Volume 81 / Part 2 / Book 3 — LETTERS FROM A LIGHTHOUSE.—NO. I.

My dear Ebony,—If you still retain in your composition one drop of the milk of human kindness, the reappearance of an old contributor, whom doubtless you long ago considered as irretrievably lost or strayed, must impart to you a thrill of pleasure. At all events, it ought to do so: for, though I say it, there seems to have been a sad falling-off in power and stamina since I withdrew from the literary ring. Nine years ago, when I regularly stained paper in your service, the world was brisk and bustling. All of us had drunk more or less deeply of the Circean cup of speculation; and though the hour of retribution, or rather of paying up calls, was nigh at hand, we had not yet been summoned to partake of the soda-water of repentance. The political game was fast and exciting. There was a clear, distinct, and obvious contest of principles; and it was a real gratification to see how valiantly men on either side would stand forth and fisticuff their opponents. The forehead of the Manchester Goliath was a first-rate mark for the sling of the Conservative David; and many a time have I groaned with pleasure over the prostrate carcass of a Quaker Philistine. All things seemed flourishing, when a heavy shadow passed over me and my fortunes. Don’t be alarmed. I have no intention of troubling you with details which I did not think it necessary at the time to divulge to a Court of Bankruptcy. I have no creditors now. The misfortunate creatures who arrogated to themselves that absurd and empty title, have long since bolted also. In fact, if I had not been an ass, I might easily have got rid of the whole of them by adopting the simple expedient of tarrying incognito for the space of a twelvemonth at Dalnacardoch, where a friend of mine, a duiniewassail of the house of M‘Tavish, who was largely engaged in the process of illicit distillation, would willingly have afforded me shelter. However, I committed the grievous mistake of outrunning, not the constable, but my creditors. I shall never forget the kind manner in which you acceded to my request for an advance of an hundred pounds, on the strength of future articles. Your liberality was not thrown away, for the money you gave me materially facilitated my departure, and enabled me to take my leave with that calmness, decorum, and equanimity which become a gentleman. I mention this for the purpose of showing you that I am not oblivious of such favours, though I should be the last man in the world to insult you by hinting at repayment after the lapse of so much time. Indeed you will not expect to receive any such paltry proposal, as the debt must be long ago prescribed. But what is friendship, if not based upon gratitude and confidence? Therefore understand, that, if you print this letter or any other lucubration of mine, I shall consider myself your creditor (at a short date) on the same terms as before; unless, indeed, you have raised the literary tariff since the period of our former connection, in which case I shall gladly avail myself of any reasonable increment.

Business first—pleasure afterwards. That was always my motto; and I already feel that I can write more easily, and express myself more felicitously, now that I have discharged this debt upon my conscience. I have been, it is true, a little out of practice; for amongst the various kinds of thirst which affected the Californian diggers and the Norfolk Island whalers, with whom respectively I sojourned for considerable periods, I did not observe that for literature exorbitantly developed. Neither were the Bashi-Bazouks, in which honourable corps of irregulars I held an honourable commission, and whom I might, could, would, or should have led on to glory, had they not preferred devoting their energies to the expiscation of hen-roosts, the discovery of secret cellars, and such-like baubles—neither, I say, were the Bashi-Bazouks a hard-reading set. Indeed they rather appeared to incline to the tenets of that capital old cock, Caliph Omar, whom it is the fashion to abuse because he burned the Alexandrian library. I am sure that if he were alive again, and could contrive to make a bonfire of every book that has been printed since Gutenberg drew his first proof-sheet, he would be regarded as a blessed benefactor by every man who now earns his livelihood by handling the pen. Positively my mouth waters at the bare idea of such a thing! Living authors would then have the whole monopoly, and might fix their own prices; and we should have none of those rascally reprints of the works of the defunct, which interfere so materially with our sales. But indulgence in such extravagant dreams is useless, and even criminal. I simply mean to observe that, while among my friends the Bashis, I had not much opportunity of giving my nights and days to the study of Addison, or Alison, or Tennyson, or Emerson, or any other son of woman born; so that, perhaps, my style may, for some little time, appear deficient in grace and polish. But since I came here (I shall presently tell you what I mean by here, and how I obtained the exceedingly desirable situation which I now enjoy), I have had plenty leisure for reading, and have gradually unstacked a pile of reviews, big enough, and I must add heavy enough, to sink a respectable steam-tug. I have read, sir, very nearly through the whole periodical literature of Great Britain published during the last eight years; and I have arrived at the deliberate conclusion that the said floating literature has been gradually becoming water-logged, and is in great danger of disappearing, like the mysterious islet on Lochlomond.

Time was when the Quarterlies supplied a stock of reading, which, if not very pungent, was at least easy of digestion, suited to the comprehension of the numerous class of consumers who do not affect unusual profundity, and occasionally relieved by a touch of something which it was possible to mistake for humour. But all that has disappeared. The new brood of contributors are much too learned for their audience, and you might as well look for liveliness at an undertaker’s wedding, as within the pages of a Quarterly Review. I read a number of one of them—I won’t specify which—no later than last night, under the reflector; and, do you know, it positively gave me a fit of colic. Six or eight fellows, each more heavy-sterned than the other, trudged by in succession, bearing burdens of bosh upon their shoulders; just as I have seen, on a tearing wet day, some of my Bashi-Bazouks straggle in from a plundering expedition, one bending beneath a load of dripping mats not worth an asper, another sweating under the abandoned pack-saddle of a camel, and a third carrying a dead goat in an advanced stage of putrefaction. I protest to you, Ebony, that I have a very great regard in the abstract for the ancients, and am willing to take (or affect) as much interest in their quondam doings as can possibly be expected from a gentleman whose fortune it was to be born some two thousand years or so after their time; but is it reasonable to expect me to wade through some thirty or forty mortal pages devoted to the subject of the Peloponnesian war? I like the Orientals, who, after all, have some sound notions on the subjects of coffee and tobacco; but why should I be solicited to bother my brains with criticisms upon the Coptic grammar? My chief objection to Egypt is its fleas; but, at a pinch—or rather in spite of innumerable pinches—I might bring myself to submit even to that nuisance, and enjoy in comparative tranquillity the really salubrious air of the heritage of the Pharaohs, provided I were not perpetually pestered by jabbering about hieroglyphs, and monoliths, and Orus, and Osiris, and the beetles, and the Ibis, and the leeks, and the crocodiles, and Necho, and Psammis, and Rhamses (who was no relation of the Dalhousies), and other myths, reptiles, vegetables, and divinities, who at one time molested the Delta. I had the pleasure, a couple of years ago, of kicking, after various warnings, a British antiquarian out of a coffee-house in Cairo; and he ought to feel very grateful to me for having done so, as otherwise he would have been poniarded to a certainty at a later period of the evening. Well, sir; last night, in the course of my reading, I recognised my old friend, in the pages of the review, by marks which I hold to be infallible: for you must know that, before my patience gave way altogether, I had imparted to him divers startling details touching discoveries in Upper Egypt, which occurred to me (I was drinking rum and water at the time, and the lymph of the Nile from a porous jar is, I assure you, when properly qualified, very seductive tipple) as extremely probable to be made in localities whereof I had not the slightest knowledge; and—will you believe it?—the caitiff has actually embodied in his article the results of my sublime and extemporaneous researches! If it ever should be my lot to fall in with him near Nineveh, he may expect a sterner measure of justice and retribution. Next comes an ecclesiastical monomaniac, maundering—O me—about the Council of Chalcedon! I thought we really had done with councils. Most of us of the Protestant way of thinking, are well pleased to be rid, once and for ever, of a controversy which was understood to have been settled at the Reformation; and we are entitled to object to its revival. So about Italian history. We don’t want to hear about Duke Sforza this, or Count Paolo that;—the record of their crimes, intrigues, murders, rapes, and adulteries ought to have no manner of interest, and really has none, except to a few antiquarians with diseased appetites;—and if deeds of this kind are worthy of promulgation at this time of day, I am serious in thinking that we do injustice to such native heroes as Turpin and Abershaw, by giving the foreigners a decided quarterly preference. Next I observe that an awful deal of drivel is current about Niebuhr and the Romans. I know something about Niebuhr; and I always esteemed him a prig. He was a regular old, pottering, professional German humbug—one of your why-and-wherefore men, who looked regularly twice at each side of his kalbs-braten, and would not have taken upon trust an ordinary report of a police trial from the columns of the Times. He was as little susceptible of poetical feeling or inspiration as an ink-fish or a polypus; and thought—for the conceit of the animal was unbounded—that he knew far more about Roman history than either Livy or Ovid. It humbly appears to me that, in dealing with the history of such remote times, the man who, without absolute information enabling him to substitute truth for falsehood, flies in the face of tradition, is a blockhead. Tradition is much older than he is, and infinitely more respectable; and if he cannot disprove it by evidence, he is bound to let it stand. What is the use of all this captious infidelity? What does Niebuhr give us in exchange for the story of Romulus and Remus, or any of the glowing early legends of Rome, which, despite of the ultra-grammarian tendencies of too many pedagogues, have, for centuries, roused the curiosity and emulation of our youth, except the vision of a duffle-clad professor, with a pipe in his mouth, attempting, in uncleanly fashion, to blow away the settled belief of ages! And all this passes current under the title of profound criticism! Then what with philology, archæology, ontology, epistemology, and æsthetics, a plain fellow like myself feels as though he had lodged surreptitiously in Bedlam. Lads, in their second year at college, patter away in a jargon more perplexing than that of the swell-mob or the gypsies, and discuss the science of mind instead of occupying themselves with the gustative enjoyment of tarts. One very marked feature of the age is the growth and excessive multiplication of what are facetiously called philosophical institutes. I conjecture, from the multitude of advertisements and circulars which have reached me, that there is now hardly a village throughout the country without its lecture-room, for the purpose of affording an easy vent to the available talent and ready impudence of the district. Lairds, dominies, dissenting ministers, enthusiastic excisemen, and philanthropic collectors of the revenue, seem to avail themselves with the utmost eagerness of these opportunities of displaying the vast treasures of thought and information stored up in their respectable brains; and they rant, declaim, speculate, or mumble over every imaginable subject—politics, poetry, religion, or railways, causality, cookery, or consciousness. Noble lords and members of the House of Commons, of all shades of opinion, have been pressed into the service. One day Lord John Russell drones upon the subject of history; on the next, Sir Robert Peel is heard spouting the poetry of Mrs Hemans. And on all sides, from every corner, nook, and cranny, rises a dreary hum about education, which possibly might be considered as a hopeful symptom, provided any two people could be found to agree as to the exact meaning of the term.

Far be it from me to object to this general expansion of the public mind. I fully concur in the observation made a few weeks ago by the chairman of the Cowcaddens’ Mechanics Institute, that every man possesses, upon some particular topic, a stock of information which he is bound to communicate for the advantage of his fellow-creatures: and, along with him, I expect the advent of the time when the number of the British lecturers shall exceed that of their collective audiences. I sometimes experience a feeling of regret that my present circumstances and position preclude me from taking an active hand in the game, so long as there is a chance of profit. I am quite certain that I could get up a stunning course upon less than a fortnight’s warning; and by shifting my ground dexterously from one institute to another, I have no doubt that I should be able to pick up guineas as fast as a pigeon gathers peas. But, after all, it is a great matter to bear a contented mind. I never envied any one, being of opinion that there is always a skeleton in the closet; and recent events have convinced me that this is the true philosophy. Look at Paul the banker, Sadleir, Redpath, Cameron—what has been the upshot of all their wealth and prosperity? Hang me if I would not rather cut kelp at sixpence a-day than be a director of the Bank of England! Then as to power—what is the good of that? Nobody in our time has had a longer lease of it than Johnny Russell, and yet where is his reputation now? Where be his followers, the men who used to cheer him so vociferously—who were so lavish of their adulation, so perfectly slavish to his will? Dancing at the back of Palmerston, like so many fantoccini, and shrugging their shoulders with affected pity for the misfortunes of their former leader! Where is Cobden now? No man in my day, barring O’Connell, had a larger personal following than the redoubted crumpler-up of Russia, but somehow his adherents have melted from him, like snow at the breath of the thaw. Surely it would be better never to rise from obscurity at all, than, after a splendid meridian, to shiver in the eve of life under the cold shadows of contumely and neglect.

It is my belief that you men who dwell amidst the whirl and turmoil of public affairs, who are constantly engaged either in attack or defence, and whose brains are consequently kept spinning like a whirligig, are quite unfitted to take a philosophic view of any immediate subject, or to pronounce a candid opinion upon its merits. You are like the warriors on the plain of Troy, thrusting, foining, and contending for the armour of those who are down; and amidst the dust and stour of the battle, it is physically impossible that you can see anything at the distance of twenty yards. Very different is the position of us Olympians, who, from our elevated perch, in clear weather, can survey complacently all that is passing beneath, without allowing party feeling, or affection, or prejudice, to distort our deliberate judgments.

“For we lie beside our nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d

Far below us in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d

Round our golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.”

But I forget that you are no Œdipus, and necessarily must think me crazy, unless I condescend to explanation.

Know, then, that after my return from the wars, without accepting a Pashalik, which was the very least that those ungrateful infidels should have offered me, I found myself nearly as much out at elbows as the Copper Captain or the redoubted Bobadil. Arrearages there were none; and I found myself wandering about the streets of London, with a magnificent beard, a seedy greatcoat, galligaskins that had seen better days, and a very few shillings in my pocket. I believe—at least I have been told—that the British public was exceedingly excited and gratified by the return of the soldiers from the Crimea, and that all sorts of hospitalities were lavished upon the victors of Alma and Inkermann. Be that as it may, I can conscientiously aver that I did not profit, to the extent of a single beefsteak, by my military renown. True, I did not belong to the regulars, or even to the German Legion. I never saw Sebastopol, nor was I quartered at Heligoland. But that was no fault of mine. Had I, with my brave Bashis, been moved forward to the van of fight, I flatter myself that—but I will not pursue the subject further. Suffice it to say, that I received no medals, and no allowances, and that I was twice requested by the police to exhibit my ticket-of-leave. Suspicion is a horrid thing, and apt to unsettle even the best-regulated mind. I began to ponder within myself whether it were worth while to be suspected without a cause; and had Mephistopheles displayed his usual diabolic activity on the night of the display of fireworks, I really do think that I might have been overpersuaded to try my hand at the garotte. I was, however, such a very dilapidated Faustus, that the demon passed me by as if I were not worth his notice; and with the return of morning, virtue reassumed her sway. I then bethought me that in other and more fortunate days I was known to certain individuals now holding office under the beneficent administration of the Whigs; and, as it was notorious that some very loose fish had recently been patronised by that respectable faction, I thought it not impossible that they might cast a few crumbs of comfort in the way of a meritorious veteran who was always ready to serve his country for an extremely moderate consideration. So, after making what toilet I could, I laid siege to the public offices, being fully determined that my old besetting sin of modesty should not this time, at all events, prove a bar to my advancement, and that no one whom I was privileged to accost should hereafter be able to plead ignorance as an excuse for having overlooked my claims. Nor was I at all particular as to the kind of employment. Any of the newly-created offices in the gift of the Secretary of the War Department would have suited me like a kid-glove. Had my godfathers and godmothers been gifted with sufficient prescience to bestow upon me the name of Dowb, I might possibly have been taken care of; but, alas! I had no part or portion in that sacred monosyllable. Flights of harpies had been before me; and they had swept away even the most insignificant remnants of the banquet. Go where I might, I met with nothing save incivility and official insolence; until at last one friend, more true than the others, purchased my evacuation of his lobby, in which I had permanently encamped myself, by procuring for me a nomination as an assistant light-keeper. Yes—you may well stare, and drop the paper as you read! “Is it possible,” you will say—or you ought to say—“that our ancient and illustrious contributor, a man of such varied learning and minute accomplishment, &c. &c., should be so depressed by fortune as to immure himself within the narrow precincts of a lonely Pharos?” Well—why not? The work is easy and regular, provided you can keep awake; and the pay and perquisites by no manner of means to be despised. Government is good enough to find us in all manner of victual and appurtenances (save liquor, which is somewhat churlishly prohibited); you have comfortable lodgings, prime air, wholesome exercise in ascending the stair, and the most magnificent of sea-views, either in calm or in storm. Add to this, your absolute immunity, nowhere else to be enjoyed in the British islands, from all visits of those disagreeable savages the tax-gatherers; and it will require no exorbitant stretch of fancy to imagine worse quarters. The society, no doubt, is limited, but then it has the advantage of being select. Archy M‘Craw, my principal, is a superannuated sergeant of a Highland regiment, who remembers Waterloo, and has a settled belief in the authenticity of Ossian; and when he produces his stores of anecdote about Picton and Fingal—heroes whose deeds he is rather apt to confound—he is anything but stupid company. His helpmate, Elspeth, is a nice tidy old body, somewhat addicted to snuff and the perusal of Boston’s Fourfold State, but extremely obliging; and her talents in the concoction of an Irish stew are by no means despicable. Like all genuine Highlanders, M‘Craw has a proper respect for birth and education; and as he knows that my circumstances are now somewhat altered from what they have been, he is courteous in his demeanour, and, instead of trying to impose upon me, as a newcomer, additional labour, I observe that he is most anxious to lighten my burden. So upon the whole we get on capitally, and I do not know that I was ever more comfortable than now. I was always a consumer of the midnight oil, which the Government now provides for me gratis; and I have plenty of time for reading in the long watch beneath the glow of the reflectors. As for the wind and rain—of which, it must be confessed, there is rather a superabundance here—one becomes used to them after a certain period of probation; indeed I rather like a storm, as the roaring of the elements tends to stir poetical ideas, which otherwise might be apt to stagnate. I wrote a most capital description of an eruption of Vesuvius, a few nights ago, during one of the most violent gales that ever swept this Sound. Then, during the daytime, after polishing the mirrors and making up the log-book, I have plenty of leisure for meditation. Our lighthouse is perched upon a cliff some three hundred feet above the sea, and there is a long sloping hillside behind, where our cattle and ponies graze, which leads down to the beach. There is prime fishing all about; and the sea-fowl are so prolific in the matter of eggs, that, at the proper season, it would not be difficult, from our rocks alone, to furnish a daily ration of omelette to every soldier in the British army. Then there is a reef on which the seals at ebb-tide come up to bask, and, as I have not parted with my rifle, I have had some pretty sport, and have even turned an honest penny by the disposal of the peltry. On the whole, I should say, after much experience of life in different phases, that there is no more agreeable post for a man who unites in himself the combined characters of philosopher, sportsman, and student, than that of a keeper of a lighthouse; and I would not, with my present feelings, change places with the venerated Palmerston. I warrant me I am much more comfortable while reading the columns of the Magazine (by the way, do not forget to send me the numbers in future—I have borrowed the last few from the parish minister), by the mild effulgence of the Stella maris, than he is while compelled, long after midnight, to listen to the dreary debates in the House of Commons, cursing all the while the imbecility of his supporters, who attempt to copy his jocular manner, without possessing a tithe of his ability. If the noble viscount had been but ten years younger, I would have strenuously recommended him to isolate himself for a twelvemonth in a lighthouse. If he were to undergo such a contemplative ordeal, I am ready to stake my life that on his emergence he would make a clean sweep of such preposterous and exhaustive satellites as the two Peels, Bernal Osborne, Sir Charles Wood, Vernon Smith, and Mr Robert Lowe; and would have tried at least to reconstruct his Administration on the principle of common sense, if he could not command a more exalted kind of talent. But the Premier, with all his dexterity, official experience, and sleight-of-hand, is, for the present, like a theatrical manager at the head of a most sorry corps dramatique, the members of whom he must shift as occasion requires; and were his own performances not extremely adroit, he could hardly hope to escape the envenomed hiss which is the sure signal of dissolution.

I will tell you why I make these observations. The last mail brought me an account of a discourse, lately delivered by the present Sir Robert Peel, at the opening of some kind of museum in the neighbourhood of Birmingham, which you, as the conductor of an important organ of public opinion, are bound to notice in terms of the severest reprobation. However disposed men may be in this indulgent country of ours, to pass over youthful follies, or to palliate more matured eccentricities, some guarantee is required that those who are advanced to responsible offices, and who are paid servants of the Crown, shall, in that capacity, maintain ordinary decorum, and, whatever their private impressions, impulses, or desires may be, conform to that decency which is the duty of all officials. Sir Robert Peel was among the number of those selected to represent the Court of St James’s at the recent coronation of the Emperor of Russia: a ceremony of no ordinary mark and significance, occurring as it did immediately after the termination of the war. Of the wisdom of the selection made, I need say nothing, as I believe upon that point there is no divided opinion in the public mind. But whether the choice was good or bad, judicious or extremely imprudent, the fact remains that Sir Robert Peel went to Russia, as a member of the Legation sent by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, to give a pledge and testimony of renewed amity between two of the mightiest nations of Europe. From a man intrusted with so high a function, not only is the utmost degree of circumspection required during the period occupied by the discharge of his duties, but an entire suppression of his private and personal opinions. Gentlemen connected with the press, or adventurous tourists who went to Moscow in a private capacity, were perfectly free on their return to lay before the public their impressions and sentiments. Some of them have done so; but in so far as I have had the opportunity of observing, in no instance has anything been written which could by possibility give offence to Russia, or tend to increase the irritation which will sometimes linger even after peace has been restored. But Peel stood altogether in a different position. He was not only a subordinate member of the Ministry, but a special delegate; and therefore he was doubly bound to use caution, and to abstain from unguarded speech. Yet no sooner does this favoured statesman return to his own country, than we find him, on an occasion quite unsuited for the introduction of such a topic, commenting upon his Russian experiences in terms which would have disgraced the meanest mountebank that ever spouted on a platform. Everything in Russia, according to Sir Robert Peel, is deception and imposture. The Empress, by a fine stroke of humour, was represented by him as appearing at the coronation “with her hair dishevelled, looking like Norma in the opera.” Not in coarser, but not in better taste is his reference to the Archduke Constantine. “The Marble Palace is the residence of that ‘frank and open-hearted sailor,’ Constantine. How I laughed when I read that description of Constantine’s character! With all respect to his highness, I must say that I never saw a man who gave me less of the impression of a ‘frank and open-hearted sailor.’ It is all soft sawder, you know.” Now, setting aside the ineffable vulgarity of the man’s discourse, I would just ask what kind of sensation would be created in England, if a representative from the United States, sent to attend the coronation of Queen Victoria, had, on his return home, used such offensive language? Why, the whole British press, from Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s, would have been vociferous in denunciation of the outrage, as a breach not only of public duty, but of private manners; and Judge Lynch would have been recommended to take immediate steps for the punishment of the insolent offender. I have no great faith in the plenitude of American courtesy; but I do verily believe that it would be impossible to find, within the compass of Yankee-land, a single man of ordinary education and breeding, who, after having been accredited as was this individual, Peel, would so have spoken of the royal family of Great Britain. The effect of such a speech as this, upon foreigners, must be twofold. In the first place, they cannot but consider it, proceeding from the mouth of a member of the Administration, as a pregnant sign that a bad and rancorous feeling towards Russia still exists among the British people. In the second place, they will take it as a proof of the assertion which ere now has been made, that the British aristocracy are no longer pre-eminently distinguished for politeness, courtesy, and high-toned chivalry; for we cannot expect foreigners to be intimately acquainted with the antecedents of the house of Peel.

“I look upon it,” says Machiavelli, “as one of the greatest points of discretion in a man, to forbear injury and threatening, especially in words. Neither of them weakens the enemy; but threatening makes him more cautious, and injury the more inveterate and industrious to revenge it. Nothing provokes and incenses a man so highly as to have his imperfections reaped up: whether in earnest or in jest, ’tis the same thing. Nam facetiæ asperæ, quando nimium ex vero traxere, acrem sui memoriam relinquunt. For biting raillery, especially with a tincture of truth, leaves an ill impression on the memory.” I do not, of course, suppose that Peel has any acquaintance with the writings of the famous Florentine; but he may, possibly, have looked into the works of Lord Bacon; and if so, it is a pity that he has forgotten the following passage: “As for jest, there be certain things which ought to be privileged from it; namely, religion, matters of state, great persons, any man’s present business of importance, and any case which deserveth pity. Yet there be some that think their wits have been asleep except they dart out somewhat that is piquant and to the quick. That is a vein which would be bridled;

Parce puer stimulis, et fortius utere loris.

And, generally, men ought to find the difference between saltness and bitterness. Certainly, he that hath a satirical vein, as he maketh others afraid of his wit, so he had need be afraid of others’ memory.” The conclusion of which last sentence Sir Robert Peel has peculiar reason to study.

But this is not all. It was not enough for the Palmerstonian protegé to insult Russia—he must also have a fling at the representatives of our nearer allies. The following is his account of Count de Morny, the representative of France. “We were presented at the coronation by Count de Morny, the French ambassador, a spick-and-span man of considerable aplomb, and who, by the way, is one of the greatest speculators in the world. He speculates in everything, and bought a lot of pictures to sell again and make a profit of.” The intense indecency of this is only equalled by its vulgarity. No man with the real feelings of a gentleman would so have spoken publicly of another, for whose good offices he was, moreover, indebted. “Spick-and-span man!” Why, the veriest bagman that ever perambulated the Midland Counties would blush if convicted of having used such language. I should like to know what Sir Robert Peel would have thought if Count de Morny, at some public meeting in France, had regaled his audience by personal allusions of a similar kind, for which there is no lack whatever of current material. Presently comes the turn of the ambassador sent by the uncle of Queen Victoria. “Then came the ambassador of the smallest kingdom in Europe—Belgium—the Prince de Ligne, the very picture of swelling insignificance; so swelling, indeed, that he could not, for the life of him, look down from the contemplation of his own importance.” Apart from the shameless personality of this sketch, which at once betrays the parvenu, the man has contrived in this sentence to exhibit a degree of ignorance sufficient to entitle him to a pluck if he offered himself for examination as a candidate for a portership in a public office. Belgium is so far from being the smallest kingdom in Europe, that, in point of population and revenue, which have always been considered the proper tests of the greatness of a state, it is superior to Portugal, Denmark, Bavaria, Hanover, Saxony, Würtemburg, and Greece. It has a larger population than Holland; a larger revenue than Naples, Sweden, or Sardinia; and a larger territorial extent than three of the kingdoms which I have mentioned. It is to be hoped that this instance of stupid and gross blunder on the part of a man who was shoved by paternal interest into important and diplomatic situations, will convince Sir Charles Trevelyan of the necessity of extending his system of examination beyond the rank of mere subordinates. However much Peel may in other respects resemble the renowned Katterfelto, who was the most famous jack-pudding of his day, he certainly has not acquired the secret of consummate dexterity and manipulation. It is highly improbable that the repute of the Prince de Ligne will suffer from the scratches of so coarse and clumsy a caricaturist. To this succeeds a touch of Tartuffe. “Then the representative of Naples, of whom, IN CHARITY, I will say nothing.” It is to be hoped, for the credit of Drayton Manor, that the representative of Naples will be inspired with the like Christian forbearance. Lastly comes the poor Turkish representative, of whom our pattern Englishman says: “You could not look at him without feeling that he was the representative of an effete and worn-out nation.” If nations are to be judged by their representatives, and if Great Britain is to be estimated according to the intellectual measurement of Peel, I protest that I would rather inscribe myself in the universal register as a Dog-ribbed Indian, than as a native of these islands.

But what incenses me more than anything else, is the excessive malignity exhibited by this flippant and absurd young man while speaking of Admiral Sir Charles Napier. It is not for me to hazard an opinion whether the admiral acted wisely or over-cautiously in abstaining from an attack upon Cronstadt, although the evidence, in so far as it has been made public, appears to be strong in his justification. The antecedents of Sir Charles Napier are such that it would be work of supererogation now to insist upon the courage, intrepidity, and daring, which he has so often conspicuously displayed. Of his former laurels, honourably gained and universally acknowledged, no breath of slander can deprive him. If old age is to be considered as a disqualification for public service, then the blame rests solely with the Lords of the Admiralty, who intrusted the charge of the Baltic fleet to a man on the verge of seventy. They ought to have known that if desperate service was required, a younger man than Napier would have been a more fitting leader; but I am not aware that service of that kind was expected, or that it was necessary in that stage of the war to attempt such a hazardous exploit as the bombardment of Cronstadt, unless the chances of success appeared greater than those of failure. Any serious disaster sustained by our fleet in the Baltic would have been not only a triumph to Russia, but an immense political advantage; the maintenance of the blockade was undeniably the chief object of the expedition; and therefore, the admiral was bound to weigh the consequences deliberately before attempting any extraordinary enterprise. Sir Charles Napier says that, with the force at his disposal, he did not consider himself justified in attacking Cronstadt; and in that view he was fortified by the opinion of the French admiral. Since then, the Earl of Dundonald, one of the bravest and most daring of British sailors, has expressed his deliberate opinion that Napier was perfectly right in abstaining from any such attempt, because, in all human probability, the result would have been futile, if not disastrous. With such authorities at his back, Sir Charles Napier might well afford to despise the insinuations of his silly persecutor; and I wish that he had done so, instead of flying into a passion, because he has been assailed by an insect. His evident annoyance served only to increase the malignity of the wasp who pursued him; until, in an evil hour for himself, the venomous creature committed a mistake, which ought, for the remainder of his existence, to put a stop to his buzzing. Sir Robert Peel had the temerity to assert that, in the course of conversation, the Archduke Constantine stated to him (Peel) that if Napier had attacked Cronstadt, the fortress must have fallen. Upon this, Napier writes to the Archduke, and receives in reply a letter distinctly stating that no such conversation took place! This, I must needs remark, gives a most serious complexion to the matter. Either the Archduke or Sir Robert Peel must be guilty of deliberate falsehood. Peel states that such a conversation was held—the Archduke denies it in toto. Which of them are we to believe?

All I can say is, that it seems to me a very unlikely thing that, under any circumstances, the Archduke should have selected an underling of the legation, with whom he had no previous acquaintance, as the depositary of his confidences; and tenfold more extraordinary, that he should have made so singular a revelation. What was the use of it? What could be his object? Had Constantine anything to gain by exposing the weakness or want of preparation of his country, in a matter so serious as the main defence and bulwark of St Petersburg? or is he so very “frank and open-hearted,” as to be in the habit of blurting out state-secrets to every Tom-noddy who may arrive from England? I cannot answer those questions, satisfactorily to myself; and no more, I venture to think, can you. But, observe this, that the matter, as it now stands, is of a nature exceedingly grave. If the Archduke Constantine held no conversation of the kind alleged with Sir Robert Peel (and we have his express denial of it), in what terms shall we characterise the assertion made by the latter for the evident purpose of blasting the reputation of one of the oldest and most distinguished of the British admirals? If Constantine did hold such a conversation with Peel, then the latter has obviously violated the conventional courtesies of society, by publishing what must, in any point of view, be held as a private communication. Lord Palmerston, however jauntily he may ride the public horse, would do well to pay some attention to its shoeing. Whatever may be the indiscretions of such men as Sir Charles Napier—however imprudent they may be in their squabbles with the Admiralty or other boards—they have at all events won, by honourable and dangerous service, that hold on the nation’s heart, that no man of generous feeling, whatever his party may be, will allow them to be wantonly assailed by an understrapper or buffoon, whose continuance in office must be an additional disgrace to the Ministry, who were imprudent enough to elevate him to a position for which he was obviously and notoriously unfit.

Let me now, for a few moments, direct your attention to another subject. It is one of considerable importance and vast interest to the public, who during the last twelve months have expended large sums in the fortification of their dwelling-houses, to the no small delight and emolument of the ironmongers and locksmiths. The old adage, that an Englishman’s house is his castle, which at first was a mere figure of speech, has now been actually realised. What with bolts, bars, chains, screws, iron-shutters, and alarum-bells, our private mansions are as well secured as Newgate; and the burglars, in their more recent attempts, have been reduced to the unartistic device of breaking through side-walls, in order to arrive at the plate-chests. But this state of comparative security has been dearly purchased. Many old ladies, of nervous temperament, have expired in paroxysms of terror, caused by the slamming of doors and the creaking of hinges during the silent watches of the night. I have heard of one timorous gentleman, who coughed himself to death in consequence of a cold contracted from incarceration in the coal-cellar, to which donjon-keep he had fled, alarmed by a sound which resembled the rasping of a file. Innumerable Blowsalindas threatened to abandon their places, unless a policeman was allowed to sleep in the house; and in one unfortunate instance, a brace of glaziers, who had gone early to work, and were engaged in cleaning the windows, were shot right and left by an eccentric colonel of militia. At length, by the aid of Chubb and his coadjutors, who must have realised colossal fortunes during the panic, men are tolerably safe within doors, and can retire to roost without the dread of being wakened about three in the morning by the gleam of a lantern carried by a gentleman who has modestly veiled his countenance with crape, but who, being armed with a carving-knife, needs not to employ many arguments before you make surrender of your movables. But alas! the same degree of security does not exist without. If you tarry at your club until the witching hour of midnight, in the enjoyment of the conversation of some facetious friend, or seduced by the charms of roasted oysters, the chances are that, on your return homeward, you are garotted before you reach the second lamppost. It is not pleasant to feel your weazand contract under the gripe of one brawny ruffian, while a second trips up your heels, bringing your occiput into violent contact with the pavement or the kerbstone: it is not profitable to lose your watch, your note-case, and your purse, in so ignominious a manner; and it is decidedly disagreeable to be compelled to walk about for the next fortnight with your eyes protruding from your head like those of a lobster, and an expression of countenance which would infallibly lead a stranger to conjecture that you had been ordered for execution, and been cut down, in consequence of the arrival of a reprieve, before the vital spark was extinguished. Many an excellent gentleman and pious Christian has recently walked the streets, after sunset, under the influence of those terrors so well described by Coleridge, who, I think, must have been garotted in his day;—

“Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.”

Under such circumstances, fear becomes a positive duty; and the apparition of an intoxicated apprentice staggering suddenly from a common stair, is enough to make Julius Cæsar betake himself to his heels. I have seen a good deal of foreign cities, the repute of which is by no means creditable, but I give you my word that I would rather thread the streets of Lisbon or Pera, after nightfall, than perambulate those of an English town, under the operation of the system now pursued with regard to the disposal of criminals.

What are you all about, that you submit to lead a life of perpetual fear, suspicion, and bondage? Do you not see that the remedy is in your own hands, and that it is a very plain one? Can anything be more absurd than the assemblage of meetings for the purpose of taking into consideration schemes of education, projects for the diffusion of knowledge, further reforms in the constitution, or even the readjustment of the taxes, before demanding from the Government that they shall fulfil their first duty, which is that of adequately protecting the lives and property of the lieges? Have you not had warning enough of the hideous results of that system of ticket-of-leave which no one but an absolute idiot can now have the temerity to defend? Why, the papers daily teem with accounts of murders, garottings, housebreakings, and the like, to an extent which never, in my remembrance at least, was paralleled; and yet certain wiseacres, who hold the office of Ministers, and style themselves statesmen, very calmly tell you that the system of tickets of leave has not yet had a fair trial! And so you, Ebony, and your friends, and all the honest men throughout the country, are to be exposed to the imminent danger of being throttled, robbed, or murdered, in order that a parcel of obstinate prigs in high places may have an opportunity of solving what they are pleased to call an interesting social problem! I should like to know what is the use of a Government if it does not provide for the safety of the subject in life, limb, and property. Has it indeed come to this, that an army of desperate convicts is to be let loose upon the respectable classes of society, for the purpose of ascertaining whether they have got rid of their old tendencies towards crime, the experiment being measured by the number of throats which are cut, of houses which are broken into and pilfered, of ladies and gentlemen who are burked in the streets, and of tradesmen’s tills that are plundered, compared with the number of the convicts who are released from prison contrary to the sentence which they have received? Had Swift introduced such a picture of pragmatic imbecility in his voyage of Gulliver to Laputa, men would have laughed at it as an utterly impossible extravaganza. It would at once have been said that in no civilised country in the world—nay, for that matter, in no country however barbarous, for the sense of justice is instinctive to man—would the executive be allowed, except in extraordinary and isolated cases, to interfere with the judgments pronounced by its judicial tribunals. Yet, what is the fact? Our judges are practically told that these sentences are of no avail. Having heard the case with all its concomitant circumstances, which almost invariably indicates the real character, habits, and tendencies of the accused—and having received the verdict of the jury—they apportion the punishment, not for vengeance, but, according to the righteous and humane spirit of our laws, for the safety of society, and for a solemn warning to others. Now, I say—and I am ready to maintain the argument against all the doctrinaires in Christendom and Heathenesse—that if you allow any functionary or official, who knows nothing of the circumstances elicited at the trial, to alter arbitrarily the sentence pronounced by a competent court, a fatal, or, at all events, a very serious blow will be struck at the best interests of society. Look, for example, at the procedure in cases where a capital sentence has been pronounced. The Secretary of State, to whom memorials praying for a mitigation of punishment are sent, never ventures, on his own responsibility, to advise the Sovereign to exercise her prerogative of mercy, without communication with the judge before whom the case was tried. This practice is laudable and necessary—laudable, because it gives the judge an opportunity of stating the existence of any mitigating circumstances—and necessary, because otherwise the dignity and authority of a Supreme Court could not possibly be maintained. Can any reason be stated why the like precautions should be dispensed with in cases where the punishment falls short of a capital one? We have seen, of late years, a considerable relaxation in our criminal code; inasmuch as many offences which were formerly capital, are now visited by arbitrary punishment only. There can be no doubt whatever that the change was righteous, humane, and such as befitted a Christian nation, although late occurrences give some colour to the opinion that the relaxation was carried too far. But, be that as it may, it is difficult to see—and I, for one, fairly confess that I am utterly unable to see—why relaxation of statutory penalties, and substitution of minor punishments, should carry along with it the right of disregarding the sentence which the court has actually pronounced. Twenty years ago a man would have been hanged for commission of an offence, for which, now, he receives the sentence of seven, ten, or fourteen years’ transportation. Is the relaxation of the law any reason for dispensing with the precautions which were previously used before a criminal was admitted to mercy? In the old times, a man was executed, and there was an end of him. Society had no more to fear, at least from his particular atrocity or depredations. But, under the new system, the sentences of the judges, pronounced after a deliberate investigation of the case, are virtually handed over for the revisal of the chaplains of jails and penitentiaries, who are utterly ignorant of the facts which were elicited at the trial. It is a gross mistake to suppose that ignorance, or want of education, are the most fertile causes of crime. Petty larcenies and wretched thefts—picking of pockets, and abstraction of articles exhibited at shop-doors—are undoubtedly the province of the children of the destitute, and for them reformatory and ragged schools are imperatively required. But crime, in the higher branches, is a regular profession, to attain eminence in which a man must be as dexterous, wary, provident, and careful, as if he were engaged in any lawful business. Nay, he must be more so; because, being constantly liable to detection, he is compelled to strain his ingenuity to the utmost, and so calculate every step which he makes towards the attainment of his object. It is a mere farce, an utter delusion, and a perfect abandonment of common sense, to expect that such men will ever return to the paths of common industry, or be contented with humble gains. They have an absolute pride in the exercise of their profession; and they are not haunted by remorse in consequence of what they do. Their moral perceptions are utterly blunted; and that being the case, it is in vain to hope that they will be converted from the error of their ways by occasional visits from the chaplain of the jail. Very rarely indeed does a felon of this stamp make any progress during the period of his incarceration towards amendment. Orderly conduct and respectful demeanour are the necessary results of strict prison discipline; but they are not by any means to be taken as symptoms of actual improvement. Nay, the convict has a direct inducement to assume a decorous, respectful, and even repentant manner, because he hopes, through the recommendation of the chaplain, to obtain a remission of his punishment. It is no disrespect to the clergy to say that, as a body, they are very liable to imposition. A clever scoundrel, if he addresses himself artfully to the task, can hardly fail to make a favourable impression. He can soon acquire the tricks of interlarding his discourse with Scriptural terms and phraseology, of counterfeiting humility, and of shamming penitence. Now, to let loose upon society men of this stamp, under tickets of leave, is simply to encourage further violence and depredation. I do not say that every convicted sinner must necessarily be thereafter a felon; but I do say that, after more than one conviction, his case is, humanly speaking, hopeless. In nine cases out of ten, such men emerge from the jails and penitentiaries to steal, rob, and swindle as before.

Philo-convicts of the maudlin school—for I will not call them philanthropists—say that the frequent relapse into crime of liberated prisoners, is very much owing to the fact, that no one, who is acquainted with their previous history, will give them employment. I grant that. If the gods had provided me with sufficient income to keep a butler, I certainly should be chary of engaging an individual who had just completed his sentence for embezzling the silver spoons of his previous master. If I were a tradesman, I should decline taking the extra trouble of watching the motions of a young Barnwell, who was recommended to me by the fact that he had robbed his employer’s till. And I further tell the philo-convicts, that, in utterly and entirely refusing to trust a convict, I am acting not only prudentially to myself, but wisely as regards society; because so long as an honest man remains without employment, it is bad policy and worse morals to give the preference to an attainted thief. To act otherwise, is practically to deny that good character is to be considered as an element in the selection of servants—a position which may suit the present Ministry, seeing that some of their appointments have been made altogether irrespective of character, but which never will be adopted by the great body of the public. I accept, however, the fact that ticket-of-leave men and other convicts have little chance in this country of obtaining employment through the usual channels, even though they should be sincere in their wishes to return to the ways of industry. Well, then, what is the obvious deduction from this fact? Is it not that the Government have been guilty of a grievous dereliction of duty in commuting the sentences of prisoners, and letting them loose upon society before the appointed time? It is all very well for officials to wring their hands; to tell us that the colonies will no longer receive prisoners from the mother country; that transportation, at least in the old directions, is now impossible; and finally, to fix a stupid stare upon the public, and ask it what is to be done with the convicts? The public ought sternly to reply that the disposal of the convicts is a matter which the Government must look to; but that at all hazards life and property must be protected. I deny in toto that you, or I, or any of us, are bound to tell the Government what they ought to do in regard to the disposal of convicts. I say it is monstrous and intolerable that society should be left in a state of siege and panic, exposed to violence and outrage which seems to be every day on the increase, until the Government shall determine whether any remote colonial possession is available for purposes of transportation, or whether convicts ought not to be employed in public works within the boundaries of Great Britain. I do not underrate the importance of these questions. I do hope that the Government will very soon make up their minds to adopt some one intelligible and consistent course. But I protest against these questions being mixed up with that of the system of ticket-of-leave, which has nothing whatever to do with them. It may be a point of consideration for the custodiers of a menagerie, or travelling collection of wild beasts, whether it would be most advisable for them to proceed north, or south, or east, or west, or otherwise to sell and disperse their animals among the different zoological gardens; but what right have they, pending their resolution, to open the doors of the cages, and let wolves, tigers, and hyenas loose on the neighbouring fields? And yet that is precisely what our Government has done with the wild animals of which it is the custodier! Their wicked and dangerous tendencies were known and established. They were tried for outrages on society, convicted, and sentenced to restraint; and yet the Government, because a difficulty has arisen abroad, consider themselves entitled to disregard the sentences of the law, and again to deluge society with experienced adepts in crime. One of the soundest arguments for the old system of transportation was that, by removing hardened, expert, and practised criminals from the country, there was so much the better chance of reforming those who were merely beginners in crime. All that is now forgotten. Scholars in larceny will never lack teachers so long as the present infamous system is persevered in; young cracksmen will find leaders to organise them into regular gangs, and the function of the reformatories will be over.

I suspect that very few of the general public are aware of the extent to which the system of ticket-of-leave has been carried. Blue-books are by no means lively reading; and yet, without consulting the blue-books, it is impossible adequately to understand the precise situation in which we are placed with regard to convicts at large. Let me therefore note down a few facts extracted from the evidence given before the Select Committee on Transportation last year.

Mr Waddington, permanent Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department, tells us that, up to March 1856, there were no less than FIVE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO convicts, who had been sentenced to transportation, discharged upon the public under licenses or tickets of leave! How many more have since received their tickets I cannot say, but judging from the numbers of former years, there cannot now be fewer than from seven to eight thousand criminals, equivalent to a respectable army, who are left to forage for themselves. Mr Waddington says very jauntily,—“The Committee are aware, no doubt, that these persons under sentence of transportation are persons who had been, most of them, two or three times convicted that we know of; they may have been convicted oftener than that, but they are almost all of them old offenders, and therefore it was highly probable that, upon being thrown back into society, a great portion of them would misconduct themselves in a very serious manner.” This is, indeed, plain-speaking with a vengeance! Here you have an admission that the Government expected, as the result of their experiment, that a large portion of the ticket-of-leave men would return to their old courses; that is, would steal, rob, assault, and garotte as before! At whose expense, pray? At the expense of that Issachar the public, who having borne the burden of their previous offences, were next to bear that of their offences in time to come! Here is a beautiful conflict between the law and the executive. “John Noakes,” says the judge at the trial, “you have been convicted no less than six times in competent courts. You are a hardened, brutal, and irreclaimable criminal. You cannot be allowed, for the interests of society, to remain longer in the country. Therefore your sentence is, that you be transported for the period of fourteen years.” Noakes leaves the dock, after having delivered himself of an irreverent remark touching the judge’s eyes, and a facetious reference to being herring-ponded. But there is yet a door of exit. “John Noakes,” says the beautifully paternal government with which we are blessed, “you have doubtless been convicted six times already, but we are willing to think that, on the whole, you are a harmless and rather well-intentioned fellow. It is true that you have been sentenced to transportation for fourteen years; but at present there is some difficulty in finding quarters for you abroad, and it would be both inconvenient and expensive to keep you in custody at home. So, upon the whole, we think the best course is to set you at liberty. Here is a ticket of leave for you, which you will please accept, on the understanding that, if you are again convicted, that leave will be revoked. You may not perhaps be able to find employment, but that is your look-out—so good-by to you.” John Noakes quits the prison, repairs straightway to the “Jack Sheppard” public-house, where he falls in with some of his old associates, plans a new burglary; and on the following night the premises of a respectable jeweller are broken into, and property abstracted to the value of a couple of thousand pounds!

Mr Waddington, however, thinks that the effect of the system “has been at least as good as any reasonable person could have anticipated, considering the nature of the offenders who have been discharged;” and he states it to be a fact that out of 5152 liberated on ticket-of-leave, only 447 have been reported for misconduct; that is, have found their way back to prison. Now, I must confess that I can see in this no ground for congratulation, even supposing that no more than 447 have again betaken themselves to unlawful courses within the short space of two and a half years. But we have no right whatever to suppose anything of the kind. We learn from other evidence that the ticket-of-leave men are scattered all over the kingdom, without any mark or method by which the police can recognise them; consequently a much larger number than the above may have been apprehended and tried for new offences without the knowledge of the authorities. “I think,” says Sir Archibald Alison, who, as sheriff and criminal judge of Lanarkshire, can speak on this subject with authority—“I think that the number of ticket-of-leave men who are proved in courts to be concerned in crime, bears a very small proportion to the number of those who do commit crime; for this reason, that they are not known.” In the appendix to the second report there are some valuable documents touching the habits of ticket-of-leave men. Here for example is an abridgment of the report of the Superintendent of the F. Division of the London police, on the habits of the liberated criminals in his district.

“R. W.: Constant associate of thieves; no lawful occupation; once convicted of assault. E. M.: Does not follow any occupation, and is well suspected of being a thief. J. W.: Immediately on his return, cohabited with a notorious thief and prostitute, and does not follow any awful occupation at present. C. G.: Does not follow any lawful calling. Since his return has been the constant and daily associate of thieves and other notoriously bad characters. J. C.: Keeper of a shop for the sale of second-hand clothes, and has frequently been seen in the company of convicted thieves. J. G.: Lodges with a convicted thief, and is supposed to gain his living by hawking obscene cards, &c. T. C.: Employed as a messenger or porter, and appears to be gaining an honest living. T. N.: Was liberated on ticket of leave about two months since; at present does not follow any employment.”

So that out of eight ticket-of-leave men resident in this Division, and known to the police, six are supposed to have fallen back on their old courses; one is doing well; and one has been liberated for so short a time that, according to the Superintendent, “no decided opinion can be expressed relative to him.”

Mr Hill, Q. C., Recorder of Birmingham, caused a special report to be prepared by the police of that town relative to the habits of the ticket-of-leave men known to reside there, their number being nineteen. The report bears that of these, eight were considered good, nine bad, and two doubtful.

The impression left upon my mind by the perusal of these and similar returns, is that at least one half of the liberated convicts are at this moment preying upon the public. I again quote from Alison’s evidence: “I should say, from what I have seen, that the ticket-of-leave system has had the very worst possible effects in Scotland; that it has sent back the most talented, the most dangerous, and the most formidable class of depredators; and that they are either concerned in the greatest crimes themselves, or that they lead others to the commission of the same description of crimes.”

If the good folks of Great Britain choose to submit to this monstrous wrong and most iniquitous system—if they are willing without complaint or murmur to see the dangerous classes, the convicted felons, let loose among them, to resume the functions of the pick-lock and the crowbar, the garotte and the bludgeon, and to destroy all chance of the success of reformatory schools—it is no business of mine. No burglar will ever think of breaking into a lighthouse, and I feel quite assured that what little property I have is in perfect safety. But if they, on the contrary, are convinced that the whole system is a rank imposture and delusion, and that they, the people of character and property, are left at the mercy of a rapidly increasing army of convicted scoundrels, in order to be experimented on for the gratification of a few pragmatic doctrinaires, let them make their voices audible, and the Ministry must at once succumb. Never, within my recollection, has there been so fitting an object for agitation, never so imperative a reason for it. And I do hope that they will not allow themselves to be humbugged or bamboozled by any difficulties, real or pretended, about the disposal of the convicts. I am quite aware that there are difficulties; but with these it is the express duty of the Government to grapple.

Now, Ebony, I have done for the present. You see this has been but a rambling kind of letter, but I hope in future to be more concise. Send me as much periodical literature as you can, and a few boxes of cigars, if you have any to spare, as a token of your continued friendship. I do not think it prudent, under existing circumstances, to adhibit my real name and address, as that might awaken, in certain bosoms, expectations which never can be realised; so I must even find a sobriquet connected with my present humble though highly useful and honourable situation. “Pharos” is too Egyptian for my taste—“Hesperus” too maudlin. “Lucifer” is a title already appropriated, to which I desire to lay no manner of claim; and therefore I shall modestly subscribe myself, your sincere well-wisher,

Phosphorus.

Pictarnie Lighthouse,

North Britain.

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