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Miscellaneous Prose: 8
Sir Walter Scott: Miscellaneous Prose Works
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volume I, part 8
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a machine-readable transcription Version: 1.0 1997-03-07
Contents:
- Letters from Malachi Malagrowther, Esq. on the
Proposed Change of Currency.
On Planting Waste Lands.
On Landscape Gardening.
Davy's Salmonia.
Life of Kemble---Kelly's Reminiscences.
Life and Works of John Home.
Reliques of Robert Burns.
MALACHI MALAGROWTHER.
[picture of Chiefswood Cottage, Abbotsford.]
ROBERT CADELL, EDINBURGH.
MDCCCXLI.
For further information about the printed edition and
the transcription, please see the notes at the end of
this text file. CONTENTS.
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Letter I.,
------ II.,
------ III.,
</p>
<p><table of contents></p>
<p>Letters of Malachi Malagrowther on the Currency, <? p1a></p>
<p>On Planting Waste Lands, <? p32></p>
<p>On Landscape Gardening, <? p50></p>
<p>Davy's Salmonia, <? p68></p>
<p>Life of J. P. Kemble---Kelly's Reminiscences, <? p81></p>
<p>Life and Work of John Home, <? p103></p>
<h2>Reliques of Robert Burns, <? p123></h2>
<p> <u>February</u> 21, 1826.</p>
<p> =My dear Mr. Journalist,=<*></p>
<p><title>
Letters<! p1a>
from
Malachi Malagrowther, Esq.
on the
Proposed Change of Currency.<p> I am by pedigree a discontented person, so that
you may throw this letter into the fire, if you have
any apprehensions of incurring the displeasure of
your superiors. I am, in fact, the lineal descendant
of Sir Mungo Malagrowther, who makes a
figure in the <u>Fortunes of Nigel,</u> and have retained
a reasonable proportion of his ill luck, and, in consequence,
of his ill temper. If, therefore, I should
chance to appear too warm and poignant in my
observations, you must impute it to the hasty and
peevish humour which I derive from my ancestor.
But, at the same time, it often happens that this
disposition leads me to speak useful, though unpleasant
truths, when more prudent men hold their
tongues and eat their pudding. A lizard is an
ugly and disgusting thing enough; but, methinks,
if a lizard were to run over my face and awaken
me, which is said to be their custom when they observe
a snake approach a sleeping person, I should
neither scorn his intimation, nor feel justifiable in
crushing him to death, merely because he is a filthy
little abridgement of a crocodile. Therefore, ``for
my love, I pray you, wrong me not.''</p>
<p> I am old, sir, poor, and peevish, and, therefore,
I may be wrong; but when I look back on the last
fifteen or twenty years, and more especially on
the last ten, I think I see my native country of
Scotland, if it is yet to be called by a title so discriminative,
falling, so far as its national, or rather,
perhaps, I ought now to say its <u>provincial,</u> interests
are concerned, daily into more absolute contempt.
Our ancestors were a people of some consideration
in the councils of the empire. So late as my own
younger days, an English minister would have
paused, even in a favourite measure, if a reclamation
of national rights had been made by a Member
for Scotland, supported, as it uniformly then was,
by the voice of her representatives and her people.
Such ameliorations in our peculiar system as were
thought necessary, in order that North Britain
might keep pace with her sister in the advance of
improvement, were suggested by our own countrymen,
persons well acquainted with our peculiar
system of laws (as different from those of England
as from those of France,) and who knew exactly
how to adapt the desired alteration to the principle
of our legislative enactments, so that the whole
machine might, as mechanics say, work well and
easily. For a long time this wholesome check upon
innovation, which requires the assimilation of a proposed
improvement with the general constitution of
the country to which it has been recommended, and
which ensures that important point, by stipulating
that the measure shall originate with those to whom
the spirit of the constitution is familiar, has been,
so far as Scotland is concerned, considerably disused.
Those who have stepped forward to repair
the gradual failure of our constitutional system of
law, have been persons that, howsoever qualified
in other respects, have had little farther knowledge
of its construction, than could be acquired by a
hasty and partial survey, taken just before they
commenced their labours. Scotland and her laws
have been too often subjected to the alterations of
any person who chose to found himself a reputation,
by bringing in a bill to cure some defect which
had never been felt in practice, but which was
represented as a frightful bugbear to English
statesmen, who, wisely and judiciously tenacious of
the legal practice and principles received at home,
are proportionally startled at the idea of any thing
abroad which cannot be brought to assimilate with
them.</p>
<p> The English seem to have made a compromise
with the active tendency to innovation, which is
one great characteristic of the day. Wise and
sagacious themselves, they are nervously jealous
of innovations in their own laws---_Nolumus leges
Angli<ae> mutari,_ is written on the skirts of their
judicial robes, as the most sacred texts of Scripture
were inscribed on the phylacteries of the
Rabbies. The belief that the Common Law of
England constitutes the perfection of human reason,
is a maxim bound upon their foreheads. Law
Monks they have been called in other respects,
and like Monks they are devoted to their own
Rule, and admit no question of its infallibility.
There can be no doubt that their love of a system,
which, if not perfect, has so much in it that is
excellent, originates in the most praiseworthy feelings.
Call it if you will the prejudice of education,
it is still a prejudice honourable in itself, and useful
to the public. I only find fault with it, because,
like the Friars in the Duenna monopolizing the
bottle, these English Monks will not tolerate in
their lay-brethren of the North the slightest pretence
to a similar feeling.</p>
<p> In England, therefore, no renovation can be
proposed affecting the administration of justice,
without being subjected to the strict inquiry of the
Guardians of the Law, and afterwards resisted
pertinaciously until time and the most mature and
reiterated discussion shall have proved its utility,
nay, its necessity. The old saying is still true in
all its points---Touch but a cobweb in Westminster-Hall,
and the old spider will come out in
defence of it. This caution may sometimes postpone
the adoption of useful amendments, but it
operates to prevent all hasty and experimental
innovations; and it is surely better that existing
evils should be endured for some time longer, than
that violent remedies should be hastily adopted,
the unforeseen and unprovided-for consequences
of which are often so much more extensive than
those which had been foreseen and reckoned upon.
An ordinary mason can calculate upon the exact
gap which will be made by the removal of a corner-stone
in an old building; but what architect, not
intimately acquainted with the whole edifice, can
presume even to guess how much of the structure
is, or is not, to follow?</p>
<p> The English policy in this respect is a wise one,
and we have only to wish they would not insist
upon keeping it all to themselves. But those who
are most devoted to their own religion, have least
sympathy for the feelings of dissenters; and a
spirit of proselytism has of late shown itself in
England for extending the benefits of their system,
in all its strength and weakness, to a country, which
has been hitherto flourishing and contented under
its own. They adopted the conclusion, that all
English enactments are right; but the system of
municipal law in Scotland is not English, therefore
it is wrong. Under sanction of this syllogism.
our rulers have indulged and encouraged a spirit
of experiment and innovation at our expense, which
they resist obstinately when it is to be carried
through at their own risk.</p>
<p> For more than one half of last century, this was
a practice not to be thought of. Scotland was during
that period disaffected, in bad humour, armed
too, and smarting under various irritating recollections.
This is not the sort of patient for whom an
experimental legislator chooses to prescribe. There
was little chance of making Saunders take the
patent pill by persuasion---main force was a dangerous
argument, and some thought claymores had
edges.</p>
<p> This period passed away, a happier one arrived,
and Scotland, no longer the object of terror, or at
least great uneasiness, to the British Government,
was left from the year 1750 under the guardianship
of her own institutions, to win her silent way to
national wealth and consequence. Contempt probably
procured for her the freedom from interference,
which had formerly been granted out of
fear; for the medical faculty are as slack in attending
the garrets of paupers as the caverns of robbers.
But neglected as she was, and perhaps because
she was neglected, Scotland, reckoning her
progress during the space from the close of the
American war to the present day, has increased her
prosperity in a ratio more than five times greater
than that of her more fortunate and richer sister.
She is now worth the attention of the learned faculty,
and God knows she has had plenty of it.
She has been bled and purged, spring and fall, and
<u>talked</u> into courses of physic, for which she had
little occasion. She has been of late a sort of experimental
farm, upon which every political student
has been permitted to try his theory---a kind of
common property, where every juvenile statesman
has been encouraged to make his inroads, as in
Morayland, where, anciently, according to the idea
of the old Highlanders, all men had a right to take
their prey---a subject in a common dissecting-room
left to the scalpel of the junior students, with the
degrading inscription,---<u>Fiat experimentum in corpore
vili.</u></p>
<p> I do not mean to dispute, sir, that much alteration
was necessary in our laws, and that much benefit
has followed many of the great changes which have
taken place. I do not mean to deprecate a gradual
approach to the English system, especially in commercial
law. The Jury Court, for example, was a
fair experiment, in my opinion, cautiously introduced
as such, and placed under such regulations
as might best assimilate its forms with those of the
existing Supreme Court. I beg therefore to be
considered as not speaking of the alterations themselves,
but of the apparent hostility towards our
municipal institutions, as repeatedly manifested in
the course of late proceedings, tending to force and
wrench them into a similarity with those of England.</p>
<p> The opinions of our own lawyers, nay, of our
Judges, than whom wiser and more honourable
men never held that high character, have been, if
report speaks true, something too much neglected
and controlled in the course of these important
changes, in which, methinks, they ought to have
had a leading and primary voice. They have been
almost avowedly regarded not as persons the best
qualified to judge of proposed innovations, but as
prejudiced men, determined to oppose them right
or wrong. The last public Commission was framed
on the very principle, that if Scotch Lawyers were
needs to be employed, a sufficient number of these
should consist of gentlemen, who, whatever their
talents and respectability might be in other respects,
had been too long estranged from the study of
Scottish law, to retain any accurate recollection of
an abstruse science, or any decided partiality for its
technical forms. This was done avowedly for the
purpose of evading the natural partiality of the
Scottish Judges and practitioners to their own
system; that partiality, which the English themselves
hold so sacred a feeling in their own Judges
and Counsel learned in the law. I am not, I repeat,
complaining of the result of the Commissions,
but of the spirit in which the alterations were undertaken.
Unquestionably much was done in brushing
up and improving the old machinery of Scottish
Law Courts, and in making it move more
rapidly, though scarce, I think, more correctly than
before. Despatch has been much attended to. But
it may be ultimately found, that the timepiece
which runs fastest does not intimate the hour most
accurately. At all events, the changes have been
made and established---there let them rest. And
had I, Malachi Malagrowther, the sole power tomorrow
of doing so, I would not restore the old
forms of judicial proceedings; because I hold the
constitution of Courts of Justice too serious matters
to be put back or forward at pleasure, like a boy's
first watch, merely for experiment's sake.</p>
<p> What I <u>do</u> complain of is the general spirit of
slight and dislike manifested to our national establishments,
by those of the sister country who are
so very zealous in defending their own; and not
less do I complain of their jealousy of the opinions
of those who cannot but be much better acquainted
than they, both with the merits and deficiencies of
the system, which hasty and imperfectly informed
judges have shown themselves so anxious to revolutionize.</p>
<p> There is no explanation to be given of this but
one---namely, the entire conviction and belief of
our English brethren, that the true Themis is worshipped
in Westminster Hall, and that her adorers
cannot be too zealous in her service; while she,
whose image an ingenious artist has depicted balancing
herself upon a <u>te-totum</u> on the southern window
of the Parliament House of Edinburgh, is a
mere idol,---Diana of Ephesus,---whom her votaries
worship, either because her shrine brings great gain
to the craftsmen, or out of an ignorant and dotard
superstition, which induces them to prefer the old
Scottish <u>Mumpsimus</u> to the modern English <u>Sumpsimus.</u>
Now, this is not fair construction in our
friends, whose intentions in our behalf, we allow,
are excellent, but who certainly are scarcely entitled
to beg the question at issue without inquiry
or discussion, or to treat us as the Spaniards treated
the Indians, whom they massacred for worshipping
the image of the sun, while they themselves
bowed down to that of the Virgin Mary. Even
Queen Elizabeth was contented with the evasive
answer of Melville, when hard pressed with the
trying question, whether Queen Mary or she were
the fairest. We are willing, in the spirit of that
answer, to say, that the Themis of Westminster
Hall is the best fitted to preside over the administration
of the larger and more fertile country
of beef and pudding; while she of the te-totum
(placed in that precarious position, we presume, to
express her instability, since these new lights were
struck out) claims a more limited but equally respectful
homage, within her ancient jurisdiction---
_sua paupera regna_---the Land of Cakes. If this
compromise does not appease the ardour of our
brethren for converting us to English forms and
fashions, we must use the scriptural question,
``Who hath required these things at your hands?''</p>
<p> The inquiries and result of another commission
are too much to the purpose to be suppressed.
The object was to investigate the conduct of the
Revenue Boards in Ireland and Scotland. In the
former, it is well known, great mismanagement
was discovered; for Pat, poor fellow, had been
playing the loon to a considerable extent. In Scotland,
<u>not a shadow of abuse prevailed.</u> You would
have thought, Mr. Journalist, that the Irish Boards
would have been reformed in some shape, and the
Scotch establishments honourably acquitted, and
suffered to continue on the footing of independence
which they had so long enjoyed, and of which they
had proved themselves so worthy. Not so, sir.
The Revenue Boards, in both countries, underwent
exactly the same regulation, were deprived of their
independent consequence, and placed under the
superintendence of English control; the innocent
and the guilty being treated in every respect alike.
Now, on the side of Scotland, this was like Trinculo
losing his bottle in the pool---there was not only
dishonour in the thing, but an infinite loss.</p>
<p> I have heard two reasons suggested for this indiscriminating
application of punishment to the
innocent and to the culpable.</p>
<p> In the first place, it was honestly confessed that
Ireland would never have quietly submitted to the
indignity offered to her, unless poor inoffensive
Scotland had been included in the regulation. The
Green Isle, it seems, was of the mind of a celebrated
lady of quality, who, being about to have a decayed
tooth drawn, refused to submit to the operation
till she had seen the dentist extract a sound
and serviceable grinder from the jaws of her waiting-woman---
and her humour was to be gratified.
The lady was a termagant dame---the wench a
tame-spirited simpleton---the dentist an obliging
operator---and the teeth of both were drawn accordingly.</p>
<p> This gratification of his humours is gained by
Pat's being up with the pike and shilelah on any
or no occasion. God forbid Scotland should retrograde
towards such a state---much better that the
deil, as in Burns's song, danced away with the whole
excisemen in the country. We do not want to
hear her prate of her number of millions of men,
and her old military exploits. We had better remain
in union with England, even at the risk of
becoming a subordinate species of Northumberland,
as far as national consequence is concerned, than
remedy ourselves by even hinting the possibility of
a rupture. But there is no harm in wishing Scotland
to have just so much ill-nature, according to
her own proverb, as may keep her good-nature
from being abused; so much national spirit as may
determine her to stand by her own rights, conducting
her assertion of them with every feeling of respect
and amity towards England.</p>
<p> The other reason alleged for this equal distribution
of <u>punishment,</u> as if it had been the influence
of the common sun, or the general rain, to the just
and the unjust, was one which is extremely predominant
at present with our Ministers---the <u>necessity</u>
of =uniformity= in all such cases; and the consideration
what an awkward thing it would be to have
a Board of Excise or Customs remaining independent
in the one country, solely because they had,
without impeachment, discharged their duty; while
the same establishment was cashiered in another,
for no better reason than that it had been misused.</p>
<p> This reminds us of an incident, said to have befallen
at the castle of Glammis, when these venerable
towers were inhabited by a certain old Earl
of Strathmore, who was as great an admirer of
uniformity as the Chancellor of the Exchequer
could have desired. He and his gardener directed
all in the garden and pleasure-grounds upon the
ancient principle of exact correspondence between
the different parts, so that each alley had its brother;
a principle which, renounced by gardeners,
is now adopted by statesmen. It chanced, once
upon a time, that a fellow was caught committing
some petty theft, and, being taken in the manner,
was sentenced by the Bailie MacWheeble of the
jurisdiction to stand for a certain time in the baronial
pillory, called the <u>jougs,</u> being a collar and
chain, one of which contrivances was attached to each
side of the portal of the great avenue which led to
the castle. The thief was turned over accordingly
to the gardener, as ground-officer, to see the punishment
duly inflicted. When the Thane of Glammis
returned from his morning ride, he was surprised
to find both sides of the gateway accommodated
each with a prisoner, like a pair of heraldic supporters
<u>chained</u> and <u>collared proper.</u> He asked the
gardener, whom he found watching the place of
punishment, as his duty required, whether another
delinquent had been detected? ``No, my Lord,''
said the gardener, in the tone of a man excellently
well satisfied with himself,---``but I thought the
single fellow looked very awkward standing on one
side of the gate-way, so I gave half-a-crown to one
of the labourers to stand on the other side for _uniformity's
sake._'' This is exactly a case in point,
and probably the only one which can be found---
with this sole difference, that I do not hear that
the members of the Scottish Revenue Board got
any boon for standing in the pillory with those of
Ireland---for uniformity's sake.</p>
<p> Lastly, sir, I come to this business of extending
to Scotland, the provisions of the Bill prohibiting
the issue of notes under <L>5 in six months after
the period that the regulation shall be adopted in
England.</p>
<p> I am not about to enter upon the question which
so much agitates speculative writers upon the
wealth of nations, or attempt to discuss what proportion
of the precious metals ought to be detained
within a country; what are the best means of keeping
it there; or to what extent the want of specie
can be supplied by paper credit: I will not ask if
a poor man can be made a rich one, by compelling
him to buy a service of plate, instead of the delf
ware which served his turn. These are questions
I am not adequate to solve. But I beg leave to
consider the question in a practical point of view,
and to refer myself entirely to experience.</p>
<p> I assume, without much hazard of contradiction,
that Banks have existed in Scotland for near one
hundred and twenty years---that they have flourished,
and the country has flourished with them---
and that during the last fifty years particularly,
provincial Banks, or branches of the principal established
and chartered Banks, have gradually
extended themselves in almost every Lowland district
in Scotland; that the notes, and especially
the small notes, which they distribute, entirely supply
the demand for a medium of currency; and
that the system has so completely expelled gold
from the country of Scotland, that you never by
any chance espy a guinea there, unless in the purse
of an accidental stranger, or in the coffers of these
Banks themselves. This is granting the facts of
the case as broadly as can be asked.</p>
<p> It is not less unquestionable, that the consequence
of this banking system, as conducted in
Scotland, has been attended with the greatest advantage
to the country. The facility which it has
afforded to the industrious and enterprising agriculturist
or manufacturer, as well as to the trustees
of the public in executing national works, has converted
Scotland, from a poor, miserable, and barren
country, into one where, if nature has done less,
art and industry have done more, than in perhaps
any country in Europe, England herself not excepted.
Through means of the credit which this
system has afforded, roads have been made, bridges
built, and canals dug, opening up to reciprocal communication
the most sequestered districts of the
country---manufactures have been established, unequalled
in extent or success---wastes have been
converted into productive farms---the productions
of the earth for human use have been multiplied
twenty-fold, while the wealth of the rich, and the
comforts of the poor, have been extended in the
same proportion. And all this in a country where
the rigour of the climate, and sterility of the soil,
seem united to set improvement at defiance. Let
those who remember Scotland forty years since
bear witness if I speak truth or falsehood.</p>
<p> There is no doubt that this change has been
produced by the facilities of procuring credit,
which the Scottish banks held forth, both by
discounting bills, and by granting cash-accounts.
Every undertaking of consequence, whether by
the public or by individuals, has been carried on
by such means; at least, exceptions are extremely
rare.</p>
<p> There is as little doubt that the Banks could not
have furnished these necessary funds of cash, without
enjoying the reciprocal advantage of their own
notes being circulated in consequence, and by
means of the accommodation thus afforded. It is
not to be expected that every undertaking which
the system enabled speculators or adventurers to
commence, should be well-judged, attentively carried
on, or successful in issue. Imprudence in some
cases, misfortune in others, have had their usual
quantity of victims. But in Scotland, as elsewhere,
it has happened in many instances that improvements,
which turned out ruinous to those who
undertook them, have, notwithstanding, themselves
ultimately produced the most beneficial advantages
to the country, which derived in such instances an
addition to its general prosperity, even from the
undertakings which had proved destructive to the
private fortune of the projectors.</p>
<p> Not only did the Banks dispersed throughout
Scotland afford the means of bringing the country
to an unexpected and almost marvellous degree of
prosperity, but in no considerable instance, save
one, have their own over-speculating undertakings
been the means of interrupting that prosperity.
The solitary exception was the undertaking called
the Ayr Bank, rashly entered into by a large body
of country gentlemen and others, unacquainted
with commercial affairs, and who had moreover the
misfortune not only to set out on false principles,
but to get false rogues for their principal agents
and managers. The fall of this Bank brought
much calamity on the country; but two things are
remarkable in its history: First, that under its too
prodigal, yet beneficial influence, a fine county (that
of Ayr) was converted from a desert into a fertile
land. 2dly, That, though at a distant interval, the
Ayr Bank paid all its engagements, and the loss
only fell on the original stockholders. The warning
was, however, a terrible one, and has been so
well attended to in Scotland, that very few attempts
seem to have been afterwards made to establish
Banks prematurely---that is, where the particular
district was not in such an advanced state as to require
the support of additional credit; for in every
such case, it was judiciously foreseen, the forcing a
capital on the district could only lead to wild speculation,
instead of supporting solid and promising
undertakings.</p>
<p> The character and condition of the persons pursuing
the profession, ought to be noticed, however
slightly. The Bankers of Scotland have been,
generally speaking, <u>good</u> men, in the mercantile
phrase, showing, by the wealth of which they have
died possessed, that their credit was sound; and
<u>good</u> men also, many of them eminently so, in the
more extensive and better sense of the word, manifesting,
by the excellence of their character, the
fairness of the means by which their riches were
acquired. There may have been, among so numerous
a body, men of a different character, fishers
in troubled waters, capitalists who sought gain not
by the encouragement of fair trade and honest industry,
but by affording temporary fuel to rashness
or avarice. But the number of upright traders in
the profession has narrowed the means of mischief,
which such Christian Shylocks would otherwise
have possessed. There was loss, there was discredit,
in having recourse to such characters, when honest
wants could be fairly supplied by upright men,
and on liberal terms. Such reptiles have been confined
in Scotland to batten upon their proper prey
of folly, and feast, like worms, on the corruption
in which they are bred.</p>
<p> Since the period of the Ayr Bank, now near
half a century, I recollect very few instances of
Banking Companies issuing notes, which have become
insolvent. One, about thirty years since, was
the Merchant Bank of Stirling, which never was
in high credit, having been known almost at the
time of its commencement by the ominous nickname
of <u>Black in the West.</u> Another was within
these ten years, the East-Lothian Banking Company,
whose affairs had been very ill-conducted by
a villanous manager. In both cases, the notes were
paid up in full. In the latter case, they were taken
up by one of the most respectable houses in Edinburgh;
so that all the current engagements were
paid without the least check to the circulation of
their notes, or inconvenience to poor or rich, who
happened to have them in possession. The Union
Bank of Falkirk also became insolvent within these
fifteen years, but paid up its engagements without
much loss to the creditors. Other cases there may
have occurred not coming within my recollection;
but I think none which made any great sensation,
or could at all affect the general confidence of the
country in the stability of the system. None of
these bankruptcies excited much attention, or as
we have seen, caused any considerable loss.</p>
<p> In the present unhappy commercial distress, I
have always heard and understood, that the Scottish
Banks have done all in their power to alleviate
the evils which came thickening on the country;
and, far from acting illiberally, that they have come
forward to support the tottering credit of the commercial
world with a frankness which augured the
most perfect confidence in their own resources.
We have heard of only one provincial Bank being
even for a moment in the predicament of suspicion;
and of that copartnery the funds and credit were
so well understood, that their correspondents in
Edinburgh, as in the case of the East Lothian
Bank formerly mentioned, at once guaranteed the
payment of their notes, and saved the public even
from momentary agitation, and individuals from
the possibility of distress. I ask what must be
the stability of a system of credit, of which such
an universal earthquake could not displace or shake
even the slightest individual portion?</p>
<p> Thus stands the case in Scotland; and it is clear,
any restrictive enactment affecting the Banking
system, or their mode of issuing notes, must be
adopted in consequence of evils, operating elsewhere
perhaps, but certainly unknown in this
country.</p>
<p> In England, unfortunately, things have been
very different, and the insolvency of many provincial
banking companies, of the most established
reputation for stability, has greatly distressed the
country, and alarmed London itself, from the necessary
re-action of their misfortunes upon their
correspondents in the capital.</p>
<p> I do not think, sir, that the Advocate of Scotland
is called upon to go farther, in order to plead
an exemption from any experiment which England
may think proper to try to cure her own malady,
than to say such malady does not exist in her jurisdiction.
It is surely enough to plead, ``We are
well, our pulse and complexion prove it---let those
who are sick take physic.'' But the opinion of the
English Ministers is widely different; for granting
our premises, they deny our conclusion.</p>
<p> The peculiar humour of a friend, whom I lost
some years ago, is the only one I recollect, which
jumps precisely with the reasoning of the Chancellor
of the Exchequer. My friend was an old
Scottish laird, a bachelor and a humorist---wealthy,
convivial, and hospitable, and of course having
always plenty of company about him. He had a
regular custom of swallowing, every night in the
world, one of Dr. Anderson's pills, for which reasons
may be readily imagined. But it is not so easy to
account for his insisting on every one of his guests
taking the same medicine; and whether it was by
way of patronising the medicine, which is in some
sense a national receipt, or whether the mischievous
old wag amused himself with anticipating the
scenes of delicate embarrassment, which the dispensation
sometimes produced in the course of the
night, I really cannot even guess. What is equally
strange, he pressed this request with a sort of eloquence,
which succeeded with every guest. No
man escaped, though there were few who did not
make resistance. His powers of persuasion would
have been invaluable to a Minister of State.
``What! not one <u>Leetle Anderson,</u> to oblige your
friend, your host, your entertainer! He had taken
one himself---he would take another, if you pleased.
---Surely what was good for his complaints must of
course be beneficial to yours?'' It was in vain
you pleaded your being perfectly well,---your detesting
the medicine,---your being certain it would
not agree with you---none of the apologies were
received as valid. You might be warm, pathetic,
or sulky, fretful or patient, grave or serious, in
testifying your repugnance, but you were equally
a doomed man; escape was impossible. Your host
was in his turn eloquent,---authoritative,---facetious,
argumentative,---precatory,---pathetic, above
all, pertinacious. No guest was known to escape
the <u>Leetle Anderson.</u> The last time I experienced
the laird's hospitality, there were present at the
evening meal the following catalogue of guests:---a
Bond-street dandy, of the most brilliant water,
drawn thither by the temptation of grouse-shooting
---a writer from the neighbouring borough (the
laird's <u>Doer,</u> I believe)---two country lairds, men
of reserved and stiff habits---three sheep-farmers,
as stiff-necked and stubborn as their own haltered
rams---and I, Malachi Malagrowther, not facile or
obvious to persuasion. There was also the Esculapius
of the vicinity---one who gave, but elsewhere
was never known to take medicine. All succumbed---
each took, after various degrees of resistance,
according to his peculiar fashion, his own <u>Leetle
Anderson.</u> The Doer took a brace. On the event
I am silent. None had reason to congratulate himself
on his complaisance. The laird has slept with
his ancestors for some years, remembered sometimes
with a smile on account of his humorous
eccentricities, always with a sigh when his surviving
friends and neighbours reflect on his kindliness
and genuine beneficence. I have only to
add, that I hope he has not bequeathed to the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, otherwise so highly
gifted, his invincible powers of persuading folks to
take medicine, which their constitutions do not require.</p>
<p> Have I argued my case too high in supposing
that the present intended legislative enactment is
as inapplicable to Scotland, as a pair of elaborate
knee-buckles would be to the dress of a kilted
Highlander! I think not.</p>
<p> I understand Lord Liverpool and the Chancellor
of the Exchequer distinctly to have admitted the
fact, that no distress whatever had originated in
Scotland from the present issuing of small notes of
the bankers established there, whether provincial
in the strict sense, or sent abroad by branches of
the larger establishments settled in the metropolis.
No proof can be desired better than the admission
of the adversary.</p>
<p> Nevertheless, we have been positively informed
by the newspapers that Ministers see no reason
why any law adopted on this subject should not be
imperative over all his Majesty's Dominions, including
Scotland, <u>for uniformity's sake.</u> In my opinion,
they might as well make a law that the Scotsmen,
for uniformity's sake, should not eat oatmeal, because
it is found to give Englishmen the heart-burn.
If an ordinance prohibiting the oat-cake,
can be accompanied with a regulation capable of
being enforced, that in future, for uniformity's sake,
our moors and uplands shall henceforth bear the
purest wheat, I for one have no objection to the
regulation. But till Ben-Nevis be level with Norfolkshire,
though the natural wants of the two
nations may be the same, the extent of these wants,
natural or commercial, and the mode of supplying
them, must be widely different, let the rule of uniformity
be as absolute as it will. The nation which
cannot raise wheat, must be allowed to eat oat-bread;
the nation which is too poor to retain a circulating
medium of the precious metals, must be
permitted to supply its place with paper credit;
otherwise, they must go without food, and without
currency.</p>
<p> If I were called on, Mr. Journalist, I think I
could give some reasons why the system of banking
which has been found well adapted for Scotland is
not proper for England, and why there is no reason
for inflicting upon us the intended remedy; in
other words, why this political balsam of Fierabras,
which is to relieve Don Quixote, may have a great
chance to poison Sancho. With this view, I will
mention briefly some strong points of distinction
affecting the comparative credit of the banks in
England and in Scotland; and they seem such as
to furnish, to one inexperienced in political economics
(upon the transcendental doctrines of which
so much stress is now laid,) very satisfactory reasons
for the difference which is not denied to exist
betwixt the effects of the same general system in
different countries.</p>
<p> In Scotland, almost all Banking Companies consist
of a considerable number of persons, many of
them men of landed property, whose landed estates,
with the burdens legally affecting them, may be
learned from the records, for the expense of a few
shillings; so that all the world knows, or may
know, the general basis on which their credit rests,
and the extent of real property, which, independent
of their personal means, is responsible for their
commercial engagements. In most banking establishments
this fund of credit is considerable, in
others immense; especially in those where the
shares are numerous, and are held in small proportions,
many of them by persons of landed estates,
whose fortunes, however large, and however small
their share of stock, must be all liable to the engagements
of the Bank. In England, as I believe,
the number of the partners engaged in a banking
concern cannot exceed five; and though of late
years their landed property has been declared subject
to be attached by their commercial creditors,
yet no one can learn, without incalculable trouble,
the real value of that land, or with what mortgages
it is burdened. Thus, _c<ae>teris paribus,_ the English
banker cannot make his solvency manifest to
the public, therefore cannot expect, or receive, the
same unlimited trust, which is willingly and securely
reposed in those of the same profession in
Scotland.</p>
<p> Secondly, the circulation of the Scottish bank-notes
is free and unlimited; an advantage arising
from their superior degree of credit. They pass
without a shadow of objection through the whole
limits of Scotland, and, although they cannot be
legally tendered, are current nearly as far as York,
in England. Those of English Banking Companies
seldom extend beyond a very limited horizon; in
two or three stages from the place where they are
issued, many of them are objected to, and give
perpetual trouble to any traveller who has happened
to take them in change on the road. Even
the most creditable provincial notes never approach
London in a free tide---never circulate like blood
to the heart, and from thence to the extremities,
but are current within a limited circle; often, indeed,
so very limited, that the notes issued in the
morning, to use an old simile, fly out like pigeons
from the dovecot, and are sure to return in the
evening to the spot which they have left at break
of day.</p>
<p> Owing to these causes, and others which I forbear
mentioning, the profession of provincial Bankers
in England is limited in its regular profits, and
uncertain in its returns, to a degree unknown in
Scotland; and is, therefore, more apt to be adopted
in the south by men of sanguine hopes and bold
adventure (both frequently disproportioned to the
extent of their capital,) who sink in mines, or other
hazardous speculations, the funds which their banking
credit enables them to command, and deluge
the country with notes, which, on some unhappy
morning, are found not worth a penny;---as those
to whom the foul fiend has given apparent treasures,
are said in due time to discover they are
only pieces of slate.</p>
<p> I am aware it may be urged, that the restrictions
imposed on those English provincial Banks are
necessary to secure the supremacy of the Bank of
England; on the same principle on which dogs
kept near the purlieus of a royal forest, were anciently
lamed by the cutting off of one of the claws,
to prevent their interfering with the royal sport.
This is a very good regulation for England, for
what I know; but why should the Scottish institutions,
which do not, and cannot, interfere with the
influence of the Bank of England, be put on a level
with those of which such jealousy is, justly or unjustly,
entertained? We receive no benefit from
that immense Establishment, which, like a great
oak, overshadows England from Tweed to Cornwall---
Why should our national plantations be cut
down or cramped for the sake of what affords us
neither shade nor shelter, and which besides can
take no advantage by the injury done to us? Why
should we be subjected to a monopoly, from which
we derive no national benefit?</p>
<p> I have only to add, that Scotland has not felt the
slightest inconvenience from the want of specie,
nay, that it has never been in request among them.
A tradesman will take a guinea more unwillingly
than a note of the same value---to the peasant the
coin is unknown. No one ever wishes for specie
save when upon a journey to England. In occasional
runs upon particular houses, the notes of other
Banking Companies have always been the value
asked for---no holder of these notes ever demanded
specie. The credit of one establishment might be
doubted for the time---that of the general system
was never brought into question. Even Avarice,
the most suspicious of passions, has in no instance
I ever heard of, desired to compose her hoards by
an accumulation of the precious metals. The confidence
in the credit of our ordinary medium has
not been doubted even in the dreams of the most
irritable and jealous of human passions.</p>
<p> All these considerations are so obvious, that a
statesman so acute as Mr. Robinson must have taken
them in at the first glance, and must at the same
time have deemed them of no weight, compared
with the necessary conformity between the laws of
the two kingdoms. I must, therefore, speak to the
justice of this point of uniformity.</p>
<p> Sir, my respected ancestor, Sir Mungo, when he
had the distinguished honour to be <u>whipping,</u> or
rather, <u>whipped boy,</u> to his Majesty James the
Sixth of gracious memory, was always, in virtue
of his office, scourged when the King deserved
flogging; and the same equitable rule seems to
distinguish the conduct of Government towards
Scotland, as one of the three United Kingdoms.
If Pat is guilty of peculation, Sister Peg loses her
Boards of Revenue---if John Bull's cashiers mismanage
his money-matters, those who have conducted
Sister Margaret's to their own great honour,
and her no less advantage, must be deprived of the
power of serving her in future; at least that power
must be greatly restricted and limited.<p> ``Quidquid delirant reges plectuntur Achivi.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p><epigraph>
Ergo, Caledonia, nomen inane, Vale!<p> This levelling system, not equitable in itself, is
infinitely unjust, if a story, often told by my poor
old grandfather, was true, which I own I am inclined
to doubt. The old man, sir, had learned in
his youth, or dreamed in his dotage, that Scotland
had become an integral part of England,---not in
right of conquest, or rendition, or through any
right of inheritance,---but in virtue of a solemn
Treaty of Union. Nay, so distinct an idea had he
of this supposed Treaty, that he used to recite one
of its articles to this effect:---``That the laws in
use within the kingdom of Scotland, do, after the
Union, remain in the same force as before, but alterable
by the Parliament of Great Britain, with
this difference between the laws concerning public
right, policy, and civil government, and those which
concern private right, that the former may be
made the same through the whole United Kingdom;
but that no alteration be made on laws which
concern private right, _excepting for the evident
utility of the subjects within Scotland._'' When the
old gentleman came to the passage, which you will
mark in italics, he always clenched his fist, and exclaimed,
``_Nemo me impune lacesset!_'' which, I
presume, are words belonging to the black art,
since there is no one in the Modern Athens conjuror
enough to understand their meaning, or
least to comprehend the spirit of the sentiment
which my grandfather thought they conveyed.</p>
<p> I cannot help thinking, sir, that if there had been
any truth in my grandfather's story, some Scottish
Member would, on the late occasion, have informed
the Chancellor of the Exchequer, that, in virtue
of this treaty, it was no sufficient reason for innovating
upon the private rights of Scotsmen in a
most tender and delicate point, merely that the
Right Honourable Gentleman saw no reason why
the same law should not be current through the
whole of his Majesty's dominions; and that, on the
contrary, it was incumbent upon him to go a step
further, and to show that the alteration proposed
<u>was</u> for the =evident utility= _of the subjects within
Scotland,_---a proposition disavowed by the Right
Honourable Gentleman's candid admission, as well
as by that of the Prime Minister, and contradicted
in every circumstance by the actual state of the
ease.</p>
<p> Methinks, sir, our ``Chosen Five and Forty,''
supposing they had bound themselves to Minister's
by such oaths of silence and obedience, as are
taken by Carthusian friars, must have had free-will
and speech to express their sentiments, had
they been possessed of so irrefragable an argument
in such a case of extremity. The sight of a father's
life in danger is said to have restored the power of
language to the dumb; and truly, the necessary
defence of the rights of our native country is not,
or at least ought not to be, a less animating motive.
Lord Lauderdale almost alone interfered, and procured,
to his infinite honour, a delay of six months
in the extension of this act,---a sort of reprieve
from the southern _jougs,_---by which we may have
some chance of profiting, if, during the interval,
we can show ourselves true Scotsmen, by some
better proof than merely by being ``wise behind
the hand.''</p>
<p> In the first place, sir, I would have this Old
Treaty searched for, and should it be found to be
still existing, I think it decides the question. For,
how can it be possible, that it should be for the
``evident utility'<code> of Scotland to alter her laws of
private right, to the total subversion of a system
under which she is admitted to have flourished for
a century, and which has never within North Britain
been attended with the inconveniences charged
against it in the sister country, where, by the way,
it ever existed? Even if the old parchment
should be voted obsolete, there would be some
satisfaction in having it looked out and preserved
---not in the Register-Office, or Advocates</code> Library,
where it might awaken painful recollections
---but in the Museum of the Antiquaries, where,
with the Solemn League and Covenant, the Letter
of the Scottish Nobles to the Pope on the independence
of their country, and other antiquated
documents once held in reverence, it might silently
contract dust, yet remain to bear witness that such
things had been.</p>
<p> I earnestly hope, however, that an international
league of such importance may still be found obligatory
on both the <u>high</u> and the <u>low</u> contracting
parties; on that which has the power, and apparently
the will, to break it, as well as on the
weaker nation, who cannot, without incurring still
worse, and more miserable consequences, oppose
aggression, otherwise than by invoking the faith
of treaties, and the national honour of Old England.</p>
<p> In the second place, all ranks and bodies of men
in North Britain (for all are concerned, the poor
as well as the rich,) should express by petition
their sense of the injustice which is offered to the
country, and the distress which will probably be
the necessary consequence. Without the power of
issuing their own notes, the Banks cannot supply
the manufacturer with that credit which enables
him to pay his workmen, and wait his return; or
accommodate the farmer with that fund which
makes it easy for him to discharge his rent, and
give wages to his labourers, while in the act of performing
expensive operations which are to treble
or quadruple the produce of his farm. The trustees
on the high roads and other public works, so
ready to stake their personal credit for carrying
on public improvements, will no longer possess the
power of raising funds by doing so. The whole
existing state of credit is to be altered from top to
bottom, and Ministers are silent on any remedy
which such a state of things would imperiously
require.</p>
<p> These are subjects worth struggling for, and
rather of more importance than generally come
before County Meetings. The English legislature
seems inclined to stultify our Law Authorities in
their department; but let us at least try if they
will listen to the united voice of a Nation in matters
which so intimately concern its welfare, that
almost every man must have formed a judgment
on the subject, from something like personal experience.
For my part, I cannot doubt the result.</p>
<p> Times are undoubtedly different from those of
Queen Anne, when Dean Swift having, in a political
pamphlet, passed some sarcasms on the Scottish
nation, as a poor and fierce people---the Scythians
of Britain---the Scottish peers, headed by
the Duke of Argyle, went in a body to the ministers,
and compelled them to disown the sentiments
which had been expressed by their partisan, and
offer a reward of <L>300 for the author of the libel,
well known to be the best advocate and most intimate
friend of the existing administration. They
demanded also, that the printer and publisher
should be prosecuted before the House of Peers;
and Harley, however unwillingly, was obliged to
yield to their demand.</p>
<p> In the celebrated case of Porteous, the English
legislature saw themselves compelled to desist from
vindictive measures, on account of a gross offence
committed in the metropolis of Scotland. In that
of the Roman Catholic Bill, they yielded to the
voice of the Scottish people, or rather of the Scottish
mob, and declared the proposed alteration of
the law should not extend to North Britain. The
cases were different, in point of merit, though the
Scots were successful in both. In the one, a boon
of clemency was extorted; in the other, concession
was an act of decided weakness. But ought the
present administration of Great Britain to show less
deference to our temperate and general remonstrance,
on a matter concerning ourselves only, than
their predecessors did to the passions, and even
the ill-founded and unjust prejudices, of our ancestors?</p>
<p> Times, indeed, have changed since those days,
and circumstances also. We are no longer a poor,
that is, so <u>very poor</u> a country and people; and as
we have increased in wealth, we have become
somewhat poorer in spirit, and more loth to incur
displeasure by contests upon mere etiquette, or
national prejudice. But we have some grounds to
plead for favour with England. We have borne
our pecuniary impositions, during a long war, with
a patience the more exemplary, as they lay heavier
on us from our comparative want of means---our
blood has flowed as freely as that of England or of
Ireland---our lives and fortunes have been as unhesitatingly
devoted to the defence of the empire---
our loyalty as warmly and willingly displayed
towards the person of our Sovereign. We have
consented with submission, if not with cheerfulness,
to reductions and abolitions of public offices, required
for the good of the state at large, but which
must affect materially the condition, and even the
respectability, of our over-burdened aristocracy.
We have in every respect conducted ourselves as
good and faithful subjects of the general empire.</p>
<p> We do not boast of these things as actual merits;
but they are at least duties discharged, and, in an
appeal to men of honour and of judgment, must
entitle us to be heard with patience, and even deference,
on the management of our own affairs, if we
speak unanimously, lay aside party feeling, and use
the voice of one leaf of the holy Trefoil, one distinct
and component part of the united kingdoms.</p>
<p> Let no consideration deter us from pleading our
own cause temperately but firmly, and we shall
certainly receive a favourable audience. Even
our acquisition of a little wealth, which might abate
our courage on other occasions, should invigorate
us to unanimous perseverance at the present crisis,
when the very source of our national prosperity is
directly, though unwittingly, struck at. Our plaids
are, I trust, not yet sunk into Jewish gaberdines,
to be wantonly spit upon; nor are we yet bound to
``receive the insult with a patient shrug.'' But
exertion is now demanded on other accounts than
those of mere honourable punctilio. Misers themselves
will struggle in defence of their property,
though tolerant of all aggressions by which that is
not threatened. Avarice herself, however mean-spirited,
will rouse to defend the wealth she possesses,
and preserve the means of gaining more.
Scotland is now called upon to rally in defence of
the sources of her national improvement, and the
means of increasing it; upon which, as none are so
much concerned in the subject, none can be such
competent judges as Scotsmen themselves.</p>
<p> I cannot believe so generous a people as the
English, so wise an administration as the present,
will disregard our humble remonstrances, merely
because they are made in the form of peaceful entreaty,
and not <u>secundum perfervidum ingenium
Scotorum,</u> with ``durk and pistol at our belt.'' It
would be a dangerous lesson to teach the empire at
large, that threats can extort what is not yielded to
reasonable and respectful remonstrance.</p>
<p> But this is not all. The principle of ``uniformity
of laws,'' if not manfully withstood, may have
other blessings in store for us. Suppose, that when
finished with blistering Scotland while she is in perfect
health, England should find time and courage
to withdraw the veil from the deep cancer which is
gnawing her own bowels, and make an attempt to
stop the fatal progress of her <u>poor-rates.</u> Some
system or other must be proposed in its place---a
grinding one it must be, for it is not an evil to be
cured by palliatives. Suppose the English, for
uniformity's sake, insist that Scotland, which is at
present free from this foul and shameful disorder,
should nevertheless be included in the severe <u>treatment</u>
which the disease demands, how would the
landholders of Scotland like to undergo the scalpel
and cautery, merely because England requires to
be scarified?</p>
<p> Or again;---Supposing England should take a
fancy to impart to us her sanguinary criminal code,
which, too cruel to be carried into effect, gives every
wretch that is condemned a chance of one to twelve
that he shall not be executed, and so turns the law
into a lottery---would this be an agreeable boon to
North Britain?</p>
<p> Once more;---What if the English ministers
should feel disposed to extend to us their equitable
system of process respecting civil debt, which divides
the advantages so admirably betwixt debtor
and creditor---<u>That</u> equal dispensation of justice,
which provides that an imprisoned debtor, if a
rogue, may remain in undisturbed possession of a
great landed estate, and enjoy in a jail all the luxuries
of Sardanapalus, while the wretch to whom he
owes money is starving; and that, to balance the
matter, a creditor, if cruel, may detain a debtor in
prison for a lifetime, and make, as the established
phrase goes, _dice of his bones_---Would this admirable
reciprocity of privilege, indulged alternately
to knave and tyrant, please Saunders, better than
his own humane action of Cessio, and his equitable
process of Adjudication?</p>
<p> I will not insist farther on such topics, for I dare
say, that these apparent enormities in principle are,
in England, where they have operation, modified
and corrected in practice by circumstances unknown
to me; so that, in passing judgment on them,
I may myself fall into the error I deprecate, of
judging of foreign laws without being aware of all
the premises. Neither do I mean that we should
struggle with illiberality against any improvements
which can be borrowed from English principle. I
would only desire that such ameliorations were
adopted, not merely because they are English, but
because they are suited to be assimilated with the
laws of Scotland, and lead, in short, <u>to her evident
utility,</u> and this on the principle, that in transplanting
a tree, little attention need be paid to the
character of the climate and soil from which it is
brought, although the greatest care must be taken
that those of the situation to which it is transplanted
are fitted to receive it. It would be no reason for
planting mulberry-trees in Scotland, that they luxuriate
in the south of England. There is sense in
the old proverb, ``Ilk land has its ain lauch.''</p>
<p> In the present case, it is impossible to believe
the extension of these restrictions to Scotland can
be for the <u>evident utility</u> of the country, which has
prospered so long and so uniformly under directly
the contrary system.</p>
<p> It is very probable I may be deemed illiberal in
all this reasoning; but if to look for information to
practical results rather than to theoretical principles,
and to argue from the effect of the experience
of a century, rather than the deductions of a
modern hypothesis, be illiberality, I must sit down
content with a censure, which will include wiser
men than I. The philosophical tailors of Laputa,
who wrought by mathematical calculation, had,
no doubt, a supreme contempt for those humble
fashioners who went to work by measuring the person
of their customer; but Gulliver tells us that
the worst clothes he ever wore were constructed
upon abstract principles; and truly I think we have
seen some laws, and may see more, not much better
adapted to existing circumstances, than the captain's
philosophical uniform to his actual person.</p>
<p> It is true, that every wise statesman keeps sound
and general political principles in his eye, as the
pilot looks upon his compass to discover his true
course. But this true course cannot always be
followed out straight and diametrically; it must be
altered from time to time, nay, sometimes apparently
abandoned, on account of shoals, breakers,
and headlands, not to mention contrary winds. The
same obstacles occur to the course of the statesman.
The point at which he aims may be important,
the principle on which he steers may be just;
yet the obstacles arising from rooted prejudices,
from intemperate passions, from ancient practices,
from a different character of people, from varieties
in climate and soil, may cause a direct movement
upon his ultimate object to be attended with distress
to individuals, and loss to the community,
which no good man would wish to occasion, and
with dangers which no wise man would voluntarily
choose to encounter.</p>
<p> Although I think the Chancellor of the Exchequer
has been rather precipitate in the decided
opinion which he is represented to have expressed
on this occasion, I am far from entertaining the
slightest disrespect for the right honourable gentleman.
``I hear as good exclamation upon him as
on any man in Messina, and though I am but a
poor man, I am glad to hear it.'' But a decided
attachment to abstract principle, and to a spirit of
generalizing is---like a rash rider on a headstrong
horse---very apt to run foul of local obstacles, which
might have been avoided by a more deliberate
career, where the nature of the ground had been
previously considered.</p>
<p> I make allowance for the temptation natural to
an ingenious and active mind. There is a natural
pride in following out an universal and levelling
principle. It seems to augur genius, force of conception,
and steadiness of purpose; qualities which
every legislator is desirous of being thought to possess.
On the other hand, the study of local advantages
and impediments demands labour and inquiry,
and is rewarded after all only with the cold
and parsimonious praise due to humble industry.
It is no less true, however, that measures which go
straight and direct to a great general object, without
noticing intervening impediments, must often
resemble the fierce progress of the thunderbolt or
the cannon-ball, those dreadful agents, which, in
rushing right to their point, care not what ruin
they make by the way. The sounder and more
moderate policy, accommodating its measures to
exterior circumstances, rather resembles the judicious
course of a well-conducted highway, which,
turning aside frequently from its direct course,<p> ``Winds round the cornfield and the hill of vines,''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p><text>
LETTER I.<! p1b><p> Can you tell me, sir, if this <u>uniformity</u> of civil
institutions, which calls for such sacrifices, be at
all descended from, or related to, a doctrine nearly
of the same name, called Conformity in religious
doctrine, very fashionable about 150 years since,
which undertook to unite the jarring creeds of the
United Kingdom to one common standard, and
excited a universal strife by the vain attempt, and
a thousand fierce disputes, in which she<p> ``umpire sate,
And by decision more embroil'd the fray?''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>These Letters were addressed to the author's friend, Mr.
<em> James Ballantyne, Editor of the <u>Edinburgh Weekly Journal,</u>
</em> and they appeared in that newspaper in February and March,
<em> 1826. They were then collected into a Pamphlet, and ran
</em> through numerous editions: in the subsequent discussions in
<em> Parliament, they were frequently referred to: and although
</em> an elaborate answer, by the then Secretary of the Admiralty,
<em> Mr. Croker, attracted much notice, and was, by the Government
</em> of the time, expected to neutralise the effect of the
<em> northern lucubrations---the proposed measure, as regarded
</em> Scotland, was ultimately abandoned---and that result was
* universally ascribed to Malachi Malagrowther.<p> The universal opinion of a whole kingdom,
founded upon a century's experience, ought not to
be lightly considered as founded in ignorance and
prejudice. I am something of an agriculturist;
and in travelling through the country, I have often
had occasion to wonder that the inhabitants of particular
districts had not adopted certain obvious
improvements in cultivation. But, upon inquiry,
I have usually found that appearances had deceived
me, and that I had not reckoned on particular local
circumstances, which either prevented the execution
of the system I should have theoretically
recommended, or rendered some other more advantageous
in the particular circumstances.</p>
<p> I do not therefore resist theoretical innovation in
general; I only humbly desire it may not outrun
the suggestions arising from the experience of ages.
I would have the necessity felt and acknowledged
before old institutions are demolished---the <u>evident
utility</u> of every alteration demonstrated before it is
adopted upon mere speculation. I submit our ancient
system to the pruning-knife of the legislature,
but would not willingly see our reformers employ
a weapon, which, like the sword of Jack the Giant-Killer,
<u>cuts before the point.</u></p>
<p> It is always to be considered, that in human affairs,
the very best imaginable result is seldom to
be obtained, and that it is wise to content ourselves
with the best which can be got. This principle
speaks with a voice of thunder against violent innovation,
for the sake of possible improvement, where
things are already well. We ought not to desire
better bread than is made of wheat. Our Scottish
proverb warns us to <u>let weel bide;</u> and all the world
has heard of the untranslateable Italian epitaph
upon the man, who died of taking physic to make
him better, when he was already in health.<h2> I am, Mr. Journalist,</h2>
<p> Yours,</p>
<p> =Malachi Malagrowther.=</p>
<p> POSTSCRIPT.</p>
</p>
<p> Since writing these hasty thoughts, I hear it
reported that we are to have an extension of our
precarious reprieve, and that our six months are to
be extended to six years. I would not have Scotland
trust to this hollow truce. The measure ought,
like all others, to be canvassed on its merits, and
frankly admitted or rejected; it has been stirred,
and ought to be decided. I request my countrymen
not to be soothed into inactivity by that temporizing,
and, I will say, unmanly vacillation. Government
is pledged to nothing by taking an open
course; for if the bill, so far as applicable to Scotland
is at present absolutely laid aside, there can
be no objection to their resuming it at any period,
when, from change of circumstances, it may be
advantageous to Scotland, and when, for what I
know, it may be welcomed as a boon.</p>
<p> But if held over our heads as a minatory measure,
to take place within a certain period, what
can the event be but to cripple and ultimately destroy
the present system, on which a direct attack
is found at present inexpedient? Can the Bankers
continue to conduct their profession on the same
secure footing, with an abrogation of it in prospect?
Must it not cease to be what it has hitherto been
---a business carried on both for their own profit,
and for the accommodation of the country? Instead
of employing their capital in the usual channels,
must they not in self-defence employ it in
forming others? Will not the substantial and
wealthy withdraw their funds from that species of
commerce? And may not the place of these be
supplied by men of daring adventure, without corresponding
capital, who will take a chance of wealth
or ruin in the evolutions of the game?</p>
<p> If it is the absolute and irrevocable determination
that the bill is to be extended to us, the sooner
the great penalty is inflicted the better; for in
politics and commerce, as in all the other affairs of
life, absolute and certain evil is better than uncertainty
and protracted suspense.<h2> LETTER II.<! p11></h2>
<p> <u>February</u> 28, 1826.</p>
</p>
<p> =Dear Mr. Journalist,=</p>
<p> When I last wrote to you, I own it was with
the feelings of one who discharges a painful duty,
merely because he feels it to be one, and without
much hope of his endeavour being useful. Swift
says that kingdoms may be subject to poverty and
lowness of heart as well as individuals; and that in
such moments they become reckless of their own
interests, and contract habits of submission, which
encourage those who wish to take advantage of
them to prefer the most unreasonable pretensions.
It was when Esau came from the harvest, faint,
and at point to die, that Jacob proposed to him his
exorbitant bargain of the mess of pottage. There
is a deep and typical mystery under the scriptural
transaction; but, taken as a simple fact, the sottish
facility of the circumvented heir rather aggravates
the unfeeling selfishness of the artful brother, to
whom he was made a dupe. The ``whoreson Apoplexy''
of Scotland may be rather a case of repletion
than exhaustion, but it has the same dispiriting
effects.</p>
<p> Yet, into whatever deep and passive slumber our
native country may have been lulled from habits
of peaceful acquiescence, the Government have
now found a way to awaken her. The knife has
gone to the very quick, and the comatose patient
is roused to most acute possession of his feelings
and his intellect. The heather is on fire far and
wide; and every man, woman, and child in the
country, are bound by the duty they owe to their
native land, to spread the alarm and increase the
blaze.<p> Jam proximus ardet
Ucalegon------</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>That is to say, if our superiors of England and
Ireland eat sour grapes, the Scottish teeth must be
set on edge as well as their own. An uniformity
in benefits may be well---an uniformity in penal
measures, towards the innocent and the guilty, in
prohibitory regulations, whether necessary or not,
seems harsh law, and worse justice.<p> I congratulate you, sir, on the awakened spirit
of our representatives in the two Houses of Parliament.
Our true-hearted Duke of Athole, and Lord
Lauderdale, whose acuteness and powers of thinking
and reasoning may, without disparagement, be
compared with those of any statesman now living,
have set an example not to be forgotten; and we
know that the slender proportion of aristocracy,
which Scotland was left in possession of at the
Union, entertain the same patriotic sentiments.
We are equally assured of the faith of our representatives
in the Lower House, and they on their
part may believe they will not serve an ungrateful
public. Scotland expects from them the exertions
corresponding to their high trust---a trust of which
they must render an account to their constituents,
and that very shortly. Let every body of electors,
from Dumfries to Dingwall, instruct its representative
upon their own sentiments, and upon the
conduct which they desire he should hold during
this great national crisis; and let the Administration
be aware, that if any of our members should
desert the public cause on this occasion, they are
not like to have the benefit of their implicit homage
in the next Parliament. Burns's address to them
in jest, is language which may now be held to the
Scottish representatives in serious earnest:---<p> ``Does ony great man glunch and gloom,
Speak out and never fash your thumb;
Let posts and pensions sink or soom
Wi' those wha grant them;
If honestly they cannot come,
Far better want them.''</p>
</p>
<p> I have been told by some cautious friends, that
the time for such remonstrances as I do most earnestly
recommend to our Scottish representatives,
would be now more unfavourable than formerly---
so unfavourable, that they represent the case as
desperate. Admitting all I had said in my first
epistle, these <u>douce</u> men see no resource but in the
most submissive acquiescence to the commands of
those in whose breasts, they say, is now lodged the
uncontrolled power to listen to reason, justice, nay,
compassion, or to prefer the exercise of their own
pleasure to the dictates of them all. Your birth-right,
proceed these Job's comforters, will be taken
from you at all events by superior numbers. Yield
it up, therefore, with a good grace, and thank God
if they give you a mess of pottage in return---it
will be just so much gain. These desponding persons
explain the state of total insignificance into
which, they say, we have fallen, by a reference to
the Irish Union, which has added an hundred more
members to Parliament; so that the handful assigned
to Scotland (which never possessed a very
influential power in the House, so far as numbers
go,) must now altogether lose consideration, in opposition
to the majorities of a peremptory Minister,
who, like the ``merciless Macdonald,''<p> ``from the <u>Western Isle,</u>
With Kernes and Gallow-glasses is supplied.''</p>
</p>
<p> It requires but little arithmetic to compute, that
the fated number, forty-five, bears a less proportion
to six hundred and thirteen than to five hundred
and thirteen, the number of the House of Commons
at the time of the Scottish Union. Yet, sir,
I am not altogether discouraged with this comfortless
prospect. I think I can see means of relief
arising even out of the very difficulties of the
case. Let us regard the matter somewhat more
closely.</p>
<p> In the first place, I will consider what we can
do by our present Scottish representation,---our
own proper force. Next, I will have a friendly
word or two with those same auxiliaries of Ireland,
whom, perhaps, the Sassenagh may find less implicit
followers in the present case, than my
chicken-hearted advisers apprehend. Lastly, I
will address myself to the English members, and
especially to such who, on great occasions, prefer
the exercise of their own understanding to an absolute
and obsequious deference to the dictates of
an administration, however much they may respect
the statesmen of whom it is composed, or are disposed
to acquiesce in the general principles on
which they act.</p>
<p> Upon the first point I beg to remind you, that
much greater effect is derived from the decided,
conjoined, and simultaneous exertion of a comparatively
small force, than from the efforts of a more
numerous body, not bound together by the same
strong ties of duty and necessity. Battles have
been often gained, and political measures have been
as frequently carried, by the determined urgency,
or no less determined resistance, of a comparatively
insignificant number.</p>
<p> <u>Nos numerus sumus,</u> is a logical argument perfectly
understood by an English minister, and has
had great weight in the scale. I will give a ludicrous
instance of this. There was of old a certain
nobleman, who, by means of certain boroughs, sent
certain members to Westminster, which members,
being there, were certain to hold the same opinions
with the Noble Lord, and to vote in the House of
Commons exactly to the same tune as his lordship
in the House of Peers. The Great Man, who was
the animating soul of this Holy Alliance, had occasion
to ask some favour of Government. It was
probably something very unreasonable---at any
rate, it was so disagreeable to the minister, that, I
am told, he would as soon have relished the proposal
of giving silver for a twenty-shilling note of
the Bank of Scotland. The Minister made civil
excuses---the peer observed in reply---_We are
seven votes_---The minister stopped, cleared his
throat, changed his argument---<u>We are seven voices,</u>
was again the only answer---The Great Man,
usually flattered, became flatterer in his turn---he
conjured---he even threatened---The peer was as
unassailable, in his numerical proposition, by entreaty
or argument, as the sweet little rustic girl
in a poem which it is almost a sin to parody---<p> ``Whate'er the minister could say
The Noble Lord would have his way,
And said, _Nay, we are seven._''</p>
</p>
<p> They parted on these terms. The Minister retired
to rest, and dreamed that he saw the pertinacious
Peer advancing to storm the cabinet, after
having, like the great magician Kehama, broke
himself up into seven subdivisions of equal strength,
and by means of this extraordinary process of multiplication,
advancing to his daring enterprise by
seven avenues at once. The vision was too horrible---
and a ``private and confidential'' note gave
the necessary assurance to the Noble Lord, that
the magical number Seven had as much weight in
Saint Stephen's, as Dr. Slop assigns to it in the
Catholic mysteries; so the seven planets continue
to move regularly in their political orbit.</p>
<p> This is a strong proof, sir, of the <u>vis unita fortior,</u>
and contains a good lesson for our Representatives
upon the present occasion. It would be
strange, indeed, if they, to whom their country has
given her confidence, should hesitate to save her
from dishonour and deep distress, which may approach
nigh to ruin [I will make my words good
before I have done,] when it is only necessary that
they should be as determined and inflexible, where
the safety of an ancient kingdom is concerned, as
the selfish old borough-jobber and his political
friends showed themselves pertinacious, in pursuit
of some wretched personal object of private advantage.</p>
<p> The Scottish members of Parliament should
therefore lose no time---not an instant---in uniting
together in their national character of the Representatives
of Scotland. If the scene were to be the
British Coffeehouse, the hour half-past six o'clock
=p.m.,= and the preliminaries of business a few glasses
of claret to national toasts, I should not have the
worse opinion of the sense of the meeting. Their
first resolution should be, to lay aside every party
distinction which can interfere with the present
grand object, of arresting a danger so evident, so
general, so imminent. It may be at first an awkward
thing for Whig and Tory to draw kindly together;
for any of the natural Scottish spirit which
is left among us has been sadly expended in feeding
a controversy in which we must always play a
subordinate part, and these party distinctions have
become far too much a matter of habit to us on
both sides to be easily laid aside. Indeed, we poor
Scotsmen are so conscious that our civil wars are
but paltry and obscure episodes in the great political
quarrel, that we have usually endeavoured to
attract attention, and excite an idea of their importance,
by the personal violence and noisy ferocity
with which we wage them. We, the Whigs and
Tories of Scotland, have played in our domestic
quarrels the respectable part of two bull-dogs, who
think it necessary to go by the ears under the table,
because their blue-sleeved beef-eating masters have
turned up for a set-to. The quadrupeds worry each
other inveterately, while not a soul notices them,
till the strife of the bipeds is appeased or decided,
and then the bleeding and foaming curs are kicked
separate by their respective owners. We play
among the great _dramatis person<ae>_ the part of <u>Mob
on both sides,</u> who enter and scuffle in the back
scene, and shout so that their cries at least may be
heard, since no one will attend to any thing which
they say in articulate language. You may have
been a bottle-holder of this kind, Mr. Journalist,
to one or other of the great parties. I am sure I
have, and I daresay may have sometimes made
mischief, though I have oftener endeavoured to
prevent it; for, like the good knight Jacques de
Lalain, ``_De feu bouter ne voulois---je <e^>tre consentant._''
Still, however limited my share may have been in
those jars, I have lived to see the day when I must
regret bitterly my having had the slightest accession
to them, could I conceive the opinions of so
obscure an individual may have added gall to the
bitterness which has estranged Scotsmen from each
other. Let these follies be ended; and do not let
us, like our ancestors at Falkirk, fall to jealousies
among ourselves, when heart, and voice, and hand,
should be united against the foreign <u>enemy.</u> I was
about to erase the last word; but let it remain, with
this explanation---that the purpose of this invasion
of our rights is acknowledged to be kind and
friendly; but as the measure is unauthorised by
justice, conducted without regard to the faith of
treaties, and contrary to our national privileges, we
cannot but term the enterprise a hostile one. When
Henry VIII. despatched a powerful invading army
to compel the Scots to give the hand of their young
Queen Mary to his son Edward, an old Scottish
nobleman shrewdly observed, ``He might like the
match well enough, but could not brook the mode
of wooing.'' We equally are sensible of England's
good-will, we only do not relish the mode in which
it is at present exhibited.</p>
<p> The Scottish Members having thus adopted a
healing ordinance, reconciled their party quarrels
or laid them aside for the time, would by that very
act decide the fate of their country; and when
drinking to concord among Scotsmen of all political
opinions,<p> ``In the cup an <u>Union</u> shall they throw
Better than that which four successive kings
In Britain's crown have worn.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>and becomes devious, that it may respect property
and avoid obstacles; thus escaping even temporary
evils, and serving the public no less in its more
circuitous, than it would have done in its direct
course.<p> It is needless to say, that what Scotland demands
from her representatives in the House of Commons,
she expects, with equal confidence and ardour,
from the small, but honourable portion of the
Upper House, who draw their honours from her
ancient domains. Their ancestors have led her
armies, concluded her treaties, managed her government,
served her with hand and heart, sword
and pen; and by such honourable merit with their
country, have obtained the titles and distinctions
which they have transmitted to the present race,
by whom, we are well assured, they will be maintained
with untarnished honour. A Scottish lord
will dare all, save what is dishonourable; and whom
among them could we suspect of deserting the
Parent of his Honours, at the very moment when
she is calling upon him for his filial aid? Sir, I
pledge myself, ere I am done, to give such a picture
of the impending distress of this country, that
a Scotsman, and especially a Scottish nobleman,
would need to take opium and mandragora, should
he hope to slumber, after having been accessary to
bringing it on. If the voice of the public in streets
and highways did not cry shame on his degeneracy,
even inanimate objects would find a voice of reprobation.
The stones of his ancient castle would
speak, and the portraits of his ancestors would
frown and look black upon him, as he wandered in
his empty halls, now deprived of the resort of the
rich, and the homage of the vassal. But I have no
fear of this. A little indolence---a little indifference
---may have spread itself among our young men of
rank; it is the prevailing fashion and fault of the
day. But the trumpet of war has always chased
away such lethargic humours; and the cry of their
common country, that invocation which Scotland
now sends forth from one end of the land to the
other, is a summons yet more imperious, and will
be, I am confident, as promptly obeyed.</p>
<p> It may be said, that the measures which I venture
to recommend to our Scottish representatives,
of tacking, as it were, their Petition of Rights, to
every other measure, and making it, so far as they
can, a <u>sine qua non</u> to their accommodation with
Government, may be the means of interrupting the
general business of the empire.</p>
<p> To this objection I reply, <u>First,</u> that I only recommend
such a line of conduct as an <u>ultimum
remedium,</u> after every other and milder mode of
seeking redress shall have been resorted to, and
exhausted without effect. <u>Secondly,</u> In case of
need it cannot be denied, that the plan proposed is
a Parliamentary remedy, and corresponds with the
conduct of patriots upon former occasions, when
they conceived that the magnitude of the object in
view warranted their making the most vigorous
efforts to obtain it. <u>Thirdly,</u> It will not be difficult
to demonstrate, that, whatever prejudice may be
suffered from a temporary delay of other business,
it will be incalculably less than the evil, which will
infallibly ensue upon the obnoxious measure in
question being adopted; an evil, the effect of which
cannot be confined to Scotland alone (for no component
part of the empire can have sufferings so
local, that the consequences do not extend to the
others,) but must reach England and Ireland also.
When a limb of the human body is disjointed or
broken, the whole frame must feel the effect of it.</p>
<p> But to return to the opinion of my cautious
friends, who believed that the proportional numbers
of the Scottish Members being so small, compared
to those of England and Ireland, no good
issue could be hoped from their exertions, however
united, however zealous. I reply, that their country
is entitled to expect from them resistance in
her behalf, not only while a spark of hope remains,
but when that last spark is extinguished. There
is no room for compromise or surrender. Our
statesmen of to-day must be like our soldiers in
ages past---<p> ``They must fight till their hand to the broadsword is glued,
They must fight against fortune with heart unsubdued.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>Should Uniformity have the same pedigree, Malachi
Malagrowther proclaims her ``a hawk of a very
bad nest.''<p> But besides this, I can tell my timorous friends,
as Hotspur does his cautious correspondent---``Out
of this nettle Danger we pluck the flower Safety.''
I do not think the Imperial Parliament consisting,
as it now does, of deputies from every kingdom of
the Union, is so likely to take a hasty and partial
view of any appeal from Scotland, as it might have
been when we had to plead our cause before the
Parliament of Great Britain only. I trust we
should in no case have been treated unjustly or
harshly, and I will presently state my reasons for
thinking that we should not; but arguing the question
on the illiberal and almost calumnious idea,
that, if not confuted in argument, we were in danger
to be borne down by force of numbers, I should
derive hope, not fear, from the introduction of the
third Kingdom into the discussion.</p>
<p> Betwixt Scotland and England, Mr. Journalist,
there have been, as you are aware, ancient causes
of quarrel, lulled to sleep during the last fifty years,
until of late, when a variety of small aggressions,
followed by the present seven-leagued stride, show
that perhaps they have not been so fully forgotten
by our neighbours as we thought in our simplicity,
and that the English Ministers may not be
indisposed to take the opportunity of our torpidity
to twitch out our fang-teeth, however necessary for
eating our victuals, in case we should be inclined,
at some unlucky moment, to make a different use
of them. Or, the line of conduct of which we complain,
may be compared to a well-known operation
resorted to for taming the ferocity of such male
animals as are intended for domestication, and to
be employed in patient drudgery. The animal
becomes fat, patient, sleek, and in so far is benefited
by the operation; but had his previous consent
been required, I wonder what the poor Scotch
stot would have said?</p>
<p> Patrick, my warm-hearted and shrewd friend,
how should you like this receipt for domestication,
should it travel your way? You have your own
griefs, and your own subjects of complaint,---are
you willing to lose the power of expressing them
with energy? You have only to join with the
Ministry on this debate---you have only to show
in what light reverence you are willing to hold the
articles of an Union not much above a century old,
and then you will have time to reflect at leisure
upon the consequences of such an example. In
such a case, when your turn comes (and come, be
sure, it will,) you will have signed your own sentence.
You will have given the fatal precedent to
England of the annihilation of a solemn treaty of
incorporating Union, and afforded the representatives
of Scotland vindictive reasons for retaliating
upon you the injury which you aided England in
inflicting upon us. Whereas---step this way, Pat
---and see there is nobody listening---why should
not you and we have a friendly understanding, and
assist each other, as the weaker parties, against any
aggressions, which may be made upon either of us,
``for uniformity's sake?''---Your fathers are called
by our Scottish kings, ``Their ancient friends of
the Erischerie of Eirland,'' and for my part I have
little doubt that Malachi, who wore the collar of
gold, must have been an ancestor of my own. Now,
what say you to a league offensive and defensive,
against all such measures as tend to the suppression
of any just right belonging to either country,
in virtue of the Articles of Union respectively?---
You are a scholar, Pat---<p> ``_Tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet._''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>The city of Edinburgh has uttered a voice becoming
the ancient Queen of the North. The Law
Bodies, and the Gentry of Mid-Lothian, have set
the example of petitioning Government, and proclaiming
their sense of the measure designed; it
has been followed in other counties, and I trust to
see it soon spread into the smallest burghs, into the
most wild districts of Scotland. There are none
which the impending misery will not reach---there
are no Scotchmen so humble that they have not a
share in a national insult, so lowly that they will
not suffer from a national wrong---none that are
uninterested in maintaining our rights both individually,
and as a people---and none, I trust, that
have not spirit to do so, by all legal and peaceable
means.<p> But what do I talk of to-day or to-morrow? The
cause of Ireland is tried =along with= that of Scotland.
She stands, at this very moment, at the bar
beside her sister, and the prohibitory decree passed
against the system of currency, which has spread
universal fertility through Scotland, is extended to
Ireland at the very moment when she proposed to
have recourse to it, as well suited to the improvement
of her rich soil, and promising the extension
of means of cultivation, where cultivation is so
greatly wanted, and would be so productive in the
return. I am certain that I am correct in saying,
that, in the course of last summer, there were several
banking companies on the Scottish plan on the
point of being established in different parts of Ireland,
and Scotsmen of experience, capable of understanding
and directing such establishments, were
eagerly sought for, and invited over to act as superintendents.
Whether the system which had been
so eminently successful in Scotland might be found
quite as well qualified for the meridian of Ireland,
it would be great presumption in me to decide. But
it is very likely that success would ensue, provided
too much were not expected at once, and that the
requisite discretion were used in bounding the issue
of notes, and the grants of credit. More or less
probable, it was at least an experiment which Ireland
had apparently a perfect right to make, an
experiment by which she might reasonably hope to
profit; and if she was willing to undertake it at her
own risk, I can conceive nothing more unjust than
preventing her from doing so---excepting always
the still greater iniquity of interdicting in Scotland
a system, the benefit of which has been proved by
a century's experience, during all which period it
has been attended with advantage, but in the last
fifty years with the most brilliant success.</p>
<p> Ireland is, therefore, called upon to interfere on
this occasion, not merely by the chance of standing,
at some no very distant period, in the very predicament
in which Scotland is now placed, but from
the stake which she herself has in the question at
issue. She cannot but remember that Rome subjected
the free states around her much less by the
force which was actually her own, than by the use
which she made of those whom she had rendered
her tools under the name of auxiliaries. The Batavians
were employed in the conquest of Britain,
the flower of the Britons were carried off from their
native country, that they might help to subjugate
the Germans. But such a policy, were it entertained,
is not likely to deceive nations in the present
age, when statesmen are judged of not more
by the measure which they mete to countries less
capable of resistance, than by that which they use
in dealing towards one upon whom it may not be
immediately convenient to inflict the same unjust
terms.</p>
<p> Ireland may read her future fate in that of Scotland,
as in a mirror. Does she still continue to
entertain any wish of imitating the Scottish system?
The measure of interdiction about to be
passed against her renders it impossible. Does she
still expect to be occasionally consulted in the management
of her own affairs? She may lay aside
for ever that flattering hope, unjess she makes
common cause with her sister of Scotland, where
every human being in the nation is entreating and
imploring that dearest privilege of a free country.
Finally, let us have a word of explanation with
England herself.</p>
<p> And first let me say, that although the urgent
necessity of the case requires that it should be
pleaded in every possible form which its advocates
can devise---although I press upon Scotland the
necessity of being importunate, steady, and unanimous---
although I show to Ireland the deep interest
which she also must feel in the question at
issue, yet it is to England herself, and to her representatives
in Parliament, that, taking upon me,
however unworthy, to speak for my Country, when
the task is perhaps an obnoxious one, I make my
most immediate, and I trust not an ineffectual
appeal.</p>
<p> The motto of my epistle may sound a little warlike;
but, in using it,<*> I have only employed the</p>
</p>
<p>Thus united, sir, their task will be a very easy one.
Let each, in his own style, and with the degree of
talent, from plain common sense up to powerful
eloquence, with which he chances to be gifted, state
to Administration the sentiments of his constituents,
and those of his own breast; let it be perfectly
understood that the representatives of Scotland
speak in the name of their country, and are determined,
one and all, to see the threatened and obnoxious
measure departed from, and till that time
to enter into no public business,---I cannot help
thinking that such a remonstrance, in a case of vital
importance to Scotland, and of such trifling consequence
to England, would be of itself perfectly sufficient.
But if not, our representatives must stand
firm. I would advise that, to all such intimations
as are usually circulated, bearing, ``That your presence
is earnestly requested on such an evening of
the debate, as such or such a public measure is
coming on,'' the concise answer should be returned,
``_We are five-and-forty;_'<code> and that no Scottish
members do on such occasions attend---unless it be
those who feel themselves conscientiously at liberty
to vote against Government on the division. Is
this expecting too much from our countrymen, on
whom we have devolved so absolutely the charge
of our rights, the duty of stating our wrongs? We
exclaim to them in the language of the eloquent
Lord Belhaven---``Should not the memory of our
noble predecessors</code> valour and constancy rouse up
our drooping spirits? Are our brave ancestors'
souls got so far into the English cabbage-stock and
cauliflower, that we should show the least inclination
that way? Are our eyes so blinded---Are our
ears so deafened---Are our hearts so hardened---
Are our tongues so faltered---Are our hands so fettered,
that, in this our day---I say, my countrymen,
in this our day, we should not mind the things
that concern the well-being, nay, the very being,
of our ancient kingdom, before the day be hid from
our eyes?'' If there is, among that chosen band,
a mean-spirited Scotsman, who prefers the orders
of the minister to the unanimous voice of his country,
imploring the protection of her children, let
England keep him to herself. Such a man is deaf
even to the voice of self-interest, as well as of patriotism.
He cannot be a Scotch proprietor---he
hazards his own rents; he cannot be a Scotsman
employed in commerce---he undermines his own
trade; he cannot be a professional person---he
sacrifices the law of his country; he cannot be a
Scottish man in spirit---he betrays the honour of
Scotland. Let him go out from among us---he is
not of us. Let him, I say, remain in England, and
we wish her joy of such a denizen. Let him have
his title and his pension---for the cur deserves his
collar and his bone. But do not let him come back
to Scotland, where his presence will be as unwelcome
to us, as our reception may be ungratifying
to him.</p>
<p>If they do so, not only will they play the part of
true men and worthy patriots, but they will procure
that sort of weight with their constituents
which will enable them to be useful, and, with the
blessing of God, effectual mediators, in what, I
fear, is likely to prove a very distracted time and
country.<p> England---were it mine to prescribe the forms,
my native country ought to address nearly in the
words of her own Mason, mangled, I fear, in my
recollection---<p> ``Sister, to thee no ruder spell
Will Scotland use, than those that dwell
In soft Persuasion's notes, and lie
Twined with the links of _Harmony._''</p>
</p>
<p> Let us, therefore, my countrymen, make a proper
and liberal allowance for the motives of the Ministers
and their friends on this occasion. We ought
not to be susprised that English statesmen, and
Englishmen in general, are not altogether aware
of the extent of the Scottish privileges, or that
they do not remember, with the same accuracy as
ourselves, that we have a system of laws peculiar
to us, secured by treaties. These peculiarities have
not, by any question lately agitated, been placed
under their view and recollection. As one race
grows up, and another dies away, remembrances
which are cherished by the weaker party in a
national treaty, are naturally forgotten by the
stronger, and viewed, perhaps, as men look upon
an old boundary stone, half-sunk in earth, half-overgrown
with moss, and attracting no necessary
attention, until it is appealed to as a proof of property.
Such antiquated barriers are not calculated
immediately to arrest the progress of statesmen
intent upon some favourite object, any more than,
when existing on the desolate mountain in their
physical shape, such a bound-mark as I have described,
always checks the eagerness of a stranger
upon the moors, in keen and close pursuit of his
game. But explain to the ardent young Southern
sportsman that he trespasses upon the manor of
another---convince the English statesman that he
cannot advance his favourite object without infringing
upon national right,---and, according to my
ideas of English honour and good faith, the one
will withdraw his foot within the boundary of private
property, with as much haste as if he trode on
burning marle; the other will curb his views of
public good, and restrain even those within the
limits which are prescribed by public faith. They
will not, in either case, forget the precepts so often
reiterated in Scripture, fenced there with a solemn
anathema, and received as matter of public jurisprudence
by the law of every civilized country---
``Remove not the old land-mark, and enter not
into the fields of the fatherless.'' The high and
manly sense of justice by which the English nation
has been honourably distinguished through the
world, will not, I am certain, debase itself by
aggression towards a people, which is not indeed
incapable of defending itself, but which, though
fearless of inequality, and regardless of threats, is
yet willing to submit even to wrong, rather than
hazard the fatal consequences to be incurred by
obstinate defence, <u>via facti,</u> of its just rights. We
make the sense of English justice and honour our
judge; and surely it would be hard to place us in
a situation where our own sense of general mischief,
likely to ensue to the empire, may be the only check
upon the sentiments which brave men feel, when
called on to defend their national honour. There
would be as little gallantry in such an aggression,
as in striking a prisoner on parole.</p>
<p> It is to explain more particularly to the English
nation, the real and deep reason which Scotland
has to combat the present purpose of Ministers,
that I have chiefly undertaken this Second Epistle.</p>
<p> I have stated in my former Letter, that the
system respecting the currency, which is now
about to be abrogated, has been practised in Scotland
for about one hundred and thirty years, with
the greatest advantage to the country and inhabitants.
I have also shown from the Treaty of
Union, that it cannot be altered, unless the preliminary
is established to the conviction of Parliament,
that the alteration is for the =evident advantage=
<u>of the subjects in Scotland.</u> No advantage,
evident or remote, has ever been hinted at, so far
as Scotland is concerned: it has only been said,
that it will be advantageous to England, to whose
measures Scotland must be conformable, as a matter
of course, though in the teeth of the article stipulated
by our Commissioners, and acceded to by
those of England, at the time of the Union. I have
therefore gained my cause in any fair Court.</p>
<p> But protesting that I have done enough to entitle
me to a judgment, I have no objection to go
a step farther; and, taking on myself a burden of
proof, which could not be justly imposed on me, I
am willing to explain, in a general and popular
manner, the peculiar nature of the paper currency
in Scotland, and especially the guards and protections
by which it is secured against such evil consequences
as have resulted in England from a
system the same in name, but operating very differently
in practice.</p>
<p> The people of Scotland are by no means, as a
hasty view of their system of currency might infer,
liable to be imposed upon, or to suffer loss, through
the rash and crude speculations of any man, or
association of men, who, without adequate capital
and experience, might choose to enter into a
Banking concern, and issue their own notes.</p>
<p> The Banking Companies of Scotland, who take
on themselves the issuing of notes, are, no doubt,
independent of each other so far as they severally
contract with the public; but a certain course of
correspondence and mutual understanding is indispensable
among themselves, and, in that respect,
the whole Banks and Banking Companies in Scotland
may be said to form a republic, the watchful
superintendence of the whole profession being extended
to the strength or weakness of the general
system at each particular point; or, in other words,
to the management of each individual Company.</p>
<p> No new Banking institution can venture to issue
notes to the public, till they have established a full
understanding that these notes will be received as
cash by the other Banks. Without this facility,
an issue of notes would never take place, since, if
issued, they could have no free or general currency.
It is not the interest of the established Banks to
raise rivals in their own profession, and it is directly
contrary to that interest to accept of payment
in the notes of a new Company, to whose
responsibility there occurs any shadow of doubt.
They, therefore, only agree to give currency to
such new issues, where satisfactory information
has been obtained of the safety of affording it.
The public have, in this manner, the best possible
guarantee against rash and ill-concocted speculations,
from those who are not only best informed
on the subject, but, being most interested in examining
each new project of the kind, are least
likely to be betrayed into a rash confidence, and
have the power of preventing a doubtful undertaking
at the very outset.</p>
<p> The circulation of a Scottish Banking Company,
when once established, cannot maintain itself a
week without redeeming its pledge to the Banks
which receive its notes, by taking them up, and
replacing the value either in the notes of such
Banks reciprocally, or in specie. A check is thus
imposed, which is continually in operation, and
every Bank throughout Scotland is obliged to submit
its circulation, twice a-week in Edinburgh, to
the inspection of this Argus-eyed tribunal. Satisfactory
information that any distant Banking Companies
were leaving the safe and moderate walk of
commerce, and embarking their capital in precarious
speculations, would very soon draw upon them
the suspicion of the moneyed interest at large, and
certainly put a period to their existence before it
could injure the public.</p>
<p> This important species of check is unknown to
the practice of England; nay, it is probably impossible
to establish it there, since the metropolis
which is naturally the common point of union, is
nearly inaccessible to the notes of private Banking
Companies. In stating a circumstance, not perhaps
generally known, I may perhaps remove some
of the prejudice which has extended towards the
Scottish system, as if exposed to the same inconveniences
with that of the sister kingdom.</p>
<p> The cash-credits, as they are called, are a most
important feature in our banking system, and, as I
believe, entirely peculiar to it.</p>
<p> The nature of the transaction is the simplest
possible. A person, either professional, engaged
in commerce or manufactures, or otherwise so
situated as to render an occasional command of
money convenient, obtains a cash account to an
extent proportioned to his funds, either by pledging
his house, shop, or other real property, or by giving
the bank two sufficient sureties to be answerable
for the balance, if any, which shall be due to the
company when the account is closed. The holder
of the cash-credit is then entitled to draw on the
banker for such sums as he may occasionally need,
within its limits. He lodges, on the other hand,
with the bank, such cash as he may from time
to time receive from the returns of his business, or
otherwise. Interest is calculated on the advances
drawn from the bank at five per cent., on the
customer's deposits at three per cent. only, and
the account is finally balanced twice a-year. The
interest varies according to the general rate of the
money-market. I have stated it upon the general
and legal rate, which it never does or can exceed.</p>
<p> This very simple accommodation is so general
through Scotland, that no undertaking of the slightest
magnitude is entered into without sufficient
funds being provided in this manner, in order that
the expense may be maintained without inconvenience
until the profits come round. By means of
such credits, the merchant carries on his trade, the
agriculturist manages his farm, the professional man
discharges the advances necessary in his business
and the landed gentleman maintains his credit, and
pays his way, while waiting for the tardy return of
his rents. The trustees who conduct public works
have recourse to the same accommodation. Scarce
any one who is not too rich to need an occasional
advance (a case very rare in Scotland,) or too poor
to obtain credit, but is provided and acts upon
some cash-account of this kind, being a sort of fluctuating
system of borrowing and lending. In the
former case, the customer borrows of the bank the
advances which he needs, in such sums and at such
times as they are necessary; whereas, without such
mutual accommodation, the loan must have been
borrowed in an entire sum, and paid up at once,
though in the former case it included more money
than was immediately wanted; and, in the latter,
the settlement of the whole demand at once might
be untimely and inconvenient.</p>
<p> Supposing the money lodged to exceed the
amount of the credit, the customer becomes a creditor
to the banker for the balance due to him, and
receives a stated interest for it; while, at the same
time, it lies, as in an ordinary deposit-account, at
his immediate command. This system is, no doubt,
liable, like every thing earthly, to abuse. But the
general prosperity of the country, managed almost
entirely on such an arrangement betwixt those who
deal in capital, and those who need the use of it,
has shown that the partial abuse bears no proportion
to the universal advantage. The system has,
in its exercise, been, as Shakspeare says of mercy,
``_twice blessed._'' It has prospered both with the
giver and the taker; and while the holder of the
account has been enabled to derive wealth from
schemes which he could not otherwise have executed,
the increasing funds of the banker, and his
additional power of serving the country, and aiding,
in similar instances, the progress of general
improvement, add to the sum of national riches.</p>
<p> It is also to be observed, that the intimate connexion
between the bankers who grant, and the
respectable individuals who hold cash-credits, from
<L>100 to <L>1000 and upwards, tends greatly to the
security of the former. These customers, of whom
each thriving bank possesses many, are the chief
holders and disposers of notes; and, linked as they
are with the banks who grant the accommodation,
by mutual advantage, they have both the interest
and credit necessary to quash any unreasonable
alarm, and secure the company against what is called
a run, a circumstance to which Scottish banks have
never been materially exposed, and which is not
very consistent with the character of the people.</p>
<p> These undeniable facts afford, so far as Scotland
is concerned, a decisive confutation to an argument
which has been advanced, for abrogating the issue
of small notes. It has been alleged, that such issues
being chiefly in the hands of the lower classes, these
were agitated easily by rumours, and they became
the occasion of the <u>runs</u> above-mentioned, by which
the banking companies are ruined; as men are
crushed to death in a crowd, when those around
them are agitated by some cause, very likely a vain
one, of panic terror. In itself, it seems, that depriving
men of a lucrative branch of their profession,
merely because, under certain circumstances,
it may become dangerous to their stability, is very
like the receipt of Sheepface in the farce, who kills
his master's sheep to prevent their dying. But, in
Scotland, there exists not the least approach to the
disease, which it seems necessary to anticipate in
so desperate a manner; for the apprehended <u>runs</u>
on Scotch banks, by the holders of small notes, have
never taken place, and from the assigned reasons,
are never likely to do so. But should such an event
occur, the interference of the banks' customers,
parties so much interested, would stop such a headlong
movement, as a strong and well-ordered police
would prevent the fatal agitations of a mob, ere they
trode each other to death.</p>
<p> The general principle of the Credits thus granted
is one which, in a poor country at least, or among
poor traders, is highly desirable. It affords the
farmer, trader, or country gentleman, a convenient
and equitable means of pledging their property for
a fund of credit to conduct their undertakings. It
resembles in principle, though on a much more
equitable and liberal footing, the impignoration of
moveables, which affords facilities, without which
the small, yet indispensable branches of traffic,
could not be carried on. Let us, in due humility,
follow out a comparison at which our pride might
be justly revolted. In London, and other great
cities, the market-women, and persons of that description,
are constantly in the practice of raising a
small credit, by pledging their little articles of
value, whether ornaments or wearing apparel, or
the like, on which they maintain their trade till
Saturday brings the weekly returns, when the ornaments
are redeemed from the pawnbrokers, worn
perhaps on the Sunday, and returned to <u>lavender</u>
(as the phrase goes) on the next Monday. It is
now many years since some well-disposed and benevolent
persons, becoming aware of this practice,
were shocked and scandalized at the extent of the
interest exacted from those poor people, and made
or proposed a law for rendering this course of
pawnbroking illegal. Sir, the general mass of misery
which was about to attend on the well-meant
interference of the Legislature, was so evident and
so alarming, that the measure was either departed
from ere it was completed, or repealed immediately,
I forget which.</p>
<p> _Paulo majora_---The principle is in effect the
very same on which, to restore public credit, the
Bank of England itself is about to advance three
millions of money on the security of mercantile
commodities.</p>
<p> In the same way, we have in Scotland got into
the regular habit of pledging our credit in the
manner above described, for the purpose of raising
a disposable capital. The advantage obtained by
both parties is very equitably balanced; but, were
it as iniquitous as that of the most grinding pawnbroker,
still habit and manners have rendered it
absolutely indispensable to us; and when a general
source of credit is forcibly snatched from a country
which has relied on it so long, you literally wrest
the crutch from the infirm, because, in your mind,
it is not of a handsome fashion.</p>
<p> After all, is it not just that we, the party concerned,
should be admitted to have a preponderating
vote in this matter? If we are eventually
losing by adhering to an old and tried system, we
can blame no one, but must suffer for our own
obstinacy; but if Scotland is to be reduced to distress
by having a system forced upon her which
she is unable to maintain or carry on, who is to
answer for the evils it may bring upon us?</p>
<p> It is by the profit arising upon issuing their small
notes, that the bankers are enabled to make the
beneficial advances which custom has now rendered
nearly indispensable to the carrying on business of
almost any kind in Scotland. Above all, without
that profit, the bankers could not, as hitherto, continue
to allow a rateable interest on money deposited
in their hands. Let us take a hasty view of
some of the advantages attached to this peculiarity
of the system.</p>
<p> The general convenience of the banker affording
interest upon deposits is obvious. It is much more
convenient to the individual to receive some interest
for his ready cash, than that it should lie idle in his
desk; and its being thus put into a productive state,
instead of remaining an unproductive capital, must
be much more useful to the country. This needs
no commentary.</p>
<p> It has, besides, tended much to the diminution
of crime in Scotland. We have forgot the period
preceding the banking system, but it is easily recalled.
Look at the old magazines or newspapers,
during the time when the currency was chiefly
maintained by specie, a ready temptation to the
ruffian---the murder of graziers and dealers returning
from fairs where they had sold their cattle,
was a not infrequent occurrence. Farm-houses
of the better class, as well as gentlemen's baronial
residences, were defended by bars on the windows,
upper and under, like those of a prison; yet these
houses were often broken open by daring gangs,
to possess themselves of the hoards which the
tenant must have then kept beside him against
rent-day, and his landlord, for the current expense
of his household. At present---_Cantabit vacuus_---
the drover or grazier has a banker's receipt for the
price of his cattle, in the old almanack which serves
him for a pocket-book, and fears no robbery---
while the farm-house, or manor, is secure from the
attack of ruffians, who are like to find no metal
there more precious than the tongs and poker.</p>
<p> Passing over the tendency of the present system
to prevent crime, I come to its influence in recommending
industry and virtue; and I am confident
in stating, that the degree of morality, sobriety.
and frugality, which is admitted to exist in Scotland,
has been much fostered, though certainly not
entirely produced, by the banks' allowing interest
on small sums, which, if the present prohibitory
measure passes, they will be no longer in a capacity
to afford. Let the effect of such a violent change
be considered merely in respect to the lowest order
of depositors, who lodge in the bank from the sum
of ten pounds to fifty. The first motive to save,
among petty tradesmen, mechanics, farm-servants,
domestics, and the like, is the delight of forming a
productive capital; and in that class, the habit of
saving and of frugality is the foundation of a sober,
well-regulated, and useful society. Every judicious
farmer scruples to repose perfect reliance in a
farm-servant or a labourer, till he knows that he
is possessed of a capital of a few pounds in some
neighbouring bank; and when that is once attained,
the man becomes tenfold steady and trustworthy.
Instances have occurred, to my certain knowledge,
before the time of the Savings-Banks, where the
master, to hasten this advantageous step in his dependent's
life, would advance a servant of character
a little money to complete a deposit, when the
man's savings did not amount to ten pounds, which
is the least sum received by the Banks. And, by
the way, it is not easy to see how these excellent
institutions, the Savings-Banks themselves, can be
continued in Scotland, if interest is no longer allowed
by the general Bank; for we are at too great
a distance to avail ourselves of the Public Funds
for that purpose.</p>
<p> At any rate, the cessation of payment of interest
by the Banks, attendant on the abolishing the issue
of small notes, would greatly injure, if not effectually
destroy, the formation of those virtuous and
frugal habits, which are as essential to the class of
society a little richer than that to which the Savings-Banks
apply, as to the inferior description to whom
these invaluable institutions afford encouragement
and protection.</p>
<p> What is a poor hind or shepherd to do with his
<L>20 or <L>30, the laborious earnings of his life,
and which he looks to, under God, for keeping his
widow and family from the parish, if bankers can
no longer afford him some interest for the use of it?
Where is he to get decent security for his petty
capital? He will either be swindled out of it by
some rascally attorney, or coaxed to part with it to
some needy relation---in either case, never to see
it more. It is difficult enough, oven at present, for
masters, who take an interest in their servants'
welfare, to, get them to place their money safe in
the bank; if this resource is taken away, where is
it to be lodged, with any chance of security? But
I think I can guess its fate, friend Journalist. The
Banks will be forcing back on the hands of the
shepherd or farm-servant his deposit, just at the
time when they are unwillingly distressing his master
for the balance on his cash-account, called up
before his well-judged, but half-executed improvements,
undertaken on the faith of the continued
credit, have become productive. The farmer will,
in the hour of need and pressure, borrow the petty
capital of his servant; he will be unable to repay
it; and then, when the distress becomes chin-deep,
they may turn beggars together---for uniformity's
sake.</p>
<p> If that settling day should ever come, Mr. Journalist,
when the bankers, dunned for deposits in
their hands, are compelled to be as rigorous with
those who have received advances from them---that
awful day, when the hundreds of thousands, nay
millions, hitherto divided between the Banks and
the public, must be all called up at once, and accounts
between them closed---that settling day will
be remembered as long in Scotland as ever was
the Mirk Monday!</p>
<p> But what can the bankers do? their whole profession
must undergo a universal change, that discounts
and every species of accommodation may
be brought within the narrowest possible limits.
At present, the profits divided among the profession,
upon perhaps a million and a half of small
notes, enable them to advance liberally to individuals
upon any reasonable security. But if the
banker's occupation is henceforth to consist in
stocking himself with a great abundance of gold,
and for that purpose engaging in an eternal struggle,
not to <u>preserve</u> (for that is impossible) but to
<u>restore</u> an eternally vacillating proportion betwixt
the metallic circulation and the wants of the country,
such expensive labour =alone= will be likely to
prove quite enough for his talents and funds.</p>
<p> The injury done to the bankers, by depriving
them of such a principal and profitable branch of
their profession, is not to be passed over in silence.
The English are wont, in other cases, to pay particular
heed ere they alter any peculiar state of
things, upon the faith of which property has been
vested in a fixed and permanent line of employment.
But this proposed enactment will go as far
as the in-calling of one million and a half of notes
can do, to destroy the emoluments of the profession.
You deprive them of those very notes which
travel farthest from home, and which return most
slowly; nay, which, from various causes, are subject
not to return at all. It is therefore in vain to
say that thus the profession is left uninjured, when
it is limited to the issue of notes of five pounds
and upwards. It might be as reasonably stated
in a case of mutilation, that a man was left in the
entire and uninjured possession of his hand, the
prisoner having only cut off his five fingers.</p>
<p> If, therefore, the proposed measure shall take
place, the banker's profession must suffer greatly,
nay, in its present form, must cease to exist. We
cannot, as a nation, afford to be deprived of such
an honourable and profitable means of settling our
sons in the world. We cannot afford to lose a resource
which has proved to so many respectable
and honourable families a means ad _re-<ae>dificandum
antiquam domum,_ and which has held out to others
a successful mode of elevating themselves, by liberal
and useful industry, to the possession of wealth, at
once to their own advantage and to that of Scotland.
Thus it must needs be, if the proposed measure
should pass; and when we come to count the
gains we shall then have made, by change from a
paper circulation to one in specie, I doubt it will
form a notable example of the truth of the proverb,
``_That gold may be bought too dear._''</p>
<p> The Branches established by Banks in remote
parts of Scotland must be given up. The parent
Banks would vainly exhaust themselves in endeavouring
to draw specie from London, and to force
it, at whatever expense, into more fertile districts
of Scotland, which, of course, would receive it in
small quantity, and pay for it at a heavy charge.
But as to the remote and sterile regions, it must
be with the Highlands and Isles of Scotland, as it
is now in some remote districts of Ireland, where
scarce any specie exists for the purpose of ordinary
currency, and where, for want of that representative
for value or paper money in its stead, men are
driven back to the primitive mode of bartering for
every thing---the peasant pays his rent in labour,
and the fisher gets his wages in furnishings. Misery
is universal---credit is banished---and with all the
bounties of nature around them, ready to reward
industry---the sinews of that industry are hewn
asunder, and man starves where Nature has given
abundance!</p>
<p> Great Britain would be then somewhat like the
image in Belteshazzar's dream. London, its head,
might be of fine gold---the fertile provinces of
England, like its breast and arms, might be of
silver---the southern half of Scotland might acquire
some brass or copper---but the northern provinces
would be without worth or value, like the legs
which were formed of iron and clay. What force
is to compel gold to circulate to these barren
extremities of the island, I cannot understand;
and, when once forced there, I fear its natural
tendency to return to the source from which it is
issued will render all efforts to detain it as difficult
as the task of the men of Gotham, when they tried
to hedge in the cuckoo. Our Bankers, or such as
may continue in the profession under the same
name, but with very different occupation and prospects,
will be condemned to the labour of Sisyphus,
---eternally employed in rolling a cask of gold up
a Highland hill, at the risk of being crushed by it
as the influence of gravity prevails, and it comes
rolling down upon their heads.</p>
<p> Mrs. Primrose, wife to the excellent Vicar of
Wakefield, carried on a system of specie, with respect
to her family, at a much cheaper rate than
that at which Scotland will be able, I fear, to accomplish
the same object. ``I gave each of them
a shilling,'' says the good man, speaking of his
daughters, ``though for the honour of the family
it must be observed, that they never went without
money themselves; as my wife always generously
let them have a guinea each to keep their pockets,
but with strict injunctions _never to change it._'' Our
state is not so favourable, Mr. Journalist. We shall
be obliged to lay out our guinea every morning of
our lives, and to buy back another every evening,
at an increasing per centage, to pay the expense
of the next day. Moreover, Mrs. Primrose was
more reasonable (begging pardon for the expression)
than our English friends; for, although she
enforced the specie system in her own family, we
do not hear that she was ever desirous to intrude
it into that of Neighbour Flamborough.</p>
<p> I do not mean to enter into the general question
of the difference betwixt the circulation of specie
and of paper money. I speak of them relatively,
as applicable to the wants and wishes of Scotland
only. Yet, I must say, it seems strange, that under
a liberal system, of which freedom of trade is the
very soul, we should be loaded with severe restrictions
upon our own national choice, instead of being
left at liberty to adopt that representative of value,
whether in gold or paper, that best suits our own
convenience!</p>
<p> To return to the remote Highlands and Islands,
Mr. Journalist, I need not tell you that they are
inhabited by a race of men, to use Dr. Currie's
phrase, ``patient of labour and prodigal of life,''
for succouring whose individual wants the tenth
part of an English coal-heaver's wages would be
more than enough, but yet who are human creatures,
and cannot live absolutely without food---
who are men, and entitled to human compassion---
Christians, and entitled to Christian sympathy.
But their claims as men and Christians are not all
they have to proffer to administration and to
England. The distress to which they are about to
be exposed will return upon the state at large in
a way very little contemplated.</p>
<p> Those sterile and remote regions have been endowed
by Providence with treasures of their own,
gained from the stormy deep by their hardy inhabitants.
The fisheries in the distant Highlands
and Isles, under the management of an enlightened
Board, have at length accomplished what was long
the warmest wish of British patriots, and have
driven the Dutch out of all rivalry in this great
branch of national industry. The northern fisheries
furnish exports to our colonies and to the Continent,
exceeding half a million of money annually, and
give employment to a very great number of hardy
seamen. The value of such a plentiful source of
prosperity, whether considered as supplying our
navy or affecting our manufactures, is sufficiently
obvious. Now observe, Mr. Journalist, how these
fisheries are at present conducted.</p>
<p> The branches of these obnoxious establishments
the Scottish Banks, maintained at convenient and
centrical points in the North of Scotland, furnish all
the remote and numerous stations where the fisheries
are carried on, with small notes and silver for
payment of the actual fisher's labour, and in return
accept the bills of the fish-curers upon the consignees.
This they do at a moderate profit; on which
principal alone private industry, and enterprise,
and capital, can be made conducive to the public
good. The small notes thus circulated in the most
distant parts of Scotland, return, indeed, in process
of time, to the Banks which issued them; but the
course of their return is so slow and circuitous, that
the interest accruing on them during their absence
amply reimburses the capitalist for the trouble and
risk which attend the supply. But let any man
who knows the country, or will otherwise endeavour
to conceive its poverty and sterility, imagine
if he can, the difficulties, expense, and hazard, at
which gold must be carried to points where it
would never have voluntarily circulated, and from
whence, unless detained in some miser's hoard (a
practice which the currency in specie, and disuse
of interest on deposits, is likely to revive,) it will
return to London with the celerity of a carrier-pigeon.</p>
<p> The manufacture of Kelp, which is carried on to
an immense extent through all the shores and
isles of the Highlands, supporting thousands of men
with their families, who must otherwise emigrate or
starve, and forming the principal revenue of many
Highland proprietors, is nearly, if not exactly, on
the same footing with the fisheries; is carried on
chiefly by the same medium of circulation; and,
like them, supplied by the Bankers with small notes
for that purpose, at a reasonable profit to themselves,
and with the utmost advantage to the country
and its productive resources.</p>
<p> Referring once more to the state of misery in
the distant districts of Ireland, I must once more
ask, if these things be done in the green tree, what
shall be done in the dry tree? If the want of circulation
creates poverty and misery in the comparatively
fertile country of Ireland, what is to become
of those barren deserts, where even at present the
hardest labour which the human frame can endure
is necessary to procure the most moderate pittance
on which human life can be supported? The inhabitants
are now healthy, enterprising, laborious;
and their industry, producing means of existence
to themselves, is of immense profit to their country.
If their means of obtaining the payment of their
labour is destroyed, nay, even interrupted, the state
must either feed idle paupers, who once flourished
a hardy and independent race of labourers, or it
must be at the expense of transporting the inhabitants
to Canada and New South Wales, and leaving
totally waste a country which few but those bound
to it by the _Amor patri<ae>_ will desire to reside in,
even if the means of procuring subsistence were
left unimpaired.</p>
<p> Can any thing short of the =utmost necessity=
justify an experiment which threatens to depopulate
a part of the empire, and destroy the happiness
of thousands? and how can such a necessity exist,
without the least symptom of its having been felt
or suspected during the last hundred and thirty
years, when the present system has been in exercise?</p>
<p> Destroy the existing conduit, and let me again
inquire, what forcing-pump, what new-invented
patent pressure, were it devised by Bramah himself,
is to compel specie into those inaccessible
regions? The difficulty of conveying the supplies
is augmented by the risk of carrying wealth unguarded
through the regions of poverty. I know
my countrymen are indifferent honest, as Hamlet
says; yet I would not advise the Genius of the
specie system to travel through Scotland, moral as
the country is, after the fashion of the fair pilgrim,
``rich and rare,'' in Moore's beautiful melody, just
by way of trying the integrity of the inhabitants.
Take my word for it, the absence of temptation is
no valueless guardian of virtue. If convoys of gold
must be sent through lonely mountains, I venture
to say, that smugglers will be converted into robbers,
and that our romance-writers need not turn
back to ancient times for characters like John
Gunn or Rob Roy Macgregor.</p>
<p> This I am sure of, that if the mere authority of
a legislative enactment can force a sufficient quantity
of gold into those parts, to carry on the fishery
and kelp manufactures, it can do a great deal more
in favour of the poor but hardy inhabitants. Why
should our statesmen be so stinted in their bounty,
if it depends merely on legislative enactment?
Why not enact, that whereas the dress now worn
by his Majesty's loving inhabitants of the Lewis,
Uist, Harries, Edderachyllis, Cape Wrath, and
Loch Erriboll, is scanty, thin, and indecorous, each
inhabitant of those districts should in future wear
a full-trimmed suit of black silk or velvet; and, as
his only representative of wealth has been hitherto
a crumpled dog's-ear'd piece of Scotch paper, that,
in future, he never presume to stir out of his cabin
without having, and bearing about his person, the
sum of at least five golden sovereigns? The working
the stuffs may be a means of relieving the
starving weavers of Spitalfields, and the clothes
could be conveniently enough forwarded by the
escorts who are to protect the chests of specie.</p>
<p> It is not amiss to observe, that this violent experiment
on our circulation---demanded by no party
in Scotland---nay, forced upon us against the consent
of all who can render a reason, fraught with
such deep ruin if it miscarry, and holding forth no
prospect whatever of good, even should it prove
successful,---can only be carried on at a very considerable
expense to England. She must coin for
the service of Scotland at least a million and a half
of specie---sustain the loss of tear and wear---the
chance of accident and plunder---of disappearance
by pilfering and hoarding---and be at the expense
of supplying this immense quantity of precious
metals, not for the benefit, but for the probable
ruin of our devoted country. It is fairly forcing
gold down our throats, as little to our advantage,
as when the precious metal was sent in a molten
state down the gullet of Cyrus, or Crassus,--I forget
which.</p>
<p> No argument has been alleged by the English
statesmen for pressing this measure, but that of
``uniformity;'' by virtue of which principle, a little
more extended, they may introduce the Irish Insurrection
Law into England to-morrow, and alter
the whole national law of Scotland the day after.
This argument, I therefore think, proves a little
too much, and is, in consequence, no argument at
all. In absence of avowed motives, and great darkness
as to any imaginable cause, men's minds have
entertained very strange and wild fancies, to account
for the zeal with which this obnoxious measure
is driven forward. Some, who would be
thought to see farther into a mill-stone than others,
pretend the real reason is to soothe the jealousy of
the Bank of England, by preventing the possibility
of Scots notes passing in England. It is easy to
see how people must be puzzled to discover the
semblance of a possible motive, when they have
recourse to such figments as this. Can it be conceived
that our dearest interests are to be tampered
with for such an object?---It is very true, that in
the adjacent counties of England, innkeepers for
courtesy, and drovers and others dealing at Scots
fairs, on account of convenience, readily accept of
Scots notes in payment; but that notes, which nobody
is obliged to accept, and which the English
banks refuse to change, can circulate to such an
extent as to alarm the Bank of England!---why, sir,
I will as soon believe, that, during the old wars,
the city of London beat to arms, called out their
Trained-bands, and manned their walls, because
the Teviotdale Borderers had snapped up a herd
of cattle in Northumberland. What becomes of
the comparative excellence of the specie circulation
to be established in England, if apprehensions
are entertained that it cannot stand its ground
against the reprobated paper system of Scotland?
In God's name, are they afraid people will prefer
paper to gold---leaving, like Hamlet's misjudging
mother, the literally golden meads of England, to
batten on a Scottish moor? It is like the ridiculous
story told, that there is a by-law, or at least a
private understanding, that no Scotsman shall be
chosen a director of the Bank of England, lest our
countrymen engross the whole management in the
course of a few years. Why, sir, these opinions
remind one of the importance attached to the fated
stone in Westminster Abbey, of which it is said,
that the Scots shall reign wheresoever it is carried.
But, sir, we must not swallow such flattering compliments.
The Bank of England jealous of the
partial circulation of a few Scottish notes in the
north of England!!! Sir, it would be supposing
the blessed sun himself jealous of a gas-light manufactory.</p>
<p> A few general observations on England's late
conduct to us, and I will release you.</p>
<p> A very considerable difference may be remarked,
within these twenty-five years, in the conduct of
the English towards such of the Scotch individuals,
as either visit the metropolis as mere birds of passage,
or settle there as residents. Times are much
changed since the days of Wilkes and Liberty,
when the bare suspicion of having come from
North of the Tweed, was a cause of hatred, contempt,
and obloquy. The good-nature and liberality
of the English seem now even to have occasioned
a reaction in their sentiments towards their
neighbours, as if to atone for the national prejudices
of their fathers. It becomes every Scotsman to
acknowledge explicitly, and with gratitude, that
whatever tenable claim of merit has been made by
his countrymen for more than twenty years back,
whether in politics, arts, arms, professional distinction,
or the paths of literature, it has been admitted
by the English, not only freely, but with partial
favour. The requital of North Britain can be little
more than good wishes and sincere kindness towards
her southern Sister, and a hospitable welcome
to such of her children as are led by curiosity
to visit Scotland. To this ought to be added the
most grateful acknowledgment.</p>
<p> But though this amicable footing exists between
the public of each nation, and such individuals of
the other as may come into communication with
them, and may God long continue it---yet, I must
own, the conduct of England towards Scotland as
a kingdom, whose crown was first united to theirs
by our giving <u>them</u> a King, and whose dearest national
rights were surrendered to them by an incorporating
Union, has not been of late such as we
were entitled to expect.</p>
<p> There has arisen gradually, on the part of England,
a desire of engrossing the exclusive management
of Scottish affairs, evinced by a number of
circumstances, trifling in themselves, but forming
a curious chain of proof when assembled together;
many of which intimate a purpose to abate us, like
old Lear, of our train, and to accustom us to submit
to petty slights and mortifications, too petty
perhaps individually to afford subject of serious
complaint, but which, while they tend to lower us
in our own eyes, seem to lay the foundation for fresh
usurpations, of which this meditated measure may
be an example.</p>
<p> This difference of treatment, and of estimation,
exhibited towards <u>individuals</u> of the Scottish nation,
and to the <u>nation itself</u> as an aggregate, seems
at first sight an inconsistency. Does a Scotchman
approach London with some pretension to character
as a Preacher, a Philosopher, a Poet, an Economist,
or an Orator, he finds a welcome and all-hail,
which sometimes surprises those whom he has left
on the northern side of the Tweed,---little aware,
perhaps, of the paragon who had emigrated, till
they heard the acclamations attending his reception
---Does a gentleman of private fortune take the
same route, he finds a ready and voluntary admission
into the class of society for which he is fitted
by rank and condition---Is the visitor one of the
numerous class who wander for the chance of improving
his fortunes, his national character as a
Scotsman is supposed to imply the desirable qualities
of information, prudence, steadiness, moral and
religious feeling, and he obtains even a preference
among the Southern employers, who want confidential
clerks, land-stewards, head-gardeners, or fit
persons to occupy any similar situation, in which
the quality of trustworthiness is demanded.</p>
<p> But, on the other hand, if the English statesman
has a point of great or lesser consequence to settle
with Scotland <u>as a country,</u> we find him and his
friends at once seized with a jealous, tenacious,
wrangling, overbearing humour, and that they not
only insist upon conducting the whole matter according
to their own will, but are by no means so
accessible to the pleas of reason, justice, and humanity,
as might be expected from persons in other
cases so wise and liberal. We cease at once to be
the Northern Athenians, according to the slang of
the day---the moral and virtuous people, who are
practically and individually esteemed worthy of
especial confidence. We have become the caterpillars
of the island, instead of its pillars. We seem
to be, in their opinion, once more transmuted into
the Scots described by Churchill---a sharp sharking
race, whose wisdom is cunning, and whose public
spirit consists only in an illiberal nationality, inclining
us, by every possible exertion of craft, to
obtain advantage at the expense of England.</p>
<p> Sir, the Englishman, just and liberal in his ordinary
and natural movements, is prone to feverish
fits of suspicion, during which he is apt to conceive
that those qualities of frankness and generosity
render him peculiarly liable to be imposed on. He
will always <u>give</u> willingly, but he often becomes
shabby and litigious in making a bargain. John
Bull is, in these points, exactly similar to his own
Hotspur, who, in his dispute with Glendower about
the turning of the Trent, exclaims,---<p> ``I do not care---I'll give thrice so much land
To any well-deserving friend;
But in the way of <u>bargain,</u> mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.''<*></p>
</p>
</p>
<p>Between ourselves, Patrick, John Bull is, not
unnaturally, desirous of having rather more than
his own share in managing the great national
coach-and-six. He will drive four-in-hand; and
though he has hitherto allowed you a postilion of
your own, yet in some scheme of economy he may
dismiss him if you do not look sharp, and drive the
whole set of six horses himself. It is different
portions of their ancient independence which are
reserved to Scotland and Ireland by their respective
treaties of union. Scotland retained her ancient
laws, and Ireland a typical representation of
her national sovereignty. But both rights are held
by the same tenure, and if Ireland set an example,
by aiding a gross infringement of the Scottish
Union---if she aid England, in destroying for mere
humour---I beg pardon, for mere ``uniformity's
sake,''---every little mark of independence which
is left us---if she countenance the obvious desire
which exhibits itself to break down all peculiar privileges
due to the separate nations of the union, to
engross the whole management in Boards, which,
sitting in London, and begirt by Englishmen, are
to dispense the patronage, and direct the improvements,
of another nation of the Union, Ireland will
accelerate her own then unpitied degradation.
What is our case to-day, brothers of Erin, will be
yours the instant you have got a little tranquillity,---
are caught napping---and are in condition to have
the aforesaid ceremony practised upon you without
danger---I mean danger to the operator, for peril
to the creature itself is of no consequence. I see
you grasp your shilellah at the very thought!
Enough; we understand each other: Let us be
friends. Patrick aids Saunders to-day; Saunders
pays back Patrick to-morrow, or I will throw away
my thistle, burn my St. Andrew's cross, and disclaim
my country!<p> The Continent has seen John in both these
moods; and not being able to understand the cause
of the change, has been apt to suppose his habits
are entirely altered; whereas they see only the
same man in two different and extreme humours;
in one of which he would willingly relieve a begging
vagabond, because the rascal must live; and,
in the other, will hardly be brought to pay the bill
of a poor tradesman, because he is afraid of being
over-reached. The ancient and modern mode in
which the English travellers did, and do now, pay
their ordinary bills on the Continent, are an example
of this piebald humour:---Formerly, John travelled
<u>en prince,</u> and even overlooked any species
of imposition in innkeepers and <u>valets-de-place,</u> as
not worth the care of <u>un homme tel que lui.</u> Now,
he insists upon a preliminary contract---a solemn
treaty for his <u>coutelet</u> and his _vin de pais_---and,
neither for love of money, nor for want of money,
but from a feverish apprehension that he may possibly
be cheated in a reckoning, goes so miserably
to work, that all the world cries ``Shame on him!''<*></p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>It was the following verse of an old song:---
<em>
</em> When the pipes begin to play
<em> <u>Tutti taittie</u> to the drum,
</em> Out claymore, and down wi' gun,
<em> And to the rogues again.
</em>
<em> I have laid it aside in this edition, some cautious friends thinking
</em> it liable to misinterpretation.---S. The Motto had been
* sharply criticized by Mr. Croker.---=Ed.=<p> To the better, more natural, more predominating
disposition of our neighbours, I am well disposed
to ascribe the many marks of partiality and kindness
shown to individual Scotsmen by the English
at large---to the latter suspicious, dogged illiberal
determination to have the best of the bargain---
that ungracious humour, which forgets even justice
as well as liberal feelings, for fear their good-nature
should be imposed upon,---I am compelled to ascribe
much of their recent behaviour in international
discussions. In such fits of jealousy, men
are like those who wear green spectacles. Every
object they look upon is tinged with the predominant
colour, which exists not in the objects themselves,
but in the medium through which they are
viewed. Talk to an English statesman of the fairest,
the most equitable proposal for the advancement
of Scotland as a nation, the most just and
indisputable claim on behalf of her public establishments
or functionaries, the idea of a <u>Scotch Job</u>
starts up like an apparition, and frightens all power
of equitable decision out of the Minister's head.
It is in vain urged, that even the expense of the
proposed measure must be discharged by Scotland
herself---her sister is ready with the schoolboy's
answer to his fag,---``All that is <u>yours</u> is <u>ours,</u> and
all <u>ours</u> is _our own._'' Let the scales of Justice be
trimmed with the nicest exactness if you will, but
do not let Authority throw the sword into the scale
from mere apprehension, lest, after having done
her utmost to secure the advantage, she be cheated
in the weighing.</p>
<p> In an old Scottish law, to be convicted of being
an Egyptian, or gipsy, was equivalent to conviction
that the party was a common and notorious thief.
And truly the English seem to think (in public
matters, though by no means in private relations,)
that being a Scotsman is equivalent to being an
embezzler of public money, a jobber, and a peculator.
But when they suppose that we are able and
willing in all such cases to impose on them, they
do injustice alike to their own shrewdness and our
integrity.</p>
<p> It arises out of this unhappy state of feeling towards
us, more than to any actual desire of giving
us offence, that England has of late abated our
establishment in many respects in which our rank
as a kingdom of the Union is in some degree compromised.</p>
<p> Last year a bill, deeply affecting the national
interests of Scotland, by altering many most important
points in our judicature, was depending in
Parliament. Grave objections appeared to the Law
Bodies and others in Scotland, to attach to some
particular arrangements thereby proposed. They
required, not that the bill should be given up, but
that it should be suspended at least, till the country
in which it was to operate, and which alone was
to be hurt or benefited by the enactment, should
have time to consider the measure in all its bearings,
and to express their national sense upon the
subject. Can it be believed that it required the
strongest possible remonstrances of the great law-officer
of the crown with his Majesty's Ministers
to obtain a few months' reprieve, as if the demolition,
or alteration at least, of our laws, was a matter
as little deserving a month's delay, as the execution
of some flagrant criminal, justly and fully
convicted of the most gross crimes? Take one or
two instances more.</p>
<p> Till of late, there was generally an Admiral on
this station; but since the gallant Sir John Beresford
struck his flag, that mark of distinction seems
to have been laid aside, probably for ever. Our
army establishment is dwindled to a shadow, scarce
worthy of being placed under the command of the
distinguished Major-General who now holds it,
although he only commands the forces, instead of
being, as was commonly the case till of late years,
a Commander-in-Chief, with a Lieutenant-General
and two Major-Generals, under him. I need
hardly say, that I would wish this abatement of our
dignity, in some measure at least, amended, not by
the <u>removal,</u> but by the <u>promotion</u> of the gallant
General.</p>
<p> It may be replied, that we are complimented in
being thus left to ourselves---that we are a moral
people, therefore do not require a military force to
keep the peace---a loyal people, therefore do not
need an armed force to put down tumult---that we
have our own brave yeomanry, who, at no distant
period, showed themselves capable of affording
their country protection in the most desirable manner,
anticipating mischief by their promptitude,
and preventing evil before it had come to a head.
But have these yeomen, who twice in a few months
abandoned their homes at a few hours' warning,
marched many miles, and by their demonstration of
readiness, put an end to a very serious affair, and
what might have been a very disastrous one---have
they, I say, since that period, received the countenance
due for their good-will from the Government,
and which should have been rendered alike
in policy and justice? I am informed they have
not. I am informed that they are, at least particular
troops of them are, refused the small allowance
made on the days when they are called out
for exercise, and must either discharge the duty of
training always sufficiently expensive and inconvenient,
entirely at their own expense, as some of
them have done for two years, or suffer their discipline
to fall into decay. Can it be that our English
brethren have taken a notion that sabres are
only curved broadswords, and that these are unhappy
weapons in the hands of Scotsmen? I acquit
them of such meanness. But they despise us
a little too much.</p>
<p> Sir, Discontent is the child of Distress, and
Distress is the daughter of ill-timed Experiment.
Should we again see disorderly associations formed,
and threats of open violence held out---should such
a winter and spring as 1821 return, it may not, in
the event of the measure with which Scotland is
threatened, be quite so easy, as at that period, to assemble
on a given spot, within a day or two, twelve
or fourteen hundred yeomen to support the handful
of military left within Scotland. That general
spirit of loyalty will, I am sure, be the same. But
when proprietors are embarrassed, tenants distressed,
commercial people in doubt and danger,
men lose at once their zeal, and the means for serving
the public. This is not unworthy of serious
consideration.</p>
<p> I mentioned in my former Letter another circumstance,
of which I think my country has reason
to complain. It is that sort of absolute and complete
state of tutelage to which England seems disposed
to reduce her sister country, subjecting her
in all her relations to the despotic authority of
English Boards, which exercise an exclusive jurisdiction
in Scottish affairs, without regard to her
local peculiarities, and with something like contempt
of her claims as a country united with England,
but which certainly has never resigned the
right of being at least consulted in her own concerns.
I mentioned the restrictions, and, as I
conceive them, degrading incapacities inflicted on
our Revenue Boards,---I might extend the same
observations to the regulations in the Stamp-Office;
---and I remember, when these were in progress,
that it was said in good society, that the definitive
instructions (verbal, I believe) communicated to
the able officer upon whom the examination and
adjustment of the alterations in that department
devolved, and who was sent down hither on purpose,
were to this purport:---``That he was to
proceed in Scotland without more regard to the
particular independence of that country than he
would feel in Yorkshire.'' These, however, were
matters interesting the general revenue---the servants
of the Crown had a right to regulate them as
they pleased. But if they were regulated with a
purposed and obvious intention to lessen the consequence
of Scotland, throw implied discredit on
her natives, as men unworthy of trust, and hold
her recollections and her feelings at nought, they
make links in a chain which seems ready to be wound
around us whenever our patience will permit.</p>
<p> This, sir, is an unwise, nay, an unsafe proceeding.
An old chain, long worn, forms a callosity on the
limb which bears it, and is endured, with whatever
inconvenience, as a thing of custom. It is not
so with restraints newly imposed. These fret---
gall---gangrene---the iron enters first into the flesh,
and then into the soul. I speak out what more
prudent men would keep silent. I may lose friends
by doing so: but he who is like Malachi Malagrowther,
old and unfortunate, has not many to
lose, and risks little in telling truths before, when
men of rising ambition and budding hopes would
leave them to be discovered by the event. The old
tree and the withered leaf are easily parted.</p>
<p> But, besides such matters of punctilio, Mr. Journalist,
there has been in England a gradual and
progressive system of assuming the management of
affairs entirely and exclusively proper to Scotland,
as if we were totally unworthy of having the
management of our own concerns. All must
centre in London. We could not have a Caledonian
canal, but the commissioners must be Englishmen,
and meet in London;---a most useful canal
they would have made of it, had not the lucky
introduction of steam-boats---_Deus ex machina_---
come just in time to redeem them from having
made the most expensive and most useless undertaking
of the kind ever heard of since Noah floated
his ark! We could not be intrusted with the
charge of erecting our own kirks, (churches in the
highlands,) or of making our roads and bridges in
the same wild districts, but these labours must be
conducted under the tender care of men who knew
nothing of our country, its wants and its capabilities,
but who, nevertheless, sitting in their office in
London, were to decide, without appeal, upon the
conduct of the roads in Lochaber!---Good Heaven,
sir! to what are we fallen?---or rather, what are
we esteemed by the English? Wretched drivellers,
incapable of understanding our own affairs; or
greedy peculators, unfit to be trusted? On what
ground are we considered either as the one or the
other?</p>
<p> But I may perhaps be answered, that these operations
are carried on by grants of public money;
and that, therefore, the English---undoubtedly the
only disinterested and public-spirited and trustworthy
persons in the universe---must be empowered
exclusively to look after its application.
Public money forsooth!!! I should like to know
whose pocket it comes out of? Scotland, I have
always heard, contributes =four millions= to the
public revenue. I should like to know, before we
are twitted with grants of public money, how much
of that income is dedicated to Scottish purposes---
how much applied to the general uses of the empire---
and if the balance should be found to a great
amount on the side of Scotland, as I suspect it will,
I should like still farther to know how the English
are entitled to assume the direction and disposal of
any pittance which may be permitted, out of the
produce of our own burdens, to revert to the peculiar
use of the nation from which it has been
derived? If England was giving us alms, she
would have a right to look after the administration
of them, lest they should be misapplied or embezzled.
If she is only consenting to afford us a small
share of the revenue derived from our own kingdom,
we have some title, methinks, to be consulted
in the management, nay, intrusted with it.</p>
<p> This assumption of uncalled-for guardianship
accelerates the circulation a little, and inclines one
to say to his countrymen,<p> ``Our blood has been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at such indignities.''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>summons which my countrymen have been best
accustomed to obey. Saunders, if it please your
honours, has been so long unused to stand erect in
your honours' presence, that, if I would have him
behave like a man, I must (like Sir Lucius O'Trigger
backing Bob Acres) slap him on the shoulder,
and throw a word in every now and then about his
<u>honour.</u> But it is not a hostile signal towards you.
The drums beat to <u>arms</u> and the trumpets sound
<u>Heraus,</u> as well when the soldiers are called out for
a peaceful as for a military object. And, which
is more to the purpose, the last time the celebrated
Fiery Cross was circulated in the Highlands, (it
was in the country of the Grants,) the clansmen
were called forth not to fight an enemy, but to stop
the progress of a dreadful conflagration which had
been kindled in the woods. To my countrymen I
speak in the language of many recollections, certain
they are not likely to be excited beyond the bounds
of temperate and constitutional remonstrance, but
desirous, by every effort in my, power, to awaken
them to a sense of their national danger.</p>
<ul>
<li>1st Henry IV., Act iii., scene i.</li>
<li>See the amusing work called _The English in Italy._---S.<p> This is really, sir, putting the few offices we
have left to indicate our ancient independence, on
a more ridiculous footing than the Dukes of Normandy
and Aquitaine, which imaginary vassals of
England used to revive at every coronation, and
were each of them allowed a whole man to represent
them;<*> while poor Scotland's high officers of</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>You could not keep a decent servant in your family,
sir, far more a partner, if you obviously treated
such a person as a man in whom no confidence
was to be reposed even in his own department. A
ludicrous mode has been lately fallen upon of keeping
up in appearance, and as far as the almanack
goes, our old list of Scottish offices. First, they
deprive a high office of state of all its emoluments,
and then they unite it with one to which some
emolument is still permitted to attach; so they are
doubled, like slices of bread and butter laid face to
face---English fashion, as schoolboys used to call
it---with this great difference, that only one slice is
buttered---an improvement which would scarce suit
John Bull's taste. The office of Lord Clerk Register
is thus united with that of the Keeper of the
Signet, with the emolument attached to the last
alone.<*> It was at another time proposed, on the</p>
<ul>
<li>The Right Hon. Lord Clerk Register has deserved---what
<em> he will think better than either office or salary---the solemn
</em> thanks of his countrymen, for the frank and decided tone
* which he has taken in the Currency Question.---S.<p> ``Two single gentlemen roll'd into one;''</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>same liberal footing, to unite the office of the Lord
Justice-General, (salary suppressed,) though I
believe the bill did not pass.<p> ``Magni nominis umbra.''</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>The good taste which directed the last august ceremony,
* dispensed with the appearance of these phantoms.---S.<p> ``What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?''---</p>
</li>
</ul>
<h2>state resemble Coleman's</h2>
<p> ---``What need _one?_''</p>
<p>or rather remind us of the starveling shifts of a
strolling company, in which two parts are performed
by one actor and for one salary. There
may be an emblem in the thing though. It is perhaps
designed to represent an union between two
kingdoms, or an incorporating union, in which one
enjoys the full advantages and supereminent authority,
and the other remains,<p> But what will England take by this engrossing
spirit? Not the miserable candle-ends and cheese-parings;
these, I dare say, she scorns. The mere
pleasure, then, of absolute authority---the gratification
of humour exacted by a peevish and petted
child, who will not be contented till he has the toy
in his own hand, though he break it the next
moment. Is any real power derived by centering
the immediate and direct control of every thing in
London? Far from it. On the contrary, that
great metropolis is already a head too bulky for
the empire, and, should it take a vertigo, the limbs
would be unable to support it. The misfortune of
France, during the Revolution, in all its phases,
was, that no part of the kingdom could think for
itself or act for itself; all were from habit necessitated
to look up to Paris. Whoever was uppermost
there---and the worst party is apt to prevail
in a corrupted metropolis---were, without possibility
of effectual contradiction, the uncontrolled and
despotic rulers of France---<u>absit omen!</u></p>
<p> Again, would the British empire become stronger,
were it possible to annul and dissolve all the distinctions
and peculiarities, which, flowing out of
circumstances, historical events, and difference of
customs and climates, make its relative parts still,
in some respects, three separate nations, though
intimately incorporated into one empire? Every
rope-maker knows, sir, that three distinct strands,
as they are called, incorporated and twisted together,
will make a cable ten times stronger than the
same quantity of hemp, however artificially combined
into a single twist of cord. The reason is
obvious to the meanest capacity. If one of the
strands happen to fail a little, there is a threefold
chance that no imperfection will occur in the others
at the same place, so that the infirm strand may
give way a little, yet the whole cord remain trustworthy.
If the single twist fail at any point, all is
over. For God's sake, sir, let us remain as Nature
made us, Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen,
with something like the impress of our several
countries upon each! We would not become better
subjects, or more valuable members of the common
empire, if we all resembled each other like so many
smooth shillings. Let us love and cherish each
other's virtues---bear with each other's failings---
be tender to each other's prejudices---be scrupulously
regardful of each other's rights. Lastly, let
us borrow each other's improvements, but never
before they are needed and demanded. The degree
of national diversity between different countries is
but an instance of that general variety which
Nature seems to have adopted as a principle through
all her works, as anxious, apparently, to avoid, as
modern statesmen to enforce, any thing like an
approach to absolute ``uniformity.''</p>
<p> It may be said that some of the grievances I
have complained of are mere trifles. I grant they
are---excepting in the feelings and intentions
towards Scotland which they indicate. But, according
to Bacon's maxim, you will see how the wind
sits by flinging up a feather, which you cannot discern
by throwing up a stone. Affronts are almost
always more offensive than injuries, although they
seldom are in themselves more than trifles. The
omitting to discharge a gun or two in a salute, the
raising or striking of a banner or sail, have been
the source of bloody wars. England lost America
about a few miserable chests of tea---she endangered
India for the clipping of a mustache.</p>
<p> But let us humble ourselves to our situation, and
confine our remonstrances to the immediate grievance,
which surely cannot be termed punctilious or
unimportant.</p>
<p> To England we say, therefore, Let us appeal
from Philip intoxicated to Philip sober. Leave
out exasperating circumstances on either side, and
examine our remonstrance, not in the jealous feeling
of which we have reason to complain, but in
the gentlemanlike and liberal tone so much more
becoming a great nation, and according, I must
say, so much better with your natural disposition.
As you mean that a value should be set upon your
free public voice by your legislators, allow the
natural influence of that of Scotland, in a matter
exclusively relating to her own affairs, but so intimately
connected with her welfare, that nothing
since the year 1748 has occurred of such importance.
The precedent is a bad one at any rate; the
consequences will be much worse.<p> ``Prevent---resist it. Let it not be so,
Lest children's children call against you---_woe!_''</p>
</p>
<p> Our Scottish Nobles and Gentlemen, I cannot
better exhort to resist the proposal at every stage,
by the most continued and unremitting opposition
---to be discouraged by nothing---to hope to the last
---to combat to the last---than by using once more
the words of the patriotic Belhaven:---``Man's extremity
is God's opportunity. He is a present help
in time of need; a deliverer, and that right early.
Some unforeseen providence will fall out, that may
cast the balance. Some Moses will say, Why do
you strive together when you are brethren? Some
Judah or other will say, Let not our hand be upon
him, he is our brother. Let us up then, and be
doing; and let our noble patriots behave themselves
like men, and we know not how soon a blessing
may come.''<h2> I am, Mr. Journalist,</h2>
<p> Yours,</p>
<p> =Malachi Malagrowther.=</p>
<h2> LETTER III.<! p25></h2>
<p> <u>March</u> 7,1826.</p>
</p>
<p> =Dear Mr. Journalist,=</p>
<p> This third set of Mr. Baxter's last words is
rather a trial on your patience, considering how
much <u>Balaam</u> (speaking technically) I have edged
out of your valuable paper; how I have trodden on
the toes of your Domestic Intelligence, and pushed
up to the wall even your Political Debates, until
you have almost lost your honoured title of the
=Edinburgh Journal= in that of =Malachi's Chronicle.=</p>
<p> I returned from the Meeting of Inhabitants on
Friday last, sir, convoked for considering this
question, with much feeling of gratification from
what I saw and heard; but still a little disappointed
that no one appeared on the opposite side, excepting
one gentleman (``self pulling,'' as Captain Crowe
says, ``against the whole ship's crew,'') whose eloquence
used no other argument than by recommending
implicit deference to the wisdom of Ministers.
I am a pretty stanch Tory myself, but not
up to this point of humility. I never have nor will
bargain for an implicit surrender of my private
judgment in a national question of this sort. I am
but an unit, but of units the whole sum of society
is composed. On the present question, had I been
the born servant of Ministers, I would have used
to them the words of Cornwall's dependent, when
he interferes to prevent his master from treading
out Gloster's eyes---<p> ``I have served you ever since I have been a child,
But better service have I never done you,
Than now to bid you _Hold._''</p>
</p>
<p> Or in a yet more spirited passage in the same
drama---<p> ``Be Kent unmannerly,
When Lear is mad.''</p>
</p>
<p> To return to the business. By the unanimity
of the meeting, I lost an opportunity of making a
very smart extempore speech, which I had sate
up half the night for the purpose of composing.
To have so much eloquence die within me unuttered,
excited feelings like those of Sancho, when,
in the deserts of the Sierra Morena, his good things
rotted in his gizzard. To console me, however, I
found, on my return to my lodgings in the Lawnmarket,
my own lucubrations blazing in the goodly
form of two responsible pamphlets. I seized on
them as if I had never seen them before, and recited
the more animated passages aloud, striding
up and down a room, in which, from its dimensions,
striding is not very convenient. I ended with
reading aloud the motto, which I designed in the
pride of my heart to prefix to my immortal twins,
hen, side by side, under the same comely cover,
whey shall travel down to posterity as a crown octavo;---<p> ``He set a bugle to his mouth,
And blew a blast sae shrill,
The trees in greenwood shook thereat,
Sae loud rang ilka hill.''<*></p>
</p>
</p>
<p>I do not suppose this farce will be continued long.
We shall in due time, I suppose, be put all under
English control, deprived even of the few native
dignitaries and office-holders we have left, and
accommodated with a set of English superintendents
in every department. It will be upon the
very reasoning of Goneril before alluded to:---<p> But while I mentally claimed for myself the
honour of alarming Scotland, from Coldstream
Bridge to the far Highlands, I was giving, by the
noise I made, far greater alarm to my neighbour,
Christopher Chrysal, who keeps the small hardware
and miscellaneous shop under the turnpike
stair. Now, sir, you must know that Chrysal deals
occasionally in broken tea-spoons and stray sugar-tongs,
dismantled lockets and necklaces (which have
passed with more or less formality from ladies to
their waiting-maids,) seals, out of which valets have
knocked the stones that the setting might be rendered
available, and such other small gear,---nay,
I once saw an old silver coffee-pot in his possession.
On the score, therefore, of being connected with the
precious metals by his calling, neighbour Chrysal
has set himself up for a patron and protector of
gold and silver, and a stout contender for bullion
currency. With a half-crown in one hand, and a
twenty-shilling note in the other, he will spout like
a player over the two pictures in Hamlet, and it is
great to hear him address them alternately---<p> ``=This= is the thing itself---Off, off, ye lendings!''</p>
</p>
</p>
<h2>Patrick, will you play Regan, and echo,</h2>
<p> I had no sooner apologized to Christopher for
the disturbance I had occasioned (which I did with
some shame of countenance,) than I politely offered
him a copy of my pamphlet. He thanked me, but
added with a grin (for you know no man is a prophet
in his own common stair,) that he had nothing
particular to wrap up at present: ``But in troth,
Mr. Malachi,'' said he, ``I looked over your pamphlet
in the reading-room, and I must tell you as
a friend, you have just made a fool of yourself,
Mr. Malachi.''---``A fool!'' replied I; ``when, how,
and in what manner?''---``Ye have set out, sir,''
replied he,---for Chrysal is a kind of orator, and
speaks as scholarly and wisely as his neighbours,
---``with assuming the principle, which you should
have proved---You say, that in consequence of restoring
the healthful currency of the precious
metals, instead of keeping those ragged scraps of
paper, Scotland will experience a want of the circulating
medium, by which deprivation her industry
will be cramped, her manufactures depressed, her
fisheries destroyed, and so forth. But you know
nothing of the nature of the precious metals, and
how should you?''</p>
<p> ``Why, not by dealing in old thimbles, broken
buckles, and children's whistles, certainly, or stolen
_sprecherie,_'' said I; ``but speak out, man, wherein
do I evince ignorance of the nature of the precious
metals---tell me that?''</p>
<p> ``Why, Mr. Malachi Malagrowther,'' said my
friend, in wrath, ``I pronounce you ignorant of the
most ordinary principles of Political Economy. In
your unadvised tract there, you have shown yourself
as irritable as Balaam, and as obstinate as his
ass. You are making yourself and other people
fidgety about the want of gold, to supply the place
of that snuff-paper of yours; now in this, I repeat,
you are ignorant.''</p>
<p> Here he raised his voice, as if speaking <u>ex cathedra.</u>
``Gold,'' continued he, ``is a commodity
itself, though it be also the representative of other
commodities; just as a banker is a man, though his
business is to deal money. Gold, therefore, like
all other commodities, will flow to the place where
there is a demand for it. It will be found, assure
yourself, wherever it is most wanted; just as, if
you dig a well, water will percolate into it from all
the neighbourhood. Twenty years ago you could
not have seen a cigar in Edinburgh. Gillespie,
the greatest snuff-merchant of his day, would not
have known what you wanted had you asked him
for one; and now the shop-windows of the dealers
are full of real Havannahs,---and why?---because
you see every writer's apprentice with a cigar in
his mouth. It is the demand that makes the supply,
and so it will be with the gold. The balance
of free-trade, whether the commodity be gold or
grain, will go where the one finds mouths to be fed,
the other a currency to be supported. What sent
specie into the lagoons of Venice, and into the
swamps of Holland formerly, as well as into the
emporium of London now, while large cities, situated
under a finer climate, and in a more fertile
country, were and are comparatively destitute of
the precious metals?---what, save the tendency of
commerce, like water, to find its own just level,
and to send all the commodities subject to its influence,
the precious metals included, to the points
where they are most wanted?''</p>
<p> Now, Mr. Journalist, I am a man of a quick
temper, but somewhat of a slow wit; and though
it struck me that there was something fallacious
in this argument, yet, bolstered out as it was by
his favourite metaphor, it sounded so plausible,
that the right answer did not at once occur to me.
Chrysal went on in triumph: ``You speak of your
Fisheries and Kelp manufacture, and such like, and
seem to dread that they will be all ruined for want
of a circulating medium. But, sir, one of two,
things must happen. Either =first,= assuming that
these branches of industry are beneficial to the
individuals, and make advantageous returns; as
such they will have the usual power of attracting
towards them the specie necessary to carry them
on, and, of course, no change whatever will take
place. Or, =secondly,= these fisheries, and so forth,
produce no adequate return for the labour expended
on them, and are therefore a compulsory
species of manufacture, like those establishments
instituted at the direct expense, and under the immediate
control of government, which we see fading
in despotic countries, or only deriving a sickly existence
by the expenditure of the Sovereign, and
not by their own natural vigour. In that latter
case,'' he pursued, ``those fishing and kelping
operations are not productive---are useless to the
country---and ought not to be carried on an hour
longer; they only occasion the mis-employment of
so much capital, the loss of so much labour. Leave
your kelp-rocks to the undisturbed possession of
seals and mermaids, if there be any---you will buy
<u>barilla</u> cheaper in South America. Send your
Highland fishers to America and Botany Bay,
where they will find plenty of food, and let them
leave their present sterile residence in the utter and
undisturbed solitude for which Nature designed it.
Do not think you do any hardship in obeying the
universal law of nature, which leads wants and
supplies to draw to their just and proper level, and
equalize each other; which attracts gold to those
spots, and those only, where it can be profitably
employed, and induces man to transport himself
from the realms of famine to those happier regions,
where labour is light and subsistence plentiful.</p>
<p> ``Lastly,'' said the unconscionable Christopher,
``sweep out of your head, Mr. Malachi, all that absurd
rubbish of ancient tradition and history about
national privileges---you might as well be angry
with the Provost who pulled down the Luckenbooths.
They do not belong to this day, in which
so many changes have taken place, and so many
more are to be expected. We look for what is
=useful,= sir, and to what is useful only; and our
march towards utility is not to be interrupted by
reference to antiquated treaties, or obsolete prejudices.
So, while you sit flourishing your claymore,
Mr. Malachi, on the top of your Articles of Union,
very like the figure of a Highlander on the sign of
a whisky-office, take care you are not served as the
giant who built his castle on the marvellous beanstalk---
Truth comes like the old woman with the
`cuttie-axe'---it costs but a swashing blow or two,
and down comes Malachi and his whole system.''
---So saying, <u>exit</u> Christopher, <u>ovans.</u></p>
<p> There was such a boldness and plausibility about
the fellow, and such a confidence in the arguments
which he expressed so fluently, that I felt a temporary
confusion of ideas, and was obliged to throw
myself into what has been, for many generations,
the considering position of the Malagrowther family:
that is to say, I flung myself back in our
hereditary easy-chair, fixing my eyes on the roof,
but keeping them, at the same time, half shut;
having my hands folded, and twirling my thumbs
slowly around each other, a motion highly useful
in unravelling and evolving the somewhat tangled
thread of the ideas. Thus seated, in something
short of two hours I succeeded in clearing out the
ravelled skean, which evolved itself in as orderly
a coil before me as if it had been touched by the
rod of Prince Percinet, in the fairy tale, and I am
about to communicate the result. I must needs
own that my discoveries went so far as was like to
have involved you in an examination of the general
principles on which the doctrine of currency depends.
But since, <u>entre nous,</u> we might get a little
beyond our depth on the subject, I have restrained
myself within the limits of the question, as practically
applicable to Scotland.</p>
<p> My present business is to inquire how this meditated
change of circulation, supposing it forcibly
imposed on us, is to be accomplished---by what
magic art, in other words, our paper is to be
changed into gold, without some great national
distress, nay, convulsion, <u>in transitu?</u></p>
<p> My neighbour deems anxiety in this case quite
ridiculous. Gold, he says, is a commodity, and
whenever its presence becomes necessary, there it
will appear. Guineas, according to Christopher,
are like the fairy goblets in Parnell's tale,<p> ``that with a wish come nigh,
And with a wish retire.''</p>
</p>
<p>Take care, my good fellow! for you will scarce get
a great share in our spoils, and will be shortly
incapacitated, and put under a statute of lunacy as
well as ourselves.<p> And yet there is some truth in what my neighbour
says; for if a man is indispensably obliged to
have a sum of money, why he must make every
effort to raise it. Supposing I was in business, and
threatened with insolvency, I might find myself
under the necessity of getting cash by selling property
at an under rate, or procuring loans at usurious
interest on what I retained, and in that
ruinous manner I might raise money, because still
nearer ruin stared me in the face if I did not. The
question is, how long supplies so obtained could
continue;---Not an instant longer than I have articles
to sell or to pawn. After this, my usual wants
would be as pressing, but I might wish my heart
out ere I found a groat to relieve them---No fairy
will leave a silver penny in my shoe. Now, I fear
it must be by some such violent sacrifices, as those
in the case supposed, that Scotland must purchase
and maintain her metallic currency, if her present
substitute is debarred.</p>
<p> Mr. Chrysal's proposition should not then run,
that gold will come when it is most needed, but
should have been expressed thus,---that in countries
where the presence of gold is rendered indispensable,
it must be obtained, whatever price is given
for it, while the means of paying such a price remain.</p>
<p> He amuses himself, indeed, and puzzles his
hearers, by affirming that gold is like water, and,
like water when poured out, it will find its level.
---A metaphor is no argument in any instance; but
I think I can contrive in the present to turn my
friend's own water-engine against him. Scotland,
sir, is not <u>beneath</u> the level to which gold flows
naturally. She is <u>above</u> that level, and she may
perish for want of it ere she sees a guinea, without
she, or the State for her, be at the perpetual expense
of maintaining, by constant expenditure of
a large per centage, that metallic currency which
has a natural tendency to escape from a poor country
back to a rich one. Just so, a man might die
of thirst on the top of a Scottish hill, though a
river or a lake lay at the base of it. Therefore, if
we insist upon the favourite comparison of gold
to water, we must conceive the possibility of the
golden Pactolus flowing up Glencroe in an opposite
direction to the natural element, which trots
down from the celebrated <u>Rest and be Thankful.</u></p>
<p> If my friend would consult the clerk of the
Water Company, at his office in the Royal Exchange,
he would explain the matter at once.
``Let me have,'' says Mr. Chrysal, ``a pipe of
water to my house.''---``Certainly, sir; it will cost
you forty shillings yearly.''---``The devil it will!
Why, surely the Lawnmarket is lower than the
Reservoir on the Castlehill? It is the nature of
water to come to a level. What title have you to
charge me money, when the element is only obeying
the laws of Nature, and descending to its
level?''---``Very true, sir,'' replies the clerk; ``but
then it was no law of Nature brought it to the reservoir,
at a height which was necessary to enable
us to disperse the supply over the city. On the
contrary, it was an exertion of Art in despite of
Nature. It was forced hither by much labour and
ingenuity. Lakes were formed,---aqueducts constructed,
rivers dammed up, pipes laid for many
miles. Without immense expense, the water could
never have been brought here; and without your
paying a rateable charge, you cannot have the benefit
of it.''</p>
<p> This is exactly the case with the gold currency.
It must have a natural tendency to centre in London,
for the exchange is heavily against Scotland.
We have the whole public income, four millions a-year,
to remit thither. Independent of that large
and copious drain, we have occasion to send to
England the rents of non-resident proprietors, and
a thousand other payments to make to London,
which must be done in specie, or by bills payable
in the metropolis. So that the circulation moves
thither of free-will, like a horse led by the bridle;
while Scotland's attempts to detain it, are like those
of a wild Highlandman catching his pony by the
tail. Or, to take a very old comparison, London
is like Aboulcasem's well, full of gold, gems, and
every thing valuable. The rich contents are drawn
from it by operations resembling those of a forcing-pump,
which compel small portions into the extreme
corners of the kingdom; but all these golden
streamlets, when left to themselves, trickle back to
the main reservoir.</p>
<p> My friend's idea of a voluntary, unsolicited, and
unbought supply of metallic currency, is like the
reasoning of old Merrythought, when, with only a
shilling in his pocket, he expresses a resolution to
continue a jovial course of life. ``But how wilt
thou come by the means, Charles?'' says his wife.
``How?'' replied the gay old gentleman, in a full
reliance on his resources,---``How?---Why, how
have I done hitherto, these forty years?---I never
came into my dining-room, but, at eleven and six
o'clock, I found excellent meat and drink on the
table. My clothes were never worn out, but next
morning a tailor brought me a new suit, and, without
question, it will be so ever---use makes perfectness.''
The dramatist has rescued his jolly
epicurean out of the scrape before his slender stock
was exhausted; but in what mode Scotland is to be
relieved from the expense about to be imposed on
a country, where industry and skill can but play a
saying game, at best, against national disadvantages,
is not so easy to imagine.</p>
<p> What may be the expense of purchasing in the
outset, and maintaining in constant supply, a million
and a half of gold, I cannot pretend to calculate,
but something may be guessed from the following
items:---To begin, like Mrs. Glass's recipe
for dressing a hare, _first catch your hare_---first buy
your gold at whatever sacrifice of loss of exchange;
then add to the price a reasonable profit to those
who are to advance the purchase-money---next
insure your specie against water-thieves and land-thieves,
perils of winds, waves, and rocks, from the
Mint to the wharf, from the wharf to Leith, from
Leith to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to the most
remote parts of Scotland, unprotected by police of
any kind---the insurances can be no trifle; besides,
that an accident or two, like the loss of the Delight
smack the other day, with <L>4000 of specie on
board, will make a tolerably heavy addition to other
bills of charges, as the expense of carriages, guards,
and so forth---then add the items together, and
compute the dead loss of interest upon the whole
sum. The whole may be moderately calculated at
an expense of more than <u>five per cent.,</u> a charge
which must ultimately be laid on the Scottish manufactures,
agricultural operations, fisheries, and
other public and private undertakings; many of
which are not at present returning twelve or fifteen
per cent. of profit at the uttermost.</p>
<p> My friend Chrysal's reasoning rested on this
great mistake, that he confounds the necessity of
our procuring gold under the operation of the new
system, and the supplies which that necessity must
necessarily oblige us to purchase, with a voluntary
determination of unbought treasures running uphill
to find their level at Stornoway, Tongue, or
Oban. He imagines that the specie, for which we
have to pay a heavy consideration, will come to our
service voluntarily. I answer, in one word, the
gold will come, if purchased, =and not otherwise.=
The expense attending the operation will be just a
tax upon the parties who pay it, with this difference,
that it makes no addition to the public revenue.
Every sovereign we get, which passes, of course,
for twenty shillings, will, before it gets to the
north of Scotland, have cost _one_-and-twenty. Illustrations
of so plain a proposition are endless.
Suppose Government had imposed a stamp-duty
upon any commodity, and, whilst with some other
cowl'd neighbours I am canvassing its effects, I
ask, as a party concerned,---``But how are we to
come by these stamps? The branch of commerce
to which they apply is not able to bear the impost.''
Up rises my friend Chrysal in reply---``Stamped
paper,'' says he, ``is a commodity; and, like all
commodities, flows to the point where there is a
demand.'' True---but, unhappily, when the stamped
paper is in bodily presence, I cannot have a slip of
it till I pay the impost; and if my trade does not
enable me to do so, I must give it up, or be a
ruined man!</p>
<p> The same consequences must attend the increased
expense of the circulation under the proposed
measure, as would apply to a tax in any other
form. The manufactures, public works, and private
speculations, which are making a return, enabling
them to defray the charge attending the more
expensive medium of circulation, will struggle on
as they can, with less profit by the direct amount,
and more disadvantages arising from the means of
circulation being at the mercy of winds and waves,
and subjected to long and perilous transportation
before the gold reaches them. Those, on the other
hand, whose trade makes more precarious returns,
will be no longer able to wait for better times.
They will give up all, and the consequences to
Scotland---and England also---omitting all allusion
to individual distress, will be a black history.</p>
<p> I have already said, that the Fisheries and Kelp
shores, and improvements on the more bleak and
distant districts, will probably be the first sufferers.
And my neighbour replies, with a sweeping argument,
that enterprises which cannot support themselves
by their own exertions, and natural returns
of profit, ought not to have the encouragement of
Government---that they are only vain schemes, in
which labour and expense are wasted without their
bringing the necessary return, and that the force
employed in keeping up these barren and fruitless
undertakings, should, as soon as possible, be directed
into a more productive channel. If I urge, that,
although these undertakings may not, as yet, have
made the full returns expected, yet they support
many people, natives of a country otherwise too
poor to furnish the means of livelihood to its inhabitants,
why,---the answer is equally ready. Let
the Highlander emigrate, or be transported to
Botany Bay; and supply his place with sheep,---
---goats,---any thing, or nothing at all.</p>
<p> I do not mean to deny, sir, that there is general
truth in the maxims, which recommend that a free
trade be left to sustain itself by its own exertions;
deprecating the system of forcing commerce when
its natural efforts were not successful, and warning
against planting colonies in unhealthy or barren
spots, where the colonists must perish, or exist in
a state of miserable and precarious dependence on
the bounties of the mother country. To these
political truths I subscribe cheerfully---But an old
civilian used to tell me, <u>fraus latet in generalibus;</u>
and no general maxim can be safely, wisely, or
justly applied, until it has been carefully considered
how far it is controlled by the peculiar circumstances
of the case. The precepts of Religion herself,
as expressed in the holiest texts of Scripture,
have been wrested into sophistry---the soundest
political principles may, by the frigid subtleties of
metaphysical moonshine, be extended so as, in
appearance, to authorise aggressions on national
rights, as well as on the dictates of sound wisdom
and humanity.</p>
<p> I have more replies than one to my neighbour's
doctrines of Political Economy (though true in the
abstract,) when I consider them as applicable to
the case in question.</p>
<p> In the <u>first</u> place, I deny that the Scottish Fisheries
are in the predicament to which the maxim
quoted triumphantly by my friend Chrysal, applies.
I say that they are already supporting themselves,
and producing a moderate but certain profit; only
that this profit is as yet so moderate, that it certainly
will not bear an impost of probably five or
six per cent. upon the gross capital employed; and
that, therefore, it is the highest impolicy to smother,
by such a burden, important national undertakings,
which are, without such new imposition, in a condition
to maintain themselves. It would be breaking
the reed ere it had attained its strength, and
quenching the smoking flax just when about to
burst into flame.</p>
<p> <u>Secondly,</u> Admitting, from the great poverty of
the inhabitants, and other discouraging circumstances,
that the Scottish fisheries have for a long
time required the support of Government, I still
aver, that the expense attending such support has
been well and wisely disposed of,---just as a landlord
would act not generously only, but most prudently,
in giving favourable terms of settlement
to a tenant, who was to improve his farm largely.
An exotic shrub, when first planted, must be
watered and cared for---a child requires tenderness
and indulgence till he has got through the sickly
and helpless years of infancy. A fishery or manufacture,
established in a wild country, and among
a population of indolent habits, unaccustomed to
industry, and to the enjoyment of the profits derived
from it, will, at the outset, require assistance
from the State, till old habits are surmounted, and
difficulties overcome. There is something in the
nature of the people, who have been long depressed
by poverty, resembling the qualities of their own
peat-earth. Left alone, it is the most anti-septic
and inert of Nature's productions; but when,
according to the process of compost invented by
the late ingenious Lord Meadowbank, this <u>caput
mortuum</u> is intermixed with a small portion of
active manure, it heats, ferments, changes its sluggish
nature, and fertilizes the whole country in the
vicinity. No agriculturist regards the expense of
the proportion of manure necessary to commence
this vivifying operation; and neither will any wise
government regret the outlay of sums employed in
exciting the industry, improving the comforts, and
amending the condition, of its inhabitants. In the
present case, Government has done this duty
amply---The tree has taken root, the child is rising
fast to youth and manhood---the establishments of
the fisheries are in full progress to triumphant
success. The question is not, if you are yet to
continue your encouragement---nor whether the
public is to save some expense by withdrawing it?
In these questions there would be a direct and
palpable motive, that of a saving to the State,
which, so far as it went, would be a real, if not an
adequate motive, for breaking up these establishments.
But the question at issue turns on this
very different point---whether, by a measure obnoxious
to Scotland, and in which England cannot
challenge an interest remote or direct, you are to
adopt an enactment so likely to create the ruin of
these establishments, now that they have already
attained prosperity? The wish of many of the
wisest English patriots has been accomplished---
the barren and desolate shores are compensated in
that desolation by the riches of the sea---foreigners
are driven from engrossing as formerly their
wealth, and selling to Britain herself at advantage,
the produce of her own coasts. Thriving villages
are already found where there were scarcely to be
seen the most wretched hovels; a population lazy
and indolent, because they had no motive for exertion,
have become, on finding the employment, and
tasting the fruits of industry, an enterprising and
hardy race of seamen, well qualified to enrich their
country in peace---to defend her in time of war.
<u>All this</u> is =gained.= Shall all be lost again, to render
the system of currency betwixt England and
Scotland uniform? all sacrificed to what I can call
little more than a political conundrum? In my
opinion, the Dutchmen might as well cut the dikes,
and let the sea in upon the land their industry has
gained from it. In the case of Holland, she would
at least save the money expended in maintaining
her ramparts. In our case, the State gains nothing
and loses every thing.</p>
<p> Lastly, I would say a word in behalf of the
people of Scotland, merely as human beings, and
entitled to consideration as such. I will suppose
this alteration is recommended by some expected
advantages of great importance, but the nature of
which are prudently concealed. I will suppose,
what is not easily understood, that in some unintelligible
manner England is to gain with addition
what Scotland is condemned to lose. (The process,
by the way, seems to resemble that recommended
by Moli<e`>re's quack, who prescribes the putting out
of one eye, that the other may see further, and
more acutely.) I will suppose that our statesmen,
by enforcing this measure, condemn to emigration,
or transportation---the punishment she inflicts on
felons---the inhabitants of distant and desert tracts,
on the mainland and in the Hebrides, to save her
from some expense, and because she thinks a
country so different from her own fertile valleys,
cannot be fit for human habitation. In that case I
would say, Consider first, the character of the population
you are about to consign thus summarily to
the effects which must follow the destroying their
present means of livelihood. My countrymen
have their faults, and I am well aware of them.
But this I will say, that there is more vice, more
crime---nay, more real want and misery, more degrading
pauperism and irremediable wretchedness,
in the parish of Saint Giles's alone, than in the
whole Highlands and pastoral districts of Scotland,
or perhaps in all Scotland together. Poor as the
inhabitants are, the wants of the Highlanders are
limited to their circumstances; and they have enjoyments
which make amends, in their own way of
reckoning, for deprivations which they do not greatly
feel. Their land is to them a land of many recollections.
I will not dwell on that subject, lest I be
thought fantastic in harping on a tune so obsolete.
But every heart must feel some sympathy when I
say, they love their country, rude as it is, because it
holds the churches where their fathers worshipped,
and the churchyards where their bones are laid.</p>
<p> This is not all. Mountainous countries inspire
peculiarly strong attachments into the natives,
showing, perhaps, if we argue up to the Final
Great Cause, that while it was the pleasure of God
that men should exist in all parts of the world,
which His pleasure called into being, the Beneficence
of the Common Father annexed circumstances
of consolation, which should compensate the mountaineers
for want of the fertility and fine climate
enjoyed by the inhabitants of the plain. Some
philosophers, looking to secondary causes, have referred
the sense of this local attachment amongst
mountaineers to the influence of the sublime though
desolate scenery around them, as stamping the idea
of a peculiar country more deeply on their bosoms.
The chief cause seems to me to be, that such tribes
rarely change their dwellings, and therefore become
more wedded to their native districts than are the
inhabitants of those where the population is frequently
fluctuating. The land is not only theirs
now, it pertained to a long list of fathers' before
them; and the coldest philosopher will regard what
is called a family estate with greater attachment
than he applies to a recent purchase.</p>
<p> But independent of this, the inhabitants of the
wilder districts in Scotland have actually some
enjoyments, both moral and physical, which compensate
for the want of better subsistence and more
comfortable lodging. In a word, they have more
liberty than the inhabitants of the richer soil.
Englishmen will start at this as a paradox; but it
is very true notwithstanding, that, if one great
privilege of liberty be the power of going where a
man pleases, the Scotch peasant enjoys it much
more than the English. The pleasure of viewing
``fair Nature's face,'' and a great many other
primitive enjoyments, for which a better diet and
lodging are but indifferent substitutes, are more
within the power of the poor man in Scotland than
in the sister country. A Scottish gentleman, in the
wilder districts, is seldom severe in excluding his
poor neighbours from his grounds; and I have
known many that have voluntarily thrown them
open to all quiet and decent persons who wish to
enjoy them. The game of such liberal proprietors,
their plantations, their fences, and all that is apt to
suffer from intruders, have, I have observed, been
better protected than where severer measures of
general seclusion were adopted. <u>Haud inexpertus
loquor.</u></p>
<p> But in many districts, the part of the soil which,
with the utmost stretch of appropriation, the first-born
of Egypt can set apart for his own exclusive
use, bears a small proportion indeed to the uncultivated
wastes. The step of the mountaineer on his
wild heath, solitary mountain, and beside his far-spread
lake, is more free than that which is confined
to a dusty turnpike, and warned from casual deviation
by advertisements which menace the summary
vindication of the proprietor's monopoly of his extensive
park, by spring-guns or man-traps, or the
more protracted, yet scarce less formidable denunciation,
of what is often, and scarce unjustly spelled,
``<u>persecution</u> according to law.'' Above all, the
peasant lives and dies as his fathers did, in the cot
where he was born, without ever experiencing the
horrors of a workhouse. This may compensate for
the want of much beef, beer, and pudding, in those
to whom habit has not made this diet indispensable.</p>
<p> It is to be hoped that experimental legislation
will pause ere consigning a race, which is contented
with its situation, to banishment, because they only
offer at present their hardy virtues and industry
to the stock of national prosperity, instead of communicating
largely to national wealth. Even considered
as absolute paupers, they have some right
to such slight support as may be necessary to aid
them in maintaining themselves by their own industry.
If the poor elsewhere could be maintained
without the degrading sense that they were receiving
eleemosynary aid, it would be the better for
themselves and their country.</p>
<p> I will admit, for argument's sake, that the public
funds which have established those fishing stations
might have been bestowed to better advantage;
still, having been so expended, we ought certainly
not to be hasty in withdrawing our support, even
if we may judge that it was incautiously granted
at first. The philosopher, in the fanciful tale of
<u>Frankenstein,</u> acted unwisely in creating the unnatural
being to which art enabled him to give life
and motion; but when he had, like a second Prometheus,
given sensation and power of thought to
the creation of his skill and science, he had no title
to desert the giant whom he had called into existence;
and the story shows that no good came of his
being discontented with his own handiwork. But
I contend, that the establishments to which I allude
exhibit nothing save what may render the founders
and encouragers proud of the result of their patriotic
labours.</p>
<p> I do therefore hope that the present contented
and rapidly improving condition of so many fellow-creatures,
will be considered as something in the
scale, when a measure shall be finally weighed,
which, in the opinion of all connected with the
north of Scotland, threatens to deprive them of
the means of livelihood.</p>
<p> On other national topics I have already said
enough. Those who look only at states and ledgers,
hold such feelings as arise upon points of national
honour, as valueless as a cipher without a numeral
prefixed. Right or wrong, however, they still have
an effect on the people of Scotland, as all can bear
witness who were here when his Majesty honoured
the capital of his ancestors with his own presence.
We would not plead these too high neither, nor
cling tenaciously by antiquated pretensions, which
may obstruct the general welfare of the empire;
but we deprecate that sort of change which is
made for the mere sake of innovation. A proud
nation cannot endure such experiments when they
touch honour---a poor one cannot brook them when
attended with heavy loss. We are all aware that
many changes must of necessity be---the political
atmosphere is heavy and gloomy with the symptoms
of them,---<p> ``And coming events cast their shadows before.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Ballad of Hardyknute.<p> Seasonable improvements are like the timely and
regular showers, which, falling softly and silently
upon the earth, when fittest to be received, awaken
its powers of fertility. Hasty innovation is like
the headlong hurricane, which may indeed be ultimately
followed by beneficial consequences, but is,
in its commencement and immediate progress, attended
by terror, tumult, and distress.</p>
<p> This is indeed a period when change of every
kind is boldly urged and ingeniously supported,
nay, finds support in its very singularity: as the
wildest doctrines of enthusiasm have been often
pleaded with most eloquence, and adopted with
most zeal. One philosopher will convert the whole
country into work-houses, just as Commodore
Trunnion would have arranged each parish on the
system of a man-of-war. Another class has turned
the system of Ethics out of doors, and discovers, on
the exterior of the skull, the passions of which we
used to look for the source within. One set of
fanatics join to dethrone the Deity, another to set
up Prince Hohenloe. The supporters of all find
preachers, hearers, and zealots, and would find
martyrs if persecuted. We are, at such a speculative
period, obliged to be cautious in adopting
measures which are supported only by speculative
argument. Let men reason as ingeniously as they
will, and we will listen to them, amused if we are
not convinced. I have heard with great pleasure
an ingenious person lecture on phrenology, and
have been much interested in his process of reasoning.
But should such a philosopher propose to saw
off or file away any of the bumps on my skull, by
way of improving the moral sense, I am afraid I
should demur to the motion.</p>
<p> I have read, I think in Lucian, of two architects,
who contended before the people at Athens which
should be intrusted with the task of erecting a
temple. The first made a luminous oration, showing
that he was, in theory at least, master of his
art, and spoke with such glibness in the hard terms
of architecture, that the assembly could scarce be
prevailed on to listen to his opponent, an old man
of unpretending appearance. But when he obtained
audience, he said in a few words, ``All that
this young man can talk of, I have =done.='' The
decision was unanimously in favour of Experience
against Theory. This resembles exactly the question
now tried before us.</p>
<p> <u>Here</u> stands Theory, a scroll in her hand, full of
deep and mysterious combinations of figures, the
least failure in any one of which may alter the
result entirely, and which you must take on trust,
for who is capable to go through and check them?
<u>There</u> lies before you a practical System, successful
for upwards of a century. The one allures you
with promises, as the saying goes, of untold gold,---
the other appeals to the miracles already wrought
in your behalf. The one shows you provinces, the
wealth of which has been tripled under her management,---
the other a problem which has never been
practically solved. Here you have a pamphlet---
there a fishing town---here the long-continued
prosperity of a whole nation---and there the opinion
of a professor of Economics, that in such circumstances
she ought not by true principles to have
prospered at all. In short, good countrymen, if
you are determined, like <AE>sop's dog, to snap at
the shadow and lose the substance, you had never
such a gratuitous opportunity of exchanging food
and wealth for moonshine in the water.</p>
<p> Adieu, sir. This is the last letter you will receive
from,<h2> Yours, &c.</h2>
<p> =Malachi Malagrowther.=</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>But with all the contempt he expressed for the
paper substitute, I have always seen that it steals
quietly back to the solitude of his little pocketbook.
Indeed, the barber says Mr. Chrysal has other
reasons for wishing a change of currency, or a currency
of change, in respect of his own acceptances
not being in these sharp times quite so locomotive
as usual---They love the desk of the holder, sir,
better than the counter of his great Neighbours in
Bank Street. You understand me---but I hate
scandal.<p> Planting Waste Lands.<*></p>
</p>
<p>I don't know how it may be in national necessities,
but I have some reason to think that friend Chrysal
has not, any more than I have myself, found the
maxim true, in so far as concerns our personal experience.
I heartily wish, indeed, this comfortable
doctrine extended to individual cases, and that the
greater occasion a poor devil had for money, the
more certain he should be of his wants being supplied
by the arrival of that obliging article, which
is said to come wherever it is wanted. Since
Fortunatus's time, the contrary has in general
proved to be the case, and I cannot deny it would
be very convenient to us to have his system restored.</p>
<p>These changes will be wrought in their time; but
we trust they will not be forced forward suddenly,
or until the public mind is prepared for, and the
circumstances of the country require them.<p> To apply the maxim to the art of planting, we
would remark, that there are certain general principles
respecting planting, pruning, thinning, and
so forth, without which no plantations will be
found eminently successful, even in the most advantageous
situations; and which, being carefully
followed, in less favourable circumstances, will
make up for many deficiencies of soil and climate.
But on the other hand, there are many peculiar
modes of treating plantations which, succeeding
extremely well in one situation, will in another
impede, rather than advance, the progress of the
wood. Yet it frequently happens that these very
varieties, or peculiarities of practice, are insisted
upon, by those who build systems, as the indispensable
requisites for success in every case. This
leads to empirical doctrines of all sorts, which,
perhaps, prevail more among planters than in any
other department of rural practice. Such are,
violent and exclusive prepossessions entertained
in favour of any particular kind of tree, how valuable
soever; such are also the differences eagerly
and obstinately maintained respecting particular
modes of preparing the ground, and the precise
season of putting in the plants. Such also, are
some particular doctrines held concerning pruning.
Upon all these points we find practical men entertain
and express very opposite opinions, with as
much pertinacity as if they had been handed down,
in direct tradition, from the first of men and of
foresters. The feuds arising from these differences
of opinion have, as in the case of religion
itself, been unfavourable to the progress of the
good cause; and one of the most important of
national improvements has been, in a great measure,
neglected, because men could not make up
their minds concerning the very best possible mode
of conducting it.</p>
<p> We are far, very far, from supposing ourselves
capable of filling up, by a general sketch, a summary
of rules which may be useful to the planter,
yet we claim some knowledge of the subject, from
sixteen years' undeviating attention to the raising
young plantations of considerable extent, upon lands
which may be, in general, termed waste or unimproved.
Indeed, to lay aside for a moment our
impersonality, the author of this article having, in
the course of that time, seen reason to change his
opinion on many important points, and particularly
upon those in which the expense of planting is
chiefly concerned, takes the freedom to consider
Mr. Monteath's useful and interesting treatise with
reference to his own experience, and the facts which
that experience has suggested.</p>
<p> Every one will own that the subject is of the
most momentous interest to this country. It is long
since the wisdom and patriotism of the late Lord
Melville sounded the alarm on the subject of the
decay and destruction of the national forests, announcing
the immense increase of the demand for
oak timber, the advance of the price of fir timber.
the inadequacy of the present forests long to supply
the increasing demand, and the apathy with which
government omitted to provide for evils which
seemed rapidly advancing, although the possibility
of doing so appeared plain from his lordship's statement:---</p>
<p> ``It is supposed that, exclusive of the royal forests, there
are in Great Britain and Ireland, probably more than eighty
millions of acres, of which, perhaps, no part is yet brought to
the highest state of cultivation, and that certainly not less
than twenty millions are still waste. If, therefore, a comparatively
very small part of the land of the kingdom is thought
essential to be appropriated to the purpose of securing the
continuance of our naval strength and pride, it would surely
be a very short-sighted policy which should suggest to this
maritime country the expediency of trusting to a commerce
for the supply of our dockyards with timber; when, without
any real risk to the subsistence of the country, and by a sacrifice,
comparatively small, we can avoid for ever putting to
hazard the supply of an article, on which, confessedly, our
strength, our glory, our independence, even our existence as
a nation, must now, and at all times depend.''---=Lord Melville'=s
<u>Letter to</u> =Mr. Percival,= <u>on the subject of Naval Timber,
published in July,</u> 1810.</p>
<p> While these facts are granted, it must at the
same time, be admitted, that the time of peace is
that in which we can best recruit the resources of
the nation, and strengthen her sinews for future
wars; and that at present, therefore, the country
has few more important subjects of consideration,
than those which refer to providing a stock of timber
for future emergencies. A patriotic spirit,
therefore, might be supposed sufficiently rewarded
by preparing for the future conquests of the British
navy, and for the ornament of his native land;
covering sterile wildernesses with the most magnificent
productions of the earth, and exercising,
slowly indeed but surely, such a change on the face
of nature, as the powers of mall cannot achieve in
any other manner. Yet we cannot trust to such
motives to overcome the inertness of many landholders:
to induce them to part for a time with a
portion of their yearly income, and be at the outlay
of a very moderate sum per acre, we are aware
that we must talk to them of pence as well as of
patriotism, and indicate a certain return for their
advances; since in preaching to them only on the
subject of adding to the beauty of the landscape, or
the prosperity of the country, we should expose
ourselves to the answer of Harpagon to the eulogium
of Frosine upon his mistress's perfections:
``_Oui; cela n'est pas mal; mais ce compte l<a`> n'a
rien de r<e'>el. Il faut bien que je touche quelque
chose._'' We will, therefore, endeavour to convince
those who lean to this view of the subject, that the
increase of the value of their own rentals and estates
is equally concerned in the considerations to which
we invite them, as the interest of the country at
large.</p>
<p> The subject naturally divides itself into plantations
raised chiefly for the purpose of ornament,
and those which are intended principally for profit.
The division is not, however, an absolute one; nor
is it possible, perhaps, to treat of the subject in the
one point of view, without frequently touching upon
the other. No very large plantation can be formed
without beautifying the face of the country (although,
indeed, stripes and clumps of Scotch firs
or larches may be admitted as deformities); and,
on the other hand, the thinnings of merely ornamental
plantations afford the proprietor who raises
such a fair indemnity for the ground which they
occupy. But, though this is the case, the two kinds
of planting must be considered as different branches
of the same art; and we will, accordingly, take
leave to consider them distinctly, confining ourselves,
for the present, as far as we can, to that in
which utility is the principal object.</p>
<p> The most useful style of planting, that which can
he executed at the least expense, and which must
ultimately return the greatest profit, is that respecting
large tracts of waste land, which, by judicious
management, may be converted into highly profitable
woodland, without taking from agriculture the
value of a sheaf of corn, or even greatly interfering
with pastoral occupation---so far as that occupation
is essentially advantageous. For we suppose it
will be admitted, that in any case where a stately
and valuable forest can be raised by the restricting
a few hundred score of sheep to better and richer
pasture than they formerly enjoyed, great advantage
will accrue to the landlord, and no loss will be
sustained either by the tenant, or the poor animal,
who, now picking up his grass by piles at a time in
a howling wilderness, would then be better supported,
and more free from accident of every
kind.</p>
<p> The scheme of which we are about to show the
easy practicability, if it be only undertaken boldly
and upon a large scale, by the persons principally
concerned, will be found as advantageous to the
poor as the rich; providing for the over-population,
as it is called, a hardy and healthful occupation,
the object of which is the improvement of their
native country, while the manner in which it is
conducted is equally favourable to their comforts
and to their morals. Neither are the landed proprietor
and his dependents the only parties benefited.
The cheapness and plenty of wood, as it is
essential to our shipping, becomes, in that point of
view, indispensable to our mercantile and manufacturing
interests. But we feel ourselves, unintentionally,
again drawn back to the public and
political views, which it is almost impossible to
separate from this great national subject: we will,
therefore, proceed to enter upon it at once, cautioning
our readers, that in repeating the truths which
we have collected from others, and which have
been corroborated by our own experience, we do
not pretend to more merit than that of acting as
<u>flappers,</u> again to solicit the attention of the public
and in particular of landed gentlemen, to this most
important topic.</p>
<p> The hills of Wales---those of Derby, Cumberland,
Westmoreland, Northumberland, and part of
Yorkshire and Lancashire, together with the more
extensive wastes and mountainous regions which
compose by far the greater part of Scotland, have
in general, the same character, presenting naked
wildernesses of rock, and heath, and moorland,
swelling into hills and mountains of greater or less
elevation, and intersected by rivers and large lakes,
many of them navigable: in short, pointed out by
Nature as the site of lofty woods, with which,
indeed, her own unassisted efforts had, at an early
period, clothed them: for nothing call be more
certain than that the sterile districts we have described
were, in ancient times, covered with continual
forests. History, tradition, and the remains
of huge old trees and straggling thickets, as well
as the subterranean wood found in bogs and mosses,
attest the same indubitable fact. It is not to be
supposed that these woods grew at very high points
of elevation, on the brow of lofty and exposed
mountains, and in the very face of prevailing
winds; yet it is astonishing, when the declivities
and dales of such a region are once occupied by
wood, how very soon the trees, availing themselves
of every shelter afforded by the depths and sinuosities
of the glens and ravines which seam the
mountain side, appear to have ascended to points
of altitude where a planter would rationally have
despaired of success.</p>
<p> These natural woods, however, have long, excepting
in comparatively few instances, wholly ceased
to exist. This has been owing to various causes.
Extensive forests, occupying a long tract of tolerably
level ground, have been gradually destroyed
by natural decay, accelerated by the increase of
the bogs. The wood which they might have produced
was useless to the proprietors; the state of
the roads, as well as of the country in general, not
permitting so bulky and weighty an article to be
carried from the place where it had grown, however
valuable it might have proved had it been
transported elsewhere. In this situation the trees
of the natural forests pined and withered, and
were thrown down by the wind, and it often necessarily
happened that they fell into or across some
little stream or rivulet, by the side of which they
had flourished and decayed. The stream, being
stopped, saturated with standing water the soil
around it, and instead of being, as hitherto, the
drain of the forest, the stagnation of the rivulet
converted into a swamp what its current had formerly
rendered dry. The loose bog-earth, and the
sour moisture with which it was impregnated,
loosened and poisoned the roots of other neighbouring
trees, which, at the next storm, went to
the ground in their turn, and tended still more to
impede the current of the water; while the accumulating
moss, as the bog-earth is called in Scotland,
went on increasing and heaving up, so as to bury
the trunks of the trees which it had destroyed. In
the counties of Inverness and Ross, instances may
be seen, at the present day, where this melancholy
process, of the conversion of a forest into a bog, is
still going forward.</p>
<p> This, however, was not by any means the only
manner in which the northern forests perished,
although it may be in some sense accounted their
natural mode of death.</p>
<p> From the time of Agricola and Severus, to that
of Cromwell, the axes of the invading enemies
were repeatedly employed to lay waste the forests,
and thereby remove a most important part of the
national defence. In this way, doubtless, woods
which, standing on the banks of rapid streams, or
upon declivities where the course of the water is
not liable to be intercepted, were not subject to the
causes of destruction by the increase of the morass,
fell by violence, as in the former case they perished
by decay.</p>
<p> Nature, however, would, with her usual elasticity,
have repaired the losses which were inflicted
by the violence of man, and fresh crops of wood
would have arisen to supply the place of that which
had been felled, had not the carelessness and wantonness
of mankind obstructed her efforts. The
forest of Ettrick, for example, a tract of country
containing two hundred and seventy square miles,
was, till Charles I.'s time, reserved as a royal chase,
and entirely wooded, except where the elevation of
the mountains rendered the growth of trees impossible.
In and about the year 1700, great part of
this natural wood remained, yet now, excepting the
copse woods of Harehead and Elibank, with some
trifling remains on the banks of the Yarrow, it has
totally vanished. We have ourselves seen an account
of a sale of growing trees upon an estate in
this district where the proceeds amounted to no
less than six thousand pounds, a very large sum
considering that the country was overstocked with
wood, the demands for it confined to those of rural
economy, and the means of transporting it extremely
imperfect. There must have been a fall
of large and valuable timber to have produced such
a sum under such circumstances. The guardians
of the noble proprietor, when they made the sale,
seem to have given directions for enclosing the
natural wood, with a view to its preservation.
Nevertheless, about seventy or eighty years afterwards,
there was scarcely in existence, upon the
whole property, a twig sufficient to make a walking-stick,
so effectually had the intentions of the
guardians been baffled, and their instructions neglected.
It may be some explanation of this wilful
waste, that a stocking of goats (of all other creatures
the most destructive to wood) had been put
upon the ground after cutting the trees. But to
speak the truth, agriculture, as Mr. Shandy says
of the noble science of defence, has its weak points.
Those who pursue one branch of the art are apt to
become bigoted and prejudiced against every thing
which belongs to another, though no less essential,
department. The arable cultivator, for example,
has a sort of pleasure in rooting up the most valuable
grass land, even where the slightest reflection
might assure him that it would be more profitable
to reserve it for pasture. The store-farmer and
shepherd, in the same manner, used formerly to
consider every spot occupied by a tree as depriving
the flock of a certain quantity of food, and not only
nourished malice against the woodland, but practically
laboured for its destruction; and to such lamentable
prejudices on the part of farmers, and
even of proprietors, is the final disappearance of
the natural forests of the north chiefly to be attributed.
The neglect of enclosure on the side of the
landlord; the permitted, if not the authorised, invasions
of the farmer; the wilful introduction of
sheep and cattle into the ground where old trees
formerly stood, have been the slow, but effectual,
causes of the denuded state of extensive districts,
which, in their time, were tracts of what the popular
poetry of the country called by the affectionate
epithet of ``the good green wood.'' Still, however,
the facts of such forests having existed, ought now,
in more enlightened times, to give courage to the
proprietor, and stimulate him in his efforts to restore
the silvan scenes which ignorance, prejudice,
indolence, and barbarism combined to destroy.</p>
<p> This may be done in many different ways, as
taste and local circumstances recommend. We
will first take a view of the subject generally, as
applicable alike to the great chiefs and thanes possessed
of what are, in the north called <u>countries,</u><*></p>
</p>
<p><title>
On<!p 32></p>
<ul>
<li>Article---The Forester's Guide and Profitable Planter.
<em> By Robert Monteath. Edinburgh, 1824. Quarterly Review,
</em> October, 1827.<p> The indispensable requisites which his undertaking
demands are, 1st, a steady and experienced
forester, with the means of procuring, at a moment's
notice, a sufficient number of active and intelligent
assistants. This will often require settlements
on the estate, the advantage of which we
may afterwards touch upon. If the plantations are
to be on an extensive scale, it will be found of great
advantage to have the labour of these men entirely
devoted to the woods, since they afford various
kinds of employment for every month of the year,
especially where a great plan is in the progress of
being executed, as reason dictates, by certain proportions
every year. In such a case, enclosing,
planting, pruning, thinning, and felling are going
on successively in different parts of the estate in
one and the same year;---and these are operations
in all of which a good woodsman ought to be so
expert as to be capable of working at them by
turns.</p>
<p> 2dly. The planter, in the situation supposed,
ought to be possessed of one nursery or more, as
near to the ground designed to be planted, as can
well be managed. We have no intention to interfere
with the trade of the nurseryman in the more
level and fertile parts of the country. Where a
proprietor means only to plant a few acres, it would
be ridiculous to be at the trouble or expense of
raising the plants. But where he proposes to plant
upon a large scale, it is of the highest consequence
that the young plants should stand for two or three
seasons in a nursery of his own. Mr. Monteath
recommends that such <u>second-hand nursery,</u> as he
terms it, should be replenished with seedlings of a
year or two years old, from the seed-beds of a
professional nurseyman, justly observing that the
expense and trouble attending the raising the plants
from seed,---and, he might have added, the risk of
miscarriage,---are in this way entirely avoided,
while the advantages attained are equal to what
they would have been had the plant been raised
from the seed by the proprietor himself. On the
other hand (though we have known it practised,)
we would not advise that seedlings, any more than
plants, should be carried from the neighbourhood
of Glasgow to the Hebrides, or to distant parts of
the Highlands. There is also this advantage, that
by raising the trees from seed, the forester makes
sure of getting his plants from the best trees---an
article of considerable importance, especially in the
fir tribes.</p>
<p> But whether the planter supplies his nursery
from his own seed-bed or that of the professional
man, the necessity of having a nursery of one sort
or other continues the same. The advantages are,
first, that the plants are not hastily transferred from
the nurseryman's warm and sheltered establishment,
to the exposed and unfertile district which
they are meant to occupy, but undergo a sort of
seasoning in the nursery of the proprietor, and become,
in a certain degree, naturalized to climate
and soil before they are, as it is technically termed,
<u>planted out.</u> Secondly, the most mortifying and
injurious interruptions, incident to the planter's
occupation, are thus greatly lessened. It is well
known that nothing can be so conducive to the success
of a plant, as its being transferred instantly,
or with the loss of the least possible interval of
time, from the line which it occupies in the nursery,
to its final station in the field. If it is to be sent
for to a distant nursery, this becomes impossible.
Besides, it frequently happens, when plants have
been brought from a distance, that the weather has
changed to frost before they arrive at the place of
their destination, and there is no remedy but to
dig them down into some ditch, and cover the roots
with earth, and leave them in that situation for
days and weeks, until the season shall again become
favourable to the planter. If, on the contrary, the
plants are supplied from the proprietor's own nursery
in the vicinity, they need only be brought forward
in small quantities at a time, and the pernicious
and perilous practice of <u>sheughing,</u> as we have
heard it called, is almost entirely avoided. It is,
therefore, in all cases, a matter of high advantage,
in many of actual necessity, that the proprietor
who means to plant on a large scale should have a
nursery of his own.</p>
<p> Thus provided with the material of his enterprise,
and with the human force necessary to carry
it into effect, the planter's next point is to choose
the scene of operation. On this subject, reason
and common sense at once point out the necessary
restrictions. No man of common sense would
select, for the purpose of planting, rich holms, fertile
meadows, or other ground peculiarly fit for
producing corn, or for supporting cattle. Such
land, valuable everywhere, is peculiarly so in a
country where fertile spots are scarce, and where
there is no lack of rough, exposed, and at present
unprofitable tracts. The necessary ornament of a
mansion-house would alone vindicate such an extraordinary
proceeding. Nay, a considerate planter
would hesitate to cut up and destroy even a fine
sheep-pasture for the purpose of raising wood,
while there remained on the estate land which
might be planted at a less sacrifice. The ground
ought to be shared betwixt pasture and woodland,
with reference to local circumstances, and it is in
general by no means difficult to form the plantation
so as to be of the highest advantage to the sheep-walk.
In making the selection the proprietor will
generally receive many a check on this subject
from his land-steward or bailiff, to whom any other
agricultural operations are generally more desirable
than the pursuits of the forester. To confirm
the proprietor in resisting this narrow-minded monitor,
it is necessary to assure him that the distinction
to be drawn betwixt the ground to be
planted, and that which is to be reserved for sheep,
is to be drawn with a bold and not a timid hand.
The planter must not, as we have <u>often</u> seen vainly
attempted, endeavour to exclude from his proposed
plantation, all but the very worst of the ground.
Whenever such paltry saving has been attempted,
the consequences have been very undesirable in all
respects. In the first place, the expense of fencing
is greatly increased; for, in order to form these
pinched and restricted plantations, a great many
turnings and involutions, and independent fences,
must be made, which become totally unnecessary
when the woodland is formed on an ample and
liberal scale. In the second place, this parsimonious
system leads to circumstances contrary to
Christian charity, for the eyes of every human
being that looks on plantations so formed, feeling
hurt as if a handful of sand were flung into them,
the sufferers are too apt to vent their resentment
in the worst of wishes against the devisers and perpetrators
of such enormities. We have seen a
brotherhood of beautiful hills, the summits of which,
while they remained unplanted, must have formed
a fine undulating line, now presenting themselves
with each a round circle of black fir, like a skimming
dish on its head, combined together with long
narrow lines of the same complexion, like a chain
of ancient fortifications, consisting of round towers
flanking a straight curtain, or rather like a range
of college caps connected by a broad black ribbon.
Other plantations in the awkward angles, which
they have been made to assume, in order that they
might not trespass upon some edible portion of
grass land, have come to resemble uncle Toby's
bowling-green transported to a northern hill side.
Here you shall see a solitary mountain with a great
black patch stuck on its side, like a plaster of Burgundy
pitch, and there another, where the plantation,
instead of gracefully sweeping down to its feet,
is broken short off in mid-air, like a country
wench's gown tucked through her pocket-holes in
the days when such things as pockets were extant
in _rerum natur<a^>._ In other cases of enormity, the
unhappy plantations have been made to assume the
form of pincushions, of hatchets, of penny tarts,
and of breeches displayed at an old-clothesman's
door. These abortions have been the consequence
of a resolution to occupy with trees only those
parts of the hill where nothing else will grow, and
which, therefore, is carved out for their accommodation,
with ``up and down and snip and slash,''
whatever unnatural and fantastic forms may be
thereby assigned to their boundaries.</p>
<p> In all such cases the insulated trees, deprived of
the shelter which they experience when planted in
masses, have grown thin, and hungrily, affording
the unhappy planter neither pleasure to his eye,
credit to his judgment, nor profit to his purse. A
more liberal projector would have adopted a very
different plan. He would have considered, that
although trees, the noblest productions of the vegetable
realm, are of a nature extremely hardy, and
can grow where not even a turnip could be raised,
they are yet sensible of, and grateful for, the kindness
which they receive. In selecting the portions
of waste land which he is about to plant, he would,
therefore, extend his limits to what may be called
the natural boundaries, carry them down to the
glens on one side, sweep them around the foot of
the hills on another, conduct them up the ravines
on a third, giving them, as much as possible, the
character of a natural wood, which can only be
attained by keeping their boundaries out of sight,
and suggesting to the imagination that idea of extent
which always arises when the limits of a wood
are not visible. It is true that in this manner some
acres of good ground may be lost to the flocks, but
the advantages to the woodland are a complete
compensation. It is, of course, in sheltered places
that the wood first begins to grow, and the young
trees, arising freely in such more fertile spots on
the verge of the plantation, extend protection to
the general mass which occupies the poorer ground.
These less-favoured plants linger long while left to
their own unassisted operations, annoyed at the
same time by want of nourishment, and the severity
of the blast, they remain, indeed, alive, but
make little or no progress; but when they experience
shelter from the vicinity of those which
occupy a better soil, they seem to profit by their
example, and speedily arise under their wings.</p>
<p> The improver ought to be governed by the natural
features of the ground in choosing the shape of
his plantations, as well as in selecting the species
of land to be planted. A surface of ground, undulating
into eminences and hollows, forms to a
person who delights in such a task, perhaps the
most agreeable subject of consideration on which
the mind of the improver can be engaged. He
must take care, in this case, to avoid the fatal yet
frequent error of adopting the boundaries of his
plantations from the surveyor's plan of the estate,
not from the ground itself. He must recollect that
the former is a flat surface, conveying, after the
draughtsman has done his best, but a very imperfect
idea of the actual face of the country, and can,
therefore, guide him but imperfectly in selecting
the ground proper for his purpose.</p>
<p> Having, therefore, made himself personally acquainted
with the localities of the estate, he will
find no difficulty in adopting a general principle for
lining out his worst land. To plant the eminences,
and thereby enclose the hollows for cultivation, is
what all parties will agree upon; the mere farmer,
because, in the general case, the rule will assign to
cultivation the best ground, and to woodland that
which is most sterile; and also, because a wood
placed on an eminence affords, of course, a more
complete protection to the neighbouring fields than
if it stood upon the same level with them. The
forester will give his ready consent, because wood
no where luxuriates so freely as on the slope of a
hill. The man of taste will be equally desirous
that the boundaries of his plantation should follow
the lines designed by nature, which are always easy
and undulating, or bold, prominent, and elevated,
but never either stiff or formal. In this manner,
the future woods will advance and recede from the
eye, according to and along with the sweep of the
hills and banks which support them, thus occupying
precisely the place in the landscape where nature's
own hand would have planted them. The projector
will rejoice the more in this allocation, that in
many instances it will enable him to conceal the
boundaries of his plantations, an object which, in
point of taste, is almost always desirable. In short,
the only persons who will suffer by the adoption of
this system will be the admirers of mathematical
regularity, who deem it essential that the mattock
and spade be under the peremptory dominion of
the scale and compass; who demand that all enclosures
shall be of the same shape and of the same
extent; who delight in straight lines and in sharp
angles, and desire that their woods and fields be
laid out with the same exact correspondence to
each other as when they were first delineated upon
paper. It is to be conjectured, that when the inefficiency
of this principle and its effects are pointed
out, few would wish to resort to it, unless it were
a humorist like Uncle Toby, or a martinet like
Lord Stair, who planted trees after the fashion of
battalions formed into line and column, that they
might assist them in their descriptions of the battles
of Wynendale and Dettingen. It may, however,
be a consolation to the admirers of strict uniformity
and regularity, if any such there still be,
to be assured that their object is, in fact, unattainable;
it is as impossible to draw straight lines of
wood, that is, lines which shall produce the appearance
of mathematical regularity, along the uneven
surface of a varied country, as it would be to draw
a correct diagram upon a crumpled sheet of paper,
or lay a carpet down smoothly on a floor littered
with books. The attempt to plant upon such a
system will not, therefore, present the regular
form and plan expected, but, on the contrary, a
number of broken lines, interrupted circles, and
salient angles, as much at variance with Euclid as
with nature.</p>
<p> We are happy to say, that this artificial mode of
planting, the purpose of which seems to be a sort
of inscribing on every plantation that it was the
work of man, not of nature, is now going fast out
of fashion, both with proprietors and farmers. A
gentleman of our acquaintance had, some years
ago, the purpose of planting a considerable part of a
farm of about one hundred and twenty acres, which
lay near his residence. It rented at about twenty
shillings per acre. The proprietor, rejecting a plan
which was offered to him, for laying off the ground
into fields resembling parallelograms, divided like
a chess-board by thin stripes of plantation, went to
work in the way we have mentioned above, scooping
out the lowest part of the land for enclosures,
and planting the wood round it in masses, which
were enlarged or contracted, as the natural lying
of the ground seemed to dictate, and producing a
series of agreeable effects to the eye, varying in
every point of view, and affording new details of
the landscape, as the plantations became blended
together, or receded from each other. About five
or six years after this transformation had been
effected, the landlord met his former tenant, a judicious
cool-headed countryman, upon the ground,
and naturally said to him, ``I suppose, Mr. R., you
will say I have ruined your farm by laying half of
it into woodland?''---``I should have expected it,
sir,'' answered Mr. R., ``if you had told me beforehand
what you were about to do; but I am now of
a very different opinion; and as I am looking for
land at present, if you incline to take, for the
remaining sixty acres, the same rent which I formerly
gave for a hundred and twenty, I will give
you an offer to that amount. I consider the benefit
of the enclosing, and the complete shelter afforded
to the fields, as an advantage which fairly counterbalances
the loss of one half of the land.'' The
proprietor then showed Mr. R. the plan which had
been suggested to him, of subdividing the whole
farm by straight rectilinear stripes, occupying altogether
about five-and-twenty or thirty acres. The
intelligent and unprejudiced agriculturist owned
that, _<a`> priori,_ he would have preferred a system
which left so much more land for the occupation of
the plough, but as frankly owned that the trees
could neither have made half the progress, or have
afforded half the shelter, which had actually been
the case under the present plan, and that he was
now convinced that the proprietor had chosen the
better part.</p>
<p> Another proof of the same important fact occurs,
upon a hill which we, at this moment, see from the
windows of the apartment in which we are now
writing. It is of considerable height, and the proprietor,
about forty years ago or more, attempted
to raise a plantation on the very crest or summit of
the eminence, retaining the rest of the hill for the
purposes of pasturage and agriculture. His operations,
attempted on this niggardly scale, failed
totally, after two separate attempts, every plant
dying in the exposed and ungenial situation. On
a third essay, the proprietor altered his measures,
and brought the limits of his woodland so far down
the hill as to include a few acres of tolerable land.
The trees on these better spots soon rose, and,
sheltering those which were exposed, the whole
upper part of the hill became clothed with a wood,
out of which the present proprietor has cut annually
several hundred pounds worth of timber, to the
advantage, not the prejudice, of that which remains
standing to a large value.</p>
<p> The same change has taken place in the sentiments
of intelligent store-farmers as in those of
agriculturists like Mr. R. Almost every sheep-farm
contains large tracts covered with stones and
shingle, or otherwise steep, dangerous, and precipitous;
of ravines, which in winter prove the grave
of many of the flock; and of other rocky and barren
spots, affording little pasture, and that only to
be obtained at the great peril of the sheep. There
are also on most sheep-walks, extensive moors,
which, sheltered by plantations on the mountains,
would produce a far different species of herbage
from what flocks or herds are now able to glean off
them, and, in general, it is now perfectly understood,
that when the trees have made such a progress
as to afford shelter in the lambing seasons
and during storms, the ground they occupy is far
from being grudged them by an intelligent shepherd.
It is very likely, indeed, that the tenant
who possesses a sheep-farm on a short lease may
desire some diminution of rent: for when the landlord
entertains a desire to enter into possession of
a part of his land during currency of the lease, the
circumstance is always considered as a kind of
God-send, which it would be neglecting the benefits
afforded by Providence not to make ample use
of. But an intelligent farmer, the length of whose
possession must enable him to derive advantage
from the shelter and other favourable circumstances
which cannot fail to attend the more advanced state
of the plantations, will usually be disposed to part,
at a very easy rate, with the immediate occupation
of such grounds as we have indicated, for the purpose
of their being planted. At any rate, we state
with confidence that the existence of plantations,
even to a very considerable extent, upon a sheep-farm,
will, if judiciously disposed, rather increase
than diminish the offers for a new lease.</p>
<p> The tract to be occupied by the new plantations
being fixed, enclosing is the next indispensable
point of preparation. If this is neglected, or not
executed in a sufficient manner, the improver may
as well renounce his plan; for though we believe,
as above stated, that the judicious tenant will approve
of and respect the plantations of the landholder,
yet we cannot venture to hope that his zeal
in their behalf will impel him to take great trouble
for their preservation. Even if he were willing to
do so, his shepherds cannot be expected to possess
such liberal ideas, and will see with great apathy
an inroad of the flock where the enclosure presents
a practicable breach, which, in the spring especially,
may do more damage to the young woodland
in a few hours' time than it can recover in
several seasons. The plantation, therefore, whatever
its extent, must be suitably enclosed. For
this purpose, quickset hedges are, undoubtedly, the
preferable means; but these cannot be generally
resorted to in the execution of extensive plans,
such as we point at. In wild, coarse ground, thorns
will not succeed without much care; in soils of a
worse class, they will not rise at all; and even
where the ground is fittest for them, they require
more labour and trouble than can be expected in
executing a very large plan, unless the funds of the
projector be ample in proportion. Hedges of furze
and of larch have been recommended, but they are
precarious, and will only succeed when much attention
is bestowed on them. The most effectual substitute,
we regret to say it, is the dry-stone wall.
The materials of this species of fence, generally
speaking, abound in the neighbourhood of such
plantations as we now treat of. The wall has this
great advantage, that it may be said to be major,
and competent to discharge all its duties, even on
the day of its birth, and if constructed of flat or
square stones of good quality, properly put together,
and well erected, will last for many years. It is
commonly the readiest and best substitute for a
quickset fence; but it must be owned that it is
extremely ugly, and, when once it begins to break
down, can only be repaired at a considerable expense,
which, after a certain time, recurs very
frequently, as the best builders of this species of
wall cannot so effectually repair the breaches which
time makes in it but what they are always making
their appearance again at the same places. The
unpleasing aspect of these walls may, in some degree,
be got rid of by keeping them in hollows:
this, indeed, is to be recommended in every case;
and upon a large plan, where much ground is at the
planter's command, may be very easily managed.
Respecting their failure through time, it is to be
remembered that it will not take place until the
period when breaches may be repaired by wattles
made from the plantation itself. We have seen a
species of earthen fence used with very considerable
success on ground where stones were hard to
come at. The earth was dug out of a ditch, which
was made to slope outwards, and to present, on the
side nearest to the plantation, a straight cut of
about a foot and a half; on the verge of that ditch
arose the wall itself, composed of sods built up to
the height of three feet and a half, so that the
whole height was about four feet, and sufficient to
be respected by sheep and cattle, except, perhaps,
during the time of snow, when no fence can be
absolutely trusted to. A single bar of paling placed
on the top of this species of <u>vallum</u> greatly improves
it. It is the cheapest of all fences, as it may be
raised at the rate of fifteen-pence a-rood by contract.
Its duration cannot be exactly calculated;
but, where the sods are of a close and kindly texture,
we have known it last for nine or ten years
without symptoms of decay, and after that age the
thinnings of the plantation ought to be used to
repair the fence, or, if more convenient, sold, and
the price applied to that purpose. A hedge may
be raised in the inside of such an earth-fence with
considerable ease, as the thorns will grow fast
among the loose earth; and if this is resorted to,
the hedge will be fit to relieve guard when the
rampart or earthen wall becomes ruinous.</p>
<p> A preparation no less necessary than that of
enclosing, and now generally attended to, although
often far too superficially performed, is the drainage
of such parts of the intended plantation as are
disposed to be marshy. Water, which, when pure,
is the necessary nutriment of all vegetables, becomes,
when putrid or stagnant, their most decided
enemy. There exist no trees, however fond of
subaqueous soil, which will thrive if planted in an
undrained bog. On the other hand, there is scarcely
any ground so swampy, that, provided it affords a
level for draining, may not be made to bear trees,
if the kinds are well chosen. We have seen the
spruce, silver fir, and even the balm of Gilead
pine, attain great magnitude in a soil so moist that
the trees were originally planted in what are called
<u>lazy beds.</u> It must be, of course, essential that the
drains should be kept open, and scoured from time
to time, but it will be found that, as the trees advance,
their own demand for nourishment will exhaust
a great deal of the superfluous moisture; for,
as the fall of a natural forest in a wild country
usually creates a morass, so the growth of a wood,
when the first obstacles are removed, has a tendency
to diminish a bog which has been already
formed.</p>
<p> Another requisite nearly connected with the
above is the formation of paths for walking, riding,
or driving through the future plantations. Where
the woods are on a large scale, these paths should
be at least eight or nine feet broad. This object
is easily combined with draining, as the ditch which
carries off the superfluous water will, at the same
time, drain the road, if it is conducted alongside of
it, which, in most cases, will be found the best line
for both. Such roads serve at first to facilitate
the collection of materials for fencing; they afterwards
afford easy means of inspecting the condition
of the wood, and, finally, of removing the felled trees
from the woodland. When <u>that</u> occasion comes,
the making such paths will be found indispensable,
and as, if deferred till then, the object cannot be
accomplished without a great waste of time, and
the paths, after all, can never be so well lined as
before the wood is planted, this preliminary season
is unquestionably by far the most proper. It is
needless to say that the formation and direction of
such paths and drives is one of the most agreeable
occupations of a proprietor who pretends to taste,
and if barely formed with the spade, and drained,
they will become, in a year or two, dry green sward,
and require no metalling until they are employed
in transporting heavy weights. But, whether
formed or not, the space for such paths ought
always to be left, and, among other advantages,
they will be found to act upon the forest like the
lungs of the human body, circulating the air into
its closest recesses, and thereby greatly increasing
the growth of the trees.</p>
<p> We may now be expected to say something of
the preparation of the soil, by cropping, following,
paring, and burning, or otherwise, as is recommended
in most books on the subject of planting.
There can be no doubt that all or any of these
modes, may be, according to circumstances, used
with the utmost advantage, especially so far as concerns
the early growth of wood. Every plantation,
therefore, which the proprietor desires to see <u>rush
up</u> with unusual rapidity, ought to be prepared by
one of these methods, or, which is best of all, by
deep trenching with the spade. But the expense
attending this most effectual mode limits it to the
park and pleasure-ground, and even the other
coarser modes of preparation cannot be thought of,
when the object is to plant as extensively and at
as little expense as possible. It may be some
comfort to know that, as far as we have observed,
the difference betwixt the growth of plantations,
where the ground has been prepared, or otherwise,
supposing the soil alike, and plants put in with
equal care, seems to disappear within the first ten
or twelve years. It is only in its earlier days that
the plant enjoys the benefit of having its roots
placed amongst earth which has been rendered
loose and penetrable: at a certain period the fibres
reach the sub-soil which the spade or plough has
not disturbed, and thus the final growth of the
tree which has enjoyed this advantage is often not
greater than that of its neighbour, upon which no
such indulgences were ever bestowed.</p>
<p> The next important object is the choice of the
trees with which the proposed woodland is to be
stocked, and, supposing the production of tall timber
trees to be the ultimate object, we would recommend,
for the formation of a large forest, the oak
and larch as the trees best to be depended upon.
Our choice of the first will scarce be disputed:
it is the natural plant of the island, and grows alike
on highland and lowland, luxuriating where the
soil is rich, coming to perfection, in many cases,
where it is but middling, and affording a very profitable
copsewood where it is scanty and indifferent.</p>
<p> Our selection of the larch may seem to some
more disputable, but it will only be to such as are
disposed to judge from outward show. We cannot,
indeed, vindicate this valuable tree in so far
as outward beauty is concerned: Wordsworth has
condemned its formality at once, and its poverty of
aspect. Planted in small patches, the tops of all
the trees arising to the same height, and generally
sloping in one direction from the prevailing wind,
the larch-wood has, we must own, a mean and poor
effect: its appearance on the ridge of a hill is also
unfavourable, resembling the once fashionable mode
of setting up the manes of ponies, called by jockeys
<u>hogging.</u> But where the quantity of ground planted
amounts to the character of a forest, the inequalities
of the far-extended surface give to the larches
a variety of outline which they do not possess when
arranged in clumps and patches, and furnish that
species of the sublime which all men must recognise
in the prevalence of one tint of colouring in a
great landscape. All who have seen the Swiss
mountains, which are clothed with this tree as high
as vegetation will permit, must allow that it can, in
fitting situations, add effectually to the grandeur of
Alpine scenery. In spring, too, the larch boasts,
in an unequalled degree, that early and tender
shade of green which is so agreeable to the eye, and
suggests to the imagination the first and brightest
ideas of reviving nature.</p>
<p> If, however, in spite of all that can be pleaded
in its favour, the larch should be, in some degree,
excluded from ornamental plantations, still the most
prejudiced admirer of the picturesque cannot deny
the right of this tree to predominate in those which
are formed more for profit than beauty. The good
sense of the poet we have quoted, which is equal
to his brilliancy of fancy, has, indeed, pointed out
this distinction; and in the following passage, while
he deprecates what we do not contend for, he admits
the value of the larch in such rude scenes as we
now treat of:---</p>
<p> ``To those,'' says Wordsworth, ``who plant for profit, and
are thrusting every other tree out of the way to make room
for their favourite, the larch, I would utter, first, a regret that
they should have selected these lovely vales for their vegetable
manufactory, when there is so much barren and irreclaimable
land in the neighbouring moors, and in other parts of the
island, which might have been had for this purpose at a far
cheaper rate. And I will also beg leave to represent to them,
that they ought net to be carried away by flattering promises
from the speedy growth of this tree; because, in rich soils and
sheltered situations, the wood, though it thrives fast, is full of
sap, and of little value; and is likewise, very subject to ravage
from the attacks of insects, and from blight. Accordingly, in
Scotland, where planting is much better understood, and
carried on upon an incomparably larger scale than among us,
good soil and sheltered situations are appropriated to the oak,
the ash, and other deciduous trees; and the larch is now
generally confined to barren and exposed ground. There the
plant, which is a hardy one, is of slower growth, much less
liable to injury, and the timber of better quality.'' <*></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p><text>
Education has been often compared to the planting
and training up of vegetable productions, and
the parallel holds true in this remarkable particular,
amongst others, that numerous systems are recommended
and practised in both cases which are
totally contradictory of each other, and most of
which can, nevertheless, be supported by an appeal
to the fruits they have brought forth. It would
seem to follow that the oak is more easily taught
to grow, and the young idea how to shoot, than is
generally allowed by the warm assertors of particular
systems, and that Nature will, even in cases
of neglect or mismanagement, do a great deal to
supply the errors or carelessness whether of the
preceptor or the forester. It would be wasting
words, to set about proving that in both departments
there are certain rules which greatly assist
Nature in her operations, and bring the tree, or
the youth, to an earlier or higher degree of maturity
than either would otherwise have obtained.
But we think it equally plain, that the rules which
are found most effectual are of a very general
character, and, when put into practice, must be
modified according to the circumstances of each
individual case; from which it results, that an
exclusive attachment to the _minuti<ae>_ of particular
systems will, in many instances, be found worse
than unnecessary.<p> We willingly shake hands with our Miltonic poet,
and enter into the composition which he holds out
to the profitable planter.</p>
<p> In this capacity, being that which we now occupy,
we have much to say in behalf of this same larch-fir.
It unites, in a most singular degree, the two
opposite, and, in general, irreconcilable qualities
of quickness of growth and firmness of substance.
In the first, it excels all trees in the forest, and, in
the second, equals the oak itself.</p>
<p> The mode of preparing or seasoning larch timber
is not yet, perhaps, perfectly understood, more
especially as the tree is usually cut in the barking
season, when it is full of sap, which renders the
large wood apt to warp and crack. To avoid this,
some take off the bark the season before the tree
is cut, upon which subject Mr. Monteath gives us
this practical information:---</p>
<p> ``In the summer of 1815 and 1816, I was employed to thin
some plantations for James Johnstone, Esq., of Alva, on his
state of Denovan; and also in the same years, for Thomas
Spottiswoode, Esq. of Dunnipace. The trees on both estates
were of considerable size, and particularly those on the estate
of Dunnipace---many of them containing betwixt thirty and
forty solid feet of timber. As part of the trees on both estates
were to be used by the proprietors for their own purposes, I
had, the year before, cut down and barked a considerable
number of larch-fir trees; which, being barked after being
cut down, and exposed to the summer's sun, rent in such a
manner as to render them of little or no use. To prevent this,
if possible, in the future, I barked all the larch trees standing,
and allowed them to remain in this state till autumn, which
effectually prevented them from rending with the sun or
drought. A number of the trees on Dunnipace stood in this
peeled state for two summers, and were then cut up; and
Mr. Spottiswoode caused his carpenter to make from the
timber of those trees some bound doors, which made an excellent
job, no part of the wood casting or twisting. Since
that time I have myself used, and have frequently seen used
by others, the timber of larch-fir trees, after having stood
twelve months with the bark taken off, the cut down, and
immediately cut up into battens for flooring, and also made
into bound doors and windows for the better sort of houses,
with equal success. This is a clear proof that the plan of
taking off the bark from the larch-fir trees, some time previous
to their being cut down, will not only prevent the timber
from shrinking and twisting, but has also a tendency to harden,
the timber, and make it more durable, as it gradually throws
out the resinous substance to the surface, and causes it, in a
greater or less degree, to circulate through the whole timber;
and this in so particular a manner, that the white wood of
the tree is found equally as hard, and becomes as durable as
the red wood. The consequence has been, that I am now
decidedly of opinion, that the timber of a larch-fir, treated in
this way, at thirty years of age, will be found equally durable
with that of a tree treated in the ordinary way, cut down at the
age of fifty years.''---Pp. 239-241.</p>
<p> Mr. Monteath gives a process for flaying the
unfortunate larch, which we dare say has proved
successful under his direction. We must, nevertheless,
always consider it as an objection that the
stems of the barked trees must continue standing,
like so many Marsyases or Saint Bartholomews,
among their more fortunate neighbours; but this
is an evil which addresses itself to the eye alone.
We believe, however, that there are other effectual
modes of seasoning this valuable timber, by
steeping it repeatedly, for instance, and thus keeping
the outside of the tree moist until the heart
gets thoroughly dry. We have seen specimens of
such wood employed in panelling by the ingenious
and experienced Mr. Atkinson, architect, St. John's
Wood, which equalled in smoothness of surface
and exactness of jointing, any other wood we have
ever seen applied to similar purposes, not excepting
mahogany itself. It may also be remarked that
as larch increases in size, its bark becomes of less
value, and when the tree produces great timber, it
would be no mighty sacrifice to give up all idea of
barking, and cut the wood in winter, like that of
other trees, and thus season it in the same manner.
While the tree is only of the size of a pole, it should
be thrown, after barking, into a ditch, or else
covered with branches, to exclude the sunbeams. It
will then dry gradually without warping, and being
dried, will be as hard as iron-wood, and eminently
fit for any of the numerous purposes to which sticks
of that size can be applied. When we add that
the larch will thrive almost upon every soil that is
moderately dry, except that which lies on free-stone,
and that it ascends higher up the sides of
the bleakest mountain than the hardiest of the fir-tribe,
we have, we conceive, assigned sufficient
reasons for its preference in selecting trees for an
extensive tract of ground.</p>
<p> Our next subject of consideration must be, the
manner and time of planting the trees, and the
distance at which they ought to be placed from each
other; and here we beg to express our complete
approbation of the old popular proverb, which says
---``plant a tree at Martinmas, and command it to
grow; plant after Candlemas, and entreat.'' If the
spring months chance to be moist, the trees then
planted will succeed well, but the practice must be
regarded as precarious. Here our opinion coincides
with general practice, but in respect of the following
points, we are not, we believe, so fortunate.</p>
<p> It is common, if not universal, to plant the nurses,
---that is to say, the firs, which are designed to be
gradually felled for thinning the plantation,---at the
same period of time with the principal trees meant
finally to occupy the ground. The consequence of
this is, that the nurses are too young to perform
their expected duty. Larches and firs are seldom
planted above nine inches or a foot long, and are
both troublesome and precarious when of a larger
size. Oaks, elms, and almost all hard-wood plants,
are about twice as long, or from eighteen inches to
two feet high, when they are put finally into the
ground. The necessary consequence is, that the
principal trees have no shelter at all until the nurses
have outgrown them. In the mean time they suffer
all the evils of premature exposure. The organs
by which they raise the sap become hardened, their
barks mossed and rigid: in short, for the first two
years, the hard-wood has no shelter at all, and in
some climates may be expected to <u>sit,</u> as it is called,
that is, to become a shrivelled starveling, which
lives, indeed, but makes no advance in growth, if,
indeed, it does not, as is frequently the case, die
down entirely. Accordingly, when a plantation so
managed is about three years old, it is the custom
of all good foresters to have it revised, and, in the
course of the operation, to cut over, within an inch
of the ground, all the hard-wood trees which are
not found thriving, the number of which is generally
as ten to one. The nutriment collected by
the roots is thus thrown into new and healthy
shoots which arise from the original stem. These,
of course, derive from the larch and fir nurses, now
grown to two or three feet in height, that shelter
which could not be afforded by them to the congenial
hard-wood, and the plantation goes on prosperously.
This process was and is successful, yet it
is obvious that both time and labour would be saved
could it be dispensed with---since much trouble
must be employed both in cutting down the old
plants, and afterwards in reducing to a single shrub
the little bushes which run from their stem when
cut over. To avoid this necessity, it has been our
practice, in latter cases, to plant the nurses in the
first place, leaving vacant spaces for the principal
trees, which we do not put into the earth for three
years afterwards. The consequence is, that the
principal trees, receiving from the nurses, at the
very moment of their being planted out, that shelter
which it is their purpose to communicate, do
not, in more than one case out of ten, go back,
dwindle, or require to be cut down; much expense
of repeated revisal is saved, and the desired purpose
is attained as soon, and more perfectly, than
by the older practice. However, therefore, the
natural impatience of the improver may repine at
postponing the planting of his principal trees, he
may depend upon it that, in all situations not peculiarly
favoured in soil and exposure, he will arrive
sooner at his ultimate object by following the slower
process.</p>
<p> In planting an extensive tract of ground, as in
preparing it, much of the nicer preparation by pitting
may be abridged. We do not deny that to
make the pits in spring, as recommended by Nicol
and other authors, must be a considerable advantage,
as the earth in which the new plant is to be
set is thus exposed to the influence of the atmosphere
until the planting season. On the other
hand, this would require double labour along the
same extensive district, and our plan is grounded
on the strictest economy. Besides, in the desolate
regions, which we would fain see clothed with
wood, rain is frequent; and should the pits be left
open till November or December, they are often
exposed to be filled with water, which, remaining
and stagnating there, renders the ground so unfit
for the plants, that they certainly lose more by
such deterioration than they gain by the exposure
of the subsoil to the atmosphere.</p>
<p> Our mode of planting them is as follows. A
labourer first takes a turf from the sward or heath,
of nine inches or a foot in circumference, and lays
it aside, while he digs the pit and works the earth
carefully with his spade. His assistant, a woman
or a boy, then places the plant in the earth, laying
the roots abroad in the natural direction in which
they severally diverge from the stem, and taking
especial care that none of them are twisted or
bruised in the operation, which, if it does not totally
destroy it, never fails greatly to retard the growth
of the plant. The planter ought to fill in the earth
with the same care; and having trod it down in
the usual manner, he cuts the turf in two with his
spade, and places one half on each side of the
plant, so that the straight edges of the two sections
meet together at the stem, while the grassy or
heathy side lies nearest the earth. This answers
two good purposes; the covering prevents the
drought from so readily affecting the young plant,
and the reversing the turf prevents it from being
affected by the growth of long grass, heath, or
weeds in its immediate vicinity. When the time
of planting the oaks arrives, we would observe the
same method, taking only still greater care of
working the earth, of adjusting the roots, and of
covering the pit.</p>
<p> And here we may hazard an observation, that, of
all accidents detrimental to a plantation, those which
arise from the slovenly haste of the workman are
most generally prejudicial. Sometimes grounds
are planted by contract, which, for obvious reasons,
leads to hasty proceedings; but, even where the
proprietor's own people are employed, which must
be usually the case in undertakings in a distant and
wild country, the labourers get impatient, and if
not checked and restrained, will be found to perform
their task with far more haste than good speed.
The experienced woodsman will guard with peculiar
care against this great danger; for a tree well
planted will be found to grow in the most unfavourable
spot, while plants, the roots of which have
been compressed, or, perhaps, left partially uncovered,
will decay, even in the best soil and the most
sheltered situation.</p>
<p> We have said, that the forest ought to be planted
chiefly with larch and oak, in order to produce an
early return, and at the same time to ensure a
lasting value; but this is not to be Judaically interpreted,
and we must take this opportunity to mention
several exceptions.</p>
<p> There are points peculiarly exposed in every
extensive plantation, which, if covered with a
screen, are found most useful in defending the
young woods from the prevailing wind. On such
exposed elevations, we would recommend that the
Scots fir be liberally intermixed with the larches.
It grows more slowly, doubtless, and is an inferior
tree to the larch in every respect; but retaining
its leaves during the winter, and possessing at the
same time a wonderful power of resisting the storm,
it forms, in such places as we have described, a
much more effectual shelter than can be afforded
by the larch alone. It will be easily conceived,
that such a change of colouring in the forest should
not be introduced, as forming defined figures, or
preserving precise outlines; but that the different
kinds of trees should be intermingled, so as to shade
off into the general mass. If this is attended to,
the plantation will seem to have been formed by
Nature's own cunning hand.</p>
<p> Ere we leave the subject, we may remind the
young planter, that the species of fir, which in an
evil hour was called <u>Scotch,</u> as now generally found
in nurseries, is very inferior, in every respect, to
the real Highland fir, which may be found in the
North of Scotland in immense natural forests,
equally distinguished for their romantic beauty and
national importance. This last is a noble tree,
growing with huge contorted arms, not altogether
unlike the oak, and forming therein a strong contrast
to the formality of the common fir. The
wood, which is of a red colour, is equal to that
brought from Norway; and, when a plant, it may
be known from the spurious or common fir by the
tufts of leaves being shorter and thicker, and by
the colour being considerably darker. The appearance
of the Highland fir, when planted in its
appropriate situation amongst rock and crags, is
dignified and even magnificent; the dusky red of
its massive trunk, and dark hue of its leaves, forming
a happy accompaniment to scenes of this description.
Such firs, therefore, as are ultimately
designed to remain as principal trees, ought to be
of this kind, though it may probably cost the
planter some trouble to procure the seed from the
Highlands. The ordinary fir is an inferior variety,
brought from Canada not more than half a century
ago. Being very prolific, the nursery-gardeners
found it easy to raise it in immense quantities; and
thus, though a mean-looking tree, and producing
wood of little comparative value, it has superseded
the natural plant of the country, and is called, <u>par
excellence,</u> the Scotch fir. Under that name it has
been used generally as a nurse, and so far must be
acknowledged useful, that it submits to almost any
degree of hard usage, as, indeed, it seldom meets
with any which can be termed even tolerable.
There is a great difference betwixt the wood, even
of this baser species, raised slowly and in exposed
situations, and that of the same tree produced upon
richer soil---the last being much inferior in every
respect, because more rapid in growth.</p>
<p> The planter of a large region will also meet with
many portions of ground too wet either for the oak
or larch, although the former can endure a very
considerable degree of moisture. This he will
stock, of course, with the alder, the willow, the
poplar, and other trees which prefer a subaqueous
soil. But we would particularly recommend the
spruce-fir, an inhabitant of such marshes. This
tree is almost sure to disappoint the planter upon
dry and stony ground. Even planted in good soil,
it is apt to decay when about twenty or thirty
years old, especially the variety called, from the
strong odour of its leaves, the balm of Gilead.
But in wet grounds, even where very moorish, the
spruce grows to a gigantic size, and the wood is
excellent. The silver fir will also endure a great
deal of moisture, is one of the hardiest, as well as
most stately, children of the forest, and deserves
to be cultivated upon a larger scale than that which
is usually practised. The woods of Blair Adam,
near Kinross, the seat of the Right Honourable
William Adam, afford decided proof, that the
spruce and silver fir can be raised to the most
magnificent trees, in a moist soil, where the substratum
appears to be moss.</p>
<p> Before quitting this part of the subject, we may
observe that, without prejudice to the general
maxims of economy laid down, a proprietor, of
ordinary feeling and taste, will find, in an extensive
tract of waste lands, numerous recesses where the
climate is mild, and the exposure favourable, an
occasional intervention, in short, of<p> ``Sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>It is customary to say Glengarry's country, MacLeod's
<em> country, and the like, to indicate the estates of the great
</em> Highland proprietors.---S.<p> We may, however, just hint to planters, as unpoetical
as ourselves, that in achieving such a task
as we have proposed to them, nature will, in spite
of them, realize, in many places, the wishes breathed
by improvers of a different description. In the sort
of ground which we have described, it happens
invariably that particular places are found where
the natural wood, in spite of all the causes which
combine to destroy it, has used effective efforts to
preserve its existence in the various forms of scattered
and stunted trees, tangled and briery copse-wood,
and small shoots of underwood, which, kept
down by the continual browsing of the cattle, affords
only twigs, the existence of which is scarcely manifest
among the grass. In all these cases, the
remains of natural wood arising rapidly, when protected
by enclosures against the intrusion of cattle,
volunteer their services to the planter. These are
often so important, that, by properly trimming the
old wood, the introduction of new plants may, in
many cases, be altogether dispensed with. In
others, the small twigs, invisible when the ground
was planted, come up afterwards as underwood
and serve for the purpose of harbouring game or
forming thickets. Nay, in some, this natural growth
will be found ``something between a hinderance
and a help,'' encumbering, and sometimes altogether
overpowering and superseding the artificial
planting. The trees which thus voluntarily present
themselves, as the natural tenants of the soil,
are oak, hazel, mountain-ash, thorns of different
kinds, hack-berry (called bird-cherry,) holly, &c.,
in the dry places; and in those which incline to
be moist, the alder and willow. The forester may
look with almost an absolute certainty for the arrival
of these volunteer supplies, if he plants a
space of two or three hundred acres. They serve
to beautify the operations of art, by adding the
wild colouring and drapery of nature. According
to the old school of planting, it was the business of
the forester to destroy, upon such occasions, the
natural productions of the soil, in order to protect
the much more worthless plants with which he had
himself stocked it. Thus, we know a large plantation,
in which a natural oak copse was twice rooted
out, in order to protect one of base Canadian firs;
yet when the woods afterwards began to be managed
with more taste and knowledge, the oaks still remained
strong enough, despite these two attempts
at extirpation, to supersede the intruders; and
they constitute at this time the principal part of
the existing wood.</p>
<p> We are now come to the distance to be observed
betwixt the plants, on putting them into the ground.
This is a subject on which different opinions are
maintained; opinions which, however, we think
have been unnecessarily placed in opposition to
each other:---the mode of planting closely, or putting
in the trees at a greater distance, being each
preferable or inferior to the other in relation to the
situation of the plantation, and the purposes for
which it is destined.</p>
<p> And considering this most important point, with
relation to the number of the principal trees designed
to remain as the ultimate stock on the land,
we must confess our opinion, that the number of
hard-wood trees planted is generally much greater
than is necessary. A common rule allots the space
of six or seven feet betwixt each principal plant.
This seems far too large an allowance, and adds
greatly to the expense of planting, without producing
any correspondent return. If planted so
near each other, a great number of the hard-wood
trees must be taken out as weedings, before they
attain any marketable value; and, as they shoot up
again after they are cut down, they are apt to interfere
with the growth of the trees which it is the
object of the planter finally to cherish, unless the
roots themselves are got rid of by the expensive
operation of grubbing. If the hard-timber trees
are planted at ten or twelve feet distance from each
other, there will be room enough left for them to
attain a foot in diameter before it is necessary to
remove any of them. When planted at a smaller
distance than the above, many must certainly be removed
ere they have attained any value, while the
operation, at the same time, gives to the proprietor
the painful feeling attached to destroying a fine
plant in its very bloom of promise. But this, like
many other maxims concerning planting, is liable
to be controlled by circumstances. In forming a
plantation near a residence, it may be of great importance
to place the hard-wood plants at six or
eight feet distance, especially if the soil or exposure
be indifferent. This gives the planter, at the
distance of ten or twelve years, a choice in selecting
the particular trees which will best suit the
situation, and the power at the same time of rendering
the wood a complete screen, by cutting
down the others for under-wood, the introduction
of which beauty and utility alike recommend. If
there are still thriving young trees, which it is necessary
to remove, they are, in such a case, useful
to the proprietor: he may plant them out as ornamental
trees either upon his lawn, or, as we have
ourselves practised, these outcasts of the plantation
may be scattered about in the neighbouring pastures.
If they are planted with a little care among such
patches of furze as usually occur in sheep-ground,
with some attention to shelter and soil, it is really
wonderful how few of them fail, certainly not above
one out of ten, even where no great attention is
bestowed on the process, except by cleansing such
sheltered spots for receiving the trees. Those that
dwindle must be cut, even after standing a year;
they will generally send up fine shoots upon the
season following. Here, however, we are again
straying from our immediate task; for profit and
pleasure are so intimately united in this delightful
pursuit, that it is frequently difficult to distinguish
where their paths separate. Upon the whole,
however, it may be considered as unnecessary extravagance
in a plantation of great extent, and
calculated chiefly for profit, to place the principal
or hard-wood trees nearer than twelve feet. Should
one be found to fail, its place may be easily supplied
by leaving a larch as a principal tree in its
room, an exchange which ultimately leaves little
ground for regret.</p>
<p> The quantity of nurses (which, according to our
mode of planting, will be chiefly larches, intermingled
with Scotch firs where exposure requires
it) should seem also a relative question, to be decided
by circumstances. If there is a favourable
prospect for the sale of the weedings of the plantation
at an early period, there can be no doubt of the
truth of the old maxim---``Plant thick, and thin
early.'' In this case the larches may be set within
three and a half feet of each other generally over
the plantation, leaving them somewhat more distant
upon the places peculiarly sheltered, and placing
them something closer upon exposed ridges, and in
rows formed to interrupt the course of the prevailing
winds.</p>
<p> If the planting thrives, the larches will, in the
fifth or sixth year, require a thinning, the produce
of which, in an inhabited country, will certainly be
equal to the expense. The bark, for example, will
produce from four to five pounds a-ton, or otherwise,
in proportion to the value of oak bark, amounting
usually to one half the value of that commodity.
The peeled sticks, from an inch and a half to three
inches diameter, find a ready demand. The smallest
are sawed into stakes for supporting the nets with
which sheep are secured when eating turnips off
the ground, and immense numbers are wanted for
this purpose on the verge of hilly districts. They
fetch, generally, about a shilling per dozen. The
larger larches make paling of various descriptions,
gates for enclosures, &c. &c. For all these purposes,
the larch is admirably calculated, by its
quality of toughness and durability. The profits
derived from these first thinnings can receive
small addition from the produce of the Scotch fir,
which will, at this period, be worth little else than
what it will bring for fire-wood at the nearest village.
But we must repeat, that even this first and
least productive course of thinning will do more
than clear the expense bestowed, in situations
where the country can be considered as peopled.</p>
<p> There are, however, extensive Highland wastes,
which of all other ground, we would most desire
to see planted, where the improver must expect no
such return. The distance of markets, the want
of demand, deny that profit in the larch wildernesses
of the North, which is derived from those
more favourably situated, and where every stick,
almost every twig, may be brought advantageously
to sale. If, therefore, the plantations be as closely
filled up in the former case as in the latter, one of
two things must happen---either that the thinnings
are made at considerable expense over a waste
tract of wood-land, without any reimbursement
from the proceeds; or else the plantation remains
unthinned, to the unspeakable prejudice of the
wood, since no trees can thrive unless on the condition
of removing a part, to give an additional
portion, both of soil and air, to those which remain.
This painful dilemma may be avoided by preserving
such a distance betwixt the plants, when originally
put into the ground, as will make thinning
unnecessary, until they shall have attained a more
considerable value. It has been found by experience,
that larches in particular will grow very
well, and even in situations of an unpromising
character, if placed at the distance of ten or twelve
feet from each other, and may therefore be suffered
to remain for ten or twelve years without any
thinning. The trees thus taken out will be from
six inches to a foot in diameter; and, if no other
demand occurs, a great quantity of them may be
employed in forming internal enclosures in the
wood itself, if, as in a large tract of forest ground
and in a high country is often highly advisable, it
is judged proper to restore a part of the land to the
purpose of pasture. This has been a mode of improvement
long practised by the Duke of Athole, in
the north of Perthshire, where, to his infinite
honour, he has covered whole regions of barren
mountains with thriving wood, and occupied, with
herds of black cattle, extensive pastures, which
formerly lay utterly waste and unproductive.</p>
<p> A singular and invaluable quality of the larch-fir,
first remarked, or at least first acted on, by the
patriotic nobleman whom we have named, has
given the means of altogether appeasing the fears
of those well-meaning persons, who apprehended
that the great extent of modern plantations might,
in time, render timber too abundant in the country
to bring any remunerating price, while, at the same
time, it would draw a great proportion of land from
the occupation of flocks or herds. The larch plantations
are experimentally found, by the annual
casting of their leaves to lend material aid to the
encouragement of the fine and more nutritive
grasses; while, at the same time, they cause the
destruction of the heath, and other coarser productions
of vegetation. The cause of this is obvious.
The finer grasses---white clover, in particular---
exist in abundance in the bleakest and most dreary
moors, although they cannot in such disadvantageous
soil become visible to the eye, until encouraged
by some species of manure. If any one doubts this,
he may be satisfied of the truth, by cutting up a
turf in the most barren heath in his vicinity, and
leaving it with the heathy side undermost in the
place where it was cut; or he may spread a spadeful
of lime upon a square yard of the same soil.
In either case, the spot so treated will appear the
next season covered with white clover. Or the
same fact may be discovered by observing the
roads which traverse extensive heaths, the sides of
which are always greensward, although of the same
soil, and subject to the same atmosphere, with the
rest of the moor. The blowing of the triturated
dust, impregnated with horse-dung, has in this case
produced the same effect which the application of
lime or the turning the turf, in the former experiments,
is calculated to attain. The clover, whether
as a seed or plant our dull organs cannot discover,
being thus proved to exist in the worst soils, and
to flourish on the slightest encouragement, there
is no difficulty in understanding how the larch-trees,
constantly shedding their leaves on the spot
where they are planted, should gradually encourage
the clover to supersede the heath, and, by doing
so, convert into tolerable pasture-land that from
which no animal, excepting a moor-cook, could derive
any species of sustenance. We understand
the fact to be, that, by the influence of this annual
top-dressing, hundreds, nay, thousands of acres
have been rendered worth from five to ten shillings
an acre, instead of from sixpence to, at the utmost,
two shillings. Whoever knows any thing of the
comparative value of heath and greensward pasture,
will agree that the advantages of converting
the one into the other are very moderately stated
at the above ratio, and this wonderful transformation
is made without the slightest assistance from
human art, save that of putting in the larch plants.</p>
<p> If it is judged advisable to profit to the uttermost
by this ameliorating quality of the larch-tree,
the expense of the original plantation will be very
considerably diminished, as it will be, in that case,
unnecessary to plant any oaks in it, and the whole
expense of setting it with larches alone, cannot, in
such parts of the country as we are acquainted
with, approach to twenty shillings an acre. To
this must be added ten years' rent of the field
which we may suppose, on an average, a shilling
per acre, making, on the whole, an outlay of thirty
shillings per acre. The cost of enclosing, and the
loss of interest, are to be added to this sum. No
other expenses have been incurred during these
ten years; for the distance at which the trees are
originally planted has rendered thinning unnecessary
until that space has expired. In the spring of
the eleventh year, then, if the bark is considered as
an object, a general revising of the plantation takes
place, when, probably, one-third part of the larches
may be removed. It must be under very disadvantageous
circumstances indeed, that four hundred
larches do not, in bark and timber, repay all the
expenses of fencing by any cheap method, together
with the compound interest on the rent and the
expenses of thinning. The acre, therefore, which
has cost but thirty shillings for the larch woods,
may, at ten years old, be occupied as pasture, without
much danger to the trees, which cattle and
sheep are not known to crop. For this sum the
proprietor receives back his acre of land, with a
crop of eight hundred larch-trees, twelve years
old, which, valued but at threepence a-piece, are
worth ten pounds, but which may be more reasonably
estimated at a much greater sum, and which,
without costing the owner a farthing, but, on the
contrary, increasing his income by thinnings from
time to time, will come, in process of time, to be
worth hundreds, nay, thousands, of pounds. At
the same time, the larches have been, in a manner,
paying rent for the ground they occupy, by the
amelioration of the grass, which is uniformly so
great as to treble and quadruple what the land
was worth at the first time of planting. To all
this large profit is to be added the comfort which
the cattle experience in a well-sheltered pasture,
where they have at once shade in summer, warmth
in winter, and protection in the storm.</p>
<p> Yet great and important as are the advantages
attending the Athol mode of planting, we would
not willingly see it supersede the culture of the
oak, the staple commodity of this island; nor do
we believe it is permitted to do so in the country
of the noble duke himself. But it is evident, that
the greatest possible advantage is to be derived
from combining the two different systems, and
intermixing plantations to be kept entirely for
wood, and consisting chiefly of oak and larch, with
others which, consisting only of larch-trees, are to
be occupied as pasture after the tenth or twelfth
year. The beauty, as well as the productive quality,
of the region to be planted, will be increased
by blending the systems together, and uniting them
at the same time with that of copse plantations,
on which we are next about to make some remarks.</p>
<p> The mode of cultivating the _sylva c<ae>dua,_ or
copsewood destined to the axe, has been greatly
improved by a discovery of our author, or, at least,
a practice which he has been the first to recommend---
the propagating the oak, namely, by layering
from the double shoot of young saplings. We
will here permit this practical and sound-headed
forester to speak for himself:---</p>
<p> ``The method of layering from the sprig of a plant is well
known to all nurserymen; but we must carry the matter a
little farther when we go to the forest. The method of layering
in forests, which is agreed on by all those who have
tried it, is of the very first and greatest advantage in filling up
blanks in a natural or coppice wood: and with this we may
commence. When the young shoots in a natural wood have
finished their second year's growth, say in the month of November
or December the second year (and here, by the way,
it may be proper to observe, that, when layering is reqired,
the stools of natural wood should not be thinned out the first
year, as is directed in the section on rearing of natural or coppice
woods,) every shoot should be allowed to grow till the
layering is performed, the second year's growth being finished
as aforesaid. If the stools have been healthy, these will have
made a push of from six to nine feet high. If there is a blank
to fill up on every side of the stool, take four of the best shots
and layer them down in different directions in the following
manner:---take the stem or shoot from the stool; give it a
slash with a knife in the under side, very near the stool or
root, to make it bend; often the shoot at this age will bend
without using the knife; give it also a slash with your knife
about one inch above the eye next the top of the shoot.
Should there be but one small shoot near the top, and that
chance to be next the ground, not to twist the leader or layer,
give the shoot a twist round the body of the layer, and bring
it upward. Make a rut in the ground about six inches long,
and of sufficient width to receive the body of the layer. Pin
the layer firmly down in the slit, below the surface of the
earth. This may be easily and readily done with a mall pin
of wood, about six inches long, with a hook upon its upper
end, to keep down the body of the layer; which pins can
easily be got from the branches of the trees in the wood. Having
pinned it firmly down below the surface of the ground, cover
over the layer with the turf from the rut; or a little fresh
earth may be put in, and press it firmly down, holding up the
end of the young shoot from the body of the layer, pressing
the ground about the root of it the same as putting in a plant
by pitting, &c., leaving also the top of the shoot or stem thus
layered down out of the ground. Thus the layering is performed;
and, in one year, if the root or stool from which the
layer is taken, be healthy, the top shoot, and the shoot to
form the tree, say the small shoot or eye from the top, will
make a push of at least two, and I have even known them
grow four feet in one season. Nor is there the smallest chance
of their misgiving. The top shoot having made a push again,
in two years, of very possibly from eight to nine feet, it can be
layered down, and led out other eight or nine feet;
thus in four years completely planting up and covering the
ground on all sides from sixteen to eighteen feet, and (supposing
you have stools or roots on the ground at a distance of
from thirty to forty feet,) in five years you can completely
plant up the whole ground without the expense of a single
plant. Nor is there the least risk of their misgiving in one
single case, if properly done; and here also you have a plantation
of plants, or we may now rather call them trees, of
from four to fourteen feet high, which, by putting inplants,
you could not have for twelve years, beside the expense
of much filling up.''---Monteath, pp. 47-50.</p>
<p> In another part of the same work he gives directions
for forming a new copse-wood where no old
plants exist, and his manner is well worthy the attention
of the experimental planter. He proposes
that only twenty-seven plants shall be placed in an
English acre. Each of these being cut over yearly
for five or six years, will, he reckons, produce, in
the sixth, plants fit for layering; and having gone
twice through that process, they will, in the course
of eight years, fill up the ground with shoots at the
distance of eight feet from each other, being the
distance necessary in a copse-plantation. Screens
and nurses of larch we would think highly conducive
to the perfection of these operations.</p>
<p> Whether formed by planting or by layering,
the cultivation of copse-wood is a matter of the
highest importance, and seldom fails to be the most
certain produce of a Highland gentleman's estate,
where the woods are properly treated and regularly
cut. The oak coppice will flourish on the
very face of the most broken ground, however encumbered
with rocks, and where it is impossible to
conceive how the roots can obtain any nourishment,
except from the rain which oozes among the
clefts and crevices of the rock. And as to exposure,
Mr. Monteath informs us that the copse-woods
in Scotland, and particularly in Argyleshire, on
the very tops of hills from five hundred to one
thousand feet above the level of the sea, are equally
healthy, produce equally good bark and are nearly
equally productive with those in the vales, although
they are exposed to every wind that blows.</p>
<p> In order to give some idea of the profit attending
these copse-woods, the following caculation was
made for a nobleman who had lately succeeded to
a very extensive tract of mountainous country. It
was supposed that, being willing regularly to dedicate
a sum, which the amount of his income made
a moderate one, to this species of improvement,
there should be selected each year in the most
convenient places, and those where shelter was
most likely to benefit the pasture, a hundred acres
of waste and unprofitable ground, to be planted or
layered as copse-wood. The amount of rent thus
sacrificed, for reasons already given, would be very
trifling indeed. The expense of planting and enclosing,
presuming it to be carried on with liberality
and even profusion, could not, in any reasonable
view, exceed four hundred pounds. To meet the
labour and expense of revision, the proprietor
would have the value of thinnings, which, supposing
the nurses to be larch, would be found much
more than adequate to the purpose of reimbursing
them. A similar space of land was supposed to be
regularly planted on every year for twenty years,
or two or three more, as the general progress of
the plantations might render necessary. The
hundred acres first planted would then be ready
for a fall, the produce of which would afford at
east four tons of bark to an acre, and taking the
price at ten pounds a-ton, which is certainly not
extravagant, would bring in four thousand pounds
in return for four hundred expended twenty years
before. The subsequent copses being cut in regular
rotation, in the order in which they were planted,
the noble proprietor would be found to have added
four thousand pounds yearly to his estate, in the
space of two or three and twenty years; and it is
unnecessary to add that the private gentleman who
can but afford to plant the tenth part of the extent,
must, if the site of his wood is well chosen, derive proportional
advantage. It cannot be denied, however,
that the larger the size of the plantations, the more
likely they are to be thriving and productive.</p>
<p> The copse-wood cannot pretend to the dignity of
the forest, yet it possesses many advantages. The
standing wood must be one day felled, and then it
is centuries ere it can arise again in its pristine
majesty; nay, as fellers are seldom planters, it too
often happens that, once fallen, the mature forest
falls for ever; the proprietor feels a sort of false
shame in supplying with pigmy shrubs the giants
which be has destroyed, and the term when the
damage can be repaired is so far beyond the ken
of man, that the attempt is relinquished in despair.
The copse-wood, on the contrary, enjoys a species
of immortality, purchased, indeed, like that of
Nourjahad, in the Oriental tale, by intervals of
abeyance. Its lease of existence may be said to
be purchased by fine and renewal, a portion of it
being cut in succession every twenty years. The
eye is no doubt wounded for the time by the fall
of the portion annually destined for the market,
but the blank may be masked by leaving occasional
standards, and nature hastens to repair it. In the
course of three years, the copse which has been
felled generally again assumes its tufted appearance,
and in two or three years more, is as flourishing
and beautiful as ever.</p>
<p> But the _sylva c<ae>dua_ possesses more solid advantages.
In the first place, there are doubtless many
situations in mountainous districts admirably calculated
to grow wood, but where it would be injudicious
to raise full-grown timber, on account of the
difficulty, nay, impossibility, of bringing it into the
market. Bark, on the contrary, a light substance
and easily transported, can be brought from the
most remote and inaccessible recesses of the forest,
without the expense of conveyance greatly diminishing
the profit of the planter. The peeled timber
is also an object in those districts where fuel
is scarce, besides the demand for charcoal in others,
and the consumption of the larger pieces in country
work. In many places there is a demand for the
oak boughs and twigs, to make what is called the
pyro-ligneous acid, now so generally used instead of
vinegar.</p>
<p> Besides their certain return of annual profit,
copse-woods, when formed on entailed estates, have
the great advantage of affording to every heir of
entail in possession, his fair share of this species
of property, while, at the same time, it is almost
impossible for him to get more. Large woods of
standing trees are planted by prudence and foresight,
and maintained and preserved by the respect
of successive proprietors, in order, perhaps, ultimately
to supply the necessities of some extravagant
or dissipated possessor, the shame and ruin of
the line. But in the case of copse-wood, such an
``unthrifty heir of =Linne='' can only receive the
produce of what regularly falls to be cut during his
time; nor can the amount be increased, or the time
of payment accelerated, either by the rapacity or
necessity of the proprietor. This is a subject well
worth the consideration of those who are anxious
about the preservation of their landed estate in
their own family.</p>
<p> Thus it will be observed, that each of these
several modes of planting has its own peculiar advantages,
and far from being bigoted to any one
of them, to the total exclusion of others, the proprietor
ought, before commencing his operations,
to consider maturely, whether his purpose should
be to raise a standing wood, to improve his pasturage
by the use of larches exclusively, or to crop
the land by means of copse-wood, under regular
and systematical management. Where plantations
of a moderate extent are concerned, the question
must be determined by local circumstances, but a
large plan affords means of embracing the whole,
and can hardly be accounted perfect without exhibiting
specimens of the dark majesty of the forest,
the gentler beauties of the copse, and the succession
of verdant pastures, intermixed with stately
and valuable larch-trees, which the Athol system
is so well qualified to introduce. By one or other,
or all of these methods, the utmost capabilities of
the soil will be brought forth, and the greatest
change induced in the face of nature which it is
possible for human reason to devise, or human
power to execute.</p>
<p> We should not have accomplished the task which
we proposed, did we not mention, though superficially,
the two grand operations of pruning and
thinning, without which every one now allows,
there can be no rapidly growing plantations, or
clean, valuable wood. They are both subjects much
better understood than they were twenty years ago,
when it was common, for example, to prune off all
the under branches of a plant, without considering
that this severe operation was destroying the means
with which nature provides the plant for drawing
up the sap, and thus depriving it of the means of
increasing in size; while, with similar incongruity,
the upper branches were left to form a thick round
head, subject to the action of every storm that
blows. Since the publication of Mr. Pontey's treatise,
every one worthy to possess a pruning knife
is aware that the top of the young plant must be
thinned for the encouragement of the leading shoot,
and the side boughs only removed in cases where
they are apt to rival the stem, or rob it of too much
nourishment; and in other cases made so to balance
each other, that the tree, when swayed by the
wind, may, like a well-trimmed vessel, as speedily
as possible recover its equilibrium. We have not,
indeed, found that the system of very severe pruning,
and removing very many of the side branches,
has, under our observation, added so much to the
thickness and weight of the stem as it appears to
have done under Mr. Pontey's management in better
climates; but the general principle which he
lays down is indisputable, and has produced much
advantage. Neither is it necessary now to renew
the caution, that the pruning work should be entirely
performed by the hand-knife, or by the chisel
and mallet, and, consequently, during the infancy
of the plant. The woodsman can scarce commit
a greater blunder than by postponing this most
necessary operation until it becomes indispensable
to employ the axe, when ten men will not perform
the work of one at the earlier period, and when the
wounds which might have been inflicted without
injury in the infancy of the plant, are sure permanently
to disfigure and deteriorate the young tree.</p>
<p> But it may not be so unnecessary to remind the
young planter, that the safe and proper time for
pruning hard-wood is the summer mouths, when
the sap, having ascended, is stationary in the tree,
and before it begins again to descend. It is true,
all authors agree that to prune a tree while the sap
is in motion, either upwards or downwards, is the
ready way to cause it to bleed to death. But there
are authors and practical foresters, who continue
to hold the heretical opinion that winter is as safe,
or even a safer period for pruning, than summer.
Nicol, for example, in his useful <u>Planter's Kalendar,</u>
falls into this error, and enjoins pruning during
the winter months. Yet his experience might have
convinced him of its inexpedience. During summer,
there always exudes, upon the face of the
wound, a thin, gummy fluid, which in a few days
seals it up, and skins it over. We have never observed
that the plant has any tendency to renew
the branches removed at this season. But where
the same cut is inflicted in winter, the plant is apt
to suffer from the action of the frost upon the raw
wound; and, moreover, when the spring months
arrive, the forester will observe numerous new
shoots pushed out from the scar of that which has
been removed, and is thus apprised that his task is
but imperfectly performed. As to the necessity of
pruning, in general, it is proved by a single glance
at the short stems and overgrown heads of the
greater part of the oaks found in natural woods,
compared with the close upright trunks of those
which have felt, in infancy, a judicious application
of the pruning-knife. The part of the tree, in the
former case, which can be sawn out as useful timber,
is not, perhaps, above three feet in length,
while the stem of the latter has been trained upwards
to the height of fourteen. It is in vain to
contradict these facts by an appeal to nature.
Nature is equally favourable to all her productions.
It is the same to her whether the oak produces
timber or boughs, and whether the field produces
grain or tares. Human skill and art avail themselves
of the operations of nature, by encouraging
and directing them towards such results as are
most useful to mankind. When we see nature raise
a field of wheat, we may expect her to produce a
whole forest of clean, straight, profitable timber---
till then we must be content to employ plough and
harrow in the one case---hatchet and pruning-knife
in the other.</p>
<p> The mode of thinning is greatly altered and improved
of late years. The sordid and narrow-minded
system, which postponed the operation
until the thinnings should be of some value, is now,
we hope, exploded. To treat a plantation in one
way or other, with reference to the value to be derived
from the thinning, would be as if a carpenter
should cut out his wood, not with relation to the
ultimate use which he was to make of it, but to the
chips which the operation was to produce. These,
indeed, are not to be thrown away, if they can be
profitably disposed of; but it would be wild to permit
them to be considered as a principal object.
In modern times, we rarely see those melancholy
wrecks of woods which had once been promising,
but where the nurses have been allowed to remain
until they choked and swallowed the more valuable
crop, which they had been intended to shelter; and
where the former existence of oaks, elms, and ashes
is only proved by a few starting bushes, which,
being near the verge of the plantation, have, by
straggling and contorting their boughs, contrived
to get as much of the atmosphere as is sufficient to
keep them alive, whilst the interior of the wood
presents only a dull and hopeless succession of
spindle-shanked Scotch firs, which, like a horde of
savages, after having invaded and ruined a civilized
and wealthy province, are finally employed in destroying
each other. Timely thinning, commenced
in the fifth season after planting, and repeated from
time to time as occasion requires, effectually prevents
this loss of hopes, plants, and labour.</p>
<p> We would just beg leave to remark, that it is an
indifferent, though too frequent mode of thinning,
which prescribes the removal of a certain number
of plants, a sixth part, or as the case may be, indifferently
over the whole plantation. On the contrary,
we would be disposed to thin freely the bottoms,
hollows, and sheltered places, so that the
nurses should be entirely removed, in the first instance,
from those places where their presence is
least necessary, while they are permitted to retain
their station longer on the verges of the wood, or
on those exposed heights where, like division
hedges in large gardens, they have been originally
planted with a view of shelter to the lower ground.
In process of time, however, these verges and
heights must be gradually thinned out; for warmth
and shelter cannot make amends to trees, any more
than to mankind, for the want of vital air. It requires
the attentive watchfulness of the forester to
discover where, or in what proportion, the air is to
be introduced into an exposed plantation upon the
windward side. If the screen is too speedily opened,
the trees, suddenly exposed to cold and stormy
winds, become disordered in the sap-vessels, hide-bound,
and mossed, and, finally, dwindle into unsightly
shrubs, or, perhaps, die entirely. If the
air be not admitted at all, or in due quantities, they
are equally sure to wither and decay for want of
breath. This dilemma arises from not observing
the address, so to call it, with which trees adapt
themselves to an exposed or more sheltered situation.
On the outside of the plantation, in hedge
rows, or where they stand single or in small groups,
trees have great heads, short stems, thick and rugged
barks, all of which are accommodated to their
peculiar situation; the short stems giving them
most resistance against the storm, the great
branches best balancing the tree when swayed by
the gale, and the thick, rugged bark protecting the
sap-vessels against the inclemency of the weather.
For the contrary reasons, trees of the same species,
placed within the shelter of a grove, rise with clear
stems, covered with thin and smooth bark, having
lofty, but small heads, and all the attributes of a
plant accustomed to a milder climate. But if the
shelter be allowed to become too close, the tree,
like a valetudinary in an over-heated room, becomes
injured by the very means adopted for its preservation.
On the other hand, if the physician wished
to allow such a patient a fresher atmosphere, he
would certainly allow him time to put on warmer
clothing. To pay the same respect to the trees in
the interior of our plantation, the outside trees
must be thinned, and they must be thinned gradually.
Some managers of woods contrive to combine
both errors, by neglecting the necessary thinning
for years, and finally setting about it with a
hasty and unsparing hand. Time and experience
alone can teach the forester to observe a medium
course in this important operation; but as to thinning,
in general, it may be received as a maxim,
that he who spares the axe hates the wood.</p>
<p> The duty, indeed, requires in its own nature
some share of stoical resolution, nor is it to be approached
without a feeling of reluctance. The
lonely, secluded, sheltered appearance of your plantation
is violated by the intrusion of your hatchet-men;
you look with regret on the hopeful tall
plants, whose doom you are about to seal, and feel
yourself in the same moment unable and unwilling
to select which of the darling family, a family of
your own planting and rearing, are to perish for
the benefit of the survivors. Neither is it very
consolatory to look upon the altered scene after the
havoc has taken place. It is but four years since,
where no employment was so grateful as that of
watching and protecting the growth of the trees
that are now lying prostrate on the ground; your
old secret path, encumbered by boughs and
branches, seems rudely laid bare to the sun. Many
of the trees which remain, in spite of the wood-man's
utmost care, have suffered by the fall of their
companions, and<p> ``the broken boughs
Droop with their wither'd leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation.''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>and to the private gentleman, who has three or
four thousand moorland acres, or even a smaller
property. We suppose the proprietor, in either
case, desirous to convert a suitable part of his estate
into woodland, at the least possible expense, and
with the greatest chance of profit.<p> ``Then up I rose,
And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough with crush
And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being . . . . . . . .
I felt a sense of pain, when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.''</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Wordsworth's Description of the Country of the Lakes.<p> Mr. Monteath's work is, in many important respects,
of consequence to the planter. It is written
in the simple, homely manner of one whose hand
is better accustomed to the knife than to the pen,
and, without any particular formal order, touches
more or less upon most of the forester's operations.
He has devised a useful machine for measuring the
quantity of wood in standing trees---he has thrown
out hints for the preservation and the cure of the
dry rot in timber, and upon diseases in growing
trees; he has treated of the mode of valuing and
selling bark, and several other subjects; and as he
speaks generally from practical knowledge, we may,
using a phrase of Chaucer, in somewhat a different
sense, fairly dismiss him with the compliment paid
to the Squire's Yeoman, in the _Canterbury Tales:_---<p> ``Of wood-craft can he well all the usage.''</p>
</p>
<p> We may be blamed in these desultory remarks
for not having said something upon the subject of
planting woods from the acorn, instead of the nursery.
We have heard this recommended by great
authority, which, moreover, vindicated the practice
of leaving nature to work her own work in her own
manner, when, it was asserted, the strongest and
best trees would work forwards, fight with the
others, and save us the trouble of pruning and
thinning, by weeding out the inferior plants. We
have planted acorns on this system, and the first
show of young oaklings which appeared, rose almost
like ``a bonny <u>braird</u> of wheat.'' But notwithstanding
this fine promise, the plantation came to
nothing. If the young plants fought with each
other, they must have fought what cockers call a
Welsh main, for only tens were left out of hundreds
and thousands. The mice had probably their share
in bringing about this catastrophe; the hares a still
greater one; but the indifferent success of the
experiment, in which five or six hogsheads of acorns
were lost, induced us to renounce the experiment
as being at least precarious in its results. In the
plantations of a friend, a vast number of Spanish
chestnuts were sown chiefly with a view to under
wood, and they made such progress at first a
induced us to apply for some seed of the same kind
from Portugal. Our correspondent fell into the
small mistake of supposing the chestnuts were
wanted for the table, and with that view had the
all carefully peeled. This was a great disappointment
at first, but we comforted ourselves in finding
the promise of the chestnuts did not exceed in performance
that of our own acorns. We therefore
hold, that the sowing seeds in a wild country is a
very doubtful measure, and that the only way to
ensure a thriving plantation, is to stock it from a
well-managed nursery, at no great distance from
the spot where your trees are to arise.</p>
<p> Mr. Monteath suggests a principle of planting,
which might certainly be rendered very advantageous
to tenants, by admitting them into a share
of the benefit to be derived from planting upon the
land occupied by him. Of the great advantages
which arise from this to the farmer, he gives the
following striking example, which may be equally
quoted as an example of the profits of planting in
general:</p>
<p> ``The farm of Crosscaple, parish of Dunblane, and barony
of Kinbuck, Perthshire, was taken by Mr. J. Dawson, for two
nineteen, say thirty-eight years, and entered to in 1777, or
1778, at the annual rent of <L>26 sterling. There was a clause
in the lease, that Mr. Dawson, the tenant, should, if he had a
mind, plant all the wet ground that he did not think proper
to plough, with trees of any kind; and the tenant should be
at liberty to use what of that wood he required, during the currency
of his lease, for all the husbandry purposes on the said
farm, as well as for all the houses he required, or saw meet to
erect on said farm. At the end, or expiration of said lease,
all the standing timber was to be valued by two persons, mutually
chosen by landlord and tenant. And it was expressly
stipulated, that if the two valuators chosen did not agree, they
were to choose a third person, and his opinion betwixt the arbiters
was to be binding on both parties; and to their valuation
the landlord was to pay the tenant in ready money. In
February, 1817, the year after the lease expired, Mr. M`Arthur,
forester in Drummond Castle, was chosen by and on the
part of James Dawson, then the tenant (and now living in
Dunblane,) as his valuator: and I was appointed by the trustees
for behoof of the heir of Kippenross, then a minor. We
met on the ground, and each for himself valued the wood.
After comparing our valuations, there was a difference of about
<L>25 sterling. We then named Mr. William Stirling, architect,
Dunblane, who divided the difference; and all parties having
agreed, fixed the value of the wood on said farm at <L>1029 sterling;
which sum was promptly paid by the trustees of the
estate to the tenants. The whole rent of the farm, paid annually
for thirty-eight years, amounted to <L>988 sterling. The
value paid by the proprietor for the wood was <L>1029, being
<L>41 more than all the rents of the farm during the whole
lease; besides, after the first ten years, the tenant had a sufficiency
of timber for all house and husbandry purposes during
the remainder of his lease. Let it be here observed, that, in
valuing the said wood, we proceeded on the data of its being
all cut down at the time, and brought to market, which was
twenty per cent. lower than the like timber was selling for a
few years before that time. The tenant being left to the freedom
of his own will, as to the kind of trees to plant, had very
injudiciously planted mostly Scotch firs; whereas had he
planted oak and ash, the soil and situation being well adapted
for these kind, he would have had nearly three times that
sum to receive.''---<u>Introduction,</u> pp. xlii.-xliv.</p>
<p> Notwithstanding the favourable results upon the
farm of Crosscaple, we must confess our opinion,
that in most cases the entire property and management
of the wood had better be left with the proprietor.
To the tenant it will always be a secondary
object, and often one which is altogether
neglected. We know an instance in a Highland
farm, of which a lease of three lives was granted
many years ago. The lease contained such a clause
as our author recommends, not permitting merely,
but binding the tenant to plant a certain number
of acres during the currency of the lease, of which
he was to have the use during the term, and an
indemnification at the expiry of his lease for the
value of the trees that should be left. One would
have thought that during the successive possession
of three tenants, some one of them would have
endeavoured to derive advantage from this clause
in their favour; but the event was, that at the end
of the lease the out-going tenant was obliged to
plant the requisite number of acres in order to fulfil
his bargain, and thus left the proprietor a newly-planted
and infant wood, for which the tenant had
recently paid the expense of enclosing and planting,
instead of a thriving and full-grown plantation, for
which he would have had to receive several thousand
pounds.</p>
<p> In this case the wood was not planted at all
but though the farmer is a little more industrious,
it is still less likely to thrive under his management,
and attended to by his ordinary farm-servants,
than in the hands of an expert forester and
his assistants. Indeed, it has always seemed to us
not the least important branch of this great national
subject, that the increase and the proper management
of our forests cannot but be attended with
the most beneficial effect on the population of the
country. Where there lies stretched a wide tract
of land, affording scanty food for unsheltered flocks,
the country will soon, under a judicious system,
show the scene most delightful to the eye---an intermixture
of pastoral and sylvan scenery, where
Ceres, without usurping the land, finds also spots
fit for cultivation. For even the plough has its
office in this species of improvement. In numerous
places we are surprised to see the marks of the
furrows upon plains, upon bleak hill sides, and in
wild moor land. We are not to suppose that, in
the infancy of agriculture, our ancestors were able
to raise crops of corn where we see only heath
and fern. But in former times, and while the
hills retained their natural clothing of wood, such
spots were sheltered by the adjacent trees, and
were thus rendered capable of producing crops.
There can be no doubt that, the protection being
restored, the power of production would again
return, and that in the neighbourhood of the little
hamlets required for the occupation of the foresters,
the means of his simple subsistence would be again
produced. The effects of human industry would,
as usual, overbalance every disadvantageous consideration,
and man would raise food for himself
and his domestic animals in the region where his
daily labour gained his daily bread.</p>
<p> There would thus arise in the wild desert a
hardy and moral population, living by the axe and
mattock, pursuing their useful occupation in a
mode equally favourable to health and morality.
The woods, requiring in succession planting, pruning,
thinning, felling, and barking, would furnish to
such labourers a constant course of employment.
They would be naturally attached to the soil on
which they dwelt, and the proprietor who afforded
them the means of life would be very undeserving
if he had not his share of that attachment. In a
word, the melancholy maxim of the poet would be
confuted, and the race of bold peasantry, whom
want and devastation had driven from these vast
wilds, would be restored to their native country.
This circumstance alone deserves the most profound
attention from every class of proprietors;
whether the philosophical economist, who looks
with anxiety for the mode of occupying and supporting
an excess of population, or the juvenile
sportsman, who seeks the mode of multiplying his
game, and increasing the number of his <u>gardes de
chasse.</u> The woods which he plants will serve the
first purpose, and, kindly treated, his band of foresters
will assist in protecting them.</p>
<p> We may be thought to have laboured too long
to prove propositions which no one can reasonably
dispute; yet so incalculably important is the object
---so comparatively indifferent is the attention of
proprietors, that it becomes a duty to the country
to omit no opportunity of recurring to the subject.</p>
<p> The only decent pretext which we hear alleged
for resisting a call which is sounded from every
quarter, is the selfish excuse, that the profits of
plantations make a tardy and distant return. To
a person who argues in this manner it is in vain to
speak of the future welfare of the country, or of
the immediate benefit to the poorer inhabitants, or
of the honour justly attached to the memory of an
extensive improver, since he must be insensible
even to the benefit which his own family must
derive from the improvement recommended; we
can, notwithstanding, meet him on his own ground,
and affirm that the advantage to the proprietor who
has planted a hundred acres, begins at the very
commencement of the undertaking, and may be
realized whenever it is the pleasure of the proprietor
that such realization shall take place. If, for
example, he chooses to sell a plantation at five
years old, or at an earlier period, there is little
doubt that it will be accounted worth the sum
which the plantation cost him, in addition to the
value of the land, and also the interest upon the
expense so laid out. After this period the value
increases in a compound <u>ratio:</u> and at any period
when the planter chooses to sell his property, he
must and will derive an advantage from his plantations,
corresponding to their state of advancement.
It is true that the landed proprietor's own
interest will teach him not to be too eager in
realizing the profits of his plantations, because
every year that he retains them adds rapidly to
their value. But still the value exists as much as
that of the plate in his strong-box, and can be converted
as easily into money, should he be disposed
to sell the plantations which he has formed.</p>
<p> All this is demonstrable even to the prejudices
of avarice itself, in its blindest mood; but the indifference
to this great rural improvement arises,
we have reason to believe, not so much out of the
actual lucre of gain as the fatal vis inerti<ae>---that
indolence which induces the lords of the soil to be
satisfied with what they can obtain from it by immediate
rent, rather than encounter the expense
and trouble of attempting the modes of amelioration
which require immediate expense---and, what
is, perhaps, more grudged by the first-born of
Egypt---a little future attention. To such we can
only say, that improvement by plantation is at
once the easiest, the cheapest, and the least precarious
mode of increasing the immediate value, as
well as the future income, of their estates; and that,
therefore, it is we exhort them to take to heart the
exhortation of the dying Scotch laird to his son:---
``Be aye sticking in a tree, Jock---it will be growing
whilst you are sleeping.''</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>which may be either left for pasture and cultivation,
or filled with other varieties of forest trees
than those which we have advised for the woodland
in general. In discovering these hidden oases
of the desert, the improver will be naturally induced
to turn them to account, and vary the character
of his silvan dominions, according to the
facilities which these <u>accidents</u> of vale and glade
not only admit of, but invite. This employment
cannot fail to be one of the most interesting which
a rural life holds out to its admirers. He may
deepen the shade of the dim glen by tenanting it
with yew, and he may increase the cheerfulness of
the sunny glade by sprinkling it with the lighter
and gayer children of the forest. But here we
must avoid the temptation, which all writers on
plantations, our friends Pontey and Mr. Monteath
not excepted, are disposed to yield to, where there
is such an opportunity for fine description. We
remember Lord Byron's reproof to Moore:---
``Come, hang it, Tom, don't be poetical.'' So we
sheath our eloquence, and resume the humble unadorned
tone of rural admonition.<p> Landscape Gardening.<*></p>
</p>
<p>The scene is not improved by the mangled appearance
of larches and firs, which, destined to the axe
on the next occasion, have, in the mean time, been
deprived of side branches, like the more notorious
criminals, who are mutilated of their limbs before
they are executed. In a word, the whole scene
seems one of violation, and in its consequences resembles
the ravage of the nut-gatherer, as described
by Wordsworth:---</p>
<p>---But a visit to the plantation in the ensuing June
will more than recompense the pain which is natural
to the performance of this act of duty. All
then is again grown fair and green and shady; the
future groves affording appearance of improvement,
which rarely fails to surprise the spectator,
and your firmness in the preceding season is compensated
by the certain indications that large progress
has been made in the accomplishment of your
patriotic as well as profitable object.<p> ``O blind of choice, and to yourselves untrue!
The young grove shoots, their bloom the fields renew,
The mansion asks its lord, the swains their friend,
While he doth riot's orgies haply share,
Or tempt the gamester's dark destroying snare,
Or at some courtly shine, with slavish incense bend!''</p>
<p> Amidst the various sources of amusement which
a country residence offers to its proprietor, the
improvement of the appearance of the house and
adjacent demesne will ever hold a very high place.
Field-sports, at an early season in life, have more
of immediate excitation; nor are we amongst
those who condemn the gallant chase, though we
cannot, now-a-days, follow it: but a country life
has leisure for both, if pursued, as Lady Grace
says, moderately; and we can promise our young
sportsman, also, that if he studies the pursuits
which this article recommends, he will find them
peculiarly combined with the establishment of
covers, and the protection of game.</p>
<p> Agriculture itself, the most serious occupation of
country gentlemen, has points which may be combined
with the art we are about to treat of---or,
rather, those two pursuits cannot, on many occasions,
be kept separate from each other; for we
shall have repeated occasion to remark, how much
beauty is, in the idea of a spectator, connected
with utility, and how much good taste is always
offended by obvious and unnecessary expense.
These are principles which connect the farm with
the pleasure-ground or demesne.---Lastly, we have
Pope's celebrated apology for the profuse expense
bestowed on the house and grounds of Canons---if
Canons, indeed, was meant---<p> ``Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed;
Health to himself, and to his children bread,
The labourer bears.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p><title>
On<! p50><p> Horace Walpole, in a short essay, distinguished
by his usual accuracy of information, and ornamented
by his wit and taste, has traced the history
of gardening, in a pictural sense, from the mere art
of horticulture to the creation of scenery of a more
general character, extending beyond the narrow
limits of the proper garden and orchard. We
venture, however, to think that this history, though
combined by a master-hand, is in some degree imperfect,
and confounds two particulars which our
ancestors kept separate, and treated on principles
entirely different---the garden, namely, with its
ornaments, and the park, chase, or riding, which,
under various names, was the proudest appurtenance
of the feudal castle, and marked the existence
of those rights and privileges which the feudal lord
most valued.</p>
<p> The garden, at first intended merely for producing
esculent vegetables, fruits, and flowers, began
to assume another character, so soon as the increase
of civilisation tempted the feudal baron to step a
little way out of the limits of his fortifications, and
permitted his high dame to come down from her
seat upon the castle walls, so regularly assigned to
her by ancient minstrels, and tread with stately
pace the neighbouring precincts which art had
garnished for her reception. These gardens were
defended with walls, as well for safety as for shelter:
they were often surrounded with fosses, had
the command of water, and gave the disposer of
the ground an opportunity to display his taste, by
introducing canals, basins, and fountains, the margins
of which admitted of the highest architectural
ornament. As art enlarged its range, and the
nobles were satisfied with a display of magnificence
to atone for an abridgement of their power, new
ornaments were successively introduced; banqueting
houses were built; terraces were extended, and
connected by staircases and balustrades of the richest
forms. The result was, indeed, in the highest
degree artificial, but it was a sight beautiful in itself---
a triumph of human art over the elements,
and, connected as these ornamented gardens were
with splendid mansions, in the same character, there
was a symmetry and harmony betwixt the baronial
palace itself, and these its natural appendages,
which recommended them to the judgment as well
as to the eye. The shrubs themselves were artificial,
in so far as they were either exotic, or, if indigenous,
were treated in a manner, and presented
an appearance, which was altogether the work of
cultivation. The examination of such objects furnished
amusement to the merely curious, information
to the scientific, and pleasure, at least, to those
who only looked at them, and passed on. Where
there was little extent of ground, especially, what
could be fitter for the amusement of ``learned
leisure,'' than those ``trim gardens,'' which Milton
has represented as the chosen scene of the easy and
unoccupied man of letters? He had then around
him the most delightful subjects of observation, in
the fruits and flowers, the shrubs and trees, many
of them interesting from their novelty and peculiar
appearance and habits, inviting him to such studies
as lead from created things up to the Almighty
Creator. This sublime author, indeed, has been
quoted, as bearing a testimony against the artificial
taste of gardening, in the times when he lived, in
those well-known verses:---<p> ``Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
Pour'd out profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
Embrown'd the noontide bowers. Thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various view.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Article---The Planter's Guide; or, a Practical Essay on
<em> the best Method of giving immediate effect to Wood, by the
</em> removal of large Trees and Underwood. By Sir Henry Steuart,
* Bart. Edinburgh, 8vo, 1828.---Quarterly Review, March, 1828.<p> A garden of this sort was an extension of the
splendour of the residence into a certain limited
portion of the domain---was, in fact, often used as
a sort of chapel of ease to the apartments within
doors; and afforded opportunities for the society,
after the early dinner of our ancestors, to enjoy the
evening in the cool fragrance of walks and bowers.
Hence, the dispersed groups which Watteau and
others set forth as perambulating the highly ornamented
scenes which these artists took pleasure in
painting. Sometimes the hospitality of old England
made a different use of these retreats, and
tenanted the pleasure-ground with parties of jolly
guests, who retired from the dining-parlour to finish
the bottle, <u>al fresco,</u> on the bowling-green and in
its vicinity. We have heard, for example, that, in
a former generation, this used to be the rule at
Trentham, where a large party of country-gentlemen
used to assemble once a-week, on a public day
appointed for the purpose. At a certain hour the
company adjourned to the bowling-green, where,
according to their different inclinations, they played
at bowls, caroused, lounged, or smoked, and thus
released their noble landlord from all further efforts
to keep up the spirit of the entertainment. The
honest Staffordshire squires were not, perhaps, the
most picturesque objects in the world, while thus
engaged, with countenances highly illuminated,<p> ``With a pipe and a flask, puffing sorrow away;''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p><text>
The notable paradox, that the residence of a
proprietor upon his estate is of as little consequence
as the bodily presence of a stockholder upon Exchange,
has, we believe, been renounced. At
least, as in the case of the Duchess of Suffolk's
relationship to her own child, the vulgar continue
to be of opinion that there is some difference in
favour of the next hamlet and village, and even of
the vicinage in general, when the squire spends
his rents at the manor-house, instead of cutting a
figure in France or Italy. A celebrated politician
used to say, he would willingly bring in one bill to
make poaching felony, another to encourage the
breed of foxes, and a third to revive the decayed
amusements of cock-fighting and bull-baiting---
that he would make, in short, any sacrifice to the
humours and prejudices of the country gentlemen,
in their most extravagant form, providing only he
could prevail upon them to ``dwell in their own
houses, be the patrons of their own tenantry, and
the fathers of their own children.'' However we
might be disposed to stop short of these liberal
concessions, we agree so far with the senator by
whom they were enounced, as to think every thing
of great consequence which furnishes an additional
source of profit or of pleasure to the resident proprietor,
and induces him to continue to support the
useful and honourable character of a country gentleman,
an epithet so pleasing in English ears,---
so dear to English feelings of independence and
patriotism. The manly lines of Akenside cannot
fail to rush on the memory of our readers, nor
was there such occasion for the reproach when it
flowed from the pen of the author, as there is at
this present day.<p> Such were the uses of the old fashioned and
highly ornamented style of gardening. Its beauty,
we have been informed by a sure, nay, we will add,
the surest guide on such a subject, consists in its
connexion with the house---</p>
<p> ``Where architectural ornaments are introduced into the
garden about the house, however unnatural raised terraces,
fountains, flights of steps, parapets, with statues, vases, balustrades,
&c., may be called---however our ancestors may have
been laughed at (and I was much diverted, though not at all
convinced with the ridicule) for walking up and down stairs
in the open air---the effect of all these objects is very striking;
and they are not more unnatural, that is, not more artificial,
than the hoses they are intended to accompany.''<*></p>
</p>
<p>The taste of alterations may be good or bad, but
the labour employed upon them must necessarily
furnish employment to the most valuable, though
often the feast considered of the children of the
soil,---those, namely, who are engaged in its cultivation.<p> Nothing is more completely the child of art than
a garden. Its <u>artificial</u> productions are necessarily
surrounded by walls, marking out the space which
they occupy as something totally distinct from the
rest of the domain, and they are not seldom distinguished
by the species of buildings which their
culture requires. The green-houses and conservatories
necessary to complete a garden on a large
scale are subjects susceptible of much ornament,
all of which, like the plants themselves, must be
the production of art, and art in its most obvious
phasis. It seems right and congruous that these
objects, being themselves the offspring of art,
should have all the grace of outward form and interior
splendour which their parent art can give
them. Their formality is to be varied and disguised,
their shapes to be ornamented. A brick
wall is, in itself, a disagreeable object; but its colour,
when covered with green boughs, and partially
seen through them, produces such a rich
effect as to gratify the painter in a very high degree.
Upon the various shapes and forms of
shrubs, creepers, and flowers, it is unnecessary to
dilate; they are the most beautiful of nature's
works, and to collect them and arrange them with
taste is the proper and rational purpose of art.
Water, even when disposed into the formal shapes
of ponds, canals, and artificial fountains, although
this may be considered as the greatest violence
which can be perpetrated upon nature, affords effects
beautiful in themselves, and congenial with
the presence of ornamented architecture and artificial
gardening. Our champion, Price himself, we
presume to think, rather shrinks from his ground
on this particular point, and may not be willing to
follow his own banner so far as we are disposed to
carry it. He justifies fountains only on the ground
that natural <u>jets-d'eau,</u> though rare, do exist, and
are among the most surprising exhibitions of nature:
these, he thinks, must <u>therefore</u> be proper
objects of imitation; and since art cannot emulate
these natural fountains in greatness of style and
execution, she is justified in compensating her
weakness by symmetry, variety, and richness of
effect. Now we are inclined, with all the devotion
of reverence for Sir Uvedale Price, to dispute the
ground of his doctrine on this subject, and to affirm,
that whether the <u>geyser,</u> or any other natural <u>jet-d'eau</u>
existed or no, the sight of a magnificent fountain,
either flinging up its waters into the air and
returning down in showers of mist, which make the
ascending column resemble a giant in a shroud, or
broken into other forms of importance and beauty,
would still be a captivating spectacle; and the
tasteful veteran argues, to our fancy, much more
like himself when he manfully contends, that the
element of water is as fitly at the disposal of the
professor of hydraulics as the solid stone is at that
of the architect. It has been a long time fashionable
to declaim against architectural water-works,
and to ask triumphantly, what are <u>les eaux</u> of Versailles
to the cataracts of the Nile and of Niagara,
to the falls of Schaffhausen, or even to those of the
Clyde? The answer is ready to a question which
is founded on the meanest of all tastes---that which
arises from comparison. The water-works of Versailles
are certainly inferior to the magnificent cascades
which we have mentioned; but we suspect
they have been talked of by many authors who have
never witnessed what is not now an everyday sight.
Those who <u>have</u> seen that exhibition will certainly
say they have witnessed a most magnificent and
interesting scene, far beyond what they might have
previously supposed it was within the compass of
human art to produce---We do not mean to say
that the expense was altogether well laid out which
was necessary to bring the waters of the Seine by
the mediation of a complicated bundle of sticks, to
throw <u>summersets</u> at Versailles. This is entirely a
separate affair. The present question merely is,
whether, the money being spent, and the water-works
completed, a great example of human power
over the elements has not been given, and a corresponding
effect produced? We, at least, are
prepared to answer in the affirmative.</p>
<p> Wealth, in this, as in other respects, has proved
a snare, and played ``many fantastic tricks before
high heaven.'' If we approve of Palladian architecture,
the vases and balustrades of Vitruvius,
the enriched entablatures and superb stairs of the
Italian school of gardening, we must not, on this
account, be construed as vindicating the paltry
imitations of the Dutch, who clipped yews into
monsters of every species and description, and relieved
them with the painted wooden figures which
are seen much in the attitude of their owners,
silent and snugly smoking at the end of the paltry
walk of every <u>Lust-huys.</u> This <u>topiarian</u> art, as it
was called, came into England with King William,
and has left strong and very ungraceful traces behind
it. The distinction betwixt the Italian and
Dutch is obvious. A stone hewn into a gracefully
ornamented vase or urn has a value which it did
not before possess; a yew hedge clipped into a fortification
is only defaced. The one is a production
of art, the other a distortion of nature. Yet, now
that these ridiculous anomalies have fallen into
general disuse, it must be acknowledged that there
exist gardens, the work of Loudon, Wise, and such
persons as laid out ground in the Dutch taste, which
would be much better subjects for modification
than for absolute destruction. Their rarity <u>now</u>
entitles them to some care as a species of antiques,
and unquestionably they give character to some
snug, quiet, and sequestered situations, which would
otherwise have no marked feature of any kind.
We ourselves retain an early and pleasing recollection
of the seclusion of such a scene. A small
cottage, adjacent to a beautiful village, the habitation
of an ancient maiden lady, was for some time
our abode. It was situated in a garden of seven
or eight acres, planted about the beginning of the
eighteenth century by one of the Millars, related
to the author of the <u>Gardener's Dictionary,</u> or, for
aught we know, by himself. It was full of long
straight walks betwixt hedges of yew and horn-beam,
which rose tall and close on every side.
There were thickets of flowering shrubs, a bower,
and an arbour, to which access was obtained through
a little maze of contorted walks, calling itself a
labyrinth. In the centre of the bower was a splendid
platanus, or Oriental plane---a huge hill of leaves
---one of the noblest specimens of that regularly
beautiful tree which we remember to have seen.
In different parts of the garden were fine ornamental
trees which had attained great size, and
the orchard was filled with fruit-trees of the best
description. There were seats and trellis-walks,
and a banqueting-house. Even in our time, this
little scene, intended to present a formal exhibition
of vegetable beauty, was going fast to decay. The
parterres of flowers were no longer watched by the
quiet and simple <u>friends</u> under whose auspices they
had been planted, and much of the ornament of
the domain had been neglected or destroyed to increase
its productive value. We visited it lately,
after an absence of many years. Its air of retreat,
the seclusion which its alleys afforded, was entirely
gone; the huge platanus had died, like most of its
kind, in the beginning of this century; the hedges
were cut down, the trees stubbed up, and the whole
character of the place so much destroyed, that we
were glad when we could leave it. This was the
progress of innovation, perhaps of improvement:
yet, for the sake of that one garden, as a place of
impressive and solemn retreat, we are inclined to
enter a protest against the hasty and ill-considered
destruction of things which, once destroyed, cannot
be restored.</p>
<p> We may here also notice a small place, called
Barncluth, in Lanarkshire, standing on the verge
of the ridgy bank which views the junction of the
Evan with the Clyde. Nothing can be more romantic
than the scene around: the river sweeps
over a dark rugged bed of stone, overhung with
trees and bushes; the ruins of the original castle
of the noble family of Hamilton frown over the
precipice; the oaks which crown the banks beyond
those grey towers are relics of the ancient Caledonian
forest, and at least a thousand years old.
It might be thought that the house and garden of
Barncluth, with its walks of velvet turf and its
verdant alleys of yew and holly, would seem incongruous
among natural scenes as magnificent as
those we have described. But the effect generally
produced is exactly the contrary. The place is so
small, that its decorations, while they form, from
their antique appearance, a singular foreground,
cannot compete with, far less subdue the solemn
grandeur of the view which you look down upon;
and thus give the spectator the idea of a hermitage
constructed in the midst of the wilderness.</p>
<p> Those who choose to prosecute this subject farther,
will find in Sir U. Price's book his regret for
the destruction of a garden on the old system, described
in a tone of exquisite feeling, which leads
that distinguished author to declare in favour of
many parts of the old school of gardening, and to
argue for the preservation of the few remains of
ancient magnificence that still exist, by awakening
the owner to a sense of their beauties.</p>
<p> It were indeed high time that some one should
interfere. The garden, artificial in its structure,
its shelter, its climate, and its soil, which every
consideration of taste, beauty, and convenience
recommended to be kept near to the mansion, and
maintained, as its appendage, in the highest state
of ornamental decoration which could be used with
reference to the character of the house itself, has,
by a strange and sweeping sentence of exile, been
condemned to wear the coarsest and most humbling
form. Reduced to a clumsy oblong, enclosed within
four rough-built walls, and sequestered in some
distant corner where it may be best concealed from
the eye to which it has been rendered a nuisance,
the modern garden resembles nothing so much as
a convict in his gaol apparel, banished, by his very
appearance, from all decent society. If the peculiarity
of the proprietor's taste inclines him to the
worship of Flora or Pomona, he must attend their
rites in distance and secrecy, as if he were practising
some abhorred mysteries, instead of rendering
an homage which is so peculiarly united with
that of the household gods.<*></p>
</p>
<p>This passage expresses exquisitely what park-scenery
ought to be, and what it has, in some cases,
actually become; but, we think, the quotation has
been used to authorise conclusions which the author
never intended. Eden was created by the Almighty
fiat, which called heaven and earth into existence,
and poets of genius much inferior, and falling far
short of Milton in the power of expressing their
meaning, would have avoided the solecism of representing
Paradise as decorated with beds and curious
knots of flowers, with which the idea of human
labour and human care is inevitably connected---an
impropriety, indeed, which could only be equalled
by that of the French painter, who gave the skin
dress of our first father the cut of a court suit.
Milton nobly conceived that Eden, emanating directly
from the Creator, must possess that majestic
freedom which characterises even the less perfect
works of nature, and, in doing so, he has anticipated
the schemes of later improvers. But we think it
extremely dubious, that he either meant to recommend
landscape gardening on an extensive scale,
or to censure those ``trim gardens,'' which he has
elsewhere mentioned so affectionately.<p> Such being the great change in this department
of rural economy, let us next look at that which has
taken place in another no less essential part of it.
The passionate fondness of our ancestors for the
chase is often manifested in their choice of a residence.
In an ancient inscription on the house of
Wharncliffe, we are informed that the lodge was
built in Henry VIII.'s time, by one gentle knight,
Sir Thomas Wortley, that he might hear the buck
<u>bell</u> in the summer season---a simple record, which
speaks much to the imagination. The space of
ground set apart for a park of deer must, to answer
its purpose, possess the picturesque qualities which
afford the greatest scope for the artist: there ought
to be a variety of broken ground, of copse-wood,
and of growing timber---of land, and of water. The
soil and herbage must be left in its natural state;
the long fern, amongst which the fawns delight to
repose, must not be destroyed. In short, the stag,
by nature one of the freest denizens of the forest,
can only be kept under even comparative restraint,
by taking care that all around him intimates a complete
state of forest and wilderness. But the character
of abode which is required by these noble
animals of the chase is precisely the same which,
from its beautiful effects of light and shadow, from
its lonely and sequestered character, from the
variety and intricacy of its glades, from the numerous
and delightful details which it affords on every
point, makes the strongest and most pleasing impression
on all who are alive to natural beauty.
The ancient English poets, Chaucer and Spenser
in particular, never luxuriate more than when they
get into a forest: by the accuracy with which they
describe particular trees, and from their noticing
the different characters of the different species, and
the various effects of light and darkness upon the
walks and glades of the forest, it is evident that
they regarded woodland scenery not merely as
associated with their favourite sports, but as having
in itself beauties which they could appreciate,
though their age was not possessed of the fascinating
of committing them to canvass. Even the
common people, as we noticed in a former Article,
seldom mention ``the good forest,'' and ``the merry
green-wood,'' without some expression of fondness,
arising, doubtless, from the pleasure they took in
the scenes themselves, as well as in the pastimes
which they afforded.</p>
<p> We are not, however, to suppose, that the old
feudal barons made ornamental scenery any part of
their study. When planting their parks, or when
cutting paths and glades through them, their attention
was probably entirely occupied with the protection
of the deer and convenience of the huntsman.
Long avenues were particularly necessary
for those large parties, resembling our modern
<u>battues,</u> where the honoured guests being stationed
in fit <u>standings,</u> had an opportunity of displaying
their skill in venery, by selecting the buck which
was in season, and their dexterity at bringing him
down with the cross-bow or long-bow; and hence
all the great forests were pierced by these long
rectilinear alleys which appear in old prints, and
are mentioned in old books. The following description
of Chantilly, by Lord Herbert of Cherbury,
though the scene is in France, and on a scale of
unusual grandeur and extent, is no bad picture of
the domains by which the feudal nobility surrounded
their castles and manor-houses, and of the
dignified character of the mansions themselves.</p>
<p> ``A little river, descending from some higher grounds, in a
country which was almost all his (the Constable de Montmorency's)
own, and falling at last upon a rock in the middle of
a valley, which, to keep drawing forwards, it must on one or
the other side thereof have declined---some of the ancestors of the
Montmorencys, to ease the river of this labour, made clear
channels through this rock, to give it a free passage, dividing
the rock by this means into little islands, upon which he built
a great strong castle, joined together with bridges, and sumptuously
furnished with hangings of silk and gold, rare pictures,
and statues; all which buildings, erected as I formerly
told, were encompassed about with water . . . . . One
might see the huge carps, pikes, and trouts, which were kept
in several divisions, gliding along the waters very easily. Yet
nothing, in my opinion, added so much to the glory of this
castle as a forest adjoining to it, and upon a level with the
house; for, being of a very large extent, and set thick both
with tall trees and underwood, the whole forest, which was
replenished with wild-boar, stag, and roe-deer, was cut into
long walks every way, so that although the dogs might follow,
their chase through the thickets, the huntsman might ride
along the sand walks, and meet or overtake their game in some
one of them, they being cut with that art that they led to all
the parts in the said forest.''</p>
<p> Charles V., when passing through France, was
so delighted with Chantilly, as to declare he would
have given a province in the Low Countries to have
possessed such a residence; and the reader must
be exclusively prejudiced indeed to the modern system,
who cannot image to himself the impression
made by the gorgeous splendour of the chateau,
contrasted with the wilderness of the surrounding
forest.</p>
<p> If the reader will imagine a house in the irregular
form of architecture which was introduced in
Elizabeth's time, its varied front, graced with projecting
oriels, and its angles ornamented with turrets;
its columnar chimneys, so much adorned as
to make that a beauty which is generally a deformity;
its fair halls, banqueting-rooms, galleries,
and lodgings for interior accommodation,---it will
afford no uncomfortable notion of the days of good
Queen Bess. In immediate and close connexion
with the mansion lie its gardens, with their terraces,
urns, statues, staircases, screens, alcoves, and
summer-houses; its dry paved or turfed walks,
leading through a succession of interesting objects,
the whole line of architecture corresponding with
that of the house, with its Gothic labels and entablature,
but assuming gradually a plainer and more
massive character, as the grounds extended and
seemed to connect themselves with the open country.
The inhabitants possessed the means, we must
also suppose, of escaping from this display of ostentatious
splendour to the sequestered paths of a
lonely chase, dark enough and extensive enough to
convey the idea of a natural forest, where, as in
strong contrast with the scene we have quitted, the
cooing of the wood-pigeon is alone heard, where
the streams find their way unconfined, and the
trees spread their arms untortured by art; where
all is solemn, grand, and untutored, and seems the
work of unassisted nature. We would ask the
reader, when he has arranged in his ideas such a
dwelling, with its accompaniments, of a natural
and ornamental character, not whether the style
might be corrected by improving the internal arrangement
of the apartments; by diminishing the
superfluous ornaments of the <u>plaisance;</u> by giving
better, yet not formal, access to the natural beauties
of the park, extending its glades in some places,
and deepening its thickets in others---for all this
we willingly admit; but whether our ancestors did
not possess all that good taste could demand as the
materials of most delightful habitations?</p>
<p> The civil wars of Charles I.'s time, as they laid
low many a defensible house of the preceding period,
disparked and destroyed in general the chases,
ridings, and forest walks which belonged to them;
and when the Restoration followed, the Cavaliers
who had the good luck to retain their estates, were
too poor to re-establish their deer-parks, and, perforce,
contented to let Ceres reassume the land.
Thus the chase or park, one of the most magnificent
features of the ancient mansion, was lost in
so many instances, that it could be no longer regarded
as the natural and marked appendage of
the seat of an English gentleman of fortune. The
``trim garden,'' which could be added as easily to
the suburban villa as to the sequestered country-seat,
maintained its place and fashion no longer;
while the French taste of Charles II.'s time, introducing
<u>treillages</u> and <u>cabinets de verdure,</u> and still
more, the Dutch fashion, brought in, as we have
before hinted, by King William, introduced so
many fantastic caprices into the ancient style, that
it became necessary, as we have already stated, to
resort to the book of nature, and turn over a new
leaf.</p>
<p> Kent, too much extolled in his life, and, perhaps,
too much dispraised since his death, was the first
to devise a system of laying out ground different
from that which had hitherto prevailed in general,
though with some variations in detail, for perhaps
a century and a half. It occurred to this artist,
that, instead of the marked distinction which was
made by the old system between the garden and
its accompaniments on the one hand, and the surrounding
country on the other, it might be possible
to give to the former some of the simplicity of the
country, and invest that, on the other hand, with
somewhat of the refinement of the garden. With
this view, all, or nearly all, the ancient and domestic
ornaments of the <u>plaisance</u> were placed under
ban. The garden, as already noticed, was banished
to as great a distance as possible; the <u>plaisance</u>
was changed into a <u>pleasure-ground!</u> Down went
many a trophy of old magnificence, court-yard,
ornamented enclosure, foss, avenue, barbican, and
every external muniment of battled wall and flanking
tower, out of the midst of which the ancient
dome, rising high above all its characteristic accompaniments,
and seemingly girt round by its appropriate
defences, which again circled each other
in their different gradations, looked, as it should,
the queen and mistress of the surrounding country.
It was thus that the huge old tower of Glamis,
``whose birth tradition notes not,'' once showed its
lordly head above seven circles (if we recollect
aright) of defensive boundaries, through which the
friendly guest was admitted, and at each of which
a suspicious person was unquestionably put to his
answer. A disciple of Kent had the cruelty to render
this splendid old mansion, the more modern
part of which was the work of Inigo Jones, more
<u>parkish,</u> as he was pleased to call it; to raze all
those exterior defences, and bring his mean and
paltry gravel-walk up to the very door from which,
deluded by the name, one might have imagined
Lady Macbeth (with the form and features of Siddons)
issuing forth to receive King Duncan. It is
thirty years and upwards since we have seen
Glamis; but we have not yet forgotten or forgiven
the atrocity which, under pretence of improvement,
deprived that lordly place of all its appropriate accompaniments,<p> ``Leaving an ancient dome and towers like these
Beggar'd and outraged.''</p>
</p>
<p> The ruling principle that dictated Kent's innovations
was in itself excellent. The improver was
considered as a painter, the landscape as the canvass
on which, with such materials as he possessed,
he was to display his power. Thus far the conception
was laudable; and, indeed, it had already
occurred to Sir John Vanbrugh, when consulted
about laying out the grounds at Blenheim, who recommended
to the Duke of Marlborough to advise
with a landscape-painter upon that subject, as the
most competent judge. Had Kent but approached
in execution the principle which he adopted in
theory, he would have been in reality the great
man that his admirers accounted him. But unhappily,
though an artist by profession, this father of
the English landscape was tame and cold of spirit;
his experience had not made him acquainted with
the grander scenes of nature, or the poverty of his
soul had not enabled him to comprehend and relish
them. Even the Nature whom he pretended to
choose for his exclusive guide seemed to have most
provokingly disappeared from him. By the time
that spades, mattocks, and pickaxes had formed and
sloped his declivities in the regular and undulating
line which he required,---that the water's edge had
been trimly bordered with that thin, lank grass,
which grows on a new sown lawn, and has so little
resemblance to the luxuriant vegetation of nature,
---his meagre and unvaried slopes were deprived
of all pretension to a natural appearance, as much
as the toes which were pinched, squeezed, and
pared, that they might be screwed into the little
glass slipper, were different from the graceful fairy
foot which it fitted without effort. Thus, while
Kent's system banished art from the province
which might, in some degree, be considered as her
own, he introduced her into that more especially
devoted to Nature, and in which the character of
her exertions always made her presence offensively
conspicuous. For water-works and architectural
ornaments, the professed productions of art, Kent
produced <u>ha-has!</u> sheets of artificial water, formal
clumps and belts of trees, and bare expanded flats
or slopes of shaven grass, which, indicating the
recent use of the levelling spade and roller, have
no more resemblance to that nature which we
desire to see imitated, than the rouge of an antiquated
coquette, having all the marks of a sedulous
toilet, bears to the artless blush of a cottage girl.
His style is not simplicity, but affectation labouring
to seem simple.</p>
<p> It is worth notice, that, while exploding the
nuisance of graven images in the ancient and elaborate
gardens, Kent, like some of the kings of
Israel, though partly a reformer, could not altogether
wean himself from every species of idolatry.
He swept, indeed, the gardens clear of every representation
of mythology, and the visitor's admiration
was no longer excited by beholding<p> ``Statues growing that noble place in,
All heathen godesses most rare,
Homer, Plutarch, and Nebuchadnezzar,
All standing naked in the open air.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>but the circumstance serves to show that such <u>plaisances</u>
as we have described formed convenient, as
well as agreeable accompaniments to the mansion
of a nobleman, who, having a certain duty to perform
towards his neighbourhood, was accommodated
by that arrangement of his pleasure-ground
which enabled him to do the thing with most satisfaction
to his guests, and least personal inconvenience
to himself.<p> The taste for this species of simplicity spread
far and wide. Browne, the successor of Kent,
followed in his footsteps; but his conceptions, to
judge from the piece of artificial water at Blenheim
(formed, we believe, chiefly to blunt the point
of an ill-natured epigram,) were more magnificent
than those of his predecessor. We cannot, however,
suppose old Father Thames so irritable as
this celebrated professor intimated, when he declared
that the river would never forgive him for
having given him so formidable a rival.</p>
<p> The school of spade and mattock flourished the
more, as it was a thriving occupation, when the
projector was retained to superintend his improvements---
which seldom failed to include some forcible
alteration on the face of nature. The vanity of
some capability-men dictated those violent changes
which were recommended chiefly by the cupidity
of others. While the higher-feeling class were
desirous, by the introduction of a lake, the filling
up a hollow, or the elevation of a knoll, to show to
all the world that Mr. ------ had laid out those
grounds; the meaner brothers of the trade were
covetous of sharing the very considerable sums
which must be expended in making such alterations.
Mannerists they were to the extremity of
monotony, and what they extolled as new and
striking, was frequently only some trick of affectation.
For example, a pupil of Browne, Robertson
by name, laid out the grounds of Duddingstone,
near Edinburgh. The place was flat, though surrounded
by many distinguished features. A brook
flowed through the grounds, which, by dint of successive
dam-heads, was arrested in its progress,
twisted into the links of a string of pork-sausages,
flung over a stone embankment, and taught to
stagnate in a lake with islets, and swans <u>quantum
sufficit.</u> The whole demesne was surrounded by
a belt, which now, at the distance of forty or fifty
years, is still a formal circuit of dwindled trees.
It was to be expected that some advantage might
have been gained by looking out from some point
of the grounds on Craigmillar Castle, a ruin beautiful
in its form and interesting in its combinations
with Scottish history; and the professor of landscape-gardening
was asked, why so obvious a resource
had not been made something of? He replied,
with the gravity becoming such a character, that
Craigmillar, seen over all the country, was a common
prostitute. A less ludicrous, though equally
nonsensical reason, for excluding Duddingstone
Loch, a small and picturesque lake, was, that it did
not fall within his lordship's property, and the
mountain of Arthur's Seat was not excluded, only
because it was too bulky to be kept out of sight.
We have heard the excellent old Lord Abercorn
mention these circumstances with hearty ridicule;
but he suffered Mr. Robertson to take his own way,
because, he said, every man must be supposed to
understand his own business,---and partly, we may
add, because he did not choose to take the trouble
of disputing the point. Yet this Mr. Robertson
was a man of considerable taste and acquirement,
and was only unsuccessful because he wrought
upon a bad system.</p>
<p> The founders of a better school were the late
Mr. Payne Knight and Sir Uvedale Price, who
still survives to enjoy the triumph he has achieved.
These champions, and particularly Price, succeeded
in demonstrating to a deceived public, that what
had been palmed upon them as nature and simplicity
were only formality and affectation. The contest
on behalf of the new system was chiefly maintained
by Mr. Repton, and in a manner which
shows that the private feelings of that layer out of
grounds---unquestionably a man of very considerable
talents---were more than half converted to the
opinions of Sir Uvedale, and that he was disputing
rather to save his own honour and that of his
brethren, than for any chance of actual victory.
In fact, we do not much overstate the matter when
we allege, that those who were least willing to own
that Price was right, because it would have been
a virtual acknowledgment that they themselves
were wrong, were among the first to admit in
practice the principles which he recommended, or
at least to make use of them, whether they admitted
them or no. There has been since this controversy---
that is, for these thirty years past---a considerable
and marked improvement in laying out
of pleasure-grounds---the spade and shovel have
been less in use---the strait-waistcoating of brooks
has been less rigorously enforced---and improvers,
while talking of Nature, have not so remorselessly
shut her out of doors. We believe most landscape-gardeners
of the present day would take a pride in
preserving scenery, which their masters of the last
age would have made conscience to destroy. The
mummery of temples and obelisks is abolished,
while the propriety of retaining every shred connected
with history or antiquity, is, in one system
at least, religiously preserved, In such cases,<p> ``A corner-stone, by lighting cut,
The threshold of a cottage hut,''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Price's Essays on the Picturesque, vol. ii., p. 135.<p> The tendency of our national taste, indeed, has
been changed, in almost every particular, from
that which was meagre, formal, and poor, and has
attained, comparatively speaking, a character of
richness variety, and solidity. An ordinary chair,
in the most ordinary parlour, has now something
of an antique cast---something of Grecian massiveness,
at once, and elegance in its forms. That
of twenty or thirty years since was mounted on
four tapering and tottering legs, resembling four
tobacco pipes; the present supporters of our stools
have a curule air, curve outwards behind, and give
a comfortable idea of stability to the weighty aristocrat
or ponderous burgess who is about to occupy
one of them. The same change in taste may be
remarked out of doors, where, from the total
absence of ornament, we are, perhaps, once more
verging to its excess, and exhibiting such a tendency
to ornament, in architecture and decoration,
that the age may, we suspect, be nothing the worse
for being reminded that, as naked poverty is not
simplicity, so fantastic profusion of ornament is not
good taste.</p>
<p> But in our landscape-gardening, as it has been
rather unhappily called, although the best professors
of the art have tacitly adopted the more
enlarged and liberal views provided by the late
Mr. Knight, and Sir U. Price, these are not, perhaps,
so generally received and practised as could
be desired. We say the art has been unfortunately
named. The idea of its being, after all, a variety
of the gardening art, with which it has little or
nothing to do, has given a mechanical turn to the
whole profession, and certainly encouraged many
persons to practise it, with no greater qualifications
than ought to be found in a tolerably skilful gardener.
This certainly, however intelligent and
respectable the individuals may be, is not the sort
of person, in point of taste and information, to
whom we would wish to see the arrangement of
great places intrusted. The degree of mechanical
skill which they possess may render them adequate
to the execution of plans arranged by men of more
comprehensive abilities, better education, and a
possession, as demanded by Price, of the knowledge
connected with the higher branch of landscape-painting,
and with the works of the first
masters. Far from threatening the disposers of
actual scenery with an abrogation of their profession,
as was unjustly stated to be his object, Price's
system went to demand from them a degree of
scientific knowledge not previously required, and
to elevate in proportion their rank and profession
in general estimation.</p>
<p> The importance of this art, in its more elegant
branches, ranks so high in our opinion, that we
would willingly see its profession (and certainly it
contains persons worthy of such honour) more
closely united with the fine arts than it can now
be esteemed. The improvers or layers out of
ground would, in that case, be entitled to demand
from their employers a greater degree of fair play
than is, in many cases, allowed them at present.
According to the common process, their time is
estimated at a certain number of guineas per day,
and the party consulting them is not unnaturally
interested in getting as much out of the professor
within as little time as can possibly be achieved.
The landscape-gardener is, therefore, trotted over
the grounds two, three, or four times, and called
upon to decide upon points which a proprietor himself
would hesitate to determine, unless he were to
visit the ground in different lights, and at different
seasons, and various times of the day during the
course of a year. This leads to a degree of precipitation
on the part of the artist, who knows his
remuneration will be grudged, unless he makes
some striking and notable alteration, yet has little
or no time allowed him to judge what that alteration
ought to be. Hence, men of taste and genius
are reduced to act at random; hence an habitual
disregard of the <u>genius loci,</u> and a proportional
degree of confidence in a set of general rules,
influencing their own practice, so that they do not
receive from nature the impression of what the
place ought to be, but impress on nature, at a venture,
the stamp, manner, or character of their own
practice, as a mechanic puts the same mark on all
the goods which pass through his hands. Some
practise the art, we are aware, upon a much more
liberal footing;---it is on that more liberal footing
that we would wish to see the profession of the
improver generally practised. We would have
the higher professors of this noble art to be that
for which nature has qualified some of them whom
we have known, and, doubtless, many to whose
characters we are strangers---we mean, to be physicians---
liberally recompensed for their general
advice---not apothecaries, to be paid in proportion
to the drugs which they can contrive to make the
patient swallow.</p>
<p> It may, perhaps, be thought that, by the change
we propose, we would raise too high a standard for
such artists as might attain great proficiency in
their calling, and so limit the benefit of their efforts
to the great and the wealthy. This would be a consequence
far from answering our purpose---but we
have no apprehension that it would follow. The
rules of good taste, when once exemplified, are
pretty sure to be followed. Let any one recollect
the atrocious forms of our ordinary crockery and
potter's ware forty years since, when the shapes
were as vilely deformed as that of the pipkin which
cost Robinson Crusoe so much trouble; and observe
the difference since the classical outlines of
the Etruscan vases have been adopted as models
for our Staffordshire ware. Every form before was
detestable, whatever pains might have been bestowed
in the ornamenting and finishing: whereas,
since the models introduced by Messrs. Wedgwood,
the most ordinary earthenware is rendered pleasing
to the eye, however coarse its substance, and
mean the purpose for which it is designed. It is
thus with good taste in every department. It cannot
be established by canons and <u>dicta,</u> but must
be left to force its way gradually through example.
A certain number of real landscapes, executed
by men adequate to set the example of a new
school, which shall reject the tame and pedantic
rules of Kent and Browne, without affecting the
grotesque or fantastic---who shall bring back more
ornament into the garden, and introduce a bolder,
wider, and more natural character into the park,
will have the effect of awakening a general spirit
of emulation. There are thousands of proprietors
who have neither scenes capable of exhibiting the
perfection of the art, nor revenues necessary to
reimburse the most perfect of the artists, but who
may catch the principle on which improvers ought
to proceed, and render a place pretty though it
cannot be grand, or comfortable though it cannot
aspire to beauty.</p>
<p> We are called at present from the general subject,
to which, at some future period, we may, perhaps,
return, by the duty of noticing a discovery,
as it may be called, of one of the most powerful
and speedy means of effecting a general and most
interesting change in the face of nature, for the
purpose of ornamenting the vicinity of a gentleman's
residence.</p>
<p> The three materials with which the rural designer
must go to work---the colours, in other words, of
which his landscape must be composed, are earth,
water, and trees. Little change can be attempted,
by means of digging away, or heaping together
earth: the levelling of rising grounds, or the raising
artificial hillocks, only serves to show that man has
attempted what is beyond his powers. Water is
more manageable, and there are places where artificial
lakes and rivers have been formed with considerable
effect. Of this our author, Sir Henry
Steuart, has given a very pleasing instance in his
own park. But, to speak generally, this alteration
requires very considerable advantages in the previous
situation of the ground, and has only been
splendidly successful, where Nature herself had
formerly designed a lake, though the water had
escaped from its bed by the gradual lowering or
sudden bursting of the banks at the lower end.
These being replaced by a dam-head, the lake will
be restored to its bed, and man will only have
brought back the state of the landscape to that
which nature originally presented. But, we doubt
if even the ingenious process recommended by Sir
U. Price would satisfy his own just and correct
taste, when carried into execution; and we are, at
any rate, confident that it is only in rare instances,
and at considerable expense, that artificial water
can be formed with the desired effect.</p>
<p> Trees, therefore, remain the proper and most
manageable material of picturesque improvement;
and as trees and bushes can be raised almost any
where---as by their presence they not only delight
the eye, with their various forms and colours, but
benefit the soil by their falling leaves, and improve
the climate by their shelter, there is scarcely any
property fitted for human habitation so utterly
hopeless, as not to be rendered agreeable by extensive
and judicious plantations. But, to obtain the
immediate command of wood, mature enough to
serve as shade, shelter, and ornament, has been
hitherto denied to the improver. He has been
compelled to form his plan while his plants are
pigmies; to await their slow progress towards maturity;
and to bequeath as a legacy to his successors
and descendants the pleasure of witnessing the
full accomplishment of his hopes and wishes. He
also frequently bequeaths his land to the care of
careless or ignorant successors, who, from want of
taste or skill, leave his purposes unfulfilled.</p>
<p> Repton, indeed, has justly urged, in favour of the
plans of Kent and Browne, that the formal belts
and clumps which they planted were intended only
to encourage the rise of the young plantations,
which were afterwards to be thinned out into
varied and picturesque forms, but which have, in
many instances, been left in the same crowded condition
and formal disposition which they exhibited
at their being first planted. If the school of Kent
and Browne were liable to be thus baffled by the
negligence of those to whom the joint execution
of their plans was necessarily intrusted, a much
greater failure may be expected during the subsequent
generation, from the neglect of plans which
affect to be laid out on the principles of Price.
We have already stated, that it is to be apprehended
that a taste for the fantastic will supersede
that which the last age have entertained in favour
of the formal. We have seen various efforts, by
artists of different degrees of taste and eminence,
to form plantations which are designed at some
future day to represent the wild outline and picturesque
glades of a natural wood. When the line
of these is dictated by the character of the ground,
such attempts are extremely pleasing and tasteful.
But when a bizarre and extravagant irregularity
of outline is introduced upon a plain or rising
ground, when its whole involutions resemble the
irregular flourishes of Corporal Trim's harangue,
and when we are told that this is designed to be
one day a picturesque plantation, we are tempted
to recollect the common tale of the German baron,
who endeavoured to imitate the liveliness of Parisian
society, by jumping over stools, tables, and
chairs, in his own apartment, and when the other
inhabitants of the hotel came to inquire the cause
of the disturbance, answered them with the explanation,
<u>Sh'apprends d'estre fif.</u> If the visitor applies
to know the meaning of the angles and contortions
introduced into the lines of the proposed plantations,
in Petruchio's language---<p> ``What! up and down, carved like an apple tart;
Here's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop''------</p>
</p>
</li>
<li>The present Duke of Marlborough has <u>all but</u> violated this
<em> law, much to the honour of his taste, at White-Knights; and
</em> more recently, we hear, at Blenheim.---S.<p> This has been hitherto the main obstruction to
the art of laying out ground, that no artist could
hope to see the perfection of his own labours; nay,
the pleasure of superintending their progress till
the effect begins to appear, is granted but to those
who live long, or who commence their improvements
early in life. The ambition of man has not
remained passively quiescent under this restriction
of his powers, and since the days of Sultan Adhim
in the Tales of the Genii, down to the present time,
various efforts have been made by different means,
and under various circumstances, to transfer trees
in a considerable state of maturity to the park or
pleasure-ground, and apply them to the composition
or improvement of real landscapes. The modes
essayed may probably have been successful, in some
instances, where the operation has been peculiarly
favoured by circumstances; but, in general, the
result has been fruitless expense and disappointment.
The practice has been, therefore, latterly
considered as, in a great measure, empirical, so
slight were the chances of success. Miller dissuades
his readers from the attempt; and Mr. Pontey
judiciously considers the mutilated and decaying
trees on which the experiment had been made,
rather as a deformity than a beauty to the landscape.
It was even denied that any real advance
was gained by transplanting a tree of ten years old,
and it was averred (and truly, according to the
ordinary practice) that a plant from the nursery,
placed beside it, would, in the course of a few years
form by far the finer tree of the two.</p>
<p> Nevertheless, the obstacles which have been so
long considered as insuperable, have given way, in
our own time, before the courage, patience, and
skill of an individual who has been enabled, with a
success which appears almost marvellous, to cover
a whole park at once with groups and single trees,
combined with copse and underwood of various
sizes, all disposed with exquisite taste. This accomplished
person, Sir Henry Steuart of Allanton,
is known to the literary world by an elaborate
translation of Sallust, accompanied with a body of
notes intimating an uncommon degree of general
knowledge and classical learning. Independent in
circumstances, and attached by taste and habits to
rural pursuits, and especially those of which we
have been treating, Sir Henry has resided chiefly
at the seat of his ancestors, to which, little distinguished
by nature, his wonderful exertions have
given, within a comparatively short period of time,
all that could, according to the usual mode of improvement,
have been conferred in the course of
forty tedious years.</p>
<p> Allanton, an ancient possession of this branch of
the house of Steuart, had not originally much to
recommend it to the owner, except its recollections.
Situated in the county of Lanark, it is removed
from the vale of the Clyde, which presents such
beautiful scenery to the eye of the traveller. The
soil is moorish, and the view from the front of the
house must, before it was clothed with wood, have
consisted in irregular swells and slopes, presenting
certainly no striking features either of grandeur or
beauty,---probably ``just not ugly.'' But fortune,
that consigned a man of taste and observation to a
spot which was not peculiarly favourable to his
pursuits, gave him the power of indemnifying himself,
by compelling nature to impart to his domain
no inconsiderable portion of those silvan beauties
with which she has spontaneously invested more
favourite scenes; and we certainly cannot hesitate
to avow our opinion, that the park of Allanton, as
it now appears, its history being duly considered,
is as well worthy of a pilgrimage as any of the established
lions of ``the North Countrie.''</p>
<p> We cannot be surprised, nor ought Sir Henry
Steuart to be offended, if the wonder excited by so
great a triumph of art over nature, in a process
which has been thought and found so extremely
difficult, should be, on the first view, mingled with
some incredulity. It is natural for the reader to
suspect, that the zeal of the theorist may, in some
degree, have imposed on the improver, and that he
communicates to the public observations which he
himself has made under a species of self-deception,
and which are, perhaps, a little exaggerated in his
account of their results. But Allanton has been
visited by many intelligent judges, disposed to inquire
with sufficient minuteness into the reality of
the changes which have been effected there; and
so far as we have had an opportunity of knowing,
the uniform testimony of those visitors corresponds
with the account given by Sir Henry Steuart himself.</p>
<p> A committee of gentlemen,<*> deputed by the</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>But to make amends for their ejection, Kent and
his followers had temples, obelisks, and gazabos of
every description in the park, all stuck about on
their respective high places, with as little meaning,
and at least as little pretension to propriety, as the
horticultural Pantheon which had been turned out
of doors.</p>
<p>may have their value. The same rule is, we trust,
generally observed in the scenes which Nature has
herself ornamented; and the artist holds himself
discharged if he consults and observes her movements
without affecting to dictate to or control
them. Those glens, groves, or mountains, which
she has marked with a peculiar character, are no
longer defaced by the impotent endeavours of man
to erase it.<p> The second branch of the committee's inquiry
related to enclosed groups, or masses of wood planted
close together. There are several of these in the
park, which correspond and occasionally contrast
pleasingly with the open groups and single trees
already observed. The committee particularly describe
one of these close masses, intended as a
screen to the approach. It had been clothed with
wood in the course of one season by means of the
transplanting system, trees from twenty to thirty
feet high being first planted as standard or grove-wood,
about twenty feet apart, and the intervals
filled up with bushes or stools of copse or underwood.
The standard trees being in this mass sheltered
by each other, made larger shoots than those
which stood singly, and the underwood of oak, birch,
holly, mountain-ash, horse-chestnut, common and
Canadian birdcherry, and other species usually
found in a natural wood, were making luxuriant
progress in their new situation. And though it
was but five years since this copse, interspersed
with standard trees, had been formed by Sir Henry,
his visitors assigned no less a space than from thirty
to forty years as the probable time in which such
a screen could have been formed by ordinary means.
From the facts which they witnessed, the committee
reported it as their unanimous opinion, that the <u>art
of transplantation, as practised by Sir Henry Steuart,
is calculated to accelerate, in an extraordinary degree,
the power of raising wood, whether for beauty or shelter.</u>
They added, that of all the trees they had examined,
one alone seemed to have failed; and that, being
particularly intent on this point of inquiry, they
had looked closely for symptoms of any dead tree
having been removed, without being able to discover
any such, although the traces of such a process
could not have escaped their notice had they
existed.</p>
<p> The existence of the wonders---so we may call
them---which Sir Henry Steuart has effected, being
thus supported by the unexceptionable evidence of
competent judges, what lover of natural beauty can
fail to be interested in his own detailed account of
the mode by which he has been able to make wings
for time, and anticipate the operation of years, so
as altogether to overthrow the authority of the old
saying:---<p> ``Heu! male transfertur senio com induruit arbor?''</p>
</p>
<p> It is the object of the present publication to give
in full detail the measures employed by the author
to anticipate in such a wonderful manner the march
of time, and to force, as it were, his woodlands in
somewhat the same manner as the domestic gardener
forces his fruits; and the information which
the work affords, is as full and explicit concerning
the theory upon which our author has proceeded
as upon the practical points necessary to carry that
theory into effect. Sir Henry Steuart's method of
transplantation is (as might have been expected
from a scholar and philosopher) founded upon the
strictest attention to vegetable physiology, as ascertained
by consulting the best authors; and the rationale
which he assigns as the cause of his success
is not less deserving of strict attention, than the
practical results which he has exhibited.</p>
<p> Sir Henry Steuart's first general proposition on
the subject of transplantation will be conceded to
him at once, although, in practice, we have known
it most grossly neglected. It amounts simply to
the averment, that success cannot be expected unless
upon principles of selection, determining the
subject to be transplanted with relation to the soil
that it is to be transferred to. All will grant in
theory that every plant has its soil and subsoil, to
which it is particularly adapted, and where it will
luxuriate; whereas in others it can scarce make
shift to exist; yet the planter or the transplanter,
nine times in ten, neglects this necessity of suiting
his trees to the soil, and is at the expense of placing
the trees which chance to be his favourites indiscriminately
upon every soil. Sir H. Steuart has
largely and conclusively illustrated this matter;
and henceforth it may be held as a positive rule,
that there can be little hope of a transplanted tree
thriving unless it be removed to a soil congenial to
its nature, and that it will become every planter to
bestow the same care in selecting the species of his
trees that a farmer fails not to use in adapting his
crops to the soil of his farm. But there is a second
principle of selection, no less necessary to be attended
to, and which respects <u>the condition and
properties of the individual trees</u> suited for transplantation.
This requires to be considered more
in detail.</p>
<p> It is familiar to all acquainted with plantations
(although the honour belongs exclusively to Sir
Henry Steuart of having deduced the natural consequences,)
that the constant and uninterrupted
action of the external air on a tree which stands
completely exposed to it, gives that tree a habit,
character, and properties entirely different, and in
many respects directly opposite, to those acquired
by one of the same species which has grown in
absolute shelter, whose energies have exerted themselves
in a different manner and for a different purpose,
and have, therefore, made a most material
difference in the attributes and constitution of the
plant.</p>
<p> We must suppose that our reader has some general
acquaintance with the circulation of the sap in
trees, being the substance by which they are nourished,
and resembling, in that respect, the chyle
in the human system. This nutritive substance is
collected by the roots with those fibres which form
their terminations, and which, with a degree of address
which seems almost sentient, travel in every
direction, and with unerring skill, to seek those
substances in the soil best qualified to supply the
nourishment which it is their business to convey.
The juice, or sap, thus extracted from the soil, is
drawn up the tree by the efforts of vegetation, each
branch and each leaf serving, by its demand for
nourishment, as a kind of forcing-pump to suck the
juice up to the topmost shoot, to extend it to all the
branches, and, in a healthy tree, to the extremity
of each shoot. The roots, in other words, are the
providers of the aliment; the branches, shoots, and
leaves, are the appetite of the tree, which induce
it to consume the food thus supplied to it. The
analogy holds good betwixt the vegetable and animal
world. If the roots of a tree are injured, or
do not receive the necessary supplies of nourishment,
the tree must perish, like an animal unsupplied
with food, whatever be the power of the appetite
in one case, and of the vegetation in the
other, to consume the nutritive substance, if it
could be procured. This is dying by hunger. If,
on the other hand, the powers of vegetation are in
any respect injured, and the tree, either from natural
decline, from severe amputation, or from any
other cause, ceases to supply those shoots and leaves
which suck the sap up into the system, then the
tree dies of a decay in the powers of digestion.</p>
<p> But the tree, like the animal, is not nourished by
food alone; air is also necessary to it. If this be
supplied in such extreme quantities as is usual in
exposed situations, the trees will suffer from the
action of the cold, like a man in an inclement climate,
where he is, indeed, furnished with enough
of pure air, but where the cold that attends it deranges
his organic system. In like manner, when
placed in a situation where air is excluded, both
the vegetable and the animal are reduced to a state
of suffocation equally fatal to their health, and, at
a certain period, to their existence. Both productions
of nature have, however, their resources;---
the animal, exposed to a painful and injurious degree
of cold, seeks shelter; man, however often
condemned to face the extremity of cold, supplies
his want of warmth by artificial clothing; and the
inferior animals in the polar latitudes, on the Himalaya
mountains, and so forth, are furnished by
nature with an additional thickness of furs, which
would be useless in warmer regions.<*> Trees placed</p>
</p>
<p>he receives the plausible reply, that what he now
sees is not the final result of the designer's art, but
that all this fantastic zig-zaggery, which resembles
the traces left by a dog scampering through snow,
is but a set of preparations for introducing at a
future period, as the trees shall come to maturity,
those groups and glades, that advancing and retiring
of the woodland scene, which will realize the
effects demanded by lovers of the picturesque. At
present we are told, that the scene resembles a
lady's tresses in <u>papillotes,</u> as they are called, and
in training for the conquests which they are to
make when combed into becoming ringlets. But,
alas! art is in this department peculiarly tedious,
and life, as in all cases, precarious and short. How
many of these <u>papillotes</u> will never be removed at
all, and remain unthinned-out, like the clumps and
belts of Browne's school, disfiguring the scenes they
were designed to adorn!</p>
<ul>
<li>The Lord Belhaven, Sir Archibald Campbell of Succoth,
<em> Bart., Sir Walter Scott of Abbotsford, Bart., George Cranstoun,
</em> Esq., now Lord Corehouse, Alexander Young, Esq., of
* Harburn.---S.<p> Another equally curious difference betwixt trees
which have stood in exposed situations and those
which have grown in such as are sheltered, is also
so reasonable in appearance as to seem the act of
volition, so curiously do the endeavours of nature
in the vegetable world correspond with the instinct
of animals and the reason of mankind. Man and
beast make use of the position of their limbs to
steady themselves against the storm, although, as
their exposure to it is only temporary, the exertion
bears the same character: but trees, incapable of
locomotion, assume, when placed in an exposed situation,
a permanent set of self-protecting qualities,
and become extremely different in the disposition
of the trunk, roots, and branches from those of the
same species which remain in the shelter of crowded
plantations. The stem of trees in an exposed situation
is always short and thick, because, being surrounded
by air and light all around, the tree has
not the motive to <u>rush</u> up towards the free air which
is so strongly perceptible in close woods. For the
same reason, its branches are thrown widely out in
every direction, as if to balance itself against the
storm, and to obtain, from the disposition of its
parts, a power of resistance which may supply the
place of the shelter enjoyed by plants more favourably
situated. The roots of such trees, which are
always correlative to the branches, are augmented
in proportion as necessity obliges the former to
extend themselves.</p>
<p> There is a singular and beautiful process of action
and reaction which takes place betwixt the
progress of the roots and of the branches. The
former must, by their vigour and numbers, stretch
out under ground before the branches can develope
themselves in the air; and, on the other hand, it is
necessary that the branches so develope themselves,
to give employment to the roots, in collecting food.
There is a system of close commerce between them;
if either fail in discharging their part the other
must suffer in proportion. The increase of the
branches, therefore, in exposed trees, is and must
be in proportion with that of the roots, and <u>vice
versa;</u> and as the exposed tree spreads its branches
on every side to balance itself against the wind,
as it shortens its stem or trunk, to afford the mechanical
force of the tempest a shorter lever to act
upon, so numerous and strong roots spread themselves
under ground, by way of anchorage, to an
extent and in a manner unknown to sheltered
trees.</p>
<p> These facts afford the principles on which our
author selects the subjects of his operations. It
may seem a simple proposition, that to succeed in
the removal of a large tree to an open situation, the
operator ought to choose one which, having grown
up in a similar degree of exposure, has provided
itself with those qualities which are peculiarly fitted
for it. Every one will be ready to acknowledge its
truth at the first statement; but Sir Henry has been
the first to act upon it; and, having, ascertained
its accuracy, to communicate it to the world. It is
Columbus making the egg stand upright.</p>
<p> Our author has enumerated four properties which
Nature has taught trees that stand unsheltered to
acquire by their own efforts, in order to suit themselves
for their situation. <u>First,</u> thickness and induration
of bark; <u>secondly,</u> shortness and girth of
stem; <u>thirdly,</u> numerousness of roots and fibres;
and <u>fourthly,</u> extent, balance, and closeness of
branches. These, Sir Henry has denominated the
four protecting qualities; and he has proved, by
a very plain and practical system of reasoning,
founded upon an intimate acquaintance with the
most distinguished writers on vegetable physiology,
that in proportion as the subject for transplantation
is possessed of these four qualities, in the same
degree it is fitted to encounter exposure as a single
tree in its new position.</p>
<p> The characteristics of the trees which have
grown in sheltered and warm situations are precisely
the opposite of these; their bark is thin,
glossy, and fresh-looking, without any of the rough,
indurated substance necessary to protect the sap-vessels
when exposed to the extremity of cold; the
stem is tall, and slender, as drawn upwards in quest
of light; the tops are small and thinly provided
with branches, because they have not had the necessary
room to expand themselves; and, lastly,
the roots are spare and scanty. Sir Henry Steuart
says, that a tree, in the situation, and bearing the
character last described, is possessed of the ``non-protecting
properties.'' A great-coat and a pair of
overalls or mud-boots, may be called, with propriety,
the protecting properties of a man who mounts his
steed in rough weather; but he who sits at home,
in a nightgown and slippers, can hardly be said to
possess any non-protective qualities, or any thing,
except a negation of the habiliments which invest
his out-of-doors friend. We will not, however,
disturb the subject by cavilling about expressions;
it is enough that the reader understands that the
presence of the ``non-protecting qualities'' implies
the total absence of those which render trees fit to
endure the process of transplantation.</p>
<p> Yet, though this principle of selection be, when
once stated, so very satisfactory, it is no less certain,
that no preceding author had so much as
glanced at it; and that convenience, the usual,
though by no means the safe guide of planting
operations, has pointed out an entirely different
course. Young woods, being usually planted far
too thickly with hard-wood,---or, in other words,
the principals being in too great a proportion to
the firs intended as nurses,---are found, after the
lapse of twelve or fourteen years, to be crowded
with tall, shapely plants, which have not room to
grow, and are obviously damaging each other.
The consequence of this is, that the proprietor,
unwilling to lose so many thriving plants, is very
often tempted, by the healthiness of their appearance,
to select them as subjects for transplantation.
Their graceful and lengthened stems, and smooth
and beautiful bark, seem to be marks of health (as,
indeed, they are, while they remain in the shelter
for which they are qualified,) and the thinness of
their heads will, it is supposed, prevent their suffering
much by the wind. But almost all such
attempts prove abortive. The tree comes, indeed,
into leaf, for one year, as some trees (the ash particularly)
will do, if cut down and carried to the
woodyard. But the next year the transplanted
tree displays symptoms of decay. The leaves do
not appear in strength and numbers enough to
carry the sap to the ends of the branches; the
stem becomes covered with a number of small
sprays, which at once indicate that the sap has
been arrested in its progress, and that the tree is
making a desperate, we had almost said an unnatural,
effort to avail itself of the nutriment in the
stem, which it cannot transfer to the branches;
the bark becomes dry, hide-bound, and mossed;
the projecting branches wither down to the stem
and must be cut off; and, after all, the young tree
either dies utterly, or dwindles into a bush, which,
perhaps, may recover elevation, and the power of
vegetation, after a pause of ten or twelve years,
but more likely is stubbed up as a melancholy and
disagreeable object. This grand and leading error
is avoided in the Allanton system, by the selection,
from the beginning, of such trees as, having grown
in an exposed situation, are provided with the protecting
properties, and can, therefore, experience
no rude change of atmosphere or habits by the
change of place to which they are subjected.</p>
<p> But, it may be asked, where is the planter to find
such trees as are proper for being transplanted?
Our author replies, that there are few properties,
however small in extent, or unimproved by plantations,
which do not possess some subjects endowed,
perfectly or nearly so, with the protecting qualities.
The open groves, and scattered trees around old
cottages, or in old hedge-rows---where not raised
upon an embankment, which gives the roots a
determination downwards---are invaluable to the
transplanter. They are already inured to the climate,
and furnished with a quantity of branches
and roots,---they possess the limited length and
solidity of stem and the quality of bark necessary
to enable them to endure exposure,---in other
words, they are fit for being immediately transplanted.
In most cases, however, the trees may
have but partially gained the protecting qualities;
and where such subjects occur, they must, by training,
be made to complete the acquisition of them.
The process to which they are subjected is various,
according to the special protecting quality in which
the tree is deficient. In general, and especially
where the <u>bark</u> appears of too fine and thin a texture
to protect the sap-vessels, a gradual, and, in
the end, a free exposure to the elements, induces
the trees selected fully to assume the properties
which enable them to dispense with shelter. If,
on the other hand, the bark is of a hardy quality,
and the branches in sufficient number, but the <u>roots</u>
scanty and deficient---the tree ought to be cut round
with a trench, of thirty inches deep, leaving only
two or three strong roots uncut, to act as stays
against the wind. The earth is then returned into
the trench, and when taken up at the end of two
or three years, with the purpose of final removal,
it will be found that the roots have formed, at the
points where they were severed, numbers of tassels
(so to speak) composed of slender fibres, which
must be taken the greatest care of at the time of
removal, and will be found completely to supply
the original deficiency of roots. Again, if the
<u>branches</u> of the subject pitched upon be in an unfavourable
state, this evil may be counteracted by a
top-dressing of marl and compost, mixed with four
times the quantity of tolerable soil, spread around
the stem of the tree, at four feet distance. This
mode Sir Henry Steuart recommends as superior
to that of disturbing the roots, as practised in gardens
for the same purpose of encouraging the
growth of fruit-trees; and assures us, that the increase,
both of the branches and roots, will be much
forwarded, and that the tree will be fit for removal
in the third year.</p>
<p> These modes of preparing individual trees are
attended with some expense and difficulty; but
here again the experience of Sir Henry Steuart
suggests a plan, by which any proprietor, desirous
to carry on the process upon a considerable scale,
may, by preparing a number of subjects at once,
greatly accelerate the time of commencing his operations,
at an expense considerably less than would
attach to the preparation of each tree separately.
The grounds of Allanton had been, about forty
years ago, ornamented with a belt and clumps, by
a pupil of Browne. Sir Henry found in both, but
especially in the clumps, the means of obtaining
subjects in sufficient number and quantity for his
own purposes. The ground where these were set
had been prepared by trenching and taking a potato-crop.</p>
<p> ``About the twelfth or fifteenth year, I began to cut away
the larch and spruce-firs. These had been introduced merely
as nurses to the deciduous trees; and, from the warmth and
shelter they had afforded, and the previous double-digging, the
whole had rushed up with singular rapidity. The next thing I
did was, to thin out the trees to single distance, so as that the
tops could not touch one another, and to cut away the side-branches,
within about three, or three and a half feet of the
surface. By this treatment, it will be perceived, that a considerable
deal of air was admitted into the plantations. The
light, which before had had access only at the top was now
equally diffused on all sides; and the trees, although for a few
years they advanced but little in height, made surprising efforts
towards a full developement of their most important properties.
They acquired greater strength of stem, thickness of
bark, and extension of roots, and consequently of lateral
branches. But, at this time, it was apparent, that the clumps
had a remarkable advantage over the belt, or continuous plantation.
While in no part so deep as to impede the salutary
action of the atmosphere, the circular or oval figure of the
clumps, and their free exposure to the elements, furnished
them with a far greater proportion of good outside trees; and
these, having acquired, from the beginning, a considerable
share of the protecting properties, were in a situation to shelter
the rest, and also to prevent the violence of the wind from
acting injuriously on the interior of the mass. It therefore
became necessary to thin the belt for the second time, which
was now done to double distance; that is to say, to a distance
such as would have admitted of a similar number of trees in
every part, to stand between the existing plants. Thus, within
four years from the first thinning, I began to have tolerable
subjects for removal, to situations of moderate exposure;
while every succeeding season added fresh beauty and vigour
to these thriving nurseries, and made a visible accession to all
the desirable pre-requisites.''---Pp. 203-205.</p>
<p> The author proceeds, with his usual precision, to
give directions how each country-gentleman, that
is so minded, may, by a peculiar treatment adapted
to accelerate the acquisition of the protecting properties
applied to a portion of any existing plantation,
secure a grand repository of materials high
and low, light and massive, from which his future
plans of transplantation may be fully supplied. Indeed,
he adds, that all grove woods, which have
been regularly and properly thinned, and so treated
that the tops have not been suffered to interfere,
may be esteemed good transplanting nurseries, provided
the soil be loose and friable.</p>
<p> Thus much being said about the principle of
selection, the reader will naturally desire to know,
what size of trees can be subjected to the process
of transplantation. According to Sir Henry's general
statement, this is a mere question of expense.
A large tree may be removed with the same certainty
of success as a lesser one; but it requires
engines of greater power, a more numerous band
of labourers, and the expense is found to increase
in a rapidly progressive ratio. We presume to
add, although our author has not explicitly stated
it, that to sustain this violent alteration, trees ought
to be selected that have not arrived at maturity,
far less at the point from which they decline; and
this, in order that the subject of transplantation
may be possessed of all the energy and force of
vegetation belonging to the period of youth. In
the practice at Allanton, a tree of six or eight
inches in diameter, or two feet in girth, is the
least size which is considered as fit to encounter
the elements; if planted out singly, eighteen inches
and two feet in diameter are among the largest
specimens, and plants of about a foot in diameter
may be considered as a medium size, being both
manageable and of size enough to produce immediate
effect upon the landscape, and to oppose resistance
to the storm.</p>
<p> We are next to trace the Allantonian process of
removing and replanting the tree.</p>
<p> The tree is loosened in the ground by a set of
labourers, named pickmen, who, with instruments
made for the purpose, first ascertain with accuracy
how far the roots of the subject extend. This is
easily known when the subject has been cut round,
as the trench marks the line where the roots have
been amputated. If the tree has not sustained
this previous operation, the extent of the roots will
be found to correspond with that of the branches.
The <u>pickers</u> then proceed to bare the roots from
the earth with the utmost attention not to injure
them in the operation. It is to the preservation
of these fibres that the transplanter is to owe the
best token of his success, namely, the feeding the
branches of the tree with sap even to their very
extremities. The roots are then extricated from
the soil. A mass of earth is left to form a ball
close to the stem itself, and it is recommended to
suffer two or three feet of the original sward to
adhere to it. The machine is next brought up to
the stem of the tree with great caution. This is
the engine devised by Browne, and considerably
improved by Sir Henry Steuart. It is of three
sizes, that being used which is best adapted to the
size of the tree, and is drawn by one, or, at most,
two horses. It consists of a strong pole, mounted
upon two high wheels. It is run up to the tree,
and the pole, strongly secured to the tree while
both are in a perpendicular posture, is brought
down to a horizontal position, and in descending
in obedience to the purchase operates as a lever,
which, aided by the exertions of the pickmen, rends
the tree out of the soil. The tree is so laid on
the machine, as to balance the roots against the
branches, and it is wonderful how slight an effort
is necessary to pull the engine when this equilibrium
is preserved. To keep the balance just, one
man, or two, are placed aloft among the branches
of the tree, where they shift their places, like a
sort of moveable ballast, until the just distribution
of weight is ascertained. The roots, as well as the
branches, are tied up during the transportation of
the tree, it being of the last consequence that neither
should be torn or defaced by dragging on the
ground or interfering with the wheels. The mass,
when put in motion, is man<oe>uvred something like
a piece of artillery, by a steersman at the further
end. It requires a certain nicety of steerage, and
the whole process has its risks, as may appear from
a very good story told by Sir Henry, at page 232.</p>
<p> The pit for receiving the transplanted tree, which
ought to have been prepared at least a twelvemonth
before, is now opened for its reception, the earth
being thrown out for such a depth as will suit its
size; with this caution, that the tree be set in the
earth as shallow as possible, but always so as to
allow room for the dipping of the vertical roots on
the one hand, and sufficient cover at top on the
other. This is preferred, even though it should be
found necessary to add a cart-load or two of earth
to the mound afterwards.</p>
<p> It is well known that in all stormy and uncertain
climates every species of tree shows what is called
a weather side, that is, its branches shoot more
freely to that side which is leeward during the prevailing
wind, than in the opposite direction. Hence
the trees, in a windy climate, excepting, perhaps,
the sycamore, are but indifferently balanced, and
seem, from their growth, to be in the act of suffering
a constraint which they cannot resist. Now
an ancient rule which is echoed and repeated by
almost all who touch on the subject, affirms that a
transplanted tree must be so placed in its new site,
that the same side shall be weather and lee which
formerly were so. Sir Henry Steuart, in direct
opposition to this rule, recommends strongly that
the position of the tree be reversed, so that the lee
side, where the branches are elongated, shall be
pointed towards the prevailing wind, and what was
formerly the weather-side, being now turned to
leeward, shall be encouraged, by its new position,
to shoot out in such a manner as to restore the
balance and symmetry of the top. This change is,
indeed, in theory a departure from Sir Henry
Steuart's general principle, because it exposes to
the greatest severity of the element that side of
the tree whose bark has been least accustomed to
face it. But, nevertheless, as the practice is found
successful, it must rank among those powers of
control by which human art can modify and regulate
the dispensations of nature, and the beauty
given to the tree, which is thus brought to form an
upright and uniform, instead of an irregular and
sidelong head, is not less important than the shelter
and power of resistance which is acquires on
mechanical principles, by turning its heaviest and
strongest branches against the most frequent and
severe blast. Sir Henry claims the merit of being
the first planter who ever dared to rectify the propensity
of trees to shoot their branches to leeward
by moving the position; and as, in his extensive
experience, he has never found his doing so injure
the tree, or impede its growth, we must thank him
for breaking through the prejudice in question.</p>
<p> A second and most important deviation from the
common course of transportation is the total disuse
of the barbarous practice of pollarding or otherwise
mutilating and dismembering the trees which are
to be transplanted. This almost universal custom,
which subjected the tree, at the very moment when
it was to sustain its change of place, to the amputation
of one-third, one-half, or even the whole of
its top, seems to be founded on a process of false
reasoning. ``We cut off the roots,'' say these
reasoners, ``and thereby diminish the power of
procuring supply for the branches; let us also cut
off a similar proportion of the branches which are
to be supplied, and the remaining roots will be
adequate to support the remainder of the top.''
In this argument, it is assumed that the branches
are themselves of no use to the process of vegetation,
and can be abridged with as much ease as the
commandant of a besieged town, when provisions
grow scarce, can rid himself of the superfluous
part of his garrison. But it is not so; we cannot
deprive the tree of a healthy branch, without, to a
certain extent, deranging the economy of vegetation:
each leaf, in its degree, forms a forcing-pump,
which draws up a certain quantity of sap,
the natural food of the tree; and, moreover, it
forms a portion of the lungs of the tree, as the
leaves inhale a certain quantity of air, an operation
which may be compared to respiration. To
destroy the branches, therefore, further than for
the moderate purpose of pruning, is to attempt to
fit the tree to rest satisfied with an inferior supply
of nourishment, by depriving it of a part of its appetite
and a part of its power of inhaling the air,
which is no less necessary to its healthful existence.
The case comes to be the same with that of a
worthy chaplain, who, with the crew of a vessel he
belonged to, was thrown by shipwreck on a desolate
rock, where there were no means of food. His
shipmates suffered grievously, ``But for my part,''
says the chaplain, ``I bless heaven that I was in a
burning fever the whole time, and desired nothing
but cold water, of which there was plenty on the
island.'' Now, though the good man seems to have
been grateful even for his burning fever (having,
it must be observed, safely recovered from it,) it
will generally be thought rather too hazardous a
remedy to be desired by others in similar situations,
and those who treat their trees on the same
principle ought to remember, that to cure one injury
they are exposing their subjects to two.</p>
<p> The sagacious Miller long ago noticed these facts,
and ascribed this fashion of thinning and pollarding
to the ignorance of planters, who, not being
aware of the principles of vegetation, did not know
that trees were nourished as well by their leaves,
sprays, and branches, as by their roots:---</p>
<p> ``For (says that judicious writer) were the same severities
practised on a tree of the same age <u>unremoved,</u> it would so
much stint the growth, as not to be recovered in several years;
nor would it ever arrive at the size of such as had all their
branches left upon them.''<*></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>Scottish Highland Society, supposed to be well
acquainted with country matters, and particularly
with the management of plantations, visited the
place in September, 1823. Their report embraces
three principal objects of inquiry: 1st, The single
trees and open groups on the lawn, which have
suffered the operation of transplanting. Of this
description, birch, ash, wyche, or Scotch elm, sycamore,
lime, horse-chestnut, all of which having
been, at one time or other, subjects of transplantation,
were growing with vigour and luxuriance,
and in the most exposed situations, making shoots
of eighteen inches. The trees were of various sizes.
Several, which had been transplanted some years
since, were from thirty to forty feet high, or more.
The girth of the largest was from five feet three to
five feet eight inches, at a foot and a half from the
ground. Other trees, which had been only six
months transplanted, were from twenty to thirty
feet high; and the gentlemen of the committee ascertained
their girth to be about two feet and a
half, or three feet, at eighteen inches from the
ground. These trees were in every respect flourishing,
but their leaves were perceptibly smaller
than those of the trees around them, a difference
which ceases to exist in the second, or at furthest
the third, year after transplantation. Upon the
whole, the committee were satisfied, first, with the
singularly beautiful shape and symmetry of the
trees; secondly, with their health and vigour, as
they showed no decayed boughs or twigs, the usual
consequence of transplantation under other systems;
thirdly, with their upright and even position,
though set out singly and in exposed situations
without any adventitious support. Thus the single
trees possessed all the advantages which the proprietor
could desire in the qualities of beauty,
health, and stability.<p> But were this species of mutilation less directly
injurious to vegetation than it certainly is, we
ought to remember that the purpose of transplanting
trees is chiefly or entirely ornamental; and if
we render them, by decapitation and dismemberment
of every kind, disgusting and miserable
spectres, we destroy the whole purpose and intention
for which they were transplanted, and present
the eye with a set of naked and mutilated posts
and poles, resembling the unhealthy and maimed
tenants of a military hospital after a great battle,
instead of the beautiful objects which it was the
purpose of the improver to procure by anticipating
the course of nature. It is true, good soil, and a
tract of years, may restore such ill-used subjects
to form and beauty, but, considering the length of
time that they must remain disgusting and unsightly,
we would far rather trust to such plants
as nature might rear on the spot---plants which
would come to maturity as soon, and prove incomparably
more thriving in their growth, and more
beautiful in their form. But the Allanton system,
by planting the subjects without mutilation, boasts
to obtain the immediate effect of trees complete
and perfect in all their parts, without loss of the
time required to replace the havoc of axe and saw.</p>
<p> There is a third material point in which Sir
Henry Steuart's system differs from general practice,
not indeed, absolutely, but in degree. The
only absolute requisite which the old school of
transplantation enjoined, was that the tree should
be taken up with as large a ball of earth as could
possibly be managed. In obeying this direction,
there was considerable expense incurred by the
additional weight, not to mention that the transplanter
was often disappointed by the ball falling
to pieces by the way. In short, the difficulty was
so great, that the operation was often performed in
severe weather, to secure the adhesion of the earth
to the roots, at the risk of exposing the extremities
of the fibres and rootlets to the highly unfavourable
agency of frost. The Allanton system limits the
earth, which is, if possible, to be retained, to that
lying immediately under the stem of the tree,
where a ball of moderate extent is to be preserved:
the roots extending from it are, as already explained,
entirely denuded of earth by the pickmen,
in their process of loosening the tree from the soil.
When the tree is borne by the machine up to the
spot where it is to be finally placed, it is carefully
brought to a perpendicular posture by means of
elevating the pole of the machine, and the centre
of the stem is received, with the ball of earth adhering
to it, into a cavity in the middle of the pit, so
shallow, however, that the trunk of the tree stands
rather high, and the roots have a tendency downwards.
The roots are then freed from the tyings
which have bound them up for temporary preservation,
and are divided into the tiers or ranks in
which they diverge from the trunk. The lowest
of these tiers is next arranged, as nearly as possible
in the manner in which it lay originally, each
root, with its rootlets and fibres, being laid down
and imbedded in the earth with the utmost precaution.
They must be handled as a lover would dally
with the curls of Ne<ae>ra's hair, for tearing, crushing,
or turning back these important fibres, is in
the highest degree prejudicial to the growth of the
tree. The earth is then laid over this the lowest
tier of roots with much precaution; it is carefully
worked in by the hand, and the aid of a sort of
small rammer, with such attention to the safety of
the fibres, as to encourage them immediately to resume
their functions, as if they had never been disquieted.
Additional earth is then gradually sifted
in, and kneaded down, till it forms a layer on which
the second tier of roots is extended; and these are
put in order, and disposed of in the same way as
the lower tier. The same process of handling and
arranging the roots then takes place with the third
tier, and the fourth, if there is one. This attention
to incorporating with the soil each root, nay, each
fibre, as far as possible, answers a double purpose.
It not only induces the roots to commence their
usual and needful office of collecting the sap, but
also secures them against the effect of storms of
wind, which, blowing on trees transplanted in the
ordinary way with a ball, makes them rock like a
bowl in a socket, the ball, with the roots, having
no communication with the pit except by adhesion.
The sense of this great evil suggested to former
transplanters the necessity of stakes, ropes, and
other means of adventitious support, which were always
ugly, and expensive, and generally inefficient.
Whereas, according to the Allanton system, the
tree, reversed so as to present its weightier branches
against the wind, and picketed to the firm earth by
a thousand roots and rootlets, carefully incorporated
with the soil, is not found to require any
support, is seldom swayed to a side, and almost
never blown down by the heaviest gales. Here,
therefore, is a third and important difference between
the Allanton system and all that have preceded
it, occasioned by the stability which the
mode of laying the roots imparts to the tree, and
the power of dispensing with every other species
of support, except what arises from well-balanced
boughs and roots received in the ground. We
have to add, that Sir Henry's own territory lies
considerably exposed to those storms from the
North, which are the heaviest and most prevailing
gales of the Scottish climate.</p>
<p> When the soil has been placed about the roots,
tier after tier, the rest of the earth is filled into the
pit regularly, so that the depth around the stem
shall be twelve or fourteen inches, and subjected to
a gentle and uniform pressure, but by no means to
severe ramming or treading in, leaving it to nature
to produce that consolidation, which, if attempted
by violence, is apt to injure the fine fibres of the
roots. If there is turf, it is replaced around the
stem in regular order. We ought not to have
omitted, that the tree is subjected to a plentiful
watering when the roots are fixed, and to another
when the operations are completed.</p>
<p> From our own experience, we should consider
this last requisite as of the highest consequence.
Count Rumford, in his various experiments upon
the food of the poor, arrived at the economical discovery,
that water alone contained a great deal of
nutritive aliment. Without extending our averment
as far as that practical philosopher, we are much
of his opinion, in so far as transplanted trees are
considered; for we have seen hollies of ten and
twelve feet high removed from the centre of a
forest, and planted in a light and sandy soil, without
any other precaution than placing them in a pit
half-filled with earth, mingled with such a quantity
of water that it had the consistence of thin porridge.
Every forester knows the shyness of the holly, yet,
set in soil thus prepared, and refreshed by copious
watering during the season, they throve admirably
well. Accordingly, we observe that Sir Henry recommends
watering as one of the principal points
respecting the subsequent treatment of the transplanted
tree. When the trees stand singly, or in
loose and open disposition, he recommends that the
earth around them shall be finally beat down by a
machine resembling that of a pavior, but heavier,
about the month of April or May, when the natural
consolidation shall have, in a great measure, taken
place. To exclude the drought, he then recommends
that the ground immediately under the
stem of the oak, birch, and other trees which demand
most attention, shall be covered with a substance
called <u>shews,</u> being the refuse of a flax-mill,
which, of course, serves to exclude the drought,
like the process which gardeners call mulching.
Lastly, in the case of such transplanted trees as do
not seem disposed to thrive equal to the others, we
are instructed to lay around the stem four cart-loads
of earth, with a cart-load of coal-ashes, carefully
sifted: this composition is spread round the
tree, in a proportion of nine inches in depth,
around the stem or centre, and five inches at the
extremity of the roots.</p>
<p> It is most important to observe, that the success
of the whole operation seems to depend as much
upon this species of treatment, which takes place
after the transplantation, as on observation of the
rules laid down as to preparing the tree for its
removal, and as to the method of the transplantation
itself. We have already mentioned the efficacy
of frequent watering: the excluding drought from
the roots of the transplanted tree by the intervention
of <u>shews,</u> or some equivalent subject (leaves,
perhaps, or a layer of wet straw,) is of the last
consequence; and not less so is the application of
manure to the roots of such trees as seem, in the
language of planters, to fail or go back. When
these things are attended to, the tree seldom or
never fails. It is surrounded with a very neat
species of defence against the deer, sheep, or other
animals with which the park may be stocked, and
which is more handsome as well as less expensive
than the ugly tubs in which transplanted trees
seem usually to be set out in the ground which
they are designed to occupy. Taking the medium
degree of thriving, a tree thus transplanted may
be expected to suffer in its growth of leaves for the
first year or two. In the second particularly, it
has less the air of general health than at any future
time. In the third, if regularly attended to in its
after-treatment, it shows little sign of suffering any
thing. In two or three seasons more, it begins to
show growth, and resume the progress of active
vegetation.</p>
<p> We have thus gone hastily through the general
requisites of the Allanton system of transplantation,
for the details of which we must refer to the work
itself. The merit to be assigned to the ingenious
baronet is exalted by the character of his discovery,
relating to such a fascinating branch of the fine arts
as that of improving the actual landscape. He has
taught a short road to an end which almost all
landed proprietors, possessed of the slightest degree
of taste, must be desirous of attaining. In a word,
the immediate effect of wood is obtained---an entire
park---may, as in the case of Allanton, be covered
with wood of every kind: trees, arranged singly, in
scattered groups, or in close masses, intermixed
with copse of every description, and boasting, in
the course of four or five years, all the beauty which
the improver, in the ordinary case, can expect,
after the lapse of thirty or forty. Even in the first
year, indeed, a great general effect is produced;
but as, upon close inspection, the trees will for
some time show a thinness of leaves and check of
vegetation, we have taken that period at which the
transplanted wood may, with ordinary management,
be expected to have lost all appearance of the
operation which it has sustained.</p>
<p> It is now time to attend to a formidable consideration,
the expense, namely, at which a victory
over nature, so complete as that which we have
described, is to be attained. Sir Henry Steuart
complains, with justice, of reports, which, assigning
the price of ten or twelve pounds to the removal
of each tree, and circulated by envy or ignorance,
have represented his system as beyond the reach
of any, excepting the most opulent individuals;
whereas he himself contends, that the art which he
has disclosed has the opposite merit of being within
the easy compass of any person of moderate fortune.
As the practical utility of this ingenious
system depends entirely on this point, we feel it
our duty to notice the evidence on the subject.</p>
<p> The days of Orpheus are no more, and no man
can now pretend to make the rooted denizens of
the forest shift their places at the simple expense
of an old song. It must be held sufficient if the
expenditure does not so far exceed the object to
be obtained, as to cause the alterations produced
to rank with the extravagant freaks of Nero, who
was the first of landscape-gardeners, and his successors
in the school of gigantic embellishment.
But the country-gentleman, of easy fortune, who
does not hesitate to lay out two or three hundred
pounds for a tolerable picture or two to adorn the
inside of his house, should not surely be induced
to grudge a similar expenditure to form the park,
by which it is surrounded, into a natural landscape,
which will more than rival the best efforts of the
pencil. The power of adorning nature is a luxury
of the highest kind, and must, to a certain extent,
be paid for, but the following pieces of evidence
serve to show, that the price is uncommonly moderate,
if contrasted with the effects produced.</p>
<p> The committee of the Highland Society remark,
that the transplantation of grown trees belongs to
the fine arts rather than those which have had
direct and simple utility for their object, and that
the return is to be expected rather in pleasure than
in actual profit:</p>
<p> ``Value, no doubt, every proprietor acquires, when he converts
a bare and unsightly common into a clothed, sheltered,
and richly ornamented park. But, excepting in the article of
shelter, he has no more immediate value than the purchaser
of a picture.''</p>
<p> But this apologetical introduction is so far short of
the truth, since it omits to notice that the improver
<u>has</u> created a value---unproductive, indeed, while
he continues to retain possession of his estate, but
which can be converted into actual productive
capital so soon as he chooses to part with it. The
difference between Allanton, with its ornamented
park, and Allanton as it was twenty years since,
would soon be ascertained were the proprietor disposed
to bring his ancient heritage into the market.
The committee proceed to state, that the formation
of the two acres of copse, intermingled with standard
trees, already mentioned, appears to have
amounted to <L>30 per acre; and they express their
belief that no visible change, to the same purpose,
could have been effected by the landscape-gardener,
which could have had effect before it had cost the
proprietor <u>three times</u> the sum.</p>
<p> Mr. Laing Meason, who had personally attended
some operations on Allanton park, mentions the
transplantation of two trees, from twenty to thirty
years old. The workmen began their operations
at six o'clock in the morning. The first tree was,
by measurement, twenty feet; the second, thirty-two
feet high, the girth from twenty-four to thirty-six
inches. The one was moved a mile, the other
about a hundred yards, and the whole operation
was concluded before six in the evening. The
wages of the men amounted to fifteen shillings, so
that each tree cost seven shillings and sixpence.
Adding the expense of a pair of horses, the sum
could not exceed twelve shillings, and we must
needs profess, that the mere pleasure of witnessing
such a wonderful transmigration successfully
accomplished, was, in our opinion, worth half the
money. Mr. Laing Meason proceeds to say, ``that
if a comparison was to be drawn between the above
expense and that of planting groups of plants from
the nursery, keeping enclosures up for twenty
years, and losing the rent on the ground occupied,
the Allanton system is much preferable on the
point of economy.''</p>
<p> The evidence of various gentlemen who have
already adopted Sir Henry Steuart's system on
their own estates, is given at length in the book
before us:---Mr. Smith, of Jordanhill, in Lanarkshire,
appears to have made the largest experiments
next to the inventor himself; and he states the
results as uniformly successful. Before his workmen
attained proficiency in the art, the individual
trees cost from fifteen to eighteen shillings each,
when transported about a mile; but in his later
operations the charge was reduced to eight shillings
for very handsome subjects, and six shillings
for those of an inferior description.</p>
<p> Mr. MacCall, of Ibroxhill, another gentleman in
the same neighbourhood, estimates the cost of his
operations on trees, from eighteen to twenty-eight
feet high, at eight shillings and tenpence per tree.
Mr. Watson of Linthouse, in Renfrewshire, reckons
that his trees, being on an average thirty feet high,
cost him fourteen shillings the tree. Sir Charles
Macdonald Lockhart, of Lee, and Sir Walter Scott,
of Abbotsford, mention their expenses as <u>trifling;</u>
and Mr. Elliot Lockhart, (M.P. for Selkirkshire)
states ten shillings as the average cost of transplanting
trees from twenty-four to thirty-five feet
in height. All these gentlemen attest the success
of their operations, and their thorough belief in the
soundness of their ingenious master's doctrine.</p>
<p> It ought to be observed, that no special account
seems, in any of these cases, to have been kept of
the after treatment of the transplanted tree, by
watering and manuring, which must differ very
much, according to circumstances. Something,
however, must be added on this account to almost
all the prices quoted by the experimentalists above
mentioned.</p>
<p> We now come to Sir Henry's account of his own
expenses, which, with the laudable and honourable
desire to be as communicative and candid as possible,
he has presented under various forms. The
largest trees which Sir Henry Steuart himself has
been in the habit of removing</p>
<p> ``being from twenty-five to thirty-five feet high, may be managed,''
he informs us, ``by expert and experienced workmen,
for from 10s. to 13s. each, at half a mile's distance: and the
smallest, being from eighteen to five-and-twenty feet, for from
6s. to 8s. With workmen awkward or inexperienced, it will
not seem surprising, that it should require a third part, or even
a half more, fully to follow out the practice which has been
recommended. As to wood for close plantations, or for bush-planting
in the park, the trees may be transferred for about
3s. 6d., and the stools of underwood for from 1s. to 2s. per
stool.''---P. 341.</p>
<p> In another view of his expenditure, Sir Henry
Steuart fixes on a very considerable space of
ground, which he had fully occupied with wood
during a period of eight years, and shows <u>data</u> for
rating his annual expenditure at fifty-eight pounds
ten shillings yearly---a sum certainly not too extravagant
to be bestowed on any favourite object
of pursuit, and far inferior in amount to that which
is, in most instances, thrown away on a pet-farm.
We have dwelt thus long on the subject of expense,
because it forms the most formidable objection to
every new system, is most generally adopted, and
most completely startling to the student. But where
so many persons, acting with the very purpose of
experiment, after allowance has been made for
difference of circumstances, are found to come so
near each other in their estimates, and that <u>twelve
shillings</u> for the <u>expense of transplanting a tree of
thirty feet high</u> forms <u>the average of the calculation,</u>
it will not surely be deemed an extraordinary tax
on so important an operation.</p>
<p> But, although we have found the system to be at
once original, effectual, and attended with moderate
expense, we are not sanguine enough to hope that
it will at once find general introduction. The
application of steam and of gas to the important
functions which they at present perform, was
slowly and reluctantly adopted, after they had been
opposed for many years by the prejudices of the
public. Yet these were supported by such effective
arguments <u>ad crumenam,</u> as might, one would
have thought, have ensured their advocates a favourable
hearing. The present discoverer is a
gentleman of liberal fortune, who, after having
ornamented his own domain, has little interest
whether his neighbours imitate his example or no.
The system, too, must be subjected to the usual
style of sneering misrepresentation which is applied
to all innovators, until they gain the public
to their side, and rise above the reach of detraction.
We have also to anticipate the indifference of
country gentlemen, too indolent to conquer the
difficulty of getting the fitting and indispensable
machinery, or to procure the assistance of experienced
workmen. Even in the cases in which the
new system may be brought to a trial, it may fall
under discredit from the haste of the proprietor,
or the no less formidable conceit and prejudices
of the workman. The one may be disposed to leave
out or hurry over some of the details, which are
peculiarly slow and gradual, though producing such
an immediate effect when completed; the other,
unless closely watched, will assuredly revert to his
own ancient practice, in despite of every charge to
the contrary. In either case, the failure which
may ensue will be imputed to the Allanton system,
though it should be rather attributed to departure
from its rules.</p>
<p> Notwithstanding all these obstacles, the principle
is so good, and the application so successful, that
we shall be much surprised if, ere long, some professional
person does not make himself master of
the process, and proceed to strive for that eminence
which he cannot fail to achieve when it is found he
possesses the art of changing the face of nature,
like the scenes in a theatre, and can convert, almost
instantly, a desert to an Eden. Nurserymen and
designers will then find it for their interest to have
the necessary machinery, and gangs of experienced
workmen, to enable them to contract for raising,
transferring, and upholding any particular number
of trees, which a country gentleman of moderate
fortune may desire to place in groups, or singly, in
his park. The alteration will be thus effected without
the proprietor, who wishes but to transplant
some score or two of trees, being obliged to incur
the full expenses of providing and instructing superintendents,
as if he meant to countermarch the
whole advance of Birnam wood to Dunsinane.
Earlier or later, this beautiful and rational system
will be brought into general action, when <u>it will do
more to advance the picturesque beauty of the country
in five years than the slow methods hitherto adopted
can attain in fifty.</u></p>
<p> Our readers are now enabled to answer with
confidence the question of Macbeth:---<p> ``Who can impress the forest? Bid the tree
unfix his earth-bound root?''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>The reader is referred to Bishop Heber's travels in India
* for some most interesting details on this subject.---S.</li>
</ul>
<p>in an exposed situation have also their resources;
---the object being to protect the sap-vessels, which
transmit nutriment, and which lie betwixt the wood
and the bark, the tree never fails to throw out, and
especially on the side most exposed to the blast, a
thick coating of bark, designed to protect, and
which effectually does protect, the sap-vessels and
the process of circulation to which they are adapted,
from the injury which necessarily must otherwise
ensue. Again, if the animal is in danger of suffocation
from want of vital air, instead of starving
by being exposed to its unqualified rigour, instinct
or reason directs the sufferer to approach those
apertures through which any supply of that necessary
of human life can be attained, and induces
man, at the same time, to free himself from any
coverings which may be rendered oppressive by
the state in which he finds himself. Now it may be
easily proved, that a similar instinct to that which
induced the unfortunate sufferers in the black-hole
of Calcutta to struggle with the last efforts to approach
the solitary aperture which admitted air to
their dungeon, and to throw from them their garments,
in order to encourage the exertions which
nature made to relieve herself by perspiration, is
proper, also, to the noblest of the vegetable tribe.
Look at a wood or plantation which has not been
duly thinned:---the trees which exist will be seen
drawn up to poles, with narrow and scanty tops,
endeavouring to make their way towards such openings
to the sky as might permit the access of light
and air. If entirely precluded by the boughs which
have closed over them, the weaker plants will be
found strangely distorted by attempts to get out
at a side of the plantation; and, finally, if overpowered
in these attempts by the obstacles opposed
to them, they inevitably perish. As men throw
aside their garments, influenced by a close situation,
trees, placed in similar circumstances, exhibit
a bark thin and beautifully green and succulent,
entirely divested of that thick, coarse, protecting
substance which covers the sap-vessels in an exposed
position.</p>
<ul>
<li>Miller's Gardener's and Botanist's Dictionary, voc. ``Planting.''</li>
</ul>
<p>But the subject, though to ourselves of special interest,
has already, perhaps, detained some readers
too long. <u>Non omnes arbusta juvant.</u><p> We are informed, in the preface, that many
months of severe and dangerous illness have been
partially occupied and amused by the present treatise,
when the author was incapable of attending
to more useful studies or more serious pursuits.
While we regret that the current of scientific investigation,
which has led to such brilliant results,
should be, for a moment interrupted, we have here
an example, and a pleasing one, that the lightest
pursuits of such a man as our angler---nay, the
productions of those languid hours, in which lassitude
succeeds to pain, are more interesting and
instructive than the exertion of the talents of others
whose mind and body are in the fullest vigour---
illustrating the scriptural expression, that the
gleanings of the grapes of Ephraim are better than
the vintage of Abiezer.</p>
<p> For ourselves, though we have wetted a line in
our time, we are far from boasting of more than a
very superficial knowledge of the art, and possess
no part whatever of the scientific information which
is necessary to constitute the philosophical angler.
Yet we have read our Walton as well as others;
and, like the honest keeper in the New Forest,
when we endeavour to form an idea of Paradise,
we always suppose a trout-stream going through it.
The art itself is peculiarly seductive, requires much
ingenuity, and yet is easily reconciled to a course
of quiet reflections, as, step by step, we ascend
a devious brook, opening new prospects as we
advance, which remind us of a good and unambitious
man's journey through this world, wherein
changing scenes glide past him with each its own
interest, until evening falls, and life is ended. We
have, indeed, often thought, that angling alone
offers to man the degree of half-business, half-idleness,
which the fair sex find in their needle-work
or knitting, which, employing the hands, leaves the
mind at liberty, and occupying the attention so far
as is necessary to remove the painful sense of a
vacuity, yet yields room for contemplation, whether
upon things heavenly or earthly, cheerful or melancholy.</p>
<p> Of the humanity of the pastime we have but
little to say. Our author has entered into its
defence against Lord Byron, who called it a ``solitary
vice,'' and condemned its advocate and apologist,
Izaak Walton, as ``a quaint old cruel coxcomb,'' who<p> ``in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p><title>
Salmonia.<! p68><*><p> ``Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to.''</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>This article on ``Salmonia, or days of Fly-Fishing,'' a
<em> small volume by Sir Humphry Davy, Bart., P.R.S., appeared
</em> In the Quarterly Review, for October 1828.<p> ``Nature first made man
When wild in woods the noble savage ran,''</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p><text>
When great men condescend to trifle, they desire
that those who witness their frolics should have
some kindred sympathy with the subject which
these regard. The speech of Henry IV. to the
Spanish ambassador, when he discovered the King
riding round the room on a stick, with his son, is
well known. ``You are a father, Seignor Ambassador,
and so we will finish our ride.'' No doubt,
there was to be remarked something graceful in
the manner with which the hero of Navarre bestrode
even a cane---something so kind in his expression,
while employed in the most childish of pastimes, as
failed not to remind the spectator that the indulgent
father of his playmate was the no less indulgent
father of his people. In taking up this elegant
little volume, for which we are indebted to the
most illustrious and successful investigator of inductive
philosophy which this age has produced, we
are led to expect to discover the sage even in his
lightest amusements.<p> Our author takes a more special defence than
the above---alleging that he is not guilty, like his
predecessor, Walton, of using living baits, but
always employs the artificial fly or minnow. This
is, undoubtedly, more agreeable, more cleanly, and
much more scientific. He also urges that, in all
probability, fishes are less sensitive than man.
Under the favour of such high authority, this is a
point which none can know but the fish himself.
The variety of modes in which the trout endeavours
to escape from the hook certainly seem to
show that his apprehensions are extreme, and the
hurry and vivacity of his motions indicate irritation
and pain. Being, however, a denizen of another
element, our sympathies are not so strongly excited
by the sufferings of fish as of the creatures that
share the same element with us. We remember
an amiable enthusiast, a worshipper of Nature
after the manner of Rousseau, who, being melted
into feelings of universal philanthropy by the softness
and serenity of a spring morning, resolved,
that for that day, at least, no injured animal should
pollute his board; and, having recorded his vow,
walked six miles to gain a hamlet, famous for fish
dinners, where, without an idea of breaking his
sentimental engagement, he regaled himself on a
small matter of crimped cod and oyster sauce.
After all, the progress of extermination and reproduction
seems to be the plan on which Nature
proceeds in maintaining the balance amongst the
animal tribes, and carrying on the system of the
universe. Man, in his sphere, is one of the most
constant exterminators; and if, in satisfying the
instinct which impels him to be such, he can acquire
the power of realizing the following beautiful
picture, there is little to be said concerning the inhumanity
of angling.</p>
<p> ``The fisher for salmon and trout with the fly employs not
only machinery to assist his physical powers, but applies sagacity
to conquer difficulties; and the pleasures derived from
ingenious resources and devices, as well as from active pursuit,
belongs to this amusement. Then, as to its philosophical tendency,
it is a pursuit of moral discipline, requiring patience,
forbearance, and command of temper. As connected with
natural science, it may be vaunted as demanding a knowledge
of the habits of a considerable tribe of created beings---fishes,
and the animals they prey upon, and an acquaintance
with the signs and tokens of the weather and its changes, the
nature of waters, and of the atmosphere. As to its poetical
relations, it carries us into the most wild and beautiful scenery
of nature; amongst the mountain lakes, and the clear and
lovely streams that gush from the higher ranges of elevated
hills, or that make their way through the cavities of calcareous
strata. How delightful in the early spring, after the dull and
tedious time of winter, when the frosts disappear, and the
sunshine warms the earth and waters, to wander forth by
some clear stream, to see the leaf bursting from the purple
bud, to scent the odours of the bank perfumed by the violet,
and enamelled, as it were, with the primrose and the daisy;
to wander upon the fresh turf below the shade of trees, whose
bright blossom, are filled with the music of the bee; and on
the surface of the waters to view the gaudy flies sparkling
like animated gems in the sunbeams, whilst the bright and
beautiful trout is watching them from below; to hear the
twittering of the water-birds, who, alarmed at your approach,
rapidly hide themselves beneath the flowers and leaves of the
water-lily; and, as the season advances, to find all these objects
changed for others of the same kind, but better and
brighter, till the swallow and the trout contend, as it were,
for the gaudy May-fly, and till, in pursuing your amusement
in the calm and balmy evening, you are serenaded by the
songs of the cheerful thrush and melodious nightingale; performing
the offices of paternal love, in thickets ornamented
with the rose and woodbine.''---Pp. 8--10.</p>
<p> Before leaving this beautiful passage, in which
the angler seems to contemplate nature with the
eye at once of a poet and a philosopher, we may
inform our reader, supposing him more ignorant
than ourselves, that not all the love of rural scenery
which is inspired by Walton---not all the instructions
in practice which may be collected from this
work, the composition of that far more illustrious
successor, who has condescended to be his imitator,
will ever make an angler out of one who is not
gifted with certain natural qualifications for that
amusement. No degree of zealous study will supply
the want of natural parts. To ``fish by the
book'' would be as vain an attempt as Master Stephen's
proposal to keep his hawk on that principle.</p>
<p> There must be a certain quickness of eye to
judge where the fish lies--a precision and neatness
of hand to cast the line lightly, and with such truth
and address that the fly shall fall on the very square
inch of the stream which you aimed at, and that
with as little splash as if it were the descent of the
natural insect; there is a certain delicacy of manipulation
with which you must use the rod and reel
when (happy man!) you actually have hooked a
heavy fish; all of which requisites must combine
to ensure success. There are the same personal
qualities requisite in shooting, billiards, and other
exercises of skill, in the use of the turning-lathe,
and, as no one knows better than the author of the
present work, in the management of philosophical
experiments. If thou hast any of this species of
alertness of band and truth of eye in thee, go forth,
gentle reader, with ``Salmonia'' in thy pocket, and
return with thy basket more or less heavy in proportion
to thy perseverance. But if thou wantest
this peculiar knack, we doubt if even the patience
that is exercised in a punt above Chelsea bridge
would greatly mend thy day's work: though thy
dinner depended upon it, thou mayest go on flogging
the water from morning till midnight, entangling
the hook now in a hush, now in a stem, now
driving it through the nose of some brother of the
angle, and now through thine own, hut not a fin
wilt thou basket, whether of bull-trout or minnow;
and thou must content thee with half the definition
of the angler, and be the fool at the one end of the
stick and string, without the gudgeon at the other.</p>
<p> Indeed, there always seemed to us something
magical in this peculiar dexterity, which no chance
or advantages of circumstances ever came to balance.
The inequality between individual anglers
exists to a degree which simple men will not be
able to comprehend from a perusal of Salmonia.
Halieus exhorts his less skilful companion---</p>
<p> ``Try in that deep pool, below the Tumbling Bay; I see two
or three good fish rising there, and there is a lively breeze.
The largest fish refuses your fly again and again; try the
others. There, you have hooked him; now carry him down
stream, and keep his head high, out of the weeds. He
plunges and fights with great force;---he is the best-fed fish
I have yet seen at the end of the line, and will weigh more
in proportion to his length. I will land him for you.''---P. 39.</p>
<p> Instant success follows on the adopting of the
precept, but, general reader, do not hastily trust
that it will be so in real life. We used sometimes
to pursue the amusement with an excellent friend
now no more, and we still recollect the mortifying
distinction between his success and our want of it.
With all the kindness and much of the skill of Halieus,
he trained us to high adventure:---``Throw
where yonder stone breaks the stream; there is a
trout behind it''---we obeyed, and hooked the stone
itself: ``Let your fly fall light on the ripple''---we
threw, and it fell with the emphasis of a quoit. Our
Mentor gave us the choice of his flies, and relinquished
in our favour even that which we had seen
do instant execution. It seemed as if what in his
bands had been a real, animated insect, the live
child of heat and moisture, was disenchanted in
ours, and returned to a clumsy composition of iron,
wool, fur, and feathers. The changing from one to
the other bank of the stream in no respect mended
the matter, and while trouts came wriggling to the
shore as if our companion bad charmed them out
of the river, we had nothing to struggle with except
eel-weeds and alder-roots. In short, there
was a spell in it, and we have our suspicions at this
moment, that set a bucket of water before our
comrade, he would have drawn out a fish, while
we, angling in a duke's preserve, might have failed
of catching a bane-stickle.</p>
<p> There are, however, those to whom this fatality
attaches in a much greater degree than to us, who,
after all, were not without having occasionally our
lucky days; whereas all men have heard of the
fisherman of the Eastern tale, whose persevering
ill-fortune first fished up a pannier full of slime,
next the carcase of an ass, and taking no warning
by these omens, at last dragged out a genie who
had like to have wrung his head off. We ourselves
know a respected friend whose only attempts at
angling were equally ominous with those of this
Oriental. In his first experiment, he fished up the
carcase of a drowned man; in the second his hook,
indeed, was only entangled in the body of a horse,
but, which perhaps equalized the two accidents,
that horse proved to be his own. We have not
heard of his making a third experiment, but we
have no doubt that should he be unwise enough to
attempt it, the result must be something portentous.
Non cuivis,---therefore it is not every one who can
pursue with success this delightful sylvan amusement;
there must be, as Tony Lumpkin says, ``a
concatenation accordingly.''</p>
<p> The work before us alarms us on another topic,
or rather would have alarmed us, had we acquired
the information contained in the following passage,
during a more active period of our life. The party
of anglers are seated at dinner, a scene which our
author understands as well as he does the art of
fly-fishing, or the more recondite mysteries of philosophy,
and it is after a hearty meal upon fresh
salmon, eaten with the salt and water it is boiled
in, and some delicate snipes from a Highland morass,
that one of the pleasant interlocutors, Ornither,
makes a genial proposal for another bottle of claret,
observing (most reasonably, as we should have
thought, a priori,) that a pint per man (Scottish
measure, we hope, for the scene lies on Loch Maree)
was not too much after such a day's fatigue.
To this motion, which we are afraid we might, in
our rashness, have seconded, Halieus makes the
following unexpected opposition:---</p>
<p> ``Hal.---You have made me president for these four days,
and I forbid it. A half-pint of wine for young men in perfect
health is enough, and you will able to take your exercise
better, and feel better for this abstinence How few people
calculate upon the effects of constantly renewed fever in our
luxurious system of living in England! The heart is made to
act too powerfully, the blood is thrown upon the nobler parts,
and with the system of wading adopted by some sportsmen,
whether in shooting or fishing is delivered either to the
hemorrhoidal veins, or, what is worse to the head. I have
known several free livers who have terminated their lives by
apoplexy, or have been rendered miserable by palsy, in consequence
of the joint effects of cold feet and too stimulating
a diet; that is to say, as much animal food as they could eat,
with a pint, or perhaps a bottle of wine per day. Be guided
by me, my friends, and neither drink nor wade. I know
there are old men who have done both and have enjoyed
perfect health; but these are devil's decoys to the unwary, and
ten suffer for one that escapes. I could quote to you an instance
from this very county, one of the strongest men I have
ever known. He was not intemperate, but he lived luxuriously,
and waded as a salmon fisher for many years in this
very river; bet before he was fifty, palsy deprived him of the
use of his limbs, and he is still a living example of the danger
of the system which you are ambitious of adopting.</p>
<p> ``Oro.---Well. I give up the wine, but I intend to wade in
Hancock's boots to-morrow.</p>
<p> ``Hal.---Wear them, but do not wade in them. The feet
must become cold in a stream of water constantly passing over
the caoutchouc and leather, notwithstanding the thick stockings.
They are good for keeping the feet warm, and I think
where there is exercise, as in snipe-shooting, may he used
without any bad effects. But I advise no one to stand still
(which an angler must do sometimes) in the water, even with
these ingenious water-proof inventions. All anglers should
remember old Boerhaave's maxims of health, and act upon
them; `Keep the feet warm, and the head cool, and the body
open.' ''---Pp. 102--104.</p>
<p> We before hinted that we have had our lucky
days, and the most propitious time, both as to the
size and number of trouts, were the hours before
and after sunset upon the very warmest days of
July and August. The large trouts which have
lain hid during the whole day are then abroad, for
the purpose of food, and take the fly eagerly.
These moments,<p> ``When the sun, retiring slowly,
Gives to dews the freshen'd air,''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>We will not inquire whether the noble poet has,
in the present case, been one of those who<p> We will not, however, suppress evidence, though
somewhat contradictory of our own, as we happen
to recollect an anecdote corroborative of the view
taken by Halieus concerning the risk of wading,
and at the same time indicative of the passionate
hold which the sport of angling maintains over the
minds of some individuals, with whatever risk it
may be accompanied. It is now a great many
years (considerably above thirty) since we met in
fishing quarters the very pleasing and accomplished
gentleman, them engaged in his medical studies,
from whom we heard the story.</p>
<p> In a former fishing excursion, such as that in
which he was engaged at the time, our friend had
observed a follower of the same sport holding his
course down the very midst of the small river;
and the angler in question was a ``noticeable man.''
He was of uncommon stature---a large and portly
figure, brandishing with both hands a rod which
commanded the stream on either side---while, being
immersed to the waist, his fair round belly
seemed to project like a dark rock when in the
shallow water, and in the deep current to rest and
float on the surface of the waters like the hull of
some rich argosy.</p>
<p> Our friend could not help looking back more
than once at this singular figure, until he suddenly
observed the angler quit the stream, get out upon
the bank, and hasten towards him with shouts
which seemed a signal of distress. On his closer
approach, our medical friend observed that the
countenance of the fisherman, naturally bluff and
jolly, and not unfitted to correspond with the height
of his stature and importance of his paunch, seemed
disordered and convulsed with pain. He begged
earnestly to know if our acquaintance had in his
basket a flask with spirits of any kind, complaining,
at the same time, of an attack of cramp in the stomachs
which gave him intolerable agony. This was
supplied, with all the benevolence which should
subsist between brothers of the angle, according to
the instructions of their patriarchs, Izaak Walton.
When the tall fisherman had experienced the relief
which the cordial drop afforded, our informer told
him his profession, and inquired whether these
attacks were frequent, and whether they seemed
constitutional. ``Very frequent,'' answered the
lusty edition of Piscator, ``and I am afraid rooted
in my system.''---``In that case, sir,'' replied our
friend, ``allow me to tell you that fishing, or at
least wading while you fish, is the most dangerous
amusement you could select for yourself.''---``I
know it,'' said the poor patient, dejectedly. ``Assure
yourself,'' pursued the physician, ``that your very
life depends upon your forbearing to pursue your
sport in the manner you do.'' The intelligence
seemed nothing new to our forlorn angler. ``I
know it, sir,'' he said, ``I have been told so by the
best doctors---but,'' he added, with am air of stoical
yet rueful resignation, that might have graced a
man who sacrificed life to some weighty duty,
``Heaven's will be done! I cannot live without
fishing, and without wading I can never catch a
fin.'' So saying, the Giant thanked his adviser,
went back to the spot where he had left his rod,
and was seen a few minutes afterwards bowel-deep
in the stream.</p>
<p> Our friend had the curiosity to inquire after the
name and condition of this devoted angler, to whom
life was nothing without wading waist-deep after
trouts. In the course of the year he saw his death
announced by the newspapers. He was found dead
on the banks of his favourite stream---nota-bene, no
brandy-flask. Halieus and we ourselves have each
a portion in this sad story, and may part stakes
upon it; for while he fortifies his doctrine concerning
wet feet by this doleful example, we are entitled
to hang a label, with sic evitabile, round the neck
of a certain vade mecum, which John Bunyan allows
even to pilgrims, and without which, in our humble
opinion, no wanderer ought to walk the world.</p>
<p> Indeed, after all, we have difficulty in separating
our pleasant recollections of the exercise of fishing
from the green bank where we rendezvoused at
noon---our slice of cold beef and a gentle flirtation
which we held with that same flask, after the manner
of the cavaliers of Cervantes and the picaros of
Gil Blas. So, perhaps, we do not after all possess
the genuine admiration of the sport itself, abstractedly
considered; and the want of this undivided
ardour may he at once the cause and the consequence
of the imperfect progress we have made in
the art. This at least all the world, and the subjects
of our criticism in particular, will be ready to
verify, that our indifferent success cannot arise
from any want of equanimity and good nature.---
We must recollect, however, that we are taking the
privilege of a sportsman, to which we are by no
means entitled, and prating about our exploits and
recollections of field sports, while our readers have
no game to eat by way of indemnification. The
fact is, that whenever we ``babble of green fields''
we feel a tendency to lose our way. We will, however,
endeavour to proceed more methodically his
future, and to give something like a general account
of ``Salmonia,'' before proceeding further with our
miscellaneous remarks.</p>
<p> The book is confessedly written in the conversational
form and discursive style of old Izaak
Walton, whose Complete Angler, augmented with
a second part, has long been a standard work of
our language; and has passed through so many
editions, as to ascertain its undiminished attractions,
in spite of the fashion of all things that
passes away. The form of both works is the same
in the outline. In each, a zealous fisher is the
Coryph<ae>us of the dialogue, who replies to the objections
made to his art by a friend who has prejudices
against the pursuits of the angler---confutes
him by reasons, introduces him to the practice
of the art which he had vindicated in theory---
teaches him the secrets upon which success depends,
and familiarizes him with those innocent
accessory pleasures which render the simplest and
most accessible of country sports the most agreeable
also to a person of calm and contemplative
habits.</p>
<p> In comparing the two treatises, the authors occur
to our imagination as pilgrims bound for the
same shrine, resembling each other in their general
habit---the scalloped hat, the dalmatique, and the
knobbed and spiked staff---which equalize all who
assume the character: corresponding no less in
the humble mien, and unpretending step, with
which they approach the object of their common
reverence, and sympathizing also in the feeling of
devotion which, for the time, lessens all temporal
distinctions, whether resting upon distinction of
rank or difference of intellect. Yet though alike
in purpose, dress, and demeanour, the observant
eye cam doubtless discern an essential difference
betwixt those devotees. The burgess does not
make his approach to the shrine with the stately
pace of a knight or noble; the simple and misinformed
rustic has not the contemplative step of the
philosopher, or the quick glance of the poet. There
is, in short, something of individuality in each personage,
which distinguishes advantageously or otherwise,
in spite of the circumstances of general resemblance.</p>
<p> The palm of originality, and of an exquisite simplicity,
which cannot, perhaps, be imitated with
entire success, must remain with our worthy patriarch,
Izaak. But, on the other hand, his incalculably
more limited range of experience of every
kind, has, after his first voyage of discovery, left a
huge continent of terra incognita for our modern
to make the scene of further discoveries, and,
though holding the same course, to introduce us to
regions of which his predecessor did not even know
the existence. This concordia discors, which gives
us the power of comparing the habits of remote
times, the ideas and sentiments of persons so
strongly contrasted, and treating the same subject
in such different style---forms one of the charms
of this book, and, at the same time, makes us look
back to old Izaak's with additional interest.</p>
<p> Izaak Walton, a London citizen of the middle
of the seventeenth century, does not aspire above
his sphere in any particular. His walks are to
Finsbury, and up Tottenham Hill; his farthest
excursions, even in pursuit of his favourite amusement,
only reach Ware and Waltham; his diversion,
when there, is the drowsy watching of the
immersion of a cork and a quill; and almost all
his ideas confined to baits of lob-worms and live
maggots. This picture is of a most cockney-like
character, and we no more expect Piscator to soar
beyond it, and to kill, for example, a salmon of
twenty pounds weight with a single hair, than we
would look to see his brother linen-draper, John
Gilpin, leading a charge of hussars. What is there,
we ask, that relieves the low character, we had
almost said the vulgarity, of a picture so little elevated
and so homely? It is the exquisite simplicity
of the good old man, enjoying tranquillity
in his own mind, and breathing benevolence to all
around him, and expressing himself with such a
graceful ease, that the London shopkeeper dapping
for chubs, acquires the veneration due to a Grecian
philosopher, within whose cheerful heart, to use an
expression of his own, wisdom, peace, patience,
and a quiet mind did cohabit.<*></p>
</p>
<p>And we can easily conceive that scarce any thing
could have been less suited to Byron's eager and
active temper, and restless and rapid imagination,
than a pastime in which proficiency is only to be
acquired by long and solitary practice. But in this
species of argument, whether used in jest or earnest,
there is always something of cant. Man is
much like other carnivorous creatures---to catch
other animals and to devour them is his natural
occupation; and it is only upon reflection, and in
the course of a refined age, that the higher classes
become desirous to transfer to others the toil and
the disgust attending the slaughter-house and the
kitchen. Homer's heroes prostrate the victim and
broil its flesh, and were, we must suppose, no more
shocked with the moans of the dying bullock than
the greyhound with the screams of the hare. The
difference produced by a degree of refinement is
only that, still arranging our bloody banquet as
before, the task of destroying life is, in the case of
tame animals, committed to butchers and poulterers---
while, in respect of game, where considerable
exertion and dexterity is necessary to
accomplish our purpose, and where the sense of
excitement, and pride in difficulties surmounted
by our own address, overbalance our sympathy
with the pain inflicted, we interdict, by strict laws,
the vulgar from interference, and reserve the
exclusive power of slaughter for our own hands.
The sportsman of the present day is, therefore, so
far modified by the refinements of society, as to
use the intervention of plebeian hands in the case
of cattle, sheep, and domestic fowls; but he kills
his deer, his hares, his grouse, and his partridges
for himself: in respect to them, he is in a state of
nature. But if his retaining this touch of the
qualities with which<p> Our modern Piscator is of a different mould, one
familiar equally with the world of books and those
high circles in society, which, in our ago, aristocratically
closed against the pretensions of mere wealth,
open so readily to distinguished talents and acquirements.
His range, therefore, both of enjoyment
and of instruction, is far wider than that of Walton.</p>
<p> The latter carries us no farther than the brooks
within a short walk of London, though his rich
vein of poetical fancy renders their banks so delightfully
rural, by seating himself and his scholar
under a honey-suckle hedge during a soft shower,
there to sit and sing while gentle rain refreshed
the burning earth, and gave a yet sweeter smell
to the lovely flowers that embroidered the verdant
meadows. Halieus, on the contrary, transports us
to the ornate scenes of Denham upon the Colne,
where the river is strictly preserved within the
park of a wealthy and hospitable proprietor, and
gives us the following picturesque description, as
a contrast to the unadorned meadows of the Lea.</p>
<p> ``Poiet.---This is really a very charming villa scene, I may
almost say, a pastoral scene. The meadows have the verdure
which even the Londoners enjoy as a peculiar feature of the
English landscape. The river is clear, and has all the beauties
of a trout stream of the larger size,---there rapid, and here
still, and there tumbling in foam and fury over abrupt dams
upon clean gravel, as if pursuing a natural course. And that
island, with its poplars and willows, and the flies making it
their summer paradise, and its little fishing-house, are all in
character; and, if not extremely picturesque, it is at least a
very pleasant scene, from its verdure and pure waters, or
the lovers of our innocent amusement'---Pp. 21, 22.</p>
<p> This Italian and ornamental species of landscape
may he compared advantageously with a voyage
down a Highland lake, a scene which never disturbed
Walton's quiet thoughts even in a dream.</p>
<p> ``Poiet.---That cloud-breasted mountain on the left is of the
best character of Scotch mountains: these woods, likewise,
are respectable for this northern country. I think I see
islands, also, in the distance: and the quantity of cloud
always gives effect to this kind of view; and, perhaps, without
such assistance to the imagination, there would be nothing
even approaching to the sublime in these countries; but cloud
and mist, by creating obscurity, and offering a substitute for
greatness and distance, give something of an Alpine and majestic
character to this region.''---P. 82.</p>
<p> In the continuation of this description, our modern,
by what painters call an accident, enlivens his still
scenery with a touch of science and painting at
once, far beyond the limited sphere of father Walton.
The latter has done all that his extent of
travel and experience could suggest, when he has
taught us to listen to a ``friendly contention between
the singing birds in an adjacent grove, and
the echo whose dead voice lived in a hollow tree
near to the top of a primrose-hill'' or shown us
how to beguile time ``by viewing the harmless
lambs seen leaping securely in the cool shade, while
others sported themselves in the cheerful sun, or
craved comfort from the swollen udders of their
bleating dams.'' The modern author, in a wild land,
calls our attention to a far less usual phenomenon,
and describes the flight of an eagle, and the education
of its callow brood, with the pencil of a Salvator
Rosa, and the accuracy of a Gilbert White.</p>
<p> ``Poiet.---The scenery improves as we advance nearer the
lower parts of the lake. The mountains come higher, and
that small island or peninsula presents a bold craggy outline;
and the birch wood below it, and the pines above, make a
scene somewhat Alpine in character. But what is that large
bird soaring above the pointed rock, towards the end of the
lake? Surely it is an eagle?</p>
<p> ``Hal.---You are right, it is an eagle, and of a rare and
peculiar species---the grey or silver eagle, a noble bird! From
the size of the animal it must be the female; and her aery
is in that high rock. I dare say the male is not far off.</p>
<p> ``Phys.---I think I see another bird, of a smaller size,
perched on the rock below, which is similar in form.</p>
<p> ``Hal.---You do: it us the consort of that beautiful and
powerful bird and I have no doubt their young ones are not
far off.</p>
<p> ``Poiet.---Look at the bird! She dashes into the water,
falling like a rock and raising a column of spray; she has
fallen from a great height. And now she rises again into the
air. What an extraordinary sight!</p>
<p> ``Hal.---She us pursuing her prey, and is one of our fraternity,
---a catcher of fish. She has missed her quarry this time,
and has moved further down towards the river, and falls again
from a great height. There! You see her rise with a fish in
her talons.</p>
<p> ``Poiet.---She gives an interest which I hardly expected to
have found, to this scene. Pray are there many of these animals
in this country?</p>
<p> ``Hal.---Of this species I have seen but these two; and I
believe the young ones migrate as soon as they can provide for
themselves; for this solitary bird requires a large space to
move and feed in, and does not allow its offspring to partake
its reign, or to live near it. Of other species of the eagle, there
are some in different parts of the mountains, particularly of
the Osprey, and of the great fishing or brown eagle; and I
once saw a very fine and interesting sight in one of the crags
of Ben Weevis, near Strathgarve, as I was going, on the 20th
of August, in pursuit of black game. Two parent eagles were
teaching their offspring---two young birds---the man<oe>vres of
flight. They began by rising from the top of a mountain in
the eye of the sun (it was about mid-day, and bright for this
climate.) They at first made small circles, and the young
birds imitated them; they paused on their wings, waiting till
they had made their first flight, and then took a second and
larger gyration,---always rising towards the sun, and enlarging
their circle of flight so as to make a gradually extending
spiral. The young ones still slowly followed, apparently
flying better as they mounted. And they continued this
sublime kind of exercise, always rising, till they became
mere points in the air, and the young ones were lost, and
afterwards their parents, to our aching sight. But we have
touched the shore, and the lake has terminated: you are now
on the river Ewe.''---Pp. 84--56.</p>
<p> In like manner our ancient Piscator's habits make
us acquainted with the snug honest English ale-house,
where they find a cleanly room, sweet briers
and honeysuckles peeping into the windows, and
Chevy Chace, the Children in the Wood, the Spanish
Lady's Lore, and twenty ballads more, stuck
about the walls; where the landlady is tidy, and
handsome, and civil; where they dress a chub so
admirably as to equal a trout, and wash him down
with a modest cup of the best home-brewed; where
they tell tales, sing songs, or join in a catch, or find
some other harmless sport to content them without
offence to God or man, until it is time to occupy a
bed where the linen looks white, and smells of
lavender. Halieus and his company repose themselves,
on the contrary, in the elegant villas of Denham
or Downton, or the lordly castles of Inverara
or Dunrobin, partake of ch<e`>re exquise, and give
philosophic rules for the practice of Apicius. Or
else the sportsmen are the romantic inhabitants of
some Irish cabin or Scotch bothy, where they dress
their own salmon with sauce <a`> la Tartare, and dilute
it with mountain dew and claret cooled in the next
spring.</p>
<p> And here, lest we be accused of passing over
the most interesting and edifying passage of the
volume, we will communicate to the curious gastronome,
a circumstance of which, if his travels
have been as limited as those of Izaak Walton, we
suspect he is not aware. The salmon exposed to
sale in London, in however excellent condition,
very, very rarely is, or can be had in what those
who inhabit the banks of a salmon-stream account
the first perfection. Halieus gives us the following
tempting account of the proper preparation of the
fish, where extraordinary attention is employed.
It succeeds an account of hooking and playing a
salmon in Loch Maree.</p>
<p> ``Hal.---He seems fairly tired: I shall bring him in to shore.
Now gaff him; strike as near the tail as you can. He is safe;
we must prepare him for the pot. Give him a stunning blow
on the head to deprive him of sensation, and then give him a
transverse cut just below the gills, and crimp him by cutting
to the bone on each side, so as almost to divide him into
slices; and now hold him by the tail that he may bleed. There
is a small spring, I see, close under that bank, which I dare
say has the mean temperature of the atmosphere in this climate,
and is much under 50<deg>---place him there, and let him
remain for ten minutes, and then carry him to the pot, and
let the water and salt boil furiously before you put in a slice,
and give time to the water to recover its heat before you throw
in another, and so with the whole fish, and leave the head out
and throw in the thickest pieces first.''---Pp. 94, 95.</p>
<p> This receipt reminds us of the various kettles of
fish, technically so termed, and dressed after the recipe
of Halieus, which we have partaken of, fronde
super riridi, near the ruins of Tilmouth Chapel,
finding, when we had fair companions, some subject
for wit from the Wishing Well where Saint Cuthbert
is supposed to indulge with a grant of their
desires the votaries who drink of his spring with
due devotion to his sanctity. There we enjoyed
ourselves<p> Where none was unwilling, and few were unable,
To sing a wild song, or to tell a wild tale.</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>shall be considered as a crime, it is surely equally
inhuman to cause to be killed, as it is to kill; the
guilt, surely, of the criminal who causes a murder
to be committed, must be the same as that of the
actual bloodspiller. My lady, therefore, who gives
the ma<i^>tre d'h<o^>tel orders, which render necessary
sundry executions in the piggery, poultry-yard,
and elsewhere, is an accomplice before the fact,
and as guilty of occasioning a certain quantity of
pain to certain unoffending animals, as her good
lord, who is knocking down pheasants in the preserve,
or catching fish in the brook. In short
they that say much about the inhumanity of killing
animals for sport, must be prepared to renounce
the equally blameable practice of causing them to
be killed, lest their delicacy be compared to that
of the half-converted Indian squaw, whose humanized
feelings could not look upon the tortures of a
captive at the death-stake, but, nevertheless, whose
appetite was unable to resist a tempting morsel of
the broiled flesh, conveyed to her by the kindness
of a comrade, as a consolation for her wanting her
share of the sport. Our diet, in that case, would
become rather lean and Pythagorean, much after
the custom of our Brahminical friend, the late
Joseph Ritson. Of the hundreds who condemn
the cruelty of field sports, how many would relish
being wholly deprived, in their own sensitive persons,
of animal food?<p> ``Poiet.---I am endeavouring to find a reason for the effect
of crimping and cold in preserving the curd of fish. Have you
ever thought on this subject?</p>
<p> ``Hal.---Yes: I conclude that the fat of salmon between
the flakes, is mixed with much albumen and gelatine, and is
extremely liable to decompose, and by keeping it cool the decomposition
is retarded, and by the boiling salt and water,
which is of a higher temperature than that of common boiling
water, the albumen is coagulated, and the curdiness preserved.
The crimping, by preventing the irritability of the fibre from
bring gradually exhausted, seems to preserve it so hard and
crisp, that it breaks under the teeth; and a fresh fish not
crimped is generally tough.''---Pp. 97, 98.</p>
<p> Before quitting a subject which many may think
one of the most interesting in our article, there may
be some comfort for those who cannot put on the
pot so soon as the fish is hooked, in reflecting, that
the taste for crimped fish, dressed as above, is not
universal. We have known strangers who had
not been accustomed to eat salmon thus prepared,
object to the curdy fish as poor and hard, and
greatly approve of the same salmon when he had
been kept for a day or two, until the curd dissolved
into oil, and gave a richer taste to the flakes betwixt
which it lay. The same mess will not please
every palate. But the crimped fresh salmon is the
natural taste, nor should it be eaten with any other
sauce than a spoonful of the salt and water, or
brine in which it has been boiled, with the addition
of a little lemon-juice or (if that cannot be
had) vinegar and pepper.</p>
<p> Of the risks and dangers which attend angling,
(to continue the contrast between the two works,)
Walton, too peaceful and grave a person to seek
quarrels, and whose travels led him to no haunts
where they were to be found without seeking, has
but little to show. Some distant hint is thrown
out, we believe, on the risk of encountering that
Giant Despair of a sportsman's pilgrimage, an ungracious
and untractable gamekeeper, and Father
Izaak talks rather feelingly, though we trust not
from personal experience, of the harmless angler
having his shoulders basted, his fish seized, and his
rod broken by some such merciless faitour. Halieus
and his brethren were protected from every risk
of that kind. The name of their leader must have
been an open sesamum to the most jealous preserves,
and a quietus to the Cerberus who guarded
them. Yet that the sport of his characters might
not altogether want the dignity of danger, we are
treated with an encounter between a Highland dunnie-wassail
and the fishing party, which the civility
of the Southrons brings to a happy termination.
The anecdote is well told, and we have little doubt,
from the truth of the keeping, that the scene has
been sketched from life.</p>
<p> ``Hal.---Now I will wager ten to one that this pool has been
fished before to day.</p>
<p> ``Orn.---By whom?</p>
<p> ``Hal.---I know not; but take my wager, and we will ascertain.</p>
<p> ``Orn.---I shall ascertain without the wager if possible. See,
a man connected with the fishing advances, let us ask him.
There you see; it has been fished once or twice by one who
claims without charter the right of angling.''</p>
</p>
<p>are still alive in our recollection as green spots in
the waste of existence. We recollect with what
delight we entered knee-deep into the stream after
the heat of a sultry day; the green boughs on the
margin scarce waving a leaf to the balmy gale of
the evening---the stream which glided past us
almost alive with the object of our pursuit---the
whole a mixture of animal enjoyment, gratified
love of sport, with a species of mental repose which
enhanced both. This delightful amusement was
not to be obtained if, ``like the poor cat in the
adage,'' we spared wetting our feet; for the shallowness
of the streams, as well as the branches of
the trees, impeded our sport, if we could not reach
the middle-current with our cast. Neither see we
much cause to feel regret or remorse when we add
that any little chillness which might arise from
pursuing this fascinating sport too late in the evening,
was effectually removed by a glass of right
Nantz, Schiedam, or Glenlivet; which remedy, if
the glass be not too large or filled a second time,
we can with a good conscience recommend as a
sovereign specific upon occasions of wet feet.<p> ``Hal.---But our intrusive brother angler (as I must call
him,) is coming down the river to take his evening cast. A
stout Highlander, with a powerful tail, or, as we should call it
in England, suite. He is resolved not to be driven off, and I
am not sure that the laird himself could divert him from his
purpose, except by a stronger tail and force of arms; but I will
try my eloquence upon him. `Sir, we hope you will excuse
us for fishing in this pool, where it seems you were going to
take your cast; but the Laird has desired us to stand in his
shoes for a few days, and has given up angling while we are
here; and as we come nearly a thousand miles for this amusement,
we are sure you are too much of a gentleman to spoil
our sport; and we will take care to supply your fish-kettle
while we are here morning and evening and we shall send
you, as we hope, a salmon before night.'</p>
<p> ``Poiet.---He grumbles good sport to us, and is off with his
tail: you have hit him in the right place He is, I am sure, a
pot fisher, and somewhat hungry and provided he gets the
salmon does not care who catches him!</p>
<p> ``Hal.---You are severe on the Highland gentleman, and I
think extremely unjust. Nothing could be more ready than
his assent, and a keen fisherman must not be expected to be
in the best possible humour when he believes he has a right,
and which perhaps he generally enjoys without interruption,
taken away from him by entire strangers.''---Pp. 90-93.</p>
<p> Our readers will, by this time, probably be of
opinion that, upon the general comparison of the
works, the elder worthy author has not greatly
anticipated or forestalled the work of our contemporary.
Far less will this appear to be the case,
when we consider the two manuals, whether with
reference to the practical art of which they treat,
or the philosophical, scientific, and general observations
which accompany both. On the first of these
we have already given an opinion. It is probable
that honest Izaak knew nothing even of fly-fishing
of any kind save what he learned, by report, from
Cotton or others; and as for salmon, we question if
he ever saw one entire, unless it were upon a fish-monger's
stall. Now, salmon-fishing is to all other
kinds of angling as buck-shooting to shooting of
any meaner description. The salmon is, in this
particular, the king of the fish. It requires a dexterous
hand and an acute eye to raise and strike
him, and when this is achieved the sport is only
begun, at the point where, even in trout angling,
unless in case of an unusually lively and strong fish,
it is at once commenced and ended. Indeed, the
most sprightly trout that ever was hooked shows
mere child's play in comparison to a fresh-run
salmon. There is all the difference which exists
between coursing the hare and hunting the fox.
The pleasure and the suspense are of twenty times
the duration---the address and strength required
infinitely greater---the prize, when attained, not
only more honourable, but more valuable. The
hazards of failure are also an hundred-fold multiplied:
the instinct of the salmon lends to the most
singular efforts to escape, which must be met and
foiled by equal promptitude on the part of the
angler. However that faculty is acquired, the
salmon seems, when hooked, at once to conceive
the nature of its misfortune, and to follow the mode
of disentangling itself most likely to be successful.
For this it makes the most extraordinary efforts,
sometimes shooting off with fury that is apparently
irresistible among such boiling currents and sharp
rocks as seem most like to cut the line---sometimes
lying at the bottom of the pool with the appearance
of sullen indifference, as if nothing could
rouse him. In the first case, it is the business of
the angler to hold the fish in play, amid his wildest
frolics using him as a prudent father does an extravagant
son, neither allowing him so much line as
may enable the youth to shake himself clear of the
paternal restraint which hangs so loose on him, or
curbing so tight as to induce him to break through
it by a sudden effort of sturdy opposition. In the
salmon's wildest vagaries he must be made to feel
that there is a secret restraint on his motions,
which yet must never amount to such a dead pull
upon him as may be encountered and overcome by
an attempt to break the line by main force. His
sullen fits are no less to be dreaded. When the
fish lies at the bottom of a pool, motionless and
sulky as if he were a stone, the angler must summon
together his utmost vigilance, for he is certainly
collecting his strength for some decisive exertion.
If the sportsman, growing impatient, tightens the
line upon the fish while he is in this condition, his
victim will probably spring into the air with his
whole force, with the obvious purpose of throwing
his body on the line in his descent, and so either
breaking it or dislodging the hook. Should he succeed
in falling with his whole weight on a tightened
line, all is over; the best of hooks and most trusty
gut must, one or other, or both, give way. But if
the angler be sufficiently on his guard, he will
throw downward the point of his rod with the
quickness of thought, and drop his line on the
water, the instant the fish makes his summerset, so
that his weight may descend on the water and on a
slackened line, which the promptitude of the angler
must instantly, by raising his rod and using his reel,
again contract to the necessary tightness, leaving
the fish not an instant to profit by the momentary
relaxation. This man<oe>uvre we have seen the same
fish renew three times running, foiled in every attempt
by the acuteness of an excellent fisherman,
who gave way to his fury, and instantly recovered
the command of his motions when he had eluded
the emphasis of his flurry.</p>
<p> But we should overpower the patience of all,
save brethren of the angle, were we to prosecute
our description of this noble sport. We cannot
help adding that although, as ordinarily practised,
it is the exercise of a strong and robust man, yet,
by help of a boat, it may in many situations be followed
even by the aged and infirm, if possessed of
the requisite skill; and so much does dexterity
supply the want of bodily strength, that we have
known a gentleman, in a very weak state of health
at the time, kill a fish of twenty pounds' weight
after playing him for an hour.</p>
<p> The delight afforded by success in this animating
sport is of most engrossing character, and has had
many illustrious devotees. It was Trajan's favourite
pastime---it was, in our own time, Paley's and
Nelson's;<*> and we have ourselves seen the first</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>We cannot resist the temptation to transcribe some sweet
<em> verses introduced in the first dialogue of Salmonia, the contribution
</em> of a lady, whose elegant genius adorns her high
<em> rank:---``A noble lady (says Halieus,) long distinguished at
</em> court for pre-eminent beauty and grace, and whose mind
<em> possesses undying charms, has written some lines in my copy
</em> of Walton, which, if you will allow me, I will repeat to you.
<em>
</em> `` `Albeit, gentle Angler, I
<em> Delight not in thy trade,
</em> Yet in thy pages there doth lie
<em> So much of quaint simplicity,
</em> So much of mind,
<em> Of such good kind,
</em> That none need be afraid,
<em> Caught by thy cunning bait, this book,
</em> To be ensnared on thy hook.
<em>
</em> `` `Gladly from thee, I'm lured to hear
<em> With things that seem'd most vile before,
</em> For thou didst on poor subjects rear
<em> Matter the wisest sage might hear.
</em> And with a grace,
<em> That doth efface
</em> More labour'd works, thy simple lore
<em> Can teach us that thy skilful lines,
</em> More than the scaly brood confines.
<em>
</em>
<em> `` `Our hearts and senses too, we see,
</em> Rise quickly at thy master hand,
<em> And ready to be caught by thee
</em> Are lured to virtue willingly.
<em> Content and peace,
</em> With health and ease,
<em> Walk by thy side. At thy command
</em> We bid adieu to worldly care,
<em> And join in gifts that all may share.
</em>
<em> `` `Gladly, with thee, I pace along,
</em> And of sweet fancies dream;
<em> Waiting till some inspired song,
</em> Within my memory cherish'd long,
<em> Comes fairer forth,
</em> With more of worth;
<em> Because that time upon its stream
</em> Feathers and chaff will bear away,
* But give to gems a brighter ray.' ''---S.</li>
</ul>
<p>But as our patriarch Walton says, ``these companions
are gone, and with them many of our pleasant
hours, even as a shadow that passes away and returns
not.'' The rationale of this mode of cookery
is thus explained by Halieus.</p>
<p>Their rival soon after appears:---</p>
<ul>
<li>The author of Salmonia mentions Nelson's fondness for fly-fishing,
<em> and expresses a wish to see it noticed in the next edition
</em> of ``that most exquisite and touching life of our hero by
<em> the Laureate, an immortal monument raised by genius to valour.''
</em> We believe neither Halieus nor the Laureate will be
<em> displeased with the following little anecdote, from a letter of
</em> a gentleman now at the head of the medical profession, with
<em> which he favoured us shortly after perusing Salmonia. ``I
</em> was (says our friend) at the Naval Hospital at Yarmouth, on
<em> the morning when Nelson, after the battle of Copenhagen
</em> (having sent the wounded before him,) arrived at the roads,
<em> and landed on the jetty. The populace soon surrounded him,
</em> and the military were drawn up in the market-place ready to
<em> receive him; but, making his way through the crowd, and the
</em> dust, and the clamour, he went straight to the hospital. I
<em> went round the wards with him, and was much interested in
</em> observing his demeanour to the sailors: he stopped at every
<em> bed, and to every man he had something kind and cheering to
</em> say. At length he stopped opposite a bed on which a sailor
<em> was lying, who had lost his right arm close to the shoulder-joint,
</em> and the following short dialogue passed between them:
* ---Nelson. `Well, Jack, what's the matter with you?<code> Sailor.
* `Lost my right arm, your honour.</code> Nelson paused, looked
<em> down at his own empty sleeve, then at the sailor, and said
</em> playfully, `Well, Jack, then you and I are spoiled for fisher-men---
<em> cheer up, my brave fellow.' And he passed briskly on
</em> to the next bed; but these few words had a magical effect
<em> upon the poor fellow, for I saw his eyes sparkle with delight
</em> as Nelson turned away and pursued his course through the
<em> wards. As this was the only occasion on which I saw Nelson,
</em> I may, possibly, overrate the value of the incident.''---S.<p> The instructions and information imparted to
anglers are, as we may believe, equally clear, authentic,
and entertaining. The account of the fabrication
of fish-hooks is highly interesting: the best, our author
says, are made by O'Shaughnessy of Limerick.
He mentions, also, those made at Keswick---to which,
if they have not lost credit, we would add the hooks
of the Llandales of Carlisle, who in our younger
days had good reputation. We do not intend to
enter more particularly into these technicalities;
for, as one of Franck's eulogists says,---<p> ``We are no fishers,
Only wellwishers
Unto the game.''</p>
</p>
<p> The general tone of a moral teacher is so happily
assumed by Walton that it appears a part of his
nature. Halieus introduces such ethic lessons more
sparingly, feeling, as we have before hinted, that
that which is simplicity in an original author, becomes
affectation in one who follows his footsteps.
But though Walton had already said all that could
be naturally and gracefully said on the subjects of
temperance, humility, and unambitious peace of
conscience, which are themes too monotonous to be
repeated without satiety, as the sweetest melodies
weary the ear upon frequent reiteration; yet Halieus
and his companions do not shun such themes when
they fall in their way. A debate takes place in
their party, whether or not they should continue
to pursue their amusement upon Sunday. The
proposal is relinquished, on the anglers being assured
that the people (the scene being in Scotland)
would highly resent their doing so. But the dispute
continues on the difference, in this particular,
betwixt the Church of Scotland and that of Geneva,
and other Protestant churches abroad, where the
forenoon having been occupied in divine service,
the evening is spent in dancing, singing, games,
and sports of every description. The contest not
being decided, leaves us room to express our own
opinion on the subject, which we will do in as few
words as possible:</p>
<p> If we believe in the divine origin of the commandment,
the Sabbath is instituted for the express purposes
of religion. The time set apart is the ``Sabbath
of the Lord;'' a day on which we are not to
work our own works, or think our own thoughts.
The precept is positive, and the purpose clear. For
our eternal benefit, a certain space of every week
is appointed, which, sacred from all other avocations,
save those imposed by necessity and mercy,
is to be employed in religions duties. The Roman
Catholic Church, which lays so much force on observances
merely ritual, may consistently suppose
that the time claimed is more than sufficient for
the occasion, and dismiss the peasants, when mass
is over, to any game or gambol which fancy may
dictate, leaving it with the priests to do, on behalf
of the congregation, what further is necessary for
the working out of their salvation. But this is not
Protestant doctrine, though it may be imitated by
Protestant churches. He who has to accomplish
his own salvation, must not carry to tennis-courts
and skittle-grounds the train of reflections which
ought necessarily to be excited by a serious discourse
of religion. The religious part of the Sunday's
exercise is not to be considered as a bitter
medicine, the taste of which is as soon as possible
to he removed by a bit of sugar. On the contrary,
our demeanour through the rest of the day ought
to be, not sullen certainly, or morose, but serious,
and tending to instruction. Give to the world one
half of the Sunday, and you will find that religion
has no strong hold of the other. Pass the morning
at church, and the evening, according to your taste
or rank, in the cricket-field or at the Opera, and
you will soon find thoughts of the evening hazards
and bets intrude themselves on the sermon, and
that recollections of the popular melodies interfere
with the psalms. Religion is thus treated like Lear,
to whom his ungrateful daughters first denied one-half
of his stipulated attendance, and then made it
a question whether they should grant him any share
of what remained. We should do our readers and
author the greatest injustice in concluding our reflections
on this passage in any other than the words
of the publication itself.</p>
<p> ``Phys.---I envy no quality of the mind or intellect in others;
not genius, power, wit, or fancy; but, if I could choose what
would be most delightful, and, I believe, most useful to me, I
should prefer a firm religious belief to every other blessing;
for it makes life a discipline of goodness---creates new hopes,
when all earthly hopes vanish; and throws over the decay,
the destruction of existence, the most gorgeous of all lights;
awakens life even in death, and from corruption and decay
calls up beauty and divinity: makes an instrument of torture
and of shame the ladder of ascent to paradise; and, far above
all combinations of earthly hopes, calls up the most delightful
visions of palms and amaranths, the gardens of the blest,
the security of everlasting joys, where the sensualist and the
sceptic view only gloom, decay, annihilation, and despair!''----
P. 136.</p>
<p> We might quote other passages, not unworthy
of this strain. The work, as we had occasion to
observe already, was written during a slow recovery
from a severe illness; and the tone of the dialogue
reflects throughout what a good and great man's
mind might be expected to exhibit under such circumstances.
Serious thoughts may be expressed
otherwise than in maxims. But we pass from this.
If the modern author does not so frequently as
Walton assume professedly the character of the
moralist, it would, on the other hand, be absurd to
compare poor Izaak with such assistants as Dubravius,
Aldrovandus, Gesner, and other naturalists of
the seventeenth century, with the remarks of a distinguished
philosopher, who has, by his own efforts,
so widely enlarged the horizon of science, during
the nineteenth century. A very great number of
curious facts, concerning the natural history of
fishes, are here recorded, and the high scientific
character of the author of Salmonia is an ample
pledge for their accuracy. Yet it is not to be expected
that even this accomplished observer of
nature should be able to clear up, in so brief a
publication, the dark doubts which hang over many
parts of the history of the salmo genus, through
its various species. We observe that he displays
the true spirit of philosophy in two most important
particulars. He is never hasty in drawing general
conclusions from individual facts, showing, by his
modesty, that his object is the attainment of truth,
not the desire to augment his own reputation by
the display of ingenious theories. Indeed, standing
so high in public estimation, as he deservedly does,
no man can more easily afford to despise every
species of favour which does not rest upon a genuine
basis.</p>
<p> In like manner, we may observe that it is not
sufficient to induce this acute investigator of science
to discredit the report of a fact, that it has been
rested by vulgar credulity upon erroneous grounds,
since what is in itself true is often ascribed to false
or absurd causes. The following passage, which
concludes a train of remarks upon the superstitious
belief in omens, coming, as it does, from the author
of Salmonia, ought to impose a check on that vulgar
incredulity which is disposed to disbelieve all which
it cannot understand. The passage is highly philosophical.</p>
<p> ``Phys.---In my opinion, profound minds are the most likely
to think lightly of the resources of human reason; and it is
the pert, superficial thinker who is generally strongest in every
kind of unbelief. The deep philosopher sees chains of causes
and effects so wonderfully and strangely linked together, that
he is usually the last person to decide upon the impossibility
of any two series of events being independent of each other;
and, in science, so many natural miracles, as it were, have
been brought to light---such as the fall of stones from meteors
in the atmosphere, the disarming a thunder cloud by a metallic
point, the production of fire from ice by a metal white as
silver, and referring certain laws of motion of the sea to the
moon,---that the physical inquirer is seldom disposed to assert,
confidently, on any abstruse subjects belonging to the order of
natural things, and still less so on those relating to the more
mysterious relations of moral events and intellectual natures.''
---Pp.159, 160.</p>
<p> Among other curious phenomena, our author
touches upon the strongly disputed character of
the par, a small fish, whose appearance is as well
known as his parentage and ultimate fate are unknown.
From the boldness with which these Liliputian
fish rise to a large salmon-fly, many have
been disposed to see in the par the young salmon,
when they have just quitted the form of spawn.
One of the most experienced and scientific anglers
of our acquaintance entertains this opinion of the
identity between the par and the smoult of the salmon,
from having observed that when the silvery
scales are rubbed off the sides of the smoult they
exhibit the blue, or olive-blush marks (see Salmonia,
page 68,) which are considered as distinguishing
the par. The same curious observer of Nature,
has also remarked that the lens of the par's eye is
arranged in the same manner with that of the salmon,
and totally different from the lens of the Lochleven
trout, herring, sperling, and so forth. Others
are disposed to think the par a distinct species of
trout; and the author of Salmonia, again, is inclined
to agree with a third set of naturalists, who
consider this little fish as a mule, the offspring of a
trout and a salmon according to some, or rather of
the sea trout and common trout. It is difficult for
us to reconcile the fact of their being found in such
great numbers with the theory of their being of a
neutral race.</p>
<p> There are other curious points of investigation.
Experiments on the trouts of every species, show,
as the author observes (in p. 69,) that they change
their character with their place of residence. We
had ourselves occasion to put a number of small
trout, of a very inferior description, into a pool
which bad once been a marle-bog, but was flooded
for the purpose of forming a piece of artificial
water. They are now of large size, as red as those
caught in Loch Leven, and of a rich taste, as we
would be happy to show, from experiment, to Halieus,
or any of his party, providing they will take
the trouble to catch the fish, which, from being well-fed
we suppose, defy all common skill.</p>
<p> The remarks on the various kinds of flies (p.
203,) on the migration of eels (p. 191,) on the
grayling (p.165,) are all curious subjects, which
must not, however, delay us.</p>
<p> We looked with some anxiety for a solution of
the great doubt, what is the proper food of the
salmon itself. No fisherman or cook that ever we
saw or heard of, pretends to have found any thing
in their stomach excepting a yellowish liquid. Yet
they rise to artificial flies, and are also caught with
bait. Our author conjectures that this phenomenon
occurs because salmon are usually caught travelling
up the rivers from the sea, in which progress they
do not load themselves with food. Their digestion,
he observes, is very quick, and they seldom seek
more food until what they have previously taken
is decomposed. Salmon, when taken in the salt
water, hare been found, says Halieus, with undigested
food in their stomachs. This does not quite
satisfy us. By far the greater part of salmon are
taken by the net, which must, one would think,
occasionally sweep out fish having their stomachs
full, since their being taken in that manner has no
reference to the state of their appetite. One would
think, therefore, that let them be as abstemious as
anchorites, they must eat sometimes, and be taken
with food in their stomach; yet, we are assured, it
never happens. It has also been remarked that
the large gaudy fly to which the salmon usually
rises, has no resemblance to any known insect in
earth, air, or water (unless a wasp, perhaps,) and
it has been suggested that the fish seems to take it
rather from sport than from appetite; and, in that
case, the very curious problem concerning the actual
nature of their food, is not yet decidedly cleared
up. At least, there is something very interesting
and curious concerning the mode of their feeding,
which seems so sparing, even when they are in the
highest condition, and their process of digestion,
which appears so unusually rapid.</p>
<p> Walton, as might be expected, is full of childish
and absurd fables concerning those prodigies and
miracles, in which superstitious eld was wont to
believe. Our modern author places a microscope
before us, instead of a magic lanthorn, and teaches
us to look upon truth instead of amusing us with
fiction. He has reviewed and disbanded the whole
regiment of monsters which guarded the pages of
Pontopiddan. Touched as with the spear of Ithuriel,
the remains of a sea-snake appear those of a
squalus maximus; the kraken, or island fish, is
reduced into a compost of urtic<ae> marin<ae>, or sea-blubbers;
and, what we should least of all have
suspected, the celebrated Caithness mermaid arises
before us in the form of a stout young traveller, who
has proved himself, by his journal, to have been
bathing at the spot and time when the sea-nymph
was seen, and who, while confessing some of the
characters ascribed to the figure, denied the green
hair and fishy tail as obstinately as Lady Teazle
does the butler and the coach-horse.---Pp. 243--245.</p>
<p> But we are called from this, and other curious
subjects of inquiry suggested in Salmonia, to consider
a point of much more interest---the question
now being not what the salmon puts into its stomach,
but whether we are likely, at no distant period, to
have salmon for the benefit of ours. The very
giants in Guildhall are moved at the surmise; Gog
boweth down, Magog stoopeth, and the spirits of
the fathers of the city wax faint at the suggestion.
Yet the evil is not the less certain; and its approach
is distinctly announced by Halieus, who,
after recording former feats on the Tweed, Tyne,
and other Scottish rivers, pronounces on each of
them the melancholy conclusion fuit, and with good
reason, as the reader will presently learn, declares
they now afford much less sport to the angler, and
even what remains is daily decreasing; so that
there is very serious ground to fear that the salmon
will erelong altogether desert the more southern,
at least, of the Scottish rivers.</p>
<p> We need not tell our readers that the possession
of immense quantities of this rich and valuable fish
in her firths and estuaries was an advantage which
nature allotted to Scotland, as some compensation,
seemingly, for the great inferiority in soil and
climate to the sister kingdom, since where the earth
is most sterile the sea is often remarked to be most
fruitful. Our northern neighbours seem to have
been early aware of this national gain, and soon
began to legislate for the preservation of the breed
of this noble fish, as well as for the best mode of
disposing of them for the general advantage of the
country. Some of these statutes are so curious,
that they are worthy of notice. The legislators of
Scotland had observed the tendency of the fish, in
the spawning season, to run up to the tops of the
smallest brooks, and there deposit the spawn, destined
for the continuation of the race, upon shallow
beds of gravel. To assure them of a free passage
and protection, the salmon species were declared
into regalia or royal fish, nor did possession of
either or both banks of the stream confer the right
of taking them, even though the term fishings stood
in the charter, unless the word salmon-fishings was
expressly employed.</p>
<p> In order to obtain free passage for the fish at the
spawning season, all dikes, dams, and weirs drawn
across the river were directed to be constructed,
with a breach in the centre for the run of the salmon,
which breach was to be so large that a year-old
hog might be turned round in it without touching
the weir or dam-head either with nose or tail. The
whimsical nature of the measure adopted ascertains
the antiquity of the regulation.</p>
<p> Another statute adopted in Scotland contains the
very essence of that system of political economy,
by which an anxious care for the prosperity of
trade assumes into the hands of the legislators the
power of directing commerce, and encumbers her
with aid, where, left to her own exertions, she
would make much more progress. In the year
1531, the Scottish legislature seemed to have become
apprehensive that the persons who dealt in
these exquisite fish might export them to their
neighbours at too cheap a price; and they announce
that in all time coming it shall be unlawful to export
salmon, unless by such shippers as shall find
security to bring home one-half of the value in
coined money, the other moiety in Bordeaux wine,
or other good pennyworth. This last clause seems
to relax greatly the dictatorial character of the
statute, which, so mitigated, only imports that the
Scottish trader should get for his cargo of salmon
as good an equivalent as the foreign market would
afford.</p>
<p> Notwithstanding the apprehension of the ruling
powers, on the subject of the imprudent exportations
of this staple commodity of poor Caledonia,
the salmon continued to frequent their rivers, and
though much was sent abroad to supply the Catholic
countries during the period of Lent, plenty still
remained at home, for the use of the inhabitants.
Franck, the travelled angler already mentioned,
tells us, that in his time a large well-fed salmon
(suppose about twelve pounds) cost only sixpence;
and he mentions what is still remembered by tradition,
a rule that domestics were not to be fed on
salmon more than three times a-week. It was, indeed,
scarcely possible to procure so much excellent
food at so cheap a rate; and we may easily understand
the error of the Highland gentleman who,
visiting London for the first time, indulged himself
in the luxury of a beef-steak, but ordered Donald
a cut of fresh salmon. The account of the reckoning
must have afforded the honest dunnie-wassail
no pleasing surprise.</p>
<p> But a capital like London is a Maelstrom---an
immense whirlpool---whose gyrations sweep in
whatever is peculiarly desirable from the most distant
regions of the empire---so active becomes the
love of gain when set in motion by the love of
luxury. We recollect once being on shipboard to
the north of Duncan's Bay Head, and out of sight
of land, the nearest being the Feroe Islands:---we
were walking the deck, watching a whale which
was gamboling at some distance, throwing up his
huge side to the sun, and sending ever and anon a
sheet of water and foam from his nostrils. Our
thoughts were on Hecla and on the icebergs of the
Pole, on the Scalds of Iceland and the Sea-kings of
Norway, when a sail hove in sight: we asked what
craft it was---and were answered, ``a Gravesend
brig dredging for lobsters.'' Never was enchantment
so effectually broken---never stage-trick in
pantomime more successfully played off. Scene
changes from Feroe and Iceland to the Albion in
Aldersgate Street---Exeunt Scald, champion, and
whale---Enter common councilman, turbot, and
lobster-sauce.</p>
<p> Thanks to that same omnipotent power of attraction
possessed by wealth and luxury, the art of
packing salmon in ice, for the London market, was
perfected, thirty or forty years ago; since which
time, as was to be expected, the fisheries have
risen incalculably in value, the fish have become
dear in proportion, and the natives of the countries
through which salmon-rivers flow, become accustomed
to see them taken and cased up for the great
city, by scores and hundreds, without having it in
their power to purchase a pound for their table.
It followed as an unavoidable consequence, that
more industry was exerted in the fishery, which
now afforded so much more profit, and newer and
more effective modes of entrapping the salmon were
from day to day employed. The law, indeed, placed
a certain check upon those proceedings, without
which restraint the fish would scarcely ever be
suffered to enter a tide river. The veneration due
to the Sabbath, and the interest of the inhabitants
on the higher part of the river, alike recommend
that, from twelve o'clock at night on Saturday to
the same hour on Sunday, the water should be
free for the run of fish,---not only from the actual
drawing of nets or other fishing operations, but
from all bar-nets or similar obstacles thrown across
the stream. Six-sevenths of the fish are therefore
delivered up at the very outset to the proprietors
of fisheries at the mouth of the river, whose nets
are planted and managed with such dexterity, that
they can, if they please, catch every single salmon
that attempts to enter. While the fish are thus
sought for, and destroyed at the mouths of the
rivers, with ever-increasing avidity, inspired by
decrease of the commodity, and increase of the
demand, other causes are at work in the upper
parts of the river where the salmon breed, which
diminish the production of the fish, in a degree
more than corresponding with the destruction of
the full-grown fish beneath. Two of these causes
are in full and active operation, threatening, in
process of no distant time, the total destruction of
the fish in all the southern salmon-rivers in Scotland.</p>
<p> One of these causes of destruction is the general
system of drainage practised upon all the high pasture
lands of the mountain farms, in a degree unheard
of in any former period, and which has produced,
and is daily producing, the most complete
change on the brooks and rivers which, twenty
years since, were fed from morasses that are now
dry pasture. Halieus alludes to this, in accounting
for the diminution of the number of insects on
which grayling, trouts, and other fish of estimation
subsisted. We quote the passage at length:---</p>
<p> ``I attribute the change of the quantity of flies in the rivers
to the cultivation of the country. Most of the bogs or marshes
which fed many considerable streams are drained; and the
consequence is that they are more likely to be affected by severe
droughts and great floods---the first killing, and the second
washing away the larv<ae> and aurelias. May-flies, thirty years
ago, were abundant in the upper part of the Teme river in
Herefordshire, where it receives the Clun: the are new seldom
or rarely seen. And most of the rivers e! that part of
England, as well as of the west, with the exception of those
that rise in the still uncultivated parts of Dartmoor and Exmoor,
are, after rain, rapid and unfordable torrent, and in
dry summers little more than scanty rills. And Exmoor and
Dartmoor, almost the only great remains of those moist,
spongy, or peaty soils which once covered the greatest part of
the highlands of England, are becoming cultivated, and their
sources will gradually gain the same character as those of our
midland and highly improved counties. I cannot give you an
idea of the effects of peat mosses and grassy marshes on the
water thrown down from the atmosphere, better than by comparing
their effects to those of roofs of houses of thatched
straw, as contrasted with roofs of slate, on a shower of rain.
The slate begins to drop immediately, and sends down what
it receives in a rapid torrent, and is dry soon after the shower
is over. The roof of thatch, on the contrary, sponge like, is
long before the water drops from it; but it continues dropping
and wet for hours after the shower is over, and the slate is
dry.''---P. 63.</p>
<p> The author speaks of England, but we are equally
sure of his testimony when we add, that in the
more southern parts of Scotland the same causes
and effects take place on a scale much more extensive,
and affect the salmon more than the inferior
kinds of fish. Small drains, formed with a peculiar
spade, at a rate as low as a-penny a rood, have
seamed, as it were, with numerous veins, the sides
of the hundred hills, amongst which the Clyde,
Tweed, Annan, and Nith have their sources. The
morasses by which these hills were formerly covered,
used to receive and retain, like sponges, the
quantities of rain which fall in that region of mists,
and soaking from thence, by slow degrees, into
rivulets and streamlets, they transmitted the moisture
gradually to the main body of the river. The
consequence was, that the rivers, slower in rising
to flood, and slower in subsiding from that state,
maintained, in general, a full and equable stream,
permitting the salmon, at almost all times, to pursue
their instinctive progress towards the upland
sources. Halieus, so well acquainted with these
localities, must remember well the manner in which
fish used to come up to the upper streams in a
course of showery, or, as it is there termed, soft
weather, which, without producing an overwhelming
torrent, rendered the river full enough to carry
the salmon through every impediment. In these
degenerate times, such showers are not felt on the
river; hut when it is at all swollen, the water
rushes down in an immense inundation, which
forces the fish into pools and dams. The flood subsides
as suddenly as it arose, and deserts the fish,
who would otherwise have made a long and rapid
journey, and supplied in their passage, the upper
fisheries; whereas, at present, they remain in the
places where they have been arrested by the flood,
and never mount higher, being there killed with
spears.</p>
<p> This cause of the destruction of the upper fisheries
may, perhaps, find a remedy from some check
being put to the system of indiscriminate drainage,
which, in some respects eminently useful and even
necessary, has been carried to an excess hurtful to
the pasturage, to benefit which was the object of
the practice. The original purpose of draining was
most just and proper. The farmers of olden times
were in use to lay numerous flocks upon their farms,
trusting that the sheep (an animal of extraordinary
endurance) would shift through the winter months,
in an ordinary season, partly by scraping up the
snow, and obtaining such coarse food as lies beneath,
---partly by enduring want of food, with the patient
and hardy habits which the animal is endowed
with. But the consequence was, that spring found
the flock in a weak and emaciated condition, and
disposed to throw themselves eagerly upon the
fresh and lushy grass, which first appears on the
spring-heads and marshes which surround them.
This rich and tender food, eaten in quantity by an
animal in a state of exhaustion, was naturally calculated
to produce a disease that swept off whole
flocks, which, having survived the winter's famine,
were unfitted to gorge themselves, at once, on the
spring-grass. Draining was in such circumstances
highly advantageous. It prevents the existence of
the grass which the flock could not feed upon with
safety.</p>
<p> But in the present improved system of store-farming
there is much more economy of animal
life. Most tenants lay on the farm a less numerous
stock, attend to giving them food during the severe
storms of snow, and expect to bring them through
winter in a healthy and hardy condition. To such
the entire loss of the early spring-grass, afforded
by the undrained bogs, is a heavy sacrifice. The
species of grass which grows upon the drained
lands, and especially near the drains themselves, is
peculiarly destitute of sustenance, tough and unfit
to be eaten by the sheep; and thus hundreds, nay
thousands, of acres have been rendered sterile,
whose former fertility only caused disease, because
sheep were admitted to them when in a weak and
unhealthy state. We have some reason to believe
that this truth begins to be felt, and that judicious
farmers (always maintaining the system of draining
to a certain extent) may be now disposed to qualify
its excess, and restore a part of their spring-heads
to their natural character, observing, of course, a
careful system of herding, which shall exclude from
the dangerous food the weaker and more exhausted
part of their stock. This would, of course, be
attended with benefit to the fisheries by restoring
a more equable state of the river.</p>
<p> The other main cause of the scarcity of salmon,
and which threatens the total annihilation of the
fisheries, rests on moral circumstances, for which it
is far more difficult to find a remedy; for while
erroneous practices may be corrected when the cure
is to be applied to passive nature, it is almost impossible
to remedy those evils which spring from
the clashing interests, passions, and prejudices of
mankind.</p>
<p> We have stated that the activity and success of
the means adopted in the lower fisheries, and particularly
at their outlets to the sea, by help of
modern invention and industry, exerting itself to
meet the increasing demand, have had a great effect
in altogether intercepting the passage of salmon,
during the lawful fishing season, to the upper parts
of the river. Taking the Tweed for an example,
there are now no fisheries above Kelso which afford
any considerable rent to the proprietors. Those of
Makerston, Mertoun, &c., are let for inconsiderable
sums. The streams about and above Melrose, in
which Halieus was so successful under the guidance
of the late amiable and lamented Lord Somerville,
are now of no value; and those at Yair Bridge,
where within the memory of man ninety-nine salmon
(we mark the exact number) were taken in
one day, are now totally unproductive.</p>
<p> Were it not for the peculiar habits of the salmon,
it might be justly argued, that the upper proprietors
must submit to this loss as one incidental to
their local situation, which gives them only a reversionary
right in such fish as escape the nets of those
placed lower down the river---which are now so
very few, that scarce one occurs without bearing
the mark of having encountered a mesh in his passage.
But then it is to he considered that the
upper streams are those in which the fish deposit
their spawn, and that during the whole close-time
or breeding season, when the salmon, by law, ought
to be undisturbed, their safety, and that of the shoals
which are to supply the demand of the next season,
must rely upon the protection afforded them at that
period. Accordingly, all nets and other obstructions
are removed from the river, and the fish ought
to be permitted to ascend to the very heads of the
streams uninjured, for the purpose of depositing
the spawn. The plain handwriting of Nature, as
well as the regulation of municipal law, seems to
prohibit the killing of the fish at this season, when
they are said to be foul, are most uncomely to look
upon, and even when smoked (the only mode of
using them) are accounted a very unhealthy and
deleterious food. The penalties are also very high,
sufficiently so to prove totally ruinous to the class
of persons by whom the laws of close-time are infringed.
Yet neither the fears of punishment nor
of poison have any effect in preserving the spawning
fish, which are destroyed in the upper parts of
the river, and the brooks and streams by which
these are fed, with a degree of eagerness which
resembles a desire to retaliate upon those who engrossed
all the fish during the open season, by
destroying all such as the close-time throws within
the mercy of the high country. The proprietors
or better class of farmers do not indeed partake
in these devastations, but they witness them with
perfect indifference, perhaps not without a sense of
gratified revenge. As they neither have the amusement
of angling, nor the convenience of a fish for
their tables, when the salmon are in season, it is
not of the least personal consequence to them whether
the breed is preserved or destroyed, and they
are as indifferent to it as a man who has no game
of his own, is to the extent of poaching on a sporting
squire's manor.</p>
<p> The proprietors of the lower fisheries, the only
persons whose purses are interested, may, indeed,
prosecute offenders in the proper courts; but the
country in which the spear and torch are so actively
employed during the black-fishing, as this species
of poaching is called, is wild, mountainous, and
thinly inhabited, so that it is difficult to obtain such
proof of delinquency as is requisite for conviction.
If water-bailiffs are sent from a lower part of the
river, they must encounter, as strangers employed
in an obnoxious office, much difficulty, and even
danger. If they desire to engage officers within
the district for this species of preventive service,
the office will not be accepted by any with the purpose
of discharging its duties with the necessary
activity, in a case where the whole peasants of the
country make common cause, and where the gentry
are totally indifferent. It is only by enlisting these
last in the cause, that a predominant authority,
constantly exerted, might probably lessen this great
evil. For two or three years after the last Tweed
Act was passed, we believe the laws were better
kept both at the mouth of the river and in the upper
country. But, at present, the destruction of the
spawning fish is universal, and, joined to the engrossing
activity with which the fish are prevented
from ascending in the lawful season, must necessarily
compel the salmon to leave the river; for
even the strong instinct which induces the salmon
to return to the stream in which it was bred, will
give way under such unremitting persecution as
the river at present undergoes-while, to use a vulgar
but expressive phrase, the two classes of persons
inhabiting the upper and lower banks are
``burning the candle at both ends.''</p>
<p> Neither do the upper and lower heritors, as they
are called in Scotland, play for equal stakes. It is
true the occupation of Halieus and his philosophical
companions is nigh lost in the upper districts. But
the loss is that of sport merely; whereas that which
may be suffered at the mouth of the river shall
affect patrimonial interest, to the extent of several
thousands a-year.</p>
<p> The most probable mode of redeeming these
fisheries from almost sure ruin would, perhaps, be
a compromise, by which the upper heritors should
be admitted to share such a portion of the fish for
their sport and their table as they formerly enjoyed
---they, on the other hand, exerting themselves, as
they have the means of doing, to prevent or punish
those who transgress during close-time. But we
have no expectation of such an agreement. If, for
example, it were proposed to afford a free use of
twenty-four hours per week, in addition to those
already conceded between Saturday and Sunday
night, it would probably be difficult to induce the
inferior proprietors to sacrifice one-sixth part of
their immediate weekly gains even for the probability
of securing from destruction the fishery out
of which these gains a rise. Or, indeed, if the proprietors
of the lower fisheries took a more expanded
view of their own interests, and judged it worth
while to make a partial sacrifice to preserve the
whole, it might still be found difficult or impossible
to reconcile their tenants, whose interest is of a
temporary character, to submission to a loss which
should affect their profit immediately, in order to
secure the prosperity of the fisheries at a period
when they might be let to other persons.</p>
<p> We are happy, therefore, that a sport which we
have admired is recorded in Salmonia---where the
descendants of those who have witnessed or shared
it will read of it with the same feelings wherewith
the present generation peruse accounts of the chase
of red or fallow deer, wild boars or wild cattle,<p> ``All once our own.''</p>
</p>
<p> We must now conclude with the parting address
of the Coryph<ae>us of Salmonia to his party, p. 270.</p>
<p> ``I have made you idlers at home and abroad, but I hope to
some purpose; and I trust you will confess the time bestowed
upon angling has not been thrown away. The most important
principle perhaps in life is to have a pursuit---a useful one if
possible, and at all events an innocent one. And the scenes
yon have enjoyed---the contemplations to which they have
led, and the exercise in which we have indulged, have, I am
sure, been very salutary in the body, and, I hope, to the mind.
I have always found a peculiar effect from this kind of life;
it has appeared to bring me back to early times and feelings,
and to create again the hopes and happiness of youthful
days.''<*></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>sculptor in Europe when he had taken two salmon
on the same morning, and can well believe that
his sense of self-importance exceeded twentyfold
that which he felt on the production of any of the
masterpieces which have immortalized him. But,
perhaps, no one has followed this fascinating amusement
so far and in so many climates and countries
as the distinguished author of Salmonia himself.
Without saying a word more on the subject of
Walton---even Richard Franck falls far behind
our modern worthy, although an angler and author
who excelled old Izaak in experience and the advantage
of distant travel, as far as he fell short of
him in all the accomplishments of sense and style.
This Franck, the self-entitled philanthropist,<*> who,</p>
<ul>
<li>The title of the curious work alluded to, is ``Northern
<em> Memoirs, calculated for the Meridian of Scotland, wherein
</em> most or all of the Cities, Citadels, Seaports, Castles, Rivers,
<em> and Rivulets, &c. are compendiously described, &c. To
</em> which is added: The Contemplative and Practical Angler, by
<em> way of Diversion, &c. Writ in the year 1658, but not till now
</em> made publick, by Richard Franck, Philanthropus. Lond.
<em> 8vo, 1614.'' Reprinted, with Preface and Notes, by Sir Walter
</em> Scott, Edinb. 8ve, 1821. A notice of the work will be found
<em> in the Retrospective Review, vol. viii., pp. 170--194, and also in
</em> the Censura Literaria.---=Ed.=<p> Life of Kemble---Kelly's Reminiscences.<*><! p81></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>to use his own phrase, ``stepped into Scotland to
rummage and rifle her rivers and rivulets---her
northern torrents, which shone so splendidly in
every fir wood---her diminutive hills, that overtopped
he submissive dales, and overlooked rapid
torrents and pretty purling, gliding brooks, where
they polished rocks and embellished fortifications,''
did not at least venture out of Britain; whereas
Halieus is not only familiar with the most remote
streams and lakes of North Britain, but with those
of Ireland, where the salmon fisheries flourish to a
great extent,---nay, has followed his sport through
most countries in Europe, and killed fish, the description
of which makes an Englishman's mouth
water, in rivers, the names of which set his teeth
on edge.<p> There are several moralists who have judged
the amusements of the stage inimical to virtue---
there are many who conceive its exhibitions to be
inconsistent with religious principle: to those this
article can give no interest unless perhaps a painful
one, and we must even say with old Dan Chaucer,<p> ``Turn o'er the leaf and chuse another tale;
For you shall find enough both great and small,
Of storial thing that toucheth gentillesse,
And eke morality and holiness.''</p>
</p>
<p> Where the scruples of such dissidents from public
opinion are real, we owe them all possible respect;
when they are assumed for a disguise in the sight
of man, they will not deceive the eye which judgeth
both Publican and Pharisee.</p>
<p> For ourselves we will readily allow, that the
theatre may be too much frequented, and attention
to more serious concerns drowned amidst its fascinations.
We also frankly confess that we may be
better employed than in witnessing the best and
most moral play that ever was acted; but the same
may be justly said of every action in our lives, except
those of devotion towards God and benevolence
towards man. And yet, as six days have been permitted
us to think our own thoughts and work our
own works, much that is strictly and exclusively
secular is rendered indispensable by our wants, and
much made venial and sometimes praiseworthy by
our tastes and the conformation of our intellect.</p>
<p> If there be one pleasure, exclusive of the objects
of actual sensual indulgence, which is more general
than another among the human race, it is the relish
for personification, which at last is methodized into
the dramatic art. The love of the chase may perhaps
be as natural to the masculine sex, but when
the taste of the females is taken into consideration,
the weight of numbers leans to the love of mimic
representation in an overwhelming ratio. The very
first amusement of children is to get up a scene, to
represent to the best of their skill papa and mamma,
the coachman and his horses; and even He, formidable
with the birchen sceptre, is mimicked in
the exercise-ground by the urchins of whom he is
the terror in the school-room. We do not know if
the witty gentleman, to whom we are indebted for
a history of monkeys, ever thought of tracing the
connexion betwixt us and our cousin the orang-outang
in our mutual love of imitation.</p>
<p> At a more advanced period of life we have
mimicry of tone and dialect, and masques, and disguises:
then little scenes are preconcerted, which
at first prescribe only the business of a plot, leaving
the actors to fill up the language extempore from
their mother-wit: then some one of more fancy
is employed to write the dialogue---a stage with
scenery is added, and the drama has reached its
complete form.</p>
<p> The same taste which induced us, when children,
to become kings and heroes ourselves on an infantine
scale, renders us, when somewhat matured in
intellect, passionate admirers of the art in its more
refined state. There are few things which those
gifted with any degree of imagination recollect
with a sense of more anxious and mysterious delight
than the first dramatic representation which they
have witnessed. Iffland has somewhere described
it, and it is painted in stronger colours by the
immortal Go<e:>the in <u>Wilhelm Meister;</u> yet we cannot
refrain from touching on the subject. The
unusual form of the house, filled with such groups
of crowded spectators, themselves forming an
extraordinary spectacle to the eye which has never
witnessed it before, yet all intent upon that wide
and mystic curtain whose dusky undulations permit
us now and then to discern the momentary
glitter of some gaudy form, or the spangles of some
sandaled foot which trips lightly within; then the
light, brilliant as that of day!---then the music,
which, in itself a treat sufficient in every other
situation, our inexperience mistakes for the very
play we came to witness---then the slow rise of the
shadowy curtain, disclosing, as if by actual magic,
a new land, with woods, and mountains, and lakes,
lighted, it seems to us, by another sun, and inhabited
by a race of beings different from ourselves,
whose language is poetry, whose dress, demeanour,
and sentiments seem something supernatural, and
whose whole actions and discourse are calculated,
not for the ordinary tone of everyday life, but to
excite the stronger and more powerful faculties---
to melt with sorrow---overpower with terror---
astonish with the marvellous---or convulse with
irresistible laughter,---all these wonders stamp
indelible impressions on the memory. Those mixed
feelings, also, which perplex us between a sense
that the scene is but a plaything, and an interest
which ever and anon surprises us into a transient
belief that that which so strongly affects us cannot
be fictitious---those mixed and puzzling feelings,
also, are exciting in the highest degree. Then
there are the bursts of applause, like distant thunder,
and the permission afforded to clap our little
hands, and add our own scream of delight to a
sound so commanding. All this---and much---much
more is fresh in our memory, although, when
we felt these sensations, we looked on the stage
which Garrick had not yet left. It is now a long
while since, yet we have not passed many hours of
such unmixed delight---and we still remember the
sinking lights, the dispersing crowd, with the vain
longings which we felt, that the music would again
sound, the magic curtain once more arise, and the
enchanting dream recommence; and the astonishment
with which we looked upon the apathy of the
elder part of our company, who, having the means,
did not spend every evening in the theatre.</p>
<p> When habit has blunted these earliest sensations
of pleasure, the theatre continues to be the favourite
resort of the youth, and though he recognises
no longer the enchanted palace of his childhood,
he enjoys the more sober pleasure of becoming
acquainted with the higher energies of human passion,
the recondite intricacies and complications of
human temper and disposition, by seeing them
illustrated in the most vivid manner by those whose
profession it is to give actual life, form, and substance
to the creations of genius. Much may be
learned in a well-conducted theatre essential to the
profession of the bar, and, with reverence be it
spoken, even of the pulpit; and it is well known
that Napoleon himself did not disdain to study at
that school the external gesture and manner becoming
the height to which he had ascended.</p>
<p> Yet such partial advantages are mere trifles
considered in comparison with the general effect
produced by the stage on national literature and
national character. Had there been no drama,
Shakspeare would, in all likelihood, have been but
the author of Venus and Adonis, and of a few sonnets
forgotten among the numerous works of the Elizabethan
age, and Otway had been only the compiler
of fantastic Pindaric odes.</p>
<p> Stepping beyond her own department, the dramatic
muse has lent her aid to her sister of history.
What points of our national annals are ever most
fresh and glowing in our recollection? Those which
unite history with the stage. The story of Macbeth,
an ancient king, whose annals of half a dozen
lines must otherwise have lurked in the seldom
opened black letter of Wintoun or Boece, is as
much fixed upon our memory as if it detailed
events which we had ourselves witnessed. Who
crosses the blighted heath of Forres without beholding
in imagination the stately step of Kemble as he
descended on the stage at the head of his victorious
army? On Bosworth field, the dramatist had
engrossed the recollections due to the historian,
even so early as Bishop Corbet's time; for when
his host, ``full of ale and history,'' pointed out the
local position of the two armies, Shakspeare was
more in the village chronicler's thoughts than
Stowe or Hollinshed.<p> ``Besides what of his knowledge he could say,
He had authentic notice from the play,
Shown chiefly by that one perspicuous thing,
That he mistook a player for a king;
For when he should have said, here Richard died
And call'd `a horse, a horse'---he Burbadge cried.''</p>
</p>
<p> A greater man acknowledged his debt to the
dramatist on a similar occasion: ``In what history
did your grace find that incident?'' said Burnet to
the Duke of Marlborough, on hearing him quote
some anecdote concerning the wars of York and
Lancaster which was new to the Bishop. ``In
Shakspeare's plays,'' answered the Victor of Blenheim,
---``the only history of those times I ever
read.''</p>
<p> It may be said by the rigid worshipper of
unadorned truth, that history is rather defaced
than embellished by becoming the subject of fictitious
composition. These scruples are founded on
prejudice---that mischievous prejudice which will
not admit that knowledge can be valuable unless
transmitted through the dullest and most disagreeable
medium. Many are led to study history from
having first read it as mingled with poetic fiction;
and the indolent, or those much occupied, who
have not patience or leisure for studying the
chronicle itself, gather from the play a general
idea of historical incidents which, but through
some such amusing vehicle, they would never have
taken the trouble to become acquainted with. And
it will scarcely be denied, that a man had better
know generally the points of history as told him by
Shakspeare, than be ignorant of history entirely.
The honey which is put on the edge of the cup
induces many to drink up the whole medicinal
potion; while those who take only a sip of it have,
at least, a better chance of benefit than if they had
taken none at all.</p>
<p> In another point of view the theatre is calculated
to influence, and, well conducted, to influence
favourably, the general state of morals and manners
in this country. A full audience, attending a first-rate
piece, may be compared to a national convention,
to which every order of the community, from
the peers to the porters, send their representatives.
The entertainment, which is the subject of general
enjoyment, is of a nature which tends to soften, if
not to level, the distinction of ranks; it unites men
of all conditions in those feelings of mirth or
melancholy which belong to their common humanity,
and are enhanced most by being shared by a
multitude. The honest, hearty laugh, which circulates
from box to gallery; the lofty sentiment,
which is felt alike by the lord and the labourer;
the sympathetic sorrow, which affects at once the
marchioness and the milliner's apprentice---all
these have a conciliating and harmonizing effect,
tending to make the various ranks pleased with
themselves and with each other. The good-natured
gaiety with which the higher orders see the fashionable
follies which they practise treated with light
satire for the amusement of the middling and poorer
classes, has no little effect in checking the rancorous
feelings of envy which superior birth, wealth, and
station, are apt enough to engender. The possessors
of those obnoxious advantages are pardoned
on account of the good-humour and frankness with
which they are worn; and a courtier, by laughing
at the <u>Beggar's Opera,</u> like a bonny Scot applauding
Sir Pertinax MacSycophant, disarms what he
confronts. When the presence of the sovereign
himself graces the audience, takes a part in the
general pleasure of the evening, and renders generous
or patriotic sentiments more energetically
effective, by sharing in the enthusiasm which they
call forth from his subjects of all ranks---this gives
the royal sanction, as it were, to the approbation of
lords and commons. The late King expressed that
sentiment strongly when advised to abstain from
attending the theatre after the madman Hatfield's
attempt upon his life. Mr. Boaden has given us
the words:---</p>
<p> ``If, with my family, I cannot enjoy my amusements in the
midst of my people, let them take my <u>life,</u> for existence is not
worth holding upon such conditions.''---Vol. ii., p. 263.</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Sir Humphry Davy died at Geneva, on the 30th May, 1829,
<em> in his 51st year. Shortly after his death appeared his Consolations
</em> of Travel, or Last Days of a Philosopher--=Ed.=<p> In short, the drama is in ours, and in most civilized
countries, an engine possessing the most
powerful effect on the manners of society. The
frequency of reference, quotation, and allusion to
plays of all kinds, from the masterpieces of Shakspeare's
genius down to the farce which has the
run of a season, gives a dramatic colouring to conversation
and habits of expression; and those who
look into the matter strictly will be surprised to
find, how much our ordinary language and ordinary
ideas are modified by what we have seen and heard
on the stage.</p>
<p> We admit, as broadly as can be demanded, that
the stage has been made, and is capable of being
rendered again, as powerful an instrument for evil
as for good. In this respect it is like the printing
press, or rather like literature itself which finds
employment both for the actor and the printer, a
tremendous power, which, as its energies are directed,
may contribute to the welfare or to the ruin
of a country. So the most efficacious medicines,
ignorantly or maliciously administered, become the
strongest poisons. But our purpose in having detained
the reader with these preliminary observations
is to persuade him of the consequence of
the subject, and to serve as introduction to some
remarks which we have to offer on the present
state of our theatres, and the improvements which
might bring these institutions nearer to the state of
perfection of which we have theoretically considered
the drama as susceptible.</p>
<p> In the meantime, we must not altogether forget
the works of which the titles are prefixed to this
Article. This, to be sure, is a fashion with our
<u>caste,</u> from which we do not pretend altogether to
exculpate ourselves. If we admit not a fair and
impartial division betwixt the reviewers and the
reviewed, the neglected authors have a right to
share the impatience of the witty Charles Townsend.
When he came to Scotland, after having
married a lady of that nation of the very highest
rank, large fortune, and extensive connexions, the
tide of relations, friends, and vassals, who thronged
to welcome the bride, were so negligent of her husband
as to leave him in the hall while they hurried
his lady forwards into the state apartments, until
he checked their haste by exclaiming, ``for Heaven's
sake, gentlemen, consider I am, at least,
Prince George of Denmark.'' Messrs. Kelly and
Boaden would have the same reason to complain of
us, should we altogether forgot them in an Article
which we have decorated with their names. But
they must wait at the bottom of the stairs, with
gentle patience for five minutes longer: we will
show them up presently.</p>
<p> The same circumstances, which gave the drama
itself interest, induce us to be curious investigators
into the history of the art, and the lives of its chief
professors in former times. The grave may think
what they will of the levity of such pursuits: but
as many folios and small quartos of the antique
cast have been bestowed in behalf of Thalia and
Melpomene as in that of the most serious of their
sisters. But this is not all; we are not to be contented
with the scraps which can be collected about
Burbadge and Alleyn Kempe and Taylor:---we
must also learn what can be told of the distinguished
performers of our own time. We want to
see these when divested of the pomp and circumstance
with which the scene invests them. We desire
to know whether we may venture to speak
above our breath, or be guilty of a smile, in the
presence of Mrs Siddons; whether it be possible
to look grave in that of Liston; whether Matthews
has as many dramatic portraits in his gallery, as he
can present in his own person; if he who plays the
fool on the stage can be a man of sense in the parlour;
and if the heroine looks still the angel after
she has laid aside her chopine, and come down a
step nearer to the earth.</p>
<p> And let it not be said that this inquiry into the
private history of the scenic artists is capricious, or
resembles that of a child who cries to have the toy
which has been shown him placed in his own hand,
that he may see what it is made of. On the contrary,
there is a natural touch of philosophy in our
curiosity. It is a rational enough wish to discover
what sort of persons those are who can assume,
and lay aside at pleasure, the semblance of human
passion, and who, by dint of sympathy, compel the
smiles and tears of others, when they have doffed
their magic mantle and retired into the circle of
social life. Besides, to judge from the common
case the <u>duram pauperiem pati</u> as often prepares
the future exertions of the player as of the soldier.
In the earlier events of a theatrical life, however
successful, there most commonly occur adventures
which form a diverting contrast with the ultimate
and more splendid parts of the career. And we
may add to these honest ingredients of the general
interest in dramatic biography, the malicious pleasure
which human nature always takes in learning
the mishaps, mistakes, and misgovernance of those
who have been objects of public attention and general
admiration.</p>
<p> These things premised, we beg to announce
Messrs. Boaden and Michael Kelly, or rather, to
adopt the stage direction in <u>Chrononhotonthologos,</u>
``Enter Aldiborontiphoscophornio and Rigdum
Funnidos.'' The character and style of the two
biographers are, indeed, as strongly contrasted as
sock and buskin; Mr. Boaden being grave, critical,
full, and laudably accurate, serious in the most
lively information which he communicates, and
treating comedy itself as if it were a very solemn
affair; while, on the other hand, there is nothing
so serious as to render Michael Kelly so. He has
spent all his life among the levers of laugh and
fun, choice spirits, whom Time cannot exhaust, and
who make good the boast of Anacreon, and are
merry in spite of misfortune and grey hairs. Betwixt
merits so various, how shall the critic decide?
Were we to spend a morning in looking over Garrick's
dramatic collection at the Museum, we should
certainly wish to have Mr. Boaden with us to spare
us repeated references to the <u>Biographia Dramatica.</u>
But, in the evening, we fear we should be
graceless enough to prefer Kelly's comic gossip,
rich in song and jest, qualified by a touch of the
traveller, and (what we never object to) a dash of
the brogue. We do not, however, undervalue the
solid English pudding of Mr. Boaden, though we
have a special relish for the soufl<e'> of Seignor Kelly.
Or, rather, we would address them with the impartiality
of Sir John, the jolly deer-stealing priest
of Waltham, towards the rival publicans, his comrades.
``Neighbours Banks, of Waltham, and
Goodman Smug, the honest smith of Edmonton, as
I dwell betwixt you both, at Enfield, I knew the
taste of both your alehouses---they are good both,
smart both.'' To continue Sir John's metaphor,
the beverage supplied by Mr. Kelly is a fine brisk
species of vivacious bottled beer, like that unquestionably
with which Beau Tibbs regaled the Duke,
as we are informed by the sage Lien Chi Altangi,
in the Citizen of the World. Boaden, on the other
hand, draws us a double flagon of old English
liquor, not the sophisticated potion which the vulgar
denominate <u>heavy wet,</u> but Anno Domini, regularly
dated and regularly tapped, like that which honest
Boniface ate and drank, and upon which he always
slept.</p>
<p> Allowing precedence to be due to the more dignified
person, we advert first to the <u>Memoirs of
John Kemble,</u> combined as they are with a history
of the stage from the time of Garrick to the present
period. A great deal of curious information is
accumulated in these two volumes, by a man who
has had the best opportunities of collecting the dramatic
history of the last half century.</p>
<p> We cannot, however, altogether approve of his
blending the Memoirs of Kemble with an account
of the theatre, so general, diffuse, and disproportioned
in length to the pages which the life of his
proper hero occupies. The fore-ground and back-ground
are too extensive for the principal figure.
We might have been very glad to have possessed
the work arranged in two separate departments,
one containing the memoirs, the other the history
of the stage. The present plan has rendered unavoidable
the mingling the account of this distinguished
man of talent with that of many ordinary
performers, of whom we either never heard before,
or never wish to hear again. Mr. Boaden, we have
no doubt, has been just in his estimate of these
subordinate persons;---but there are many whom
he might have dismissed like Virgil with a single
``_fortemque,_'' and whom he ought not to have suffered
to crowd the scene which they never adorned,
and on which they are not now, perhaps, remembered
at all. A man should have some title beyond
mere respectability before he is handed up to fame.
``What shall an honest man do in my closet?'' says
Caius, and what business has a merely respectable
man in our library? say we. We think it is John
Dunton in his Life and Errors, who, in a history
of the literature of Boston, the capital of New England,
which he visited in the course of his wanderings,
gives not only an account of authors, publishers,
retail booksellers, and printers, but descends
to stationers and bookbinders, has a few flying hints
on printer's devils, and makes us unnecessarily acquainted
with every one of these respectable persons
as necessary appendages to literary history.
We are far from quarrelling with the minute information
conveyed by Mr. Beaden in a miscellaneous
manner, somewhat similar to that of Dunton, but
we wish it had been a little better arranged, and
more connected in its topics than by the mere category
of time. The history of Kemble is divided
into so many detached pieces, that it seems like
the body of an old man cut and ready for Medea's
kettle. We will endeavour to collect some of the
scattered fragments, so as to form from Mr. Boaden's
work, assisted by our own recollections, a full
length portrait, though on a reduced scale, of one
of the best actors, most accomplished artists, and
most kind and worthy men, that ever commanded
the admiration of the public, and the esteem of his
friends.</p>
<p> John Philip Kemble was born 1st February,
1757, at Prescot, in Lancashire. The family from
which he derived his origin was ancient and respectable;
but ruined, we have heard him say, in
the great Civil War of the seventeenth century,
for their adherence to King Charles during that
contest. His father was manager of a provincial
company of actors; so that the members of this
highly gifted race, who have attained such distinguished
eminence, seem to have been dedicated to
the stage from their birth upwards. Unquestionably,
the natural bent of their minds must have
leaned towards the family profession, of which they
felt the full fascination, while its disadvantages, as
being in ordinary cases considered a step lower than
the more grave and established courses of life, could
not occur as an objection to those who saw the art
daily practised by the parents whom they were
accustomed to love and honour.</p>
<p> But Mr. Roger Kemble, the father of John, sensible
of the disadvantages attending his own profession,
resolved to give his son a classical education,
designing him, it is believed, to take orders in the
Roman Catholic Church. Accordingly, John Philip
Kemble received his first instructions at a Catholic
seminary at Sedgely Park in Staffordshire, and
was a student for two or three years at the College
of Donay, where he attracted attention by the
gracefulness of his person, the strength of his memory,
and the beauty of his recitation.</p>
<p> During all the time which he spent at these early
studies his own secret determination was always to
become a performer. He felt the strong vocation
for the pleasing art in which he was destined to
attain excellence, and never, we have heard him
say, was tempted to swerve from his purpose even
when his prospects appeared least promising. At
the outset they were sufficiently gloomy.</p>
<p> He returned to England, and found his father
disappointed and angry on learning that his
thoughts were fixed upon the stage. ``He might
be allowed,'' says Mr. Boaden, ``to feel some mortification
at his son's choice; for what was then to
predict the great and lasting eminence to which he
attained?'' But the impulse was not to be withstood.
John Kemble acted as his first part Theodosius,
in the tragedy so called, at Woolverhampton,
8th January, 1776. Dramatic excellence is of
slow growth, and requires long and severe study;
it is enough if first appearances be received as promising.
The characteristic peculiarity of Kemble's
performance was not of a kind to advance him to
popularity with a mere rapid pace than usual.
With all the requisites for a fine player, and especially
with a profound study of his art, and reverence
for its difficulties, it must have required habit
to familiarize him with the exertion of his own
powers. The requisite mellowness and flexibility
which make the actor seem at home in his part,
were in his case slowly acquired, and until he was
possessed of these, his manner, afterwards so graceful,
must have seemed stiff; above all, his voice,
the strength of which was never equal to his other
powers, must have sounded harsh and unharmonious
ere he knew hew to reserve and husband its
efforts. We can conceive him, like the giant in
<u>Frankenstein,</u> working awkwardly enough until he
had acquired a complete acquaintance with his own
powers and the mode of using them to advantage.</p>
<p> The apprenticeship to the stage is in most instances,
as we have already noticed, a severe one.
Mr. Boaden is too grave to relate any of the minor
misfortunes and hardships which his hero was subjected
to in his noviciate, and repels, with some
asperity, an account of Kemble and his companion
breaking a gentleman's orchard near Gloucester.
Certainly in Shakspeare's life by Aldiborontiphoscophornio
the deer-stealing anecdote would have
been sunk from mere love of decorum. Rigdum
Funnidos is more communicative, and hints at our
friend's having banqueted on turnips and peas in
the open fields for want of better commons. There
are gripes and indigestion in the very thoughts of
the uncooked pulse; and we can conceive that
Kemble, who was reasonably, though moderately
attached to better cheer, did net relish the circumstances
which reduced him to sauce his banquet by
a speech from Timon.<p> ``Oh! a root---dear thanks!
Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn lees;
Whereof ungrateful man, with liquorish draughts,
And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,
That from it all consideration slips!''</p>
</p>
<p> The honest Kelly has, moreover, told us that in
extremity of distress, Kemble once personated a
Methodist preacher; the thing may have happened
---but from what we know of John Kemble's opinions
on religious subjects, we are sure that those
who listened to the exhortation must have departed
improved in heart and understanding. He was
incapable of mocking, under any circumstances,
the mysteries of religion.</p>
<p> In 1778, like Robinson Crusoe in his escape
from the raging ocean, Kemble began to touch
ground. He was that year engaged in a respectable
company maintained at York, under the management
of Tate Wilkinson, famous as an imitator
himself, and as the subject of imitation in others---
possessed of considerable judgment and taste---and
whose well-selected company was often draughted
to recruit the metropolitan theatres.</p>
<p> Here Kemble's importance begats to be felt, yet
he still continued to act such parts as Captain Plume,
and others ill suited to his powers. We are not
sure that this necessity is, at an early period of the
profession, to be accounted a disadvantage. It
prevents the ideas and exertions of a young performer
being too much narrowed by a single cast
of characters, and may operate in that respect, like
the care taken by professors of gymnastics, to cause
their pupils to bring into play successively the different
sets of muscles by exertions of a kind appropriate
to each. Young actors may be benefited too
by attempts which are unsuccessful, as teaching
them the bounds and character of their own powers,
which they may otherwise suppose as unlimited as
their ambition. There is even a wholesome lesson
to be learned in experiencing the severity of an
audience; for while it represses presumption, it
also shows the timid that thunder often admonishes
without killing.</p>
<p> At York, John Kemble became for the first time
acquainted with his princely friend and patron, the
late Duke of Northumberland, whose munificence
makes such a distinguished figure in his history.
The officer on duty, belonging to a squadron of
dragoons lying in York at the time, had somewhat
bluntly refused to permit a few of the soldiers to
attend the theatre on occasion of some procession
in which their appearance was desired. Kemble
wrote to Lord Percy, who commanded the squadron,
and his request was instantly complied with.
The duke afterwards nominally lent Kemble the
sum of ten thousand pounds, and converted the
loan into a gift by burning the obligation for repayment
after the fire in Covent Garden.</p>
<p> He had at York an adventure of another kind,
tending to show him how peculiarly the most meritorious
of the profession he had chosen were
exposed to the taunts of the unworthy. On 8th
February, 1778, while he was playing in Murphy's
tragedy of <u>Zenobia,</u> Kemble became the object of
the gross and marked ridicule of a lady who sat
in the stage-box. She was of some condition, and
apparently enjoyed that sort of provincial consequence,
which, when combined with a rude disposition,
makes country ladies now and then guilty
of ill-breeding, such as would never be permitted
to those of the first rank in the capital.</p>
<p> ``As to the insults designed for himself during the evening,
he had retorted them by looks of infinite disdain. His sensibility
was noticed in the box by loud and repeated peals of
laughter from the lady and her echoes. At this, Kemble suddenly
stopped, and being called upon hy the audience to proceed,
with great gravity and a pointed bow to the stage-box,
he said, `he was ready to proceed with the play as soon as
=that= lady had finished her conversation, which he perceived
the going on with the tragedy only interrupted.'</p>
<p> ``The audience received this rudeness of the stage-box as
an insolent attempt to control their amusements, and with
shouts, which could not he laughed down, ordered the lady
and her party out of the theatre.''---=Boaden,= vol. i., p. 26.</p>
<p> The lady thus most deservedly punished had
interest sufficient to excite a party in her behalf,
who insisted that Kemble should come forward and
ask pardons immediately.</p>
<p> ``Mr. Kemble on this, with the greatest firmness, and with
some of that mingled astonishment and disdain, which he
threw afterwards into Coriolanus, exclaimed, `Pardon! ask
pardon! no, sirs,---=never;=' and immediately quitted the
stage.''---=Boaden,= vol. i., p. 27.</p>
<p> All subsequent efforts of an active faction among
the audience vainly attempted to break that lofty
spirit, which was as much Kemble's by nature as
it belonged to any of the heroes whom he represented.
He could but be brought to say,</p>
<p> `` `Let me be heard before I am condemned: if, when I have
explained my conduct, any gentleman, or set of gentlemen,
will say, in that character, that I have acted unworthily, I
shall cheerfully make any reparation that they may judge
proper.' To this there could be no <u>reasonable</u> objection, and
he was heard. His fine address, his clear statement, his modesty
and manliness, carried the cause, and contributed essentially
to his progress in the public favour.''---=Boaden,= vol. i.,
p. 28.</p>
<p> The same lady, uncorrected by what had happened,
made an attack on Mr. Michael Kelly, by
the same obstreperous procedure, especially when
he consulted his watch as his part required in the
course of the drama, by exclaiming loud enough to
be heard in the gallery,</p>
<p> `` `Why, look there; la! the fellow has got a watch.' I
could not bear this (says Kelly)---I admit I lost my temper:
but I walked up to the box, and said, ``yes, madam, it is a gold
watch, and reckoned one of the best in England,'' putting it
close to her;---the lady was violently hissed, and ever after,
when she came to the theatre, conducted herself with becoming
decency.''---=Kelly,= vol, i., p. 306.</p>
<p> The indulgence of such impertinent humour on
the part of the audience, towards those who are
tasking their best abilities to please, is akin to the
display of ignorance, folly, and wanton cruelty
which children exhibit in torturing the inferior
animals. Fifty years ago the pelting the performers
from the galleries was so legitimate a species of
amusement, that we think even Garrick was exposed
to it, and when hit by an orange only ventured
to say, after pretending to taste it, ``it was
an orange, but not a Seville (Civil) one.'' Digges,
on another occasion, when subjected to some such
insult, made a touching appeal to his former situation
as an officer and a man of fashion---``My
feelings,'' he said, ``are wounded as a man---I had
almost said as a gentleman.''</p>
<p> Kemble argued with the perpetrators of such
brutality in a different and a bolder mood, and as
his unspotted character supported the justice of his
complaint, there can be no doubt that the respect
due to him both as a public and private character,
and the spirit with which he maintained it, was a
principal means of raising the estimation of the
profession at large. An apple was upon one occasion
thrown on the stage, which fell between him
and Mrs. Siddons, then acting in the unrivalled
scene between Coriolanus and his mother. Kemble
instantly advanced to the front of the stage with
the apple in his hand, and appealed to the audience
for protection against this brutal insult. A person
in the gallery called out in reply, ``We can't hear.''</p>
<p> ``Mr. Kemble (<u>with increased spirit,</u>) `I will <u>raise</u> my voice,
and the =galleries= shall <u>hear</u> me.' (Great tumult)</p>
<p> `` `This protection is what the =audience= owe it to themselves
to _grant_---what the =performers,= for the credit of their
profession, have a right to _demand_---and =what= I will venture
so far to <u>assert</u>, that, on the part of the =proprietors,= I here
offer a hundred guineas to any man, who will disclose the
<u>ruffian</u> who has been guilty of this act.' (A murmur only in
the gallery.)</p>
<p> `` `I throw myself, ladies and gentlemen, upon the high
sense of breeding, that distinguishes a London audience; and
I hope I shall never be wanting in my duty to the public; but
nothing shall induce me to suffer insult.' ''---=Boaden,= vol i.,
p. 429.</p>
<p> The galleries, awed into silence, endeavoured to
shift the charge from themselves. But though
Kemble thus asserted the dignity of his profession,
and the claim which a performer has to be treated
like a gentleman, there cannot be a question that
he made enemies among the low and malicious
party in the common audience of a theatre, who
had hitherto considered the right of insulting the
players as a valuable part of the privilege purchased
by the half-price which they had paid at
the door. These petty tyrants felt controlled under
the superiority of a man like Kemble, but theirs
were the right minds for bearing malice, and we
believe that the dislike entertained against one who
was willing to contribute to their pleasure, but not
to endure their insolence, was a great ingredient
in the celebrated O. P. riot.</p>
<p> We return to Mr. Kemble's professional progress.
He visited Dublin in 1783, where he was
received with approbation. His sister, Mrs. Siddons,
had now displayed for several months before
the public that blaze of varied excellence which
was never before equalled, and certainly will never
be surpassed. Beautiful as an angel, she seemed
gifted also with superhuman powers. The horrors
and the sorrows of the scene, were alike her own;
the boldest trembled, the wisest wondered, the
most hard-hearted and the most selfish wept ere
they were aware.</p>
<p> Her unrivalled excellence naturally led the managers
to inquire respecting that brother who began
already to be called the Great Kemble. There is
a ludicrous story, however, of the meaning of the
epithet being mistaken by the person intrusted
with the negotiation, whe instead of our friend is
said to have sent to the metropolis his jolly brother
Stephen as the <u>greatest</u> of the name who was going.</p>
<p> The mistake, if it ever took place, was soon rectified,
and on the 30th of September, 1783, John
Philip Kemble made his first appearance at Drury
Lane in the character of Hamlet.</p>
<p> It cannot be denied that this extraordinary conception
of Shakspeare is one of the boldest, most
striking, and most effective parts in the drama, and
yet it is invested with so much obscurity, that it
may be played in twenty different ways without
the critic being able to say with certainty which
best expresses the sense of the author. Hamlet
unites in his single person a variety of attributes,
by bringing any of which more forward, or throwing
others farther into the background, the shading
of the character is effectually changed. Hamlet is
the predestined avenger called on to this task by a
supernatural voice---he is a prince resenting the
intrusion of his uncle into his mother's bed and his
father's throne. He is a son devoted to the memory
of one parent and to the person of the other, and
yet, to do justice to his murdered father's memory,
he is compelled to outrage, with the most cutting
reproaches, the ears of his guilty mother. Wittenberg
has given him philosophy and the habits of
criticism---nature has formed him social and affectionate
---disappointment and ill-concealed resentment
of family injuries have tinged him with
misanthropy---the active world has given him all
its accomplishments.<p> ``The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword,
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form.''</p>
</p>
<p> To all these peculiar attributes must be added
his love for Ophelia, and something which resembles
an incipient touch of insanity; for this, after
all, is necessary to apologize and account for some
parts of his conduct. All these exist in Prince
Hamlet, but the art of the performer is to distinguish
the proper or most striking mode of exhibiting
them. The author has done little to help him
in the management of the piece, which as a story
indicates nothing decisive respecting the real character
of Hamlet. He does not resemble Richard
or Macbeth, or most of Shakspeare's other distinguished
characters, who show themselves and
purposes not by their words and sentiments only,
but by their actions, and whose actions therefore
are the best commentaries on their characters and
motives. On the contrary, Hamlet being passive
almost through the whole piece, and only hurried
into action in its conclusion, does nothing by which
we can infer the precise meaning of much that he
says. There exists, therefore, a latitude about the
representation of Hamlet, which scarcely belongs
to that of any other character in the drama. It
consists of many notes, and the dwelling upon or
the slurring of any of them totally changes the <u>effect</u>
of the air.</p>
<p> It is natural to expatiate on these peculiarities in
the character, because Kemble, in representing it,
was to encounter at once the shade of the murdered
King of Denmark, and, in the mind's eye of the
audience, that of the lost Garrick. The young performer
had never seen and could not imitate Garrick.
He was relieved from that great stumbling-block
in the path of a novice---the temptation to
copy some honoured predecessor. Those who are
subjected to this temptation and give way to it, seldom
rise above respectability in their performances.
They are admitted to play the line of characters
possessed by the ``well-graced actor'' who has left
the stage, but it is merely in the character of substitutes:
those who aim at great eminence must
show originality of conception.</p>
<p> Originality, however, in a novice has its perils;
and it was often objected to Kemble, that in playing
Shakspeare's best-known characters he frequently
sought to give them effect by a mode of delivery
and action daringly opposed to what the audience
had been used to. This, in the beginning of his
career, was often hardly received by pedantic critics,
who had become so much bigoted to one style
of acting that they were unable to tolerate any
departure from it. Such venturing on new ground
is no doubt a hazardous task, and demands both
the powers and perseverance of decided genius;
and Garrick was, in his time, equally censured as
an innovator on the solemn and pompous manner
of Booth and Betterton. But were it possible to
promulgate and enforce a scale of the tones in
which each speech of Hamlet or any other character
should be delivered, or to issue a tariff of the
emphasis to which each striking passage should be
subjected, it is evident we should destroy one great
source of the pleasure we receive from the stage---
namely, that of comparing and deciding between
the different species of efforts which rivals in the
scenic art bring to illustrate the same character.</p>
<p> For this Hamlet offers a fair field, and Kemble
entered on it with characteristic courage and skill.
Beginning already to act upon the principles of
dramatic criticism, he discarded the alterations
which Garrick had ventured to introduce into the
works of Shakspeare; and which Mr. Boaden justly
calls feeble and trashy. The following is an accurate
and pleasing description of Kemble as he then
was stepping forwards to offer himself as a rival to
Garrick, and disdaining all that had interposed
between them.</p>
<p> ``His person seemed to be finely formed, and his manners
princely; but on his brow hung the weight of `some intolerable
woe.<code> Apart from the expression called up by the situation
of Hamlet, there struck me to be in him a peculiar and
personal fitness for tragedy. What others assumed, seemed
to be inherent in Kemble. `Native, and to the manner born,</code>
he looked an abstraction, if I may so say, of the characteristics
of tragedy.</p>
<p> ``The first great point of remark was, that his Hamlet was
decidedly original. He had seen no great actor whom he could
have copied. His style was formed by his own taste or judgment,
or rather grew out of the peculiar properties of his person
and his intellectual habits. He was of a solemn and deliberate
temperament---his walk was always slow, and his
expression of countenance contemplative---his utterance rather
tardy for the most part, but always finely articulate, and
in common parlance seemed to proceed rather from organization
than voice.''---=Boaden='s <u>Memoirs of Kemble,</u> vol. i.,
p. 92.</p>
<p> It must strike the dramatic reader at once that
a more complete contrast to the former Roscius
could not appear, in almost every point, than in
this new candidate for the honours of the buskin.
Garrick was short though well formed, airy and
light in all his movements, possessed of a countenance
capable of the most acute or the most stolid,
the most tragic or the most ridiculous expression.
Kemble, on the contrary, was tall and stately, his
person on a scale suited for the stage, and almost
too large for a private apartment, with a countenance
like the finest models of the antique, and
motions and manners corresponding to the splendid
cast of his form and features. Mirth, when he
exhibited it, never exceeded a species of gaiety
chastened with gravity; his smile seemed always
as if it were the rare inhabitant of that noble countenance.
There was unquestionably great sweetness
of expression in that smile, but it indicated
more of benevolence than of gaiety---the momentary
stooping of a mind usually strung to a serious
mood to the joy which enlivened the meaner natures
around him.</p>
<p> Even the habits of life and manners peculiar to
these two great performers intimated such a strong
difference in their characters as must necessarily
have greatly influenced their taste in the art.
Garrick was what is called a man of fashion, desirous
to maintain his place as such among the
great, among whom his talents made him a welcome
associate. But in mixing with them he paid them
a sort of homage. He was desirous to procure
their notice more than a man of his commanding
genius ought perhaps to have been. The situation
was a difficult one, and he is represented to have
been something too eager to show off and entertain
the company, as one who had some tax to pay for
being where he was when in the society of men of
rank and eminence. It is, to be sure, an ungracious
behaviour on the part of what is technically called
a lion, to refuse gruffly to show his jaws and extend
his talons when he chooses to enter into mixed
company.<p> ``For if he should <u>as lion</u> come in strife
Into such place 'twere pity on his life.''</p>
</p>
<p> But this is a failing of a very different order
from that over-eager love of gaining interest, which
will court the attention of the foot-boy, if it cannot
fix that of the master.</p>
<p> Of all men, John Kemble, though not destitute
of his share of vanity, was most averse from this
peculiar mode of drawing attention: his nature
revolted from courting display and obsequiously
condescending to be what has been vulgarly called
the fiddle of the company. He took a ready and
agreeable part in the general conversation. And
when it turned naturally upon his own art, he
always showed himself willing to entertain and
instruct the company from the funds of experience
and study, as well as the original conceptions of
his own genius. But he never, in the language of
the old dramatists, ``came aloft or showed tricks
from Tripoli.'' He never stooped to be the amusing
and exhibiting man of the company. He never
even read or recited for the amusement of the circle;
and those who desired the pleasure of his society
could only obtain it on the condition of his being
an equal contributor, and no more, to the social
enjoyment of the day. Perhaps he even carried
this point of etiquette a little too far. But on these
terms he enjoyed the familiar friendship of many
of the first families in England.</p>
<p> He was a frequent and favourite guest at Bentley
Priory, which was then the resort of the most
distinguished part of the fashionable world. Its
noble owner, the late Marquis of Abercorn, has
been so long with the dead, that to do justice to
his character, much misrepresented in some points
during his life, can be ascribed to no motive which
interest or adulation could suggest. He was a man
highly gifted by nature, and whose talents had been
improved by sedulous attention to an excellent
education. If he had remained a Commoner, it
was the opinion of Mr. Pitt, that he must have been
one of the most distinguished speakers in the Lower
House. The House of Lords does not admit of
the same display either of oratory or of capacity
for public business; but when the Marquis of
Abercorn did speak there, the talents which he
showed warranted the prophecy of so skilled an
augur as Pitt. Those who saw him at a distance
accused him of pride and haughtiness. That he
had a sufficient feeling of the dignity of his situation,
and maintained it with perhaps an unusual
degree of state and expense, may readily be granted.
But that expense, however large, was fully
supported by an ample fortune wisely administered,
and in the management of which the interests of
the tenant were always considered as well as those
of the landlord. He racked no rents to maintain
the expenses of his establishment, nor did he diminish
his charities, which were in many cases
princely, for the sake of the outward state, the
maintenance of which he thought, not unjustly, a
duty incumbent on his situation. Above all, the
stateliness of which the late Marquis of Abercorn
was accused, drew no barrier between the Marquis
of Abercorn and those who shared his hospitality.
Kemble was a very frequent visitor there,
and with the noble landlord, the late Payne Knight,
and<p> ``The travell'd Thane,
Athenian Aberdeen,''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<h2><title></h2>
<p> We return to our comparison between Garrick
and Kemble. It follows from what we have before
said, that the style of Garrick was impetuous, sudden,
striking, and versatile---that with his complete
power over the regions of comedy, and tragedy,
and farce, he should maintain a sort of ubiquity in
the eyes of the public. In the play he could be
Hamlet, and perform Fribble in the farce, yet delight
the audience equally in both characters. In
fact, as we have been assured by a venerable father
of literature, most able to judge, and happily, at an
advanced period of life, most able both to recollect
and discriminate concerning the amusements of his
youth, Garrick's versatility, nay, almost universality
of talent, was the quality on which his extraordinary
popularity chiefly rested. He was like
Ariel on board the king's ship.<p> ``Now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
He flamed amazement.''</p>
</p>
<p> The peculiar talents of Kemble confined him
within a much more limited range, although it was
soon ascertained that this was capable of being
extended far more than the critics had at first been
able to anticipate. Kemble's noble person and
graceful demeanour was totally inconsistent with
the ludicrous, and almost with the comic. His cast
of features was decidedly heroic, and when the
best disguise was put on them, he must have looked
like Alfred playing the Clown, or the elder Brutus
in his assumed state of idiotcy. The very voices
of these great actors were totally different; that
of Garrick was full, melodious, commanding, and
he might exert it with unsparing profusion. Kemble's,
though perfectly distinct and impressive, was
early affected by an asthmatic tendency, which
rendered it necessary for him to husband his efforts,
and reserve them for those bursts of passion to
which he gave such sublime effect.</p>
<p> But, besides this limitation, arising from taste,
temper, figure, and organic conformation, the
schools, if they may he called so, of Garrick and
Kemble, were founded upon different principles.
We had almost said they were the schools of nature
and of art---but, luckily, we suppressed a phrase
which, like the whistle of a captain of marksmen,
might have raised from thicket and ravine a swarm
of controversial sharpshooters like wasps about our
ears. Let us then vary the phrase, and say, that
Garrick made his impression from his skill in seizing
and expressing with force and precision the first
and most obvious view of his part; and that Kemble,
more learned and more laborious, studied earnestly
and long ere he could fix his own ideas of the true
meaning of doubtful passages, often illustrated them
by what is called a new reading, and was careful to
express that he did so by the punctilious accuracy
of the corresponding action and enunciation. Indeed,
Kemble, a profound scholar in his art, was
metaphysically curious in expressing each line of
his part with the exactly appropriate accent and
manner. Sometimes this high degree of study
threw a degree of over-precision into the part, and
in the effort to analyze the sentiment, by giving a
peculiar emphasis to every word of the sentence,
the actor lost the effect which to be vehement
should be instant and undivided. Sometimes, also,
it happened that, in order to complete the details
upon which he had determined, Kemble permitted
the action to hang too long suspended, so that one
well accustomed to his manner anticipated the
effort which be was about to make, by observing
something of preparation, which was like the warning,
as it is called, given by some time-pieces that
they are about to strike the hour. There was also
visible in Kemble's manner, at times, a sacrifice of
energy of action to grace. We remember this observation
being made by Mrs. Siddons herself, who
admired her brother in general as much as she
loved him. Nor shall we easily forget the mode
in which she illustrated her meaning. She arose
and placed herself in the attitude of one of the old
Egyptian statues; the knees joined together, and
the feet turned a little inwards. She placed her
elbows close to her sides, folded her hands, and
held them upright, with the palms pressed to each
other. Having made us observe that she had assumed
one of the most constrained, and, therefore,
most ungraceful positions possible, she proceeded
to recite the curse of King Lear on his undutiful
offspring in a manner which made hair rise and
flesh creep, and then called on us to remark the
additional effect which was gained by the concentrated
energy which the unusual and ungraceful
posture in itself implied.</p>
<p> Such imperfections as arise from over-study---
and these showed themselves but occasionally, and
never offensively---were the only faults we could
discern in this great actor, and they were amply
compensated by the justice of his conception, the
precision of his taste, the patience of his investigation,
which left no point unconsidered, the firmness
of his disposition, which would never be drawn from
any point in which he considered himself as perfectly
right.</p>
<p> Garrick, never timid but on the stage, would
readily concede any point of taste to the audience,
and illustrated, in its fullest extent, the maxim of
the poet:---<p> ``The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give,
For those who live to please, most please to live.''</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Article---From the Quarterly Review, for April, 1826:---
<em> 1. Memoirs of the Life of John Philip Kemble, Esq, including
</em> a History of the Stage from the Time of Garrick to the present
<em> Period. By James Boaden, Esq. Two vols. London. 1825.
</em> 2. Reminiscences of Michael Kelly, of the King's Theatre,
<em> and Theatre Royal Drury Lane, including a Period of nearly
</em> half a Century; with Original Anecdotes of many distinguished
<em> Personages, Political, Literary, and Musical. London.
</em> 1826. 2 vols.<p> ``For this be sure to night thou shall have ach<e'>s.''</p>
<p> Unquestionably the word was so pronounced in
Queen Elizabeth's time. But then it was scarce
worth quarrelling about so small a matter with the
audience, and it would have been more prudent.
perhaps, to have suffered the <u>aitches</u> to have quietly
undergone the same transmutation into modern
sound, as has befallen doubtless a hundred word
in the language. We cannot, if we would, bring
back the pronunciation of the Elizabethan age, and
why should not this modern abridgement of a single
syllable pass current with other alterations? But
Kemble was too proud of his art to sacrifice even a
grain of incense to unjust criticism. He was ready
to hazard every thing in defence of the right reading
of a word in Shakspeare. Night after night he
menaced Caliban with <u>aitches,</u> and night after night
was for so doing assailed by a party in the pit with
a ferocity worthy of Caliban himself. One evening
he felt himself, from indisposition, unwilling to sustain
the usual conflict, and on that occasion evaded
a drawn battle by omitting the line entirely. It
was curious enough to see how the critics, as he
approached the place where they expected to hear
the obnoxious line, resembled<p> ``greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start;''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>His present Majesty also occasionally gives his
subjects this gratification, and receives an affectionate
welcome---such as could neither be dictated
by power nor checked by faction. A theatre speaks
truth.<p> We remember observing a similar instance of
Kemble's attention to restore true readings astonishing
a provincial audience. It occurred in the
lines in Macbeth---<p> ``Augurs, and understood relations, have
By <u>magot-pies,</u> and choughs, and rooks, brought forth
The secret'st man of blood.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>and an eminent person, whom graver and more
important duties have now withdrawn from the
muses, made evenings of modern fashion resemble
a Greek symposium for learning and literature.
But this has carried us far from the point, and we
have but the poor apology that we could not withstand
certain feelings which tempted us to the
digression. They are few---scattered and distant
---who will be affected by the recollections of Bentley
Priory. But such still exist, and why may we
not steal a paragraph from our immediate subject
to gratify their feelings and our own? Kemble
lived in the same close intimacy with the successive
Earls of Guildford and the whole of that distinguished
family, in which brilliant wit, mingled
with the most genuine good-humour and kindness
of disposition, and a rational love of literature seem
to be hereditary possessions. He was also familiar
at Holland House, where the classical translator of
Lope de Vega could not fail to appreciate his merit,
and he shared the same distinction in many families
equally eminent for their rank in society and
love of elegant letters.<p> To return to the dramatic career of Mr. Kemble,
we can only briefly say, that he speedily attained
acknowledged pre-eminence in the tragic scene.
There was none, indeed, worthy of being named
as a competitor excepting Henderson, and the excellence
of his Falstaff, which we remember as a
most wonderful exhibition, made all his other parts
relish of sack and sugar. In many pasts of which
Kemble obtained possession, and which he played
admirably, he has, nevertheless, been equalled or
excelled. The ancients preferred the Richard of
Garrick to that of the new actor, and many of the
moderns give a like preference to Kean, particularly
in the last two acts. Some obstacles, however,
occurred from his own personal qualifications.
We have said he could not appear ludicrous, and
we must add that, from the noble effect of his
countenance and figure, neither could he seem constitutionally
villanous: he could never <u>look</u> the part
of Richard, and it seemed a jest to hear him, whose
countenance and person were so eminently fine,
descant on his own deformity. He was, perhaps,
sensible of this, for he used to argue that Richard
III., being of high descent and breeding, ought not
to be vulgar in his appearance or coarse in his
cruelty. There certainly should prevail a tinge of
aristocracy about the dramatic Richard, but it
ought not to be of a generous or chivalrous character,
or, whatever the figure of the historical Richard
may have been, that of a handsome prince.</p>
<p> For the same reason Kemble was inferior both
to Cooke and to Kean in Massinger's Sir Giles
Overreach. That singular character is Richard in
ordinary life, an extortioner and oppressor, confident
in his art and in his audacity; but Kemble,
when dressed for this part, reminded us of a dignified
country gentleman of the ancient school---``an
old courtier of the Queen's,'' rather than a low-born,
upstart, purse-proud tyrant, with impudence
enough to glory in his base arts of extortion. He
might say what ill he would of himself, the audience
could not believe him.</p>
<p> In Lear, Kemble must, we think, have been decidedly
inferior to Garrick. In Hamlet he was not
more than the equal of Garrick, and a most formidable
rival arose in his own time in Charles
Young. But in Macbeth, Kemble has been as yet
unapproachable; nor can we conceive that the bold
and effective manner of Garrick, touching on the
broad points of the character with a hand however
vigorous, could at all compare with Kemble's exquisitely
and minutely elaborate delineation of guilty
ambition, drawn on from crime to crime, while the
avenging furies at once scourge him for former
guilt, and urge him to further enormities. We can
never forget the rueful horror of his look, which by
strong exertion he endeavours to conceal, when on
the morning succeeding the murder he receives
Lennox and Macduff in the antechamber of Duncan.
His efforts to appear composed, his endeavours
to assume the attitude and appearance of one
listening to Lennox's account of the external terrors
of the night, while, in fact, he is expecting the
alarm to arise within the royal apartment, formed
a most astonishing piece of playing. Kemble's
countenance seemed altered by the sense of internal
horror, and had a cast of that of Count Ugolino
in the dungeon, as painted by Reynolds. When
Macbeth felt himself obliged to turn towards Lennox
and reply to what he had been saying, you saw
him, like a man awaking from a fit of absence, endeavour
to recollect at least the general tenor of
what had been said, and it was some time ere he
could bring out the general reply, ``'Twas a rough
night.'' Those who have had the good fortune to
see Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in Macbeth and his
lady, may be satisfied they have witnessed the highest
perfection of the dramatic art. There cannot
have been, and we fear never will be, any thing to
compare to it. Their King John and Lady Constance
are equally beyond imitation, and must be
forgotten ere others can obtain any high degree of
applause in these characters.</p>
<p> But it was not only in such parts as fell precisely
within his line, and which he seemed to hold by
birthright, that Kemble delighted the public. There
were others, appearing to be beyond his proper
territory, which he invaded, nevertheless, and conquered;
amongst which was the character of the
headlong and hasty Percy,<p> ``A hare-brain'd Hotspur, guided by a spleen.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>Kemble, on the contrary, felt much more for the
honour of his profession and the truth of the dramatic
art, than for his own profit or quiet, and
would have died on the breach rather than yield
to the authority of the public in a point where be
justly conceived himself a much better judge than
they. Perhaps he carried this to extremity when
he insisted on pronouncing <u>aches</u> as a two-syllable
word in the speech of Prospero.<p> ``Speaking thick, which nature made his blemish.''</p>
</p>
<p>the puzzled countenances which they displayed as
speech after speech was made without the expected
game being roused;---and the blank look of disappointment
when the close of the scene announced
to them how Kemble had, for the evening, eluded
their resentment without bending to their authority.
This perseverance gained the day, but it was
resented as obstinacy by not a few, and served to
increase the discontent of the low-minded part of
the audience against an actor who presumed to follow
his own judgment rather than theirs.<p> ``In Richard's time---what do you call the place?
---A plague upon it---'tis in Gloucestershire---
'Twas where the mad-cap Duke his uncle kept
His uncle York.''</p>
</p>
<p>Performers had been in the habit of pronouncing
the word <u>mag-pies,</u> though the blank verse halted
for it. But Kemble resumed the proper pronunciation
of <u>magot-pies,</u> with an emphasis which made
the audience of ------ look around them in astonishment,
scarcely trusting their ears, and marvelling
how any species of augury could be derived from
what they apprehended to be a stale pasty. Luckily
they were diffident of their own judgment, and only
afforded the new reading their amazement, without
presuming to dissent from it.<p> ``=Northumberland.=At Berkely Castle.---=Hotspur.= _You
say true._''</p>
</p>
<p>One would have thought, _<a`> priori,_ that the grave,
studious, contemplative actor, who personated Hamlet
to the life, could scarcely have assumed the rapidity
and energy, and hurry, and reckless indulgence
of his humour, which are among the chief
ingredients of Henry Percy's character. But
Kemble's profound study of the author enabled
him to seize on the distinguishing features of that
great historical portrait. It cannot now he known
whether Shakspeare gathered from tradition, or
himself conferred on Hotspur the quality of<p> Henry V. was a favourite character of Kemble;
Mr. Boaden says,</p>
<p> ``As a _coup de th<e`>atre,_ his starting up from prayer at the
sound of the trumpet, in the passage where he states his attempted
atonement to Richard the Second formed one of the
most spirited excitements that the stage has ever displayed.
His occasional reversions to the `mad wag,<code> the `sweet young
prince,</code> had a singular charm, as the condescension of one
who could be so terrible.''---=Boaden,= vol ii., p. 8.</p>
<p> We agree entirely with what Mr. Boaden has
here stated. It always struck us that the expression
of self-satisfied humour which Kemble threw
into his countenance, in anticipation of the expected
scuffle which was to take place between Fluellen
and Williams, came as far within the confines of a
comic part, as nature had designed John Kemble
to advance.</p>
<p> On the whole, however, tragedy, and that of the
most stately and majestic character, was the line in
which our departed friend was formed to excel.
He himself entertained a less limited idea of his
powers, and conceived that great study and knowledge
of dramatic writing and of the human character
could qualify a man as well for the sock as
for the buskin. Towards a late period of his life,
he displayed this self-confidence in a singular degree.
He nourished nothing less ambitious, than
an idea of revolutionizing Falstaff by acting the fat
knight on a new principle, and he used to enlarge,
with all the skilful sophistry his profound acquaintance
with the drama could supply, on the points
which he would assume differing from those presented
by Henderson, to whom, however, he uniformly
gave the praise of having presented one of
the richest and most glowing portraits which the
stage in his time had afforded. At one time, when
we were ourselves listening to him on this subject,
an incident took place which those who were present
can scarcely fail to recollect, and which served
to show the strength of Kemble's nerves, and, at
the same time, the deep and overwhelming interest
which he took in professional discussion.</p>
<p> It was at the entertainment annually given by
the Royal Academy, on the day before the opening
of the exhibition of paintings in Somerset House,
on which occasion we need not tell most of our
readers invitations are sent by the academicians to
all the persons of rank and quality who are supposed
to love and encourage the arts, to those who
may be considered as the pillars of literature, and
as some readers may think, to the caterpillars also,
since we, the critics, were honoured with a summons.</p>
<p> The scene, splendid as usual from the beauty and
brilliancy of the works of art which hung around us,
was rendered venerable by the presence of old
West, in his capacity of president, and he was
supported by one of the princes of the blood, and
a brilliant array of nobility and quality, intermingled
with artists and literary men of eminence.
The apartment was illuminated by an immeasurably
large and ponderous bronze chandelier, a gift
from his present Majesty to the Royal Academy.
It exhibited many hundred lamps, and might weigh
two or three tons. It had been recently suspended,
and this was the first time of its being used. Beneath
this huge and splendid chandelier was placed
a sort of gigantic dumb-waiter, on which were arranged
the quantity of wine-glasses, decanters,
water-glasses, and other things of the sort, necessary
for the accommodation of so large a company.</p>
<p> We had the good fortune to sit beside our late
lamented friend, and were listening to the ingenious
distinctions which he was pointing out with great
earnestness and precision, between Falstaff as ``Sir
John to all Europe,''---as one who jested familiarly
with John of Gaunt on his breaking Justice Shallow's
head for crowding among the marshalmen
---as the companion of the Prince of Wales---and
the same Falstaff as the gallant of Doll Tearsheet,
in all the coarse indulgence of the Boar's Head,
where he himself was, as it is usually termed, the
Cock of the Company---``the old boar, in short,
feeding in the old frank.''</p>
<p> While we were listening to this with much edification,
a roar was heard behind us like distant
thunder---the units of the strong chain which suspended
the chandelier were giving way, and became
slackened so much, that it gradually sunk and
came into collision with the dumb-waiter aforesaid---
which was crushed to shivers beneath its weight,
while all the garnishing of the beaufet, like Alnaschar's
stock in trade, was annihilated with a crashing
scream, which might equal that of the dying
elephant. If the absolute fall of the chandelier
had taken place, it would have tried Chambers's
architecture with a vengeance, and beyond a doubt
must have penetrated through the floor to the very
cellars of the building, carrying with it princes,
dukes, painters, poets, musicians, amateurs---and
critics. Fortunately the links of the bronze chain,
though they slacked, did not snap, but the momentary
alarm was considerable. We ourselves,
though, as may be supposed from our profession,
not peculiarly timid, began to think a retreat by
the staircase, though less honourable, might have
its advantage over the posthumous fame of being
recorded among the distinguished victims, as the
papers would doubtless have termed them, ``on
the late awful occurrence.'' But after one calm
glance over his shoulder, our friend, John Kemble,
returned back to Falstaff, and had talked for five
minutes about the Boar's Head and the Tilt Yard,
before we could recover our composure sufficiently
to collect what he was saying, and when he chid
us for inattention, Charles XII.'s rebuke to his
secretary for interrupting a letter at the explosion
of a bomb in the next apartment, could not have
been more coolly uttered. His acting Falstaff would
have given a great treat to those who desired to
see one of the first of critics exemplifying his conception
of one of the most singular parts in the
drama. But that John Kemble could have been
Sir John in the genuine jolly, and jocund sense of
the part, is what we can never conceive.</p>
<p> We must cut short our history of Kemble as an
actor, by brief mention of those Roman characters,
Cato, Brutus, and Coriolanus, by means of which
he transported us to the Capitol, so completely had
he made the habits, manners, and mode of thinking
of the ancients identically his own. They were,
indeed, peculiarly suited to his noble and classical
form, his dignified and stately gesture, his regulated
yet commanding eloquence.<p> ``Pride in each port, defiance in each eye,
You saw the Lords of human kind pass by.''</p>
</p>
<p> To his peculiar art of acting, also, the Roman
character in its various shades afforded great facilities.
There was almost always connected with
it an assumed character, which qualified, if it did
not master, that which nature had assigned to the
individual. The aristocratic pride of Coriolanus,
the patriotic ardour and stoical philosophy of Brutus
and Cato, form each a shade of adventitious and
adopted character, which seems to control the natural
feelings of the heart, and hide, or at least
colour, what cannot be altogether suppressed. The
temperament of Brutus, for example, is naturally
warm, as appears in his quarrel with Cassius; naturally
affectionate, as is displayed in his scene with
Portia. But his stoic mien, arising out of rules
of thought and conduct long since adopted, draws
a veil over both feelings; and his affections are
subdued, though not hidden, by sufferance enjoined
by his philosophy. Other performers might excel
Kemble in the full burst of instant and agitating
passion to which the person represented is supposed
to give the reins upon any direct natural
impulse; but we cannot conceive of any one delineating,
with any thing approaching to the same
felicity, those lofty Romans, feeling and partly
exhibiting, yet on the whole conquering the passions
of nature by the mental discipline to which
they had trained themselves. Those who have
seen Kemble as Cato bend over the body of his
slain son, and subdue the father to assume the
patriot, or have heard him pronounce the few words
in Brutus,<p> ``No man bears sorrow better---Portia's dead,''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>But Kemble contrived to show how well that hurried
and impeded articulation suited the irritability
of the character. It was in the speech in which
Hotspur loses the key-note of what he desires to
say, by forgetting the name of a place---<p> Neither was that slight degree of tardiness,
though ridiculed by Sheridan---when, urging Kemble
for some novelty, he advised him to play <u>Hamlet</u>
with music between the pauses---visible, when,
in the opinion of the actor, the scene required
instant and precipitate exertion. The mode in
which he rushed on the stage in <u>Coriolanus,</u> with
the half breathless cry, ``Am I too late?'' is an
illustration of what we mean, as well as many
similar exertions in Colman's striking piece of the
<u>Mountaineers,</u> and in the grand pantomime of
<u>Rolla.</u> He was, indeed, not only a noble figure
when moving with the stately grace which he
usually maintained, but equally striking when engaged
in violent action. When he condescended
---we must give it that term---to play the part of
Percy in the <u>Castle Spectre,</u> he used, in the scene
where Percy drops back on the couch, just as when
rising to make his spring from the window, to discover
all the address and activity of the most able
pantomimist. The same command of muscle and
limb was far more strikingly exemplified when the
Volscian assassins approaching him from behind in
the very midst of the triumphant vaunt of his repeated
victories over their countrymen, seemed to
pass their swords through the body of Coriolanus.
There was no precaution, no support; in the midst
of the exclamation against Tullus Aufidius, he
dropped as dead and as flat on the stage as if the
swords had really met within his body. We have
repeatedly heard screams from the female part of
the audience when he presented this scene, which
had the most striking resemblance to actual and
instant death we ever witnessed, and saved all that
rolling, gasping, and groaning, which generally
takes place in our theatres, to the scandal of all
foreigners, until at length a stout fellow, exhausted
by his apparent efforts and agonies, lies on his back,
puffing like a grampus, and is to he received as a
heroic corpse.</p>
<p> We must leave John Kemble as a player, to
consider him in the light of a manager,---for the
improved taste which he introduced into the drama
in that capacity will benefit the admirers of the
theatrical art in future times as much as his personal
exertions delighted his contemporaries. In
1788--89, King resigned what was called the
management of Drury Lane Theatre. Honest
Tom---who can remember his Benedick and Lord
Ogleby without pleasure---though the last has had
an excellent substitute? Tom loved gambling,
and fell of course among thieves, who were rather
proud of their trade, as witness the following anecdote:---</p>
<p> ``After playing all night with a sharper, at a fashionable
club, and losing every thing, King discovered that he had been
bubbled, and hinted his suspicions to his antagonist; who
coolly said to him, `I <u>always</u> play with marked cards, why
don't you?' ''---=Boaden,= vol ii., p. 28.</p>
<p> King seems to have been scarcely used better
by his employers, the proprietors, than by his
friends the Greeks. He had the name and responsibility
of stage-manager, but without power to
receive or reject a piece, engage or discharge a
performer, command a coat to be cleaned, or add
a yard of copper-lace to it, though often needed.
Kemble refused to undertake the responsible office
without the necessary authority for the management
of the whole dramatic business. This was
promised, and in some degree granted; but it was
Sheridan who was the promiser; and though, being
then chiefly involved in politics, he was obliged to
leave Kemble much greater latitude than he did
King, he contrived to give him, from time to time,
as much annoyance as a man rigidly true to his
engagements could receive from one whose extraordinary
talents wore blended with so much negligence
and inconsistency. Sheridan's command
over Kemble, founded on the respect due to his
talents, and the art with which he flattered and
conciliated, after offending, disappointing, and
breaking faith with him, was exercised in no creditable
manner. Perfectly guileless, devoid---not
of spirit, far from it---but of every thing like implacability---
Kemble long struggled under the difficulties
which attended every management in which
Sheridan was concerned. But he pleased himself
with the sense, that his authority, however interfered
with, gave him still the power of doing much
for the improvement of dramatic taste.</p>
<p> Before Kemble's time, there was no such thing
as regular costume observed in our theatres. The
actors represented Macbeth and his wife, Belvidera
and Jaffior, and most other parts, whatever
the age or country in which the scene was laid, in
the cast-off court dresses of the nobility. Kemble
used to say, that the modern dresses of the characters
in the well-known print of a certain dramatic
dagger-scene, made them resemble the butler and
housekeeper struggling for the carving-knife. Some
few characters, by a sort of prescriptive theatrical
right, always retained the costume of their times
---Falstaff, for example, and Richard III. But
such exceptions only rendered the general appearance
of the actors more anomalous. We have seen
<u>Jane Shore</u> acted, with Richard in the old English
cloak, Lord Hastings in a full court dress, with his
white rod like a lord chamberlain of the last reign,
and Jane Shore and Alicia in stays and hoops. We
have seen Miss Young act Zara incased in whale-bone,
to an Osman dressed properly enough as a
Turk, while Nerestan, a Christian knight in the
time of the Crusades, strutted in the white uniform
of the old French guards. These incongruities
were perhaps owing to the court of Charles II.
adopting, after the Restoration, the French regulation,
that players being considered as in the presence
of their sovereign, should wear the dress of
the court drawingroom, while in certain parts the
old English custom was still retained, which preserved
some attempt at dressing in character.
Kemble reformed all those anachronisms, and
prosecuted with great earnestness a plan of reforming
the wardrobe of the stage, collecting with indefatigable
diligence from illuminated manuscripts,
ancient pictures, and other satisfactory authorities,
whatever could be gleaned of ancient costume
worthy of being adopted on the theatre. Rigid
and pedantic adherence to the dresses of every age
was not possible or to be wished for. In the time
when Lear is supposed to have lived, the British
were probably painted and tattooed, and, to be
perfectly accurate, Edgar ought to have stripped
his shoulders bare before he assumed the character
of poor Tom. Hamlet, too, if the Amlethus of
Saxo Grammaticus, should have worn a bear skin
instead of his inky suit and whatever Macbeth's
garb should have been, of course a philabeg could
have formed no part thereof. But as the poet,
carrying back his scene into remote days, retains
still, to a certain extent, the manners and sentiments
of his own period, so it is sufficient for the
purpose of costume if every thing he avoided
which can recall modern associations, and as much
of the antique he assumed as will at once harmonize
with the purpose of the exhibition, and in so
far awaken recollections of the days of yore as to
give an air of truth to the scene. Every theatrical
reader must recollect the additional force which
Macklin gave to the Jew at his first appearance in
that character, when he came on the stage dressed
with his red hat, peaked beard and loose black
gown, a dress which excited Pope's curiosity, who
desired to know in particular why he wore a red
hat. Macklin replied modestly, because he had
read that the Jews in Venice were obliged to wear
hats of that colour. ``And pray, Mr. Macklin,''
said Pope, ``do players in general take such pains?''
---``I do not know, sir,'' replied Macklin, ``that
they do, but as I had staked my reputation on the
character, I was determined to spare no trouble
in getting at the best information.'' Pope expressed
himself much pleased.</p>
<p> During his whole life, Kemble was intent on
improving, by all means which occurred, the accuracy
of the dresses which he wore while in character.
Macbeth was one of the first plays in which
the better system of costume was adopted, and he
wore the Highland dress, as old Macklin had done
before him. Many years afterwards, he was
delighted when, with our own critical hands, which
have plucked many a plume besides, we divested
his bonnet of sundry huge bunches of black feathers,
which made it look like an undertaker's cushion,
and replaced them with the single broad quill feather
of an eagle sloping across his noble brow; he
told us afterwards that the change was worth to
him three distinct rounds of applause as he came
forward in this improved and more genuine head-gear.</p>
<p> With the subject of dress, modes of disposing
and managing the scenes are naturally connected:
and here, also, Kemble, jealous of the dignity of
his art called in the assistance of able artists, and
improved in a most wonderful degree the appearance
of the stage and the general effect of the piece
in representation. Yet, in our opinion, the Muse
of Painting should be on the stage the handmaid
not the rival of her sisters of the drama. Each art
should retain its due predominance within its own
proper region. Let the scenery be as well painted,
and made as impressive as a moderate sized stage
will afford: but when the roof is raised to give the
the scene painter room to pile Pelion upon Ossa;
when the stage is widened that his forests may be
extended, or deepened that his oceans may flow in
space apparently interminable, the manager who
commands these decorations is leaving his proper
duty, and altering entirely the purpose of the stage.
Meantime, as the dresses ought to be suited to the
time and country, the landscape and architecture
should be equally coherent. Means may, besides,
be discovered from time to time tending to render
the scenic deception more effective, and the introduction
of such must he advantageous, provided
always that this part of theatrical business be kept
in due subordination to that which is strictly dramatic.</p>
<p> Processions and decorations belong to the same
province as scenes and dresses, and should be heedfully
attended to, but at the same time kept under,
that they may relieve the action of the scene, instead
of shouldering aside the dramatic interest.
Kemble carried his love of splendour rather to the
extreme, though what he introduced was generally
tasteful and splendid. He sacrificed perhaps his
own opinion to the humour of the audience, and to
the tempting facilities which the size of the modern
theatres afford for what is called spectacle.</p>
<p> <u>Macbeth</u> was, as has been hinted, one of the first
of the old stock plays which he brought forward
in this splendid manner, and in many respects it
was admirably suited for such a purpose. The
distant approach of Macbeth's army, as well as
the apparitions of the cavern, were very well managed.
By causing the descendants of the murdered
thane to pass behind a screen of black crape,
he diminished their corporeal appearance, and
emulated the noble lines of Collins:---<p> ``From thence he sung how, 'mid his bold design,
Before the Scot, afflicted and aghast,
The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd.''</p>
</p>
<p> Things occurred, however, even in this fine
spectacle, which show that matters of show and
pageantry have their own peculiar risks. At first
Kemble had introduced four bands of children, who
rushed on the stage at the invocation of the witches,
to represent the<p> ``Black spirits and white,
Blue spirits and grey.''</p>
</p>
<p> There was perhaps little taste in rendering these
a<e:>rial beings visible to the bodily eye, especially
when the same manager had made an attempt to
banish even the spectre of Banquo. But he was
obliged to discard his imps for an especial reason.
Mr. Kelly informs us, that, egged on, and encouraged
by one of their number, a black-eyed urchin,
ycleped Edmund Kean, they made such confusion
on the stage that Kemble was fain to dismiss them
to the elements. Another failure we ourselves
witnessed---a whimsical failure---in this piece,
which we may mention as a warning to those managers
who put too much faith in such mechanical
aids. It occurred when the armed head ought to
have arisen, but when, though the trap-door gaped,
no apparition arose. The galleries began to hiss;
whereupon the scene-shifters in the cellarage, redoubling
their exertions, and overcoming, perforce,
the obstinacy of the screw which was to raise the
trap, fairly, out of too great and urgent zeal, overdid
their business, and produced before the audience,
at full length, the apparition of a stout man,
his head and shoulders arrayed in antique helmet
and plate, while the rest of his person was humbly
attired after the manner of a fifth-rate performer
of these degenerate days,---that is to say, in a dimity
waistcoat, nankeen breeches, and a very dirty pair
of cotton stockings. To complete the absurdity,
the poor man had been so hastily promoted that
he could not keep his feet, but prostrated himself
on his nose before the audience, to whom he was
so unexpectedly introduced.</p>
<p> The effect of this accident was not recovered
during the whole evening, though the play was
performed with transcendant ability.</p>
<p> Kemble, though, from a natural turn for magnificence,
he was somewhat too apt to indulge this
love of show, often contrived to cater at the same
time for those who admired in preference the legitimate
scenes of the drama. <u>Henry VIII.</u> was
produced chiefly on account of the processions:
but who would not forgive any motive which could
contribute to bring forward such complete personifications
as Mrs. Siddons and her brother presented
in Cardinal Wolsey and Queen Catherine? The
trial scene and dying scene of the immortal actress
were among the most splendid displays of her unrivalled
excellence, and for Kemble's Wolsey, it
was reality itself; you saw the full-blown dignity
of the ambitious statesman sink at once before the
regal frown, and you felt at the same moment that
he had received the death wound. He seemed to
totter and grow less before the eyes of the spectator;
you saw that the spear he had leaned upon
had pierced his side. Unhappily, although they
were thus frequently combined, the taste for show
prevailed over that for the legitimate drama. A
display of splendour in the one theatre provoked
rival magnificence in the other, and the example
entailed ruinous expense on both. While Drury
and Covent Garden merely contended for the superiority
in theatrical talent, their expenses were
within limit; but when the outlay was extended to
splendour of procession and complication of artillery,
there could be no end to the conflict but ruin;
and all that is gained by such extravagance is to
pervert the taste of the public. The burning of
towers, and charging with cavalry, and the introduction
of elephants, lions, and other inhabitants of
the menagerie ought to be confined to pantomime.
We have heard that, in Schiller's <u>Robbers,</u> as acted
on a certain German stage, the hero rushed in at
the head of thirty horse; but we would only ask
how an actor so situated is to be seen or heard?
Let any one observe how difficult it is to distinguish
the captain when at the head of a real troop
of dragoons, and he will see at once how completely
the presence of numbers destroys the idea of that
personal importance which is so necessary to the
effect of an actor. What then is to be done when
an army or any other large assembly must be addressed?
The common resource is to draw up half
a dozen men along the flat scene, who stand there
with pale countenances, as stiff as upon the parade,
till the speech is finished, and then---right about
---forward---and off they stalk as if to relieve guard.
We have been tempted to think something better
than this might be contrived. Suppose two or
three armed figures were exhibited as seen partially
betwixt the side scenes, with lances and banners
projecting over their heads, so as to suggest to the
imagination of the audience the leaders of columns
stationed in readiness to advance, and give some
idea of numbers attendant on their chieftain. But
it is our business---a mischievous one, if you will---
to criticize existing imperfections rather than submit
expedients to the critical powers of others.
In the business of the green-room, Kemble, as
manager, was gentlemanlike, accurate, and regular,
but somewhat strict; for, as he had in his private
capacity as actor taken contentedly whichever parts
were assigned him, he conceived himself entitled
to expect the same compliance with his own arrangements;
and, with these, amidst the little
contentions and jealousies which must creep into
what may be called a hand of intellectual gladiators,
who contend with each other to win the popular
suffrage of crowded audiences, human passions
not seldom interfered. We once had a long conversation
with him on this subject, in which he
complained, that there was not the same classification
of performers in England that had been formed
on the continent. Our theatres were, said John,
like eastern regions, where all must be half-deified
sultans, viziers, and bashaws, or depressed and
sullen slaves. In England, the actor who represents
Laertes or Horatio is considering himself all the
while as a degraded man, because he is not the
Hamlet of the evening. In France, on the other
hand, there is a race of actors who either never
aspire to more than secondary parts, or, if they
have any hope of so aspiring, endeavour to recommend
themselves by the superior manner in which
they discharge the subordinate characters meanwhile
intrusted to them: whereas the English performer
too often acts carelessly, and sometimes
malignantly neglects to support by due exertion
the interest of the scene, with a rival whom he
thinks unjustly preferred to himself. Kemble mentioned
on this occasion, that, being behind the
scenes at the Com<e'>die Fran<c,>aise along with Talma,
he observed an individual conning his part with
great attention, rehearsing it with different tones
and actions, and, in short, so sedulous in his rehearsal,
that it seemed he had some most important
part to perform. Being greatly struck with the
actor's assiduity, he inquired what weighty character
this hard student was to represent? Talma
informed him that he had only to say five words,
``Madam, the coach is ready;'' and that, notwithstanding
the brevity and seeming unimportance of
his part, whatever it might be, this man uniformly
spent much time in studying and adjusting the
action, tone, and manner of delivering himself. In
short, the English actor thinks himself positively
sunk and injured when obliged to perform a part
of little consequence; the Frenchman, with happier
vanity, considers that he may exalt any part
by his mode of playing it, and obtain at least such
share of applause as may show that he too is a
painter, though exercising his powers for the nonce
on a limited scale. It is needless to say which
system gives most effect to the scene: for, if it may
be questioned whether the French or English stage
has afforded the greatest actors taken individually,
there can be no doubt that your Parisian theatre
presents a company so completely drilled to work
together, each doing his best to support the rest,
that the whole entertainment is more illusive, and
more captivating, than if one or two stars, as they
are called, had shown themselves amidst a general
darkness of ignorance, carelessness, and ill-humour.
There is also this convenience in the French mode
---_concordi<a^> res parv<ae> crescunt_---by uniform and
habitual co-operation, a company of even ordinary
powers may at any time make a better amusement
out of a well-cast comedy suited to their different
talents, than when a single part is performed with
excellence, and the rest <u>walked trough</u> or hurried
over.</p>
<p> But Kemble's anxiety as a manager made him
sometimes too busy; he was apt to be drilling the
performers even during the time of the performance;
a mode of mixing the duties of actor and
manager which ought never to be suffered, as it
checks the spirit of the superior performer's own
part, while it sadly deranges the inexperienced
actor, terrifies the modest, and doubly confuses
the dull or negligent. Who can forget how Mrs.
Siddons in her noviciate was appalled, almost
annihilated, by the <u>aside</u> frown of Garrick? We
ourselves remember to have seen a very pleasing
looking young person much disturbed by Kemble's
directions about lifting and lowering the sword in
the scene betwixt the princess Anne and Richard.</p>
<p> Mr. Kemble, in the winter season of 1784--5, was
superseded in his temporary character of manager
by King's return to that situation. But in 1788--9,
the veteran finally retreated from the office, and
from that time Kemble remained manager of Drury
Lane until 1796, when the irregularity with which
the proprietors managed their pecuniary matters,
and their frequent interference with his authority,
induced him to resign the situation. He again
returned to the thankless office in 1800--1, with
some intention of obtaining a secure hold by purchasing
one fourth part of the whole concern. This
plan failed; and, in 1802, Kemble finally retired
from Drury Lane, and made a purchase of a fourth
share of the Covent Garden patent. He was now not
only a manager, but a large proprietor, a speculation
which, producing some difficulties, afterwards
interfered with the quiet of his declining years.
As stated by Mr. Boaden, it may be wondered
why, with no expensive habits, with professional
emoluments to the amount of about <L>3000 a-year,
and with a considerable sum of money saved, without
which he could not have made the purchase,
this amiable and good-tempered man should have
involved his whole fortune in a property which he
knew to be so very precarious that he himself
always talked of it as a lottery, and confined himself
for life to the duty of management which he
had often felt to be accompanied by intolerable
grievances. But John Kemble was a sworn votary
to the drama; and though he certainly did bow
the knee to Baal in becoming an encourager of the
inordinate rage for spectacle, which at once impoverished
the concern and debauched the public
taste, he laboured hard, on the other hand, to bring
forward ancient pieces which he thought might be
revived with renewed interest. He had undoubtedly
the laudable wish to raise as high as possible
the art to which, as much from the excellence of
his personal, as of his professional character, he
was an honour. Kemble may be, therefore, considered
as having, with his eyes open, made a sacrifice
of fortune, of peace of mind and of the bodily
ease which frequent fits of the gout rendered desirable,
in order to sustain the honour of his art.</p>
<p> The discomfort to which he was exposed never
fretted his temper and not even the gout itself,
mistress of men's purposes and their actions too in
most cases, could conquer his strong resolution to
do his duty towards the public. He used to take
the somewhat hazardous medicine _l'eau m<e'>dicinale
d'Husson_ without hesitation so as to enable him
to perform the very day after his malady had made
its most severe attacks. It could not but happen
that he was sometimes less equal to his part than
at others, and such an occasional failure led to a
painful dispute, which for some time created a
breach between him and his friend George Colman
the Younger. We mention the subject, not with
the purpose of raking up the recollections which
both parties had buried, but because Mr. Boaden is
a little mistaken in some of the particulars. When
Mr. Colman brought forward his play of the <u>Iron
Chest,</u> founded on the masterpiece of Godwin's
genius, <u>Caleb Williams,</u> he put into the mouth of
one of the characters a description of the antiquarian
humours of Mortimer, the Falkland of the
play, which part was to be performed by Kemble:<p> ``Philip is all deep reading, and black letter;
He shows it in his very chin. He speaks
Mere dictionary; and he pores on pages
That give plain men the head-ache. `Scarce and curious'
Are baits his learning nibbles at. His brain
Is crammed with mouldy volumes, cramp and useless,
Like a librarian's lumber-room.''</p>
</p>
<p> Kemble conceived that these lines were unnecessarily
introduced, as throwing ridicule on his
antiquarian lore; and Colman, upon his remonstrance,
changed the name of Sir Philip to Sir
<u>Edward</u> Mortimer, as it now stands. But the
smartest wag that ever broke a pun should beware
of exercising his wit upon his physician, his lawyer,
or the actor who is to perform in his play. Kemble,
unwell and out of humour, acted negligently a part
which requires violent exertion. The irritated
dramatist published the play with an angry preface,
and the actor responded. But a quarrel betwixt
the author of <u>Octavian</u> and John Kemble was too
unnatural; they became sensible they had both been
wrong, and were reconciled, and the preface was
so effectually cancelled, that the price of a copy in
which it remains, astounds the novice when it
occurs in the sale room.</p>
<p> Of Mr. Kemble as a manager, we have only further
to say, that equally unsparing of his labour,
and regardless of the ill-will which he excited
among those who suffered by his economy, he
carried retrenchment and good order into every
department of the theatre.</p>
<p> The good public in the meantime, though returning
ever and anon to Shakspeare and common
sense, were guilty of two or three grand absurdities,
such as became the worthy descendants of
those whose fathers crowded the Haymarket
Theatre, to see a man get into a quart-bottle,<*> and</p>
</p>
<p>Through all this confusion of mangled recollections,
Kemble chafed and tumbled about his words with
the furious impatience of an angry man who has
to seek for a pen at the very moment he is about
to write a challenge, and is angry at himself and
every one else because so petty a want impedes
for a moment his thirst of vengeance. Then the
delight with which he grasped at the word when
suggested---</p>
<p>The manner in which Kemble spoke those three
words, and rushed forward into his abuse of Bolingbroke,
like a hunter surmounting the obstacle
which had stopped his career, was electrical. It
was like a greyhound slipped---like a rocket lighted
---like a bolt from a cross-bow. The effect on the
audience was singular. There was a general disposition
to <u>encore</u> so fine a piece of art, as if such
an effort could have been repeated like a song.
The cause of this extraordinary mode of applause
seems to have been, that there being no feelings
excited by the speech, save admiration of the actor's
exquisite skill, it seemed as if that had approached
to an exhibition of ventriloquism, or some
similar turn of address, which could be repeated
on demand: whatever might be the cause, the impulse
was general.<p> <u>Vortigern,</u> a play ascribed to Shakspeare, gave
rise to one of these hallucinations of popular absurdity.
An impudent youth of eighteen, desirous of
imitating Chatterton, it may be supposed, but without
possessing any of his powers, told his father a
story of having recovered certain extremely curious
documents belonging to Shakspeare, presented
to him, as he said, by a benevolent old gentleman,
who had them by inheritance, but would not permit
himself to he referred to or quoted in the affair.
The elder Mr. Ireland, believing, or pretending to
believe, this improbable fiction, put the tale into
circulation, and, like a commercial note, it received
indorsations as it passed from hand to hand, which
strengthened its credit. The pleasure of being
cheated was never more completely indulged.
Without any minute inquiry after the old gentleman
who had been the possessor of these documents;
without reflecting with distrust upon the
extravagance of the liberality which could confer
such literary treasures on a mere boy, and enjoin
at the same time that the donor's person should be
concealed; without examination of the paper of the
manuscript, which, torn as it was out of the blank
leaves of old account hooks, bore different and
recent water-marks---of itself, the very miscellaneous
nature of the Shakspeare relics ought to have
made thinking men pause.</p>
<p> For this was no affair of a few scraps;---a perfect
storehouse of the most curious and interesting
articles was announced---letters---locks of hair---
rings---portraits---books---billets-doux, and, above
all, plays. To render the deception more gross,
Ireland introduced a namesake of his own as
contemporary and friend of Shakspeare, and, we
think, assigned to him the merit of saving the bard
from the risk of drowning in the Avon. People
visited the manuscript, which was shown with the
same guarded precaution that priests use where
they exhibit an idol; and, as they came to be deceived,
the visitors took care not to return without
their errand.</p>
<p> Kemble, warned perhaps by Mr. Malone, escaped
the contagious credulity of the time; and though
he brought <u>Vortigern</u> on the stage, and acted at
the principal character, he was never duped by the
figment of the young forger. The dialogue was
not calculated to impose upon the ear as the manuscript
had bewildered the eye. The piece was
most effectually damned, and its fate excited a
strong prejudice against Kemble among the numerous
body of literati, who had become ridiculous
by their faith in the fiction, as if he had not done
the part of Vortigern that justice which was his
duty. Every one who had the most distant connexion
with this ridiculous business seemed destined
to come to shame: Malone himself, though he
penned a detection of the imposture, was, in the
midst of his triumph, exposed, in his turn, by
George Chalmers, who, even after Ireland confessed
his fraud, wrote an apology for the believers
in the manuscript, showing to demonstration, that
the reasoning of Malone was false in itself, though
brought to establish what was now become undeniable
truth. Even John Kemble, passive as he
was in the affair, continued long to suffer from that
ill-will which ascribed to him the ridicule by which
the believers in those forgeries had been overwhelmed.
Nor must we forget the numerous
class of projectors, who had schemed to connect
their own private emolument with the furtherance
of the deception. These were, years afterwards,
to be found among the personal enemies of Kemble.</p>
<p> Another notable instance of popular humour was
evinced soon after, viz. the violent fever-fit of admiration
which the public exhibited for the young
Roscius, Master Betty, a child certainly of precocious
parts, remarkable for his speech and action,
together with his happy mimicry, for it could at his
age be nothing else, of the language of passions
which he had never felt. It was certainly very
fair playing, and in the circumstances wonderful;
the graceful demeanour and nonchalance of the
almost infantine performer were particularly so.
But it was a deception; and Siddons and Kemble
were neglected, whilst the youthful prodigy trode
the stage in triumph, and afforded the most rapturous
gratification to such audiences as had it in
their power to enjoy the united efforts of the finest
actor and actress in the world. Some ill-humour
was manifested, if we rightly recollect, by a part
of the public, because Mrs. Siddons felt her own
dignity, and did not choose to act with this tender
juvenile for her lover or husband. This temporary
fit of dotage of John Bull was attended with feelings
of dislike as well as neglect to his ancient servant
Kemble: for, when under the influence of an
absurd planet, John is too apt to look with an evil
eye upon all who do not bow down to worship the
god of his immediate idolatry.</p>
<p> This determined dream of folly included a sort
of prospective hope on the part of the admiring
audience, that their treasure would increase in
value as his powers, already so astonishing in boyhood,
should ripen to maturity. But early blossoms
seldom do so; and it was seen in the second
season, that, as the wonderful circumstance of his
youth diminished, Master Betty's attractions became
less. He was prudent, or rather his friends
were; and as he had amassed, in an incredibly short
space, a handsome fortune, they withdrew him
from the scene. He appeared again many years
afterwards, and showed respectable, but far from
striking, powers.</p>
<p> The next great incident in Kemble's history was
occasioned by a deplorable event, or rather one out
of a course of events of the same nature which succeeded
each other rapidly; we mean the sequence
of fires, by which the Pantheon, Opera House,
Covent Garden, and Drury Lane theatres were
burnt down. The wonderful coincidence of time
and circumstance in these fatal accidents made
persons imagine that some incendiary had, in a fit
of zeal of a truly flaming character, undertaken the
destruction of what he might consider as the resorts
of profanity. But any one who has been behind
the scenes of a theatre, and has seen how many
lights are burning in the neighbourhood of scenery,
and other articles of a character peculiarly combustible,
---has been witness, at the same time, to the
explosion of guns and fire-works, scattering risk in
every direction,---and has observed how the shifting
of scenes and alteration of lights are perpetually
threatening to bring them into contact,---will wonder
that so few rather than that so many accidents
of the kind in reality take place. There is, also, to
be considered, the total want of party walls, and
that ample room and scope afforded to the action
of the flames renders fire a more dangerous, as
well as a more probable, event in a theatre than
any where else---unless it be aboard ship. The
same resource against this imminent peril exists in
both cases:---namely, the great number of men
who are perpetually moving about, both behind
the scenes and in a vessel. Numerous accidents
occur weekly, nay daily, in both, which, where
there were fewer eyes to observe, and fewer ready
hands to assist, would produce the most fatal accidents.
It is, we think, Captain Brazen, in the
<u>Recruiting Officer,</u> who hesitates whether he shall
lay out the fortune of his wife in the speculation of
a theatre or a privateer. In some respects there
is the same disadvantage attending either plan---
at an insurance office they must both he ranked
double dangerous.</p>
<p> But the destruction of Covent Garden theatre
was attended with one consequence which we must
always regard as detrimental, in the highest degree,
to the theatrical art. The house was rebuilt on a
plan too ample for its legitimate purpose, and far
too magnificent for the profits which might naturally
be expected from it.</p>
<p> The proprietors of Drury had led the way in this
great and leading error when they reconstructed
that theatre and stage on which Garrick and his
contemporaries had exhibited their astonishing
talents. We remember the old playhouse, and cannot
but regret that the plan had not been, in point
of extent at least, exactly followed. All the nicer
touches of fine acting---the smile, however suppressed---
the glance of passion which escaped from
the actor's eye and indicated the internal emotion
which he appeared desirous to suppress---the
whisper which was heard distinctly through the
whole circle of the attentive audience----are all lost
or wasted in the huge halls which have since arisen.
The finest art of the performer---that of modulating
features, tones, and action to the natural expression
of human passion---is now lost. Extravagant
gestures must he used; excess of rant must be
committed by the best actors in their finest parts;
and even their violence of voice and gesticulation
can hardly make them intelligible to the immense
circle in front.</p>
<p> Nor do we conceive this enlargement of the
theatres to be more favourable to the interest of
the proprietors than to the advantage of the art.
A crowded house ought to be a frequent occurrence
for the purpose of keeping up the appetite of
the public, who are stimulated on such occasions by
the desire of sharing a delight not to he purchased
without some difficulty. But in these immense
Dom-daniels difficulty of access can but rarely
exist:---cold and cheerless vacuity is much more
frequently the effect, even when the number which
can be calculated upon as regular play-going people
are dispersed through their immense spaces. Men
are never stimulated to go thither from the fear
that a neglected opportunity may not return. What
can be done at any time is seldom or never done,
and the appearance of huge half-empty amphi-theatres
must suggest to every one who visits them
the chilling idea of an amusement which has little
attraction. Besides, the dead and unproductive
expense laid out upon ornamental architecture and
accommodation which is seldom wanted, loads the
property and diminishes the productive capital
which ought to be employed in the salaries of the
actors, and other legitimate expenses of the house.</p>
<p> It is also too true that the size of the theatres has
greatly tended to increase the charge justly brought
against them in some respects as injurious to public
morals. Upon the stage the entertainment presented
to the public is of a character far more pure
and correct in point of morality than was formerly
the case. Those by whom it is represented are
generally decorous and often exemplary in their
private conduct: many mingle with and are well
received in the best society; and the personal characters
of respectable performers of this day, may
be most advantageously opposed to those of the
Cibbers and Oldfields of former times, who only
made their way into that species of company where
profligacy is welcome, when accompanied by wit
and the power of giving entertainment.</p>
<p> But what has been gained in point of decorum
on the stage, has, we grieve to say, been lost among
the audience. In an immense house where the business
of the play can only occupy that part of the
company who are near the stage, its proprietors
are tempted to admit, nay, encourage, the attendance
of those who come thither for amusement of
a less harmless nature. Saloons have been introduced,
which are used for little other purpose than
that of assignation: and the most abandoned class
of females are so dispersed throughout the theatre,
and practise their profession with so little appearance
of control, that much arrangement is necessary
on the part of those who wish to make the
female part of their family partakers of a rational
and moral amusement, to place them out of the
reach of hearing and seeing what must be unfit for
their eyes and ears. It may be answered, and with
some truth, that in a corrupted metropolis the presence
of such company as we allude to is in some
degree unavoidable. But, in small theatres, the
decent and well-mannered bear a much larger proportion
to the less accurate part of the audience,
and the delinquents, out-numbered and abashed,
are compelled to behave at least with decency, and
assume an appearance of the virtue which they
have not. By limiting the profuse expense in useless
external magnificence, the proprietors would
also lose the temptation to encourage this part of
their audience, and would not need to plead the
pitiable excuse,<p> ``Our poverty and not our will consents.''</p>
</p>
<p> Whoever has seen the interior of a Parisian
theatre will, and must admit, that they manage
these things better in France.</p>
<p> But the Drury Lane proprietors having set the
example of increasing the extent of their theatre,
those of Covent Garden would not be left behind.
and theirs also rose in a still more expanded and
expensive scale. They were stimulated by emulation,
and like two rival country squires who stand
against each other for an election, went on without
regard to their own interest, straining every nerve
to out-show each other in prodigality of space and
magnificence of architecture. Mr. Boaden has
some sensible remarks on this subject, and compares
them, in the extent of their preparations, to
fishermen, who thought they could not fail to ensure
the miraculous draught of fishes, if they made
but their net large enough to hold them.</p>
<p> It is not impossible that Mr. Kemble's classical
taste, and the high sense which he entertained of
the dignity of his art, induced him to give his
assent too readily to those schemes of magnificence,
which were favoured by his colleagues as the surest
road to profit. The former was soon convinced of
his mistake, beholding that he had only afforded an
opportunity for the further predominance of sound
and show over the real drama. But the others,
who supposed that, in consideration of the additional
expenditure, the public would submit to a
small increase of entrance-money, were doomed to
experience more direct disappointment and mortification.
Of these, however, the chief burden fell
in the first instance upon Kemble himself though
not more accessary than the other proprietors to
the original proposal, and not at all guilty of some
imprudent steps that had been taken in its support.</p>
<p> A blackguard transaction ought to have its name
from the dictionary of the vulgar tongue, and the
continued riot raised about the increase of entrance-money,
which had remained the same for one hundred
years, while all the expenses attending a theatre
were increased in a tenfold proportion, became
the ground of the <u>O. P. row,</u> as was called a continued
riot which lasted sixty-six nights. A large
proportion of the most idle and unthinking of the
audience, lads who escaped from their counters and
desks at the hour of half-price, were joined with
and instigated by others whose purposes were deliberately
hostile to the theatre, and personally malignant
to poor Kemble---for so we may term him,
when his professional duty called him day after day
and night after night, to expose himself to the
determined brutality of a set of rioters, equally
illiberal and implacable, who made him the object
of their marked abuse and violence. This disorderly
crew had for their nominal leader a gentleman
rich in pedigree, but poor enough in understanding
to suffer himself to be made the tool of
such a mob.</p>
<p> At the same time, it must be admitted, the measures
used to quell the rioters in the beginning
were of a most improper complexion. Water-engines
were brought on the stage as if in readiness
to play on the audience, and the highly improper
measure of introducing common bruisers and prize-fighters
into the pit, as another mode of bullying
the company, gave just offence, and drew many
well-meaning auxiliaries to the worser side. Neither
of these injudicious devices had Mr. Kemble's
sanction; he had too much sense and too much
taste. But he reaped almost exclusively the harvest
of odium which they excited. Not contented
with the most violent expressions of hatred and
contempt poured on him from the front of the
house, and displayed on placards, lest their import
should be lost in a din which overpowered the
sound of a full band of musicians (who could only
be known to play by the motion of their arms and
fingers,) another vent for this low-bred malignity
was found in a subscription list for defending the
rioters who might be apprehended and prosecuted.
Here every blackguard might, for subscribing six-pence
or a shilling, indulge himself by announcing
it to be a contribution from an enemy of Black
Jack or King John, or whatever impertinent nickname
he chose to bestow on an accomplished,
simple-hearted, and most honourable man, eminent
for his own acquirements as well as for the delight
which he had afforded the public. At length the
rioters carried their animosity so far as to visit
<u>King John's</u> house every evening after the close
of the play, and alarm the female part of his
family with their war-whoop. Kemble, hearing
himself vociferously called for, resolved, with the
mixture of intrepidity and simplicity which distinguished
his character, ``to go out,'' as he said,
``and speak to them.'' The prudence and affection
of his brother Charles prevented his doing so, or
it is likely that the tempting opportunity afforded
by darkness and confusion, with the exasperated
feelings of the assailants, might have brought about
some desperate catastrophe.</p>
<p> The termination of this extraordinary riot is
well known, The real right of their case, the laws
by which they were protected, the nightly exertions
of the police, though strengthened in an unusual
manner,---all could not protect the proprietors
of the theatre against a mob disciplined with
the most extraordinary pains, taking wonderful precaution
to stop within certain limits, and so well
organized, as to exhibit during the space of almost
three months no appearance of diminishing in their
numbers, or relaxing in their determination. They
had leaders of their own, were managed by a secret
committee, had their regular O. P. dinners, and
O. P. music, which was actually published, their
placards, their rattles, their whistles, their bells,
their cat-calls, and, above all, their bludgeons.
The proprietors were at length compelled to submit
to foes so inveterate;---to modify the proposed
advance to that of a shilling in the boxes, and six-pence
in the pit ticket;---and to renounce, in a
great measure, that plan of private boxes which
gave some chance of making the theatre once again
the resort of the world of fashion. To complete
the picture, and show the malignant and revengeful
temper in which these wild proceedings were
conducted, the rioters insisted that the proprietors
of Covent Garden should dismiss Mr. Brandon, an
old and faithful servant of the house, because, in
his capacity of box-keeper, he had made strenuous
exertions to protect the property and assist the
rights of his employers. Such a conclusion was
worthy of the spirit in which the whole <u>row</u> was
conducted.</p>
<p> We are of opinion that, though Kemble stood
this storm like a man, he also felt it very deeply,
and that his favourite art lost some of its attractions
when he experienced to what unjust humiliation
it subjected him, and that without the possibility
of defence or retaliation. He remained, indeed,
for two years, making every effort to assist
the theatre in its state of depression:---and mighty
were those efforts, for it was during that space
that he brought back _Julius C<ae>sar_ to the stage,
and raised from his ashes the living Brutus. But
in 1812, deeming he had done his part, desirous of
some repose---and not unwilling, perhaps, to make
the public sensible what the theatre might suffer
by his absence---he withdrew himself from London
for nearly two years. In the same year, and just
before his departure, the stage lost its brightest
ornament by the retirement of Mrs. Siddons.</p>
<p> Mr. Kemble's return to the British capital and
stage was triumphant. The pit rose to receive
him, and the boxes poured laurels upon the stage.
He ascended to the very height of popularity, and
was acknowledged as, without dispute, the first
actor in Britain, probably in the world, until Kean
arose to dispute the crown. The youth, activity,
and energy of this new performer, the originality
of his manner, which was in reality a revival of
the school of Garrick, above all, the effects of novelty,
had a great influence on the public mind,
although the opinion of the more sound critics remained
decidedly partial to that performer who
relied for his success on deep and accurate study of
the dramatic art, of the poet's words, and of the
human mind, rather than vehement and forcible action;
which, though it surprises the first or second
time it is witnessed, is apt, when repeated, to have
the resemblance of stage-trick. Perhaps Mr. Kemble's
resolution to retire, even while his powers
seemed to others in their full vigour, was hastened
by the toil which he foresaw it must cost him to
maintain at his age---and with health that was fast
breaking---a contest with a rival in all the vigour
of youth. However this was, Mr. Kemble took
leave of the audience, 23d June, 1817, after acting,
with unabated powers, the character of Coriolanus,
which he probably chose, because in that he could
neither have rival nor successor.</p>
<p> We add, with regret, that neither his health, nor
perhaps his finances, although easy, permitted him
with convenience to close his days in his native
country. Lamented by numerous friends of the
first distinction for character, literature, and rank,
John Kemble retreated to Lausanne, and there
finally fixed his residence.</p>
<p> He made over his share in the theatre to his
brother Charles, and disposed of his dramatic collection
(which some public library should have purchased)
for <L>2000 to the Duke of Devonshire.
He died, 26th February, 1823, in the arms of the
excellent person to whom he had been united for
many years, spent in domestic happiness. Few
men of milder, calmer, gentler disposition, steeled
at the same time with a high sense of honour, and
the nice-timed feelings of a gentleman, are probably
left behind him. Two instances may be selected
from the works before us. A wrong-headed actor,
having challenged him on account of some supposed
injustice, Kemble walked to the field as if to rehearsal,
took his post, and received the fire as unmoved
as if he had been acting the same on the
stage; but refused to return the shot, saying, the
gentleman who wished satisfaction had, he supposed,
got it---he himself desired none. On another
occasion, when defending Miss Phillips against a
body of military gentlemen, whose drunkenness
rendered their gallant attentions doubly disagreeable,
one of them struck at him with his drawn
sabre; a maid-servant parried the blow, and Kemble,
only saying, ``well done, Euphrasia,'' drew his
sword, and taking the young lady under his arm,
conducted her home in safety.<*> As a moral character,</p>
</p>
<p>will at once understand our meaning---to others
we almost despair of explaining it. We would
further remark, that whatever might in some characters
appear tardy, and even stiff in Kemble's
mode of acting, was here natural and proper. The
pause showed the time which philosophy claimed
to obtain her victory over nature; the delay, else
where censured, was in these parts not merely
appropriate---the suspense itself agonized the audience.</p>
<ul>
<li>It may be new spoken out, that the contriver of this notable
<em> <u>hoax</u> was the Duke of Montagu, eccentric in his humour
</em> as well as in his benevolence. The person who appeared was
<em> a poor Scotchman, who had some office about the India
</em> House.---S.<p> We have already given our general opinion of
Mr. Boaden's performance, but have not perhaps
done sufficient justice to the accuracy of his narrative,
and the liberality and truth of his critical
remarks. The style is a little too ambitious---and
sometimes so Gibbonian as rather to indicate, than
distinctly to relate what happened. But with these
imperfections it is a valuable present to the public,
and deserves a place in every dramatic library;
not only as a respectable and liberal history of the
eminent actor whose name the book bears, but as
containing much curious information, a little too
miscellaneously heaped together, concerning the
drama in general.</p>
<p> On one of his incidental topics we must pause
for a moment with delighted recollection. We
mean the readings of the celebrated Le Texier,
who, seated at a desk, and dressed in plain clothes,
read French plays with such modulation of voice,
and such exquisite point of dialogue, as to form a
pleasure different from that of the theatre, but
almost as great as we experience in listening to a
first-rate actor. We have only to add to a very
good account given by Mr. Boaden of this extraordinary
entertainment, that when it commenced,
M. Le Texier read over the _dramatis person<ae>,_
with the little analysis of character usually attached
to each name, using the voice and manner with
which he afterwards read the part. And so accurately
was the key-note given, that he had no need
to name afterwards the person who spoke; the
stupidest of the audience could not miss to recognise
him.</p>
<p> We now approach Michael Kelly, but the play
has taken up so much time that we must curtail
the afterpiece; and we are sorry for it, because it
would he sure to send our readers home in good-humour.
All the world knows that Michael Kelly,
eminently gifted as a musician, who long, with the
assistance of the Storaces and Mrs. Crouch, maintained
the Italian Opera in London, and contributed
his powers to many other musical departments
in the drama, had been educated for five
years in Italy, and had appeared as a singer at
most of the courts on the Continent with good
approbation. So that he can tell the reader many
a tale of foreign parts, of princes, and archdukes,
and emperors, which are well worth listening to.
He has his hair-breadth escapes to tell you, and
his perils by flood and field. Being born an Irishman,
he has some of the reckless humour of his
country, with a large share of its good-nature; gets
into scrapes, scrambles out of them again, and
laughs heartily both at the danger and the escape.
The Memoirs, written undoubtedly by a man of
far inferior talent, recalled to us, nevertheless,
those of Goldoni; nay, often put us in mind of Gil
Blas---not that Mr. Kelly has the least of the
<u>picaro,</u> which in some degree attached to him of
Santillane, but that hanging, as it were, between
the higher and sometimes highest orders, in whose
behalf he exercised his talents, and a class eminently
exposed to variations of society and alternations
of fortune, he has seen the world on both
sides, and has told the result of his observation
with a good deal of light humour. An adventurous
little schooner of this kind, skirring the coast in
search of its own peculiar objects, cannot be
expected to bring back a ponderous or bulky cargo
of wares, consisting of solid efficient value in the
mart of literature. No matter---the smart little
cruiser is the more likely to collect these light
notices of persons and manners in society, which,
if they are not grave in themselves, are eminently
well calculated to relieve works of a graver description.
Not but that Mr. Kelly has added things
worthy the notice of the historian. There are, in
particular, some curious facts concerning the manners
of that well-intentioned but misguided speculator
in politics, Joseph II., which, had we time,
we would willingly pause to introduce.</p>
<p> There is, besides, much concerning music, the
science in which Mr. Kelly has distinguished himself,
which we conceive must be highly interesting
to connoisseurs, and which has afforded ourselves
entertainment---for which we give the author our
hearty thanks---although, like young Pottinger, we
can only wave our hats, and join our applause to
that of others, ``obviously without comprehending
much of what has been going on.'<code> One thing we
do comprehend, which is the advice of the distinguished
Mozart to our hero himself. It seems
that Mr. Kelly, whose natural talents and taste
had been greatly improved by five years</code> residence
in Italy, having originally determined on the stage
as a profession, became ambitious in his prosecution
of musical distinction, and thought of devoting
himself to the mysteries of counterpoint. Mozart
pointed out to him the disadvantage of engaging in
a dry and abstract study, instead of cultivating the
powers of melody with which nature had endowed
him.</p>
<p> `` `Melody is the essence of music,<code> continued he; `I compare
a good melodist to a fine racer, and counterpointists to
hack post-horses: therefore be advised, let _well alone,_ and
remember the old Italian proverb---Chi sa pi<u`>, meno sa--Who
knows most, knows least.</code> The opinion of this great man
made on me a lasting impression.''---=Kelly,= vol. i., p. 225.</p>
<p> Now we, being no musicians, have always been
of the same opinion.<p> ``Mallem convivis qu<a`>m placuisse coquis.''</p>
</p>
<p> It is the proper business of the fine arts to delight
the world at large by their popular effect, rather
than to puzzle and confound them by depth of
learning. For our own part, when we are, in spite
of our snuff-box, detected with closed eyes during
some piece of erudite and complicated harmony,
we are determined not to answer, as heretofore,
that we shut our eyes to open our ears with less
interruption, but boldly to avow, with Jeremy, in
<u>Love for Love,</u> that though ``we have a reasonable
ear for a jig, your solos and sonatas give us the
spleen.'' We will quote Mozart's authority to
silence all reprehension, and</p>
<p> ``We thank thee, Mike, for teaching us that word.''</p>
<p> When Michael Kelly came to England, his musical
talent speedily gained him distinction and
employment; Mr. Boaden gives the following
account of his proficiency:</p>
<p> ``It often happens in music, that the sweetest organ loads
to nothing brilliant, and that truth of tone, and flexibility,
and compass, achieve perfection in the art. Something like
this was true of Kelly. His voice had amazing power and
steadiness; his compass was extraordinary. In vigorous passages
he never cheated the ear with the feeble wailings of falsetto,
but sprung upon the ascending fifth with a sustaining
energy, that often electrified an audience. Some of my readers
will remember an instance of this in the air, sung <u>only</u> by
himself `Spirit of my sainted sire,' where the fifth was upon
the syllable <u>saint.</u> The Conservatore at Naples, in which he
passed five years of his youth, gave him all that science could
add to an original love for the art; and Apprili, the best master
of any age, completed the studies of the young musician.
He was soon versed in all the intricacies of the Italian conversation
pieces and finales, and acquired the reputation upon
the continent of being an excellent tenor.''---=Boaden,= vol. i.,
pp. 350, 351.</p>
<p> Thus accomplished, he easily came to take a distinguished
lead in the musical world, and his line
connected him in a like degree with the various
theatres. True it is that fortune was humorous,
and did not always smile upon Michael, though he
courted her in every possible shape. He gives a
very diverting account of his pursuits, and the
emoluments which attended them, in a dialogue
betwixt him and the Commissioners of the income-tax,
a set of gentlemen eminent some years since
for the interest they took in prying into the concerns
of other folks.</p>
<p> Mr. Kelly, in the pride of his heart, had reported
his income as amounting to <L>500 yearly; but the
unreasonable commissioners were not contented,
and urged that his various employments must bring
hime twice or thrice that annual sum. The push
and parry are as well maintained as between Tilburina
and her father in the <u>Critic.</u></p>
<p> `` `Sir,<code> said I, `I am free to confess I have erred in my
return, but vanity was the cause, and vanity is the badge of
all my tribe. I have returned myself as having <L>500 per annum,
when, in fact, I have not five hundred pence of certain
income.</code></p>
<p> `` `Pray, sir,<code> said the commissioner, `are you not stage-manager
of the Opera-house?</code></p>
<p> `` `Yes, sir,<code> said I; `but there is not even a nominal salary
attached to that office; I perform its duties to gratify my love
of music.</code></p>
<p> ``Well, but, Mr. Kelly,<code> continued my examiner, `you
teach?</code></p>
<p> `` `I do, sir,<code> answered I; `but I have no pupils.</code></p>
<p> `` `I think,<code> observed another gentleman, who had not spoken
before, `that you are an oratorio and concert singer?</code></p>
<p> `` `You are quite right,<code> said I to my new antagonist, `but
I have no engagement.</code></p>
<p> `` `Well, but at all events,<code> observed my first inquisitor,
`you have a very good salary at Drury Lane.</code></p>
<p> `` `A very good one, indeed, sir,<code> answered I; `but then it
is never paid.</code></p>
<p> `` `But you have always a fine benefit, sir,<code> said the othor,
who seemed to know something of theatricals.</code></p>
<p> `` `Always, sir,' was my reply; `but the expenses attending
it are very great, and whatever profit remains after defraying
them, is mortgaged to liquidate debts incurred by building my
saloon. The fact is, sir, I am at present very like St. George's
Hospital, supported by voluntary contributions; and have
even less certain income, than I telt sufficiently vain to return.' ''
---=Kelly,= vol. ii., pp. 189--191.</p>
<p> Well done, Michael---<u>a brave, brave et demi.</u>
We see the dismayed commissioners gazing on
each other with dejected and embarrassed aspects,
while Mike walks out of the room humming the
<u>motivo</u> of some meditated composition---=cantavit
vacuus.=</p>
<p> To be sure, this was being in the case of the
conjurer who could devour any quantity of fire,
but was unable to procure bread to eat. But it is
explained by the connexion of Kelly as a composer
with the celebrated Sheridan.</p>
<p> That comet of eccentric genius was Kelly's patron
friend, sometimes partner, and often companion;
and how could he thrive, in a worldly sense,
with such a principal? The senator and statesman
was continually bringing the poor composer into
scrapes by his utter neglect of economy, and hitching
him out again by ingenuity such as none but
he possessed. Some of his tricks on Kelly were,
however, sufficiently harmless. On one occasion,
to adorn some burletta, Kelly had to sing a song,
which Sheridan was to introduce by a speech; and
the actor requested, as a particular favour, his part
might be as short as possible. This jumped with
Sheridan's humour, and the speech was accompanied
by a stage direction, enjoining Kelly to
gaze for a moment at a cottage in the distance,
and to proceed thus: ``Here stands my Louisa's
cottage---and she must be either in it or out of it.''
The audience were much amused at this sublime
and solitary speech.---(Vol. ii., p. 63.)</p>
<p> Some other good jokes passed betwixt the wit
and the melodist. When Kelly had a dangerous fall
on the stage, Sheridan alleged that he exclaimed:
``And if I had been killed now, who was to maintain
me for the rest of my life?'' Though he
allowed his friend the confusion of ideas commonly
imputed to the Green Isle, he would not permit
him to possess its dialect; for one night, when
Kelly performed an Irish character, Sheridan
called to compliment him upon his excellent English.
On another occasion, Sheridan was to have
an audience of the late King, on theatrical business,
for which purpose his present Majesty condescended
to propose carrying him down at an appointed hour
to Windsor. In order that Sheridan might be
near Canton House, and sure of keeping his appointment
at twelve next day, Kelly, retiring to sleep
in the country, gave up his own bed in Pall Mall
to his patron. But, unluckily, Sheridan detected
in Michael's pantry a cold neck of mutton, together
with a comfortable reserve of five bottles of port,
two of Madeira, and one of brandy, all which he
consumed with a brace of jolly companions, and,
busied with poor Kelly's good cheer, quite neglected,
and indeed incapacitated himself for the
purpose for which he had borrowed his lodgings.---
Vol ii., p. 223. A still more severe joke was his
subjecting Kelly to be arrested for an upholsterer's
bill with which he had no personal concern. But
Sheridan, on this occasion, did his friend ample
justice. He not only persuaded the upholsterer to
release Kelly, but, to punish the citizen for his
unjust and ungenerous arrest, he borrowed two
hundred pounds of him.</p>
<p> One more extraordinary anecdote of this singular
compound of genius and carelessness, and we have
done.</p>
<p> <u>Pizarro</u> was brought forward as the stay and
prop of Drury; all the boxes were bespoke and
the scenery prepared; and still Kelly had not been
supplied with one word of the songs for which he
was to compose music, and the half-distracted composer
dunned the bard in vain. Some hope was
afforded by a summons at ten o'clock one evening,
when Sheridan carried him off from a choice party
just at the sweetest hour of the night, but it was
only to show him the Temple of the Sun, through
the vapours of a large bowl of negus which the
bard had planted in the critics' row of the empty
pit. At length they got to work, and a curious
process it was. ``Here,'' said Sheridan, ``I design
a procession of the virgins of the sun, with a solemn
hymn.'' Kelly sung a bar or two suitable for the
occasion.</p>
<p> ``He (Sheridan) then made a sort of rumbling noise with his
voice (for he had not the slightest idea of turning a tone,) resembling
a deep, gruff bow, wow, wow; but though there was
not the slightest resemblance of an air in the noise he made,
yet so clear were his ideas of effect, that I perfectly understood
his meaning, though conveyed through the medium of
a bow, wow, wow.''---=Kelly,= vol ii., pp. 145, 146.</p>
<p> Cora's song Sheridan <u>did</u> supply; and Kelly got
some song-wright to <u>do</u> the rest after the ideas
which he had collected from these ``bow, wow,
wows.'' By the way, the choral hymn of these
same virgins, vol. ii., p. 193, the same which in
<u>Peeping Tom</u> is set to the words of Pretty Maud,
is erroneously termed by Mr. Kelly a Scotch air.
It is an English ballad of the reign of George I.,
on the catastrophe of the celebrated pirate, beginning<p> ``My name is Captain Kidd,
When I sail'd, when I sail'd,'' &c.</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>these were among the most powerful causes that
tended to obstruct the effect of Mr. Kemble's exertions
to restore the reign of good taste in dramatic
matters.</p>
<ul>
<li>Kelly's Reminiscences, vol. ii., p. 148.<p> Talk after this of being hunted with printers'
devils, with ``more copy, sir---the press stands;''
pshaw.</p>
<p> There are good anecdotes of many literary
characters in this amusing miscellany. Some mistakes
there must be: such, for example, is the
statement that Mr. Lewis, author of the <u>Monk,</u> was
poisoned by two favourite negroes, to whom he
had bequeathed their liberty, and who became impatient
for their legacy. That amiable, though
odd man, died of sea-sickness as he returned from
visiting his estate in the West Indies, where it is
most certain he had exerted himself to improve the
condition of his slaves. The disease was aggravated
by his persisting in a fatal opinion of his
own, that taking emetics would remove the nausea.</p>
<p> There is a very diverting account of a party at
Mr. Cumberland's, near Tunbridge, with Jack
Bannister; how the veteran read the <u>Men of Mirth,</u>
a new play, instead of opening a fresh bottle; how
Kelly fell asleep during the reading; and what
effect his snoring produced on the sensitive nerves
of the poet; with much more to the same purpose.</p>
<p> Mr. Kelly's style of story-telling is smart and
lively, a little protracted now and then, as will
happen to a professed narrator. In point of propriety
we have only one stricture to make: the
author ought to have spared us his sentimental
lamentation over poor Mrs Crouch; it is too much
in the line of Kotzebue morality. We never wish
to press ourselves into the private intrigues and
arrangements of public performers but the joys or
sorrows which attend such connexions must not be
blazoned as matters of public sympathy. There is
bad taste in doing so. Mr. Kelly has told us many
good stories, we beg to requite him with one of
Northern growth. A young man in the midland
counties of Scotland, boorishly educated and home-bred,
succeeded in due time to his father's estate,
and, as the <u>lairdship</u> was considerable began to be
looked on as desirable company in the houses of
those prudent matrons who have under their charge
one, or more than one,<p> ``Penniless lass, wi' a lang pedigree.''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>his integrity was unsullied; and the whole
tenor of his life was equally honourable to himself
and useful to his art. At proper times and in gentlemen's
society, he could show himself one of the
old social school, who loved a cup of wine without
a drop of allaying Tiber; but this was only, as Ben
Jonson says, to give spirit to literary conversation;
and, indeed, when we have heard Kemble pour
forth the treasures of his critical knowledge over a
bottle, we were irresistibly reminded of the author
of <u>Epicene</u> giving law at the Mermaid or the
Apollo.<p> A variety of persons are mentioned in Kelly's
<u>Memoirs,</u> whose public exhibitions have given an
hour of pleasure to conclude the human day of
care, and who, in their private capacity, have enlightened
the social circle, and afforded gravity
itself a good excuse for being out of bed at midnight.
Of these some are still labouring in their
old walk; Liston, for example, whose face is a
comedy, and whose mere utterance makes a jest out
of dulness itself; and Charles Matthews, driven
from the public stage to make way for puppets and
pageants, and compelled to exert his talents, so
extraordinary for versatility and inexhaustible resource,
in making his own fortune instead of enriching
the patentees.<*> Others enjoy a well-won</p>
</p>
<p>At last, while <u>Pizarro</u> was in the act of being performed,</p>
<p>``all that was written of the play was actually rehearsing, and
incredible as it may appear, until the end of the fourth act,
neither Mrs. Siddons, nor Charles Kemble, nor Barrymore,
had all their speeches for the fifth! Mr. Sheridan was upstairs
in the prompter's room, where he was writing the last part of
the play, while the earlier parts were acting; and every ten
minutes he brought down as much of the dialogue as he had
done, piece-meal, into the green-room, `abusing himself and
his negligence, and making a thousand winning and soothing
apologies, for having kept the performers so long in such painful
suspense.''---=Kelly,= vol. ii., p.148, 147.</p>
<p>One of this class, a lady of considerable rank,
was, in the intervals of a formal entertainment,
endeavouring to make the wealthy young cub a
little more at ease by the ordinary jokes on his
celibacy, and exhortations to take a wife with all
speed. The interest which her ladyship seemed
to take in the matter induced the sapient youth to
explain his ideas of domestic convenience in these
emphatic words, drawled out in the broad Angus
dialect, without the least sense of impropriety,
``Na, my leddy; wives is <u>fashious</u> bargains---but
I keep a missie.'' We leave the application to the
Signor Kelly.</p>
<ul>
<li>Mr. Matthews died in July, 1835.</li>
</ul>
<p>independence in the quiet shade of retirement.
There is Jack Bannister, honest Jack, who in
private character, as upon the stage, formed so
excellent a representation of the national character
of Old England---Jack Bannister, whom even
foot-pads could not find it in their heart to injure.<*></p>
<ul>
<li>This distinguished performer and best of good fellows was
<em> actually stopped one evening by two foot pads, who recognizing
</em> in his person the general favourite of the English audience,
<em> begged his pardon and wished him good-night. Horace's wolf
</em> was a joke to this.</li>
</ul>
<p>There he is, with his noble locks, now as remarkable
when covered with snow as when their dark
honours curled around his manly face, singing to
his grand-children the ditties which used to call
down the rapture of crowded theatres in thunders
of applause. There is the other Jack, too, who
discriminated every class and character of his
countrymen, with all the shades which distinguish
them, from the high-bred Major O'Flaherty,<*> down</p>
<ul>
<li>See <u>Note, ante,</u> part iii., p. 281.</li>
</ul>
<p>to Loony MacTwolter---he, too, enjoys <u>otium cum
dignitate.</u> The recollection of past mirth has in it
something sorrowful; the friends with whom we
have shared it are gone; and those who promoted
the social glee must feel their powers of enlivening
decrease as we feel ours become less susceptible
of excitement. Others there are mentioned in
these pages whom ``our dim eyes seek in vain;''
their part has been played; the awful curtain has
dropped on them for ever.<p> It must be interesting, therefore, to the public,
to know the history and character of that rarest of
all writers in the present age---a successful tragic
author; by which, we understand, one whose piece
has not only received ephemeral success, but has
established itself on the stage as one of the best
acting plays in the language. There is also much
of interest about Home himself, as his character is
drawn, and his habits described, in the essay prefixed
to these volumes, by the venerable author of
the <u>Man of Feeling,</u> who, himself very far advanced
in life,<*> still cherishes the love of letters, and condescends</p>
</p>
<p><title>
Life and Works of John Home.<! p103><*></p>
<ul>
<li>Article---The Life and Works of the Author of Douglas,
<em> edited by the venerable Henry Mackenzie, appeared in 3 vols.
</em> 8vo, in 1824; and this article in the Quarterly Review for
* June, 1827.<p> Neither is it only to Scotland that these annals
are interesting. There were men of literature in
Edinburgh before she was renowned for romances,
reviews, and magazines---<p> ``Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnona;''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p><text>
The memory of Mr. Home, as an author, depends,
in England, almost entirely upon his celebrated
tragedy of Douglas, which not only retains
the most indisputable possession of the stage, but
produces a stronger effect on the feelings of the
audience, when the parts of Douglas and Lady
Randolph are well filled, than almost any tragedy
since the days of Otway. There maybe something
of chance in having hit upon a plot of such general
interest, and no author has been more fortunate in
seeing the creatures of his imagination personified
by the first performers which England could produce.
But it is certain, that to be a favourite with
those whose business it is to please the public, a
tragedy must possess, in a peculiar degree, the
means of displaying their powers to advantage; and
it is equally clear, that the subject of Douglas, however
felicitous in itself, was well suited to the talents
of the writer, who treated it so as to enable them
to accomplish a powerful effect on the feelings of
successive generations of men.<p> It is to this distinguished circle, or, at least, to
the greater part of its members, that Mr. Mackenzie
introduces his readers; and they must indeed
be void of curiosity who do not desire to know
something more of such men than can be found in
their works, and especially when the communication
is made by a contemporary so well entitled to
ask, and so well qualified to command, attention.
We will endeavour, in the first place, to give some
account of Mr. Home's life and times, as we find
them detailed by this excellent biographer, and
afterwards more briefly advert to his character as
an author.</p>
<p> Mr. John Home was the son of Mr. Alexander
Home, town-clerk of Leith. His grandfather was
a son of Mr. Home, of Floss, a lineal descendant
of Sir James Home, of Coldingknowes, ancestor
of the present Earl of Home. The poet, as is
natural to a man of imagination, was tenacious of
being descended from a family of rank, whose representatives
were formerly possessed of power
scarcely inferior to that of the great Douglasses,
and wellnigh as fatal both to the crown and to
themselves. We have seen a copy of verses addressed
by Home to Lady Kinloch, of Gilmerton,
in which he contrasts his actual situation with his
ancient descent. They begin nearly thus,---for it
must be noticed we quote from memory:<p> ``Sprung from the ancient nobles of the land,
Upon the ladder's lowest round I stand:''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Mr. Mackenzie died at Edinburgh, 14th January, 1831, in
<em> his 86th year. See <u>ante,</u> pp. 343--347. A monument, bearing
</em> an appropriate inscription, has since been erected to his memory
* in the Greyfriars' churchyard of Edinburgh.---=Ed.=<p> ``At Dunbar the Earl of Home joined Sir John Cope. He
was then an officer in the Guards, and thought it a duty to
offer his service, when the king's troops were in the field. He
came to Dunbar, attended by one or two servants. There were
not wanting persons upon this occasion to make their remarks,
and observe the mighty change which little more than a century
had produced in Scotland.</p>
<p> ``It was known to every body, who knew any thing of the
history of their country, that the ancestors of this noble lord
(once the most powerful peers in the south of Scotland) could
at a short warning, have raised in their own territories a body
of men, whose approach that Highland army, which had got
possession of the capital of Scotland (and was preparing to
fight the whole military force in that kingdom) would not have
dared to wait.''---Vol. iii., pp. 76, 77.</p>
<p> This love or pride of family was the source of
another peculiarity in Mr. Home. Aristotle mentions
the mispronouncing of a man's name as one
of the most disagreeable of insults; and nobody,
we believe, is very fond of having his name misspelled;
but Home was peculiarly sensible on this
point. The word is uniformly, in Scotland, pronounced
<u>Hume,</u> and in ancient documents we have
seen it written <u>Heume, Hewme,</u> and <u>Hoome;</u> but the
principal branch of the family have long used the
present orthography of <u>Home.</u> To <u>Home</u> the poet
rigidly stuck fast and firm; and <u>Home</u> he on all
occasions defended as the only legitimate shape, to
the great entertainment of his friend David (the
historian) whose branch of the family (that of Ninewells)
had for some, or for no reason, preferred the
orthography of <u>Hume,</u> to which the philosopher,
though caring, as may be supposed, very little
about the matter, naturally adhered. On one occasion,
when the poet was high in assertion on this
important subject, the historian proposed to settle
the question by casting dice which should adopt the
other's mode of spelling their name:---</p>
<p> `` `Nay,' says John, `this is a most extraordinary proposal
indeed, Mr. Philosopher---for if you lose, you take your own
name, and if I lose, I take another man's name.' ''---Vol. i.,
p. 164.</p>
<p> Before we leave this subject, we may mention
to our readers, that the family pride which is often
among the Scotch found descending to those who
are in such humble situations as to render it ridiculous,
has, perhaps, more of worldly prudence in
it than might at first be suspected. A Clifford or
a Percy, reduced in circumstances, feels a claim of
long descent unsuitable to his condition, unavailing
in assisting his views in life, and ridiculous as contrasted
with them. He therefore sinks, and endeavours
to forget, pretensions which his son or
grandson altogether loses sight of. On the contrary,
the system of entails in Scotland, their extent, and
their perpetual endurance, naturally recommend to
a Home, or a Douglas, to preserve an account of
his genealogy, in case of some event occurring
which may make him <u>heir of tailzie</u> to a good estate.
And while this attention to pedigree may conduce
to some contingent advantage, it influences naturally
the feelings of the young <u>Hidalgos</u> upon whom
it is inculcated, and who soon learn to prize the
<u>genus et proavos,</u> as being flattering to their vanity,
as well as what may, by possibility, tend to advance
their fortune. A certain number of calculable
chances would have made the author of Douglas the
Earl of Home; and, indeed, an epidemic among the
Scottish peerage (which Heaven forefend!) would
make wild changes when the great roll is next called
in Holyrood. Like every thing, in short, in this
motley world, the family pride of the north country
has its effects of good and of evil. It often leads
to a degree of care being bestowed on the education
of these juvenile <u>gentillatres,</u> which might otherwise
have been neglected; and forms, at the same time
an excitement to honourable struggles for independence,
and to manly resolutions of adopting the
behaviour and sentiments of men of honour, though
fortune has denied the means of supporting the
figure of gentlemen otherwise. On the other hand,
and with less happy dispositions, it sometimes occasions
an incongruous alliance of pride and poverty,
and exhibits the national character in a point of
view equally arrogant and ridiculous.</p>
<p> To return to our subject:---John Home, educated
for the Scots Presbyterian Church, soon distinguished
himself among his contemporaries at
college, and ranked with Robertson, Hugh Blair,
Adam Ferguson, who attended the same seminary,
and others mentioned by Mr. Mackenzie, distinguished
by their sense, learning, and talents, although
they did not attain, or contend for, literary
celebrity. Our author obtained his license to preach
the gospel, as a probationer for the ministry (which
is equivalent to taking deacon's orders in England,)
in the eventful year, still emphatically distinguished
in Scotland as the =forty-five.= The character of
the times, however, furnished our young poet with
employment more congenial to his temper than the
peaceful and retired duties of the profession he had
chosen. ``The land was burning;'' the young
Chevalier had landed in the Highlands, with only
seven followers, and came to try a desperate cast
for the crown which his ancestors had lost. The
character of Home at this period is thus described
by his elegant biographer:</p>
<p> ``His temper was of that warm susceptible kind which is
caught with the heroic and the tender, and which is more fitted
to delight in the world of sentiment than to succeed in the
hustle of ordinary life, This is a disposition of mind well
suited to the poetical character; and, accordingly, all his earliest
companions agree that Mr. Home was from his childhood
delighted with the lofty and heroic ideas which embody themselves
in the description or narrative of poetry. One of them,
nearly a coeval of Mr. Home's, Dr. A. Ferguson, says in a letter
to me, that Mr. Home's favourite model of a character, on
which, indeed, his own was formed, was that of Young Norval,
in his tragedy of Douglas, one endowed with chivalrous
valour and romantic generosity, eager for glory beyond every
other object, and, in the contemplation of future fame, entirely
regardless of the present objects of interest or ambition.''
---Vol. i., pp. 6, 7.</p>
<p> For such a character as this to sit inactive when
arms were clashing around him, was impossible.
John Home's profession as a Presbyterian clergyman,
his political opinions, and those of his family,
decided the cause which he was to espouse, and he
became one of the most active and eager members
of a corps of volunteers, formed for the purpose of
defending Edinburgh against the expected assault
of the Highlanders. Under less strong influence
of education and profession, which was indeed irresistible,
it is possible he might have made a less
happy option; for the feeling, the adventure, the
romance, the poetry, all that was likely to interest
the imagination of a youthful poet---all, in short,
save the common sense, prudence, and sound reason
of the national dispute---must be allowed to have
lain on the side of the Jacobites. Indeed, although
mortally engaged against them, Mr. Home could
not, in the latter part of his life, refrain from tears
when mentioning the gallantry and misfortunes of
some of the unfortunate leaders in the Highland
army; and we have ourselves seen his feelings and
principles divide him strangely when he came to
speak upon such topics.</p>
<p> The body of the corps of volunteers, with which
Mr. Home was associated, consisted of about from
four to five hundred; many, doubtless, were gallant
young men, students from the university and
so forth---but by far the greater part were citizens,
at an age unfit to take up arms, without previous
habit and experience. They had religious zeal and
political enthusiasm to animate them; but these,
though they make a prodigious addition to the effect
of discipline cannot supply its place. Cromwell's
enthusiasts beat all the nobility and gentry of England;
but the same class of men, not having the
advantage of similar training, fled at Bothwell
Bridge, without even waiting to see their enemy.
Many of the Edinburgh corps were, moreover,
<u>Oneyers</u> and <u>Moneyers,</u> as Falstaff says, men whose
words upon 'Change would go much farther than
their blows in battle. Most had shops to be plundered,
houses to be burned, children to be brained
with Lochaber axes, and wives, daughters, and
favourite handmaidens to be treated according to
the rules of war. When, therefore, it was proposed
to the volunteers to march out of the city together
with what was called the _Edinburgh Regiment,_---
a very indifferent body of men, who had
been levied and embodied for the nonce,---and supported
by two regular regiments of dragoons, called
Gardiner's and Hamilton's, which were expected
to hear the brunt of the battle,---we are informed
by a contemporary author,<*> that---</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>to please at once and instruct those of the
present day, who are attached to such pursuits, by
placing before them a lively picture of those predecessors
at whose feet he was brought up.<p> ``The provost had no power to order the volunteers out of
town: he only <u>consented</u> that as many as pleased should be
allowed to march out. But it seems they had as little inclination
to go as he had power to order them. A few of them
made a faint effort, but 'tis said, met with opposition from
some of the <u>zealously affected,</u> who represented to them the
infinite value of their lives in comparison of those ruffians, the
Highlanders:---this opposition they were never able to overcome.''</p>
<p> The arrangement, however, was made; the dragoons
were paraded on the <u>High Street,</u> and the
fire-bell rang for the volunteers to assemble, a signal
for which the provost was afterwards highly
censured, perhaps because, instead of rousing the
hearts of the volunteers like the sound of a trumpet,
it rather reminded them of a passing-knell.
They did assemble, however; but their relations
(according to our poet's account) assembled also,
mixed in their ranks, and while the men reasoned
and endeavoured to dissuade their friends from so
rash an adventure, the women expostulated, complained,
and wept, embracing their husbands, sons,
and brothers, and by the force of their tears and
entreaties, melting down the fervour of their resolutions.
At last the battalion was ordered to move
towards <u>the Westport,</u> when, behold the officers
complained that their men would not follow, while
the men declared that their officers would not lead
the way. The bravest hearts were cast down by
the general consternation. We remember an instance
of a stout Whig and a very worthy man, a
writing-master by occupation, who had ensconced
his bosom beneath a professional cuirass, consisting
of two quires of long foolscap writing-paper; and,
doubtful that even this defence might be unable to
protect his valiant heart from the claymores,
amongst which its impulses might carry him, had
written on the outside, in his best flourish, ``This
is the body of J------ M------; pray give it Christian
burial.'' Even this hero, prepared as one
practised how to die, could not find it in his heart
to accompany the devoted battalion farther than
the door of his own house, which stood conveniently
open about the head of <u>the Lawn Market.</u>
The descent of <u>the Bow</u> presented localities and
facilities equally convenient for desertion; and the
pamphleteer, whom we have already quoted, assures
us that a friend of his, who had made a poetical
description of the march of the volunteers from
the Lawn Market to the Westport, when they
went out, or, more properly, seemed to be about
to go out, to meet the ruthless rebels, had invented
a very magnificent simile to illustrate his subject.
``He compared it to the course of the Rhine,
which, rolling pompously its waves through fertile
fields, instead of augmenting in its course, is continually
drawn off by a thousand canals, and at last
becomes a small rivulet, which loses itself in the
sands before it reaches the ocean.''</p>
<p> The behaviour of the doughty dragoons themselves,
``whose business it was to die,'' was even
less edifying than that of the citizen volunteers,
whose business it was, as Fluellen says to Pistol,
``to live and eat their victuals;'' and though it leads
us something off our course, yet, as Mr. Home's
history of the <u>forty-five</u> forms a part of the work
now before us, the following lively description
(from the pen, it is believed, of his distinguished
friend David) will not be altogether impertinent
to the subject, and may probably amuse the reader.
After remarking that cavalry ought to have the
same advantage over irregular infantry, which
veteran infantry possess over cavalry, and that
particularly in the case of Highlanders, whom they
encounter with their own weapon, the broadsword,
and who neither formed platoons, nor had bayonets,
or any other long weapon, to withstand a charge
---after noticing, moreover, that if it were too
sanguine to expect a victory, Brigadier Fowke,
who commanded two regiments of cavalry, might,
at least, have made a leisurely and regular retreat,
though he had advanced within a musket-shot of
his enemy, before a column that could not turn out
five mounted horsemen, he proceeds thus :---</p>
<p> ``Before the rebels came within sight of the King's forces,
before they came within three miles' distance of them, orders
were issued to the dragoons to wheel, which they immediately
did with the greatest order and regularity imaginable. As it
is known that nothing is more beautiful than the evolutions
and movements of cavalry, the spectators stood in expectation
what fine warlike man<oe>uvre they might terminate in;
when new orders were immediately issued to retreat, they immediately
obeyed and began to march in the usual pace of
cavalry. Orders were repeated every furlong to quicken their
pace, and both precept and example concurring, they quickened
it so well that, before they reached Edinburgh, they had
quickened it to a pretty smart gallop. They passed in inexpressible
hurry and confusion through the narrow lanes at
Barefoot's parks, in the sight of all the north part of the
town, to the infinite joy of the disaffected, and equal grief and
consternation of all the other inhabitants, They rushed like
a torrent down to Leith, where they endeavoured to draw
breath; but some unlucky boy (I suppose a Jacobite in his
heart) calling to them that the Highlanders were approaching,
they immediately took to their heels again, and galloped
to Prestonpans, about six miles farther. There, in a literal
sense, <u>timor eddidit alas,</u> their fear added wings, I mean to
the rebels. For otherwise, they could not possibly have imagined
that these formidable enemies could be within several
miles of them. But at Prestonpans the same alarm was repeated.
The Philistines be upon thee, Sampson! They galloped
to North Berwick, and being now about twenty miles
on the other side of Edinburgh, they thought they might safely
dismount from their horses and look out for victuals. Accordingly,
like the ancient Grecian heroes, each began to kill and
dress his provisions: _egit amor dabis atque pugn<ae>;_ they were
actuated by the desire of supper and of battle. The sheep and
turkies of North Berwick paid for this warlike disposition.
But behold the uncertainty of human happiness! When the
mutton was just ready to be put upon the table, they heard,
or thought they heard, the same cry of the Highlanders. Their
fear proved stronger than their hunger, they again got on
horseback, but were informed time enough of the falseness of
the alarm to prevent the spoiling of their meal. By such
rudiments as these the dragoons were instructed, till at last
they became so perfect at their lesson, that at the battle of
Preston they could practise it of themselves, though even there
the same good example was not wanting. I have seen an Italian
opera, called <u>Cesare in Egitto,</u> or C<ae>sar in Egypt, where,
in the first scene, C<ae>sar is introduced in a great hurry, giving
orders to his soldiers, _fugge, fugge, allo scampo_---fly, fly, to your
heels. This is a proof that the commander at the Coltbridge
is not the first hero that gave such orders to his troops.''<*></p>
</p>
<p>and a single glance at the authors and men of
science who dignified the last generation, will serve
to show that, in those days, there were giants in
the North. The names of Hume, Robertson, Fergusson,
stand high in the list of British historians.
Adam Smith was the father of the economical system
in Britain, and his standard work will long
continue the text-book of that science. Dr. Black,
as a chemist, opened that path of discovery which
has since been prosecuted with such splendid success.
Of metaphysicians, Scotland boasted, perhaps,
but too many: to Hume and Fergusson we
must add Reid, and, though younger, yet of the
same school, Mr. Dugald Stewart. In natural philosophy,
Scotland could present Professor Robison,
James Watt, whose inventions have led the way
to the triumphs of human skill over the elements,
and Clerk, of Eldin, who taught the British seaman
the road to assured conquest. Others we could
mention; but these form a phalanx, whose reputation
was neither confined to their narrow, poor,
and rugged native country, nor to England and
the British dominions, but known and respected
wherever learning, philosophy, and science were
honoured.<p> While the regular troops were thus in hasty
retreat, John Home and some few others of his
more zealous brethren among the volunteers, were
trying to overcome apprehensions in the corps at
large, similar to those which drove the dragoons
eastward, but which had the contrary effect of
detaining the citizens within the circuit of their
walls. Poets being ``of imagination all compact,''
are supposed to be more accessible than other men
to the passion of fear; but there are numerous
exceptions, and one scarcely wonders that the
author of <u>Douglas</u> should have resembled, in that
part of his character, the father of Grecian tragedy,
thus described by Home's friend, Collins, in the
_Ode to Fear:_---<p> ``Yet he the bard, who first invoked thy name,
Disdain'd at Marathon thy power to feel,
For not alone be nursed the poet's flame,
But raised from virtue's hand the patriot's steel.''</p>
</p>
<p> In spite, however, of exhortation and example,
the volunteers gave up their arms, and it only
remained for Home, and the few who retained spirit
enough for such an enterprise, to sally out and unite
themselves with Sir John Cope, who had, as the
song says, just---<p> ``landed at Dunbar
Right early in the morning.''</p>
</p>
<p> John Home determined, however, to carry some
intelligence, at least, which might be useful, and,
for this purpose, he ventured to visit the bivouac
of Prince Charles's army, which was in what is
called the King's park, in a hollow, lying betwixt
the two hills---Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags.
Food had been just served out, and, as they were
sitting in ranks on the ground, he had an opportunity
of counting this handful of half-armed mountaineers,
who came to overturn an established government,
and to change the destinies of a mighty
empire. They did not exceed two thousand men;
and Home's description of their appearance, as he
gave it to Sir John Cope, is no unfavourable example
of his prose style of composition.</p>
<p> ``The general asked what sort of appearance they made, and
how they were armed. The volunteer (<u>i.e.</u> Home himself)
answered, that most of them seemed to be strong, active, and
hardy men: that many of them were of a very ordinary size,
and, if clothed like Lowcountry men, would (in his opinion)
appear inferior to the King's troops; but the Highland garb
favoured them much, as it showed their naked limbs, which
were strong and muscular: that their stern countenances, and
bushy uncombed hair, gave them a fierce, barbarous, and imposing
aspect. As to their arms, he said that they had no
cannon or artillery of any sort, but one small iron gun which
he had seen without a carriage, lying upon a cart, drawn by a
little Highland horse; that about 1400 or 1200 of them were
armed with firelocks and broadswords; that their firelocks
were not similar or uniform, but of all sorts and sizes, muskets,
fusees, and fowling pieces; that some of the rest had
firelocks without swords, and some of them swords without
firelocks that many of their swords were not Highland broadswords,
but French; that a company or two (about 100 men,)
had each of them in his hand the shaft of a pitchfork, with the
blade of a scythe fastened to it, somewhat like the weapon
called the Lochaber axe, which the town-guard soldiers carry;
but all of them, he added, would be soon provided with firelocks,
as the arms belonging to the Trained Bands of Edinburgh
had fallen into their hands. Sir John Cope dismissed
the volunteer, with many compliments for bringing him such
certain and accurate intelligence.''---Vol. iii., pp. 75, 76.</p>
<p> Of the zealous services of the few but faithful
volunteers who did leave Edinburgh, Mr. Home
gives us a slight account; but we cannot help rendering
it a little more particular, having heard it
more than once from the lips of a man of equal
worth and humour, and a particular intimate of
the author of <u>Douglas.</u> We firmly believe, though
we cannot say it with absolute certainty, that Mr.
Home was of the party, now reduced to five or six,
whose proceedings we are about to describe.</p>
<p> We will not be quite so particular as our venerable
informer, in describing the marchings and
countermarchings which the determined squad
made through East Lothian, calling at every ale-house
of reputation, to drink success to the Protestant
cause, and endeavouring to collect news
of Sir John Cope and his army. Indeed it would
be rather tedious, as our authority, though very
entertaining, was something minute in the narrative,
and spared us not a single <u>rizard</u> haddock,
which went to recruit their bodily strength, or a
single chopin of twopenny, or mutchkin of brandy,
which served to support their manly spirit for the
approaching conflict. At length, they joined Sir
John Cope and offered their service. Poor Johnnie,
the object of so much satire and ridicule, was,
in fact, by no means either a coward or a bad soldier,
or even a contemptible general upon ordinary
occasions. He was a pudding-headed, thick-brained
sort of person, who could act well enough
in circumstances with which he was conversant,
especially as he was perfectly acquainted with the
routine of his profession, and had been often engaged
in action, without ever, until the fatal field
of Preston, having shown sense enough to run
away. On the present occasion, he was, as sportsmen
say, at fault. He well knew that the high-road
from Edinburgh to the south lies along the
coast, and it seems never to have occurred to him
that it was possible the Highlanders might choose,
even by preference, to cross the country and occupy
the heights, at the bottom of which the public
road takes its course, and thus have him and
his army in so far at their mercy, that they might
avoid, or bring on battle, at their sole pleasure.
On the contrary, Sir John trusted that their Highland
courtesy would induce them, if they moved
from Edinburgh, to come by the very road on
which he was advancing towards that city, and
thus meet him on equal terms. Under this impression,
the general sent two of the volunteers,
who chanced to be mounted, and knew the country,
to observe the coast road, especially towards
Musselburgh. They rode on their exploratory
expedition, and, coming to that village, which is
about six miles from Edinburgh, avoided the
bridge, to escape detection, and crossed the Esk,
it being then low water, at a place nigh its junction
with the sea. Unluckily there was, at the
opposite side, a snug, thatched tavern, kept by a
cleanly old woman, called Lucky F------, who was
eminent for the excellence of her oysters and
sherry. The patrol were both _bon vivants_---one
of them, whom we remember in the situation of a
senator, as it is called, of the college of justice,
was unusually so, and a gay, witty, agreeable companion
besides. Luckie's sign, and the heap of
oyster-shells deposited near her door, proved as
great a temptation to this vigilant forlorn-hope as
the wine-house to the Abbess of Andouillet's muleteer.
They had scarcely got settled at some right
<u>pandores,</u> with a bottle of sherry as an accompaniment,
when, as some Jacobite devil would have it,
an unlucky North Country lad, a writer's (<u>i.e.</u>
attorney's) apprentice, who had given his indentures
the slip, and taken the white cockade,
chanced to pass by on his errand to join Prince
Charlie. He saw the two volunteers through the
window, knew them, and guessed their business;
he saw the tide would make it impossible for them
to return along the sands as they had come. He,
therefore, placed himself in ambush upon the steep,
narrow, impracticable bridge, which was then, and
for many years afterwards, the only place of crossing
the Esk: ``and how he contrived it,'' our
narrator used to proceed, ``I never could learn;
but the courage and assurance of the province
from which he came, are proverbial. In short, the
Norland whipper-snapper surrounded and made
prisoners of my two poor friends, before they could
draw a trigger.'' Here our excellent friend was
apt to make a pause, and hurry to the scene of
slaughter which the field exhibited in the afternoon.
A little cross-examination, however, easily
brought out the termination of the campaign, so
far as concerned our faithful remnant of volunteers
now reduced to five or six.</p>
<p> When the party which marched with Cope's
army had arrived at the spot where the battle took
place on the next morning, it was natural that they
should quarter themselves in the house of the father
of our narrator (a clergyman,) which was in the
immediate vicinity of the destined field. Our
friend, as was no less natural, recollected a small
scantling of madeira, and it was judged prudent
to anticipate the order of the next day by drinking
it up themselves. They then went to bed, desiring
the maid-servant to call them at sunrise, or
how much sooner the battle should begin. But,
alas! the first edge of the sun's disk that rose
above the ocean saw both the beginning and the
end of the fray, and the volunteers had just dreamed
that they heard a cannon shot or two, when the
mother of our friend burst into his room, imploring
him to hide his arms, for the King's army was totally
routed. ``We bustled up in a hurry,'' said
our friend, ``scarcely thinking the tidings possible;
when, from the window, I could see the dragoons,
whose nerves had never recovered the Canter of
Coltbrigg, as that retreat was called, in full rout,
pursued by the whole cavalry of the Highland army,
consisting of Lord Elcho, Sir Peter Threipland,
and two or three gentlemen, with their grooms.''
``In short,'' as our friend expressed himself, ``the
dragoons and Highlanders divided the honours of
the day, and on that occasion, at least, the race was
to the swift, and the battle to the strong.'' The
sleepers, thus unpleasantly alarmed, were now obliged
to conceal or surrender their arms, and employ
what remained of their zeal in attending to
the wounded, who were brought into the clergyman's
house in great numbers, dreadfully mangled
by the broadswords. One of the volunteers (for
two of the corps actually were in the battle, after
all the impediments which oysters, sherry, and old
madeira had thrown in their way) received thirty
wounds, yet recovered. His name was Myrie, a
Creolian by birth, and a student of medicine at the
college of Edinburgh. His comrade, Campbell,
escaped by speed of horse. Hence, the verses on
the volunteers, in the satiric ballad which old Skirwing
(father of Skirving the artist) wrote upon this
memorable conflict:---<p> ``Of a' the gang nane stood the bane
But twa, and ane was ta'en man,
For Campbail rade, but Myrie staid,
And sure he paid the kain<*> man.</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>and the general tone and spirit are those of one
who feels himself by birth and spirit placed above
a situation of dependence to which for the time he
was condemned. The same family pride glances
out in our author's History of the Rebellion of
1745, in the following passage:<p> Fell skelps he got, was worse than shot,
From the sharp-edged claymore man.''</p>
<p> If the author of <u>Douglas</u> was, as we believe, one
of the party of sleepers thus unpleasantly awakened,
the unexpected issue of the combat, and the ghastly
spectacle of the wounded, did not prevent him from
again engaging---and that scarcely under more
fortunate auspices--in the same service.</p>
<p> The town of Glasgow raised a body of volunteers,
in which Home obtained the situation of lieutenant.
This regiment joined General Hawley on the 13th
of January, 1746, and our author was present in
the action near Falkirk, which seems to have been
as confused an affair as can well be imagined.
Hawley had not a better head, and certainly a
much worse heart than Sir John Cope, who was a
humane, good-tempered man. The new general
ridiculed severely the conduct of his predecessor,
and remembering that he had seen, in 1715, the
left wing of the Highlanders broken by a charge of
the Duke of Argyle's horse, which came upon them
across a morass, he resolved to man<oe>uvre in the
same manner. He forgot, however, a material
circumstance---that the morass at Sheriffmuir was
hard frozen, which made some difference in favour
of the cavalry. Hawley's man<oe>uvre, as commanded
and executed, plunged a great part of his dragoons
up to the saddle-laps in a bog, where the
Highlanders cut them to pieces with so little trouble,
that, as one of the performers assured us, the feat
was as easy as slicing <u>bacon.</u> The gallantry of
some of the English regiments beat off the Highland
charge on another point, and, amid a tempest
of wind and rain which has been seldom equalled,
the field presented the singular prospect of two
armies flying different ways at the same moment.
The King's troops, however, ran fastest and farthest,
and were the last to recover their courage;
indeed, they retreated that night to Falkirk, leaving
their guns, burning their tents, and striking a
new panic into the British nation, which was but
just recovering from the flutter excited by what, in
olden times, would have been called the Raid of
Derby. In the drawingroom which took place at
Saint James's on the day the news arrived, all
countenances were marked with doubt and apprehension,
excepting those of George the Second, the
Earl of Stair, and Sir John Cope, who was radiant
with joy at Hawley's discomfiture. Indeed, the
idea of the two generals was so closely connected,
that a noble peer of Scotland, upon the same day,
addressed Sir John Cope by the title of General
Hawley, to the no small amusement of those who
heard the <u>qui pro quo.</u></p>
<p> Mr. Home had some share in this action. The
Glasgow regiment, being newly levied, was not
honoured with a place in the line, though it certainly
could not have behaved worse than some
who held that station; they were drawn up beside
some cottages on the left of the dragoons, and seem
to have stood fast when the others went off. Presently
afterwards General Hawley rode past them,
in the midst of a disorderly crowd of horse and
foot, and he himself apparently considerably discomposed;
for he could give no answer to Mr.
Home, who asked him for orders, and was solicitous
to know whether any regiments were standing,
and where they were; but, pointing to a fold for
cattle, he desired the volunteers to get in there,
and so rode down the hill, the confusion becoming
general. After remaining where they had been
imprisoned, rather than posted, and behaving with
considerable spirit,<*> Lieutenant Home, his captain,</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>We quote from a pamphlet entitled _A True Account of
<em> the Behaviour and Conduct of Archibald Stewart, Esq., late
</em> Lord Provost of Edinburgh, in a Letter to a Friend;_ London,
<em> 1748; a production which there is strong evidence, both external
</em> and internal, for attributing to the pen of David
* Hume.---S.</li>
<li>Account of the Behaviour, &c., of Archibald Stewart,
* Esq.---S.<p> Their doom, however, was milder: they were
imprisoned in the old castle of Doune, on the north
side of the Forth, built by one of the Dukes of
Albany, and their place of confinement was near
the top of that very lofty building. Nevertheless,
five or six of the prisoners, Home being of the
number, proposed the hazardous experiment of an
attempt to escape by descending from the battlements,
a height of seventy feet, by means of a
rope constructed out of slips of their blankets,
which they tore up for that purpose. The issue of
the attempt vindicates what we have said of Home's
courage and spirit: we will, therefore, give it in
his own words :---</p>
<p> ``When every thing was adjusted, they went up to the battlements,
fastened the rope, and about one o'clock in the
morning began to descend. The two officers, with Robert
Douglas, and one of the men taken up as spies, got down very
well; but the fifth man, one of the spies, who was very tall
and big, coming down in a hurry, the rope broke with him
just as his feet touched the ground. The lieutenant (Home
himself,) standing by the wall of the castle, called to the volunteer,
whose turn it was to come down next, not to attempt
it; for that twenty or thirty feet were broken off from the
rope. Notwithstanding this warning, which he heard distinctly,
he put himself upon the rope, and coming down as far
as it lasted, let go his hold: his friend Douglas and the lieutenant
(who were both above the middle size,) as soon
as they saw him upon the rope (for it was moonlight) put
themselves under him, to break his fall, which in part they
did; but falling from so great a height, he brought them both
to the ground, dislocated one of his ancles, and broke several
of his ribs. In this extremity the lieutenant raised him from
the ground and taking him upon his back, for he was slender
and not very tall, carried him towards the road which led to
Alloa. When the lieutenant was not able to go any farther
with his burden, other two of the company, holding each of
them one of Mr. Barrow's arms, helped him to hop along upon
one leg. In this manner they went on very slowly, a mile or
so; but thinking that, at the rate they proceeded, they would
certainly be overtaken, they resolved to call at the first house
they should come to. When they came to a house, they found
a friend; for the landlord, who rented a small farm, was a
Whig, and as soon as he knew who they were, ordered one of
his sons to bring a horse from the stable, take the lame gentleman
behind him, and go as far as his assistance was necessary.
Thus equipped, they went on by Alloa to Tullyallan, a
village near the sea, where they hired a boat to carry them off
to the Vulture sloop-of-war, which was lying at anchor in the
Frith of Forth. Captain Falconer of the Vulture received
them very kindly, and gave them his barge to carry them to
Queensferry.''---Vol. iii,, pp. 172--174.</p>
<p> The volunteer who suffered on this occasion was
Thomas Barrow. This is the mutual friend of
Home and Collins, ``the cordial youth'' referred to
in the ode on the Highland superstitions, addressed
by the latter to the former poet. When Mr. Home's
connexion with the great enabled him to serve his
friends, Barrow was not forgotten; and Barrow
repaid the obligation by making Home acquainted
with Collins, who, in consequence, delighted with
the legends of mystery which Home repeated to
him, composed that beautiful ode, which is certainly
one of the most pleasing and poetical of his compositions.</p>
<p> We are now done with Mr Home's military
exploits and hazards, on which we have, perhaps,
dwelt too long, though it must be remembered that
our author was the historiographer of that period.
His studies were resumed ``and chiefly,'' says his
biographer, were ``such as to lead his mind to that
lofty and martial sentiment the swell of which is
one of the nurses of poetry.''</p>
<p> ``Amidst his classical and poetical reading, however, Mr.
Home occupied himself not only in the studies of ethics and
divinity, but also in the composition of sermons. But even at
these moments, it would seem as if his mind was constrained,
not changed, from its favourite bent; for, on the backs, or
blank interstices of the papers containing some of his earliest
composed sermons, there are passages of poetry, written in a
more or less perfect state, as the inspiration or leisure of the
moment prompted or allowed.''---Vol. i., p. 23.</p>
<p> Mr. Home was appointed in the year 1746 minister
of Athelstoneford, in East Lothian, a locality
which he has not forgotten in his celebrated tragedy,
having fixed the apprehended descent of the
Danes<p> ``near to that place where the sea-rock immense,
Amazing Bass, looks o'er a fertile land.''</p>
</p>
<p> Mr. Home's leisure, although his clerical duties
were not only regularly, but strictly attended to,
naturally induced him to indulge his poetical taste,
and without, perhaps, suspecting the scandal the
choice might occasion, to direct it towards dramatic
composition. Admiring Plutarch, as that
biographer must be admired by all who have the
least pretension to poetical imagination, and being,
as Mr. Mackenzie informs us, attached, like most
other young men of ardent minds, to the republican
form of government, he selected from the storehouse
of the old Grecian the story of Agis, without,
perhaps, minutely inquiring whether the subject
had enough of general interest in itself to support
the dialogue through five acts, or was likely to be
much improved by the ordinary receipt of a love-intrigue,
awkwardly dovetailed into the general
plot.</p>
<p> About the end of 1749 he went to London, and
tendered his play to Garrick; but the author, at
that time, was an unknown Scottish clergyman,
and the manager, whose interest was always best
secured by distinction, patronage, or literary reputation
at least, declined bringing the piece forward.
Under the feelings of mortification to find neglect<p> ``his only meed,
(And heavy falls it on so proud a head,)''</p>
</p>
</li>
<li>Literally, ``paid the rent;'' equivalent to the English
* phrase of ``paid the reckoning.''---S.<p> On Home's return to Scotland, he continued his
dramatic labours under better auspices. The old
ballad of Gil Morrice supplied him with a plot of
simple, yet engrossing and general interest, upon
which the tragedy of <u>Douglas</u> was composed,
amidst the universal applause of the literary associates
of the author, which circle already comprehended
the first order of Edinburgh literati---Lord
Elibank, David Hume, Mr. Wedderburn, Dr. Adam
Ferguson, &c. A second journey to London---a
second application to Garrick, met with a similar
rebuff as in the case of <u>Agis:</u> the manager pronounced
the play totally unfit for the stage. There
might, indeed, be another reason for this rejection:
Garrick was naturally partial to those pieces in
which he himself could appear to advantage, and,
though not more than forty years of age, he was
scarcely, in 1755, the natural representative of the
stripling Douglas.</p>
<p> The friends of the author were of a different
opinion from the English manager, and determined
to try the experiment of a play written by a Scotsman,
and produced for the first time, on a provincial
stage---so that of Edinburgh was now to be
termed. Its reception of <u>Douglas,</u> as appears from
the following account by Mr. Mackenzie, was as
brilliant as the author's friends, nay, the author
himself, could have desired :---</p>
<p> ``Dr. Carlyle, who sometimes witnessed the rehearsals, expresses,
in his Memoirs,<*> his surprise and admiration at the</p>
</li>
<li>Home, in his own History, is silent on the behaviour of the
<em> Glasgow regiment, but not so a metrical chronicler, who wrote
</em> a history of the insurrection in doggrel verse indeed, but sufficiently
<em> accurate. This author, who is, indeed, no other than
</em> Dugald Grahame, bellman of Glasgow, says that the Highlanders,
<em> having beaten the horse---
</em>
<em> ``The south side being fairly won,
</em> They faced north, as had been done;
<em> Where next stood, to bide the crush,
</em> The volunteers, who zealous,
<em> Kept firing close, till near surrounded,
</em> And by the flying horse confounded:
<em> They suffer'd sair into this place,
</em> No Highlander pitied their case:
* `You cursed militia,<code> they did swear,
* `What a devil did bring you here?</code> ''
* <u>History of the Rebellion</u> in 1745--1746.---S.</li>
</ul>
<p>and a few of his men, were taken upon their retreat;
they were used with little courtesy by the
Highlanders, who made allowances for the opposition
which they experienced from the red-coats,
but could not see what interest the militia or volunteers
had in the matter. Accordingly, when the
prisoners, being lodged in gaol at Falkirk, and neglected
in the general hurry, became clamorous for
provisions---the sergeant of their guard very soberly
asked them ``what occasion they could possibly
have for supper, since they were to be hanged in
the morning.''<p> But, with the voice of praise arose, in startling
disunion, a loud note of censure. Betwixt the two
parties which divide the Church of Scotland, one
(to which it maybe easily believed John Home did
<u>not</u> belong) was, and in some degree still is, distinguished
by a certain shade of Puritanism, which,
when arising from a sincerely scrupulous conscience,
and combined with a Christian charity towards
those who may differ in opinion, merits, not
merely pardon, but profound respect---but is not
entitled to the same indulgence when it assumes
to itself an intolerant character. These zealous
professors, above all other men, abhorring the doctrines
of Rome nominally, did not, perhaps, very far
depart from them in principle, when they affirmed
it was the duty of a sincere Christian to abstain
from certain harmless pleasures, indifferent, nay,
moral in themselves. They allowed their followers
to gorge upon beef and pudding on fast-days, as
well as holidays; but dancing, music, dramatic representation,
and other lighter amusements, though
as harmless, when practised with moderation, as
food to the palate, were sternly interdicted.</p>
<p> It must be, indeed, admitted that the practice of
the stage had been, during the preceding century,
such as gave the censors much room to argue, from
the abuse, against even the use of the theatre. It
is not, however, our purpose here to enter into a
controversy, which has, in a manner, died away of
itself, but which existed, at the time we treat of, in
all the gall of bitterness. In such a temper of the
public mind, it was not wonderful that the appearance
of a tragedy, written by a Presbyterian clergyman,
and attended and applauded by many of
his brethren, and those of great reputation for
learning and talents, should appear to many like a
``waxing dim of the fine gold,''---an innovation on
the strictness of principle and purity of manners
esteemed essential to the Church of Scotland.</p>
<p> ``The Presbytery of Edinburgh published a solemn admonition
on the subject, beginning with expressions of deep regret
at the growing irreligion of the times, particularly the
neglect of the <u>Sabbath;</u><*> but calculated chiefly to warn all</p>
</p>
<p>the unsuccessful tragedian made a pilgrimage to
the tomb of Shakspeare, and there wrote a copy
of verses, imploring the deceased bard to transmute
him into a marble image, and fix him beside
his monument, since he had not obtained the opportunity
of fascinating the public by tragic powers
resembling his own.</p>
<ul>
<li>Unfortunately, we believe, for the public, these Memoirs
<em> are still in MS. From what we have heard, they abound in
</em> very curious matter.---S.<p> ``This step of the Presbytery, like all other overstrained
proceedings of that nature, provoked resistance and ridicule
on the part of the public. The wags poured forth parodies,
epigrams, and songs. These were, in general, not remarkable
for their wit or pleasantry, though some of them were the productions
of young men, afterwards eminent in letters or in
station.''---Vol. i., p. 42.</p>
<p> We have a collection of these productions on our
table at this moment; and it must be owned that
it contains more trash and nonsense than could have
been expected to have been produced by a general
controversy in the eighteenth century. Here follows
a specimen, taken where the book chanced to
open :---</p>
<p> ``It is agreed upon, by sober pagans themselves, that play-actors
are the most profligate wretches, and vilest vermin, that
hell ever vomited out; that they are the filth and garbage of
the earth, the scum and stain of human nature, the excrement's
and refuse of all mankind, the pests and plagues of human society;
the debauchers of men's minds and morals; unclean
beasts, idolatrous papists or atheists, and the most horrid and
abandoned villains that ever the sun shone upon.''</p>
<p> Truly these are very bitter words; the zeal of
such a controversialist is like that imputed by Dryden
to Jeremy Collier, which, if it had not eaten
the disputants up, must be allowed to have devoured
all sense of decency and good manners. Of course
there were other censures, expressed in a decent
and moderate tone; yet it is astonishing how many
circumstances were unfairly brought in. The general
accusation of a clergyman's having written
the death of Lady Randolph,---a catastrophe which
may be fairly imputed to insanity, produced by
extreme grief,---was said to imply a vindication of
suicide; and some other passages were wiredrawn
in the same way to produce inferences, which no
man of candour can suppose were within the
thoughts of the writer. Among these instances of
want of candour and misconstruction, we do not
include the objections made to a solemn prayer
addressed to the Deity by one of the personages in
the piece. The act of adoration is highly unfitted
for mimic representation, and Mr Home's error---
however remote any notion of irreverence may have
been from his mind,---was visited with, we think,
deserved reprehension.</p>
<p> Upon the whole, the high Calvinistical party prevailed
so far, that the author had no chance of
escaping the highest censures of his Church, if not
the sentence of deprivation, save by voluntarily
resigning his charge. His parishioners at Athelstoneford
parted with their pastor with such regret,
that, when he preached his farewell sermon, there
was not a dry eye in the church. And,</p>
<p> ``at a subsequent period,'' says Mr. Mackenzie, `` when he retired
from active life, and built a house in East Lothian, near
the parish where he had once been minister, his former parishioners,
as Lord Haddington informed me, insisted on leading
the stones for the building, and would not yield to his
earnest importunity to pay them any compensation for their
labour.''---Vol. i., p. 34.</p>
<p> Home's professional friends and companions did
not escape the censures of the Church, for the encouragement
they had given his dramatic labours.
The chief among these was Dr. Carlyle, for a long
period clergyman at Musselburgh, whose character
was as excellent as his conversation was amusing
and instructive, and whose person and countenance,
even at a very advanced age, were so lofty and
commanding as to strike every artist with his resemblance
to the Jupiter Tonans of the Pantheon.
It was stated in aggravation of this reverend gentleman's
crime in attending the theatre, that two
rude or intoxicated young men having entered the
box, and behaved uncivilly to some ladies, the doctor
took the trouble of turning them out, which
his great personal strength enabled him to do with
little resistance or disturbance. He underwent a
rebuke which did not sit very heavy on him. Similar
measures of punishment were dealt out to other
<u>play-haunters,</u> as those clergymen were termed who
had ventured, however unfrequently, into the precincts
of a theatre. But the effect on the public
mind was, like all proceedings in which the punishment
is disproportioned to the offence, more unfavourable
to the judges than to the accused. The
public, considering the whole dialogue and tendency
of Mr. Home's play of <u>Douglas</u> as favourable to
virtuous and honourable feeling, did not sympathize
with the extreme horror expressed at what
the Presbytery of Glasgow called ``the <u>melancholy
fact</u> that there should have been a tragedy written
by a minister of the Church of Scotland;'' and the
ultimate consequence of the whole debate was a
considerable increase of liberality on the part of
the churchmen, many of whom now attend the
theatre, though rarely, and when the entertainment
is suited to their character; and it is to be
hoped that the discussion may have produced on
the other side an increased sense of decency respecting
the representations on the stage. When
Mrs. Siddons first acted in Edinburgh, in 1784, the
General Assembly, or Convocation of the Church
of Scotland, which was then sitting, had some difficulty
in procuring a full attendance of its members
on the nights when she performed. And
wherefore should this be matter either of scandal
or of censure, if the sentiments of Dr. Adam Fergusson
are just, as expressed in a letter to Mr.
Mackenzie, on the subject of Home's dramatic
composition---</p>
<p> ``Theatrical compositions, like every other human production,
are, in the abstract, not more laudable or censurable
than any other species of composition, but are either
good or bad, moral or immoral, according to the management
or the effect of the individual tragedy or comedy we are to see
represented, or to peruse.''---Vol. i., pp.75, 76.</p>
<p> Driven from his own profession by the fanaticism
of his brethren, Home had no difficulty, such was
his extended reputation, in obtaining one in the
world's eye more distinguished, which placed him
contiguous to greatness, rendered him intimate with
state-affairs, and might, had that been the object
of his ambition, have been the means of accumulating
wealth. He was warmly patronized by Lord
Bute, then prime minister, and, notwithstanding
his unpopularity, possessed of considerable learning
and taste. The access to the London stage
was now open to the favourite of the favourite.
Garrick, indeed, persisted in not bringing out
<u>Douglas,</u> but that play appeared with great success
upon the rival stage of Covent Garden, where
the silver-tongued Barry represented the hero of
the piece; and soon after, the manager of Drury
Lane, with many protestations of his admiration of
the merits of the piece and genius of the author,
brought out the play of <u>Agis,</u> which he had formerly
neglected. The manager, however, had made
the worse choice. Inferior to <u>Douglas,</u> especially in
having no point of predominant interest, no grappling-iron
to secure the attention of the audience---
even the talents of Garrick could not give to <u>Agis</u>
much vitality. Its stately declamation was heard
with cold inattention, and, contrary to the hopes of
the author, and prognostication of the experienced
manager, after a flash of success, it was withdrawn
from the stage. Several other tragedies of Mr.
Home's were afterwards exhibited, but none, save
<u>Douglas,</u> with remarkable applause, and one or two
with marked disapprobation. The cause of such
repeated failures, after such splendid success, we
may afterwards advert to.</p>
<p> Mr. Home was now formally installed in Lord
Bute's family as private secretary, and his biographer
hints that his lordship's choice was determined
more by the desire of enjoying the poet's agreeable
conversation, than by any expectation of deriving
assistance from him in transacting public business.
Home was indeed, like many other bards, in every
respect the reverse of a man of method, indifferent
to loss of time, and averse from all regularity and
form, which are necessary to the management of
affairs. When, on some occasion, he had lent his
friend Adam Fergusson <L>200, upon a note of hand,
and could not redeliver the <u>voucher</u> on receiving
payment of the money, he gave an acknowledgment
in terms too poetical to be very good in law;
``If ever the note appears,'' said the letter of acknowledgment,
``it will be of no use but to show
what a foolish, thoughtless, inattentive fellow I am.''
On the other hand, his conversation while in the
prime of life, must have been highly entertaining.
When those of the present generation knew him,
age had brought its usual infirmities of repetition
and prolixity, but still his discourse was charming.
``He came into a company,'' says one of his contemporaries,
``like a sunbeam into a darkened
room: his excellent temper and unaffected cheerfulness,
his absence from every thing like reserve
or formality, giving light to every eye and colour
to every cheek. Yet Home's conversation could
neither be termed sprightly nor witty. In his
comic humour it was characterised by a flow of
easy pleasantry, of that species which indicates the
speaker willing to please or be pleased at the lightest
rate; and in his higher mood his thoughts, naturally
turned to such subjects, were without affectation,
formed on the sublime and beautiful in poetry,
the dignified and the virtuous in history, the romantic
and interesting in tradition, upon whatever
is elevating and inspiring in humanity.'' Such conversation,
flowing naturally and unaffectedly from
a high imagination and extensive reading, is found
to carry along with its tide and influence even the
men of phlegmatic minds, who might, _<a`> priori,_ be
regarded as incapable to appreciate and enjoy it.
The late excellent King George III. was then under
the charge of the Earl of Bute who was his
chief preceptor. The turn of his understanding
was towards strong sense and useful information---
the gods had not made him poetical---nevertheless,
he loved the person and conversation of Home, of
whom he naturally saw much. On his accession
to the throne, that sovereign, of his own free motion,
settled upon the poet a pension of <L>300; an
office connected with Scotland, called Conservator
of Scots Privileges at Campvere, added as much
more to his income, and that was all the fortune
with which he returned to Scotland when Lord
Bute retired from office. He had also a lease of a
farm on very advantageous terms from his former
patron and friend Sir David Kinloch of Gilmerton,
where he built a house, as has been already mentioned.
In 1770, he married the daughter of Mr.
Home, a friend and relative of his own, whose
delicate health gave his affectionate disposition frequent
cause of apprehension, but who nevertheless
survived him. They had no family.</p>
<p> In 1778, Mr. Home again indulged his passion
for military affairs by entering into the South Fencibles,
a regiment raised by Henry Duke of Buccleuch,
in which he had for comrades the present
Earl of Haddington, William Adam, M.P. (now
lord high commissioner of the Jury Court of Scotland,)
and others who were well qualified to approve
his merit and delight in his society. A fall
from horseback, the second severe accident of the
kind, interrupted his military career, and the contusion
which he received in his head had a material
influence on his future life. This accident was accompanied
by something resembling a concussion
of the brain. ``He recovered the accident as far
as his bodily health was concerned,'' says Mr.
Mackenzie, ``but his mind was never restored to
its former vigour, nor regained its former vivacity.''
We may add that his subsequent compositions,
though displaying flashes of his genius, never
showed it in a continued and sustained flight.</p>
<p> It was, however, only the pressing remonstrances
of his friends which could induce Mr. Home, after
this accident, to resign the <u>military</u> mode of life to
which he had been so much attached, and to retire
into a quiet and settled privacy of life. After the
year 1779 he settled in Edinburgh, where he was
the object of general respect and veneration. He
mingled in society to the last, and though his memory
was impaired respecting late events, it seemed
strong and vigorous when his conversation turned
on those which had occupied his attention at an
early period. The following account of an entertainment
at his house in Edinburgh, we received
from a literary gentleman of Scotland, who was
then beginning to attract the attention of the public.
He was honoured with the notice of Mr. Home
from some family circumstances, but chiefly from
the kindly feeling which the veteran still preserved
towards all who seemed disposed to turn their attention
to Scottish literature. There were seven
male guests at table, of whom five were coeval
with the landlord---then upwards of eighty-four.
A bachelor gentleman of fifty was treated as what
is called the <u>Boots,</u> and went through the duty of
ringing the bell, carving the joint, and discharging
the other functions usually imposed on the youngest
member of the company. Our friend, who was
not much above thirty, was considered too much of
a boy to be trusted with any such charge of the
ceremonial, and, in fact, his very presence in this
venerable assembly seemed to be altogether forgotten,
while, it may be supposed, he was much more
anxious to listen to their conversation than to interrupt
it by talking himself. The very entertainment
seemed antediluvian, though excellent. There
were dishes of ancient renown, and liquors unknown
almost to the present day. A capper-caelzie,
or cock of the wood, which has been extinct in
Scotland for more than a century, was presented
on the board as a homage to the genius of Mr.
Home, sent from the pine-forests of Norway. The
<u>cup,</u> or cold tankard, which he recommended particularly,
was after an ancient Scottish receipt.
The claret, still the favourite beverage of the poet,
was excellent, and, like himself, of venerable antiquity,
but preserving its spirit and flavour. The
subjects of their conversation might be compared
to that held by ghosts, who, sitting on their midnight
tombs, talk over the deeds they have done
and witnessed while in the body. The <u>forty-five</u>
was a remarkable epoch, and called forth remarks
and anecdotes without number. The former civil
turmoils of the years 1715 and 1718 were familiar
to some of those present. The conversation of
these hale ancients had nothing of the weakness of
age, though a little of its garrulity. They seemed
the Nestors of their age; men whose gray hairs
only served<p> ``To mark the heroes born in better days.''</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>acting of Mrs. Ward who performed Lady Randolph. Digges
was the Douglas of the piece, his supposed father was played
by Hayman, and Glenalvon, by Love; actors of very considerable
merit, and afterwards of established reputation on the
London stage. But Mrs. Ward's beauty (for she was very
beautiful) and feeling, tutored with the most zealous anxiety
by the author and his friends, charmed and affected the audience
as much, perhaps as has ever been accomplished by the
very superior actresses of after-times. I was then a boy, but
of an age to be sometimes admitted as a sort of page to the
tea drinking parties of Edinburgh. I have a perfect recollection
of the strong sensation which <u>Douglas</u> excited among its
inhabitants. The men talked of the rehearsals; the ladies repeated
what they had heard of the story; some had procured
as a great favour, copies of the most striking passages, which
they recited at the earnest request of the company. I was present
at the representation; the applause was enthusiastic; but
a better criterion of its merits was the tears of the audience,
which the tender part of the drama drew forth unsparingly.
`The town,<code> says Dr. Carlyle (and I can vouch how truly,)
`was in an uproar of exultation, that a Scotchman should
write a tragedy of the first rate, and that its merits were first
submitted to them.</code> ''---Vol. i., pp. 37--40.<p> ``A person of high Scottish descent, the son of one of Caledonia's
most eminent nobility, exiled on account of his taking
part with the house of Stuart, had entered into foreign service,
and risen to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. He was
stationed in the advanced post destined to protect the trenches
which the army to which he was attached had opened before
a large and well-garrisoned town. Some appearances in the
besieged place induced the Scottish officer to conjecture that
a strong sortie would he made in the course of the night. He
went to the tent of Prince ------, commander-in-chief of the
army, to communicate the intelligence, and to request that a
support to the advance might he held in readiness. The
prince, engaged in writing despatches, did not even raise his
head from the paper, but answered, in a haughty tone, `Je
suis f<a^>ch<e'>.' The Scotchman, whose sense of his own consequence
did not permit him to believe that this answer could
be addressed to him, advanced nearer to the prince, and began
to repeat what he had said. The prince then raised his
head, looked scornfully at the officer, and reiterated `Je suis
f<a^>ch<e'> de vous et de vous petite affaires.'---`De moi et de mes
petites affaires!<code>---said the colonel, completely roused by the
insult---`petit prince que vous <e^>tes!</code> The prince, as brave
as insolent, readily agreed to waive his privilege as commander-in-chief,
and give the officer so gratuitously insulted the
satisfaction his honour required. `But' (continued Mr.
Home, his large light eyes suffused with tears, which flowed
involuntarily as he told the conclusion,) `the brave gentleman
lived not to receive the promised atonement. He returned to
his post---the expected sortie took place, the advanced guard
were cut to pieces, and among them, in the morning, was
found the body of our unfortunate and gallant countryman,
who had spent his last breath in the unequal combat to which
the arrogance of his general had exposed him.' ''</p>
<p> Mr. Mackenzie has, we think, omitted to give
some description of Mr. Home's person and countenance,
about which, nevertheless, our readers
may entertain a rational curiosity. We ourselves
only remember what a Scottish poet of eminence
has called<p> ``Home's pale ghost just gliding from the stage.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>``Yet at that time in Edinburgh there was much more regard
<em> to the sacredness of Sunday than now. I was then a boy,
</em> and I well remember the reverential silence of the streets, and
<em> the tip-toe kind of fear with which, when any accident prevented
</em> my attendance on church, I used to pass through them.
<em> What would the Presbytery have said now, when, in the time
</em> of public worship on a Sunday, not only are the public walks
<em> crowded, but idle and blackguard boys bawl through the
</em> streets, and splash us with their games there?---an indecency
<em> of which, though no friend to puritanical preciseness, and still
</em> less to religious persecution, I rather think the police ought
* to take cognizance.''---<u>Note by Mr. Mackenzie.</u></li>
</ul>
<p>persons within their bounds, especially the young, and those
who had the charge of youth, against the danger of frequenting
stage-plays and theatrical entertainments, of which the
Presbytery set forth the immoral and pernicious tendency, at
considerable length.</p>
<p>Mr. Home, from the consequences of his accident,
was, perhaps, the most broken of the party. But,
on his own ground, his memory was entire, his
conversation full both of spirit and feeling. One
story of the evening our correspondent recollects.
Mr. Home, beginning it in a voice somewhat feeble,
rose into strength of articulation with the interest
of the story. The names of the parties concerned,
and the place where the incident took place, our
informer has unhappily forgotten. What he does
remember we shall give in his own words:<p> Respecting his personal habits, we can add little
to what has been told by his elegant and affectionate
biographer. We remember only, that, with
the natural vanity of an author, he was regular,
while his strength permitted, in attendance upon the
theatre when any actor of eminence represented
Douglas. He had his own favourite seat beside
the scenes, and, willing to be pleased by those who
were desirous to give pleasure, his approbation was
consequently rather measured out according to the
kindness of his feelings than the accuracy of his
critical judgment.</p>
<p> Undisturbed by pain, and after a long and lingering
decay, he late and slowly approached the
conclusion of life's drama. His esteemed friend
Lord Haddington was one of the last friends whom
he was able to receive. After looking at his lordship
wistfully for some time, the kindness of his
heart seemed to awaken his slumbering powers of
recollection; he smiled, and pressed the friendly
hand that was extended towards him, with a silent
assurance of his tender remembrance. He died
the 5th September 1808, in the eighty-sixth year
of his age. It was impossible to lament the
extinction of the wasted taper; yet there was a
general feeling that Home's death closed an era
in the literary history of Scotland, and dissolved
a link which, though worn and frail, seemed to
connect the present generation with that of their
fathers.</p>
<p> We have promised to take, in the second place,
some notice of the literary society of Scotland at
the time when Home was so important a member
of it, and which has been so interestingly treated
by Mr. Mackenzie, who, in his own connexion
with the preceding age, must be perhaps addressed
as <u>Ultime Scotorum.</u></p>
<p> Hospitality was at that time a distinguished feature
in Scottish society; Mr. Home's income was
chiefly employed in it. ``His house,'' according to
his friend Adam Fergusson, ``was always as full of
his friends as it could hold, fuller than, in modern
manners, it could be made to hold.'' The form and
show of the entertainment were little attended to;
that would have thrown a dulness upon the freedom
of intercourse, for the guest took with good-will
that which the landlord found most easy to
present. The science of the gastronome was
unknown. The Scottish manners were, indeed,
emerging from the Egyptian darkness of the preceding
age, when a dame of no small quality, the
worshipful Lady Pumphraston, buttered a pound
of green tea sent her as an exquisite delicacy,
dressed it as condiment to a rump of salted beef,
and complained that no degree of boiling would
render these foreign greens tender. Yet the farm,
with the poultry-yard and the dove-cot, added to
the supplies furnished by the gun and fishing-rod,
furnished a plentiful, if not an elegant table. French
wine and brandy were had at a cheap rate, chiefly
by infractions of the revenue laws, at which the
government were contented to wink, rather than
irritate a country in which there was little money
and much disaffection. It only remained to find
as many guests as the table would hold, and the
social habits of the country rendered that seldom
difficult. For beds many shifts were made, and
the prospect of a dance in particular reconciled
damsels to sleep in the proportion of half a dozen
to each apartment, while their gallant partners
would be sometimes contented with an out-house,
a barn, or a hay-loft. It is not, however, of the
general state of society which we have to speak,
but of that of a more distinguished character.</p>
<p> Mr. Mackenzie, with a partiality natural to his
age and his country, speaks highly of the literary
society of Scotland at this time, and even ventures,
in some respects, to give it a preference over that
of the sister country. He enlarges, in his own
elegant language, upon the---</p>
<p> ``Free and cordial communication of sentiments, the natural
play of fancy and good-humour, which prevailed among the
circle of men whom I have described. It was very different
from that display of learning---that prize-fighting of wit,
which distinguished a literary circle of our sister country, of
which we have some authentic and curious records. There
all ease of intercourse was changed for the pride of victory;
and the victors, like some savage combatants, gave no quarter
to the vanquished. This may, perhaps, be accounted for,
more from the situation than the dispositions of the principal
members of that society. The literary circle of London was
a sort of sect, a <u>caste</u> separate from the ordinary professions
and habits of common life. They were traders in talent and
learning, and brought, like other traders, samples of their
goods into company with a jealousy of competition which
prevented their enjoying as much as otherwise they might,
any excellence in their competitors.''---Vol. i., pp. 22, 23.</p>
<p> Without examining how far the Scottish literati
might gain or lose by being knitted almost exclusively
together in their own peculiar sect, we may
take the liberty of running over the names of three
or four persons, the most distinguished of the circle,
with such trifling anecdotes as may throw additional
light on Mr. Mackenzie's pleasing picture.
We may add, that our biographer, reading his
sketch of Mr. Home's Life before a learned body,<*></p>
</p>
<p>But his picture by Raeburn<*> enables us to say</p>
<ul>
<li>In Miss Fergusson's collection at Huntley-burn.---S.<p> The celebrated David Hume, the philosopher
and historian, was certainly the most distinguished
person in the cycle. That he was most unhappy
in permitting the acuteness of his talents, and the
pride arising from the consciousness of possessing
them, to involve him in a maze of sceptical illusions,
is most undeniable; as well as that he was
highly culpable in giving to the world the miserable
results of his leisure. Mr. Mackenzie states,
in mitigation, not in exculpation, that the great
Pyrrhonist---</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>that his exterior, in his younger years, must have
been impressive, if not handsome. His features
are happily animated with the expression of a
poet, whose eye, overlooking the uninteresting and
everyday objects around, is bent to pursue the
flight of his imagination through the dim region of
past events, or the yet more mysterious anticipations
of futurity.<p> Mr. David Hume's intimacy with his namesake
and friend, John, was of the closest kind, and suffered
no interruption. It was, indeed, an instance
among many, that friendships are formed more
from a general similarity in temper and disposition,
than from a turn to the same studies and pursuits.
David Hume was no good judge of poetry; had
little feeling for it; and examined it by the hackneyed
rules of criticism; which, having crushed a
hundred poets, will never, it may be prophesied,
create, or assist in creating, a single one. John
Home's disposition was excursive and romantic---
that of David, both from nature and habit, was
subtle, sceptical; and he, far from being inclined to
concede a temporary degree of faith to _la douce
chim<e`>re,_ was disposed to reason away even the
realities which were subjected to his examination.
The poet's imagination tends to throw a halo on
the distant objects---the sophistry of the metaphysician
shrouded them with a mist which, unlike
other northern mists, not only obscured but dwarfed
their real dimensions. The one saw more, the
other saw less, than was actually visible. Yet this
very difference tended to bind the two friends, for
such they were <u>usque ad aras,</u> in a more intimate
union. John Home by no means spared his friend's
metaphysical studies. The discourse turning one
evening upon a young man, previously of irreproachable
conduct, having robbed his master, and
eloped with a considerable sum, John Home accounted
for his unexpected turpitude, by the nature
of the culprit's studies, which had chiefly lain in
<u>Boston's Fourfold State</u> (a treatise of deep Calvinistical
divinity) and <u>Hume's Essays.</u> The philosopher
was somewhat nettled at the jest, probably on
account of the singular conjunction of the two
works.</p>
<p> On the other hand, John was often the butt of
his friend's jests, on account of his romantic disposition
for warlike enterprise, his attachment to the
orthography of his name, and similar peculiarities,
indicative of a warm and susceptible imagination.</p>
<p> Upon some occasion, when General Fletcher
mentioned the inconvenience which he had experienced
from the rudeness and restiveness of a
postilion, John Home exclaimed, in a Drawcansir
tone, ``Where were your pistols?'' This created
a general laugh; and next day, as Mr. Home was
about to set off for a visit to Dr. Carlyle, at Musselburgh,
he received a letter, with a large parcel:
the import bore that his friends and well-wishers
could not think of his taking so dangerous a journey
without being suitably armed, and the packet
being opened, was found to contain a huge pair of
pistols, such as are sold at stalls to be <u>fairings</u> for
children, made of gingerbread, and adorned with
gilding.</p>
<p> When David Hume was suffering under the long
and lingering illness which led him inch by inch
to his grave, his friend John, with the most tender
and solicitous attention, attended him on a journey
to Bath, which it was supposed might be of temporary
service, though a cure was impossible.
When his companion's travelling pistols (not those
of the savoury materials above mentioned) were
handed into the carriage, the historian made an
observation at once humorous and affecting. ``You
shall have your humour, John, and fight with as
many highwaymen as you please; for I have too
little of life left to be an object worth saving.''
With more profound raillery he supposed that he
himself, John Home, and Adam Fergusson, who
studied Roman history with Roman feeling and
Roman spirit, had been Sovereigns of three adjacent
states and John Home thus states in one of
his letters the result of his friend's reflections:---</p>
<p> ``He knew very well, he said (having often disputed the
point with us,) the great opinion we had of military virtues as
essential to every state; that from these sentiments rooted in
us, he was certain he would be attacked and interrupted in
his projects of cultivating, improving, and civilizing mankind
by the arts of peace; that he comforted himself with reflecting,
that from our want of economy and order in our affairs,
we should be continually in want of money; whilst he would
have his finances in excellent condition, his magazines well
filled, and naval stores in abundance; but that his final stroke
of policy, upon which he depended, was to give one of us a
large subsidy to fall upon the other, which would infallibly
secure to him peace and quiet and, after a long war, would
probably terminate in his being master of all the three kingdoms.''
---Vol. i., pp. 181, 182.</p>
<p> We are disposed more to question the taste of
the joke which, in David Hume's last will, alludes
to two of his friend's foibles. The grave, and its
appurtenances of epitaphs and testaments, are subjects,
according to Samuel Johnson, on which wise
men think with awe and gravity; yet there is something
affecting in the concluding allusion to the undisturbed
friendship of those whom death was
about to part. The bequest we allude to is contained
in the following codicil:---</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>The Royal Society of Edinburgh; of which Mr. Mackenzie
* is secretary.---S.</li>
</ul>
<p>many of them the relations or surviving friends of
the deceased worthies of whom he spoke, was
bound, by a certain natural delicacy, not to represent,
except in a very mitigated view, the foibles
of the distinguished persons of whom he spoke.
We, on the contrary, claim a right to portray with
a broader pencil; our information is of a popular
nature; and, being so, it is rather wonderful it has
furnished us with so few of the darker colours.
We can only pretend to paint the northern sages
in Tristram Shandy's point of view---that is, according
to their hobbyhorses.</p>
<p>``had, in the language which the Grecian historian applies to
an illustrious Roman, two minds, one which indulged in the
metaphysical scepticism which his genius could invent, but
which it could not always disentangle; another, simple, natural,
and playful, which made his conversation delightful to
his friends, and even frequently conciliated men whose principles
of belief, his philosophical doubts if they had not power
to shake, had grieved and offended. During the latter period
of his life, I was frequently in his company amidst persons of
genuine piety, and I never heard him venture a remark at
which such men, or ladies---still more susceptible than men---
could take offence. His good-nature and benevolence prevented
such an injury to his hearers: it was unfortunate that
he often forgot what injury some of his writings might do to
his readers.''---Vol. i., pp. 20, 21.</p>
<p>``I leave to my friend, Mr. John Home, of Kilduff, ten dozen
of my old claret, at his choice; and one single bottle of that
other liquor called port. I also leave to him six dozen of
port, provided that he attests under his hand, signed John
<u>Hume,</u> that he has himself alone finished that bottle at two
sittings. By this concession, he will at once terminate the
only two differences that ever arose between us concerning
temporal matters.''---Vol. i., p. 163.<p> Dr. Adam Fergusson, the author of the <u>History
of the Roman Republic,</u> and distinguished besides
as a moral philosopher, was a distinguished member
of the literary society in which the poet Home,
and the philosopher Hume, made such a figure.
The son of a clergyman at Logierait, in Athol, he
was himself destined to the Church, took orders,
and went as chaplain to the Black Watch, or 42d
Highland regiment, when that corps was first sent
to the continent. As the regiment advanced to
the battle of Fontenoy, the commanding officer, Sir
Robert Monro, was astonished to see the chaplain
at the head of the column, with a broadsword
drawn in his hand. He desired him to go to the
rear with the surgeons, a proposal which Adam
Fergusson spurned. Sir Robert at length told
him that his commission did not entitle him to be
present in the post which he had assumed. ``D---n
my commission,'' said the warlike chaplain, throwing
it towards his colonel. It may easily be supposed
that the matter was only remembered as a
good jest; but the future historian of Rome shared
the honours and dangers of that dreadful day,
where, according to the account of the French
themselves, ``the Highland furies rushed in upon
them with more violence than ever did a sea driven
by a tempest.''</p>
<p> Professor Adam Fergusson's subsequent history
is well known. He recovered from a decided shock
of paralysis in the sixtieth year of his life; from
which period he became a strict Pythagorean in his
diet, eating nothing but vegetables, and drinking
only water or milk. He survived till the year 1816,
when he died in full possession of his mental faculties,
at the advanced age of ninety-three. The
deep interest which he took in the eventful war
had long seemed to be the main tie that connected
him with passing existence; and the news of Waterloo
acted on the aged patriot as a <u>nunc dimittis.</u>
From that hour the feeling that had almost alone
given him energy decayed, and he avowedly relinquished
all desire for prolonged life. It is the
belief of his family that he might have remained
with them much longer, had he desired to do so,
and continued the exercise which had hitherto promoted
his health. Long after his eightieth year he
was one of the most striking old men whom it was
possible to look at. His firm step and ruddy cheek
contrasted agreeably and unexpectedly with his
silver locks; and the dress which he usually wore,
much resembling that of the Flemish peasant, gave
an air of peculiarity to his whole figure. In his
conversation, the mixture of original thinking with
high moral feeling and extensive learning; his love
of country; contempt of luxury; and, especially,
the strong subjection of his passions and feelings to
the dominion of his reason, made him, perhaps, the
most striking example of the Stoic philosopher
which could be seen in modern days. His house,
while he continued to reside in Edinburgh, was a
general point of re-union among his friends particularly
of a Sunday, where there generally met, at
a hospitable dinner-party, the most distinguished
literati of the old time who still remained, with
such young persons as were thought worthy to approach
their circle, and listen to their conversation.
The place of his residence was an insulated house,
at some distance from the town, which its visitors
(notwithstanding its internal comforts) chose to
call, for that reason, Kamtschatka.</p>
<p> Two constant attendants on this weekly symposium
were the chemical philosophers Dr. Black and
Dr. Hutton. They were particular friends, though
there was something extremely opposite in their
external appearance and manner. They were both
indeed, tall and thin; but there all personal similarity
ended. Dr. Black spoke with the English
pronunciation, with punctilious accuracy of expression,
both in point of manner and matter. His
dress was of the same description, regulated, in
some small degree, according to the rules which
formerly imposed a formal and full-dress habit on
the members of the medical faculty. The geologist
was the very reverse of this. His dress approached
to a quaker's in simplicity; and his conversation
was conducted in broad phrases, expressed with a
broad Scotch accent, which often heightened the
humour of what he said. The difference of manner
sometimes placed the two philosophers in whimsical
contrast with each other. We recollect an
anecdote, entertaining enough, both on that account,
and as showing how difficult it is for philosophy
to wage a war with prejudice.</p>
<p> It chanced that the two doctors had held some
discourse together upon the folly of abstaining from
feeding on the testaceous creatures of the land,
while those of the sea were considered as delicacies.
Wherefore not eat snails?---they are well
known to be nutritious and wholesome---even sanative
in some cases. The epicures of olden times
enumerated among the richest and raciest delicacies,
the snails which were fed in the marble quarries
of Lucca; the Italians still hold them in esteem.
In short, it was determined that a gastronomic
experiment should be made at the expense of the
snails. The snails were procured, dieted for a
time, then stewed for the benefit of the two philosophers;
who had either invited no guest to their
banquet, or found none who relished in prospect
the _pi<e`>ce de r<e'>sistance._ A huge dish of snails was
placed before them; but philosophers are but men
after all; and the stomachs of both doctors began
to revolt against the proposed experiment. Nevertheless,
if they looked with disgust on the snails,
they retained their awe for each other; so that
each, conceiving the symptoms of internal revolt
peculiar to himself, began with infinite exertion to
swallow, in very small quantities, the mess which
he internally loathed. Dr. Black, at length, ``showed
the white feather,'' but in a very delicate manner, as
if to sound the opinion of his messmate :---``Doctor,''
he said, in his precise and quiet manner,
``Doctor---do you not think that they taste a little
---a very little, green?'<code>---``D---d green, d---d
green, indeed---tak them awa</code>, tak them awa',''
vociferated Dr. Hutton, starting up from table, and
giving full vent to his feelings of abhorrence. And
so ended all hopes of introducing snails into the
modern <u>cuisine;</u> and thus philosophy can no more
cure a nausea, than honour can set a broken limb.</p>
<p> Lord Elibank (Patrick, remembered in Scotland
by the name of the Clever Lord) was one of the
most remarkable amongst this remarkable society.
He was distinguished by the liveliness of his conversation
and the acuteness of his understanding,
and many of his <u>bon-mots</u> are still preserved.
When, for example, he was first told of Johnson's
celebrated definition of the word <u>oats,</u> as being the
food of men in Scotland, and horses in England, he
answered with happy readiness, ``Very true; and
where will you find such horses and such men?''
Lord Elibank indulged greatly in paradoxes, which
he was wont to defend with much ingenuity. He
piqued himself, at the same time, on his worldly
prudence; so much so, as to reply to some one who
told him of Mr. Home's having got a pension, at
the suggestion of the King himself,---``it is nobly
done; but it is as impossible for the King to make
John Home or Adam Fergusson rich, as it would
be for his Majesty to make me poor.'' Lord Elibank,
with John Home, David Hume, Fergusson,
and others, were members of a convivial association
called the <u>Poker Club,</u> because its purpose was to
stir up and encourage the public spirit of Scotland,
the people of which were then much exasperated
at not being permitted to raise a militia in the
same manner as England. Dr. Fergusson, upon
the occasion, composed a continuation of Arbuthnot's
satirical <u>History of John Bull,</u> which he entitled
the <u>History of Margaret, otherwise called
Sister Peg.</u> The work was distinguished for humour
and satire; and led to a curious jest on the part
of David Hume. He had been left out of the secret,
as not being supposed a good counsel-keeper, and
he took his revenge by gravely writing a letter to
Dr. Carlyle, claiming the work as his own, with an
air of sober reality, which, had the letter been
found after any lapse of time, would have appeared
an indubitable proof of his being really the author.
We have not room to insert this piece of literary
persiflage, but refer the reader to vol. i., p. 155.</p>
<p> The Poker Club served its purpose; and, many
years afterwards, symptoms of discontent on the
subject of the militia were to be found in Scotland.
Burns says of his native country---<p> ``Lang time she's been in fractious mood,
Her lost militia fired her blood,
De'il ner they never mair do good,
Play'd her that pliskie.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>The subject of the name has been already mentioned.
The bequest of wine alludes to John
Home's partiality to claret, on which he wrote a
well-known epigram, when the high duties were
enforced against Scotland.<*> There is much more<p> We have heard of a meeting of the Poker Club,
which was convoked long after it had ceased to
have regular existence, when its remaining members
were far advanced in years. The experiment
was not successful. Those who had last met in
the full vigour of health and glow of intellect,
taking an eager interest in the passing events of
the world, seemed now, in each other's eyes, cold,
torpid, inactive, loaded with infirmities, and occupied
with the selfish care of husbanding the remainder
of their health and strength, rather than
in the gaiety and frolic of a convivial evening.
Most had renounced even the moderate worship of
Bacchus, which, on former occasions, had seldom
been neglected. The friends saw their own condition
reflected in the persons of each other, and
became sensible that the time of convivial meetings
was passed. The abrupt contrast betwixt what
they had been, and what they were, was too unpleasant
to be endured, and the Poker Club never
met again. This, it may be alleged, is a contradiction
of what we have said concerning the Nestorian
banquet at John Home's, formerly noticed.
But the circumstances were different. The gentlemen
then alluded to had kept near to each other
in the decline as well as the ascent of life, met
frequently, and were become accustomed to the
growing infirmities of each other, as each had to
his own. But the Poker Club, most of whom had
been in full strength when the regular meetings
were discontinued, found themselves abruptly re-assembled
as old and broken men, and naturally
agreed with the Gaelic bard that age ``is dark and
unlovely.''<*></p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>The government had long connived at a practice of importing
<em> claret into Scotland, under the mitigated duties applicable
</em> to the liquor called Southampton port. The epigram
<em> of John Home was as follows:---
</em>
<em> ``Firm and erect the Caledonian stood,
</em> Old was his mutton, and his claret good;
<em> `Let him drink port,' an English statesman cried
</em> He drank the poison, and his spirit died.''---S.<p> One or two gossiping paragraphs on the subject
of Adam Smith, whose distinguished name may
render the most trifling notices concerning him
matter of some interest, and we will then release
our courteous reader from our recollections on the
subject of these old Northern Lights. Dr. Smith is
well known to have been one of the most absent
men living. It was, indeed, an attribute which, if
any where, might have been matched in the society
we speak of, of whom several, particularly John
Home and General Fletcher Campbell, were extremely
addicted to fits of absence. But those of
the great Economist were abstraction itself. Mr.
Mackenzie placed in his hand the beautiful tale of
<u>La Roche,</u> in which he introduces Mr. David Hume,
for the express purpose of knowing whether there
was any thing in it which Mr. Hume's surviving
friends could think hurtful to his memory. Dr.
Smith read and highly approved of the MS.; but,
on returning it to Mr. Mackenzie, only expressed
his surprise that Mr. Hume should never have
mentioned <u>the anecdote</u> to him. When walking in
the street, Adam had a manner of talking and
laughing to himself, which often attracted the notice
and excited the surprise of the passengers. He
used himself to mention the ejaculation of an old
market-woman, ``Hegh, sirs!'' shaking her head
as she uttered it; to which her companion answered,
having echoed the compassionate sigh,
``and he is well put on too!'' expressing their
surprise that a decided lunatic, who, from his dress,
appeared to be a gentleman, should be permitted
to walk abroad.---In a private room his demeanour
was equally remarkable; and we shall never forget
one particular evening, when he put an elderly
maiden lady, who presided at the tea-table, to sore
confusion, by neglecting utterly her invitations to
be seated, and walking round and round the circle,
stopping ever and anon to steal a lump from the
sugar basin, which the venerable spinster was at
length constrained to place on her own knee, as the
only method of securing it from his most uneconomical
depredations. His appearance mumping the
eternal sugar, was something indescribable.</p>
<p> We had the following anecdotes from a colleague
of Dr. Smith, who, as is well known, was a commissioner
of the Board of Customs. That board had
in their service, as porter, a stately person, who,
dressed in a huge scarlet gown or cloak, covered
with frogs of worsted lace, and holding in his hand
a staff about seven feet high, as an emblem of his
office, used to mount guard before the Custom-house
when a board was to be held. It was the etiquette
that, as each commissioner entered, the porter
should go through a sort of salute with his staff of
office, resembling that which officers used formerly
to perform with their spontoon, and then marshal
the dignitary to the hall of meeting. This ceremony
had been performed before the great Economist
perhaps five hundred times. Nevertheless one day,
as he was about to enter the Custom-house, the
motions of this janitor seem to have attracted his
eye without their character or purpose reaching
his apprehension, and on a sudden he began to imitate
his gestures, as a recruit does those of his drill-sergeant.
The porter, having drawn up in front of
the door, presented his staff as a soldier does his
musket; the commissioner, raising his cane, and
holding it with both hands by the middle, returned
the salute with the utmost gravity. The inferior
officer, much amazed, recovered his weapon,
wheeled to the right, stepping a pace back to give
the commissioner room to pass, lowering his staff
at the same time, in token of obeisance. Dr. Smith,
instead of passing on, drew up on the opposite side,
and lowered his cane at the same angle. The functionary,
much out of consequence, next moved up
stairs, with his staff advanced, while the author of
the <u>Wealth of Nations</u> followed with his bamboo
in precisely the same posture, and his whole soul
apparently wrapped up in the purpose of placing
his foot exactly on the same spot of each step which
had been occupied by the officer who preceded him.
At the door of the hall, the porter again drew off,
saluted with his staff, and bowed reverentially. The
philosopher again imitated his motions, and returned
his bow with the most profound gravity. When the
Doctor entered the apartment, the spell under which
he seemed to act was entirely broken, and our informant,
who, very much amused, had followed him
the whole way, had some difficulty to convince him
that he had been doing any thing extraordinary.
Upon another occasion, having to sign an official
minute or mandate, Adam Smith was observed to
be unusually tedious, when the same person, peeping
over his shoulder, discovered that he was engaged,
not in writing his own name, but in imitating,
as nearly as possible, the signature of his
brother in office, who had held the pen before him.
These instances of absence equal the abstractions
of the celebrated Dr. Harvey; but whoever has
read the deep theories and abstruse calculations
contained in the <u>Wealth of Nations</u> must readily
allow that a mind habitually employed in such
themes, must necessarily be often rapt far above
the sublunary occurrences of everyday life.</p>
<p> We are now approaching the third subject proposed
in our Review, the consideration of John
Home's character as an author, founded on the
present edition of his collected works. Our criticism
on his poetical character need not be very
minute, for his chef-d'<oe>uvre, <u>Douglas,</u> is known
to every one, and his other dramatic labours are
scarcely known at all. Upon the merits of the
first, every reader has already made up his mind,
and on those of the others we might, perhaps, find
it difficult to procure an attentive hearing. Still,
however, some mark of homage is due to, perhaps,
the most popular tragic author of modern times;
and we must pay suit and service, were it only
with a pepper-corn.</p>
<p> We have said already that <u>Douglas</u> owes a great
part of its attractions to the interest of the plot,
which, however, is by no means a probable one.
There is something overstrained in the twenty
years spent by Lady Randolph in deep and suppressed
sorrow; nor is it natural, though useful
certainly to the poet, that her regrets should turn
less on the husband of her youth, than upon the
new-born child whom she had scarcely seen. There
is something awkward in her sudden confidence to
Anna, as is pointed out by David Hume. ``The
spectator,'' says the critic, ``is apt to suspect it
was done in order to instruct him; a very good
end, but which might have been obtained by a
careful and artificial conduct of the dialogue.'' This
is all unquestionably true; but the spectator should,
and, indeed, must, make considerable allowances,
if he expects to receive pleasure from the drama.
He must get his mind, according to Tony Lumpkin's
phrase, into ``a concatenation accordingly;''
since he cannot reasonably expect that scenes of
deep and complicated interest shall be placed before
him, in close succession, without some force being
put upon ordinary probability; and the question is
not, how far you have sacrificed your judgment in
order to accommodate the fiction, but rather what is
the degree of delight you have received in return.
Perhaps, in this point of view, it is scarcely possible
for a spectator to make such sacrifices for greater
pleasure than we have enjoyed, in seeing Lady
Randolph personified by the inimitable Siddons.
Great as that pleasure was on all occasions, it was
increased in a manner which can hardly be conceived
when her son (the late Mr. H. Siddons)
supported his mother in the character of Douglas,
and when the full overflowing of maternal tenderness
was authorised, nay, authenticated and realized,
by the actual existence of the relationship. There
will, and must be, on other occasions, some check
of the feeling, however virtuous and tender, when
a woman of feeling and delicacy pours her maternal
caresses on a performer who, although to be
accounted her son for the night is, in reality, a
stranger. But in the scenes we allude to, that
chilling obstacle was removed; and while Lady
Randolph exhausted her tenderness on the supposed
Douglas, the mother was, in truth, indulging
the same feelings towards her actual son. It may
be erroneous to judge this way of a drama which
can hardly be again illustrated by such powers,
exercised under circumstances so exciting to the
principal performer, and so nearly approaching to
reality. Yet, even in an abstract view, we agree
with Mr. Mackenzie that the chief scene between
Lady Randolph and Old Norval, in which the preservation
and existence of Douglas is discovered,
has no equal in modern, and scarcely a superior
in the ancient drama. It is certainly one of the
most effective which the English stage has to boast;
and we learn with pleasure, but without surprise,
that, though many other parts of the play were
altered before its representation, we have this masterpiece
exactly as it was thrown off in the original
sketch.</p>
<p> ``Thus it is,'' says the accomplished editor, ``that the fervid
creation of genius and fancy strikes out what is so excellent as
well as vivid, as not to admit of amendment, and which, indeed,
correction would spoil instead of improving. This is the true
inspiration of the poet, which gives to criticism, instead of borrowing
from it, its model and its rule and which, it is possible,
in some diffident authors, the terrors of criticism may have
weakened or extinguished.''---Vol. i., p. 93.</p>
<p> It is justly remarked by Mr Mackenzie, that
the intense interest excited by the scene of the
discovery occasions some falling off in the two last
acts; yet this is not so great as to injure the effect
of the play when the parts are suitably supported.
Mrs. Siddons indeed, (we cannot help identifying
her with Lady Randolph,) gave such terrible interest
to the concluding scene, that we can truly say
the decay of interest, which is certainly felt both
in perusing the drama and in seeing it only moderately
well performed, was quite imperceptible.</p>
<p> In a general point of view, the interest of <u>Douglas</u>
is of a kind which addresses itself to the bosom of
every spectator. The strength of maternal affection
is a feeling which all the audience have had
the advantage of experiencing, which such mothers
as are present have themselves exercised, and
which moves the general mind more deeply than
even distresses arising from the passion of love---
one too frequently produced on the stage not to
become, in some degree, hackneyed and uninteresting.</p>
<p> The language of the piece is beautiful. ``Mrs.
Siddons told me,'' says the editor, ``that she never
found any _study_'' (which, in the technical language
of the stage, means the getting verses by heart)
``so easy as that of <u>Douglas,</u> which is one of the
best criterions of excellence in the dramatic style.''</p>
<p> The character of <u>Douglas,</u> enthusiastic, romantic,
desirous of honour, careless of life and every other
advantage where glory lay in the balance, flowed
freely from the author's heart, to which such sentiments
were the most familiar.</p>
<p> The structure of the story somewhat resembles
that of Voltaire's _M<e'>rope,_ but is as simple and
natural as that of the French author is complicated
and artificial. _M<e'>rope_ came out about 1743, and
Mr. Home may, therefore, easily have seen it. But
he has certainly derived his more simple and natural
tale from the old ballad. In memory of this,
the tune of <u>Gil Morrice,</u> a simple and beautiful air,
is, in Scotland at least, always played while the
curtain rises.</p>
<p> The poetical moral of the piece is justly observed
by Mr. Mackenzie to have captivated all who, before
its representation in Scotland, happened to
hear any part of it recited. He gives us his own
authority, as bearing witness that some of the most
striking passages, and particularly the opening soliloquy,
were got by heart and repeated by fair lips
for the admiration of the tea-tables of Edinburgh.<p> ``And you, fair dames of merry England,
As fast your tears did pour;''---</p>
</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>that is interesting and curious respecting David
Hume in this piece of biography, which contains
also several of his original letters.<p> It may, perhaps, seem strange that the author,
in his preceding tragedy of <u>Agis,</u> and in his subsequent
dramatic efforts, so far from attaining similar
excellence, never even approached to the success of
<u>Douglas;</u> yet good reasons can be assigned for his
failure, without imputing it, during his best years
at least, to a decay of genius.</p>
<p> <u>Agis</u> was a tragedy the interest of which turned,
at first, exclusively upon politics, a subject which
men are fiercely interested in, if connected with the
party-questions agitating their own country at the
time; but which, when the same refers to the forgotten
revolutions of a distant country and a remote
period, are always caviare to the million. Addison,
indeed, succeeded in his splendid poem of <u>Cato;</u>
but both the name and history were so generally
known as to facilitate greatly its interest with the
public. Besides, the author was at the head of the
literature of his day, and not unskilled in the art of
indoctrinating the readers of the <u>Spectator</u> in the
knowledge necessary to understand <u>Cato.</u> But the
history of <u>Agis</u> and the fortunes of Sparta were
familiar only to scholars; and it was difficult to
interest the audience at large in the revolutions of
a country which they knew only by name. The
Ephori and the double kings of Laced<ae>mon must
have been puzzling to a common audience, even at
the outset. Both <u>Cato</u> and <u>Agis,</u> but particularly
the latter, suffered by the ingrafting of a love-intrigue,
commonplace and cumbersome, as well as
unnecessary, upon the principal plot; which, on the
contrary, it ought in either case to have been the
business of the author to keep constantly under the
view of the audience, and to illustrate and enhance
by every subordinate aid in his power; yet <u>Agis,</u>
from the ease of the dialogue and beauty of the
declamation, and being also, according to the technical
phrase, _strongly cast_---for Garrick played
Lysander, and Mrs. Cibber, Evanthe---was, for
some representations, favourably received; and,
had it been written in French, it would probably
have been permanently successful on the Parisian
stage. In this and other pieces the author seems
to have suffered in the eyes of his countrymen by
attending too much to the advice of David Hume,
in such cases surely an incompetent judge, who
entreats him, for heaven's sake, ``to read Shakspeare,
but get Racine and Sophocles by heart.''---
(Vol. i., p. 100.) The critic had not sufficiently
considered how much the British stage differs both
from the French and the Grecian in the structure
and character of the entertainments there exhibited.</p>
<p> The <u>Siege of Aquileia</u> was acted for the first
time in 1760. Garrick expected the most unbounded
success, and he himself played the principal
character. It failed, however, from an
objection thus stated by Mr. Mackenzie :---</p>
<p> ``Most, or indeed almost all, the incidents are told to, not
witnessed by, the spectators, who, in England beyond any
ether country, are swayed by the Horatian maxim, and feel
very imperfectly these incidents which are not `_oculis subiecta
fidelibus._' It rather languished, therefore, in the representation,
though supported by such admirable acting, and
did not run so many nights as the manager confidently expected.''
---Vol. i., p. 58.</p>
<p> As we have made few quotations from Mr.
Home's poetry, we may observe that the description
of an ominous dream in this play almost rivals
in effect the celebrated vision in _Sardanapalus:_---</p>
<p> ``_<AE>mil._ What evil omens has Cornelia seen?
<u>Corn.</u> 'Tis strange to tell; but, as I slumbering lay,
About that hour when glad Aurora springs
To chase the lagging shades, methought I was
In Rome, and full of peace the city seem'd;
My mind oblivious, too, had lost its care.
Serene I stepp'd along the lofty hall
Embellish'd with the statues of our fathers,
When suddenly an universal groan
Issued at once from every marble breast.
Aghast I gazed around! when slowly down
From their high pedestals I saw descend
The murder'd Gracchi. Hand in hand the brothers
Stalk'd towards me. As they approach'd more near,
They were no more the Gracchi, but my sons,
Paulus and Titus. At that dreadful change
I shriek'd and waked. But never from my mind
The spectacle shall part. Their rueful eyes!
Their cheeks of stone! the look of death and woe!
So strange a vision ne'er from fancy rose.
The rest, my lord, this holy priest can tell.''
Vol. ii., pp. 17, 18.</p>
<p> The <u>Fatal Discovery</u> was brought out in 1769;
but, as the prejudice against the Scotch was then
general, and John Home was obnoxious, not only
as a North Briton, but as a friend and _prot<e'>g<e'>_ of
the obnoxious Earl of Bute, Garrick prudently
procured an Oxford student to officiate as god-father
to the play. The temporary success of the
piece brought out the real author from behind his
screen. When Home avowed the piece, Garrick's
fears were realized, and its popularity terminated;
and we believe the most zealous Scotchman would
hardly demand, in this instance, a reversal of the
public judgment. Mr. Mackenzie has a more
favourable opinion, upon more accurate consideration,
perhaps, than it has been in our power to give
to the subject. The play is written in the false
gallop of Ossianic composition, to which we must
avow ourselves by no means partial.</p>
<p> <u>Alonzo</u> was produced in 1773, and was received
with a degree of favour which, in some respects, it
certainly scarce deserved. Home had, in this
instance, forgotten a story belonging to his former
profession, which we have heard himself narrate.
It respected a country clergyman in Scotland,
who, having received much applause for a sermon
preached before the Synod, could never afterwards
get through the service of the day without introducing
some part of the discourse on which be
reposed his fame, with the quotation, ``as I said in
my Synod sermon.'' In plain words, <u>Alonzo</u> was
almost a transcript of the situation, incidents, and
plot of <u>Douglas,</u> and every author should especially
beware of repeating the theme which has formerly
been successful, or presenting a <u>da capo rotta</u> of
the banquet which he has previously been fortunate
enough to render acceptable.</p>
<p> In 1778, Mr. Home's last dramatic attempt, the
tragedy of <u>Alfred,</u> was represented and completely
failed.</p>
<p> Home now turned his thoughts to another walk
of literature. His connexion with the civil war of
1745 had long been revolved in his mind, as a subject
fit for history: he had even intended to write
something on the subject soon after the broil was
ended. After 1778, he seems to have resumed the
purpose, and endeavoured to collect materials by
correspondence and personal communication with
such personages as could afford them</p>
<p> ``In one or two of these journeys,'' says Mr. Mackenzie, ``I
happened to travel for two or three days along with him and
had occasion to hear his ideas on the subject. These were
such as a man of his character and tone of mind would entertain,
full of the mistaken seal and ill-fated gallantry of the
Highlanders, the self-devoted heroism of some of their chiefs,
and the ill-judged severity, carried (by some subordinate
officers) the length of great inhumanity, of the conquering
party. A specimen of this original style of his composition
still remains in his account of the gallant Lochiel. But the
complexion of his history was materially changed before its
publication, which, at one time, he had very frequently and
positively determined should not be made till after his death,
but which he was tempted by that fondness for our literary
offspring which the weakness of age produces, while it leaves
less power of appreciating their merits, to hasten; and accordingly,
published the work at London, in 1802. It was
dedicated to the King, as a mark of his gratitude for his Majesty's
former gracious attention to him, a circumstance which
perhaps contributed to weaken and soften down the original
composition, in compliment to the monarch whose uncle's
memory was somewhat implicated in the impolitic, as well as
ungenerous use, which Mr. Home conceived had been made
of the victory of Culloden.''---Vol. i., pp.68, 69.</p>
<p> It is well for us, perhaps, that we have the advantage
of telling the above tale in Mr. Mackenzie's
language. We have great veneration for the
memory of his author, and much greater for that
of his late Majesty, whose uniform generosity and
kindness to the unfortunate race of Jacobites was
one of the most amiable traits of his honest, benevolent,
and truly English character. But since
Mr. Home did assume the pen on the subject of
the Forty-five, no consideration whatever ought to
have made him depart from the truth, or shrink
from exposing the cruelties practised, as Mr. Mackenzie
delicately expresses it, by some subordinate
officers, or from execrating the impolitic and ungenerous
use of the victory of Culloden, in which
the Duke of Cumberland was <u>somewhat</u> implicated.
Mr. Home ought either never to have written his
history, or to have written it without clogging himself
with the dedication to the sovereign. There
was no obligation on John Home to inscribe that
particular book to his Majesty, and, had that ceremony
been omitted, his Majesty was too just and
candid a man to have resented the truth; though
there might have been some affront in addressing
a work, in which his uncle's memory suffered rough
usage, directly to his own royal person. On the
whole, we greatly prefer the conduct of Smollett,
a Whig as well as Home, when he poured out his
affecting lyric:---<p> ``Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.''</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>Most of the members of the Poker were fast friends
to the Hanoverian dynasty, though opposed to the
actual Administration, on account of the neglect,
and, as they accounted it, the affront put upon their
native country. Lord Elibank, however, had, in
all probability, ulterior views; for, notwithstanding
his talents and his prudence, his love of paradox,
perhaps, had induced him to place himself at the
head of the scattered remnant of Jacobites, from
which party every person else was taking the means
of deserting. It is now ascertained by documents
among the Stuart papers, that he carried on a correspondence
with the Chevalier, which was not
suspected by his most intimate friends.<p> The disappointed public of Scotland, to which
the history should have been most interesting, was
clamorous in its disapprobation. They complained
of suppressed information and servile corrections;
but reflection induced critics to pardon the good
old man, who had been influenced in his latter
years by doubts and apprehensions, which could
not have assailed him in his term of active manhood.
The work was, indeed, strangely mutilated,
and breaks off abruptly at the battle of Culloden,
without giving us any account of the manner in
which that victory was used. Other faults might be
pointed out, chiefly such as are indicative of advanced
years. The part which the author himself
played in the drama is perhaps a little too much
detailed and too long dwelt upon.</p>
<p> The history is, nevertheless, so far as it goes, a
fair and candid one; for the writer, though by the
manner in which he had fettered himself he was debarred
from speaking the whole truth, yet was incapable
of speaking any thing but the truth. The
narrative is fair and honourable to both sides, nor
does the author join with the sordid spirits, who
cannot fight their enemies without abusing them at
the same time, like the bailiff in Goldsmith's <u>Good-natured
Man.</u> The idea which he gives us of the
unfortunate Charles Edward is such as we have
ourselves formed: the young Chevalier was one of
those whom Fortune only distinguishes for a brief
period of their life, the rest of which is passed in
obscurity, so that they seem totally different characters
when judged of by the few months which
they spend in all the glare of publicity and sunshine,
or when valued according to the many years
which have passed away in the gloom of destroyed
hopes and broken health. Other circumstances
combine to render it difficult to obtain the real
character of the unfortunate prince. By far the
greater portion of his followers his memory was
cherished as that of an idol, but the more dear to
them on account of the sacrifices they had made to
it. His illustrious birth, his daring enterprise, and
the grace and beauty of his person, went no small
length in confirming his partisans in those feelings
towards their leader. There were exceptions
amongst them however. Some of those who followed
Charles to France, thought that he looked
cold on them, and the <u>Memoirs of Dr. King,</u> lately
published, tend to confirm the suspicion that (like
others of his unhappy race) he was not warmly
grateful. His courage, at least, ought to be beyond
suspicion, considering the manner in which
he landed on an expedition so desperate, and the
opposition to his undertaking which he met with
from the only friends upon whose assistance he
could have counted for the chance of bringing together
1500 or 2000 men. A few sentences on
this subject from Homes Narrative will probably
vindicate what we have said, and at the same time
give a specimen of the historian's peculiar style,
which, if neither flowery nor eloquent, as might have
been expected from his poetical vein, is clear, simple,
expressive, and not unlike the conversation of
an aged man of intelligence and feeling, recalling
the recollections of his earlier years.</p>
<p> To introduce these extracts, we must previously
remark, that the chiefs of the Highland clans had
come to a prudent resolution, that notwithstanding
their attachment to the cause of the Stuarts, they
should decline joining in any invasion which the
exiled family might attempt, unless it was supported
by a body of regular French troops. It was
on the dominions (as they might then be called) of
the Captain of Clanronald that Charles first landed.
He did not find the chief himself, but he summoned
on board the vessel which he brought with him
to the Hebrides, MacDonald of Boisdale, the
brother of Clanronald, a man of considerable intelligence,
and who was supposed to have much interest
with the chief. Boisdale declared he would
advise his brother against the undertaking, remarking
that the two most powerful chieftains in
the vicinity, MacDonald of Sleate and MacLeod
of MacLeod, were determined not to raise their
men, unless the Chevalier should bring with him
a sufficient foreign force.</p>
<p> ``Charles replied in the best manner he could; and ordering
the ship to be unmoored, carried Boisdale, whose boat
hung at the stern, several miles onward to the main-land,
pressing him to relent, and give a better answer. Boisdale
was inexorable; and, getting into his boat, left Charles to
pursue his course, which he did directly for the coast of Scotland;
and, coming to an anchor in the Bay of Lochnanuagh,
between Moidart and Arisaig, set a boat ashore with a letter
to young Clanronald. In a very little time Clanronald, with
his relation Kinloch Moidart, came aboard the Doutelle.
Charles, almost reduced to despair in his interview with Boisdale,
addressed the two Highlanders with great emotion, and
summing up his arguments for taking arms, conjured them to
assist their prince, their countryman, in his utmost need.
Clanronald and his friend, though well inclined to the cause,
positively refused; and told him, one after another, that, to
take arms without concert or support was to pull down certain
destruction on their own heads. Charles persisted,
argued, and implored. During this conversation, the parties
walked backwards and forwards upon the deck; a Highlander
stood near them, armed at all points, as was then the
fashion of the country: He was a younger brother of Kinloch
Moidart, and had come off to the ship to enquire for news,
not knowing who was aboard. When he gathered from their
discourse that the stranger was the Prince of Wales, when
he heard his chief and his brother refuse to take arms with
their prince, his colour went and came, his eyes sparkled, he
shifted his place, and grasped his sword. Charles observed
his demeanour, and, turning briskly towards him, called out,
`Will not you assist me?<code>---`I will, I will,</code> said Ranald;
`though no other man in the Highlands should draw a sword,
I am ready to die for you.' Charles, with a profusion of
thanks and acknowledgments, extolled his champion to the
skies, saying, he only wished that all the Highlanders were
like him. Without further deliberation, the two Macdonalds
declared that they also would join and use their utmost endeavours
to engage their countrymen to take arms. Immediately
Charles, with his company, went ashore, and was
conducted to Boradale, a farm which belonged to the estate
of Clanronald.''---Vol. ii., pp. 425--427.</p>
<p> The conversion of the <u>good Lochiel,</u> for whom
some friendly Presbyterian drew up an epitaph,
declaring he<p> ---``is now a Whig in heaven,''</p>
</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>See a list of the members of the Poker Club in the Appendix
* to _Tytler's Life of Lord Kames._---=Ed.=<p> ``The conversation began on the part of Charles, with bitter
complaints of the treatment he had received from the ministers
of France, who had so long amused him with vain hopes,
and deceived him with false premises: their coldness in his
cause, he said, but ill agreed with the opinion he had of his
own pretensions, and with the impatience to assert them,
with which the promises of his father's brave and faithful
subjects had inflamed his mind. Lochiel acknowledged the
engagements of the chiefs, but observed that they were no
ways binding, as he had come over without the stipulated
aid; and, therefore, as there was not the least prospect of
success, he advised his royal highness to return to France, and
to reserve himself and his faithful friends for a more favourable
opportunity. Charles refused to follow Lochiel's advice,
affirming that a more favourable opportunity than the present
would never come; that almost all the British troops were
abroad, and kept at bay by Marshal Saxe, with a superior
army: that in Scotland there were only a few new-raised
regiments, that had never seen service, and could not stand
before the Highlanders; that the very first advantage gained
over the troops would encourage his father's friends at home
to declare themselves; that his friends abroad would not fail
to give their assistance; that he only wanted the Highlanders
to begin the war.</p>
<p> ``Lochiel still resisted, entreating Charles to be more temperate,
and consent his remain concealed where he was, till
he (Lochiel) and his other friends should meet together, and
concert what was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was
wound up to the utmost pitch of impatience, paid no regard
to this proposal, but answered, that he was determined to
put all to the hazard. `In a few days,' said he, `with the
few friends that I have, I will erect the royal standard, and
proclaim to the people of Britain, that Charles Stuart is come
over to claim the crown of his ancestors, to win it, or to perish
in the attempt; Lochiel, who, my father has often told me,
was our firmest friend, may stay at home, and learn from the
newspapers the fate of his prince.<code>---`No</code>, said Lochiel, `I'll
share the fate of my prince; and so shall every man over
whom nature or power hath given me any power.' Such was
the singular conversation, on the result of which depended
peace or war. For it is a point agreed among the Highlanders,
that if Lochiel had persisted in his refusal to take arms, the
other chiefs would not have joined the standard without him,
and the spark of rebellion must instantly have expired.''---
Vol. iii., pp. 5, 6.</p>
<p> It is singular that we should have to exculpate
the unfortunate prince, who thus persisted, at the
utmost risk, to instigate his followers, and to rush
himself upon an undertaking so utterly desperate,
from the imputation of personal cowardice; and
yet such is the fact. The strongest evidence on
this point is that of the Chevalier Johnstone's
<u>Memoirs of the Rebellion in 1745 and 1746.</u> These
have been published under the care of a sensible
and intelligent editor, who has done a great deal to
throw light upon the subject, but has been occasionally
misled into giving a little too much credit
to the representations of his author, who wrote
under the influence of disappointment and ill-humour.
A great part of the work is very interesting,
because Johnstone, having been a military
man, and having some turn for observation, has
made better professional remarks on the Highland
mode of fighting, and mere tactics, than we have
observed in any other work. But then we happen
to know that some of his stories are altogether fictitious,
such as the brutal piece of vengeance said
to have been practised by Gordon of Abbachie,
upon a Whig minister, [Johnstone's <u>Memoirs,</u> 4to,
1820, p. 183.] It will also surprise such of the
few readers as might have been disposed to interest
themselves in the love affair between the
Chevalier and his charming Peggy, which makes
such a figure in the conclusion of his work to learn
that Chevalier Johnstone was all this while a
married man---an absolute Benedick---a circumstance
which he no where hints at during his
Memoirs, and that the amour, if such existed, was
not of a character to be boasted of in the face of
the public. There are legitimate grandchildren of
the Chevalier Johnstone now alive.</p>
<p> James Johnstone, the father of the Chevalier,
by courtesy of Scotland called ``<u>merchant</u> in Edinburgh,''
was a grocer in that city. Not that we
mean to impeach his gentility, because we believe
his father to have been of the ancient and once-powerful
family of Wamphray, though, like many
sons of Jacobite families, he was excluded from
what are called the learned professions, by his
reluctance to take the oaths to the Hanoverian
dynasty. Accordingly, the heir of the noble family
of Rollo, who leave been before allied with the
Johnstones of Wamphray, did not derogate in
marrying Cecilia, daughter of James Johnstone,
grocer, as before said. But when the Chevalier
talks big about his fears of being disinherited, we
cannot but remember that a petty shop, such as
shops in the Cowgate of Edinburgh were in 1745,
indifferently stocked with grocery goods,<p> ``Was all his great estate, and like to be.''</p>
</p>
<p> In short, we suspect our friend the Chevalier to
be somewhat of a gasconader, and we are not willing
to take away the character of Charles for
courage upon such suspicious authority. When
we therefore find that this unfortunate prince is
accused---<u>1st,</u> of having entered into this expedition
without foreseeing the personal dangers to
which he must be exposed---<u>2d,</u> of taking care, in
carrying it on, not to expose his person to the fire
of the enemy---<u>3d,</u> of abandoning it when he had
ten times more hope of success than when he left
Paris, we are inclined to compare what the Chevalier
has averred on these three points with what
is elsewhere stated by himself and other authorities.</p>
<p> And, _first_---After reading the foregoing arguments
used by Boisdale, Clanronald, and Lochiel,
in order to detain the Chevalier, by the strongest
representations in their power, from venturing on
the expedition, the Chevalier may be censured for
foolhardiness, but he cannot surely be considered
as a person ignorant of the dangers of the undertaking---
in other words, as one too timid to venture
had he known the perils he was to encounter.</p>
<p> _Secondly_---That Charles avoided placing himself
in such situations of personal danger as became a
prince and a general, is inconsistent with what has
been registered by almost all authorities, and with
what is narrated by Johnstone himself. Beginning
with the battle of Prestonpans, Home states, and
we have heard it corroborated by eye and ear witnesses,
that ``Charles declared he would lead the
clans on himself, and charge at their head;'' and
only relinquished his purpose when the general
remonstrance of the chieftains deterred him from
leading the van. But notwithstanding this precaution,
the prince conducted the second line of the
Highland army; and the Chevalier Johnstone tells
us, that the battle was gained with such rapidity,
``that, in the second line, when I was <u>still</u> by the
side of the prince, we saw no other enemy on the
field of battle than those who were lying on the
ground killed and wounded, though we were not
more than fifty paces behind our first line, running
as fast as we could to overtake them.'' Now we
submit, that a general who brought up a reserve
within <u>fifty paces</u> of his advance, when, as Sir
Lucius O'Trigger says, there was light enough for
a long shot, and when the said advance was made
upon a line of trained infantry and artillery, cannot
be truly charged with keeping himself out of
gun-shot. At Falkirk, we do not know exactly
where the Prince was placed during the conflict,
but it appears that he must have been in the advance,
since at seven o'clock in the evening, he led
in person the troops which pursued the English
army, and took possession of Falkirk at half-past
seven at night, while the Chevalier Johnstone did
not even know that the victory was won until half
an hour later. In the whole course of this strange
_lev<e'>e des boucliers,_ the Chevalier Johnstone accuses
the prince of what he calls a childish desire of
fighting battles, a propensity rather inconsistent
with personal cowardice, especially in the circumstances
of Prince Charles, as, according to our
Chevalier's authority, orders were issued to kill
him on the spot if he should fall into the hands of
the Government troops.</p>
<p> At the battle of Culloden, the Prince remained
upon an eminence, with a squadron of horse. But
from what Johnstone states himself, he did give
the orders necessary for the occasion; in particular,
when he saw the English, and the Campbells, their
auxiliaries, about to force an enclosure which protected
the right flank of his army, he ``immediately
repeated orders to place some troops in that enclosure,
and prevent the man<oe>uvre of the English,
which could not fail to prove fatal to us. Lord
George paid no attention to this order,'' and the
English introduced both horse, musketry, and artillery
into that enclosure, to attack the Highland
right wing on flank and rear, and did so with such
deadly effect, that they swept away whole ranks.
This man<oe>uvre completely decided the battle, and
it was when the right wing was absolutely broken
that Chevalier Johnstone proposes that Charles
should have rushed down to renew the fight. This
would, doubtless, have been the course to ensure a
soldier's grave, but that, as is expressed in the last
stanzas of poor Byron, is more ``often found than
sought;'' nor are we entitled to praise the chief
who rushes upon inevitable death because he has
sustained a defeat. No effort of the squadron of
horse, which was all that Charles had around his
person, could dispossess the English cavalry,
infantry, and artillery from the position they had
gained; and as for rallying the Highlanders, why
they were Highlanders, and for that very reason
could not be rallied. In their advances, they
fired their guns and threw them away, coming to
the shock with the target and broadsword alone;
if they succeeded, which they often did, no victory
could be more complete; but they exhausted
their strength in this effort, and it was not till
they received, in the regiments drawn from
amongst them, the usual discipline of the field,
that Highlanders had any idea of rallying till some
hill, pass, or natural fastness, gave them an advantage.<*></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>We have the evidence of the accomplished Earl of
Haddington, that he remembers the celebrated
Lady Hervey (the beautiful Molly Lapelle of Pope
and Gay) weeping like an infant over the manuscript
of <u>Douglas.</u></p>
<p>On being warned from making such an effusion
public, the only answer he condescended to give
was, by adding the concluding stanza.<p> This much is certain, that except the two authorities
quoted, all persons who attended Charles that
day agree in stating his desire to go down and rally
the Highlanders, and affirm that he was only
forced from the field by the entreaties of his tutor,
Sir Thomas Sheridan, and others, representing the
desperation of the attempt, and the impossibility
of success. The cornet of the second troop of
Horse Guards left a paper, signed with his name,
in which he declares that all verbal representations
would have been vain, if General Sullivan had not
laid hold of the rein of Charles's horse, and turned
him about. ``To witness this,'' says the cornet,
``I summon my eyes.'' After all, the words _Qu'i
mour<u^>t_ are pronounced with wondrous ease and
effect; but the homely proverb, ``While there is
life there is hope,'' is not less likely to influence an
individual in the situation of Charles; and if we
are to accuse of cowardice every officer who has
left the field of battle when all was lost, we shall
wondrously curtail the catalogue of the brave.</p>
<p> As for the idea of rallying after the defeat, and
making up a new army, it must be remembered
that a Highland army differed essentially from one
composed of regular troops, and as much in the
mode of retreat, as in other particulars. A regular
army can have no retreat but upon that point where
the general pitches his standard. The camp to them
is country and home. If they are defeated, they
are aware that their chance of safety lies in union,
and all stragglers have sense enough to regain their
battalions as soon as they can. The Highlanders
would have been in the same situation had they
been routed in the middle of England, where those
who might have escaped the sword would have
remained together for mutual protection. But on
the skirts of their own mountains, the moment the
day was lost, the Highlanders, in a great measure,
dispersed. The individuals had their own homes
to retire to, and their own families to protect; the
tribes had each its own country to defend, and,
when the Highlanders were defeated at Culloden,
their army in a great measure broke up into the
separate clans of which it was composed, which
went off in different directions to their own several
glens. Many, no doubt, were thrown into such
confusion, that they made to Ruthven in Badenoch
as a common place of rendezvous, and the Lowland
troops went thither also, because it had been named
as such, and because, being strangers in the country,
they knew not where else to go. But Chevalier
Johnstone talks widely and wildly when he speaks
of five thousand Highlanders being there able and
ready to resume the struggle. If the prince had
not had the spirit (as Johnstone pretends) to have
put himself at the head of such a body, the Highland
chiefs themselves would have endeavoured to
maintain themselves in arms, in order to enter
upon negotiation, which they had been twice able
to effect in former cases. But the whole is a vision.
There was never above a thousand or fifteen
hundred men assembled at Ruthven, and these
were many of them Lowlanders. The prince's
army was entirely broken up; all the foreign troops
surrendered forthwith, with every thing belonging
to the <u>materiel</u> of their army; the clans had in a
great measure dispersed themselves and gone home,
as was their uniform custom after defeat. All the
efforts of their chieftains could not bring them
together again. This <u>was</u> attempted, and the principal
actors entered into resolutions binding themselves
to rendezvous for that purpose. But the
spirit of the clans was entirely broken by the immense
superiority of the King's forces, while the
desire of defending each its own lonely glen from
the fire and sword with which that was threatened,
overcame the feelings of sounder policy which
would have induced them to persevere in a system
of co-operation. A full account of the attempt to
re-assemble their forces, and of the causes of its
being abandoned, will be found in Home's Works
(vol. iii., p. 369); and we may conclude by observing
that Lochiel, by whom the affair was managed,
and who saw himself, by irresistible obstacles, constrained
to abandon a course which might have at
least extorted some terms from the Duke of Cumberland,
was as brave a man, and, to say the least,
as good a judge of what the Highlanders could or
could not do in the circumstances, as the Chevalier
Johnstone could possibly pretend to be.</p>
<p> We do not, on the whole, mean to arrogate for
the unhappy Chevalier the character of a great
man, to which he displays few pretensions; but to
deny energy to the prince who plunged into an
enterprise so desperate, and where his own personal
safety was so deeply implicated, on the word of one
or two private and disappointed men, contradicted
by a hundred others, seems to involve a denial of
the whole history from beginning to end. He was
not John of Gaunt, but yet no coward.</p>
<p> It is time to conclude this old-fashioned Scottish
gossip, which, after all, in a literary journal of the
present day, sounds as a pibroch might do in the
Hanover Square concert-rooms.</p>
</p>
<p>to this rash undertaking, shall he our last quotation
from this history, so interesting in spite of its imperfections.
This model of a Highland chief and
Scottish gentleman met with the Chevalier at
MacDonald of Boradale's, a very few days after
he landed.</p>
<ul>
<li>See the <u>History of the Highland Regiments,</u> by Major-General
<em> David Stewart (of Garth;) one of the most interesting
</em> military memoirs in the world, and not the less so because
<em> the feeling of ``_quorum pars magna fui_'' is perceptible in
</em> every page.---S.</li>
</ul>
<p>It is very true, that Johnstone is supported
on this point by a better evidence than himself
---Lord Elcho, namely, who has left manuscript
memoirs, in which it is stated that the author
requested the Chevalier to charge in person at the
head of the left wing, after the right was routed,
and that on his not so advancing, Lord Elcho
called him an Italian scoundrel, or a worse epithet,
and declared he would never see his face more.
We cannot believe, even on Lord Elcho's evidence,
that any efforts of Charles could have retrieved
the day at Culloden. The left wing, which had
become sulky and refused to fight, because (to
complete the blunders of the day) they had chosen
to deprive the MacDonalds of their post of honour
upon the right, were not likely to have their
fighting mood improved by the rout and destruction
amongst the right; and it is nothing new for
a warm and impetuous soldier like Lord Elcho,
rendered desperate by circumstances, to give counsel
on a field of battle which it would be madness
in any general to adopt. Besides, the common ruin
which succeeds to such a rash undertaking as that
of 1745 breaks all the ties of friendship, and men
become severed by their passions and interests,
like a fleet driven from its moorings by a tempest.
It is then that mutual upbraidings arise amongst
them, and such quarrels take place as that betwixt
Charles and Lord Elcho, which the latter carried
to such a height, that though he lived an exile for
the Stuarts' cause, he would never again see Prince
Charles, and used to leave Paris so soon as the
Chevalier entered it. Such strong passions are apt
to sway, even in the most honourable minds, the
recollection of past events.<p> ``Then ou're again, the jovial thrang
The poet did request,
To loose his pack an' wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best:<p> He rising, rejoicing
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an' found them
Impatient for the chorus,<p> =Air.=</p>
</p>
<p> See! the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus.
And in raptures let us sing.<p> =Chorus.=</p>
</p>
<p> <u>A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.</u></p>
<p> What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure.
'Tis no matter <u>how or where!</u>
<u>A fig, &c.</u></p>
<p> With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
<u>A fig, &c.</u></p>
<p> Does the train-attended carriage
Through the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
<u>A fig, &c.</u></p>
<p> Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes,
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.
<u>A fig, &c.</u></p>
<p> Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train!
Here's our ragged <u>brats</u> and <u>callets!</u>
One and all cry out, Amen!
_A fig, &c._''</p>
<p> We are at a loss to conceive any good reason
why Dr. Currie did not introduce this singular and
humorous cantata into his collection. It is true,
that in one or two passages the muse has trespassed
slightly upon decorum, where, in the language of
Scottish song,<p> ``High kilted was she
As she gaud ower the lea.''</p>
</p>
</p>
</p>
<p><title>
Reliques of Robert Burns.<! p123><*><p> Knowing that these, and hoping that other compositions
of similar spirit and tenor might yet be
recovered, we were induced to think that some of
them, at least, had found a place in the collection
now given to the public by Mr. Cromek; but he
has neither risked the censure, nor laid claim to
the applause, which might have belonged to such
an undertaking. The contents of the volume before
us are more properly gleanings than relics---
the refuse and sweepings of the shop, rather than
the commodities which might be deemed contraband.
Yet even these scraps and remnants contain
articles of curiosity and value, tending to throw
light on the character of one of the most singular
men by whose appearance our age has been distinguished.</p>
<p> The first portion of the volume contains nearly
two hundred pages of letters, addressed by Burns
to various individuals, written in various tones of
feeling and modes of mind---in some instances exhibiting
all the force of the writer's talents, in
others only valuable because they bear his signature.
The avidity with which the reader ever devours
this species of publication, has been traced
to the desire of seeing the mind and opinions of
celebrated men in their open and undisguised moments,
and of perusing and appreciating their
thoughts while the gold is yet rude ore, ere it is
refined and manufactured into polished sentences
or sounding stanzas. But, notwithstanding these
fair pretences, we doubt if this appetite can be referred
to any more honourable source than the love
of anecdote and private history. In fact, letters---
at least these of a general and miscellaneous kind
---very rarely contain the real opinions of the writer.
If an author sits down to the task of formally
composing a work for the use of the public, he has
previously considered his subject, and made up his
mind both on the opinions he is to express, and on
the mode of supporting them. But the same man
usually writes a letter only because the letter must
be written---is probably never more at a loss than
when looking for a subject---and treats it, when
found, rather so as to gratify his correspondent,
than communicate his own feelings. The letters
of Burns, although containing passages of great
eloquence, and expressive of the intense fire of his
disposition, are not exceptions from this general
rule. They bear occasionally strong marks of affectation,
with a tinge of pedantry rather foreign
from the bard's character and education. The following
paragraphs illustrate both the excellences
and faults of his epistolary composition. Nothing
can be more humorously imagined and embodied
than the sage group of Wisdom and Prudence in
the first, while the affectation of the second amounts
to absolute rant.</p>
<p> ``Do tell that to Lady M`Kenzie, that she may give me
credit for a little wisdom. `I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence.'
What a blessed fire-side!---How happy should I be to pass a
winter evening under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe
of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them! What solemn,
lengthened laughter-quashing gravity of phiz! What sage
remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion
and folly! and what frugal lessons, as we straitened the
fire-side circle, on the uses of poker and tongs!''</p>
<p> ``Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remembered in the
old way to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive
flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulations of periods
in my power, to urge her out to Hervieston, but all in vain.
My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect on the lovely
half of mankind. I have seen the day---but that is as a `tale
of other years;'---in my conscience I believe that my heart
has been so oft on fire, that it is absolutely vitrified. I look
on the sex with something like the admiration with which I
regard the starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire
the beauty of the Creator's workmanship; I am charmed with
the wild but graceful eccentricity of their motions, and---wish
them good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion
_dont j'ai eu l'honneur d'<e^>tre un miserable esclave:_ as for
friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, permanent
pleasure, `which the world cannot give, nor take away'
I hope; and which will outlast the heavens and the earth.''</p>
<p> In the same false taste, Burns utters such tirades
as this:---</p>
<p> ``Whether, in the way of my trade, I can be of any service
to the Rev. Doctor,<*> is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax's shield</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>From the <u>Quarterly Review for 1809. Reliques of Robert
* Burns.</u> Collected by R. H. Cromek. 1808.</li>
</ul>
<p><text>
We opened a book bearing so interesting a title
with no little anxiety. Literary reliques vary in
species and value almost as much as those of the
Catholic or of the antiquary. Some deserve a golden
shrine for their intrinsic merit, some are valued
from the pleasing recollections and associations
with which they are combined, some, reflecting
little honour upon their unfortunate author, are
dragged by interested editors from merited obscurity.
The character of Burns, on which we may
perhaps hazard some remarks in the course of this
article, was such as to increase our apprehensions.
The extravagance of genius with which this wonderful
man was gifted, being in his later and more
evil days directed to no fixed or general purpose,
was, in the morbid state of his health and feelings,
apt to display itself in hasty sallies of virulent and
unmerited severity: sallies often regretted by the
bard himself; and of which justice to the living
and to the dead, alike demanded the suppression.
Neither was this anxiety lessened, when we recollected
the pious care with which the late excellent
Dr. Currie had performed the task of editing the
works of Burns. His selection was limited as
much by respect to the fame of the living as of the
dead. He dragged from obscurity none of those
satirical effusions, which ought to be as ephemeral as
as the transient offences which called them forth.
He excluded every thing approaching to license,
whether in morals or in religion, and thus rendered
his collection such, as doubtless Burns himself, in
his moments of sober reflection, would have most
highly approved. Yet applauding, as we do most
highly applaud, the leading principles of Dr. Currie's
selection, we are aware that they sometimes
led him into fastidious and over-delicate rejection
of the bard's most spirited and happy effusions. A
thin octavo published at Glasgow in 1801, under
the title of <u>Poems ascribed to Robert Burns the
Ayrshire bard,</u> furnishes valuable proofs of this assertion.
It contains, among a good deal of rubbish,
some of his most brilliant poetry. A cantata
in particular, called <u>The Jolly Beggars,</u> for humorous
description and nice discrimination of character,
is inferior to no poem of the same length in the
whole range of English poetry. The scene, indeed,
is laid in the very lowest department of low life,
the actors being a set of strolling vagrants, met to
carouse, and barter their rags and plunder for liquor
in a hedge ale-house;---yet even in describing the
movements of such a group, the native taste of the
poet has never suffered his pen to slide into any
thing coarse or disgusting. The extravagant glee
and outrageous frolic of the beggars are ridiculously
contrasted with their maimed limbs, rags, and
crutches---the sordid and squalid circumstances of
their appearance are judiciously thrown into the
shade. Nor is the art of the poet less conspicuous
in the individual figures, than in the general mass.
The festive vagrants are distinguished from each
other by personal appearance and character, as
much as any fortuitous assembly in the higher orders
of life. The group, it must be observed, is of
Scottish character, and doubtless our northern
brethren are mere familiar with its varieties than
we are; yet the distinctions are to well marked to
escape even the Southron. The most prominent
persons are a maimed soldier and his female companion,
a hackneyed follower of the camp, a stroller,
late the consort of an Highland ketterer or
sturdy beggar,---``but weary fa' the waefu' woodie!''
---Being now at liberty, she becomes an object of
rivalry between a ``pigmy scraper with his fiddle''
and a strolling tinker. The latter, a desperate
bandit, like most of his profession, terrifies the
musician out of the field, and is preferred by the
damsel of course. A wandering ballad-singer, with
a brace of doxies, is last introduced upon the stage.
Each of these mendicants sings a song in character,
and such a collection of humorous lyrics, connected
by vivid poetical description, is not, perhaps, to be
paralleled in the English language. As the collection
and the poem are very little known in England,
and as it is certainly apposite to the Reliques
of Robert Burns, we venture to transcribe the concluding
ditty, chanted by the ballad-singer at the
request of the company, whose ``mirth and fun
have now grown fast and furious,'' and set them
above all sublunary terrors of jails, stocks, and
whipping-posts. It is certainly far superior to any
thing in the <u>Beggar's Opera,</u> where alone we could
expect to find its parallel.<p> These passages, however, in which the author
seems to have got the better of the man, in which
the desire of shining, and blazing, and thundering,
supersedes the natural expressions of feeling, and
passion, are less frequent in the letters of Burns
than perhaps of any other professed writer. Burns
was, in truth, the child of passion and feeling. His
character was not simply that of a peasant exalted
into notice by uncommon literary attainments, but
bore a stamp which must have distinguished him
in the highest as in the lowest situation in life. To
ascertain what was his natural temper and disposition,
and how far it was altered or modified by the
circumstances of birth, education, and fortune,
might be a subject for a long essay; but to mark a
few distinctions is all that can be here expected
from us.</p>
<p> We have said that Robert Burns was the child
of impulse and feeling. Of the steady principle
which cleaves to that which is good, he was unfortunately
divested by the violence of those passions
which finally wrecked him. It is most affecting to
add, that while swimming, struggling, and finally
yielding to the torrent, he never lost sight of the
beacon which ought to have guided him to land,
yet never profited by its light.</p>
<p> We learn his opinion of his own temperament
in the following emphatic burst of passion:---</p>
<p> ``God have mercy on me! a poor d---d incautious, duped,
unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable victim, of rebellious
pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility,
and bedlam passions!''</p>
<p> ``Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution,
accompany me through this to me miserable
world!'' In such language did this powerful but
untamed mind express the irritation of prolonged
expectation and disappointed hope, which slight
reflection might have pointed out as the common
fate of mortality. Burns neither acknowledged
adversity as the ``tamer of the human breast,'' nor
knew the golden curb which discretion hangs upon
passion. He even appears to have felt a gloomy
pleasure in braving the encounter of evils which
prudence might have avoided, and to have thought
that there could be no pleasurable existence between
the extremes of licentious frenzy and of torpid
sensuality. ``There are two only creatures that
I would envy---A horse in his wild state traversing
the forests of Asia, and an oyster on some of the
desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish
without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor
fear.'' When such a sentiment is breathed by such
a being, the lesson is awful: and if pride and
ambition were capable of being taught, they might
hence learn that a well-regulated mind and controlled
passions are to be prized above all the glow
of imagination, and all the splendour of genius.</p>
<p> We discover the same stubborn resolution rather
to endure with patience the consequences of error,
than to own and avoid it in future, in the poet's
singular choice of a pattern of fortitude.</p>
<p> ``I have bought a pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually
about with me, in order to study the sentiments---the dauntless
magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding independence, the
desperate daring, and noble defiance of hardship, in that great
personage, =Satan.=''</p>
<p> Nor was this a rash or precipitate choice, for in
a more apologetic mood he expresses the same
opinion of the same personage.</p>
<p> ``My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly fortitude
in supporting what cannot be remedied---in short, the
wild, broken fragments of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. I
meant no more by saying he was a favourite hero of mine.''</p>
<p> With this lofty and unbending spirit were connected
a love of independence and a hatred of
control amounting almost to the sublime rant of
Almanzor.<p> ``He was as free as Nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.''</p>
</p>
<p> In general society Burns often permitted his
determination of vindicating his personal dignity
to hurry him into unjustifiable resentment of slight
or imagined neglect. He was ever anxious to
maintain his post in society, and to extort that
deference which was readily paid to him by all
from whom it was worth claiming. This ill-judged
jealousy of precedence led him often to place his
own pretensions to notice in competition with those
of the company who, he conceived, might found
theirs on birth or fortune. On such occasions it
was no easy task to deal with Burns. The power
of his language, the vigour of his satire, the severity
of illustration with which his fancy instantly
supplied him, bore down all retort. Neither was
it possible to exercise over the poet that restraint
which arises from the chance of further personal
consequences. The dignity, the spirit, the indignation
of Burns was that of a plebeian---of a high-souled
plebeian indeed---of a citizen of Rome or
Athens; but still of a plebeian, untinged with the
slightest shade of that spirit of chivalry which
since the feudal times, has pervaded the higher
ranks of European society. This must not be imputed
to cowardice, for Burns was no coward. But
the lowness of his birth, and habits of society, prevented
rules of punctilious delicacy from making
any part of his education; nor did he, it would
seem, see any thing so rational in the practice of
duelling, as afterwards to adopt or to affect the
sentiments of the higher ranks upon that subject.
A letter to Mr. Clarke written after a quarrel upon
political topics has these remarkable, and we will
add manly expressions.</p>
<p> ``From the expressions Capt. ------------ made use of to
me, had I had nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we
should certainly have come, according to the manners of the
world, to the necessity of murdering one another about the
business. The words were such as, generally, I believe, end
in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did
not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children
in a drunken squabble.''</p>
</p>
<p>Something, however, is to be allowed to the nature
of the subject and something to the education of
the poet; and if, from veneration to the names of
Swift and Dryden we tolerate the grossness of the
one, and the indelicacy of the other, the respect
due to that of Burns may surely claim indulgence
for a few light strokes of broad humour. The
same collection contains <u>Holy Willie's Prayer,</u> a
piece of satire more exquisitely severe than any
which Burns afterwards wrote, but unfortunately
cast in a form too daringly profane to be received
into Dr. Currie's collection.<p> ``The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt groan,
And hates the form she knows to be her own.''</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>Dr. M`Gill, of Ayr. The poet gives the best illustration
<em> of this letter on one addressed to Mr. Graham.---=Dr. Currie'=s
</em> <u>edition.</u> No. 86.---S.<p> Yet this ardent and irritable temperament had
its periods, not merely of tranquillity, but of the
most subduing tenderness. In the society of men
of taste, who could relish and understand his conversation,
or whose rank in life was not so much
raised above his own as to require, in his opinion,
the assertion of his dignity, he was eloquent, impressive,
and instructing. But it was in female
circles that his powers of expression displayed their
utmost fascination. In such, where the respect
demanded by rank was readily paid as due to
beauty or accomplishment; where he could resent
no insult, and vindicate no claim of superiority, his
conversation lost all its harshness, and often became
so energetic and impressive, as to dissolve the whole
circle into tears. The traits of sensibility which,
told of another, would sound like instances of gross
affectation, were so native to the soul of this extraordinary
man, and burst from him so involuntarily,
that they not only obtained full credence as the
genuine feelings of his own heart, but melted into
unthought of sympathy all who witnessed them.
In such a mood they were often called forth by the
slightest and most trifling occurrences; an ordinary
engraving, the wild turn of a simple Scottish air, a
line in an old ballad, were, like ``the field mouse's
nest'' and ``the uprooted daisy,'' sufficient to excite
the sympathetic feelings of Burns. And it was
wonderful to see those who, left to themselves,
would have passed over such trivial circumstances
without a moment's reflection, sob over the picture,
when its outline had been filled up by the magic
art of his eloquence.</p>
<p> The political predilections, for they could hardly
be termed principles, of Burns, were entirely determined
by his feelings. At his first appearance, he
felt, or affected, a propensity to jacobitism. Indeed,
a youth of his warm imagination, and ardent patriotism,
brought up in Scotland thirty years ago, could
hardly escape this bias. The side of Charles Edward
was the party, not surely of sound sense and
sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and high
achievement. The inadequacy of the means by
which that prince attempted to regain the crown,
forfeited by his fathers, the strange and almost
poetical adventures which he underwent, the Scottish
martial character honoured in his victories, and
degraded and crushed in his defeat, the tales of the
veterans who had followed his adventurous standard,
were all calculated to impress upon the mind
of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the house
of Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very
serious cast; for Burns himself acknowledges in
one of these letters, that, ``to tell the matter of
fact, except when my passions were heated by some
accidental cause, my jacobitism was merely by way
of _vive la bagatelle,_'' p. 240. The same enthusiastic
ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of
political tenets, when the country was agitated by
revolutionary principles. That the poet should have
chosen the side on which high talents were most
likely to procure celebrity; that he to whom the
factitious distinctions of society were always odious,
should have listened with complacence to the voice
of French philosophy, which denounced them as
usurpations on the rights of man, was precisely
the thing to be expected. Yet we cannot but
think that if his superiors in the Excise department
had tried the experiment of soothing rather than
of irritating his feelings, they might have spared
themselves the disgrace of rendering desperate the
possessor of such uncommon talents. For it is but
too certain, that from the moment his hopes of promotion
were utterly blasted, his tendency to dissipation
hurried him precipitately into those excesses
which shortened his life. We doubt not, that in
that awful period of national discord he had done
and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the
servants of government from countenancing an
avowed partisan of faction. But this partisan was
Burns!---Surely the experiment of lenity might
have been tried, and perhaps successfully. The
conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's only
shield against actual dismission, and consequent
ruin, reflects the highest credit upon that gentleman.
We may dismiss these reflections on the
character of Burns with his own beautiful lines---<p> ``I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way,
By passion driven:
But yet the light that led astray,
Was light from heaven.''</p>
</p>
<p> The second part of this volume contains a number
of memoranda by Burns, concerning the Scottish
songs and music published by Johnson, in six
volumes 8vo.---Many of these appear to us exceedingly
trifling. They might indeed have adorned,
with great propriety, a second edition of the work
in question, or any other collection of Scottish
songs; but, separated from the verses to which
they relate, how can any one be interested in learning
that <u>Down the Burn Davie</u> was the composition
of David Maigh, keeper of blood-hounds to the
Laird of Riddell; that <u>Tarry woo</u> was, in the opinion
of Burns, a ``very pretty song;'' or even that
the author of <u>Polwarth on the Green</u> was ``Captain
John Drummond MacGrigor, of the family of
Bochaldie?'' Were it of consequence, we might
correct the valuable information thus conveyed, in
one or two instances, and enlarge it in many others.
But it seems of more importance to mark the share
which the poet himself took in compiling or embellishing
this collection of traditional poetry, especially
as it has not been distinctly explained either
by Dr. Currie or Mr. Cromek. Tradition, generally
speaking, is a sort of perverted alchymy which
converts gold into lead. All that is abstractedly
poetical, all that is above the comprehension of the
merest peasant, is apt to escape in frequent recitation;
and the _lacun<ae>,_ thus created, are filled up
either by lines from other ditties, or from the
mother wit of the reciter or singer. The injury,
in either case, is obvious and irreparable. But
with all these disadvantages, the Scottish songs and
tunes preserved for Burns that inexpressible charm
which they have ever afforded to his countrymen.
He entered into the idea of collecting their fragments
with all the zeal of an enthusiast; and few,
whether serious or humorous, pass through his
hands without receiving some of those magic
touches, which, without greatly altering the song,
restored its original spirit, or gave it more than
it had ever possessed. So dexterously are these
touches combined with the ancient structure, that
the <u>rifaccimento,</u> in many instances, could scarcely
have been detected, without the avowal of the bard
himself. Neither would it be easy to mark his
share in the individual ditties. Some he appears
entirely to have re-written; to others he added
supplementary stanzas; in some he retained only
the leading lines and the chorus, and others he
merely arranged and ornamented. For the benefit
of future antiquaries, however, we may observe
that many of the songs, claimed by the present
editor as the exclusive composition of Burns, were,
in reality, current long before he was born. Let
us take one of the best examples of his skill in
imitating the old ballad.---<u>M`Pherson's Lament</u> was
a well-known song many years before the Ayrshire
Bard wrote those additional verses which constitute
its principal merit. This noted freebooter was
executed at Inverness, about the beginning of the
last century. When he came to the fatal tree, he
played the tune to which he has bequeathed his
name upon a favourite violin, and holding up the
instrument, offered it to any one of his clan who
would undertake to play the tune over his body at
his lyke-wake: as none answered, he dashed it to
pieces on the executioner's head, and flung himself
from the ladder. The following are the wild stanzas,
grounded, however, upon some traditional remains,<*></p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>consisted, I think, of seven bull hides and a plate of brass,
which altogether set Hector's utmost force at defiance. Alas!
I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's foes are as securely
armed as Ajax was. Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity,
malevolence, self-conceit, envy---all strongly bound in
a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good God, sir! to such
a shield, humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun
of a school-boy. Creation-disgracing <u>scelerats</u> such as
they, God only can mend, and the devil only can punish. In
the comprehending way of Caligula, I wish they had all but
one neck. I feel impotent as a child to the ardour of my
wishes! O for a withering curse to blast the germins of their
wicked machinations. O for a poisonous tornado, winged
from the torrid zones of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop
of their villanous contrivances to the lowest hell!''</p>
<p>In this point, therefore, the pride and high spirit
of Burns differed from those of the world around
him. But if he wanted that chivalrous sensibility
of honour which places reason upon the sword's
point, he had delicacy of another sort, which those
who boast most of the former do not always possess
in the same purity. Although so poor as to be
ever on the very brink of absolute ruin, looking
forwards now to the situation of a foot-soldier, now
to that of a common beggar, as no unnatural consummation
of his evil fortune; Burns was, in pecuniary
transactions, as proud and independent as if
possessed of a prince's revenue. Bred a peasant,
and preferred to the degrading situation of a common
exciseman, neither the influence of the low-minded
crowd around him, nor the gratification of
selfish indulgence, nor that contempt of futurity,
which has characterised so many of his poetical
brethren, ever led him to incur or endure the burden
of pecuniary obligation. A very intimate
friend of the poet, from whom he used occasionally
to borrow a small sum for a week or two, once
ventured to hint that the punctuality with which
the loan was always replaced at the appointed time
was unnecessary and unkind. The consequence of
this hint was the interruption of their friendship for
some weeks, the bard disdaining the very thought
of being indebted to a human being one farthing
beyond what he could discharge with the most rigid
punctuality. It was a less pleasing consequence of
this high spirit, that Burns was utterly inaccessible
to all friendly advice. To lay before him his errors,
or to point out their consequences, was to touch a
string that jarred every feeling within him. On
such occasions, his, like Churchill's, was<p> ``M`PHERSON'S FAREWELL</p>
<p> ``Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destiny!
M`Pherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows tree.
<u>Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he,
He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows tree.</u><p> O what is death put parting breath?---
On mony a bloody plain
I've dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
<u>Sae rantingly, &c.</u></p>
<p> Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword;
And there's no man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.
<u>Sae rantingly, &c.</u></p>
<p> I've lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart
And not avenged be.
<u>Sae rantingly, &c.</u></p>
<p> Now farewall light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
_Sae rantingly, &c._''</p>
<p> How much Burns delighted in the task of eking
out the ancient melodies of his country, appears
from the following affecting passage in a letter
written to Mr. Johnson shortly before his death.</p>
<p> ``You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good
right to live in this world---because you deserve it. Many a
merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it
may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting,
slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt
much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well
reached his middle career, and will turn over the Poet to far
other and more important concerns than studying the brilliancy
of wit, or the pathos of sentiment! However, hope is
the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish
it as well as I can.''</p>
<p> Notwithstanding the spirit of many of the lyrics
of Burns, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity
of others, we cannot but deeply regret that
so much of his time and talents was frittered away
in compiling and composing for musical collections.
There is sufficient evidence both in the edition of
Dr. Currie, and in this supplemental volume, that
even the genius of Burns could not support him
in the monotonous task of writing love verses on
heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and twisting
them into such rhythmical forms, as might suit the
capricious evolutions of Scotch reels, ports and
strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste of his
fancy and power of verse in small and insignificant
compositions, must necessarily have had no little
effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave
or important task. Let no one suppose that we
undervalue the songs of Burns. When his soul
was intent on suiting a favourite air with words
humorous or tender, as the subject demanded, no
poet of our tongue ever displayed higher skill in
marrying melody to immortal verse. But the writing
of a series of songs for large musical collections
degenerated into a slavish labour, which no talents
could support, led to negligence, and above all, diverted
the poet from his grand plan of dramatic
composition.</p>
<p> To produce a work of this kind, neither perhaps
a regular tragedy or comedy, but something partaking
of the nature of both, seems to have been
long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even
fixed on the subject, which was an adventure in
low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce,
while wandering in danger and disguise after being
defeated by the English. The Scottish dialect
would have rendered such a piece totally unfit for
the stage: but those who recollect the masculine
and lofty tone of martial spirit which glows in the
poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the
character of the gallant Bruce might have proved
under the hand of Burns! It would undoubtedly
have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which
the manners of the age, no less than the disposition
of the monarch, imperiously demanded; but this
deficiency would have been more than supplied by
a bard who could have drawn from his own perceptions
the unbending energy of a hero, sustaining
the desertion of friends, the persecution of enemies,
and the utmost malice of disastrous fortune. The
scene, too, being partly laid in humble life, admitted
that display of broad humour and exquisite pathos,
with which he could interchangeably and at pleasure
adorn his cottage views. Nor was the assemblage
of familiar sentiments incompatible in Burns
with those of the most exalted dignity. In the
inimitable tale of Tam o' Shanter, he has left us
sufficient evidence of his ability to combine the ludicrous
with the awful and even the horrible. No
poet, with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed
the power of exciting the most varied and
discordant emotions with such rapid transitions.
His humorous description of the appearance of
Death (in the poem on Dr. Hornbook) borders on
the terrific, and the witches' dance, in the Kirk of
Alloway, is at once ludicrous and horrible. Deeply
must we then regret those avocatious which diverted
a fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined with language
and expressions suited to all its changes,
from leaving a more substantial monument to his
own fame and to the honour of his country.</p>
<p> The next division is a collection of fugitive sentences
and commonplaces, extracted partly from
the memorandum book of the poet, and partly, we
believe, from letters which could not be published
in their entire state. Many of these appear to be
drawn from a small volume, entitled ``Letters to
Clarinda, by Robert Burns,'' which was printed at
Glasgow, but afterwards suppressed. To these,
the observations which we offered on the bard's
letters in general, apply with additional force for
in such a selection, the splendid patches, the showy,
declamatory, figurative effusions of sentimental
affectation, are usually the choice of the editor.
Respect for the mighty dead, prevents our quoting
instances in which Burns has degraded his natural
eloquence by these meretricious ornaments. Indeed
his style is sometimes so forced and unnatural,
that we must believe he knew to whom he was
writing, and that an affectation of enthusiasm in
platonic love and devotion, was more likely to be
acceptable to the fair Clarinda, than the true language
of feeling. The following loose and laboured
passage shows that the passion of <u>Sylvander</u> (a name
sufficient of itself to damn a whole file of love-letters)
had more of vanity than of real sentiment:---</p>
<p> ``What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the everyday
children of the world! 'Tis the unmeaning toying of the
younglings of the fields and forests; but where sentiment and
fancy unite their sweets; where taste and delicacy refine;
where wit adds the flavour, and good sense gives strength and
spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender
endearment!---beauty and grace in the arms of truth and
honour, in all the luxury of mutual love!''</p>
<p> The last part of the work comprehends a few
original poems---epistles, prologues, and songs,---
by which, if the author's reputation had not been
previously established, we will venture to say it
would never have risen above the common standard.
At the same time there are few of them that
do not, upon minute examination, exhibit marks of
Burns's hand, though not of his best manner. The
following exquisitely affecting stanza contains the
essence of a thousand love tales:---<p> ``Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.''</p>
<p> There are one or two political songs, which, for
any wit or humour they contain, might have been
very well omitted. The satirical effusions of Burns,
when they related to persons or subjects removed
from his own sphere of observation, were too vague
and too coarse to be poignant. There are a few
attempts at <u>English</u> verse, in which, as usual, Burns
falls beneath himself. This is the more remarkable,
as the sublimer passages of his ``Saturday
Night,'' ``Vision,'' and other poems of celebrity,
always swell into the language of classic English
poetry. But although in these flights he naturally
and almost unavoidably assumed the dialect of
Milton and Shakspeare, he never seems to have
been completely at his ease when he had not the
power of descending at pleasure into that which
was familiar to his oar, and to his habits. In the
one case, his use of the English was voluntary, and
for a short time; but when assumed as a primary
and indispensable rule of composition, the comparative
penury of rhymes, and the want of a thousand
emphatic words which his habitual acquaintance
with the Scottish supplied, rendered his expression
confined and embarrassed. No man ever
had more command of this ancient Doric dialect
than Burns. He has left a curious testimony of
his skill, in a letter to Mr. Nicol, published in this
volume; an attempt to read a sentence of which,
would break the teeth of most modern Scotchmen.</p>
<p> Three or four letters from William Burns, a
brother of the poet, are introduced for no purpose
that we can guess, unless to show that he wrote and
thought like an ordinary journeyman saddler. We
would readily have believed, without positive proof,
that the splendid powers of the poet were not imparted
to the rest of his family.</p>
<p> We scarcely know, upon the whole, in what
terms we ought to dismiss Mr. Cromek. If the
reputation of Burns alone be considered, this volume
cannot add to his fame; and it is too well
fixed to admit of degradation. The Cantata already
mentioned, is indeed the only one of his productions
not published by Dr. Currie, which we consider as
not merely justifying, but increasing his renown.
It is enough to say of the very best of those now
published, that they take nothing from it. What
the public may gain by being furnished with additional
means of estimating the character of this
wonderful and self-taught genius, we have already
endeavoured to state. We know not whether the
family of the poet will derive any advantage from
this publication of his remains. If so, it is the best
apology for their being given to the world; if not,
we have no doubt that the editor, as he is an admirer
of Chaucer, has read of a certain pardoner,
who<p> ``with his <u>relics</u> when that he fond
A poor persone dwelling up on lond,
Upon a day he gat him more moneie
Than that the persone got in monethes tweie.''</p>
</p>
</p>
</p>
</p>
<p>It is a dreadful truth, that, when racked and tortured
by the well-meant and warm expostulations
of an intimate friend, he at length started up in a
paroxysm of frenzy, and, drawing a sword-cane,
which he usually wore, made an attempt to plunge
it into the body of his adviser---the next instant he
was with difficulty withheld from suicide.<p> This electronic transcription of `Scott's Miscellaneous Prose
Writings', vol. I, part 8 is based on the edition published by
Robert Cadell, Edinburgh, 1841, and comprises pages 725--852 of
that edition.</p>
</p>
<ul>
<li>We have heard some of these recited, particularly one
<em> which begins---
</em>
<em> ``Now farewell, house, and farewell, friends,
</em> And farewell, wife and bairns,
<em> There's nae repentance in my heart,
</em> The fiddle's in my arms''---
<em> </em> <em> </em>.---S.<p> Page divisions and column titles have been removed.</p>
<p> Small caps in the first few words of a chapter or section
have been replaced with lower-case letters. Small caps in other
contexts have been retained.</p>
<p> All end-of-line hyphenation have been removed, and the de-
hyphenated words placed at the end of the first line. The guide for
whether to keep or remove the hyphen has been the text itself.</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p>which Burns has put into the mouth of this desperado:---</p>
<p>-----------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
<ul>
<li>The following changes have been made to the text:<p> Glamis? Glammis?</p>
</li>
<li>The following misprints have been corrected:</li>
</ul>
<ol>
<li> 737, c. 1, l. -9: I say, my country-men,||in this (was: country-||men. in)
p. 752, c. 1, l. 33: remit thither. Independent (was: thither, )
p. 752, c. 2, l.-17: says he, ``is a commodity; (was: no quotes)
p. 795, c. 1, l. 4: ``When the sun, retiring slowly, (was: no quotes)
p. 806, c. 2, l. 2: ... two armies, Shakspeare ... (was: Shakespeare)
p. 833, c. 1, l. 28: ... it on so proud a head,)'' (was: head,'<code>)
p. 833, c. 2, l. 25: submitted to them.</code> '' (was: them.'')<p> The following markup has been added:</p>
<p> Each paragraph begins with two spaces indentation.</p>
</li>
</ol>
<ul>
<li>Oddities:</li>
</ul>
<p>Both forms appear. No change.</p>
<ul>
<li>Markup:<p> Indicates major parts of the texts.</p>
</li>
</ul>
<p><u> </u> indicates text in italics
= = indicates texts in small caps (extra emphasis)</p>
<p>--- indicates an em dash. Longer sequences represent correspondingly
longer dashes.<p> As page divisions have not been retained in this edition, page
references have been replaced with <?> and <!> markup.</p>
<p> The <? ident> construction represents a page number reference
to the page in which the corresponding anchor <! identifier>
appears.</p>
</p>
<p><title page>
<table of contents>
<title>
<epigraph>
<text><p> Footnotes in the text were placed at the foot of the page; in
this edition they have been placed immediately after the line
in which they are referenced. The footnote callout is always
an asterisk,<*> and the text of the footnote has been placed,</p>
<ul>
<li>Like this</li>
</ul>
<p> slightly indented, between two empty lines, with an asterisk
in the left margin as illustrated above. If the footnote
comes at the end of a paragraph, the first line of the
following paragraph is indented two spaces, as usual.</p>
</p>
<p><a`> a grave
<a^> a circumflex
<ae> ae ligature
<c,> c cedilla
<deg> degrees
<e`> e grave
<e'> e acute
<e:> e dieresis
<e^> e circumflex
<i^> i circumflex
<L> pound sterling
<o^> o circumflex
<oe> oe ligature
<u`> u grave
<u^> u circumflex</p>
<p><? identifier> page number reference
<! identifier> page number anchor<p> The transcription and proof-reading was done by Anders Thulin,
Skraddaregatan 1F, S-582 36 Linkoping, Sweden. (Email:
Anders.X.Thulin@telia.se)</p>
<p> As far as I am concerned, this electronical edition is free, and may
be used in any way for any purpose whatever.</p>
<p> I'd be glad to hear of any errors or omissions you might find.</p>
</p>
<p><*> footnote</p>
<ul>
<li>Revision history:</li>
</ul>
<p>Version: 1.0 1997-03-07</p>
<p>END OF FILE</p>
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