Chapter III (1)

The old man sits upon the ancient bed of state, in the room which had been occupied by his father before him, in which his grandfathers and great-grandfathers had lived and died. Careless of repose for his tired and aged body, he has not undressed, but motioning off his attendants with impatient gesture, ungirding his sabre, and throwing off the chain of gold to which the royal medal was attached, his head sinks weariedly and sadly upon the oaken table before him. Beyond the bedstead, a gothic archway vaults through the wall into his private chapel, the antique lamp of gold still burns upon its altar. He turns not there, as is his custom, to say his prayers before he goes to rest--he knows no sleep to-night will close his heavy eyelids. Raising his head, he looks slowly round at the pictures of his ancestors hung about him; with their fixed, immovable pupils they return his gaze; but when he would again run round the circle of the faces of the dead, his eyelids fall, his sight is veiled by swimming tears.

Have you ever thought, young men, sons of the growing light and lovers of the storm, how it must be in the souls of the old when all their plans of life fail, when their _last_ loves on earth are blighted? Ah, you cannot imagine this, you have not yet tasted the bitter gall of age! Willing slaves, Time bears you forward on his mighty wings, cleaving space with arrowy, unceasing motion, and though the stars die out behind you as he bears you on, yet new ones ever burst upon you as you advance.

'On! on! the infinite is before us!' you cry as you fly. _But the old have no to-morrows!_ the coffin lies across their threshold, and but one single star shines down upon them. They kneel to it, and pray: 'Thou art pure and steadfast. Thou fallest not like the meteor bursting in the warm summer sky, nor settest like the moon in the far-off lakes of youth. After our long and restless journey, we bask in thy serene light. Be faithful to us, shine benignly upon us, that our House may live, that our descendants may enjoy the earth!'

But even while they pray, the _truth_ creeps into their courtyards, glides like a serpent on their castle walls, writhes over the threshold, and, seating herself upon a coffin, chants the death song of delusion, and as she sings, the last star falls from the sky, and eternal night becomes the name of the world.

Behold! No glittering haze or golden woof remains in the hands of the old man from the dying glow of his long Indian summer. Hearken! his daughter's tears are falling fast on the burning embers of his soul. The laughter of the careless husband blasts his ear. He starts from the bed, stalking up and down the room with rapid strides. The snows of seventy winters have in vain blanched his head; he has been proud of his accumulated wisdom, but has not divined the secret of life! The whirlpool of terror, vengeance, vacillation, resolution, engulfs him in its giddy flow; his soul is on the wheel of torture, his old heart throbs on the rack of passion. He curses the King of the South--the prince, his son-in-law--himself; but his heart will not break until a new day dawns upon the earth!

* * * * *

Completely worn out at last with his restless striding to and fro, he falls into the old state chair with its broidered blazonry and gilt escutcheons. His arms hang loosely at his side, his legs fall listlessly down, his wide open eye is fixed unconsciously on the opposite wall; his lips are motionless, and yet the tones of his own voice are ringing through his ears; he lies in immovable and rigid torpor, and yet it seems to himself that he is rapidly traversing the long galleries of the castle. He enters the hall of feasting, sees the prince seated among the throng of revellers, to whom he hears himself cry: 'Away! away, prince, from an alien soil! My ancestors have risen from the grave to drive thee hence! Black hetman man, long since buried, strike the foaming cup from his reckless hands! Roman cardinal, dying in sanctity, pronounce upon him the thunders of excommunication, and let the church divorce him from the daughter of our line!'

The great doors are thrown open, the muffled steps of the dead are heard as they advance from their graves in the Chapel of the Castle, and the spirits evoked glide solemnly in. The bridegroom, seizing his sword with one hand, and lifting the cup to his lips with the other, drinks gayly to the health of the illustrious dead! The old man looks round for a sword, strives to reach the bright blade hanging on the distant wall, prays to God to help him to grasp it more speedily, falls to the floor, drags himself forward on his knees until he meets the Roman cardinal, whose scarlet robes are bleached and dim with the damp, mould, and stains of the grave. The church dignitary, laying his icy hand upon his forehead, says:

'_What the holy priest of God has joined together, that may man not put asunder!_'

The dead vanish, the hall of festival is riven in twain, the walls crumble, he sees himself again in his own chamber, sleeping in the escutcheoned chair of his ancestors. Silence, horror, and remorse are around him--and at this moment the great clock of the palatines strikes two!

* * * * *

Horrible and still more horrible grows the vision. The lamp is still burning in bluish flame, sending a mystic light through the vaulted archway of the chapel beyond the state bed. 0 God! a white figure kneels and groans upon the steps of the altar, then, drawing back, approaches his chair; her bands are meekly crossed upon her breast; like the marble drapery of a statue, her robe falls in countless snowy folds, none of which are broken in the onward-gliding motion of the shrouded form. O God! he knows that lovely face, he has loved it well; it is the sweet countenance of his young wife: the lips open, but the voice is not as of old, tender and confiding; it is reproachful--commanding. He tries to answer, but cannot force a word through his eager lips; he cannot stretch forth his hand to greet her, but feels himself forced to follow her wheresoever she may choose to lead him. Down, down through the dark and narrow vaults of the castle, through the sepulchre where she was buried, passing by her own coffin without stopping, up through the old armory, through coats of mail, helmets, and swords, on--on--she reaches the western tower--passes through the treasury--ascends the staircase--bolts draw, and locked doors, like silent lips, open noiselessly before. She beckons the old man on--on, to the arched door, up to the loophole in the wall looking into the bridal chamber of the ladies of the castle--there the dead form stops, and beckons him to draw near and look within.

* * * * *

O God! close by the wedding bed and before the great mirror, he sees his daughter in the arms of an armed man; he knows the flashing eye and broad brow of the exile; he hears her familiar voice, sweet, sonorous, and penetrating as the tones of the harmonica. A glittering blade is in the hand of the man; his daughter speaks in clear, full tones:

'Strike! strike boldly! it is not thou who dealest the blow--my father has already killed me!' She rises to meet the stroke of the keen steel of the chieftain, as if she welcomed a deliverer. The old man tries to tear asunder the loophole with his hands, but the cold granite does not move--then it seems to him he falls upon his knees, and shouts to his kinsman:

'Stop thy rash hand! I will give her to thee as wife. I will fight with thee the King of the South; do not kill her, my good daughter, my only child!'

They hear him not; a darkish light is creeping along the walls, the lamps are dying out, loud talking is heard on the gallery, the half-drunken bridegroom comes leaping and reeling on, rushes into the chamber, suddenly seems transfixed to the floor, puts his hand to his sword, but not finding it at his side, looks back, calls aloud, but no one follows him. Horror, like living death, paralyzes the old man. The bridegroom throws himself upon the exile, who exclaims solemnly, as he thrusts him aside:

'Why do you profane the peace of the dead?'

Something glitters--flashes through the air--once--twice--thrice--a faint cry--the lamps die out one after the other--a single one still burns over the great mirror, and by its flickering light the old man sees the figures of the armed man and the snowy maiden, drenched in gore, reel, totter, heave, whirl in strange confusion--grow to enormous height, mount, sink, fall. At this very moment the great clock of the palatines strikes three--and awakes the old man in the sleeping chamber of his ancestors, stretched at the foot of the escutcheoned chair.

* * * * *

His attendants, hearing a noise, throng into his room with hurrying steps and flaming torches; they find their lord lying prostrate on the floor with bleeding hands and agitated air. He starts to his feet, crying:

'Save my child! Kill my brother's son!' They crowd around him. 'Is it still night, or does the day _really_ dawn?'

He staggers to the oaken table, seizes his sword, draws it from the sheath; the handle turns in his trembling hands, the blade falls to the ground; again he grasps it, while great tears rain down from his haggard eyes. The attendants cluster round him, kneel before him, and entreat him to tell them clearly what he would have them do.

'Follow me! follow me!' he pants in broken voice. He hurries to the door, half borne on by his people; passes along the corridor, wrestling with faintness and giddiness as a strong swimmer battles with the waves. The attendants gaze from one to the other, making the sign of the cross.

The swooning and delirium of the old man over, the retainers follow him as he totters on to the wedding chamber. Profound repose seems to rest upon the castle; through the wide range of open double doors the grand saloon of festival is clearly seen; the tables are deserted, and the lights dying in their sockets. The morning twilight is already stealing in through the open windows. Strange! the pages bearing the torches before the old lord come to a sudden halt; a man runs toward them round the sharp angle of the gallery; his hair is in confusion, his robe soiled and torn; no dagger in his belt nor sword at his side; his lips are blue and shivering, his brow pallid; he looks as if Death were breathing on him as he passed, and he fled in terror from the fleshless phantom.

'The father must not advance another step;' and stretching his arms toward the old man, he seizes one of his hands.

'Where is thy wife? Speak, and tell me!'

The bridegroom kneels before him: 'Stop, father; go back to thine own chamber; waken not thy sleeping daughter so early.'

'Thou sayest: 'Awake her not.' Will she _ever_ again waken? Speak quickly. Tell me the naked truth, for evil spirits filled my sleep with dreams of terror. I saw her pleading for death, but thou wast unarmed as now; and another stood near, who murdered the child I gave thee. Speak! Was this all a horrid dream, a fearful jest of the summer's night to appal my soul?'

The bridegroom bows his head under the unendurable weight of this question. He shudders, and with lifted hand tries to turn the old man back.

'Ha! thou darest not speak--thou art silent, I know it all now. God punishes me because I have bowed to thy king, and sought alliance with thy craven blood, alien as thou art!'

The window panes rattle as the wild cry echoes from the old man's quivering lips; all present tremble at the voice of his despair. He seizes his sword with both his hands, and while it trembles in his grasp, continues:

'Art thou still silent? My fathers were the enemies of thine; had I a son, he would have been thy deadly foe. I had an only daughter--I gave her to thee--she too is gone--take all--there is no one to care for now--the inheritance is also thine.'

The sword rattles in his hands, the blade falls from his grasp, as he strikes it against the pillar near him. The bridegroom starts forward and endeavors to stay the old man. The old man pushes him off, they wrestle in their bewilderment, and struggle like wild beasts. Despair nerves the aged arms with iron strength. Young and agile as he is, the bridegroom feels the hands of his adversary pressing heavily upon his shoulders, he bends under the weight, the old man hurls him to the ground, and, no longer requiring aid from others, strides over the prostrate body. He stalks on with flashing, burning eyes, his gigantic shadow striding with him on the wall, his wide robes floating on the wind, his white hair streaming, his form winged with the courage of despair. The retainers follow, the vaulted ceilings echoing back the sharp gride of their footsteps. Only one lighted saloon now lies between them and the chamber of the ladies of the castle. The double door at the other end is thrown wide open, the walls and windows of the wedding chamber are crimsoning with the early hues of day, silence and solitude pervade them, nothing falls upon the air save the twitter of the birds and the murmur of the fountains. The old man rushes on directly to the open door and toward the reddening east.

He reaches the threshold, and the immense red face of the just risen sun dazzles his eyes. Is it the bloody Heart of God he sees pulsating through the universe? Blinded for a moment, he staggers on at random, when suddenly he sees the floor is red with blood. The dreadful phantoms of the night are again around him, no longer floating in misty visions, but glaring fixed before him in the stern light of dread reality. In the fierce blaze of its pitiless rays, he sees the dead body of his brother's son; the bloody form of his only child, his good daughter, lies pale at his feet. Like a drowning man he gasps for breath, beats the air wildly around him, as if trying to rescue himself from this hell of spectres. Then he stands motionless, as if transfixed to the spot. Awakened by the noise and rumor, guests, feudal retainers, servants, and attendants rush to the spot, each in turn to be terror-stricken at the threshold, to move within awed and silent. All eyes wander from the old lord of the castle to the stiffening corpses at his feet. They lie together now! The left arm of the exile is round the neck of his sister; her head rests on his armed bosom just above the spot where the sword still remains plunged in his breast; his right hand has fallen beside it. There was no one near to close their dying eyelids, the pupils glitter glassily in the whitening light of the ascending sun, and the blood which is everywhere around, on the bridal bed, on the coat of mail of the young chieftain, on the white robes and snowy bosom of the bride, already congeals into dark pools or crimson corals. Above this cooling stream their features rest in marble peace--a faint smile is on the lips of the young bride--while a passing thought of warlike glory still beams from the broad, pallid brow of the young hero. So tranquil their repose, the agonies of death must have seemed light to them, lost in the ecstasies of faithful spirits.

* * * * *

The old man continues to stand as he first stood--no groan escapes his lips, no shuddering shakes his frame. The new comers press those already present forward, but all breaths are hushed, hands are fixed steadily on sword hilts that they may not rattle, all sound is stilled--they stand in awe of that dreadful moment when their lord shall awake from his torpor, and turn to them his face of woe. How will they bear the anguish written there? despair without a ray of hope!

O God! what a miracle! He turns toward them, greets them imperiously but courteously, as was his wont, as if, absorbed in thought and doubtful of the dire reality before him, he was trying to ascertain its truth. Fever burns in his eye and flames upon his wrinkled cheek.

'Hungarian wine!' he cries.' I will drink to the health of my fellow citizens.'

No one moves, the bystanders seem turning to stone.

'Haste! This blood must be washed away before my daughter returns to her chamber. Haste, I say!'

None move, all eyes are cast down; they cannot bear the strange light in his wandering glances.

'Ah! do you not know we are all dreaming? My sleep is torpid, stubborn, accursed, but the dawn is here, and I must soon awake!'

So saying he moves out upon the gallery, where suddenly a new thought appears to strike him; he leans over the marble balustrade, looks to the right and left, then exclaims:

'Guests, we will go out to seek the young betrothed; it is strange they should have gone out to walk so early!'

He descends the vaulted stairway by which his nephew had ascended but a short time before. He stoops at the foot of the hill, picks some roses, murmuring:

'For my good child. Move silently, friends, she loved this bower of jessamines; we will surprise her here, and be the first to say good morning to the bride.'

With drooping heads his guests follow his steps as he glides along under the sad firs and stately pines. Pathways stretch before them, leading into forest depths and over mossy banks, or climbing hillsides laden with vines. The old man often calls his daughter loudly by her name; the laughing echoes answer mockingly; the followers burst into tears. Striking his forehead suddenly and violently with his hands, he cries:

'The dream! the nightmare! Why should it look to me so like truth? When will the _true_ sun rise upon me?' Then he rushes to a sturdy pine, embraces its rough trunk with both his arms, strikes his head against it: 'Awake me, thou hard bark--awake me from this dreadful dream!' Turning back, he seizes one of the nearest of his followers by the throat, crying: 'Wrestle with thy lord, thou phantom of a servant, and wake him from his dream accursed!'

The frightened servant slips away and flees. The old man sighs, raises his eyes to heaven, an expression of submission to a divinely appointed torment shines for a moment upon his quivering features, as if he humbly offered to God the tortures of this cruel dream in penance for his sins. He walks on calmly for a while, then says:

'The bride is certainly on the lake; we will find her there.'

The sun is fully up now, drinking the dews from the leaves, and lighting up the waves of the lake with splendor. Large beaked boats with heraldic banners are rocking in the coves. Fastening the roses he had gathered for his child in his bosom, he walks to the shore, with fever burning more and more vividly in his face. No one ventures to suggest a return to the castle. Accustomed to obey the unbending will of their lord, they still pay homage to it, though it is no longer a thing of this world. Dark as midnight seems the day dawn to them; their own brains seem seething into madness.

'Perhaps she sails in one of her own light boats round the lake with her husband; she may be behind the fringe of willows, or among the little islands. Hallo! six of you take the oars; we will soon find her.'

They obey, he seats himself within, they push from shore.

'Why do you breathe so hard and look so weary to-day; is the water heavier than of old?'

They answer not, but row more rapidly. The larger boats are filled with guests and retainers; many follow the old lord, many remain on shore from lack of room. One after another the islets fly behind and hide themselves from view, with their circling wreaths of reeds and sedges. Rocks and bowlders are scattered over many of them, once sacrificial altars of old and cruel gods, now draped with hanging weeds and trailing mosses. Flocks of wild birds are startled up as the boats draw near them, frightened by the noise and plashing of the oars. Black clouds of them hang over the boat of the old man at every turn among the labyrinth of islands. He claps his hands:

'Here! we will surely find her here!' And when nothing is there to be seen, he asks the winds: 'Where is my child--my good and beautiful child?'

Having sailed round and round the whole group of islands, he orders them to row out into the middle of the lake, and then make for the other shore. He sinks into silence now; he leaves the helm, throwing himself suddenly down into the boat, while a ghastly pallor settles on his venerable face. He stretches his hand into the water, dives into it with his arm, listens to the rippling of the waves, then bursts into a loud scream of wild laughter. The oarsmen stop, in hopes he will order the boat to return to shore. He does not speak, but rises up and looks, first back at the boats following after, then at the mountains, the plains, the forests, the gardens, the ancestral castle. Constantly striking his palms together or rubbing his head with his hand, he exclaims:

'Who will waken me? I dream! I dream! I must, I will awake!'

The oarsmen shudder. Then, collecting his whole remaining force, he flings himself violently into the depths. Three of the men instantly plunge in after him; those in the boats hasten to the rescue. Having seen what had happened, they gaze upon the spot where the whirling, whistling waves were closing over the old lord and his faithful servants. The bold divers reappear, bearing in their arms the castle's lord. Under the heraldic banner they lay the last heir of the haughty House. In vain they try to resuscitate the venerable form; the dream is over now, but the mortal life remains under the blue waves of the ancestral lake.

* * * * *

The foreign prince inherits the ancient castle with all its treasures, the glories of the honored name, the entire Past of a noble race. He buries the bodies of his virgin wife and haughty father-in-law with funereal pomp and honor; but orders the corpse of the exile to be roughly thrown into unhallowed ground. In the very hall in which he had spent the first night of his bridal, surrounded by gay revellers, pledging full cups of ruby wine, with light jests flying from reckless lip to lip--he spreads, with the same comrades, the solemn Feast of the Dead. When the next dawn breaks upon them, mounting their vigorous steeds, they all ride back to the court of the King of the South. The king rejoices in his heart, giving thanks to the Fates that his leal subject has inherited vast wealth, and that the alien family, powerful through so many centuries, is extinct forever.

In the clefts of the mountains they remember and honor the young chieftain, whose body had been thrown into unhallowed ground. They know that his dishonored grave lies on that side of the castle through which will pass their path to victory; and they will plant the cross of glorious memories upon it as they march to the assault to drive the foreigner from the Home of his loyal ancestors. Eagles and vultures, led by some mystic instinct, are often seen to fly from the mountains to the towers and turrets of the castle. It is certain that in some not distant day the comrades of the chieftain will pour with resistless strength into its doomed walls.... Let another chant to you the Hymn of victory; I have sung the Dirge of agony!

* * * * *

Unhappy maiden! thou vanishest like a thought which cannot shape itself in any language known on earth, a dream of early love! Thou wouldst not lose thy snowy wings, and they bear thee on the whirlwind's track, where the mists fly, the clouds sail, the sound of harps dies, the leaves of autumn drift, the breath of sighs vanishes! Martyr to thine own dream of plighted faith, they bury thy fair form in ancestral earth; perchance the sculptured marble presses on thy faultless brow, for on its snow they grave the hated foreign name borne by thy alien husband! But the grass and wild flowers will soon grow unheeded around it, and in the green and flourishing world of the ever vanishing, thy name is never spoken.

On the very morning of thy death, the seven old men to whom obedience was commanded by the chieftain, curse thee because thou borest away with thee the soul of their hero. In their addresses to the people, with scorn and scoff upon their lips, they sneer and call thee 'WOMAN;' but the people weep, and pray: Lord Christ, Son of the Virgin, give to the maiden ETERNAL PEACE!

THE ENGLISH PRESS.

III.

We have seen that the tone of the newspapers had of late years greatly improved. Men of eminence and great intellectual attainments were to be found among the contributors to the various journals, and what is much more important--for this was pre-eminently the age of bribery and corruption--men of honesty and integrity. Still there was a large class of venal hirelings in the pay of the Government. These were described by Mr. Pulteney as 'a herd of wretches whom neither information can enlighten nor affluence elevate.' He further expresses his conviction that 'if their patrons would read their writings, their salaries would be quickly withdrawn, for a few pages would convince them that they can neither attack nor defend, neither raise any man's reputation by their panegyrics, nor destroy it by their defamation.' Sir Robert Walpole, who, as has been already stated, expended enormous sums in bribes to public writers, however expedient he may have thought it to retain their services, does not appear to have attached much importance personally to the writers either for or against him, at least if we may put faith in his own words. On one occasion he said: 'I have never discovered any reason to exalt the authors who write against the Administration to a higher degree of reputation than their opponents;' and on another, 'Nor do I often read the papers of either party, except when I am informed by some, who have more inclination to such studies than myself, that they have risen by some accident above their common level.'

Among the first rank of newspaper writers at this period must be placed the undying name of Henry Fielding, whose connection with journalism originated in his becoming, in 1739, editor and part owner of the _Champion_, a tri-weekly periodical of the _Spectator_ stamp, with a compendium of the chief news of the day in addition. The rebellion of 1745, like every other topic of absorbing interest, became the parent of a great many news sheets, the chief of which was probably the _National Journal, or County Gazette_, inasmuch as it called forth a Government prosecution, and procured six months' imprisonment for its printer. In opposition to the Jacobite journals, several newspapers were started in the interest of the Government. Fielding brought out the _True Patriot_, in 1745, and proved no mean antagonist for the sympathizers with the banished Stuarts. In the prospectus issued with his first number, he has some rather unpleasant things to say of his literary brethren:

'The first little imperfection in these writings is that there is scarce a syllable of truth in any of them. If this be admitted to be a fault, it requires no other evidence than themselves and the perpetual contradictions which occur, not only on comparing one with the other, but the same author with himself on different days. Secondly, there is no sense in them. To prove this likewise, I appeal to their works. Thirdly, there is in reality nothing in them at all. And this also must be allowed by their readers, if paragraphs, which contain neither wit, nor humor, nor sense, nor the least importance, may be properly said to contain nothing.... Nor will this appear strange if we consider who are the authors of such tracts--namely, the journeymen of booksellers, of whom, I believe, much the same may be truly predicated as of these their productions. But the encouragement with which these lucubrations are read may seem most strange and more difficult to be accounted for. And here I cannot agree with my bookseller that their eminent badness recommends them. The true reason is, I believe, the same which I once heard an economist assign for the content and satisfaction with which his family drank water-cider--viz., because they could procure no better liquor. Indeed, I make no doubt but that the understanding as well as the palate, though it may out of necessity swallow the worse, will, in general, prefer the better.'

These sarcasms are probably not much overcolored, for, with one or two exceptions, newspapers had sunk to a very low state indeed, and this may be looked upon as one of the most degraded periods in the history of journalism with which we have had to deal, or shall hereafter have to encounter. The _Champion_, of course, was intended to be 'the better.' It did not, however, meet with any very great success, but still with enough to encourage Fielding in his attacks. In 1747 he dealt another heavy blow at the Jacobites, by commencing the _Jacobite Journal_, in which they were most mercilessly ridiculed and satirized. His opponents replied as best they could, but they were not masters of the keen and polished weapons which the great novelist wielded, and they were therefore obliged to content themselves with venomous spite and abuse. The ablest of these antagonists was a newspaper entitled _Old England, or the Constitutional Journal_, an infamous and scurrilous publication, to which, however, the elegant Lord Chesterfield did not think it derogatory to contribute. Among other celebrities who were associated with the press at this time, we find Lord Lyttelton, Bonnell Thornton--the author of the _Connoisseur_, an essay paper, which, though inferior to the _Spectator_ and _Tatler_, may be read with great pleasure and profit, even at the present time--the famous Beckford, Edward Moore, and Arthur Murphy. This last started the _Test_, a journal devoted to the demolition of Pitt, but which called forth an opponent of no mean pretensions, under the name of the _Con-Test_, for then, as now, as it always has been, and always will be, a good and taking title produced a host of imitations and piracies. In spite, however, of Murphy's great talents and its first blush of success, the _Test_ soon began to languish, and died of atrophy, after a brief existence of some eight or nine months. One of the most formidable anti-ministerialist papers which, had hitherto appeared, was the _Monitor_. It came out upon the accession of George III., and was especially occupied in attacking Lord Bute, the young monarch's chief minister and favorite. Its editor was John Entick, who is best known as the author of a dictionary, which was largely used in the schooldays of the last generation, and is still occasionally to be met with in old-fashioned families and out-of-the-way corners of the world. This _Monitor_ was as terrible to the marquis as another more modern Monitor was to the Merrimac, and the Scotch minion was compelled to bestir himself. He called in to his aid Bubb Doddington, who, during the lifetime of the preceding king, had done good service for the party of the Prince of Wales, in a journal styled the _Remembrancer_, and they, in conjunction with Smollett as editor, brought out the _Briton_ in 1762. It was but a weakly specimen of a Briton from the very first. There were many causes which contributed to its downfall. Scotchmen were regarded throughout the nation with feelings of thorough detestation, and Smollett had made for himself many bitter enemies, of men who had formerly been his friends, by his acceptance of this employment. It was the hand of a quondam friend that dealt his paper the _coup-de-grace_, none other in fact than John Wilkes, who had started the _North Briton_ in opposition to Smollett. The _Briton_ expired on the 12th of February, 1763, and upon the 23d of April, in the same year, appeared the never-to-be-forgotten No. 45 of the _North Briton_. The circumstances connected with this famous _brochure_, and the consequences which followed upon its appearance, are so well known, that it will not be necessary to proceed to any great length in describing its incidents. This said No. 45 initiated a great fight, in which both sides committed several mistakes, won several victories, and sustained several defeats. Wilkes undoubtedly got the worst of it at first, but his discomfiture was set off by many compensations in different ways, which his long struggle procured for him. The obnoxious article, boldly assuming the responsibility of ministers for the king's speech--for Wilkes always asserted that he had the highest respect for the king himself--practically charged them with falsehood. Upon this they issued a general warrant for the apprehension of all the authors, printers, and publishers of the _North Briton_. Wilkes was seized and thrown into the Tower, where he was kept for four days, all access of friends and legal advisers being denied to him. At the end of that period he was brought before the Court of Common Pleas upon a writ of _habeas corpus_. Three points were raised in his favor, namely, whether the warrant was legal, whether the particular passage in the libel complained of ought not to have been specified, and whether his privileges as a member of Parliament did not protect him from arrest. The celebrated Lord Camden, then Chief Justice Pratt, presided, and ruled against Wilkes on the first two points, but discharged him from custody on the third. Wilkes hereupon reprinted the article. Both Houses of Parliament now took up the cudgels in behalf of the Government, and resolved that privilege of Parliament did not extend to arrest for libel. The House of Commons also resolved 'that the _North Briton_, No. 45, is a false, scandalous, and seditious libel, containing expressions of the most unexampled insolence and contumely toward his Majesty, the grossest expressions against both Houses of Parliament, and the most audacious defiance of the authority of the whole legislature, and most manifestly tending to alienate the affections of the people from his Majesty, to withdraw them from their obedience to the laws of the realm, and to excite them to traitorous insurrection against his Majesty's Government.' They also ordered the libel to be publicly burned by the common hangman, in front of the Royal Exchange. The authorities attempted to carry out this order, but an enormous mob assembled, drove off the officers, rescued the journal from the flames, and, in revenge, built a huge bonfire at Temple Bar, into which they threw the jackboot, the favorite emblem for expressing the public dislike of Lord Bute. It was now Wilkes's turn, and he brought an action in the following year against the under secretary of state, for the illegal seizure of his papers. Judge Pratt summed up in his favor, directing the jury that general warrants were 'unconstitutional, illegal, and altogether void.' As being the instrument in eliciting this memorable exposition of the laws, Wilkes deserves the gratitude of every Englishman who cares one jot for his constitutional rights, and of every lover of freedom throughout the world. He was not without immediate and substantial rewards, for the jury found a verdict for him, with L1,000 damages. The corporation of the city of London, who had taken his part throughout, eventually chose him sheriff, lord mayor, and chamberlain, and presented the lord chief justice with the freedom of the city, in token of their admiration for his conduct. On the other hand, Wilkes was expelled the House of Commons, on account of the libel, and on the very same day which witnessed his triumph in the Court of Common Pleas, he was tried in the Court of the King's Bench, for its republication, and found guilty. He refused to surrender to judgment, and was accordingly outlawed. He then proceeded to the Continent, from whence, some three or four years later, he addressed a petition to the king for a pardon. As no notice was taken of this, he returned to England, and paid a fine of L500, his outlawry being reversed. He next petitioned the House of Commons for readmission; but his petition was rejected, and a new writ issued, when he was returned by an overwhelming majority. The House expelled him again, and this farce of expulsion and reelection was enacted four distinct times, until at last his election was declared null and void. He subsequently brought an action against Lord Halifax for illegal imprisonment and the seizure of his papers, and obtained L4,000 damages. He lived several years after this, but took no prominent part in political affairs, confining his energies to the sphere of the city. While he was in exile at Paris he published an account of his trial, etc., but, as he was unfortunate in his defenders, so was he in his adversaries. The writings of his friend and coadjutor, Charles Churchill, the clever writer, but disreputable divine, are wellnigh, if not entirely, forgotten, but the undying pencil of the immortal Hogarth will forever hold him up to the gaze of remote posterity. Whatever may be the feeling as to his political opinions, and however great may be our gratitude to him in one particular instance, his authorship of the abominable and filthy 'Essay upon Women'--which, by the way, formed one count in the indictment against him at his trial in the King's Bench--will always earn for him the execration of mankind. The success of Wilkes in his action against the secretary of state, was the signal for a host of other authors, printers, and publishers, who had been similarly attacked, to bring similar actions. They generally obtained heavy damages, and ministers learned a lesson of caution which they did not soon forget.

But while they persecuted the opposition scribes, ministers did not forget to reward those writers who advocated the cause of the Government. Men who had failed in all kinds of professions and employments, turned their attention to political literature, and, as far as emolument was concerned, met with great success, for although the talent was all on one side, the profit was all on the other. Among the chief of these fortunate scribblers was Dr. Francis, the father of the celebrated Sir Philip, Dr. Shebbrart, Hugh Kelly, and Arthur Murphy.

We now arrive at another most memorable period in newspaper history--the appearance of the Letters of Junius. The interest in the discovery of the source of these withering diatribes has been almost as great as in that of the Nile, but, unlike that 'frightened and fugitive' river, their origin will probably never be discovered with any certainty. A neat little library might be formed of the books and pamphlets that have been written upon this 'vexed question,' and the name of every man that was at all eminent at the time of their publication--and of a great many too that were by no means eminent--has been at some time or other suggested as the author. This controversy may be looked upon as a sort of literary volcano, which every now and then becoming suddenly active, after a period of quiescence of longer or shorter duration, sends forth great clouds of smoke--but nothing else; and then all things remain once more in _statu quo_. Our space will not permit us to make any remark upon the matter, further than to express an opinion that the preponderance of evidence appears to be in favor of Sir Philip Francis--the untiring, unscrupulous bloodhound who hunted down Warren Hastings--having been the author. The first of these famous letters appeared in the _Public Advertiser_, of April 28, 1767; the last of a stalwart family of sixty-nine, on January 21, 1772. Let Burke testify to their tremendous power. To the House of Commons he said: 'He made you his quarry, and you still bleed from the wounds of his talons. You crouched, and still crouch beneath his rage.' To the speaker he said: 'Nor has he dreaded the terrors of your brow, sir; he has attacked even you--he has--and I believe you have no reason to triumph in the encounter.' And again: 'Kings, lords, and commons are but the sport of his fury.' Speaking of the 'Letter to the king,' Burke said: 'It was the rancor and venom with which I was struck. In these respects the _North Briton_ is as much inferior to him as in strength, wit, and judgment.' The Government tried every means in their power to discover the author, but in vain. Woodfall, the proprietor of the _Public Advertiser_, knew or professed to know nothing about it, asserting that the letters were found in his box from time to time, but how they came there he could not tell. Let it suffice us to know that they admirably served the purpose for which they were written, viz., to defeat tyranny, and to defend freedom; that they are still allowed to rank as the greatest political essays that were ever written; and that Junius, whoever he was, will always be gratefully remembered among us, so long as we continue to display that watchful jealousy in the preservation of our liberties which has hitherto ever characterized us as a nation.

The Government prosecuted several newspaper proprietors and printers for publishing these letters, and more especially that addressed to the king. Among others who were brought to trial were Woodfall himself; John Almon, of the _London Museum_; Miller, of the _London Evening Post_; Baldwin, of the _St. James's Chronicle_; Say, of the _Gazetteer_, and Robinson, of the _Independent Chronicle_. Almon was, however, the only one who was punished. The jury consisted of Government employes, carefully selected, and of course brought in a verdict adverse to him. Almon was fined and ordered to find substantial bail for his future good behavior.

The _Public Advertiser_ was a joint-stock concern, chiefly in the hands of the booksellers, among whom we find names which are still famous in Paternoster Row, such as Longman, Cadell, Rivington, and Strahan. Woodfall's ledger supplies us with the following information as to the expenses of getting it up, some of the items being sufficiently curious:

L s. d.

Paid translating foreign news, etc., 100 0 0 Foreign newspapers, 14 0 0 Foy, at 2s. a day, 31 4 0 Lloyd's coffee house for post news 12 0 0 Home news, as per receipts and incidents, 282 4 11-1/2 List of sheriffs, 10 6 Plantation, Irish, and Scotch news, 50 0 0 Portsmouth letter, 8 5 0 Stocks, 3 3 0 Porterage to the stamp office, 10 8 0 Recorder's clerk, 1 1 0 Sir John Fielding, 50 0 0 Delivering papers fifty-two weeks, at L1 4s. per week, 62 8 0 Clerk, and to collect debts, 30 0 0 Setting up extra advertisements, 31 10 0 A person to go daily to fetch in advertisements, getting evening papers, etc., 15 15 0 Morning and evening papers, 26 8 9-1/2 Price of hay and straw, Whitechapel, 1 6 0 Mr. Green for port entries, 31 10 0 Law charges, Mr. Holloway, 6 7 5 Bad debts, 18 3 6 ---------- L796 15 2

The sale was about three thousand a day, and the shareholders received L80 per share clear profit. The newspapers of those days paid the managers of theatres for accounts of their plays, as witness the following entries:

L s. d.

Playhouses, 100 0 0 Drury Lane advertisements, 64 8 6 Covent Garden 66 11 0 --------- L230 19 6

Theatrical advertising had not reached the pitch of development which it has since attained; the competition was not so severe, and managers did not find it necessary to have recourse to ingenious methods of propitiating dramatic critics, such as producing their plays at the commencement of a new season, or paying L300 a year for the supervision of the playbills--expedients which have been now and then employed in our own times.

Among the writers in the _Public Advertiser_ were Caleb Whitefoord, _dilettante_ and wine merchant, Charles d'Este, who, like the popular London preacher of the present day, Bellew, first tried the stage, but not succeeding in that line, entered the pulpit; John Taylor, afterward editor of the _Morning Post_; Tom Syers, author of the 'Dialogues of the Dead,' and Woodfall's brother William. This last started the _Morning Chronicle_, in 1769, a paper whose fate it was, after lasting nearly a century, to pass into the venal hands of Sergeant Glover (who sold it to Louis Napoleon, in order that it might become _sub rosa_ a French organ in London), and to die in consequence in well-merited dishonor.

The _Public Ledger_ was brought out by Newberry, the bookseller, in 1760, and is chiefly remarkable as being the vehicle through which Goldsmith's 'Citizen of the World' was first given to the public.

'Poet Goldsmith, for shortness called 'Noll,' Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll,'

received two guineas for his first article, and afterward became a regular contributor at a guinea an article. William Radcliffe, the husband of the authoress of 'The Mysteries of Udolfo,' edited the _Englishman_, a paper to which Edmund Burke contributed, and subsequently the _English Chronicle_ and the _Morning Herald_. Of all these he was proprietor, either altogether or in part, and it seems to have been customary for the editor to be the proprietor, or, more strictly speaking, for the proprietor to be the editor.

The prosecutions in connection with the letters of Junius were not the only attacks made upon the press at this time. Parliament again entered the lists against it. There was a certain Lord Marchmont, whose especial mission appears to have been to persecute the newspapers. Shakspeare says,

'The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones;'

and whether or no my Lord Marchmont ever did any good cannot now be ascertained. All that is known of him is that he was very pertinacious and very successful in his onslaughts upon his victims, for, whenever he saw the name of any member of the House of Peers in a journal, he used to make a motion against the printer for breach of privilege, summon him before the bar of the House, and have him heavily fined. The House of Commons followed suit. The old bone of contention, the reporting of the debates, was raked up again. There were then two giants of reporting, William Woodfall, who, from his wonderful retentive powers, was called by the _sobriquet_ of Memory Woodfall, and William Radcliffe. It was in 1771 that the House proceeded to active measures by a majority of ninety votes to fifty-five. Orders were given to arrest the printers, publishers, and authors of the _Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser_ and the _Middlesex Journal, or Chronicle of Liberty_. The printers went into hiding, and a reward of L50 was offered for their apprehension. Shortly afterward, this raid was extended to the printers of the _Morning Chronicle_, _St. James's Chronicle_, _General Post_, _London Evening Post_, _Whitehall Evening Post_, and _London Packet_. Some of these appeared at the bar of the House, and actually _made their submission on their knees_. Miller, of the _London Evening Post_, declined to surrender, and was, after some difficulty, arrested under a warrant from the speaker. He was taken before the lord mayor, who was a member of the House of Commons. The city's chief magistrate--let his name, Brass Crosby, be remembered with honor--declared the warrant illegal, discharged Miller, and committed the speaker's messenger for assault. The same thing was done in the case of Wheble, of the _Middlesex Journal_, who was taken before John Wilkes, then sitting as alderman at Guildhall; and in that of Thompson, of the _Gazetteer_, who was taken before Alderman Oliver. The ground for their discharge was that the speaker's warrant had no force within the boundaries of the city, without being countersigned by a magistrate of the corporation. The House of Commons became furious, and ordered the attendance of Crosby and Oliver, but, taught by old experience, did not in the first instance think it desirable to meddle with Wilkes. The civic magistrates stood their ground manfully, and produced their charters. The House retorted by looking up the resolutions passed on various occasions against the publication of the debates. Meanwhile a mob assembled outside, and abused and hustled the members on their way to the House. After a fierce debate, Oliver was committed to the Tower. The attendance of Wilkes was then ordered for the 8th of April, but, in the mean time, the House, like Fear as represented by Collins in his Ode to the Passions,

'back recoiled...
Even at the sound himself had made;'

and accordingly got out of the difficulty by adjourning over the day for which the redoubtable Wilkes had been summoned. On the 27th of April, however, the lord mayor was sent to the Tower. The whole country rang with indignation; but, nevertheless, the city magistrates remained incarcerated until the 23d of July, when the Parliament was prorogued, and, its power of imprisonment being at an end, they were set free. Such was the issue of the last battle between the Parliament and the press, on the question of publishing the debates. It was fought in 1771, and had been a tougher conflict than any of its predecessors, but it was decisive. There is no danger of the subject being reopened; the reporting of the debates is now one of the most important of the functions of our newspapers; and the members themselves are too sensible of the services rendered them by the reporters' gallery to be suicidal enough to inaugurate a new crusade against it. What those services are, any one who has been patriotic or curious enough to sit out a debate in the strangers' gallery over night, and then to read the speeches, to which he has listened, in the newspapers next morning, can readily appreciate. Hazy ideas have become clear, mutilated and unintelligible sentences have been neatly and properly arranged, needless repetitions and tautological verbiage have disappeared; there is no sign of hesitation; hums and haws, and other inexpressible ejaculations, grunts, and interpolations find no place; the thread of an argument is shown where none was visible before, and all is fluent, concise, and more or less to the point.

Meanwhile the tone of the press had again greatly improved, partly owing to purification through the trials which it had undergone, and partly owing to the better taste of the public. Its circulation had rapidly increased. In 1753 the number of stamps on newspapers in the United Kingdom was 7,411,757; in 1760, 9,464,790; in 1774, 12,300,608; in 1775, 12,680,906; and in 1776, 12,836,000, a halt in its progress being caused by Lord North's new stamp act, raising the stamp from one to one and a half pence. The ordinary price of a news sheet was two or two and a half pence, but this was more than doubled by its cost of transmission through the post office, which, for a daily paper, was L5 a year. The _Morning Post_, the full title of which was originally the _Morning Post and Daily Advertiser_, first came out in 1772. In 1775 it appeared regularly every morning, under the editorship of the Rev. Henry Bate, afterward the Rev. Sir Henry Bate Dudley, Bart. The _Gentleman's Magazine_--that prolific mine to whose stores of wealth the present series of articles is beholden times out of number--gives a curious account of a duel into which this clerical editor was forced in his clerical capacity. Editorial duels were not unknown in those days. Wilkes had fought one or two, as well as other editors; but these were the circumstances of Mr. Bate's encounter: