to the great Continental Powers at the outbreak of war from the maintenance of enormous arma- ments are very dearly purchased at the cost of national progress during peace. But it may well be doubted whether, in scliaeneenies of those
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armaments we have not gone too much to the other extreme, and whether we sufficiently realize our position as now more than ever continental in its character by the virtual subjugation of winds and waves which has been effected by steam.
In the inquiry into the subject before us, we must, once for all, disclaim any animosity towards the great nation which it unavoidably concerns more than any other, any doubt of its good faith towards us, or any idea of Peg cert for this country a greater degree of mari- time supremacy than belongs to it by the mere fact of its commercial superiority. Our argument will be throughout based on facts, not on motives. We shall assume no more than that in the complication of European matters war may at any moment overtake us ; that when the appeal is made to arms, nations at once take the side which seems most to favour their immediate security and interests; that we might thus very possibly find our- selves with our great neighbour as an sets, and with no friend to stand by us; nay, that we might even find a coalition of maritime States arrayed against us. The question, then, how far our position with respect to France, in the event of war, would be altered by the new agency introduced by modern science, requires a very careful con- sideration. There are some points on which no doubt can exist, and with these it will be best to begin.
It cannot be questioned that if the command of the Channel were secured by our present Allies for any lengthened period, not only would the passage of as many troops as they had ships for be secured, but also their communications would be as rapid and as certain as if there were no sea intervening. Now this could not be said of any past epoch. Not only have the best laid plans been over and over again baffled by contrary winds, even when the command of the Channel was in the enemy’s hands; but also it cannot be doubted that the danger of having the communications of the invading army interrupted by the violence of the winds and waves, as
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well as by the opposition of our fleet, must have been always a matter of serious consideration, although per- haps not of decisive importance.
K ext, it is capable of demonstra- tion that should the enemy be con- tent to invade us without regard for his subsequent communications, his means of doing so are vastly facili- tated by steam. Instead of 1200 flat-bottomed boats, collected at a single point which could be easily watched, he would have the means of embarking his troops in magni- ficent steam frigates or steam tran- sports, each carrying 2000 men, besides horses and guns, from each military port, with the certainty of being able to unite them at any given point and at any given time, so soon as the attention of our fleet should be for a moment, by acci- dent or stratagem, withdrawn from them. The passage from Cherbourg to Torbay would be infinitely more secure in such ships than that from Boulogne to the coast of Kent in the flotilla prepared by the first Napo- leon. To many persons, indeed, it may appear wild to suppose that an invasion will ever take place for which the invader had not previously secured the absolute command of the Channel. Doubtless he would greatly desire to obtain such supe- riority ; but we must recollect that the first Napoleon stipulated for no more than twenty-four hours to enable him merely to effect his pas- sage, and that he expressed the utmost confidence both at the time and subsequently that with 150,000 of such troops as soon after con- quered at Ulm and Austerlitz, he would speedily have reached Lon- don and ‘cut the knot,’ as he expressed it, ‘of all coalitions.’ That the conqueror of Europe would have reached London, had his great naval maneuvre been successful, is indeed but too pro- bable; that England would then have sued for peace, we need not believe; and that, on the contrary, the English people would in the end have shaken off their invaders, we need not wound our national pride by disputing. But this could only have been effected by enor- mous sacrifices, and after lengthened sufferings. All that we are at pre-
1859. ] Alterations caused by the introduction of Steam.
sent concerned with, however, is the fact that the first Napoleon was fully prepared to invade this coun- try without regard for his subsequent communications, and this after the fatal issue of the expedition to Egypt, mainly arising from the loss of communications; and that fora bold, perhaps foolhardy, attack of this kind, there are now far greater facilities than in his day.
In other respects the introduction of steam does not seem to have much altered the conditions necessary for the attack and defence which for- merly existed. If the invading force can leave its ports at any mo- ment, so can also the fleets which are to intercept it. If the French possess railways for the transport of their troops to the coast, we possess them in far greater abundance. The nee of the electric telegraph are at least equally bestowed on both sides. We have omitted, how- ever, to mention a point noticed by General Shaw Kennedy in his valu- able Notes on the Defences of Great Britain and Ireland, namely, the difficulty of effecting naval Viesh- ades, by reason of the necessity of keeping the steam line of battle ships at all times fully coaled. But perhaps when we consider the many occasions on which, in former wars, blockades were forcibly raised, and the enemy’s squadrons set free, whether by storms which com- pelled the blockading ships to take the open sea, or by sudden concen- trations of the enemy’s fleets, we shall not be disposed to attribute too great force to this additional disadvantage under which our navy, if strong enough to blockade, would undoubtedly labour. The alterna- tive the General proposes is to keep the British fleets in the most con- venient ports on our coast, and entrust the duty of watching the ——— fleets to light and swift vessels, and to telegraphic commu- nication with the Channel Islands.
_Nor must we forget to men- tion the advantage which the electric telegraph would give to the invading party in enabling him to time exactly the departure of tran- sports and covering squadrons from each port, so as to arrive simulta- neously at their rendezvous, wher-
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ever the point of assembly might be fixed. The telegraph is thus prin- cipally in favour of the party which has the initiative, although doubtless it is also a strong arm in the defence.
The main advantage, therefore, gained by our neighbours from the introduction of steam, appears to consist in the power of sending their ships to sea at any favourable moment, independent of wind or weather. They can, in fact, take advantage of any circumstances that may befriend them. The uncertainty of the operation is reduced to that arising hon the opposition of our fleets. That opposition overcome or eluded, the passage of the enemy's army, without @ moment's delay, is assured.
Professor Creasy has, in an inte- resting work on The Invasions of . England, summed up the occasions in which wind and weather played a principal part in the success or failure of the expeditions. He ob- serves—
When the Normans attacked England the winds aided the invader, first, by compulsorily delaying his voyage till the English fleet had left its port; and secondly, by blowing in his favour at the very crisis when the English King and his army were absent in the north of the island. On that occasion Eng- land was conquered.. But when Charles VI. designed to repeat the exploit of the Norman Conqueror over us, and when England lay almost defenceless before him, the northern gale blew steadily against our foes, until, in weariness and fatigue, they abandoned their armament against us, At the ever memorable epoch of the Spanish Armada the Eng- lish nation gratefully acknowledged how much their preservation was due to the tempest, that first delayed the enemy off Cape Finisterre, and gave this country time to complete her defences; to the state of the weather when the Spanish fleet was in the Channel (being emi- nently advantageous to the tactics of the English); and to the storms which completed the Armada’s destruction. Afterwards, when Louis XIV. threat- ened us with invasion from La Hogue and Cherbourg, the strong north-western wind that fora month cooped the French squadrons in Brest and hefort, and kept Tourville inactive while Russell collected our ships, certainly preserved us from a devastating ae on our
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coasts, and a grievous civil war in Eng- land, if not from Jacobite conquest. At a later period, the expedition which Alberoni sent to reinstate our Tarquin, was shattered by the tempest off Cape Finisterre, without having inflicted on the English the loss of a single drop of blood. Still later, the storm which drove Hoche from the Irish coast, when all our fleets had failed to bar his pas- sage, saved us from the loss at least of the greater part of Ireland for a time, and from a disastrously costly struggle to regain it; for Hoche assuredly would have ventured the disembarkation in Bantry Bay, which Grouchy flinched from effecting.
These instances certainly show how signally this country has been preserved hitherto, at the moments of its greatest perils, by an over- ruling Reoddense. Had the event in several of these cases been dif- ferent, we should probably not hold the rank we now hold in the world; civil and religious liberty would
erhaps have been unknown in ar and in the absence of
liberty European civilization might have slumbered on for centuries. But although the same merciful Providence will, as we humbly trust, — us again as it has done
itherto, it would be madness in us not to recognise that the main in- strument of our preservation has been the sea wherewith we are girded, and the baffling winds to which fleets in the olden time were subject, and that these obstacles to invasion scarcely exist as such in these days of ocean steam naviga- tion.
Whether the enormously in- creased calibre of naval artillery, and the introduction of shell guns —both of which must greatly reduce the duration of naval actions—will be more against us than for us, it is difficult to determine. It would seem, however, that the result of battles at sea will depend more upon gunnery, and what we may
erhaps term military strategy, and ess upon seamanship than formerly ; and if this be so, the change cannot be said to be in our favour.
A similar doubt exists at this moment in regard to iron-plated shot-proof ships. It is indeed hardly yet established whether they can be made absolutely proof against
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the effects of rifled cannon; still less whether they will be good sea- boats. But as soon as both these problems are solved, as solved they no doubt some day will be, it is painfully evident that the Channel will be more ‘ bridged’ than ever. In any case, we must build iron- plated ships at least as fast as our neighbours, or we may find before long that they have obtained such a start as to have the game henceforth in their hands. The coincidence of the attack upon Austria with the French invention of rifled cannon ought to teach us a lesson in this respect.
Naval warfare is evidently in a transitional state, and it is hardly probable that the extent of the modifications which steam, heavy ordnance, shell , and enormous tonnage, have effected in it will be really understood before the experi- ence of the next naval campaign. This very uncertainty, however, ought to be to us a sufficient reason for ceasing to put absolute confi- dence in our fleets to protect us from invasion. For instance, it is ng that after a short action
oth the opposing fleets would be so damaged as to be obliged to re- tire to their harbours; a similar fate might befal the frigates and gunboats, and the sea campaign as such be thus indecisive. But the way would then be cleared for the steam transports, and nothing but the difficulties of landing, such as they are, would intervene between us and our invaders. Indecisive naval operations, therefore, in which both sides suffered severely, and of course, still more strongly, unsuc- cessful naval operations, should our enemies outreach us in naval stra- tegy, would at once expose us to their armies.
We may be tempted to think, however, that the enormous amount of sea transport that would be re- quired for such a body of troops as could hope to invade England with success, and also the obstacles and delays of the landing, would still render such an attempt, if not prac- tically impossible, at least dificult and dangerous in the extreme. We must be careful, however, not to under-rate the talent of the French
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Staff, and the extraordinary faculty for organization possessed by our neighbours in every department. But without travelling out of the experience of our own navy, Gene- ral Kennedy shows that there is no great difficulty in conveying troops or a short passage at the rate of one man per ton ; and that consequently sixty frigates or transports, averag- ing two thousand tons, would con- vey 120,000 men. The Rhadaman- thus, a paddle steam vessel of 880 tons, conveyed 1100 troops at one time from Oviedo to St. Sebastian, a distance of 180 geographical miles; and the Salamander, a paddle steamer of the same tonnage, conveyed repeatedly 1000 men, and on one occasion 1100 men, from St. André to Passages, a distance of 110 geographical miles. It is fur- ther stated that during the Crimean war the Vulcan, a frigate-built ship of 1760 tons, conveyed 1250 troops from Malta to Gallipoli, and on one occasion had 1100 French soldiers on board for nearly a month; and that she could easily have taken 2000 men for a short voyage with- out in any way impairing their efficiency. Now, although it is im- probable that in a naval war France could afford to lend her frigates for such a purpose, it is well known that she is yearly increasing her transport service, each new tran- sport being capable of conveying 2000 men, 150 horses, and some guns; and seventy-two such tran- sports being intended to be built before 1871. Every year is also now adding to the number of mer- cantile ocean steamers, and it is probable that in a few years there will be scarcely an ocean-going ship under a thousand tons or without a screw propeller. Every suchsteamer built in French private yards, or liable to be slosed at the disposal of
rance during war, provides her with the means of throwing an ad- ditional thousand or two thousand men on our shores. This aspect of the matter does not seem to have been sufficiently considered. It is a danger increasing year by year, yet so gradually, so noiselessly, so m accordance with the inevitable course of things, that we are apt not to notice it. But the fact remains,
Practicability of the Passage and of Landing.
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and its importance may excuse us for repeating it—that precisely in proportion as sailing ships of small tonnage are giving place to capa- cious ocean steamers, so is the power multiplied of transporting troops in large masses tu any point of our coasts.
Next with respect to the difficul- ties and delays of the landing. It will at once be admitted that to at- tempt to draw a cordon round our coasts by means of batteries, mar- tello towers, or any such device, is futile. A hundred thousand men, with their proportion of rifled artil- lery and riflemen, are not to be stopped by such means; and the cordon once penetrated, is hence- forth worse than useless, for the several works comprising it keep a considerable body of men_ idly
uarding them, who could be far etter employed elsewhere. The possession also of such a line of de- fence, weak as it is, is sure to lead to the neglect of better means of resistance; unless, indeed, every mile of accessible beach on our coasts could be swept by a battery of twenty guns of the heaviest calibre, manned by expert artillerymen, and rendered secure from escalade, such a plan would be about the weakest, as it would probably be the most expensive, that could be adopted. he idea of fortifying every point of our extended coast-line being then abandoned, the only obstacles that would remain to the success of the landing would be the opposition of the local force on the spot, or the attack of the British Channel fleet, aided by gunboats whose special métier would be the destruction of the transports. ‘
With regard to the opposition of any local force, even if aided by a heavy field battery, we need not say much. The landing of a large body of men would take place at several points at once within easy commu- nication of each other; and a suc- cessful landing effected at one point all the others are turned, and the landing of the whole is accomplished.
With regard to the attack of our fleet we must observe, that if twenty- four hours only were let pass before our fleets were in junction, the land- ing could be safely effected. The
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disembarkation of the British and French forces in the Crimea occu- pied but a day, although the pre- parations of boats, rafts, and steam- tugs for landing were miserably in- complete. That army consisted, it is true, of only 50,000 men ; but, as General Kennedy argues, it is ob- vious that three times that number, at different points, sufficiently con- tiguous to one another for mutual communication, could land in the same period. And we cannot doubt that any transport fleets proceeding fresh from French dockyards would be abundantly furnished with the means of effecting an almost instan- taneous landing. In fact, this is only a question of means. It will be said, however, that our fleet would be singularly inactive to allow twenty-four hours to pass without attacking such an armada; but on the other hand, it must be remem- bered that the French fleets would be, as is supposed, in junction (having obtained the start and ef- fected their concentration at some preconcerted point), while ours would require time to concentrate in sufficient force for the attack. However, we are ready to admit
that such an oe would scarcely
be made until the British fleets were either decoyed away to some distant point, or forced to their ports for repairs in consequence of an inde- cisive or unsuccessful action, or unless they were greatly inferior in strength to their opponents.
Having pointed out the changes which have been effected by steam in the relative military position of the two countries, let us now see to what extent the British and French naval administrations have respec- tively responded to the new demands to which this condition of things has given rise.
We must premise by observing that in the Ten time—i.e., up to the date of the introduction of steam into modern navies, say up to 1840 —the number of British ships-of the line and frigates was about double that of the French. The fact that steamers were to be eventually the principal, if not the sole agents in naval warfare, appears to have been first appreciated in this country; for in 1852, while the French had
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but two steam line-of-battle ships, we had seventeen. But at the close of the preceding year a new power had been inaugurated in France by a strong coup-d'état, and a new era dawned on the Imperial navy. From 1852 to December, 18538, France added to her steam navy by building or converting thirty-eight steam liners, while England in the same time added only thirty-three, thus bringing up the navies to forty French and fifty English screw line- of-battle ships. Of steam frigates, France, in December, 1858, possessed forty-six against only thirty-four (besides nine screw blockships of sixty guns) English. In steam cor- vettes and sloops andscrew gunboats, however, we have greatly the supe- riority, the numbers of each class being eighty-two and a hundred and sixty-two English, against twenty- two and twenty-eight French. When we consider the large de- duction for colonial service that must be made from these numbers, considered as available for opera- tions in the Channel and Mediter- ranean, it will be painfully evident that, with the exception of the smaller vessels and gunboats, we should be no more than equal to France alone at the outbreak of war; and if Russia were joined against us, we should be considerably inferior. We are far from under- rating the value of the gunboats, on the contrary, they would be in- valuable as our second line, and having the special duty of watching the enemy’s transports; but as the first part of the great naval problem must certainly depend upon the screw liners, 1t is evident that we must go on building until we have a safe superiority in this respect. We have not adverted to the armour-clad ships which both na- tions are now assaying to construct. Our neighbours seem to desire to be beforehand with us in this respect, and it is reported that several iron- cased gunboats, as well as some larger frigates, are now building. If so, we must follow and even take from them the lead, whatever may be the cost. One observation, however, may not be here out of place. The damage which is most feared in future naval combats is that arising from shells
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either entering and bursting in the side of the ship, or passing through and bursting ieee decks. The inroads of solid shot are not so much to be dreaded; at any rate, what a Nelson, and—we will add with sin- cere respect and regret for a loss which may be truly called national— what a Lyons did not fear, will not cause an exaggerated alarm to our future naval commanders. Let, then, a series of careful experiments be made on the exact thickness of iron which will protect the sides of a ship from shells alone. It will not probably be one-half, perhaps not one-third, of that required to resist solid shot, and the difficulty of sufficiently protecting ships without rendering them unfit for sea by their excessive weight may possibly be surmounted.
However, it is not, after all, in the number, nor in the defensive armour of our ships, that our most alarming deficiency now exists: it is, as every- body knows, in the power of man- ning them on an emergency. To state the case in the words of a former First Lord of the Admi- ralty :
We stand at a great disadvantage with regard to other nations, so far as the immediate manning of our navy is concerned, because, while ours is a voluntary service, other nations can by their system of compulsory service put on board their fleets in a very short time a number of men much larger than we could hope to bring together by our volunteer system. I have no doubt, however, that if time be allowed, in the course of two years we should not have the slightest difficulty in adding to our navy as many men as might be required; but it is when the emergency arises that the difficulty is felt. What we want is, not that that number of men should be put on board at the end of two years, but in two months, or in two weeks. Russia and France can do that. Their system of compulsory service enables them almost immediately to make up great navies.—Speech of Sir Charles Wood, 18th May, 1857.
__ Here, then, is our difficulty. An illustration of the truth of the above remarks, which we believe to be au- thentic, has been afforded this very year. At the outbreak of the Italian war there was general alarm in Europe, in which this country na-
Question of Manning the Navy.
649
turally shared, and a proclamation was issued offering bounties for the enrolment of t0,c00 seamen. It re- quired months to collect this small levy, and when collected, they were of course raw as men-of-war’s men, and wholly untrained to gunnery or naval drill. On the British Govern- ment taking this step, that of France did the same; but in this case the 10,000 additional seamen were in the French ports awaiting embarka- tion within a fortnight.
How this difficulty is to be mas- tered is perhaps the most important question of the present day to this country, as it is certainly one of the most difficult. The Royal Commis- sion on the subject came to appa- rently the only rational conclusion. In its number of seamen the British merchant navy exceeds in the pro-
rtion of about five to two that of
rance, the numbers registered re- spectively being, for France, 90,217, for England, 227,411. Here, then, is a reserve of which the Commis- sion propose we should largely avail ourselves; but to carry out this re- commendation is no easy matter. Independently of the physical diffi- culty of a very large number being scattered over the globe on every ocean, there is, it would appear, & difficulty of another kind—in the disfavour with which the Royal navy is regarded by a large portion of our maritime population. They view it, not as it is, but as it was. The old traditions survive of its hardships and its severities, and even among those who know better the prejudice remains. It is not im- possible that we are at this moment suffering from the moral effects of pressgangs half a century ago. Be this as it may, the difficulty appears extreme of getting at the class in question at all—of finding out as a body their real motives. As im- pressment and, at present at least, compulsory local service of any kind are out of the question, there is nothing for it but to pay down. To this all are agreed, and the prin- ciple has been months ago sanctioned by Parliament; but the conditions for entering the naval reserve have only recently been announced. We presume the delay has been caused by the difficulty of aseer-
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taining the exact amount which would bring in the volunteers with- out being too costly, and by the necessity of great caution in framing the regulations, so. that while on the one hand the volunteers of the mer- chant navy may receive a tangible recompense for their services, on the other the continuous service A.B., who is our real bulwark, may not be discouraged. We are bound to say that the mean appears to have been struck ve fairly. The terms, though liberal, are reason- able, and are certainly such as ought to procure us the force we require.
t the experiment, then, of a Volunteer Naval Reserve be tried by all means, and let no small con- siderations of economy interfere with its success. Thirty thousand trained men thus held in readiness at short notice, being chiefly em- ployed in the coasting trade and the European seas, would be a fair counterpoise to the Inscription Maritime. If indeed this fail, the only alternative would seem to be an Inscription Maritime of our own in the shape of a Naval Militia Ballot ; for a reserve we must have at all hazards. There would mani- festly be nothing unconstitutional in such a measure. It has always been recognised that the State has a right to the services of every able- bodied man for the national defence ; and it cannot be questioned that in an insular position like ours the sovereign can justly call upon every seaman to take his share of that defence on his peculiar element. Accordingly, in ancient days the seaports were required to furnish both ships and men for that purpose; and the Spanish Armada was mainly opposed by ships and sailors thus raised. uch a measure would doubtless be unjust, unless accom- panied by a ballot of the land militia at the same time. There would also, of course, be certain limits set to the employment of seamen thus raised, but we appre- hend this would merely amount to an engagement not to station them permanently beyond the European seas,
This precautionary measure, whe- ther it prove in the end to be a
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Volunteer Naval Reserve,or a Naval Militia made voluntary as far as possible, but with the deficiency supplied by the ballot, is un- doubtedly the first step towards
lacing us on a par with our neigh-
ur in the power he possesses of improvising a fine fleet by means of his Inscription Maritime. Other subsidiary measures need be very briefly referred to. The large ex- tension which has been proposed of the system of training-ships for boys, seems excellent in every re- spect. By this means we shall ob- tain the very best sailors, and it will be an admirable outlet for the youth even of the midland parts of the country, who will thus have the royal navy opened to them as well as to their brethren in the maritime towns. It would hardly seem, in- deed, that too great extension could be given to this measure.
We need add little on this part of our subject, save to press the importance of a force which appears specially adapted to the new de- scription of naval warfare of which steam gives promise. We allude, of course, to the Royal Marines, perhaps the finest troops in the whole military service of this country; and being at the same time trained to aid the seamen in their deck duties, and to man the guns, they seem peculiarly fitted to fill up the void caused by the dearth of seamen for the royal navy, more especially as the corps is popular and easily recruited. We would wish to see not less than 25,000 of these excellent troops in hand. In peace they would garrison the naval arsenals; and, in order to extend the knowledge of their ship duties throughout the force, they would be drafted for short periods on board the Channel and Mediterra- nean fleets, gunboats, &c.
We must now turn to the force necessary for resisting invasion on shore. e may premise that an invasion of such a country as Eng- land would not be attempted with less than 150,00omen. It has been shown that after either an inde- cisive action or aseries of operations which would oblige both fleets to bear up for their respective ports for repairs, or still more after an
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action in which we were unsuccess- ful, the steam-transports conveying the invading army might put to sea. It has been also shown to be pos- sible to land an army under cover of a protecting fleet, before the naval operations have had time to commence. We will assume, then, that 150,000 men, with provisions and stores for one month’s con- sumption, have succeeded in effect- ing their landing. What force then could we hope to oppose to them P
We will begin with the force which in the opinion of a very com- petent judge, General Shaw Ken- nedy, we ought to have.
The general plan of defence which we suggest is as follows :—To have as volunteers and local militia a force of 300,000 men for Great Britain, of which 120,000 should be destined for the de- fence of London, and 120,000 for the defence of Plymouth, Portsmouth, Dover, Sheerness, Chatham, and Wool- wich.
And that for the defence of those seven places, that is, London, Wool- wich, Chatham, Sheerness, Dover, Portsmouth, and Plymouth, they should each be surrounded with detached works at about one mile distant from each other, of masonry; and each work of such strength as to require a regular attack, supported by heavy ordnance, for its reduction.
In addition to these defensive means, that there should be always in Great Britain 50,000 regular troops, and 50,000 embodied regular militia.
The force for Ireland might be 25,000 regular troops, and 25,000 embodied regular militia,
With regard to the local militia, General Kennedy appears to think that one week in the year would suffice to keep them in a state of mee training. He would
ve this, as well as the regular or embodied militia force, raised as far as possible by voluntary enrolment, but the deficiency supplied by the ballot. The 75,000 men proposed for the ‘regular militia force’ would be maintained in whole or in part only, according to the aspect of political affairs, but be kept at the full number ‘ when there were seri- ous apprehensions of our being led into any important war; and when apprehension of invasion existed, the Government should have the
General Shaw Kennedy’s Plan of Defence.
651
ower to call out 100,000 additional ocal militia.’—p. 51.
By these arrangements, therefore, a power would exist, in the event of in- vasion, of calling out an organized force of 550,000 men, in addition to pen- sioners, constabulary, dockyard corps, and the marines that might be on shore ; —that is, about 600,000 men, in addi- tion to such a naval force as will ensure a complete naval superiority.
These figures may well startle the British tax-payer; yet we be- lieve it to be as cheap a mode of defence as has ever been proposed. The only alternative, of maintaining a standing army in England of equal strength with any army of invasion that could be brought against it—that is to say, an army of 150,000 or 200,000 men, is too alien to our institutions to be thought of, and would besides be infinitely more expensive. We must now say a few words on each of these descriptions of force.
General Kennedy, it will be ob- served, fixes 75,000 as the least number of regular troops that ought to be at any moment in the United Kingdom. He also pro- poses an equal number of embodied militia when war is apprehended, but admits that this force should vary with the political exigencies of the times. e may, however, safely assume that at least one- third would always be under arms ; which would give, therefore, as the
ermanent garrison of the United
ingdom in peace, a force of 100,000 men. Now, if this force is to be permanently maintained, it will surely be better to have it consist entirely of the regular army, and to discontinue at once the practice of embodying regiments of militia per- manently during peace, to which there exist grave objections. On the apprehension of war, 50,000 regular militia would be embodied, and being combined with double their number of regular troops, would soon be serviceable.
How to obtain out of our busy population 100,000 men for home service, together with 80,000 men for India, and 40,000 for the colonies, is indeed a serious ques- tion. The number would be con- sidered exceedingly moderate in
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Continental States in proportion to the whole population, being only one in fifteen of the male popu- lation between eighteen and forty years of age; but in*the present prosperous state of our labour market it is questionable whether, constituted as our army is, and with strong national prejudices against the profession of the soldier, we could obtain the numbers. It be- comes, then, a matter of very seri- ous consideration whether the army, as a profession, could not be so im- proved as to become popular. This, it appears to us, can only be done by making it an inviting service in itself, and a certain road to comfort and respectability for the well con- ducted. We are ready to admit all the good that has been done-in the way of libraries and schools, and for the comfort of the soldier in every way. The recent order of his Royal Highness the Commander- in-Chief, which practically abolishes flogging, except in cases of extreme flagrancy, and then only after the culprit has been previously degraded from the class declared exempt from such punishment, will no doubt go far to improve the position of the soldier both morally and socially. Lastly, the facilities which soldiers of good character now have for obtaining situations after discharge, must re- act eventually in favour of the pro- fession. Still we believe that much more may be done to better the condition of the soldier; and that this, if for no other reason than that of getting a sufficient .supply of men, ought to engage the serious attention of the Government.
In the first place, we question whether, according to present prices of labour, the pay of the soldier is sufficient. We will leave, however, this question with theexpression only of a hope that it may be thoroughly considered next session.
Next, that certainly appears a severe service in which a man may be, and frequently is, twelve or fourteen years abroad withouta pos- sibility of being relieved. The idea of expatriation is not pleasant even to the emigrant, with his visions un- bounded of a golden future. How must it then appear to the soldier who is embarking for India or some
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distant colony, where he expects to spend the best years of his life in a dull monotony of military duty? Thousands indeed go, never to re- turn. Now there is certainly little in all this to make the military an attractive profession, and indeed the plain fact is, that it is the re- verse of attractive to all the more respectable part of our population.
e believe, however, that com- plicated as the subject is with the difficulty of providing for our colonial service, a partial remedy at least might be found. The length of the colonial service of regiments has been already reduced from about twenty years to ten or twelve ; and we believe that means might be found of reducing it still further without any sensible in- crease to the expense. But how- ever this be, the impolicy of keep- ing individual soldiers of a regi- ment for so long a period in colonial, perhaps tropical service, is unques- tionable. The remedy we would suggest for consideration, is to allow every soldier who has attained a certain length of service, to return home, and complete his period to- wards discharge or pension in an army of reserve. The exact length of service necessary for this purpose could be readily ascertained from military statistics, and would, of course, depend on the numbers to be maintained in the reserve. To render the service popular, the soldiers of the reserve army ought to be allowed lengthened furloughs, in order to enable them to take work, but without diminishing their pay on that account. The country would at the same time gain the priceless benefit of a large body of veteran soldiers formed in one corps d’armée; in fact, an ‘old guard.’
Nor must we omit to mention other points regarding theunwilling- ness of the population to enter the army. There is one great fact which cannot be too seriously considered ; namely, that the ranks of the arm are practically closed to the middle classes. Individuals of this class cannot be officers, constituted as our army is at present, and they would think it derogatory to enter the ranks as private soldiers. The
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army thus loses altogether the in- telligence and energy of the classes which virtually govern the country.
It loses also, of course, very seri- ously, in the number of its recruits. Weare notdisposed, indeed, to be by any means democratic in our treat- ment of the army. An army that is strictly professional, that is to say,in which both officers and men, and especially the former, have nothing tolook forward to but the advantages that may be derived from a suc- cessful career, is certainly a formid- able instrument to wield against an enemy ; but history shows also that it may be often wielded with equal success against the liberties of its country. It may be quite possible, however, to encourage the introduc- tion of a reasonable amount of the _ middle-class element into the army, without compromising the aristocra- tic character, if we may be permitted the expression, which now belongs to it. The condition of the higher class of non-commissioned officer might be advantageously raised. A much larger proportion than at present of commissions without purchase might be given t6 deserving non-commis- sioned officers, in some cases as the reward of good service alone, but, asa general rule, granted only upon their attainments being satisfactorily tested byan appropriate professional and general examination. We are persuaded that the announcement of a measure of this kind would in time fill the ranks of the army with well-educated and well-conducted youths, ambitious of distinction, and energetic in placing themselves by their exertions in a position to obtain it. Opposition, no doubt, it would meet with ; but, it may be asked, is this the time in which the whole middle orders of society, con- stituting as they do the bone andmar- row of the country,can be safely shut out from their place in its defence P
These questions, and many others, will require the most careful and ear- nest consideration of the Government and Legislature in the next Session. We must be prepared to take our part in the great European crisis that seems to be approaching, and whether our influence be exerted physically, or only morally, it must equally repose on the military and
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naval strength we can show in its support. The celebrated question of the Great Duke,—How is the King’s Government to be carried on?P—seems now convertible into another not less important; How are the Queen’s navy and army to be manned ?
We come next to the question of the militia. Of this force, as we have seen, General Kennedy pro- poses to embody 75,000 whenever war is apprehended, in addition to 300,000 local militia, which would be raised to 400,000 in case of in- vasion. Where volunteering for the militia fails, he would resort to the ballot. This brings us to the exceedingly difficult question, whe- ther compulsory service of any kind, before the fact of actual invasion, is any longer practicable in this country. The following evidence of Lord Grey on the subject, before the Militia Commission, certainly deserves serious consideration.
Q. 6208. Would your Lordship an- ticipate applying the ballot in a time of emergency and of very great necessity ¢
I believe that the ballot, in the pre- sent state of feeling, and in the present condition of this country, is almost im- possible, it is so radically unjust. I had occasion, when in the War Office, to look very closely into the operation of the ballot during the French war, and I know that it was the opinion of all those whose judgment was most to be relied upon in the War Office, that even during that great war the ballot had failed. You are aware that during the last three or four years of that war the ballot was not used ; it was found to interfere so much with the other re- cruiting, that it was far better to raise men by recruiting. In point of fact, at the time when the ballot was used, I think that nearly ninety per cent. of the men who served were substitutes ; that is to say, they were raised by bounty, consequently the ballot was merely a system of raising the bounty by a poll- tax, which is the most unjust of all taxes, instead of by a general system of taxation.
Q. 6209. But you think that it would be right to keep the ballot in the event of an invasion ?
I do not think that in this country any force is necessary. I think that the people are quite ready to defend their country. Ifyou have the ballot, I think that it should be ballot without substitutes, and I ask how you think
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that men would submit to that in this country ?
These observations express pre- cisely and very powerfully what must be admitted to be grave ob- jections to a ballot for the militia. Still we strongly doubt, first, whether the general argument is altogether sound; and secondly, whether, even if sound, the national necessities ought not to over-ride it.
For example, it is hardly fair to draw an inference applicable to the present period, from one widely different from it in every possible circumstance. At the close of the great wars of the Revolution and the Empire, the whole habit and feeling of the country had become warlike; and it is easy to under- stand that when the militia was fairly manned, the Government was glad to drop so obnoxious a prac- tice as a ballot for compulsory ser- vice. We must also recollect that at that period of the war there was no longer a question of invasion at
The service for which recruits were really wanted was not the militia, but the army, fighting in Spain, avd in every spot on the coast of the Continent where, ac- cording to the desultory and most unmilitary modes of warfare that prevailed, an English: force might set its foot. The question now with us is, how, during peace, a force can be raised sufficiently numerous, and formidable by its discipline and training, to meet some of the first troops of the world. And if the voluntary mode fail, we see no- thing for it but a compulsory service to fillthe gap. No one doubts that the English people are quite ready to defend their country. But if no
ersuasion can induce them to come orward in sufficient numbers be- fore the invasion occurs, it will be too late for any undisciplined levies such as they would then be, to avert from the country the most terrible disaster.
Still, we are ready to admit that no expedient should be left untried to raise the militia to a respectable force by voluntary enlistment. It is to be regretted that the late commission on the militia were limited to the consideration of its military efficiency when formed;
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and the real question at issue, how to provide for its numerical efli- ciency, remains still to be investi- gated.
The third force on which General Kennedy would rely is the ‘ local militia ;’ aforce which we possessed in the revolutionary war, but which no longer exists. As their name imports, the members of this force would, except on actual invasion, re- main in their counties. They would receive a less degree of training than the regular militia, being only called out for a week in each year. On the threat of invasion they would be embodied. In ordinary times, being called out for so short a period, this force would not, though consisting of 300,000 men, be ex-
ensive. Its annual cost General ennedy estimates at only £230,770.
There cannot be a doubt that this would be a most powerful reserve. In the course of a year or two the men would have learned the use of their arms and a few easy move- ments, and would be far more readily converted into soldiers than the peasant or artisan who has never had a firearm in his hand. The men not being calledaway for long periods from their ordinary work, nor in any case but that of actual danger to the country from invasion kept
ermanently embodied, would vo- otene for such a force much more freely than for the regular militia, which has now come naturally to be regarded rather as a portion of the regular army limited to home service, than as a temporary service to be combined with the ordinary business of life.
To give us some idea of the actual values of these descriptions of force so far as regards rifle training, we have the evidence of Major- General Hay, than whom no one has done a more useful service to the army, by the successful organi- zation of the School of Musketry at Hythe.
Q. 3681. In what space of time do you think that a lad from the plough could be made efficient enough for the purpose of going through the musketry instructions?—The course now adopted in the line, and, in fact, throughout the army generally, is, to
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take such men when they have been about a month or six weeks under the Adjutant’s drill, They get into our mill, as it were, and they are trained for eighteen days, during which time we put them through the whole of what we call our ordinary training. After the man has gone through that ordinary training as a recruit, he is then allowed to practise as a soldier in his company, when it merely takes twelve days in the year to go through the prescribed annual course of musketry drill and practice, and two or three such courses make those men most wonderfully effi- cient.
Q. 3682. Do you mean to say six weeks after the recruit has joined !—In war time we do not give him so much, for in a fortnight after a recruit has joined we should bring him under rifle training.—(Zvidence before the Commis- sion on the Militia.)
The facts here stated afford a basis on which to legislate as re- gards the militia, and as far as pos- sible every other force. In two months a soldier may be taught a reasonable amount of drill, and a very perfect course of rifle instruc- tion. This undergone, twelve days in each subsequent year for rifle instruction and practice, and we
-"T presume sixteen days for drill and field movements, or twenty- eight days in each year, would be ample to enable the soldier of militia to keep up his knowledge.
It is very possible that these periods might be divided, the period for rifle instruction and practice being separated from that for the preliminary drill; and we see no reason why, with a permanent staff of militia such as we now possess, any man should be withdrawn from his avocations for more than a fort- night at a time. Thus one of the most common objections to enter- ing the militia would be removed. The training of the local militia would of course be far less com- plete. But they would at least be organized, equipped, and armed, and in two or three years would have some knowledge of drill and the use of the rifle.
We are scarcely in a position yet to estimate the full value of the volunteer movement. It promises, however, to become a most efficient auxiliary in the national defence.
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It is of the utmost consequence that a rifleman should be of a higher order of intelligence than the mere soldier, inasmuch as he is thrown much more upon his own resources. How far this fact is appreciated at the Hythe School of Musketry, will be seen from the following statement of Major-General Hay, whose evidence we have already had occasion to quote. He states :— Our system of giving prizes for good shooting is entirely based upon intelli- gence. A man does not get a prize for being a “marksman,’ because he is a good shot, or because he is a good judge of distance ; he must be both ; but there is another condition which he must fulfil, he must be an intelligent man ; he must be able to answer you in an intelligent way any question which you may put to him upon the subject of the efficiency of his gun ; he must be able to tell you the flight of his ball, and the effect which it will have upon cavalry or infantry at all its ranges; he must answer you in an intelligent way, otherwise it would not be worth the country’s while to pay that man.— (Evidence before the Commission on the Militia). Now, a large body of riflemen, consisting of volunteers from the upper and middle classes of the country, seems precisely the corps that will answer this primary con- dition of intelligence. We cannot doubt for a moment their efficiency, if well handled. There must be good preliminary training, and good rifle practice. Although in general they would work in companies only, or even subdivisions (and for the actual rifle instruction it is essen- tial there should only be a small number at a time), it would be necessary, whenever brought to- gether in large bodies, as in the event of invasion would be the case, to form them into battalions. It would of course be rash to defer this till the war should break out, and therefore we hope to see the commanders of battalions named as soon as the organization is suf- ficiently complete. They should be chosen with great care; they should be spirited and dashing, and it would not be a bad arrangement to insist on their having gone through some sort of training at Aldershot, by being attached to regular rifle
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corps. It is also very desirable that by their rank in their counties they should command the respect both of officers and men. Finally, we must have a general to com- mand these irregular but formidable bands. Here we are indeed at a loss for a suggestion. Who will present us with a Garibaldi ?
As a matter of small but not un- important detail, we may suggest for the consideration of rifle corps committees the propriety of supplying their volunteers with the precise articles of equipment they would require for campaigning, that is to say, knapsacks and their con- tents, and haversacks. They should not wait for the moment of action to take this necessary step. There would be then quite confusion enough, without the aggravation of a deficiency of equipment. It need hardly be said that no force could remain a week in the field, espe- cially in a cold and damp climate, without being properly furnished in this respect.
We have next to consider the state of our fortifications, and the réle they would probably play in a war of invasion. As all the world knows, these are confined to the protection of our dockyards. Not a singleinland fortress or entrenched camp do we ess. Take now Portsmouth. It consists of a great naval anchorage and a dockyard on the largest scale, under the protec- tion of both land and sea defences. The fortifications, which are at pre- sent undergoing the scrutiny of the Defence Commission, we will not speak of, but proceed at once to the position Portsmouth would be called upon to oceupy in the scheme of national defence, should a forei army ever obtain a footing in the country.
Portsmouth, with Plymouth, and
erhaps Portland, would evidently the base of our naval operations against the enemy’s communications with his own country. If our fleet should be inferior, or worsted, Portsmouth should have the means within itself both of refitting the old, and fitting out new fleets. It is evident also that it should have the means of arming and supplying the fleet with ammu-
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nition. In fact, it is indispensable that Portsmouth and uate should be naval arsenals as well as naval stations and dockyards, since if dependent, as at present, upon Woolwich, a French army on land- ing would at once cut them off from their source of supply. This is a most important point; for as long as we should be able to con- tinue our naval operations in the Channel, so long there would be hope of destroymg the invading army. But allow our fleets to come to a standstill from inanition while those of the enemy are well sup- plied, and the command of the Channel falls entirely into his hands, The question would be then resolved into one of armies alone, and it is easy to see what must be the result.
Next, is it right that in case of invasion our army should from the outset be altogether en /’air? that it should possess not a single forti- fied place in the interior for the safe deposit of its stores, for the assembly of its recruits, for a pivot of its strategical operations, and upon which to retreat in case of need? With an enemy in the country greatly superior in num- bers to our disciplined force, to gain time would be every- thing for us, while delay would he fatal to him. In two or three months our force would double anything he could possibly land, and with good leadership and good organization they would be fairly drilled and disciplined, and in a state tormeet their enemy in the field. But this would be impossible if there were nothing to arrest his progress in the meantime. His columns would march through the length and breadth of the land, and there would not be a spot, short of Wales or the highlands of Scotland, on which our regular or disciplined troops (supposed, of course, to be greatly inferior in numbers) could find a secure halting place in which to collect, arm, and train the thousands of volunteers who would flock to the national standards.
An inland fortress, entrenched camp, or whatever the Government = decide upon for this purpose, is therefore indispensable. The only
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tion that remains is, where ought it to be?
General Kennedy answers this question for us very quickly. He bids us fortify London.
We do not doubt that were such a proposition made to Parliament by the First Minister of the Crown, the House, as well as the great British publie, would stand aghast at its boldness, or laugh at what would be termed its extravagance. But let us consider for a moment what it would effect for us. Com- bined with placing our dockyards in a thorough state of defence (about which there can be no ques- tion), and with an efficient organi- zation of militia and volunteers, General Kennedy considers that it would set us as absolutely free from danger as the nature of the case will admit of.
If (he observes) you reduce all in- vading forces of this country to the certainty that they cannot enter London, nor enter or destroy any of the arsenals, and that even if they succeed for a time in possessing themselves of some of the open towns, they must speedily be obliged to surrender as prisoners of war or be destroyed, enough will have been done to deter any enemy in his senses from putting foot on these shores.
This position we believe to be correct. The possession of the dockyards (being also arsenals) assuring to us the power of con- tinuing, during the invasion, our naval operations in the Channel, by which the enemy’s communica- tions would be continually en- dangered, and perhaps destroyed, and London being at the same time secured against all attacks, the rincipal object of the enemy would e@ eam from his reach, and the danger of the attempt would probably ensure its never being made. But the question at once arises, is it possible or practicable to fortify a town of such vast ex- tent as London is, and, if practi- cable, would such a place be, after all, defensible P
As a question of military engi- neering alone, there can be no doubt that it is practicable—not exactly to fortify such a place as London, that is to say, to surround it with a continuous rampart and ditch, but—
Question of Fortifying London. 657
so to surround it with detached works as to entirely sweep with the fire of artillery the ground between such forts, and practically to debar all access. For this purpose the forts would average about a mile apart from one another. Their sites would naturally be selected with a view to take the utmost advantage of the ground, but their general distance from Charing-cross might be from five to seven miles. The distance from the centre of London ought in fact, in these days of long range guns, to be rarely under six miles, which would give a circum- ference of about thirty-six miles. General Kennedy makes the circum- ference about thirty miles, taking in Hammersmith, Wormwood Scrubs, Willesden-green, Hampstead, High- gate, Tottenham, the River Lea till its junction with the Thames, Dept- ford, Lewisham, Sydenham, Upper Norwood, Lower Streatham, and Wandsworth. On this circuit he would place about thirty forts ; but as Woolwich must necessarily be taken into the defence, nine addi- tional forts would be required for that purpose. Taking as a guide the cost of a fort now in progress at Gosport, estimated at £80,000, the General assumes the average cost per fort, including the purchase of the ground, at £100,000; and con- sequently the cost of the thirty-nine forts required for the defence of London and Woolwichat£3,900,000. We are inclined to think, for the reason before given, that a longer radius must be taken, and our esti- mate would raise the number of forts around London to thirty-six ; and, including Woolwich, to forty- eight, entailing an expenditure of £4,800,000.
The forts would be armed with very heavy artillery. The inter- mediate spaces would be occupied by troops, who would intrench them- selves in the best positions. Each fort is estimated to mount 40 guns, with a garrison of 500 men, and the intermediate spaces to be manned by divisions of 5000 men. But as the enemy could not dream of in- vesting London in its entire circum- ference, a large portion of the troops would be withdrawn from the loca- lities not immediately exposed, and
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nwo on the part of the position ronting the enemy. A better posi- tion could not be imagined for militia and newly raised levies, who, aided by regular troops, would gra- dually be brought to face their enemy in daily skirmishes, while the guns of the forts would prevent their being ever very severely punished for their audacity: re- sources of every kind would be in abundance, for it is well known there is no base of operations like that afforded by a large city, containing, as it does, every possible trade; after some bold attempts to capture or penetrate the spaces between the forts, the enemy would probably have to retire, and the defending army being now strong, his days would be numbered.
Whether London, thus fortified, would be really defensible, would depend, we conceive, more on the fedling of its population than on the military advantage of such a posi- tion. . Would a _ population of 2,500,000 endure the suspense and terror consequent on the approach of an invading army, and the explo- sions of shells day and night, with which its suburbs at least would be visited? That is the question. No one can predict its solution, which would depend almost entirely on the spirit with which Londoners them- selves would man their works and swell the numbers of the militia and volunteers. Citizens, as history tells us, will endure much when their fathers, sons, and brothers are num- bered among their defenders.
As a question, then, of military engineering and of strategy, General Kennedy’s plan appears perfectly adapted to the circumstances of the case. We cannot maintain a large standing army; therefore we must place our small disciplined force, with the numerous levies that would speedily join it, in an unassailable position for a time, until the whole strength of the country can be or- ganized. As London would un- doubtedly be the chief object of the expedition, no position seems so well fitted for the purpose as that around the metropolis. In fact, the diffi- culty presented to the enemy would be so great, that it is very impro- bable he would ever, under such
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circumstances, undertake +he expe- dition, unless indeed he reckoned on the terrors of the metropolis as a means to overcome its garrison and es army —a speculation, 1owever, as we conceive, highly dangerous.
But we must admit that, notwith- standing the military reasons in favour of such a project, the social and political obstacles are very great, probably insurmountable. They can at any rate be only over- come by a decisive manifestation of public opinion in favour of so strong a defensive measure. Wealthy citi- zens and noble lords would be re- quired to accept the State compen- sation for the property on which the forts were built; they would be further informed that on the ap- proach of the enemy all buildings within a thousand yards of the works would have to be destroyed—a cir- cumstance that would diminish the value of their property in proportion to the mama apprehension of in- vasion. Again, in the political view England would proclaim to the world that she is, militarily speaking, no longer insular, and it is impossible to say to what extent this feeling might not in process of time affect our institutions. We do not indeed set great store by this latter argu- ment; for in fortifying our dock- yards so carefully as we are now doing on the land side, what do we but proclaim to the world that we are liable to the attack of an enemy's army. And his army once landed, to attack an arsenal or to march on the metropolis is a mere question with him of policy or strategy. Each course may be equally open to him. Still, it cannot be denied that to surround London with heavy armed forts would be to express the awkward fact abovementioned more tangibly, if not more really.
Our space warns us that we must here leave this part of our subject; but we cannot do so without repro- ducing the opinions of two great men which have been often quoted, and yet cannot be too frequently repeated—those, namely, of Mr. Pitt and of Napoleon—on this most im- portant phase of the question.
It is in vain (observes Mr. Pitt) to say you should not fortify London be-
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cause our ancestors did not fortify it, wnless you can show that they were in the same situation as we are. We might as well be told that because our ancestors fought with arrows and lances, we ought to use them now, and consider shields and corslets as affording a secure defence against musketry and artillery. If the fortification of the capital can add to the security of the country, I think it ought to bedone. If, by the erection of works such as I am recommending, you can delay the progress of the enemy for three days, it may make the difference between the safety and destruction of the capital. It will not, Iadmit, make the difference between the conquest and independence of the country, for that will not depend upon one or upon ten battles; but it makes the difference between the loss of thousands of lives, with misery, havoc, and devastation spread over the country on the one hand, or the confounding the efforts and chastising the insolence of the enemy on the other.
Then, for the opinion of Napoleon, we have the authority of Montholon in the St. Helena Memoirs :
Napoleon says he frequently turned in his mind the propriety of fortifying Paris and Lyons; and this in an especial manner occurred to him on the occasion of his return from the campaign of Auster- litz. Fear of exciting alarm among the inhabitants, and the events which suc- ceeded each other with such astonishing rapidity, prevented him from carrying his designs into execution. He thought that a great capital is the country of the flower of the nation, that it is the centre of opinion, the general depét ; and that it is the greatest of all contradictions to leave a point of such importance with- out the means of immediate defence. At the season of great national disasters, empires frequently stand in need of soldiers ; but men are never wanting for internal defence if a place be provided where their energies can be brought into action. Fifty thousand National Guards, with three thousand gunners, will defend a fortified capital against an‘army of three hundred thousand men. The same fifty thousand men in the open field, if they are not experienced soldiers com- manded by skilled officers, will be thrown into confusion by the charge of a few thousand horse. Paris, ten times in its former history, owed its safety to its walls. If, in 1814, it had possessed a citadel capable of holding out for only eight days, the destinies of the world would have been changed. If, in 1805, Vienna had been fortified, the battle of
Necessity for a Fortified Arsenal.
Ulm would not have decided the war ; if, in 1806, Berlin had been fortified, the army beaten at Jena might have rallied there till the Russian army advanced to its relief ; if, in 1808, Madrid had been fortified, the French army, after the victories of Espenosa, Tudela, and Somosierra, could never have ventured to march upon that capital, leaving the English army in the neighbourhood of Salamanca in its rear.*
Whatever may be the national decision with respect to fortifying London, there can be no question that we require some position in the interior of the country to be pre- pared beforehand, which should be a pivot of operations for the defend- ing force, and also contain its chief arsenal. Woolwich, being at pre- sent our only arsenal, and works existing and in progress there being on a gigantic scale, as befitting the military centre of an Empire, would seem to be the spot proper to be at once selected for strong fortifica- tions, embracing an entrenched camp for at least 50,000 men. We fear, however, that great difficulties would be found in placing it ina state of defence ; but on this point we shall hope to see before long the ee of the Defence Commission, if, as we trust, their instructions in- clude the consideration of this ques- tion. At all events what is abso- lutely required is, a fortified camp and arsenal somewhere ; otherwise the defending army would be ex l'air, and, its present arsenal once in the hands of the enemy, it is difficult to see how the army, de- prived of its supplies of material and ammunition, could continue the contest for a week.
We confess to having rather a multiplicity of objects in view in this discussion. In the first place, we believe that a failure in our present attempts at defensive prepa- ration would be highly dangerous, as challenging a powerful enemy to humiliate us;—it would, indeed, have been far better not to have made the attempt; for then our love of peace @ tout prix might at least be treated with some consideration. Next, nothing will tend so much to our security from all attempts at in- vasion, as being in a high state of
* See Alison’s History of Europe, Chapter xxxvii.
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preparation for it: we believe, in- deed, that there are few things the Emperor of the French would more desire than to be furnished with a good excuse to his army and his people for declining the undertaking. Again, while desiring above all things to see the great mass of our population, and espe- cially of the upper and middle- classes, trained to the use of arms, we would wish it could be better seen—what the lessons of all history tend to show—that regular troops must be mainly withstood by regular troops; and that the people of this country must be prepared to forego their ancient prejudice against. a standing army. Not that we would emulate in this respect the great military despotisms of the Continent —that we could not do if we would— but we ought at least to provide that not more than one-half of the force with which we should meet the enemy should be aught but regular troops. Zhen the militia and volunteers would be invaluable. Equally beneficial would be the local militia as a reserve, already equipped -and armed, and in the course of two or three months ready with the rest of the regular army and embodied militia to meet any troops in the field. Not less anxious must we be to see the réle to be played by our fortifications well considered and prepared before- hand; to see our naval fortresses made independent of all support from the interior of the country, from which they would be cut off’; in short, to see them converted into naval arsenals, as well as being, as at present, royal dockyards; lastly, we desire to see some base of ope- rations prepared for our army, militia, and volunteers, which would at once be their retreat in case of disaster; unassailable while they should be gathering up for a
The Nationai Defences.
(December,
renewed struggle; a depdt on the largest scale of military stores and equipment of every kind, and an arsenal for the fabrication of every kind of arm, and for the sup- ly of ammunition. Whether ndon, or Woolwich, or some other well-selected position (perhaps the vicinity of Birmingham would pre- sent peculiar advantages) may be chosen, the choice of some such fortified position appears to us in- dispensable, otherwise our army would be en /’air, and the capture of its present undefended arsenal would deprive it of all means of prolonging the contest.
These questions, and many others canoe with our subject, will doubtless occupy the serious atten- tion of our Legislature in the next session. We cannot conceive a more patriotic resolution on the part of any Englishman at the pre- sent juncture than that of endea- vouring, by careful study and re- flection, to make up his mind on this vital matter. If such conside- ration of the question could but become general, we should have a strong public opinion ready to sup- port the Government and Legisla- ture in the most decisive measures they could propose. If public opinion is weak and vapid, and not interested in the subject, the action of Government will be proportion- ally feeble and desultory. In short, we believe that never in the course of its history has the English people held its destinies, under Providence, more in its own hands than at this moment; and it will depend upon our use of the means with which that Providence has most bounti- fully provided us, whether, in the trying times that seem to be ap- proaching, we shall continue to pre- serve the honour of our country as intact as we have received it from those who have gone —— us.
E. A.
Ke eee aX > 4) wesegs
Awe forty years since a little boy, the son of a colliery engine- man at Killingworth, dressed in a suit of homely grey stuff cut out by his father, was accustomed to ride to Newcastle daily upon a donkey, for the purpose of attending school there. Years passed, and the bo became the man known to world- wide fame as Robert Stephenson, the engineer. He died, and on the 14th of October last he was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, side by side with the departed Kings, statesmen, and great men of his country.
It is but ten years since the re- mains of George Stephenson, the father, were quietly interred in a small church on the outskirts of the town of Chesterfield, followed to the grave principally by his own work-people. The event excited little interest beyond the bounds of that secluded locality. Yet George Stephenson, thus obscurely buried, was the inventor of the passenger locomotive, and the founder of the now gigantic railway system of England and of the world; and it is only within the last few years that the public have learnt from his biography how great a man then
assed from the earth. But the onours which George Stephenson failed to receive during his life and at his death, and which, in the strength of his self-dependence, he would have been the last to seek, have at length not unworthily been reflected upon his eminently meri- torious son; and those who here- after read his tablet and contem- plate his monument in Westminster Abbey, will probably not fail to re- member that Robert Stephenson was himself one of the best products of his great father’s manly affection, * his noble character, and his inde- fatigable industry.
As the son of : ae Stephenson, Robert was emphatically well-born. Every reader now knows the story of the father’s life—his early encounter with poverty and difficulty, his strenuous endeavours after self- education, his determination to gain ‘insight’ into all the details of his
661
ROBERT STEPHENSON. En semoriam.
business, his patience, his bravery, his self-discipline, and self-reliance. But greatest of all was his manly love for his only son, and his reso- lution, formed almost as soon as the boy was born, and steadily acted out in his life, that no labour, nor pains, nor self-denial should be spared to furnish him with the best education that it was in his power to bestow. His own words on the subject are memorable:—‘In the earlier period of my career,’ said he, ‘when Robert was a little boy, I saw how deficient I was in educa- tion, and I made up my mind that he should not labour under the same defect, but that I would put him to a good school, and give him a libe- ral training. I was, however, a poor man, and how do you think I managed? I betook myself to mending my neighbours’ clocks and watches at nights, after my daily labour was done, and thus I pro- cured the means of educating my
son.’
The father moreover taught the boy to work with him, and trained him as it were to educate himself. When a little fellow not big enough to reach so high as to put a clock- head on, his father would make him mount a chair for the purpose; and to ‘ help father’ became the proudest work which the boy then, and ever after, could take part in. This daily and unceasing example of industry and application, working on before the boy’s eyes in the person of a loving and beloved father, imprinted itself deeply upon his mind, in characters never to be effaced. A spirit of self-improvement took pos- session of him, which continued to influence him through life; and to the close of his career he was proud to confess that, if his success had been great, it was mainly to the ex- ample and training of his father that he owed it.
When Robert went to Mr. Bruce’s school at Newcastle, he was a rough, unpolished country lad, speaking the broad dialect of the pitmen; and the other boys would tease him occasionally, for the purpose of pro- voking an outburst of his Killing- xx
662
worth Doric. But he was kindly of disposition, and a diligent pupil; Mr. Bruce frequently holding him up to the laggards of the school as an example of good conduct and in- dustry. He was accustomed to spend much of his spare time at the rooms of the Literary and Philo- sophical Institute; and when he went home in the evenings he would recount to his father the results of his reading. Sometimes he was allowed to take to Killingworth a volume of the Repertory of Arts and Sciences, which the father and son studied together, George laying great stress upon his son’s being able to read and understand the plans and diagrams without refe- rence to the written descriptions. Sometimes they tried chemical ex- > a wena together, assisted by igham, a neighbouring farmer's son; and occasionally Robert ex- erimented on his own account, as, or instance, upon the cows in Wig- ham’s enclosure, which he electrified by means of his electric kite, mak- ing them run about the field with their tails on end, and on another occasion upon his father’s Galloway when standing at the cottage door, nearly knocking the pony down by the smartness of the shock. George was about this time occu- ae with the invention of his safety amp, and Robert was present and assisted in making many of the ex- erry upon the fire-damp rought from the Killingworth pits. On one occasion George was en- gaged in experimenting by means of a gasometer and glass receivers borrowed from the Newcastle Insti- tute; Nicholas Wood being ap- — to turn the cocks, and bert to time the experiment. The flame being observed to descend in the tube, the word was given to turn the cock, but unfortunately Wood turned it the wrong way; the gas exploded, and the apparatus was blown to pieces, though fortu- nately no one was hurt. At other times, Robert was engaged in em- bodying in a practical shape the drawings of machines and instru- ments which he found described in the books he read; amongst other things, constructing a theodolite spirit-level, on which he engraved the words, ‘Robert Stephenson,
Robert Stephenson.
[December,
JSecit. Another of his works, while he was still at Bruce’s school, was the sun-dial, the joint work of father and son, constructed after much study and labour, and eventuall fixed over the cottage door at Kil lingworth, where it is still to be seen. Not long since Mr. Stephen- son visited the place with some friends, and pointed out the very desk in the little room of the cot- tage at which he had studied the lan of the dial and calculated the titude of his village.
The youth leftschool well grounded in the ordinary branches of educa- tion, and an adept in arithmetic, geography, and algebra. In his after life, he with good reason at- tached much importance to the thorough training in mathematics which he received at Bruce’s school, and considered that it had been the foundation of much of his success as an engineer in the higher walks of the profession. His father at first destined him for the business of a coal miner, and with that object ap- prenticed him to Nicholas Wood, then chief viewer at Killingworth. While thus engaged, Robert ac- quired a familiarity with under- ground work, which afterwards
roved of much value to him; and in the evenings, after the day’s work was over, he pursued his studies in mechanics under the eye of his father, who had by this time been advanced to the post of chief engine- wright of the colliery.
The Killingworth locomotive was now in full work, and Robert be- came familiar with its every detail. The possible adaptation of the en- gine to more important uses than the hauling of coal to the shipping a the improvement of the steam
last (employed in all the engines constructed by Stephenson subse- quent to the year 1815), and the
enlargement of the heating surface, so as to produce a more rapid sup- ply of steam, formed the subject of repeated evening discussions in the cottage of the Stephensons. Of the two, the youth was at that time by much the most sanguine, his father ‘holding him back’ by set- ting up all manner of objections for him to answer, and thus in the most effectual way cultivating his faculties and stimulating his inven-
: 1 c a 8 n
=
1859.]
tiveness. It was a happy time for both, full of discipline, co-operation, self-improvement, and steadily ad- vancing mechanical ability.
The father, however, was not satisfied with the knowledge which his son might thus laboriously ac- quire by studying in company with himselfat Killingworth. Hewasfully conscious of hisown wantof scientific knowledge, which had hampered him at every stage of his career. Above all things, he desired that Robert should be well grounded in the principles of natural science ; for which purpose he felt it would be necessary to place him under disciplined teachers. He resolved accordingly, to send Robert to Edinburgh University, where he spent the winter and summer ses- sions of 1820-1, attending the classes of Natural Philosophy under Sir John Leslie; Mineralogy. under Pro- fessor Jamieson, and Chemistry under Dr. Hope. Young Stephen- son was one of the most diligent and hard-working students of his year. He took copious notes of all the lectures, which he was accus- tomed carefully to write out, and afterwards to consult even to the close of his life. One evening, a few years ago, an engineering friend was discussing with him in his library in Gloucester-square some scientific point, when Mr. Stephen- son rose, and took down from the shelves a thick volume, for the pur- pose of consulting it. On the ques- tion being asked, ‘ What have we here ?’ he replied, ‘When I went to college, I knew the difficulty my father had in collecting money to send me there; before going I studied short-hand, and while at Edinburgh I took down verbatim every lecture I attended; eve evening before I went to bed transcribed those lectures word for word, and you see the result in that range of books.’
It was a good custom of Profes- sor Jamieson, at the close of each session, to select the most diligent and meritorious of his pupils to accompany him in a botanical and geological excursion over some of the most interesting parts of Scot- land; and Robert Stephenson was one of these favoured pupils at the close of the session of 1820-1. Only
His Education and Early Life. 663
about a year before his death, when he was making an excursion in his yacht with a party of friends through the Caledonian Canal, he took oc- casion to point out some of the
ound which he had gone over dur- ing that delightful excursion with his professor, and he then expressed the practical advantages which he had derived from studying the great works of the Creator upon the chart of Nature itself. The students’ excursion ended, Robert returned to Killingworth ; and his father was a proud man when his son reported the progress he had made, and, above all, when he laid before him the prize for mathe- matics which he had won at the University. The cost of the year’s education was about eighty pounds ; but though a large sum in the estimation of both father and son at the time, George then and after- wards declared that it was one of the best investments of money which he had ever made.
We have been thus particular in describing the several stages in the education of Robert Stephenson, and the active part which his father took in the process, because it was thus that the foundations of his character were laid. The young man was now to enter by himself upon the road of life, fortified b good example, his habits well trained, his faculties well disciplined, and fully conscious that the issue rested mainly with himself. For several years more, however, he remained under his father’s eye, passing through the admirable discipline of the workshop, to which he him- self in after years was accustomed to attach the greatest importance. At the meeting of Mechanical Engi- neers, held at Newcastle, in August, 1858, he used these words, ‘ Having been brought up originally as a me- chanical engineer, and seen perhaps as much as any one of the other branches of the profession, I feel jus- tified in iusisting that the civil engineering department is _ best founded upon the mechanical know- ledge obtained in the workshop. I have ever been fully conscious how
eatly my civil engineering has oe modified by the mechanical knowledge which I acquired from my father; and the further my ex-
664
erience has advanced, the more
ave I been convinced that itis necessary to educate an engineer in the workshop. That is the educa- tion, emphatically, which is caleu- lated to render the engineer most intelligent, most useful, and the fullest of resources in times of dif- ficulty.’
In 1824 George Stephenson was busily engaged in the construction of the Stockton and Darlington railway; and at the same time Robert was occupied in the loco- motive manufactory already com- menced at Newcastle, in superin- tending the construction of No. 1 engine, the ‘ Active,’ for that rail- way; the same engine that was lately placed upon a pedestal in front of the Darlington station. He was also busy designing the fixed engine for the Brusselton incline, which he completed by the end of the year, when he left England for a time to take charge of the engines and ma- chinery of a mining company new! established in Columbia, South America. Severe study and close application had begun to tell upon his health, and his father consented that he should accept the situation which had been offered: him, in the hope that the change of scene and occupation might restore him to health and strength, though ill able to dispense with his valuable assis- tance at that important crisis in his own career.
The Darlington line was finished and opened, and its success was such as to encourage the Liverpool merchants shortly after to project their undertaking of a railway be- tween that town and Manchester. The difficulties encountered in ob- taining the act, and in constructing the railway across Chat Moss, are among the most interesting chapters in George Stephenson’s life, and need not be adverted to here. Then began the battle of the loco- motive, and the keen discussions between the advocates of fixed and travelling engines, George Ste- phenson standing almost alone in his advocacy of the latter. At this juncture he wrote to his son, urging him to return home, as the fate of the locomotive hung upon the issue. Accordingly we find Robert Stephenson again returned
Robert Stephenson.
[December,
to England, and in charge of the locomotive manufactory at New- castle, by the end of the year 1827. From this time forward Robert was as his father’s right hand, fortifying his arguments, illustrating his views, embodying his ideas in definite shapes, writing his reports to the directors, exposing the fallacies contained in the arguments put for- ward by the advocates of fixed en- gines, and in all ways energetically fighting by the side of his father the battle of the locomotive. At length their joint perseverance pro- duced its effect ; a prize was offered for the best locomotive, and George and Robert Stephenson’s engine, *The Rocket,’ won the prize at Rainhill. Mr. Booth furnished the idea of the multitubular boiler; George Stephenson furnished the general plan of the engine ; but the working out of the whole details, on which so much depended, was car- ried out by Robert Stephenson himself in the manufactory at New- castle. Successful, however, though the performances of that engine were, it was but the beginning of Robert Stephenson’s labours. For many years after, he continued to devote himself to perfecting the locomotive in all its details; and it was astonishing to observe the ra- pidity of the improvements effected, every engine turned out of the Stephenson workshops exhibiting an advance upon its predecessor in point of speed, power, and working efficiency.
The success of railways being now proved, railway projects mul- tiplied in all directions, and Mr. Stephenson then decided to enter upon the business of a civil engi- neer; the first railway laid out by him being the Leicester and Swan- ington line; after which, in con- junction with his father, he was ap- pointed engineer of the London and Birmingham Railway. It is re- lated as an illustration of his con- scientious perseverance in laying out this line, that in the course of his ex- amination of the country between London and Birmingham, he walked over the whole intervening districts upwards of twenty times. The difficulties encountered in carrying out this undertaking in those early days of railway-making were of the
ee ela lUCcCrllClULhLE hee ee CULT Oo!”
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.
1859.] Parliamentary Struggles—London and Berwick Railway. 665
most formidable kind, the most im- rtant being the construction of the ilsby Tunnel ; but by perseverance
and skill, added to his previous know-
ledge of mining operations, which proved of great service to him, they were all surmounted; and the suc- cess of the London and Birming- ham Railway speedily introduced our young engineer to a vast and prosperous business, in which he continued to hold the very first place to the close of his life. It was stated in his presence, at the cele- bration of the opening of the High
Level bridge at Newcastle a few
ns ago, that not less than eighteen
undred and fifty miles of railway had then been constructed after his designs and under his superinten- dence, at an outlay of seventy millions sterling.
His parliamentary business was necessarily extensive. In the ses- sion of 1846 he appeared as the en- gineer for no fewer than thirty-three schemes; and he might have been engineer for as many more if he would have allowed his name to ap- pear in connexion with them. On all questions of railway working and railway construction his evidence was eagerly sought and highly valued. Into the controversy re- aie the comparative merits of the narrow and broad gauges, and the locomotive as compared with the atmospheric system, he threw him- self with more than ordinary scien- tific keenness. He was the head and front of the opposition to his friend Brunel’s innovations, and the result proved that his views were correct. The most vehement par- liamentary struggle of this kind occurred in the session of 1845, when the rival schemes of Brunel and Stephenson were before Parlia- ment—the one promoting the Nor- thumberland Atmospheric and the other the Newcastle and Berwick (locomotive) line. The former was recommended to the Commons Committee by Mr. Sergeant Wrang- ham as calculated to be ‘a respect- able line, and not one that was to be converted into a road for the ac- commodation of the coal-owners of the district;’ and Mr. Brunel summed up his evidence in these words— In short, rapidity,comfort, safety, and economy are its recom-
mendations.’’ Mr. Stephenson was examined at great length, and his evidence must have had its due weight with the Committee, who passed the preamble of his bill; and the shareholders were thus saved much useless expenditure, for after the lapse of a few years the atmospheric system was everywhere abandoned.
The High Level bridge at New- castle formed part of the east coast system of railways of which Mr. Stephenson was io the engineer, extending from London to Berwick. This noble work occupied three years in construction, and it was opened by her Majesty on the roth of August, 1849. It is a much finer architectural structure than any of the great iron bridges subsequently erected by Mr. Stephenson, com- bining also in a remarkable degree the qualities of strength, rigidity, and durability. The bridge and viaduct approaching it are of great length, being together about four thousand feet. The bridge spans the Tyne between Newcastle and Gateshead, and passes ss over the roofs of the houses whic fill the valley on either side the river. The prospect from the bridge is most striking; the Tyne, full of shipping, lies a hundred and thirty feet below, the funnels and masts of steamers being visible when the smoke allows far down the river. Seen from beneath, the bridge is very majestic, the impress of power being grandly stamped upon it. One of the most important features of the bridge—characteristic of all Mr. Stephenson’s structures, but especially so in this case—is its utility. It is a double bridge, forming a direct road connecting the busy towns of Newcastle and Gateshead with each other, at the same time that it is an integral part » of the railway system along which the traffic by the east coast between England and Scotland is enabled to pass without break of gauge ; and it will probably remain, for many cen- turies to come, the finest and most appropriate monument in Newcastle to the native genius of the Stephen- sons.
Another of Mr. Stephenson’s great structures is his well known Britannia Bridge across the Menai
666
Straits, a masterly work, the result of laborious calculation, founded on painstaking experiment, combined with eminent constructive genius and high moral and _ intellectual courage. The original idea embodied by Mr. Stephenson in this bridge, was the application of wrought iron tubes in the form of an aerial tunnel, for the purpose of spanning this arm of the sea at such a height as to enable vessels of large burden to pass underneath in full sail. The arch was rejected as incompatible with the requirements of the Act of Parliament, and the engineer was thrown upon his own resources to overcome the apparently insur- mountable difficulties of the passage. After much reflection and study, the scheme of a wrought-iron hollow beam of gigantic dimensions was adopted; Mr. Stephenson feel- ing satisfied that the principles on which the idea was founded were nothing more than an extension of those in daily use in the profession of the engineer. While his mind
was still occupied with the subject in its earlier stages, an accident oc- curred to the Prince of Wales iron
steamship at Blackwall, which sin- gularly corroborated Mr. Stephen- son’s views as to the strength of wrought-iron beams of large dimen- sions. While launching this vessel, the cleet on the bow gave way in consequence of the bolts breaking, and let the vessel down so that the bilge came in contact with the wharf, al she remained suspended be- tween the water and the wharf for a distance of about one hundred and ten feet, without injury to the plates of the ship, thus proving her great strength. The illustration was well-timed, and so fully con- firmed the calculations which Mr. Stephenson had already made on the strength of tubular structures, that it greatly relieved his anxiety, and converted his confidence into a certainty that he had not under- taken an impracticable task. "Then commenced a series of elaborate ex- periments, in which the engineer was ably assisted by Fechner Uhalahie son, Mr. Fairbairn, and Mr. E. Clarke, to determine the best form, thickness, and dimensions of the required tubes, so that assurance might be made doubly sure. Every
Robert Stephenson.
[December,
detail was carefully attended to, and not a point was neglected that could add to the efficiency and security of the structure. As Mr. Stephenson himself said at the opening of the bridge for traffic, ‘the ‘true and accurate calculation of all the con- ditions and elements essential to the safety of the bridge, had been a source, not only of mental, but of bodily toil; including, as it did, a combination of abstract thought and well considered experiment ade- quate to the magnitude of the pro- ject. Mr. Stephenson’s anxiety was very great during the arduous
rocess of raising the tubes, and it is said that for three weeks he was almost sleepless. Sir F. Head, however, relates that on the morn- ing following the raising of the final tube, when about to leave the scene of so many days’ harassing opera- tions, he observed, sitting on a plat- form which had been erected to enable some of the more favoured spectators to command a good view of the preceding day's operations, a gentleman reclining entirely by himself, smoking a cigar, and as if almost indolently gazing at the aerial gallery before him. It was the father looking at his new-born child! He had strolled down from the neighbouring village, after his first sound and refreshing sleep for weeks, to behold in sunshine and solitude that which during a weary period of gestation had been either mysteriously moving in his brain, or like a vision—sometimes of good omen, and sometimes of bad—had by night as well as by day been flitting across his mind.
The Victoria Bridge across the St. Lawrence, near Montreal, is constructed on the same principle as the Britannia Bridge, but on a much larger scale ; the Victoria Bridge with its approaches, being only sixty yards short of two miles in length. In its gigantic strength and majestic proportions there is no structure to compare with it in ancient or modern times. It con- sists of not less than twenty five im- mense tubular bridges joined into one; the great central span being three hundred and thirty feet, the others two hundred and forty-two feet in length. ‘The weight of wrought iron in the bridge is about
1859.]
ten thousand tons, and the piers are of massive stone, containing some eight thousand tons each of solid masonry. Of this last and greatest of his works, it is to be lamented that the engineer did not live to see the completion.
Mr. Stephenson was _ greatly esteemed in his profession, and when any difficulty arose, he was prompt to render his best advice and assis- tance. When Mr. Brunel was oc- cupied with his first fruitless efforts to launch the Great Eastern, at the close of one most disheartening day’s work, he wrote Mr. Stephen- son, urging him to come down to Blackwall on the following morning, and confer with him as to further measures. Next morning Mr. Ste- phenson was in the yard at Black- wall shortly after six o'clock, and he remained there until dusk. While superintending the opera- tions about mid-day, he came to the end of a balk of timber which canted up, and he fell up to his middle in the Thames mud. He was merely in his ordinary dress, without any great coat (though the weather was bitter cold) and with only thin boots upon his feet. He was urged to leave the yard and change his dress, but, with his usual disregard of health, his reply was, ‘Oh, never mind me, I’m quite used to this sort of thing ;’ and he went paddling about in the mud, smoking his cigar until almost quite dark, when the work of the day was completed. The consequence of this exposure was an Senile of the lungs, which kept him to his bed for a fortnight.
No man could be more beloved than Mr. Stephenson was by a wide circle of friends. His pupils and juniors in the profession regarded
im with a sort of worship; and he even ran some risk of being spoilt by the adulation with which they surrounded him. But he preserved his simplicity, his modesty, and his manliness, through all. He was a kind and pleasant companion, very unaffected, cordial, and communi- cative. Possessing ample means,
His Honours and Death.
667
he was enabled to do many bene- volent acts, particularly to those who had worked with him in the early part of his career; and he was always ready to help on the deserving and the industrious.
He was greatly honoured in his life, though he died untitled. Like his father, he was offered knight- hood, and declined it; but he ac- cepted the honours of foreign ra for whom he had per- ormed important services. By the King of the Belgians he was made Knight of the Order of Leopold; the King of Sweden presented him with the Grand Cross of Olaf; and the Emperor of the French deco- rated him with the Order of the Legion of Honour. In 1857 the University of Oxford conferred on him the honour of D.C.L.; and for many years he represented Whitby in Parliament. The greatest honour of all, however, was reserved for his death, when he was laid to rest amidst the great departed of England in West- minster Abbey.
Amongst those who stood beside his grave were many of the friends of his boyhood and his manhood. William Kell, Philip Staunton, and Joseph Glynn, his schoolfellows ; Nicholas Wood, his first master in the business of life; Joseph San- dars, the projector of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway; Henry Booth, his coadjutor in designing the ‘ Rocket,’ which won the prize at Rainhill; Joseph Locke and John Dixon, his early professional com- panions; Mr. Glyn, Mr. Ellis, and Mr. Joseph Pease, fast friends of his father, as well as himself; down to Henry Weatherburn, driver of the ‘Harvey Combe,’ beside whom the engineer stood on the foot plate of the locomotive at the opening of the London and Birming- hamRailway. Besides these, were many of the greatest living men of thought and action, assembled at that solemn ceremony to pay their last mark of respect to this illus- trious son of one of England’s greatest working men. Requiescat!
SaMvEL SMILEs.
668
NELDA: A ROMANCE,
TRANSLATED FROM Grossi. (Marco Visconti, i. pp. 276—83).
AS the rose, when May with dews And sunlight feeds its earliest age, Such was young Folchetto, page To Raymond of Toulouse : In feats of arms brave, skilled, and strong: A master and a child of song.
One, that on some festal day Hears him thunderlike advance O’er the lists with poiséd lance On his barb of dapple gray ; With strong St. George would match his might, To whom the dragon quailed in fight.
Then if to a mournful lay He yields his streamlike voice, and sings, Flaxen locks in thousand rings
Down his throat of silver play :
Touching thee with wonder’s dream,
Like an angel he shall seem.
Every boldest lord in arms ngs for him, his court to grace: Every fair Provengal face Wastes in sighs for him its charms: The faithful page two only move— His chieftain, and his lady-love.
Nelda was the child adored (Black her eyebrows, black her hair, Her cheek as ivory’s whiteness fair,) Of a Salamancan lord. All Toulouse’s court displayed Lovelier none nor haughtier maid.
Yet the youth’s adoring pain Masters not her pride, nor sways: ‘He is of the herd,’ she says Inwardly and with disdain : ‘The baron’s child must never, no, Stoop to fix her heart so low.’
Mourns the page in loving moan, Night and day upon the strings: His cobda and sirventa sings,
Sings for her and her alone:
Essays the quintan game amain,
And shivers lances, all in vain.
Like a flower within the glade Languishing, he droops apace : Wanness overspreads his face,
And his hues of beauty fade,
And the fire of his blue eyes
By little and by little dies.
Nelda: a Romance.
And _ he lives: for Raymond poured ich bounties o’er him like a son: Girded him with knightly sword, Chose him Count of fair Narbonne: And ‘take thee for thy wife,’ he said, ‘The lovely and the haughty maid.’
—_—»~——.
Through Toulouse, from its forts and its fields, Swarms an armament mighty and proud ; For Raymond of Provence had vowed To visit a rebel with pains. No baron, no city, but yields The tribute of faith to its head ; Man and horse to. Antibes they have sped ; With their tents they have whitened its plains.
To Folchetto that rode by his side
Spake Raymond with tenderest care :
‘Why ever so mournful ? the fair
hou desirest, thou soon shalt receive :
Already to bring thee thy bride
My messenger hies to Narbonne:
I have parted the fond ones too soon,
And with thy faithful grieving I grieve.’
*Tis the day that his Nelda should come, And another, another, succeeds, And a fourth; and yet tarry the steeds, And his loved and his longed for, she stays: The uproar of battle is dumb, The banner of treason is low: To his true dapple gray he must go, Nor for leave nor for love he delays.
Unto sunset he journeys alone By the way to the home of his heart: To a village then verges apart, That amidst the gray olives ascends. Where beneath a mean hostelry moan The billows, and burst in their might, Lo! a woman, that weeps in his sight, And her gaze over Ocean she bends.
By the beauty her gestures display It is she, by her garb, by her face: He trembles approaching the place— It is Nelda, he knows it too well: He abandons his steed on the way— He darts to her, thrilled with suspense— ‘ What, my bride? and oh wherefore? and whence In tears and in loneliness, tell ?’
——a
With hair dishevelled, iy
Yet resolute the while, Her tremulous lips unfolding
A cold and haughty smile, She bends on him her eyes: * Hold off, and hear,’ she cries.
‘Nelda: a Romance.
‘In me thou didst disgrace The blood of many a sire: He could not mend thy race That picked thee from the mire ; The villain lord, that gave My hand to be thy slave.
‘ The injury, the shame, My spirit might not bear: I yielded up to blame My slighted form but fair, For vengeance, proud delight, Unto a British knight.
* By him I was betrayed ; And, to a sudden sound, I sprang from sleep dismayed, And saw the sails unbound, And the traitor with the breeze Escaped along the seas.
‘Twice have I seen the sun Arise, and twice descend, While o’er these shores unknown My sad stray steps I bend, A finger-pointed show To them that pity woe.
‘ And what remains? for grace Shall I, a suppliant, go Before thy scornéd face ? I am not yet so low: But tell my sire, and fly,
That thou hast seen me die.’
She springs from air to earth, And from the earth again She plunges with a leap bean headlong in the main: Along with ocean’s sigh He heard a fall, a cry.
The senseless rocks they tore Her fair and tender limbs : They sank, they rose no more : But yet her white veil swims, And the circling waters glowed With the deep tint of blood.
————_
No tear bedews His cheek so sad ; In black steel clad, Such as he stands, So mute, so lone, Along the sands He wends his way :
The winds they murmur,
The waves are white:
He strains his sight
Toward the strand
From his boat-side,
To the fair loved land He left to-day.
Nelda: a Romance.
Mid northern clouds
Borne far and fast,
Lo! now at last
His journeyings cease:
He finds the knight
That robbed his peace, On Albion’s shore.
They sweep the plain,
They point the lance ;
In swift advance
Together dash
Their wrathful steeds
As lightning’s flash : One rose no more.
Then both unsheathed The thundering sword, And thickly poured, On helm and shield, Their echoing strokes In cruel field
Of rivalry.
His pantings held
Within his breast,
Folchetto prest
His traitor foe,
And pierced his heart
And laid him low With savage glee.
Pale, deadly pale, Yet telling still Of threat and ill His caitiff face: And with his hand Upon the place He reeled, and died.
The conqueror sheathed His reeking sword : Looked on the lord That slaughtered lay, Yet not with glance Or proud or gay
His victim eyed.
—_——
Fast by the farthest bound of Spain, And on a mountain’s broken seat, Whose base is washed in yonder main That fronts green Provence, a retreat Of sainted Bruno meets the winds : There few and chosen souls on high Wild roots and herbs for diet share : Deep hoods conceal the earthward eye ; The painful haircloth that they wear No power but only Death unbinds.
The stricken bell with clangour makes The arches of a vault resound: Each downcast monk in silence takes His place a newmade grave around, Bach one his brother sadly eying:
Long Vacation Readings.
But who is he, on earth laid low,
z With arms across upon his breast?
The torchlight flickering to and fro Upon his features, tells the rest :
The Lord of fair Narbonne is dying.
White white his ample beard, like snow, Flows down his tunic’s belt beneath,
And, heaving, now ascends, and now, Subsides with his alternate breath,
As foam upon the billow sways :
*Mid the chaste thoughts of that last hour, Within his aged soul serene,
One rebel image darts with power, The image of that awful scene
That length of years could not erase.
Even as he saw her on that day, Her dark hair streaming to the gale, He sees her still around him stray, Dissolved in tears, with visage pale
Yet fair, his bride of faithless breast:
Oh! aged saint! and dost thou pour, Still pour the bitter hidden tear P
What ails thee ?
Ah! I doubt no more: Thy fondly loved shall not appear Among the spirits of the b
lest.
W. E. G.
LONG
Reces are rather a bore during the holidays. The Long Vaca- tion should be devoted to finer uses and better ends. The first brace of grouse one knocks over on the 12th, when the grey mists of the morning still linger upon the heather, are worth a wagonload of the classics. The swift descent of a pheasant through the yellowing leaves of the October brushwood, is a nobler spectacle than the fall of ‘ Priam’s towery town, with its one breach,’ or Dido’s funeral pyre. What cares the man who has bagged the earliest woodcock in his cover — it came across in the moonlight last week, and still smells of the Norwegian larch—for a ministerial manifesto or a continental crisis P
Then if you are a lawyer—and in these days when Lord Chancellors indite Handy-Books for the million, law has become light reading, and competes successfully with Bulwer, James, and Mrs. Beecher Stowe— you have the autumn circuit to sharpen your wits, and refresh your whist. A murder trial—especially if you bungle your client’s case and
VACATION READINGS.
get him hanged—is a very exquisite piece of work. The laborious in- genuity with which the ‘ minions of the court’ (as Mr. Bright denomi- nates crown counsel) cast their toils around you—the wicked zest with which they draw the net close, and shut up every loophole of escape— the temporary relief you experience when the presiding judge, with a strong provincial accent, assures the jury that ‘if the pannel is hanged, he may thank his coonsel for’t’— your renewed anxiety (as if the rope that is to throttle your client were already round your own neck) when the jurors retire to consider their verdict, and hour after hour elapses in the hushed and dimly lighted room (so dim and silent that the ghosts of all the felons who have met their doom there, come trooping in to glance at their latest representative among mortal men) —and then at last the superb triumph over the baffled myrmidons of the law, as the foreman, who has conscientious scruples about capital punishment, announces that ‘ Not proven, by a majority of one,’ is the
1859.]
miraculous result at which he and the other pillars of the constitution have arrived: all these things make a trial for murder a very cheerful episode for the holidays.
Some amiable men, I know, de- vote the Long Vacation toa consti- tutional course of flirtation. Very agreeable, no doubt; but dange- rous. If you can listen undisturbed to the rustle of the breezy muslins as the Circes troop into the break- fast room; if you can drive down with Arabella in her pony-cart to see the Kamtschatka geese on the pond, and refrain from making any allusions to ‘ducks;’ if you can shoot a sheaf of arrows against Beatrix, and regard with unrufiled composure the flushed cheek and the piquant wide-awake, with its pheasant hackle; if you can read The Lord of Burleigh to Lilias ;—
In her ear he whispers gaily, ‘If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch’d thee daily, And I think thou lov’st me well.’ She replies, in accents fainter, ‘There is none I love like thee.’ He is but a landscape painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof, Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father’s roof. ‘I can make no marriage present, Little can I give my wife ; Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life ;—
if you can read Lord Burleigh to Lilias, and in an unelastic age, when love wont make a cottage pleasant on less than a thousand a year, con- quer the insane temptation to ‘ go and do likewise,’ then you may without fear embark in the engross- ing pursuit. If not, get your clerk to telegraph for you on ‘urgent business,’ and be off by the night mail. How many wretched victims we have all seen; and yet the reite- rated warning avails not. ‘ The races of men make haste to destruction.’ A man who has lost his heart is, I think, the most humiliating spectacle in the universe. The distemper is sometimes taken mildly, no doubt; but in a virulent case the symptoms are most distressing. Jones is a
How to spend the Long Vacation.
673.
good fellow and a crack shot, who smokes his cavendish with relish and
lays his trumps like a man. Had i been told six months ago that his society would become utterly in- sufferable, I should have repelled the imputation with the generous indignation of friendship. But truth, which is greater than friendship, compels me to own that he had not been introduced to Lady Clara Augusta Millicent Fitzboodle for a week ere Jones became a most con- firmed bore. Nothing more dreary can be imagined. He would neither shoot, nor smoke, nor speak, nor sleep; he lost the use of his tongue and his teeth ; he took to reading the Great Tribulation,* and at length actually trumped his partner’s win- ning diamond. Classic friendship, mortal patience could not of course stand that, and—we parted. Whose experience is not similarly illus- trated? Sappho’s love and hate, the wise Mr. Pope says, are alike dangerous. So don’t let us play with edged tools—unless our hand is steady.
Not caring a sixpence for science, you devote, of course, a week of your holiday to the British Associa- tion. You don’t attend the sec- tional meetings, nor mingle in the battles of the gods; but you go to hear the Prince on the first field- night, and to the Conversazione on the succeeding, to show the fair dwellers in the granite city that one distinguished savant can dress like a gentleman. Though a stead- fast Jacobite, I pay a qualified alle- giance to the House of Hanover, and am prepared to take the oath of abjuration on my appointment to any lucrative sinecure in the gift of the Crown. But the Japanese fashion of shutting up royalty apart as a sacred thing, seems to me, I confess, profoundly politic. When powers and principalities mingle with men, we are apt to forget the awful reverence that ‘should hedge a king.’ ‘For my part,’ remarked Robinson, who sat near me on the opening night, ‘ I say, let Professor Owen rule over us. He is every inch a king. The frank, noble, generous intelligence of that grand
* Dr. Cumming’s The Great Tribulation Coming on the Earth ; or, as a wicked critic epitomizes it, The Great Tribulation—Cumming on the Earth.
674
face extorts submission and loyal obedience.’ Still, the Prince’s ad- dress was exceedingly creditable. I did not indeed hear much of it; but that was partly, no doubt, my own fault, and partly the fault of a pair of violet eyes in the vicinity. The violet eyes of the Aigean were very distracting in Anacreon’s time ; and the violet eyes of the North Sea continue to enforce the historic law discovered by the classic co- quette.
All scientific meetings are very much alike; but the meeting in the Granite City was in one respect unique. The archeological exhibi- tion was admirable, and reflects infinite credit on the gentlemen who organized it.* The successive stages in our civilization —since bare- legged Kernes paddled round their stormy coasts on sheep-skin hurdles —were adequately illustrated. The relics of the Jacobite chivalry were peculiarly numerous and interest- ing. The andrea ferrara with its rebellious device, the ‘uncanny’ dirks, the antique pistols, the heavy claymores, used by historic prince and peer, and still preserved in many a highland keep by their de- scendants; and, most precious of any, the very gear and armour, the tartan plaid, the short sword, the targe with the royal arms and Me- dusat head, worn by the young Prince Charlie that misty morning at Culloden, before the clans were scattered! Quite authentic, I sup- pose, quite as authentic as most Catholic relics at least, and believed in not a century ago with a faith as warm and implicit. One felt when among these memorials, that the Jacobite chivalry was not quite dead, and that, in some secluded nooks among the northern hills, the sentiment for the ‘old house’ may even yet linger.
Mr. Carlyle, who holds that you cannot know a man till you have seen his face, would have been im- mensely gratified (if indeed any- thing now can gratify the victim on
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[December,
whom the German Dryasdust has so cruelly sat) with the portrait gallery. 1 am convinced that a better collection has never been made in this country. All the pictures were interesting as representations of great men and beautiful women; as works of art many were sur- prisingly good. There was little or none of the Egyptian darkness of which historical portraits commonly consist. The majority, on the con- trary, were of rare excellence. Morier and Mignard’s portraits of the last of the Stuarts,—very lovely smooth-cheeked children faces : Gavin Hamilton’s unfinished sketch of Elizabeth Gunning, the cele- brated beauty—a face which, with its dreamy blue eyes, and languish- ing sweetness of expression, fasci- nates even on canvas: Sir Peter Lely’s portrait of Henrietta, Duchess of Gordon, a grave little lady of ten or twelve in capacious old-fashioned frills; and Sir Joshua’s of a later duchess of the same great house : Jameson’s Anne, Marchioness of Huntley, and Vandyck’s graceful, winning, and modest Henrietta Maria; pictures which prove that the old painters could draw ‘a lady,’ as well as Swinton or Frank Grant ; these and many more were admi- rable specimens of art. There were half a dozen miniatures by foreign artists of the Comtesse d’Albanie; the bold, bright, penetrating eyes, and the cicadas twisted through the knotted hair, appearing in each —cameo miniatures once worn on ‘royal hands and princely hearts,’ as they might well be; for the lady’s beauty is radiant, and the cameos are superb. The single ‘Gainsborough’ was very fine, but not equal to that exquisite one in the N, ational Gallery at Edinburgh, of Mrs. Grahame, the piquant grace and saucy beauty of which I should in vain try to déscribe. Does Mr. Carlyle’s maxim hold good? Does the portrait of a man enable you to divine his biography ? We can test it here. The hideous
* Mr. James Hay Chalmers and Mr.
’ . Charles Elphinstone Dalrymple,—gentle- men admirably qualified by tastes and acquirements to discharge such a duty efficiently.
+ The Medusa, if I recollect aright. Surely a stroke of satire. For what fitter device could an enemy have selected for the unhappy race that destroyed every
one who came in contact with it, and in whose ill-fortunes so many noble gentle- men perished ?
, L : L L L ’
~ crs “—- wv we
Ci aw =
1859.] The Archeological Exhibition at Aberdeen. 675
satyr, leering upon us out of those bloodshot sagacious eyes, is the last Lord Lovat, whom Hogarth painted in the Tower the day before they hanged the old rogue. This is Hogarth’s picture, and though per- haps more like a burlesque than anything the great satirist ever did, is said not to be a caricature. There are three portraits of the Marquis of Montrose, which tell their own story; first, the one painted by Jameson, when the Satan a lad of seventeen; in which signs of a conscious power, and more mature composure ‘ than should be in one so young,’ may be traced; and then two—by Jameson and Gerard Hon- thorst—of the man; a brave and open, but sad-faced and sallow gen- tleman, dressed in the sable suit he always wore after the King’s death. So he may have looked that wild day when he landed from the Orkneys, the royal standard in black, and Nil Medium upon his own. His lifelong rival, ‘Gillespie Grumach,’ hangs beneath him—the unkempt red Lair and the hard, sour, vindictive scowl presenting a marked contrast to the grave but winning beauty of the ‘Great Mar- om: Of all the Gordons, aes rd Gordon, the eldest son of the chief, was the only one who mag- nanimously forgave Montrose the old wrong he had done their house ; and that fine head—not strikingly handsome, but speaking of honour, honesty, and stedfastness in every line—must be a true likeness of the gallant gentleman who fell at Alford. But if these are sufficiently charac- teristic, there are many that conflict with Mr. Carlyle’s doctrine. This mild and humane countenance, a humorous twinkle hovering about the eyes, belonged to ‘the bluidy Advocate,’ Sir George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh ; that venerable white- haired prelate, whose refined and intellectual features and thin mas- terful mouth suggest the acute student or the scholar great in Greek verbs, is the notorious Sharpe, who perished for his sins on Magus Muir. Mr. Mark Napier has asked us to arrest our judgment on ‘Dundee ;’ and unless he can show ae cause for the appeal, Mr. arlyle’s test will not serve. For the most winning gentleman in the VOL, LX. NO. CCCLX.
room is John Grahame. A face of almost girlish loveliness ; soft, ten- der, effeminate, and voluptuous as the Antinous in the Albano; one tinge of sadness, one touch of scorn, —such, if we can believe the artist, was the fell ‘Claverse,’ who in cold blood, and with his own woman-like hand, slaughtered the saints of God.
But there are wet and windy days during the Vacation, when the birds will not sit, and even Neptune gets his petticoats draggled. On such days you are of necessity brought to book. You must either read or sleep; and sleep, the poet says, is as capricious as Death— ‘Death, and his brother, Sleep.’ The Idylis of the King is of course in your carpet-bag; but the day to enjoy that noble poem, to muse over its rare lessons of knightly courtesy, and chivalrous magna- nimity, and unselfish sacrifice, to appreciate the sad pathos of ‘the great knight’s’ guilty love for Gui- nevereandthe wronged king’s twice- blessed charity a great forgive- ness, to summon before your imagination that last farewell—a scene unrivalled anywhere on all ‘the shores of old romance,’—
And while she grovell’d ai his feet, She felt the King’s breath wander o’er the neck, And in the darkness o’er her fallen head Perceived the waving of his hands that blest, — is the day when you can lie among the golden gorse on the beach; when ‘ the warm South’ comes laden with heather bloom ; when the bees and the breeze, and the ripple at your feet, blend their murmurous talk with the stately procession and rich music of the ordered lines. If you have quarrelled with your mate or your mistress, if the birds will not fall, however true you aim; if that wily old fellow in the Salmon Pot below the Linn only ‘ sniffs’ at your flies, and laughs in his cheek at your finest ‘cast;’ if you have lost your temper and your money at the target, and used too often the words of the hapless lover of Oriana, ‘The damnéd arrow glanced aside,’ then take the Idylls down with you to the brink of old Ocean (how blue and fresh he looks through the green leaves to-day), ze
676
and get rid of your bile before dinner.
No one thinks of reading a novel for recreation now. Our novelists have entered into a league to bore the public, and—except Mr. Guy Livingstoneand Mr. Whyte Melville, whom Fraser delighteth to honour —succeed very fairly. Every no- velist has his ‘ mission,’ and every shilling novel enforces its ‘ moral.’ This is too bad. But of course, as some one has said, the remedy is obvious. ‘The public will give up reading romance, and when it wants amusement will turn to Mr. Spur- geon’s theology or Mr. Tupper’s philosophy. The novel will become forbidden ground to the idle and the frivolous—to any, in short, except “‘ serious” readers.’
Theology, fortunately, is fast be- coming one of the lighter relaxations of a literary leisure, and not being ‘serious’ readers we devote this windy morning to theological study. There are few more entertaining books than Mr. Mansel’s Lectures ‘on the Absolute.’ Were he de- scribing a Parisian féte or a petit- souper in a Viennese boudoir, he could not write in a pleasanter or more epigrammatic vein. He de- stroys time and space, and annihi- lates the Absolute with infinite smartness and bonhomie. Surely to crush this adroit performer in the trenchant way Mr. Maurice does is a little too unfeeling. We don’t resent a conjuror’s tricks; and Mr. Mansel’s manipulation of the In- finite is managed with the skill and airiness of a finished artiste.
But mortals quickly weary of these escapades into ‘ dreamless space.’
The chargers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder clothed, and
long resounding pace, are hard to hold, and the fate of Phaeton warns us. For what, alas! is it to us Whether, i’ th’ moon, men thus or thus Do eat their porridge, cut their corns, Or whether they have tails or horns? We want life, warmth, colour; the vivid interests and the sharp contests of flesh and blood. So we turn to the noble drama of the Re- formation as outlined in Principal
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[ December,
Tulloch’s masterly sketches,* and mingle once more with the great men who animated and atthe spiritual revolt against Rome.
A lecture is nearly as dismal a business as a sermon; and to endure it with. composure is the test of modern heroism, as the search for the San Greal was of the antique. But these lectures on the Reformers were well worth hearing; and the great interest they excited when originally delivered in Edinburgh, was no mean tribute to the culti- vated intelligence of a Scottish audience. Principal Tulloch no doubt possesses many of the natu- ral gifts of the orator; he speaks with energy, decision, feeling, and admirable directness. But it was the thinker, even more than the orator, who captivated the attention of the listeners. A great theme was being worthily treated by one who appreciated its significance and un- derstood its lessons. An intellect singularly temperate and dispas- sionate was estimating with judi- cial calmness and generous sym- pathy the motives and fruits of a stormy struggle. There was no strained pathos, no artificial rheto- ric; but the words were weighty and condensed, and _ coloured throughout by the vivid light of a vigorous and glowing imagination.
Dr. Tulloch is an eloquent writer, and his estimate of the causes and effects of the sixteenth - century struggle is at once luminous and profound. But to the reflective reader (if any specimen of that ex- tinct species yet survives) the most interesting trait in the book is the temper of mind it discloses. Scot- land was the land where the narrow and frigid Puritanism of the most narrow and frigid of the Reformers attained maturity ; the land where any freedom of independent convic- tion or any diversity of religious life was rigorously crushed out. Not in Geneva itself was the Civitas Dei associated more closely with the police office. The bonds, no doubt, are being loosed; the nation is freeing itself from an inquisitorial authority as subtle in its ramifica- tions, as complete in its machinery, and as arrogant in its pretensions
* Leaders of the Reformation, BySohnTulloch,D.D. Edinburgh: Blackwood. 1859.
1859.]
as that of Rome. Yet the spirit which infected the fierce, dogmatic, and unscrupulous Calvinism of the Covenanting assemblies is not dead ; and at the present day Scotland strikingly illustrates the unhappy truth, that the most extreme libe- ralism in political sentiment may be allied with spiritual intolerance and social tyranny. It was therefore no doubt a pleasant surprise to many readers to find, within the very citadel of the system, a man like the writer of this book. To say that Dr. Tulloch is fair, candid, and dispassionate, is to say little. His sagacious moderation, his rare tem- perance, his thorough impartiality, would be notable anywhere ; within the sanctuary of a stiff-necked sect the presence of these virtues is, in Mr. Mansel’s phraseology, ‘a moral miracle.” Moderation no doubt sometimes cloaks indifference, and impartiality is proverbially associ- ated with the ni/ admirari. But it is not so here. Dr. Tulloch is per- fectly moderate, but perfectly in earnest. He is tolerant because
his own convictions are honest and deeply rooted. He is impartial be- cause he has a generous sympathy
with the true and noble, wherever he finds them. The influence which an intellect of this kind is fitted to exert over the Church and nation to which it belongs cannot easily be overrated. A devout and tole- rant ecclesiastic, across the Border at least, is a rara avis, and the calm and candid criticism of such a man must be listened to with peculiar attention.
The Reformation has not yet been adequately illustrated, nor gauged with any fineness of critical appre- hension. The forces which pro- duced it were everywhere indeed very much alike. It was a protest against the practice as well as against the doctrine of the Papacy. The reviving spiritual life was alienated by the doctrinal mate- rialism of Rome: the reviving moral life was shocked by its practical licentiousness. The two motives were everywhere combined, though not always in the same proportions. In Germany the insurrection may be said to have been in great mea- sure the fruit of a profound spiritual excitement; in Mngland it was
Dr. Tulloch’s ‘Leaders of the Reformation.’
677
chiefly due to the political indigna- tion which the corruptions of the monastic system had roused; in Scotland both forces worked with nearly equal activity. But these subordinate national peculiarities do not affect the vital unity of the movement. The ideas and feelings which the Reformation gave voice to were everywhere substantially the same: the form of expression alone varied. To throw the ima- gination back into that troubled age; to watch the manifestations of the strange new spirit—‘ that fire of Almighty God’—which was moving with an irresistible impulse all the northern peoples, the rude ‘ Prussen’ cuuier- dain on the Baltic Sea, and the polished courtiers and sharp logicians of Paris, and Rotterdam, and Geneva; to discriminate the modifications which national habit, idiosyncrasy, and temperament im- pressed upon it; toestimate thesocial changes in the life of Europe which it effected ; to track its progress, in one nation dying out after a brief voleanic life, in another quenched in martyr blood, in another clinging to the cliffs and keeping a pure flame alight in rough mountain hearts, in another wisely appropriated by prince and prelate, permitted to work out its work unmolested, and to mould in calmness and beneficence the policy of governments and the history of an empire—this is a task which has not yet been adequatel performed, col which Dr. Tulloch 1s admirably qualified to undertake. In his present volume the leaders of the movement are sketched with vivid effect and graphic life. The genial heart and broad sympathies of Luther, his manliness, his simple affectionateness, the bluntness and heartiness of his temper, the rude strength and hilarious riot of his humour; the wrapt, austere, and passionless Calvin, his logical direct- ness and naked simplicity of intel- lect, his legislative capacity and the great practical and administrative genius which cast the stormy forces of the Reformation into a compact and symmetrical mould ; the caustic irony and benevolent piety of Latimer; the humour, the narrow- ness, the bitterness, and the ‘ harsh sense’ of Knox—are all portrayed with remarkable truth and skill. yx¥2
678
Dr. Tulloch could not fail to make an accomplished critic, for he brings to the work a rich and felicitous style, a keen and searching insight, a temperate and unprejudiced judg- ment, and the capacity for analysis which men whose sympathies are broad and active generally possess. The sketch of Calvin and of the Calvinistic system is of special in- terest, being, as it is, the first honest attempt that has been made to appreciate the true posi- tion of the man and the precise value of his work. The Genevese reformer has been hitherto written about in hysterics and heroics; he has been ignorantly worshipped and ignorantly defamed; Dr. Tulloch has at length supplied a fair, intel- ligent, and exhaustive estimate.
We have spoken more strong] than is our wont of the merit of this book ; but we are sure that such of our readers as have perused it will feel that our estimate is not exag- gerated. For the sake of those who are yet unacquainted with it, we subjoin a few extracts, taken almost at random from its pages.
Luther and Erasmus :
While Luther was thus standing in the breach, in favour of social order, against the peasants, and feeling, in the odium he thereby incurred, that he was no longer the popular chieftain he had been a few years before, he was made, at the same time, somewhat painfully to feel that he was no longer in unison with the mere literary or humanistic party in the Reformation. Erasmus, the recognised head of this party, had long been showing signs of impatience at what he considered to be Luther’s rudeness and violence. He could not sympathise in the intense earnestness of the Wittenberg reformer : the religious zeal, the depth of persua- sion, and especially the polemical shape which the latter’s convictions had as- sumed in his doctrine of grace, were all unintelligible or positively displeasing to him. No two men could be more opposed at once in intellectual aspira- tion and in moral temper ;—Luther aiming at dogmatic certainty in all matters of faith, and filled with an overmastering feeling as to the impor- tance of this certainty to the whole religious life, with the most vivid sense of the invisible world touching him at every point, and exciting him now with superstitious fear, and now with the most hilarious confidence ;—Erasmus —latitudinarian and philosophical in religious opinion, with a strong percep-
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[ December,
tion of both sides of any question, in- different or at least hopeless as to exact truth, and with a consequently keen dislike of all dogmatic exaggerations, orthodox or otherwise—well informed in theology, but without any very living and powerful faith, cool, cautious, subtle, and refined, more anxious to expose a sophism, or point a barb at some folly, than to fight manfully against error and sin. It was impos- sible that any hearty harmony could long subsist between two men of such a different spirit, and having such diffe- rent aims. To do Erasmus justice, it must be remembered that his opposition to the Papacy had never been dogmatic, but merely critical ; he desired literary freedom and a certain measure of re- ligious freedom; he hated monkery ; but he had no new opinions or ‘ truths’ for which to contend earnestly, as for life or death. He was content to accept the Catholic tradition if it would not disturb him ; and the Catholic system, with its historic memories and proud associations, was dear to his cultivated imagination and taste. It is needless to blame Erasmus for his moderation ; we might as well blame him for not being Luther. He did his own work just as Luther did his; and although we can never compare his character, in depth, and power, and reality of moral greatness, with that of the reformer, neither do we see in it the same exagge- rations and intolerance that offend many in Luther.
Here is a delightful glimpse into the domestic circle of the German reformer :
It is impossible to conceive a more simple and beautiful picture of domestic life than in the letters and table-talk of Luther henceforth. There is a richer charm and tenderness and pathos in his whole existence, —rather enhanced than otherwise by the slight glimpses we get of the fact that Catherine had a spirit and will of her own, and that while she greatly loved and reverenced the Doctor, she nevertheless took her own way in such things as seemed good to her. Some of the names under which he delights to address her seem to point to this little element of imperiousness, though in such a frank and merry way as to show that it was a well under- stood subject of banter between them, and nothing more. ‘My Lord Kate,’ ‘My Emperor Kate,’ are some of his titles ; and again, in a more circum- locutory humour, ‘for the hands of the rich dame of Zuhlsdorf, Doctoress Cathe- rine Luther:’ sometimes simply and familiarly ‘Kate my rib.’ Nowhere does his genial nature overflow more than in these letters, running riot in all
1859.]
sorts of freakish extravagance, yet everywhere touched with the deep mellow light of a healthy and happy affection, What a pleasant glimpse and sly humour in the following :—‘ In the first year of our marriage my Cathe- rine was wont to seat herself beside me whilst I was studying ; and once not having what else to say, she asked me, “Sir Doctor! in Russia is not the maitre @hétel the brother of the Margrave ?’’’ And again, in the last year of his life, and when he is on that journey of friendliness and benevolence from which he is never to return to his dear house- hold, the old spirit of wild fun and tender affection survives. He writes to his ‘heart-loved housewife Catherine Lutherinn, Doctoress Zulsdorferess, Sow Marketress, and whatever more she may be, grace and peace in Christ, and my old poor love in the first place.’ * 2 * .
The birth of his eldest son was an event of immense interest to the re- former. ‘I have received,’ he writes to Spalatin, ‘from my most excellent and dearest wife a little Luther, by God’s wonderful mercy. Pray for me that Christ will preserve my child from Satan, who, I know, will try all that he can to harm mein him.’ And then again, in answer to Spalatin’s good wishes, and in reference to his own hopes of the same character, ‘John, my fawn, together with my doe, return their warm thanks for your kind bene- diction ; and may your doe present you with just such another fawn, on whom I may ask God’s blessing in turn, Amen.’ As the little fellow grows and is about a year old, he writes to Agricola, ‘My Johnny is lively and strong, and a voracious, bibacious little fellow.’
It was to this son that he wrote, when stationed at Coburg during the Diet of Augsburg, that most beautiful and touching of all child-letters that ever was written. ‘Mercyandpeacein Christ, my dear little son. I am glad to hear that you learn your lessons well and pray diligently. Go on doing so, my child. When I come home I will bring you a pretty fairing. I know a very pretty pleasant garden, and in it there are a great many children, all dressed in little golden coats, picking up nice apples, and pears, and cherries, and plums, under the trees. And they sing and jump about and are very merry ; and besides, they have got beautiful little horses with golden bridles and silver saddles. Then I asked the man to whom the garden belonged, whose children they were, and he said, “These are children who love to pray and learn their lessons, and do as they are bid ;”
Luther's Domestic Circle.
then I said, ‘‘ Dear sir, I have a little son called Johnny Luther ; may he come into this garden too?’ And the man said, “If he loves to pray, and learn his lessons, and is good, he may ; and Philip and Joetoo.”’ And so on in the same tender and beautiful strain, mixing the highest counsel and richest poetry with the most child-like interest. Only a very sound and healthy spirit could have preserved thus fresh and simple the flow of natural feeling amid the hardening contests of the world, and the arid subtleties of theological controversy.
The contrast between the German and Gallic reformers is enforced in a passage of great beauty :
Altogether, it is sufficiently easy to fix the varying characteristics, however difficult it may be to measure the rela- tive greatness of the two chief re- formers: moral and intellectual power assumes in the one an intense, concen- trated, and severe outline,—in the other, a broad, irregular, and massive, yet childlike expression. The one may suggest a Doric column, chaste, grand, and sublime in the very simplicity and inflexibility of its mouldings ; the other a Gothic dome, with its fertile contrasts and ample space, here shadowy in lurk- ing gloom, and there riant in spots of sunshine, filled through all its ampli- tude with a dim religious awe, and yet, as we leisurely pause and survey it, traced here and there with grotesque and capricious imagery—the riotous freaks, as it were, of a strength which could be at once lofty and low, spiritu- ally grand, yet with marks of its earth- birth everywhere.
* * * *
Thereare nowhere inall Calvin’sletters any joyous or pathetic exaggerations of sentiment—any of that play of feeling or of language which in Luther’s letters make us so love the man. All this he would have thought mere waste of breath—mere idleness, for which he had no time. The intensity of his pur- pose, the solemnity of his work, pre- vented him from ever looking around or relaxing himself in a free, happy, and outgoing communion with nature or life. Living as he did amid the most divine aspects of nature, you could not tell from his correspondence that they ever touched him—that morn- ing with its golden glories, or evening with its softened splendours, as day rose and set amid such transporting scenes, ever inspired him. The mur- muring rush of the Rhone, the frowning outlines of the Jura, the snowy grandeur of Mont Blanc, might as well not have been, for all that they seemed to have affected him. No vestige of poetical
680
feeling, no touch of descriptive colour, ever rewards the patient reader. All that exquisitely conscious sympathy with nature, and wavering responsive- ness to its unuttered lessons, which brighten with an ever-recurring fresh- ness the long pages of Luther's letters, and which have wrought themselves as a@ very commonplace into modern lite- rature, is unknown, and would have been unintelligible to him. And no less all that fertile interest in life merely for its own sake—its own joys and sorrows—brightness and sadness ; the mystery, pathos, tenderness, and ex- uberance of mere human affection, which enrich the character of the great German—there is nothing of all this in Calvin—no such yearning or senti- mental aspirations ever touched him. Luther, in all things greater as a man, is infinitely greater here. And in truth this element of modern feeling and culture is Teutonic rather than Celtic in its growth. It springs out of the comparatively rich and genial soil of the Saxon mind,—deeper in its sensi- bilities and more exuberant in its pro- ducts.
The Church of England:
The spirit of this Church is not, and never has been, definite and consistent. From the beginning it repudiated the distinct guidance of any theoretical principles, however exalted, and appa- rently Scriptural. It held fast to its historical position, as a great Institute still living and powerful under all the corruptions which had overlaid it ; and while submitting to the irresistible in- fluence of reform which swept over it, as over other churches in the sixteenth century, it refused to be refashioned according to any new model, It broke away from the medieval bondage, under which it had always been restless, and destroyed the gross abuses which had sprung out of it; it rose in an attitude of proud and successful resistance to Rome ; but in doing all this, it did not go to Scripture, as if it had once more, and entirely anew, to find there the principles either of doctrinal truth or of practical government and discipline. Scripture, indeed, was eminently the condition of its revival; but Scripture was not made anew the foundation of its existence, There was too much of old historical life in it to seek any new foundation ; the new must grow out of the old, and fit itself into the old. The Church of England was to be reformed, but not reconstituted. Its life was too vast, its influence too varied, its rela- tions too complicated,—touching the national existence in all its multiplied expressions at too many points,—to be
Long Vacation Readings.
[ December,
capable of being reduced to any new and definite form in more supposed uniformity with the model of Scripture, or the simplicity of the primitive Church. Its extensive and manifold organism was to be reanimated by a new life, but not remoulded according to any arbitrary or novel theory.
This spirit, at once progressive and conservative, comprehensive rather than intensive, historical, and not dogmatical, is one eminently characteristic of the English mind, and, as it appears to us, in the highest degree characteristic of the English Reformation. It is far, indeed, from being an exhaustive cha- racteristic of it. Two distinct ten- dencies of a quite different character, expressly dogmatic in opposite extremes, are found running alongside this main and central tendency : on the one hand, a medieval dogmatism; on the other hand, a puritanical dogmatism. The current of religious life in England, as it moved forward and took shape in the sixteenth century, is marked by this threefold bias, which has perpetuated itself to the present time. There was then, as there remains to this day, an upper, middle, and lower tendency— a theory of High-churchism, and a theory of Low-churchism—and between these contending dogmatic movements the great confluence of what was and is the peculiar type of English Chris- tianity—a Christianity diffusive and practical rather than direct and theo- retical—elevated and sympathetic rather than zealous and energetic—Scriptural and earnest in its spirit, but undogmatic and adaptive in its form.
Nothing, we think, can be better than this on Latimer :
A simplicity everywhere verging on originality is perhaps his most promi- nent characteristic—a simplicity as far as possible from that which we noted in Calvin: the one, the naked energy of intellect ; the other, a guileless even- ness of heart. The single way in which Latimer looks at life, with his eyes un- blinded by conventional drapery of any kind, and his heart responsive to all its broadest and most common interests,— of which he speaks in language never nice and circumlocutory, but straight, plain, and forcible,—gives to his ser- mons their singular air of reality, and to his character that sort of piquancy which we at once recognise as a direct birth of nature. He is a kind of Gold- smith in theology ; the same artless and winning earnestness—the same sunny temper in the midst of all difficulties— the same disregard of his own comforts, and warm and kindly individualism of benevolence—the same bright and play-
1859.]
ful humour, like a roving and gleeful presence, meeting you at every turn, and flashing laughter in your face. It would be absurd, of course, to push this comparison further. There is beneath all the oddities of Latimer’s character a deep and even stern consistency of purpose, and a spirit of righteous in- dignation against wrong, which, apart from all dissimilarities of work, destroys any more essential analogy between the great humourist of the Reformation in England and the later humourist of its literature. Yet the same childlike transparency of character is beheld in both, and the same fresh stamp of nature, which, in its simple originality, is found to outlast far more brilliant and imposing, but artificially cultured qualities,
In mere intellectual strength, Latimer can take no place beside either Luther or Calvin, His mindhasneithertherich compass of the one, nor the symmetrical vigour of the other. He is no master in any department of intellectual inte- rest, or even of theological inquiry. We read his sermons, not for any light or reach of truth which they unfold, nor because they exhibit any peculiar depth of spiritual apprehension, but simply because they are interesting—and inte- resting mainly from the very absence of all dogmatic or intellectual pretensions. Yet, without any mental greatness, there is a pleasant and wholesome har- mony of mental powers displayed in his writings, which gives to them a won- derful vitality. There is a proportion and vigour, not of logic, but of sense and feeling in them eminently English, and showing everywhere a high and well-toned capacity. He is coarse and low at times; his familiarity occa- sionally descends to meanness ; but the living hold ‘which he takes of reality at every point often carries him also to the height of an indignant and burning eloquence.
But we must stay our hand; and
the quotations we have made are sufficient to show that this unpre- tending little volume contains much ripe thought and felicitous criticism, and that it merits a very hearty welcome from all who esteem honesty, independence, and—‘ the greatest of these ’—charity.
I have said that the presence of men like Principal Tulloch in the National Church is a hopeful sign. That Scottish Presbyterianism, how-
A Case of Presbyterian Intolerance.
681
ever, is not yet free from the taint of intolerance is forcibly illustrated by a couple of pamphlets * I have received since this paper was begun. The matter of which they treat is, in its immediate consequences, of local interest only ; but the questions involved are of first-rate and even national importance. The principles of religious toleration have now been formally sanctioned by the State, but a vast amount of social and domestic bigotry survives. These, the more subtle forms of perse- cution, are by their nature the most difficult to combat; they are the concealed and impalpable sores on which the free ae of public opinion can seldom be brought to bear. It is all the more necessary, therefore, than when an act of this kind, directly opposed to the spirit of our recent legislation and to the maxims of an enlightened Pro- testantism, does by accident emerge into the daylight, that it should be strongly and summarily dealt with by those who watch and guard with jealous reverence the spiritual rights of the people. .
The circumstances of this case may be briefly stated. The ma- nagers of the Crichton Royal In- stitution at Dumfries—an institution for the care and cure of the insane— appointed in the beginning of this year an assistant-matron to one of their establishments. At the time the appointment was made, they were informed that the lady elected was a Roman Catholic. She was admirably qualified in every other respect for the situation ; and as the Crichton Institution is a national and unsectarian establishment, and as the duty of the matron has re- ference to the temporal comfort and not to the spiritual well-being of the inmates, her religious belief was not considered nor allowed to operate as a disqualification. A Roman Ca- tholic had held the same situation previously ; a Roman Catholic gen- tleman was among the directors. The lady continued matron for some months, and discharged her duties to the perfect satisfaction of her employers. Unluckily, however,
- Religious Intolerance, &c. By the Honourable Marmaduke ©. Maxwell.
Edinburgh. 1859.
A Letter to the Honourable Marmaduke C. Maxwell, &c.
Stevenson, D.D. Edinburgh. 1859.
*
By the Rev. W.
682
certain meddling clergymen in the metropolis learned that such an ap- intment had been made, and the orthwith moved heaven and eart: to get it annulled. A protest, con- ceived in the most extravagant and bombastic vein, was drawn up by the reverend agitators, and exten- sively signed by their friends. The directors were alarmed by the vio- lent measures which it threatened ; they retraced their steps and dis- charged their official. A minorit of their number at once resigned, and one of them, the Hon. Marma- duke Maxwell, has now made public the particulars of a shameful and disgraceful intrigue.
The Rey. Dr. Stevenson, of Leith, who seems to have taken the lead- ing part in the agitation, has at- tempted to vindicate the meddling of his clerical brethren in a matter with which they had no earthly concern. His pamphlet is worth reading; it will be considered a curiosity south of the Tweed, for its interpretation of the doctrines of Protestant freedom is certainly unique. Any argument it contains is either utterly worthless or curiously disingenuous. Proceeding upon the assumption that the Crich- ton Institution is ‘a Protestant asylum’—as if Protestants only were in the habit of going out of their wits—it argues that it is in- competent to appoint a Roman Catholic matron. The assumption is perfectly unwarranted. The sta- tute of incorporation, acts of Parlia- ment which recognise the asylum, do not say a single word on the subject of religion; no test is en- forced, no disabilities are imposed ; the institution is a public one, open to patients of every creed and sect. But Dr. Stevenson will make him- self superior to the Legislature. No Roman Catholic matron, no Baptist
Long Vacation Readings.
[December,
nurse, no Episcopalian housemaid, need apply at Dumfries so long as this vindicator of Presbyterian pu- rity can wield a pen or draw a protest.
I noticed in an advertisement the other day that the applicant—a clergyman—after enumerating his other qualifications, added in con- spicuous type, ‘Views strictly those of Simeon.’ It might perhaps have been as assuring if he had stated that his views were ‘strictly those of St. Paul;’ but certain party shibboleths are, I presume, neces- sary in the Church. If the Leith Doctor's system of domestic disa- bilities, however, is to be carried out, it is difficult to see where we are to stop. We shall have our scullery maids disclaiming, through the medium of the public press, any connexion with St. Barnabas; and Mrs. Gamp*deponing on her ‘mortial oath’ that her religious convictions are ‘ strictly those of Calvin.’ Dean Ramsay, in his quaint, genial, and racy Reminiscences, tells a story of an old Scotch maiden lady resident in a provincial town, which must have cruelly shocked Dr. Steven- son :—
A very strong-minded lady of the class, and in Lord Cockburn’s language, ‘indifferent about modes and habits,’ had been asking from a lady the charac- ter of a cook she was about to hire. The lady naturally entered a little upon her moral qualifications, and de- scribed her as a very decent woman ; the reply to which was, ‘Oh, d—n her decency ; can she make good collops ? —an answer which would somewhat surprise a lady of Moray-place now if engaged in a similar discussion of a servant's merits.
This is going a little too far the other way, no doubt; though the strong masculine shrewdness, and the vigorous contempt for what she
* Mrs. Gamp, to do her justice, has stated with great simplicity her Confession of Faith :— ‘Ah, dear!’ moaned Mrs. Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, ‘that there
blessed Bull, Mr. Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me.
Of all the
trying inwalieges in this wally of the shadder, that one beats ’em black and blue.
Talk of constitooshun !
A person’s constitooshun need be made of bricks to stand
it. Mrs, Harris jestly says to me but t’other day, ‘‘Oh! Sairey Gamp,” she says,
“how is it done?” ‘Mrs. H
arris, ma'am,” I says to her, “we gives no trust
ourselves, and puts a deal o’ trust elsevere; these is our religious feelin’s, and
we finds ’em answer.” ways is the hend of all things !”’
‘“‘Sairey,” says Mrs. Harris, ‘‘sech is life.
Vich like-
t Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character. By E. B. Ramsay, M.A.,
Dean of Edinburgh. Fourth Edition.
Edinburgh.
1859.
1859.]
evidently considered a piece of effe- minate fastidiousness, are very re- freshing. But when we are required to discharge the nurse from our hos- ital, or the cook from our kitchen, cause her views on consubstantia- tion are unsettled, then we empha- tically concur in the old lady’s hearty sentiment—‘Oh, d—n her eee) can she make good collops P’
It would be utterly unprofitable to follow Dr. Stevenson through his very oratorical and irrelevant defence. A man who sneers at the plainest maxims of civil and religious freedom as ‘the commonplace pla- titudes of liberalism,’ and at their application as dictated by ‘a weak and almost maudlin sentiment,’ is clearly beyond the pale of argument. But fortunately the form which his intolerance has assumed in this in- stance is one of which the public authorities can take cognisance. By the recent Lunacy Act the Crichton institution is placed under the supervision of the Government In- spectors. These gentlemen will not perform their duties to the satis- faction of the public unless in their annual report they bring under the notice of the Home Secretary (and thereby enable him to redress) a grave wrong and @ gross injustice.
* *
But even on a stormy day like this the sea-side is not altogether destitute of out-door interest.
A ship in sight! Let us put away
our books and hurry down to the pier. Thalatta! Thalatta! But it is not ‘the many-dimpled smile’— ampOpov yeAaopa—that greets us this October afternoon; the lion- like monster has been roused from his summer slumber, and now lashes his tawny mane. "Tis an awful day! The bay is crossed with crested billows; the white skua gulls are screaming over the uptorn tangle which the sea has cast on the beach ; a troubled gleam of rainbow touches the troubled water and the slate- coloured cloud of rain in the offing. On the grey edges of the driven sleet, dimly visible through it, a large barque rushes on before the blast. She has beat about the ho- rizon the whole morning, but can- not weather the Burrough Head, and now—unable to live the night
A Stormy Day at the Sea-side.
683
out yonder—makes straight for the harbour mouth. ’Tis her last chance, and she needs must haste, for in another hour the retreating tide will shallow the channel, and strand her upon its beach. There,—you see her clearly now. A great Dutch barque—heavy and unwieldy—her rain-beaten sails sadly tattered—a red flag flying at her mizzen. On she comes with Dutch-like delibera- tion, yawing over the swell as if she would shake every timber in her to bits, and each moment nearing the white surf that breaks upon the bar. That is the point of danger. The bar is close outside the harbour mouth, and one after the other the great waves—moun- tains of water that tower up high over the pier, and seem to drain the sea to its bottom—burst with a thundering boom upon it.
‘He’s keepin’ ower far to lee- ’ard,’ says one nautical-looking old bird. ‘ He'll land her on the back o’ the pier.’
‘Up with your top-gallantsail, man,’ shouts another with an oath, as if he expected the skipper out there in ihe tempest to hear him. ‘Clap on every rag you have, you ould idiot ;’ and he uses his arms like a pair of flails, to indicate what is needed.
The hint is taken, the topsail is slowly unfurled, and the barque, with Lettee ‘way’ upon it, keeps up gallantly through the surf. As a mere matter of speculative curiosity the spectators, I dare say, would have wished to witness the effect which the billow that has just now broken like a cataract would have had upon her; but the steersman, who with some half dozen bearded Finns is now visible on the deck, has handled his tools well, and brings her rolling in upon the monster's back. Then.there isa brief interval of calm—thirty seconds or so—and before the next ‘ sea’ breaks, a cheer has greeted the drenched crew, and the storm-beaten is within shelter of the pier.
I see, my dear Editor, that you wax impatient. Very reasonably, I admit. But only consider, as ad Heine says, ‘if this paper
res you to read it, how it must have bored me to write it.’ Be merciful accordingly. Fuge et vale.
SHIRLEY.
684
HOLMBY HOUSE: A Cale of Old Northamptonshire.
BY G. J. WHYTE MELVILLE, AUTHOR OF ‘DIGBY GRAND, ‘THE INTERPRETER, ETC,
Cuartrer X XXIII. ‘THE BEACON AFAR.’
*‘T,BENEZER the Gideonite’
was no bad specimen of the class he represented—the sour- visaged, stern, and desperate fanatic, who allowed no consideration of fear or mercy to turn him from the path of duty; whose sense of per- sonal danger as of personal respon- sibility was completely swallowed up in his religious enthusiasm ; who would follow such an officer as George Effingham into the very jaws of death; and of whom such a man as Cromwell knew how to make a rare and efficient instrument. Ebenezer’s orders were to hold no communication with his prisoner, to neglect no precaution for his security; and having reported his capture to the general in command at Northampton, to proceed at least one stage farther on his road to London ere he halted for the night.
Humphrey’s very name ‘was con- sequently unknown to the party who had him incharge. As he had no papers whatever upon his person when captured, the subaltern in command of the picket at Brixworth had considered it useless to ask a question to which it was so easy to give a fictitious answer; apd Ebe- nezer, although recognising him a eed as an old acquaintance,
ad neglected to ascertain his name even after their first introduction by means of the flat of the Cavalier’s sabre. Though his back had tingled for weeks from the effects of a blow so shrewdly administered; though he had every opportunity of learn- ing the style and title of the prisoner whom he had helped to bring before Cromwell at his head-quarters ; yet, with an idiosyncrasy peculiar to the British soldier, and a degree of Saxon indifference amounting to stupidity, he had never once thought of making inquiry as to who or what was this hard-hitting Malignant that had so nearly knocked him off
his horse in the Gloucestershire lane.
Erect and vigilant, he rode con- scientiously close to his prisoner, eyeing him from time to time with looks of curiosity and interest, and scanning his figure from head to heel with obvious satisfaction. Not a word, however, did he address to the captive; his conversation, such as it was, being limited to a few brief sentences interchanged with his men, in which Scriptural phrase- ology was strangely intermingled with the language of the stable and the parade-ground. Strict as was the discipline insisted on amongst the Parliamentary troops by Crom- well and his officers, the escort, as may be pees followed the ex- ample of their superior with stern faces and silent tongues; they rode at ‘ attention,’ their horses well in hand, their weapons held in readi- ness, and their eyes never for an instant taken off the horseman they surrounded.
Humphrey, we may easily ima- gine, was in no mood to enter into conversation. He had _ indeed enough food for sad forebodings and bitter reflections. Wild and adven- turous as had been his life for many weeks past—always in disguise, always apparently on the eve of discovery, and dependent for his safety on the fidelity of utter stran- gers, often of the meanest class— not a day had elapsed without some imminent hazard, some thrilling al- ternation of hope and fear. But the events of the last few hours had outdone them all. ‘To have suc- ceeded in his mission !—to have es- caped when escape seemed impos- sible, and then to fail at the last moment, when safety had been actually gained!—it seemed more sike some wild and feverish dream than a dark hopeless reality. And the poor sorrel! How sincerely he mourned for the good horse; how
Y
Fs PF oO SV ere 5
Qa =~
ct
s n e n
1859. ] Humphrey Bosville a Prisoner. 685
well he had always carried him; how gentle and gallant and obedient he was; how he turned to his mas- ter’s hand and sprang to his master’s voice. How fond he was of him; and to think of him lying dead pe by the water-side! It was ard to bear.
Strange how a dumb animal can wind itself round the human heart! What associations may be connected with a horse’s arching crest or the intelligent glance of a dog’s eye. How they can bring back to us the happy ‘long, long ago;’ the magic time that seems brighter and brighter as we contemplate it from a greater and greater distance; how they can recal the soft tones and kindly glances that are hushed, perhaps, and dim for evermore ; perhaps, the bitterest stroke of all, estranged and altered now. ‘Love me, love my dog !’—there never was a truer proverb. Aye! love my dog, love my horse, love all that came about me; the dress I wore, the words I have spoken, the very ground I trod upon,—but do not be surprised that horse and dog, and dress and belongings, all are still the same, and I alone am changed.
So Humphrey loved the sorrel, and grieved for him sincerely. The rough Puritan soldiers could under- stand his dejection. Many a char- ger’s neck was caressed by a rough hand on the march, as the scene by the Northern Water presented itself vividly to the dragoons’ untutored minds; and though the vigilance of his guardians was unimpeachable, their bearing towards Humphrey was all the softer and more deferen- tial that these veteran soldiers could appreciate his feelings and sympa- thize with his loss.
He had but one drop of comfort, one gleam of sunshine now, and even that was dashed with bitter feelings of pique and a conscious- ness of unmerited neglect. He had seen Mary once again. He liked to think, too, that she must have re- cognised him ; must have been aware of his critical position; must have a that he was being led off to
ie.
* Perhaps even her hard heart will ache,’ thought the prisoner, ‘when she thinks of her handiwork. Was it not for her sake that I undertook
this fatal duty—for her sake that I have spent years of my life in exile, risked that life ungrudgingly a thousand times, and shall now for- feit it most unquestionably to the vengeance of the Parhament ? Surely, surely, if she is a woman, she must be anxious and unhappy now.’
It was a strange morbid sensation, half of anger, half of triumph; yet through it all a tear stole to his eye from the fond heart that could not bear to think the woman he loved should suffer a moment’s uneasiness even for his sake.
Silently they rode on till they reached Northampton town. The good citizens were too much inured to scenes of violence, too well accustomed to the presence of the Parliamentary troops, to throw away much attention on so simple an event as the arrival of an escort with a prisoner. Party-feeling, too, had become considerably weakened since the continued successes of the Parliament. Virtually the war was over, and the Commons now repre- sented the governing power through- outthe country. The honest towns- men of Northampton were only too thankful to obtain a short interval of peace and quiet for the prose- cution of ‘ business’—that magic word, which speaks so eloquently to the feelings of the middle class in England—and as their majority had from the very commencement of the disturbances taken the popular side in the great civil contest, they could afford to treat their fallen foes with mercy and consideration. :
Unlike his entry on a previous occasion into the good city of Gloucester, Humphrey found his present plight the object neither of ridicule nor remark. The passers- by scarce glanced at him as he rode nan and the escort closed round him so vigilantly that a careless ob- server would hardly have remarked that the troop encircled a prisoner.
In consequence of their meditated movement againstthe King’s liberty, the Parliament had concentrated a large force of all arms at Northamp- ton, and the usually smiling and peaceful town presented the ap- pearance of enormous barracks. Granaries, manufactories, and other
large buildings were taken up for
686 Holmby House: a Tale of Old Northamptonshire. (December,
the use of soldiers; troop-horses were picketed ‘in the streets, and a ark of artillery occupied the mar- cet-place ; whilst the best houses of the citizens, somewhat to the dis- satisfaction of their owners, were appropriated by the superior officers of the division. In one of the largest of these George Effingham had es- tablished himself. An air of military simplicity and discipline pervaded the general’s quarters: sentries, steady and immoveable as statues, guarded the entrance; a strong escort of cavalry occupied an ad- joining building, once « flour-store, now converted into a guard-house. Grave upright personages, distin- guished by their orange scarfs as officers of the Parliament, stalked to and fro, intent on military affairs, here bringing in their reports, there issuing forth charged with orders ; but one and all affecting an austerity of demeanour which yet somehow sat unnaturally upon buff coat and steel head-piece. The general him- self seemed immersed in business. Seated at a table covered with
papers, he wrote with unflinching energy, looking up, it is true, ever and anon with a weary abstracted
air, but returning to his work with renewed vigour after every inter- ruption, as though determined by sheer force of will to keep his mind from wandering off its task.
An orderly-sergeant entered the room, and, standing at ‘ attention,’ announced the arrival of an escort with a prisoner.
The general looked up for a mo- ment from his papers. ‘Send in the officer in command to make his re- port,’ said he, and resumed his occupation.
Ebenezer stalked solemnly into the apartment: gaunt and grim, he stood bolt eprignt and commenced his — aie
‘1 may not tarry the way, gunned," he began, ‘for verily the time is short and the night cometh in which no man can work; even as the day of grace, which passeth like the shadow on the sun-dial ere a man can say, Lo! here it cometh, or lo! there.
Effingham cut him short with considerable impatience. ‘ Speak out, man,’ he exclaimed, ‘ and say what thou’st got to say, with a
murrain to thee! Dost think I have nought to do but sit here and listen to the prating of thy fool’s tongue ?”
Ebenezer was one of those — ing men-of-war who never let slip an opportunity of what they termed ‘improving the occasion ;’ but our friend George’s temper, which the unhappiness and uncertainty of the last few years had not tended to sweeten, was by no means proof against such an infliction. The sub- ordinate perceived this, and endea- voured to condense his communica- tion within the bounds of military brevity, but the habit was too strong for him: after a few sentences he broke out again—
‘I was ordered by Lieutenant Allgood to select an escort of eight picked men and horses, and pro- ceed in charge of a prisoner to Lon- don. My instructions were to pass through Northampton, reporting myself to General Effingham by the way, and to push on a stage further without delay ere I halted my party for the night. With re- gard to the prisoner, the captive, as indeed I may say, of our bow and spear, who fell a prey to us under Brixworth, even as a bird falleth a prey to the fowler, and who trusted in the speed of his horse to save him in the day of wrath, as these Malignants Ban ever trusted in their snortings and their prancings, forgetting that it hath been said—’
‘Go to the devil, sir!’ exclaimed George Effingham, with an energy of impatience that completely dis- sipated the thread of the worthy sergeant’s discourse ; ‘are you to take up my time standing preach- ing there, instead of attending to your duty? Youhave your orders, sir; be off, and comply with them. Your horses are fresh, your journey before you, and the sun going down. shall take care that the time of your arrival in London is reported to me, and woe be to you if you “tarry by the way,” as you call it in your ridiculous hypo- critical jargon. To the right— face !’
It was a broad hint that in an orderly-room admitted of but one interpretation. Ebenezer’s iistincts as a soldier predominated over his temptations as an orator, and in
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less than five minutes he was once more in the saddle, wary and vigi- lant, closing his files carefully round the captured Royalist as they wound down the stony street in the direction of the London road.
George Effingham returned to his writing, and with a simple me- morandum of the fact that a pri- soner had been reported to him as under escort for London, dismissed the whole subject at once from his mind.
Thus it came to pass that the two friends, as still they may be called, never knew that they were within a hundred paces of each other, though in how strange a relative position; never knew that a chance word, an incident however trifling, that had betrayed the name of either, would have brought them together, and perhaps altered the whole subsequent destinies of each. George never suspected that the nameless prisoner, reported to him as a mere matter of form, under the charge of Ebenezer, was his old friend Humphrey Bosville ; nor could the Cavalier «fr guess that the General of Division holding so important a command as that of Northampton, was none other than his former comrade and captain, dark George Effingham.
The latter worked hard till night- fall. It was his custom now. He seemed never so uneasy as when in repose. He acted like a traveller who esteems all time wasted but that which tends to the accomplish- ment of his journey. Enjoying the confidence of Cromwell and the respect of the whole army, won, inde- spite of his antecedents, by a career of cool and determined bravery, he seemed to be building up for him- self a high and influential station, stone by stone as it were, and grudging no amount of sacrifice, no exertion to raise it, if only by an inch. The enthusiasm of George’s temperament was counterbalanced by sound judgment and a highly perspicuous intellect, and conse- quently the tendency to fanaticism which had first impelled him to join the Revolutionary party, had become considerably modified b all he saw and heard, when ad- mitted to the councils of the Par- liament, and better acquainted with
Effingham a General of Division.
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their motives and opinions. He no longer deemed that such men as Fairfax, Ireton, even Cromwell, were directly inspired by Heaven, but he could not conceal from him- self that their energies and abilities were calculated to win for them the high places of theearth. He knew, moreover, none better, the strength and the weaknesses of either side, and he could not doubt for a mo- ment which must become the domi- nant party. If not a better, the ci-devant Cavalier had become un- questionably a wiser man, and having determined in his own mind which of the contending factions was capable of saving the country, and which was obviously on the high road to power, he never now regretted for an instant that he had joined its ranks, nor looked back, as Bosville would have done under similar circumstances, witha wistful longing to all the illusions of romance and chivalry, which shed a glare over the downfall of the dashing Cavaliers. Effing- ham’s, we need hardly say, was a temperament of extraordinary per- severance and unconquerable reso- lution. He had now proposed to himself a certain aim and end in life. From the direction which led to its attainment he never swerved one inch, as he never halted for an instant by the way. He had de- termined to win a high and influen- tial station. Such a station as should at once silence all malicious remarks on his Royalist antece- dents, as should raise him, if not to wealth, at least to honour, and above all, such as should enable him to throw the shield of his pro- tection over all and any whom he should think it worth his while thus to shelter and defend. Far in the distance, like some strong swimmer battling successfully against wind and tide, he discerned the beacon which he had resolved to reach, and though he husbanded his strength and neglected no advantage of eddy or back-water, he never relaxed for an instant from his efforts, con- vinced that in the moral as in the physical conflict, he who is not ad- vancing is necessarily losing way. Such tenacity of purpose will be served at last, as indeed it fully merits to be, and this Saxon quality
688 Holmby House: a Tale of Old Northamptonshire. [December,
Effingham possessed for good or evil in its most exaggerated form.
The weaknessesof a strong nature, like the flaws in a marble column, are, however, a fit subject for ridi- cule and remark. The general, despite his grave appearance and his powerful intellect, was as child- ish in some matters as his neigh- bours. Ever since ‘the concentra- tion of a large Parliamentary force around Northampton, and the in- vestment, so to speak, of Holmby House by the redoubtable Cornet Joyce, it had been judged advisable by the authorities to station a strong detachment of cavalry at the village of Brixworth, a lonely hamlet within six miles of head-quarters, occupy- ing a commanding position, and with strong capabilities for defence. This detachment seemed to be the general's peculiar care; and who should gainsay such a high military opinion as that of George Effing- ham? Whatever might be the
ress of business during the day, Lewover numerous the calls upon his time, activity, and resources, he could always find a spare hour or two before sundown, in which to visit this important outpost. Ac- companied by a solitary dragoon as an escort, or even at times entirely alone, the general would gallo over to beat up Lieutenant All- good’s quarters, and returning leisurely in the dark, would dro the rein on his horse’s neck, an suffer him to walk quietly through the outskirts of the park at Bough- ton, whilst his master looked long and wistfully at the casket contain- ing the jewel which he had sternly resolved to win. On the day of Humphrey’s capture, the very eagerness on the part of Effingham to fulfil his daily duty, or rather, we should say, to enjoy the only relaxation he permitted himself, served to render him somewhat im- patient of Ebenezer’s long-winded communications; and by cutting short the narrative of that verbose official, perhaps prevented an inter- view with his old friend, which, had he believed in its possibility, he would have been sorry to miss.
A bright moon shone upon the waving fern and fine old trees of Boughton Park as George returned from his customary visit to the out-
post. He was later than usual, and the soft southern breeze wafted on his ear the iron tones that were tolling midnight from Kingsthorpe Church. All was still, a balmy, and beautiful, the universe seemed to breathe of peace, and love, and repose. The influence of the hour seemed to soothe and soften the am- bitious soldier, seemed to saturate his whole being with kindly, gentle feelings, far different from those which habitually held sway in that weary, careworn heart; seemed to whisper to him of higher, holier joys than worldly fame and gratified pride, even than successful lore— to urge upon him the beauty of humility, and self-sacrifice, and hopeful, child-like trust,—the tri- umph of that resignation which far outshines all the splendours of con- quest, which wrests a victory even out of the jaws of defeat.
Alas that these momentary im- pressions should be transient in proportion to their strength! What zs this flaw in the human organiza- tion that thus makes man the very puppet of a passing thought? Is there but one rudder that can guide the bark upon her voyage, veering as she does with every changing breeze? but one course that shall bring her in safety to the desired haven, when all the false pilots she is so prone to take on board do but run her upon shoals and quicksands, or let her drift aimlessly out sea- ward though the night? Weknow where the charts are to be found— we know where the rudder can be fitted. Whose fault is it that we can- not bring our cargo safe home to port?
The roused deer, alarmed at the tramp of George’s charger, sprang hastily from their lair under the stems of the spreading beeches, blanched in the moonlight to a ghastly white. As they coursed along in single file under the horse’s nose, he bounded lightly into the air, and with a snort of pleasure rather than alarm broke voluntarily into a canter on the yielding moss- grown sward. The motion scattered the train of thought in which his rider was plunged, dispelled the charm, and brought him back from his visions to his own practical, re- solute self. He glanced once, and
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once only, at the turrets of the hall, from which a light was still shining, dimly visible at a gap in the fine old avenue; and then with clenched hand and stern, compressed smile, turned his horse’s head homeward, and galloped steadily on towards his own quarters in Northampton town.
CHarteR XXXIV. ‘PAST AND GONE.
Perhaps had Effingham known in whose room was twinkling that light which shone out at so late an hour from the towers of the old manor-house ; could any instinctive faculty have made him aware of the council to which it was a silent witness; could he have guessed at the solemn conclave held by two individuals in that apartment, from which only a closed casement and a quarter of a mile of avenue sepa- rated him, even his strong heart would have beat quicker, and a sensation of sickening anxiety would have prevented him from proceed- ing so resolutely homewards, would have kept him lingering and han- kering there the live-long night.
The solitary light was shining from Grace Allonby’s apartment. In that luxurious room were the two ladies, still in full evening cos- tume. One wasin asitting posture, the other, with a pale, stony face, her hair pushed vet from her tem- ples, cil her lips, usually so red and ripe, of an ashy white, walked irregularly to and fro, clasping her hands together, and twisting the fingers in and out with the uncon- scious contortions of acute suffering. It was Mary Cave who seemed thus driven to the extremity of apprehen- sion and dismay. All her dignity, all her self-possession had deserted her for the nonce, and left her a trembling, weeping, harassed, and afflicted woman.
Grace Allonby, on the other hand, sate in her chair erect and motionless as marble. Save for the action of the little foot beneath her dress, which tapped the floor at regular intervals, she might, indeed, have been a statue, with her fixed eye, her curved, defiant lip and dilated nostril expressive of mingled wrath and scorn.
The Young Ladies in Difficulty.
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Brought up as sisters, loving each other with the undemonstrative affection which dependence on one side and protection on the other surely engenders between generous minds, never before had the demon of discord been able to sow the slightest dissension between these two. Now, however, they seemed to have changed natures. Mary was writhing and pleading as for dear life. Grace sat stern and pitiless, her dark eyes flashing fiercely, and her fair brow, usual] so smooth and om lowering with an ominous scowl.
For five minutes neither had spoken a syllable, though Mary continued her troubled walk up and down the room. At last Grace, turning her head haughtily towards her companion, stiffly observed,
‘You can suggest, then, no other method than this unwomanly and humiliating course ?”
‘Dear Grace,’ replied Mary, in accents of imploring eagerness, ‘ it is our last resource. I entreat you— think of the interest at stake. Think of him even now, a prisoner on his way to execution. To execution! Great Heaven! they will never spare him now. I can see it all before me—the gallant form walk- ing erect between those stern, tri- umphant Puritans, the kindly face blindfolded, that he may not look upon his death. I can see him standing out from those levelled muskets. I can hear his voice firm and manly as he defies them all and shouts his old battle-cry—“ God and the King!” I can see the wreaths of white smoke floating away before the breeze, and down upon the greensward, Humphrey Bosville — dead! — do you under- stand me, girl? dead—stone dead! and we shall never, never see him more!’
Mary’s voice rose to a shriek as she concluded, towering above her companion in all the majesty of her despair; but she could not sustain the horror of the picture she had conjured up, and sinking into a chair, she covered her face with her hands and shook all over like an aspen leaf.
Grace, too, shuddered visibly. It was in a softened tone that she said, ‘He must be saved, Mary. I
690 Holmby Howse: a Tale of Old Northamptonshire. [December,
am willing to do all that lies in my power. He shall not die for his loyalty if he can be rescued by any one that bears the name of Allonby.’
‘Bless you, darling, a thousand, thousand times!’ exclaimed Mary, seizing her friend’s hand and cover- ing it with kisses; ‘I knew your good, kind heart would triumph at the last. I knew you would never leave him to die without stretching an arm to help him. Listen, Gracey. There is but one person that can interpose with any chance of suc- cess on his behalf—I need not tell you again who that person is, Gracey ; you used to praise and ad- mire my knowledge of the world, you used to place the utmost faith in my clearsightedness and quick- ness of perception; Iam not easily deceived, and I tell you George Effingham loves the very ground beneath your feet. Not as men usually love, Grace, with a divided interest, that makes a hawk or a hound, a place-at. court, or a brigade of cavalry, too dangerous and suc- cessful a rival, but with all the energy of his whole enthusiastic nature, with the reckless devotion that would fling the world, if he had it, at your feet. He is your slave, dear, and I cannot wonder at it. For your lightest whim he would do more, a thousand times more, than this. He has influence with our rulers (it is a bitter drop in the cup, that we must term the Roundhead knaves owr rulers at last) ; above all, he has Cromwell’s confidence, and Cromwell governs England now.#If he can be pre- vailed on to exert himself, he can save Bosville’s life. It is much to ask him, I grant you. It may compromise him with his party, it may give his enemies the means of depriving him of his command, it may ruin the whole future on which his great ambitious mind is set. I know him, you see, dear, though he has never thought it worth his while to open his heart to me; it might even endanger his safety at a future period, but it must be done, Grace, and you are the person that must tell him to do it.’
‘It is not right,’ answered Grace, her feminine pride rousing itself once more. ‘It is not just or fair.
What can I give him in ex e for such a favour? How an tt all the women upon earth, ask him to do this for me ?’
‘And yet, Grace, if you refuse, Humphrey must die!’ said Mary, in the quiet tones of despair, but with a writhing lip that could hardly utter the fatal word.
Grace was driven from her de- fences now. Conflicting feelings, reserve, pride, pity, and affection, all were at war in that soft heart, which so few years ago had scarcely known a pang. Like a true woman, she adopted the last unfailing resource, she put herself into a passion and burst into tears.
* Why am I to do all this?’ sob- bed Grace. ‘Why are my father, and Lord Vaux, and you yourself, Mary, to do nothing, and I alone to interfere? What especial claim has Humphrey on me? What right have I more than others over the person of Major Bosville ?”
‘Because you love him, Grace,’ answered Mary, and her eye never wavered, her voice never faltered when she said it. The stony look had stolen over her face once more, and the rigidity of the full white arm that peeped through her sleeve showed how tight her hand was clenched, but the woman herself was as steady as arock. The other turned her eyes away from the quiet searching glance that was reading her heart.
‘ And if I did,’ said poor Grace, in the petereme of her distress, ‘I should not be the only person. You like him yourself, Mary, you know you do—am I to save him for your sake?’
The girl laughed in bitter scorn while she spoke, but tears of shame and contrition rose to her eyes a moment afterwards, as she reflected on the ungenerous words she had spoken.
Mary had long nerved herself for the task, she was not going to fail now. She had resolved to give him up. Three little simple words; very easy to say, and comprising after all—what? a mere nothing! only a heart’s happiness lost for a life-time—only a me over the sun for evermore—only the destruction of hope, and energy, and all that makes life worth having, and dis-
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tinguishes the intellectual being from the brute. Only the exchange of a future to pray for, and dream of, for a listless despair, torpid and benumbed—fearing nothing, caring for nothing, and welcoming nothing but the stroke that shall end life and sufferings together. This was all. She would not flinch—she was resolved—she could do it easily.
‘Listen to me, Grace,’ she said, speaking every word quite slowly and distinctly, though her very eye- brows quivered with the violence she did her feelings, and she was obliged to grasp the arm of a chair to keep the ama trembling fingers still. ‘You are mistaken if you think I have any sentiment of re- gard for Major Bosville deeper than friendship and esteem. I have long known him, and appreciated his good qualities. You yourself must acknowledge how intimately allied we have all been in the war, and how stanch and faithful he has ever proved himself to the King. Therefore I honour and regard him, therefore I shall always look back to him as a friend, though I should never meet him again. Therefore I would make any exertion, submit to any sacrifice to save his life. But, Grace, I do not love him.’ She spoke faster and louder now. ‘ And, moreover, if you believe he enter- tains any such feelings on my be- half, you are taneul am sure of it—look at the case yourself, can- didly and impartially. For nearly two years I have never exchanged words with him, either by speech or writing—never seen him but twice, and you yourself were pre- sent each time. He may have ad- mired meonce. I tell you honestly, dear, I think he did, but he does not care two straws for me now.’
Poor Mary! it was the hardest gulp of all to keep back the tears at this; not that she quite thought it herself, but it was so cruel to be obliged to say it. After all, she was a woman, and though she tried to have a heart of stone, it quivered