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Thackeray’s English Humorists. Thackeray’s Henry Esmond. Thoreau’s Walden. ♦Trevelyan’s Life of Macaulay. Abridged. Virgil’s ASneid. . Washington’s Farewell Address, and Webster’s First Bunker Hill Oration. Whittier’s Snow Bound and Other Early Poems. Wister’s The Virginian. Woolman’s Journal. Wordsworth’s Shorter Poems. in British Dominions. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Dm TORONTO (. library THOMAS DE QUINCE Y. I: I b \\ \ lit THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH, AND THE SPANISH MILITARY NDN BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY EDITED WITH INTRODUCTORY AND TEXTUAL NOTES BY CAROL M. NEWMAN, Ph.D. ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE VIRGINIA POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTE Web ffotk THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 1922 All rights reserved ► f % 2^*4 D ^4 % \<\ZA PREFACE , £ 'X % In preparing this book, the editor has endeavored to keep ^constantly in mind its practical purpose — use in elementary '^and secondary schools. He has attempted, therefore, to .^supply such things as the students of these schools may , -'reasonably demand : an accurate text, — that of Masson's I sedition ; a brief sketch of De Quincey's life, with some comments on his personality and his place in our litera- ture ; a practical discussion of De Quincey's rhetorical merits • ^ and faults, to be used in connection w T ith the text-book study N*of rhetoric; such information about Joan of Arc and Cata- Ijlina de Erauso as is requisite to a proper understanding of ' the essays concerning them ; a brief working bibliography; ^and numerous textual notes, including De Quincey's own, *^on the essays themselves. These textual notes are indeed H numerous ; the editor, however, has not assumed a refer- 't^ence library at the student's command, but has attempted > pto furnish him in the present volume with the means of ^appreciating both intensively and extensively what De ^jQuincey has here written. ""Free use has been made, in the course of this work, of ^various authorities. Masson's De Quincey has been the chief source for the biography of the author; the rhetorical ; ^discussion has followed somewhat the similar discussion in I i 7o9Q6 VI fit l PREFA CE Minto's Manual of English Prose Literature; the story oi the Maid of Orleans has been drawn largely from Judge Lowell’s excellent Joan of Arc, from which, with the pub- lishers’ permission, the map of Northern and Central France has also been taken ; and aid in the preparation of the text- ual notes on Joan of Arc and The English Mail-Coach has been furnished by previous editions of the same essays, notably Hart’s and Turk’s. To various friends the editor would here express his thanks for many helpful suggestions; to Dr. Charles W. Kent, Professor of English Literature at the University of Virginia, to the Librarian of the Virginia Polytechnic Institute, to the Librarian of Congress, and to the editor’s wife, special acknowledgments are due for the invaluable aid received from them. C. M. N. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE . INTRODUCTORY NOTES • • # m • a • V I. Biographical and Critical a • a . IX II. Chronological • • • a • a . XXV III. Rhetorical . IV. V. Creative Historical 9 9 • • 9 9 . xlii i A. Joan of Arc » • 9 • • • . xliii B. Catalina de Erauso a • • . Ivii VI. Bibliographical n + 0 9 • • . )xx MAP • • • e • 09 • a • Ixxiii JOAN OF ARC . e e 9 9 9 0 1 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH Section L — The Glory of Motion . . . . 36 Section II. — -The Vision of Sudden Death . . 64 Section III. — Dream-Fugue; founded on the Pre- ceding Theme of Sudden Death . ... 85 Author’s Postscript » 95 vii CONTENTS THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN . Author’s Postscript TEXTUAL NOTES PAGE . 98 . 184 . 191 INDEX TO TEXTUAL NOTES e e 291 INTRODUCTORY NOTES I. Biographical and Critical f Two of the most strikingly eccentric figures in English literary history are Samuel Johnson and Thomas De Quincey. Yet how unlike as to their eccentricities ! In a few respects, not altogether peculiar, — their love of tea, their conversa- tional abilities, their ingrained Toryism, their generosity, their devotion to the established church, — we do, indeed, find similarities between them, but on the whole, we can imagine no greater contrast than that between the burly giant, coarse in his manners, dictatorial in his talk, a lover of disputations, a most clubable, practical man, and the diminu- tive Opium Eater, whose shyness and unpracticality were proverbial and whose gentleness of speech and of demeanor was almost effeminate. From these differences springs another and still greater difference, which we have here to regret. The faithful Boswell has made each word, each act, of Johnson’s familiar to us, but careful investigation has re- vealed little more than the main facts of De Quincey’s life. For his childhood and youth we have, to be sure, his auto- biography, and we find that in various places elsewhere he has recorded still other facts about himself ; but for information concerning the longest and most important periods of his career we must rely in large measure upon the imperfect recol- lections of his friends and relatives, and upon such letters of his as have been preserved. We should like to study in detail X INTRODUCTORY NOTES all the doings of this strange genius; the substance of what is certainly known about him may be recorded briefly enough. Thomas De Quincey was born in Manchester on August 15, 1785. His Norman ancestors, as he himself once proudly told King George III, had come to England with William the Conqueror, and among their descendants had been men of distinction. In the thirteenth century, indeed, the De Quincevs were Earls of Winchester — until unfortunately one of their number was attainted for treason and hanged, whereupon the family greatness came to an end. For sev- eral generations before the time of Thomas they had been plain Quinceys, never rising above mediocrity. His father, another Thomas, was merely a well-to-do merchant, who had amassed some fortune through a profitable business in Por- tugal, America, and the West Indies, though in addition he was a man of distinct literary tastes and had even written a book. In the midst of his prosperity he married a Miss Elizabeth Penson, who bore him eight children, Thomas being the fifth child and second son. Soon after the birth of this son the family moved from Manchester to a country place on the outskirts of the city called “The Farm”; here and at “Greenhay, ” another sub- urban home, his early childhood was spent. From the first he seems to have been shy, retiring, and sensitive, given to dreaming and to brooding over the mysteries of life. The almost morbid seriousness of his character was intensified by his early experience of death and its sorrows: his sister Jane died in 1787 ; his favorite sister Elizabeth, whose mem- ory became his dearest treasure, followed in 1791 ; and then in 1792 came the father's death. This father young Thomas never really knew, for consumption had kept him abroad in search of health until at last he returned home to die. The son's loss in being thus deprived of one who might have INTRODUCTORY NOTES XI guided and advised his young manhood can hardly be over- estimated. By the father’s will the family was well provided for, a yearly income of £1,600 being divided between the mother and six children. The guardianship of the children was placed in the hands of Mrs. De Quincey and four of her hus- band’s friends, but it was upon the mother, of course, that the chief responsibility for their early training devolved. From De Quincey himself we learn that she was a woman of rare intellectual powers; from his further remarks and from other sources we infer that she was strict even to harsh- ness, partly because of her high conception of a child’s duty to its parents and partly because of her austere religious principles. Had there been in her more of the loving, sym- pathetic mother and less of the stern disciplinarian, the character of one of her sons might have been developed along other and more normal lines. Nevertheless, this dreamy youth was not to be allowed to dream and muse altogether at will. Soon after Mr. De Quincey’s death there had come to disturb the peace of Greenhay, the eldest son, William De Quincey, who had lived for some time with his father in Lisbon and had later been sent to a grammar school at Louth. This young gentleman, whose “genius for mischief amounted to inspiration,” was rough, boisterous, pugilistic, overbearing, but withal exceed- ingly clever. He immediately established a reign of terror in the household, making Thomas his most abject slave and holding him in thrall for nearly four years. Thomas must fag for him, must join in his battles, must think and act in accordance with his commands. How intensely the sen- sitive younger brother must have suffered from this over- lordship we can easily imagine; we may be certain, too, that this “introduction to the world of strife” did much to Xll IN TR on UC TORY NO TES prevent the dreamy melancholy of De Quincey from passing into morbidity and perhaps disease. Meanwhile the education of the children was not being neglected. Into their father’s library they were early turned to browse at will, and wonderfully soon our De Quincey was reading from Johnson and Cowper, from the Bible and the Arabian Nights. When lessons at home and voluntary reading no longer furnished sufficient intellectual pabulum, William and Thomas were put under the tutorship of Mr. Samuel Hall, one of their guardians, who lived at Salford, two miles distant from Greenhay. By him Thomas was well grounded in Latin and Greek, and was put through a course of memory-training more profitable than pleasant. In 1796 Mrs. De Quincey moved to Bath, and Thomas was placed in the Bath Grammar School. Here were spent the most delightful of all his school days; the master was “ a scholar, and a ripe and good one,” and De Quincey s prog- ress under him was rapid. Soon he became so proficient in Latin composition that his exercises were publicly paraded before the older boys of the school, -whose chagrin and envy led them to swear dire vengeance upon their youthful model. However pleasing his position of eminence may have been to De Quincey himself, it did not please his mother, who had her own peculiar ideas as to what was best for her son ; so, when in 1799 an accident had caused him to leave the school for some weeks, she refused to allow him to return. For a time he studied under a tutor; then he was sent to a pri- vate school at Winkfield in Wiltshire, of which the chief recommendation was the religious character of the master. After a year spent at this institution, De Quincey exchanged the education of books for the education of travel. While at Bath he had made the acquaintance of Lord Westport, a boy somewhat older than himself, the only son of an Irish INTRODUCTORY NOTES xiii peer; from him there came in the spring of 1800 an invita- tion to be his companion on a holiday jaunt to Ireland. This invitation his mother allowed De Quincey to accept, so in the following summer he joined Lord Westport at Eton. After having been introduced to George III and his court at Windsor, and after having paid a brief visit to London, the young gentlemen started on their journey. In due time they reached Ireland and then spent several weeks most delight- fully at Westport, in Connaught. Before the end of the year, however, De Quincey parted from his friend at Bir- mingham, and went to Laxton in Northamptonshire to visit Lady Carbery, an old friend of his mother’s. Here his time was mainly occupied in reading, learning to ride, and teaching Lady Carbery the rudiments of 'Greek. Ever since leaving Winkfield, De Quincey had been mak- ing plans for his future school life, and had written several times to his mother and guardians requesting that he be sent back to the Bath Grammar School until old enough to enter Oxford, and objecting most seriously to any further connection with private institutions. His requests were, in a measure, granted ; on leaving Laxton he was sent to the Manchester Grammar School, in order that by spending three years there he might secure a scholarship at Brazenose Col- lege, Oxford. The life at Manchester, however, soon became extremely distasteful to him. The master was by no means perfect in his scholarship ; the associations were not of the most pleasant ; the restrictions upon the students’ liberties were galling; the impossibility of securing sufficient exercise was ruinous to the health; the opportunities of amusement were few; the duties of the class-room were trivial and mo- notonous, — such were the complaints De Quincey made in a letter written to his mother after he had spent just half the allotted time at Manchester, begging her that he might be INTRODUCTORY NOTES xiv allowed to leave the school. His pleas being in vain, ht resolved to take matters in his own hands and run away. So, one fine July morning in the year 1802, he slipped out of the master’s house before daylight and started off to learn something of the world, a volume of English poetry in one pocket and a volume of Greek poetry in the other. His first thought was to pay a parting visit to one of his sisters at Chester, where the family was then living ; thither he made his way, — only to be discovered and taken in charge by the older members of the household. . His mother was duly horrified at his conduct, but an uncle, Colonel Pen- son, interceded for the runaway and arranged that he should be allowed the liberty of wandering about for a while, and — which was quite as important — should be supplied with a guinea a week on which to support himself. His wanderings first carried De Quincey into North Wales, where he alternately lived in luxury or starved himself — in accordance with the state of his finances. But even such a roving life was too conventional to suit his tastes, and he presently resolved to seek books and still greater solitude in “the nation of London,” where he might contrive to live by borrowing upon his expectations. Accordingly, in Novem- ber, 1802, he ceased all communication with his mother and guardians and made his way to the metropolis. Of the months spent there — months of fruitless dealings with money-lenders, of homeless wandering about the streets, of forced association with the outcast and the destitute — months of poverty, starvation, intense suffering — he has given us a complete account in his Confessions. Suffice it to say here that after he had drained the cup of city life to the very dregs, he was fortunately discovered by friends, and in the spring of 1803 returned to his family. In the fall of the same year he accepted his guardians’ offer to send him to Oxford on a small allowance. . INTRODUCTORY NOTES XV Concerning De Quincey ’s Oxford days little definite is known. Years afterwards he was remembered as a quiet and studious young man, of rare conversational powers, fond of solitude, and possessed of an extraordinary stock of infor- mation upon all subjects. He seems to have paid little atten- tion to the prescribed curriculum, but pursued for himself the study of Hebrew and German, and plunged headlong into the delights of English literature. About the year 1807 he stood successfully the written examination for the B.A. degree, but for some reason, not clearly known, never came up for the oral part of his examination. Though his nominal connection with the University continued for some years after this, it is probable that De Quincey spent little more time at Oxford. Instead, he started out to become acquainted with some of those men of letters whom he had long admired. At Bridgewater he met Coleridge, and soon after acted as escort to Mrs. Coleridge and her children on their journey to the Lake District, where they were to reside with Southey. Through this trip, De Quincey was enabled to make the ac- quaintance of Wordsworth, at whose cottage the party stopped for a few days ; a little later he was introduced to Southey himself. His admiration for two of these new friends was given material expression soon after, when he made an anonymous gift of £300 to Coleridge and aided Wordsworth greatly by seeing one of his pamphlets through the press. After spending most of the year 1808 in London, in nominal prepa- ration for entrance at the bar, De Quincey decided that, in order to be near his literary acquaintances, he would take up his own residence in the Lake District. In November, 1809, De Quincey became the occupant of the cottage at Grasmere formerly the home of Wordsworth, and for twenty years remained, nominally at least, a resident of Westmoreland. Here he found all thingr to his liking. XVI INTRODUCTORY NOTES Among his neighbors were Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, and he soon formed a strong friendship with John Wilson, later to become the great “ Christopher North” of Blackwood. A part of his time De Quincey spent in taking long walks — sometimes with his friends, more often alone — or in visiting his neighbors ; for the most of it, he was busy among his books, studying German metaphysics and drinking laudanum. We must pause here to note that while on a visit to London in 1804, De Quincey had chanced to seek relief from neuralgia by taking opium, and that from this time forward he had been an intermittent user of the drug. In 1813, however, he became an habitual opium- eater, consuming at times the monstrous quantity of eight thousand drops of laudanum per day. In 1815, to be sure, he reduced this quantity to one thousand drops — a reform made in honor of his approaching marriage (1816) with Margaret Simpson, the daughter of a Westmoreland farmer. Unfortunately, however, this young and beautiful wife was soon called upon to serve as his comforter and sup- port during the very darkest hours of his opium pros- tration. Between 1817 and 1818 the sway of the drug was complete; De Quincey could neither walk nor eat nor read nor think, and his sleeping hours were full of horror. From the absolute torpor and torment into which he was thus plunged, pecuniary difficulties at last rescued him; he must do something to support himself and his family. By 1819 he had so far rallied his powers as to be able to under- take the editorship of the W estmoreland Gazette , in which appeared almost the first printed lines from his pen. Need- less to say, he was not a successful editor, since German transcendentalism could hardly please the farmers, who looked to their paper for political editorials of the partisan type; but fortunately De Quincey had at last experienced INTRODUCTORY NOTES XVII what Dr. Holmes has called “lead poisoning” caused by ‘mental contact with type metal,” from which he was never thenceforth to recover. In the London Magazine for September, 1821, Thomas De Quincey, at the age of thirty-six years, made his real debut before the English reading public with the first instalment of the Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. In October a second part followed, and in 1822 the Confessions were published in book form. At once De Quincey became famous, and the London Magazine was eager for any production from his pen. To this magazine he contributed until 1824; in 1825 he published a pseudo-translation from the German called Walladmor, one of the three books of which he was the author. During the years of this first literary period (1821-1826), so brilliant and full of promise, De Quincey resided chiefly in London, though his home continued to be at Grasmere. But London knew little of him. He had a few acquaintances, men like Lamb, Hazlitt, Hood, Talfourd, Procter, and Knight, with whom he exchanged occasional visits, but for the most part he avoided all intercourse with his fellows and spent his time with his books and his lauda- num at those lodgings in Soho Square, Covent Garden, or elsewhere, which he chanced to be occupying. Such exer- cise as he took consisted largely of solitary wanderings through the crowded London streets. During most of this period he seems to have suffered severely for want of money ; writing for the magazines was not the most lucrative of em- ployments, and his own unpracticality fitted him but poorly for making the best use of such funds as he might chance to have in his possession. A story told by Mr. Charles Knight will serve to illustrate both De Quincey ’s helplessness in business matters and his fondness for leaving his friends in ignorance as to his whereabouts. On one occasion when De XV111 INTRODUCTORY notes Quincey was supposed to be at home in Westmoreland, Mr, Knight found him hiding away in a wretched lodging cn the Surrey side of London, the cause of this retirement being his lack of money. He had in his pocket, to be sure, a large draft cn a London bank, at twenty-one days’ sight, but since the bank had refused to cash it till the expiration of this time, he knew no means of raising money on it and was too shy to let his friends know of his embarrassment. The centre of De Quincey’s literary activity was changed in the year 1827 to Edinburgh, where his old friend John Wilson had become celebrated through his connection with Blackwood' s Magazine. For some years Wilson had tried to secure contributions to Blackwood from De Quincey, and at last he succeeded. De Quincey’s connection with this well- known quarterly began in 1826 with the publication of his Lessing's Laocobn in the issue for November, and continued for twenty-three years. To Edinburgh, therefore, De Quincey moved his literary headquarters. At first, much of his time there was spent with Wilson; Mrs. Gordon, Wilson’s daughter, tells us that on one occasion, having dropped in at Gloucester Place to await the passing of a storm, he ended by making the house his home for the better part of a year. Carlyle, too, was among his Edinburgh friends, and one of the readiest to sympathize with him in his troubles. Chief among these troubles was, naturally enough, a continuation of the pecuniary embarrassment that was so characteristic a feature of his London life. Partly, therefore, because he found himself unable to support two establishments, and partly because he was anxious to have his wife and children near him, De Quincey in 1830 moved his family to Edin- burgh, which was to be his only home for ten years to come. These ten years were filled with great literary activity on De Quincey’s part. Besides continuing his contributions to INTRODUCTORY NOTES XIX Blackwood , he wrote numerous essays for T ait’s Magazine; in all, he produced some sixty magazine articles during this period, contributed to the Encyclopedia Britannica , and in 1832 published his only novel, Klosterheim , or the Mosque . Though all this writing added materially to his fame, De Quincey did not therefore become one of the literary lions of Edinburgh. His love of solitude caused him to be but a very obscure character in the social world of the Scotch capital. Obscurity also surrounded his domestic life there; only a few of the many houses in which he lived are now definitely known. We do know, however, that De Quincey ’s home life was a very beautiful one — rendered so largely because of his uniform gentleness, his deep love for his children, and his painstaking attention to their early education. But the family circle was not long to remain intact. In 1833 Junius, the youngest son, died, to be followed two years later by William, the eldest. Then, in 1837, came the greatest sorrow of all in the death of Mrs. De Quincey, the noble wife that had borne so bravely with the faults and eccentricities of her husband and had striven so faithfully to protect him from the cares and worries of the working-day world. For a year or two thereafter De Quincey had his library and study in one part of Edinburgh, while the children's home was in another. In 1840, however, the eldest children, Margaret and Horace, took a cottage near Lasswade, seven miles from Edinburgh, and here for some time De Quincey found his chief abode. His chief abode, be it repeated, for during the next nine years (1840-1849) we find him frequently absent from Lass- wade. Often he would be occupying lodgings in Edinburgh, where he would keep one set of rooms until it became filled with books and papers, and then move elsewhere, leaving his literary treasures behind, so that sometimes he was paying rent on as many as four separate sets of lodgings at once. XX INTRODUCTORY NOTES From 1841 to 1843 he was as far from home as Glasgow, where he was the guest of friends. During the genera) period under consideration, however, Lasswade saw most of him, for here his three daughters needed his protec- tion, the sons all being absent. Yet De Quincey must have made a somewhat dangerous protector, since, as one of his daughters tells us, “ those nights were exceptions on which he did not set something on fire, the commonest incident be- ing for some one to look up from book or work to say casu- ally/ Papa, your hair is on fire;' of which a calm, ‘Is it, my love ? ’ and a hand rubbing out the blaze was the only notice taken." The happiness of this life at Lasswade among the children was seriously marred for De Quincey by the wretched condition of his health, the gastric neuralgia with which he w r as afflicted causing him to suffer almost constantly for many years. The necessity of seeking some relief from this pain was largely responsible for his great opium excesses in 1844 and 1848, after the last of which his use of the drug, though continued, was greatly diminished. Meanwhile he still contributed regularly to Blackwood and Tail, and pub- lished in 1844 his Logic of Political Economy, — a literary activity largely due to his continued need of money. For- tunately, by or before the year 1847, numerous legacies caused a marked improvement in his financial affairs ; about this time, too, the “pains and miseries of his constitutional malady" ceased to torment him. Thus De Quincey was en- abled to spend the closing years of his life in comparative comfort, both physical and financial. Those closing years must now be passed over somewhat rapidly. In 1849 his connection wdtli Tait and Blackwood being practically at an end, De Quincey began to contribute to Hogg’s Weekly Instructor, afterwards known as The Titan. His connection with Hogg produced one most important INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXI result, for this enterprising bookseller conceived the idea of bringing out a collective edition of De Quincey’s works, such an edition having already begun to appear in America, Perhaps the most continuous labor ever performed by De Quincey was that devoted to collecting, revising, and recasting the material for the fourteen volumes published between 1853 and 1860. That De Quincey did this work was largely due to the untiring efforts of Mr. Hogg himself, who not only saw to it that De Quincey kept the press sup- plied with copy, in spite of the “ nervous sufferings,” “ lum- bago,” “ partial delirium,” and the like, of which he was always complaining, but aided him materially in gathering up those manuscript deposits left in various places all over Edinburgh. How difficult was this latter task a single anec- dote will show. Once, when Hogg and De Quincey had gone into a hotel for refuge and refreshment during a storm, the waiter, after eyeing De Quincey curiously for some moments, said, “I think, sir, I have a bundle of papers which you left here some time ago.” The bundle was produced and proved to contain valuable manuscripts, of whose where- abouts De Quincey had of course been ignorant. While preparing the material for Hogg’s edition, De Quincey lived chiefly at No. 42 Lothian Street, Edinburgh ; but, though he had now become a celebrity much talked of in literary circles, he was rarely to be seen at any social gatherings in the capital, and was almost inaccessible to visitors, even when they chanced to be his most intimate friends. Meanwhile, he continued to spend much of his time at Lasswade, especially after two of his daughters had been married and only Emily remained at the old home. In 1857 he visited one of these married daughters in Ireland. He was soon back again in Edinburgh, however, working away at the Collective Edition, and planning great literary labors XXII INTRODUCTORY NOTES to be undertaken when this task should be finished. But hi* plans were never to reach fruition. In the autumn of 1859 De Quincey began to grow feeble and unfit for work, though he suffered from no definite malady. The most distinguished medical skill could do nothing to relieve him; he continued to sink gradually for several weeks, until on Thursday. December 8, the end came. In his final delirium he seemed to be living over again the days of his childhood, and his last words, “ Sister! sister! sister!" must have been ad- dressed to his long-lost Elizabeth, who doubtless came to wel- come him into the great beyond. He was buried in the West Churchyard at Edinburgh beside his wife and two children. A simple tablet marks his final resting-place; another at 42 Lothian Street commemorates his residence there — but no other outward honor has yet been paid by Edinburgh to per- haps the rarest genius she has ever sheltered. Having noted the main facts in De Quincey 's life, we may now ask after the man himself, what sort of being he was. His personal appearance has been carefully described by his friend, Mr. J. R. Findlay: “A short and fragile, but well- proportioned frame; a shapely and compact head; a face beaming with intellectual light, with rare, almost feminine beauty of feature and complexion ; a fascinating courtesy of manner; and a fulness, swiftness, and elegance of silvery speech, — such was the irresistible ‘ mortal mixture of earth's mould' that men named De Quincey. He possessed in a high degree what the American poet Lowell calls 1 the grace of per- fect breeding, everywhere persuasive and nowhere emphatic ' ; and his whole aspect and manner exercised an undefinable attraction over every one, gentle or simple, who came within its influence." De Quincey's mental and moral characteristics are still more interesting, though not so easily to be described. If I> INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXlll Quincey was primarily the secluded scholar living in the world of books and noted chiefly for his habit of omnivo- rous reading, he was also a careful observer, whose knowledge of men is singularly accurate. A marvellous memory made the materials thus gathered by reading and experience his own for all time, and an acute intellect enabled him to reason exactly upon all the facts within his knowledge. He was endowed, moreover, with an inventive faculty, an imagina- tive power, rarely to be found save in the greatest of our poets, which enabled him to reach the most striking conclu- sions, to see visions and dream dreams such as are not vouch- safed to ordinary mortals. His, also, were a profound sym- pathy with the sorrow and the suffering of the world, a true sense of pathos, a fund of genuine humor, and, above all, a love of the sublime and the mysterious, whether in nature, in life, or in the world of fancy. Surely a rare endowment was this, wherein logical exactness and analytical power were joined with a poetic faculty by means of which he was enabled often- times to soar aloft into the highest realms of the empyrean. Morally, De Quincey ’s character is less admirable. He is never immoral, but is constantly unmoral ; rarely is he “ too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. ” Lacking the sceva indignatio of a Carlyle or a Ruskin, he makes no effort to right abuses, “to set the crooked straight, to be himself a positive influence for good in the universe. He is, indeed, a lover of the good, but chiefly because it is the beautiful and the pleasing, and because he is an intellectual hedonist. De Quincey can teach us much, can often carry us with him to the clouds, can inspire us with noble thoughts, but never does he offer us strong meat for our souls. Turning to consider De Quincey ; s contributions to our lit- erature, we find that with the exception of three books, — Wal- ladmor , Klosterheim , and The Logic of Political Economy , — XXIV INTRODUCTORY NOTES all these contributions took the one form of magazine articles. But when we say that De Quincev was the author of one hundred and fifty essays, we have done little toward suggest- ing the vast extent of his literary range. There are few fields of human interest that he has not explored, and few periods of human history that he has not investigated, while out of his own imagination he has created dream-worlds wonderful beyond compare. The mention of only a few of his master- pieces must here serve to indicate the multifariousness of his contribution to English literature. Autobiographical are the Confessions of an English Opium-Eater , the Autobio- graphic Sketches , and the Recollections of the Lake Poets; among the best of the biographical essays are those on Charles Lamb , Richard Bentley , Shakspeare , and Pope ; The Revolt of the Tartars, The Ccesars, Joan of Arc, The Spanish Military Nun, and The Essenes are largely historical; Casuistry is ethical, Protestantism theological, and A Tory’s Account of Toryism political; the most noted of his critical writings are Style, Rhetoric, Language, and On Wordsworth’s Poetry ; while he is at his greatest in those masterpieces of prose-poetry of which the Suspiria de Profundis and parts of The English Mail-Coach are typical examples. These are but a few of De Quincev s essays; of the multitude remaining we may note that all are of high average excellence, that all show a wealth of knowledge rarely equalled in the writings of any other English author, and that all are clothed in that striking style of which De Quincev alone is master. What, in conclusion, may be said of De Quineey s place in our literature ? That it is permanent, no one can deny ; De Quincey’s best essays will always live because of the enter- tainment and instruction thev afford the most cursorv reader, •/ mr • because of the pleasing glimpses they give us of his own unique personality, because of their acute criticism of what INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXV men have done and said and written, because of their imagina- tive beauty, their genuine humor and pathos, and the precision, clearness, and melody of their almost perfect style. Inasmuch as De Quincey has no great lesson to teach us, and rarely impresses us by the strong originality of his thought, he can- not, perhaps, be placed among the few supremely great of the world's authors, but in his own realm he is king ; his mas- terpieces are among those things which the world would not willingly let die, and the name of the English Opium-Eater will long be held in loving reverence by those whose delight it is to honor literary genius. IL Chronological At School and University. 1785. — Aug. 15, Thomas De Quincey born at Manchester; family moves to “The Farm. 1 ’ 1791. — Elizabeth, his favorite sister, dies. 1792. - — Family moves to “ Greenhay ” ; father dies ; Thomas sent to school at Salford. 1796. — Family moves to Bath ; Thomas entered at Bath Grammar School. 1799. — Attends school at Winkfield. 1800. — Travels with Lord Westport; visits Laxton ; enters Manchester Grammar School. 1802. — Runs away from school ; in North Wales and London. 1803. — Enters Worcester College, Oxford. 1804. - — First uses opium. 1807. — Meets Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey. 1808. - — Leaves Oxford ; in London, preparing . for the bar. xxvi Among the Lakes. At London and Grasmere. I At Edinburgh and Grasmere. At Edinburgh. - At Lasswade and Edinburgh. At Edinburgh and Lasswade. INTRODUCTORY NOTES r 1809. — Takes up his residence at Grasmere. 1813. — Becomes a confirmed opium-eater. 1816. — Marries Margaret Simpson. 1817. — Prostrated by use of opium. 1819. — Becomes editor of Westmoreland Gazette . 1821. — Confessions of an English Opium-Eater appears in the London Magazine. ' 1824. — Connection with London Magazine ends. 1826. — Begins contributing to Blackwood's Magazine. ! 1827. — On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts. > 1830. — Moves family to Edinburgh. 1832. — The Caesars. 1834. — Autobiographic Sketches begin to appear in Tait's Magazine. 1835. — William, the eldest son, dies. 1837. — The Revolt of the Tartars ; wife dies. - 1840. — Takes cottage at Lasswade. 1841-1843. — In Glasgow. 1845. — Suspiria de Frofundis. 1847. — Joan of Arc ; The Spanish Military Nun. - 1849. — The English Mail-Coach ; first contribu- tion to Hogg's Weekly Instructor. 1852. — Takes lodgings at 42 Lothian St., and begins work on Collective Edition. 1853. — Vol. I of Selections , Grave and Gay , from Writings of Thomas de Quincey. 1857. — Visits Ireland. 1859. — Health begins to decline; Thursday, Dec. 8, dies at 42 Lothian St. ; buried in West Churchyard, Edinburgh. INTRODUCTORY NOTES XX vu III. Rhetorical Among those qualities that we have noted as securing for De Quincey's essays a permanent place in our literature, none is more striking than the rhetorical excellence of their style. Indeed, so skilful a rhetorician was De Quincey that a minute treatise on style might draw its illustrations from his writings alone. This being true, a careful study of the manner in ^which our author has expressed himself will be both interest- ing and instructive, — especially to the student of rhetoric. It will show us how expert a literary craftsman De Quincey was, and at the same time, since style is the man, will give us further insight into the peculiar character of his genius. In his essay on Style, De Quincey himself tells us that the matter and the manner of a book are often “ inextricably interwoven. ” This truth is strikingly exemplified in his own writings; consequently, since his matter is multifarious, we find that his style is widely diversified. With regard to their purpose, — and, of necessity, their contents as well, — De Quincey divided his essays into three classes : first, those which propose “ primarily to amuse the reader,” but which may at the same time arouse in him “an impassioned inter- est”; second, those which “address themselves purely to the understanding as an insulated faculty, or do so prima- rily”; third, those “modes of impassioned prose,” which, “ranging under no precedents” in literature, he considers the highest class of his compositions. Accepting this division, but noting that the groups are by no means mutually exclu- sive, we may say that The Spanish Military Nun belongs in the first of these classes, that Joan of Arc falls in the second, and that The English Mail-Coach , in part at least, is one of the productions of the third class. Thus, in the present vol- ume, each of the three groups is represented. A study of De xxvii INTRODUCTORY NOTES Quincey’s style, therefore, will be made definite and at th& same time sufficiently broad if limited to the essays im- mediately before us. Some general observations concerning this style may first be made, and these supplemented by a series of exercises whereby the student may analyze more minutely for himself De Quincey's rhetorical technique. 1. Fundamental Processes. — Following Professor Ge- nung, we may include under this head “ the most impor- tant features of grammatical and rhetorical combination.” With regard to De Quincey’s grammar, Professor Masson says : “ I have found no single recurring fault of syntax in his style, unless it be in his sanction of a very questionable use of the English participle. ” This fault is easily noticeable (“The steeplechase . . . had been a fine headlong thing, considering the torrent/' etc., p. 176, 11. 23 if.) and is, to be sure, the only “recurring” one, but De Quincey errs occasion- ally in other matters syntactical. The accuracy of “many a gay creature was sporting that masqueraded as kings in dress” (p. 17, 11. 29-30), for example, may well be questioned, and had is clearly the wrong tense in the sentence, “But it is too probable,” etc. (p. 159, 11. 6 ff.). Nevertheless, De Quincey's grammar is usually faultless; in this connection we should note particularly his skill in employing the “his- toric present” tense, his discriminating use of the subjunc- tive mood, his careful distinctions between shall and will, and his delightful avoidance of the “cleft infinitive.” De Quincey ’s passion for clearness makes him extremely- careful to place properly all his words, phrases, and clauses, so that even in his most complex sentences we find little diffi- culty in determining which elements belong together. An occasional error ( e.g . “and only not good for our age because for us it would be unattainable,” p. 11, 11. 15-16; “Accord- ing to the usages of the times and country, Kate knew that INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXIX within twelve hours she would be assassinated, ” p. 126, il. 13-15) thus becomes all the more noticeable. He is equally scrupulous in making clear any reference to preceding or following elements, though occasional ambiguities have called for attention in the notes. Here should be mentioned De Quincey 's fondness for the relative pronoun that , which he uses in both coordinative and restrictive senses, generally preferring it to who or which except when considerations of euphony forbid its employment. Though his style is not generally elliptical, De Quincey knows well the value of omission and condensation as means to secure rapidity of movement, colloquial ease, and strength of statement. On the other hand, he does not hesitate to repeat important words or expressions if oratorical volume, clearness, or emphasis may be secured thereby. Especially is this repetition frequent in his more elevated passages. Of the various kinds of repetition employed by De Quincey, the most characteristic is repetition in inverse order; e.g. “ that sang together to God, together that sang to the genera- tions of man,” p. 94, 11. 5-6. Not the least remarkable feature of De Quincey ’s style is the frequency with which he departs from the usual gram- matical order of sentence elements, yet generally manages to keep the dependence clear. Objects precede their verbs (“Us . . . they overtook,” p. 94, 11. 7-9), verbs precede their subjects (“Known is it to the great Father of All,” p. 183, 11. 19-20), predicate adjectives and adverbial phrases stand first in the sentence (“Frightful was the spasm of joy,” p. 147, 1. 21; “To the port she fled,” p. 128, 11. 17-18). Such inversions are most frequently used to secure emphasis or to bring some element of the sentence nearer to a corre- sponding element preceding or to follow, but are often due merely to De Quincey’s love of euphony and rhythm. These XXX INTRODUCTORY NOTES last-named qualities, we may here observe, are strikingly present in all that De Quincey wrote. “At a glance she com- prehended that the sea was her only chance” (p. 128, 11. 16- 17) is one of the few examples of cacophony to be found in the present essays, while such a phrase as “From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night” (p. 84, 11. 11-12) will show how closely the rhythm of De Quincey 's prose approaches at times the rhythm of poetry. 2. Diction. — De Quincey tells us that the young poet should “spend the third part of his life” in studying his mother tongue and “cultivating its native resources”; “he should be willing to pluck out his right eye or to circumnavi- gate the globe, if by- such a sacrifice, if by such an exertion, he could attain to greater purity, precision, compass, or idio- matic energy of diction.” We may truthfully say that much more than a third of De Quincey ’s life was spent in that voluminous and varied reading which resulted in giving him command over a vocabulary perhaps the richest at the dis- posal of any English writer since Shakespeare. From this wide vocabulary he was always able to pick the most fitting word for his purpose ; absolute exactness is a marked character- istic of his diction. Even when a word at first seems badly chosen, we generally find that De Quincey has used it in a sense earlier and more exact than that commonly accepted. The use of words with their primitive meanings ( e.g . revolved . p. 145, 1. 32; conceit , p. 169, 1. 32) is indeed almost a man- nerism in De Quincey. Equally striking is his use of unex- pected prepositions, as in the phrases “ under some secret conflict”’ (p. 69, 1. 18) or “ upon a sound from afar” (p. 87, 1. 24) ; sometimes, indeed, the preposition employed {e.g. “in the whole flowery people, ” p. 41, 1. 27) seems hardly to be the best one. Though De Quincey ’s use of words is so remarkably ex- INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXXI act, it is not always readily intelligible to the average reader, since the words themselves are drawn from all conceivable sources. Technical , terms abound; law, medicine, mathe- matics, physics, philosophy, logic, heraldry, music, surveying, astrology, astronomy, military science, coaching, the hunting field, the race track — all these are put under contribution even in the three essays before us. Foreign words and phrases are by no means rare. Slang “from Cockney to Oxonian ” is frequently made use of, and colloquialisms of all sorts abound. Such, indeed, was De Quincey’s love of “ the pure, racy idiom of colloquial or household English” that he is sometimes betrayed into using it when non-idiomatic dic- tion would be in better taste {e.g. “took after her father,” p. 7, 1. 6). On the other hand, De Quincey does not hesitate to employ words of a distinctly bookish flavor: Such are prcedial (p. 15, 1. 4), cognominated (p. 72, 1. 5), vertiginous (p. 165, 1. 8), and many others. Occasionally he coins his own word, but does so in a scholarly way and only for suffi- cient reasons; diphrelatic (p. 72, 1. 7) is of his mintage, and the note on this word will serve to show his general attitude toward word-coinage. As a whole, De Quincey’s diction is commonly spoken of as Latinized, and it is true that in his most characteristic passages, words of classic derivation occur in unusual abun- dance. Such words, however, were necessary for the exact expression of his thoughts ; moreover, the classic element of our language is the most “ canorous ” and “ long-tailed words in -osity and -ation ” are necessary to a rhythmical and ele- vated style. Nevertheless, De Quincey drew freely upon native Anglo-Saxon sources when occasion demanded, and in the more colloquial parts of The English Mail-Coach and The Spanish Military Nun he will be found to employ a diction Saxon enough to satisfy the most exacting. If, on the whole, XXX11 INTRODUCTORY NOTES he uses more words of classic origin than most other English writers, it is because of his peculiar needs, and not because he fails to appreciate the sturdy strength, of the Saxon. 3. Figures of Speech. — Endowed with a strikingly rich and imaginative intellect and what he himself calls “an electric aptitude for seizing analogies, ” De Quincey was natu- rally an incessant user of figurative expressions. These im- press us chiefly by their seeming spontaneity ; rarely or never do they smell of the lamp. In the essays we are studying, examples may be found of every figure known to the rhetori- cian. Of these, metaphors are by far the most numerous, especially when the tone of the discourse is elevated ; in the more colloquial passages similes are frequently used. It is interesting to note that in these figures of comparison animals play an important part, at least a dozen different creatures serving in the metaphors and similes of The Spanish Military Nun . The kindred figures, synecdoche and metonymy, though to be found in these essays, are rare. Personifica- tion, however, is, after the metaphor, De Quincey ’s favorite figure; we may note that he not only personifies inanimate objects, but often ascribes life to abstract ideas. Among those figures that appeal most strongly to the reader’s feelings and lend most life and emphasis to the style, the apostrophe is De Quincey’s favorite and the most char- acteristic of him; an excellent example of its use may be found in the opening paragraph of Joan of Arc. Different in character and purpose are the pseudo-apostrophies ad- dressed to the reader ( e.g . pp. 132-133) which are employed for their humorous effect or to make the style more collo- quial. De Quincey knows, too, the various uses of the excla- mation and the rhetorical question. He is at times ironical, but De Quincey’s irony is more often good-natured and kindly than bitter or mordant. Formal antithetical sentences INTRODUCTORY NOTES xxxiii are rare with him, and when found are generally brief ; but antithetical touches, as in “by the traditions of the past no less than b}^ the mementoes of the local present ” (p. 14, 11. 3-4) are to be met on every page. While De Quincey ob- serves carefully the order of climax in his paragraphs and essays, he arranges similar words, phrases, and clauses with a view to euphony quite as much as to growth of thought; note, for example, “to review, to ponder, to compare” (p. 5, 1. 24). Though he uses figures thus freely, De Quincey rarely mixes his metaphors; they are, however, decidedly confused in the sentence, “Dreadful pecuniary exhaustion . . . feet” (p. 20, 11. 26-32), and are badly crowded, to say the least, in “From the silence . . . voice” (p. 84, 11. 11-20). 4. Sentences. — De Quincey ’s style is more periodic than that of any other master of modern English prose. The pro- portion of his periodic sentences to those of other types is very large; hardly a page can be found that is not sown with periods. These, however, are rarely of excessive length. We note, too, that he frequently secures periodic effects and at the same time avoids too great strain on the reader’s atten- tion by making his sentences periodic only to a certain point, by giving a periodic form to the component clauses of loose sentences, or by becoming periodic at or near the close of his paragraphs. Occasionally, however, entire paragraphs (e.g. “I am not . . . Englishmen,” pp. 5-6) are composed largely of periodic sentences, just as others (e.g. “The kit- ten . . . mendacity,” pp. 101-102) contain no periods at all. Fond as he is of periodic effects, De Quincey generally takes great care to vary his sentence types. Loose sentences abound. The exact antithetical balance of Macaulay is not often met with, but nearly every sentence of any length shows careful parallelism in the wording of its phrases and XXXIV INTRODUCTORY NOTES clauses. Often several sentences in succession are similarly constructed. Short sentences are employed in large nurm bers for variety ( e.g . “Such . . . driving,” pp. 39-40), for emphasis (“Bishop . . . silent,” pp. 33-35), or for rapidity (“St. Lucar . . . her ,” pp. 117-118). Some- times, however, rapidity is secured by the use of long sentences composed of parts loosely joined, as in the outline of Joan's career on p. 21. Exclamatory and interrogative sentences are frequently employed for variety, and especially in the more elevated passages are relied upon for the expression of extreme emotion; see the paragraph: “Lo . . . founder” (pp. 85-86). The charge sometimes made that De Quincey's sentences are often unduly long, complex, and crowded, will hardly be borne out by our present study. True, we can find sen- tences that are heterogeneous and involved, but they are very rare. De Quincey, indeed, shows a decided preference for short sentences, and any momentary unclearness of structure is apt to be due to an unusual arrangement of parts rather than to any great sentence length. But, as a rule, the structure of all De Quincey's sentences should be clear to the average reader, if only he be reasonably attentive. 5. Paragraphs. — Unity, continuity, and proportion are, we know, the qualities necessary to every good para- graph; the second alone is uniformly to be found in De Quincey. He takes the greatest care that each sentence shall grow out of its predecessor and prepare the way for other sentences to follow; conjunctions, reference words, repetitions, transitional phrases, sentences, and clauses are employed in profusion. The opening paragraph of Joan of Arc will give the student an excellent idea of the care taken by De Quincey to make his style “sequacious.” But our author was the most digressive of all English essayists; INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXXV unity and proportion are consequently lacking in a large number of his paragraphs. Sometimes the digressions are slight, as in the paragraph: “It is not . . . suffer” (pp. 20- 21) ; again they may include practically the whole paragraph, as on pp. 141-144; digressions from digressions, as in the paragraph: “But stay . . . herself ” (pp. 3-5), are not un- common. These digressions, however, as Professor Masson observes, “have a wonderful knack of revolving to the point whence they set out, and generally with a fresh freight of meaning to be incorporated at that point.” Rhetorically faulty as they are, annoying as we sometimes find them, they are never valueless, and we soon come to delight in them, as charming and characteristic De Quinceyisms. 6. Qualities of Style. — As we have already noted, clearness is one of the marked qualities of De Quincey's style. He is always at great pains to make his meaning self-evident, to explain carefully the exact bearing of his every statement upon its fellows. Some of the ways in which he does this have already been mentioned. Another favor- ite means of securing clearness is to quote specific cases in illustration of any general statements he may make; this method, as well as his uniform perspicuity, may be studied to advantage in the opening paragraphs of The Vision of Sudden Death , pp. 64-69. But, however clear, De Quincey’s style is not preeminently a forceful one, in any such way, at ^ least, as that in which Carlyle’s is forceful. Doubtless this lack of strength is due to the peculiarly intellectual type of De Quincey’s genius, his inability to forget the manner of his writing, however great may be his interest in its matter. On the other hand, this very inability makes beauty a most striking characteristic of De Quincey’s style. He is par excellence the great English master of prose-poetry; the imagery, the melody, and the rhythm of his best passages xxxvi INTRODUCTORY NOTES are not to be paralleled elsewhere in our prose. When De Quincey pays tribute to some Joan of Arc, or plays for us some mystic Dream-F ugue, his lyrical powers are at their best, and no reader of the present essays can fail to realize that in his feeling for the sublime, his imaginative faculty, and his match- less command over the rhythmical resources of the language, De Quincey was more rarely endowed than many of our most noted poets. Among the special qualities of style enumerated by rheto- ricians, humor is the one particularly noticeable in all De Quincey’s essays. It is, however, a humor peculiarly his own, shading readily into wit, appealing more strongly to the head than to the heart, and rarely, if ever, of the large, whole-souled type that calls for side-splitting bursts of laughter. It is humor that springs not from the subject treated, but rather from the author’s brain. It pervades all his work and even crops out at times when good taste would seem to demand its suppression. Indeed, so preva- lent is it in the essays before us and so characteristic of De Quincey that we may take the time to analyze it somewhat carefully. De Quincey ’s humor most frequently takes the form of a serious treatment of some trivial subject ( e.g . p. 45) or the introduction of trivial or ludicrous particulars in the midst of a serious discussion (p. 15). Again it may be due to the sudden intrusion of De Quincey himself into the discourse (p. 107), to some personal appeal of his to the reader (p. 132), or to his familiar method of addressing or referring to some well-known character (p. 104). Anacronisms (p. 108), impossibilities (p. 14), incongruities (p. 110), and hyperbolic statements (p. 46) are frequently relied upon for humorous effects. Sometimes the humor lies in a metaphor or simile (p. 112), or perhaps in an epithet (p. 110). Again, we may be called upon to laugh at an absurd bit of logic (p. 36) or to INTRODUCTORY NOTES xxxvii follow out a line of ridiculous argument (pp. 43-44). Occa- sionally, De Quincey's humor is ironical or sarcastic in tone, as on pp. 98-100. Some of our author's puns are referred to in the notes; their presence in his humorous passages shows how purely intellectual his fun-making is, and how often it is little more than wit. To humor, the twin quality is pathos. De Quincey's pathos, however, unlike his humor, seems to issue directly from the heart; it is genuine and appeals at once to the reader. Like his humor, it is all-pervasive, and pathetic touches abound in the present volume. Joan of Arc con- stantly inspires De Quincey with pity, and he shows us the sorrowful as well as the sublime in her career. The soldier's mother (pp. 62 ff.) and the young girl (pp. 80 ff.) of The Eng- lish Mail-Coach are pathetic figures as De Quincey presents them to us. But of the characters appearing in these essays it is the Spanish Military Nun of whom De Quincey is most fond, and the pathetic tenderness with which he writes of her doubtless arouses an answering sentiment in the heart of every reader. 7. Practical Exercises. — The list of rhetorical exer- cises here given makes no claim to completeness; it is in- tended to be suggestive merely, and is capable of infinite expansion. (1) Discuss the agreement of subject and verb in the sen- tences: “That Easter . . . robbers" (p. 33, 11. 9-14) and “Consequently . . . bands" (p. 110, 11. 22-23). (2) Criticise the participial constructions in 11. 4-5, p. 4 ; 11. 16-17, p. 21 ; 11. 14-15, p. 39; 11. 29-30, p. 53 ; 11. 6-7, p. 174. (3) Justify De Quincey 's use of shall, will , and would in the paragraph: “Bishop . . . silent" (pp. 33-35). (4) Can you find any examples of the “cleft infinitive" in the essays of this volume? XXXV lil INTRODUCTORY NOTES (5) Test the use of tenses in the paragraphs: “Oh! . . , frost ” (pp. 146-148) and “All . . . forgiveness” (pp. 150- 151). (6) Why should the subjunctive mood be employed in i. 1, p. 29; 1. 9, p. 32; 1. 20, p. 49? Why the indicative in I. 16, p. 128? What is the difference in force between the indicative and the subjunctive in 11. 10-11, p. 66, and 11. 9-10, p. 82? (7) Comment upon the order of words, phrases, and clauses in the sentences: “Gorgeous . . . her” (p. 3, 11. 10- 16); “But . . . forms” (p. 10, 11. 26-29) ; “Yet . . . one” (p. 29, 11. 19-26); “Once ... us” (p. 47, 11. 6-9); “Out . . . Fanny” (p. 55, 11. 13-17); “Ah . . . wind” (p. 85, II. 16-20); “Kate’s . . . recollection” (p. 119, 11. 21-24); “As . . . frost” (p. 148, 11. 24-29). (8) Can you determine what principles govern De Quin- cey’s use of who, which, and that ? (9) Is the retrospective reference clear in the sentences: “It . . . error” (p. 4, 11. 20-24) and “And . . . death” (p. 162, 1. 39-p. 163, 1. 3) ? (10) Does De Quincey follow not by or, or by nor ? (11) Study and explain the varying intensity of the nega- tions found in the paragraph: “Here . . . him”' (pp. 61-64). (12) What words are omitted in 11. 8-10, p. 79; 11. 11-13, p. 83; 1. 4, p. 84; 11. 3-5, p. 177? Give reasons for these omissions. (13) Point out all repetitions of words and ideas in the paragraphs: “Thus . . . last” (pp. 90-93) and “That . . . ever!” (p. 183). (14) Find examples of repetition in inverse order on pp. 33-35. (15) Account for the inversions found in 11. 28-30, p. 56: INTRODUCTORY NOTES XXXIX 11. 11-15, p. 90; 11. 1-2, p. 148; 11. 21-23, p. 158; 11. 8-9, p. 170; 11. 13-14, p. 180. (16) Collate examples showing De Quincey's care for the rhythm of his sentences. (17) Comment on the diction of the sentences: “ Unless . . . broken ” (p. 22, 11. 14-17); “At . . . dreams” (p. 32, 11. 27-31); “ These . . . result” (p. 36, 11. 12-24); “England . . . democracy” (p. 39, 11. 12-15); “Horses! . . . leopards?” (p. 58, 11. 26-27); “As . . . goodness” (p. 94, 11. 10-20); “Catalina . . . you” (p. 162, 11. 16-20). (18) Make a list of all the unfamiliar words found in the essays of this volume and learn the meaning of each. (19) Collate and comment upon the words coined by De Quincev. (20) Note all the words that De Quincey employs in un- usual senses, and justify his use of them. (21) Make a list of the unexpected prepositions used by De Quincey. (22) Has De Quincey other favorite words besides those mentioned in the notes? (23) How many times is viz. used in the present essays ? Why is De Quincey so fond of the word? (24) From what different languages do the foreign words and phrases of these essays come? Is De Quincey’s use of these foreign expressions pedantic? (25) Can you find any archaic words or forms in these essays ? (26) Show that De Quincey’s diction is sometimes poetic. (27) Collect and classify the technical terms used by De Quincey. (28) Pick out and explain the meaning of all colloquial and idiomatic expressions found on pp. 117-121 and pp, 173-1 76. xl INTRODUCTORY NOTES (29) Make a list of all the slang terms occurring in Th Spanish Military Nun . (30) What is the proportion of Anglo-Saxon wcrds on pp. 26-27; pp. 93-94; pp. 128-129? Why the difference? (31) Is De Quincey’s diction more or less Latinized than that of Milton? of Bunyan? of Swift? of Macaulay? of Carlyle ? of Ruskin ? (32) Find a good example of each of the different figures of speech used by De Quincey. (33) Make a list of the different animals referred to in De Quincey’s figures. (34) Point out those figures that involve some technical knowledge on De Quincey’s part. (35) Point out those due to his knowledge of history and geography. (36) Recognize and name all the figures occurring on pp. 1-3 ; pp. 85-87 ; pp. 146-148. (37) Is De Quincey ’s frequent use of italics justifiable? (38) What is the purpose of the pleonastic structure of the sentences: “This . . . her” (p. 2, 11. 25-29); “The famines . . . chords” (p. 10, 11. 4-7); “But the forests . . . strength” (p. 12, 11. 6-8); “The shepherd . . . wan- dered” (p. 33, 11. 5-9); “We . . . indignities?” (p. 40, 11. 1-5); “And yet . . . life” (p. 141, 11. 2-6); “Potentates . . . vain” (p. 178, 11. 26-27). (39) Explain the ellipses in the sentences: “Yet . . . dies” (p. 34, 11. 18-19); “Five . . . event” (p. 56, 11. 28- 30); “What . . . forever!” (p. 58, 11. 27-33); “Thimble . . . her” (p. 118, 11. 19-20). (40) Criticise the structure of the sentences : “ This . . . yours” (p. 35, 11. 14-16); “It seems . . . piety” (p. 65. 11. 28-29); “As . . . goodness” (p. 94, 11. 10-20); “The simple . . . effort” (p. 151, 11. 18-25). INTRODUCTORY NOTES xli (41) Test for unity the sentences: “Joannas? . . . her- self” (p.20,11.16-22); “Then . . . children” (pp. 55-56) ; “Yet . . . mendacity” (p. 102, 11. 11-22); “But, as . . . nun” (pp. 148-149); “Suppose . . . revolting” (pp. 186“ 187). (42) What is the average length of the sentences on pp. 27-28; pp. 55-56; pp. 67-68; pp. 106-107; pp. 139-140; pp. 176-177 ? Why the difference? (43) What is the purpose of the short sentences on pp. 31-32; pp. 77-78; pp. 128-130; pp. 172-173? (44) Account for the use of the exclamatory and inter- rogative sentences in the paragraphs: “What . . . for ever” (pp. 1-3); “Now . . . mother” (pp. 24-26); “Bishop . . . silent” (pp. 33-35); “Passion . . . horror?” (p. 85); “Then . . . love!” (pp. 93-94). (45) What is the proportion of periodic sentences on pp. 8-9; pp. 59-60; p. 76; p. 125; p. 180? Why the difference ? (46) Tabulate the means used by De Quincey for secur- ing suspense. (47) Point out all examples of balanced structure to be found on pp. 2-3; pp. 24-25; pp. 32-35; pp. 90-93; p. 190. (48) Classify rhetorically the sentences of paragraphs: “All . . . broken” (pp. 21-22) ; “No . . . authority” (pp. 45-46); “Catalina . . . battles” (pp. 155-156). (49) Show all the different means used to secure con- tinuity in paragraphs : “But she . . . English” (pp. 22-23); “Such being . . . driving” (pp. 39-40); “Here . . . adore” (pp. 141-144). (50) Test the unity of paragraphs: “As to . . . king” (pp. 16-18); “The mail coach . . . construction” (pp. 37-39); “The modern „ . . train” (pp. 49-51) ; “Here . . . anything” (pp. 111-115); “There . . . credulity” (pp. 184-185). xlii INTRODUCTORY NOTES (51) Find the digressions in paragraphs: “But . . . her* self” (pp. 3-5); “Here . . . him ” (pp. 61-64); “On . . tenderness” (pp. 98-100). (52) Find several whole paragraphs of digression. (53) Make a list of De Quincey's puns. (54) Find additional examples of the different types of humor referred to above (pp. xxxvi-xxxvii) . (55) Is the fun-making of pp. 6-7 and p. 120 in good taste? Why, or why not? (56) Note the most strikingly pathetic passages in these essays. (57) Which passages do you consider the most poetic, and which the most eloquent? (58) Note the various points at which the tone of De Quincey's style changes. (59) What means are used to effect these changes of tone ? (60) Is De Quincey's style ever pedantic, bombastic, or artificial ? Why, or why not ? IV. Creative The essays contained in this volume should not only furnish the student with material for reading, study, and analysis; they should also be made the basis of original creative work on his own part. To show how easily this may be done, a brief list of possible themes for compositions is here appended. 1. The justice of De Quincey's criticism of Southey's Joan of Arc. 2. The Joan of De Quincey's essay compared with the Joan of Shakespeare's Henry VI. 3. De Quincey's estimate of woman's powers (p. 27) a correct one. INTRODUCTORY NOTES xliii 4. The advantages of the railway train over the mail- coach as a means of locomotion. 5. Why the Dream-Fugue is so named. 6. The exact connection between the Dream-Fugue and The Vision of .Sudden Death. 7. De Quincey's sarcastic account of Spanish pride and laziness unjustifiable. 8. The probable justice of De Quincey's comparison between Kate and the Ancient Mariner. 9. Various suppositions as to Catalina's fate. 10. The character of Joan of Arc compared with that of Catalina de Erauso. 11. Historic women that have fought as soldiers. 12. Why De Quincey's notes have been called pedantic. 13. De Quincey's familiarity with literature as shown in these essays. 14. The range and accuracy of De Quincey's historical knowledge. 15. The facts these essays tell the reader about De Quin- cey's life. 16. De Quincey's personality as inferred from these essays. 17. De Quincey’s feeling toward the French and its causes. 18. The influence of the Bible on De Quincey's style. 19. Reasons for preferring one of these essays to the others. 20. A personal estimate of De Quincey's rank as an essayist. V. Historical A. Joan of Arc In his essay on Joan of Arc, De Quincey makes no at- tempt “to write the history of La Pucelle” ; indeed, he pre- xliv INTRODUCTORY NOTES supposes a certain knowledge of her history on the part of the reader. To supply that knowledge, a brief outline of her life is here given. At the beginning of the fifteenth century the national affairs of France were in an extremely critical condition. Though the French territory won by Edward III of England and the Black Prince had been recovered by Charles V (1364- 1380), the incapacity of his successor, Charles VI, had de- stroyed all hopes of immediate national unity and greatness by delivering France as a prey to the rival nobles of the court. Most powerful among these were the Duke of Orleans and the Duke of Burgundy, who soon plunged the country into all the horrors of a civil war. This moment Plenry V of England found favorable for pressing his claims to the French throne; entering Normandy in 1415 at the head of an Eng- lish army, he met w T ith resistance from the Orleanists alone, and by the great victory of Agincourt opened the way to an easy conquest. After pursuing his victorious course for some years, he formed an alliance with the Burgundians, and by the treaty of Troyes (1420) was declared the heir of Charles VI and Regent of France. In 1422, how r ever, both Charles and Henry died. By the terms of the treaty Henry VI, then only nine months old, became joint ruler of the two kingdoms; his uncle, John of Bedford, w T as appointed his regent in France and at once urged forward the conquest of such French provinces as refused to acknowledge the English sovereignty. Meanwhile the Orleanists, or Armagnacs as the y were generally called, into whose hands the dauphin Charles, only surviving son of Charles AT, had fallen, offered but a feeble resistance to the Anglo-Burgundian advance. Charles him- self, then twenty years old, was weak, dissolute, and a coward; the leaders of his party were mostly adventurers INTRODUCTORY NOTES xlv who thought only of their private interests and carried on a merely desultory warfare against the English. By 1428 practically all France north and east of the Loire owned Henry as king, while by no means all the southern provinces remained loyal to Charles. Anxious to complete their con- quest and put an end to the struggle, the English, in October, 1428, invested Orleans, the key to the South. It was just at this critical moment that Joan of Arc entered upon her career of victory and of suffering. At Domremy, in the valley of the Meuse between Cham- pagne and Lorraine, Joan was born in the year 1412, the fourth child of James of Arc and Isabel of Youthon. Her birthplace seems to have been a part of the Duchy of Bar rather than of Lorraine or Champagne, but whatever its territorial relations, its inhabitants were all loyal supporters of Charles and his cause. Here Joan learned to spin and to sew, to perform the duties of the household, and to watch over her father's docks. Her childhood was in no wise un- like that of her friends and playmates, save that she was noted throughout the village for her charity and religious zeal. Not until she had reached her thirteenth year was she singled out from among her fellows; one summer's day, when alone in her father's garden, she beheld a great light and in the midst saw the Archangel Michael surrounded by other angels. Similar visions followed at intervals during three years. In these St. Margaret and St. Catherine also ap- peared, by whom she was bidden to save France. At last the commands of the saints became more definite; Joan must go to Yaucouleurs and ask Baudricourt, its commander, to send her to the dauphin ; she must conduct him to Rheims and see him made king; then she must drive the English out of France. In January, 1429, Joan and Durand Laxart, her cousin, xlvi INTRODUCTORY NOTES made their way to Vaucouleurs. At first Baudricourt gavt the maid but a cold reception ; she needed to be whipped, he thought. The people of the town believed in her, however, and finally Baudricourt, giving her a small escort and a letter to the king, sent her on her way to Chinon, where Charles was then holding his court. Arrived here, Joan was first examined by various clerks and priests; not until several days later was she allowed a royal audience in the great hall of the palace. As she entered, the king drew aside, thinking to test her miraculous powers, but she knew him at once and announced to him her divinely appointed mission. For days Charles could not make up his mind to avail himself of Joan's aid ; he had her examined by his priests and monks, then sent her to the university town of Poictiers to undergo further examination as to her orthodoxy. She emerged victorious from these tests, but was obliged to wait some weeks before an army could be raised to relieve Orleans. Meanwhile she wrote a letter to the English, demanding the surrender of all French cities held by them; had made for herself a banner sown with lilies and bearing a picture of God seated upon the clouds ; and sent to the church of St. Catherine of Fier- bois for an old sword which she had never seen but which was found in the place described by her. At length, on April 25, she joined the French army at Blois; and the march toward Orleans was begun. This city, the possession of which was so important to Charles, had been besieged by the English, as we have seen, since October, 1428. An expedition sent to its relief in Feb- ruary, 1429, had been intercepted and defeated by the Eng- lish, so that the city was now in great straits, though much encouraged by news of the coming of the miraculous maid. On April 29 Joan entered Orleans and was received with great rejoicing; the army, which had lost time by first approach- INTRODUCTORY NOTES xlvil mg on the wrong side of the Loire, followed her on May 4, the English offering no opposition to their entrance. Once within the city, Joan counselled immediate action, especially since the English expected the arrival of reenforcements at any moment. The French generals, on the contrary, fav- ored delay and the exercise of great caution ; but the maid so impressed them by her supreme confidence in herself that at last she was allowed to have her way. By Sunday, May 8, the English had been driven from their forts, and Talbot with all his troops was retreating rapidly down the Loire. Joan now wished to take advantage of the English dis- couragement and march directly to Rheims ; the royal coun- cil, however, was divided into rival factions and could decide upon no course of action. At last it was determined to attack the English forts along the Loire before proceeding farther, and the Duke of Alencon was given command of the army. The fortress of Jargeau, twelve miles above Orleans, was taken on June 12; three days later the French marched down the river past Orleans and captured Meung. Talbot then united all the English forces at Beaugency, hoping to defend this town until the arrival of Fastolf with reinforce- ments from Paris, which he himself went forward to meet. The relief did not come in time, however, for Talbot and Fas- tolf reached Meung just as the city surrendered, June 18. The English then decided to retreat upon Janville, some twenty-five miles to the north. At Pat ay, twelve miles from Meung, finding themselves unable to go farther without fighting, they halted and gave battle to their pursuers. The French victory here was complete ; the English were utterly routed and few of them escaped being either killed or cap- tured. With the surrender of Janville, the campaign of the Loire was ended, and the country between Paris and Orleans xlviii INTRODUCTORY NOTES was free from English, though they still held several forts higher up the Loire. To the rapidity of the French move- ments and the enthusiasm of the French soldiers, this result was due, and for both these Joan had been largely responsible. At the conclusion of the campaign the maid hastened to Sully, where Charles was holding his court, and urged that he set out instantly for Rheims. As usual, however, the royal council advised delay, declaring it folly to think of marching through a hostile country full of fortified towns. But Joan’s entreaties finally won the day and an advance was decided upon. After further delay in determining the proper route to follow, the march to Rheims was begun on June 30. On July 5 the army camped about Troyes, the capital of Cham- pagne, wdiich refused to surrender to the dauphin. The council was opposed to a siege, some wishing to pass by the town, others to return home. Joan promised to capture the place within three days and was allowed to make the at- tempt, but so vigorous were her preparations for the siege that, on July 9, Troyes surrendered without having struck a blow. On the day following its entrance into Troyes, the French army advanced upon Chalons. This town threw open its gates to receive the dauphin ; two days later, Rheims did likewise; and on Saturday, Jufy 16, Charles and Joan together entered the city of kings. On Sunday, July 17, 1429, Charles VII was duly crowned and consecrated King of France according to ancient custom, all the appointed ceremonies being carefully observed. Throughout the ser- vice Joan stood close to the king, holding her banner in her hands ; when he had been crowned, she knelt down at his feet, weeping vehemently. The story that she now declared her mission ended and asked permission to return to Domremy seems to be a mere legend lacking historical support. The English had not yet been driven from France, and though her INTRODUCTORY NOTES xlix voices” no longer gave definite instructions, they still com- manded Joan to proceed. Charles having been crowned, the part of wisdom was to march at once on Paris and drive out its Anglo-Burgundian garrison before John of Bedford could raise a new army to prevent the French attack. Such a march was begun, however, only after much delay, and even then the advance was slow and tortuous — greatly to 'Joan’s disgust. The royal council, again the cause of all this procrastination, was more anxious to arrange a truce with Philip of Burgundy than to take Paris. Meanwhile Bedford had gathered to- gether fresh troops with which, at Montepilloy, August 14, he was able to check the French advance. Charles there- upon retired to Compikgne, where he was but little nearer Paris than at Rheims. The maid, however, unable to en- dure such vacillation, continued to march forward at the head of a considerable force, and on August 25, with the aid of the Duke of Alengon, captured St. Denis, just outside of Paris. Here she waited for Charles to join her, but instead of the king there came news that on August 28 a truce be- tween the French and the Burgundians had been agreed upon. Fortunately, however, Paris was not included in the truce, and Charles was at liberty to besiege this city. Not until September 8, however, did he unite his forces with Joan’s at St. Denis, and before he allowed the maid to attack Paris he had already made definite arrangements to abandon the campaign. The first assault, on September 8, was re- pulsed, so, without making any further attempt to capture the city, Charles ordered his forces to retreat across the Loire. This retreat was much more rapid than the ad- vance had been; in eight days the French reached Gien, on the Loire, one hundred and fifty miles distant from St. Denis, and here the army was rapidly disbanded. 1 INTRODUCTORY NOTES In spite of the reverses just suffered by the French cause* Joan was still anxious to fight. Willing to gratify her desire, the king and his council raised a small force during the month of October and allowed Joan to proceed against St. Pierre le Moustier and La Charite, two towns on the Burgundian frontier, of little importance to either party. St. Pierre fell on November 1 ; La Charite was besieged for a month, but the siege was finally abandoned for lack of means to carry it on. Joan then joined the king at Mehun, where she remained inactive until February, 1430, all the while asking nothing better than permission to fight the English, and receiving instead from the royal court only a patent of no- bility for herself and her family. In March she accompanied the king to Sully, where she was to wait for the ending of the truce with the Burgundians at Easter. Soon, however, she grew weary of the life here, and early in April left the court without the knowledge of the king or his council, probably joining some band of soldiers on their way north- ward. While waiting at Melun for Easter to come, she was warned by her voices that she would be captured before St. John’s Day, June 24. When the truce was at last ended, Philip of Burgundy recommenced hostilities by preparing to lay siege to Com- piegne, a walled city on the Oise some fifty miles north of Paris. As a first step he besieged Choisv, six miles distant. Hearing of this, Joan hastened to Compiegne. After she and the French captains had made several ineffective at- tempts to relieve the siege of Choisv, that town surrendered (May 20), and the fall of Compiegne seemed inevitable. On May 23 a sally against the Anglo-Burgundian forces was determined upon; this sally Joan prepared to lead. At four o’clock in the afternoon she and her small party issued forth and fierce fighting at once ensued. The French. INTRODUCTORY NOTES li greatly outnumbered, were soon driven back to the city in wild confusion, closely pursued by the Burgundians. Flavy, the commander of Compiegne, fearing that the enemy might effect an entrance, closed the barriers of the boulevard lead- ing to the town before Joan and a few others had reached them. Left almost alone, the maid was quickly surrounded by her enemies, dragged from her horse by a Picard archer, and claimed as his prisoner by Lionel of Wandonne. According to the rules of war as then observed, Joan belonged to her captor ; but Wandonne seems to have shared his ownership with John of Luxemburg, commander of the corps in which Lionel was a captain. She was at once sent to Beaulieu, one of Luxemburg's strongholds, for safe-keep- ing. To her captors she was only a piece of property to be sold to the highest bidder; but to the English she would be an invaluable prize. The latter, therefore, fearing lest Charles might make some attempt to ransom her, immedi- ately hastened to get Joan in their own possession. Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, was chosen as their agent to buy her from the Burgundians. He secured letters from the University of Paris, demanding that she be turned over to him as a witch; on behalf of King Henry he offered £10,000 for her delivery. After some haggling the bargain was made, and as soon as the English had succeeded in raising the purchase money, Joan was turned over to them (November, 1430), Charles VII having made no effort to ransom or rescue her. Meanwhile, Joan herself had been kept for some weeks in the castle of Beaulieu, from which she vainly endeav- ored to escape, and had then been taken to Beaurevoir, another and stronger castle belonging to Luxemburg. At both places she seems to have been cruelly treated. Finally, worn out by confinement and insult, sick at heart over the lii INTRODUCTORY NOTES news that Compiegne was about to be taken by tne Burgur* dians, and fearful lest she fall into the hands of the English, Joan disobeyed her voices for the first time and threw her- self from the tower at Beaurevoir, hoping either to escape or to end her life. She w r as badly shaken but not otherwise injured by the fall, so that the Burgundians were able to deliver their property to the English in good condition. For some time Joan's new owners could not decide whether to treat her as a prisoner of war or as a witch. Urged on by the University of Paris, they at last agreed to turn her over to the church for trial ; only by proving her an agent of the devil could they nullify the coronation of Charles. In De- cember, 1430, she was removed to Rouen and there delivered up to Cauchon, now acting as the representative of the church. An ecclesiastical trial of the fifteenth century ordinarily consisted of two parts : first, an inquest or gathering of evidence against the accused, so that an indictment might be drawn up ; second, the trial proper of the accused on the charges contained in the indictment. The first part of Joan's trial began with a preliminary meeting of the court in the royal council chamber at Rouen, on January 9, 1431. At this, as at all the subsequent meetings, Cauchon did not sit alone in judgment; the number of ecclesiastics forming ais court varied greatly, however, sometimes as many as forty being present, again only five or six. At first the sessions of the court were held in the council chamber of the royal castle, but later Joan was usually examined before a small committee in her cell ; at first, too, there was some show of fairness about the trial, since Cauchon believed that he should have no difficulty in proving Joan's guilt, but he soon found it necessary to resort to the most iniquitous methods in order to accomplish his purpose. During the course of the trial, INTRODUCTORY NOTES 1111 Joan was not allowed to hear mass or enjoy spiritual conso- lation of any kind. She was kept all the while in the com- mon prison of Rouen, heavily ironed and constantly exposed to insults and indignities. Worse still, she was exposed to treachery, for a pretended friend was sent to her cell to secure her confidences, and she was regularly watched over and listened to by concealed spies. At the second meeting of the court, held on January 13, a committee was chosen to digest such evidence as had already been collected against Joan, so that the court might determine what lines the inquest should follow. This task occupied the committee for ten days; other preparations consumed more time; and it was not until February 21 that Joan was summoned to appear before the court. Into the details of her examination at this and the subsequent ses- sions of the court there is no need to enter ; suffice it to say that by shrewd answers or wise silence she skilfully avoided the traps laid for her by the examiners. The general nature of the questions asked her may readily be surmised if we enumerate a few of the different charges on which her judges wished to find her indictable, and on which their interroga- tions bore : she had communed with evil spirits, practised magic, ascribed supernatural virtue to her sword and banner, followed an unwomanly career in man’s clothes, attacked Paris on the Feast of the Annunciation, attempted her own life at Beaurevoir, allowed people to worship her, pretended to work miracles, etc. The first part of her trial lasted until March 18, the court having met almost daily and having examined Joan at every meeting ; her evidence, after being read to her and acknowledged by her, was turned over to Estivet, the prosecuting attorney, that he might prepare an indictment. On March 27 Joan was called before the court to hear the Iiv INTRODUCTORY NOTES indictment that had been drawn up against her. Thu document contained no less than seventy counts, or charges, to each of which in turn Joan was required to answer. At times she replied with great skill and discrimination ; again she would refer the judges to her previous evidence or de- clare that she left the whole matter to God. As it was im- possible with even a semblance of fairness to find her guilty on all the counts, Cauchon reduced the seventy articles to twelve, of which the most important were those relating to her belief in her saintly visitors, her unwillingness to discard her male garb, and her refusal to submit her life and deeds to the judgment of the church. On May 19 the court, largely influenced by letters received from the University of Paris, was inclined to pronounce Joan guilty of the crimes charged against her in these twelve articles, but gave her a final opportunity to submit to the church before sentence should be passed upon her. This submission the Bishop of Beauvais took good care to prevent, and Joan was condemned to be turned over to the lay tribunal — in other words, to die. Hitherto Cauchon, determined that the court should find Joan guilty, had seen to it that she should not repent of her resolution not to change her style of dress and not to submit to the church; now that she had been condemned such repentance was no longer undesirable, but was even necessary in order that she appear to the world a self-con- fessed witch and heretic. On May 24, therefore, the maid was taken from her cell to the cemetery of St. Ouen, to hear sentence publicly pronounced upon her. She was placed upon a platform in the midst of the immense crowd ; near by was the executioner with his cart, prepared to take charge of her when the sentence should have been read. After listening to a long sermon, Joan was once more called upon to submit her words and deeds to the judgment of the church; INTRODUCTORY NOTES lv thus only could she escape death. At first she refused, nor would she renounce her masculine apparel as she was urged to do. Reluctantly Cauchon began to read her sentence, while the priests crowded around her, begging her to submit and to agree to change her dress. Suddenly a paper was thrust into her hands and she was almost forced to sign it. What it was she really signed can never be known ; Joan herself believed that she was only promising to put on a woman’s dress and to submit to the church. At all events, her enemies chose to consider that she had recanted, and Cauchon now pronounced a new sentence whereby she was condemned to imprisonment for life. The English were enraged with the Bishop for allowing Joan thus to escape him, but his schemes were deeper and darker than they imagined ; having made Joan ruin her reputation by recant- ing, he knew he could take her life whenever he chose. The maid, having been led back to prison, was there sub- jected to indignities far worse than she had formerly suffered; she was prostrated, too, by remorse over her abjuration. Ex- actly why, it is impossible to say, but within two days she had resumed her masculine garments — just as Cauchon had intended that she should. She also claimed to have heard her voices again and persisted in believing that they were those of St. Catherine and St. Margaret. Nothing more was needed; on Tuesday, May 29, the court voted that Joan was a relapsed heretic and should be turned over to the lay tribunal, — which always punished with death by burning such persons as the ecclesiastics delivered to it. At nine o’clock on the morning of May 30, 1431, Joan of Arc was led through the streets of Rouen, clothed in a long black robe, and wearing on her head a mitre bearing the words, “ Heretic, relapsed, apostate, idolater.” When the Old Market had been reached, she was placed upon a platform Ivi INTRODUCTORY NOTES there and again caused to listen to a long sermon. She was then turned over to the executioner, who conducted hei to a scaffold about which faggots of wood had been piled. As she passed through the crowd she begged the priests to say masses for her soul, and as she ascended the scaffold she asked for a cross, which she placed in her bosom. A crucifix also having been brought her, she kissed and embraced it while she was being bound to the stake. When the flames had at last been lighted, she urged the monk at her side to descend, and then begged him to hold up the crucifix where she could still see it. Thus she died, the crucifix before her eyes and a prayer upon her lips. After Joan's execution the war dragged on somewhat listlessly until 1435, when the treaty of Arras was agreed upon between the French and the Burgundians; by it the crown was effectually secured for Charles. A series of French victories next forced the English, in 1444, to agree to a truce. In 1449 war again broke out and by 1450 Charles had con- quered all northern France except Calais. The official rec- ords of Joan's trial had thus come into his possession and he was anxious to reverse that judgment whereby he was de- clared to have been crowned through the aid of the devil. It was not, however, until 1455 that the Pope, Calixtus III, gave permission to reopen Joan's case and review the course of her trial. Witnesses were examined at Domremv, Yau- couleurs, Orleans, and Rouen, one hundred and fifty deposi- tions being taken- in all. After reviewing this evidence carefully, the judges, on July 7, 1456, pronounced sentence in the grealTiall of the archbishop's palace at Rouen to the effect that Joan's trial had been unfairly conducted; that all matters connected with the proceedings, the sentence, and the execution, were therefore declared null, invalid, and void; and that Joan and her family should thenceforth be INTRODUCTORY NOTES lvii held absolutely cleared from all stains or marks of infamy. So, from political motives, the party that had done nothing to save her while living, at last did tardy justice to the mem- ory of the Maid of Orleans. B. Catalina de Erauso Quite early in his story of The Spanish Military Nun , De Quincey takes care to impress upon the reader that “this is no romance, or at least no fiction”; throughout the story he makes frequent reference to Catalina’s memoirs and the French reporter of them; and in the postscript of 1854, which replaced a much briefer introductory paragraph in Tait for May, 1847, he gives some account of his sources and discusses their probable authenticity. But De Quincey never saw the memoirs himself, and is purposely inaccurate and secretive in his postscript. Let us see, then, what facts are really known concerning Catalina de Erauso and how De Quincey came to write about her; that such a person once actually existed, there can be no reasonable doubt. The chief source of the world’s knowledge concerning Cata- lina is her memoirs. These she began to write in the year 1624, but they were not published until early in the nine- teenth century. M. Ferrer, a native of Guipuzcoa, in Spain, chanced to read, in 1815, among the manuscripts in the possession of D. Felipe Bauza, keeper of the Marine Archives at Madrid, a copy of these memoirs, which had been transcribed from a manuscript in the Royal Academy of History, this in turn having been copied in 1784 from a manuscript volume owned by the Spanish poet, Trigueros. This “romance of cape and sword,” for such he supposed it, made a strong impression on M. Ferrer, especially since the heroine had been born in his own province and since he Iviii INTRODUCTORY NOTES himself had served in Peru. In the political excitement ol the times, however, he soon forgot all about the Military Nun. Several years later, while a refugee in Paris, he came across a brief account of Catalina’s life and exploits in the History of the Life and Times of Philip III , by Gil Gon- zales Davila. The idea that the nun might be a genuine historical character caused his old interest to return with redoubled force. He at once procured a copy of the memoirs that he had formerly read, and for many years pursued the most minute historical researches in order to verify, if pos- sible, the statements there made. Contemporary references, parish registers, state documents — among them certificates from Catalina’s commanders, her petition to the king, his reply, and the order for her pension — all these proofs, together with an actual portrait of the Nun-Lieutenant, con- vinced M. Ferrer of the substantial accuracy of Catalina’s memoirs. To be sure, he could hardly explain, for instance, why the parish register should give the date of Catalina’s birth as 1592 when she herself claimed to have been born in 1585; how she could have taken part in the battle of Val- divia (1606) at the very time when the convent records showed her to have been at St. Sebastian ; or why the legend accompanying the portrait of her painted in 1630 should represent her as then being fifty-two years old. Still he had been able to verify the chief facts stated by Catalina, so decided to publish the memoirs, together with such notes and historical documents as seemed worth adding. This volume appeared in 1829, “an unfortunate time,” says M. Valon ( Revue des Deux Mondes , p. 634), “ since it was just on the eve of the Revolution of July. The political disturb- ances whirled away the unfortunate book, which disap- peared as mysteriously as the heroine whose history it recounted. It can hardly have been seen by more than a INTRODUCTORY NOTES lix few rare amateurs, and it has now become a bibliographical curiosity." But Catalina's literary career had at last begun — though without any such “ regular controversy" as that mentioned by De Quincey. Before pursuing further this “ literary career" we should pause long enough to note the chief events in Catalina's “per- sonal career," as she herself has recorded them. She was born at St. Sebastian in 1585, and at the age of four was placed in a convent there. At the convent she remained until March 18, 1600, when she succeeded in escaping. After changing her costume and cutting her hair she wandered to Vittoria, where she entered the service of a professor, a relative of her mother. Three months later she ran away to Valladolid and became a lackey in the service of a state secretary, Don Juan de Idiaquez. To his house her father came one day to report the escape of his daughter from St. Sebastian, and Catalina deemed it prudent to flee. According to the memoirs, Catalina, on leaving Valladolid, made her way to Bilbao, and was there imprisoned for having struck some gamins that were annoying her. She next went to Estella, in Navarre, where she remained for two years as the page of a nobleman. At the end of this time (1603) she was venturesome enough to visit St. Sebastian, fortunately without being recognized. Going thence to San Lucar, she embarked as cabin-boy on one of the vessels in a fleet about to set sail for New Andalusia. On Holy Monday, 1603, the squadron left San Lucar, and in due time reached Araya, where ensued a naval combat with the Dutch, in which Catalina took part. After having touched at Cartagena and Nombre de Dios, she deserted her ship and made her way to Panama. There she entered the service of a merchant named Urquiza; at the end of three months she and her master set sail for Paita, which they lx INTRODUCTORY NOTES finally succeeded in reaching, though their vessel was wrecked en rovte. From Paita, Catalina was sent to Saha, there to take charge of a mercantile establishment belonging to her master. A street fight in which she seriously wounded a friend of one Reyes, who had insulted her, caused Catalina to take sanctuary in a near-by church, whence she was dragged to prison. She was released three months later through the influence of the bishop, and, having refused to marry the aunt of Reyes's wife in order to escape from the private ven- geance that now threatened her, was sent by her master to take charge of his establishment at Trujillo. Hither Reyes and his friends followed her. When they ventured to attack her, she again killed a man and was again forced to take sanctuary — this time in a cathedral, from which she was allowed to depart only on condition she left the country with- out delay. At Lima, to which city she fled, a wealthy mer- chant named Solarte gave her employment as his commercial agent, but one day he discovered that she was making love to his wife's sister, so he discharged Catalina from his service. Just at this time troops were being raised for a campaign against the Indians of Chili ; Catalina enlisted and soon found herself at Concepcion, where she met her brother and was transferred to his company. For three years she lived with him on the most intimate terms. Finally, however, they quarrelled about a woman and came to blows ; as a punish- ment for her insubordination, Catalina was sentenced to an exile of three years at the fort of Paicabi. During this period she served in a campaign against the Indians, and because of her bravery at the battle of Valdivia, was promoted to the rank of alferez. She took part in the battle of Puren (1608), and after some years more of distinguished service was allowed to return to Concepcion. Here she quarrelled over the cards with a friend one day, killed him and also the INTRODUCTORY NOTES lxi auditor-general, who tried to arrest her, and once more found refuge in a church. After having remained in sanctuary for some months, she was visited by a friend, who wished her to act as his second in a duel to be fought that night. She con- sented, and in the course of the combat killed, without know- ing him, her own brother. The latter with his last breath accidentally made known the name of his murderer, and Catalina was forced again to have recourse to her sanctuary. After having been held a close prisoner here for eight months, she finally succeeded, with the aid of a friend, in making her escape. While fleeing along the coast, she met up with two desert- ers. The three decided to cross the Andes into the province of Tucuman, but Catalina alone succeeded in reaching the other side of the mountains. Here she found shelter at the farmhouse of a Creole woman, who, some days later, pro- posed to Catalina that she remain and assist in the farm management, having first married her daughter. To this proposition Catalina agreed ; two months later the wedding party went to Tucuman, where our friend the alferez man- aged to delay the performance of the ceremony, meanwhile making arrangements to marry the niece of a city ecclesiastic. Matters having thus become complicated, she suddenly de- camped by night, leaving the two girls to exchange consola- tions. . After a journey of three months, during which she had an encounter with robbers, she reached Potosi, some sixteen hun- dred miles from Tucuman. Here she entered the service of Don Juan Lopez de Arquijo and was intrusted with the task of convoying twelve thousand llamas and eighty Indians to Charcas. Upon her return to Potosi she again enlisted in the army, was made adjutant-sergeant-major, and served in this capacity for two years, during which time she took part iXll INTRODUCTORY NOTES in an expedition against the Indians of Los Chuncos and El Dorado. Having at length deserted with a number of her companions, she went to La Plata, but had not been there long before she was unjustly accused of having stabbed a woman. When finally acquitted, she made her way to Las Charcas again and found there Don Juan, her former master. She was then put in charge of another drove of llamas, which she convoyed safely to Potosi. When in Las Charcas again, she had a gaming quarrel with the bishop's nephew, killed him, and fled to Piscobamba. Here she quarrelled again, and again killed a man. Upon the testi- mony of false witnesses, she was condemned to be hung for this crime, and was on the scaffold itself when a reprieve came from La Plata, where the witnesses had confessed their perjury. Catalina was then taken to La Plata and set free. Soon after she went to Cochabamba on business for Don Juan and was just about to return to La Plata when, on passing the house of a certain Chavarria, she was hailed by his wife, who prayed to be rescued from her husband, as he was about to kill her. Catalina allowed the lady to share her mule; together they fled to La Plata, closely pursued by the irate husband. Having placed the woman in a convent, Catalina then had the pleasure of killing her husband, wdiom she met in the street. For five months Catalina remained in the shelter of a convent, but at the end of this time had httle difficulty in clearing herself. She was then employed by the president of La Plata on a judicial mission to Piscobamba and Mizque. At La Paz, where we find her next, she killed a man that had called her a liar, and escaped being hanged by a stratagem more ingenious than commendable. Cuzco was her next stop- ping place ; here she was falsely accused of having killed the corregidor and was acquitted only after six months. She INTRODUCTORY NOTES lxiii then hastened to Lima, took part in a naval battle with the Dutch before Callao, was captured by them, and left to die on the coast of Paita. Instead of dying, she made her way back to Lima, lived there seven months, then went to Cuzco, where she killed a celebrated bully and was herself seriously wounded. As soon as she was able, she fled to Guamanga. Before she had been there long, however, some alguazils tried to arrest her; she resisted, was slightly wounded, and was taken by the bishop into his own house. Next morning the bishop called her into his presence and questioned her as to her past life. Touched by his sympathy, his sound advice, and his evident goodness, she finally said to him : “ Seigneur, what I have told your illustrious highness is not the truth; the truth is — that I am a woman.' 7 Other details followed, and the bishop, convinced of her veracity, soon after had her placed in the convent of Santa Clara at Guamanga. Five months later, in 1620, the bishop died and Catalina was removed to the convent of the Holy Trinity at Lima. Here she remained for two years and a half. At the end of this time, information having been received from Spain to the effect that she had not become a professed nun before leaving St. Sebastian, Catalina was set at liberty. Im- mediately she determined to return to Spain; having made her way overland to Cartagena, she embarked on one of the vessels of a fleet about to return to Cadiz. On November 1, 1624, she reached Cadiz, and after spend- ing eight days there, made her way to Seville and thence to Madrid. At the last-named place she was arrested by the ecclesiastical authorities, and owed her release to the inter- vention of the Duke of Olivarez. She next visited Pam- peluna, wdiere she heard of the jubilee at Rome and decided to call upon the pope. On her way, however, she was arrested at Turin as a spy, despoiled of her money and papers, and 1X1V INTRODUCTORY NOTES ordered not to continue her journey. She returned, there- fore, to Spain, and applied to the king for a pension, which was granted her. Again she started for Rome, but before reaching Barcelona was set upon by thieves and robbed of everything but her papers. The king, fortunately, was at Barcelona, and from him Catalina succeeded in securing a gift of food and money. She then went to Genoa, and while there killed an Italian in a duel. At last she reached Rome, where she was cordially received by the pope, and where during her stay of a month and a half she was constantly feasted and feted by the dignitaries of church and state. From Rome she went to Xaples — and with an anecdote of her life in that city her memoirs suddenly end (July, 1626). Little is definitely known concerning the rest of her life. On July 4, 1630, she was at Seville, and on July 25 set sail for America. In 1645 she was seen at Vera Cruz by a monk named Nicholas de Renteria, who had just come over from Spain; here, under the name of Antonio de Erauso, she had charge of a drove of mules and negroes and made it her busi- ness to carry baggage from one place to another. When and where she died is altogether unknown. Such is a brief summary of those facts about Catalina de Erauso to be gathered from her memoirs and the notes of M. Ferrer. His book, we have seen, disappeared mysteri- ously and soon became a bibliographical curiosity. A copy of it, or of a new edition published at Valencia in- 1839, must have fallen, however, into the hands of M. Alexis de Valon, who contributed to the Revue des Deux Moudes for February 15, 1847, a forty-nine page article entitled Catalina de Erauso. Forty-five of these pages are devoted to telling the story of the nun’s life; the other four give us some account of the original memoirs and of M. Ferrer’s editorial labors. Valon claims to “ retell the story from her own notes,” but he does INTRODUCTORY NOTES lxv so as a romancer, not a historian. He seems first to have picked out for his use such events in Catalina’s life as ap- peared to him most characteristic, best fitted to make a well- rounded story, and most certain to interest the reader without wearying him by their sameness; he rejects at least half the incidents recorded by Catalina, and shows no little skill in making his choice. Upon this framework he then proceeds to build up his story in most artistic fashion. He invents particulars, he transfers others from the rejected incidents of the memoirs and embodies them in new settings; he sup- plies interesting descriptions of persons and things ; he moralizes, he attempts to analyze Catalina’s feelings, mo- tives, character. The result is a vivid historical romance, written in a style as unlike the crude, terse, vigorous manner of Catalina as his story itself is unlike the original memoirs. The nun’s character alone remains practically unchanged; here, as in the autobiography, we realize that, as Valon says, ‘'hers is a savage, self-abandoned nature, having a conscience neither for good nor for evil;” that “she knows no morality other than that of the highways, camps, and ships;” that “she robs with candor, worthy woman, and kills with naivete. ” So much for the Catalina de Erauso of February 15, 1847. In Tail’s Edinburgh Magazine for May, June, and July of the same year there appeared De Quincey’s story of The Nautico- Military Nun of Spain, substantially as we have it, under a different title, in the present volume. What did De Quincey know about Catalina de Erauso ? Seemingly nothing more than what he learned from Valon’s article. The internal evi- dence is conclusive that he had never seen M. Ferrer’s edition of Catalina’s memoirs, that he had not even seen a review of this book which appeared in the Monthly Chronicle soon after the publication of the new edition of 1839. The truth seems lxvi INTRODUCTORY NOTES to be that De Quincey, having read Valon’s article in the Revue des Deux Mondes, thought it a capital story, and pro- ceeded thereupon to create an English version of it. De Quincey ; s Spanish Military Nun is, then, as Professor Masson describes it, merely “a cooked and spiced and De Quinceyfied (which means electrified and glorified) translation from the French.” With a single exception, the main inci- dents — and nearly all the minor details — of the two stories are precisely the same; there is just such similarity as would naturally have resulted if, after reading the French article, De Quincey had thrust it aside and relying solely upon his memory had rewritten the whole thing from a different point of view and to illustrate a very different conception of Cata- lina herself. To be more specific, De Quincey rejects certain features of his original, such as the non-essential names, the descriptive passages, the comments on Catalina’s character, and the minor details that appear to him useless — especially if they are unfavorable to Catalina. In their place he sup- plies everything that makes The Spanish Military Nun so well worth reading, so infinitely superior as a literary production to M. Valon’s more orthodox narrative. The all-pervading wit and humor of the present essay is entirely De Quincey’s — that wit and humor tinged with irony, without which the story would be, to borrow his own phrase, a caput mortuum. To De Quincey we owe those delicious asides by means of which he takes us into his confidence and calls upon us to share his feelings; De Quincey’s own, it is needless to say, are the numerous digressions, so fantastic, so instructive, or so eloquent. But most of all we should thank De Quincey for that mantle of tenderness and pathos which he throws about the “man-woman adventuress” of Valon, and by means of which he would hide from our view all the imper- fections of his heroine. “I love this Kate, bloodstained as INTRODUCTORY NOTES lxvii she is, ’ he exclaims, and he does all in his power to make us love her too. Indeed, the most remarkable thing about De Quincey’s recast of his French original is the skill with which he manages to glorify the character of the Military Nun her- self. The most accomplished advocate was never more care- ful to suppress facts but little creditable to his client, to represent her actions in the most favorable light, to attribute to her the highest possible motives. The Catalina of De Q.uincey is thus a very different being from the Catalina of V alon, much “ handier,” wiser, and nobler ; less lifelike, to be sure, but infinitely more worthy of our admiration and our love. There are, then, three important literary versions of Cata- lina’s career : her own, Valon’s, and De Quincey’s. We have just noticed some of the differences between these versions; parallel passages from the memoirs and Valon’s article will serve, when compared with De Quincey’s narrative, to illus- trate others more minute. Concerning Catalina’s birth and convent life we read in her memoirs (pp. 1-2, Heredia’s edition, Paris, 1894) : — “I, Dona Catalina de Erauso, was born in the city of San Sebastian in Guipuzcoa, in the year 1585, daughter of the captain Don Miguel de Erauso and of Dona Maria Perez de Galarraga y Arce, natives and inhabitants of the said city. My parents kept me at home with my brothers and sisters until I was four years old. In 1589 they placed me in the Dominican convent of San Sebastian el Antiguo. My aunt, Dona Ursula de Unza y Sarasti, cousin-german of my mother, was prioress of this convent. There I remained until I was fifteen years old, at which time they began to talk about my becoming a professed nun. The year of my noviciate had about passed when I had a dispute with a nun named Dona Catalina de Aliri, who had entered the convent a widow. jxviii INTRODUCTORY NOTES She was large and strong and I but a slight young girl ; sh«. gave me several blows, which I resented deeply. ” Valon gives us the following account of the same period (Revue des Deux Mondes , Voi. XVII, pp. 589-590). “In 1592, an honest hidalgo of San Sebastian, named Miguel de Erauso, an old soldier with many children and lit- tle money, was greatly disappointed one fine morning when the news was brought him that during the night heaven had sent him a fourth daughter. Having carefully calculated that he would never have any dowry to give her, he decided to entrust the little Catalina to God. He called the nurse, therefore ; wrapped up the child in a corner of his mantle : and carried her to the convent of which his sister-in-law, Doha Ursula, was abbess. He was certainly taking time by the forelock in order to make a good Dominican of her, and the proper inclination should not have been lacking in this child, cradled, so to speak, in the sanctuary. But the proper inclination was lacking, and never before did a cloistral edu- cation produce such a nun. “ After having been the most insufferable child, she became the most unsubdued of novices. At fifteen, that age when upon the countenance of a young girl the candor of child- hood begins to mingle with the divine grace of womanhood, she had, so to speak, nothing feminine in her character or in her face. Those modest blushes, that charming embarrass- ment, by which a young girl shows her knowledge of her own beauty and her secret consciousness of her own powers, were never seen in Catalina. She was haughty and violent ; every- body had to give way to her, and so much resolution sparkled in her black eyes that the inmates of the convent hardly knew what to think of this strange novice. One might call her a hawk raised by accident in a nest of turtle-doves. But not all the saintly recluses felt alike about Catalina. The INTRODUCTORY NOTES lxix novices of her own age, accustomed from childhood to her domination, always submitted tremblingly to Catalina, in whom they perceived a superior and almost masculine strength of will; but not all the nuns were novices. In the convent of San Sebastian el antiguo, there might be found more than one of those old recluses, rough and cross, em- bittered by celibacy, whose mummified faces resemble geo- metrical figures covered with parchment, and of whom the type, preserved from age to age, may still be found in all convents and even elsewhere. Dona Incarnacion de Aliri was the most crabbed of these old women, who ordinarily have a horror of youth and beauty; she detested Catalina and had long since sworn to finish with the insolent novice once for all. One evening when the nuns were going to the refectory, Catalina, scorning all convent rules, passed impudently before Doha Incarnacion, elbowing her as she went ; Doha Incarna- cion pushed her back sharply, and Catalina, having persisted in her attempt to pass, presently received a resounding smack from the dryest hand in the whole peninsula. At once she changed countenance and took on a look so horrible that all the nuns crowded about her in terror, fearing some tragedy. Doha Incarnacion fled; later she declared that the glance of the young girl, glittering like a sword-blade, charged with hate and ferocity like that of a savage beast, had at that moment revealed to her as by a lightning flash, the bloody destiny of Catalina.” With these two passages, the four first chapters of De Quincey's story should be compared. Having thus considered the three chief accounts of her life we may end our study of Catalina de Erauso's “ literary career,” no less interesting in its vicissitudes than the “ per- sonal career” with which De Quincey has chiefly concerned himself. The study has not been complete, for we have Ixx INTRODUCTORY NOTES not taken into account the Relacion Verdadera and the S egunda Relacion of Catalina's exploits, published at Madrid in 1624 and 1625, respectively ; a drama — La Monja Alferez , by Juan Perez de Montalvan (1602-1638) — of which she is the heroine; a French version of the memoirs published at Paris in 1830; a reprint of Ferrer's book at Barcelona in 1838; a resume of Catalina's life in the Musee des Families (1838-1839) by the Duchess d'Abrantes; a chapter concern- ing Catalina in the Valence et Valladolid (Paris, 1877), of M. Antoine de Latour; or the latest French translation of the memoirs by Jose-Maria de Heredia (Paris, 1894) ; reference has not even been made — and this for a very good reason — to those lengthy reports by “ journals in Spain and Germany" which De Quincey mentions, and which may or may not have appeared. We have considered only those antecedent ac- counts in which De Quincey 's story has made us necessarily interested, and, in excuse for not pursuing further Catalina's literary career, may quote Professor Masson's belief that, “if ever that Spanish eccentric, that masculine nun-adventuress from Biscay, with her black eyes and black hair, the tinge of brown down on her upper lip, and the sword by her side, shall take permanent hold of the imagination of those who read books, it will be because her portrait, after having been sev- eral times attempted by rougher hands, was repainted more sympathetically by this greater artist." VI. Bibliographical A. Works The standard edition of De Quincey is : — 1. The Collected Writings of Thomas De Quincey, in 14 volumes, with notes and a preface to each volume by David Masson. London, A. and C. Black, 1S97. INTRODUCTORY NOTES lxxi Additional matter may be found in : — 2. The Uncollected Writings of Thomas De Quincey. Edited by James Hogg. 2 volumes, London, 1890. 3. The Posthumous Works of Thomas De Quincey. Ed- ited by A. H. Japp. 2 volumes, London, 1891-1893. Noteworthy among numerous American editions of par- ticular essays are : — 4. The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. Edited by Arthur Beatty. New York, 1900. 5. Style, Rhetoric, and Language. Edited by Fred N. Scott. Boston, n.d. 6. The Flight of a Tartar Tribe. Edited by M. H. Turk. Boston, n.d. 7. Selections from De Quincey. Edited by M. H. Turk. Boston, 1902. B. Biography and Criticism 8. Anton, Peter. England’s Essayists. Edinburgh, 1883. 9. Bayne, Peter. Essays on Biography and Criticism. First Series. Boston, 1857. 10. Birrell, Augustine. Essays about Men , Women , and Books. New York, 1894. 11. Budd, Henry. St. Mary’s Hall Lectures. Philadel- phia, 1898. 12. Chancellor, E. B. Literary Types , being Essays in Criticism. New York, 1895. 13. Clark, J. Scott. A Study of English Prose Writers. New York, 1898. 14. Craik, Henry. English Prose. Volume 5, New York, 1896. 15. Giles, Henry. Illustrations of Genius. Boston, 1854. INTRODUCTORY NOTES Wxii 16. Gilfillan, George. A Gallery of Literary Portraits . Edinburgh, 1845. 17., Gould, George M. Biographic Clinics. Philadelphia, 1903. 18. Hogg, James. De Quincey and his Friends. London, 1895. 19. Hunt, Theodore W. Representative English Prose. New York, 1895. 20. Ingleby, Clement M. Essays. London, 1S8S. 21. Japp, Alexander H. De Quincey Memorials. 2 vol- umes, London, 1891. 22. Mason, Edward T. Personal Traits of British Authors. New York, 1885. 23. Masson, David. Essays Biographical and Critical.. London, 1856. 24. De Quincey. London, 1902. 25. Martineau, Harriet. Biographical Sketches. Lon- don, 1869. 26. Minto, William. Manual of English Prose Litera- ture. Boston, 1901. 27. Page, H. A. (A. H. Japp.) Thomas De Quincey: His Life and Writings. 2 volumes in 1, New York, n.d. 28. Saintsbury, George. Essays in English Literature , 1780-1860. London, 1896. 29. Stephen, Leslie. Hours in a Library. Volume 1, New York, 1899. 30. Wotton, Mabel E. (Ed.) Word Portraits of Famous Writers. London, 1887. JOAN OF ARC THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH, AND THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QUINCEY JOAN OF ARC 0 What is to be thought of her ? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lor- raine, 0 that — like the Hebrew shepherd boy° from the hills and forests of Judea — rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep 5 pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act,° by a victorious act , such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read 10 by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; but so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a sta- tion of good-will, both were found true and loyal to any prom- ises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made 15 the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose to a splendour and a noonday prosperity, both per- sonal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah. 0 The2C poor, forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native 1 B 2 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QXJINCEY Domremy 0 as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at Vaucouleurs 0 which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No ! for her voice was then silent ; no ! for her feet were dust. Pure,. 5 innocent., noble-hearted girl ! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy truth, that never once — no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honour from man. Coro- 0 nets for thee ! Oh no ! Honours, if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. 0 Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, King of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by the ap- 15 paritors to come and receive a robe of honour, but she will be found en contumace. 0 When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, 0 shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five 20 centuries. To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; that was thy destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short; and the sleep which is in the grave is long; let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined 25 to comfort the sleep which is so long ! This pure creature — pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious 0 — never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was travelling to meet her. She A) might not prefigure the very manner of her death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen 0 as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, JOAN OF ARC 3 t# f "7 z_j$ °t <7 the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there, until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints 0 ; — these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard for ever. 5 Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it: but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her ; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were 10 the lilies of France, 0 and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another cen- tury, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them 0 ; but well Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no gar- 15 land for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her ! But stay. What reason is there for taking up this subject of Joanna precisely in the spring of 1847°? Might it not have been left till the spring of 1947, or, perhaps, left till called 20 for°? Yes, but it is called for, and clamorously. You are aware, reader, that amongst the many original thinkers whom modern France has produced one of the reputed leaders is M. Michelet. 0 All these writers are of a revolution- ary cast : not in a political sense merely, but in all senses : 25 mad, oftentimes, as March hares 0 ; crazy with the laughing gas of recovered liberty 0 ; drunk with the wine-cup of their mighty Revolution, 0 snorting, whinnying, throwing-up their heels, like wild horses in the boundless Pampas, and running races of defiance with snipes, or with the winds, or with their 30 own shadows, if they can find nothing else to challenge. Some time or other I, that have leisure to read, may intro- I THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QUINCEY duce you , that have not, to two or three dozen of these writers 0 ; of whom I can assure you beforehand that they are often profound, and at intervals are even as impassioned as if they were come of our best English blood. But now, confining 5 our attention to M. Michelet, we in England — who know him best by his worst book, the book against priests, &c.° — know him disadvantageously. That book is a rhapsody of incoherence. But his “ History of France” 0 is quite another thing. A man, in whatsoever craft he sails, cannot stretch 10 away out of sight when he is linked to the windings of the shore by towing-ropes of History. Facts, and the conse- quences of facts, draw the writer back to the falconer's lure° from the giddiest heights of speculation. Here, there- fore — in his “ France” — if not always free from flightiness, 15 if now and then off like a rocket for an airy wheel in the clouds, M. Michelet, with natural politeness, never forgets that he has left a large audience waiting for him on earth, and gazing upwards in anxiety for his return : return, there- fore, he does. But History, though clear of certain tempta- 20tions in one direction, has separate dangers of its own. It is impossible so to write a history of France, or of England — works becoming every hour more indispensable to the in- evitably-political man of this day — without perilous open- ings for error. If I, for instance, on the part of England, 25 should happen to turn my labours into that’ channel, and (on the model of Lord Percy going to Chevy Chase) 0 u A vow to God should make My pleasure in the Michelet woods Three summer days to take.” SO probably, from simple delirium, I might hunt M. Michelet into delirium tremens. 0 Two strong angels stand by the JOAN OF ARC 5 side of History, whether French History or English, as heraldic supporters : the angel of research on the left hand, that must read millions of dusty parchments, and of pages blotted with lies; the angel of meditation on the right hand, that must cleanse these lying records with fire, even as of old the draper- 5 ies of asbestos were cleansed, 0 and must quicken them into regenerated life. Willingly I acknowledge that no man will ever avoid innumerable errors of detail; with so vast a compass of ground to traverse, this is impossible ; but such errors (though I have a bushel on hand, at M. Michelet's 15 service) are not the game I chase; it is the bitter and un- fair spirit in which M. Michelet writes against England. Even that , after all, is but my secondary object; the real one is Joanna, the Pucelle d 'Orleans 0 for herself. I am not going to write the history of La Pucelle : to do 15 this, or even circumstantially to report the history of her persecution and bitter death, of her struggle with false wit- nesses and with ensnaring judges, it would be necessary to have before us all the documents, and therefore the collection only now forthcoming in Paris. 0 But my purpose is narrower. 20 There have been great thinkers, disdaining the careless judgments of contemporaries, who have thrown themselves boldly on the judgment of a far posterity, that should have had time to review, to ponder, to compare. There have been great actors on the stage of tragic humanity that might, 25 with the same depth of confidence, have appealed from the levity of compatriot friends — too heartless for the sublime interest of their story, and too impatient for the labour of sifting its perplexities — to the magnanimity and jus- tice of enemies. To this class belongs the Maid of Arc. 30 The ancient Romans were too faithful to the ideal of grandeur in themselves not to relent, after a generation or two, before the grandeur of Hannibal. 0 Mithridates, a more doubtful 6 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y person, yet, merely for the magic perseverance of his indomi- table malice, won from the same Romans the only real honour that ever he received on earth. 0 And we English have ever shown the same homage to stubborn enmity. To 5 work unflinchingly for the ruin of England ; to say through life, by word and by deed, Delenda est Anglia Victrix! 0 — that one purpose of malice, faithfully pursued, has quar- terns. some people upon our national funds of homage as by a perpetual annuity. Better than an inheritance of ser- 10 vice rendered to England herself has sometimes proved the most insane hatred to England. Hyder Ali,° even his son Tippoo, 0 though so far inferior, and Xapoleon, 0 have all benefited by this disposition amongst ourselves to exaggerate the merit of diabolic enmity. 0 Not one of these men was 15 ever capable, in a solitary instance, of praising an enemy (what do you say to that , reader?); and yet, in their be- half, we consent to forget, not their crimes only, but (which is worse) their hideous bigotry and anti-magnanimous ego- tism, — for nationality it was not. Suffren, 0 and some half- 20 dozen of other French nautical heroes, 0 because rightly they did us all the mischief they could (which was really great), are names justly reverenced in England. On the same principle, La Pucelle d 'Orleans, the victorious enemy of England, has been destined to receive her deepest com- 25 memoration from the magnanimous justice of Englishmen. 0 Joanna, as we in England should call her, but, according to her own statement, Jeanne (or, as M. Michelet asserts, Jean°) D’Arc, was born at Domremy, a village on the marches of Lorraine and Champagne, 0 and dependent upon the town *30 of Vaucouleurs. I have called her a Lorrainer, not simply because the word is prettier, but because Champagne too odiously reminds us English of what are for us imaginary wines, — which, undoubtedly, La Pucelle tasted as rarely as JOAN OF ARC 7 we English : we English, because the Champagne of London is chiefly grown in Devonshire; La Pucelle, because the Champagne of Champagne never, by any chance- flowed into the fountain of Domremy, from which only she drank. M. Michelet will have her to be a Champenoise , 0 and for no better reason than that she “took after her father,” who happened to be a Champenois. These disputes, however, turn on refinements too nice. Domremy stood upon the frontiers, and, like other frontiers, produced a mixed race, representing the cis and the trans.° A river (it is true) formed the boundary-line at this point — the river Meuse; and that , in old days, might have divided the populations ; but in these days it did not : there were bridges, there were ferries, and weddings crossed from the right bank to the left. Here lay two great roads, not so much for travellers that were few, as for armies that were too many by half. These two roads, one of which was the great high-road between France and Germany , 0 decussated at this very point; which is a learned way of saying that they formed a St. Andrew's Cross , 0 or letter X. I hope the compositor will choose a good large X ; in which case the point of intersection, the locus ° of conflux and intersection for these four diverging arms, will finish the reader's geo- graphical education, by showing him to a hair's-breadth where it was that Domremy stood. These roads, so grandly situated, as great trunk arteries between tw T o mighty realms , 0 and haunted for ever by wars or rumours of wars , 0 decus- sated (for anything I know to the contrary) absolutely under Joanna's bedroom window: one rolling away to the right, past Monsieur D'Arc's old barn, and the other unac- countably preferring to sweep round that odious man's 0 pig-sty to the left. On whichever side of the border chance had thrown 5 10 15 20 25 30 8 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y Joanna, the same love to France would have been nurtured For it is a strange fact, noticed by M. Michelet and others, that the Dukes of Bar° and Lorraine had for generations pursued the policy of eternal warfare with France on their Sown account, yet also of eternal amity and league with France in case anybody else presumed to attack her. Let peace settle upon France, and before long you might rely upon seeing the little vixen Lorraine flying at the throat of France. Let France be assailed by a formidable enemy, 10 and instantly you saw a Duke of Lorraine insisting on having his own throat cut in support of France; which favour accordingly was cheerfully granted to him in three great successive battles : twice by the English, viz. at Orecy and Agincourt, once by the Sultan at Nicopolis. 0 15 This sympathy with France during great eclipses, in those that during ordinary seasons were always teasing her with brawls and guerilla inroads, strengthened the natural piety to France of those that were confessedly the children of her own house. 0 The outposts of France, as 20 one may call the great frontier provinces, were of all localities the most devoted to the Fleurs de Lys.° To witness, at any great crisis, the generous devotion to these lilies of the little fiery cousin that in gentler weather was for ever tilting at the breast of France, could not but fan the zeal 25 of France’s legitimate daughters : whilst to occupy a post of honour on the frontiers against an old hereditary enemy of France 0 would naturally stimulate this zeal by a sentiment of martial pride, by a sense of danger always threatening, and of hatred always smouldering. That great four-headed 30 road was a perpetual memento to patriotic ardour. To say “ This way lies the road to Paris, and that other way to Aix-la-Chapelle ; this to Prague, that to Vienna, ” nourished the warfare of the heart by daily ministrations JOAN OF ARC of sense. The eye that watched for the gleams of lance or helmet from the hostile frontier, the ear that listened for the groaning of wheels, made the high-road itself, with its relations to centres so remote, into a manual of patriotic duty. The situation, therefore, locally , of Joanna was full of pro- found suggestions to a heart that listened for the stealthy steps of change and fear that too surely were in motion. But, if the place were grand, the time, the burden of the time, was far more so. The air overhead in its upper chambers 0 was hurtling with the obscure sound; was dark with sullen fermenting of storms that had been gathering for a hundred and thirty years . 0 The battle of Agincourf in Joanna’s childhood 0 had reopened the wounds of France. Crecy° and Poictiers , 0 those withering overthrows for the chivalry of France, had, before Agincourt occurred, been tranquillised by more than half-a-century ; but this resurrection of their trumpet wails made the whole series of battles and endless skirmishes take their stations as parts in one drama. The graves that had closed sixty years ago seemed to fly open in sympathy with a sorrow that echoed their own. The monarchy of France laboured in extremity, rocked and reeled like a ship fighting with the darkness of monsoons. The madness of the poor king (Charles VI °) falling in at such a crisis, like the case of women labouring in childbirth during the storming of a city, trebled the awfulness of the time. Even the wild story 0 of the incident which had immediately occasioned the explosion of this madness — the case of a man unknown, gloomy, and perhaps maniacal himself, coming out of a forest at noondajq laying his hand upon the bridle of the king’s horse, checking him for a moment to say, “ Oh, king, thou art betrayed, ” and then vanishing, no man knew 5 1C 15 20 25 30 10 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QTJINCEY whither, as he had appeared for no man knew what — feh in with the universal prostration of mind that laid France on her knees, as before the slow unweaving of some ancient prophetic doom. The famines, the extraordinary diseases, 5 the insurrections of the peasantry up and down Europe 0 — these were chords struck from the same mysterious harp ; but these were transitory chords. There had been others of deeper and more ominous sound. The termination of the Crusades, 0 the destruction of the Templars, 0 the Papal 10 interdicts, 0 the tragedies caused or suffered by the house of Anjou, and by the Emperor 0 — these were full of a more permanent significance. But, since then, the colossal fig- ure of feudalism was seen standing, as it were on tiptoe, at Crecy, for flight from earth 0 : that was a revolution 15 unparalleled ; yet that was a trifle by comparison with the more fearful revolutions that were mining below the Church. By her own internal schisms, by the abominable spectacle of a double pope 0 — so that no man, except through politi- cal bias, could even guess which was Heaven's vicegerent, 20 and which the creature of Hell — the Church was rehearsing, as in still earlier forms she had already rehearsed, those vast rents in her foundations which no man should ever heal.° These were the loftiest peaks of the cloudland in the 25 skies that to the scientific gazer first caught the colours of the new morning in advance. But the whole vast range alike of sweeping glooms overhead dwelt upon all meditative minds, even upon those that could not distinguish the tendencies nor decipher the forms. It was, therefore, 30 not her own age alone as affected by its immediate calami- ties that lay with such weight upon Joanna's mind, but her own age as one section in a vast mysterious drama, unweaving through a century back, and drawing nearer JOAN OF ARC 11 continually to some dreadful crisis. Cataracts and rapids were heard roaring ahead ; and signs were seen far back, by help of old men’s memories, which answered secretly to signs now coming forward on the eye, even as locks answer to keys. It was not wonderful that in such a haunted 5 solitude, with such a haunted heart, Joanna should see an- gelic visions, and hear angelic voices. These voices whis- pered to her for ever the duty, self-imposed, of delivering France. Five years she listened to these monitory voices with internal struggles. At length she could resist no Id longer. Doubt gave way; and she left her home for ever in order to present herself at the dauphin’s 0 court. The education of this poor girl was mean according to the present standard : was ineffably grand, according to a purer philosophic standard : and only not good for our 15 age because for us it would be unattainable. She read nothing, for she could not read; but she had heard others read parts of the Roman martyrology. 0 She wept in sympathy with the sad Misereres 0 of the Romish Church; she rose to heaven with the glad triumphant Te Deums° of 20 Rome; she drew her comfort and her vital strength from the rites of the same Church. But, next after these spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain of Domremy was on the brink of a boundless forest; and it was haunted to that 25 degree by fairies that the parish priest (cure) was obliged to read mass there once a-year, in order to keep them in any decent bounds. Fairies are important, even in a statisti- cal view: certain weeds mark poverty in the soil; fairies mark its solitude. As surely as the wolf retires before SC cities does the fairy sequester herself from the haunts of the licensed victualler. 0 A village is too much for her nervous delicacy: at most, she can tolerate a distant view 12 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY of a hamlet. We may judge, therefore, by the uneasiness and extra trouble which they gave to the parson, in what strength the fairies mustered at Domremy, and, by a satis- factory consequence, how thinly sown with men and women 5 must have been that region even in its inhabited spots. But the forests of Domremy — those were the glories of the land : for in them abode mysterious powers and ancient secrets that towered into tragic strength. “ Abbeys there were, and abbey windows,” — “ like Moorish temples of 10 the Hindoos,” 0 — that exercised even princely power both in Lorraine and in the German Diets. 0 These had their sweet bells that pierced the forests for many a league at mat- ins or vespers, and each its own dreamy legend. Few enough, and scattered enough, were these abbeys, so as in 15 no degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region ; yet many enough to spread a network or awning of Christian sanctity over what else might have seemed a heathen wilderness. This sort of religious talisman being secured, a man the most afraid of ghosts (like myself, suppose, or 20 the reader) becomes armed into courage to wander for days in their sylvan recesses. The mountains of the Vosges, on the eastern frontier of France, 0 have never attracted much notice from Europe, except in 1813-14 for a few brief months, when they fell within Napoleon's line of defence 25 against the Allies. 0 But they are interesting for this amongst other features, that they do not, like some loftier ranges, repel woods : the forests and the hills are on sociable terms. Live and let live is their motto. 0 For this reason, in part, these tracts in Lorraine were a favourite hunting- 30 ground with the Carlo vingian princes. 0 About six hundred years before Joanna's childhood, Charlemagne was known to have hunted there. 0 That, of itself, was a grand incident in the traditions of a forest or a chase. In these vast forests. JOAN OF ARC 13 also, were to be found (if anywhere to be found) those mysterious fawns that tempted solitary hunters into vision- ary and perilous pursuits. 0 Here was seen (if anywhere seen) that ancient stag 0 who was already nine hundred years old, but possibly a hundred or two more, when met 5 by Charlemagne; and the thing was put beyond doubt by the inscription upon his golden collar. I believe Charle- magne knighted the stag; and, if ever he is met again by a king, he ought to be made an earl, or, being upon the marches of France, a marquis. 0 Observe, I don’t absolutely vouch 1G for all these things : my own opinion varies. On a fine breezy forenoon I am audaciously sceptical; but as twi- light sets in my credulity grows steadily, till it becomes equal to anything that could be desired. And I have heard candid sportsmen declare that, outside of these very 15 forests, they laughed loudly at all the dim tales connected with their haunted solitudes, but, on reaching a spot noto- riously eighteen miles deep within them, they agreed with Sir Roger de Coverley that a good deal might be said on both sides. 0 20 Such traditions, or any others that (like the stag) connect distant generations with each other, are, for that cause, sublime ; and the sense of the shadowy, connected with such appearances that reveal themselves or not according to circumstances, leaves a colouring of sanctity over ancient 25 forests, even in those minds that utterty reject the legend as a fact. But, apart from all distinct stories of that order, in any solitary frontier between two great empires, — as here, for instance, or in the desert between Syria and the Euphrates, 30 — there is an inevitable tendency, in minds of any deep sensibility, to people the solitudes with phantom images of powers that were of old so vast. Joanna, therefore, 14 THE ESSAYS OF TIIOMAS BE QUINCE Y in her quiet occupation of a shepherdess, would be led con- tinually to brood over the political condition of her country 0 by the traditions of the past no less than by the mementos of the local present. 5 M. Michelet, indeed, says that La Pucelle was not a shep- herdess. I beg his pardon : she was. What he rests upon I guess pretty well : it is the evidence of a woman called Haumette, 0 the most confidential friend of Joanna. Now, she is a good witness, and a good girl, and I like her; for 10 she makes a natural and affectionate report of Joanna’s ordinary life. But still, however good she may be as a witness, Joanna is better; and she, when speaking to the dauphin, calls herself in the Latin report Bergereta. 0 Even Haumette confesses that Joanna tended sheep in her girl- 15 hood. And I believe that, if Miss Haumette were taking coffee alone with me this very evening (February 12, 1847) — in which there would be no subject for scandal or for maiden blushes, because I am an intense philosopher, and Miss H. would be hard upon four hundred and fifty years 20 old — she would admit the following comment upon her evi- dence to be right. A Frenchman, about forty years ago — M. Simond, in his “ Travels, ”° — mentions accidentally the following hideous scene 0 as one steadily observed and watched by himself in chivalrous France not very long be- 25 fore the French Revolution : — A peasant was ploughing ; and the team that drew his plough was a donkey and a woman. Both were regularly harnessed : both pulled alike. This is bad enough; but the Frenchman adds that, in distrib- uting his lashes, the peasant was obviously desirous of being 30 impartial : or, if either of the yoke-fellows had a right to complain, certainly it was not the donkey. Now, in any country where such degradation of females could be tolerated bv the state of manners, a woman of delicacy JOAN OF ARC 15 would shrink from acknowledging, either for herself or her friend, that she had ever been addicted to any mode of labour not . strictly domestic ; because, if once owning herself a prsedial 0 servant, she would be sensible that this confession extended by probability in the hearer’s 5 thoughts to the having incurred indignities of this horrible kind. Haumette clearly thinks it more dignified for Joanna to have been darning the stockings of her horny-hoofed 0 father, Monsieur D’Arc, than keeping sheep, lest she might then be suspected of having ever done something ig worse. But, luckily, there was no danger of that: Joanna never was in service; and my opinion is that her father should have mended his own stockings, since prob- ably he was the party to make the holes in them, as many a better man than D’Arc does, 0 — meaning by 15 that not myself, because, though probably a better man than D’Arc, I protest against doing anything of the kind. If I lived even with Friday in Juan Fernandez, 0 either Friday must do all the darning, or else it must go undone. The better men that I meant were the sailors 20 in the British navy, every man of whom mends his own stockings. Who else is to do it? Do you suppose, reader, that the junior lords of the admiralty 0 are under articles to darn for the navy? The reason, meantime, for my systematic hatred of 25 D’Arc is this : — There was a story current in France before the Revolution, 0 framed to ridicule the pauper aristocracy, who happened to have long pedigrees and short rent rolls : viz. that a head of such a house, dating from the Crusades, was overheard saying to his son, a Chevalier of St. Louis, 0 3G “ Chevalier , as-tu donne au cochon d manger ! y) ° Now, it is clearly made out by the surviving evidence that D’Arc would much have preferred continuing to say, “ Ma fille , 16 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY as-tu donn£ au cochon ct manger?” 0 to saying, “ Pucelh d’Orleans, as-tu sauve les fleurs-de-lys ?”° There is an old English copy of verses 0 which argues thus : — 44 If the man that turnips cries 5 Cry not when his father dies, Then ’tis plain the man had rather Have a turnip than his father.” I cannot say that the logic of these verses was ever entirely to my satisfaction. I do not see my way through it as 10 clearly as could be wished. But I see my way most clearly through D’Arc; and the result is — that he would greatly have preferred not merely a turnip to his father, but the saving a pound or so of bacon to saving the Oriflamme of France. 0 15 It is probable (as M. Michelet suggests 0 ) that the title of Virgin or Pucelle had in itself, and apart from the mi- raculous stories about her, a secret power over the rude soldiery and partisan chiefs of that period; for in such a person they saw a representative manifestation of the 20 Virgin Mary, who, in a course of centuries, had grown steadily upon the popular heart. 0 As to Joanna’s supernatural detection of the dauphin (Charles VII) amongst three hundred lords and knights, I am surprised at the credulity which could ever lend itself 25 to that theatrical juggle. Who admires more than myself the sublime enthusiasm, the rapturous faith in herself, of this pure creature? But I am far from admiring stage artifices which not La Pucelle , but the court, must have arranged; nor can surrender myself to the conjurer’s leg- 30 erdemain , such as may be seen every day for a shilling. Southey’s “ Joan of Arc ”° was published in 1796. Twenty years after, talking with Southey, 0 I was surprised to find JOAN OF AR 0 17 him still owning a secret bias in favour of Joan, founded on her detection of the dauphin. The story, for the benefit of the reader new to the case, was this : — La Pucelte was first made known to the dauphin, and presented to his court, at Chinon 0 : and here came her first trial. By way of testing her supernatural pretensions, she was to find out the royal personage amongst the whole ark of clean and unclean creatures. Failing in this coup d’essai, 0 she would not simply disappoint many a beating heart in the glittering crowd that on different motives yearned for her success, but she would ruin herself, and, as the oracle within had told her, would, by ruining herself, ruin France. Our own Sovereign Lady Victoria 0 rehearses annually a trial not so severe in degree, but the same in kind. She “ pricks” for sheriffs . 0 Joanna pricked for a king. But observe the difference : our own Lady pricks for two men out of three; Joanna for one man out of three hundred. Happy Lady of the Islands and the Orient 0 ! — she cart go astray in her choice only by one half : to the extent of one half she must have the satisfaction of being right. And yet, even with these tight limits to the misery of a boundless discretion, permit me, Liege Lady, with all loyalty, to sub- mit that now and then you prick with your pin the wrong man. But the poor child from Domremy, shrinking under the gaze of a dazzling court — not because dazzling (for in visions she had seen those that were more so), but because some of them wore a scoffing smile on their features — how should she throw her line into so deep a river to angle for a king, where many a gay creature was sporting that mas- queraded as kings in dress ! Nay, even more than any true king would have done : for, in Southey's version of the story, the dauphin says, by way of trying the virgin's magnetic sympathy with royalty, — 5 10 15 20 25 30 18 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY 11 On the throne, I the while mingling with the menial throng, Some courtier shall be seated .” 0 This usurper is even crowned: “the jewelled crown shines 5 on a menial's head.” 0 But, really, that is “un peu fort”°; and the mob of spectators might raise a scruple whether our friend the jackdaw upon the throne, and the dauphin him- self, were not grazing the shins of treason. For the dauphin could not lend more than belonged to him. According to 10 the popular notion, he had no crown for himself 0 ; conse- quently none to lend, on any pretence whatever, until the consecrated Maid should take him to Rheims. 0 This was the popular notion in France. But certainly it was the dauphin’s interest to support the popular notion, as he 15 meant to use the services of Joanna. For, if he were king already, what was it that she could do for him beyond Orleans 0 ? That is to say, what more than a merely military service could she render him? And, above all, if he were king without a coronation, and without the oil from the 20 sacred ampulla, 0 what advantage was yet open to him by celerity above his competitor, the English boy°? Now was to be a race for a coronation : he that should win that race carried the superstition of France along with him : he that should first be drawn from the ovens of Rheims 0 was under 25 that superstition baked into a king. La Pucelle , before she could be allowed to practise as a warrior, was put through her manual and platoon exercise, as a pupil in divinity, at the bar of six eminent men in wigs. According to Southey (v. 393, Book III, in the original edition 30 of his “ Joan of Arc”), she “appalled the doctors.” 0 It’s not easy to do that: but they had some reason to feel bothered, as that surgeon would assuredly feel bothered who, upon pro- ceeding to dissect a subject, should find the subject retaliating JOAN OF ARC 19 as a dissector upon himself, especially if Joanna ever made the speech 0 to them which occupies v. 354-391, B. III. It is a double impossibility : 1st, because a piracy from Tindal’s “Christianity as old as the Creation” 0 — 'a piracy a parte ante ,° and by three centuries ; 2dly, it is quite contrary to the 5 evidence on Joanna’s trial. Southey’s “Joan” of a.d. 1796 (Cottle, Bristol 0 ) tells the doctors, amongst other secrets, that she never in her life attended — 1st, Mass; nor 2d, the Sac- ramental Table; nor 3d, Confession. In the meantime, ail this deistical confession of Joanna’s, besides being suicidal 10 for the interest of her cause, is opposed to the depositions upon both trials. 0 The very best witness 0 called from first to last deposes that Joanna attended these rites of her Church even too often ; was taxed with doing so ; and, by blushing, owned the charge as a fact, though certainly not as a fault. 15 Joanna was a girl of natural piety, that saw God in forests, and hills, and fountains, but did not the less seek him in chapels and consecrated oratories. This peasant girl was self-educated through her own natu- ral meditativeness. If the reader turns to that divine pas- 20 sage in “Paradise Regained” 0 which Milton has put into the mouth of our Saviour when first entering the wilderness, and musing upon the tendency of those great impulses growing within himself — u Oh, what a multitude of thoughts at once 25 Awakened in me swarm, while I consider What from within I feel myself, and hear What from without comes often to my ears, 111 sorting with my present state compared ! When I was yet a child, no childish play SO To me was pleasing ; all my mind was set Serious to learn and know, and thence to do, What might be public good ; myself I thought Born to that end ” — 20 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY he will have some notion of the vast reveries which brooded over the heart of Joanna in early girlhood, when the wings were budding that should carry her from Orleans to Rheims ; when the golden chariot was dimly revealing itself that should 5 carry her from the kingdom of France Delivered 0 to the Eternal Kingdom. It is not requisite for the honour of Joanna, nor is there in this place room, to pursue her brief career of action. That, though wonderful, forms the earthly part of her story : 10 the spiritual part is the saintly passion 0 of her imprison- ment, trial, and execution. It is unfortunate, therefore, for Southey’s “ Joan of Arc” (which, however, should always be regarded as a juvenile effort), that precisely when her real glory begins the poem ends. But this limitation of the inter- 15 est grew, no doubt, from the constraint inseparably attached to the law of epic unity. 0 Joanna’s history bisects into two opposite hemispheres, and both could not have been presented to the eye in one poem, unless by sacrificing all unity of theme, cr else by involving the earlier half, as a narrative 20 episode, 0 in the latter ; which, however, might have been done, for it might have been communicated to a fellow-prisoner, or a confessor, by Joanna herself. It is sufficient, as concerns this section of Joanna’s life, to say that she fulfilled, to the height of her promises, the restoration of the prostrate throne. 25 France had become a province of England, and for the ruin of both, if such a yoke could be maintained. Dreadful pecu- niary exhaustion caused the English energy to droop ; and that critical opening La Pucelle used with a corresponding felicity of audacity and suddenness (that were in themselves 30 portentous) for introducing the wedge of French native re- sources, for rekindling the national pride, and for planting the dauphin once more upon his feet. When Joanna ap- peared, he had been on the point of giving up the struggle JOAN OF ARC 21 with the English, distressed as they were, and of flying to the south of France. She taught him to blush for such abject counsels. She liberated Orleans, that great city, so decisive by its fate for the issue of the war, and then beleaguered by the English with an elaborate application of engineering skill 5 unprecedented in Europe. Entering the city after sunset on the 29th of April, she sang mass on Sunday, May 8, for the entire disappearance of the besieging force. On the 29th of June she fought and gained over the English the decisive battle of Patay° ; on the 9th of July she took Troyes 0 by a 10 coup-de-main 0 from a mixed garrison of English and Bur- gundians; on the 15th of that month she carried the dauphin into Rheims 0 ; on Sunday the 17th she crowned him ; and there she rested from her labour of triumph. All that was to be done she had now accomplished : what remained was — to suffer. 15 All this forward movement was her own : excepting one man,° the whole Council was against her. Her enemies were all that drew power from earth. Her supporters were her own strong enthusiasm, and the headlong contagion by which she carried this sublime frenzy into the hearts of 20 women, of soldiers, and of all who lived by labour. Hence- forwards she was thwarted; and the worst error that she committed w~as to lend the sanction of her presence to coun- sels which she had ceased to approve. But she had now accomplished the capital objects wdiich her own visions had 25 dictated. These involved all the rest. Errors were now less important ; and doubtless it had now become more diffi- cult for herself to pronounce authentically what were errors. The noble girl had achieved, as by a rapture of motion, the capital end of clearing out a free space around her sovereign, 3f giving him the power to move his arms with effect, and, secondly, the inappreciable end of winning for that sovereigr what seemed ti all France the heavenly ratification of his THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY rights, by crowning him with the ancient solemnities. She had made it impossible for the English now to step before her. They were caught in an irretrievable blunder, owing partly to discord amongst the uncles of Henry VI, ° partly to a want 5 of funds, but partly to the very impossibility which they believed to press with tenfold force upon any French attempt to forestall theirs. They laughed at such a thought; and, whilst they laughed, she did it. Henceforth the single re- dress for the English of this capital oversight, but which 10 never could have redressed it effectually, was to vitiate and taint the coronation of Charles VII as the work of a witch. That policy, and not malice (as M. Michelet is so happy to believe 0 ), was the moving principle in the subsequent prose- cution of Joanna. Unless they unhinged the force of the 15 first coronation in the popular mind by associating it with power given from hell, they felt that the sceptre of the invader was broken. But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought wonders so great for France, was she not elated? Did she not lose, 20 as men so often have lost, all sobriety of mind when standing upon the pinnacle of success so giddy ? Let her enemies declare. 0 During the progress of her movement, and in the centre of ferocious struggles, she had manifested the temper of her feelings by the pity which she had everywhere expressed 25 for the suffering enemy. She forwarded to the English leaders a touching invitation to unite with the French, as brothers, in a common crusade against infidels, — thus opening the road for a soldierly retreat. She interposed to protect the captive or the wounded; she mourned over the 30 excesses of her countrymen; she threw herself off her horse to kneel by the dying English soldier, and to comfort him with such ministrations, physical or spiritual, as his situation allowed. “Nolebat,” says the evidence, “uti ense suo, JOAN OF ARC 23 aut quemquam interficere. ,7 ° She sheltered the English that invoked her aid in her own quarters. She wept as she beheld, stretched on the field of battle, so many brave ene- mies that had died without confession. And, as regarded herself, her elation expressed itself thus : — On the day when 5 she had finished her work, she wept ; for she knew that, when her triumphal task was done, her end must be approaching. Her aspirations pointed only to a place which seemed to her more than usually full of natural piety, as one in which it would give her pleasure to die. And she uttered, between 1C smiles and tears, as a wish that inexpressibly fascinated her heart, and yet was half-fantastic, a broken prayer that God would return her to the solitudes from which he had drawn her, and suffer her to become a shepherdess once more. It was a natural prayer, because nature has laid a necessity 15 upon every human heart to seek for rest and to shrink from torment. Yet, again, it was a half-fantastic prayer, because, from childhood upwards, visions that she had no power to mistrust, and the voices which sounded in her ear for ever, had long since persuaded her mind that for her no such prayer 20 could be granted. Too well she felt that her mission must be worked out to the end, and that the end was now at hand. All went wrong from this time. She herself had created the funds out of "which the French restoration should grow; but she was not suffered to witness their development, or their 25 prosperous application. More than one military plan was entered upon which she did not approve, 0 But she still con- tinued to expose her person as before. Severe wounds had not taught her caution. And at length, in a sortie from Compikgne 0 (whether through treacherous collusion on the 30 part of her own friends is doubtful to this day°), she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and finally surrendered to the English. 24 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY Now came her trial. This trial, moving of course under English influence, was conducted in chief by the Bishop oi Beauvais. 0 He was a Frenchman, sold to English interests, and hoping, by favour of the English leaders, to reach the 5 highest preferment. 0 Bishop that art , Archbishop that shall be , Cardinal that mayest be,° were the words that sounded continually in his ear ; and doubtless a wnisper of visions still higher, of a triple crown, 0 and feet upon the necks of kings, sometimes stole into his heart. M. Michelet is anxious to 10 keep us in mind that this bishop was but an agent of the Eng- lish. True. But it does not better the case for his country- man that, being an accomplice in the crime, making himself the leader in the persecution against the helpless girl, he was willing to be all this in the spirit, and with the conscious vile- 15 ness of a cat ; s-paw.° Never from the foundations of the earth was there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its hellishness of attack. Oh, child of France ! shepherdess, peasant girl ! trodden under- foot by all around thee, how I honour thy flashing intellect, 20 quick as God's lightning, and true as God's lightning to its mark, that ran before France and laggard Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and mak- ing dumb the oracles of falsehood ! Is it not scandalous, is it not humiliating to civilisation, that, even at this day,° 25 France exhibits the horrid spectacle of judges examining the prisoner against himself ; seducing him, by fraud, into treacherous conclusions against his own head; using the terrors of their power for extorting confessions from the frailty of hope; nay (which is worse), using the blandish- 30 ments of condescension and snaky kindness for thawing into compliances of gratitude those whom they have failed to freeze into terror ? Wicked judges ! barbarian jurisprudence ! — that, sitting in your own conceit on the summits of social JOAN OF ARC 25 wisdom, have yet failed to learn the first principles of crimi- nal justice, — sit ye humbly and with docility at the feet of this girl from Domremy, that tore your webs of cruelty into shreds and dust. “ Would you examine me as a witness against myself?” was the question by which many times 5 she defied their arts. Continually she showed that their interrogations were irrelevant to any business before the court, or that entered into the ridiculous charges against her. General questions were proposed to her on points of casuisti- cal divinity; two-edged questions, 0 which not one of them- 10 selves could have answered, without, on the one side, landing himself in heresy (as then interpreted), or, on the other, in some presumptuous expression of self-esteem. Next came a wretched Dominican, 0 that pressed her with an objection, 0 which, if applied to the Bible, would tax every one of its 15 miracles with unsoundness. The monk had the excuse of never having read the Bible. M. Michelet has no such excuse ; and it makes one blush for him, as a philosopher, to find him describing such an argument as “ weighty,” whereas it is but a varied expression of rude Mahometan metaphysics. 0 Her 20 • answer to this, if there were room to place the whole in a clear light, was as shattering as it was rapid. Another 0 thought to entrap her by asking what language the angelic visitors of her solitude had talked, — as though heavenly counsels could want polyglot interpreters for every word, or that God 25 needed language at all in whispering thoughts to a human heart. Then came a worse devil, 0 who asked her whether the Archangel Michael had appeared naked. Not compre- hending the vile insinuation, Joanna, whose poverty sug- gested to her simplicity that it might be the costliness of 30 suitable robes which caused the demur, asked them if they fancied God, who clothed the flowers of the valleys, 0 unable to find raiment for his servants. The answer of Joanna 26 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QUINCE Y moves a smile of tenderness, but the disappointment of het judges makes one laugh exultingly. Others succeeded by troops, 0 who upbraided her with leaving her father ; as if that greater Father, whom she believed herself to have been serv- 5 ing, did not retain the power of dispensing with his own rules, or had not said that for a less cause than martyrdom man and woman should leave both father and mother. 0 On Easter Sunday, when the trial had been long proceeding, the poor girl fell so ill as to cause a belief that she had been 10 poisoned. It was not poison. Nobody had any interest in hastening a death so certain. M. Michelet, whose sympa- thies with all feelings are so quick that one would gladly see them always as justly directed, reads the case most truly. Joanna had a twofold malady. She was visited by a parox- 15 ysm of the complaint called home-sickness. The cruel nature of her imprisonment, and its length, could not but point her solitary thoughts, in darkness and in chains (for 'chained she was), to Domremy. And the season, which was the most heavenly period of the spring, added stings to this yearning. 20 That was one of her maladies — nostalgia , as medicine calls it ; the other was weariness and exhaustion from daily com- bats with malice. She saw that everybody hated her, and thirsted for her blood; nay, many kind-hearted creatures that would have pitied her profoundly, as regarded all politi- 25 cal charges, had their natural feelings warped by the belief that she had dealings with fiendish powers. She knew she was to die° ; that was not the misery : the misery was that this consummation could not be reached without so much intermediate strife, as if she were contending for some chance 30 (where chance was none) of happiness, or were dreaming for a moment of escaping the inevitable. Why, then, did she contend ? Knowing that she would reap nothing from answering her persecutors, why did she not retire by silence JOAN OF ARC 27 from the superfluous contest? It was because her quick and eager loyalty to truth would not suffer her to see it darkened by frauds which she could expose, but others, even of candid listeners, perhaps, could not; it was through that imperishable grandeur of soul which taught her to submits meekly and without a struggle to her punishment, but taught her not to submit — no, not for a moment — to calumny as to facts, or to misconstruction as to motives* Besides, there were secretaries all around the court taking down her words. That was meant for no good to her. But the end does not Id always correspond to the meaning. And Joanna might say to herself, “ These words that will be used against me to- morrow and the next day perhaps in some nobler generation may rise again for my justification.” Yes, Joanna, they are rising even now in Paris, 0 and for more than justification ! 15 Woman, sister, there are some things which you do not execute as well as your brother, man; no, nor ever will. Pardon me if I doubt whether you will ever produce a great poet from your choirs, or a Mozart, or a Phidias, or a Michael Angelo, 0 or a great philosopher, or a great scholar. By which 20 last is msant — not one who depends simply on an infinite memory, but also on an infinite and electrical power of com- bination; bringing together from the four winds, like the angel of the resurrection, 0 what else were dust from dead men’s bones, into the unity of breathing life. If you can 25 create yourselves into any of these great creators, why have you not ? Yet, sister woman, though I cannot consent to find a Mo- zart or a Michael Angelo in your sex, cheerfully, and with the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge that 30 you can do one thing as well as the best of us men — a greater thing than even Milton 0 is known to have done, or Michael Angelo : you can die grandly, and as goddesses would die, 28 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY were goddesses mortal. If any distant worlds (which ma^ be the case) are so far ahead of us- Tellurians 0 in optical re- sources as to see distinctly through their telescopes all that we do on earth, what is the grandest sight to which we ever 5 treat them ? St. Peter’s 0 at Rome, do you fancy, on Easter Sunday, or Luxor, 0 or perhaps the Himalayas 0 ? Oh no! my friend : suggest something better ; these are baubles to them ; they see in other worlds, in their own, far better toys of the same kind. These, take my word for it, are nothing. 10 Do you give it up ? The finest thing, then, we have to show them is a scaffold on the morning of execution. I assure you there is a strong muster in those far telescopic worlds, on any such morning, of those who happen to find themselves occu- pying the right hemisphere for a peep at us. How, then, if 15 it be announced in some such telescopic world by those who make a livelihood of catching glimpses at our newspapers, whose language they have long since deciphered, that the poor victim in the morning’s sacrifice is a woman? How, if it be published in that distant world that the sufferer wears 20 upon her head, in the eyes of many, the garlands of martyr- dom? How, if it should be some Marie Antoinette, 0 the widowed queen, coming forward on the scaffold, and present- ing to the morning air her head, turned gray by sorrow, — daughter of Caesars 0 kneeling down humbly to kiss the guil- 25lotine, as one that worships death? How, if it were the noble Charlotte Corday, 0 that in the bloom of youth, that with the loveliest of persons, that with homage waiting upon her smiles wherever she turned her face to scatter them — homage that followed those smiles as surely as the carols of 30 birds, after showers in spring, follow the reappearing sun and the racing of sunbeams over the hills — yet thought all these things cheaper than the dust upon her sandals, in comparison of deliverance from hell for her dear suffering ;OAN OF ARC 29 France ! Ah ! these were spectacles indeed for those sym- pathising people in distant worlds ; and some, perhaps, would suffer a sort vV. mm v ' * bmp v * > /j* ^ 25 Bishop of Beauvais ! thy victim died in fire upon a scaffold — thou upon a down bed.° But, for the departing minutes of life, both are oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when the gates of death are opening, and flesh is resting from its struggles, oftentimes the tortured and the torturer have the 30 same truce from carnal torment; both sink together into sleep; together both sometimes kindle into dreams. When the mortal mists were gathering fast upon you two, bishop JOAN OF ARC 33 and shepherd girl — when the pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy curtains about you — let us try, through the gigantic glooms, to decipher the flying features of youi separate visions. The shepherd girl that had delivered France — she, from* her dungeon, she, from her baiting at the stake, she, from her duel with fire, as she entered her last dream — saw Domremy, saw the fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood had wandered. That Easter festival which man had denied to her languishing heart — that resur- 10 rection of spring-time, which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted from her , hungering after the glorious liberty of forests — were by God given back into her hands, as jewels that had been stolen from her by robbers. With those, per- haps (for the minutes of dreams can stretch into ages 0 ), was 15 given back to her by God the bliss of childhood. 0 By special privilege for her might be created, in this farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent as the first; but not, like that, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the rear. This mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was weathered; 20 the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing off. The blood that she was to reckon for had been exacted ; the tears that she was to shed in secret had been paid to the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had been suffered, had been survived. And in her last fight upon the 25 scaffold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously she had tasted the stings of death. 0 For all, except this comfort from her farewell dream, she had died — died, amidst the tears of ten thousand enemies — died, amidst the drums and trumpets of armies 0 — died, amidst peals redoubling upon 30 peals, volleys upon volleys, from the saluting clarions of martyrs. Bishop of Beauvais ! because the guilt-burdened man is i> 34 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y in dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes, and because upon that fluctuating mirror — rising (like the mocking mirrors of mirage in Arabian deserts) from the fens of death — most of all are reflected the sweet coun- 5 tenances which the man has laid in ruins ; therefore I know, bishop, that you also, entering your final dream, saw Dom- remy. That fountain, of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your eyes in pure morning dews : but neither dews, nor the holy dawn, could cleanse away the bright spots 10 of innocent blood upon its surface. By the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated, that hid her face. But, as you draw near, the woman raises her wasted features. Would Domremy know them again for the features of her child? Ah, but you know them, bishop, well ! Oh, mercy ! what a 15 groan was that which the servants, waiting outside the bishop s dream at his bedside, heard from his labouring heart, as at this moment he turned away from the fountain and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off. Yet not so to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before he dies. In 20 the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find a respite ? What a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there ! In glades where only wild deer should run armies and nations are as- sembling; towering in the fluctuating crowd are phantoms that belong to departed hours. There is the great English 25 Prince, Regent of France. 0 There is my Lord of Winchester, the princely cardinal, that died and made no sign. 0 There is the Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What building is that which hands so rapid are raising? Is it a martyr’s scaffold ? Will they burn the child of Domremy 30 a second time ? No : it is a tribunal that rises to the clouds ; and two nations stand around it, waiting for a trial. Shall my Lord of Beauvais sit again upon the judgment-seat, and again number the hours for the innocent ? Ah no ! he is the JOAN OF ARC 35 prisoner at the bar. Already all is waiting: the mighty audience is gathered, the Court is hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are arrayed, the trumpets are sounding, the judge is taking his place. Oh ! but this is sudden. My lord, have you no counsel? “ Counsel I have none: in heaven above, 5 or on earth beneath , 0 counsellor there is none now that would take a brief from me° : all are silent. ” Is it, indeed, come to this? lAlas ! the time is short, the tumult is wondrous, the crowd stretches away into infinity ; but yet I will search in it for somebody to take your brief : I know of somebody 1C that will be your counsel. Who is this that cometh from Domremy 0 ? Who is she in bloody coronation robes from Rheims 0 ? Who is she that cometh with blackened flesh from walking the furnaces of Rouen ? This is she, the shep- herd girl, counsellor that had none for herself, whom I choose, 15 bishop, for yours. She it is, I engage, that shall take my lord’s brief. She it is, bishop, that would plead for you: yes, bishop, she, — when heaven and earth are silent. THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 0 Section I — The Glory of Motion Some twenty or more years before I matriculated at Ox~ ford,° Mr. Palmer, 0 at that time M.P. for Bath, had accom- plished two things, very hard to do on our little planet, the Earth, however cheap they may be held by eccentric 0 people 5 in comets : he had invented mail-coaches, and he had married the daughter of a duke.° He was, therefore, just twice as great a man as Galileo, 0 who did certainly invent (or, which is the same thing, 0 discover) the satellites of Jupiter, those very next things extant to mail-coaches in the two capital A-10 pretensions of speed and keeping time, but, on the other hand, who did not marry the daughter of a duke.° These mail-coaches, as organised by Mr. Palmer, are en- titled to a circumstantial notice from myself, having had so large a share in developing the anarchies of my subsequent 15 dreams : an agency which they accomplished, 1st, through velocity at that time unprecedented — for they first revealed the glory of motion ; 2dly, through grand effects for the eye between lamp-light and the darkness upon solitary roads; 3dly, through animal beauty and power so often displayed 20 in the class of horses selected for this mail service; 4thly, through the conscious presence of a central intellect, that, in the midst of vast distances 0 — of storms, of darkness, of danger — overruled all obstacles into one steady co-operation to a national result. For my own feeling, this post-office 25 service spoke as by some mighty orchestra, where a thousand 36 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 37 instruments, all disregarding each other, and so far in danger of discord, yet all obedient as slaves to the supreme baton of some great leader, terminate in a perfection of harmony like that of heart, brain, and lungs in a healthy animal organisa- tion. 0 But, finally, that particular element in this wholes combination which most impressed myself, and through which it is that to this hour Mr. Palmer’s mail-coach system tyrannises over my dreams by terror and terrific beauty, lay in the awful political mission which at that time it fulfilled. The mail-coach it was that distributed over the face of the k land, like the opening of apocalyptic vials, 0 the heart-shaking 0 news of Trafalgar, 0 of Salamanca, 0 of Vittoria, 0 of Waterloo. 0 These were the harvests that, in the grandeur of their reaping, redeemed the tears and blood in which they had been sown. . Neither was the meanest peasant so much below the grandeur 15 and the sorrow of the times as to confound battles such as these, which were gradually moulding the destinies of Chris- tendom, with the vulgar conflicts of ordinary warfare, so often no more than gladiatorial trials of national prowess. The victories of England in this stupendous contest rose of 2C themselves as natural Te Deums° to heaven ; and it was felt by the thoughtful that such victories, at such a crisis of gen- eral prostration, 0 were not more beneficial to ourselves than finally to France, our enemy, and to the nations of all western or central Europe, through whose pusillanimity it was that 2c the French domination had prospered. 0 The mail-coach, as the national organ for publishing these mighty events, thus diffusively influential, became itself a spiritualised and glorified object to an impassioned heart; and naturally, in the Oxford of that day, all hearts were im-30 passioned, as being all (or nearly all) in early manhood. In most universities there is one single college 0 ; in Oxford there were five-and-twenty,° all of which were peopled by young 38 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY men, the elite of their own generation; not boys, but men; none under eighteen. In some of these many colleges the custom permitted the student to keep what are called “short terms ”; that is, the four terms of Michaelmas, Lent, Easter, 5 and Act,° were kept by a residence, in the aggregate, of ninety-one days, or thirteen weeks. Under this interrupted residence, it was possible that a student might have a reason for going down to his home four times in the year. This made eight journeys to and fro. But, as these homes lay 10 dispersed through all the shires of the island, and most of us disdained all coaches except his majesty’s mail, no city out of London could pretend to so extensive a connexion with Mr. Palmer’s establishment as Oxford. Three mails, at the least, I remember as passing every day through Oxford, and bene- 15 fiting bv my personal patronage — viz. the Worcester, the Gloucester, and the Holyhead mail. 0 Naturally, therefore, it became a point of some interest with us, whose journeys revolved 0 every six weeks on an average, to look a little into the executive details of the system. With some of these Mr. 20 Palmer had no concern ; they rested upon bye-laws enacted by posting-houses 0 for their own benefit, and upon other bye- laws, equally stern, enacted by the inside passengers for the illustration of their own haughty exclusiveness. These last were of a nature to rouse our scorn; from which the tran- 25 sition was not very long to systematic mutiny. Up to this time, say 1804, or 1805 (the year of Trafalgar), it had been the fixed assumption of the four inside people (as an old tra- dition of all public carriages derived from the reign of Charles 11°) that they, the illustrious quaternion, constituted a por- 30 celain variety of the human race, whose dignity would have been compromised by exchanging one word of civility with the three miserable delf-ware° outsides. Even to have kicked an outsider might have been held to attaint 0 the foot con THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 39 cerned in that operation, so that, perhaps, it would have re- quired an act of Parliament to restore its purity of blood. What words, then, could express the horror, and the sense of treason, in that case, which had happened, where all three outsides (the trinity of Pariahs 0 ) made a vain attempt to sit 5 down at the same breakfast-table or dinner-table with the consecrated four ? I myself witnessed such an attempt ; and on that occasion a benevolent old gentleman endeavoured to soothe his three holy associates, by suggesting that, if the outsides were indicted for this criminal attempt at the next IQ assizes, the court would regard it as a case of lunacy or de- lirium tremens rather than of treason. England owes much of her grandeur to the depth of the aristocratic element in her social composition, when pulling against her strong de- mocracy. I am not the man to laugh at it. But sometimes, 15 undoubtedly, it expressed itself in comic shapes. The course taken with the infatuated outsiders, in the particular attempt which I have noticed, was that the waiter, beckoning them •away from the privileged salle-d-manger,° sang out, “This way, my good men/ 7 and then enticed these good men aw r ay20 to the kitchen. But that plan had not always answered. Sometimes, though rarely, cases occurred where the intruders, being stronger than usual, or more vicious than usual, reso- lutely refused to budge, and so far carried their point as to have a separate table arranged for themselves in a corner of 25 the general room. Yet, if an Indian screen could be found ample enough to plant them out from the very eyes of the high table, or dais , it then became possible to assume as a fiction of law that the three delf fellows, after all, were not present. They could be ignored by the porcelain men, under 3(f the maxim that objects not appearing and objects not existing are governed by the same logical construction. 0 / Such being, at that time, the usage of mail-coaches, what 40 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y was to be done by us of young Oxford? We, the most aris- tocratic of people, who were addicted to the practice of look- ing down superciliously even upon the insides themselves as often very questionable characters — were we, by volunta- 6 rily going outside, to court indignities ? If our dress and bear- * ing sheltered us generally from the suspicion of being “raff ”° (the name at that period for “ snobs ”°), we really were such constructively by the place we assumed. If we did not sub- mit to the deep shadow of eclipse, we entered at least the 10 skirts of its penumbra. And the analogy of theatres was valid against us, — where no man can complain of the an- noyances incident to the pit or gallery, 0 having his instant remedy in paying the higher price of the boxes. But the soundness of this analogy we disputed. In the case of the 15 theatre, it cannot be pretended that the inferior situations have any separate attractions, unless the pit may be supposed to have an advantage for the purposes of the critic or the dramatic reporter. But the critic or reporter is a rarity. For most people, the sole benefit is in the price. Now, on 20 the contrary, the outside of the mail had its own incom- municable advantages. These we could not forgo. The higher price we would willingly have paid, but not the price connected with the condition of riding inside; which con- dition we pronounced insufferable. The air, the freedom of 25 prospect, the proximity to the horses, the elevation of seat : these were what we required; but, above all, the certain anticipation of purchasing occasional opportunities of driving. Such was the difficulty which pressed us; and under the \ coercion of this difficulty we instituted a searching inquiry 30 into the true quality and valuation of the different apartments about the mail. We conducted this inquiry on metaphysical principles ; and it was ascertained satisfactorily that the roof of the coach, which by some weak men had been called the THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 41 attics, and by some the garrets, 0 was in reality the drawing- room ; in which drawing-room the box was the chief ottoman or sofa; whilst it appeared that the inside , which had been traditionally regarded as the only room tenantable by gen- tlemen, was, in fact, the coal-cellar in disguise. 5 Great wits jump. 0 The very same idea had not long before struck the celestial intellect of China. 0 Amongst the presents carried out by our first embassy to that country was a state- coach. It had been specially selected as a personal gift by George 111° ; but the exact mode of using it was an intense 10 mystery to Pekin. 0 The ambassador, indeed (Lord Macart- ney 0 ), had made some imperfect explanations upon this point ; but, as His Excellency communicated these in a diplomatic whisper at the very moment of his departure, the celestial intellect was very feebly illuminated, and it became necessary 15 to call a cabinet council on the grand state question, “ Where was the Emperor 0 to sit ?” The hammer-cloth 0 happened to be unusually gorgeous; and, partly on that consideration, but partly also because the box offered the most elevated seat, was nearest to the moon,° and undeniably went fore- 20 most, it was resolved by acclamation that the box was the imperial throne, and, for the scoundrel who drove, — he might sit where he could find a perch. The horses, therefore, being harnessed, solemnly his imperial majesty ascended his new English throne under a flourish of trumpets, having the 25 first lord of the treasury 0 on his right hand, and the chief jester on his left. Pekin gloried in the spectacle ; and in the whole flowery people, 0 constructively present by representa- tion, there was but one discontented person, and that was the coachman. This mutinous individual audaciously shouted, 30 u Where am I to sit?” But the privy council, incensed by his disloyalty, unanimously opened the door, and kicked him into the inside. He had all the inside places to himself ; but 42 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUIXCEY such is the rapacity of ambition that he was still dissatisfied ‘*1 say," he cried out in an extempore petition addressed to the Emperor through the window — “I say, how am I to catch hold of the reins?” — “Anyhow,” was the imperial 5 answer; “don’t trouble me, man, in my glory. How catch the reins? Why, through the windows, through the keV- * — r " nr holes — anyhow." Finally this contumacious coachman lengthened the check-strings into a sort of jury- reins c com- municating with the horses ; with these he drove as steadily 10 as Pekin had any right to expect. The Emperor returned after the briefest of circuits; he descended in great pomp from his throne, with the severest resolution never to remount it. A public thanksgiving was ordered for his majesty's happy escape from the disease of broken neck; and the 15 state-coach was dedicated thenceforward as a votive offering to the god Fo Fo — whom the learned more accuratelv called Fi Fi.° \ A revolution of this same Chinese character did young Oxford of that era effect in the constitution of mail-coach 30 society. It was a perfect French Revolution 3 ; and we had good reason to say. ca ira.° In fact, it soon became too popular. The “public" — a well-known character, particu- larly disagreeable, though slightly respectable, and notorious for affecting the chief seats in synagogues 0 — had at first 25 loudly opposed this revolution; but, when the oppositibn showed itself to be ineffectual, our disagreeable friend went into it with headlong zeal. At first it was a sort of race between us; and, as the public is usually from thirty to fifty years old. naturally we of young Oxford, that averaged 30 about twenty, had the advantage. Then the public took to bribing, giving fees to horse-keepers, Ac., who hired out their persons as warming-pans on the box-seat. _ That , vou know, was shocking to all moral sensibilities. Come to THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 43 bribery, said we, and there is an end to all morality, — Aris- totle’s, Zeno’s, Cicero’s, or anybody’s. 0 And, besides, of what use was it? For we bribed also. And, as our bribes, to those of the public, were as five shillings to sixpence, here again young Oxford had the advantage. But the 5 contest was ruinous to the principles of the stables con- nected with the mails. This whole corporation was constantly bribed, rebribed, and often sur-rebribed° ; a mail-coach yard was like the hustings in a contested election 0 ; and a horse-keeper, ostler, or helper, was held by 10 the philosophical at that time to be the most corrupt char- acter in the nation. There was an impression upon the public mind, natural enough from the continually augmenting velocity of the mail, but quite erroneous, that an outside seat on this class 15 of carriages was a post of danger. On the contrary, I main- tained that, if a man had become nervous from some gipsy prediction in his childhood, allocating to a particular moon now approaching some unknown danger, and he should inquire earnestly, “ Whither can I fly for shelter? Is a 20 prison the safest retreat? or a lunatic hospital? or the British Museum 0 ?” I should have replied, “Oh no; I’ll tell you what to do. Take lodgings for the next forty days on the box of his majesty’s mail. Nobody can touch you there. If it is by bills at ninety days after date that you 25 are made unhappy — if noters and protesters 0 are the sort of wretches whose astrological shadows darken the house of life 0 — then note you what I vehemently protest : viz. that, no matter though the sheriff and under-sheriff in every county should be running after you with his posse, 0 touch a 30 hair of your head he cannot whilst you keep house and have your legal domicile on the box of the mail. It is felony to stop the mail; even the sheriff cannot do that. And an 44 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE T extra touch of the whip to the leaders (no great matter if it grazes the sheriff) at any time guarantees your safety.'' In fact, a bedroom in a quiet house seems a safe enough retreat ; yet it is liable to its own notorious nuisances — to robbers by 5 night, to rats, to fire. But the mail laughs at these terrors. To robbers, the answer is packed up and ready for delivery in the barrel of the guard's blunderbuss. Rats again ! there are none about mail-coaches, any more than snakes in Von Troil's Iceland 0 ; except, indeed, now and then a 10 parliamentary rat,° who always hides his shame in what I have shown to be the “ coal-cellar." And, as to fire, I never knew but one in a mail-coach ; which was in the Exeter mail, and caused by an obstinate sailor bound to Devonport. Jack, making light of the law and the lawgiver that had 15 set their faces against his offence, insisted on taking up a forbidden seat 0 in the rear of the roof, from which he could exchange his own yarns with those of the guard. Xo greater offence was then known to mail-coaches; it was treason, it was Icesa majestas° it was by tendency arson; and the ashes 20 of Jack's pipe, falling amongst the straw of the hinder boot, containing the mail-bags, raised a flame which (aided by the wind of our motion) threatened a revolution in the republic of letters. Yet even this left the sanctity of the box unvio- lated. In dignified repose, the coachman and myself sat on, 25 resting with benign composure upon our knowledge that the fire would have to burn its way through four inside pas- sengers before it could reach ourselves. I remarked to the coachman, with a quotation from Virgil's JEneid really too hackneyed — m _ u Jam proximus ardet Ucalegon.” 0 But, recollecting that the Virgilian part of the coachman's education might have been neglected, I interpreted so far as 30 THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 45 to say that perhaps at that moment the flames were catching hold of our worthy brother and inside passenger, Ucalegon. The coachman made no answer, — which is my own way when a stranger addresses me either in Syriac or in Coptic; but by his faint sceptical smile he seemed to insinuate that he knew better, — for that Ucalegon, as it happened, was not in the way-bill, and therefore could not have been booked . 0 No dignity is perfect which does not at some point ally itself with the mysterious. The connexion of the mail with the state and the executive government — a connexion obvious, but yet not strictly defined — gave to the whole mail establishment an official grandeur which did us service on the roads, and invested us with seasonable terrors. Not the less impressive were those terrors because their legal limits were imperfectly ascertained. Look at those turn- pike gates : with what deferential hurry, with what an obedient start, they fly open at our approach ! Look at that long line of carts and carters ahead, audaciously usurp- ing the very crest of the road. Ah ! traitors, they do not hear us as yet ; but, as soon as the dreadful blast of our horn reaches them with proclamation of our approach, see with what frenzy of trepidation they fly to their horses' heads, and deprecate our wrath by the precipitation of their crane- neck quarterings . 0 Treason they feel to be their crime; each individual carter feels himself under the ban of con- fiscation and attainder; his blood is attainted through six generations ; and nothing is wanting but the headsman and his axe, the block and the sawdust, to close up the vista of his horrors. What ! shall it be within benefit of clergy 0 to delay the king's message on the high-road ? — to interrupt the great respirations, ebb and flood, systole and diastole , of the national intercourse ? — to endanger the safety of tidings running day and night between all nations and languages? 5 10 15 20 25 30 46 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y Or can it be fancied, amongst the weakest of men, that the bodies of the criminals will be given up to their widows for Christian burial? Now, the doubts which were raised as to our powers did more to wrap them in terror, by wrapping 5 them in uncertainty, than could have been effected by the sharpest definitions of the law from the Quarter Sessions. 0 We, on our parts (we, the collective mail, I mean), did our utmost to exalt the idea of our privileges by the inso- lence with which we wielded them. Whether this insolence 10 rested upon law that gave it a sanction, or upon conscious power that haughtily dispensed with that sanction, equally it spoke from a potential station; and the agent, in each particular insolence of the moment, was viewed reverentially, as one having authority. 0 15 Sometimes after breakfast his majesty's 0 mail would be- come frisky; and, in its difficult wheelings amongst the intricacies of early markets, it would upset an apple-cart, a cart loaded with eggs, &c. Huge was the affliction and dismay, awful was the smash. I, as far as possible, endeav- 20 oured in such a case to represent the conscience and moral sensibilities of the mail; and, when wildernesses of eggs were lying poached 0 under our horses' hoofs, then would I stretch forth my hands in sorrow, saying (in words too celebrated at that time, from the false echoes 0 of Marengo), 25 “Ah! wherefore have we not time to weep over you?" — which was evidently impossible, since, in fact, we had not time to laugh over them. Tied to post-office allowance in some cases of fifty minutes for eleven miles, could the royal mail pretend to undertake the offices of sympathy and 30 condolence ? Could it be expected to provide tears for the accidents of the road? If even it seemed to trample on humanity, it did so, I felt, 'in discharge of its own more peremptory duties, t jr THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 47 Upholding the morality of the mail, a fortiori 0 I upheld its rights ; as a matter of duty, I stretched to the uttermost its privilege of imperial precedency, and astonished weak minds by the feudal powers which I hinted to be lurking constructively in the charters of this proud establishment. 5 Once I remember being on the box of the Holyhead mail, between Shrewsbury and Oswestry, 0 when a tawdry thing 4rom Birmingham, 0 some “Tallyho” or “Highflyer,” 0 all flaunting with green and gold, came up alongside of us. What a contrast to our royal simplicity of form and colour 1(3 in this plebeian wretch ! The single ornament on our dark ground of chocolate colour was the mighty shield of the im- perial arms, but emblazoned in proportions as modest as a signet-ring bears to a seal of office. Even this was displayed only on a single panel, whispering, rather than proclaiming, 15 our relations to the mighty state; whilst the beast from Birmingham, our green-and-gold friend from false, fleeting, perjured Brummagem, 0 had as much writing and painting on its sprawling flanks as would have puzzled a decipherer from the tombs of Luxor. 0 For some time this Birmingham 2G machine ran along by our side — a piece of familiarity that already of itself seemed to me sufficiently jacobinical. 0 But all at once a movement of the horses announced a desperate intention of leaving us behind. “Do you see that?” I said to the coachman. — “I see , ” was his short answer. He was 25 wide awake, — yet he waited longer than seemed prudent ; f for the horses of our audacious opponent had a disagreeable air of freshness and power. But his motive was loyal; his wish was that the Birmingham conceit should be full-blown before he froze it. When that seemed right., he unloosed, or, 3G to speak by a stronger word, he sprang, his known resources : he slipped our royal horses like cheetahs, or hunting-leopards, after the affrighted game. How they could retain such a 48 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE i reserve of fiery power after the work they had accomplished seemed hard to explain. But on our side, besides the physical superiority, was a tower of moral strength, namely the king's name, “ which they upon the adverse faction l wanted." 0 Passing them without an effort, as it seemed, we threw them into the rear with so lengthening an interval between us as proved in itself the bitterest mockery of their presumption ; whilst our guard blew back a shattering blast of triumph that was really too painfully full of derision. \i&L- I mention this little incident for its connexion with what 'followed. A Welsh rustic, sitting behind me, asked if I had not felt my heart burn within me during the progress of the race? I said, with philosophic calmness, No; because we were not racing with a mail, so that no glory could be 15 gained. In fact, it was sufficiently mortifying that such a Birmingham thing should dare to challenge us. The Welsh- man replied that he didn't see that ; for that a cat might look at a king, 0 and a Brummagem coach might lawfully race the Holyhead mail. “Race us, if you like," I replied, 20 “ though even that has an air of sedition; but not heat us. This would have been treason; and for its own sake I am glad that the ‘Tallyho' was disappointed." So dissatisfied did the Welshman seem with this opinion that at last I was obliged to tell him a very fine story from one of our elder 25 dramatists 0 : viz. that once, in some far oriental kingdom, when the sultan of all the land, with his princes, ladies, and chief omrahs, 0 were flying their falcons, a hawk suddenly flew at a majestic eagle, and, in defiance of the eagle's natural advantages, in contempt also of the eagle's traditional royalty, 30 and before the whole assembled field of astonished spectators from Agra and Lahore, 0 killed the eagle on the spot. Amaze- ment seized the sultan at the unequal contest, and burning admiration for its unparalleled result. He commanded that THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 49 the hawk should be brought before him; he caressed the bird with enthusiasm; and he ordered that, for the com- memoration of his matchless courage, a diadem of gold and rubies should be solemnly placed on the hawk’s head, but then that, immediately after this solemn coronation, the bird 5 should be led off to execution, as the most valiant indeed of traitors, but not the less a traitor, as having dared to rise rebelliously against his liege lord and anointed sovereign, the eagle. “Now,” said I to the Welshman, “to you and me, as men of refined sensibilities, how painful it would have 10 been that this poor Brummagem brute, the ‘Tallyho/ in the impossible case of a victory over us, should have been crowned with Birmingham tinsel, with paste diamonds and Roman pearls, 0 and then led off to instant execution.” The Welshman doubted if that could be warranted by law. And, 15 when I hinted at the 6th of Edward Longshanks, chap. 18,° for regulating the precedency of coaches, as being probably the statute relied on for the capital punishment of such offences, he replied drily that, if the attempt to pass a mail really were treasonable, it was a pity that the “Tallyho”20 appeared to have so imperfect an acquaintance with law. The modern modes of travelling cannot compare with the old mail-coach system in grandeur and power. They boast of more velocity, — not, however, as a consciousness, but as a fact of our lifeless knowledge, resting upon alien 25 evidence : as, for instance, because somebody says that we have gone fifty miles in the hour, though we are far from feeling it as a personal experience; or upon the evidence of a result, as that actually we find ourselves in York four hours after leaving London. 0 Apart from such an assertion, or such 30 a result, I myself am little aware of the pace. Bat, seated on the old mail-coach, we needed no evidence out of ourselves to indicate the velocity. On this system the word was not E 50 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y magna loquimur ,° as upon railways, but vivimus. Yes, “magna vivimus' ’ ° ; we do not make verbal ostentation of our grandeurs, we realise our grandeurs in act, and in the very experience of life. The vital experience of the glad 5 animal sensibilities made doubts impossible on the question of our speed ; w r e heard our speed, we saw it, we felt it as a thrilling 0 ; and this speed was not the product of blind insensate agencies, that had no sympathy to give, but was incarnated in the fiery eyeballs of the noblest amongst brutes, L 0 in his dilated nostril, spasmodic muscles, and thunder-beat- ing hoofs. The sensibility of the horse, uttering itself in the maniac light of his eye, might be the last vibration of such a movement ; the glory of Salamanca might be the first. But the intervening links that connected them, that spread 15 the earthquake of battle into the eyeball of the horse, were the heart of man and its electric thrillings — kindling in the rapture of the fiery strife, and then propagating its own tumults by contagious shouts and gestures to the heart of his servant the horse. But now, on the new system of travelling, 20 iron tubes and boilers have disconnected man’s heart from the ministers of his locomotion. Nile 0 nor Trafalgar has power to raise an extra bubble in a steam-kettle. The gal- vanic cycle is broken up for ever ; man’s imperial nature no longer sends itself forward through the electric sensibility of 25 the horse ; the inter-agencies are gone in the mode of commu- nication between the horse and his master out of which grew so many aspects of sublimity under accidents of mists that hid, or sudden blazes that revealed, of mobs that agitated, or midnight solitudes that awed. Tidings fitted to convulse all 30 nations must henceforwards travel by culinary process ; and the trumpet that once announced from afar the laurelled mail, heart-shaking when heard screaming on the wind and proclaiming itself through the darkness to every village or THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 51 solitary house on its route, has now given way for ever to the pot- wallopings 0 of the boiler. Thus have perished multi- form openings for public expressions of interest, scenical 0 yet natural, in great national tidings, — for revelations of faces and groups that could not offer themselves amongst 5 the fluctuating mobs of a railway station. The gatherings of gazers about a laurelled mail had one centre, and acknow- ledged one sole interest. But the crowds attending at a railway station have as little unity as running water, and own as many centres as there are separate carriages in the 10 train. How else, for example, than as a constant w r atcher for the dawn, and for the London mail that in summer months entered about daybreak amongst the lawny thickets of Marlborough forest, 0 couldst thou, sweet Fanny of the Bath 15 road, have become the glorified inmate of my dreams ? Yet Fanny, as the loveliest young woman for face and person that perhaps in my whole life I have beheld, merited the station which even now, from a distance of forty years, she holds in my dreams ; yes, though by 20 links of natural association she brings along with her a troop of dreadful creatures, fabulous and not fabulous, that are more abominable to the heart than Fanny and the dawn are delightful. 0 Miss Fanny of the Bath road, strictly speaking, lived at 25 a mile’s distance from that road, but came so continually to meet the mail that I on my frequent transits rarely missed her, and naturally connected her image with the great thoroughfare where only I had ever seen her. Why she came so punctually I do not exactly know; but I believe 3d with some burden of commissions, to be executed in Bath, which had gathered to her own residence as a central rendez- vous for converging them. The mail-coachman who drove 52 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QUINCE Y the Bath mail and wore the royal livery 0 happened to be Fanny's grandfather. A good man he was, that loved his beautiful granddaughter, and, loving her wisely, was vigilant over her deportment in any case where young Oxford might 5 happen to be concerned. Did my vanity then suggest that I myself, individually, could fall within the line of his terrors ? Certainly not, as regarded any physical preten- sions 0 that I could plead; for Fanny (as a chance passenger from her own neighbourhood once told me) counted in 10 her train a hundred and ninety-nine professed admirers, if not open aspirants to her favour ; and probably not one of the whole brigade but excelled myself in personal advantages. Ulysses even, with the unfair advantage of his accursed bow, could hardly have undertaken that amount 15 of suitors. 0 So the danger might have seemed slight — only that woman is universally aristocratic; it is amongst her nobilities of heart that she is so. Now, the aristocratic distinctions in my favour might easily with Miss Fanny have compensated my physical deficiencies. Did I then 20 make love to Fanny ? Why, yes ; about as much love as one could make whilst the mail was changing horses — a pro- cess which, ten years later, did not occupy above eighty seconds ; but then , — viz. about Waterloo 0 — it occupied five times eighty. Now, four hundred seconds offer a field quite 25 ample enough for whispering into a young woman’s ear a great deal of truth, and (by way of parenthesis) some trifle of falsehood. Grandpapa did right, therefore, to watch me. And yet, as happens too often to the grandpapas of earth in a contest with the admirers of granddaughters, how vainly 30 would he have watched me had I meditated any evil whispers to Fanny ! She, it is my belief, would have protected, herself against any man's evil suggestions. But he, as the result showed, could not have intercepted the opportunities for THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 53 such suggestions. Yet, why not? Was he not active? Was he not blooming ? Blooming he was as Fanny herself. “ Say, all our praises why should lords 0 — ” Stop, that’s not the line. “ Say, all our roses why should girls engross ? ” 5 The coachman showed rosy blossoms on his face deeper even than his granddaughter’s — his being drawn from the ale-cask, Fanny’s from the fountains of the dawn. But, in spite of his blooming face, some infirmities he had ; and one particu- larly in which he too much resembled a crocodile. 0 This layio in a monstrous inaptitude for turning round. The crocodile, I presume, owes that inaptitude to the absurd length of his back ; but in our grandpapa it arose rather from the absurd breadth of his back, combined, possibly, with some growing stiffness in his legs. Now, upon this crocodile infirmity of 15 his I planted a human advantage for tendering my homage to Miss Fanny. In defiance of all his honourable vigilance, no sooner had he presented to us his mighty Jovian back (what a field for displaying to mankind his royal scarlet !) , whilst inspecting professionally the buckles, the straps, and 20 the silvery turrets 0 of his harness, than I raised Miss Fanny’s hand to my lips, and, by the mixed tenderness and respectful- ness of my manner, caused her easily to understand how happy it would make me to rank upon her list as No. 10 or 12: in which case a few casualties amongst her lovers 25 (and, observe, they hanged liberally in those days) might have promoted me speedily to the top of the tree 0 ; as, on the other hand, with how much loyalty of submission I acquiesced by anticipation in her award, supposing that she should plant me in the very rearward of her favour, 0 as 50 54 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY No. 199 + 1. Most truly I loved this beautiful and ingenu- ous girl; and, had it not been for the Bath mail, timing all courtships by post-office allowance, heaven only knows what might have come of it. People talk of being over head 5 and ears in love ; now, the mail was the cause that I sank only over ears in love, — which, you know, still left a trifle of brain to overlook the whole conduct of the affair. Ah, reader ! when I look back upon those days, it seems to me that all things change — all things perish. “ Perish 10 the roses and the palms of kings” 0 : perish even the crowns and trophies of Waterloo : thunder and lightning are not the thunder and lightning which I remember. Roses are de- generating. The Fannies of our island — though this I say with reluctance — are not visibly improving ; and the Bath 15 road is notoriously superannuated. Crocodiles, you will say, are stationary. Mr. Waterton 0 tells me that the croco- dile does not change, — that a cayman, in fact, or an alligator, is just as good for riding upon as he was in the time of the Pharaohs. 0 That may be : but the reason is that the croco- 20 dile does not live fast — he is a slow coach. I believe it is generally understood among naturalists that the crocodile is a blockhead. It is my own impression that the Pharaohs were also blockheads. Now, as the Pharaohs and the croco- dile domineered over Egyptian society, 0 this accounts for a 25 singular mistake that prevailed through innumerable gen- erations on the Nile. The crocodile made the ridiculous blunder of supposing man to be meant chiefly for his own eating. Man, taking a different view of the subject, natu- rally met that mistake by another : he viewed the crocodile 30 as a thing sometimes to worship, but always to run away from. And this continued till Mr. Waterton changed the relations between the animals. 0 The mode of escaping from the reptile he showed to be not by running away, but by THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH > 55 leaping on its back booted and spurred. The two animals had misunderstood each other. The use of the crocodile has now been cleared up — viz. to be ridden ; and the final cause of man° is that he may improve the health of the crocodile by riding him a-foxhunting before breakfast. And it is pretty 5 certain that any crocodile who has been regularly hunted through the season, and is master of the weight he carries, will take a six-barred gate now as well as ever he would have done in the infancy of the pyramids. If, therefore, the crocodile does not change, all things elsel* undeniably do : even the shadow of the pyramids grows less. And often the restoration in vision of Fanny and the Bath road makes me too pathetically sensible of that truth. Out of the darkness, if I happen to call back the image of Fanny, up rises suddenly from a gulf of forty years 0 a rose in June 0 ; 15 or, if I think for an instant of the rose in June, up rises the heavenly face of Fanny. One after the other, like the an- tiphonies in the choral service, rise Fanny and the rose in June, then back again the rose in June and Fanny. Then come both together, as in a chorus — roses and Fannies, 20 Fannies and roses, without end, thick as blossoms in paradise. Then comes a venerable crocodile, in a royal livery of scarlet and gold, with sixteen capes; and the crocodile is driving four-in-hand from the box of the Bath mail. And suddenly we upon the mail are pulled up by a mighty dial, sculptured 25 with the hours, that mingle with the heavens and the heav- enly host. Then all at once we are arrived at Marlborough forest, amongst the lovely households 0 of the roe-deer; the deer and their fawns retire into the dewy thickets; the thickets are rich with roses ; once again the roses call up 30 the sweet countenance of Fanny; and she, being the grand- daughter of a crocodile, awakens a dreadful host of semi- legendary animals — griffins, dragons, basilisks, sphinxes 0 — 56 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y till at length the whole vision of fighting images crowds into one towering armorial shield, a vast emblazonry of human charities and human loveliness that have perished, but quar- tered heraldically 0 with unutterable and demoniac natures, 5 whilst over all rises, as a surmounting crest, one fair female hand, with the forefinger pointing, in sweet, sorrowful ad- monition, upwards to heaven, where is sculptured the eternal writing which proclaims the frailty of earth and her children. 0 A) * tj / r DOWN / } A TH VICTORY But the grandest chapter of our experience within the 10 whole mail-coach service was on those occasions when we went down from London with the news of victory. A period of about ten years stretched from Trafalgar to Waterloo ; the second and third years of which period (1806 and 1807) were comparatively sterile; but the other nine (from 1805 15 to 1815 inclusively) furnished a long succession of victories, the least of which, in such a contest of Titans, 0 had an in- appreciable value of position : partly for its absolute inter- ference with the plans of our enemy, but still mere from its keeping alive through central Europe the sense of a deep- -seated vulnerability in France. Even to tease the coasts of our enemy, to mortify them by continual blockades, to insult them by capturing if it were but a baubling schooner under the eyes of their arrogant armies, repeated from time to time a sullen proclamation of power lodged in one quarter to which 25 the hopes of Christendom turned in secret. How much more loudly must this proclamation have spoken in the audacity 0 of having bearded the elite of their troops, and having beaten them in pitched battles ! Five years of life it was worth paying down for the privilege of an outside place on a mail- 30 coach, when carrying down the first tidings of any such event. THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 57 And it is to be noted that, from our insular situation, and the multitude of our frigates disposable for the rapid transmission of intelligence, rarely did any unauthorised rumour steal away a prelibation 0 from the first aroma of the regular de- spatches. The government news was generally the earliest 5 news. From eight p.m. to fifteen or twenty minutes later imagine the mails assembled on parade in Lombard Street 0 ; where, at that time, 0 and not in St. Martin ’s-le-Grand.,° was seated the General Post-office. 0 In what exact strength we mus- 10 tered I do not remember ; but, from the length of each sepa- rate attelage, 0 we filled the street, though a long one, and though we were drawn up in double file. On any night the spectacle was beautiful. The absolute perfection of all the appointments about the carriages and the harness, their 15 strength, their brilliant cleanliness, their beautiful sim- plicity — but, more than all, the royal magnificence of the horses — - were what might first have fixed the attention. Every carriage on every morning in the year was taken down to an official inspector for examination : wheels, axles, linch- 20 pins, pole, glasses, lamps, were all critically probed and tested. Every part of every carriage had been cleaned, every horse had been groomed, with as much rigour as if they belonged to a private gentleman ; and that part of the spectacle offered itself always. But the night before us is a night of victory ; 25 and, behold ! to the ordinary display what a heart-shaking addition ! — horses, men, carriages, all are dressed in laurels and flowers, oak-leaves and ribbons. The guards, as being officially his Majesty's servants, and of the coachmen such as are within the privilege of the post-office, wear the royal 30 liveries of course ; and, as it is summer (for all the land vic- tories were naturally won in summer), they wear, on this fine evening, these liveries exposed to view, without any covering 58 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y of upper coats. Such a costume, and the elaborate arrange- ment of the laurels in their hats, dilate their hearts, by giving to them openly a personal connexion with the great news in which already they have the general interest of patriotism. 5 That great national sentiment surmounts and quells all sense of ordinary distinctions. Those passengers who happen to be gentlemen are now hardly to be distinguished as such except by dress; for the usual reserve of their manner in speaking to the attendants has on this night melted away. 10 One heart, one pride, one glory, connects every man by the transcendent bond of his national blood. The spectators, who are numerous beyond precedent, express their sympathy with these fervent feelings by continual hurrahs. Every moment are shouted aloud by the post-office servants, and 15 summoned to draw up, the great ancestral names of cities known to history through a thousand years — Lincoln, Win- chester, Portsmouth, Gloucester, Oxford, Bristol, Manchester, York, Newcastle, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth, Stirling, Aber- deen — expressing the grandeur of the empire by the 20 antiquity of its towns, and the grandeur of the mail estab- lishment by the diffusive radiation of its separate missions. Every moment you hear the thunder of lids locked down upon the mail-bags. That sound to each individual mail is the signal for drawing off ; which process is the finest part of 25 the entire spectacle. Then come the horses into play. Horses ! can these be horses that bound off with the action and gestures of leopards ? What stir ! — what sea-like fer- ment ! — what a thundering of wheels ! — what a trampling of hoofs ! — what a sounding of trumpets ! — what farewell 30 cheers — what redoubling peals of brotherly congratulation, connecting the name of the particular mail — “Liverpool for ever!” — with the name of the particular victory — “Badajoz 0 for ever!” or “Salamanca for ever!” The half- THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 59 slumbering consciousness that all night long, and all the next day — perhaps for even a longer period — many of these mails, like fire racing along a train of gunpowder, will be kindling at every instant new successions of burning joy, has an obscure effect of multiplying the victory itself, by multi- 5 plying to the imagination into infinity the stages of its pro- gressive diffusion. A fiery arrow seems to be let loose, which from that moment is destined to travel, without intermission, westwards for three hundred 0 miles — northwards for six hundred : and the sympathy of our Lombard Street friends 10 at parting is exalted a hundredfold by a sort of visionary sympathy wfith the yet slumbering s}unpathies which in so yast a succession we are going to awake. Liberated from the embarrassments of the city, and issuing into the broad uncrowded avenues of the northern suburbs, 15 we soon begin to enter upon our natural pace of ten miles an hour. In the broad light of the summer evening, the sun, perhaps, only just at the point of setting, we are seen from every storey of every house. Heads of every age crowd to the windows ; young and old understand the language of 20 our victorious symbols; and rolling volleys of sympathising cheers run along us, behind us, and before us. The beggar, rearing himself against the wall, forgets his lameness — real or assumed — thinks not of his whining trade, but stands erect, with bold exulting smiles, as we pass him. The vie- 25 tory has healed him, and says, Be thou whole !° Women and children, from garrets alike and cellars, through infinite Lon- don, look down or look up with loving eyes upon our gay ribbons and our martial laurels ; sometimes kiss their hands ; sometimes hang out, as signals of affection, pocket-handker- 30 chiefs, aprons, dusters, anything that, by catching the sum- mer breezes, will express an aerial jubilation. On the London side of Barnet, 0 to which we draw near within a few minutes 60 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y after nine, observe that private carriage which is approach- ing us. The weather being so warm, the glasses are all down ; and one may read, as on the stage of a theatre, everything that goes on within. It contains three ladies — one likely 5 to be “mamma/’ and two of seventeen or eighteen, who are probably her daughters. What lovely animation, what beautiful unpremeditated pantomime, explaining to us every syllable that passes, in these ingenuous girls ! By the sudden start and raising of the hands on first discovering our laurelled 10 equipage, by the sudden movement and appeal to the elder lady from both of them, and by the heightened colour on their animated countenances, we can almost hear them say- ing, "See, see! Look at their laurels! Oh, mamma! there has been a great battle in Spain ; and it has been a great vic- 15tory.” In a moment we are on the point of passing them. We passengers — I on the box, and the two on the roof behind me — raise our hats to the ladies ; the coachman makes his professional salute with the whip; the guard even, though punctilious on the matter of his dignity as an officer under 20 the crown, touches his hat. The ladies move to us, in return, with a winning graciousness of gesture; all smile on each side in a way that nobody could misunderstand, and that nothing short of a grand national sympathy could so instan- taneously prompt. Will these ladies say that we are nothing 25 to them ? Oh no ; they will not say that. They cannot deny — they do not deny — that for this night they are our sisters ; gentle or simple, scholar or illiterate servant, for twelve hours to come, we on the outside have the honour to be their brothers. Those poor women, again, who stop to gaze upon 30 us with delight at the entrance of Barnet, and seem, by their air of weariness, to be returning from labour — do you mean to say that they are washerwomen and charwomen 0 ? Oh, my poor friend, you are quite mistaken. I assure you they THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 61 stand in a far higher rank ; for this one night they feel them- selves by birthright to be daughters of England, and answer to no humbler title. Every joy, however, even rapturous joy — such is the sad law of earth — may carry with it grief, or fear of grief, to .some. Three miles beyond Barnet, we see approaching us another private carriage, nearly repeating the circumstances of the former case. Here, also, the glasses are all down; here, also, is an elderly lady seated ; but the two daughters are missing ; for the single young person sitting by the lady’s side seems to be an attendant — so I judge from her dress, and her air of respectful reserve. The lady is in mourning ; and her countenance expresses sorrow. At first she does not look up ; so that I believe she is not aware of our approach, until she hears the measured beating of our horses’ hoofs. Then she raises her eyes to settle them painfully on our triumphal equipage. Our decorations explain the case to her at once; but she beholds them with apparent anxiety, or even with terror. Some time before this, I, finding it difficult * to hit a flying mark when embarrassed by the coachman’s ' person and reins intervening, had given to the guard a Courier evening paper , 0 containing the gazette , 0 for the next carriage that might pass. Accordingly he tossed it in, so folded that the huge capitals expressing some such legend as glorious victory might catch the eye at once. To see the paper, however, at all, interpreted as it was by our ensigns of tri- umph, explained everything; and, if the guard were right in thinking the lady to have received it with a gesture of horror, it could not be doubtful that she had suffered some deep personal affliction in connexion with this Spanish war. "^Here, now, was the case of one who, having formerly suf- fered, might, erroneously perhaps, be distressing herself with anticipations of another similar suffering. That same night, 5 10 15 20 25 3(1 62 THE ESS A TS OF THOMAS HE QUINCE Y and hardly three hours later, occurred the reverse case. A poor woman, who too probably would find herself, in a day or two, to have suffered the heaviest of afflictions by the battle, blindly allowed herself to express an exultation so 5 unmeasured in the news and its details as gave to her the ap- pearance which amongst Celtic Highlanders is called fey.° This was at some little town where we changed horses an hour or two after midnight. Some fair or wake had kept the people up out of their beds, and had occasioned a partial 10 illumination of the stalls and booths, presenting an unusual but very impressive effect. We saw many lights moving about as we drew near ; and perhaps the most striking scene on the whole route was our reception at this place. The flashing of torches and the beautiful radiance of blue lights 15 (technically, Bengal lights 0 ) upon the heads of our horses ; the fine effect of such a showery and ghostly illumination falling upon our flowers and glittering laurels 0 : whilst all around ourselves, that formed a centre of light, the darkness gathered on the rear and flanks in massy blackness : these 20 optical splendours, together with the prodigious enthusiasm of the people, composed a picture at once scenical and affect- ing, theatrical and holy. As we staid for three or four min- utes, I alighted; and immediately from a dismantled stall in the street, where no doubt she had been presiding through 25 the earlier part of the night, advanced eagerly a middle-aged woman. The sight of my newspaper it was that had drawn her attention upon myself. The victory which we were carrying down to the provinces on this occasion was the im- perfect one of Talavera 0 — imperfect for its results, such was 30 the virtual treachery of the Spanish general, Cuesta, 0 but not imperfect in its ever-rnemorable heroism. I told her the main outline of the battle. The agitation of her enthusiasm had been so conspicuous when listening, and when first apply- THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 63 ing for information, that I could not but ask her if she had not some relative in the Peninsular army. 0 Oh yes; her only son was there. In what regiment? He was a trooper in the 23d Dragoons. 0 My heart sank within me as she made that answer. This sublime regiment, which an Englishman should never mention without raising his hat to their memory, had made the most memorable and effective charge recorded in military annals. 0 They leaped their horses — over a trench where they could; into it, and with the result of death or mutilation, when they could not. What proportion cleared the trench is nowhere stated. Those who did closed up and went down upon the enemy with such divinity of fervour (I use the word divinity by design : the inspiration of God° must have prompted this movement to those whom even then He was calling to His presence) that two results followed. As regarded the enemy, this 23d Dragoons, not, I believe, originally three hundred and fifty strong, paralysed a French column six thousand strong, then ascended the hill, and fixed the gaze of the whole French army. As regarded themselves, the 23d were supposed at first to have been barely not anni- hilated ; but eventually, I believe, about one in four survived. And this, then, was the regiment — a regiment already for some hours glorified and hallowed to the ear of all London, as lying stretched, by a large majority, upon one bloody aceldama 0 — in which the young trooper served whose mother was now talking in a spirit of such jojmus enthusiasm. Did I tell her the truth? Had I the heart to break up her dreams ? No. To-morrow, said I to myself — to-morrow, or the next day, will publish the worst. For one night more - wherefore should she not sleep in peace? After to-morrow the chances are too many that peace will forsake her pillow. This brief respite, then, let her owe to my gift and my for- bearance. But, if I told her not of the bloody price that had 5 Id 15 20 25 30 64 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y been paid, not therefore was I silent • on the contributions from her son's regiment to that day's service and glory. I showed her not the funeral banners under which the noble regiment was sleeping. I lifted not the overshadowing 5 laurels from the bloody trench in which horse and rider lay mangled together. But I told her how these dear children of England, officers and privates, had leaped their horses over all obstacles as gaily as hunters to the morning's chase. I told her how they rode their horses into the mists of death, 10 — saying to myself, but not saying to her , “and laid down their young lives for thee, O mother England ! as willingly — poured out their noble blood as cheerfully — as ever, after a long day's sport, when infants, they had rested their wearied heads upon their mother's knees, or had sunk to 15 sleep in her arms." Strange it is, yet true, that she seemed to have no fears for her son's safety, even after this knowledge that the 23d Dragoons had been memorably engaged ; but so much was she enraptured by the knowledge that his regi- ment, and therefore that he, had rendered conspicuous service 20 in the dreadful conflict — a service which had actually made them, within the last twelve hours, the foremost topic of conversation in London — so absolutely was fear swallowed up in joy — that, in the mere simplicity of her fervent nature, the poor woman threw her arms round my neck, as she 25 thought of her son, and gave to me the kiss which secretly was meant for him . Section II — The Vision of Sudden Death 0 What is to be taken as the predominant opinion of man, reflective and philosophic, upon sudden death? It is re- markable that, in different conditions of society, sudden death 30 has been variously regarded as the consummation of an THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 65 earthly career most fervently to be desired , 0 or, again, as that consummation which is with most horror to be deprecated. Caesar the Dictator, at his last dinner-party ( ccena ), on the very evening before his assassination, when the minutes of his earthly career were numbered, being asked what death, in his judgment, might be pronounced the most eligible, re- plied “That which should be most sudden .” 0 On the other hand, the divine Litany of our English Church, when breath- ing forth supplications, as if in some representative character, for the whole human race prostrate before God, places such a death in the very van of horrors: “From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death — Good Lord, deliver usd’ Sudden death is here made to crown the climax in a grand ascent of calamities; it is ranked among the last of curses; and yet by the noblest of Romans it was ranked as the first of blessings. In that difference most readers will see little more than the essential difference between Chris- tianity and Paganism. But this, on consideration, I doubt. The Christian Church may be right in its estimate of sudden death; and it is a natural feeling, though after all it may also be an infirm one, to wish for a quiet dismissal from life, as that which seems most reconcilable with meditation, with penitential retrospects, and with the humilities of farewell prayer. There does not, however, occur to me any direct scriptural warrant for this earnest petition of the English Litany, unless under a special construction of the word “sudden.” It seems a petition indulged rather and conceded to human infirmity than exacted from human piety. It is not so much a doctrine built upon the eternities of the Chris- tian system as a plausible opinion built upon special varieties of physical temperament. Let that, however, be as it may, two remarks suggest themselves as prudent restraints upon 5 10 15 20 25 30 66 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE Q VINCE Y a doctrine which else may wander, and has wandered, into an uncharitable superstition. The first is this : that many people are likely to exaggerate the horror of a sudden death from the disposition to lay a false stress upon words or acts 5 simply because by an accident they have become final words or acts. If a man dies, for instance, by some sudden death when he happens to be intoxicated, such a death is falsely regarded with peculiar horror: as though the intoxication were suddenly exalted into a blasphemy. But that is un- 10 philosophic. The man was, or he was not. habitually a drunk- ard. If not, if his intoxication were a solitary accident, there can be no reason for allowing special emphasis to this act simply because through misfortune it became his final act. Nor, on the other hand, if it were no accident, but one of his 15 habitual transgressions, will it be the more habitual or the more a transgression because some sudden calamity, sur- prising him, has caused this habitual transgression to be also a final one. Could the man have had any reason even dimly to foresee his own sudden death, there would have been a 20 new feature in his act of intemperance — a feature of pre- sumption and irreverence, as in one that, having known him- self drawing near to the presence of God. should have suited bis demeanour to an expectation so awful. But this is no part of the case supposed. And the only new element in 25 the man's act is not any element of special immorality, but simply of special misfortune. The other remark has reference to the meaning of the word sudden . Very possibly Ctesar and the Christian Church do not differ in the way supposed. — that is, do not differ by any 30 difference of doctrine as between Pagan and Christian views of the moral temper appropriate to death : but perhaps they are contemplating different cases. Both contemplate a vio- lent death, a Boz#a vuros° — death that is /fouos, or, in other THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 6‘i words, death that is brought about, not by internal and spon- taneous change, but by active force having its origin from without. In this meaning the two authorities agree. Thus far they are in harmony. But the difference is that the Roman by the word “ sudden” means unlingering, 0 whereas 5 the Christian Litany by “ sudden death '' means a death without warning, consequently without any available sum- mons to religious preparation. The poor mutineer who kneels down to gather into his heart the bullets from twelve firelocks of his pitying comrades dies by a most sudden death id in Caesar's sense ; one shock, one mighty spasm, one (possibly not one) groan, and all is over. But, in the sense of the Litany, the mutineer's death is far from sudden : his offence originally, his imprisonment, his trial, the interval between his sentence and its execution, having all furnished him with 15 separate warnings of his fate — having all summoned him to meet it wfith solemn preparation. Here at once, in this sharp verbal distinction, we compre- hend the faithful earnestness with which a holy Christian Church pleads on behalf of her poor departing children that 20 God would vouchsafe to them the last great privilege and distinction possible on a death-bed, viz. the opportunity of untroubled preparation for facing this mighty trial. Sudden death, as a mere variety in the modes of dying where death in some shape is inevitable, proposes a question of choice 25 which, equally in the Roman and the Christian sense, will be variously answered according to each man's variety of tem- perament. Meantime, one aspect of sudden death there is, one modification, upon which no doubt can arise, that of all martyrdoms it is the most agitating — viz. where it surprises 30 a man under circumstances which offer (or which seem to offer) some hurrying, flying, inappreciably minute chance of evading it. Sudden as the danger which it affronts 0 must 68 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y be any effort by which such an evasion can be accomplished. Even that , even the sickening necessity for hurrying in ex- tremity where all hurry seems destined to be vain, — even that anguish is liable to a hideous exasperation in one par- 5 ticular case : viz. where the appeal is made not exclusively to the instinct of self-preservation, but to the conscience, on behalf of some other life besides your own, accidentally thrown upon your protection. To fail, to collapse in a ser- vice merely your own, might seem comparatively venial; 10 though, in fact, it is far from venial. But to fail in a case where Providence has suddenly thrown into your hands the final interests of another, — a fellow-creature shuddering between the gates of life and death : this, to a man of appre- hensive conscience, would mingle the misery of an atrocious 15 criminality with the misery of a bloody calamity. You are called upon, by the case supposed, possibly to die, but to die at the very moment when, by any even partial failure or effeminate collapse of your energies, you will be self-denounced as a murderer. You had but the twinkling of an eye for your 20 effort, and that effort might have been unavailing ; but to have risen to the level of such an effort would have rescued you, though not from dying, yet from dying as a traitor to your final and farewell duty. The situation here contemplated exposes a dreadful ulce r , 25 lurking far down in the depths of human nature. It is not that men generally are summoned to face such awful trials. But potentially, and in shadowy outline, such a trial is moving subterraneously in perhaps all men’s natures. Upon the secret mirror of our dreams such a trial is darkly projected, 30 perhaps, to every one of us. That dream, so familiar to childhood, of meeting a lion, and, through languishing pros- tration in hope and the energies of hope, that constant sequel of lying down before the lion, publishes the secret frailty of THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 69 human nature — reveals its deep-seated falsehood to itself — records its abysmal treachery. Perhaps not one of us es- capes that dream 0 ; perhaps, as by some sorrowful doom of man, that dream repeats for every one of us, through every generation, the original temptation in Eden. Every one of 5 us, in this dream, has a bait offered to the infirm places of his own individual will; once again a snare is presented for tempting him into captivity to a luxury of ruin ; once again, as in aboriginal Paradise, the man falls by his own choice; again, by infinite iteration, the ancient earth groans to 10 Heaven, through her secret caves, over the weakness of her child. “ Nature, from her seat, sighing through all her works,” again “gives signs of woe that all is lost” 0 ; and again the counter-sigh is repeated to the sorrowing heavens for the endless rebellion against God. It is not without 15 probability that in the world of dreams every one of us ratifies for himself the original transgression. In dreams, perhaps under some secret conflict of the midnight sleeper, lighted up to the consciousness at the time, but darkened to the memory as soon as all is finished, each several child of 20 our mysterious race completes for himself the treason of the aboriginal fall. The incident, so memorable in itself by its features of horror, and so scenical by its grouping for the eye, which furnished the text for this reverie upon Sudden Death, oc-25 curred to myself in the dead of night, as a solitary spectator, when seated on the box of the Manchester and Glasgow mail, 0 in the second or third summer after Waterloo. 0 I find it necessary to relate the circumstances, because they are such as could not have occurred unless under a singular combina- 30 tion of accidents. In those days, the oblique and lateral communications with many rural post-offices were so ar- 70 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y ranged, either through necessity or through defect of system, as to make it requisite for the main north-western mail ( i.e . the down mail 0 ) on reaching Manchester to halt for a number of hours; how many, I do not remember; six or 5 seven, I think ; but the result was that, in the ordinary course, the mail recommenced its journey northwards about mid- night. Wearied with the long detention at a gloomy hotel, I walked out about eleven o’clock at night for the sake of fresh air; meaning to fall in with the mail and resume my 10 seat at the post-office. The night, however, being yet dark, as the moon had scarcely risen, and the streets being at that hour empty, so as to offer no opportunities for asking the road, I lost my way, and did not reach the post-office until it was considerably past midnight ; but, to my great relief 15 (as it was important for me to be in Westmorland 0 by the morning), I saw in the huge saucer eyes of the mail, blazing through the gloom, an evidence that my chance was not yet lost. Past the time it was; but, by some rare accident, the mail was not even yet ready to start. I ascended to my seat 20 on the box, where my cloak was still lying as it had lain at the Bridgewater Arms. 0 I had left it there in imitation of a nautical discoverer, who leaves a bit of bunting on the shore of his discovery, by way of warning off the ground the whole human race, and notifying to the Christian and the heathen 25 worlds, with his best compliments, that he has hoisted his pocket-handkerchief once and for ever upon that virgin soil : thenceforward claiming the jus dominii 0 to the top of the atmosphere above it, and also the right of driving shafts to the centre of the earth below it ; so that all people found 30 after this warning either aloft in upper chambers of the at- mosphere, or groping in subterraneous shafts, or squatting audaciously on the surface of the soil, will be treated as tres- passers — kicked, 0 that is to say, or decapitated, as circum THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 71 stances may suggest, by their very faithful servant, the owner of the said pocket-handkerchief. In the present case, it is probable that my cloak might not have been respected, and the jus gentium 0 might have been cruelly violated in my per- son — for, in the dark, people commit deeds of darkness, gas 5 being a great ally of morality 0 ; but it so happened that on this night there was no other outside passenger; and thus the crime, which else was but too probable, missed fire for want of a criminal. Having mounted the box, I took a small quantity of lauda- 10 num, having already travelled two hundred and fifty miles — viz. from a point seventy miles beyond London. 0 In the taking of laudanum there was nothing extraordinary. 0 But by accident it drew upon me the special attention of my assessor 0 on the box, the coachman. And in that also there 15 was nothing extraordinary. But by accident, and with great delight, it drew my own attention to the fact that this coach- man was a monster in point of bulk, and that he had but one eye. In fact, he had been foretold by Virgil as “ Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.” 0 2Q He answered to the conditions in every one of the items : — 1, a monster he was; 2, dreadful; 3, shapeless; 4, huge; 5, who had lost an eye. But why should that delight me? Had he been one of the Calendars in the Arabian Nights , and had paid down his eye as the price of his criminal curi-25 osity,° what right had I to exult in his misfortune? I did not exult; I delighted in no man’s punishment, though it were even merited. But these personal distinctions (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) identified in an instant an old friend of mine whom I had known in the south for some years as the most 30 masterly of mail-coachmen. He was the man in all Europe 70 I mJ THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y that could (if any could) have driven six-in-hand full gallop over Al Sirat° — that dreadful bridge of Mahomet, with no side battlements, and of extra room not enough for a razor’s edge — leading right across the bottomless gulf. Under this 5 eminent man, whom in Greek I cognominated Cyclops 0 Diphrelates (Cyclops the Charioteer), I, and others known to me, studied the diphrelatic 0 art. Excuse, reader, a word too elegant to be pedantic. As a pupil, though I paid extra fees, it is to be lamented that I did not stand high in his es- 10 teem. It showed his dogged honesty (though, observe, not his discernment) that he could not see my merits. Let us excuse his absurdity in this particular by remembering his want of an eye. Doubtless that made him blind to my merits. In the art of conversation, however, he admitted that 1 had 15 the whip-hand of him. On this present occasion great joy was at our meeting. But what was Cyclops doing here? Had the medical men recommended northern air, or how? I collected, from such explanations as he volunteered, that he had an interest at stake in some suit-at-law now pending 20 at Lancaster 0 ; so that probably he had got himself trans- ferred to this station for the purpose of connecting with his professional pursuits an instant readiness for the calls of his lawsuit. Meantime, what are we stopping for? Surely we have 25 now waited long enough. Oh, this procrastinating mail, and this procrastinating post-office ! Can’t they take a lesson upon that subject from me? Some people have called me procrastinating. 0 Yet you are witness, reader, that I was here kept waiting for the post-office. Will the post-office lay 30 its hand on its heart, in its moments of sobriety, and assert that ever it waited for me? What are they about? The guard tells me that there is a large extra accumulation of foreign mails this night, owing to irregularities caused by THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 73 war, by wind, by weather, in the packet service, which as yet does not benefit at all by steam. For an extra hour, it seems, the post-office has been engaged in threshing out the pure wheaten correspondence of Glasgow, and winnowing it from the chaff of all baser intermediate towns. But at last 5 all is finished. Sound your horn, guard ! Manchester, good- bye ! ; we've lost an hour by your criminal conduct at the post-office : which, however, though I do not mean to part with a serviceable ground of complaint, and one which really is such for the horses, to me secretly is an advantage, 0 since 1(3 it compels us to look sharply for this lost hour amongst the next eight or nine, and to recover it (if we can) at the rate of one mile extra per hour. Off we are at last, and at eleven miles an hour; and for the moment I detect no changes in the energy or in the skill of Cyclops. 15 From Manchester to Kendal, 0 which virtually (though not in law) is the capital of Westmorland, there were at this time seven stages of eleven miles each. The first five of these, counting from Manchester, terminate in Lancaster; which is therefore fiftv-five miles north of Manchester, and the 20 same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three stages terminate in Preston (called, by way of distinction from other towns of that name, Proud Preston) ; at which place it is that the separate roads from Liverpool and from Man- chester to the north become confluent. 0 Within these first 25 three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and termina- tion of our night's adventure. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops was mortal : he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep — a thing which previously I had never suspected. If a man indulges in the vicious habit of sleeping, 30 all the skill in aurigation of Apollo himself, with the horses of Aurora to execute his notions, 0 avails him nothing. “Oh, Cyclops!" I exclaimed, “thou art mortal. My friend, thou 74 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y snorest." Through the first eleven miles, however, this in- firmity 0 — which I grieve to say that he shared with the whole Pagan Pantheon 0 — betrayed itself only by brief snatches. On waking up, he made an apology for himself which, instead 5 of mending matters, laid open a gloomy vista of coming dis- asters. The summer assizes, 0 he reminded me, were now going on at Lancaster : in consequence of which for three nights and three days he had not lain down in a bed. During the day he was waiting for his own summons as a witness on 10 the trial in which he was interested, or else, lest he should be missing at the critical moment, was drinking with the other witnesses under the pastoral surveillance of the attor- neys. During the night, or that part of it which at sea would form the middle watch, 0 he was driving. This explanation 15 certainly accounted for his drowsiness, but in a way which made it much more alarming ; since now, after several days' resistance to this infirmity, at length he was steadily giving way. Throughout the second stage he grew more and more drowsy. In the second mile of the third stage he surren- 20 dered himself finally and without a struggle to his perilous temptation. All his past resistance had but deepened the weight of this final oppression. Seven atmospheres of sleep 0 rested upon him; and, to consummate the case, our worthy guard, after singing “Love amongst the Roses" 0 for perhaps 25 thirty times, without invitation and without applause, had in revenge moodily resigned himself to slumber — not so deep, doubtless, as the coachman's, but deep enough for mischief. And thus at last, about ten miles from Preston, it came about that I found myself left in charge of his 30 Majesty ’s London and Glasgow mail, then running at the least twelve miles an hour. What made this negligence less criminal than else it must have been thought was the condition of the roads at night I THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 75 during the assizes. At that time, all the law business of populous Liverpool, and also of populous Manchester, with its vast cincture of populous rural districts, was called up by ancient usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. 0 To break up this old traditional usage required, 1, a conflict 5 with powerful established interests, 2, a large system of new arrangements, and 3, a new parliamentary statute. But as yet this change was merely in contemplation. 0 As things were at present, twice in the vear° so vast a body of business rolled northwards from the southern quarter of the county 1G that for a fortnight at least it occupied the severe exertions of two judges in its despatch. The consequence of this was that every horse available for such a service, along the whole line of road, was exhausted in carrying down the multitudes of people who were parties to the different suits. By sunset, 15 therefore, it usually happened that, through utter exhaustion amongst men and horses, the road sank into profound silence. Except the exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of York from a contested election, no such silence succeeding to no such fiery uproar was ever witnessed in England. 20 On this occasion the usual silence and solitude prevailed along the road. Not a hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And, to strengthen this false luxurious confidence in the noiseless roads, it happened also that the night was one of peculiar solemnity and peace. For my own part, though 25 slightly alive to the possibilities of peril, I had so far yielded to the influence of the mighty calm as to sink into a profound reverie. The month was August; in the middle of which lay my own birthday 0 — a festival to every thoughtful man suggesting solemn and often sigh-born 0 thoughts. The 30 county was my own native county — upon which, in its southern section, more than upon any equal area known to man past or present, had descended the original curse of 76 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y labour in its heaviest form, not mastering the bodies only oi men, as of slaves, or criminals in mines, but working through the fiery will. Upon no equal space of earth was, or ever had been, the same energy of human power put forth daily. 0 At 5 this particular season also of the assizes, that dreadful hurri- cane of flight and pursuit, as it might have seemed to a stranger, which swept to and from Lancaster all day long, hunting the county up and down, and regularly subsiding back into silence about sunset, could not fail (when united 10 with this permanent distinction of Lancashire as the very metropolis and citadel of labour) to point the thoughts pa- thetically upon that counter-vision of rest, of saintly repose from strife and sorrow, towards which, as to their secret haven, the profounder aspirations of man’s heart are in soli- 15 tude continually travelling. Obliquely upon our left we were nearing the sea° ; which also must, under the present circumstances, be repeating the general state of halcyon repose. The sea, the atmosphere, the light, bore each an orchestral part in this universal lull. Moonlight and the 20 first timid tremblings of the dawn were by this time blend- ing; and the blendings were brought into a still more ex- quisite state of unity by a slight silvery mist, motionless and dreamy, that covered the woods and fields, but with a veil of equable transparency. Except the feet of our own horses, 25 — which, running on a sandy margin of the road, made but little disturbance, — there was no sound abroad. In the clouds and on the earth prevailed the same majestic peace; and, in spite of all that the villain of a schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our sublimer thoughts, which are the thoughts 30 of our infancy, we still believe in no such nonsense as a limited atmosphere. 0 Whatever we may swear with our false feign- ing lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe, and must for ever believe, in fields of air traversing the total gulf between THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 77 earth and the central heavens. Still, in the confidence of children that tread without fear every chamber in their father's house, and to whom no door is closed, we, in that Sabbatic 0 vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour upon nights like this, ascend with easy steps from the sorrow-stricken 5 fields of earth upwards to the sandals of God. Suddenly, from thoughts like these I was awakened to a sullen sound, as of some motion on the distant road. It stole upon the air for a moment ; I listened in awe ; but then it died away. Once roused, however, I could not but ob-10 serve with alarm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years' experience had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion ; and I ‘saw that we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence of mind. On the contrary, my fear is that I am miserably and shamefully 15 deficient in that quality as regards action. The palsy of doubt and distraction hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remembrances upon my energies when the signal is flying for action But, on the other hand, this accursed gift I have, as regards thought , that in the first step towards 20 the possibility of a misfortune I see its total evolution; in the radix of the series I see too certainly and too instantly its entire expansion ; in the first syllable of the dreadful sen- tence I read already the last. It was not that I feared for ourselves. Us our bulk and impetus charmed against peril 25 in any collision. And I had ridden through too many hun- dreds of perils that were frightful to approach, that were matter of laughter to look back upon, the first face of which was horror, the parting face a jest — for any anxiety to rest upon our interests. The mail was not built, I felt assured, 30 nor bespoke, that could betray me who trusted to its protec- tion. But any carriage that w’e could meet would be frail and light in comparison of ourselves. And I remarked this 78 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS I)E QUINCE Y ominous accident of our situation, — we were on the wrong side of the road.° But then, it may be said, the other party, if other there was, might also be on the wrong side ; and two wrongs might make a right. That was not likely. The 5 same motive which had drawn us to the right-hand side of the road — viz. the luxury of the soft beaten sand as con- trasted with the paved centre — would prove attractive to others. The two adverse carriages would therefore, to a cer- tainty, be travelling on the same side ; and from this side, as 10 not being ours in law, the crossing over to the other would, of course, be looked for from us.° Our lamps, still lighted, would give the impression of vigilance on our part. And *very creature that met us would rely upon us for quarter- ing. 0 All this, and if the separate links of the anticipation 15 had been a thousand times more, I saw, not discursively, or by effort, or by succession, but by one flash of horrid simul- taneous intuition. Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil which might be gathering ahead, ah ! what a sullen mystery 20 of fear, what a sigh of woe, was that which stole upon the air, as again the far-off sound of a wheel was heard ! A whisper it was — a whisper from, perhaps, four miles off — secretly announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less inevitable ; that, being known, was not therefore healed. 25 What could be done — who was it that could do it — to check the storm-flight of these maniacal horses? Could I not seize the reins from the grasp of the slumbering coach- man? You, reader, think that it would have been in your power to do so. And I quarrel not with your estimate of 30 yourself. But, from the way in which the coachman's hand was viced between his upper and lower thigh, this was im- possible. 0 Easy was it? See, then, that bronze equestrian statue. The cruel rider has kept the bit in his horse s mouth THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 79 ior two centuries. Unbridle him for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth with water. Easy was it? Unhorse me, then, that imperial rider; knock me those, marble feet from those marble stirrups of Charlemagne. The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly 8 the sounds of wheels. Who and what could it be? Was it industry in a taxed cart°? Was it youthful gaiety in a gig? Was it sorrow that loitered, or joy that raced? For as yet the snatches of sound were too intermitting, from distance, to decipher the character of the motion. Whoever were the Id travellers, something must be done to warn them. Upon the other party rests the active responsibility, but upon us — and, woe is me ! that us was reduced to my frail opium- shattered self — rests the responsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished ? Might I not sound the 15 guard's horn? Already, on the first thought, I was making my way over the roof to the guard's seat. But this, from the accident which I have mentioned, 0 of the foreign mails being piled upon the roof, was a difficult and even dangerous attempt to one cramped by nearly three hundred miles or 20 outside travelling. And, fortunately, before I had lost much time in the attempt, our frantic horses swept round an angie of the road which opened upon us that final stage where the collision must be accomplished and the catastrophe sealed. All was apparently finished. The court was sitting; the 25 case was heard ; the judge had finished; and only the verdict was yet in arrear. Before us lay an avenue straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, perhaps, in length; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular line from either side, meeting high overhead, 30 gave to it the character of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early light ; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the further end of this Gothic 80 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y aisle, 0 a frail reedy gig, in which were seated a young man^ and by his side a young lady. Ah, young sir ! what are } r ou about ? If it is requisite that you should whisper your com- munications to this young lady — though really I see nobody, 5 at an hour and on a road so solitary, likely to overhear you — ■ is it therefore requisite that you should carry your lips for- ward to hers? The little carriage is creeping on at one mile an hour; and the parties within it, being thus tenderly en- gaged, are naturally bending down their heads. Between 10 them and eternity, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a-half . Oh heavens ! what is it that I shall do ? Speaking or acting, what help can I offer? Strange it is, and to a mere auditor of the tale might seem laughable, that I should need a suggestion from the Iliad ° to prompt the sole 15 resource that remained. Yet so it was. Suddenly I re- membered the shout of Achilles, and its effect. But could I pretend to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas? No : but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia militant ; such a shout would suffice as might carry 20 terror into the hearts of two thoughtless young people and one gig-horse- I shouted — and the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted — and now he heard me, for now he raised his head. Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done; 25 more on my part was not possible. Mine had been the first step ; the second was for the young man ; the third was for God. If, said I, this stranger is a brave man, and if indeed he loves the young girl at his side — or, loving her not, if he feels the obligation, pressing upon every man worthy to be 30 called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman confided to his protection — he will at least make some effort to save her. If that fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a brave man THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 81 should, with his face to the danger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to save. But, if he makes no effort, — shrinking without a struggle from his duty, — he himself will not the less certainly perish for this baseness of poltroonery. He will die no less : and why not ? Wherefore 5 should we grieve that there is one craven less in the world? No ; let him perish, without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him ; and, in that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl who now, upon the least shadow of failure in him, must bv the fiercest of translations — must 10 without time for a prayer — must within seventy seconds — stand before the judgment-seat of God. But craven he was not : sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down : 15 already its gloomy shadow darkened above him ; and already he was measuring his strength to deal with it. Ah ! what a vulgar thing does courage seem when we see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a-day° : ah ! what a sublime thing does courage seem when some fearful summons on the 20 great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some tumultuous crisis from which lie two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “One way lies hope; take the other, and mourn for ever!” How grand a triumph if, even then, amidst the raving of all 25 around him, and the frenzy of the danger, the man is able to confront his situation — is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek his counsel from Him! For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance stedfastly upon us, as if to search and 30 value every element in the conflict before him. For five seconds more of his seventy he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great purpose. For five more, perhaps, he 82 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QU1NCEY sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sorrow, undei some extremity of doubt, for light that should guide him to the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and, by a powerful strain upon the reins, raising his horse's 5 fore-feet from the ground, he slewed him round on the pivot of kis hind-legs, so as to plant the little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved ; except as a first step had been taken towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing 10 was done ; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late : fifteen of the seventy seconds may wall be unexhausted ; and one almighty bound may avail to clear the ground. Hurry, then, hurry ! for the flying 15 moments — they hurry. Oh, hurry, hurry, my brave young man ! for the cruel hoofs of our horses — they also hurry ! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. But fear not for him , if human energy can suffice; faithful was he that drove to his terrific dutv; faithful was 20 the horse to his command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand, by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in the act of risk g to a fence, landed the docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the little equipage 25 had then cleared our over-towering shadow : that was evident even to my own agitated sight. But it mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety if upon the wreck that perished were embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage — was that certainly beyond the 30 line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the ques- tion ? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide the one from the other? Light THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 83 does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping efforts of the gig. That must the young man have felt too plainly. His back was now turned to us; not by sight could he any longer communicate with the peril; but, by the dreadful rattle of our harness, too truly had his ear been instructed that all was finished as regarded any effort of his . Already in resignation he had rested from his struggle; and perhaps in his heart he was whispering, “ Father, which art in heaven, do Thou finish above what I on earth have attempted.” Faster than ever mill-race we ran past them in our inexorable flight . 0 Oh, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit ! Even in that moment the thunder of collision spoke aloud. Either with the swingle-bar, or with the haunch of our near leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig; which stood rather obliquely, and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately parallel with the near-wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded terrifically. I rose in horror, to gaze upon the ruins we might have caused. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the scene; which in a moment told its own tale, and wrote all its records on my heart for ever. Here was the map of the passion that now had finished.® The horse was planted immovably, with his fore-feet upon the paved crest of the central road. He of the whole parry might be supposed untouched by the passion of death. The little cany carriage — partly, perhaps, from the violent tor- sion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow we had given to it — as if it sympathised with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiver- ings. The young man trembled not, nor shivered. He sat like a rock. But his was the steadiness of agitation frozen 6 10 15 20 25 30 84 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look round; for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were accomplished. But the lady — 5 But the lady — ! Oh, heavens ! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing? Figure to yourself, reader, the elements of the 10 case ; suffer me to recall before vour mind the circumstances of that unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night — from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight 0 — from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, 15 murmuring love — suddenly as from the woods and fields — suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revela- tion — suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors, and 20 the tiger roar of his voice. The moments were numbered; the strife was finished; the vision was closed. In the twinkling of an eye, our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the um- brageous aisle; at the right angles we wheeled into our 25 former direction ; the turn of the road carried the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for ever. THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 85 Section III — Dream-Fugue 0 : FOUNDED ON THE PRECEDING THEME OF SUDDEN DEATH “ Whence the sound Of instruments, that made melodious chime, Was heard, of harp and organ ; and who moved Their stops and chords was seen ; his volant touch Instinct through all proportions, low and high, 5 Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.” Par . Lost , Bk. XI.° Tumultuosissimamente 0 Passion of sudden death ! that once in youth I read and interpreted by the shadows of thy averted signs 0 ! — rapture 1C of panic taking the shape (which amongst tombs in churches I have seen) of woman bursting her sepulchral bonds — of woman’s Ionic form 0 bending forward from the ruins of her grave with arching foot, with eyes upraised, with clasped adoring hands — waiting, watching, trembling, praying for 15 the trumpet’s call to rise from dust for ever 0 ! Ah, vision too fearful of shuddering humanity on the brink of almighty abysses ! — vision that didst start back, that didst reel away, like a shrivelling scroll from before the wrath of fire racing on the wings of the wind! Epilepsy so brief of horror, 20 wherefore is it that thou canst not die ? Passing so suddenly into darkness, wherefore is it that still thou sheddest thy sad funeral blights upon the gorgeous mosaics of dreams? Frag- ment of music too passionate, heard once, and heard no more, what aileth thee, that thy deep rolling chords come 25 up at intervals through all the worlds of sleep, and after forty years 0 have lost no element of horror ? I Lo, it is summer — almighty summer ! The everlasting gates of life and summer are thrown open wide : and on the 86 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS HE QUINCEY ocean, tranquil and verdant as a savannah, the unknown lady from the dreadful vision and I myself are floating — she upon a fairy pinnace, and I upon an English three-decker. 0 Both of us are wooing gales of festal happiness within the 5 domain of our common country, within that ancient watery park, within the pathless chase of ocean, where England takes her pleasure as a huntress through winter and summer, from the rising to the setting sun. Ah, what a wilderness of floral beauty was hidden, or was suddenly revealed, upon the 10 tropic islands through which the pinnace moved ! And upon her deck what a bevy of human flowers : young women how lovely, young men how noble, that were dancing together, and slowly drifting towards us amidst music and incense, amidst blossoms from forests and gorgeous corymbi 0 from 15 vintages, amidst natural carolling, and the echoes of sweet girlish laughter. Slowly the pinnace nears us, gaily she hails us, and silently she disappears beneath the shadow of our mighty bows. But then, as at some signal from heaven, the music, and the carols, and the sweet echoing of girlish 20 laughter — all are hushed. What evil has smitten the pin- nace, meeting or overtaking her? Did ruin to our friends couch within our own dreadful shadow ? Was our shadow the shadow of death ? I looked over the bow for an answer. * and, behold ! the pinnace was dismantled ; the revel and the 25 revellers were found no more ; the glory of the vintage was dust; and the forests with their beauty were left without a witness upon the seas. “But where/' and I turned to our crew — “where are the lovely women that danced beneath the awning of flowers and clustering corymbi? Whither 30 have fled the noble young men that danced with them?” Answer there was none. But suddenly the man at the mast-head, whose countenance darkened with alarm, cried out, “Sail on the weather beam 0 ! Down she comes upon us: in seventy seconds she will founder/'’ THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 87 II I looked to the weather side, and the summer had de- parted. The sea was rocking, and shaken with gathering wrath. Upon its surface sat mighty mists, which grouped themselves into arches and long cathedral aisles. Down one of these, with the fiery pace of a quarrel 0 from a cross-bow, ran a frigate right athwart our course. “Are they mad?” some voice exclaimed from our deck. “Do they woo their ruin?” But in a moment, as she was close upon us, some impulse of a heady current 0 or local vortex gave a wheeling bias to her course, and off she forged without a shock As she ran past us, high aloft amongst the shrouds stood the lady of the pinnace. The deeps opened ahead in malice to receive her, towering surges of foam ran after her, the billows were fierce to catch her. But far away she was borne into desert spaces of the sea : whilst still by sight I followed her, as she ran before the howling gale, chased by angry sea-birds and by maddening billows ; still I saw her, as at the moment when she ran past us, standing amongst the shrouds, with her white draperies streaming before the wind. There she stood, with hair dishevelled, one hand clutched amongst the tackling — rising, sinking, fluttering, trembling, praying 0 ; there for leagues I saw her as she stood, raising at intervals one hand to heaven, amidst the fiery crests of the pursuing waves and the raving of the storm; until at last, upon a sound from afar of malicious laughter and mockery, all was hidden for ever in driving showers; and afterwards, but when I know not, nor how, hi X Sweet funeral bells from some incalculable distance, wailing over the dead that die before the dawn, awakened 5 10 15 20 25 88 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y me as I slept in a boat moored to some familiar shore. The morning twilight even then was breaking; and, by the dusky revelations which it spread, I saw a girl, adorned with a garland of white roses about her head for some great 5 festival, running along the solitary strand in extremity of haste. Her running was the running of panic; and often she looked back as to some dreadful enemy in the rear. But, when I leaped ashore, and followed on her steps to warn her of a peril in front, alas ! from me she fled as from another 10 peril, and vainly I shouted to her of quicksands that lay ahead. Faster and faster she ran; round a promontory of rocks she wheeled out of sight; in an instant I also wheeled round it, but only to see the treacherous sands gathering above her head. Already her person was buried; only the 15 fair young head and the diadem of white roses around it were still visible to the pitying heavens; and, last of all, was visible one white marble arm. I saw by the early twilight this fair young head, as it was sinking down to darkness — saw this marble arm, as it rose above her head 20 and her treacherous grave, tossing, faltering, rising, clutching, as at some false deceiving hand stretched out from the clouds — saw this marble arm uttering her dying hope, and then uttering her dying despair. The head, the diadem, the arm — these all had sunk ; at last over these also the cruel quick- 25 sand had closed ; and no memorial of the fair young girl remained on earth, except my own solitary tears, and the funeral bells from the desert seas, that, rising again more softly, sang a requiem over the grave of the buried child, and over her blighted dawn. 30 I sat, and wept in secret the tears that men have ever given to the memory of those that died before the dawn, and by the treachery of earth, our mother. But suddenly the tears and funeral bells were hushed by a shout as of / THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 89 many nations, and by a roar as from some great king's artillery, advancing rapidly along the valleys, and heard afar by echoes from the mountains. “Hush!" I said, as I bent my ear earthwards to listen — “hush! — this either is the very anarchy of strife, or else" — and then I listened more5 profoundly, and whispered as I raised my head — “or else, oh heavens ! it is victory that is final, victory that swallows up all strife. 0 " Immediately, in trance, I was carried over land and sea to some distant kingdom, and placed upon a triumphal car, 10 amongst companions crowned with laurel. The darkness of gathering midnight, brooding over all the land, hid from us the mighty crowds that were weaving restlessly about ourselves as a centre : we heard them, but saw them not. Tidings had arrived, within an hour, of a grandeur that 15 measured itself against centuries; too full of pathos they were, too full of joy, to utter themselves by other language than by tears, by restless anthems, and Te Deums° reverber- ated from the choirs and orchestras of earth. These tidings we that sat upon the laurelled car had it for our privilege 20 to publish amongst- all nations. And already, by signs audible through the darkness, by snortings and tramplings, our angry horses, that knew no fear of fleshly weariness, upbraided us with delay. Wherefore was it that we delayed ? We waited for a secret word, that should bear witness to the 25 hope of nations as now accomplished for ever. At midnight the secret word arrived ; which word was — W aterloo and Recovered Christendom 0 ! The dreadful word shone by its own light; before us it went; high above our leaders' heads it rode, and spread a golden light over the paths which we 30 90 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y traversed. Every city, at the presence of the secret word* threw open its gates. The rivers were conscious as we crossed. 0 All the forests, as we ran along their margins, shivered in homage to the secret word. And the darkness 5 comprehended it.° Two hours after midnight we approached a mighty Minster. Its gates, which rose to the clouds, were closed. But, when the dreadful word that rode before us reached them with its golden light, silently they moved back upon their hinges; 10 and at a flying gallop our equipage entered the grand aisle of the cathedral. Headlong was our pace; and at every altar, in the little chapels and oratories to the right hand and left of our course, the lamps, dying or sickening, kindled anew in sympathy with the secret word that was flying 15 past. Forty leagues we might have run in the cathedral, and as yet no strength of morning light had reached us, when before us we saw the aerial galleries of organ and choir. Every pinnacle of the fretwork, every station of advantage 0 amongst the traceries, was crested by white-robed choristers 20 that sang deliverance; that wept no more tears, as once their fathers had wept; but at intervals that sang together to the generations, ^ saying, 4t Chant the deliverer’s praise in every tongue,” 0 and receiving answers from afar, 25 “ Such as once in heaven and earth were sung.” And of their chanting was no end ; of our headlong pace was neither pause nor slackening. Thus as we ran like torrents — thus as we swept with bridal rapture over the Campo Santo 0 of the cathedral 30 graves — suddenly we became aware of a vast necropolis THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 91 rising upon the far-off horizon — a city of sepulchres, built within the saintly cathedral for the warrior dead that rested from their feuds on earth. Of purple granite was the necrop- olis; yet, in the first minute, it lay like a purple stain upon the horizon, so mighty was the distance. In the second minute it trembled through many changes, growing into terraces and towers of wondrous altitude, so mighty was the pace. In the third minute already, with our dread- ful gallop, we were entering its suburbs. Vast sarcophagi rose on every side, having towers and turrets that, upon the limits of the central aisle, strode forward with haughty intrusion, that ran back with mighty shadows into answer- ing recesses. Every sarcophagus showed many bas- reliefs — bas-reliefs of battles and of battle-fields ; battles from forgotten ages, battles from yesterday; battle-fields that, long since, nature had healed and reconciled to herself with the sweet oblivion of flowers; battle-fields that were 3^et angry and crimson with carnage. Where the terraces ran, there did we run ; where the towers curved, there did ive curve. With the flight of swallows our horses swept round every angle. Like rivers in flood wheeling round headlands, like hurricanes that ride into the secrets of forests, faster than ever light unwove the mazes of darkness, our flying equipage carried earthly passions, kindled warrior instincts, amongst the dust that lay around us — dust oftentimes of our noble fathers that had slept in God from Creci° to Trafal- gar. And now had we reached the last sarcophagus, now were we abreast of the last bas-relief, already had we recov- ered the arrow-like flight of the illimitable central aisle, when coming up this aisle to meet us we beheld afar off a female child, that rode in a carriage as frail as flowers. The mists which went before her hid the fawns that drew her, but could not hide the shells and tropic flowers with which 5 10 15 20 25 30 92 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY she played — but could not hide the lovely smiles by which she uttered her trust in the mighty cathedral, and in the cherubim that looked down upon her from the mighty shafts of its pillars. Face to face she was meeting us; face 5 to face she rode, as if danger there were none. “ Oh, baby ! ” I exclaimed, “shalt thou be the ransom for Waterloo? Must we, that carry tidings of great joy° to every people, be messengers of ruin to thee ! ” In horror I rose at the thought ; but then also, in horror at the thought, rose one that was 10 sculptured on a bas-relief — a Dying Trumpeter. Solemnly from the field of battle he rose to his feet; and, unslinging his stony trumpet, carried it, in his dying anguish, to his stony lips — sounding once, and yet once again ; proclama- tion that, in thy ears, oh, baby ! spoke from the battlements 15 of death. Immediately deep shadows fell between us, and aboriginal silence. The choir had ceased to sing. The hoofs of our horses, the dreadful rattle of our harness, the groaning of our wheels, alarmed the graves no more. By horror the bas-relief had been unlocked unto life. By 20 horror we, that were so full of life, we men and our horses, with their fiery fore-legs rising in mid air to their everlasting gallop, were frozen to a bas-relief. Then a third time the trumpet sounded; the seals were taken off all pulses; life, and the frenzy of life, tore into their channels again; again 25 the choir burst forth in sunny grandeur, as from the muffling of storms and darkness ; again the thunderings of our horses carried temptation into the graves. One cry burst from our lips, as the clouds, drawing off from the aisle, showed it empty before us. — “ Whither has the infant fled ? — 30 is the young child caught up to God?” Lo ! afar off, in a vast recess, rose three mighty windows to the clouds; and on a level with their summits, at height insuperable to man, rose an altar of purest alabaster. On its eastern face was THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH 93 trembling a crimson glory. A glory was it from the reddening dawn that now streamed through the windows? Was it from the crimson robes of the martyrs painted on the win- dows? Was it from the bloody bas-reliefs of earth? There, suddenly, within that crimson radiance, rose the apparitions of a woman’s head, and then of a woman’s figure. The child it was — grown up to woman’s height. Clinging to the horns of the altar, 0 voiceless she stood — sinking, rising, raving, despairing; and behind the volume of incense that, njght and day, streamed upwards from the altar, dimly 10 was seen the fiery font, and the shadow of that dreadful being who should have baptized her with the baptism of death. But by her side was kneeling her better angel, that hid his face with wings; that wept and pleaded for her; that prayed when she could not; that fought with Heaven by 15 tears for her deliverance ; which also, as he raised his immortal countenance from his wings, I saw, by the glory in his eye that from Heaven he had won at last. V Then was completed the passion of the mighty fugue. The golden tubes of the organ, which as yet had but muttered 20 at intervals — gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense — threw up, as from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir and anti-choir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also, Dying Trumpeter, with thy love that was victorious, and thy anguish that was 25 finishing, didst enter the tumult ; trumpet and echo — fare- well love, and farewell anguish — rang through the dreadful sanctus. 0 Oh, darkness of the grave ! that from the crimson altar and from the fiery font wert visited and searched by the effulgence in the angel’s eye — were these indeed thy3c 94 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y children? Pomps of life, that, from the burials of centuries, rose again to the voice of perfect joy, did ye indeed mingle with the festivals of Death? Lo ! as I looked back for seventy leagues through the might}’' cathedral, I saw the 5 quick and the dead 0 that sang together to God, together that sang to the generations of man. All the hosts of jubilation, like armies that ride in pursuit, moved with one step. Us, that, with laurelled heads, were passing from the cathedral, they overtook, and, as with a garment, they wrapped us round 10 with thunders greater than our own. As brothers we moved together ; to the dawn that advanced, to the stars that fled ; rendering thanks to God in the highest 0 — that, having hid His face through one generation behind thick clouds of War, once again was ascending, from the Campo Santo of Waterloo 15 was ascending, in the visions of Peace ; rendering thanks for thee, young girl ! whom having overshadowed with His ineffable passion of death, suddenly did God relent, suffered thy angel to turn aside His arm, and even in thee, sister unknown ! shown to me for a moment only to be hidden for 20 ever, found an occasion to glorify His goodness. A thousand times, amongst the phantoms of sleep, have I seen thee entering the gates of the golden dawn, with the secret word riding before thee, with the armies of the grave behind thee, — seen thee sinking, rising, raving, despairing ; a thou- 25 sand times in the worlds of sleep have seen thee followed by God’s angel through storms, through desert seas, through the darkness of quicksands, through dreams and the dreadful revelations that are in dreams ; only that at the last, with one sling of His victorious arm, He might snatch thee back from .30 ruin, and might emblazon in thy deliverance the endless resurrections of His love ! AUTHOR'S POSTSCRIPT 0 “The English Mail-Coach. ” — This little paper, accord- ing to my original intention, formed part of the “Suspiria de Profundis” 0 ; from which, for a momentary purpose, I did not scruple to detach it, and to publish it apart, as sufficiently intelligible even when dislocated from its place in a larger 5 whole. To my surprise, however, one or two critics, not carelessly in conversation, but deliberately in print, professed their inability to apprehend the meaning of the whole, or to follow the links of the connexion between its several parts. I am myself as little able to understand where the difficulty 10 lies, or to detect any lurking obscurity, as these critics found themselves to unravel my logic. Possibly I may not be an indifferent and neutral judge’ in such a case. I will therefore sketch a brief abstract of the little paper according to my original design, and then leave the reader to judge how far 15 this design is kept in sight through the actual execution. Thirty-seven years ago,° or rather more, accident made me, in the dead of night, and of a night memorably solemn, the solitary witness of an appalling scene, which threatened in- stant death in a shape the most terrific to two young people 20 whom I had no means of assisting, except in so far as I was able to give them a most hurried warning of their danger; but even that not until they stood within the very shadow of the catastrophe, being divided from the most frightful of deaths by scarcely more, if more at all, than seventy seconds. 25 Such was the scene, such in its outline, from which the 95 96 THE ESS A YS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y whole of this paper radiates as a natural expansion. This scene is circumstantially narrated in Section the Second, entitled “The Vision of Sudden Death.” But a movement of horror, and of spontaneous recoil from 5 this dreadful scene, naturally carried the whole of that scene, raised and idealised, into my dreams, and very soon into a rolling succession of dreams. The actual scene, as looked down upon from the box of the mail, was transformed into a dream, as tumultuous and changing as a musical fugue. 10 This troubled dream is circumstantially reported in Section the Third, entitled ‘‘Dream-Fugue on the theme of Sudden Death.” What I had beheld from my seat upon the mail, — the scenical strife of action and passion, of anguish and fear, as I had there witnessed them moving in ghostly silence, — * 15 this duel between life and death narrowing itself to a point of such exquisite evanescence as the collision neared: all these elements of the scene blended, under the law of associa- tion, with the previous and permanent features of distinction investing the mail itself ; which features at that time lay — • 20 1st, in velocity unprecedented, 2dly, in the power and beauty of the horses, 3dly, in the official connexion with the govern- ment of a great nation, and, 4thly, in the function, almost a consecrated function, of publishing and diffusing through the land the great political events, and especially the great 25 battles, during a conflict of unparalleled grandeur. These honorary distinctions are all described circumstantially in the First or introductory Section (“The Glory of Motion”). The three first were distinctions maintained at all times ; but the fourth and grandest belonged exclusively to the war with 30 Napoleon; and this it was which most naturally introduced Waterloo into the dream. Waterloo, I understand, was the particular feature of the “Dream-Fugue” which my censors were least able to account for. Yet surely Waterloo, which, THE ENGLISH MAIL-COACH in common with every other great battle, it had been our special privilege to publish over all the land, most naturally entered the dream under the licence of our privilege . If not — if there be anything amiss — let the Dream be responsible. The Dream is a law to itself; and as well quarrel with aK rainbow for showing, or for not showing, a secondary arch. So far as I know, every element in the shifting movements of the Dream derived itself either primarily from the incidents of the actual scene, or from secondary features associated with the mail. For example, the cathedral aisle derived 10 itself from the mimic combination of features which grouped themselves together at the point of approaching collision — viz. an arrow-like section of the road, six hundred yards long, under the solemn lights described, with lofty trees meeting overhead in arches. The guard's horn, again — a humble 15 instrument in itself — was yet glorified as the organ of pub- lication for so many great national events. And the incident of the Dying Trumpeter, who rises from a marble bas-relief, and carries a marble trumpet to his marble lips for the purpose of warning the female infant, was doubtless secretly suggested 2U by my own imperfect effort to seize the guard's horn, and to blow a warning blast. But the Dream knows best ; and the Dream, I say again, is the responsible party. THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN° 1. — An Extra Nuisance is introduced into Spain. On a night in the year 1592 ° (but which night is a secret liable to 365 answers), a Spanish “ son of somebody” ( i.e . hidalgo 0 ), in the fortified town of St. Sebastian, 0 received the disagreeable intelligence from a nurse that his wife had just 5 presented him with a daughter. No present that the poor misjudging lady could possibly have made him was so entirely useless towards any purpose of his. He had three daughters already; which happened to be more by 2 + 1, according to his reckoning, than any reasonable allowance of daughters. 10 A supernumerary son might have been stowed away : but supernumerary daughters were the very nuisance of Spain. He did, therefore, what in such cases every proud and lazy Spanish gentleman endeavoured to do. And surely I need not inteiTupt myself by any parenthesis to inform the base 15 British reader, who makes it his glory to work hard, that the peculiar point of honour for the Spanish gentleman lay in precisely these two qualities of pride and laziness; for, if he were not proud, or had anything to do, what could you look for but ruin to the old Spanish aristocracy? some of 20 whom boasted that no member of their house (unless illegiti- mate, and a mere terroe filius 0 ) had done a day’s work since the Flood. 0 In the ark they admitted that Noah kept them tightly to work; because, in fact, there was work to do that must be done by somebody. But, once anchored upon *98 THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 99 Ararat, they insisted upon it most indignantly that no an- cestor of the Spanish noblesse 0 had ever worked, except through his slaves. And with a view to new leases of idle- ness, through new generations of slaves, it was (as many people think) that Spain went so heartily into the enterprises 5 of Cortez and Pizarro. 0 A sedentary body of Dons,° without needing to uncross their thrice-noble legs, would thus levy eternal tributes of gold and silver upon eternal mines, through eternal successions of nations that had been, and were to be, enslaved. Meantime, until these golden visions should be 10 realised, aristocratic daughters , who constituted the hereditary torment of the true Castilian 0 Don, were to be disposed of in the good old way, viz. by quartering them for life upon nun- neries : a plan which entailed no sacrifice whatever upon any of the parties concerned, except, indeed, the little insignifi- 15 cant sacrifice of happiness and natural birthrights to the daughters. But this little inevitable wreck, when placed in the counter scale to the magnificent purchase of eternal idle- ness for an aristocracy so ancient, was surely entitled to little attention amongst philosophers. Daughters must perish by 20 generations, and ought to be proud of perishing, in order that their papas, being hidalgos, might luxuriate in laziness. Accordingly, on this system, our hidalgo of St. Sebastian wrapped the new little daughter, odious to his paternal eyes, in a pocket-handkerchief, and then, wrapping up his own 25 throat with a great deal more care, off he bolted to the neigh- bouring convent of St. Sebastian, — meaning by that term not merely a convent of that city, but also (amongst several convents) the one dedicated to that saint. 0 It is well that in this quarrelsome world we quarrel furiously about tastes 0 ; 30 since, agreeing too closely about the objects to be liked, we should agree too closely about the objects to be appropriated; which would breed much more fighting than is bred by dis- 100 THE ESSAYS OF'' THOMAS BE QUINCEY agreeing. That little human tadpole, which the old toad o^ a father would not suffer to stay ten minutes in his house, proved as welcome at the nunnery of St. Sebastian as she was odious at home. The lady superior of the convent was 5 aunt, by the mother’s side, to the new-born stranger. She therefore kissed and blessed the little lady. The poor nuns, who were never to have any babies of their own, and were languishing for some amusement, perfectly doated on this prospect of a wee pet. The superior thanked the hidalgo for 10 his very splendid present. The nuns thanked him, each and all ; until the old crocodile 0 actually began to whimper senti- mentally at what he now perceived to be excess of munifi- cence in himself. Munificence, indeed, he remarked, was his foible, next after parental tenderness. 2. — Wait a little, Hidalgo ! 15 What a luxury it is, sometimes, to a cynic that there go two words to a bargain. 0 In the convent of St. Sebastian all was gratitude; gratitude (as aforesaid) to the hidalgo from all the convent for his present, until at last the hidalgo began to express gratitude to them for their gratitude to him . Then 20 came a rolling fire of thanks to St. Sebastian : from the superior, for sending a future saint ; from the nuns, for send- ing such a love of a plaything; and, finalty, from papa, for sending such substantial board and well-bolted lodgings : “from which,” said the malicious old fellow, “my pussy will 25 never find her way out to a thorny and dangerous world.” Won’t she ? I suspect, son of somebody, that the next time you see “pussy,” which may happen to be also the last, will not be in a convent of any kind. At present, whilst this general rendering of thanks was going on, one person only 30 took no part in them. That person was “pussy,” whose THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 101 little figure lay quietly stretched out in the arms of a smiling young nun, with eyes nearly shut, yet peering a little at the candles. Pussy said nothing. It's of no great use to say much when all the world is against you. But, if St. Sebas- tian had enabled her to speak out the whole truth, pussy 5 would have said: “So, Mr. Hidalgo, you have been engaging lodgings for me, lodgings for life. Wait a little. Well try that question when my claws are grown a little longer. ” 3. — Symptoms of Mutiny. Disappointment, therefore, was gathering ahead. But for the present there was nothing of the kind. That noble old 10 crocodile, papa, was not in the least disappointed as regarded his expectation of having no anxiety to waste, and no money to pay, on account of his youngest daughter. He insisted on his right to forget her; and in a week had forgotten her, never to think of her again, but once. The lady superior, as 15 regarded her demands, was equally content, and through a course of several years; for, as often as she asked pussy if she would be a saint, pussy replied that she would if saints were allowed plenty of sweetmeats. But least of all were the nuns disappointed. Everything that they had fancied 20 possible in a human plaything fell short of what pussy realised in racketing, racing, and eternal plots against the peace of the elder nuns. No fox ever kept a hen-roost in such alarm as pussy kept the dormitory of the senior sisters ; whilst the younger ladies were run off their legs by the eternal wiles, 25 and had their gravity discomposed, even in chapel, by the eternal antics, of this privileged little kitten. The kitten had long ago received a baptismal name, — which was Kitty, or Kate; and that in Spanish is Catalina. It was a good name, as it recalled her original name of 30 102 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY “pussy.” And, by the way, she had also an ancient and honourable surname — viz. De Erciuso; which is to this dav° a name rooted in Biscay. 0 Her father, the hidalgo, was a military officer in the Spanish service, and had little 5 care whether his kitten should turn out a wolf or a lamb, having made over the fee-simple 0 of his own interest in the little Kate to St. Sebastian, “to have and to hold,” 0 so long as Kate should keep her hold of this present life. Kate had no apparent intention to let slip that hold ; for she was bloom- 10 ing as a rose-bush in June, 0 tall and strong as a young cedar. Yet, notwithstanding this robust health, which forbade one to think of separation from St. Sebastian by death, and not- withstanding the strength of the convent walls, which forbade one to think of any other separation, the time was drawing 15 near when St. Sebastian’s lease in Kate must, in legal phrase, “determine,” 0 and any chateaux en Espagne 0 that the saint might have built on the cloistral fidelity of his pet Catalina must suddenly give way in one hour, like many other vanities in our own days of Spanish growth, such as Spanish consti- 20 tutions and charters, Spanish financial reforms, Spanish bonds, and other little varieties of Spanish ostentatious mendacity. 0 4. — The Symptoms Thicken. After reaching her tenth year, Catalina became thoughtful and not very docile. At times she was even headstrong and 25 turbulent, so that the gentle sisterhood of St. Sebastian, who had no other pet or plaything in the world, began to weep in secret, fearing that they might have been rearing by mistake some future tigress; for, as to infancy, that , you know, is playful and innocent even in the cubs of a tigress. But there 30 the ladies were going too far. Catalina was impetuous and aspiring, violent sometimes, headstrong and haughty towards THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 103 those who presumed upon her youth, absolutely rebellious against all open harshness, but still generous and most for- giving, disdainful of petty arts, and emphatically a noble girl. She was gentle, if people would let her be so. But woe to those who took liberties with her ! A female servant of 5 the convent, in some authority, one day, in passing up the aisle to matins, wilfully gave Kate a push; and, in return, Kate, who never left her debts in arrear, gave the servant for a keepsake such a look as that servant carried with her in fearful remembrance to her grave. It seemed as if Kate had 1C tropic blood in her veins that continuallv called her awav to the tropics. It was ail the fault of that “ blue rejoicing sky/ ;o of those purple Biscayan mountains, 0 of 'that glad tumultuous ocean, 0 which she beheld daily from the nunnery gardens. Or, if only half of it was their fault, the other half lay in those 15 golden tales, 0 streaming upwards even into the sanctuaries of convents, like morning mists touched by earliest sunlight, of kingdoms overshadowing a new world which had been founded by her kinsmen with the simple aid of a horse and a lance. The reader is to remember that this is no romance, 20 or at least no fiction, 0 that he is reading; and it is proper to remind the reader of real romances in Ariosto or our own Spenser that such martial ladies as the Marfisa or Bradamant of the first, and Britomart of the other, were really not the improbabilities that modern society imagines. 0 Many a 25 stout man, as you will soon see, found that Kate, with a sabre in hand, and well mounted, was no romance at all, but far too serious a fact. 5. — Good-night, St. Sebastian! The day is come — the evening is come° — when our poor Kate, that had for fifteen years been so tenderly rocked in 30 104 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y the arms of St. Sebastian and his daughters, and that hence- forth shall hardly find a breathing space between eternal storms, must see her peaceful cell, must see the holy chapel, for the last time. It was at vespers, 0 it was during the chant- 5 ing of the vesper service, that she finally read the secret signal for her departure, which long she had been looking for. It happened that her aunt, the Lady Principal, had forgotten her breviary. As this was in a private scrutoire, 0 the prudent lady did not choose to send a servant for it, but gave the key 10 to her niece. The niece, on opening the scrutoire, saw, with that rapidity of eye-glance for the one thing needed in great emergencies which ever attended her through life, that now was the moment, now had the clock struck for an opportunity which, if neglected, might never return. There lay the total 0 15 keys, in one massive trousseau ,° of that monastic fortress, impregnable even to armies from without. St. Sebastian ! do you see what your pet is going to do ? And do it she will, as sure as your name is St. Sebastian. Kate went back to her aunt with the breviary and the key, but taking good care 20 to leave that awful door,° on whose hinge revolved all her future life, unlocked. Delivering the two articles to the superior, she complained of headache — (ah, Kate ! what did you know of headaches ?) — upon which her aunt, kissing her forehead, dismissed her to bed. Now, then, through 25 three-fourths of an hour Kate will have free elbow-room for unanchoring her boat, for unshipping her oars, and for pulling ahead right out of St. Sebastian's cove into the main ocean of life. Catalina, the reader is to understand, does not belong to 30 the class of persons in whom pre-eminently I profess an inter- est. 0 But everywhere one loves energy and indomitable courage. And always what is best in its kind one admires, even where the kind may happen to be not specially attrac- THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 105 tive. Kate’s advantages for her role in this life lay in four things : viz. in a well-built person and a particularly strong wrist ; 2d, in a heart that nothing could appal ; 3d, in a saga- cious head, never drawn aside from the hoc age° (from the instant question of the hour) by any weakness of imagina-5 tion ; 4th, in a tolerably thick skin, — not literally, for she was fair and blooming and eminently handsome, having such a skin, in fact, as became a young woman of family in north- ernmost Spain; but her sensibilities were obtuse as regarded some modes of delicacy, some modes of equity, some modes of 10 the world’s opinion, and all modes whatever of personal hard- ship. Lay a stress on that word some — for, as to delicacy, she never lost sight of that kind which peculiarly concerns her sex. Long afterwards she told the Pope himself, 0 when confessing without disguise to the paternal old man her sad 15 and infinite wanderings (and I feel convinced of her veracity), that in this respect — viz. all which concerned her sexual honour — even then she was as pure as a child. And, as to equity, it was only that she substituted the rude natural equity of camps for the specious and conventional equity 20 of courts and towns. I must add, though at the cost of inter- rupting the story by two or three more sentences, that Cata- lina had also a fifth advantage, which sounds humbly, but is reallv of use in a world where even to fold and seal a letter adroitly is not the lowest of accomplishments. She was a 25 handy girl. She could turn her hand to anything ; of which I will give you two memorable instances. Was there ever a girl in this world but herself that cheated and snapped her fingers at that awful Inquisition which brooded over the con- vents of Spain 0 ? that did this without collusion from outside ; 3a trusting to nobody but to herself, and what beside ? to one needle, two skeins of thread, and a bad pair of scissors ! For that the scissors were bad, though Kate does not say so in 106 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y her memoirs, I know by an a priori 0 argument : viz. becaust all scissors were bad in the year 1607.° Now, say all decent logicians, from a universal to a particular valet consequential the right of inference is good. All scissors were bad, ergc° 5 some scissors were bad. The second instance of her handi- ness will surprise you even more : — She once stood upon a scaffold, under sentence of death (but, understand, on the evidence of false witnesses). Jack Ketch 0 — or, as the present generation calls him, “Mr. Calcraft,” 0 or “ Cal- mer aft, Esq.” — was absolutely tying the knot under her ear, and the shameful man of ropes fumbled so deplorably, that Kate (who by much nautical experience had learned from another sort of “Jack” 0 how a knot should be tied in this world) lost all patience with the contemptible artist, told 15 him she was ashamed of him, took the rope out of his hand, and tied the knot irreproachably herself. The crowd saluted her with a festal roll, long and loud, of vivas; and, this word viva being a word of good augury 0 — But stop ; let me not anticipate. 20 From this sketch of Catalina's character the reader is pre- pared to understand the decision of her present proceeding. She had no time to lose : the twilight, it is true, favoured her ; but in any season twilight is as short-lived as a farthing rush- light 0 ; and she must get under hiding before pursuit com- 25 menced. Consequently she lost not one of her forty-five minutes in picking and choosing. No shilly-shally 0 in Kate. She saw with the eyeball of an eagle what was indispensable. Some little money perhaps, in the first place, to pay the first toll-bar 0 of life : so, out of four shillings in aunty's purse, 30 or what amounted to that English sum in various Spanish coins, she took one. You can’t say that was exorbitant. Which of us wouldn't subscribe a shilling for poor Kate, to put into the first trouser-pockets that ever she will wear ? THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 107 I remember even yet, as a personal experience, that, when first arrayed, at four years old, in nankeen trousers, though still so far retaining hermaphrodite relations of dress as to wear a petticoat above my trousers, all my female friends (because they pitied me, as one that had suffered from years 5 of ague 0 ) filled my pockets with half-crowns, of which I can render no account at this day. But what were my poor pre- tensions by the side of Kate’s? Kate was a fine blooming girl of fifteen, with no touch of ague; and, before the next sun rises, Kate shall draw on her first trousers, made by her 1G own hand; and, that she may do so, of all the valuables in aunty’s repository she takes nothing beside, first (for I detest your ridiculous and most pedantic neologism of firstly 0 ) — first, the shilling, for which I have already given a receipt, — secondly, two skeins of suitable thread, — thirdly, one stout 15 needle, and (as 1 told you before, if you would please to re- member things) one bad pair of scissors. Now she was ready ; ready to cast off St. Sebastian’s towing-rope; ready to cut and run° for port anywhere ; which port (according to a smart American adage) is to be looked for “at the back of beyond.” 0 20 The finishing touch of her preparations was to pick out the proper keys: even there she showed the same discretion. She did no gratuitous mischief. She did not take the wine- cellar key, which would have irritated the good father-con- fessor ; she did not take the key of the closet which held the 25 peppermint-water and other cordials, for that would have distressed the elderly nuns. She took those keys only that belonged to her , if ever keys did ; for they were the keys that locked her out from her natural birthright of liberty. Very different views are taken by different parties of this particu- 30 lar act now meditated by Kate. The Court of Rome treats it as the immediate suggestion of Hell, and open to no for- giveness. Another Court, far loftier, ampler, and of larger 108 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y authority — viz. the Court which holds its dreadful tribunal in the human heart and conscience — pronounces this act an inalienable privilege of man, and the mere reassertion of a birthright that can neither be bought nor sold. 0 6. — Kate's First Bivouac and First March. 5 Right or wrong, however, in Romish casuistry, Kate was resolved to let herself out; and did; and, for fear any man should creep in while vespers lasted, and steal the kitchen grate, she locked her old friends in. Then she sought a shelter. The air was moderately warm. She hurried into 10 a chestnut wood ; and upon withered leaves, which furnished to Kate her very first bivouac in a long succession of such experiences, she slept till earliest dawn. Spanish diet and youth leave the digestion undisordered, and the slumbers light. When the lark rose, up rose Catalina. No time to 15 lose ; for she was still in the dress of a nun, and therefore, by a law too flagrantly notorious, liable to the peremptory challenge and arrest of any man — the very meanest or poorest — in all Spain. With her armed finger (ay, by the way, I forgot the thimble; but Kate did not°), she set to 20 work upon her amply-embroidered petticoat. She turned it wrong side out ; and, with the magic that only female hands possess, had she soon sketched 0 and finished a dashing pair of Wellington trousers. 0 All other changes 0 were made according to the materials she possessed, and quite sufficiently 25 to disguise the two main perils — her sex, and her monastic dedication. What was she to do next? Speaking of Wellington trousers anywhere in the north of Spain would remind us, but could hardly remind her, of Vittoria, 0 where she dimly had heard of some maternal relative. To Vittoria, 30 therefore, she bent her course ; and, like the Duke of Wei- THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 109 lington, but arriving more than two centuries earlier, she gained a great victory at that place. She had made a two days' march., with no provisions but wild berries ; she depended, for anything better, as light-heartedly as the duke, upon attacking sword in hand, storming her dears friend's intrenchments, and effecting a lodgment in his breakfast-room, should he happen to possess one. This amiable relative 0 proved to be an elderly man, who had but one foible, — or perhaps it was a virtue, — which had by con- tinual development overshadowed his whole nature : it was 1G pedantry. On that hint Catalina spoke : she knew by heart, from the services of the convent, a good number of Latin phrases. Latin! — Oh, but that was charming; and in one so young ! The grave Don owned the soft impeach- ment 0 ; relented at once, and clasped the hopeful young 15 gentleman in the Wellington trousers to his uncular 0 and rather angular breast. In this house the yarn of life was of a mingled quality. 0 The table was good, but that was exactly what Kate cared least about. On the other hand, the amusement was of the worst kind. It consisted chiefly 20 in conjugating Latin verbs, especially such as were obsti- nately irregular. To show him a withered frost-bitten verb, that wanted its preterite, wanted its gerunds, wanted its supines, — wanted, in fact, everything in this world, fruits or blossoms, that make a verb desirable, — was to earn the Don's 25 gratitude for life. All day long he was, as you may say, marching and counter-marching his favourite brigades of verbs — verbs frequentative, verbs inceptive, verbs desidera- tive — horse, foot, and artillery; changing front, advancing from the rear, throwing out skirmishing parties ; until Kate, 3G not given to faint, must have thought of such a resource, — as once in her life she had thought so seasonably of a vesper headache. This was really worse than St. Sebastian's. It 110 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY reminds one of a French gaiety in Thiebault 0 ; who describes* a rustic party, under equal despair, as employing themselves in conjugating the verb s’ennuyer 0 — Je m’ennuie , tu Vennuies , il s’ennuit; nous nous ennuyons , &c. ; thence to the imperfect 1 3 — Je m’ennuyois, tu t’ennuyois , &c. ; thence to the imperative — Qu’il s’ennuye , &c. ; and so on, through the whole dolorous conjugation. Now, you know, when the time comes that nous nous ennuyons, 0 the best course is to part. Kate saw that ; and she walked off from the Don’s (of whose amorous 10 passion for defective verbs one would have wished to know the catastrophe), taking from his mantelpiece rather more silver than she had levied on her aunt. But then, observe, the Don also was a relative ; and really he owed her a small cheque on his banker for turning out on his field-days. A 35 man if he is a kinsman, has no unlimited privilege of boring one ; an uncle has a qualified right to bore his nephews, even when they happen to be nieces; but he has no right to bore either nephew or niece gratis. 7. — Kate at Court, where she prescribes Phlebot- omy, and is Promoted. From Vittoria, Kate was guided by a carrier to Valla- 20dolid.° Luckily, as it seemed at first, — but, in fact, it made little difference in the end, — here, at Valladolid, were as- sembled the King 0 and his Court. Consequently, there was plenty of regiments, and plenty of regimental bands. Attracted by one of these, Catalina was quietly listening to >5 the music, when some street ruffians, in derision of the gay colours and the particular form of her forest-made costume 0 (rascals ! what sort of trousers would they have made with no better scissors?), began to pelt her with stones. Ah, my friends of the genus blackguard , you little know who it is THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 111 that you are selecting for experiments ! This is the one creature of fifteen years old in all Spain, be the other male or female, whom nature, and temper, and provocation have qualified for taking the conceit out of you ! This she very soon did, laying open with sharp stones more heads than 5 either one or two, and letting out rather too little than too much of bad Valladolid blood. But mark the constant villainy of this world ! Certain Alguazils 0 — very like some other Alguazils that I know of nearer home — having stood by quietly to see the friendless stranger insulted and assaulted, 1G now felt it their duty to apprehend the poor nun for her most natural retaliation; and, had there been such a thing as a treadmill 0 in Valladolid, Kate was booked for a place on it without further inquiry. Luckily, injustice does not always prosper. A gallant young cavalier, who had wit - 15 nessed from his windows the whole affair, had seen the prov- ocation, and admired Catalina’s behaviour, equally patient at first and bold at last, hastened into the street, pursued the officers, forced them to release their prisoner upon stating the circumstances of the case, and instantly offered to Catalina a 20 situation amongst his retinue. He was a man of birth and fortune ; and the place offered, that of an honorary page, not being at all degrading even to a “ daughter of somebody,” 0 was cheerfully accepted. 8. — Too Good to Last 5 Here Catalina spent a happy quarter of a year. She was 25 now splendidly dressed in dark blue velvet, by a tailor that did not work within the gloom of a chestnut forest. She and the young cavalier, Don Francisco de Cardenas, 0 were mutually pleased, and had mutual confidence. All went well, until one evening (but, luckily, not before the sun had 30 112 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y been set so long as to make all things indistinct) who should march into the antechamber of the cavalier but that sublime of crocodiles, 0 papa , whom we lost sight of fifteen years ago, and shall never see again after this night. He had his 5 crocodile tears all ready for use, in working order, like a good industrious fire-engine. Whom will he speak to first in this lordly mansion? It was absolutely to Catalina her- self that he advanced; whom, for many reasons, he could not be supposed to recognise — lapse of years, male attire, 10 twilight, were all against him. Still, she might have the family countenance; and Kate fancied (but it must have been a fancy) that he looked with a suspicious scrutiny into her face, as he inquired cor the young Don. To avert her awn face, to announce him to Don Francisco, to wish papa 15 on the shores of that ancient river, the Nile, furnished but one moment’s work to the active Catalina. She lingered, however, as her place entitled her to do, at the door of the audience-chamber. She guessed already, but in a moment she heard from papa’s lips, what was the nature of his errand. 20 His daughter Catherine, he informed the Don, had eloped from the convent of St. Sebastian, a place rich in delight, radiant with festal pleasure, overflowing with luxury. Then he laid open the unparalleled ingratitude of such a step. Oh, the unseen treasure that had been spent upon 25 that girl ! Oh, the untold sums of money, the unknown amounts of cash, that had been sunk in that unhappy speculation ! The nights of sleeplessness suffered during her infancy ! The fifteen years of solicitude thrown away in schemes for her improvement ! It would have moved 30 the heart of a stone. The hidalgo wept copiously at his own pathos. And to such a height of grandeur had he carried his Spanish sense of the sublime that he disdained to mention — yes ! positively not even in a parenthesis THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 113 would he condescend to notice — that pocket-handkerchief which he had left at St. Sebastian’s fifteen years ago, by way of envelope for “pussy,” and which, to the best of pussy’s knowledge, was the one sole memorandum of papa ever heard of at St. Sebastian’s. Pussy, however, saw no 5 use in revising and correcting the text of papa’s remem- brances. She showed her usual prudence, and her usual incomparable decision. It did not appear, as yet, that she would be reclaimed (or was at all suspected for the fugitive) by her father, or by Don Cardenas. For it is an 10 instance of that singular fatality which pursued Catalina through life that, to her own astonishment (as she now collected from her father’s conference), nobody had traced her to Valladolid, nor had her father’s visit any connexion with any suspicious traveller in that direction. The case 15 was quite different. Strangely enough, her street row had thrown her, by the purest of accidents, into the one sole household in all Spain that had an official connexion with St. Sebastian’s. That convent had been founded by the young cavalier’s family; and, according to the usage of 20 Spain, the young man (as present representative of his house) was the responsible protector and official visitor of the establishment. It was not to the Don as harbourer of his daughter, but to the Don as hereditary patron of the convent, that the hidalgo was appealing. This being so, 25 Kate might have staid safely some time longer. Yet, again, that would but have multiplied the clues for tracing her; and, finally, she would too probably have been discovered ; after which, with all his youthful generosity, the poor Don could not have protected her. Too terrific was the ven-30 geance that awaited an abettor of any fugitive nun; but, above all, if such a crime were perpetrated by an official mandatory 0 of the Church. Yet, again, so far it was the i 114 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY more hazardous course to abscond that it almost revealed her to the young Don as the missing daughter. Still, if it really had that effect, nothing at present obliged him to pursue her, as might have been the case a few weeks later. 5 Kate argued (I daresay) rightly, as she always did. Her prudence whispered eternally that safety there was none for her until she had laid the Atlantic between herself and St. Sebastian's. Life was to be for her a Bay of Biscay; and it was odds but she had first embarked upon this billowy life 10 from the literal Bay of Biscay. 0 Chance ordered otherwise. Or, as a Frenchman 0 says, with eloquent ingenuity, in con- nexion with this very story, “ Chance is but the 'pseudonym of God for those particular cases which he does not choose to subscribe openly with his own sign-manual. ”° She crept 15 upstairs to her bedroom. Simple are the travelling prepara- tions of those that, possessing nothing, have no imperials 0 to pack. She had Juvenal's qualification for carolling gaily through a forest full of robbers 0 ; for she had nothing to lose but a change of linen, that rode easily enough under her left 20 arm, leaving the right free for answering the questions of impertinent customers. As she crept downstairs, she heard the crocodile still weeping forth his sorrows to the pensive ear of twilight, and to the sympathetic Don Francisco. Ah ! what a beautiful idea occurs to me at this point ! Once, 25 on the hustings at Liverpool, I saw a mob orator, whose brawling mouth, open to its widest expansion, suddenly some larking sailor, by the most dexterous of shots, plugged up with a paving-stone. Here, now, at Valladolid was another mouth that equally required plugging. What a pity, then, 30 that some gav brother-page of Kate's had not been there to turn aside into the room armed with a roasted potato, and, taking a sportsman's aim, to have lodged it in the crocodile's abominable mouth ! Yet, what an anachronism ! There THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 115 were no roasted potatoes in Spain at that date (1608) ; which can be apodeictically 0 proved, because in Spain there were no potatoes at all, and very few in England. 0 But anger drives a man to say anything. 9. — How to choose Lodgings. Catalina had seen her last of friends and enemies in Valladolid. Short was her time there ; but she had improved it so far as to make a few of both. There was an eye or two in Valladolid that would have glared with malice upon her, had she been seen by all e} r es in that city as she tripped through the streets in the dusk; and eyes there wore that would have softened into tears, had they seen the desolate condition of the child, or in vision had seen the struggles that were before her. But what’s the use of wasting tears upon our Kate? Wait till to-morrow morning at sunrise, and see if she is particularly in need of pity. What, now, should a young lady do — I propose it as a subject for a prize essay — that finds herself in Valladolid at nightfall, having no letters of introduction, and not aware of any reason, great or small, for preferring this or that street in general, except so far as she knows of some reason for avoiding one street in particular? The great problem I have stated Kate investi- gated as she went along ; and she solved it with the accuracy which she ever applied to practical exigencies. Her con- clusion was — that the best door to knock at, in such a case, was the door where there was no need to knock at all, as being deliberately left open to all comers. For she argued that within such a door there would be nothing to steal, so that, at least, you could not be mistaken in the dark for a thief. Then, as to stealing from her , they might do that if they could. 5 10 15 20 25 30 116 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY Upon these principles, which hostile critics will in vain endeavour to undermine, she laid her hand upon what seemed a rude stable-door. Such it proved ; and the stable was not absolutely empty : for there was a cart inside — a four- 5 wheeled cart. True, there was so ; but you couldn't take that away in your pocket; and there were also five loads of straw — but then of those a lady could take no more than her reticule would carry; which perhaps was allowed by the courtesy of Spain. So Kate was right as to the difficulty of 10 being challenged for a thief. Closing the door as gently as she had opened it, she dropped her person, handsomely dressed as she was, upon the nearest heap of straw. Some ten feet further were lying two muleteers, honest and happy enough, as compared with the lords of the bedchamber 0 15 then in Valladolid; but still gross men, carnally deaf from eating garlic and onions and other horrible substances. Accordingly, they never heard her, nor were aware, until dawn, that such a blooming person existed. But she was aware of them , and of their conversation. In the intervals of 20 their sleep, they talked much of an expedition to America, on the point of sailing under Don Ferdinand de Cordova. 0 It was to sail from some Andalusian 0 port. That was the thing for her. At daylight she woke, and jumped up, needing little more toilet than the birds that already were singing in 25 the gardens, or than the two muleteers, who, — good, honest fellows, — saluted the handsome boy kindly, thinking no ill at his making free with their straw, though no leave had been asked. With these philo-garlic° men Kate took her departure. 30 The morning was divine; and, leaving Valladolid with the transports that befitted such a golden dawn, — feeling also already, in the very obscurity of her exit, the pledge of her final escape, — she cared no longer for the crocodile, nor for THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 117 St. Sebastian, nor (in the way of fear) for the protector of St. Sebastian, though of him she thought with some tenderness ; so deep is the remembrance of kindness mixed with justice. Andalusia she reached rather slowly; many weeks the journey cost her°; but, after all, what are weeks? She 5 reached Seville 0 many months before she was sixteen 0 years old, and quite in time for the expedition. 19. — An Ugly Dilemma, where Right and Wrong is REDUCED TO A QUESTION OF RlGHT OR LEFT. Ugly indeed is that dilemma where shipwreck and the sea are on one side of you, and famine on the other, or, if a chance of escape is offered, apparently it depends upon 10 taking the right road where there is no guide-post. St. Lucar° being the port of rendezvous for the Peruvian expedition, thither she went. All comers were welcome on board the fleet; much more a fine young fellow like Kate. She was at once engaged as a mate 0 ; and her ship, in par- 15 ticular, after doubling Cape Horn without loss, made the coast of Peru. Paita was the port of her destination. 0 Very near to this port they were, when a storm threw them upon a coral reef. There was little hope of the ship from the first, for she was unmanageable, and was not expected to hold 20 together for twenty-four hours. In this condition, with death before their faces, mark what Kate did ; and please to remember it for her benefit, when she does any other little thing that angers you. The crew lowered the long-boat. Vainly the captain protested against this disloyal desertion 25 of a king's ship, which might yet, perhaps, be run on shore, so as to save the stores. All the crew, to a man, deserted the captain. You may say that literally; for the single exception was not a man. being our bold-hearted Kate. She was the 118 THE ESSA OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY only sailor that refused to leave her captain, or the King of Spain's ship. The rest pulled away for the shore, and with fair hopes of reaching it. But one half-hour told another tale. Just about that time came a broad sheet of lightning, 5 which, through the darkness of evening, revealed the boat in the very act of mounting like a horse upon an inner reef, instantly filling, and throwing out the crew, every man of whom disappeared amongst the breakers. The night which succeeded was gloomy for both the representatives of his 10 Catholic Majesty. 0 It cannot be denied by the underwriters at Lloyd’s 0 that the muleteer’s stable at Valladolid was worth twenty such ships, though the stable was not insured against fire, and the ship was insured against the sea and the wind by some fellow that thought very little of his engagements. 15 But what’s the use of sitting down to cry ? That was never any trick of Catalina’s. By daybreak she was at work with an axe in her hand. I knew it, before ever I came to this place in her memoirs. I felt, as sure as if I had read it, that when day broke we should find Kate at work. Thimble 20 or axe, trousers or raft, all one to her. The captain, though true to his duty, faithful to his king, and on his king’s account even hopeful, seems from the first to have desponded on his own. He gave no help towards the raft. Signs were speaking, however, pretty loudly that 25 he must do something ; for notice to quit was now served pretty liberally. Kate’s raft was ready; and she encouraged the captain to think that it 'would give both of them some- thing to hold by in swimming, if not even carry double. At this moment, when all was waiting for a start and the ship :>0 herself was waiting only for a final lurch to say Good-bye to the King of Spain, Kate went and did a thing which some erring people will misconstrue. She knew of a box laden with gold coins, reputed to be the King of Spain’s, and meant THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 119 for contingencies on the voyage out. This she smashed open with her axe, and took out a sum in ducats and pistoles 0 equal to one hundred guineas English; which, having well secured in a pillow-case, she then lashed firmly to the raft. Now, this, you know, though not “flotsam, ” because it would 5 not float, was certainly, by maritime law, “jetsam” 0 It would be the idlest of scruples to fancy that the sea or a shark had a better right to it than a philosopher, or a splendid girl who showed herself capable of writing a very fair 8vo,° to say nothing of her decapitating in battle, as you will find, more 10 than one of the king’s enemies, and recovering the king’s banner. No sane moralist would hesitate to do the same thing under the same circumstances, even on board an English vessel, and though the First Lord of the Admiralty, and the Secretary, that pokes his nose into everything 15 nautical, 0 should be looking on. The raft was now thrown into the sea. Kate jumped after it, and then entreated the captain to follow her. He attempted it; but, wanting her jmuthful agility, he struck his head against a spar, and sank like lead, giving notice below that his ship was coming after 20 him as fast as she could make ready. Kate’s luck was better : she mounted the raft, and by the rising tide was gradually washed ashore, but so exhausted as to have lost all recollection. She lay for hours, until the warmth of the sun revived her. On sitting up, she saw a desolate shore stretch- 25 ing both ways — nothing to eat, nothing to drink; but fortunately the raft and the money had been thrown near her, none of the lashings having given way : only what is the use of a gold ducat, though worth nine shillings in silver, or even of a hundred, amongst tangle and sea-gulls ? The 30 money she distributed amongst her pockets, and soon found strength to rise and march forward. But which was forward? and which backward? She knew by the con- i I: 1 1 I'll '"'‘‘l Il'Ji j 120 THE ESS A TS OF THOMAS BE QU1NCEY versation of the sailors that Paita must be in the neighbour* hood; and Paita, being a port, could not be in the inside of Peru, but, of course, somewhere on its outside — and the outside of a maritime land must be the shore ; so that, if she 5 kept the shore, and went far enough, she could not fail of hitting her foot against Paita at last, in the very darkest of nights, provided only she could first find out which was up and which was down: else she might walk her shoes off, and find herself, after all, a thousand miles in the wrong. Here 10 was an awkward case, and ail for want of a guide-post. Still, when one thinks of Kate’s prosperous horoscope, — that, after so long a voyage, she only, out of the total crew, was thrown on the American shore, with one hundred and five pounds in her purse of clear gain on the voyage, — a conviction 15 arises that she could not guess wrongly. She might have tossed up, having coins in her pocket, heads or tails ! but this kind of sortilege was then coming to be thought irreligious in Christendom, as a Jewish and a heathen mode of questioning the dark future. 0 She simply guessed, therefore ; and very 20 soon a thing happened which, though adding nothing to strengthen her guess as a true one, did much to sweeten it, if it should prove a false one. On turning a point of the shore, she came upon a barrel of biscuit washed ashore from the ship. Biscuit is one of the best things I know, even if 25 not made by Mrs. Bobo° ; but it is the soonest spoiled ; and one would like to hear counsel on one puzzling point, — why it is that a touch of water utterly ruins it, taking its life, and leaving behind a caput mortuum. 0 Upon this caput , in de- fault of anything better, Kate breakfasted. And, breakfast 30 being over, she rang the bell for the waiter to take away, and to — Stop ! what nonsense ! There could be no bell ; besides which, there could be no waiter. Well, then, with- out asking the waiter’s aid, she that was always prudent THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 121 packed up some of the Catholic king’s biscuit, as she had previously packed up far too little of his gold. But in such cases a most delicate question occurs, pressing equally on dietetics and algebra. It is this : if you pack up too much, then, by this extra burden of salt provisions, you may retard 5 for days your arrival at fresh provisions ; on the other hand, if you pack up too little, you may famish, and never arrive at all. Catalina hit the juste milieu 0 ; and about twilight on the third day she found herself entering Paita, without having had to swim any very broad river in her walk. 10 11. — From the Malice of the Sea to the Malice of Man and Woman. The first thing, in such a case of distress, which a young lady does, even if she happens to be a young gentleman, is to beautify her dress. Kate always attended to that. The man she sent for was not properly a tailor, but one who employed tailors, he himself furnishing the materials. His 15 name was Urquiza, — a fact of very little importance to us in 1854,° if it had stood only at the head and foot of Kate’s little account. But, unhappily for Kate’s debut on this vast American stage, the case was otherwise. Mr. Urquiza had the misfortune (equally common in the Old World and the 20 New) of being a knave, and also a showy, specious knave. Kate, who had prospered under sea allowances of biscuit and hardship, was now expanding in proportions. With very little vanity or consciousness on that head, she now displayed a really magnificent person ; and, when dressed anew in the 2« way that became a young officer in the Spanish service, she ■ooked° the representative picture of a Spanish caballador. 0 It is strange that such an appearance, and such a rank, should have suggested to Urquiza the presumptuous idea of 122 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y wishing that Kate might become his clerk. He did, how- ever, wish it* for Kate wrote a beautiful hand; and a stranger thing is that Kate accepted his proposal. This might arise from the difficulty of moving in those days to 5 any distance in Peru. The ship which threw Kate ashore had been merely bringing stores to the station of Paita; and no corps of the royal armies was readily to be reached, whilst something must be done at once for a livelihood. Urquiza had two mercantile establishments — one at Trujillo, 0 to 10 which he repaired in person, on Kate’s agreeing to undertake the management of the other in Paita. Like the sensible girl that we have always found her, she demanded specific instructions for her guidance in duties so new. Certainly she was in a fair way for seeing life. Telling her beads at St. 15 Sebastian’s, manoeuvring irregular verbs at Vittoria, acting as gentleman-usher at Valladolid, serving his Spanish Majesty round Cape Horn, fighting with storms and sharks off the coast of Peru, and now commencing as book-keeper or com- mis° to a draper at Paita — does she not justify the char- 20 acter that I myself gave her, just before dismissing her from St. Sebastian’s, of being a “ handy” girl? Mr. Urquiza’s instructions were short, easy to be understood, but rather comic; and yet (which is odd) they led to tragic results. There were two debtors of the shop {many, it is to be hoped, 25 but two meriting his affectionate notice) with respect to whom he left the most opposite directions. The one was a very handsome lady°; and the rule as to her was that she was to have credit unlimited, — strictly unlimited. That seemed plain. The other customer, favoured by Mr. Ur- 30 quiza’s valedictory thoughts, was a young man, cousin to the handsome lady, and bearing the name of Reyes. This youth occupied in Mr. Urquiza’s estimate the same hyperbolical rank as the handsome lady, but on the opposite side of the THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 123 equation. The rule as to him was that he was to have no credit, — strictly none. In this case, also, Kate saw no diffi- culty; and, when she came to know Mr. Reyes a little, she found the path of pleasure coinciding with the path of duty. Mr. Urquiza could not be more precise in laying down the 5 rale than Kate was in enforcing it. But in the other case a scruple arose. Unlimited might be a word, not of Spanish law, but of Spanish rhetoric; such as, u Live a thousand years,” 0 which even annuity offices utter without a pang. Kate therefore wrote to Trujillo, expressing her honest fears, id and desiring to have more definite instructions. These were positive. If the lady chose to send for the entire shop, her account was to be debited instantly with that. She had, however, as yet, not sent for the shop; but she began to manifest strong signs of sending for the shopman. Upon 15 the blooming young Biscayan had her roving eye settled; and she was in the course of making up her mind to take Kate for a sweetheart. Poor Kate saw this with a heavy heart. And, at the same time that she had a prospect of a tender friend more than she wanted, she had become certain 20 of an extra enemy that she wanted quite as little. What she had done to offend Mr. Reyes Kate could not guess, except as to the matter of the credit ; but, then, in that she only followed her instructions. Still, Mr. Reyes was of opinion that there were two ways of executing orders. But 25 the main offence was unintentional on Kate's part. Reyes (though as yet she did not know it) had himself been a can- didate for the situation of clerk, and intended probably to keep the equation precisely as it was with respect to the allowance of credit, — only to change places with the hand- sq some lady — keeping her on the negative side, himself on the affirmative : an arrangement, you know, that in the final result could have made no sort of pecuniary difference to Urquiza 124 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QU1NCEY Thus stood matters when a party of vagrant comedians strolled into Paita. Kate, being a native Spaniard, ranked as one of the Paita aristocracy, and was expected to attend. She did so; and there also was the malignant Reyes. He 5 came and seated himself purposely so as to shut out Kate from all view of the stage. She, who had nothing of the bully in her nature, and was a gentle creature when her wild Bis- cayan 0 blood had not been kindled by insult, courteously requested him to move a little; upon which Reyes replied 10 that it was not in his power to oblige the clerk as to that, but that he could oblige him by cutting his throat. The tiger that slept in Catalina wakened at once. She seized him, and would have executed vengeance on the spot, but that a party of young men interposed, for the present, to part them. 35 The next day, when Kate (always ready to forget and forgive) was thinking no more of the row, Reyes passed : by spitting at the window, and other gestures insulting to Kate, again he roused her Spanish blood. Out she rushed, sword in hand ; a duel began in the street; and very soon Kate’s sword had 20 passed into the heart of Reyes. Now that the mischief was done, the police were, as usual, all alive for the pleasure of avenging it. Kate found herself suddenly in a strong prison and with small hopes of leaving it, except for execution. 12. — From the Steps leading up to the Scaffold to the Steps leading down to Assassination. The relatives of the dead man were potent in Paita, and 25 clamorous for justice ; so that the corregidor ,° in a case where he saw a very poor chance of being corrupted by bribes, felt it his duty to be sublimely incorruptible. The reader knows, however, that amongst the connexions of the deceased bully was that handsome lady who differed as much from her cousin THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 125 in her sentiments as to Kate as she did in the extent of her credit with Mr. Urquiza. To her Kate wrote a note; and, using one of the Spanish King’s gold coins for bribing the jailer, got it safely delivered. That, perhaps, was unneces- sary; for the lady had been already on the alert, and had 5 summoned Urquiza from Trujillo. By some means not very luminously stated, 0 and by paying proper fees in proper quarters, Kate was smuggled out of the prison at nightfall, and smuggled into a pretty house in the suburbs. Had she known exactly the footing she stood on as to the law, she 10 would have been decided. As it was, she was uneasy, and jealous 0 of mischief abroad; and, before supper, she under- stood it all. Urquiza briefly informed his clerk that it would be requisite for him (the clerk) to marry the handsome lady. But why ? Because, said Urquiza, after talking for hours 15 with the corregidor , who was infamous for obstinacy, he had found it impossible to make him “hear reason” and release the prisoner until this compromise of marriage was suggested. But how could public justice be pacified for the clerk’s un- fortunate homicide of Reyes by a female cousin of the de-20 ceased man engaging to love, honour, and obey 0 the clerk for life ? Kate could not see her way through this logic. “Non- sense, my friend,” said Urquiza; “you don’t comprehend. As it stands, the affair is a murder, and hanging the penalty. But, if you marry into the murdered man’s house, then it 25 becomes a little family murder — all quiet and comfortable amongst ourselves. What has the corregidor to do with that ? or the public either? Now, let me introduce the bride.” Supper entered at that moment, and the bride immediately after. The thoughtfulness of Kate was narrowly observed, 30 and even alluded to, but politely ascribed to the natural anxieties of a prisoner and the very imperfect state of his liberation even yet from prison surveillance. Kate had, 126 TEE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY indeed, never been in so trying a situation before. The anx- ieties of the farewell night at St. Sebastian were nothing to this ; because, even if she had failed then , a failure might not have been always irreparable. It was but to watch and wait. 5 But now, at this supper table, she was not more alive to the nature of the peril than she was to the fact that, if before the night closed she did not by some means escape from it, she never would escape with life. The deception as to her sex, though resting on no motive that pointed to these people, 10 or at all concerned them, would be resented as if it had. The lady would regard the case as a mockery; and Urquiza would lose his opportunity of delivering himself from an im- perious mistress. According to the usages of the times and country, Kate knew that within twelve hours she would be 15 assassinated. People of infirmer resolution would have lingered at the supper table, for the sake of putting off the evil moment of final crisis. Not so Kate. She had revolved the case on all its sides in a few minutes, and had formed her resolution. 20 This done, she was as ready for the trial at one moment as another; and, when the lady suggested that the hardships of a prison must have made repose desirable, Kate assented, and instantly rose. A sort of procession formed, for the pur- pose of doing honour to the interesting guest, and escorting 25 him in pomp to his bedroom. Kate viewed it much in the same light as that procession to which for some days she had been expecting an invitation from the corregidor. Far ahead ran the servant- woman, as a sort of outrider; then came Urquiza, like a pacha of two tails, 0 who granted two sorts of 30 credit — viz. unlimited and none at all — bearing two wax- lights, one in each hand, and wanting only cymbals and kettle-drums to express emphatically the pathos of his Cas- tilian strut ; next came the bride, a little in advance of the THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 127 clerk, but still turning -obliquely towards him, and smiling graciously into his face; lastly, bringing up the rear, came the prisoner — our poor ensnared Kate — the nun, the page, the mate, the clerk, the homicide, the convict, and, for this night only, by particular desire, the bridegroom-elect. 5 It was Kate’s fixed opinion that, if for a moment she en- tered any bedroom having obviously no outlet, her fate would be that of an ox once driven within the shambles. Outside, the bullock might make some defence with his horns ; but, once in, with no space for turning, he is muffled and 10 gagged. She carried her eye, therefore, like a hawk’s, steady, though restless, for vigilant examination of every angle she turned. Before she entered any bedroom, she was resolved to reconnoitre it from the doorway, and, in case of necessity, show fight at once before entering, as the best chance in a 15 crisis where all chances were bad. Everything ends; and at last the procession reached the bedroom-door, the outrider having filed off to the rear. One glance sufficed to satisfy Kate that windows there were none, and therefore no outlet for escape. Treachery appeared even in that; and Kate, 20 though unfortunately without arms, was now fixed for re- sistance. Mr. Urquiza entered first, with a strut more than usually grandiose, and inexpressibly sublime — “ Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!” 0 There were, as we know already, no windows; but a slight interruption to Mr. Ur- 25 quiza’s pompous tread showed that there were steps down- wards into the room. Those, thought Kate, will suit me even better. She had watched the unlocking of the bedroom- door — she had lost nothing — she had marked that the key was left in the lock. At this moment, the beautiful lady, 30 as one acquainted with the details of the house, turning with the air of a gracious monitress, held out her fair hand to guide Kate in careful descent of the steps. This had the air of 128 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y taking out Kate to dance ; and Kate, at that same moment answering to it by the gesture of a modern waltzer, 0 thre\* her arm behind the lady’s waist, hurled her headlong down the steps right against Mr. Urquiza, draper and haberdasher, 5 and then, with the speed of lightning, throwing the door home within its architrave, doubly locked the creditor and unlimited debtor into the rat-trap which they had prepared for herself. The affrighted outrider fled with horror ; she knew that the 10 clerk had already committed one homicide ; a second would cost him still less thought ; and thus it happened that egress was left easy. 13 . — From Human Malice back again to the Malice of Winds and Waves. But, when abroad, and free once more in the bright starry night, which way should Kate turn ? The whole city would 15 prove but one vast rat-trap for her, as bad as Mr. Urquiza’s, if she was not off before morning. At a glance she compre- hended that the sea was her only chance. To the port she fled. All was silent. Watchmen there were none ; and she jumped into a boat. To use the oars was dangerous, for she 20 had no means of muffling them. But she contrived to hoist a sail, pushed off with a boat-hook, and was soon stretching across the water for the mouth of the harbour, before a breeze light but favourable. Having cleared the difficulties of exit, she lay down, and unintentionally fell asleep. When she 25 awoke, the sun had been up three or four hours ; all was ri ght otherwise; but, had she not served as a sailor, Kate would have trembled upon finding that, during her long sleep of perhaps seven or eight hours, she had lost sight of land ; by what distance she could only guess; and in what direction THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 129 was to some degree doubtful. All this, however, seemed a great advantage to the bold girl, throwing her thoughts back on the enemies she had left behind. The disadvantage was — having no breakfast, not even damaged biscuit; and some anxiety naturally arose as to ulterior prospects a little beyond 5 the horizon of breakfast. But who’s afraid? As sailors whistle for a wind , 0 Catalina really had but to whistle for anything with energy, and it was sure to come. Like Caesar to the pilot of Dyrrhachium, she might have said, for the comfort of her poor timorous boat (though a boat that in fact 1G was destined soon to perish), “ Catalinam vehis , et fortunas ejus”° Meantime, being very doubtful as to the best course for sailing, and content if her course did but lie off shore, she “ carried on,”° as sailors say, under easy sail, — going, in fact, just whither and just how the Pacific breezes suggested in 15 the gentlest of whispers. All right behind , was Kate’s opin- ion ; and, what was better, very soon she might say, all right ahead; for, some hour or two before sunset, when dinner was for once becoming, even to Kate, the most interesting of subjects for meditation, suddenly a large ship began to swell 20 upon the brilliant atmosphere. In those latitudes, and in those years, any ship was pretty sure to be Spanish : sixty years later, the odds were in favour of its being an English buccaneer 0 ; which would have given a new direction to Kate’s energy. Kate continued to nake signals with a 25 handkerchief whiter than the crocodile’s of Ann. Dom. 1592 ; else it would hardly have been noticed. Perhaps, after all, it would not, but that the ship’s course carried her very nearly across Kate’s. The stranger lay to for her. It was dark by the time Kate steered herself under the ship’s quarter ; 3 c and then was seen an instance of this girl’s eternal wakeful- ness. Something was painted on the stern of her boat, she could not see what; but she judged that, whatever this might K 130 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS 1 )E QUINCEY be, it would express some connexion with the port that she had just quitted. Now, it was her wish to break the chain of traces connecting her with such a scamp as Urquiza; since, else, through his commercial correspondence, he might dis- 5 perse over Peru a portrait of herself by no means flattering. How should she accomplish this? It was dark; and she stood, as you may see an Etonian do° at times, rocking her little boat from side to side, until it had taken in water as much as might be agreeable. Too much it proved for the 10 boat's constitution, and the boat perished of dropsy — Kate declining to tap it.° She got a ducking herself; but what cared she? Up the ship's side she went, as gaily as ever, in those years when she was called pussy, she had raced after the nuns of St. Sebastian; jumped upon deck, and told the 15 first lieutenant, when he questioned her about her adven- tures, quite as much truth as any man, under the rank of admiral, had a right to expect. 14 . — Bright Gleams of Sunshine. This ship was full of recruits for the Spanish army, and bound to Concepcion. 0 Even in that destiny was an iteration 20 or repeating memorial, of the significance that ran through Catalina's most casual adventures. She had enlisted amongst the soldiers ; and, on reaching port, the very first person who came off from shore was a dashing young military officer, whom at once, by his name 0 and rank (though 25 she had never consciously seen him), she identified as her own brother. He was splendidly situated in the service, being the Governor-General's 0 secretary, besides his rank as a cavalry officer; and, his errand on board being to inspect the recruits, naturally, on reading in the roll one of them THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 131 described as a Biscayan, 0 the ardent young man came up with high-bred courtesy to Catalina, took the young recruit’s hand with kindness, feeling that to be a compatriot at so great a distance was to be a sort of relative, and asked with emotion after old boyish remembrances. There was a 5 scriptural pathos in what followed, as if it were some scene of domestic reunion opening itself from patriarchal ages. 0 The young officer was the eldest son of the house, and had left Spain when Catalina was only three years old. But, singularly enough, Catalina it was, the little wild cat that 10 he yet remembered seeing at St. Sebastian’s, upon whom his earliest inquiries settled. “Did the recruit know his family, the De Erausos?” Oh yes; everybody knew them. “Did the recruit know little Catalina?” Catalina smiled is she replied that she did ; and gave such an animated 15 iescription of the little fiery wretch as made the officer’s eye flash with gratified tenderness, and with certainty that the recruit was no counterfeit Biscayan. Indeed, you know T , if Kate couldn’t give a good description of “pussy,” who could? The issue of the interview was that the officer insisted on 20 Kate’s making a home of his quarters. He did other services for his unknown sister. He placed her as a trooper in his own regiment, and favoured her in many a way that is open to one having authority. 0 But the person, after all, that did most to serve our Kate, was Kate. War was then raging 25 with Indians, both from Chili and Peru. Kate had always done her duty in action ; but at length, in the decisive battle of Puren,° there was an opening for doing something more. Havoc had been made of her own squadron; most of the officers were killed, and the standard was carried off. Kate 30 gathered around her a small party — galloped after the Indian column that was carrying away the trophy — charged — saw all her own party killed — but, in spite of wounds on 132 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUIXCEY her face and shoulder, succeeded in bearing away the re* covered standard. She rode up to the general and his staff : she dismounted ; she rendered up her prize : and fainted away, much less from the blinding blood than from the r> tears of joy which dimmed her eyes as the general, waving his sword in admiration over her head, pronounced our Kate on the spot an Alferez , c or standard-bearer, with a commission from the King of Spain and the Indies. 0 Bonny Kate ! noble Kate ! I would there were not two centuries 10 laid between us, so that I might have the pleasure of kiss- ing thy fair hand. 15 . — The Sunshine is Overcast. Kate had the good sense to see the danger of revealing her sex. or her relationship, even to her own brother. The grasp of the Church never relaxed, never 4 4 prescribed,* 3 unless 15 freely and by choice. The nun, if discovered, would have been taken out of the hcrse-barracks or the dragoon-saddle. She had the firmness, therefore, for manv vears. to resist the J / v » 7 sisterly impulses that sometimes suggested such a confidence. For years. 0 and those years the most important of her life — 20 the years that developed her character — she lived unde- tected as a brilliant cavalry officer, under her brother's V J patronage. And the bitterest grief in poor Kates whole life was the tragical (and, were it not fully attested, one might say the ultra-scenical) event that dissolved their long 25 connexion. Let me spend a word of apology on poor Kate’s errors. We all commit manv; both vou and I, reader. Xo, stop: that’s not civil. You, reader, I know, are a saint; I am not , though very near it. I do err at long intervals; and then I think with indulgence of the many circumstances THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 133 that plead for this poor girl. The Spanish armies of that clay inherited, from the days of Cortez and Pizarro, shining re- membrances of martial prowess, and the very worst of ethics. To think little of bloodshed, to quarrel, to fight, to gamble, to plunder, belonged to the very atmosphere of a camp, to 5 its indolence, to its ancient traditions. In your own defence, you were obliged to do such things. Besides all these grounds of evil, the Spanish army had just then an extra demoralisa- tion from a Avar with sa\ r ages — faithless and bloody. Do not think too much, reader, of killing a man — do not, I in beseech you ! That word “ kill ” is sprinkled over et r ery page Kate's own autobiography . 0 It ought not to be read by the light of these days. Yet, how if a man that she killed were ? Hush ! It Avas sad ; but is better hurried 0A r er in a few Avords. Years after this period, 0 a young officer, 15 one day dining with Kate, entreated her to become his second in a duel. Such things were eA^eryday affairs. However, Kate had reasons for declining the service, and did so. But the officer, as he was sullenly departing, said that, if he Avere killed (as he thought he should be), his death would lie at 20 Kate's door. I do not take his view of the case, and am not moA^ed by his rhetoric or his logic. Kate was , and relented. The duel was fixed for eleA^en at night, under the AA T ails of a monastery. Unhappily, the night proved unusually dark, so that the tAVo principals had to tie white handkerchiefs 25 round their elbows, in order to descry each other. In the confusion they AAmunded each other mortally. Upon that, according to a usage not peculiar to Spaniards, but extending (as doubtless the reader knows) for a century longer to our own countrymen, 0 the tAvo seconds Avere obliged in honour 30 to do something towards avenging their principals. Kate had her usual fatal luck. Her sAvord passed sheer through the body of her opponent : this unknown opponent, falling 134 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY dead, had just breath left to cry out, “ Ah, villain ! you hav« killed me!” in a voice of horrific reproach; and the voice was the voice of her brother ! The monks of the monastery under whose silent shadows o this murderous duel had taken place, roused by the clashing of swords and the angry shouts of combatants, issued out with torches, to find one only of the four officers surviving. Every convent and altar had the right of asylum 0 for a short period. According to the custom, the monks carried Kate 10 insensible with anguish of mind, to the sanctuary of their chapel. There for some days they detained her; but then, having furnished her with a horse and some provisions, they turned her adrift. Which way should the unhappy fugitive turn? In blindness of heart, she turned towards 15 the sea. It was the sea that had brought her to Peru ; it was the sea that would perhaps carry her away.° It was the sea that had first shown her this land and its golden hopes; it was the sea that ought to hide from her its fearful remembrances. The sea it was that had twice 20 spared her life in extremities ; the sea it was that might- now, if it chose, take back the bauble that it had spared in vain. 16 . — Kate's Ascent of the Andes. Three days our poor heroine followed the coast. 0 Her horse was then almost unable to move; and on his account 25 she turned inland to a thicket, for grass and shelter. As she drew near to it, a voice challenged, “Who goes there? 7 ' — Kate answered, “Spain.” — “What people ?” — “A friend ” It was two soldiers, deserters, and almost starving. Kate shared her provisions with these men ; and, on hearing their THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 135 plan, which was to go over the Cordilleras, 0 she agreed to join the party. Their object was the wild one of seeking the river Dorado ,° whose waters rolled along golden sands, and whose pebbles were emeralds. Hers was to throw herself upon a line the least liable to pursuit, and the readiest for a 5 new chapter of life, in which oblivion might be found for the past. After a few days of incessant climbing and fatigue, they found themselves in the regions of perpetual snow. Summer came even hither ; but came as vainly to this king- dom of frost as to the grave of her brother. No fire but the 10 fire of human blood in youthful veins could ever be kept burn- ing in these aerial solitudes. Fuel was rarely to be found, and kindling a fire by interfriction of dry sticks was a secret almost exclusively Indian. However, our Kate can do every- thing; and she's the girl, if ever girl did such a thing, that 1 15 back at any odds for crossing the Cordilleras. I would bet you something now, reader, if I thought you would deposit your stakes by return of post (as they play at chess through the post-office) , that Kate does the trick ; that she gets down to the other side ; that the soldiers do not; and that the horse, 20 if preserved at all, is preserved in a way that will leave him very little to boast of. The party had gathered wild berries and esculent roots at the foot of the mountains, and the horse was of very great use in carrying them. But this larder was soon emptied. 25 There was nothing then to carry; so that the horse's value, as a beast of burden, fell cent per cent. 0 In fact, very soon he could not carry himself, and it became easy to calculate when he would reach the bottom on the wrong side the Cor- dilleras. He took three steps back for one upwards. A 3d council of war being held, the small army resolved to slaughter their horse. He, though a member of the expedition, had no vote ; and, if he had, the votes would have stood three to 136 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY one — majority, twb against him. He was cut into quarter! — a difficult fraction to distribute amongst a triad of claim- ants. No saltpetre or sugar could be had ; but the frost was antiseptic. And the horse was preserved in as useful a sense 5 as ever apricots were preserved, or strawberries; and that was the kind of preservation which one page ago I promised to the horse. On a fire painfully devised out of broom and withered leaves a horse-steak was dressed ; for drink, snow was allowed 0 a discretion. 0 This ought to have revived the party; and Kate, perhaps, it did. But the poor deserters were thinly clad, and they had not the boiling heart of Catalina. More and more they drooped. Kate did her best to cheer them. But the march was nearly at an end for them; and they were 15 going, in one half-hour, to receive their last billet. 0 Yet, before this consummation, they have a strange spectacle to see — such as few places could show but the upper chambers of the Cordilleras. They had reached a billowy scene of 4 / */ rocky masses, large and small, looking shockingly black on 20 their perpendicular sides as they rose out of the yast snowy expanse. Upon the highest of these that was accessible Kate mounted to look around her, and she saw — oh, rapture at such an hour ! — a man sitting on a shelf of rock, with a gun by his side. Joyously she shouted to her comrades, and ran C5 down to communicate the good news. Here was a sports- man, watching, perhaps, tor an eagle; and now they would have relief. One man’s cheek kindled with the hectic of sudden joy, and he rose eagerly to march. The other was fast sinking under the fatal sleep that frost sends before her- 30 self as her merciful minister of death ; but, hearing in his dream the tidings of relief, and assisted by his friends, he also staggeringly arose. It could not be three minutes’ walk, Kate thought, to the station of the sportsman. That thought THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 137 supported them all. Under Kate’s guidance, who had taken a sailor’s glance at the bearings, they soon unthreaded the labyrinth of rocks so fax as to bring the man within view. He had not left his resting-place; their steps on the sound- less snow, naturally, he could not hear; and, as their roads brought them upon him from the rear, still less could he see them. Kate hailed him ; but so keenly was he absorbed in some speculation, or in the object of his watching, that he took no notice of them, not even moving his head. Coming close behind him, Kate touched his shoulder, and said, “Myio friend, are you' sleeping ?” Yes, he was sleeping — sleeping the sleep from which there is no awaking 0 ; and, the slight touch of Kate having disturbed the equilibrium of the corpse, down it rolled on the snow : the frozen body rang like a hollow iron cylinder; the face uppermost, and blue with 15 mould, mouth open, teeth ghastly and bleaching in the frost, and a frightful grin upon the lips. This dreadful spectacle 0 finished the struggles of the weaker man, who sank and died at once. The other made an effort with so much spirit that, in Kate’s opinion, horror had acted upon him beneficially as 20 a stimulant. But it was not really so. It was simply a spasm of morbid strength. A collapse succeeded; his blood began to freeze; he sat down in spite of Kate, and he also died without further struggle. Yes, gone are the poor suffer- ing deserters; stretched out and bleaching upon the snow T ;25 and insulted discipline is avenged. Great kings have long arms; and sycophants are ever at hand for the errand of the potent. What had frost and snow to do with the quarrel? Yet they made themselves sycophantic servants to the King of Spain; and they it was that dogged his 30 deserters up to the summit of the Cordilleras, more surely than any Spanish bloodhound, or any Spanish tirailleur’s 0 bullet. 138 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY 17 . — Kate stands alone on the Summit of the Andes. Now is our Kate standing alone on the summits of the Andes, and in solitude that is frightful, for she is alone with her own afflicted conscience. Twice before she had stood in solitude as deep upon the wild, wild waters of the Pacific; 5 but her conscience had been then untroubled. Now is there nobody left that can help ; her horse is dead — the soldiers are dead. There is nobody that she can speak to, except God ; and very soon you will find that she does speak to Him ; for already on these vast aerial deserts He has been whisper- 10 ing to her . The condition of Kate in some respects resembled that of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. 0 But possibly, reader, you may be amongst the many careless readers that have never fully understood what that condition was. Suffer me to enlighten you; else you ruin the story of the manner, 15 and, by losing all its pathos, lose half its beauty. There are three readers of the Ancient Mariner. The first is gross enough to fancy all the imagery of the mariner’s visions delivered by the poet for actual facts of experience ; which being impossible, the whole pulverises, for that reader, 20 into a baseless fairy tale. The second reader is wiser than that; he knows that the imagery is the imagery of febrile delirium; really seen, but not seen as an external reality. The mariner had caught the pestilential fever which carried off all his mates ; he onlv had survived : the delirium had 25 vanished ; but the visions that had haunted the delirium remained. “Yes,” says the third reader, “they remained; naturally they did, being scorched by fever into his brain ; but how did they happen to remain on his belief as gospel truths ? The delirium had vanished ; why had not the painted 30 scenery of the delirium vanished except as visionary memo- rials of a sorrow that was cancelled? Why was it that THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 139 craziness settled upon this mariner's brain, driving him, as if he were a Cain,° or another Wandering Jew,° to ‘pass like night from land to land/ 0 and, at certain intervals, wrench- ing him until he made rehearsal of his errors, even at the difficult cost of ‘holding children from their play, and old 5 men from the chimney corner'?” 0 That craziness, as the third reader deciphers, rose out of a deeper soil than any bodily affection. It had its root in penitential sorrow. Oh, bitter is the sorrow to a conscientious heart, when, too late, it discovers the depth of a love that has been trampled 1C under foot ! This mariner had slain the creature that, on all the earth, loved him best. In the darkness of his cruel superstition he had done it, to save his human brothers from a fancied inconvenience 0 ; and yet, by that very act of cruelty, he had himself called destruction upon their heads. 15 The Nemesis 0 that followed punished him through them — him that wronged through those that wrongfully he sought to benefit. That spirit who watches over the sanctities of love is a strong angel — is a jealous angel; and this angel it was 2 a “ That loved the bird that loved the man That shot him with his bow.” ° He it was that followed the cruel archer into silent and slumbering seas : — “ Nine fathom deep he had followed him, 25 Through the realms of mist and snow.” ° This jealous angel it was that pursued the man into noonday darkness and the vision of dying oceans, into delirium, and finally (when recovered from disease) into an unsettled mind. 30 Not altogether unlike, though free from the criminal 140 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y intention of the mariner, had been the offence of Kate ; not unlike, also, was the punishment that now is dogging her steps. She, like the mariner, had slain the one sole creature that loved her upon the whole wide earth; she, like the 5 mariner, for this offence, had been hunted into frost and snow — very soon will be hunted into delirium ; and from that (if she escapes with life) will be hunted into the trouble of a heart that cannot rest. There was the excuse of one darkness, physical darkness, for her; there was the excuse 10 of another darkness, the darkness of superstition, for the mariner. But, with all the excuses that earth, and the darkness of earth, can furnish, bitter it would be for any of us, reader, through every hour of life, waking or dreaming, to look back upon one fatal moment when we had pierced the 15 heart that would have died for us. In this only the dark- ness had been merciful to Kate — that it had hidden for ever from her victim the hand that slew him. But now, in such utter solitude, her thoughts ran back to their earliest inter- view. She remembered with anguish how, on touching the 20 shores of America, almost the first word that met her ear had been from him , the brother whom she had killed, about the “ pussy ” of times long past; how the gallant young man had hung upon her words, as in her native Basque 0 she de- scribed her own mischievous little self, of twelve years back ; 25 how his colour went and came whilst his loving memory of the little sister was revived by her own descriptive traits, giving back, as in a mirror, the fawn-like grace, the squirrel- like restlessness, that once had kindled his own delighted laughter; how he would take no denial, but showed on the 30 spot that simply to have touched — to have kissed — -to have played with — the little wild thing that glorified by her inno- cence the gloom of St. Sebastian's cloisters, gave a right to his hospitality; how through him only she had found a wel- THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 141 come in camps; how through him she had found the avenue to honour and distinction. And yet this brother, so loving and generous, who, without knowing, had cherished and pro- tected her, and all from pure holy love for herself as the innocent plaything of St. Sebastian’s, him in a moment she 5 had dismissed from life. She paused ; she turned round, as if looking back for his grave ; she saw the dreadful wilder- nesses of snow which already she had traversed. Silent they were at this season, even as in the panting heats of noon the Saharas of the torrid zone are oftentimes silent. Dreadful 10 was the silence ; it was the nearest thing to the silence of the grave. Graves were at the foot of the Andes, — that she knew too well ; graves were at the summit of the Andes, — that she saw too well. And, as she gazed, a sudden thought flashed upon her, when her eyes settled upon the corpses of the poor 15 deserters, — Could she, like them , have been all this while unconsciously executing judgment upon herself? Running from a wrath that was doubtful, into the very jaws of a wrath that was inexorable ? Flying in panic — and behold ! there was no man that pursued 0 ? For the first time in her life, 20 Kate trembled. Not for the first time, Kate wept.° Far less for the first time was it that Kate bent her knee — that Kate clasped her hands — that Kate prayed. Rut it was the first time that she prayed as they pray for whom no more hope is left but in prayer. 25 Here let me pause a moment, for the sake of making somebody angry. A Frenchman 0 who sadly misjudges Kate, looking at her through a Parisian opera-glass, gives it as his opinion 0 that, because Kate first records her prayer on this occasion, therefore now first of all she prayed. / 3G think not so. I love this Kate, bloodstained as she is; and I could not love a woman that never bent her knee in thankfulness or in supplication. However, we have all a 142 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y to our own little opinion; and it is not you , “mon cher”° you Frenchman, that I am angry with, but somebody e«se that stands behind you. You, Frenchman, and your compatriots, I love oftentimes for your festal gaiety of heart 0 ; 5 and I quarrel only with your levity, and that eternal world- iiness that freezes too fiercely — that absolutely blisters with its frost, like the upper air of the Andes. You speak of Kate only as too readily you speak of all women ; the instinct of a natural scepticism being to scoff at all hidden depths of 10 truth. Else you are civil enough to Kate; and your “hom- age” (such as it may happen to be) is always at the service of a woman on the shortest notice. But behind you I see a worse fellow — a gloomy fanatic, a religious syco- phant, that seeks to propitiate his circle by bitterness against /5 the offences that are most unlike his own. And against him I must say one word for Kate to the too hasty reader. This villain opens his fire on our Kate under shelter of a lie. For there is a standing lie in the very constitution of civil society — a necessity of error, misleading us as to the propor- 20 tions of crime. Mere necessity obliges man to create many acts into felonies, and to punish them as the heaviest offences, which his better sense teaches him secretly to regard as per- haps among the lightest. Those poor mutineers or deserters, for instance, were they necessarily without excuse ? They 25 might have been oppressively used ; but, in critical times of war, no matter for the individual palliations, the mutineer must be shot : there is no help for it, — as,- in extremities of general famine, we shoot the man (alas ! we are obliged to shoot him) that is found robbing the common stores in order 30 to feed his own perishing children, though the offence is hardly visible in the sight of God.° Only blockheads adjust their scale of guilt to the scale of human punishments. Now, our wicked friend the fanatic, who calumniates Kate, abuses THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 143 the advantage which, for such a purpose, he derives from the exaggerated social estimate of all violence. Personal security being so main an object of social union, we are obliged to frown upon all modes of violence, as hostile to the central principle of that union. We are obliged to rate it 5 according to the universal results towards which it tends, and scarcely at all according to the special condition of cir- cumstances in which it may originate. Hence a horror arises for that class of offences, which is (philosophically speaking) exaggerated ; and, by daily use, the ethics of a 10 police-office translate themselves insensibly into the ethics even of religious people. But I tell that sycophantish fanatic — not this only, viz. that he abuses unfairly against Kate the advantage which he has from the inevitably distorted bias of society ; but also I tell him this second little thing, — 15 that, upon turning away the glass from that one obvious aspect of Kate’s character, her too fiery disposition to vindi- cate all rights by violence, and viewing her in relation to general religious capacities, she was a thousand times more promisingly endowed than himself. It is impossible to be 20 noble in many things without having many points of contact with true religion. If you deny that, you it is that calum- niate religion. Kate was noble in many things. Her worst errors never took a shape of self-interest or deceit. She was brave, she was generous, she was forgiving, she bore no 25 malice, she was full of truth — qualities that God loves either in man or woman. She hated sycophants and dissemblers, I hate them; and more than ever at this moment on her behalf. I wish she were but here, to give a punch on the head to that fellow who traduces her. And, coming round 30 again to the occasion from which this short digression has started — viz. the question raised by the Frenchman, whether Kate were a person likely to pray under other circumstances 144 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY than those of extreme danger — I offer it as my opinion tha\ she was. Violent people are not always such from choice, but perhaps from situation. And, though the circumstances of Kate’s position allowed her little means for realising her 5 own wishes, it is certain that those wishes pointed continually to peace and an unworldly happiness, if that were possible. The stormy clouds that enveloped her in camps opened over- head at intervals, showing her a far-distant blue serene. 0 She yearned, at many times, for the rest which is not in 10 camps or armies ; and it is certain that she ever combined with any plans or day-dreams of tranquillity, as their most essential ally, some aid derived from that dove-like religion which, at St. Sebastian’s, from her infant days, she had been taught so profoundly to adore. 18 . — Kate begins to descend the Mighty Staircase. 15 Now, let us rise from this discussion of Kate against libellers, as Kate herself is rising from prayer, and consider, in conjunction with her , the character and promise of that dreadful ground which lies immediately before her. What is to be thought of it? I could wish we had a theodolite 20 here, and a spirit-level, and other instruments, for settling some important questions. Yet, no : on consideration, if one had a wish allowed by that kind fairy without whose assistance it would be quite impossible to send even for the spirit-level, nobody would throw away the wish upon things 25 so paltry. I would not put the fairy upon such an errand : I would order the good creature to bring no spirit-level, but a stiff glass of spirits for Kate; also, next after which, I would request a palanquin, and relays of fifty stout bearers — all drunk, in order that they might not feel the cold. 30 The main interest at this moment, and the main difficulty — THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 145 indeed, the “ open question” of the case — was, to ascertain whether the ascent were yet accomplished or not, and when would the descent commence ? or had it, perhaps, long com- menced? The character of the ground, in those immediate successions that could be connected by the eye, decided 5 nothing; for the undulations of the level had been so con- tinual for miles as to perplex any eye, even an engineer’s, in attempting to judge whether, upon the whole, the tendency were upwards or downwards. Possibly it was yet neither way. It is indeed probable that Kate had been for some 10 time travelling along a series of terraces that traversed the whole breadth of the topmost area at that point of crossing the Cordilleras; and this area, perhaps, but not certainly, might compensate any casual tendencies downwards by corresponding reascents. Then came the question, how long 15 would these terraces yet continue? and had the ascending parts really balanced the descending? Upon that seemed to rest the final chance for Kate. Because, unless she very soon reached a lower level and a warmer atmosphere, mere weariness would oblige her to lie down, under a fierceness of 20 cold that would not suffer her to rise after once losing the warmth of motion ; or, inversely, if she even continued in motion, continued extremity of cold would, of itself, speedily absorb the little surplus energy for moving which yet re- mained unexhausted by weariness : that is, in short, the 25 excessive weariness would give a murderous advantage to the cold, or the excessive cold would give a corresponding advantage to the weariness. At this stage of her progress, and whilst the agonising question seemed yet as indeterminate as ever, Kate’s struggle 30 with despair, which had been greatly soothed by the fervour of her prayer, revolved upon her in deadlier blackness. All turned, she saw, upon a race against time and the arrears of I4H THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY the road°; and she, poor thing! how little qualified could o he be, in such a condition, for a race of any kind — and against two such obstinate brutes as Time and Space ! This hour of the progress, this noontide of Kate's struggle, must 5 have been the very crisis of the whole. Despair was rapidly tending to ratify itself. Hope, in any degree, would be a cordial for sustaining her efforts. But to flounder along a dreadful chaos of snow-drifts, or snow-chasms, towards a point of rock which, being turned, should expose only 10 another interminable succession of the same character — might that be endured by ebbing spirits, by stiffening limbs, by the ghastly darkness that was now beginning to gather upon the inner eye? And, if once despair became trium- phant, all the little arrear of physical strength would collapse 15 at once. Oh ! verdure of human fields, cottages of men and women (that now suddenly, in the eyes of Kate, seemed all brothers and sisters), cottages with children around them at play, that are so far below — oh ! spring and summer, blossoms and 20 flowers, to which, as to his symbols, God has given the gorgeous privilege of rehearsing for ever upon earth his most mysterious perfection — Life, and the resurrections of Life 0 — is it indeed true that poor Kate must never see you more? Mutteringly she put that question to herself. But strange 25 are the caprices of ebb and flow in the deep fountains of human sensibilities. At this very moment, when the utter incapacitation of despair was gathering fast at Kate’s heart, a sudden lightening, as it were, or flashing inspiration of hope, shot far into her spirit, a reflux almost supernatural 30 from the earliest effects of her prayer. Dimmed and con- fused had been the accuracy of her sensations for hours ; but ail at once a strong conviction came over her that more and more was the sense of descent becoming steady and con- THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 14 7 tinuous. Turning round to measure backwards with her eye the ground traversed through the last half-hour, she identic fied, by a remarkable point of rock, the spot near which the three corpses were lying. The silence seemed deeper than ever. Neither was there any phantom memorial of life for 5 the eye or for the ear, nor wing of bird, nor echo, nor green leaf, nor creeping thing that moved or stirred, upon the soundless waste. 0 Oh, what a relief to this burden of silence would be a human groan ! Here seemed a motive for still darker despair. And yet, at that very moment, a pulse ofiG joy began to thaw the ice at her heart. It struck her, as she reviewed the ground from that point where the corpses fay, that undoubtedly it had been for some time slowly descend- ing. Her senses were much dulled by suffering; but this thought it was, suggested by a sudden apprehension of a con- 15 tinued descending movement, which had caused her to turn round. Sight had confirmed the suggestion first derived from her own steps. The distance attained was now sufficient to establish the tendency. Oh, yes, yes; to a certainty she was descending — she had been descending for some time. 20 Frightful was the spasm of joy which whispered that the worst was over. It was as when the shadow of midnight, that murderers had relied on, is passing away from your be- leaguered shelter, and dawn will soon be manifest. It was as when a flood, that all day long has raved against the walls 25 of your house, ceases (you suddenly think) to rise ; yes i measured by a golden plummet, it is sinking beyond cl. doubt, and the darlings of your household are saved. Kate faced round in agitation to her proper direction. She saw, what previously, in her stunning confusion, she had not seen, 30 that hardly two stonethrows in advance lay a mass of rock, split as into a gateway. Through that opening it now became certain that the road was lying. Hurrying forward* 148 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QU1NCEY she passed within these natural gates. Gates of paradise they were. Ah, what a vista did that gateway expose before her dazzled eye! what a revelation of heavenly promise! Full two miles long, stretched a long narrow glen, every 5 where descending, and in many parts rapidly. All was now placed beyond a doubt. She was descending, — for hours, perhaps, had been descending insensibly, — the mighty stair- case. Yes, Kate is leaving behind her the kingdom of frost and the victories of death. Two miles farther, there may be >0 rest, if there is not shelter. And very soon, as the crest of her new-born happiness, she distinguished at the other end of that rocky vista a pavilion-shaped mass of dark green foliage — - a belt of trees, such as we see in the lovely parks of England, but islanded by a screen of thick bushy under- 15 growth ! Oh ! verdure of dark olive foliage, offered suddenly to fainting eyes, as if by some winged patriarchal herald of wrath relenting 0 — solitary Arab’s tent, rising with saintly signals of peace in the dreadful desert — must Kate indeed die even yet, whilst she sees but cannot reach you ? Outpost 20 on the frontier of man’s dominions, standing within life, but looking out upon everlasting death, wilt thou hold up the anguish of thy mocking invitation only to betray? Never, perhaps, in this world was the line so exquisitely grazed that parts salvation and ruin. As the dove to her dovecot from 25 the swooping hawk — as the Christian pinnace to the shelter of Christian batteries from the bloody Mahometan corsair 0 - so flew, so tried to fly, towards the anchoring thickets, that, alas ! could not weigh their anchors, and make sail to meet her, the poor exhausted Kate from the vengeance of pursuing frost. 30 And she reached them ; staggering, fainting, reeling, she entered beneath the canopy of umbrageous trees. But, as oftentimes the Hebrew fugitive to a city of refuge, 0 flying for his life before the avenger of blood, was pressed so hotly that, 4 THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 149 on entering the archway of what seemed to him the heavenly city gate, as he kneeled in deep thankfulness to kiss its holy merciful shadow, he could not rise again, but sank instantly with infant weakness into sleep — sometimes to wake no more ; so sank, so collapsed upon the ground, without power to choose her couch, and with little prospect of ever rising again to her feet, the martial nun. She lay as luck had ordered it, with her head screened by the undergrowth of bushes from any gales that might arise ; she lay exactly as she sank, with her eyes up to heaven ; and thus it was that the nun saw, before falling asleep, the two sights that upon earth are the fittest for the closing eyes of a nun, whether destined to open again or to close for ever. She saw the interlacing of boughs over- head forming a dome that seemed like the dome of a cathe- dral. She saw, through the fretwork of the foliage, another dome, far beyond the dome of an evening sky, the dome of some heavenly cathedral, not built with hands . 0 She saw upon this upper dome the vesper lights, all alive with pathetic grandeur of colouring from a sunset that had just been roll- ing down like a chorus. She had not till now consciously observed the time of day ; whether it were morning, or whether it were afternoon, in the confusion of her misery, she had not distinctly known. But now she whispered to herself, 11 It is evening” ; and what lurked half unconsciously in these words might be, “The sun, that rejoices , 0 has finished his daily toil; man, that labours, has finished his; I, that suffer, have finished mine.” That might be what she thought; but what she said was “It is evening; and the hour is come when the Angelas 0 is sounding through St. Sebastian.” What made her think of St. Sebastian, so far away in the depth of space and time? Her brain was wandering, now that her feet were not ; and, because her eyes had descended from the heavenly to the earthly dome, 5 10 15 20 25 30 150 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y that made her think of earthly cathedrals, and of cathedral choirs, and of St. Sebastian's chapel, with its silvery bells that carried the echoing Angelus far into mountain recesses. Perhaps, as her wanderings increased, she thought herself 5 back into childhood; became “ pussy" once again; fancied that all since then was a frightful dream ; that she was not upon the dreadful Andes, but still kneeling in the holy chapel at vespers; still innocent as then; loved as then she had been loved; and that all men were liars who said her 10 hand was ever stained with blood. Little is mentioned of the delusions which possessed her° ; but that little gives a key to the impulse which her palpitating heart obeyed, and which her rambling brain for ever reproduced in multiplying mirrors. Restlessness kept her in waking dreams for a brief 15 half-hour. But then fever and delirium would wait no longer; the killing exhaustion would no longer be refused; the fever, the delirium, and the exhaustion, swept in together with power like an army with banners 0 ; and the nun ceased through the gathering twilight any more to watch the 20 cathedrals of earth, or the more solemn cathedrals that rose in the heavens above. 19 . — Kate's Bedroom is invaded by Horsemen. All night long she slept in her verdurous St. Bernard's hospice 0 without awaking ; and whether she would ever awake seemed to depend upon accident. The slumber that towered 25 above her brain was like that fluctuating silvery column which stands in scientific tubes, sinking, rising, deepening, lightening, contracting, expanding; or like the mist that sits, through sultry afternoons, upon the river of the American St. Peter, sometimes rarefying for minutes into sunny gauze, THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 151 sometimes condensing for hours into palls of funeral dark- ness . 0 You fancy that, after twelve hours of any sleep, she must have been refreshed ; better, at least, than she was last night. Ah ! but sleep is not always sent upon missions of refreshment. Sleep is sometimes the secret chamber in which death arranges his machinery, and stations his artillery. Sleep is sometimes that deep mysterious atmosphere in which the human spirit is slowly unsettling its wings for flight from earthly tenements. It is now eight o'clock in the morning: and, to all appearance, if Kate should receive no aid before noon, when next the sun is departing to his rest, then, alas ! Kate will be departing to hers : when next the sun is holding out his golden Christian signal to man that the hour is come for. letting his anger go down , 0 Kate will be sleeping away for ever into the arms of brotherly forgiveness. What is wanted just now for Kate, supposing Kate herself to be wanted by this world, is that this world would be kind enough to send her a little brandy before it is too late. The simple truth was, and a truth which I have known to take place in more ladies than Kate, — who died or did not die, accordingly as they had or had not an adviser like myself, capable of giving an opinion equal to Captain Bunsby's 0 on this point — viz. whether the jewelly star of life had descended too far down the arch towards setting for any chance of reascending by spontaneous effort. The fire was still burning in secret, but needed, perhaps, to be rekindled by potent artificial breath. It lingered, and might linger, but appar- ently would never culminate again without some stimulus from earthly vineyards . 0 Kate was ever lucky, though ever unfortunate ; and the world, being of my opinion that Kate was worth saving, made up its mind about half-past eight o'clock in the morning to save her. Just at that time, when the night was over, and its sufferings were hidden — in one 5 10 15 20 25 30 152 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCE Y of those intermitting gleams that for a moment or two lightened the clouds of her slumber — Kate’s dull ear caught a sound that for years had spoken a familiar language to her . What was it? It was the sound, though muffled and 5 deadened, like the ear that heard it, of horsemen advancing Interpreted by the tumultuous dreams of Kate, was it the cavalry of Spain, at whose head so often she had charged the bloody Indian scalpers? Was it, according to the legend of ancient days, 0 cavalry that had been sown by her brother’s 10 blood — cavalry that rose from the ground on an inquest of retribution, and were racing up the Andes to seize her? Her dreams, that had opened sullenly to the sound, waited for no answer, but closed again into pompous darkness. Happily, the horsemen had caught the glimpse of some bright 15 ornament, clasp or aiguillette, on Kate’s dress. They were hunters and foresters from below — servants in the household of a beneficent lady — and, in pursuit of some flying game, had wandered far beyond their ordinary limits. Struck by the sudden scintillation from Kate ’s dress played upon by the 20 morning sun, they rode up to the thicket. Great was their surprise, great their pity, to see a young officer in uniform stretched within the bushes upon the ground, and apparently dying. Borderers from childhood on this dreadful frontier, sacred to winter and death, they understood the case at once. 25 They dismounted, and, with the tenderness of women, raising the poor frozen cornet in their arms, washed her temples with brandy, whilst one, at intervals, suffered a few drops to trickle within her lips. As the restoration of a warm bed was now most likely to be the one thing needed, they lifted 30 the helpless stranger upon a horse, walking on each side with supporting arms. Once again our Kate is in the saddle, once again a Spanish caballero. 0 But Kate’s bridle-hand is deadly cold. And her spurs, that she had never unfastened since THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 153 leaving the monastic asylum, hung as idle as the flapping sail that fills unsteadily with the breeze upon a stranded ship,, This procession had many miles to go, and over difficult ground; but at length it reached the forest-like park and the chateau of the wealthy proprietress. Kate was still half-t frozen, and speechless, except at intervals. Heavens ! can this corpse-like, languishing young woman be the Kate that once, in her radiant girlhood, rode with a handful of com- rades into a column of two thousand enemies, that saw her comrades die, that persisted when all were dead, that tore 1C from the heart of all resistance the banner of her native Spain ? Chance and change have “ written strange defeatures in her face.” 0 Much is changed; but some things are not changed, either in herself or in those about her : there is still kindness that overflows with pity ; there is still helpless- 15 ness that asks for this pity without a voice : she is now re- ceived by a senora not less kind than that maternal aunt who, on the night of her birth, first welcomed her to a loving home ; and she, the heroine of Spain, is herself as helpless now as that little lady who, then at ten minutes of age, was kissed 20 and blessed by all the household of St. Sebastian. 0 20. — A Second Lull in Kate’s Stormy Life. Let us suppose Kate placed in a warm bed. Let us sup- pose her in a few hours recovering steady consciousness; in a few days recovering some power of self-support ; in a fort- night able to seek the gay saloon where the senora was sitting 25 alone, and able to render thanks, with that deep sincerity which ever characterised our wild-heaited Kate, for the critical services received from that lady and her establish- ment. This lady, a widow, was what the French call a metisse, the sc 154 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS HE QUINCEY Spaniards a mestizza — that is, the daughter of a genuine Spaniard and an Indian mother. I will call her simply a Creole ,° which will indicate her want of pure Spanish blood sufficiently to explain her deference for those who had it. 5 She was a kind, liberal woman ; rich rather more than needed where there were no opera-boxes to rent; a widow about fifty years old in the wicked world’s account, some forty-two in her own; and happy, above all, in the posses- sion of a most lovely daughter, whom even the wicked world 10 did not accuse of more than sixteen years. This daughter, Juana, was — But stop — let her open the door of the saloon in which the senora and the cornet are conversing, and speak for herself. She did so, after an hour had passed ; which length of time, to her that never had any business 15 whatever in her innocent life, seemed sufficient to settle the business of the Old World and the New. Had Pietro Diaz (as Catalina now called herself) been really a Peter, and not a sham Peter, what a vision of loveliness would have rushed upon his sensibilities as the door opened. Do not expect me 20 to describe her; for which, however, there are materials extant, 0 sleeping in archives where they have slept for two hundred and twenty-eight years. 0 It is enough that she is reported to have united the stately tread of Andalusian women with the innocent voluptuousness of Peruvian eyes. 25 As to her complexion and figure, be it known that Juana’s father was a gentleman from Grenada, 0 having in his veins the grandest blood of all this earth — blood of Goths and Vandals, tainted (for which Heaven be thanked !) twice over with blood of Arabs 0 — once through Moors, once through 30 Jews 0 ; whilst from her grandmother Juana drew the deep subtle melancholy, and the beautiful contours of limb, which belonged to the Indian race — a race destined (ah, where- fore?) silently and slowly to fade away from the earth. No THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 155 awkwardness was or could be in this antelope, when gliding with forest grace into the room ; no town-bred shame ; noth- ing but the unaffected pleasure of one who wishes to speak a fervent welcome, but knows not if she ought; the astonish- ment of a Miranda, bred in utter solitude, when first behold- 5 ing a princely Ferdinand 0 ; and just so much reserve as to remind you that, if Catalina thought fit to dissemble her sex, ?he did not . And consider, reader, if you look back, and are a great arithmetician, that, whilst the senora had only fifty per cent of Spanish blood, Juana had seventy-five ; so that 10 her Indian melancholy, after all, was swallowed up for the present by her Visigothic, by her Vandal, by her Arab, by her Spanish, fire. Catalina, seared as she was by the world, has left it evident in her memoirs that she was touched more than she wished to 15 be by this innocent child. 0 Juana formed a brief lull for Catalina in her too stormy existence. And, if for her in this life the sweet reality of a sister had been possible, here was the sister she would have chosen. On the other hand, what might Juana think of the cornet ? To have been thrown upon 20 the kind hospitalities r£ her native home, to have been res- cued by her mother’s servants from that fearful death which, lying but a few miles off, had filled her nursery with tra- ditionary tragedies — - that was sufficient to create an interest in the stranger. Such things it had been that wooed the 25 heavenly Desdemona. 0 But his bold martial demeanour, his yet youthful style of beauty, his frank manners, his ani- mated conversation, that reported a hundred contests with suffering and peril, wakened for the first time her admiration. Men she had never seen before, except menial servants, or a 3d casual priest. But here was a gentleman, young like herself, a splendid cavalier, that rode in the cavalry of Spain; that carried the banner of the only potentate whom Peruvians 0 156 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUIN GET knew of — the King of the Spains and the Indies; that had doubled Cape Horn; that had crossed the Andes; that had suffered shipwreck; that had rocked upon fifty storms, and had wrestled for life through fifty battles. 5 The reader already guesses all that followed. The sisterly love which Catalina did really feel for this young mountaineer was inevitably misconstrued. Embarrassed, but not able, from sincere affection, or almost in bare propriety, to refuse such expressions of feeling as corresponded to the artless and 10 involuntary kindnesses of the ingenuous Juana, one day the cornet was surprised by mamma in the act of encircling her daughter’s waist with his martial arm, although waltzing was premature by at least two centuries 0 in Peru. She taxed him instantly with dishonourably abusing her confidence. 15 The cornet made but a bad defence. He muttered some- thing about “fraternal affection” about “esteem,” and a great deal of metaphysical words that are destined to remain untranslated in their original Spanish. The good senora, though she could boast only of forty-two years’ experience, 20 or say forty-four, was not altogether to be “had” in that fashion : she was as learned as if she had been fifty, and she brought matters to a speedy crisis. : ‘You are a Spaniard,” she said, “a gentleman, therefore; remember that you are a gentleman. This very night, if your intentions are not 25 serious, quit my house. Go to Tucuman 0 ; you shall com- mand my horses and servants; but stay no longer to in- crease the sorrow that already you will have left behind vou. My daughter loves you. That is sorrow enough, if you are trifling with us. But, if not, and you also love her , and can 30 be happy in our solitary mode of life, stay with us — stay for ever. Marry Juana with my free consent. I ask not for wealth. Mine is sufficient for you both.” The cornet pro- tested that the honour was one never contemplated by him THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 157 — that it was too great — that — . But, of course, reader, you know that u gammon ,, ° flourishes in Peru, amongst the silver mines, as well as in some more boreal lands that produce little better than copper and tin. “Tin,”° however, has its uses. The delighted senora overruled all objections, great 5 and small ; and she confirmed Juana’s notion that the busi- ness of two worlds could be transacted in an hour, by settling her daughter’s future happiness in exactly twenty minutes. The poor, weak Catalina, not acting now in any spirit of reck- lessness, grieving sincerely for the gulf that was opening 10 before her, and yet shrinking effeminately from the momen- tary shock that would be inflicted by a firm adherence to her duty, clinging to the anodyne of a short delay, allowed her- self to be installed as the lover of Juana. Considerations of convenience, however, postponed the marriage. It was 15 requisite to make various purchases ; and for this it was requisite to visit Tucuman, where also the marriage ceremony could be performed with more circumstantial splendour. To Tucuman, therefore, after some weeks’ interval, the whole party repaired. And at Tucuman it was that the tragical 20 events arose which, whilst interrupting such a mockery for ever, left the poor Juana still happily deceived, and never believing for a moment that hers was a rejected or a deluded heart. One reporter of Mr. De Ferrer’s narrative 0 forgets his usual 25 generosity w r hen he says that the senora’s gift of her daughter to the Alferez was not quite so disinterested as it seemed to be.° Certainly it was not so disinterested as European ignorance might fancy it ; but it was quite as much so as it ought to have been in balancing the interests of a child. Very 30 true it is, that, being a genuine Spaniard, who was still a rare creature in so vast a world as Peru — being a Spartan amongst Helots 0 — a Spanish Alferez would, in those days, 158 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY and in that region, have been a natural noble. His alliance created honour for his wife and for his descendants. Some- thing, therefore, the cornet would add to the family considera- tion. But, instead of selfishness, it argued just regard for 5 her daughter’s interest to build upon this, as some sort of equipoise to the wealth which her daughter would bring. Spaniard, however, as she was, our Alferez, on reaching Tucuman, found no Spaniards to mix with, but, instead, twelve Portuguese. 0 21. — Kate once more in Storms. 10 Catalina remembered the Spanish proverb, “Pump out of a Spaniard all his good qualities, and the remainder makes a pretty fair Portuguese’' 0 ; but, as there was nobody else to gamble with, she entered freely into their society. Soon she suspected that there was foul play ; for all modes of doctor- 15 ing dice had been made familiar to her by the experience of camps. She watched ; and, by the time she had lost her final coin, she was satisfied that she had been plundered. In her first anger, she would have been glad to switch the whole dozen across the eyes; but, as twelve to one were too great 20 odds, she determined on limiting her vengeance to the imme- diate culprit. Him she followed into the street; and, coming near enough to distinguish his profile reflected on a wall, she continued to keep him in view from a short distance. The lighthearted young cavalier whistled, as he went, an old 25 Portuguese ballad of romance, and in a quarter-of-an-hour came up to a house, the front-door of which he began to open with a pass-key. This operation was the signal for Catalina that the hour of vengeance had struck ; and, stepping up hastily, she tapped the Portuguese on the shoulder, saying, 30 “Senor, you are a robber!” The Portuguese turned coollv THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 159 round, and, seeing his gaming antagonist, replied, “ Possibly, sir; but I have no particular fancy for being told so,” at the same time drawing his sword. Catalina had not designed to take any advantage ; and the touching him on the shoulder, with the interchange of speeches, and the known character of 5 Kate, sufficiently imply it. But it is too probable, in such cases, that the party whose intention had been regularly settled from the first will, and must, have an advantage unconsciously over a man so abruptly thrown on his defence. However this might be, they had not fought a minute before 10 Catalina passed her sword through her opponent's body ; and, without a groan or a sigh, the Portuguese cavalier fell dead at his own door. Kate searched the street with her ears, and (as far as the indistinctness of night allowed) with her eyes. All was profoundly silent ; and she was satisfied that 15 no human figure was in motion. What should be done with the body ? . A glance at the door of the house settled that : Fernando had himself opened it at the very moment when he received the summons to turn round. She dragged the corpse in, therefore, to the foot of the staircase, put the key 20 by the dead man's side, and then, issuing softly into the street, drew the door close with as little noise as possible. Catalina again paused to listen and to watch, went home to the hospitable senora's house, retired to bed, fell asleep, and early the next morning was awakened by the corregidor and 25 four alguazils. The lawlessness of all that followed strikingly exposes the frightful state of criminal justice at that time wherever Spanish law prevailed. No evidence appeared to connect Catalina in any way with the death of Fernando Acosta. 30 The Portuguese gamblers, besides that perhaps they thought lightly of such an accident, might have reasons of their own for drawing off public attention from their pursuits in Tucu- 160 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS DE QUINCE Y man. Xot one of these men came forward openly; else the circumstances at the gaming-table, and the departure of Catalina so closely on the heels of her opponent, would have suggested reasonable grounds for detaining her until some .. rther light should be obtained. As it was, her imprison- /.j mt rested upon no colourable ground whatever, unless the .'Magistrate had received some anonymous information, — which, however, he never alleged. One comfort there was, meantime, in Spanish injustice: it did not loiter. Full 10 gallop it went over the ground : one week often sufficed for informations — for trial — for execution ; and the only bad consequence was that a second or a third week sometimes exposed the disagreeable fact that everything had been “ pre- mature”; a solemn sacrifice had been made to offended jus- 15 tice in which all was right except as to the victim ; it was the vrrong man ; and that gave extra trouble ; for then all was to do over again — another man to be executed, and, possibly, still to be caught. Justice moved at her usual Spanish rate in the present 20 case. Kate was obliged to rise instantly ; not suffered to speak to anybody in the house, though, in going out, a door opened, and she saw the young Juana looking out with her saddest Indian expression. In one day the trial was finished. Catalina said (which was true) that she hardly knew Acosta, 25 and that people of her rank were used to attack their enemies face to face, not by murderous surprises. The magistrates were impressed by Catalina's answers (yet answers to what, or to whom , in a case where there was no distinct charge, and no avowed accuser?) Things were beginning to look 30 well w T hen all was suddenly upset by two witnesses, w~hom the reader (who is a sort of accomplice after the fact, 0 having been privately let into the truths of the case, and having concealed his knowledge) will know at once to be false wit- THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 161 nesses, but whom the old Spanish buzwigs 0 doated on as models of all that could be looked for in the best. Both were ill-looking fellows, as it was their duty to be. And the first deposed as follows : — That through his quarter of Tucuman the fact was notorious of Acosta's wife being the 5 object of a criminal pursuit on the part of the Alferez (Cata- lina) ; that, doubtless, the injured husband had surprised the prisoner, — which, of course, had led to the murder, to the staircase, to the key, to everything, in short, that could be wished. No — stop! what am I saying? — to every- Id thing that ought to be abominated. Finally — for he had now settled the main question — that he had a friend who would take up the case where he himself, from shortsighted- ness, was obliged to lay it down. This friend — the Pythias of this shortsighted Damon 0 — started up in a frenzy of virtue in at this summons, and, rushing to the front of the alguazils, said, “That, since his friend had proved sufficiently the fact of the Alferez having been lurking in the house, and having murdered a man, all that rested upon him to show was how that murderer got out of that house ; which he could do sat- 20 isfactorily; for there was a balcony running along the win- dows on the second floor, one of which windows he himself, lurking in a corner of the street, saw the Alferez throw up, and from the said balcon}^ take a flying leap into the said street." Evidence like this was conclusive ; no defence was 25 listened to, nor indeed had the prisoner any to produce. The Alferez could deny neither the staircase nor the balcony ; the street is there to this day, like the bricks in Jack Cade's chim- ney, 0 testifying all that may be required ; and, as to our friend who saw the leap, there he was — nobody could deny him. 30 The prisoner might indeed have suggested that she never heard of Acosta's wife ; nor had the existence of such a wife been proved, or even ripened into a suspicion. But the bench M 162 THE ESSAYS OF THOMAS BE QUINCEY were satisfied ; chopping logic in defence was henceforward impertinence ; and sentence was pronounced — that, on the eighth day from the day of arrest, the Alferez should be exe- cuted in the public square. 5 It was not amongst the weaknesses of Catalina — who had so often inflicted death, and, by her own journal, thought so lightly of inflicting it° (unless under cowardly advantages) — to shrink from facing death in her own person. Many inci- dents in her career show the coolness and even gaiety with 10 which, in any case where death was apparently inevitable, she would have gone forward to meet it. But in. this case she had a temptation for escaping it, which was certainly in her power. She had only to reveal the secret of her sex, and the ridiculous witnesses, beyond whose testimony there was 15 nothing at all against her, must at once be covered with de- rision. Catalina had some liking for fun ; and a main induce- ment to this course was that it would enable her to say to the judges, “Now, you see what old fools you've made of your- selves ; every woman and child in Peru will soon be laughing 20 at you.” I must acknowledge my own weakness; this last temptation I could not have withstood ; flesh is weak, and fun is strong. But Catalina did. On consideration, she fancied that, although the particular motive for murdering Acosta would be dismissed with laughter, still this might not clear 25 her of the murder ; which, on some other motive, she might be supposed to have committed. But, allowing that she were cleared altogether, what most of all she feared was that the publication of her sex would throw a reflex light upon many past transactions in her life; would instantly find its 30 way to Spain ; and would probably soon bring her within the tender attentions of the Inquisition. 0 She kept firm, there- fore, to the resolution of not saving her life by this discovery, id, so far as her fate lay in her own hands, she would to a THE SPANISH MILITARY NUN 163 certainty have perished — which to me seems a most fan- tastic caprice ; it was to court a certain death and a present death, in order to evade a remote contingency of death. But even at this point how strange a case ! A woman falsely accused (because accused by lying witnesses) of an act which 5 she really did commit ! And falsely accused of a true offence upon a motive that was impossible ! As the sun was setting upon the seventh day, when the hours were numbered for the prisoner, there filed into her cell four persons in religious habits. They came on the 10 charitable mission of preparing the poor convict for death. Catalina, however, watching all things narrowly, remarked something earnest and significant in the eye of the leader, as of one who had some secret communication to make. She contrived, therefore, to clasp this man ; s hands, as if in the 15 energy of internal struggles, and he contrived to slip into hers the very smallest of billets from poor Juana. It contained, for indeed it could contain, only these three words — “Do not confess. — J. ” This one caution, so simple and so brief, proved a talisman. It did not refer to any confession of the 20 crime ; that would have been assuming what Juana was neither entitled nor disposed to assume; but it referred, in the technical sense of the Church, to the act of devotional confession. Catalina found a single moment for a glance at it ; understood the whole ; resolutely refused to confess, as a 25 person unsettled in her religious opinions that needed spiritual instructions; and the four monks withdrew to make their report. The principal judge, upon hearing of the prisoner’s impenitence, granted another day. At the end of that , no change having occurred either in the prisoner’s mind or in 3 i\eTv , love, + English garlic) that it is rare, and refers to the present passage for an example of its use. Its mean- ing is 44 fond of garlic.” 1 17 : 5. Andalusia she reached rather slowly, etc. In this con- nection, and elsewhere, the reader should compare De Quincey’s account of Catalina’s adventures with her own story as outlined in the Historical Note, pages lix-lxiv. 1 17 : 6. Seville. As St. Sebastian is in the extreme north of Spain, so Seville is in the extreme south. The distance between the two places is about four hundred and fifty miles. 1 17 : 6 . before she was sixteen. That is, early in the year 1608. 260 NOTES Catalina herself, however, claims to have sailed from St. Lucar or, Holy Monday, 1603 ( Memoirs , page 13). 1 17 : 12. St. Lucar. San Lucar de Barrameda, a seaport of southwestern Spain, is situated at the mouth of the Guadalquivir, eighteen miles north of Cadiz and some sixty down the river from Seville. Here Columbus embarked on his third voyage (1498), and from this port Magellan sailed forth (1519) to circumnavigate the globe. 1 17 : 15. She was at once engaged as a mate. As an illustration of De Quincey’s habit of improving upon his original — to Catalina’s advantage, always — it may here be noted that Valon. following the Memoirs , says {Revue des Deux Mondes , page 393) that Catalina took service as a cabin-boy {mousse). 117 : 17 . and her ship . . . destination. u The reader who would follow Kate’s adventures geographically must not neglect these two snort and hasty sentences. They carry her away from Spain and Europe altogether, across the Atlantic to South America, — nay, not only across the Atlantic to South America, but round Cape Horn, to the west or Pacific coast of South America, and to a point far north on that coast. Paita or Payta is a seaport of the Pacific in the extreme north of Peru, about five degrees below the Equator. All the long voyage of thousands of miles is suppressed. ” — Masson. 1 18 : 10. his Catholic Majesty. The first Catholic king of Spain was Recaredo, the Visigoth, who died in 601. When he announced his conversion to the Catholic faith, and later proclaimed that the Roman Catholic religion was thenceforth to be the religion of his kingdom, Pope Gregory the Great was so delighted that he wished to show Recaredo some mark of special favor. He therefore sent him numerous sacred relics, addressing him as “ His Majesty, the First Catholic King of Spain.” Thus originated the title “ Catholic Majesty” as applied to Recaredo’s successors. 1 18 : 11. the underwriters at Lloyd’s. Lloyd's Coffee House NOTES 261 was the original headquarters or ail the London underwriters *. hence the name “ Lloyd’s ” is now given to a London association for the transaction of marine insurance and the promotion of ship- ping interests in general. The present meeting-place of this associa- tion is a set of rooms on the ground floor of the Royal Exchange. 119 : 2. ducats and pistoles. Gold coins issued by several different European countries and varying considerably in value from time to time. 1 19 : 6. Now, this, you know, though not “flotsam,” etc. According to Blackstone, jetsam is the name given to goods which, when thrown into the sea, there sink and remain under w T ater ; while flotsam denotes such goods as continue swimming. Flotsam and jetsam, however, are not the lawful spoils of the finders, but must be given up to those who can prove their right to them ; if unclaimed, they must be turned over to the Board of Admiralty and the proceeds of their sale applied to public purposes. Hence the interest taken in such matters by the First Lord and the Secre- tary, mentioned below (lines 14 - 16 ). 119 : 9 . a very fair 8vo. In Ferrer’s edition Catalina’s memoirs occupy an octavo volume. ng : 16 . the First Lord of the Admiralty, and the Secretary, etc. See note on line 23, page 15. 120: 19 . She might have tossed up . . . heads or tails! etc. The practice of tossing up a coin in order to decide some difficult point, a common one all over the world at the present day, seems to have been familiar to the ancient Romans, for Macrobius tells us ( Saturnalia , Book I, Chapter VII) that the Roman boys used to throw coins into the air, calling out “ capita ant navia ,” “ heads or ships.” Similar in principle, and perhaps also in the actual method of operation, was the Jewish custom of casting lots, so frequently 4 referred to in the Bible. i2o:25. Mrs. Bobo. “Who is Mrs. Bobo? The reader will say, 4 1 know not Bobo. ’ Possibly ; but, for all that , Bobo is known 262 NOTES to senates. From the American Senate (Friday, March 10, 1854) Bobo received the amplest testimonials of merits that have not yet been matched. In the debate on William Nevins’ claim for the extension of his patent for a machine that rolls and cuts crackers and biscuits, thus spoke Mr. Adams, a most distinguished senator, against Mr. Badger — 4 It is said this is a discovery of the patentee for making the best biscuits. Now, if it be so, he must have got his invention from Mrs. Bobo of Alabama ; for she certainly makes better biscuit than anybody in the world. I can prove by my friend from Alabama (Mr. Clay), who sits beside me, and by any man who ever staid at Mrs. Bobo’s house, that she makes better biscuit than anybody else in the world ; and if this man has the best plan for making biscuit, he must have got it from her.' Hencefor- ward I hope we know where to apply for biscuit.” — De Quince y. 120 : 28 . a caput mortuum (lit. a dead head) is anything from which all that rendered it valuable has been removed. 1 21 : 8. the juste milieu. The happy medium. 1 21 : 17. 1854. This date was substituted in the Collective Edition for the “ 1847 ” of Tail's Magazine. 1 21 : 27. she looked. i; If ever the reader should visit Aix-la- Chapelle, he will probably feel interest enough in the poor, wild, impassioned girl to look out for a picture of her in that city, and the only one known certainly to be authentic. It is in the collec- tion of Mr. Sempeller. For some time it was supposed that the best (if not the only) portrait of her lurked somewhere in Italy. Since the discovery of the picture at Aix-la-Chapelle, that notion has been abandoned. But there is great reason to believe that, both in Madrid and Home, many portraits of her must have been painted to meet the intense interest which arose in her history subse- quently amongst all men of rank, military or ecclesiastical, whether in Italy or Spain. The date of these would range between sixteen and twenty -two years from the period which we have now reached (1608).” — De Quincey, NOTES 263 Z 2 i: 27 . caballador. Cavalier. 122 : 9. Trujillo. This town, the modern Truxillo, is situated on the coast of Peru, some two hundred and fifty miles south of Paita„ 122 : 19. commis. Clerk. 122 : 27. a very handsome lady. Dona Beatriz de Cardenas was her name. 123:9. “Live a thousand years.” The phrase “Viva mil anos,” which literally means, “Live a thousand years,” is a Spanish conversational idiom, used in the sense of “I am obliged to you.” % • 124 : 8 . Biscayan. See note on “ Biscay,” line 3, page 102. 124 : 25. the corregidor. The chief magistrate. 125 : 7. By some means not very luminously stated. Valon is, indeed, not very clear in his story of the escape ; he says ( Revue des Deux Mondes , pages 598-599) that Dona Beatriz carried Catalina a disguise and that the latter escaped by pretending to be Beatriz. Catalina herself says that she was released from prison at Urquiza’s request. 125 : 12 . jealous. The word is here used in its broad sense of “ suspicious.” 125 : 21 . to love, honour, and obey. In the marriage ceremony of the English Church, the woman promises “to love, cherish, and to obey” her husband. 126 : 29. a pacha of two tails. Pachd is a Turkish title of rank, given to high civil and military authorities. The distinctive badge of a pacha is one or more horse-tails waving from the end of a staff ; in time of war this badge is carried before him or planted in front of his tent. The three grades of pachas are distinguished by the number of horse-tails on their standards, the pachas of three tails being the most important. 127 : 24. “ Sound the trumpets ! ” etc. The well-known lines : — ‘ ‘ See the conquering hero comes ! Sound the trumpet, beat the drums ! ” 264 NOTES first appeared in the Joshua of Handel (1685-1759), a celebrate^ German composer, who, during a large part of his life, made his home in England. The text of this oratorio was written by Dr. Thomas Morell, a clergyman. 128 : 2 . a modern waltzer. See note on line 13, page 156. 129 : 7. As sailors whistle for a wind. A superstitious practice, common among old seamen, of whistling during a calm to obtain z breeze. Such men will not whistle at all during a storm . 129 : 12. Like Caesar to the pilot of Dyrrhachium, etc. Refer- ence is here made to an incident related by the historians Plutarch, Florus, Valerius Maximus, Appian, and Suetonius, but not by Csesar himself. We are told that when, during the war with Pompey, Caesar, with a part of his troops, had long been waiting at Appolonia, near Dyrrhachium, for the arrival of the rest of his forces from Brundisium, he at last grew weary of the delay, and disguising himself as a common sailor, embarked in a twelve-cared boat, in order to visit Brundisium in person. The weaves of the sea soon became so violent, however, that the master of the boat ordered his sailors to tack about and return. Thereupon Caesar disclosed his identity, using, according to Appian, the words : “ Brave the tempest with a stout heart ; you carry Caesar and Caesar’s for- tunes- 5 ( History of Home, Book II, Chapter IX, White’s transla- tion). The sailors, however, despite all their efforts, were finally obliged to return to land. 44 Catalinam vnhis et fortunas ejus ” means : 44 Yot* carry Cata- lina and her fortunes.” 129 : 14. 44 carried on.” The nautical phrase, carry on , is defined by the Century Dictionary as meaning 44 to continue carry- ing a large spread of canvas”; De Quincey, however, uses the expression, as the context shows, in a very different sense, 129 : 24. sixty years later, etc. During the latter half of the seventeen in century, French and English pirates committed frequent depredations on the Spanish in America. NOTES 26 & 130 : 7 . as you may see an Etonian cto. Eton, situated on the Thames, opposite Windsor, is one of the most famous of English educational institutions; it was founded in 1440 by Henry VI. The Eton boys are noted for their skill in managing river-craft. 130 : 11. to tap it. To tap , in surgery, meaiB to puncture the outer walls of (the body), to draw off fluid accumulated within some inner cavity; as, to tap a dropsical patient.” — Century Dictionary . 130 : 19. Concepcion. A town on the coast of Chili, more than two thousand miles south of Paita. 130 : 24. his name. Miguel de Erauso. 130 : 27 . the Governor-GeneraTs. Alonso de Ribera was then Governor of Chili. 13 1 : 1 . described as a Biscayan. Catalina had enlisted as Pedro Diaz de San Sebastian. 13 1 ; 7. some scene of domestic reunion, etc. For example, the meeting of Esau and Jacob, Genesis xxxiii. 1-15. 1 31 : 24. one having authority. See note on line 14, page 46. 131 : 28 . the decisive battle of Puren. Catalina herself says ( Memoirs , pages 41-43) that the exploit here recorded took place at the battle of Valdivia, which was fought on the plains of the same name in southern Chili in the year 1606. She claims also to have oeen present at the battle of Puren, fought two years later. As Valon’s account ( Bevue des Deux Mondes , page 603) is substantially the same as the nun’s, we are left to suppose that De Quincey either inadvertently confused the two engagements or purposely substituted Puren for Valdivia in order to avoid an evident chrono- logical impossibility. 132 : 7. Alferez. “This rank in the Span sh army is, or was, on a level with the modern sous-lieutenam of France.” — De Quincey. To this note, a partial translation of one by Valon ( Bevue des Deux Mondes , p. 603), should be added Valon’s further state- 266 NOTES ment that, “at that time an alf^rez was, as it seems, an ensign 01 cornet.” 132 : 8. the King of Spain and the Indies. Philip II ( 1527 - 1598) seems to have been the lirst Spanish king to assume this title. 132 : 14 . “prescribed.” To prescribe, in law, is to become in- valid through lapse of time. 132 : 19. years. About five, according to Catalina ( Memoirs , page 43 ) ; De Quincey would have us suppose a very much longer period. 133 : 12 . Thv.t word “kill,” etc. Cf. Valon’s remark (Pevue des Deux Mondes , page 635) : “ For her the death of a man is the merest trifle. ‘ She arrives in such and such a citv,’ she often writes (speaking of herself, as Caesar did, in the third person), ‘and kills one, mala a uno .’ ” 133 : 15 . Years after this period. De Quincey’s exact meaning is not altogether clear ; perhaps “ this period ” is intended to refer to the time of Catalina’s promotion. 133 : 30 . a usage not, peculiar to Spaniards, etc. Among the practices of the French duel introduced into England after the Restoration ( 1660 ) was that of expecting the seconds, as well as the principals, to fight. 134 : 8. the right of asylum. In ancient times the temples and altars of the gods were appointed as asylums to which the guilty could flee for refuge. A similar privilege of retreat to sacred places was long granted by the Christian church, until its abuse by crimi- nals led to its final abolition. 134 : 16. It was the sea that had brought her to Peru, etc. The sea had indeed brought Catalina to Peru , but she was no longer in Peru. The duel with her brother was fought near Concepcion, in Chili ( Memoirs , page 53). 134 : 23. the coast. In reality the coast of Chili, not of Peru. 135 : 1 . the Cordilleras. The Andes, more properly called “las Cordilleras de los Andes," “ the chains of the Andes.” NOTES 267 135 : 8 . the river Dorado. Dorado is Spanish for “golden”; El Dorado, “ the golden,” was a mythical country rich in gold and jewels, supposed by the Spanish soldiers of this period to be situ- ated somewhere in the northern part of South America. “The river Dorado ” flowed through this land. 135 : 27. fell cent per cent. The horse fell one hundred points in value for each one hundred points he was worth ; i 0 e. became absolutely worthless. 136 : 10. a discretion. At will. 136 : 15. their last billet. A soldier’s billet is a ticket assigning him to quarters. 137 : 12 . sleeping the sleep, etc. Cf. Scott’s Lady of the Lake , Canto I, Stanza xxxi : — “ Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. ” 137 : 17. This dreadful spectacle. Vaion tells us ( [Revue des Deux Mondes , page 609) that such a sight was frequently to be encountered at the time when slave-dealers made their blacks cross the Andes on the way from Buenos Ayres to Peru ; the dead bodies would sometimes be preserved by the cold for a whole year. 137 : 32. tirailleur’s. Tirailleur is the French name for a sharpshooter. 138 : 11. Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner. The Dime of the Ancient Mariner , by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), first appeared among the Lyrical Ballads (1798) of Coleridge and Wordsworth, one of the epoch-making books in the history of English literature. The student should read, or reread, this poem carefully in order to appreciate De Quincey’s comments. 139 : 2. a Cain. See Genesis iv. 139 : 2 . Wandering Jew. In John xxi. 22 we read that Jesus said to Peter concerning the beloved disciple : “ If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee ? follow thou me.” From * 268 NOTES these words there arose among the brethren a belief “that thai disciple should not die ” ; and to this belief is traceable the ancient and widespread legend of a Jew who cannot die, but in punish- ment for some sin against Jesus must wander over the face of the earth until at the last day Christ shall pronounce his doom. One version of the legend says that he is Ahasuerus, a shoemaker, who refused to let Christ rest before his shop ; another identifies him with Pilot’s doorkeeper, Kartaphilus, who struck Jesus on the back. The story of the Jew’s wanderings has received frequent literary treatment in both prose and verse ; the best-known novels in which he figures are Eugene Sue’s Le Juif Errant , Dr. Croly’s Salathiel , and Lew Wallace’s The Prince of India. 139 • 3. 4 pass like night,’ etc. “ I pass like night from land to land ” is a line (73) to be found in the Ancient Mariner , Part VII. 139 *. 6 . ‘holding children from their play,’ etc. “ The beauti- ful words of Sir Philip Sydney in his 4 Defense of Poesie.’” — De Quincey. The exact words are : 4 4 [a tale which] holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney-corner” (Sidney's Miscel- laneous Works , page 85). 139 : 14. In the darkness of his cruel superstition, etc. From their habit of following ships for days, albatrosses are regarded with feelings of attachment and superstitious awe by sailors, and it is considered unlucky to kill one. But the Ancient Mariner believed that the particular albatross following his ship was the cause of the fog and mist surrounding the vessel, and hence slew the bird. 139 : 16. The Nemesis. In Greek mythology, Nemesis was the goddess of retributive justice. 139 : 22 . 44 That loved the hire.. Gc. See Ancient Mariner Part V, lines 106-109 : — “ The spirit who bidetli by himself Tn the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.” NOTES 269 139 : 26. u Nine fathom deep,’' etc Lines 61-52 of the Ancient Mariner , Part II, read ; — “ Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.” 140 : 23. her native Basque. The natives of the Basque prov- inces speak a language peculiarly their own. It cannot be classed among Aryan or Semitic tongues, but has points in common with certain Mongol, African, and American dialects. 141 . 20. Flying in panic, etc. Cf. Proverbs xxviii. 1 : u The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” 141 : 21 . Not for the first time, Kate wept. Perhaps it would have surprised De Quincey had he read in Catalina’s Memoirs (page 56), “ I wept — I think it was for the first time.” 141 : 27. A Frenchman. See note on line 11, page 114. 141 : 29. his opinion. “ Left alone, the adventuress knelt down, bega^ to weep, and prayed God earnestly, doubtless for the first time in her life ” ( Bevue des Deux Mondes , page 609). 142 : 2 . “moncher.” My dear. 142 : 4. You ... I love oftentimes, etc. In all that De Quincey wrote, however, can be seen his more than ordinary insular preju- dice against the French. 142 : 31. in extremities of general famine, etc. It is interest- ing to remember that it remained for a Frenchman, Victor Hugo, in his Les Miser ables, to illustrate most strikingly the injustice of such punishment. 144 : 8 . blue serene. Cf. Shelley’s Revolt of Islam , Canto I, Stanza iv, line 5 : — “ Beneath that opening spot of blue serene.” 145 : 32. revolved. See note on line 18, page 38. 146 : 1. the arrears of the road. The parts of the road still to be traversed. Similarly “ arrear of . . . strength” (line 14) means the strength held in reserve and still to be put forth. 270 NOTES 146 : 22. blossoms . . . rehearsing . . . the resurrections oi Life. Cf. Autobiographic Sketches , Works, Yol. II, page 32 . 147 : 8. nor creeping thing, etc. Note the perfect rhythm of this passage. 148 : 17 . some winged patriarchal herald of wrath relenting. See Genesis viii. 10-11 for an account of the winged herald that came to Noah. 148 : 26 . as the Christian pinnace, etc. The corsairs were pirates from Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli, and Morocco, who, after about the fourteenth century, were long the terror of all Christian mer- chantmen sailing the Mediterranean, The word corsair may also be used, as here, to designate a vessel manned by such pirates. 148 : 32 . a city of refuge. Among the ancient Jews six cities of Palestine were appointed as places of refuge and safety, “that whosoever killeth any person at unawares might flee thither, and not die by the hand of the avenger of blood, until he stood before the congregation.” See Numbers xxxv ; Deuteronomy xix ; Joshua xx. 149 : 17 . not built with hands. “ We have a building of God- an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” — 2 Cor - intliians v. 1. 149 : 25 . “The sun, that rejoices.” In Psalms xix. 5 , we are told that the sun “ rejoicetli as a strong man to run a race.” 149 : 29 . the Angelus. The word angelus means : ( 1 ) a Roman Catholic prayer to the Virgin Mary, beginning with the w^ords “ Angelus Domini ,” “The angel of the Lord ” ; (2) as here, the bell, which at morning, noon, and evening announces the time for the recitation of this prayer. 150 : 11 . Little is mentioned of the delusions which possessed her. Nothing at all, in fact, either by Yalon or by Catalina herself. 150 : 18 . like an army with banners. “ Terrible as an army with banners ” is to be found in the Song of Solomon vi. 4 . 150 : 23 . St. Bernard’s hospice. The hospice of St. Bernard, NOTES 271 rounded in 962 by Bernard de Meuthon, a Savoyard nobleman, stands at the crest of the Great St. Bernard pass over the Pennine Alps. Eight thousand feet above the sea level, it is one of the highest habitations in Europe. Within the hospice dwell ten or twelve St. Augustine monks, who, with the aid of their noble dogs, have saved hundreds of travellers from death by exposure to the cold and snow. As many as five hundred persons have sought shelter within the hospice during a single day. 1 51 : 2. like the mist . . . upon the river of the American St. Peter, etc. It is difficult to say exactly to what river De Quincey here makes reference. The great geographical authority of De Quincey’s day was the Geographie JJniverselle of Malte-Brun (8 vois., Paris, 1824-1828) ; in this work the Minnesota River is called the St. Peter’s, but no mention is made of its mists. Nor is anything said of mists in Eeatherstonhaugh’s Canoe Voyage up the Minnay Sotor (1847). Returning to Malte-Brun, we find that he mentions no other St. Peter’s River, but that he makes some very interesting remarks about Niagara Falls (Vol. Ill, Book 78) : “The great cataract is continually obscured with vapor, which may be distinguished at a very considerable distance ; and its foaming billows appear to float in the heavens. As the density of the mist varies, the adjacent forests and rocks are occasionally perceived, and they add to the splendor of the scene.” De Quincey may well have had some such description in mind when he made the reference under consideration. But here another difficulty arises ; he might very correctly have thought of the Niagara River as a part of the St. Lawrence, but why should he have called St. Lawrence the American St. Peter ? 1 51 : 14 . the sun is holding out his golden Christian signal, etc. Cf. “ Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.” — Ephesians iv. 26. 15 1 : 22. Captain Bunsby’s. This wise gentleman, the oracle of all his neighbors, is a character in Dickens’s Domhey and Son . 151 s 29. some stimulus from earthly vineyards. u Though not 272 NOTES exactly in the same circumstances as Kate, or sleeping, a la belli etoile , on a declivity of the Andes, I have known (or heard cir- cumstantially reported) the cases of many ladies, besides Kate, who w r ere in precisely the same critical danger of perishing for want of a little brandy. A dessert-spoonful or two would have saved them. Avaunt ! you wicked 4 Temperance ’ medalist ! re- pent as fast as ever you can, or, perhaps, the next time we hear of you, anasarca and hydro-thorax will be running after you, to punish your shocking excesses in water. Seriously, the case is one of constant recurrence, and constantly ending fatally from unseasonable and pedantic rigour of temperance. Dr. Darwin, the famous author of Zoonomia, The Botanic Garden , etc., sac- rificed his life to the very pedantry and superstition of temper- ance, by refusing a glass of brandy in obedience to a system, at a moment when (according to the opinion of all around him) one single glass would have saved his life. The fact is, that the medical profession composes the most generous and liberal body of men amongst us ; taken generally, by much the most enlightened ; but, professionally, the most timid. Want of boldness in the adminis- tration of opium, etc., though they can be bold enough with mercury, is their besetting infirmity. And from this infirmity females suffer most. One instance I need hardly mention, the fatal case of an august lady, mourned by nations [the Princess Charlotte, who died in child-birth 6th Nov. 1817], with respect to whom it was, and is, the belief of multitudes to this hour (well able to judge), that she would have been saved by a glass of brandy ; and her chief medical attendant, Sir R. C. [Sir Richard Croft] , who shot himself, came to think so too late — too late for her, and too late for himself. Amongst many cases of the same nature, which personally I have been acquainted with, thirty years ago, a man illustrious for his intellectual accomplishments 1 men- 1 On second thoughts, I see no reason for scrupling to mention that this man was Robert Southey. NOTES 273 tioned to me that his own wife, during her first or second con- finement, was suddenly reported to him, by one of her female attendants (who slipped away unobserved by the medical people), as undoubtedly sinking fast. He hurried to her chamber, and saw that it was so. On this, he suggested earnestly some stimu- lant — laudanum or alcohol. The presiding medical authority, however, was inexorable. 4 Oh, by no means,’ shaking his am- brosial wig ; 4 any stimulant at this crisis would be fatal.’ But no authority could overrule the concurrent testimony of all symptoms, and of all unprofessional opinions. By some pious falsehood, my friend smuggled the doctor out of the room, and immediately smuggled a glass of brandy into the poor lady’s lips. She recov- ered as if under the immediate afflatus of magic ; so sudden was her recovery, and so complete. The doctor is now dead, and went to his grave under the delusive persuasion — that not any vile glass of brandy, but the stern refusal of all brandy, was the thing that saved his collapsing patient. The patient herself, who might natu- rally know something of the matter, was of a different opinion. She sided with the factious body around her bed (comprehending all, beside the doctor), who felt sure that death was rapidly ap- proaching, barring that brandy. The same result, m the same appalling crisis, I have known repeatedly produced by twenty-five drops of laudanum. Many will say, 4 Oh, never listen to a non- medical man like this writer. Consult in such a case your medi- cal adviser.’ You will, will you ? Then let me tell you, that you are missing the very logic of all I have been saying for the improve- ment of blockheads, which is — that you should consult any man but a medical man, since no other man has any obstinate prejudice of professional timidity.” — De Quince y. The bracketed matter is Masson’s. 152 : 9. the legend of ancient days. The present editor is not familiar with this legend. 152 : 32. Caballero. A knight, or gentleman. T 274 NOTES 153 : 13 . “written strange defeatures in her face.” Cf. Shako speare, Comedy of Errors , Act V, Scene i, lines 297-299 : — “ O, grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last, And careful hours with time’s deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face.” 153 : 21. all the household of St. Sebastian. 4 4 At this point De Quincey had reached the close of the second part of the story as it originally appeared in TaWs Edinburgh Magazine. As the first part (May 1847) had closed with the intimation 4 To be con- cluded in the next Number ,’ he thought it necessary to apologise for the non-fulfilment of that promise and the protraction of the story into a third part. This he did in the following paragraph, inserted at this point in the Magazine, but omitted, of course, in the reprint ; — 4 Last month, reader, I promised, or some one promised for me, that I should drive through to the end of the journey in the next stage. But, oh, dear reader ! these Andes, in Jonathan’s phrase, are a 44 severe” range of hills. It takes 44 the kick” out of any horse, or, indeed, out of any cornet of horse, to climb up this cruel side of the range. Best I really must, whilst Kate is resting. But next month I will carry you down the other side at such a flying gal- lop, that you shall suspect me (though most unjustly) of a plot against your neck. Now, let me throw down the reins ; and then, in our brother Jonathan’s sweet sentimental expression, 44 let’s liquor.” ’ There is some pathos now in this careless piece of slang, scribbled by De Quincey as a stop-gap for his magazine readers in 1847. 4 Best I really must,’ 4 Let me throw down the reins,’ 4 Let’s liquor,’ — in these phrases, and with real fun in the last, one sees De Quincey yet, pen in hand more than forty years ago, in some fatigued moment in his Edinburgh or Glasgow lodging.” — Masson. 154 : 3. Creole. 44 At that time the infusion of negro or African blood was small. Consequently, none of the negro hideousness was diffused. After those intercomplexities had arisen between ah NOTES 275 complications and interweavings of descent from three original strands — European, American, African — the distinctions of social consideration founded on them bred names so many, that a court calendar was necessary to keep you from blundering. As yet (i.e., in Kate’s time), the varieties were few. Meantime, the word Creole has always been misapplied in our English colonies to a per- son (though of strictly European blood), simply if born in the West Indies. In this English use, the word Creole expresses ex- actly the same difference as the Homans indicated by Ilispanus and Hispanicus. The first meant a person of Spanish blood, a native of Spain ; the second, a Roman born in Spain. So of Ger- manus and Germanicus , Itcilus and Italians , Anglus and Anglicus , etc. ; an important distinction, on which see Isaac Casaubon apud Scriptores Hist. Augustan .” — De Quince y. 154 : 21. materials extant. In reality, Catalina says little about the appearance of this girl, whose name she does not even mention. Yalon’s description, however, is as follows ( Bevue des Deux Mondes , page 611) : u Born of a Spanish father and an American mother, she united with the piquant physiognomy of the Andalu- sian that supple figure, that velvet-like eye, that voluptuous lan- guor, which are the distinguishing charms of Peruvian women. About her neck — a dull white, even a little dusky — hung loosely a necklace of coral, while long ear-rings gave to her face a peculiar air of strangeness, and almost of savagery.” 154 : 22. two hundred and twenty-eight years. In the July num- ber of Tait (1847) this reads “two hundred and twenty years.” Catalina, it should be noted, began to write her memoirs in 1624. 154 : 26. Grenada. The old province of Grenada is perhaps the most celebrated section of Spain. In the time of the Romans it was a part of the province of Bsetica and served as a battle-ground for the Visigoths and the Vandals. After the Arab invasion of the eighth century it became a Moorish kingdom and so remained until its complete conquest by the Spaniards in 1492. 276 NOTES 154 : 29. blood of Arabs. More accurately speaking, Semiti® blood. 154 : 30. through Jews. “It is well known, that the very rea- son why the Spanish beyond all nations became so gloomily jealous of a Jewish cross in the pedigree, was because, until the vigilance of the church rose into ferocity, in no nation was such a cross so common. The hatred of fear is ever the deepest. And men hated the Jewish taint, as once in Jerusalem they hated the leprosy, be- cause, even whilst they raved against it, the secret proofs of it might be detected amongst their own kindred ; even as in the Temple, whilst once a Hebrew king rose in mutiny against the priesthood (2 Chronicles xxvi. 16-20), suddenly the leprosy that dethroned him, blazed out upon his forehead.” — He Quincey. It was just after the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus that the Jews flocked to Spain in great numbers. Under the early Gothic kings they lived in peace and prosperity, but in the Middle Ages were terribly persecuted by the church. Yet it was these same persecuted Jews who, together with the Moors, kept alive, during the long centuries of mediaeval darkness, a love of learning, litera- ture, and refinement. 155 : 6 . Miranda . . . Ferdinand. Characters in Shakespeare’s Tempest. The “ astonishment ” of Miranda is described in Act I, Scene ii, lines 409 ff. 155 : 16. Catalina . . . has left it evident in her memoirs, etc. So lie Quincey inferred from reading Valon’s article in the Bevue des Deux Mondes. As a matter of fact, she has done no such thing. 155 : 26. that wooed the heavenly Desdemona. In Othello , Act I, Scene iii, lines 128 ff., the Moor tells how Desdemona was wooed and won. 155 : 33. Peruvians. The province of Tucuman (see note on line 25, page 156) was at that time a dependency of Peru. 156 : 13. waltzing was premature, etc. The waltz, the national NOTES 277 dance of Germany, dates its general popularity in other countries from the early years of the nineteenth century. 156 : 25. Go to Tucuman. This town is situated in the northern part of what was then known as the province of Tucuman, some two hundred and fifty miles east of the Andes, which here formed the boundary line between Chili and Tucuman. If Catalina crossed the Andes at a point from which Tucuman was the nearest city, she must have started from northern Chili. 3:57 : 2. “ gammon.” Hoaxing ; jesting. Perhaps the fact that copper and tin produce a variety of brass, and that “brass” is necessary to the successful use of “gammon,” will explain De Quincey’s reference to mines in this connection. 157 : 4. “ Tin.” Here used with its familiar slang meaning of “ monev.” */ 157 : 25. One reporter of Mr. De Ferrer’s narrative. See the Historical Note on Catalina de Erauso , pages lxiv-lxv ; also the note on line 11, page 114. 157 : 28. when he says that the senora’s gift, etc. Valon’s re- marks, of which De Quincey here states the substance, may be found on page 613 of his article in the j Revue des Deux Mondes. 157 : 33. a Spartan amongst Helots. Of the four classes into which the population of ancient Sparta was divided, the lowest was that of the helots, who were serfs or slaves. 158 : 9. twelve Portuguese. Probably from Brazil, which was first colonized by the Portuguese. 158 : 12. the Spanish proverb, etc. Christy, Proverbs , Maxims and Phrases (Vol. II, page 296) words the proverb thus, “ Strip a Spaniard of every virtue and you have a Portuguese.” 160 : 31. after the fact. After the commission of the crime. 161 : 1. buzwigs. This word, of De Quincey’s own coinage, is a combination of the slang term bigwig , — meaning a person of consequence, more especially a judge, — and Buzfuz , the name of the pompous sergeant in Dickens’s Pickwick Papers. NOTES 161 : 15. the Pythias of this . . . Damon. Damon and Pythias were two Syracusan youths whose friendship has become pro- verbial. When Damon was condemned to death by Dionysius the Tyrant, Pythias, in order that the condemned man might have an opportunity of visiting his home, became his surety. Damon failed to return on time, so Pythias was led forth to execution. But just as Pythias was about to meet his death, Damon appeared, and Dionysius was so struck by this proof of the strong friendship between the two that he released them both. 161 : 29. like the bricks in Jack Cade’s chimney. The chim- ney here referred to may be that of the old White Heart Inn, at Southwark, where Cade is supposed to have had his headquarters during the rebellion (1450). For some account of this rebellion, read Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part Second. 162 : 7. who had so often inflicted death, etc. See note on line 12 , page 133. 162 : 31. the tender attentions of the Inquisition. See note on line 30, page 105. 164 : 6 . “ship-shape.” A pun on the word ship. In general, the expression ship-shape refers to the methodical arrangement of things on board ship. 164 : 10. the scene. This, of course, is the scene referred to on page 106, lines 6-18. * 164 : 14 . the President. Don Martin de Mendiola, president, or XDresiding judge, of the royal audiencia held at La Plata. 164 : 14. La Plata. This town, now known as Chuquisaca or Sucre, and at present the capital of Bolivia, is about six hundred miles directly north of Tucuman. The modern Bolivia was known in Catalina’s day as Upper Peru. 164 : 27. but nothing after this, etc. One has but to read the abstract of Catalina’s Memoirs given in the Historical Note, pages lix-lxiv to see how far De Quincey here goes astray. 165 : 5. Eminences, etc. A cardinal is spoken of as his Emi- NOTES 279 nence, an ambassador as his Excellency, a prince as his High- ness ; Royalties and Holinesses are, of course, kings and popes. 165 : 8 . peripetteia. This word, of Greek origin, usually spelled peripeteia , means literally “a turning around,” and is the term technically applied to “ that part of a drama in which the plot is unravelled and the whole concludes.” 165 : 11. a Claude Lorraine gleam. “ Claude Lorraine ” was the pseudonym of Claude Gel 6 e (1600-1682), the great landscape painter, who excelled especially in the beauty and fidelity of his representations of sunlight effects at various hours of the day. : 16. Mr. President Mendonia. See note on line 14, page 164. Again the name invented by De Quincy is more euphonious than the correct one. : 28. seven hundred miles. The distance between La Plata and Concepcion is really about fourteen hundred miles. 166 : 18. Paz. Paz, or La Paz, capital of the department of Paz in Bolivia, lies about three hundred miles northwest of Sucre, or La Plata. Paz is also the Spanish word meaning “peace.” 166 : 26. comme de raison. As a matter of course. 167 : 2. Alcalde [