Chapter XV (6)

The impulse which the government measure of 1846 has given to the slave trade in every part of the world is something perfectly enormous; but its mischievous and inhuman effects will best be understood by a reference to ascertained facts. Prior to 1846, the traffic in slaves between the African coast and the Spanish colonies had been gradually declining, and had in fact almost disappeared. The exclusion of slave-grown sugars from our home market had nearly forced the Cuban proprietors into a different system, and arrangements were pending in that colony for the emancipation of the slaves, just at the time when Lord John Russell came forward in favour of the chain and the lash. The consequence was, that in the first instance the Cubans withdrew their slaves from the coffee cultivation, which was the least profitable, and set them to work at the sugar-canes. The price of the negro consequently rose, and the trade is prospering abundantly.

So much for Cuba. Let us now see what is doing in Brazil. The following article is extracted from the _Jamaica Times_, of 8th. October last.

“Though it may be an act of supererogation to accumulate arguments
in support of the proposition that an equalisation of the sugar
duties must necessarily give an impetus to the slave-trade, it may
not be amiss to point out such instances which may come before us of
an illustrative tendency. In a communication recently addressed by
Dr Lang to the British public, it is stated as an unquestionable
fact, that a great stimulus to the cultivation of sugar in Brazil
had been afforded by the late change in the duties; and consequently
that the slave trade, which had been rapidly declining for some time
past, had revived as briskly as ever, especially at Pernambuco,
which is by far the most conveniently situated port in the empire
for this traffic—being so far to the northward and eastward, and
consequently so favourably situated for taking advantage of the
south-east trade wind, that a vessel from that port may often run
across to the coast, as it is called, that is to Africa, in half the
time she would take either from Bahia or Rio Janeiro. A schooner of
one hundred and twenty tons, the _Gallant Mary of Baltimore_, he
added, had arrived at Pernambuco a day or two before his arrival,
and was then lying in the harbour for sale; and during the short
period of his stay she was purchased for seven hundred and fifty
pounds by a slave merchant in the place, and was to be despatched to
the coast a day or two after he sailed for England.

“This is one instance of the manner in which the increased
consumption of slave-grown sugar is acting as a premium to the slave
trader. We offer a second in the fact recently communicated from
Africa itself, that the slave-trade on the west coast was never more
brisk than it is at present; that thirteen hundred and fifteen
slaves had been landed from slave vessels at Sierra Leone from May
4th to June 28th of this year; that the last slaver taken was a
Brazilian brig, although for deception called the Beulah of
Portland, U.S.—she was sent in by the Waterwitch: this vessel had
five hundred and ten slaves on board.

“Nor is this all; for we have just learned from an authentic source,
that Crab Island (a small tributary island lying to the eastward of
Porto Rico) is now in course of being settled for the first time,
for the cultivation of sugar; and that very recently one of the
proprietors—not content, it would appear, with the customary mode of
obtaining slaves—had succeeded in removing a number from one of the
French islands adjacent,—a proceeding which, as might reasonably be
expected, has caused the question to be raised among the _amis des
noires_, whether it is legal to deport slaves from any French
colony. Putting this point of the case, however, out of view, we
have unquestionable evidence of the increasing importance of slave
cultivation, at the very moment when the free labour colonies are
struggling to maintain their very existence. We only beseech
ministers to look upon these two pictures—on the one hand slavery
triumphant; on the other, freedom struggling in the dust—and then
persist, if they can, in the line of policy which has produced such
results.”

But it is needless to multiply examples. The encouragement has been given; the increased importation of slaves to the foreign colonies has taken place; and the planters of Cuba and Brazil are already preparing for their monopoly. The following figures, set forth in a late official return, speak volumes:—

1845. 1847.
Machinery exported from England to Cuba, £4807 £17,644
Ditto from do. to Brazil, 17,130 35,123

£21,937 £52,767

And this independently of such machinery as has been bought up and transported from our colonies!

Such have been the effects of the recent Whig measure; and it is for Parliament to decide whether we shall incur the national reproach of continuing any longer in a course so heartless, so unwise, and so inhuman. An attempt may be made, as in the case of the currency laws, to shelve the consideration of the sugar duties, through the convenient medium of a committee. If so, the fate of our colonies may be considered as finally sealed. This is not a case that admits of delay, nor are parties actually at issue upon disputed matters of fact. The whole question resolves itself into this—is free trade to be allowed to run riot, and are our oldest colonies to be given up to it immediately as a sacrifice? A very intelligent correspondent writes, with reference to protective measures:—

“It may be the interest of the ministry to allow this appointment of a committee, as for months they will shelve the question. These months to us are of the utmost value, as during the crop, which commences in January and ends in June in the West Indian colonies, we must decide whether we are to make any preparations for the future. If no concessions are to be made, ABANDONMENT _is the only course to save further loss_. I believe the West Indians want no committee on their case. The hardships must be admitted. What we require is a fair, but not a prohibitory duty; such a one only as will put us on a footing to compete with those parties who enjoy what we are denied—_an abundance of cheap and regular labour_. This protection must be granted until we have the labour, and also some means of commanding its regularity.”

In conclusion, we would ask the free-traders themselves, whether the course which has been pursued towards these colonies is equitable or defensible, even on their own acknowledged principles? How far do they intend or propose that these principles should be carried? Is all traffic, even that in human flesh and blood, to be free? If so, let us come to a distinct understanding on the point. If the code of morals maintained by Mr Cobden is of so truly philanthropic and catholic a nature—if “buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market” is to be adopted throughout the world as a universal and unexceptionable rule—then, in the name of common sense, let the free-traders be consistent to their creed, let emancipation become a dead letter, and let the slave markets of Africa be thrown open to every customer! Do these gentlemen intend to maintain that there is any thing of free trade in the system, which ties our own colonists hand and foot, prevents them from making use of the capabilities of their soil, dissipates their capital, and then quietly abolishes all distinctive duty between their produce and that of countries which have not chosen to adopt the same system? Is the fleet upon the coast of Africa a symbol of free-trade principles, or the opposite? Why, what a laughing-stock must that be in the eyes of the Spaniards! what an egregious proof of the most silly inconsistency that ever yet was perpetrated by a nation! We will not, forsooth, permit foreign nations to traffic in slaves, and yet we give them the monopoly of our market, knowing all the while that upon that importation alone we are dependent for a cheap supply! We ruin our colonies, transfer our custom to the foreign slave-driver, and with him, as has well been said, _cheap sugar means cheap slaves_!

We are glad to see that _The Times_, though differing with us in many economical points, has lately taken up this view, and spoken out with its customary ability. We extract from the number published on 17th January.—

“Is sugar a commodity which we are simply desirous of getting cheap,
without any regard to the country or methods of its production? If
it be not, then is it clear as argument can make it that such
commodity must be altogether removed from the operations of free
trade? If it be, then by what monstrous perversion of equity do we
control the methods of production adopted by our own producers? Why
did we destroy that market in Jamaica which we now seize so eagerly
in Brazil? The abstract principles of free trade are as manifestly
violated by interference with production as by interference with
exportation. If the doctrines of free trade are to find no exception
in any suggestions of humanity or reason, then our Anti-slavery Act,
and our Emancipation Act, and our vote for the African squadron, are
all so many gross contradictions of a principle which we have
formally sanctioned. Let those who think so speak out boldly. They
have undoubtedly a clear case, if they dared but state it. Let
slavery be considered as a practice which humanity condemns, and
which civilisation must eventually abolish, but which cannot be
permitted to enter into the calculations of a great commercial
people. Let the coast squadron be immediately recalled, and the
Bights thrown open to the sugar-growers of all nations to procure
their labourers on the easiest terms. Let them make as much sugar as
they can each for itself, and let the agency by which this article
is produced be as much a matter of indifference as in the case of
any other article, and _then_ may sugar fairly be subjected to the
operations of free trade. If the West Indians then applied for
protection, we might well repulse a petition for so obsolete a
measure; but to take refuge in such abstract theories now is to blow
hot and cold with the same breath—to preach up humanity from one
side of the pulpit and economy from the other, taking care the while
to appropriate to our own pockets the advantages of the latter
doctrine, and to saddle our colonists with the expenses of the
former.”

And what is it that our colonists ask? What is the extravagant proposal which we are prepared to reject at the cost of the loss of our most fertile possessions, and of nearly two hundred millions of British capital? Simply this, that in the meantime such a distinctive duty should be enforced as will allow them to compete on terms of equality with the slave-growing states. Let this alone be granted, and they have no wish to interfere with any other fiscal regulation. And what would be the amount of differential duty required? Not more, as we apprehend, than ten shillings the hundred-weight. It has been carefully calculated that the British planter cannot raise and send his sugar to the home market at a lower cost than forty shillings. In consequence of Lord John Russell’s measure, the average price last year has been thirty-eight shillings, and consequently the planter has been manufacturing, not only without profit, but at an actual loss. Next year, or rather after next July, the operation of the reductive scale will increase his loss, supposing him still to cultivate, from two shillings to three and sixpence per hundred-weight and so on until 1851, when he will have to pay _six pounds per ton_ for the privilege of growing sugar, without a single farthing of return!

Is then the request of these men, who are our own fellow-subjects, and citizens, in any way unjust or unreasonable? We have chosen to deprive them of labour, promising them all the while sympathy and protection, and are we not bound in some measure to redeem the pledge? They require a differential duty only until such time as they can command a supply of free and plentiful labour. To this object the attention of government, and of the true philanthropists of the country, ought to be directed. There is a noble field laid open for their exertions. The best means of suppressing altogether the slave-trade, is by promoting, to the uttermost of our power, a free immigration from Africa to our colonies, a measure which we are certain would very soon supersede the necessity of a blockading squadron. For how can we ever expect that such an armament will prove effectual in checking that wicked traffic, whilst, at the same time, we are directly encouraging it, by augmenting the consumpt of its produce in free and scrupulous Britain? Shame, on such contemptible and deceptive policy! Shame on the men who, with liberalism on their lips, are all the while engaged in riveting the fetters of the bondsman! And shame to all of us, if we permit our oldest and most attached colonies to lapse into decay, and thousands of our fellow-subjects to be consigned to ruin! for the sake of a theory which, in this matter at least, has not even the merit of being based upon consistent or intelligible principle!

NOW AND THEN.

(_Now and Then._ By SAMUEL WARREN, F.R.S. Author of “Ten Thousand a-Year,” and the “Diary of a Late Physician.” William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London. 1848.)

It would be an unpardonable affectation of modesty indeed, if Maga suffered any considerations whatever to interfere between herself and the cordial recognition of a success achieved by a favourite child, and acknowledged by all the world. Is the parent alone to hold her peace, when crowds are flinging up their caps rejoicing at the triumph of the son? Is nature to resign her dearest prerogative, in order to comply with the unnatural requirements of a dastard hypocrisy? Must we still hear on all sides the honest congratulations of strangers, and are we not to do homage to the grateful spirit within us, by shaking our own flesh and blood by the hand? Flesh and blood revolt from the insinuation! We know, as well as the dullest, that it is a delicate matter for Maga to speak to mankind, as truth and her heart dictate, with respect to some of her progeny. But what has delicacy to do with justice? Was Brutus delicate when he judged his own son, and hung him up for the public good? Maga suffers the world to judge of her offspring, and contents herself with a simple announcement of the happy verdict. It is her duty, as well as her delight, to chronicle the sentence. If she did less, she would do wrong to her own: she might do more, and still be just to her mighty and confiding public.

The author of the volume whose title heads this article, first appeared before the public as a writer in this Magazine in the month of August 1830. He was then but two-and-twenty years of age; yet, in his “Diary of a Late Physician,” he at once took his place in the front ranks of literature, and seized upon the admiration and respect of his contemporaries. The work is too well known to need minute description here. The variety of incident and character, the extraordinary fidelity of delineation, the vigorous style, the touching pathos, the commanding knowledge of men and human passions which it exhibits, are as familiar to our readers as they were surprising in a youth scarcely out of his teens,—a mere tyro in literature,—and, as he himself informs us, a rejected aspirant, in many quarters,[9] for those lofty honours which he has since so bravely and so honourably won. “The Diary of a Physician”—carried on at intervals from the year 1830 to the year 1837—maintained its ground from first to last. Since the last chapter appeared in these pages, the series has been printed and published, reprinted and republished, stereotyped for England, pirated for America, and translated for the Continent. The interest which the powerful tales first excited, is unabated to this hour. The regular and steady demand maintained for the volumes indicates their intrinsic value, and declares, in language as emphatic as any that can appeal to either publishers or authors, the enduring character with which they are impressed.

Footnote 9:

“The first chapter of this ‘Diary’—The Early Struggles—was offered by
me successively to the conductors of three leading Magazines in
London, and rejected as ‘unsuitable for their pages’ and ‘not likely
to interest the public.’ In despair, I bethought myself of the great
Northern Magazine. I remember taking my packet to Mr Cadell’s, in the
Strand, with a sad suspicion that I should never see or hear any thing
more of it; but at the close of the month I received a letter from Mr
Blackwood, informing me that he had inserted the chapter, and begging
me to make arrangements for immediately proceeding regularly with the
series. It expressed his cordial approval of the first chapter, and
predicted that I was likely to produce a series of papers well suited
for his Magazine, and calculated to interest the public.”—Extract from
Preface to the Fifth Edition of the _Diary of a Late Physician_.

In the year 1839, just nine years after the publication of the first number of the “Diary,” appeared also in these pages the first part of Mr Warren’s tale of “Ten Thousand a-Year.” The second production derived no false lustre from the confirmed success of its predecessor. The new tale presented itself in the columns of the Magazine, as the rule is—anonymously. Mr Warren obtained no advantage whatever from his previously well-earned and conscientiously sustained reputation. His second venture had nothing to rely upon but itself; yet, before six months had elapsed, “Ten Thousand a-Year,” by the mere force of its own unquestioned merit, succeeded in arresting public attention to an extent seldom equalled, and never surpassed by publications of a serial nature. For two years that attention never flagged; the public can attest to this remarkable fact: we are ourselves conscious of the avidity with which number after number of this Magazine was sought, whilst one chapter of the History of Tittlebat Titmouse still remained to be told. “Ten Thousand a-Year” was a wholly different performance from the “Diary of a Late Physician.” The latter contained the fruitful germs of at least a dozen novels. Its short histories, designed to convey a solemn and abiding moral, performed their office with the least possible elaboration. Intricacy and subtlety of plot were not considered, in a scheme in which mankind was to be moved and taught by the influence of example. The faults, the weaknesses, the vices of humanity, were displayed in their simplest forms, and no pains were taken to involve them in the entanglements of an artfully contrived narration. Not so, altogether, in the case of “Ten Thousand a-Year.” Here plot became not a subordinate ingredient in the composition; here the salient and strongly-marked features of individual character were not alone considered. It cannot be denied that the second creation of Mr Warren’s genius indicated at once increased strength of mind, experience more extended, knowledge more ripened. The faculties of the man were allied to the energy and passion of the youth, and the former ruled the latter with a severe and salutary grasp. The secret motives of man had been learnt in the interim; human springs of action had been detected in their distant hiding places; the inner soul of the world had been more deeply penetrated, and more closely scanned by the writer’s understanding. The pictures were no longer sketches—the masterstrokes were something more than indications. The vulgarity of Titmouse was shown with the self-denying patience and enlightened industry of a surgeon laying bare the loathsomeness of a repelling sore. What inclination would have shut away for ever, conscientious duty required to be exposed. Vulgarity is exposed in the history of Tittlebat Titmouse, and is utterly crushed. In nothing, however, is the contrast between Mr Warren in 1830, and the same gentleman in 1839, so remarkable as in the conception of Mr Gammon. The character is a perfect emanation of instructed genius; the admixture of good and evil—good in evil, and evil in good—could have been portrayed only by one knowing thoroughly “all qualities with a learned spirit of human dealings.” None but a creator, conscious of his strength, and fortified by the convictions which knowledge and experience give, would have conceived—or if conceived, dared—to exhibit the incomparable portraiture of which we speak. He, Gammon, stands immortalised in Mr Warren’s pages, neither a monster of good nor a monster of evil, but partaking of both qualities; largely of one, and in a smaller degree of the other, as is nature’s wont. Noble amongst the very base, and base amongst the very noble, he is an object of sorrow more than of execration,—of sympathy, not of hate, in his evil associations; of deep pity, not of vengeance, when he mixes for a season with the pure. Wanting religion and the practice of piety, which alone yields the highest moral rectitude, Gammon fails to earn approval even when he most deserves it, and in his brightest moments leaves no better impression on the mind than that of a wretched bundle of foul weeds, steeped for the time in heroism. The seeming incongruities of the character testify at once to its fidelity: the reality of the picture is heightened by the colours which the master, with infinite skill, has selected from his palette.

The incognito of Mr Warren was preserved till towards the close of the work; and upon its completion, being published in a separate form, it shared the well-deserved success of the “Diary of a Physician,” and travelled with it, either in, its original garb or as a translated book, into every quarter of the globe. Be it remembered that, during the whole long period of which we speak, Mr Warren was passing his days in any thing but the luxurious case of an unoccupied gentleman, or of one engaged only in the prosecution of intellectual pleasures. His entrance into life as a public writer was concurrent with his adoption of the most arduous and difficult of all professions. Literature was less his business than his recreation; his chosen evening pastime after the noonday’s enervating heat; his dignified solace, not his painful necessity. In plain words, whilst he used his pen for the amusement and instruction of his fellows, Mr Warren was a laborious legal plodder on his own account in the Temple; first as a special pleader, and afterwards as a counsel; in which last capacity he produced, as a tribute to law as well as to literature, an important standard law-book, held at this moment in high repute.

Now, if what we have said be true,—and if it be not, we shall be glad to be informed of our error—we hold it to be an utter impossibility for Maga either to look coldly upon Mr Warren’s literary career, or to stand mutely by with her hands behind her, when all honest people are vociferously applauding that gentleman upon his first appearance in an entirely new character. If we don’t clap our hands, who shall applaud? Nobody will respect the mother who thinks her child less worthy than the world esteems him. If we should hold our peace, Maga would be despised—not by the world—that would not affect her much, but by her own honest soul, and her eternal sense of right, which would destroy her. We have held our peace long enough. Impatient as we were to be the first to hail our own, to introduce him to his readers in the columns in which first he introduced himself, we have committed violence to our affection, and bided our good time. Maga watched with natural fond anxiety the proceedings of her son. She called to mind their long connexion, and had maternal apprehensions—the best of mothers have them—lest the third appearance of her offspring on the literary stage of life might dim the lustre of his former efforts in the same arena. Moreover, people of a certain age have whims and fancies. Maga, young, buxom, sportive, and healthy as she looks, has reached a matron’s years. Her contemporaries, judging from her feats, and vexed in heart, will not believe it. We cannot wonder at their scepticism; they look old in their infancy. Maga has the playfulness and elasticity of youth in her prime. If she is so sprightly with a load of years upon her, she may live for ever. Honest contemporaries are right; she may—she WILL! But, as we said, folks of a certain age have whims. Men who have prospered under one system are not eager to adopt and try another. The guardianship of Maga, in Maga’s eyes, casts a halo around the doings of her children. Mr Warren had achieved noble triumphs, walking hand-in-hand with her month after month and year after year. If he should deny himself the aid and run alone, might he not fall? We feared he might, till we had read his book, and then our fear was gone. But though fear departed, modesty—Maga’s ancient fault—remained. The proprieties of the case bade her be silent till the world had spoken. Though she was not bound to withhold her smile and warm approval in her royal privacy, sweet decorum forbade a syllable of public praise until her panegyric might no longer sway the universe. The hour for breaking silence has arrived: Maga seizes it proudly and unreservedly, as her custom is: who shall blame her?

Mr Warren has, indeed, achieved a signal and complete success. The opinion which we formed of his new labour, ere it went to press, is confirmed and echoed by the enthusiastic unanimity of the public; by those who read, and by those useful organs which undertake to guide the reader’s taste and judgment. The first few pages of the volume dispel at once all fears as to backsliding or downsinking on the part of the author. Fresh, vigorous, racy, and pure—such are the well-known characteristics of Mr Warren’s style: they are here as they were present in his earliest productions almost twenty years ago. From the first page to the last, there is not the slightest evidence of exhaustion from over-cropping or superfetation. All is new, healthy, wholesome, and genuine: bright as the purest water, clear as the summer’s sky, and as full of holy promise.

We think we discern a sneer upon the bilious and discontented cheeks of a certain class of writers as they read the last two words. We know the gentlemen well. They have been scribbling for the last few years with a “oneness of purpose,” as creditable to their understandings as it is significant of their ulterior designs. “Now and Then” is by no means written for their especial delectation, although, if properly and humbly read by the “earnest” worthies, it would go far to secure their moral improvement. The volume neither laughs at ecclesiastical institutions, nor ridicules the professors of religion. It does not make fun of every thing serious, until the unsophisticated reader is reduced to wondering whether he is not in duty bound to smile when and wherever his previous education had instructed him to weep: it does not consider that a man born on a dunghill has all the virtues of Adam before he transgressed, and that another, brought into life on a bed of down in Grosvenor Square, has, poor devil, in virtue of his good luck, inherited the vices of Satan and of the whole company of fallen divinities. There are a heap of Cockneys now gaining their miserable bread by the promulgation of such doctrines, who will look down with supreme contempt and biting sarcasm upon the book of which we treat; not, mark you, the _believers_ of such doctrines, but simply the mischievous and impious promulgators. Trust them, they prefer the company of the wealthy and the well-to-do, as they love cheese and beer more profoundly than all the moral beauty that the earth contains. Catch them giving sixpence to a beggar on a snowy day, or uttering a syllable of human kindness, which costs them nothing, to a houseless wanderer, no one being by. We hold it to be a great jewel in the coronet of Mr Warren, that he sets his face manfully, in the present instance, against the fashion which all honest men and true must deprecate. The freedom from the prevailing cant which his book exhibits, is most refreshing; the certain upturning of misshapen noses which its very tendency must effect, the greatest compliment yet paid to his honest exertions in the cause of morality, and of the holy faith which he professes.

“Now and Then” is a Christmas book for a Christian people. It is a tale of fiction, which the most devout may read with no fear of insult, and without risk of being obliged to suspend their orthodoxy for the sake of an hour’s pleasant reading. The book invests Christmas with its legitimate Christian associations. It cannot be denied that the tendency of this species of literature, for the last few years, has been to denude the sacred season of all these associations, and to surround it with others which are at once trifling, irreligious, and heathenish. We dwell upon this fact, because there needs some courage boldly to speak God’s truth in an age rapidly verging towards practical infidelity. In Parliament, the once great leader of a greater Christian party publicly denies the necessity of a declaration of Christian faith as the test of a legislator. In our light literature, we find references enough to the goodness of Providence, but a studious avoidance of the name and properties by which that Providence is recognised when we come to our knees by the bed-side or in the sanctuary. There is, we grant, not so much a denial of the essential doctrines of Christianity every where about us save in the church, as a studious and utter disregard of them; but there is imminent peril in this very disregard. Neglect precedes desertion. Let us be duly grateful, we say, to one who, in the modest pages of a simple tale, recalls us to our obligations, and reminds us that the chief of duties here is to cling firmly to the faith by which the world is saved, and to proclaim _first principles_ when that world is basely shrinking from their free and open recognition.

Let us, however, not be misunderstood. “Now and Then” is not a religious novel—popularly so called. Mr Warren is not on the present occasion a “religious novelist,” as controversial divines, usurping the functions of the tale writer are, for want of a better term, absurdly styled. The Christianity which pervades this book is pure and catholic, and has nothing to do with the quarrels of sects and classes: it is applicable to universal humanity. There is no vulgar presumptuous dabbling with controverted points of Scripture, which, appearing in works of fiction, is utterly abominable and ludicrous, even in its futility: but the author, starting with a high and admirable purpose, and keeping that purpose in view to the very last, confines himself strictly and solely to what we all regard as Christianity’s irrevocable and fundamental principles;—great saying truths which none can blink with safety, and which he brings forward with an evident profound sincerity and reverence, impossible to mistake and difficult to slight.

The story, potently simple in itself, opens with marvellous simplicity. We quote from the beginning:—

“Somewhere about a hundred years ago (but in which of our good
kings’ reigns, or in which of our sea-coast counties, is needless to
be known) there stood, quite by itself, in a parish called
Milverstoke, a cottage of the better sort, which no one could have
seen, some few years before that in which it is presented to our
notice, without its suggesting to him that he was looking at a
cottage quite of the old English kind. It was most snug in winter,
and in summer very beautiful; glistening, as then it did, in all its
fragrant loveliness of jessamine, honeysuckle, and sweet-brier.
There, also, stood a bee-hive, in the centre of the garden, which,
stretching down to the road-side, was so filled with flowers,
especially roses, that nothing whatever could be seen of the ground
in which they grew; wherefore it might well be that the busy little
personages who occupied the tiny mansion so situated, conceived that
the lines had fallen to them in very pleasant places indeed. The
cottage was built very substantially, though originally somewhat
rudely, and principally of sea-shore stones. It had a thick thatched
roof, and the walls were low. In front there were only two windows,
with diamond-shaped panes, one above another, the former much larger
than the latter, the one belonging to _the_ room of the building,
the other to what might be called the chief bed-room; for there were
three little dormitories—two being small, and at the back of the
cottage. Close behind, and somewhat to the left, stood an elm-tree,
its trunk completely covered with ivy; and so effectually sheltering
the cottage, and otherwise so materially contributing to its snug,
picturesque appearance, that there could be little doubt of the
tree’s having reached its maturity before there was any such
structure for it to grace and protect. Beside this tree was a
wicket, by which was entered a little slip of ground, half garden
and half orchard. All the foregoing formed the remnant of a little
freehold property, which had belonged to its present owner and to
his family before him, for several generations. The initial letter
(A) of their name, Ayliffe, was rudely cut in old English character
in a piece of stone forming a sort of centre facing over the
doorway; and no one then living there knew when that letter had been
cut.”

Such is the scene, and such the small house, in and from which the events evolve, that form the solemn and instructive narrative. The owner of the cot, the foremost though the humblest personage in the drama, was once a substantial, but is now a reduced yeoman, well stricken in years, being, at the opening of the story, close upon his sixty-eighth year.

“The crown of his head was bald, and very finely formed; and the
little hair that he had left was of a silvery colour, verging on
white. His countenance and figure were very striking to an observant
beholder, who would have said at once, ‘That man is of a firm and
upright character, and has seen trouble,’—all which was indeed
distinctly written in his open Saxon features. His eye was of a
clear blue, and steadfast in its gaze; and when he spoke, it was
with a certain quaintness, which seemed in keeping with his simple
and stern character. All who had ever known Ayliffe entertained for
him a deep respect. He was of a very independent spirit, somewhat
taciturn, and of a retiring, contemplative humour. His life was
utterly blameless, regulated throughout by the purifying and
elevating influence of Christianity. The excellent vicar of the
parish in which he lived reverenced him, holding him up as a
pattern, and pointing him out as one of whom it might be humbly
said, _Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile_. Yet the
last few years of his life had been passed in great trouble. Ten
years before had occurred, in the loss of his wife, who had been
every way worthy of him, the first great sorrow of his life. After
twenty years spent together in happiness greater than tongue could
tell, it had pleased God, who had given her to him, to take her
away—suddenly, indeed, but very gently. He woke one morning, when
she woke not, but lay sweetly sleeping the sleep of death. His
_Sarah_ was gone, and thenceforth his great hope was to follow her,
and be with her again. His spirit was stunned for a while, but
murmured not; saying, with resignation, ‘The Lord hath given, and
the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.’ A year
or two afterwards occurred to him a second trouble, great, but of a
different kind. He was suddenly reduced almost to beggary. To enable
the son of an old deceased friend to become a collector of public
rates in an adjoining county, Ayliffe had unsuspiciously become his
surety. The man, however, for whom he had done this service, fell
soon afterwards into intemperate and dissolute habits; dishonesty,
as usual, soon followed; and poor Ayliffe was horrified one evening
by being called upon, his principal having absconded, a great
defaulter, to contribute to repair the deficiency, to the full
extent of his bond.”

Ayliffe’s property was sacrificed at a blow. At the time of entering into his engagement, he was the freehold owner of some forty or fifty acres of ground, and the master of some sums of money advanced upon mortgage to a neighbour. Much of this went immediately. Nor was this calamity his only one. He had a son, another Adam Ayliffe. Ayliffe the younger was betrothed, at this period of accumulated misfortune, to a young girl, who jilted him in the time of the family poverty. The blow fell upon the young and proud-hearted yeoman, as such blows will fall upon those in whose retired course a first affection comes as an abiding blessing, or an utter curse. A visible change took place both in his character and demeanour after the disappointment. First love in the younger Ayliffe’s case was the curse and not the blessing. All went wrong with the family from this hour. Adam finally married, it is true, a maiden residing with Mr Hylton, the vicar of Milverstoke, but the union, though one of unquestionable affection, yielded no earthly happiness. After the loss of worldly goods, Adam, and his son betook themselves to labour for their subsistence. The father became a hireling, much to the affliction of his son, but not to his own sorrow, for he “heartily thanked God for the strength that still remained to him, and for the opportunity of profitably exerting that strength.” Father, son, and daughter, still resided in the cottage, being its sole occupants. A year and a half of severe and constant exertion in the ordinary out-of-door operations of farming, and old Adam gave way. The spirit was more willing than the flesh. The younger Ayliffe laboured then for the livelihood of all, and another was added to the group, in the shape of an infant son, born about a year after the marriage of his parents, at the peril of its mother’s life.

At this stage of the history, the remnant of old Ayliffe’s land is demanded in the way of purchase by the agent of the Earl of Milverstoke, (whose principal country residence is within a short distance of the cottage,) and steadily refused by the owners. The old man assured Mr Oxley that it would break his heart to be separated for ever from the property of his fathers, to see their residence pulled down, and all trace of it destroyed; but Mr Oxley’s appetite for the property was only whetted by the reluctance of its insignificant proprietor.

“‘Be not a fool, Adam Ayliffe,’ [said Mr Oxley, during one of his
frequent visits to the cottage on the subject of this purchase;]
‘know your interest and duty better. Depend upon it, I will not
throw all this my trouble away, nor shall my Lord be disappointed.
Listen, therefore, once for all, to reason, and take what is
offered, which is princely, and be thankful!’

“‘Well, well,’ said Ayliffe, ‘it seems that I cannot say that which
will suit you, Mr Oxley. Yet once more will I try, and with words
that perhaps may reach the ear that mine cannot. Will you hear me?’

“‘Ay, I will hear, sure enough, friend Adam,’ said Mr Oxley,
curiously; on which Ayliffe took down a large old brass-bound book,
and, opening it on his lap, read with deliberate emphasis as
follows:——

“‘Naboth the Jezreelite had a vineyard, which was in Jezreel, hard
by the palace of Ahab king of Samaria.

“‘And Ahab spake unto Naboth, saying, Give me thy vineyard, that I
may have it for a garden of herbs, because it is near unto my house:
and I will give thee for it a better vineyard than it; or, if it
seem good to thee, I will give thee the worth of it in money.

“‘And Naboth said to Ahab, The Lord forbid it me, that I should give
the inheritance of my fathers unto thee.’

“When he had read these last words Ayliffe closed the Bible, and
gazed at Mr Oxley in silence. For a moment the latter seemed
somewhat staggered by what he saw and what he had heard; but at
length—‘Oh, ho, Adam! do you make your Bible speak for you in
business?’ said he, in a tone of rude jocularity. ‘Well, I shall
wish you good day for some little while, it may be, and good luck to
you here. It is somewhat of a bit of a place,’ he continued as he
drew on his gloves, glancing, at the same time, contemptuously round
the little room, ‘to set such store by; but be patient—be patient,
Adam; there is one somewhat larger that will be ready for you
by-and-bye——’

“This insulting allusion to the workhouse or the county jail old
Ayliffe received in dignified silence. Not so his son, who, rising
with ominous calmness from the chair on which he had for some time
been sitting, as it were, on thorns, and silent only out of habitual
deference to his father, approached Mr Oxley in two strides, seized
him by the collar with the hand of a giant, and, before his
astonished father could interpose, had dragged Mr Oxley to the
doorway, near which he had been standing, and with a single jerk
flung him out into the open air with a violence which sent him
staggering several yards, till he fell down at full length on the
ground.

“‘Adam, Adam! what have you done!’ commenced his father, approaching
his son with an astounded air.

“‘Nay, never mind _me_, father,’ muttered his son vehemently,
standing with arms akimbo, and watching Mr Oxley with eyes flashing
fury. ‘There, Master Oxley; show never here again that wizened face
of yours, or worse may happen. Away! Back to the Castle, and tell
him that sent you here what you have received! Off! out into the
road,’ he added, raising his voice, and moving furiously towards Mr
Oxley, who precipitately quitted the garden, ‘or I’ll teach you to
speak of the workhouse again! See that _the dogs lick not_——’

“‘Adam! I charge you hold your peace!’ said the old man, loudly and
authoritatively, and advancing towards Mr Oxley, who, however,
having, after muttering a few words to himself, and glancing
furiously at young Ayliffe, hastily mounted his horse, which had
been standing fastened at the gate, had already galloped out of
hearing; and about that time in the ensuing day had contrived,
during an interview on business with the Earl, to intimate, as if
casually only, that the Ayliffes, who owned the roadside cottage,
had received the liberal overtures made by Mr Oxley on his
lordship’s behalf, with expressions of coarse disrespect, and even
malignant hostility. Not a syllable breathed Mr Oxley of the
treatment which he had received at the hands of young Ayliffe; nor
did he deem it expedient, for reasons of his own, to summon his
assailant to answer before the magistrates for what he had done.”

Ayliffe heard no more of Mr Oxley, but his trials sadly increased from the hour of that gentleman’s violent departure from his humble roof. The poor remnant of his patrimonial estate had dwindled down to the cottage and the slip of ground attached to it. Young Ayliffe continued to work from morning till night like any slave in the plantations; but his industry yielded small result. In addition to the other misfortunes, the infant member of this luckless household, feeble from its birth, and likely to be reared with difficulty, became, by an accident, maimed for life. The black cloud had fairly settled over the habitation.

Sarah, the wife, was about to give birth to another child, when misery appeared to have reached its climax. The once comely furniture had been disposed of by degrees to purchase necessary food; and nothing but horror stared the unfortunates in the face, when an accident took place which gave the final touch to a dismal history that appeared already complete.

“Young Ayliffe, with heavy thoughts in his mind, burthening and
depressing it, went one day to his work at a farmer’s at some
distance from Milverstoke, having only one companion the whole day
long: but that companion appearing good-natured and communicative,
the frank young Ayliffe could not refrain from talking about that
which was uppermost in his thoughts—the feeble condition of his
wife, and her doctor’s constant recommendation of nourishing food.
‘And why don’t you get it, if you care for her?’ inquired his
companion with a surprised air, resting for a moment from his work.

“‘Surely,’ quoth poor Ayliffe, ‘you should ask me why I do not get
one of the stars out of the sky. Is meat to be picked up in the high
road?’

“‘No; not in the high road,’ said the other, drily, ‘but there’s
dainty eating for the sick and the gentle to be had—elsewhere.’

“In plain English, Ayliffe’s new friend pointed at game; speaking
most temptingly of hare, above all other sorts of game, as a dainty
dish, whether roast or stewed, for those that were sick and
delicate; and assured Ayliffe that his (the speaker’s) wife had
lived secretly on hare all through _her_ time of trouble, and had
never in her life thriven so well; for naught was so nourishing as
hare’s flesh. Poor Ayliffe listened to this with but too willing an
ear, though it went clean contrary to all his own notions, and those
which he knew to be entertained by his father. He resisted but very
faintly the arguments of his new friend; who indeed fairly staggered
Ayliffe, by asking him whether he thought that he did wrong if he
caught a hedgehog, a weasel, or a snake, in the field or hedge of
another; and if not, why was it different with a hare? Much
conversation had they of this sort, in the course of which poor
Ayliffe, in the frank simplicity of his nature, gave such a moving
picture of his wife’s necessities, as greatly interested his
companion; who said that he happened to have by him a very fine hare
that had been given him by a neighbouring squire, and which was
greatly at Ayliffe’s service. After much hesitation he, with many
thanks, accepted the gift; and, accompanying his new friend to his
cottage, received into his possession the promised hare, (a finer
one certainly was hardly to be seen,) and made his way home with his
perilous present, under cover of the thickening shades of night.
What horrid misgivings he had, as he went along! How often he
resolved either to return the hare to the giver, or fling it over
the hedge, as he passed! For he was aware of his danger: there being
no part of England where game was more strictly preserved, more
closely looked after, or poachers more severely punished, than at
Milverstoke. But he thought of his wife—of the relish with which she
must partake of this hare; and by the inspiriting aid of thoughts
such as these, he nerved himself to encounter her suspicions, and
his father’s rebuke and reproaches.”

That rebuke and those reproaches he encountered. Happy had he been had he encountered nothing worse! The hare was rejected by the upright father, but the rejection did not save the son. He had been entrapped into accepting the gift by one who had sent a companion to watch him home, and who, in order to obtain half the penalty, forthwith informed against the unfortunate receiver. The receiver was fined, but Mr Hylton, the vicar, paid the sum required, and released him from his trouble.

Whilst matters are looking so black at the cottage, there is joyousness enough at the neighbouring castle. The season is Christmas, and Viscount Alkmond, the only son and heir of the Earl of Milverstoke, has arrived at the castle to pass the Christmas holidays. Here is the castle and its owner.

“Milverstoke Castle, to which its next lordly possessor was then on
his way, was a truly magnificent structure, worthy of its superb
situation, which was on the slope of a great forest, stretching down
to the sea-shore. Seen from the sea, especially by moonlight, it had
a most imposing and picturesque appearance; but from no part of the
surrounding land was it visible at all, owing to the great extent of
woodland in which it was embosomed. The Earl of Milverstoke, then
lord of that stately residence, had a personal appearance and
bearing which might be imagined somewhat in unison with its leading
characteristics. He was tall, thin, and erect; his manner was
composed, his countenance refined and intellectual, and his features
comely; his hair had been for some years changed from jet-black into
iron-gray. His bearing was lofty, sometimes even to repulsiveness;
his temper and spirit haughty and self-reliant. Opposition to his
will, equally in great or small things, rendered that arbitrary will
inflexible, whatever might be the consequence or sacrifice; for he
gave himself credit for never acting from impulse, but always from
superior discretion and deliberation. He was a man of powerful
intellect, extensive knowledge, and admirably fitted for public
affairs,—in which, indeed, he had borne a conspicuous part, till his
imperious and exacting temper had rendered him intolerable to his
colleagues, and objectionable even to his sovereign, from whose
service he had _retired_, to use a courteous word, in disdainful
disgust, some five years before being presented to the reader. He
possessed a vast fortune, and two or three princely residences in
various parts of the kingdom. Of these Milverstoke was the
principal; and its stern solitude suiting his gloomy humour, he had
betaken himself to it on quitting public life. He had been a widower
for many years, and, since becoming such, had become alienated from
the distinguished family of his late countess; whose ardent and
sensitive disposition they believed to have been utterly crushed by
the iron despotism of an unfeeling and domineering husband. Whatever
foundation there might have been for this supposition, it
contributed to imbitter the feelings of the Earl, and strengthen a
tendency to misanthropy. Still his character had fine features. He
was most munificent; the very soul of honour; a perfect gentleman;
and of irreproachable morals. He professed a firm belief in
Christianity, and was exemplary in the discharge of what he
considered to be the duties which it imposed upon him. He would
listen to the inculcation of the Christian virtues of humility,
gentleness, and forgiveness of injury, with a kind of stern
complacency; unaware, all the while, that they no more existed
within himself, than fire could be elicited from the sculptured
marble. Most of his day-time he spent in his library, or in solitary
drives, or walks along the sea-shore or in the country.
Unfortunately, he took no personal part, nor felt any personal
interest in the management of his vast revenues and extensive
private affairs; intrusting them, as has been already intimated,
implicitly to others. When he rode through the village, which lay
sheltered near the confines of the woodland in which his castle was
situated, he appeared to have no interest in it or its inhabitants,
though nearly all of them were his own tenantry. His agent, Mr
Oxley, was their real master.

“Mr Hylton was one of his lordship’s occasional chaplains, but by no
means on intimate terms with him; for that the vicar’s firm
independent character unfitting him. While he acknowledged the
commanding talents of the Earl, his lordship was, on his part, fully
aware of Mr Hylton’s strong intellect, superior scholarship, and the
pure and lofty spirit in which he devoted himself to his spiritual
duties. The good vicar of Milverstoke knew not what was meant by the
fear of man—and that his stately parishioner had had many
opportunities of observing; and, in short, Mr Hylton was a much less
frequent visitor at the Castle than might might have been supposed,
and was at least warranted, by his position and proximity.