Chapter XV (4)

“I will tell you the circumstances,” he said, “and you shall judge for yourself if I can avoid the duel. When talking to you of my kind old colonel, I did not tell you of his only daughter, Bertha de Bellechasse, the most beautiful and fascinating of her sex. On our return from Africa, the colonel, in his gratitude for the man who had saved his life, presented me to his wife and child, pronouncing at the same time an exaggerated encomium on my conduct. The ladies gave me their hands to kiss, and had I shed half my blood in saying that of the colonel, I should have been more than repaid by Bertha’s gracious smile, and warm expression of thanks to her father’s preserver. Madame de Bellechasse, I suspect, was about to give me her purse, but was checked by a sign from her husband, who doubtless told them, after my departure, as much as he knew of my history,—that I was a foreigner and a gentleman, whom circumstances had driven to don the coarse vest of the private dragoon. He may perhaps have added some of the romantic stories current in the regiment when I first joined. I had never been communicative, concerning my past life, which I felt was nothing to boast of; and regimental gossips had drawn upon their invention for various strange tales about the Milord Anglais. When I became domesticated in the corps, and my country was almost forgotten, these fictitious histories ceased to be repeated and fell into oblivion; but some of them were revived for the benefit of the colonel, when, after the action near Oran, he instituted inquiries concerning me amongst his officers. It was not till some weeks later, that he asked and received from me a plain, unvarnished account of my very common-place career. It is possible that the sort of mystery previously attaching to me, combined with her father’s glowing eulogiums and her own gratitude for his preservation, worked upon Bertha’s ardent and susceptible imagination, prepossessing her in my favour. For my part, I had been struck to the heart by the very first glance from the dark eyes that sparkled like diamonds beneath their lashes of sable silk; I had been captivated and fettered on the instant, by the smile of enchanting sweetness that played round her graceful lips. For a while I struggled steadfastly against the impulse to adore her; its indulgence I felt would be madness, and could result but in misery. What folly for the penniless soldier, even though time and her father’s protection should convert him into an equally penniless officer, to raise his eyes to the rich, the beautiful, the brilliant daughter of the Count de Bellechasse! Rejection, ridicule, contempt could be the sole recompense of such presumption. M. de Bellechasse, although an officer of Napoleon’s, is of old French nobility; his wealth is very great; and if he still continues to serve, it is solely from enthusiastic love of his profession. His daughter is a match for the first in the land. All these and many more such arguments did I again and again repeat to myself; but when had reason a chance against love? Repeatedly did I vow to forget the fair vision that had crossed, my path and troubled my repose, or to think of her only as the phantom of a dream, unsubstantial and unattainable. But the resolution was scarcely formed, when I found myself dwelling in rapture on her perfections, recapitulating the few gentle words she had addressed to me, recalling her voice, her look, her gesture—everything about her, even to the most minute details. One moment, in view of the precipice on whose brink I stood, I swore to shun her perilous presence, and to avert my eyes should I again find myself in it: not an hour afterwards I eagerly seized a pretext that led me to her father’s house, and afforded me the possibility of another glimpse of my idol. Such glimpses were not difficult to obtain. The colonel’s partiality to me daily increased, and when I went to him on regimental matters, and he was alone with his wife and daughter, he would receive me in the drawing room in their presence, and waiving, for the time, the difference of grade, would converse with me as affably as with an equal, and make me repeat, for the amusement of the ladies, some of our African skirmishes and adventures. Doubtless I should have avoided these dangerous interviews, but how was it to be done without an appearance of ingratitude and discourtesy? Truth to tell, I taxed my invention but little for means of escaping them. I continued to see Bertha, and at each interview my passion gathered strength. She listened with marked attention to my anecdotes of our campaigns. These I always addressed to her father or mother; but without looking at her, I could feel her eyes fixed upon me with an expression of interest, and, I at last ventured to think, of a more tender feeling. About this time the colonel frequently kept me for hours together at his house, arranging regimental papers and accounts, in a room upon the ground floor, set apart for the purpose. Within this room is another, used as a library, and thus it happened that one day, when immersed in states and muster rolls, I beheld the door open, and the fairy form of Bertha upon the threshold. She appeared confused at seeing me; I rose and bowed in silence as she passed through the apartment, but I was taken too much by surprise to have full command over myself, and doubtless my eyes said something of what my lips would gladly have spoken, for before Bertha reached the outer door, her cheeks were suffused with blushes. Again and again these meetings, sweet as transient, occurred. But I will not lose time or weary you by dwelling upon such passages. Neither could I well explain, did I attempt it, how it was that I one day found myself kneeling at Bertha’s feet, pouring forth my soul in words of passionate love, and reading with ecstasy upon her sweet countenance a blushing avowal of its return.

“The die thus cast, we abandoned ourselves to the charm of our attachment, sadly embittered by its hopelessness. Since then, I have had almost daily occupation at the colonel’s house, and Bertha has found means to afford me brief but frequent interviews. At these we discussed, but ever in vain, the possibility of breaking our secret to M. de Bellechasse. Frank and affable though he is, the colonel’s pride of birth is great, and we were well assured that the disclosure of our correspondence would produce a terrific explosion of fury, consign Bertha to the seclusion of a convent, and draw upon me his hatred and revenge. This morning Bertha came into the room, upon the usual pretext of seeking a book from the library, and the painful and perplexing topic that has long and unceasingly occupied our thoughts, was again resumed. For the first time, she had heard her father state his intention of recommending me in the strongest terms for a commission. This let in a ray of hope upon our despondency; and we resolved that, so soon as the epaulet was on my shoulder, I should hazard a confession to the colonel. The prospect of a termination to our cruel state of suspense, and the possibility, faint though it indeed was, of a result favourable to our wishes, brought a joyful gleam over Bertha’s lovely features, which have lately grown pale with anxiety. On my part, I did my utmost to inspire her with hopes I myself scarce dared to entertain, when, as she stood beside me, her hand clasped in mine, a smile of affection upon her countenance, the door suddenly opened, and, before we had time to separate, Victor de Berg, a lieutenant in my regiment, and a suitor of Bertha’s, made a step into the room. For an instant he stood like one thunderstruck, and then, without uttering a word, abruptly turned upon his heel and went out. The next minute the sound of his step in the court warned us that he had left the house.

“Overwhelmed with terror and confusion to an extent that precluded reflection, Bertha fled to her apartment, leaving me to deliberate on the best course to adopt. My mind was presently made up. The only plan was to seek Monsieur de Berg, inform him of our mutual attachment, and appeal to his honour and generosity to preserve inviolate the secret he had surprised. I hurried to his quarters, which were at no great distance. He had already arrived there, and was pacing his apartment in manifest agitation. Since our return from Africa, he had been a declared admirer of Bertha’s; by family and fortune he was an eligible suitor, and her father favoured his pretensions, contingent, however, upon his daughter’s consent. Dismissing the servant who ushered me in, he addressed me before I had time to enter upon the object of my visit.

“‘It is unnecessary,’ he said, in a voice choked with passionate emotion, as I was about to speak. ‘I can guess all you would say. A single instant informed me of the state of affairs; the half hour that has elapsed since then, has sufficed to mark out my line of conduct. Mr Oakley, I know that by birth and breeding you are above your station. You have forgotten your present position; I will follow your example so far as to waive our difference of military rank. As the friend of Colonel de Bellechasse, I ought, perhaps, instantly to tell him what I have this day learned; as his daughter’s suitor, and the son-in-law of his choice, I select another course. Your secret is safe with me. To-night you shall receive a leave of absence, entitling you to quit your uniform; and to-morrow we will meet in the wood of Vincennes, not as officer and sergeant, but as private gentlemen, with arms in our hands. The man whom Bertha de Bellechasse distinguishes by her preference, cannot be unworthy the proposal I now make to you. Do you accept it?’

“I was astounded by the words. Accustomed to the iron rigidity of military discipline, and to the broad gulf placed between officer and soldier by the king’s commission, the possibility of a duel between M. de Berg and myself, although it would have been no unnatural occurrence between rivals of equal rank, had never occurred to me. For a moment I could not comprehend the singular and unheard-of proposal; but a glance at my challenger’s countenance, on which the passions agitating him were plainly legible, solved the mystery of his motives. He was a prey to jealous fury; and, moreover, the chivalrous generosity of his character, combined, perhaps, with the fear of irretrievably offending Bertha, prevented his pursuing the course most persons, in his place, would have adopted, and revealing to Colonel de Bellechasse his daughter’s predilection for an inferior. By a duel he hoped to rid himself of a favoured rival, whom he might replace in Bertha’s heart. It was not necessary she should know by whose hand I had fallen. Such were the reasons that flashed across me, explaining his strange offer of a personal encounter. Doubtless, I defined them more clearly than he himself did. I believe he spoke and acted upon the first vague impulse of a passionate nature, racked by jealousy, and thirsting for revenge upon its cause. I saw at once, however, that by accepting the duel I virtually secured his silence; and overjoyed to preserve my secret, and shield Bertha from her father’s wrath at so cheap a price as the exposure of my life, I eagerly accepted M. de Berg’s proposal, thanking him warmly for his generosity in thus repudiating the stern prejudices of military rank.

“After fixing hour and weapons, I left him, and then only did the difficulty of finding a second occur to me. For obvious reasons, I could not ask the assistance of a comrade; and out of my regiment I had not a single friend in Paris. In my difficulty I thought of you. Our brief acquaintance scarcely warrants my request; but the kindness you have already shown me encourages the hope that you will not refuse me this service. M. de Berg is a man of strict honour, and you may depend on your name and share in the affair remaining undivulged. Even were they known, you, as a foreigner and civilian, would in no way be compromised by the relative position of my opponent and myself, which renders me liable, should the affair get wind, to a court-martial and severe punishment.”

Although opposed to duelling, except under circumstances of extraordinary aggravation, I had been more than once unavoidably mixed up in affairs of the kind; and the apprehension of unpleasant results from accession to Oakley’s request, did not for an instant weigh with me. I was greatly struck by the romantic and chivalrous conduct of M. de Berg, and felt strong sympathy with Oakley, in the painful and most peculiar position into which his early follies and unfortunate attachment had brought him. Very brief deliberation was necessary to decide me to act as his second. There was no time to lose, and I begged him to put me at once in possession of the details of the affair, and to tell me where I could find De Berg’s second. I was not sorry to learn that it was unnecessary for me to see him, and that all preliminaries were in fact arranged. The duel not being one of those that the intervention of friends may prevent, and Oakley having already fixed time and place with his antagonist, my functions became limited to attending him on the ground. It grew late, and Oakley left me for the night. In order to preserve my incognito in the business, for I had no desire to figure in newspaper paragraphs, or to be arraigned before a criminal tribunal, even with certainty of acquittal, we agreed to meet at eight o’clock the next morning, at a certain coffee-house, a considerable distance from my lodgings, whence a cabriolet would convey us to the place of rendezvous.

It was a fresh and beautiful spring morning, when Oakley and myself descended from our hack vehicle, near the little village of St Mandé, and struck into the Bois de Vincennes. There had been rain during the night, and the leaves and grass were heavy with water drops. The sky was bright blue, and the sun shone brilliantly; but over the ground and between the tree trunks floated a light mist, like the smoke of a skirmish, growing thinner as it ascended, and dissipated before it reached the topmost branches. At some distance within the wood, we turned into a secluded glade, seated ourselves upon a fallen tree, and waited. We had come faster than we expected, and were fully a quarter of an hour before our time; but in less than five minutes we heard the sound of steps and voices, soon succeeded by the appearance of three gentlemen, one of whom, by his military gait and aspect, more than by the moustaches so commonly worn in France, I conjectured to be the officer of Chasseurs. In one of his companions I recognised, after a brief puzzle of memory, a well-known and popular _littérateur_; doubtless M. de Berg, from motives of delicacy, had not chosen to ask the aid of a brother officer in his duel with a military inferior. The black coat and grave aspect of the third stranger sufficiently indicated the doctor, who, on reaching the ground separated himself from his companions and retired a little to one side. The others bowed to Oakley and myself. M. de Berg’s second stepped forward, and I advanced to meet him. I was particularly pleased with the appearance of Oakley’s antagonist. He was a young man of six or seven and twenty, of very dark complexion, flashing black eyes, and a countenance expressive of daring resolution and a fiery temperament. I should have taken him for an Italian, and I afterwards learned that he was a native of Provence, born within a stone’s-throw of Italy. I never saw an ardent and enthusiastic character more strongly indicated by physiognomy, than in the case of this young officer; and I began to understand and explain to myself the feelings that had impelled him to challenge the man preferred by the mistress of his choice, even although that man’s position was such as, in the eyes of society, forbade the encounter.

More as a matter of duty than with expectation of success, I asked De Berg’s second if there were no chance of this meeting terminating peaceably. He shook his head with a decided gesture.

“Impossible,” he said. “I am ignorant of the cause of quarrel: I know not even your principal’s name. My friend, who may possibly be equally unknown to you, has asked my assistance, pledging himself that the duel is a just and honourable one, which cannot be avoided, but whose motive he has reasons to conceal even from me. Satisfied with this assurance, reposing implicit confidence in his word, I inquire no further. Moreover, once upon the ground, it is difficult creditably to arrange an affair of this kind.”

I bowed without replying. The ground was measured, the pistols loaded, the men placed. The toss-up of a five-franc piece gave the first-fire to M. de Berg. His bullet grazed Oakley’s cheek, but so slightly as scarcely to draw blood. Oakley fired in return. The officer staggered, turned half round, and fell to the ground, the bone of his right leg broken below the knee. His second, the doctor, and I, ran forward to his assistance. As we did so, three soldiers, who it afterwards appeared had witnessed, from their concealment amongst the trees, the whole of the proceedings, emerged from the shelter of the foliage, and walked across one end of the open space where the duel had taken place, casting curious and astonished glances in our direction. They had not yet disappeared, when De Berg, whom we had raised into a sitting posture, caught sight of them. He started, and uttered an exclamation of vexation, then looked at Oakley, who had left his ground and stood near to the wounded man.

“Do you see that?” said De Berg, hurriedly, wincing as he spoke, under the hands of the surgeon, who by this time had cut off his boot and trousers, and was manipulating the damaged limb.

The soldiers were now again lost to view in the thick wood. It occurred to me that two of them wore dragoon uniforms.

Oakley bowed his head assentingly.

“You had better be off, and instantly,” said the lieutenant. “Go to England or Germany. You have leave for a week. I will procure you a prolongation; but be off at once, and get away from Paris. Those fellows have recognised us, and will not be prevented talking.”

He spoke in broken sentences, and with visible effort, for the surgeon was all the while poking and probing at the leg in a most uncomfortable manner, and De Berg was pale from pain and loss of blood. Oakley looked on with an expression of regret, and showed no disposition to the hasty flight recommended him.

“Well, doctor,” said the officer, with a painful smile, “my dancing is spoilt, eh?”

“_Bagatelle!_” replied the man of lancets. “Clean fracture, neat wound, well as ever in a month. Your blood’s too hot, _mon lieutenant_, you’ll be all the better for losing a little of it.”

“There, there,” said De Berg kindly to Oakley, “no harm done, you see—to me at least. I should be sorry that any ensued to you. Away with you at once. Take him away, sir,” he added to me, “he risks his life by this delay.”

I took Oakley’s arm, and led him unresistingly away. He was deep in thought, and scarcely replied to one or two observations I addressed to him whilst walking out of the wood. Our cabriolet was waiting; we got in, and took the road to Paris. “I hope you intend following M. de Berg’s advice,” said I, “and leaving the country for a while, until you are certain this affair does not become known. He evidently fears its getting wind through those soldiers.”

“And he is right,” said Oakley. “Two of them are of my squadron, and of those two, one is a bad character whom I have frequently had to punish. He will assuredly not lose this opportunity of revenge.”

“Then you must be off at once to England. My passport is already countersigned, and you can have it. There is not much similarity in our age and appearance, but that will never be noticed.”

“A thousand thanks. But I think I shall remain in Paris.”

“And be brought to a court-martial? To what punishment are you liable?”

“Death, according to the letter of the law. The French articles of war are none of the mildest. But, under the circumstances, I daresay I should get off with a few years’ imprisonment, followed, perhaps, by serving in a condemned regiment.”

“A pleasant alternative, indeed,” said I.

“I am no way anxious to incur it,” replied Oakley; “but, in fact I am as safe in Paris as any where, at least for a day or two; and possibly M. de Berg may find means of securing the silence of the witnesses. At any rate, it will be time enough to-morrow or the next day to make a run of it. I cannot go upon the instant. There is one person I must see or communicate with before I leave.”

I guessed whom he meant, and saw, from his manner, he was resolved to remain, so used no farther arguments to dissuade him. Before entering Paris, we dismissed our vehicle and separated; he betook himself to a small retired lodging, where he had taken up his quarters since the previous evening, and I went home to resume my preparations for departure. I remained in-doors till after dinner, and then repaired to a well-known coffee-house, frequented chiefly by military men. As I had feared, the strange duel between Victor de Berg and a sergeant of his regiment was already the talk of the town. It had been immediately reported by the soldiers who had seen it; M. de Berg was under close arrest, and the police were diligently seeking his antagonist. I left the café, jumped into a cabriolet, and made all speed to Oakley’s lodging. He was out. I went again, as late as eleven o’clock, but still he was absent; and I was obliged to content myself with leaving a note, containing a word of caution and advice, which I prudently abstained from signing. I then went home and to bed, not a little uneasy about him. The next morning I breakfasted at the coffee-house, in order to get the news; and the first thing I heard was intelligence of Oakley’s capture. He had been taken the previous evening, in the neighbourhood of the colonel’s house, around which he doubtless hovered in hopes to obtain sight or speech of Bertha.

Few courts-martial ever excited a stronger interest in the French military world than those held upon Lieutenant Victor de Berg and the _maréchal de logis_ Francis Oakley. The case was one almost unparalleled in the annals of military offences. A duel between an officer and a sergeant was a thing previously unheard-of; and the mystery in which its causes were enveloped, aggravated the universal curiosity and excitement. The offenders resolutely refused to throw light upon the subject; it had been vainly endeavoured to ascertain their seconds; the surgeon who attended on the ground had been sought for equally in vain; after placing the first dressings he had disappeared, and another had been summoned to the sufferer’s bedside. The wound proved of little importance, and, with the assistance of crutches, De Berg was soon able to get out. Upon their trials, he and Oakley persisted in the same system of defence. When off duty, they said, they had met, in society, and had had a dispute on a subject unconnected with the service; the result had been an agreement to settle their difference with pistols. Oakley refused to state from whom the challenge proceeded; but Lieutenant de Berg proclaimed himself the aggressor, and, aware that the sentence would weigh far more heavily on Oakley than on himself, generously assumed a large share of blame. As to the cause of quarrel, names of the seconds, and all other particulars, both culprits maintained a determined silence, which no endeavours of friends or judges could induce them to break. Colonel de Bellechasse and various other officers visited Oakley in his prison, and did their utmost to penetrate the mystery. Their high opinion both of him and De Berg, convinced them there was something very extraordinary and unusual at the bottom of the business, and that its disclosure would tell favourably for the prisoners. But nothing could be got out of the obstinate duellists, who called no witnesses, except to character. Of these, a host attended, for both Oakley and De Berg; and nothing could be stronger than the laudatory testimonials given them by their superiors and comrades. These, doubtless, had weighed with the court, for its sentence was considered very lenient. Oakley was condemned to five years’ imprisonment, for attempting the life of his officer; De Berg was reprimanded for his forgetfulness of discipline, in provoking or consenting to a personal encounter with a subordinate, was removed from his regiment, and placed in non-activity, which, under the circumstances, was equivalent to dismissal from the service, less the disgrace.

I remained in Paris till the sentence of the court was known. Although by no means desirous to be brought forward in the business, I was willing to waive my repugnance if, by so doing I could benefit Oakley. With some difficulty I obtained access to him, begged him to prescribe a course for my adoption, and frankly to tell me if my evidence could be of service. He assured me it could not; there, was no question of the fairness of the duel, and the sole crime was in the breach of military discipline. This crime, my testimony could in no way palliate. He requested me to see M. de Berg, and to tell him that, to avoid the possibility of the cause of the duel becoming known, he should refuse to answer questions, plead guilty to the charge, and state, as sole extenuation, that the quarrel occurred off duty, and had no connexion with military matters. This commission I duly executed. Another which he intrusted to me I found greater difficulty in performing. It was to procure information concerning Bertha de Bellechasse. After some unsuccessful attempts, I at last ascertained that she had been for some days confined to her bed by indisposition. This was sad news for Oakley, and I was loath to convey them to him, but I had promised him the exact truth. Fortunately I was able, to tell him at the same time that the young lady’s illness was not of a dangerous character, although the species of nervous languor which had suddenly and unaccountably seized her, caused great alarm to her parents, and especially to the colonel, who idolised his only child. Oakley was sadly depressed on learning the effect upon Bertha of his imprisonment and dangerous position, and made me promise to keep him informed of the variations in her state of health. This I did; but the bulletins were not of a very satisfactory nature, and in Oakley’s pale and haggard countenance upon the day of trial, attributed by the spectators to uneasiness about his own fate, I read the painful and wearing anxiety the illness of his mistress occasioned him.

The sentence was no sooner published, than every effort was made to procure Oakley’s pardon, or, failing that, a commutation of his punishment. Colonel de Bellechasse used all the interest he could command; Monsieur de Berg set his friends to work; and I, on my part, did every thing in my power to obtain mercy for the unfortunate young man. All our endeavours were fruitless. The minister of war refused to listen to the applications by which he was besieged. In a military view, the crime was flagrant, subversive of discipline, and especially dangerous as a precedent in an army where promotion from the ranks continually placed between men, originally from the same class of society and long comrades and equals, the purely conventional barrier of the epaulet. The court-martial, taking into consideration the peculiar character of the offence, had avoided the infliction of an ignominious punishment. Oakley was not sentenced to the _boulet_, or to be herded with common malefactors; his doom was to simple imprisonment. And that doom the authorities refused to mitigate.

Some days had elapsed since Oakley’s condemnation. Returning weary and dispirited from a final attempt to interest an influential personage in his behalf, I was startled by a smart tap upon the shoulder, and looking round, beheld the shrewd, good-humoured countenance of Mr Anthony Scrivington, a worthy man and excellent lawyer, who had long had entire charge of my temporal affairs. Upon this occasion, however, I felt small gratification at sight of him, for I had a lawsuit pending, on account of which I well knew I ought to have been in England a month previously, and should have been, but for this affair of Oakley’s, which had interested and occupied me to the exclusion of my personal concerns. My solicitor’s unexpected appearance made me apprehend serious detriment from my neglect. He read my alarm upon my countenance.

“Ah!” said he, “conscience pricks you, I see. You know I have been expecting you these six weeks. No harm done, however; we shall win the day, not a doubt of it.”

“Then you are not come about my business?”

“Not the least, although I shall take you back with me, now I have found you. A very different affair brings me over. By the bye, you may perhaps help me. You know all Paris. I am come to look for an Englishman.”

“You need not look long,” said I, glancing at a party of unmistakeable Britons, who stood talking broad Cockney on the Boulevard.

“Aye, but not _any_ Englishman. I want one in particular, the heir to a pretty estate of eight or ten thousand a-year. He was last heard of in Paris, three years ago, and since then all trace of him is lost. ’Tis an odd affair enough. No one could have expected his coming to the estate. A couple of years since, there were two young healthy men in his way. Both have died off,—and he is the owner of Oakley Manor.”

“Of what?” I exclaimed, in a tone of voice that made Scrivington stagger back, and for a moment drew the eyes of the whole street upon us. “What did you say?”

“Oakley Manor,” stammered the alarmed attorney, settling his well-brushed hat, which had almost fallen from his head with the start he had given. “Old Valentine Oakley died the other day, and his nephew Francis comes into the estate. But what on earth is the matter with you?”

For sole reply I grasped his arm, and dragged him into my house, close to which we had arrived. There, five minutes cleared up every thing, and convinced Scrivington and myself that the man he sought now languished, a condemned criminal, in a French military prison.

It is unnecessary to dwell upon what all will conjecture; superfluous to detail the active steps that were at once taken in Oakley’s behalf, with very different success, now that the unknown sergeant had suddenly assumed the character of an English gentleman of honourable name and ample fortune. Persons of great influence and diplomatic weight, who before had refused to espouse the cause of an obscure adventurer in a foreign service, suffered themselves to be prevailed upon, and interceded efficaciously for the master of Oakley Manor. It was even said that a letter was written on the subject by an English general of high distinction to an old opponent in arms. Be that as it may, all difficulties were at length overcome, and Oakley received his free pardon and discharge from the French service. And that equal measure of clemency might be shown, De Berg, upon the same day, was allowed to resume his place in his regiment.

I would tell how the news of her lover’s pardon proved more potent than all the efforts of the faculty to bring back joy to Bertha’s heart and the roses to her check; how Colonel Count de Bellechasse, on being informed of the attachment between his daughter and Oakley, and of the real cause of the duel, at first stormed and was furious, but gradually allowed himself to be mollified, and finally gave his consent to their union; how De Berg exchanged into a regiment serving in Africa, and has since gained laurels and high rank in the pursuit of the intangible Abd-el-Kader. But I have no time to expatiate upon any of these interesting matters, for I leave town to-morrow morning for Oakley Manor, to pay my annual visit to MY ENGLISH ACQUAINTANCE.

OUR WEST INDIAN COLONIES.

It is full time that the nation should be roused to an acute sense of the perilous position in which it has been placed, by a hitherto unparalleled union of quackery, conceit, and imbecility. The system of legislation which we have been pursuing for many years, under the guidance of rival statesmen, each attempting to outdo the other in subserviency to popular prejudice, is a manifest and admitted departure, on almost every point, from the principles of that older system through which we attained the culminating point of our greatness. We do not complain of such changes as are inevitable from altered circumstances, and in some degree from the altered spirit of the times—but we protest against social changes, forced on, as if in mere wantonness, against warning and against experience, either for the sake of exhibiting the dexterity of the operator, or for the poorer and meaner object of attaining the temporary possession of power. We look in vain, both in the past and present Cabinet, for that firm purpose, prescience, and honesty which were considered, in old times, the leading characteristics of the British statesman. We can see, in the drama of late events, nothing but the miserable spectacle of party degenerating into coterie, and coterie prostituting itself to agitation and corrupt influence, for the sake of the retention of office. It may be that such is the inevitable result of the triumph of the so-called liberal principles; and, indeed, the example of America would go far to prove that such principles cannot coexist along with a high state of political morality and honour; but that, at all events, is no excuse for the conduct of the men who, reared under better training, have led us insensibly to the path down which we are now proceeding with such recklessness and with such precipitation.

The commercial crisis of the last year may well furnish the electors of these kingdoms with some topics for their anxious and solemn consideration. That momentous and uncalled-for change in the currency, effected by the Acts of 1844, is already brought under the active notice of the legislature; and though the process may be tedious—for the whole subject-matter, it seems, is to pass through the weary alembic of a committee—we are not without hopes that the common sense of the nation will be vindicated in this important particular. Recent events, too, have somewhat shaken the faith of many in the efficacy of that celebrated panacea called Free-trade, without the promise of a foreign reciprocity. A few more quarterly accounts, with their inevitable deficits, and an augmentation of the income-tax, will serve still further to demonstrate the true nature of the blessings which we are destined to enjoy under the system hatched by Cobden, and adopted by Russell and by Peel. Even now the credit of the great free-trade apostle, formerly so extensive, is somewhat impaired by the novel views he has promulgated for contracting the expenditure of the State. The true means, as we are now told, for insuring the success of the experiment of Free-trade, are the disbandment of our standing army, and the abolition of our war navy; and pitiful stuff to this effect has actually been enunciated by the man to whom Sir Robert Peel avowed himself indebted for the most important lesson in political economy which he had learned throughout the course of a long—would we could add a consistent—career of statesmanship! Well, indeed, might some or the old friends and supporters of Mr Cobden recoil in astonishment from this display of weak and miserable fatuity! Well might they stand aghast, and even doubt the evidence of their senses, at hearing such doleful folly from the lips of their quondam oracle! If this is all the wisdom which the Manchester manufacturer has gathered in the course of his recent travels—if these are the deductions he has made, the fruits he has collected from Barcelona banquets and Leghorn demonstrations, we give him joy of his augmented knowledge of the world, his increased political sagacity, and his extended experience of the motives and actions of mankind!

Mr Cobden, we shrewdly suspect, has served his turn, and must now submit quietly and gradually to lapse into the obscurity out of which he was borne by the force of circumstances. He can afford to do it; and the nation, we believe, will not think the less of him for retiring under the cover of his former victory. On his part the contest was strenuously, and we believe honestly, conducted. The principles he advocated became triumphant, not through the will of the nation, or the conviction of the majority of its representatives, but through a singular combination of craft, weakness, and ambition. How those principles, when reduced to practice, and in full operation, may work, is the problem which all of us are trying in our different spheres to solve. Hitherto the results of the experiment have been a palpable national loss, with extensive individual suffering, and a diminution of employment to the labouring classes; and though other causes may for the present be adduced as tending to these calamitous circumstances, time, the great expositor of human affairs, must soon decide in favour of the one party or of the other.

We have thought it our duty of late to speak out so strongly and so fully on the subject of the internal commercial state of Great Britain, that we need not, on the present occasion, resume the argument, although that is far from exhausted. Indeed, our intention in the present article is to entreat the attention of the people of this country, and of Parliament, to a case which will brook no delay,—which is of imminent and paramount interest to us all; and which, if not now considered as justice and humanity demand,—if not speedily adjusted, without the interposition of those formalities and delays which are the last refuge of a tottering ministry,—must not only entail the ruin of our oldest, our fairest, and our most productive colonies, but sacrifice British capital already invested, on the faith of public honesty, to an enormous extent, and finally leave a blot upon our national honour. It is after the most careful review of the whole circumstances and evidences of the case,—after the perusal of almost every document of authority which could throw light upon the subject,—after personal communication with parties whose means of knowledge are unequalled, and whose high character places them beyond the suspicion of any thing like self-interest or dissimulation,—that we deliberately state our opinion, _that not only are our West Indian and sugar growing American colonies at this moment in imminent danger of being abandoned; but, through the course of reckless legislation pursued by her Majesty’s present Ministers_, THE SLAVE TRADE, _in all its horrors, has received direct and prodigious encouragement_.

We do hope and trust, that, notwithstanding all the political slang and misrepresentation with which, of late years, hired and uneducated adventurers have inundated the country, it is not necessary to point out to the thoughtful and well-disposed portion of our countrymen the extreme importance of maintaining the relations which have hitherto subsisted between Great Britain and her colonies. These relations have been notoriously the envy of every maritime state of Europe; they have proved invaluable to us in times of difficulty and danger; and in peace they have contributed greatly to our wealth, our commerce, and our aggrandisement. In the words of a colonial writer, whose pamphlet is now lying before us,—

“Great Britain had for ages acted on the grand principle of creating
a world for herself out of the countries of each hemisphere, to
which her ships might carry the treasures of her factories and
mines, and from which, in return, they might bring the products of
each clime, not as from a foreign state, but an integral part of the
empire. Her colonies fostered her marine establishment, which again
united the most distant of her territories with the parent country
in one mighty whole; (free trade substitutes foreign nations for
colonies, with what result the world will see;) affording all the
advantages which could be derived from trading with other nations in
different parts of the world, without any of the draw-backs
necessarily attending commercial intercourse, liable to interruption
from war, or the capricious policy of people having different
manners and customs from our own. She regulated this trade as she
thought proper, her colonies going hand-in-hand with her, and,
excepting in one unhappy instance, that of the Americans, where she
unjustly attempted to take their money to pay her expenses, concord
and prosperity marked the career of the nation and its dependencies.
In an evil hour her manufacturers, elated with their good fortune,
began to dream of making cloth for the whole globe. Political
economists, instigated by them, advanced the specious and deceitful
doctrines of free trade. The very phrase has a catching sound to men
who are not disposed to study the interests of one country as
opposed to those of another, and the belief in the infallibility of
tenets so strenuously recommended gaining ground, until it became
too strong for the government of the country, the humiliating
spectacle was presented to the nation of a minister, who during a
long public career, had been the most zealous opponent of the new
doctrines, proposing to carry them into effect.”[8]

Footnote 8:

_Thoughts on British Guiana._ By a Planter. 2d Edition. Demerara,
1847.

We now arrived at the point,—or rather we had reached it in 1846,—when free trade interests, and those of colonial establishments, came into direct and unquestionable collision. The Whig party, taking their stand upon the maxim of “buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market,” thought fit to extend to the article of sugar the same immunity which Sir Robert Peel had previously bestowed upon corn. The Sugar Act, which received the royal assent upon the 18th August 1846, was, at all events, a bold and a decided measure. It utterly repudiated the principle laid down in former Sugar Acts, the last of which, contained in the Statute Book, (24th April 1845,) broadly recognised the distinction between sugars which were the produce of free and of slave labour. This distinction is now utterly and entirely done away with. There is, indeed, attached to the act, a schedule which, until the year 1851, provides for a reduced sliding scale of differential duties in favour of the British colonist. Thus, in the article of sugar, muscovado or clayed, there is a difference of duty, for the present year, in favour of the colonies, of six shillings per cwt., which is to decrease at the rate of one shilling and sixpence per annum, until the equalisation is effected. This difference, however, is, as we shall undertake to show, at the present moment merely nominal; and, even were it otherwise, utterly insufficient and unjust. But, at present, let us attend to the principle of the later act, which, as we apprehend, embodies two positions.

1st, That the sugar-growing colonies of Great Britain stand in need of no protection whatever; and, 2dly, That it is wrong to put any prohibitory duty in the way of the free use and consumption of slave-grown sugar in this country.

The first position is, of course, a matter of statistics, which we shall argue exclusively upon that ground. There are, indeed, certain topics connected with it, bearing less or more upon questions of public faith and general expediency, which we cannot entirely throw aside; but we shall attempt, if possible, to avoid all declamation, and to give a plain and distinct statement of the facts, as they have reached us through various channels. The second position involves questions of a more serious nature. We have, hitherto, believed that if any Briton were deliberately asked the question, what principle or what act of universal philanthropy and benevolence he was most proud of as displaying the Christian character of his country, he would, without hesitation, refer to the struggles and sacrifices which have been made for the abolition of slavery throughout the world, and more especially to the stringent and costly measures adopted by Great Britain for putting down the infamous and most inhuman traffic in human flesh and blood. We say that, hitherto, such has been our belief, and most devoutly do we wish that we had no cause whatever to alter it. But we cannot look at the complexion of the late measures, and at their notorious results, without being convinced that the race for power, and the thirst after mammon, which are daily becoming more and more undisguised in the political movements and revolutionary legislation of this country, are weaning us from our finer and our humaner instincts, destroying our once generous sympathies, and rendering us wilfully blind to our duties to God and man, whenever a temporary interest appears thrown into the opposite scale. Of these two positions let us now address ourselves to the first, not because it is in any degree the more important, but because, very unfairly, it has been made the excuse and the palliation for the other. The two positions, indeed, are so interwoven, as to be in some respects entirely inseparable.

It is hardly necessary here to do more than remind our readers of the great and generous effort made by this country for the abolition of slavery in our colonies. For that purpose the nation agreed, without a murmur, to pay the large sum of twenty millions sterling—a sacrifice to principle and philanthropy which every one must allow to be unparalleled in the annals of the world. At the same time we must not allow our praise or admiration of this act to hurry us into extravagance or exaggeration. The sum of twenty millions so granted was not a boon, but merely compensation to a class of British subjects for the compulsory surrender of a property which the law entitled them to hold. The institution of slavery in the colonies, be it specially remembered, was not the work of the planters, but of the British nation and crown. The lands of Jamaica and other West Indian colonies were originally patented on the special condition that they should be cultivated by slaves, for the promotion of the national wealth; and the policy so originated was continued under the sanction of laws equally sacred with those which relate to any other species of property whatever. Nay, more, it was from Jamaica, and not from the mother country, that the first proposals for a partial suppression or cessation of the slave-trade proceeded. The importations from Africa had become so great, that the people of that colony requested that for some time the trade might be stopped; and their petitions were rejected, on the ground that any such measure would be injurious to the mercantile interests of England. But at last, to use the words of the writer whom we have already quoted—

“The country became aware of the cruelty and injustice of that
infamous traffic, and abolished it. Years afterwards, she awoke as
from a dream, and began to abuse the planters for possessing slaves;
declared they had no right to hold them in bondage (although she
sold those slaves to them;) had them valued by commissioners whom
she appointed; paid eight shillings in the pound of this valuation,
and set them free, without any consideration whatever for the landed
property, buildings, and machinery, amounting to much more than the
aggregate price of the slaves, which were to be rendered useless and
valueless from want of labourers. The appraisement by those
commissioners, as directed by the Act, was based on the average
sales in each colony for eight years preceding the passing of the
bill, which was in 1833. The value of the slave property was thus
distinctly ascertained. The land, buildings, and machinery were not
taken into consideration, because neither the Parliament nor the
people admitted that they were to be placed in jeopardy by the
emancipation of the slaves. On the contrary, an opinion prevailed
that, with a free population, the planters would be more prosperous
than they had ever been.”

Of the inadequacy of this compensation, however large it may appear upon paper, there cannot be a doubt. Enormous sums had been expended in the cultivation of the estates, in the building of works, and the transportation of machinery, all of which were jeopardied, and, as the sequel has proved, most frightfully deteriorated in consequence of the measure. But the public demand that slavery should cease for ever throughout the British dominions was peremptory; and, in pursuance of this laudable desire, the government of the day did not hesitate to adopt a course which will ever be a dangerous precedent; to

“Wrest once the law to their authority:
And for a great right do a little wrong.”

“This frightful experiment,” as it was termed by Lord Stanley, then colonial secretary, was therefore decidedly of the nature of a compulsory bargain, forced by the people of Great Britain, no doubt from most praiseworthy motives, upon the holders of lands and slaves in the colonies. The terms of that bargain ought to have been adhered to by Parliament with the strictest good faith and scrupulosity. They had, on the part of the nation, expended a sum of twenty millions upon an experiment, the success or failure of which involved an amount of property which it would be very difficult to estimate, but certainly not short of two hundred millions sterling. The greater portion of this, be it remarked, was British capital, expended under the sanction and with the full consent of the British Government; and no one can doubt the fact that so large an interest as that was never before put in peril for the sake of any experiment whatever. Still it was made; and we maintain that the voluntary payment of the twenty millions gave the Government or people of this country no shadow of a right to depart from one iota of the bargain which they had forced the colonists to accept. The Act of 1833, which emancipated the slaves, also provided that, for six years more, they should remain in a state of apprenticeship, obviously for the purpose of preventing any violent outbreak, or an entire cessation of that labour which hitherto had been compulsory. The intermediate period, considering the risk which was incurred, was by no means a long one. It was not a boon to the planters, but a distinct condition, from which no consideration whatever should have induced the Government to swerve.

We need not detain our readers with any account of the manner in which emancipation was carried out. It was submitted to by the colonists, not without apprehension, but in the best possible spirit. Every thing was done to facilitate the plans of Government; and on the 1st of August 1834, there was no longer a slave throughout the whole of the British dominions. In closing that eventful session of the Jamaica House of Assembly, the Governor, Lord Mulgrave, used the following terms:—“In conclusion, I must express my firm belief that, in your future difficulties, your ready recognition of the natural rights of your fellow men will meet its best reward in the revived diffusion of national sympathy, and the cheerfully continued extension of British protection.” These are honeyed words—let us now see how the promise has been kept.

Immediately after the Emancipation Act was passed, the produce of the West Indian estates began rapidly to decline, and their value to be correspondingly depreciated. This was the inevitable consequence of the abridgment of the working hours, and of the withdrawal of a great number of labourers altogether from plantation employment. In fact, the want of adequate labour began to be felt most painfully throughout the colonies. Notwithstanding this the planters went on, making every exertion they could, under peculiarly difficult circumstances.