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                     CHAMBERS' EDINBURGH JOURNAL



  CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF 'CHAMBERS'S

  INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,' 'CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE,' &c.





  No. 452. NEW SERIES.   SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 1852.   PRICE 1-1/2_d._









THE BETROTHAL.





Frances Seymour had been left an orphan and an heiress very early in

life. Her mother had died in giving birth to a second child, which did

not survive its parent, so that Frances had neither brother nor

sister; and her father, an officer of rank and merit, was killed at

Waterloo. When this sad news reached England, the child was spending

her vacation with Mrs Wentworth, a sister of Mrs Seymour, and

henceforth this lady's house became her home; partly, because there

was no other relative to claim her, and partly, because amongst

Colonel Seymour's papers, a letter was found, addressed to Mrs

Wentworth, requesting that, if he fell in the impending conflict, she

would take charge of his daughter. In making this request, it is

probable that Colonel Seymour was more influenced by necessity than

choice; Mrs Wentworth being a gay woman of the world, who was not

likely to bestow much thought or care upon her niece, whom she

received under her roof without unwillingness, but without affection.

Had Frances been poor, she would have felt her a burden; but as she

was rich, there was some eclat and no inconvenience in undertaking the

office of her guardian and chaperone--the rather as she had no

daughters of her own with whom Frances's beauty or wealth could

interfere; for as the young heiress grew into womanhood, the charms of

her person were quite remarkable enough to have excited the jealousy

of her cousins, if she had had any; or to make her own fortune, if she

had not possessed one already. She was, moreover, extremely

accomplished, good-tempered, cheerful, and altogether what is called a

very nice girl; but of course she had her fault like other people: she

was too fond of admiration--a fault that had been very much encouraged

at the school where she had been educated; beauty and wealth,

especially when combined, being generally extremely popular at such

establishments. As long, however, as her admirers were only romantic

schoolfellows and calculating school-mistresses, there was not much

harm done; but the period now approached in which there would be more

scope for the exercise of this passion, and more danger in its

indulgence--Frances had reached the age of seventeen, and was about to

make her debut in the world of fashion--an event to which, certain as

she was of making numerous conquests, she looked forward with great

delight.



Whilst engaged in preparations for these anticipated triumphs, Mrs

Wentworth said to her one day: 'Now that you are coming out, Frances,

I think it is my duty to communicate to you a wish of your father's,

expressed in the letter that was found after his death. It is a wish

regarding your choice of a husband.'



'Dear me, aunt, how very odd!' exclaimed Frances.



'It is rather odd,' returned Mrs Wentworth; 'and, to be candid, I

don't think it is very wise; for schemes of this sort seldom or never

turn out well.'



'Scheme! What scheme is it?' asked Frances with no little curiosity.



'Why, you must know,' answered her aunt, 'that your father had a very

intimate friend, to whom he was as much attached all his life as if he

had been his brother.'



'You mean Sir Richard Elliott. I remember seeing him and his son at

Otterby, when I was a little girl; and I often heard papa speak of him

afterwards.'



'Well, when young Elliott got his commission, your papa, in compliance

with Sir Richard's request, used his interest to have him appointed to

his own regiment, in order that he might keep him under his eye. By

this means, he became intimately acquainted with the young man's

character, and, I suppose, as much attached to him as to his father.'



'And the scheme is, that I should marry him, I suppose?'



'Provided you are both so disposed, not otherwise; there is to be no

compulsion in the case.'



'It is a scheme that will never be realised,' said Frances; 'for, of

all things, I should dislike a marriage that had been planned in that

way. The very idea of standing in such an awkward relation to a man

would make me hate him.'



'That's why I think all such schemes better let alone,' returned Mrs

Wentworth; 'but as your father desires that I will put you in

possession of his wishes before you go into the world, I have no

choice but to do it.'



'It does not appear, however, that this Mr Elliott is very anxious

about the matter, since he has never taken the trouble of coming to

see me. Perhaps he does not know of the scheme?'



'O yes, he does; but, in the first place, he is abroad with his

regiment; and, in the second, he abstains upon principle from seeking

to make your acquaintance. So Sir Richard told me, when I met him last

year at Lady Grantley's fete. He said that his son's heart was yet

perfectly free, but that he did not think it right to throw himself in

your way, or endeavour to engage your affections, till you had had an

opportunity of seeing something of the world. The old gentleman had a

great desire to see you himself; and he would have called, but he was

only passing through London on his way to some German baths, and he

was to start the next morning.'



'And what sort of a person is this Mr Elliott?'



'I really don't know, except that his father praised him to the skies.

He's Major Elliott now, and must be about eight-and-twenty.'



'And is he the eldest son?'



'He's the eldest son, and will be Sir Henry--I think that's his

name--by and by. But he's not rich; quite the contrary, he's very poor

for a baronet; and I incline to think that is one of the reasons that

influenced your father. Being so fond of the Elliotts, he wished to

repair, in some degree, the dilapidation of their fortunes by yours.'



'So that I shall have the agreeable consciousness of being married

purely for my money. I am afraid poor dear papa's scheme will fail;

and I wish, aunt, you had never told me of it.'



'That was not left to my discretion; if it had been, I should not have

told you of it, I assure you.'



'Well, I can only hope that I shall never see Major Elliott; and if he

ever proposes to come, aunt, pray do me the favour to assure him, from

me, that it will not be of the smallest use.'



'That would be foolish till you've seen him. You may like him.'



'Never; I could not like a man whom I met under such circumstances, if

he were an angel.'



Thus, with a heart steeled against Major Elliott and his attractions,

whatever they might be, Frances Seymour made her debut; and, however

brilliant had been her anticipations of success, she had the

satisfaction of finding them fully realised. She was the belle of the

season--admired, courted, and envied; and by the end of it, she had

refused at least half-a-dozen proposals. As she was perfectly

independent, she resolved to enjoy a longer lease of her liberty,

before she put it in the power of any man to control her inclinations.



Shortly after the termination of the season, some family affairs

called Mr and Mrs Wentworth to St Petersburg; and as it was not

convenient that Frances should accompany them, they arranged that she

should spend the interval in visiting some families of their own

connection residing in the country, who promised to take due charge of

her.



The first of these, by name Dunbar, were worthy people enough, but,

unfortunately for Frances, desperately dull; and the few neighbours

they had happened to be as dull as themselves. There were neither

balls nor routs to keep up the spirits of the London belle; and a

tiresome drive of six or eight miles to an equally tiresome

dinner-party, was but a poor substitute for the gaieties which the

late season had given her a taste for.



Frances was not without resources. She was a fine musician, and played

and sang admirably; but she liked to be told that she did so. At

Dunbar House, nobody cared for music, nobody listened to her, and her

most _recherchees toilettes_ delighted nobody but her maid. She was

_aux abois_, as the French say, and had made some progress in the

concoction of a scheme to get away, when an improvement took place in

her position, from the arrival of young Vincent Dunbar, the only son

of the family. He was a lieutenant in a regiment of infantry that had

lately returned from the colonies, and had come, as in duty bound, to

waste ten days or a fortnight of his three months' leave in the dull

home of his ancestors. As he was an extremely handsome,

fashionable-looking youth, Frances, when she went down to dinner, felt

quite revived by the sight of him. Here was something to dress for,

and something to sing to; and although the young lieutenant's

conversation was not a whit above the usual standard of his class, it

appeared lively and witty when compared with that of his parents. His

small colonial experiences were more interesting than Mrs Dunbar's

domestic ones; and his account of a tiger hunt more exciting than his

father's history of the run he had had after a fox. Frances was an

equally welcome resource to him. Here was an opportunity, quite

unexpected, of displaying his most fashionable ties and most splendid

waistcoats; here was a listener for his best stories, and one who did

not repay him in kind, as his father did; and here were a pair of

bright eyes, that always looked brighter at his approach; and a pair

of pretty lips, that pouted when he talked of going away to fulfil an

engagement he had made to meet some friends at Brighton.



As was to be expected, under circumstances so propitious, the young

man fell in love--as much in love as he could be with anybody but

himself; whilst his parents did not neglect to hint, that he could not

do better than prosecute a suit which the young lady's evident

partiality justified. Pleased with the prospect of their son's making

so good a match, they even ventured one day a dull jest on the subject

in the presence of Frances--a jest which, heavy as it was, aroused her

to reflection. Flirting with a man, and angling for his admiration, is

one thing; loving and marrying him, is another. For the first, Vincent

Dunbar answered exceedingly well; but for the second, he was wholly

unfit. In spite of her little weaknesses, Frances had too much sense

not to see that the young lieutenant was an empty-headed coxcomb, and

not at all the man with whom she hoped to spend her years of

discretion--when she arrived at them--after an ample enjoyment of the

delights that youth, beauty, and wealth are calculated to procure

their possessor. Her eyes were opened, in short; and the ordinary

effect of this sort of awakening from an unworthy _penchant_--for

attachment it could not be called--ensued: the temporary liking

changed into aversion, and the attentions that had flattered her

before became hateful. In accordance with this new state of her

feelings, she resolved to alter her behaviour, in order to dissipate

as quickly as possible the erroneous impression of the family; whilst,

at the same time, she privately made arrangements for cutting short

her visit, and anticipating the period of her removal to the house of

Mrs Gaskoin, betwixt whom and the Dunbars the interval of her friends'

absence in Russia was to be divided. In spite of her stratagem,

however, she did not escape what she apprehended. Vincent's leave had

nearly expired too; and when the moment approached that was to

separate them, he seized an opportunity of making his proposals.



There is scarcely a woman to be met with in society, who does not

know, from experience, what a painful thing it is to crush the hopes

of a man who is paying her the high compliment of wishing to place the

happiness of his life in her keeping; and when to this source of

embarrassment is added the consciousness of having culpably raised

expectations that she shrinks from realising, the situation becomes

doubly distressing. On the present occasion, agitated, ashamed, and

confused, Frances, instead of honestly avowing her fault, which would

have been the safest thing to do, had recourse to a subterfuge; she

answered, that she had been betrothed by her father to the son of his

dearest friend, and that she was not free to form any other

engagement. Of course, Vincent pleaded that such a contract could not

be binding on her; but as, whilst she declared her determination to

adhere to it, she forbore to add, that were she at liberty his

position would not be improved, the young man and his family remained

under the persuasion, that this premature engagement was the only bar

to his happiness; and with this impression, which she allowed him to

retain, because it spared him and herself pain, he returned to his

regiment, whilst she, as speedily as she could, decamped to her next

quarters, armed with a thousand good resolutions never again to bring

herself into such an unpleasant dilemma.



Mrs Gaskoin's was a different sort of house to the Dunbars'. It was

not gay, for the place was retired, and Mrs Gaskoin being in ill

health, they saw little company; but they were young, cheerful, and

accomplished people, and in their society Frances soon forgot the

vexations she had left behind her. She even ceased to miss the

admiration she was accustomed to; what was amiable and good in her

character--and there was much--regained the ascendant; her host and

hostess congratulated themselves on having so agreeable an inmate as

much as she did herself on the judicious move she had made, till her

equanimity was disturbed by learning that Mr Gaskoin was expecting a

visitor, and that this visitor was his old friend and brother-officer,

Major Elliott, the person of all others, Vincent Dunbar excepted, she

had the greatest desire to avoid.



'I cannot express how much I should dislike meeting him,' she said to

Mrs Gaskoin, to whom she thought it better to explain how she was

situated. 'You must allow me to keep my room whilst he is here.'



'If you are determined not to see him, I think you had better go back

to the Dunbars for a little while,' answered the hostess; 'but I

really think you should stay, and let things take their course. If

your aversion continues, you need not marry him; but my husband tells

me he's charming; and in point of character, I know no one whom he

estimates so highly.'



But Frances objected, that she should feel so embarrassed and awkward.



'In short, you apprehend that you will appear to a great

disadvantage,' said Mrs Gaskoin. 'That is possible, certainly; but as

Major Elliott is only coming for a day or two, I think we might

obviate that difficulty, by introducing you as my husband's niece,

Fanny Gaskoin. What do you say? You can declare yourself whenever you

please, or keep the secret till he goes, if you prefer it.'



Frances said she should like it very much; the scheme would afford

them a great deal of amusement, and any expedient was preferable to

going back to Dunbar House. Neither, as regarded themselves, was it at

all difficult of execution, since they always addressed her as Fanny

or Frances; the danger was with the servants, who, however cautioned

to call the visitor by no other name than Miss Fanny, might

inadvertently betray the secret. Still, if they did, a few blushes and

a hearty laugh were likely to be the only consequences of the

disclosure; so the little plot was duly framed, and successfully

executed; Major Elliott not entertaining the most remote suspicion

that this beautiful, fascinating Fanny Gaskoin was his own _fiancee_.



Whether they might have fallen in love with each other had they met

under more prosaic circumstances, there is no saying. As it was, they

did so almost at first sight. It is needless to say, that Major

Elliott extended his visit beyond the day or two he had engaged for;

and when Mr and Mrs Gaskoin saw how matters were going, they

recommended an immediate avowal of the little deception that had been

practised, lest some ill-timed visitor should inopportunely let out

the secret, which had already been endangered more than once by the

forgetfulness of the servants: but Frances wished to prolong their

diversion till she should find some happy moment for the _denouement_;

added to which, she had an extreme curiosity to know how Major Elliott

intended to release himself from the engagement formed by Colonel

Seymour, in which he had tacitly, if not avowedly, acquiesced. It was

certainly very flattering that her charms had proved sufficiently

powerful to make him forget it; but that he should have yielded to the

temptation without the slightest appearance of a struggle, did

somewhat surprise her, as indeed, from their knowledge of his

character, it did Mr and Mrs Gaskoin. Not that they would have

expected him to adhere to the contract, if doing so proved repugnant

either to himself or the young lady; but under all the circumstances

of the case, they would have thought his conduct less open to

exception, if he had deferred entering into any other engagement till

he had seen Miss Seymour. It was true, that he had not yet offered his

hand to his friend Gaskoin's charming niece; but neither she, nor any

one else, entertained a doubt of his intention to do so; and Frances

never found herself alone with him, that her heart did not beat high

with the expectation of what might be coming.



The progress of love affairs is no measure of time: where the

_attrait_, or magnetic rapport (for perhaps magnetism has something to

do with the mystery), is very strong, one couple will make as much way

in a fortnight as another will do in a year. In the present instance,

Major Elliott's proclivity to fall in love with Frances may have been

aided by his persuasion that she was the niece of his friend. Be that

as it may, on the thirteenth day of his visit, Major Elliott invited

his host to join him in a walk, in the course of which he avowed his

intention of offering his hand to Miss Gaskoin, provided her family

were not likely to make any serious objection to the match. 'My reason

for mentioning the subject so early is,' said he, 'that, in the first

place, I cannot prolong my visit; I have already broken two

engagements, and now, however unwillingly, I must be off: and, in the

second place, I felt myself bound to mention the subject to you before

speaking to Miss Gaskoin, because you know how I am situated in regard

to money-matters; and that I cannot, unfortunately, make such a

settlement as may be expected by her friends.'



'I don't think that will be any obstacle to your wishes,' answered Mr

Gaskoin, with an arch smile. 'If you can find Fanny in the humour,

I'll undertake to answer for all the rest. As for her fortune, she'll

have something at all events--but that is a subject, I suppose, you

are too much in love to discuss.'



'It is one there is no use in discussing till I am accepted,' returned

Major Elliott; 'and I confess that is a point I am too anxious about

to think of any other.'



'Prepare yourself,' said Mrs Gaskoin to Frances: 'Major Elliott has

declared himself to my husband, and will doubtless take an opportunity

of speaking to you in the course of the evening. Of course, now the

truth must be disclosed, and I've no doubt it will be a very agreeable

surprise to him.'



When the tea-things were removed, and Frances, as usual, was seated at

the pianoforte, and Major Elliott, as usual, turning over the leaves

of her music-book, she almost lost her breath with agitation when the

gentle closing of a door aroused her to the fact, that they were

alone. Mr and Mrs Gaskoin had quietly slipped out of the room; and

conscious that the critical moment was come, she was making a nervous

attempt to follow them, when a hand was laid on hers, and---- But it

is quite needless to enter into the particulars: such scenes do not

bear relating. Major Elliott said something, and looked a thousand

things; Frances blushed and smiled, and then she wept, avowing that

her tears were tears of joy; and so engrossed was she with the

happiness of the moment, that she had actually forgotten the false

colours under which she was appearing, till her lover said: 'I have

already, my dear Fanny, spoken on this subject to your uncle.'



'Now, then, for the _denouement_!' thought Frances; but she had formed

a little scheme for bringing this about, which she forthwith proceeded

to put in execution.



'But, dear Henry,' she said, as, seated on the sofa hand in hand, they

dilated on their present happiness and future plans--'dear Henry,

there is one thing that has rather perplexed me, and does perplex me

still, a little--do you know, I have been told you were engaged?'



'Indeed! Who told you that?'



'Well, I don't know; but I'm sure I heard it. It was said that you

were engaged to Miss Seymour--the Miss Seymour that lives with Mrs

Wentworth'----



'Do you know her?' inquired Major Elliott, interrupting her.



'Yes, I do--a little.'



'Only a little?'



'Well, perhaps I may say I know her pretty well. Indeed, to confess

the truth, I'm rather intimate with her.'



'That is extremely fortunate,' returned Major Elliott.



'Then you don't deny the engagement?' said Frances.



'Colonel Seymour, who was my father's friend and mine, very kindly

expressed a wish, before he died, that, provided there was no

objection on either side, his daughter and I should be married; but

you see, my dearest Fanny, as there happens to be an objection on both

sides, the scheme, however well meant, is defeated.'



'On both sides!' reiterated Frances with surprise.



'Yes; on both sides,' answered he smiling.



'But how do you know that, when you've never seen Miss Seymour--at

least I thought you never had?'



'Neither have I; but I happen to know that she has not the slightest

intention of taking me for her husband.'



'Oh,' said Frances, laughing at the recollection of her own violent

antipathy to this irresistible man, who, after all, had taken her

heart by storm--'I suppose you have somehow heard that she disliked

the idea of being trammelled by an engagement to a person she never

saw, and whom she had made up her mind she could not love; but

remember, Henry, she has never seen you. How do you know that she

might not have fallen in love with you at first sight?--as somebody

else did,' she added playfully.



'Because, my dear little girl, she happens to be in love already. She

did not wait to see me, but wisely gave away her heart when she met a

man that pleased her.'



'But you're mistaken,' answered Frances, beginning to feel alarmed;

'you are indeed! I know Frances Seymour has no attachment. I know that

till she saw you--I mean that--I am certain she has no attachment, nor

ever had any.'



'Perhaps you are not altogether in her confidence.'



'O yes, I am indeed.'



Major Elliott shook his head, and smiled significantly. 'Rely on it,'

he said, 'that what I tell you is the fact; but you have probably not

seen Miss Seymour very lately, which would sufficiently account for

your ignorance of her secret. I am told that she is extremely handsome

and charming, and that she sings divinely.'



Five minutes earlier, Frances would have been delighted with this

testimony to her attractions; and would have been ready with a

repartee about the loss he would sustain in relinquishing so many

perfections for her sake; but now her heart was growing faint with

terror, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. Thoughts that

would fill pages darted through her brain like lightning--dreadful

possibilities, that she had never foreseen nor thought of.



Vincent Dunbar's regiment had been in India; she knew it was one of

the _seventies_; but she had either never heard the exact number, or

she had not sufficiently attended to the subject to know which it was.

Major Elliott's regiment had also been in India; and it was the 76th.

Suppose it were the same, and that the two officers were

acquainted--and suppose they had met since Vincent's departure from

Dunbar House! The young man had occasionally spoken to her of his

brother-officers; she remembered Poole, and Wainright, and Carter; the

name of Elliott he had certainly not mentioned; but it was naturally

of his own friends and companions he spoke, not of the field-officers.

Then, when she told him that she had been betrothed by her father, she

had not said to whom; but might he not, by some unlucky chance, have

found that out? And might not an explanation have ensued!



Could Major Elliott have distinctly discovered the expression of her

features, he would have seen that it was something more than

perplexity that kept her silent; but the light fell obscurely on the

seat they occupied, and he suspected nothing but that she was puzzled

and surprised.



'I see you are very curious to learn the secret,' he said, 'and if it

were my own, you should not pine in ignorance, I assure you; but as it

is a young lady's, I am bound to keep it till she chooses to disclose

it herself. However, I hope your curiosity will soon be satisfied, for

I have ascertained that Mr and Mrs Wentworth are to be in England

almost immediately--they have been some time on the continent--and

then we shall come to a general understanding. In the meantime, my

dearest Fanny'----



But Frances, unable longer to control her agitation, took advantage of

a slight noise in the hall, to say that Mr and Mrs Gaskoin were

coming; and before he had time to finish his sentence, she started to

her feet, and rushed out of the room.



On the other side of the hall was Mrs Gaskoin's boudoir, where she and

her husband were sitting over the fire, awaiting the result of the

tete-a-tete in the drawing-room.



'Well?' said they, rising as the door opened and a pale face looked

in. 'Is it all settled?'



'Ask me nothing now, I beseech you!' said Frances. 'I'm going to my

room; tell Major Elliott I am not well; say I'm agitated--anything you

like; but remember, he still thinks me Fanny Gaskoin'----



'But, my dear girl, I cannot permit that deception to be carried any

further; it has lasted too long already,' said Mr Gaskoin.



'Only to-night!' said Frances.



'It is not fair to Major Elliott,' urged Mrs Gaskoin.



'Only to-night! only to-night!' reiterated Frances. 'There! he's

coming; I hear his step in the hall! Let me out this way!' and so

saying, she darted out of a door that led to the backstairs, and

disappeared.



'She has refused him!' said Mrs Gaskoin. 'I confess I am amazed.'



But Major Elliott met them with a smiling face. 'What has become of

Frances?' said he.



'She rushed in to us in a state of violent agitation, and begged we

would tell you that she is not well, and is gone to her room. I'm

afraid the result of your interview has not been what we expected.'



'On the contrary,' returned Major Elliott, 'you must both congratulate

me on my good-fortune.'



'Silly girl!' said Mr Gaskoin, shaking his friend heartily by the

hand. 'I see what it is: she is nervous about a little deception we

have been practising on you.'



'A deception!'



'Why, you see, my dear fellow, when I told Frances that you were

coming here, she objected to meeting you'----



'Indeed! On what account?'



'You have never suspected anything?' said Mr Gaskoin, scarcely

repressing his laughter.



'Suspected anything? No.'



'It has never by chance occurred to you that this bewitching niece of

mine is'----



'Is what?'



'Your betrothed lady, for example, Frances Seymour?'



Major Elliott's cheeks and lips turned several shades paler; but the

candles were not lighted, and his friends did not remark the change.



'Frances Seymour!' he echoed.



'That is the precise state of the case, I assure you;' and then Mr

Gaskoin proceeded to explain how the deception came to be practised.

'I gave into it,' he said, 'though I do not like jests of that sort,

because I thought, as my wife did, that you were much more likely to

take a fancy to each other, if you did not know who she was, than if

you met under all the embarrassment of such an awkward relation.'



During this little discourse, Major Elliott had time to recover from

the shock; and being a man of resolute calmness and great

self-possession--which qualities, by the way, formed a considerable

element in his attractions--the remainder of the evening was passed

without any circumstance calculated to awaken the suspicions of his

host and hostess, further than that a certain gravity of tone and

manner, when they spoke of Frances, led them to apprehend that he was

not altogether pleased with the jest that had been practised.



'We ought to have told him the moment we saw that he was pleased with

her; but, foolish child, she would not let us,' said Mr Gaskoin to his

wife.



'She must make her peace with him to-morrow,' returned the lady; but,

alas! when they came down to breakfast on the following morning, Major

Elliott was gone, having left a few lines to excuse his sudden

departure, which, he said, he had only anticipated by a few hours, as,

in any case, he must have left them that afternoon.



By the same morning's post there arrived a letter from Vincent Dunbar,

addressed to Miss Seymour. Its contents were as follow:--



'MY DEAREST, DEAREST FRANCES--I should have written to you ten days

ago to tell you the joyful news--you little guess what--but that I had

applied for an extension of leave _on urgent private affairs_, and

expected every hour to get it. But they have refused me, be hanged to

them! So I write to you, my darling, to tell you that it's all

right--I mean between you and me. I'm not a very good hand at an

explanation on paper, my education in the art of composition having

been somewhat neglected; but you must know that old Elliott, whom your

dad wanted you to marry, is our senior major. Well, when I came down

here to meet Poole, as I had promised--his governor keeps hounds, you

know; a capital pack, too--I was as dull as ditch-water; I was, I

assure you; and whenever there was nothing going on, I used to take

out the verses you wrote, and the music you copied for me, to look at;

and one day, who should come in but Elliott, who was staying with his

governor on the West Cliff, where the old gentleman has taken a house.

Well, you know, I told you what a madcap fellow Poole is; and what

should he do, but tell Elliott that I was going stark mad for a girl

that couldn't have me because her dad had engaged her to somebody

else; and then he shewed him the music that was lying on the table

with your name on it. So you may guess how Elliott stared, and all the

questions he asked me about you, and about our acquaintance and our

love-making, and all the rest of it. And, of course, I told him the

truth, and shewed him the dear lock of hair you gave me; and the

little notes you wrote me the week I ran up to London; for Elliott's

an honourable fellow, and I knew it was all right. And it _is_ all

right, my darling; for he says he wouldn't stand in the way of our

happiness for the world, or marry a woman whose affections were not

all his own. And he'll speak to your aunt for us, and get it all

settled as soon as she comes back,' &c. &c.



The paper dropped from poor Frances Seymour's hands. She comprehended

enough of Major Elliott's character to see that all was over. But for

the unfortunate jest they had practised on him, an explanation would

necessarily have ensued the moment he mentioned Vincent's name to her;

but that unlucky deception had complicated the mischief beyond repair.

It was too late now to tell him that she did not love Vincent; he

would only think her false or fickle. A woman who could act as she had

done, or as she appeared to have done, was no wife for Henry Elliott.



There is no saying, but it is just possible, that an entire confidence

placed in Mr Gaskoin might have led to a happier issue; but her own

conviction that her position was irrecoverable, her hopelessness and

her pride, closed her lips. Her friends saw that there was something

wrong; and when a few lines from Major Elliott announced his immediate

departure for Paris, they concluded that some strange mystery had

divided the lovers, and clouded the hopeful future that for a short

period had promised so brightly.



Vincent Dunbar was not a man to break his heart at the disappointment

which, it is needless to say, awaited him. Long years afterwards, when

Sir Henry Elliott was not only married, but had daughters coming out

in the world, he, one day at a dinner-party, sat next a pale-faced,

middle-aged lady, whose still beautiful features, combined with the

quiet, almost grave elegance of her toilet, had already attracted his

attention in the drawing-room. It was a countenance of perfect

serenity; but no observing eye could look at it without feeling that

that was a serenity not born of joy, but of sadness--a calm that had

succeeded a storm--a peace won by a great battle. Sir Henry felt

pleased when he saw that the fortunes of the dinner-table had placed

him beside this lady, and they had not been long seated before he took

an opportunity of addressing her. Her eyelids fell as she turned to

answer him; but there was a sweet, mournful smile on her lip--a smile

that awoke strange recollections, and made his heart for a moment

stand still. For some minutes he did not speak again, nor she either;

when he did, it was to ask her, in a low, gentle voice, to take wine

with him. The lady's hand shook visibly as she raised her glass; but,

after a short interval, the surprise and the pang passed away, and

they conversed calmly on general subjects, like other people in

society.



When Sir Henry returned to the drawing-room, the pale-faced lady was

gone; and, a few days afterwards, the _Morning Post_ announced among

its departures that Miss Seymour had left London for the continent.









THE CONTINENTAL 'BRADSHAW' IN 1852.





Bradshaw's _Continental Railway Guide_--the square, pale-yellow,

compact, brochure which makes its appearance once a month, and which

has doubled its thickness in its brief existence of five years--is

suggestive of a multitude of thoughts concerning the silent revolution

now passing over Europe. Presidents may have _coups d'etat_; kings may

put down parliaments, and emperors abrogate constitutions; Legitimists

may dream of the past, and Communists of the future; but the

_railways_ are marking out a path for themselves in Europe which will

tend to obliterate, or at least to soften, the rugged social barriers

which separate nation from nation. This will not be effected all at

once, and many enthusiasts are disappointed that the cosmopolitanism

advances so slowly; but the result is not the less certain in being

slow.



Our facetious contemporary _Punch_ once gave a railway map of England,

in which the face of the land was covered with intersecting lines at

mutual distances of only a mile or two. A railway map of Europe has

certainly not yet assumed such a labyrinthine character; still, the

lines of civilisation (for so we may well term them) are becoming

closer and closer every year. The outposts of Europe, where the

Scandinavian, the Sclavonian, the Italian, and the Spaniard

respectively rule, are scanty in their exhibition of such lines; but

as we gradually approach the scenes of commercial activity, there do

railways appear in greater and greater proximity. France strikingly

exemplifies its own theory, that 'Paris is France,' by shewing how all

its important railways spring from the metropolis in six directions.

Belgium exhibits its compact net-work of railways, by which nearly all

its principal towns are accommodated. The phlegmatic Dutchman has as

yet placed the locomotive only in that portion of Holland which lies

between the Rhine and the Zuiderzee. Rhineland, from Bale to

Wiesbaden, is under railway dominion. North Germany, within a circle

of which Magdeburg may be taken as a centre, is railed pretty thickly;

and Vienna has become a point from which lines of great length start.

Exterior to all these are solitary lines, the pioneers of the new

order of things, pointing in directions which will one day come within

the yellow covers of Bradshaw. There is one line straggling out to

Rostock; another to Stettin and Bromberg, on its way to Danzig;

another to Warsaw, on its way to meet the czar at St Petersburg;

another to Pesth, whence it will be carried through the scenes of the

late Hungarian war; another to the neighbourhood of the Adriatic;

others from Central Germany southward to the Swiss highlands, which

bar further progress; and a very modest little group in North Italy.



It is instructive to mark the steps by which these continental

railways have been brought into existence. The English practice of

undertaking all such great works, is very little understood abroad;

there is not capital enough afloat, and the commercial audacity of the

people has not yet arrived at such a high-pressure point. Almost the

whole of the railways now under notice, have been constructed either

by the governments of the respective countries, or by companies which

require some sort of government guarantee before they can obtain their

capital.



Belgium was the first continental country to follow the railway

example of England. Very soon after King Leopold was seated securely

on his throne, he initiated measures for the construction of railways

in Belgium; and a law was passed in 1834, sanctioning that compact

system which, having Mechlin as a centre, branches out in four

directions--to Liege, Antwerp, Brussels, and Ostend; and there were

also lines sanctioned to the Prussian frontier, and the French

frontier--the whole giving a length of about 247 English miles. Three

years afterwards, a law was passed for the construction of 94

additional miles of railway--to Courtrai, Tournay, Namur, and other

towns. In the western part of Belgium, the engineering difficulties

were not of a formidable character; but towards the Prussian frontier,

the bridges, cuttings, and embankments are so extensive, as to have

rendered the works far more costly than in the average of continental

railways. The Belgian Chambers provided the money, or rather

authorised the government to borrow it, year after year. The first

portion of railway was opened in 1835, and every year from thence till

1843, witnessed the opening of additional portions; until at length,

in this last-named year, all the 341 miles mentioned above were opened

for traffic. The cost varied from L.6140 per mile (near Courtrai), to

L.38,700 per mile (near Liege); the entire cost of the whole,

including working-plant, was within L.17,000 per average mile. While

these railways were progressing, private companies were formed for the

construction of other lines, to the extent of about 200 additional

miles, most of which are now open--the Namur and Liege being opened in

1851. These various railways are said to have yielded, on an average,

about 3-1/2 per cent. on the outlay.



It was of course impossible for France to see its little neighbour,

Belgium, advancing in its railway course, without setting a similar

movement on foot; but various circumstances have given a lingering

character to French railway enterprise. It was in 1837 that the short

railway from Paris through Versailles to St Germain--the first

passenger line in France--was opened. In the next following year, two

companies, aided by the government in certain ways, undertook the

construction of the railways from Paris to Rouen, and from Paris to

Orleans. The French government, having a strong taste for

centralisation in national matters, formed in 1842 that plan which has

since, with some modifications, been carried into execution. The plan

consisted in causing the great lines of communication to be surveyed

and marked out by government engineers, and then to be ceded to

joint-stock companies, to be constructed on certain conditions. There

were to be seven such lines radiating from Paris: to the Belgian

frontier; to one or more ports on the Channel; to the Atlantic ports;

to Bordeaux; to the Spanish frontier; to Marseille; and to Rhenish

Prussia. The government has had to concede more favourable conditions

to some of these companies than were at first intended, to get the

lines constructed at all. The first and second of the above lines of

communication are now almost fully opened; the third is finished to

Chartres; the fourth, to Nantes and Poitiers; the fifth, to

Chateauroux; the sixth, to Chalons, with another portion from Avignon

to Marseille; while the seventh, or Paris and Strasbourg Railway, is

that of which the final opening has been recently celebrated with so

much firing of guns, drinking of healths, blessing of locomotives, and

speechifyings of presidents. At the close of 1851, the length of

French railway opened was about 1800 miles; while the portion since

opened, or now in progress or projected, amounts to about as much

more. In the president's speech to the National Assembly in 1851 (of

course, _before_ the _coup d'etat_), it was announced that the length

of French railway to be finished and opened in 1851 would be 516

kilometres (about 320 miles); and in 1852, about 330 kilometres (205

miles.)



Prussia loves centralisation little less than France in other matters;

but in railway enterprise she has allowed mercantile competition to

have freer scope. Private companies have constructed nearly all the

Prussian railways; but in cases where the traffic appeared likely to

be small, the government has rendered aid in one of three or four

modes. The government will not permit any parallel or competing lines;

and it holds the power of purchasing the railways after a lapse of

thirty years, on certain specified terms. On this principle have been

constructed the railways which radiate from Berlin in five different

directions--towards Hamburg, Hanover, Saxony, Silesia, and the Baltic;

together with minor branches springing out of them, and also the

railways which accommodate the rich Rhenish provinces belonging to

Prussia. The Prussian railways open and at work at the close of 1851

appear to have been about 1800 miles in length.



In the heterogeneous mass of states which constitute Germany, the

railways have for the most part been constructed by, and belong to,

the respective governments. Such is the case in Baden, Hanover,

Brunswick, Wuertemberg, Bavaria, and many of the petty states; and such

is also the case in the imperial dominions in Austria, Hungary,

Bohemia, Moravia, and Styria. There may be some among these lines of

railway which belong to companies, but, as a general rule, they

constitute government property. If we include Prussia and the Austrian

dominions in the general name of Germany, we find the railways very

unequally distributed. An oblong quadrangular district, measuring

about 400 miles from east to west, and 200 from north to south, and

lying eastward of the Netherlands, contains a net-work of railways

which contrast remarkably with those of east, south, and central

Germany; it includes Hamburg, Berlin, Leipsic, Dresden, Magdeburg,

Brunswick, Hanover, Bremen, and a busy knot of other important towns.

Although the various German railways twist about in more tortuous

forms than those of England--for the engineers have studied economy by

going round hills rather than through them--and although they are

broken up into many different proprietorships by passing through so

many petty states, yet there may be traced certain great lines of

communication which run nearly or entirely across the whole of

Germany. Starting from Cologne, we find one line running through

Elberfeld, Minden, Hanover, Brunswick, Berlin, to Bromberg and Posen;

another from Cologne--with a short break not yet completed in

Westphalia--to Cassel, Gotha, Weimar, Leipsic, Dresden, Breslau, and

Cracow; a third from Hamburg, through Magdeburg, Leipsic, Dresden,

Prague, Presburg, and Pesth, into the heart of Hungary; a fourth from

the Baltic at Stettin, through Berlin, Leipsic, Nuernberg, Augsburg, to

the vicinity of the Lake of Constance; and a fifth from Warsaw,

through Vienna, to the vicinity of the Adriatic. Dr Lardner has

estimated, that if we include the Netherlands and the Austrian and

Prussian dominions within the German group, the German railways at the

beginning of 1851 were about 5100 miles in length, with 3000 miles

more either in progress or decided on--making a total of between 8000

and 9000 miles. Many hundred miles of railway have been opened since

the date to which this estimate refers.



Our Bradshaw leaves us little to notice on the continent beyond the

groups of railways included under the above four systems. The Dutch

have given a curious serpentine line of railway, about 150 miles in

length, from Rotterdam through Schiedam, Delft, The Hague, Leyden,

Haarlem, Amsterdam, and Utrecht, to Arnhem--an economical mode of

linking most of the chief towns together. Holstein, the recent field

of struggle between the Danes and the Germans, has its humble quota of

about 100 miles of railway, from Altona to Glueckstadt, Rendsburg, and

Kiel, connecting the German Ocean with the Baltic in a very convenient

way. Russia has a railway in its Polish dominions from Warsaw to

Cracow; a short bit from St Petersburg to Tsarkoe-soelo; portions of

the projected great lines from St Petersburg to Moscow and to Warsaw,

and a horse railway connecting the Don with the Volga. Italy has a few

bits of railway--perhaps quite as much as we could yet expect in so

strangely governed a country; one from Venice through Padua, Vicenza,

and Verona, to Mantua; another from Treviglio to Milan, Monza, and

Como; a Piedmontese line from Genoa to Alessandria and Turin; a Tuscan

web which connects Florence, Sienna, Pistoja, Lucca, Pisa, and

Leghorn, in a roundabout way; and a few miles of Neapolitan railway,

to connect Naples with Pompeii, Portici, Castel-a-mare, and Capua.

Rome, behindhand in most things, is behindhand in railways.

Switzerland has its little railway of twenty-five miles, from Zurich

to Baden. Spain has its two small lines, from Madrid to Aranjuez, and

from Barcelona to Mataro. Turkey and Greece, in the south-east;

Portugal, in the south-west; Sweden and Norway,[1] in the bleak north,

have yet to become members of the great European railway system.



In comparing all these continental railways with those of our own

country, we find many instructive differences. In the first place, the

engineering, as we lately remarked, is much less daring; there is not

so much capital at command, and the engineers, therefore, bend to

difficulties instead of cutting through them. Still, there are not

wanting engineering works of great magnitude. One such is the great

railway bridge over the Vistula, near Bromberg, the first stone of

which was laid with much form by the king of Prussia some short time

back, and which will form one link in the chain from Berlin to

Koenigsberg. Another is the double railway bridge over the Elbe at

Dresden, opened in April 1852, having a railway on its eastern half,

and an ordinary roadway on its western. The stupendous Cologne Bridge

will be for the future to talk about: at present, not a single railway

bridge, we believe, crosses the Rhine; so that Western Europe is, in

fact, not yet connected by the iron pathway with Eastern. Among the

many thousand miles of continental railway, there must, of course, be

numerous constructions of great skill and magnitude; but the ratio is

small compared with those of England.



Another feature, is the great prevalence of single lines of rail. In

England, there is so much wrangling against single lines, and so great

a tendency among directors to think that there _ought_ to be traffic

enough for more, that double lines prevail almost everywhere. In the

German railways, double lines are laid down only in places of great

traffic--single lines being the rule, and the others the exception.

Where there are only three or four departures per day, which is the

case on most German railways, one line, with carefully-managed

sidings, is amply sufficient. 'Express trains,' and 'first-class

trains,' and 'special trains,' and anything which disturbs the steady

jog-trot mode of proceeding, are very little known in Germany; the

general speed, including stoppages, is about twenty miles an hour.

Although the first-class fares are only a fraction above 1-1/2d. per

mile, and the second-class just over 1d., yet the Germans travel so

cheaply, and mix among each other with so little exclusiveness, that

it is said only 3-1/2 per cent. of the whole number of passengers

travel by first-class, and 74 per cent. by third-class; the ratios in

England being 14 and 46 per cent. respectively. One apparent effect of

these very low fares is, that although the railways are for the most

part cheaply constructed, the net profits are not supposed to exceed 3

per cent. on an average; but if the fares were higher, perhaps the

number of passengers would be so reduced as to lessen the net profit.



Whatever else may be the superiority of English railways over those of

the continent, assuredly it is not apparent in the _carriages_. The

public press has made an onslaught on the English railway carriages

for twenty years, but with very little success. Let those whose bones

ache with the ill-conditioned wooden seats of our second-class

carriages, think wishfully of the cushioned seats, and the

easily-opened windows shielded with sun-blinds, and the useful

hat-hooks found in many of the French second-class carriages; let

those who shiver under English arrangements, think of the hot-water

tin cases beneath the feet of the first-class French passengers; and

let those who wish to be usefully employed while travelling, think of

the little table, and the pen and ink, provided in some of the

Prussian carriages. The truth is, we spend money on magnificent

stations which ought to be expended on carriages. The cramped-up

position of passengers on English railways is much reprobated by

foreigners. In America, and in many parts of the continent, it is

customary to have carriages long, broad, and high, with an avenue down

the middle, and short seats for two persons each on either side of the

avenue; every person looks towards the engine, and there is a

plentiful supply of window on both sides. In America, these short

seats are not only cushioned, but each seat has its two elbows and its

cushioned back.



Another English annoyance, is the _ticket-taking_. If all the wrath

which is poured out on the heads of the railway directors during this

formality could take effect, they would be among the most miserable

and unfortunate of mortals. Arrived at Euston Station, we will say, by

the last train from the north--some sleepy, some hungry, and all

tired--the passengers are anxious to wend their several ways as

quickly as possible; instead of this, the train is brought to a

stand-still, the man with his bull's-eye lantern pokes his head into

one doorway after another, and all are kept waiting until all the

tickets are collected. One passenger may have dropped his ticket, and

then comes a search among the hat-boxes and carpet-bags beneath the

seats; another may have underpaid his fare, or overridden the power of

his ticket, and then occurs the fuss of paying up the difference; a

third may be sleeping weariedly in the further corner of the carriage,

and then comes the process of waking him, followed, perhaps, by a

search for the ticket in an incalculable number of pockets. All this

is nicely ill-managed! The larger size of many of the continental

carriages, and the avenue through the centre, enable the ticket-taker

to enter the carriage easily while the train is yet in motion, and to

collect the tickets by the time of arrival at the station. On one of

the Austrian railways, the carriages have an exterior gangway

extending the whole length of the train, by which a guard can obtain

easy access to all the passengers: shortly before arriving at a

station, he enters the carriages, calls out the name of the station

about to be approached, and takes the tickets of those who are to

alight at that station. There is one oddity about the railway

management abroad. In England, a railway smoker commits a high crime

and misdemeanour, for which he is frowned at by his neighbours, and

threatened by the guard; but on the continent, not only do the

passengers smoke abundantly, but we were once rather struck at seeing

a ticket-taker enter the carriage with a meerschaum in his mouth; one

passenger, whose pipe was out, asked the customary German question:

'Haben sie feuer?' and the official gave him a light accordingly. We

believe, however, that there is a wish at head-quarters to keep down

this habit of smoking on the continental railways.



There are two sources of embarrassment which the Englishman is spared

in his own country, but which press upon him in full force while

travelling by rail abroad--namely, the different kinds of distance

measurement, and the different kinds of money employed. Accustomed to

English charges varying from three farthings to threepence per mile,

he is frequently thrown out of his reckoning by the absence of miles

abroad. The French kilometre and the German meile are not English

miles; the former equals 1093 yards, and is therefore a troublesome

fraction of an English mile; while the German meile is as long as

about four and a half English miles.



But this, however, is a minor inconvenience; for our 'Continental

Bradshaw' gives most of the measurements in English miles. Not so in

respect to the current coinage abroad. Although there was a 'railway

congress' held a few years ago, to determine on a plan for

facilitating the intercourse between country and country, yet this

plan did not go so far as to assimilate the moneys of the different

states; the tourist speedily discovers that this is the case, and he

becomes perplexed with a multiplicity of cares. So long as he is in

France or Belgium, the _franc_ (9-1/2d.), with its multiples and

submultiples, are easily managed; but when he gets beyond the Rhine,

his troubles begin. If in Holland, he has to manage with the _guilder_

(1s. 8d.) and its fractional parts in _cents_. If in the neighbourhood

of Hamburg, he has to pay by means of the _mark_ (14-1/2d.), and

certain strange-looking _schillings_ or _skillings_, of which sixteen

equal one mark. Going south and east into Prussia, he finds the ruling

coin to be the _thaler_ (3s.), divisible into thirty _groschen_. and

each of these into twelve _pfennige_; but if he be hovering in

the frontiers of Prussia and Saxony, he will find that the

_neu-groschen_ of the latter country is worth a little more than the

_silber-groschen_ of the former, and that there is some difficulty in

getting rid of either in the country of the other. Getting further

south, to the regions belonging to or adjoining Austria, he will find

his thalers and groschen no longer welcome; he has to attend to the

_florin_ (2s.), and its divisions into sixty _kreutzers_. If he

travels north-east, to the few miles of railway yet existing in

Poland, he will have to pay in _rubles_ (3s. 3d.) and _kopecks_, which

rank at 100 to the ruble. On the little Zurich and Baden Railway, the

only one yet in Switzerland, our traveller meets again with his old

acquaintance the _franc_; but this is worth 14-1/2d., instead of

9-1/2d., and, moreover, it is divided into ten _batzen_, each of which

is worth ten _rappen_. If he crosses the Alps to Austrian Italy, he

finds that his fare is reckoned in Austrian _lire_ (about 8d.) In many

cases, the different states take money from _through_ passengers in

the coin of either country; but the traveller who makes frequent

stoppages, soon finds the embarrassment of the different moneys. A

railway has lately been completed from Dresden to Prague--the capitals

of the two kingdoms of Saxony and Bohemia--along the banks of the

Elbe; it is no great distance, and yet the fees north of the frontier

are charged in _thalers_ and _neu-groschen_, while those south of it

are in _florins_ and _kreutzers_.



There have been very busy and important railway enterprises agreed

upon or discussed within the last year or two, in various parts of the

continent, which augur favourably for the future of Europe. We shall

shortly pass these in review, to shew what may possibly be the aspect

presented by the 'Continental Bradshaw' in 1862.





FOOTNOTES:



[1] A line of about forty-five miles, from Christiania to the end of

the Mioesin Lake, is surveyed, and in course of preparation.--_Ed._









A SEARCH FOR ROBIN HOOD.





The adventures of an amateur in search of a picture, of a foundling in

search of his father, and even of a dog in search of his master, have

been severally recorded by skilful pens for the amusement of the

public. But, however entertaining or romantic these narratives may be

considered, they can hardly surpass in interest the curious history

which has just been disclosed of the adventures of an antiquary in

search of a ballad-hero. We owe our knowledge of the facts to one of a

series of _Critical and Historical Tracts_, by the Rev. Joseph Hunter,

now in course of publication. Mr Hunter is an assistant-keeper of the

public records, and is well known, by his other publications, as one

of the most laborious and most judicious elucidators of mysterious

passages in our national history. But the evidences of industry, of

minute knowledge, and of logical acuteness, contained in his little

treatise concerning 'the ballad-hero, Robin Hood,' are really

surprising. The story of an obscure outlaw, who chased deer and took

purses in a northern forest five hundred years ago, has been

investigated with the painstaking sagacity of a Niebuhr; and a strong

light has been unexpectedly thrown on the state of public sentiment

and manners existing at that period. Mr Hunter, it is proper to say,

dwells in his treatise chiefly upon results, and says little, and that

very modestly, of the labours by which they were obtained. He even

seems to fear that his subject may be considered trivial, and that he

may possibly receive 'the censure of being one who busies himself with

the mere playthings of antiquity.' Dr Percy, when he compiled his

invaluable Reliques, had similar apprehensions, which were then not

altogether groundless; but it may reasonably be hoped, that the race

of pedants, who wondered how a man of learning could be interested in

a bundle of old ballads, is now extinct.



Departing a little from the method and order observed by Mr Hunter in

his tract, we will endeavour not only to state in a condensed form the

remarkable conclusions at which he has arrived, but also to follow, as

accurately as his references will enable us to do so, the ingenious

processes of investigation which led to these results. The object of

the inquiry was to determine, in the first place, whether such a

person as Robin Hood ever existed; and, in the second place, to

ascertain who and what he was, and to what extent the ballads of which

he was the hero were based upon actual occurrences. What a vast amount

of uncertainty there was to clear up, may be inferred from the wide

differences of opinion among writers of the highest credit who

preceded Mr Hunter in this inquiry. The celebrated historian of the

Norman Conquest, M. Thierry, supposes Robin Hood to have been the

chief of a small body of Saxons, who, in their forest strongholds,

held out for a time against the domination of the Norman conquerors.

On this point, as confessedly on others, the French historian seems to

have derived his opinions from the suggestive scenes in Scott's

splendid romance of _Ivanhoe_. Another writer conjectures, that the

outlaws of whom Robin was the leader, may have been some of the

adherents of Simon de Montfort, whose partisans were pursued to

extremity after the fatal battle of Evesham, in the year 1264. Others,

still, have denied altogether the existence, at any period, of such a

person as Robin Hood. They make him either a mere hero of romance--the

'creation of some poetical mind;' or else, led by a similarity of

names, they discover in him merely one of the embodiments of popular

superstitions--a sylvan sprite, a Robin Goodfellow, or a Hudkin. Only

two years ago, a historical writer of no small acumen, Mr Thomas

Wright, published his opinion, that Robin Hood, in his original

character, was simply 'one amongst the personages of the early

mythology of the Teutonic people.'



But Mr Hunter could not concur in these views, or be satisfied with

the mode of reasoning by which they were maintained. In his opinion,

Robin Hood was neither a Saxon malcontent nor the hero of a poet's

romance; nor yet was he 'a goblin or a myth.' He was, in all

probability, exactly such a person as the popular songs described

him--an English yeoman, an outlaw living in the woods, and noted for

his skill in archery. Previous researches had proved, that many of our

old ballads are merely rhyming records of historical events. Mr Hunter

had already rescued one ballad-hero, Adam Bell, from the 'danger of

being reduced to an abstraction or a myth;' and it now remained for

him to undertake the same good office for a more renowned freebooter.



The first thing to be done was, of course, to examine carefully the

ballads themselves, and to ascertain the amount and value of the

evidence they afforded, as to the epoch and the real story of their

hero. It appeared, then, that 'three single ballads are found in

manuscript, which cannot be later than the fourteenth century.' There

is also a poem of considerable length, entitled _The Lytel Geste of

Robyn Hood_, which was printed by Winkyn de Worde, in or about the

year 1495. It is 'a kind of life' of the outlaw, and is composed of

several ballads, strung together by means of a few intermediate

stanzas, which give continuity to the story. The language of these

ballads is that of the preceding century--being, in fact, the same as

that of the ballads in manuscript. Thus the date of the songs

themselves is carried back as far as the fourteenth century. It is,

moreover, in the middle of this century that the first allusion to

Robin Hood occurs in any work of undoubted authority. In Longland's

poem, entitled _The Vision of Pierce Ploughman_, the date of which is

between 1355 and 1365, mention is made of 'rymes of Robyn Hood and

Randolph Earl of Chester,' the outlaw and the earl being apparently

both regarded as historical personages, about whom songs had been

written. It may be observed, that if the Robin Hood ballads were much

older than this date, it must be considered surprising that no earlier

allusion to them should be found, since in the subsequent century they

were referred to by many writers.



According to the story contained in the Lytel Geste, Robin Hood was at

the head of a band of outlaws, who made their head-quarters in

Bernysdale, or Barnesdale--once 'a woody and famous forest,' on the

southern confines of Yorkshire, in the neighbourhood of Doncaster,

Wakefield, and Pontefract; and who infested the woodlands and the

highways from thence as far as Sherwood and Nottingham, near which

ancient town some of their boldest exploits were performed. They slew

the king's deer, and plundered rich travellers, but spared the humble,

relieved the distressed, and were courteous to all who did not offend

them.



    Robyn was a proude outlaw

      Whyles he walked on ground;

    So curtyse an outlaw as he was one,

      Was never none yfound.



All the ballads agree in ascribing to the outlaw chief a manly bearing

and a generous disposition, such as might be expected to distinguish a

respectable yeoman of a class somewhat above the ordinary, whom the

fortune of war had driven from his home to a lawless life in the

forest. That this was Robin Hood's condition, may be inferred from the

general language of the ballads; but the important question is,

whether any other testimony can be found to confirm this conjecture,

and to give us any definite and authentic information about the fact.

This is the question which Mr Hunter has undertaken to answer. The

clue which first catches his experienced eye, is _the name of an

English king_. One of the most remarkable adventures which the ballads

record of Robin Hood, is his meeting with the king, who induced him,

for a time, to take service in his household. The king, according to

this authority, was exasperated with Robin and his men chiefly on

account of the destruction which they had made of his deer. Finding

that it was impossible to capture the outlaw by force, the king

consented to practise a stratagem, suggested by a forester who was

well acquainted with the outlaw's habits. He disguised himself as an

abbot, and with five knights habited as monks, and a man leading

sumpter-horses, rode into the greenwood. A wealthy abbot's baggage,

and his ransom, would be just the bait most tempting to Robin and his

men. The king, as he had expected, was seized by them, and led away to

their lodge in the forest. The outlaws, however, behave courteously as

usual; and when the abbot announces that he comes from the king at

Nottingham, and brings a letter from his majesty, inviting Robin to

come to that town, the latter receives the information joyously, and

declares that 'he loves no man in all the world so well as he does his

king.' Presently the monarch discovers himself, and the outlaw chief

and his men kneel, and profess their loyalty--Robin at the same time

asking for mercy for him and his. The king grants it on condition that

Robin will leave the greenwood, and will come to court and enter his

service. We quote the following after Mr Hunter, merely modernising

the orthography:--



    'Yes, fore God!' then said our king,

      'Thy petition I grant thee,

    With that thou leave the greenwood,

      And all thy company;



    'And come home, sir, to my court,

      And there dwell with me.'

    'I make mine avow to God,' said Robin,

      'And right so shall it be:



    'I will come to your court

      Your service for to see.'



Accordingly, Robin left the greenwood and his company, entered the

king's household, went with him to the court at London, and remained

in his service for a year and three months. Having by that time become

weary of this uncongenial mode of life, he obtained permission from

the king to pay a visit to his old residence at Barnesdale. Here he

resumes once more his former way of life 'under the greenwood-tree,'

and becomes again chief of the outlaws of Barnesdale and Sherwood.



Now if, among the adventures ascribed to Robin by the old ballads,

there is one far more improbable than all the rest, and one which an

ordinary commentator would set down at once as a pure fiction of the

poet, it is certainly that which has just been related. Mr Hunter,

however, is not an ordinary commentator. If the story is a strange

one, he doubtless reflected, 'truth is stranger than fiction;' and if

it is intrinsically and evidently improbable, that is the very reason

why a poet would not have invented it. Mr Hunter, therefore, did what

no other inquirer had before thought of doing--he examined the

historical and documentary evidence which might throw light upon the

subject. The ballad, fortunately, gives the name of the king who was

concerned in this singular adventure. He is repeatedly spoken of as

'Edward, our comely king'--a phrase, by the way, which clearly implies

that the ballad was composed while the monarch was still living. This

circumstance is not noticed by Mr Hunter, but it is one of some

importance, inasmuch as a poet would hardly have ventured to introduce

the name of the reigning monarch into a purely fictitious narrative.

But there are three Edwards--the first, second, and third of the name,

among whom it is necessary to distinguish the one to whom the poet

referred. Now, according to the ballad, this 'comely king,' before he

fell in with Robin, had journeyed through the county of Lancaster:



    All the pass of Lancashire,

      He went both far and near,

    Till he came to Plumpton Park,

      He failed [missed] many of his deer.



The question then arises, which of the three Edwards did travel in

that county? To this question, Mr Hunter's researches fortunately

enable him to return a decisive answer. King Edward I. never was in

Lancashire after he became king. King Edward III. was not in

Lancashire in the early years of his reign, and probably never at all.

But King Edward II. did make a 'progress' in Lancashire, and only one.

The time was in the autumn of 1323, the seventeenth year of his reign,

and the fortieth of his age. By the dates of the royal writs, and by

other documents, Mr Hunter is enabled to trace the king's route and

his various removes on this occasion with great minuteness. He follows

him, for example, from York to Holderness; thence to Pickering, to

Wherlton Castle, to Richmond and Jervaulx Abbey, and to Haywra Park,

in the forest of Knaresborough. In this forest is situated Plumpton

Park, which is mentioned in the ballad as having been visited by the

king, who here became aware of Robin's depredations. King Edward

proceeded thence by way of Skipton, and several other towns, to

Liverpool, and, continuing his progress, arrived on the 9th of

November at Nottingham, where he remained till the 23d of that month;

and it was from Nottingham, it will be remembered, that the king set

out in disguise to look for Robin Hood.



But if the 'proud outlaw' on this occasion actually took service in

the king's household, his name would be likely to appear among those

of the royal attendants, if any list of these is preserved. This

consideration occurred to Mr Hunter. The result of his search must be

told in his own words. 'It will scarcely be believed,' he observes,

'but it is, nevertheless, the plain and simple truth, that in

documents preserved in the Exchequer, containing accounts of expenses

in the king's household, we find the name of "Robyn Hode," not once,

but several times occurring, receiving, with about eight-and-twenty

others, the pay of 3d. a day, as one of the "_valets, porteurs de la

chambre_" of the king. Whether this was some other person who chanced

to bear the same name, or that the ballad-maker has in this related

what was mere matter of fact, it will become no one to affirm in a

tone of authority. I, for my part, believe it is the same person.'

Mr Hunter then quotes the words of the original record, which

is in Norman-French. It recites the names of the twenty-four

'_portours_'--as the word is here spelled--who received pay from the

24th of March to the 21st of April 1324; and among these are the names

of 'Robyn Hod' and 'Simon Hod.' These names do not occur in any

previous document. The date of the record, it will be observed, is in

the spring of the year following that in which the king made his

progress through Lancashire, and stayed for some time at Nottingham on

his return southward.



The office of valet, or _porteur de la chambre_, in those days, was

probably similar to that of the present groom of the chamber, and if

so, was a highly respectable and confidential post. In the ballad,

Robin Hood is represented, while at court, as spending his money

freely with knights and squires. His profusion, indeed, soon exhausted

his purse, which the daily pay of 3d., however munificent it may have

been at that period, could not replenish. Robin became, observes Mr

Hunter, moody and melancholy:



    'Alas!' then said good Robin,

      'Alas, and well-a-day I

    If I dwell longer with the king,

      Sorrow will me slay.'



At last, he petitions the king for permission to pay a visit to his

chapel at Barnesdale; declaring, that for seven nights he has not been

able to sleep, nor for seven days to eat or drink, so sore is his

longing to see Barnesdale again. The king consents, but only for a

se'nnight; 'in which,' says Mr Hunter, 'I suspect a corruption, for

there was no Great Northern in those days.' Probably the leave of

absence was for seven weeks instead of days.



Now, it is remarkable, that in the Exchequer pay-lists, the new

porteur's name continues to appear (once under the form of Robert

Hood) until the 22d of November 1324. Under this date appears an

entry, which Mr Hunter has given in the original Norman-French, but

which we prefer to translate: 'Robyn Hod, heretofore one of the

porteurs, because he could no longer work, received as a gift, by

command, 5s.' After this, we are told, his name does not again appear.

The 22d of November 1324, was just a year from the time when the king

was at Nottingham, where he arrived on the 9th of November 1323. Robin

Hood, if he then took service, would have been in the royal household

about a twelvemonth. The ballad, however, makes his service last for a

year and three months. The discrepancy is not great; and it may,

perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that when Robin left the

court, it was at first merely on leave of absence; and he would,

consequently, still regard himself as in the king's service until he

had finally determined to renounce it, which would probably not be

until at least his term of leave had expired. The remarkable

expression in the record, 'because he could no longer work,' seems, as

Mr Hunter remarks, to correspond with Robin's declarations in the

ballad, that he could neither eat, drink, nor sleep; and if he

remained longer at court, sorrow would kill him. This apparent

coincidence, the author adds, 'may be but imagination; but it looks

like a reality.' It must be admitted, that if the Robyn Hod, or Robert

Hood, of the Exchequer records be not Robin Hood the outlaw, then all

these singular agreements of names, of dates, and of circumstances,

will make together a far greater marvel than any that is to be found

in the ballad-story itself, which some sceptics would require us to

disbelieve.



This, however, is only the commencement of Mr Hunter's researches,

which we cannot here follow in the same detail. The ballads relate

that Robin Hood, after continuing twenty-two years in the greenwood,

died--through some foul play--at the convent of Kirklees, the prioress

of which was nearly related to him. On this hint, Mr Hunter seeks to

discover, through this relationship, the original social position and

family connections of the outlaw. He finds reason for believing, that

the prioress of Kirklees at that period was a certain Elizabeth de

Staynton, a member of a family of some note, established near

Barnesdale. The Stayntons were tenants in chief of both the 'honours'

of Tickhill and Pontefract. One of them was prior of Monk Bretton, and

two were incumbents of churches in that vicinity. If Robin Hood was

nearly related to this family, the connection would raise him somewhat

above the rank of an ordinary yeoman; it might, as the author

observes, 'give him that kind of generous air in which he is invested,

and qualify him for his station among the valets of the crown.'



But if Robin Hood was a person of good condition, his name might

perhaps be found in the law-records of the local courts; and, in fact,

Mr Hunter has found, in the court-rolls of the manor of Wakefield, the

name of 'Robertus Hood,' as that of the defendant in a suit relative

to a small piece of land, in the ninth year of Edward II. He again

appears in a subsequent year, when he is described as being of

Wakefield; and the name of his wife, Matilda, is mentioned. Here is

another curious coincidence. Mr Hunter says: 'The ballad testimony

is--not the Lytel Geste, but other ballads of uncertain

antiquity--that the outlaw's wife was named Matilda, which name she

changed for Marian when she joined him in the greenwood.'



But what cause could have driven a respectable yeoman like Robin Hood,

along with so many others, apparently not much below him in rank, to

the fastnesses of the forest? It is evident that only a great civil

convulsion could have made, in one district, so large a number of

outlaws of this peculiar character. Now, the rising of the

discontented barons under the Earl of Lancaster, provoked by the

king's favouritism and misgovernment, took place in the early part of

the year 1322. By the battle of Boroughbridge, fought on the 16th of

March in that year, the insurrection was suppressed. It was punished

with great severity. The Earl of Lancaster and many of his adherents

were beheaded, and their property was confiscated. Some

offenders--probably persons who were not conspicuous in the

outbreak--escaped with heavy fines; and among these are mentioned two

members of the Staynton family, Robin Hood's supposed connections. We

may thence infer the part which he himself probably took in the

movement. From his skill with the bow, and from the personal esteem in

which he was held, it is likely that he would be a leader of the

archers in the rebel force, and would consequently be of importance

enough to become specially obnoxious to the king's party. Many

others--perhaps the whole company which followed him to the

battle--might be in the same plight. If so, it would account not only

for their outlawry, but for the goodwill with which they were regarded

by the people of their neighbourhood, who were generally favourable to

the cause of the Earl of Lancaster, and looked upon him as a martyr.

The battle of Boroughbridge, it should be observed, was fought in the

year preceding that in which the king made his progress through the

north, and rested for a fortnight at Nottingham.



Mr Hunter, in conclusion, sums up the results of his investigation in

what he cautiously styles his 'theory' concerning the career of the

famous ballad-hero. He considers that Robin Hood was one of the

'contrariantes,' or malcontents, of the reign of King Edward II., and

that he was still living in the early years of King Edward III.; but

that his birth must 'be carried back into the reign of King Edward I.,

and fixed in the decennary period, 1285 to 1295; that he was born in a

family of some station and respectability, seated at Wakefield or in

villages around; that he, like many others, partook of the popular

enthusiasm which supported the Earl of Lancaster, the great baron of

those parts, who, having attempted in vain various changes in the

government, at length broke out into open rebellion, with many

persons, great and small, following his standard; that when the earl

fell, and there was a dreadful proscription, a few persons who had

been in arms not only escaped the hazards of battle, but the arm of

the executioner; that he was one of these; and that he protected

himself against the authorities of the time, partly by secreting

himself in the depths of the woods of Barnesdale or of the forest of

Sherwood, and partly by intimidating the public officers by the

opinion which was abroad of his unerring bow, and his instant command

of assistance from numerous comrades as skilled in archery as himself;

that he supported himself by slaying the wild animals which were found

in the forests, and by levying a species of blackmail on passengers

along the great road which united London with Berwick, occasionally

replenishing his coffers by seizing upon treasure as it was being

transported on the road; that there was a self-abandonment and a

courtesy in the way in which he proceeded, which distinguishes him

from the ordinary highwayman; that he laid down the principle, that he

would take from none but those who could afford to lose, and that, if

he met with poor persons, he would bestow upon them some part of what

he had taken from the rich: in short, that in this respect he was the

supporter of the rights or supposed reasonable expectations of the

middle and lower ranks--a _leveller_ of the times; that he continued

this course for about twenty months--April 1322 to December

1323--meeting with various adventures, as such a person must needs do,

some of which are related in the ballads respecting him; that when, in

1323, the king was intent upon freeing his forests from such

marauders, he fell into the king's power; that this was at a time when

the bitter feeling with which the king and the Spencers had first

pursued those who had shewn themselves such formidable adversaries,

had passed away, and a more lenient policy had supervened--the king,

possibly for some secret and unknown reason, not only pardoned him all

his transgressions, but gave him the place of one of the _valets_,

_porteurs de la chambre_, in the royal household; which appointment he

held for about a year, when the love for the unconstrained life he had

led and for the charms of the country returned, and he left the court,

and betook himself again to the greenwood shade; that he continued

this mode of life we know not exactly how long; and that at last he

resorted to the prioress of Kirklees, his own relative, for surgical

assistance, and in that priory he died and was buried.'



These conclusions must of course be looked upon at present merely as a

series of probable suppositions. Mr Hunter does not pretend to have

placed them within the domain of authentic history. But it is by no

means unlikely, that future researches will produce evidence of the

indubitable truth of some of them. To Mr Hunter is due the credit of

having first pointed out the direction in which this evidence must be

sought, and of having, at the same time, indicated by his example the

true value of such researches in the light which they cast on the

politics and social life of the period to which they refer.









SNOW-STORM IN THE SAHARA.



NOTES FROM THE JOURNAL OF A MILITARY SURGEON.





When it was determined by the French government in the spring of 1847,

to undertake several military expeditions simultaneously into the

deserts to the south of Algeria, it was my lot to accompany the column

of General Cavaignac, both in a medical and scientific capacity. The

western route, being the most difficult and dangerous, was that

assigned to him. He was to penetrate the hitherto unexplored regions

traversed by the Hamian-garabas--a powerful tribe, who could bring

2000 horsemen into the field, and among whom the various tribes that

had at different times sworn allegiance to the French government

always found willing allies whenever they chose to break their

treaties and throw off the yoke. He was to destroy every village

throughout this region that refused submission; and thus it was hoped

that the retreats of Abd-el-Kader might be cut off, and that by a

speedy termination of the war, the country might become settled, and

its commerce be restored.



We were a motley and grotesque-enough-looking caravan; for our six

battalions of infantry and four squadrons of cavalry were accompanied

by 3000 camels laden with provisions and attended by Arab drivers,

besides 500 mules carrying water-barrels, and cacolets--jointed

arm-chairs--for the sick. It was not deemed desirable to observe the

strictest military regularity in our march; so that French uniforms

and Arab burnooses, military chargers, camels of the desert, and

pack-saddled mules travelled side by side, pretty much as fancy

dictated.



It was nearly three weeks before we reached the enemy's country. We

had meanwhile met with the usual adventures incident to these regions.

We had set fire to the forests of the Little Atlas Mountains, and been

obliged to raise our camp, and fly in terror from the conflagration.

We had crossed the dreary solitudes of Goor and Shott, through which

our daily march had been enlivened by songs, or beguiled by listening

to the wild legends of our Arab guides; and night after night we had

encamped, like the vagabond tribes of Sahara, either round the mouths

of wells, or without water in the open plains, each man receiving a

scanty supply from the barrels, while the beasts were left to bear

their thirst as they could. But now, after passing the basins of the

Shott, and gaining the slight elevation beyond, we entered on a tract

of desert as yet untrodden by European feet, and met with trials of a

nature the least of all expected.



The wide wastes which lay before us appeared uniform and level as far

as the eye could reach, but somewhat diversified by verdant patches of

halfa (coarse grass of the desert), and by deceitful appearances of

sheets of water, produced by the reflection of the light in the

undulating vapours rising from the burning sand. In the distance,

something like blue waves appeared: it was part of the great Atlas

chain; but close at hand, to our right, was a long line of dunes.

These eminences, smooth and sterile as marble domes, were apparently

as solid too; but we knew that, if the desert wind should blow, they

would be shaken into moving clouds of sand, overwhelming all before

them.



Our column proceeded in silence. The soft sand yielded no echo to the

tread. Every one appeared thoughtful and abstracted. This place has

terrors even for the Arabs; they tell a thousand stories of the Pass

of Sidi-Mohammed-el-Aoori: it was there, in times remote, that great

armies were overpowered and slain by hostile bands, or destroyed by

the scarcely less merciless elements; there many travellers have

disappeared in the storm, or fallen under the hand of the murderer. It

is the 'gate' of the desert; and the tutelar genii have placed the

terrific dunes as a hieroglyphic warning to those who rashly approach.

They seem to say, 'here begins the empire of Sterility and Death;

enter if thou darest!' Doubtless the Arab tales had some influence on

our minds, increasing the well-grounded fears inspired by the natural

features of these arid wastes. Several of us mentally repeated that

melancholy line from Dante--



    Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate;[2]



and not a few pictured to themselves a body of troops visiting these

sands half a century later, and finding the bones of Cavaignac's army

scattered here and there over the plains.



Hitherto the atmosphere had always been perfectly clear, but now it

was thick and cold, the horizon wearing that gray, heavy aspect which

in Europe precedes a fall of snow. No one, however, ventured to

pronounce this word; it appeared an occurrence so unlikely in the

plain, at such a season and under such a latitude. What, then, was our

surprise, on awaking on the morning of the 19th of April, to find the

tents covered with a thick sheet of snow, and to see the vast expanse

of the desert white to the verge of the horizon, like the frozen

steppes of Siberia! The general ordered the camp to be raised

immediately, for the bivouac afforded very scanty materials for fire,

and he hoped there might be wood in the mountains if he could reach

them. The snow continued to fall in large flakes; the troops, anxious

and sorrowful, described a thousand circuits and made a thousand

useless turnings, for our Arab guides were utterly at fault. During

three or four months previous to the expedition, Cavaignac had been

selecting and retaining as guides whatever Saharians he could find

acquainted with that part of the desert he intended to traverse. The

Arabs are gifted with remarkable dexterity in steering without

compass, recognising a footstep imperceptible to the common eye,

scenting the water at a distance, and finding their way by marks which

would escape the most observant European. A Saharian once affirmed to

Colonel Daumas: 'I am not considered remarkably sharp-sighted, but I

can distinguish a goat from a sheep at the distance of a day's

journey; and I know some who smell the smoke of a pipe, or of broiled

meat, at thirty miles! We all know each other by the track of our feet

in the sand, for no one tribe walks like another, nor does a wife

leave the same footprint as an unmarried woman. If a hare has passed,

we know by its footprint whether it is male or female, and, in the

latter case, whether it is with young. If we see the stone of a date,

we know the particular tree that produced it.'



Our conductors, though not pretending to all this sagacity, were

nevertheless far in advance of some of us who proudly called ourselves

'old Africans,' and considered ourselves wonderfully expert in

tracking the desert paths. But now the landmarks on which they

depended had disappeared beneath the snow; and the atmosphere was so

surcharged with it, that the mountain summits could no longer be

descried. At length the guides abandoned the hopeless effort, and

declared that they had entirely lost the way, and knew not in what

direction to proceed. At this juncture, Cavaignac, remembering that

the mountains had appeared due south on the preceding evening, seized

his compass, and boldly ordered the troops in that direction. It was

the only hope; but the march became so fatiguing, and the natives gave

so little encouragement to the expectation of finding the mountains

wooded, that a halt was ordered, and a bivouac on the snowy plain.



Many were the miseries that attended this encampment. The rattling of

arms was heard on every side, for the soldiers were shivering to such

a degree that they could not hold their guns steadily. What would they

not now have given for some of the wood they had so wantonly destroyed

in the forests of the Tell! But the bivouac was not even supplied with

chiah--one of the commonest plants in Sahara, having a ligneous root,

which had hitherto served us for fuel when everything else failed.

Nothing was to be found but halfa, green, and steeped in snow; and the

most skilful kindlers succeeded only in amusing themselves for a time

with poor, little fires, that emitted more smoke than flame. The men,

of course, could not make their soup; but the general ordered them

rations of biscuit and coffee. For my own part, not being able to make

a fire of wet halfa, I was looking disconsolately at a bit of biscuit,

and a little morsel of cheese, which was to compose my dinner, when

Lieutenant N---- sent word that his fire-makers had been more

successful, and that they offered me a corner. In a few minutes, I sat

down to two boiled eggs, which appeared delicious. Meanwhile, the

night drew on. The soldier's bed out-of-doors is a sheepskin laid on

the bare ground, under a tent so small that he cannot stand upright in

it. Now, as the earth was very damp, those who did not take the

precaution of choosing a little mound, and removing a portion of the

wet soil, soon found themselves literally in the mud, and were obliged

to get up, and walk about all night.



The snow continued to fall thick and fast, the thermometer marking 7

degrees below the freezing-point during the night. Some days before,

it had been 125 degrees Fahrenheit in the sun; so that we were doomed,

as in the Purgatory of Dante--



    A sofferir tormenti caldi e geli;



from which, by the way, Milton has obviously borrowed his idea of

infernal torment:



    ---- And feel by turns the bitter change

    Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce,

    From beds of raging fire, to starve in ice

    Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine

    Immovable, infixed, and frozen round,

    Periods of time, thence hurried back to fire.



At the sound of the morning watch-gun, the camp presented a most

distressing spectacle. The Arabs and negroes of the convoy were lying

motionless in the open air, rolled in their burnooses. Many of these

poor creatures were but lightly clad, and had the lower limbs entirely

naked. They were so benumbed and stupified with cold, that they

refused to rise and load the camels; they begged to be allowed to lie

still and die in peace. The cattle also were in a sad condition, not

only from cold, but hunger; for the snow-covered ground afforded them

no pasture. As part of the provisions had been damaged, it was now

asked in dismay, what would become of the army if the beasts should

perish? The recollection of the disaster at Boo-Taleb, where the

column of General Levasseur left so many men in the snow, occurred to

the stoutest hearts. But even darker shades mingled in the prospects

of our troops; for 'General Levasseur,' said they, 'was only thirty

miles from a post occupied by French troops, and the neighbouring

tribes raised and reanimated those whom they found alive, though

benumbed on the plain; but we, in the midst of the desert, far from

any human dwelling, what will become of us? Hunger, thirst, and the

enemy, will soon finish the remains of our unfortunate army.'



But the officers are on foot, setting the example of vigorous

exertion, and striving to comfort and encourage the men; while the

calm and quiet prudence of the general inspires every one with

confidence in endeavouring to obey his orders, as the only hope of

deliverance. We begin our march: the snow is now falling only at

intervals; it lies two feet deep in the hollow plains, and above a

foot on the level and rising ground.



Some of the men, however, remained as if nailed to the soil--not only

their limbs benumbed, but their mental energies so paralysed as to be

incapable of acting on the physical; the mind inaccessible to moral

incentives, and the body insensible to the influence of outward

stimulants. By and by they found energy to beg that they might be

hoisted on the arm-chairs; but this was peremptorily refused. Since

Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, and the recent work of Dr Shrimpton on

the disaster at Boo-Taleb, every one knows the consequence of

indulging this deceitful stupor.



But we found we must do more than talk; so we set the drums and

trumpets about the ears of the sleepers, and made their comrades shake

them with all their might. It was not till after an hour's march, in

which coaxing, scolding, and pushing, stimulants to laughter and

provocatives to anger, had been incessantly employed in turn, that the

vital powers appeared to be in tolerably full play. There was one man

more obstinate than the rest, who, in order to get a place on one of

the cacolets, threatened every minute to lie down on the ground. I

slid among the ranks, and began telling one of his comrades all the

horrible stories I knew of those who, yielding to sleep in the cold,

had awaked no more; adding, with affected indifference: 'I am afraid

we shall have to leave some of our poor men as a supper for the hyenas

to-night. There are two or three of them so benumbed and stupified,

that they will perish if they halt for a single instant.' In a few

minutes, I learned that the soldier had done begging to be carried; he

said his strength was returning.



In the midst of so much human distress, it seems almost like trifling

to advert to the poor swallows. On awaking in the morning, I had found

two under my bed-cover. They allowed themselves to be taken, and

either could not, or would not fly away when I tried to banish them.

So I put them in the hood of my cloak, and allowed it to fall down my

back, while I raised over my head that of the ample burnoose which I

wear in the cold above all my other garments. The swallows travelled

thus for several hours, and gradually recovered in their warm nest.

When the sun emitted some genial rays, I took them out, and set them

free. They fluttered for some time round my horse, uttering a little

cry, which I took for an expression of gratitude before taking flight

into the mountains.



Other companies of them had taken shelter under the matted hair which

hangs from the flanks of the camel; and when the pitiless driver

persisted in dislodging them, they departed with a plaintive cry, to

seek an asylum with a camel whose driver was more hospitable. A

sentinel had found one in his pocket during the night, but it paid

dearly for its lodging--he roasted it for his supper! These poor birds

had fled from the rigours of a European winter, to find cold as severe

in the heart of Africa. Alas! how many of us felt that, like the

swallows, we had exiled ourselves to improve our fortunes, and were

now in danger of perishing. How gladly would we have resigned all our

hopes of glory and advantage for the fireside of the modest paternal

dwelling!



But before night we encamped in the shelter of the mountains; the

chiah, which grew in abundance around us, enabled us to kindle fires,

and a salutary reaction took place in the spirits of the troops.

According to a common practice of mine, I invited to supper the man

whose life I had saved by frightening him into exertion. After

swallowing a glass of warm wine, well sugared, and spiced with

tincture of cinnamon, he licked his lips, sucked the edges of his

glass, and said: 'Thank ye, doctor; but for you I should have been

dead,' with a naivete which I can never forget, and which even now

mingles pleasing associations with the thoughts of those days of

suffering.



The next day nearly 200 of the men were affected with partial or total

blindness. Some had merely a sensation like fatigue of the visual

organs, with heaviness, watering, and inflammation of the conjunctive

membrane. But with others the pain was acute, the eye much inflamed,

and the cornea covered with minute ulcerations. Those who were more

slightly affected, marched like persons enveloped in a cloud of smoke,

and trying to see their way out of it; they took a few steps with

their eyes shut, then half opened them with evident pain to

reconnoitre the ground before them, and quickly closed them again. But

many had for the time wholly lost their sight; they stumbled on the

tufts of halfa, and rolled on the ground, so that we were obliged to

hoist them on the cacolets. The general, in a state of much

uneasiness, called a council of such members of the military corps of

health as were found in his column. Some were of opinion that this

epidemic was occasioned by the sudden cold, others that it was

attributable to the smoke of the chiah; but the truth is, that, both

before and after this period, we had experienced nearly as great

extremes of heat by day and cold by night without any such

consequences, and that some, who had not approached the chiah fires

were as severely affected as those who had. It was concluded, with

every appearance of reason, that the real cause was the dazzling light

reflected from the snow during our march on the 20th of April. I

recollect one artilleryman, who was conducting his gun, when suddenly,

as the sun broke out afresh, he stopped, rubbed his eyes, turned his

head in every direction, and exclaimed: 'I cannot see; I am quite

blind!' Although we had not expected snow in the plains of Sahara, the

general had anticipated the effects of the reflection of light from

the sand, and the possibility of small particles of it getting into

the eyes; and with this view each man had been provided with a green

gauze veil. But the soldier dislikes anything out of his regular

routine as much as the most ignorant peasant; so when the order was

given that these veils should be worn,[3] the soldiers wore them to

be sure--in their pockets. I insisted that each man should fasten his

on his helmet, and this, too, was done; but it was allowed to fly like

a streamer behind, instead of being drawn over the eyes. Happily the

epidemic was but temporary, and none permanently suffered the loss of

sight as the punishment of his folly.





FOOTNOTES:



[2] All hope abandon ye that enter here.



[3] _Porter_, to carry, is the word by which the French express to

wear a thing, so that the error of Cavaignac's soldiers was somewhat

more excusable than it would have been in Englishmen.









THINGS TALKED OF IN LONDON.



                                                    _August 1852._





The great heat, which has been more talked about than anything else,

if it does not prove that the meteorologists, who predicted that this

summer was to bring a return of the warm cycle, were right in their

conclusions, at least coincides with their vaticinations. Not least

remarkable was the suddenness with which we plunged into it, as though

the cause which had produced a precisely similar effect in the United

States a month earlier, had slowly crossed the Atlantic for our

benefit.



It follows, when 'everybody' is going out of town, that the number of

those who stay behind to talk must be greatly diminished; and to see

that the things to be talked about undergo a collapse at this season,

it is only necessary to look at the newspapers. A new actor, or an

out-door place of amusement, is treated to a whole column of

criticism, whereas, at other times, they would be dismissed in a brief

paragraph. Penny-a-liners of lively imagination, find their reports

less subjected to curtailment. Emigration comes in for a considerable

share of notice, and the statements put forth of the numbers who sail

weekly for Australia and the 'Diggins,' must be taken as decided

evidence of a desire to better their condition on the part of a large

section of the population. It is easy to foresee that thousands will

be disappointed, if they are not made of that stuff which can brave

hardship, and triumph over the wild work of pioneer colonisation. Now

and then we see accounts of unsuspecting emigrants having been deluded

and robbed by a mock 'company,' whose ships are perhaps in the moon,

for they are never seen in terrestrial seas; but with so many

facilities as now exist for getting a passage in a straightforward,

business-like way, it is not easy to understand how it is that people

should persist in giving their money to swindlers. It would appear

that to some the _verbum sap._ never suffices. Means are not lacking

for putting the unwary on their guard, among which the conferences and

group-meetings held by the indefatigable Mrs Chisholm are especially

to be commended. At these meetings, those who desire to expatriate

themselves are informed of the most economical mode of effecting their

purpose, and counselled as to what they should do during the voyage.

Whatever be the result to those who go, there are indications that the

labour-market is bettered for those who stay; in connection with which

a noteworthy fact may be mentioned, which is, that in the southern,

western, and midland counties, scarcely an Irish labourer is to be

seen; and who is there that does not remember what troops of the

ragged peasantry used to come over for haymaking and the harvest?



The lovers of the picturesque, who are apt to become migratory at this

period of the year, will be glad to hear of Earl de Grey's

announcement to the Society of British Architects, that he has

repaired Fountains' Abbey--one of the beautiful ruins for which

Yorkshire is famous--without modernising its appearance or altering

its character. It is to be hoped that so praiseworthy an attempt to

preserve a relic of the olden time from decay will find many

imitators. Pilgrims will thank his lordship for many a generation to

come. And, to leave the past to the present; metropolitan promenaders

are about to have a cause of satisfaction, for the embankment of the

Thames from Vauxhall Bridge to Chelsea Gardens is at last to be

commenced; and London will cease to be the only capital in Europe

which cannot obtain a view of its river. If the authorities could be

persuaded to extend this beneficial work through the whole length of

the city, what popularity would be theirs!



An official notice from the Post-office states, that from the first of

the present month London is to be placed on the same footing, with

respect to letters, as the rest of the country--that is, they must

either be stamped before being posted, or sent unpaid. This is a

measure which will materially diminish the labour of keeping accounts

at the central office; and the more that labour is saved, the more

will there be left to facilitate postal communication. Books and

periodicals can now be sent to most of our colonies at the rate of a

shilling a pound--a fact which those who have hitherto sent their

parcels at any one's trouble and expense but their own, will do well

to bear in mind. Ocean Penny Postage is growing into favour, and is

talked about in such a way as to shew that the project will not be

left to take care of itself.



The French are going to send a new Scientific Exploring Expedition to

South America, chiefly for researches in Brazil and Paraguay. Perhaps

the veteran Bonpland, who was so long detained by the dictator

Francia, may be induced to come home in it, as he has written to

express his desire of returning to France. And something has been said

at Washington, about sending a couple of frigates to survey the great

river Amazon, in which, as the official document states, there is a

sufficient depth of water to float a large ship at the foot of the

Andes, 1500 miles from the sea. America will surely be well known some

day. Meanwhile, we are extending our knowledge of Africa; a map of

that country is about to be published, comprising the whole region

from the equator to 19 degrees of south latitude. In this the recent

discoveries will be laid down, and we shall see Mr Galton's route of

1600 miles from Walfish Bay to Odonga, near a large river named the

Nourse, and to the country of the Ovampo, described as an intelligent

tribe of natives. We shall find also, that the snow-peaked mountains

seen by the German missionaries, and considered to be the source of

the White Nile, are not more than about 300 miles distant from the

eastern coast; and it is said that no more promising enterprise could

be undertaken, than an attempt to ascend and explore them, starting

from Mombas. Barth and Overweg were at the eastern end of Lake Tchad

when last heard from; and we are told that the slave-traders, finding

their occupation decreasing on the western coast, have lately, for the

first time, penetrated to the interior, and tempted many of the

natives to sell their children for showy European goods. Lieutenant

Macleod, of the Royal Navy, proposes to ascend the Niger in a

steam-launch, and when up the country, to cross over to, and descend

the Gambia, with a view to discover new sources of trade; and Mr

Macgregor Laird is still ready to carry a vessel up any river of the

western coast to which government may please to send him. Besides the

travellers mentioned, there are others pushing their way in different

parts of the south; and the French are not idle in the north--they

have added to our information concerning Abyssinia, and the countries

bordering on the Great Desert. But in addition to African geography,

all these explorations have added to our knowledge of African geology.

A vast portion of the interior is supposed to have been an inland sea,

of which Ngami and other lakes are the remains; fossil bones of most

peculiar character have been found, but only of terrestrial and

fresh-water animals. A name is already given to a creature of a remote

secondary period; Professor Owen, from the examination of a few

relics, pronounces it to be a _Dicynodon_. According to Sir B.

Murchison, such have been the main features of Africa during countless

ages; 'for the old rocks which form her outer fringe, unquestionably

circled round an interior marshy or lacustrine country, in which the

dicynodon flourished at a time when not a single animal was similar to

any living thing which now inhabits the surface of our globe. The

present central and meridian zone of waters, whether lakes, rivers, or

marshes, extending from Lake Tchad to Lake Ngami, with hippopotami on

their banks, are, therefore, but the great modern, residual,

geographical phenomena of those of a mesozoic age.'



The publication of special scientific works is going on under the

auspices of different European governments. The Batavian Society of

Rotterdam have just issued an elaborate illustrated Report on the best

method of improving permanently the estuary of Goedereede--a question

of considerable moment to the merchants of Rotterdam. The French

government have had a new fount of Ethiopic types cast, to enable M.

d'Abbadie to prepare a catalogue of African manuscripts. And our

Secretary of State for the Home Department has presented various

libraries and public institutions with two portly folios, entitled

_Liber Munerum Publicorum Hiberniae, or the Establishments of Ireland,

from the Nineteenth of King Stephen to the Seventh of George IV._,

which we may accept as an addition to the _Memorials of History_,

commenced two or three years since. Then, as a private enterprise, we

have a scheme for a new edition of Shakspeare, in twenty volumes

folio, which is to be completed in six years, with all that can be

required in the way of illustration, be it archaeological,

philological, historical, or exegetical. Mr Halliwell is to be the

editor; and it is said that not more than 150 copies will be printed.

Another birth for the spirit of the dust that lies in the tomb at

Stratford.



Research is as active as ever in France. M. Bernard, who is well known

as a physiologist and anatomist, after a careful study of the salivary

glands, finds that each of the three, common to nearly all animals,

furnishes a different secretion. The saliva from the sublingual gland

is viscous and sticky, fit to moisten the surface of substances, but

not to penetrate them, giving them a coat which facilitates their

being swallowed. That from the parotid gland, on the contrary, is thin

and watery, easily penetrates substances taken into the mouth, and

thereby favours their assimilation; while the saliva from the

submaxillary gland is of a nature between these two. These facts were

verified by soaking portions of the membrane in water, as well as by

experiments on the living subject; the liquid in which they were

soaked presented the same character as that of the secretions.



The varying of the parotid secretion with the nature of the food

taken, is considered by M. Bernard to be a proof that this secretion

is especially intended to favour mastication. A horse kept on

perfectly dry food gives out a far greater quantity than when the food

is moistened. Experiments on the dog and rabbit supplied similar

results; and, extraordinary as it may appear, the gland will secrete

saliva in the course of an hour weighing eight or ten times as much as

its own tissue. A striking example this of the rapidity with which

saliva can be separated from the blood under certain circumstances,

and of the fallacy of founding conclusions on the quantity secreted

within the twenty-four hours.



The sublingual gland is inert during mastication, and only begins to

act as swallowing commences, when it envelops or lubricates the chewed

substance with a fluid that assists its passage to the stomach. The

function of the submaxillary has much to do with taste; the fluid

which it pours out dilutes and diminishes the pungent flavour of sapid

substances, and at the same time weakens the energy of their contact.

The three organs are identical in texture, though so different in

their secretions; 'each gland,' as M. Bernard says, 'having a special

act, its function is exercised under separate and independent

influences. Notwithstanding their discharging into and mixing in the

mouth, their use remains distinct,' as above stated. To complete this

brief summary of an interesting subject, it may be added, that birds

and reptiles have but one kind of saliva, answering to the viscous in

mammalia.



M. Vogt, in a communication to the Academie, adds to the proofs that

what is called the spontaneous generation of certain worms, is due to

natural causes. For instance, a worm, which has no reproductive

organs, is often found in the body of the stickle-back; this worm,

however, is known to breed, but it does so only when the stickle-back

happens to be eaten by a bird; the worm is then placed in the proper

condition for development, 'for it is then only that its segments

become filled with eggs, which, egested by the bird, pass into the

bodies of other fishes;' in a way more in accordance with natural

operations than spontaneous generation.



Again, of two kinds of worms which infest human beings, the

_Bothriocephalus_ is found among the Poles, Swiss, and Dutch, while

the _Tenia_, or tape-worm, is common among the French and Germans. If,

however, the latter reside in Switzerland, they also become infested

with the first-named worm, the reason given being, that in Switzerland

liquid _excretae_ from cesspools are largely used for manuring

vegetables, and that, in the eating of these vegetables, the eggs of

the worms are taken into the body, and become hatched by means of the

intestinal warmth. These investigations, which are to be continued,

are important, seeing that they have a bearing on the phenomena of

health and disease.



There are some curious facts, too, concerning oysters. M. Dureau de la

Malle states, that 100,000,000 of these bivalves are collected

annually from a bank off the port of Granville; and that, by a proper

course of feeding, white oysters have been converted into a much

esteemed green sort, which sell at a high price. And further, a

physician at Morlaix has succeeded in crossing a big, tough species

with one that is small and delicate, and has obtained 'hybrids of

large size and of an excellent quality.'



M. Verdeil informs the Academie, that he has proved the chlorophyll,

or resinous green colouring-matter of plants, to be 'a mixture of a

perfectly colourless fat, capable of crystallising, and of a colouring

principle which presents the greatest analogies with the red colouring

principle of the blood, but which has never yet been obtained in a

perfectly pure state.' He has isolated a quantity for experiment and

examination by a chemical process, and has added another fact to the

list of those which shew a relation between animal and vegetable

functions. It has been known for some time, that certain functions of

the liver are similar to those of certain plants.



M. Marcel de Serres shews, that marine petrifactions are not

necessarily of ancient date, for they are formed at the present day in

existing seas; that shells are now being petrified in the

Mediterranean. All that is required for the result, is the presence of

certain calcareous salts in the water; repose even is not essential,

for the process goes on below, though the surface may be stormy. These

petrifactions are not, as some suppose, to be regarded as fossils, the

latter designation belonging only to 'those organic remains which are

found in geological deposits.'



Apropos of the burning of the _Amazon_: M. Dujardin relates, that a

fire broke out a short time since in a spinning-mill at Douai. It

penetrated to the carding-room; destruction seemed inevitable, and the

engines were sent for, when it was proposed to fill the blazing room

with steam. A steam tube traversed the apartment; it was broken by a

stroke with an axe, the steam rushed out, 'and in a few minutes the

conflagration was extinguished as if by enchantment.'



Attempts are still being made towards aerial navigation. M. Prosper

Meller, of Bordeaux, proposes to construct an aerial locomotive 200

metres in length, 62 wide, and 60 high, the form to be cylindrical,

with cone-shaped ends, as best adapted for speed. The outer case is to

be varnished leather, which is to be filled with gas, and to contain

five spherical balloons. A net, which covers the whole, is to support

sixteen helices by ropes, eight on each side; and to these two

galleries are to be attached, one for the machinery, the other for

passengers. The affair looks well on paper; but there is little risk

in saying, that the days of flying machines are not yet come, neither

is the scheme for aerial railways--a series of cables stretched from

one high building to another--to be regarded as any more promising.









THE SHIP'S FIRST VOYAGE.



BY MRS ALARIC WATTS.





    That ship was nought to me, nor I to her,

    But I pursued her with a lover's look.



                                        WORDSWORTH.



    A stranger in a foreign land,

      Soft music met mine ear--

    _O Richard, O mon roi_, struck up

      In flute-notes wild and clear:

    And scarce had died that plaintive strain,

      When lo! how could it be?

    Thy thunder pealed above the tide,

      'Britannia rules the sea!'

    I knew not whence the magic came,

      But sought the distant shore,

    And there a stately pageant lay

      Unseen, undreamt before:

    A gallant vessel newly dressed

      With flags and streamers gay,

    An untried wanderer on the wing,

      To cleave an untried way.



    And joy was with the multitude,

      And gladness on the earth,

    The tongue of every living thing

      Rang with a sound of mirth.

    All that stern Wisdom could desire,

      Or Fancy fair engage--

    Danger-defying youth was there,

      And calm experienced age.

    It seemed as though earth's very best

      To that brave barque were given--

    Science for nature's mysteries,

      And childlike faith for Heaven.



    How strangely is sensation formed,

      How mingled hope and fear,

    Since Mirth herself can oft repel

      And Sadness' self endear!

    Whence is it that a sigh can soothe,

      And sweetest sounds may jar?

    Those winged words my thoughts had sent

      A thousand leagues afar.

    I listened to the thrilling strain,

      Unbidden tears would start,

    The sound fell lightly on the ear,

      But heavy on the heart.

    The low breath of the summer wind

      Seemed but the siren's voice,

    In vain I chid my coward fears,

      And struggled to rejoice!



    Her gallant hearts were numbered,

      Her snowy wings were set,

    Her pilot's hand was on the helm,

      But there she lingered yet.

    The ringing laugh suspended,

      The voice of mirth was hushed,

    When the twilight's holy anthem

      In a burst of music gushed.

    Warm hearts of many nations

      Were blended in that prayer,

    And the incense that went up to heaven,

      Was surely welcomed there.

    Like rain upon the thirsting earth

      Was that sweet chant to me,

    Like a cool breeze in a desert--

      Like a gale from Araby.

    And the mental clouds, late veiling

      The charm of sea and shore,

    Rolled off like mist before the sun,

      And I was sad no more.

    Slow sailed the stately vessel,

      And slowly died the strain;

    But I knew that God was with it,









THE HARE AND THE LION: AN INDIAN POLITICAL LIBEL.





Who knows not this story? Nevertheless we publish it; for even as the

hare conquered the lion, so does the Bengalee overcome the

Englishman:--A hare sat in the jungle with his wife, and he said:

'There is our king, the lion, come into the wood, and he will devour

our children.' 'No,' said the little hare, 'for I will go to confront

him, and conquer the great lion, the king of the beasts.' Then her

husband laughed, and said: 'Intellect is power; we can die but once;

let us see what you can do.' Then the little hare, taking her little

son in her paws, jumped and jumped till she came to the lion. Then she

put down her son before his face, and put her two paws together in all

humility, and said: 'Lo! king of kings, I have brought you a

nuzzurana; oblige me by eating it. Also, I have some news to give

you.' Then the lion looked at the hare's baba, and saw it was soft and

juicy, and was pleased in his soul, and laughed, and his laugh was as

the roar of the thunder of Indro. Then he asked her news, and the

little hare replied: 'You are the sovereign of the forest, but another

has come who calls himself king of the beasts, and demands tribute.'

Then the roar of the lion shook the forest, and the little hare nearly

died with fear as he asked: 'Where is the scoundrel? Can you shew him

to me?' Then the little hare leaped along with the lion till she came

to an old well. The well was nearly full, but had no wall. And she

said: 'Look, he is hiding there in fear.' Then the lion, craning his

neck, looked and saw his own shadow, and with a fearful roar, leaped

into the well. So the little hare, with a glad heart, took up her son,

and went to her husband, and said: 'Lo! intellect is power: I have

killed the lion, the king of the beasts.'--_From the Sumochar Durpun,

a Bengalee newspaper, of the 2d August 1851._



       *       *       *       *       *



_Just Published_,



_Price 2s. 6d. sewed, 3s. Cloth, lettered_,



LIFE AND WORKS OF BURNS.--Volume IV. Edited by ROBERT CHAMBERS. This

work is now completed.



       *       *       *       *       *



_Price 6d. Paper Cover_,



CHAMBERS'S POCKET MISCELLANY: forming a LITERARY COMPANION for the

RAILWAY, the FIRESIDE, or the BUSH.



VOLUME IX.



To be continued in Monthly Volumes.



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Printed and Published by W. and E. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh.

Also sold by W. S. ORR, Amen Corner, London; D. N. CHAMBERS, 55 West

Nile Street, Glasgow; and J. M'GLASHAN, 50 Upper Sackville Street,

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End of Project Gutenberg's Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 452, by Various