England,55hectares in100[38]France,54""Belgium,43""Prussia and Denmark,40""Italy and Portugal,30""Germany and Spain,25""Holland and Austria,20""Russia and Poland,18""Sweden and Norway,14""
Unless we assume, (which we have no right to do,) that the extent of irreclaimable mountain, marsh, and sand, is much greater in proportion to the area of Belgium, Prussia, and Germany, the countries chiefly referred to by Mr Laing, than it is in Britain, we apprehend that their reserve is, to say the least, considerably larger than ours. We must notice also, that our author seems to regard the unreclaimed land of Britain as if it were a fund on which we can fall back at any time, when unfavourable harvests abroad shall have curtailed our accustomed supplies from the countries of the Continent. But a little consideration will show that, after we have once learnt to trust to annual foreign supplies, it is utterly vain to expect that their occasional deficiency will be supplemented, in case of emergency, from our own spare resources. Land is not like the instruments of production employed by the manufacturer. People talk of having recourse to our less fertile soils, as if it were a matter as easily and speedily accomplished as setting a mill in motion by raising the sluice. But the ponderous machine of agriculture is not so easily set a-going. On unreclaimed soils, an expenditure of from £12 to £25 an acre is required at the very outset. Fences and houses have to be erected, roads and drains to be formed, roots to be grubbed up, stones to be removed, before even the seed can be placed in the ground. Taking the farmer's capital into account, we are probably within the mark when we assert that £26 an acre, on the average, must be laid out on new land, before a single bushel can be reaped from it; and, even when ready for a rotation, an additional preparation of two or three years is necessary to bring it into a state for bearing wheat. Now, is there any speculator so insane as to risk such an expenditure on the possible chance of an occasional and simultaneous failure of the crops on the Continent? Even if grain were at a famine price, will any one be found to throw away his money in ploughing up "lawns, woods, shrubberies, village greens, and waste corners," when the very next season may see our ports swarming as usual with foreign grain ships, and "buyers firm" at 35s. a quarter?
A bad harvest is not an event that can be foreseen, and provided against, in the same way that the thrifty housekeeper lays in an additional stock of fuel, when there is talk of a strike among the colliers. The calamity is upon us long before the most skilful and far-sighted husbandman can arrange his plans and modify his rotations for the purpose of meeting the emergency. It is out of the question, then, under the present system at least, to talk of our spare land as if it were a spare coach-horse, or a spare pair of breeches, ready for use at any moment. We have taken away the only incitement to improvement, by taking care that it shall never be profitable. We have dammed back from our own fields that fertilising stream which is now spreading over and enriching the land of our neighbours. And now that we have chosen to throw ourselves on the resources of other nations—now that we may say, as the Romans did in the days of Claudian, "pascimur arbitrio Mauri"—we must not wonder if occasionally the supply turns out to be insufficient. We do notapprehend that a general scarcity can be of very frequent occurrence; but of this we may rest assured, that when it does happen, there is no portion of Europe in which the scourge of famine will be so severely felt as in this island, and it will then be utterly vain to look for relief from an expansion of that native agriculture which we have been at such pains to cripple and discourage.
We should convey to our readers a very incorrect notion of Mr Laing's work, if we led them to believe that it is wholly occupied with such subjects as we have been discussing. The commercial, military, and administrative systems of European governments certainly form his most important themes; but his remarks on the arts, customs, and literature of those countries are always amusing, and uttered with a straightforward and fearless disregard of what other people have said upon the same topic. He has no respect for conventional opinions in matters of taste; and he avows an English preference for the solid utilities and material comforts of everyday life over mere ornament. In fact, his views on the fine arts generally, are, to say the least, rather peculiar. The art of fresco-painting seems somehow to excite his bile more than anything else. His aversion to it is as intense and contemptuous as that with which Cobbett regarded the opera. It is clear to us that his digestive organs must have been fearfully disordered during his visit to Munich. From the Pinakothek to the spittoons in the Hall of the Graces, nothing seems to have pleased him—all is tawdry hollow, and out of place—and that æsthetic refinement which the ex-king of Bavaria took under his especial protection is, in his eyes, opposed to all common sense and true civilisation. We cannot join him in regarding the art of the upholsterer as more important than that of the sculptor, or in thinking the possession of hearth-rugs and window-curtains, and plenty of earthenware utensils, truer tests of national civilisation than libraries and picture-galleries. But, to a certain extent, we are disposed to share in his distrust of the genuineness of that progress in art which depends on Government encouragement. The taste which is reared and stimulated in the artificial air of palaces, instead of attaining a healthy and vigorous development, often yields little fruit except empty mannerisms. And, if the labours of the painter and the sculptor be apt to take a questionable direction under courtly tutelage, there is still more room to doubt whether any important progress in manufactures, or the mechanical arts, can be prompted by princely patronage, however well designed. We have already had proof in England of what enterprise and ingenuity can accomplish without such aid—it remains to be seen what advancement they are to make in the leading-strings of court favour, and under the inspiration of puffs in theTimesnewspaper, and promises of medals, with suitable inscriptions, and the bustling exertions of a semi-official staff of attachés.
Notwithstanding his heretical notions about the value of the fine arts, in a national point of view, Mr Laing's pictures of Continental life and scenery, and his criticisms on foreign manners and customs, will be found full of information and instruction, even by those who have resided for years in the countries he describes.
A LAY OF THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.
["Upon this the conversation dropped, and soon afterwards Tresham departed. When he found himself alone, he suffered his rage to find vent in words. 'Perdition seize them!' he cried: 'I shall now lose two thousand pounds, in addition to what I have already advanced; and, as Mounteagle will not have the disclosure made till the beginning of November, there is no way of avoiding payment. They would not fall into the snare I laid to throw the blame of the discovery, when it takes place, upon their own indiscretion. But I must devise some other plan.'"—Ainsworth'sLife and Times of Guy Fawkes.]
["Upon this the conversation dropped, and soon afterwards Tresham departed. When he found himself alone, he suffered his rage to find vent in words. 'Perdition seize them!' he cried: 'I shall now lose two thousand pounds, in addition to what I have already advanced; and, as Mounteagle will not have the disclosure made till the beginning of November, there is no way of avoiding payment. They would not fall into the snare I laid to throw the blame of the discovery, when it takes place, upon their own indiscretion. But I must devise some other plan.'"—Ainsworth'sLife and Times of Guy Fawkes.]
They've done their task, and every caskIs piled within the cell:They've heaped the wood in order good,And hid the powder well.And Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,Remarked with cheerful glee—"The moon is bright—they'll fly by night!Now, sirs, let's turn the key."The wind without blew cold and stout,As though it smelt of snow—But was't the breeze that made the kneesOf Tresham tremble so?With ready hand, at Guy's command,He rolled the powder in;But what's the cause that Tresham's jawsAre chattering to the chin?Nor wine nor beer his heart can cheer,As in his chamber loneHe walks the plank with heavy clank,And vents the frequent groan."Alack!" quoth he, "that this should be—Alack, and well-a-day!I had the hope to bring the Pope,But in a different way."I'd risk a rope to bring the PopeBy gradual means and slow;But Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,Won't let me manage so.That furious man has hatched a planThat must undo us all;He'd blow the Peers unto the spheres,And throne the Cardinal!"It's time I took from other bookThan his a saving leaf;I'll do it—yes! I'll e'en confess,Like many a conscious thief.And on the whole, upon my soul,As Garnet used to teach,When human schemes are vain as dreams,'Tis always best to peach!"My mind's made up!" He drained the cup,Then straightway sate him down,Divulged the whole, whitewashed his soul,And saved the British crown:—Disclosed the walks of Guido Fawkes,And swore, with pious aim,That from the first he thought him cursed,And still opined the same.Poor Guido died, and Tresham eyedHis dangling corpse on high;Yet no one durst reflect at firstOn him who played the spy.Did any want a Protestant,As stiff as a rattan,To rail at home 'gainst priests at Rome—Why, Tresham was their man!'Twas nothing though he'd kissed the ToeAbroad in various ways,Or managed rather that his wife's fatherShould bear the blame and praise.Yet somehow men, who knew him whenHe wooed the Man of Sin,Would slightly sneer, and whisper near,Who rolled the powder in?
They've done their task, and every caskIs piled within the cell:They've heaped the wood in order good,And hid the powder well.And Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,Remarked with cheerful glee—"The moon is bright—they'll fly by night!Now, sirs, let's turn the key."
The wind without blew cold and stout,As though it smelt of snow—But was't the breeze that made the kneesOf Tresham tremble so?With ready hand, at Guy's command,He rolled the powder in;But what's the cause that Tresham's jawsAre chattering to the chin?Nor wine nor beer his heart can cheer,As in his chamber loneHe walks the plank with heavy clank,And vents the frequent groan."Alack!" quoth he, "that this should be—Alack, and well-a-day!I had the hope to bring the Pope,But in a different way.
"I'd risk a rope to bring the PopeBy gradual means and slow;But Guido Fawkes, who seldom talks,Won't let me manage so.That furious man has hatched a planThat must undo us all;He'd blow the Peers unto the spheres,And throne the Cardinal!
"It's time I took from other bookThan his a saving leaf;I'll do it—yes! I'll e'en confess,Like many a conscious thief.And on the whole, upon my soul,As Garnet used to teach,When human schemes are vain as dreams,'Tis always best to peach!
"My mind's made up!" He drained the cup,Then straightway sate him down,Divulged the whole, whitewashed his soul,And saved the British crown:—Disclosed the walks of Guido Fawkes,And swore, with pious aim,That from the first he thought him cursed,And still opined the same.
Poor Guido died, and Tresham eyedHis dangling corpse on high;Yet no one durst reflect at firstOn him who played the spy.Did any want a Protestant,As stiff as a rattan,To rail at home 'gainst priests at Rome—Why, Tresham was their man!
'Twas nothing though he'd kissed the ToeAbroad in various ways,Or managed rather that his wife's fatherShould bear the blame and praise.Yet somehow men, who knew him whenHe wooed the Man of Sin,Would slightly sneer, and whisper near,Who rolled the powder in?
MORAL.
If you, dear youth, are bent on truthIn these degenerate days,And if you dare one hour to spareFor aught but "Roman Lays;"If, shunning rhymes, you read theTimes,And search its columns through,You'll find perhaps that Tresham's lapseIs matched by something new.Our champion John, with armour on,Is readynowto stand(For so we hope) against the Pope,At least on English land.'Gainst foreign rule and Roman bullHe'll fight, and surely win.But—tarry yet—and don't forgetWho rolled the powder in!
If you, dear youth, are bent on truthIn these degenerate days,And if you dare one hour to spareFor aught but "Roman Lays;"If, shunning rhymes, you read theTimes,And search its columns through,You'll find perhaps that Tresham's lapseIs matched by something new.
Our champion John, with armour on,Is readynowto stand(For so we hope) against the Pope,At least on English land.'Gainst foreign rule and Roman bullHe'll fight, and surely win.But—tarry yet—and don't forgetWho rolled the powder in!
BY AN OLD STAGER.
And so, Dick my boy, you are now on the staff of "our Special Commissioners;" and you are going to favour the public with the results of your investigations on the subjects of native industry, free trade, wages, competition, and so forth? Well, it does good to the heart of an aged veteran of the press like myself, to see the sphere of our labours, as we used to call it, so capitally enlarged. It shows me that people are rapidly getting rid of a good many idiotical prejudices which stood in the way of social progress; and that they don't care from what quarter their information comes, so that it is properly spiced and made palatable to their taste. Upon my soul, Dick, and without any humbug, I almost envy you your present position. Two years ago when you came up to London, and were entered in the junior reporting department, you knew as much about political economy as you do of algebra, and would as soon have handled a red-hot poker as a volume of parliamentary returns. And now they tell me that you are the smartest hand going at statistics, and think no more of tossing off an article on the Currency at a quarter of an hour's notice, than my cook does of elaborating a pancake! Why, sir, you are a far greater man than a peer of the realm, or a member of the House of Commons. You are a whole committee in your own person, for you are going to take evidence, just wherever you please, and to report upon it too, without the remotest chance of contradiction. Help yourself, Dick, and pass the decanter. Here is your very good health, and prosperity to the Fourth Estate!
You intend to do your duty manfully and impartially? Of course, Dick, you do. Nobody who has the pleasure of your acquaintance can doubt it. Your virility is beyond all dispute, and how can you be otherwise than impartial when you are writing up your own side? You are not much of a lawyer, perhaps, but common sense will suggest the first plain rules for leading evidence. Your employers want to show that everybody is prospering under the cheerful influences of free trade. They don't, of course, care twopence halfpenny whether their dogma is right or wrong: they are committed to it, and that is enough. They give you a certain allowance per week—I hope, by the way, it is a handsome one—to prosecute your inquiries, and they intend that the results shall be such as to justify their general assertion. And no doubt they will justify it, Dick; for I say, and I care not who knows it, that a cleverer, sharper, more acute and knowing dog than yourself never dipped goose-quill into a standish. You need not blush at the compliment. Was it not you who wrote that leader last week, recommending the agriculturists to regulate their operations on the same principle which is followed in the factories, and to look to short and speedy returns as the best means of making money? Ha, ha, ha! Dick—that certainly was a masterpiece! How the poor devils of chaw-bacons must have stared when they heard you gravely recommending them to raise three or four consecutive crops in the year, to turn the seasons topsy-turvy, and to sow in August that they might reap in January! No wonder that they are angry, for the best of the joke is, that a number of people believed you. The Cockneys have got it into their heads that wheat can be grown by machinery, and I, for one, shan't be in any hurry to disabuse them. If I were you, I would give them another leader or two in the same strain, insisting of course that the agriculturists are a pack of infernal asses, who don't understand the first principles of their own trade, and that Mechi, the razor-man, is their only creditable apostle.
Never mind though it may be necessary for you soon to eat in your own words. Between you and me, Dick—but don't let it go any farther—I have been of opinion for some timeback that Free-trade is a total delusion. It may be bolstered up for a little longer, but it can't by possibility last our time. There was too much lying and pulling and quackery and braggadocio at the outset. I told Cobden so, at the time when he was descanting upon the blessings of the cheap loaf, but he would have his own way, and in his very next speech proposed to lay Manchester alongside of the Mississippi! I said the same thing to M'Gregor, but he would not be deterred from promising his hearers an additional two millions per week. And a pretty kettle of fish he has made of it! I am told that he dares not venture to show his face in the Gorbals. You see, Dick, all that nonsense is telling confoundedly against us just now. Wheat is down to zero, in so far as the profits of cultivation are concerned. The farmers are wellnigh ruined—that is plain beyond the power of contradiction, and in the course of another year they will be utterly and effectually spouted. The artisans are beginning to find out that cheap foreign bread means less labour and lowered wages, and they complain that they are driven to the wall by the free importation of foreign goods. If that notion once seizes hold of their minds—and it is doing so rapidly—it won't be long before they begin a tremendous agitation on the other side. Yes, Dick; the Protectionists were right after all, and in the long run they will carry their point with the general consent of the country. In the mean time, however, thanks to Sir Robert Peel, we have got into office, and we shall be consummate idiots if we don't make hay while the sun shines. You are doing capital service, Dick, by throwing dust in people's eyes. Keep it up as long as you can. Sneer at facts when you can't answer them; distort evidence boldly; laugh down the idea of retrogression; assume the existence of unexampled prosperity, in spite of every testimony to the contrary; assert even in the face of hostile elections and powerful gatherings, that the cause of Protection is dead and coffined—and the odds are that you may still induce a good many people to believe you. Stout averments, Dick, are capital things, and the broader you can make them the better. I would advise you, though, to be chary of statistics. They are dangerous weapons in the hands of the inexperienced, and you may chance to break your own head, whilst attempting to tomahawk your antagonist. But if you must use them, apply to me or Heavywet. We have a prime stock on hand, carefully prepared for service, and I think we could still put you up to a dodge or two. By the way, who wrote that song upon Heavywet? You know the one I mean, beginning with some such words as—
"All in my den, I cooper up the figure-list,Which I've been working at a twelvemonth and a day.Where there was a lesser one I substitute a bigger list'Saying that the true bill is far, far away."
"All in my den, I cooper up the figure-list,Which I've been working at a twelvemonth and a day.Where there was a lesser one I substitute a bigger list'Saying that the true bill is far, far away."
I wish you had seen Heavywet's face when young Fitztape of the Treasury sang it in his presence on Tuesday last! The old fellow looked as though the waiter had handed him verjuice instead of curaçoa.
I hope, Dick, you are not above receiving a hint from an old hand, who has seen some service in his day. I am sure I have every reason to acknowledge my infinite obligations to the pen which I have wielded with more or less effect for wellnigh forty years, and which has not only provided me with food and raiment, but with a snug patent Government office, which makes me entirely independent of any change of Ministry. These are the kind of prizes, Dick, which are open to us literary men, who have the sense to adopt politics as a trade, and to write up our party, without troubling ourselves about that fantastic commodity which the parsons term conscience. I never could see why a public writer should have a conscience any more than a lawyer. The French fellows are better up to this, and don't even pretend to its possession. And it must be acknowledged that they are allowed occasionally far better chances than we have. Only fancy, Dick, you and I members of a Provisional Government! Wouldn't we have a pluck at Rothschild and the Bank? Don't your fingers itch at the bare idea of such close contact with the feathers of the national pigeon? But it is of no use indulging in those fairydreams. And after all, I daresay that neither Etienne Arago, nor Armand Marrast, nor Ferdinand Flocon, nor Louis Blanc, are half so well off at the present moment as I am, with my snug salary payable quarterly, and no arrears. It is better not to be too ambitious, Dick, nor to overshoot the mark; for I have always remarked that your most prominent men are precisely those who pocket the least in the long-run. I am for your golden mediocrity, which insures an easy berth, and the power of offering to a friend a cool bottle of claret. You like the wine, Dick? Help yourself again; there's more where that came from.
As I was saying, you should not despise a hint from an old hand. We ancients may not be quite so smart as you moderns, but we are tolerably good judges of the taking qualities of an article—we know, by experience, the sort of thing which is likely to tickle the public ear. Now, you will forgive me for saying, that in your late writings you exhibit, now and then, certain marks of precipitancy, which it might be as safe to avoid. What I mean to express is, that you are too dashing—too daring—too ready to encounter your antagonist with his own weapons. You assume the part of Achilles, instead of imitating the example of Ulysses; you don't touch the Hospitaller's shield, though he has the worst seat of the party, but you make your lance ring against the buckler of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. This may be plucky, but it is not wise. People may applaud you for your hardihood, but it is not a pleasant thing to be chucked over your horse's croup, among shard, and mire, and the general laughter of mankind. You made a great mistake the other day in pitting yourself against Lord Stanley. You might have known better. You were no more than a baby in the hands of the best lance of the Temple; and the attempt only ended, as all must have foreseen, in your own confusion. Don't be angry, Dick. I know you only obeyed orders, but the result demonstrates, very clearly, the utter imbecility of the clique under which you have had the misfortune to serve.
You say you did not write the article about gestures and looks being more expressive than words? I am aware you did not. I am talking to a sensible man, and not to an irreclaimable idiot. It is no fault of yours if the dunderheads, who find the money, will occasionally mistake their vocation, and commit themselves by using the pen. Such things are inevitable in journalism; and they are enough to sow the seeds of decline in the bosom of a printer's devil. But you know very well, notwithstanding, that you committed yourself most egregiously. You were laughed at, Dick, and held up to scorn in every paper from Truro to Caithness. And for what? Why, for attempting pertinaciously to maintain that a statesman meant and said one thing, whereas he distinctly meant and said another. Did you seriously expect to impose upon any one by such a stale device as that—so palpable, and, moreover, so exceedingly open to contradiction? You might as well expect the public to believe that the Duke of Wellington has broken his neck on the hunting-field, in the teeth of a letter from the Field-marshal announcing that he is well and hearty. Yes; I know very well that John Bull is a gullible animal, but not to the degree which you assume. You may state, if you like, that the moon is made of green cheese; or, as some wiseacre did the other day, that the electric telegraph is to be superseded by the employment of magnetic snails; but you won't persuade any one that Ferrand is a friend of Cobden, or that Sir Robert Inglis is a Jesuit in disguise who is working for the supremacy of the Pope. By the way, I was wrong in recommending you to persist in your averment that Protection is dead and coffined. You have, I observe, of late dedicated at least a couple of Jeremiads each week to that topic, and there is a degree of ferocity coupled with the announcement revolting to the feelings of a Christian. You should assume the fact, Dick; not insist upon it in this absurd manner. If the old lady really is under the sod, and beyond the power of resuscitation and the reach of the resurrection-men, e'en let her repose in quiet. In that case she can do youno further harm, and it would be but decent to give her the benefit of a final forgiveness, or at all events to leave her to oblivion. Queen Anne has been defunct for a good many years, but nobody thinks it necessary to proclaim the fact weekly in a couple of leaders. You differ from me, do you? Very well, then; carry on in your own way; all I shall say is, that if your muttered conjurations don't evoke the shade of the departed saint, in a shape that may appal you consumedly, you run a mighty risk of calling a counterfeit into being. It is a good maxim never to put forward anything which the public cannot readily swallow.
I think that, in one respect, the modern system is decidedly preferable to the older. Formerly, we used to combat arguments; now, I observe, you evade them. This I hold to be a great improvement. In the first place, it saves trouble both to the writer and the reader. It is not always easy to reply to a fellow who knows his subject a great deal better than you do. You have to follow him from point to point, investigate his facts, controvert his reasoning, and take, in short, such a world of trouble, as would render the life of a gentleman journalist absolutely insupportable. Milton was occupied nearly a year with one of his replies to Salmasius,—Selden, I believe, took a longer time to double up his opponent Grotius. This is slow work, and you cannot reasonably be expected to submit to it. If anything like argument is to be brought forward, you are entitled to look for it in theEdinburgh Review, though I do not intend by any means to assume that your expectations will be realised in that quarter. Costive, beyond the power of medicine, must be the man who battens on the hard dough dumplings, dished up quarterly under cover of the Blue and Yellow! But I forgot—you are not entirely with the Whigs, though you agree with them as to commercial policy.
You do well, therefore, to avoid argument in all points that require previous preparation and study. A general slashing style, without condescending to particulars, is undoubtedly your forte, and I cannot sufficiently admire your dexterity in avoiding a direct reply. You have got hold of a capital phrase in answer to everything that can be advanced against you. No matter how clearly your opponent may have stated his case, no matter how distinct his logic, or how incontrovertible his facts, you come down upon him with your pet cry of "exploded fallacies," and extinguish him at once and for ever. Very righteously you eschew the trouble of pointing out where, when, and by whom, the said obnoxious fallacy was exploded. It is perfectly possible—nay, in nine cases out of ten, absolutely certain, that you never in your life heard that particular view stated before, and that you do not comprehend it when stated; still, you continue to occupy the vantage ground, and pooh-pooh it down as calmly as though it were one of the Manchester unfulfilled prophecies. This is a pleasant way of getting out of a dilemma; and the best of it is, that by generalisation you may contrive to apply your epithet to every fact, however notorious, which has been brought forward by your antagonist. For instance, an indignant farmer writes you a letter enclosing a balance-sheet of his operations for the last year, which shows that, instead of making any profit, he is out of pocket some ninety or a hundred pounds; and he argues, quite fairly, that if grain is to continue at its present rate, in consequence of importations from abroad, he will be a ruined man before the expiry of his lease, and his labourers thrown out of employment. Six months ago, your answer would have been hopeful, courteous, and encouraging. You would have assured him that the present depression was merely temporary, and that in the course of a short time wheat must be at sixty shillings. You are wiser now. You are perfectly aware that any considerable rise in the value of agricultural produce, under the operation of the present law, is a pure impossibility; and you resort to no such assurance. Three months later you would have told him to go to the devil or the antipodes, whichever he pleased, and not bother the public with his wicked and insensate clamour. But you are also tolerably aware, by this time, thatthe public does not exactly approve of a wholesale system of expatriation, however admirable it may appear in your eyes; and that you have exposed yourself, by recommending it, to certain reflections, which are not very creditable to your character either as a philanthropist or a Christian. Nor can you much mend the matter by insisting upon another pet phrase of yours, which did good service so long as it was new. You cannot always aver that we are in "a transition state" of society. In the first place, the expression, when you analyse it, has no meaning. In the second place, granting that it had a meaning, people are naturally anxious to know, what sort of state of society is to be consequent on the "transition state"—a piece of information which neither you nor any one else have it in your power to supply. So that an ignorant or commonplace person, who is not versed in the mysteries or resorts of journalism, may be well excused for wondering in what possible way you can meet the allegations of Mr Hawbuck. You cannot refuse to print his letter and his statement, for, if you don't, somebody else will; and either you lay yourself open to the charge of suppression, or it may be held that you cannot frame an answer. How valuable, in such a position, is the shield of "exploded fallacies!" You assume, in your commentary on the letter, a tone of heartfelt commiseration, not for the circumstances, but for the prejudices and benighted mental condition of the writer. "We willingly give a place in our columns to the communication of Mr Hawbuck, not on account of its intrinsic worth—not because it contains any novel information—but because it is a fair specimen of that state of intellectual depression and economical ignorance, which the existence for so many years of a false protective system has unhappily fostered, even among that class of agriculturists who are entitled to the epithet of respectable. Here is a man who, from the general wording and caligraphy of his letter, appears to have received the advantages of an ordinary good education—a man who, by his own confession, is the tenant of a farm for which he pays five hundred pounds a-year of rent, and upwards—a man who, we doubt not, is most estimable in his private relations, a kind husband, an indulgent father, and possibly a considerate master—a man who, not improbably, is on good terms with the squire, and, it may be, visits at the parsonage—and yet this very individual, Mr Hawbuck, is complaining that he cannot make ends meet! We shall not, at the present time, minutely question the accuracy of his statements. These may be grossly exaggerated, or they may contain nothing more than a simple narrative of the truth. Assuming the latter to be the case, we ask our readers, with the most perfect confidence, whether the whole of the argument which he has attempted to rear upon such exceedingly slender foundations, is not, from beginning to end, a tissue of exploded fallacies? Here we have the whole question of British taxation brought forward, as if it was something new. Hawbuck ought to know better. His father was taxed before him, and so, we doubt not, were several antecedent generations of Hawbucks, supposing that the family lays claim to a respectable agricultural antiquity. Hawbuck junior—who, we hope, will have more sense than his father—must make up his mind, in future years, to contribute his quota to the national burdens, in return for which we receive the inestimable blessings of good government, [O Dick!] sound legislation, and impartial administration of the laws. Then Mr Hawbuck, as a matter of course, acting upon the invariable example of the writers and orators of that unhappy faction to which he has the misfortune to belong, drags in the 'foreigner,' just as the Dugald creature is dragged into the hut at Aberfoil by the soldiers of Captain Thornton. This is another exploded fallacy, which we had fondly hoped was set to rest for ever. It seems we were mistaken. Mr Hawbuck cannot dispense with the 'foreigner.' He haunts him ever and anon in the silence of the night like the Raw-head-and-bloody-bones of the nursery, or like the turnip lantern placed on the churchyard wall by some juvenile agricultural humourist. Really it is very distressing that any one should be so persecuted by a phantom which is the pure growth of mental apprehension and disease. Mr Hawbuck certainly ought to consult his medical adviser; or, if distance and the embarrassed state of his affairs preclude him from applying to the village Galen, perhaps he will allow us to prescribe for him. A good dose of purgative medicine twice a-week, moderate diet, abstinence from intoxicating liquors, and change of scene—we would suggest a visit to Mr Mechi's farm of Tiptree—will work wonders with our patient. But he must beware of all excitement. He must on no account attend any gatherings where Mr Ferrand is a speaker, and he had better refrain from passing his evenings at the Agricultural Club. He will thus be able to effect considerable retrenchment in his expenditure by avoiding beer, and Mrs Hawbuck will love him none the less. By attending to these few simple rules, we are convinced that a radical cure may be effected. We shall then hear no more of Mr Hawbuck's complaints, nor will it be necessary again to reprehend him for the adoption of exploded fallacies. We shall not do the farmers of Great Britain the injustice to suppose that this gentleman is a type of their class. We regard him simply as an honest, easy-natured, but very credulous person, who has been unfortunately imbued with false notions of political economy, and used as a tool in the hands of others to promote their interested designs."
There, Dick, is a leader for you cut and dry; and I think you must admit that it will answer every purpose. In the first place, you won't hear any more of Hawbuck. Men of his class cannot bear to be laughed at, so that his only revenge will be a muttered vow to break your head, if it should ever come knowingly within the sweep of his cudgel. In the second place, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have raised a laugh, which is at all times equivalent to a triumph in argument. The majority of your readers will esteem you a very clever fellow, and henceforward the name of Hawbuck will be the signal for general cachinnation. It is quite true that Hawbuck's statement is in no way refuted, or the cause of his distress investigated—but how can you possibly be expected to occupy your time with his affairs? As a "special commissioner," indeed, you may treat him more minutely. You may pry into his pigsty, investigate his stable, criticise his mode of drainage, disapprove of his rotation of crops, inquire into the wages which he pays, and decidedly object to his turnips. You may hold him up as a lamentable victim of that species of wretched farming which, under the baneful shadow of protection, could do no more than render British agriculture by far the finest and the most productive in the world. You may exhort him to lay out more capital—you need not care about the amount, as he is not likely to ask you for a loan, nor would you be willing to advance it, if he did, on such dubious security; and you may abuse him as an obstinate ass, because he does not plough with a steam-engine. All this you may do with impunity, (provided you never visit the district again;) and you will be hailed by your own party as a genuine national benefactor, and as an oracle of agricultural progress. But don't mix up the two characters—that is, keep statistics for your report, and general assertions for your leading article. Hold hard by the doctrine of "exploded fallacies." It will apply to everything, and every system, which was ever hatched under the influence of the sun. You may adapt the term to physics quite as appropriately as to opinions. If you are inclined to set forward as an exploded fallacy the dogma that climate has any influence upon crops, you are perfectly entitled to do so, on the authority of the Huxtables of the present generation.
But I fear that I am exhausting your patience, and, as it is now rather late, I shall merely add a word of personal advice. Never attempt to rear up your independent judgment against the wishes of your proprietors. In ordinary times this caution might be unnecessary, since few men are sincerely desirous to quarrel with their bread and butter. But there is a foolish spirit of insubordination visible just now on the surface of society, against which you ought to guard. Young men are beginning tofashion out opinions for themselves. The old traditional landmarks are not sufficient for their guidance; and I, who am a veteran in politics, find myself not unfrequently bearded by some pert whippersnapper, just escaped from school, who is now setting up, as the phrase is, on his own hook, as an earnest man and a patriot, and who probably expects before long to hold office in that new Downing Street which has been so seductively prophesied by the blatant seer of Ecclefechan. I need hardly tell you, Dick, that this is all mere moonshine—pure flatulency, superinduced by a vegetable diet upon a stomach naturally feeble. If you wish to see the results of young independent journalism, you have only to step over to the Continent. I have been watching the progress of events there with considerable interest for the last three years, and my only wonder is, how several scores of able German editors have managed to escape the gallows. You see what a pass they have arrived at in France. Nobody is allowed to write an article in the most paltry paper without affixing his name; and the consequence is, that journalism, as a profession, is terribly on the decline. I don't like this, I own. I wish to see its respectability kept up, and its decencies preserved; and I don't think that can be accomplished by the suppression of the editorial We. People are very anxious to know what are the opinions of a leading London journal upon any given point, but I question if they would pay twopence to ascertain what Jenkins, or Larkins, or Perkins may please to think, should the names of these gentlemen appear at the end of their respective lucubrations. Therefore, Dick, stand up for your order, and do not be led astray by the impulses of individual vanity. Dismiss all egotism from your mind, and keep in your proper place. Supposing that you have achieved any notable feat of arms, rest contented with the consciousness thereof, and don't run about telling the whole world that it was you who did it. Benvenuto Cellini would have been a precious ass had he stated during his lifetime that it was he who shot the Constable Bourbon. He was wiser, and kept the statement for his memoirs. This would be no world to live in if reviewers were obliged to give up their names. Fancy Hawbuck at your door, or lurking round the corner, armed with a pitchfork or a flail! The bare idea is enough to make one's blood curdle in the veins. Far rather would I evacuate my premises in the full knowledge that two suspicious gentlemen of the tribe of Gad were waiting to capture me on a writ.
And now, Dick, good night. You see I have used my privilege of seniority pretty freely; but you are not the lad I take you for, if you are offended at a friendly hint. By the way, how do you intend to come out on the Catholic question—strong or mild? Are you going to back up Lord John Russell's "noble letter" to the Bishop of Durham?—or do you intend to twit him with his support of Maynooth, his acknowledgment in Ireland of the territorial titles of the Papist bishops, and the rank which he has given them in the Colonies? You don't like to commit yourself, I suppose? Ah, well; perhaps you are right. But this I will say for Lord John, that whatever may be his capabilities as a statesman, he would have made a first-rate editor. Upon my conscience, sir, I believe that there never lived the man who had a finer finger for the public pulse. He knows to a scruple the amount of stimulants or purgatives which the British constitution will bear; and the moment that the patient becomes uneasy, he changes his mode of treatment. I should like to see Shiel's countenance when he reads the letter. I have no doubt that by this time he is convinced that he might have saved himself the trouble of excisingDei Gratiafrom the coinage, and that his tarry in Tuscany will hardly give him a complete opportunity of studying the relics of ancient art. Seriously, Dick, I look upon the almost unanimous opinion expressed by the British press, with regard to this insolent Roman aggression, as by far the best and surest symptom of its vitality.
A JEST FROM THE GERMAN.
It was a bright afternoon in the beginning of October, and the little town of Miffelstein lay basking in the genial sunbeams. But its streets, generally so cheerful, were upon that day solitary. The town seemed deserted, and its unusual aspect evidently surprised a pedestrian, who ascended the steep slope of the main street, and gazed curiously about him, without perceiving a single face at the windows. Everything was shut up. No children played on the thresholds; no inquisitive serving wench peeped from door or garret: some fowls were picking up provender in the road, and a superannuated dog blinked and slumbered in the sun; but of human beings none were to be seen. In seeming perplexity the traveller shook his head. Then—not with the hesitating step of a stranger in the land, but with firm and confident strides—he walked straight to the principal inn, whose doors stood invitingly open upon the market-place. Like one familiar with the locality, he turned to his left beneath the entrance archway, and ascended the stairs leading directly to the coffee-room. The coffee-room was empty. A waiter, who sat reading in the bar, welcomed the new comer with a slight nod, but did not otherwise disturb his studies.
"God bless you, old boy!" cheerfully exclaimed the traveller, casting from his shoulders a handsome knapsack; "just see if you can manage to leave your chair. I am no travelling tailor or tinker, but the long-lost Alexis, returned from his wanderings, and well disposed to make himself comfortable in his uncle's house."
With an exclamation of joyful surprise, the old servant sprang from his seat, and grasped the hand of the unexpected guest.
"Thanks, my honest old friend," replied the young man to his affectionate greeting, "and now tell me at once what the deuce has come over Miffelstein? Has the plague been here, or the Turks? Are the worthy Miffelsteiners all gathered to their fathers, or are they imitating the southerns, and snoring the siesta?"
The waiter hastened to explain that the great harvest feast was being celebrated at a short distance from the town, and that the entire population of Miffelstein had flocked thither, with the exception of the bedridden and the street keepers; and of his master, and the young mistress, he added, the former of whom was detained by business, and the latter was dressing herself, but who both would follow the stream before half-an-hour was over.
"True!" cried Alexis, striking his forehead with his finger: "I have almost forgotten my native village, with its vintage and harvest joys; and I much fear it returns the ill compliment in kind. I can pass my time, however, till my worthy uncle and fair cousin are visible. Bring me something to eat: I am both hungry and thirsty."
"What cellar and kitchen contain is at your honour's service," replied the waiter. "We had no strangers at table to-day, but cold meat is there; and, if it so please you, some kail-soup shall be instantly warmed."
"Kail-soup," said Alexis with a smile; "none of that, thank you. Cold meat—bene. But don't forget the cellar."
"Assuredly not. Whatever your honour pleases. A flask of sack, or a jug of ale?"
"Sack! sack!—Miffelstein sack!" cried Alexis, laughing heartily. "Anything you like. Only be quick about it."
Whilst the waiter hurried to the larder, Alexis examined the apartment, which struck him as strangely altered since his boyish days. The old familiar furniture had disappeared, and was replaced by oaken tables, stools, and settees of rude and outlandish construction. The shining sideboard had made way for an antiquated worm-eaten piece of furniture with gothic carvings. Altogether the cheerful dining-room had undergone anodd change. The walls were papered with views of bleak mountain scenery, dismal lakes and turreted castles, enlivened here and there with groups of Scottish peasantry. The curtains, of many-coloured plaid, were not very elegant, and contrasted strangely with the long narrow French windows. "What on earth does it all mean?" exclaimed the puzzled Alexis. Just as he asked himself the question, the waiter entered the room, with a countenance of extraordinary formality, bearing meat and wine upon a silver salver. This he placed before him with an infinity of ceremonious gestures and grimaces.
"Your lordship will graciously put up with this poor refreshment," he said. "The beef is as tender as if it came from the king's table, (God bless him;) the sack, or rather the claret, is of the best vintage. The kail-soup would hardly have been forthcoming; for although the cook is kept at home by a cold, she is reading, and cannot leave her book. And now, if it will pleasure your lordship, I will play you a tune upon the bagpipes."
In mute and open-mouthed astonishment, Alexis stared at the speaker. But the old man's earnest countenance, and a movement he made to fetch the discordant instrument, restored to him his powers of speech.
"For heaven's sake!" he cried, "Tobias! stop, come hither, and tell me if you have lost your senses! Lordship! claret! A cook who can't leave her book! A bagpipe! Tobias! what has come to you?"
"Ah, Mr Alexis!" said the old fellow, suddenly exchanging his quaint and ceremonious bearing for a plaintive simplicity of manner, "to say the truth, I hardly know myself what has come to me. But pray don't call me Tobias before the master. Caleb has been my name now for a matter of three years. Master and the customers would have it so."
"Caleb?"
"Yes, my dear Mr Alexis. I and the inn were rebaptised on the same day. I am sorry for both of us, but I am only the servant, and what everybody pleases—"
Alexis pushed open the window and thrust out his head. "True, by all that's ridiculous!" he exclaimed, turning to the rebaptised waiter; "the old Star hangs there no longer. What is your house called now?"
"The Bear of Bradwardine; and since that has been its name, and everything in it has been so transmogrified, the place is full of strangers, particularly of English, who throng us in the summer. And there's such laughing and tomfoolery, that at times I'm like to go crazy. They stare at old Caleb as if he himself were the Bear, laugh in his face, and apologise by a handsome tip. That would be all very well, but the neighbours laugh at the master and the inn, and at me and Susan, whose name is now Jenny, and never think of putting hand in pocket to make amends. But what can I do, Mr Alexis? Master is wilful, and I'm sixty. If he discharged me, who would give old Tobias—Caleb, I mean—his daily bread?"
"I would, old fellow," replied Alexis heartily; "I would, Tobias. You've saved me a thrashing for many a prank, and were always kinder to me than my own uncle, who sometimes forgot that I was his sister's son. If ever you want, and I have a crust, half is yours. But go on, I do not yet understand—"
Tobias cast a timid glance at the door, and then continued, but in a lower tone than before.
"Three years ago," he said, "the mistress died, and soon afterwards things began to go badly. Your uncle neglected the house, and at last, if we had one customer a-day, and three or four on Sundays, we thought ourselves well off. It was all along of books. Every week there came a great parcel from the next town, and master read them through and through, and then the young lady, and then master often again. He neither ate, nor drank, nor slept: he read. That may have made him learned, but it certainly did not make him rich. One day, when things were at the worst, a stranger came to the inn, and wrote himself down in the book as an Englishman. He it was who turned master's head. The first night they sat up talking till morning; all next day and the day after that, they were poring over books. Then the folly began; everything must be changed—house andfurniture, sign and servants. They say the Englishman gave your uncle money for the first expenses. If everything had gone according to his and master's fancy, you would have found us all in masquerade. The clothes were made for us just like yonder figures on the paper. But we only wore them one day. The blackguards in the street were nigh pulling down the house, and"—here Tobias again lowered his voice—"Justice Stapel sent word to master that he might make as great a fool of himself as he pleased, but that he must keep his servants in decent Christian-like clothing. So we got back to our hose and jackets. The Englishman, when he returned the following spring, and a whole lot of people with him, made a great fuss, and scolded and cursed, and said that we upon the Continent were a set of miserable slaves, and that it was a man's natural right to dress as he liked—or not at all, if it so pleased him. For my part, slave or no slave, I was very glad Justice Stapel had more power here than the mad Englishman. As it was, I had to learn to play the bagpipes; and Jenny had to learn to cook as they do in England or Scotland; and we all had to learn to speak as they speak in master's books, eight pages of which we are obliged to read every day. Jenny likes the books, and says they are better fun than cooking: for my part, I can make nothing of them, and always forget one day what I learned the——"
The old man paused in great trepidation, for just then the door opened, and a beautiful girl, attired in gorgeous Scottish tartans, entered the room.
"Emily! dear cousin!" cried Alexis, springing to meet the blooming damsel, "though eighteen years instead of nine had elapsed since we parted, I still should have recognised your bright blue eyes." Bright the eyes certainly were, and at that moment they sparkled with surprise and pleasure at the wanderer's return; but before Alexis had concluded his somewhat boisterous greetings, their brightness was veiled by an expression of melancholy, and the momentary flush upon the maiden's cheek was replaced by a pallid hue, which seemed habitual, but unnatural. The change did not escape the cousin's observant glance, and he pressed her with inquiries as to its cause. At first he obtained no reply but a sigh and a faint smile. His solicitude would not be thus repelled.
"Upon my word, cousin," he said, "I leave you no peace till you tell what is wrong. I see very well that, during my absence, house and furniture, master and servants, have all been turned upside down. But what can have caused this change in you? Have you too been rebaptised? Has the barbarous Englishman driven you too through the wilderness of his countryman's romances? Have you been compelled, like this poor devil, to swallow Redgauntlet in daily doses, like leaves of senna? Speak out, dear cousin, my old friend and playmate. Assuredly, I little expected to find you still Miss Wirtig. Ere now, I thought some fortunate Jason, daring and deserving, would have borne away the treasure from the Miffelstein Colchis."
Emily cast a side-glance at Tobias, who stood at a short distance, listening to their conversation with an air of respectful sympathy. As if taking a hint, the old man left the apartment. When Emily again turned to her cousin, her eyes glistened with tears.
"Dear Emily," said Alexis, laying aside his headlong bantering tone, and speaking earnestly and affectionately, "place confidence in me, and rely on my zeal to serve you and desire to see you happy. True, I left this house clandestinely, because your father would have made a tradesman of me, when my head was full of Euclid and Vitruvius, and my fingers itched to handle scale and compasses. But it is not the worst sort of deserter who returns voluntarily to his regiment. Think not ill of me therefore, and confide to me your sorrows. It is nearly three years since William Elben wrote to me that he hoped speedily to take you home as his bride. But now I see that he deceived me."
"William spoke the truth," the maiden hastily replied; "the hope was then justified. He had my consent, and my father did not object. But fate had otherwise decreed. The author ofWaverleyis the evil geniuswho prevents our union and causes our unhappiness."
"The devil he does!" cried Alexis, starting back.
"Alas! good cousin," continued Emily sentimentally, "who knows how the threads of our destiny are spun!"
"They are not spun in the study at Abbotsford, at any rate," cried the impetuous Alexis. "But it is all gibberish to me. Our neighbours beyond the Channel have certainly sometimes had a finger in our affairs, but I never knew till now that their novelist's permission was essential to the marriage of a Miffelstein maiden and a Miffelstein attorney. But—"
He was interrupted by Tobias, who threw open the door with much unnecessary noise, and thrust in his head with an ominous winking of his eyes, and a finger upon his lips. The next moment the innkeeper entered the room.
Alexis found his uncle grown old, but he was more particularly struck by his strange stiff manners, which resembled those of Caleb, but were more remarkable in the master than the servant, by reason of the solemn and magnificent style in which they were manifested. Herr Wirtig welcomed his nephew with infinite dignity; let fall a few words of censure with reference to his flight from home, a few others of approbation of his return, and inquired concerning the young man's present plans and occupations.
"I am an architect and engineer," replied Alexis. "My assiduity has won me friends; I have learnt my craft under good masters, and have done my best to complete my education during my travels in Italy, France, and England."
"England?" cried Wirtig, pricking his ears at the word: "Did you visit Scotland?"
With a suppressed smile, Alexis replied in the negative. His uncle shrugged his shoulders with an air of pity. "And what prospects have you?" he inquired.
"Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim has given me a lucrative appointment in his dominions. Before assuming its duties, I have come to pass a few days here, and trust I am welcome."
Wirtig shook his nephew's hand.
"Welcome you are!" said he, kindly. "Hospitality is the attribute of the noblest races. So long it please ye, remain under this poor roof. By the honour of a cavalier! I would gladly have you with me in the spring, when I think of rebuilding my house on a very different plan. You will find many changes here, kinsman Alexis. Come, fill your glass. A health to the Great Unknown! He has been my good genius. But we will talk of that on our way to the harvest feast."
The innkeeper's conversation on the road to the hamlet, where the festival was held, was in complete accordance with Caleb's account of his vagaries. He was perfectly mad on the subject of the author ofWaverley. Never had human being, whether sage, poet, or philosopher, made so extraordinary an impression on an admirer as had the poet of Abbotsford on the host of the Star—now the Bear of Bradwardine. Wirtig identified himself with all the most striking characters of the Scottish novels. He assumed the tone by turns of a stern Presbyterian, a gossiping and eccentric antiquary, a haughty noble, an enthusiastic royalist, a warlike Highland chief. His intense study of the Waverley Novels, at a time when he was much shaken by his wife's sudden death, had warped his mind upon this particular subject. Combined with this monomania was a feeling of boundless gratitude to the Scottish bard for the prosperity the inn had enjoyed under the auspices of the Blessed Bear. His portrait hung in the dining-room, where his birthday was annually celebrated. Wirtig scarcely ever emptied a glass but to his health, or uttered a sentence without garnishing it with his favourite oaths and expressions. In his hour of sorrow, the honest German had made himself a new world out of the novelist's creations. The sorrow faded away, but the illusion remained. And Wirtig deeply resented every attempt to destroy it. Emily's lover, Elben, a thriving young attorney, had dared to attack the daily increasing folly of his future father-in-law, and had boldly taken the field against his Scottish idol. He paid dearly for his temerity. Argument sharpened intoirony, and irony led to a quarrel, whose consequence was a sentence of banishment from the territory of the Clan Wirtig, pronounced against the unlucky lover, who then heartily bewailed his rashness—the more so that, whilst he himself was excluded from the presence of his mistress, he was kept in constant alarm lest some one of the numerous English visitors to the Bear of Bradwardine should seduce her affections, and bear her off to his island. In vain did he endeavour, through mutual friends, to mollify Scott's furious partisan; in vain did Emily, in secret concert with her lover, exert all her powers of coaxing. At last Wirtig declared he would no longer oppose their union when Elben should have atoned for his crime by presenting him with a novel from his own pen, written in the exact style of that stupendous genius whom the rash attorney had dared to vilify. Elben was horrified at this condition, but nevertheless, remembering that love works miracles, and has even been known to make a tolerable painter out of a blacksmith, he did not despair. He shut himself up with a complete edition of the Waverley novels, read and re-read, wrote, altered, corrected, and finally tore up his manuscripts. A hundred times he was on the point of abandoning the task in despair; a hundred times, stimulated by the promised recompense, he resumed his pen. But his labour was fruitless. A year elapsed; he had consumed sundry reams of paper, bottles of ink, and pounds of canister; the result wasnil. The time allowed him expired at the approaching Christmas. Poor Emily's cheeks had lost their roses through anxiety and suspense. The Miffelstein gossips pitied her, abused her father, and laughed at Elben.
These latter details did not reach Alexis through either his uncle or his cousin. The former, on casual mention of the attorney's name, looked as grim as the most truculent Celt that ever carried claymore; in her father's presence Emily—or Amy, as the Scotomaniac now called her—dared not even allude to her lover. Elben himself, whom Alexis encountered gliding like a pale and melancholy ghost amidst the throng of holiday-makers, confided to his former school-mate the story of his woes. Alexis alternately pitied and laughed at him.
"Poor fellow!" said he, "how can I help you? I am no novelist, to write your book for you, nor yet a magnificent barbarian from the Scottish hills, to snatch your mistress from her father's tyranny and bear her to your arms amidst the soft melodies of the bagpipe. I see nothing for it but to give her up."
Elben looked indignant at the coldblooded suggestion.
"You do not understand these matters," said he, with an expression of disdain.
"Possibly not," replied Alexis, "but only reflect—you a romance-writer!"
Elben sighed. "True," he said, "it is a hopeless case. How many nights have I not sat in the moonlight upon the ruins of the old castle, to try and catch a little inspiration. I never caught anything but a cold. How many times have I stolen disguised into the lowest pot-houses, where it would ruin my reputation to be recognised, to acquire the popular phraseology. And yet I am no further advanced than a year ago!"
To the considerable relief of Alexis, the despairing lover was here interrupted by the explosion of two little mortars; a shower of squibs and rockets flew through the air, and the women crowded together in real or affected terror. In the rush, the two friends were separated, and Alexis again found himself by the side of old Wirtig, who was soothing the alarm of his timorous daughter. "Fear nothing, good Amy," he said; "danger there is none." Then turning to Alexis: "Cousin!" said he solemnly, "by our dear Lady of Embrun! yon was a report! the loudest ever made by mortar. The explosion of the steamboat which yesterday blew Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim and his whole court into the air, could scarcely have been louder."
"Nay, nay," said Alexis, "things were not quite as bad as that. Rumour has exaggerated, as usual. No one was blown into the air—no one even wounded. The steamboat which the prince had launched on the lake near his capital, was certainly lost, inconsequence of the badness of the machinery. But the prince and all on board had left the vessel in good time. The slight service it was my good fortune to render, by taking off Prince Hector in a swift row-boat, doubtless procured me, more than any particular abilities of mine, my appointment as his royal highness's architect."
The bystanders looked with redoubled respect at the man thus preferred by the popular sovereign of the adjacent state. The sentimental Emily lisped her congratulations. Her father shook his nephew vehemently by the hand.
"By St Dunstan! kinsman," he cried, "it was well done, and I dare swear thou art as brave a lad as ever handled oar! Give me the packet of squibs; Amy, thou shall see me fire one in honour of thy cousin Alexis!"
The firework, unskilfully thrown, lodged in the coat skirts of a stout broad-shouldered man in a round hat and a long brown surtout, who was elbowing his way through the crowd. The stranger, evidently a foreigner, strove furiously against the hissing sputtering projectile, and at last succeeded in throwing it under his feet and trampling it out with his heavy boot-soles. Then, brandishing a formidable walking-cane, and grumbling most ominously, he began to work his way as fast as a slight lameness in one of his feet permitted, to the place where Wirtig was blowing his match and preparing for another explosion. Emily called her father's attention to the stranger's hostile demonstrations, but the valiant host of the Bear of Bradwardine heeded them not. From time immemorial, he said, it had been use and custom at Miffelstein harvest-home to burn people's clothes with squibs, and he certainly should not, in the year of grace 1827, set an example of deviation from so venerable a practice. When, however, he distinguished some well-known English oaths issuing from the stranger's lips—and when Caleb came up and whispered in his ear that the traveller had alighted at the Bear, and, finding himself lonely, had demanded to be conducted to the festival—the worthy innkeeper regretted that he had directed his broadside against the stern of a natural ally, and seemed disposed to make due and cordial apology. After some cursing and grumbling in English, the stranger's wrath was appeased, and in a sort of Anglo-German jargon, he declared himself satisfied. He said some civil things to Emily, took a seat by her side, abused the squib and rocket practice, praised his host's wine, and made himself at home. Wirtig's attention seemed greatly engrossed by the new comer, whom he examined with the corner of his eye, taking no further part in the diversions of the festival, and quite omitting to observe the furtive glances exchanged between his daughter and Elben, who lurked in the vicinity.
Presently Alexis, who had been overwhelmed by the greetings of old acquaintances and playmates, returned to his uncle's party. He started at sight of the Englishman.
"How now!" he exclaimed; "you here, my good sir? By what chance?"
The stranger evidently shared the young man's surprise at their meeting. Hastily quitting his seat, he took Alexis by the arm, and led him out of the throng. At a short distance off, but out of all earshot, Wirtig saw them walking up and down, the Englishman talking and gesticulating with great earnestness, Alexis listening with smiling attention. The host of the Bear sat in deep thought, his eyes riveted upon the Englishman.
"Caleb," he suddenly demanded of the old waiter, who was moistening his larynx with a mug of cider—"Caleb, how came yon gentleman to our hostelry?"
"On horseback, Master Wirtig," replied Caleb, mustering up his reminiscences of theTales of my Landlord, "on a gallant bay gelding. His honour wore spatterdashes, such as they wear to hunt the fox, I believe, in his country. His cane hung from his button; and if it so please ye, Master Wirtig, I will describe his horse furniture as well as my poor old memory will permit."
"Enough!" said Wirtig, impatiently. "Whence comes the traveller, and whither is he bound?"
Caleb shrugged his shoulders.
"Has he written his name in the strangers' book?"
"He has so, Master Wirtig, after long entreaty; for at first he steadfastly refused. At last he wrote it. 'Let none see this,' he said, 'save your master; and lethimbe discreet, or—'"
"Glorious!" interrupted Wirtig, and, in the joy of his heart, was near embracing his astonished servant. "I had a presentiment of it, but say—his name?"
Caleb looked embarrassed. "You alone were to see it, Master Wirtig, and I—you know I am not very good at reading writing. I looked into the book, but—"
"How looked the word, fellow?"
"To me it looked a good deal like a blot."
"Now, by St Bennet of Seyton! thou art the dullest knave that ever wore green apron! How many letters?"
Caleb scratched his head. "Hard to say exactly; but not more than five, I would wager that."
"Five! Varlet, thou rejoicest me. Heavens! that such good fortune should be mine! Run, man, run as you never ran before! Bid Jenny kill, roast and boil! A great supper! Scottish cookery! The oak-table shall groan with its load of sack, ale, and whisky. Let Quentin put the horses to, and fetch us with the carriage. Rob Roy must go round to all the best houses, and invite the neighbours. Tell Rowena to leave the goats, and help Jenny in the kitchen. By my halidome! I had almost forgotten. Old Edith must sweep out the ballroom, and Front-de-Bœuf put wax-lights in the chandeliers. Go! run! fly!"
Caleb disappeared. In his place came a crowd of the innkeeper's friends and gossips. "What now? What is up?" was asked on all sides. And Wirtig exultingly replied:—"A feast! a banquet! such as the walls of the Bear of Bradwardine never yet beheld. For they are this day honoured by the presence of the most welcome guest that ever trod the streets of Miffelstein. Wine shall flow like water, and there's welcome to all the world."
Breaking through the inquisitive throng, Wirtig hurried to meet Alexis, who was now returning alone from his mysterious conference with the stranger.
"Well?" cried the uncle, with beaming countenance and expanded eyes.
"Well?" coolly replied the nephew.
"Is it he, or is it not?"
"Who?"
"Who? Now, by the soul of St Edward! thou hast sworn to drive me mad. You say you have not been in Scotland? Was it in Paris you knew him? Or do you think I am blind? Is not that his noble Scottish countenance? the high cheek-bones—the sharp gray eyes—the large mouth, and the bold expression? And then the lame foot, and five letters! What would you have more?"
"Really, uncle, I would have nothing more."
"Obstinate fellow! you will explain nothing! But the portrait, the face, the five letters—your mystery is useless—the secret is out—the stranger is—Scott!"
"Scott!" cried Alexis, greatly surprised. "How do you know that?"
"Enough! I know it. 'Tis the Great Unknown! Shame on you, Alexis, to try to deceive your uncle! Tell the great man, with whom you, unworthy that you are, have been so fortunate as to make acquaintance, that hisincognitoshall be respected, as surely as I bear an English heart in my bosom. By the rood, shall it! For all Miffelstein he shall be the Unknown. But I crave his good leave to celebrate his coming."
"I will answer for his making no objection," replied Alexis, who apparently struggled with some inward emotion, for his voice was tremulous, his face very red, and his eyes were steadfastly fixed on the toes of his boots.
"Answer for yourself, Sir Architect!" said his uncle, somewhat sharply. Then, in a lower and confidential tone, "Where is the immortal genius?" he inquired.
"If I mistake not," replied Alexis, "I see him yonder, eating curds and pumpernickel."
"Ah, the great man!" ejaculated Wirtig; "to condescend to food so unworthy of his illustrious jaws. And see, he is about to fire off the mortar! Engaging familiarity! Boom! The loudest report to-day! The piece is mine, though it cost me a thousandflorins! It shall be christened Walter Scott!"
"Hush, hush!" interposed Alexis; "if you go on in this way, the incognito will be in danger. And he himself must not perceive that you—"
"True!" interrupted the excited Wirtig, clapping his hand on his lips. "Ah, could I but speak Gaelic, or even English, the better to commune with the inspired bard! But he has translatedGoetz von Berlichingen, so must understand the pure German of Miffelstein. But now tell me, Alexis, in strict confidence, how comes the first of the world's poets in our poor village? Has he, perchance, heard of the Bear of Bradwardine, and of his faithful clansman, John Jacob Wirtig? Or does he seek subject for a new romance, and propose to place his hero at Miffelstein, as he conducted Durward to Plessis-les-Tours, and the brave knight Kenneth to Palestine?"
"Neither the one nor the other, my dear uncle, unfortunately for us," replied Alexis thoughtfully, and pausing between his sentences. "Trusting to your discretion, and to convince you of its necessity, I will not conceal from you that a great peril has brought the Author of Waverley to Miffelstein. You must know that he has just published an historical romance, in which, availing himself of the novelist's license, he has represented Charlemagne and Henry the Fourth of France vanquished in single combat by William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. A French general, taking offence at this, has insisted upon his retracting the statement, or fighting a duel with blunderbusses at six paces. Of course a man of honour cannot retract—"
"Of course not! Never did Scottish chief so demean himself! I see it all. The —— Unknown has shot the general, and—"
"On the contrary, uncle. He does not want to be shot by the general, and that is why he is here, where none will look for him."
"What!" cried the host of the Bear, taken very much aback; "but that looks almost like—like a weakness, unknown to his heroes, who so readily bare their blades! I scarcely understand how—"
"You misapprehend me," interrupted Alexis: "the baronet only asks to put off the duel until he has finished a dozen novels, each in three volumes, which he has in progress. And as the Vandal refuses to wait—"
"I see it all!" cried Wirtig, perfectly satisfied: "the Unknown is right. What! the base Frenchman would rob the world of twelve masterpieces! Not so. In Miffelstein is safe hiding for the Genius of his century.Montjoie, and to the rescue! Let him wrap himself in his plaid, and fear no foe! I will cover him with my target, and my life shall answer for his! Where should he find refuge, if not in the shadow of the Bear?"