Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Here was the fatal error. In this resolution, and the acting on it, lies the whole moral offence, fault, or delinquency of Captain Douglas. Not to admit a fact, when questioned on it, is so close upon a denial of the fact, that no human ingenuity can keep them long separate. His concealment of an act perfectly innocent was construed into a denial of that act: it could not well be otherwise, for an evasive answer, which serves the purpose of concealment, must be understood by the party who receives it as a denial, or it no longer serves the purpose of concealment. Yet an evasive answer of this description is permitted by men of the strictest honour in a thousand instances, and is only visited with _moral opprobrium_ in those cases where there is an imperative claim upon the conscience to tell the whole truth. No such imperative claim can be made out in the present case. We admit, however, that it was an error. The better rule is never to resort to an evasion unless there are very strong reasons for so doing. We admit that the adopting of, and persisting in, this policy, or rather this _impolicy_, of concealment, was here to some extent blameable. But we can detect no base or dishonourable motive leading to it. The worst motive we can divine, is a certain love of a tortuous policy by which some ingenious persons are afflicted. They like finessing, and will introduce into the common affairs of life, much to their own and other people’s embarrassment, what they would describe as a diplomatic dexterity.

The constable, Renier, on the same afternoon, made his appearance at the house of Captain Douglas. There is much controversy as to the import of the question which he put to Captain Douglas; whether, when he asked him, “If he knew anything about it?”—he referred to the shooting of the bullock, or the firing on the battery. It is plain, from the circumstances of the case, that both these matters were inextricably mixed up _in the mind of the constable_; for he came to inquire of the shooting of the bullock because of the firing on the battery; and into the firing on the battery, because of the supposed shooting of the bullock. There is no wonder, therefore, that a man, not accustomed to analyse his own ideas, should, in giving his evidence before the court, sometimes state one, and sometimes the other, as the object of his inquiry. But it is equally plain, from the very nature of the case, that whatever was stirring in the mind of the constable, his first question to the Captain would be, whether he knew anything about the death of the bullock. He would never have thought of coming to the barracks to ask an officer whether he had been practising with his pistol, without showing in the first place that he had grounds for making what otherwise would be a very impertinent inquiry. We feel ourselves, therefore, quite justified in adopting here the statement of Captain Douglas. According to that statement, Renier asked him “if he knew anything about shooting the bullock?” He answered “No,” as he well might. For it is to be understood at once, and distinctly, that Captain Douglas had nothing whatever to do with the death of the bullock, and knew nothing about it. But, unfortunately, the dialogue between them did not stop here. It will be remembered that Captain Douglas had made use of a piece of a newspaper, the _Times_, to form his target. This newspaper bore his own name and address on it. The constable added—“That a _Times_ paper had been found near the spot, with Captain Douglas’s name upon it.” _This_ remark could have reference only to the question—who had been firing on the battery? And to this remark Captain Douglas replied—“Possibly so; there were plenty of his papers about; they went all through the barracks and into the town, and he had five or six a-week.” With this answer the constable departed.

The next day a civil court was held, presided over by Judge Gaudion, to inquire into this affair of the death of the bullock. Captain Douglas was summoned to attend. A number of witnesses were examined, whose testimony it is not necessary for our purpose to enter into. Mr Bisset, the owner of the animal, who had connected its death with the firing heard upon the ramparts, produced a number of flattened bullets, broken percussion caps, and pieces of a newspaper addressed to Captain Douglas, which had been found upon the battery. After the judge had asked Captain Douglas whether he had any knowledge who had shot the bullock, and had received the decisive and truthful answer, that “he had not,” he proceeded—pointing to some pieces of newspaper lying on the table—to put the following question: “Can you account for the _Times_ newspaper to your address having been found in the battery, perforated evidently by ball practice?” To which Captain Douglas answered, “I am not accountable for my papers, as they travel through the barracks and into the town.”

This absurd policy (for so we should characterise it) of concealment is adhered to, and with these unfortunate pieces of the _Times_ newspaper lying before him! His answer is understood as a denial of having been practising with his pistol on the battery, and there are those tell-tale fragments “evidently perforated with ball.” It is inconceivably absurd. He is getting into a scrape, and raising a scandal in the little island of Alderney, for no intelligible motive whatever.

Mr Warren here defends the conduct of his late client on the legal principle or maxim, that no man is bound to criminate himself. He stood there in a court of justice “virtually as an accused party;” the court throws its shield over persons in such a position, cautions them, and would protect them even against their own indiscretion. Captain Douglas was fully justified in availing himself of this well-known privilege—in evading and warding off a question which he could not answer without supplying evidence against himself.

Mr Warren will forgive us if we smiled, for a moment, at this instance of the inveterate habits of the lawyer, overpowering the natural shrewdness and sagacity of the man. This legal argument is manifestly inapplicable, and for this simple reason: in the circumstances of the case, there is nothing sufficiently grave—no impending charge of sufficient magnitude—to induce or warrant, in any reasonable man, a departure from, or a concealment of the truth, or any tampering with his honour. _If_ the evasive statement of Captain Douglas be considered as tantamount to a denial, and _if_ that virtual denial be considered as in some degree dishonourable, there can be no shelter for him in this maxim of law, because the fear of a false accusation of having accidentally shot a bullock, would not be accepted, by men of honour, as an excuse or justification.

If Captain Douglas had really shot the bullock, he would have been still more completely under the shelter of this legal maxim—and his equivocation would have been a ten times more heinous offence.

As Mr Warren repeats this argument more than once, it may be worth while to state, in general terms, wherein its fallacy lies. A person is tried before a court-martial, which partakes of the nature of a court of honour, for a departure from, or a concealment of truth, considered to be dishonourable to a gentleman. It is no sufficient answer to plead the privilege which courts of law throw around a witness, unless you show at the same time that, in his case, such a privilege could be taken advantage of without any derogation to his character as a member of society. A very little reflection will satisfy us that the permission granted by courts of law to the accused party, or to a witness, to deny or withhold the truth, _may_ or _may not_ be a valid excuse in the moral judgment of society—may or may not be such a permission as it would be honourable to accept.

A man is tried for his life on the charge of murder, or high treason. He pleads not guilty. Although he is in fact guilty, the most honourable and fastidious portion of society add nothing to their reprobation of the accused on account of this plea. The code of honour or of moral opinion, and the rule of the court of law, are not at variance.

But nothing is easier than to imagine cases in which they would be at variance, and at variance in all possible degrees, from slight difference to complete opposition. The accused is being tried on a false accusation for murder. Titus is a witness. He can by his evidence establish the innocence of the accused, but in giving that evidence he will reveal his own guilt. The court allows him to be silent where his answer to the question would criminate himself. And here, too, the opinion of society would probably coincide with the rule of the court,—yet not entirely; many would censure the witness, many would excuse, none would cordially approve.

Let us now suppose that Titus is innocent, but, in giving his evidence, he must confess some fact which will excite a strong suspicion against himself. Here the number of those who would justify his silence would greatly diminish. Suppose now that the suspicion which would be raised against him, was of a slight character, one which might be easily removed; suppose that by his evidence alone could the accused be saved from the unjust condemnation that hung over him; add to all this, that the accused and innocent party was the _friend_ of Titus, and had been his benefactor—and now this witness, “not bound to criminate himself,” has become the object of execration to all mankind.

This legal maxim is but one of many rules which courts of law, or the legislature, enact for the better administration of justice,—rules which cannot be so framed as to be strictly consentaneous, or identical, with the rules of morality. One who owes a just debt takes advantage of the forbearance of an indulgent creditor, and pleads the statute of limitations. The court admits the plea, puts it in his mouth, justifies him for the use of it. But the use of it has dishonoured him for life.

To return to our case. Mr Bisset, the owner of the bullock, still associating its death, most erroneously, with the firing heard on the battery, published a newspaper paragraph in the _Guernsey Comet_, headed DISGRACEFUL AFFAIR! in which suspicion was thrown upon Captain Douglas and Ensign Parker, and which terminated with the offer of “A REWARD OF TWENTY POUNDS, to be paid to any one giving information sufficient to convict the party or parties who were shooting at the Frying-pan Battery on Friday the 5th January, between the hours of twelve and three P.M.

Mr Bisset also laid his complaint before Major-General Bell, the commanding officer at Guernsey. That officer wrote to Captain Douglas, requiring his explanation of the affair. A great part of the letter referred distinctly to this pistol-firing on the battery. Now then, the reader is prepared to say, Captain Douglas will surely lay aside this needless and silly piece of diplomacy, this concealment of a perfectly innocent act, which is only strengthening suspicion against him. If he could permit himself to trifle with Judge Gaudion, and the petty civil court at Alderney, he will not trifle with his superior officer; he will not run the risk _here_ of being thought to equivocate. Nearly a month had now elapsed since the first visit of Constable Renier. Time had been given him to reflect: and Captain Douglas did reflect. Ensign Parker lets fall in his evidence that he wrote _two_ letters in answer to this communication, and pondered some time which he should send. In the one, he frankly avowed having been firing with his pistol on the battery, whilst he utterly denied the accusation of having shot the bullock; in the other, he adhered to his policy of concealment, confined himself to a denial of the main accusation, and left all that part of the letter relating to the firing on the battery virtually unanswered. He pondered which of the two he should send; but the genius of diplomacy prevailed,—he sent the second!

Major-General Bell, as might be expected, was not satisfied with such a reply. He instituted a military Court of Inquiry, consisting of Colonel Le Mesurier, Captain Cockburn, and Captain Clerk, with instructions “to ascertain whether any person or persons, belonging to the garrison, were engaged in firing with ball, within or immediately adjoining Longy Lines, on the day and within the hours specified in several of the documents laid before them.” It was not till the evening of the second day on which this court had sat, that Captain Douglas seems to have had his eyes opened to the perilous manner in which he was compromising himself. On the evening of that day, he wrote a letter to Judge Gaudion, stating the whole and simple truth with regard to this pistol-firing; and the next morning, he repeated the same statement before the military Court of Inquiry. The confession, it seems, came too late to save him from the consequences of his unwise, needless, and pertinacious concealment of an act in itself perfectly innocent. It was thought a case sufficiently grave to bring before a court-martial.[3]

It will be seen and acknowledged at once, that we have not attempted to screen Captain Douglas from the degree of blame which an impartial judge would throw upon his conduct. If the court-martial had reprimanded Captain Douglas, we should have thought the penalty sufficiently severe, but neither we, nor perhaps others, would have been disposed to dispute the propriety of the sentence, or, at least, to call public attention to the case. But, for this offence, the court has sentenced Captain Douglas to be _cashiered_!

This sentence—to enter now upon our second topic—is not only cruelly severe, it is illegal, it is unjust. Our readers need not fear that we are about to involve them in the technicalities of jurisprudence. It is no technical matter we have to deal with, but broad principles of justice. Mr Warren has, indeed, raised a class of legal objections against the verdict of the court-martial, grounded on its refusal to admit certain evidence. On these objections we shall not enter. To us it appears that the president of the court exercised his power in this matter, in general, very discreetly. But, on these objections, we wish it to be understood that we give no opinion. We pass at once to what we deem a fatal error in this verdict—an error, not of form, but of substance; an error which constitutes it to be an _unjust judgment_.

Captain Douglas was tried upon the following charge,—“for conduct unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.” Of such conduct he was found guilty. Now, the article of war under which he was arraigned, and the only one under which his offence, by any fair interpretation, could fall, is the 80th, and runs thus:—“Any officer who shall behave _in a scandalous, infamous manner_, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, shall, on conviction thereof before a general court-martial, be CASHIERED.”[4]

The penalty, under this article, is _peremptorily_ that of cashiering. A less punishment the court is not competent to pronounce. The article has for its express object the removal from the service of officers who are convicted of scandalous and infamous behaviour.

“There is no provision,” says Mr Warren, “in the Articles of War, for
the cognisance of unofficer-like and ungentleman-like conduct,
divested of a tendency to prejudice good order and military
discipline, (so as to bring it within Article 108,) in any degree less
than that involving infamy and scandal. In the year 1801, an officer
was charged before a General Court-martial with scandalous and
infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a
gentleman. The Court acquitted the prisoner of ‘scandalous and
infamous behaviour,’ but considering his conduct, nevertheless, as
‘unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman,’ adjudged him
to ‘be suspended from rank and pay for six calendar months.’ His
Majesty King George III. declared the adjudication irregular, and
disapproved the sentence, ‘inasmuch as the Court had acquitted the
prisoner of the only imputation which could bring the business as a
charge before them—namely, of any scandalous and infamous behaviour in
the transaction.’ In another case, which happened in 1814, in India,
an officer was tried by General Court-martial, on the charge of
‘scandalous and infamous conduct, unbecoming the character of an
officer and a gentleman,’ in two instances. The Court acquitted him of
the first, but found him guilty of the criminal acts charged in the
second instance; acquitting him, however, of ‘scandalous and infamous
conduct, unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.’ The
Commander-in-Chief, Earl Moira, declared that ‘he regarded the Court
as having returned a verdict of acquittal generally, and directed the
officer who had been convicted to return to his duty.’ His lordship
observed that ‘the Court, in declaring that the criminal act proved
against the prisoner did not come within the description of
‘scandalous, infamous, and unbecoming the character of an officer and
a gentleman,’ had divested itself of all power to award punishment,
except inasmuch as the acts might be considered to come under the
above specific definition.’ In the present case, the Court _could_ not
have acquitted of scandalous and infamous conduct, because _it was not
charged_.”

The charge quotes a portion of the very words of the article. But that this portion can be separated from the rest of the sentence, and made to designate a distinct, substantive offence, would be a monstrous supposition. The whole stress, the whole meaning lies in the words “infamous and scandalous;” but because there may be scandalous and infamous conduct, which does not fall under the cognisance of a court-martial, it is added as a further definition, that it must be such misconduct as affects the character of an officer and a gentleman.[5] The article of war intends to describe such conduct as would make a man _scandalous and infamous amongst his fellow-officers_.

Suppose it were thought fit to frame similar rules for the medical profession, and one of these declared, “That any one who shall behave in a scandalous and infamous manner unbecoming the character of a physician and a gentleman, shall, on conviction thereof, be expelled from the profession,” would any one in his senses think it sufficient to adopt the last qualifying phrase, “unbecoming the character of a physician and a gentleman,” as descriptive of an offence which, under this rule, would incur an expulsion from the faculty? Why, it might be thought “unbecoming” a physician to break rude and silly jests upon his patients, (as a late celebrated character is accused of doing,) but not for such offences, we presume, would any one imagine that expulsion from the profession was provided.

But we shall be told that the proceedings of a court-martial are not fettered by the same strict rules which preside over the record in a court of law. This is very true. It is sufficient if the offence is substantially indicated. Perhaps it will be argued that these words, “unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman,” must be taken as a part for the whole, and that the charge _was_ essentially for scandalous and infamous behaviour.

If so, the court has placed itself in the following dilemma, from which we do not see any possibility of escape:—_Either_ the charge is to be understood as substantially for scandalous and infamous conduct—and, in that case, who will venture to assert that the evidence supports so heinous an accusation?—who will venture to assert that the concealment or equivocation proved against Captain Douglas was that falsehood, that sort of lie, which stamps a man as scandalous and infamous, and drives him from the society of gentlemen? _Or_ (which is the plain common-sense view of the case) the charge is what it professes to be—for “unbecoming” conduct—it is this charge which is present to the minds of the members of the court-martial—it is on this he is tried, of this which he is convicted; and _then_, after being found guilty of this all but venial offence, he is visited with the punishment of a far heavier one—for behaviour which would make him scandalous and infamous amongst his brother officers.

We repeat, this is no technical argument—it is gross, palpable injustice—as palpable injustice as if a man were tried for manslaughter, convicted of manslaughter, and hanged for murder!

If we ask why the Court awarded so severe a sentence as cashiering on so trifling an offence, we shall be told that the Court had no power to pass any less sentence than that which is decreed by the article of war. We admit the reason. But surely if the Court was bound to inflict the severe sentence decreed by the article of war, it was bound to convict of the crime specified by that article. The court-martial which tried Captain Douglas was scrupulous in passing the right sentence, was _not_ scrupulous in determining whether the crime had been committed for which alone that sentence is by law awarded.

Mr Warren concludes his “Letter” by some suggestions for the reform of our military law. These appear to us to be worthy of consideration. But legal reforms are grave and intricate matters; we would not give a hasty opinion on them; we would recommend them to the consideration of our jurists, and the whole pamphlet to the perusal of our readers. They will also probably find it far more entertaining than, from our meagre abstract of the case of Captain Douglas, they will expect. There is one subject which occupies a considerable space, and which, to the generality of readers, will form the most attractive portion of the “Letter,” to which we have made no allusion. We refer to a narrative of facts, which show the hostile attitude in which Colonel Le Mesurier and Captain Douglas stood towards each other. It is a little history we could not possibly abridge, and which did not appear to us as absolutely necessary to an intelligible view of the case. This narrative will be read with interest, affording as it does a glimpse into real life, and showing us what very animated contests and controversies a few officers may contrive to while away their time with, even in the dull quiet island of Alderney. It is well told, with graphic but _subdued_ power. Conscious that the author of one of our best and most popular novels would be watched on such an occasion, and readily suspected of employing his art as a consummate narrator, Mr Warren has abstained from producing any startling effects; he has, at least, used no other than that highest art which conceals art. We have left the whole of this portion of the pamphlet fresh and untouched, for the perusal of the reader.

In the account we have given of this really very important case, we have not been able to mention the numerous points on which Mr Warren dwells for the exculpation of his client. We have been compelled to content ourselves with the impression which the whole narrative, after careful and unbiassed perusal, left upon our own minds. We are utterly unable to imagine, for the conduct of Captain Douglas, any worse motive than what we have described as a somewhat too diplomatic taste, as a want of a perfectly straightforward manner of speech. We see in his conduct a very palpable error in judgment, but we are quite at a loss to fix upon anything which deserves to be characterised as dishonourable—anything like such infamous and palpable falsehood as ought to drive a man with disgrace out of the service.

When we turn from the conduct of Captain Douglas to the sentence passed upon it, we are utterly amazed at its egregious disproportion and flagrant injustice. There is an article of war framed for the express purpose of ridding the service of scandalous and infamous persons. In order to bring the case of Captain Douglas under this article, he is first arraigned for “unbecoming conduct,” and by a very severe construction found guilty of this charge; and then these comparatively mild and harmless expressions are found to be equivalent to “scandalous and infamous conduct.” Why, if this be law, if this is a precedent, that article of war should henceforth be read thus,—“Whoever is guilty of unbecoming conduct shall be cashiered.” And what a terrible instrument of injustice such an article of war might be converted into, it is quite unnecessary to insist upon. If any officer should have made himself unpopular at the Horse Guards, or amongst his fellow-officers, no matter by what line of conduct, by being worse or better than the general and approved standard—it would be strange if his enemies could not fasten upon some act they could pronounce “unbecoming,” and thereupon expel him from the service with disgrace and infamy.

A FAREWELL TO NAPLES.

I.

A glorious amphitheatre, whose girth
Exceeds three-fold th’ horizons of the north,
Mixing our pleasure in a goblet wide,
With hard, firm rim through clear air far-descried;
Illumined mountains, on whose heavenly slopes,
Quick, busy shades rehearse, while Phœbus drops,
Dramatic parts in scenic mysteries;
Far-shadowing islands, and exulting seas
With cities girt, that catch, till day is done,
Successive glances from the circling sun,
And cast a snowy gleam across the blue:—
A gulf that, to its lakelike softness true,
Reveres the stillness of the syren’s cell,
Yet knows the ocean’s roll, and loves it well;
A gulf where Zephyr oft, with noontide heat
Oppressed, descends to bathe his sacred feet,
And, at the first cold touch, at once reviving,
Sinks to the wings in joy, before him driving
A feathery foam into the lemon groves;—
Evasive, zone-like sands and secret coves;
Translucent waves that, heaved with motion slow,
On fanes submerged a brighter gleam bestow;
Fair hamlets, streets with odorous myrtles spread,
Bruised by processions grave with soundless tread,
That leave (the Duomo entered) on the mind
A pomp confused, and music on the wind;
Smooth, mounded banks like inland coasts and capes,
That take from seas extinct their sinuous shapes,
And girdle plains whose growths, fire-fed below,
In bacchanal exuberance burst and blow;
A light Olympian and an air divine—
Naples! if these are blessings, they are thine.

II.

Thy sands we paced in sunlight and soft gloom;
From Tasso’s birthplace roamed to Virgil’s tomb.
Baia! thy haunts we trod, and glowing caves
Whose ambushed ardours pant o’er vine-decked waves.
Thy cliffs we coasted, loitered in thy creeks,
O shaggy island[6] with the five gray peaks!
Explored thy grotto, scaled thy fortress, where
Thy dark-eyed maids trip down the rocky stair,
With glance cast backward, laugh of playful scorn,
And cheek carnationed with the lights of morn.
The hills Lactarean lodged us in their breast:
Shadowy Sorrento to her spicy rest
Called us from far with gales embalmed, yet pure;
Her orange brakes we pierced, and ranged her rifts obscure.
Breathless along Pompeii’s streets we strayed
By songless fount, mosaic undecayed,
Voluptuous tomb, still forum, painted hall,
Where wreathed Bacchantes float on every wall;
Where Ariadne, by the purple deep,
Hears not those panting sails, but smiles in sleep;
Where yet Silenus grasps the woodland cup,
And buried Pleasure from its grave looks up.
Lastly, the great Vesuvian steep we clomb;
Then, Naples! made once more with thee our home.
We leave thee now—but first, with just review,
We cast the account, and strike the balance true—
And thus, as forth we move, we take our last adieu.

III.

From her whom genius never yet inspired,
Or virtue raised, or pulse heroic fired;
From her who, in the grand historic page,
Maintains one barren blank from age to age;
From her, with insect life and insect buz,
Who, evermore unresting, nothing does;
From her who, with the future and the past
No commerce holds, no structure rears to last:
From streets where priests and jesters, side by side,
Range the rank markets, and their gains divide;
Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost,
And toys and gewgaws form a nation’s boast;
Where Passion, from Affection’s bond cut loose,
Revels in orgies of its own abuse;
And appetite, from Passion’s portals thrust,
Creeps on its belly to its grave of dust;
Where Vice her mask disdains, where Fraud is loud,
And naught but Wisdom dumb and Justice cowed;—
Lastly, from her who planted here unawed,
’Mid heaven-topped hills, and waters bright and broad,
Lacks heart to gather, and lacks strength to bear,
From these, one impulse of the free and fair;
And, girt not less with ruin, lives to show
That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe,—
We part; forth issuing through her closing gate,
With unreverting faces, not ingrate.

BARBARIAN RAMBLES.[7]

That great geniuses meet, is a saying almost as ancient as the twin rocks that give a title to Mr David Urquhart’s latest literary production. But not often is the same country visited and described, within the short space of two years, by two such distinguished persons as the member for Stafford and the author of _Monte-Christo_. For the honour of their presence, the shores of Barbary and Andalusia are indebted to the chapter of accidents. “I did not visit Morocco or Spain on any settled plan. I was on my way to Italy by sea, and, passing through the straits of Gibraltar, was so fascinated by the beauty and mysteries of the adjoining lands, that I relinquished my proposed excursion for the explorations which are here recorded.” Thus far the Celt. Hear the Gaul’s reply to the Bey of Tunis, when questioned as to the motive of his African excursion,—“I answered, that I had the honour to be known to the king and princes of France; that I had the misfortune to be on tolerably bad terms with the father, but the happiness to stand pretty well with the sons; that one of these sons, of whom he (the Bey) had doubtless heard speak, and who was dead—M. le Duc d’Orléans—had more than once deigned to call me his friend; that another son, still better known to him than the first,—M. le Duc de Montpensier—had inherited his brother’s friendship for me, and had invited me to his wedding, which had just taken place at Madrid; that, being at Madrid, I desired to push on to Algiers, and, once at Algiers, I felt unwilling to quit Africa without saying a prayer upon the tomb of St Louis, who was, as he surely knew, a great _marabout_; that I was on my way to perform this duty, when I heard that he did me the honour to expect me, whereupon I hastened to pay him my respects.” Such trivial causes lead to great results! To the Montpensier marriage is the Bey of Tunis indebted for an interview with the first of French novelists, and the European world for the narrative of his African travels. We hesitated before associating the two books that form the theme of this article. We feared to rouse M. Dumas’ indignation, by coupling him with an author whom he, with his usual supercilious disesteem of things British, will probably set down as _un pédant Ecossais_. On the other hand, we thought it possible so grave and erudite a person as Mr Urquhart might consider his labours slighted, when linked with the playful superficialities of _Le Véloce_; and from this apprehension we were relieved, only upon finding him quote his French cotemporary’s Spanish tour with an air of greater approval than he usually bestows upon the works of recent writers on Spain. For it is not the most amiable of his peculiarities, that his references to brother travellers are generally censorious. He seems to have vowed opposition and animosity to all who have rambled and written over the same ground as himself. Blanco White, George Borrow, Richard Ford, and various others of less note, in turn come in for correction or a sneer. The last-named is particularly ill-treated. “To Mr Ford’s book, however disagreeable the task, I had intended to devote a special chapter; but, understanding that the two volumes are, in the second edition, reduced to one, I must infer that the author has anticipated my conclusion,—that the work might be made valuable by cutting out the slang, ribaldry, opinions, and false quotations.” Should _The Pillars of Hercules_ reach a second edition, either condensed, or in its present diffuse form, we advise its author to cut out this passage, or at least to correct its discourtesy and exaggeration. So harsh and unjust a verdict drives us to the inference that, owing to some mental idiosyncrasy of Mr Urquhart’s, the chief merits of the book he decries altogether escape his perception; and that, whilst dwelling upon an occasional error—pardonable in a work embracing so great a variety of subject, and such a mass of detail—and condemning those opinions that are so unfortunate as to differ from his own, he totally overlooks the racy humour, the happy illustrations, the felicitous exposition of Spanish foibles and characteristics, the intimate knowledge of the country and its customs, which place the author of the _Handbook_ and _Gatherings_ amongst the very highest authorities respecting modern Spain. But we need not take up the cudgels for Richard Ford, whose works will stand upon their own bottom, and whose acute and pungent pen is quite able to defend his literary offspring, should he think it worth his while, even against his present formidable assailant.

There can be no doubt about the disappointment of those persons who open _The Pillars of Hercules_ in expectation of finding what the title promises—a narrative of travel in Spain and Morocco. These countries are certainly mentioned here and there in the two bulky octavos, but quite subordinately to a variety of other matters which had perhaps better been treated elsewhere than in the professed book of travels they cumber and overload. Mr Urquhart, who has published volumes and pamphlets on innumerable subjects, social and political, foreign and domestic, appears to have had by him a heterogeneous mass of essays and dissertations, which he has now strung, pretty much at random, upon the slender thread of his Spanish-African ramble. Wearisomely discursive and desultory, he continually canters off to distant regions, and to subjects foreign to his text. Thus we have a chapter on the invention and antiquity of glass; another concerning the magnetic needle; a third and fourth, in which we are taken to America, Ceylon, China, and other remote places; one about the celebrated drug hashish, which temporarily transports its votaries into paradise. This is presently succeeded by a dissertation on buttered muffins; and shortly thereafter we arrive at a long essay on the early races of Spain and Mauritania, which we take for granted to be exceedingly learned and important, and which we are quite sure is awfully heavy and uninteresting. Etymology is a hobby of this author’s, and the portions of his work devoted to it would, of themselves, make a good-sized volume, by whose separation the book would be greatly lightened and advantaged. On the subject of corporal purification he grows positively eloquent and impassioned; and so minute are his descriptions of the scrubbing and scraping processes, by which alone men become fit to live, that he very rightly deems a prefatory apology essential. On this head more anon. We pause, for a specimen of solemn trifling, at Chapter Nine, Book the First, Volume the First. Nominally an “Excursion round the Straits,” it is actually an essay on costume, commencing with Spanish petticoats, giving a passing glance to the history and origin of lace, asserting the identity of the Moorish and Highland garb, and closing with an argument in favour of the importance and moral influence of a national dress. The chapter opens with praises of Cadiz, a city so long accustomed to rhyme with “ladies,” that it will hardly feel surprise or annoyance at Mr Urquhart’s attributing its charm less to the beauty of its buildings than to the “swarm of women,” with “fluttering eyes,” and “silk blonde tresses,” covering the floor of the cathedral. From tresses to dresses the transition is easy, and he proceeds to discourse upon the mantilla: not a very novel subject certainly, but one upon which he, nevertheless, contrives to cast some new lights—lights that would, we suspect, rather dazzle and astonish the amiable Gaditanas, whose habits and habiliments he professes to describe. Whilst stigmatising as “a bagged hood” the most graceful and elegant description of mantilla—that, namely, composed entirely of lace, and which is in fact the only kind worn by the higher classes of Spanish women—he informs us that “in windy weather the mantilla is secured against the cheek by the tip of the fan.” We laugh horribly as we summon up, at this conjuror’s bidding, a procession of mantilla-draped dames and damsels tripping the Alameda on a breezy day, each one of them with the extremity of her fan poked into her dexter jaw. Spanish women know better how to use that active little instrument of flirtation. Passing over these and other slight absurdities, we arrive at the hair-dressing department. Here Mr Urquhart is at first rather puzzled. But he will not be baffled, and goes to the very roots of the capillaries. “The hair is dressed in two styles. One is called _sarrano_. The only explanation I could get for this name was, that _sierra_ means mountain, and that the mountaineers dress in this way. But neither does it seem to be the style of the sierra, nor does the word _sarrano_ mean mountain: there is, indeed, no such word in Spanish.” When ascertaining this last fact by reference to his dictionary, it is strange that our traveller did not stumble upon the word “_Serrano_, subs. mountaineer; adj. pertaining to mountains,” and which is, in fact, the very word applied to the style of head-dress in question, his ear having doubtless misled him as to the _e_ and _a_. This guides us to two derivations. First, the one furnished him by the natives, that the style in question is or was particularly affected by the dwellers in the Andalusian sierras, as it still is by the mountaineers of Catalonia. A second explanation may be found in the form of the comb that accompanies this mode of head-dress, (but of which Mr Urquhart makes no mention,) and whose turreted or dentated crest, rising full four inches perpendicularly from the crown of the head, may have suggested the term _serrano_, by its elevation and imaginary resemblance to a row of hill-tops. But such interpretations as these are far too simple and vulgar to suit Mr Urquhart, who loves to journey by roundabout roads, and would make, like Monkbarns, a Roman sacrificing vessel out of a kail-supper’s ladle. He bores and proses away till he proves, quite to his own satisfaction, that “sarrano head-dress means neither more nor less than Tyrian head-dress. Such an etymology is by no means far-fetched.” Certainly not, when compared with others scattered through the book, although even this one may be considered rather _tiré par les cheveux_: and, moreover, the whole fabric is overthrown by the word proving to be serrano. But the hunting after derivations is a passion with Mr Urquhart, and leads him to the unearthing of affinities which nobody else would suspect. We confess ourselves so overwhelmed by the flux of erudition, by the multiplicity of languages brought to bear, and by the extraordinary etymons assigned to words with which they have nothing visible in common, that we resign ourselves to believe in Urquhart, and are prepared to admit, at his dictation, the old derivation of cucumber from Jeremiah King as perfectly valid, and consonant to all received laws. So fond is the honourable gentleman of this grubbing for roots, that, when once he stumbles on a derivation, he goes on through a whole alphabet of them; like a child who, having begun to run down hill, is unable to stop till it reaches the plain, or falls exhausted by the road-side. We doubt if many of his readers will share the avidity with which he pursues his dry and long-winded investigations, which would be more in place in a dictionary of derivations than in a narrative of travel.

Our intention, in bringing Messrs Dumas and Urquhart into juxtaposition, is by no means to compare them, or to exalt either at the expense of the other. Their books form the strongest possible contrast. In one respect only do they agree—in a propensity to ramble from their subject. We have hinted at the crotchets that lead the Highlander from his track; the Frenchman strays in quest of the dramatic and romantic, and is beguiled by his prodigious vanity into the most divertingly egotistical details. The one is an eccentric dogmatist, full of crotchets, but unobtrusive of his individuality; the other never loses sight of himself, nor will suffer his reader to do so. He is always in the foreground of the picture, the chief character on the canvass, the hero of his own comedy; or, if for a moment he retires from the foot-lamps, it is that their light may shine upon his son and heir, Alexander the younger, a _grand garçon blond_, and one of the half-score artists and literati who compose the suite of the illustrious Monte-Christo. When the travellers arrived at Cadiz, in November 1846, Mr Dumas junior was suddenly discovered to be missing. Fascinated by the bright eyes of a Cordovan maiden, he had given his friends the slip. Although somewhat uneasy, his father contented himself with detaching one of his staff in quest of the truant, and went on board the war-steamer Véloce, which had been placed at his disposal by the Minister of Public Instruction. Some of our readers may remember that, about three years ago, this circumstance gave rise to a discussion in the French Chamber, when some doubt was thrown upon the fact of M. Dumas being intrusted with a government mission. This seems to have annoyed the distinguished dramatist, who repeatedly refers to the subject, gives a copy of his passport and of certain official letters; and upbraids M. Guizot, whom he at last, however, magnanimously forgives, declaring he has forgotten his name. He then protests against the envy of which his eminent position has rendered him the object, and concludes his remarks, made in a tone of dignified and chastened indignation, with the following striking passage:—“The steamer thus placed at my disposal has made me more enemies than _Antony_ and _Monte-Christo_, which is saying not a little. It was in 1823 or 1824, I believe, that Sir Walter Scott, being then in bad health, expressed a wish to make a voyage to Italy. The English admiralty placed its finest frigate at the disposal of the author of _Ivanhoe_; and England applauded, and the two houses of parliament applauded, and the very newspapers clapped their hands approvingly. And it was well done; for, for the first time perhaps, the flag with the three leopards was saluted in every port of the Mediterranean by the enthusiastic acclamations of the people. Were those acclamations for the flag, or for the man of genius it sheltered? for the unknown captain of the frigate, whose name I never heard, or for Sir Walter Scott? True, I may be told that I am not Sir Walter Scott; but to this I reply, that it is the great misfortune of living men in France not to know what they are, so long as they _are_ living.”

How very good is this quiet assertion of merit and anticipation of posthumous appreciation by an ungrateful country. “The steamer,” continues the possible future rival of Scott, “was granted me—be it as a matter of favour, or as an act of justice; and Government consented to expend for me some sixteen thousand francs’ worth of coal. It is right the world should know that this voyage, which caused such an outcry, cost the Government sixteen thousand francs. Just half what it cost me!” A paltry eight hundred napoleons! Can France regret it, when applied to the service of her brightest literary ornament? Let her read the _Véloce_, and take shame for her shabbiness. Astride upon his fiery charger, the giant commenced his cruise. Need we say that all eyes were upon him as he boarded the steamer, and that he took by assault the hearts of the entire ship’s company, whom he seized an early opportunity to convince that his skill was as great with the fowling-piece as with the pen. “The Véloce was surrounded by a flock of sea-fowl; on approaching the vessel, desirous to give our future companions a specimen of my dexterity, I fired my two barrels at a brace of gulls, both of which fell. The yawl pulled to pick them up; and, after this brilliant feat, we proceeded triumphantly to the steamer.” This is the first and least considerable of a series of “brilliant feats” of the same kind, recorded by M. Dumas of himself in the pages of _Le Véloce_. At Tangiers, his first landing-place in Africa, he goes out shooting, and encounters an Arab, the first he has seen. This meeting furnishes a chapter—a sort of parody of scenes in Scott and Cooper, the parts of Robin Hood and Leatherstocking by M. Alexandre Dumas. He has just shot a small bird, when the Arab appears and doubts his having killed it on the wing. A trial of skill ensues between the Parisian and the Bedouin, the former promising the latter, who is unwilling to waste his powder, six charges for every one he fires away. The Arab fires at a plover and misses. M. Dumas brings down a snipe. The Arab smiles.

“‘The Frenchman shoots well,’ he said; ‘but a true hunter uses not shot, but a ball.’ The janissary translated his words to me.

“‘’Tis true’ I replied; ‘tell him I quite agree with him, and that, if he will fix upon a mark, I engage to do what he does.’

“‘The Frenchman owes me six charges of powder,’ quoth the Arab.

“‘True again,’ I replied; ‘let the Arab hold out his hand.’ He held it out, and I emptied into it about a third of the contents of my flask. He produced his horn, and poured in the powder to the very last grain. This done, he would evidently have been well-pleased to depart; but that would not answer the purpose of Giraud and Boulanger, who had not yet finished their sketches. Accordingly, at the first movement he made,

“‘Remind your countryman,’ said I to El-Arbi-Bernat, ‘that we have each of us to send a bullet somewhere, whithersoever he pleases.’

“‘Yes,’ said the Arab. He looked about and found a stick, which he picked up, and then again set himself to seek for something. I had in my pocket a letter from one of my nephews, employed on His Majesty’s private domain: this letter reposed peaceably in its square envelope, adorned with a red seal; I give it to the Arab, suspecting he was looking for it, or for something like it. The letter was the very thing for a target. The Arab understood at once; he split the end of the stick with his knife, stuck in the letter, planted the stick in the sand, and returned to us, counting twenty-five paces. Then he loaded his gun. I had a double-barrelled rifle, ready loaded; an excellent weapon, made by Devisme: in each of its barrels was one of those pointed bullets with which one kills a man at fifteen hundred metres, (an English mile; well done, M. Dumas!) I took it from Paul, its usual bearer, and I waited.

“The Arab took aim with a care which showed the importance he attached to not being vanquished a second time. He fired, and his bullet carried off a corner of the envelope. Masters of themselves as Arabs generally are, ours could not restrain a cry of joy as he pointed to the rent in the paper. I made sign that I saw it perfectly well. He addressed to me a few animated words.

“‘He says it is your turn,’ interpreted the janissary.

“‘Certainly,’ I replied; ‘but tell him that in France we do not fire at so short a distance.’ I measured fifty paces. He watched me with astonishment. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘tell him that, with the first shot, I will hit the target nearer the centre than he has done; and with the second I will cut the stick that sustains it.’

“In my turn I took a careful aim; I had not come to Africa to leave a wrong prospectus; and, having declared my game, I was bound to play it well. The first ball sped, and broke the seal. The second followed almost immediately, and cut the stick. The Arab threw his gun on his shoulder, and walked away, without claiming the six charges of powder he was entitled to. It was evident he felt crushed under the weight of his inferiority, and that, at that moment, he doubted of everything, even of the Prophet. He followed the circular road along the beach, leading to Tangiers, and reached the town, I am certain, without having once turned his head. Two or three Arabs, who in the meanwhile had crossed the Oued, and who had witnessed the trial of skill, departed as silently, and almost in as great consternation, as their countryman. All Morocco was humiliated in the person of its representative.”