HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE TUSCAN COURT UNDER THE GRAND DUKE LEOPOLD.

When the wretched, worthless and worn-out debauchee Gian Gaston dei Medici, grand duke of Tuscany, died on the 9th of July, 1737, the dynasty of that famous family became extinct. For some years before his death the prospect of a throne without any heir by right divine to claim it had set the cupidity of sundry of the European crowned heads in motion. Various schemes and arrangements had been proposed in the interest of different potentates. But the "vulpine cunning," as an Italian historian calls it, of Cardinal Fleury, the minister of Louis XV., at length succeeded in inducing the European powers to accede to an arrangement which secured the greater part of the advantage to France. It was finally settled that the duke of Lorraine should cede to France his ancestral states, which the latter had long coveted, and that he should be married to Maria Teresa, the heiress of the Austrian dominions, carrying in his hand Tuscany, the throne of which was secured to him at the death of Gian Gaston. It was further promised to the Tuscans, discontented at the prospect of having an absentee sovereign, that on the death of the emperor Francis, Tuscany should have a ruler of its own in the person of his second son. This Francis, who gave up the duchy of Lorraine to become the husband of Maria Teresa, reigned over Tuscany till his sudden death by apoplexy on the 18th of August, 1765. His second son, Leopold, reigned in Tuscany till, on the death of his elder brother on the 24th of December, 1789, he was in his turn also called to ascend the imperial throne. Thereupon the second son of Leopold became grand-duke in 1789, and reigned as Ferdinand III. till 1824, when, on the 18th of June, his son succeeded him as Leopold II. Now, though the sovereignty of Tuscany was thus entirely and definitively separated from that of Austria, all these princes were of the blood-royal of Austria, and might in the course of Nature have succeeded to the imperial throne. For this reason they were held, though only dukes of Tuscany, to be entitled to the style and title "imperial and royal," according to the custom of the House of Austria; and thus every grimy little tobacco-shop and lottery-office in Tuscany, in the days when I first knew it, in 1841, styled itself "imperial and royal."

The Tuscans had been greatly discontented when the arrangements of the great powers of Europe, entered into without a moment's thought as to the wishes of the population of the grand duchy on the subject, had decided that they were to be ruled over by a German prince of whom they knew absolutely nothing. It was not that the later Medici had been popular, or either respected or beloved. The misgovernment of especially the last two of the Medicean line had reduced the country to the lowest possible social, moral and economical condition. But yet the change from the known to the utterly unknown was unwelcome to the people. They feared they knew not what changes and innovations in their old easy-going if downward-tending ways. But Providence, in the shape of the ambitions and intrigues of the great powers, had better things in store for them than they dreamed of. The princes of the Lorraine dynasty so ruled as not only quickly to gain the respect and affection of their subjects, but gradually to render Tuscany by far the most civilized and prosperous portion of Italy. The first three princes of the Lorraine line were enlightened men, far in advance not only of the generality of their own subjects, but of their contemporaries in general. They were conscientious rulers, earnestly desirous of ameliorating the condition of the people they were called on to govern. Of the last of the line the same cannot in its entirety be said. A portion of the eulogy deserved by his predecessors may be awarded to him unquestionably. He was, I fully believe, a good and conscientious man, anxious to do his duty, and desirous of the happiness and well being of his people. But he was by no means a wise or enlightened man. It could hardly be said that he was popular or beloved by his subjects at the time when I first knew Florence. The Tuscans were very far better off than any other Italians at that time, and they were fully conscious that they were so. But this superiority was justly credited to the wise rule of the grand duke's father and grandfather, rather than to any merit of his own. Yet he was liked in a sort of way—I am afraid I must say in a contemptuous sort of way. The general notion was that he was what is generally described by the expressive term "a poor creature." He probably was so, in truth, from his birth upward. It was said—and I believe with truth—that he had been in his childish years reared with the greatest difficulty; and strange as it may seem, it is, I believe, a fact that a wet-nurse made an important part of the establishment of the prince at the Pitti Palace till he was about twenty years old. How far physiologists may deem that such an abnormal circumstance may have been influential in producing a diathesis of mind and body deficient in vigor, energy and "hard grit" of any kind, I do not know. But if that is what such a bringing-up may be expected to produce, then the expectation was in the case in question certainly justified. Nevertheless, Italians had been for so many generations and centuries taught by bitter experience to consider kings and princes of all sorts as malevolent and maleficent scourges of humanity that a sovereign who really did no harm to any one was, after a fashion, as I have said, popular. Accessibility is always one sure means of making a sovereign acceptable to large classes of his subjects; and nothing could be easier than to gain access to the presence of Leopold II., grand duke of Tuscany. A little anecdote of an occurrence that took place at the time when Lord Holland, to the regret of everybody in Florence, English or Italian, ceased to be the representative of England at the grand ducal court, will show the sort of thing that used to prevail in the matter of the admission of foreigners to the Pitti Palace.

English travelers on the continent of Europe are, and have been for many years, as it is hardly necessary to state, a very motley and heterogeneous crowd. The same thing may be said of American travelers now, but it was not so much the case at the time of which I am writing. It is not so with the people of any other nation; and foreigners are apt to sneer on occasion at the unkempt and queer specimens of humanity which often come to them from the two English-speaking nations. We can well afford to let them stare and smile, well knowing that if a similar amount of prosperity permitted the people of other countries to travel for their pleasure in similar numbers, the result would be at the very least an equally—shall I say undrawing-room-like contribution to cosmopolitan society? When Sir George Hamilton assumed the duties of British representative at Florence, the yearly throng of English visitors was becoming more numerous and more heterogeneous, and all wanted to be invited to the balls at the Pitti Palace. Those were the most urgent in their applications, as will be easily understood, whose claims to such distinction were the most problematic. The practice was for the minister to present to the grand duke whom he thought fit, and those so presented went to the balls as a matter of course. The position of the minister, it will be seen, was an invidious one. Under the pressure of these circumstances, Sir George Hamilton declared that he would in no case take upon himself to decide on the fitness or unfitness of any person, but would act invariably upon the old recognized rule of etiquette observed at other courts in such matters—i.e., he would present anybody who had been presented at the court of St. James, and none who had not been so presented. The result was soon apparent in a singular thinning of the magnificent suites of rooms of the Pitti on ball-nights. The general appearance of the rooms might be something more like what the receiving-rooms of princes are wont to look like, but all that was gained in quality was attained by a very marked sacrifice of quantity. In a week or two Sir George received a hint to the effect that the grand duke would be pleased if the minister would be less strict in the matter of presenting such English as might desire to come to the Pitti. "Oh!" said Sir George, "if that is what is desired, there can be no difficulty about it. I am sure I won't stand in the way of filling the Pitti ball-room. Let them all come." And accordingly everybody who asked to be presented was presented without any pretence of an attempt at discrimination.

This was the manner in which the thing was done: All new-comers were told that if they wished to go to the Pitti balls they must notify to the English minister their desire to be presented to the grand duke. In return, they received an intimation that they must be in the ante-room of the suite of receiving-rooms at eight o'clock on such an evening—ladies in ball-dress; gentlemen in evening-dress with white neckcloths. It may be observed here that this matter of the white neckcloth was the only point insisted on. Both ladies and gentlemen were allowed to exercise the utmost latitude of private judgment as to what constituted "ball-dress" and "evening-dress." I have seen a black stuff gown fitting closely round the throat pass muster for the first, and a gray frockcoat for the second. But the officials at the door would refuse to admit a man with a black neckerchief; and I once saw a man thus rejected retire a few steps into a corridor, whip off the offending black silk and put it in his pocket, obtain a fragment of white tape from some portion of a lady's dress, put that round his shirt-collar, and then again presenting himself be recognized by the officials as complying with the exigencies of etiquette. The aspirants to "court society" having assembled, from twenty to fifty, perhaps, in number, according as it was earlier or later in the season, presently the minister bustled in, and with a hurried "Now then!" led his motley flock into the presence-chamber, where they were formed into line. Much about the same moment (for the grand duke had "the royal civility" of punctuality, and rarely kept people waiting) His Serene Imperial and Royal Highness came shambling into the room in the white-and-gold uniform of an Austrian general officer, and looking very much as if he had just been roused out of profound slumber, and had not yet quite collected his senses. Walking as if he had two odd legs, which had never been put to work together before, he came to a standstill in front of the row of presentees. If there was any person of any sort of distinction among them, the minister whispered a word or two in the grand ducal ear, and motioned the lion to come forward. His Imperial and Royal Highness, after one glance of helpless suffering at the stranger, fixed his gaze on his own boots. A long pause ensued, during which courtly etiquette forbade the stranger to utter a word. At last His Highness shifted his weight on to his left foot, hung his head down on his shoulder on the same side, and said "Ha!" Another pause, the presentee hardly considering himself justified in replying to this observation. The duke finding he had made a false start and accomplished nothing, shifted his weight to the right foot, simultaneously hanging his head on his shoulder on that side, and said "Hum!" It would often occur that when he had reached that point he would make a duck forward with his head to signify that the audience was at an end.

If there was anything that the presenting official thought might be appropriately remarked to the distinguished presentee, he would whisper a hint to that effect in the grand ducal ear, of which His Highness was usually glad to avail himself. I remember one amusing instance in point, when it needed all the sense of the majesty of the sovereign presence to preserve in the bystanders the gravity due to the occasion. It was in the case of an American presentation. The United States had at that time no recognized representative at the grand ducal court, and Americans, much fewer in number then than of late years, were generally presented by a banker who had almost all the American business. This gentleman, having to present some one—I forget the name—who was connected by blood or in some other special manner with Washington, whispered to the grand duke that such was the case. His Serene Highness bowed his appreciation of the fact. Then, after going through the usual foot-exercise, and after a longer pause than usual, he looked up at the expectant visitor standing in front of him, and said, but with evident effort, "Ah-h-h! Le grand Vaash!" There was nothing more forthcoming. Having thus delivered himself, he made his visitor a low bow, and the latter retired. It was evident that the grand duke of Tuscany heard of "Le grand Vaash" then for the first time in his life.

After any specialty of this sort had been disposed of, the ruck of presentees, standing like a lot of school-boys in a long row, were "presented," which ceremony was deemed to have been effectually accomplished by one duck of the grand ducal head, to be divided among all the recipients, and an answering duck from each of them in return. They were then as free to amuse themselves in any manner it seemed good to them as if they had been at a public place of entertainment and had paid for their tickets. And not only that, but they were free to return and do the same, without any fresh presentation ceremony, every time there was a ball at the palace, which was at least once a week from the beginning of the year to the end of Carnival.

Nor were the amusements thus liberally provided by any means to be despised. There was a magnificent suite of rooms, with a really grand ball-room, all magnificently lighted; there was a large and very excellent band; there was a great abundance of card-tables, with all needed appurtenances, in several of the rooms; ices and sherbets and bonbons and tea and pastry were served in immense profusion during the whole evening. At one o'clock the supper-rooms were opened, and there was a really magnificent supper, with "all the delicacies of the season," and wine in abundance of every sort. And the old hands, who would appear knowing, used to say to new-comers, "Never mind the champagne—you can get that anywhere—but stick to the Rhine wine: it comes from the old boy's own vineyards." To tell the truth, the scene at that supper used to be a somewhat discreditable one. The spreading of such a banquet before such an assemblage of animals as had gone up into that ark was a leading them into unwonted temptation which was hardly judicious. Not that the foreigners were by any means the worst offenders against decent behavior there. If they carried away bushels of bonbons in their loaded pockets, the Italians would consign to the same receptacles whole fowls, vast blocks of galantine, and even platefuls of mayonnaise, packed up in paper brought thither for the purpose. They were like troops plundering a taken town. Despite the enormous quantity of loot thus carried off, inexhaustible fresh supplies refurnished the board again and again till all were satisfied. I never saw English or Americans pocket aught save bonbons, which seemed to be considered fair game on all sides, but the quantity of these that I have seen made prizes of was something prodigious.

The grand duchess had hardly more to say for herself than the grand duke, and her manner was less calculated to please her visitors. That which in the grand duke was evidently shyness and want of ready wit, took in the grand duchess the appearance of hauteur and the distant manner due to pride. She was a sister of the king of Naples, and was liked by no one. The one truly affable member of the court circle, whose manner and bearing really had something of royal grace and graciousness, was the dowager grand duchess, the widow of the late grand duke, who to all outward appearance was as young as, and a far more elegant-looking woman than, the reigning grand duchess. She had been a princess of the royal family of Saxony, and was no doubt in all respects, intellectual and moral as well as social, a far more highly cultivated woman than the scion of the Bourbon House of Naples. She was the late grand duke's second wife, and not the mother of the reigning duke.

Why were all these balls given—at no small cost of money and trouble—by the grand duke and duchess? Why did his Serene Imperial and Royal Highness intimate to the English minister his wish that every traveling Briton from Capel Court or Bloomsbury should be brought to share his hospitality and the pleasures of his society? The matter was simply this: His Serene Highness was venturing a small fish to catch a large one. As a good and provident ruler, anxious for the prosperity and well-being of his subjects, he was making a bid for the valuable patronage of the British Cockney. He was acting the part of land-lord of a gratuitous "free-and-easy," in the hope of making Florence an attractive place of residence to that large class of nomad English to whom gratuitous court-balls once a week appeared to be a near approach to those "Saturnia regna" when the rivers ran champagne and plum-puddings grew on all the bushes. And it cannot be doubted that the grand duke's patriotic endeavors were crowned with success, and that his expenditure in wax-lights, music, ices and suppers was returned tenfold to the shopkeepers and hotel and lodging-house keepers of his capital.

One other point may be mentioned with reference to these balls, as a small contribution to the history of a system of social manners and usages which has now passed away. The utmost latitudinarianism, as has been mentioned, was allowed in the matter of costume, but this rule was subject to one exception. On the night of New Year's Day, on which there was always a ball at the Pitti, all those who attended it were expected to appear in proper court-dress. Those who were entitled to any official costume, military or other, donned that. I have seen a clergyman of the Church of England make his academical robes do duty as a court-dress, as indeed they properly do at St. James. But in the rooms at the Pitti His Reverence became the observed of all observers to a remarkable degree. Those who could lay claim to no official costume of any sort had to fall back on the old court-dress of the period of George I., still worn, oddly enough, at the English court. It is a sufficiently handsome dress in itself, and had at all events the advantage of looking extremely unlike the ordinary costume of nineteenth-century mortals, It was often a question with American civilians what dress they should wear on these occasions, and I used to endeavor to persuade my American friends to insist upon their republican right to ignore in Europe court-tailor mummeries of which they knew nothing at home; being perfectly sure that they would have carried the point victoriously, and not unmindful of Talleyrand's remark when Castlereagh at Vienna appeared in a plain black coat, without any decoration, among the crowd of continental diplomatists bedizened with ribbons of every color and stars and crosses of every form and kind: "Ma foi! c'est fort distingue!" But I never could prevail, having, as I take it, the female influence against me on the subject; and Americans used to adopt generally a blue cloth coat and trousers well trimmed with gold lace, and a white waistcoat.

In later days, when popular discontent and the agitation arising from it were gradually boiling up to a dangerous height in every part of Italy, and the hatred felt toward the different sovereigns was reflected in many an audacious squib and satire, the grand duke of Tuscany never shared to any great degree the odium which pursued his fellow-monarchs. It was with a scathing vigor of satire that Giuseppe Giusti characterized each of the Italian crowned heads of that period in burning verses, which were circulated with cautious secresy in manuscript from hand to hand, long before a surreptitious edition, which it was dangerous (anywhere in Italy save in Tuscany) to possess, appeared, to be followed in after years by many an avowed one. These have given the name of Giusti a high and peculiar place on the roll of Italian poets. But the satirist's serpent scourge is changed for a somewhat contemptuously used foolscap when the Tuscan ruler is introduced in the following lines:

Il Toscano Morfeo vien' lemme, lemme, Di pavavero cinto e di lattuga.

Then comes the Tuscan Morpheus, creepy, crawly, With poppies and with lettuce crowned.

These lines, however, represent pretty accurately about the worst that his subjects had to say of poor old "Ciuco," as the last of the grand dukes was irreverently and popularly called: "Ciuco," I am sorry to state, means "donkey." And it must be owned that the two lines I have quoted from Giusti's verses, with their untranslatable "lemme, lemme"—of which I have endeavored, with imperfect success, to give the meaning—present a very graphic picture of the man and the nature and characteristics of his government. Everything went "lemme, lemme," in the Sleepy Hollow of Tuscany in those days.

Used as he was to be laughed at, Leopold could occasionally be made sleepily half angry by impertinences which had something of a sting in them. Here is an amusing instance of that fact, and of the way in which things used to be done in Tuscany. Most of the Italian provinces—or larger cities, rather—have been from time immemorial personated in the popular fancy by certain comic types, supposed to represent with more or less accuracy the special characteristics of each district. Venice, as all the world knows, has, and still more had, her "Pantaloon," Naples her "Pulcinello," etc. The specialties of the Florentine character are popularly supposed to be embodied in "Stenterello," who comes on the Florentine stage, in pieces written for the purpose, every Carnival, to the never-failing delight of the populace. Stenterello is an absurd figure with a curling pigtail, large cocked hat, and habiliments meant to represent those of a Tuscan citizen of some hundred years or so ago. He is a sort of shrewd fool, doing the most absurd things, lying through thick and thin with a sort of simple, self-confuting mendacity, yet contriving to cheat everybody, and always having, amid all his follies, a shrewd eye to his own interest. He talks with the broadest possible Florentine accent and idiom, and despite his cunning is continually getting more kicks than halfpence. Well, there was in those days a famous Stenterello, really a very clever fellow in his way, who for many years had been the delight of the Florentines every Carnival. But one year a rival theatre produced a new and rival Stenterello. Of course the old and established Stenterello could not stand this without using the license of the popular stage to overwhelm his rival with ridicule. "This sort of thing," said he, "will never do! How many Stenterelli are we to have? Two is the regular established number in Florence. There are I and my brother over there at the great house on the other side of the Arno: we are the Florentine Stenterelli by right divine, as is well known. Who is this pretender who comes to interfere with us?" etc. Now, this was a little too much, even for Florence. And a day or two afterward the old original Stenterello was ordered to go to prison. Nobody was ever arrested, as we should call it, or taken to prison. A man who for any cause was to suffer imprisonment used to be told to go to prison. Stenterello told the officer who announced his doom that it was out of the question that he should go just then: he had to appear on the boards that night. This was deemed to be a just impediment, and he was told to go next day. The next day was a "festa:" of course a sufficient reason for putting off everything. The day after, on presenting himself at the prison-door, the actor was told that the governor of the prison was out of Florence, and he must "call again" in a few days. When the governor returned, Stenterello was indisposed for a few days. When he got well the governor was indisposed, and when he got well there was another "festa;" and when at last the offending actor did apply to the prison official to be imprisoned, he was told there was no room for him. Long before that the higher authorities had totally forgotten all about the matter. That was the way things were done in Tuscany in the good old time.

The more serious faults with which Leopold II. was chargeable were due to the narrowness of his religious bigotry, and, in the difficult and trying circumstances of the latter years of his reign, the lack of the courage needed to enable him to be truthful and to keep faith with his people. When the frightened and fickle pope ran away from Rome, strong influences were brought to bear on the grand duke of Tuscany to induce him to refrain from following the example and to ally himself with Piedmont. His confessor of course took the opposite side, and strove with every weapon he could bring to bear on his Serene penitent to induce him to throw in his lot with the pope. At last the invisible world had to be appealed to. Saint Philomena, who had been a special object of the devotion of the grand ducal family, took to appearing to the confessor, and expressing her earnest hope that her devotee would not risk the salvation of a soul in which she took so tender an interest by refusing to follow the path marked out for him by the Holy Father. The saint became very importunate upon the subject, and each one of her celestial visitations was duly reported to the grand duke, and made the occasion of fresh exhortations on the part of the holy man who had been favored by them. The upshot is well known: Ciuco followed the advice of Saint Philomena and lost his dukedom.

Sometimes, however, this submission of his mind to his clergy was not altogether proof against a certain simple shrewdness, aided perhaps by an inclination to save money, to which he was said not to be insensible. Of course his grandfather, the enlightened and reforming Duke Leopold I., had not been at all in the good graces of the Church, and for a series of years Leopold II. had been in the habit of giving a sum of money for masses for the repose of the soul of his grandfather. But upon one occasion it happened that the archbishop of Lucca (a very special hierarchical big-wig, and the greatest ecclesiastical authority in those parts, being, by reason of some ancient and peculiar privileges, a greater man than even the archbishop of Florence), in the course of an argument with the grand duke, the object of which was to induce the latter to modify in some respects some of those anti-ecclesiastical measures by which the elder Leopold had made the prosperity of Tuscany, was so far carried away by his zeal as to declare that the author of the obnoxious constitutions which he wished altered had incurred eternal damnation by the enactment of them. The grand duke bent his head humbly before the archiepiscopal denunciation, and said nothing in reply. But when the time came round for the disbursement of the annual sum for masses for Leopold I., his pious grandson declared that it was useless to spend any more money for that purpose, for that the archbishop of Lucca had informed him that his unhappy predecessor's soul was in hell, and accordingly past help and past being prayed—or paid—for.

I remember an amusing instance of the same sort of simple shrewdness on the lookout for the main chance which was exemplified in the above anecdote showing itself in quite a different sphere. There was in those days living in Florence an Englishman bearing the name of Sloane. He had made a large fortune by the intelligent and well-ordered management of some copper-mines in the neighborhood of Volterra, which in his hands had turned out to be of exceptional and unexpected richness. He was a man who did much good with his money, and was considered a very valuable and important citizen of his adopted country. He was a Roman Catholic too, which made him all the more acceptable to the Florentines, and especially to the grand duke, with whom he was a great favorite. This Mr. Sloane had bought some years before the date of my anecdote the ancient Medicean villa of Careggi, with a considerable extent of land surrounding it. One day the grand duke paid him a visit at his villa of Careggi, and in the course of it proposed a walk up the slope of the Apennines through some fine woods that made a part of Mr. Sloane's property. They went together, enjoying the delightful walk through the woods over a dry and excellently well-made road, where everything betokened care and good tending, till all of a sudden, near the top of the hill they were climbing, they came to a place where the good road suddenly ended, and the path beyond was all bog and the wood utterly uncared for, so that their walk evidently had to come to an end there, and they would have to retrace their steps.

"Why, Sloane, how is this? This is not like your way of doing things. Why did you stop short in your good work?" said the grand duke, as they stood at the limit of the good road, looking out at the slough beyond them.

"In truth, Your Highness, I was sorry that the good road should break off here, but the circumstance is easily explained. Here ends the property of your humble servant, and there begins the property of Your Royal Highness," said Sloane with a low bow.

"Ha! Is it so? Well, then, I'll tell you what you shall do. You shall buy it, Sloane, and then you can finish your job," returned the grand duke.

It is very doubtful whether the Tuscans would have approved of the liberality of the grand duke's expenditure if he had manifested it, as his neighbor-sovereigns did, by expending his revenues on multitudes of show-soldiers. The Tuscan forces of those days were not exactly calculated for brilliant military display. They were about as likely to be called on to fight as the scullions in the grand ducal kitchen, and neither in number, appearance nor tenue were they such as would have obtained the approval of the lowest officer in the service of a more military-minded sovereign. However, such as they were, the grand duke used occasionally—generally on the recurrence of some great Church festival—to review his troops. On such occasions he was expected to say something to the men. Poor Ciuco's efforts in that line often produced effects more amusing to bystanders than impressive to the objects of his oratory. He was one day reviewing the troops who occupied barracks in the well-known "Fortezza di S. Giovanni," popularly called by the Florentines "Fortezza da basso"—the same in which the celebrated Filippo Strozzi, then the prisoner of the vindictive Cosmo de' Medici, was found dead one morning, leaving to the world the still unsolved historical problem whether he died by his own hand or by that of his jailer hired to do the murder. The scene in the gloomy old fortress with which we are at present concerned was of a less tragic nature. His Serene Highness began by exhorting his "brave army"—which, unlike that of Bombastes in the burlesque, certainly never "kicked up a row" of any kind—to be attentive to their religious duties. "It is particularly desirable that you should show an example to the citizens by your regular observance of the festivals of the Church; and—and—" (here His Highness shuffled his feet, and, hanging his head down, chanced to cast his eyes on the line of feet of the men drawn up before him) "and—and—always keep your shoes clean." And with that doubtless much-needed exhortation His Highness concluded his address.

The fact that Leopold was not regarded by his subjects with any bitterness of hatred—nay, that there was au fond a considerable feeling of affection for him—is shown by the circumstances of his deposition from the throne. A little timely concession would have saved Charles I.: a still less amount of concession would have preserved his throne to Leopold II. As regarded his own power, he had no objection to agree to all that was asked of him, but he could not make up his mind to go against the head of his house and the head of his religion. The last proposal made to him was to abdicate in favor of his son, whom, if allied with Piedmont, the Tuscans would have consented to accept as their sovereign. But the grand duke felt that this would in fact be doing in an indirect manner that which he had fully determined not to do; and he refused. And then came the end, and that memorable April morning (the 27th) when the present writer witnessed a revolution such as the world had not seen before, and such as, it may be feared, it is not likely soon to see again. Revolutions, we have over and over again been told, "cannot be made with rose-water." The Tuscan revolution may have "proved the rule by the exception," but it assuredly proved it in no other way. The revolution by which poor old Ciuco lost this throne was essentially a rose-water revolution. The history of that day, of the negotiations respecting the proposed abdication of the duke, of the conduct and bearing of the people, has already been told by the present writer, when he was fresh from witnessing the events, in a little volume published in 1859. He will not therefore repeat them now, but will conclude this paper with an account of the manner of the last grand duke's farewell to Florence which is not given in the volume spoken of.

It was at six o'clock in the evening that the carriages containing the grand duke and his family passed through the Porta San Gallo, from which proceeds the road to Bologna, and thence to Vienna. The main preoccupation of the people at that moment was to assure themselves by the evidence of their own senses that the duke and dukelings were really gone. An immense crowd of people assembled round the gate and lined the road immediately outside it. Along the living line thus formed the cortege of carriages proceeded at a slow pace. There was no fear of violence. The Tuscan revolution had cost no drop of blood—not so much as a bloody nose—to any human being thus far, and there was no danger whatever that any violence would be shown to the departing and totally unprotected prince. But there might have been danger that the populace would tarnish their hitherto blameless conduct by some manifestation of insult or exultation. There was not one word of the sort spoken in all the crowd, or indeed a word of any sort. The carriages, carrying away those who were never to see the banks of the Arno and fair Florence again, passed on in perfect—one might almost say in mournful—silence. Of course the masses of the crowd were soon passed, and the grand ducal heart, if it had beat a little quickly while his unguarded carriage was passing between the lines of those who declined to be any longer his subjects, resumed that "serenity" supposed to be the especial property of royal highnesses. But some half dozen carriages, containing a score or so of those whose positions had brought them into personal acquaintance with the sovereign, accompanied the royal cortege as far as the Tuscan frontier between the grand ducal state and the dominions of the Church. Arrived at that spot—it is on the top of a high, bleak ridge among the Apennines—there was a general alighting from the carriages for the mutual saying of the last words of farewell. Of course an immense amount of bowing, with backward steps according to true courtly fashion, went to the due uttering of these adieux on that spot of the high-road over the Apennines. Unfortunately, there chanced to be a heap of broken stones for the mending of the road which encroached a little on the roadway. And it so happened that His Imperial and Royal Highness, never very dexterous in the use of his limbs or an adept in the performance of such courtly gymnastics, backed in bowing on this unlucky heap of stones, and was tripped by it in such sort that the imperial and royal heels went into the air, and the grand duke made his last exit from Tuscany in a manner more original than dignified.

T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.



OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

OLD ENGLISH CHARITIES.

The local charities connected with the family history of great landowners in England form one of the most interesting classes of public relief. They date chiefly from ante-Reformation times, and often embody a hidden symbolism into which none save the antiquary now cares to inquire. It is a mistake to suppose that all the dying bequests of pious folk in the Middle Ages were devoted to the "Church" proper: the larger part certainly were, although the spirit that prompted even the making of such bequests was symbolical of the belief in the dispensing (rather than the appropriating) powers of churchmen: but many were also the sums left to be yearly spent in the relief of the poor and starving. Thus originated the alms-(or bede-) houses so frequently met with in the retired villages of England. Bede (from the German beten, to "pray") meant prayer, hinting at the pious duty of those benefiting by the founder's legacy to pray for his eternal welfare. When the Reformation, among many abuses, also obliterated many beautiful and poetical customs, the meaning of these "houses of prayer" was forgotten, and their chapels were often ruthlessly whitewashed. The material part of the foundation, however, still remained, and the bedesmen, twelve or thirteen (in commemoration of the number of the apostles, or the apostles and their Master), continued to be chosen by the clergyman of the parish and the lord of the manor. In other places, instead of this more costly mode of relief, a custom prevailed of distributing a "dole" at stated times to a large number of poor people, the number corresponding to the age of the giver: if alive, of course the number increased every year; if dead, it was fixed at the age at which he or she had died. Many of these local customs continue to this day: some have even been instituted lately, since the revived taste for medievalism has beautified and refined English homesteads and village churches. The queen, a faithful upholder of ancient national manners, has given the example by adhering to the time-honored custom called the Royal Maundy. This word is from mandatum, or commandment, and refers to the "new commandment" given by Christ to his apostles at the Last Supper. In Catholic countries it is still the custom for the sovereign to wash the feet of twelve poor men (his wife performing the same office for twelve poor and aged women) in public on the Thursday before Easter, and to serve them at table afterward: in Vienna this is done in a very solemn and public manner. The chosen ones are brought to the palace in court-coaches, and after the ceremony is over are carried home in the same way, loaded with presents of clothing, money, and all the dishes, spoons, forks, etc., used at their dinner. In England the same charity, or its equivalent, is dispensed, not by the sovereign in person, but by her chaplains and almoners, in the midst of beautiful formalities. The dignity with which the ceremony is performed is a striking evidence of the national character, and a contrast to the sometimes slovenly manner in which great public religious functions are got through abroad. The charities are distributed in the chapel of Whitehall, the palace made tragically famous by the disgrace of Wolsey and the death of King Charles I. Fifty-five old men, and as many women, the number corresponding to the age of the sovereign, were thus relieved last year. On an earlier occasion witnessed by the writer a procession consisting of a detachment of the yeomen of the guard, under the command of a sergeant-major (one of the yeomen carrying the royal alms on a gold salver of the reign of William and Mary), several chaplains, almoners, secretaries and a few national schoolchildren (allowed to take part in the ceremony as a signal reward for good behavior), left the Royal Almonry Office for the chapel of Whitehall. It was met at the door by the lord high almoner and the subdeans of the Chapel Royal, who joined the ranks and passed up to the altar. The surpliced boys of the Chapel Royal, and the clergy and gentlemen belonging officially to it, took their appointed places right and left, and the gold salver was deposited in front of the royal pew, generally tenanted by one or more members of the royal family. Evening prayer, slightly varied and adapted for the occasion, as custom has decreed for several centuries, was then gone through; the forty-first Psalm was chanted; and after the First Lesson an anthem by Goss was sung. Then followed the distribution of L1 15s. to each woman, and a pair of shoes and stockings to each man. The two next anthems were by Mendelssohn, and in the intervals woolen and linen clothes were first distributed to each man, and money-purses to each man and woman. The Second Lesson was then read, and the fourth and concluding anthem, by Greene, chanted, after which the usual Thanksgiving and Prayer of St. Chrysostom were read. The musical part of the service, being especially prominent, was correctly and artistically performed by skillful musicians (some of them composers), styled officially "gentlemen of the Chapel Royal:" the solo in the first anthem was sung by one of the boys.

In addition to this special ceremony, other Easter bounties, styled "Minor Bounty," "Discretionary Bounty," and the "Royal Gate Alms," were, according to old custom, distributed at the Almonry Office on Good Friday and Saturday, while Easter Monday and Tuesday were devoted to the distribution of other supplementary relief to old and infirm people previously chosen by the clergy of the various London parishes. The recipients included over a thousand persons. Among the private local charities none is on so large a scale as the famous "Tichborne Dole." The idea we now attach to the word dole is ludicrously inappropriate in this case, where the gift is in the proportion of one gallon of the best wheaten flour to each adult and half a gallon to each child, and where the number of the recipients is generally between five and six hundred, including the inhabitants of two parishes. This custom is seven hundred years old, and was first instituted on the Tichborne estate by Dame Mabel, the wife of Sir Roger de Tichborne, knight, in the beginning of the twelfth century. The foundress was renowned for her piety and charity, and by her own people was looked upon as a saint. The family record says that she was so charitable to the poor that, not content to exercise that virtue all her lifetime, she instituted the "dole" as a perpetual memorial of her goodness, and entailed it to her posterity. It is distributed yearly on the 25th of March. A large oil-painting, now hanging in the dining-room of Tichborne House, and representing the distribution of the "dole," was painted in 1670, and is considered as one of the most valuable family relics. The costumes of the period are faithfully represented, most of the prominent figures are portraits, and the scene is laid within the courtyard of the old manor, with its sculptured gables and picturesque mullioned windows. The present house, roomy and comfortable as it is, is a plain, unpretending building, with no architectural features to recommend it, but the park and grounds are very beautiful, the old trees disposed in deep glades and avenues, and the situation altogether very picturesque. Since the famous trial has made everything bearing the name of Tichborne a target for curiosity, the occupants have been sadly annoyed, and access to the house was at last, in self-defence, denied to strangers who came simply as gaping sight-seers. The "dole" distribution, as we have said, takes place every year. Last spring it was attended with less show than usual, owing to the illness of the little boy who now represents the old name (the nephew of the lost Roger Tichborne), in consequence of which none of the ladies of the family were present. But despite the absence of the festal arrangements by which it is usually accompanied, the main business was the same as it has always been since Dame Mabel's time. About nine o'clock the fine old park became thronged with men, women and children, all carrying bags and baskets in which to stow away the "bounty." The distribution was made at the back of the house. The people gathered in groups, dressed in all sorts of plain, dilapidated country garments—old men in worn-out smock-frocks (a sight seldom seen even in conservative England), gaiters such as they wear at work in the fields, and slouched, unrecognizable hats that had evidently seen better times; others stood in their "Sunday clothes," stiff and uncomfortable as a laborer looks in that unusual and unartistic guise; some were old and toothless, yet upright and almost martial-looking; while some, again, had that pathetic look—sunken eyes, bent limbs and general air of having given in to the attacks of time and sorrow—which invariably speaks the same language and stirs the same sympathy all over the world. The women were in the majority, most of them hale and hearty, the wives and daughters of laborers who were too busy to come in person. Nine sacks, each containing fifty gallons of flour, were emptied by two sturdy miller's men into an immense tub. The family being an old Roman Catholic one, a religious ceremony was the prelude of the distribution. The domestic chaplain offered up a short prayer, and after invoking the blessing of Heaven on the gift, sprinkled the flour with holy water in the form of a cross. It was no uncommon thing for one person to carry away three or four gallons of flour: the largest award was in the case of a family consisting of man, wife and seven children, the wife carrying away with her five and a half gallons. Many of those whose names appeared as witnesses for the defence during the memorable trial were present—John Etheridge, the blacksmith, and Kennett, coachman to the dowager Lady Tichborne, among the number. The latter lives in a small freehold cottage, his own property, at Cheriton, the next parish to Tichborne. Persons of all denominations were relieved—Church people, Dissenters and Roman Catholics alike—without the slightest favoritism being shown to any.

The same kind of charity, though on a smaller scale, and by the custom of living patrons instead of the will of deceased ones, is dispensed at various times in the year through the whole country by both large and small landed proprietors.

The 11th of November (St. Martin's Day) is the one generally chosen for the distribution of winter clothing to the poor of the parish, and this in commemoration of the mediaeval legend of the holy Bishop Martin, who gave half his ample cloak to a shivering leper who begged of him in the street. Next night, says the legend, he saw in a dream Christ himself clothed in that cloak, and remembered the promise that "inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these, ye have done it unto Me." The writer has often assisted at such distribution of warm clothing, both made and unmade. In every county squire's house there is a bi-or tri-weekly distribution of soup to the village poor, and in most two or three sets of fine bed-linen and soft baby-clothes, to be lent out on occasions requiring greater comforts than the poor and too often thriftless women of agricultural villages can afford. Private charity is all-reaching: the "hall" is the dispensary and the general ark of refuge for all county ills, moral, physical and pecuniary, and its help is never thought degrading, like that of the "parish." Most families pay a doctor and a nurse by the year to attend the poor free of expense, and an order from the doctor for jellies, soup or wine, as well as for the ordinary sorts of medicine, is always sure of being filled from the ample stores of the "housekeeper's room." If the city poor were half as well provided for as are the agricultural poor by their "lords of the manor," there would be far less destitution. Some affect to sneer at a system which savors of what they call "feudalism," and which, they wisely suggest, encourages pauperism, but warm-hearted and charitable people will probably disagree with these searchers after new methods, and will be glad to find in the ready sympathy of English landowners for their poor neighbors a ray of the old-fashioned unquestioning charity which distinguished biblical times.

B.M.

* * * * *

LANDORIANA.

I wish to supplement the "Recollections of Landor," published in a former number of the Magazine, by an anecdote and two or three characteristic letters which by accident escaped me when I was writing on the subject before. Here is the story: Schlegel and Niebuhr had been for some time on unpleasant terms. The historical skepticism of the latter was altogether distasteful to Schlegel; and he was wont to deny Niebuhr's claim to the title of historian. Well, Landor was dining at Bonn, and among the company immediately opposite to him at table was Schlegel. Hardly had the soup been despatched before Landor, with that stentorian voice of his which always filled every corner of every room he spoke in, began: "Are not you the man, Mr. Schlegel, who has recently discovered, at the end of two hundred and fifty years, that Shakespeare is a poet? Well, perhaps if you live two hundred and fifty years longer, you may discover that Niebuhr is an historian." "Schlegel did not like it," added Landor when telling the story himself—very much as who should say, "I knocked him down with an unexpected blow of my fist, and he did not like it!"

And now for my letters. Here is one dated "Florence, June, 1861," written to my wife when he was past eighty and within a year or two of his death. The latter portion of the letter is especially interesting, and will be none the less so to those who may be disposed to dispute the correctness of the judgments expressed in it.

"Do not be alarmed," he writes, "at a letter which 'like a wounded snake drags its slow length along.' Such, I suspect, mine will be, though it ought to contain only thanks for the admirable ones you have sent to me on the late affairs of Tuscany. Yesterday Mr. Trollope gave them to me as your present. I then exprest a hope that he or you would undertake a history of Italian affairs from the Treaty of Campo Formio down to the present day. Indeed, I hope and trust that it may be continued a year or two farther, until the recovery of Rome from the most perfidious enemy she and Italy were ever opprest by. And this under the title of deliverer! Lay your two heads together, and let me have to boast that the best and truest of our historians were my personal friends. Southey and Napier were most intimately so. Hallam is a dull proser—no discovery or illustration, no profound thought, no vivid description, not even a harmonious period. Macaulay is a smart reviewer, indifferent to truth, a hanger-on of party. Lingard is more honest, and writes better. He does not tag together loose epigrams with a crooked pin. Now put the empty chairs of these people against the wall, and sit down to your table with a long piece of work before you. And now you must be tired, as I foretold you would be. So hail the farewell of your affectionate old friend,

"W. LANDOR."

* * * * *

Here is another, undated, but shown by the Bath postmark to have been written in 1857. The whole letter is strongly characteristic of the writer, as indeed was everything that Landor wrote, said or did, so thoroughly and in every sense of the word was he original; but, as in the preceding letter, the most interesting portion is that toward the end, where he gives some amusing indications of his peculiar political opinions and feelings. This letter also was written to the same correspondent:

"My dear friend: It is now three years since I have been in London, except in passing through it to the Crystal Palace, without dismounting." [How curiously the phrase indicates the habits of the writer's youth, when gentlemen's journeys were for the most part performed on horseback!] "At Sydenham I remained three weeks, almost; but the air of London always disagreed with me, added to which, the necessity of visiting was always intolerable to me, and I have lost many friends by refusing to undergo it. If Mr. Trollope should find a few days' leisure for Bath, I can promise him a hearty reception and a comfortable bedroom. Is it not singular that on your letter being brought to me I laid down for it Town and Country [a novel by Frances Trollope], which interests me as much on a second reading as on the first? To-morrow I must run—imagine a man of eighty-one running!—for the Athenaeum. I myself have not thrown away the pen, which sadly wants mending. They have published Scenes from the Shades, and Alfieri and Metastasio, and Codrus and Polio. These last three are in Fraser. If they bring a few pounds or shillings, the money will be given to Capera, a laboring man who has written some noble poetry." [The writer in question produced some very tolerable verses, remarkable as coming from a man in his position, but in our friend's enthusiastic language they become "noble poetry" directly he makes the man his protege—a truly Landorian touch!] "I could have collected three hundred pounds for Kossuth from friends who wrote to me about it, and probably ten or a dozen times as much from others, for no man ever had so few friends or acquaintances as I have. Nearly all are dead, and I have no leisure or inclination for new ones. It gave me much pleasure to hear that the fine and pleasant Lord Normanby is in part recovered from his paralysis. I parted from him at Bath with few hopes. Never have I spent a winter in England so free from every kind of malady as this last. A disastrous war ends with a disgraceful peace. We are to have an illumination and ringing of bells. Sir Claude Scott and myself will not illuminate, but I have promised the ringers twenty shillings if they will muffle the bells. Rejoice! The best generals and best soldiers in the Crymea [sic] were Italians.

"W.S.L."

Landor had many queer crotchets about spelling, and always absolutely declined to follow any rule but his own. It seems to have been one of these crotchets to spell Crimea as he spells it in the above-quoted letter—on what grounds I do not pretend to be able to guess: With regard to the seemingly unpatriotic sentiment contained in the last lines, it must be remembered that the writer was addressing a person long resident in Italy, and eagerly anxious for the well-doing of the Italian troops in their struggle with the different despotisms which oppressed the Peninsula. The bribing the ringers to muffle the bells is a highly characteristic trait.

Of a third letter I will print only a part, because the remainder concerns the unfortunate affair which compelled the writer finally to leave England—the result, as is well known, of a trial for libel in which Landor was cast in heavy damages which were far beyond his diminished means to pay. He acted very wrongly, and still more imprudently, in attempting to expose what he honestly deemed misconduct of a nature that outraged all the generous feelings of his nature, by the publication of a very gross libel. The passages in the letter in question which refer to this business, then in the stage preceding his conviction, abundantly testify to the fact that the sentiments which had impelled him to act as he did were wholly and solely those of generous indignation at wrong done, in no-wise against himself, but against another, whom he deemed to be oppressed and unprotected. But I think, on the whole, that no good purpose would be served by raking up the matter afresh. And (for Landor in his wrath was at no time a Chrysostom) the letter bristles with assertions and accusations couched in language which might, for aught I know, make the publication of it a repetition of the offence for which he suffered. The other matters touched on are not uninteresting manifestations of opinion:

"My DEAR FRIEND," he writes: "Whether I am ill or well it is always with equal pleasure that I see the trace of your hand. Surely, I must have written to you since I sent the scenes of Anthony and Octavius. But I am too apt to believe that what I ought to have done I have done. You ask me what I think of the Neapolitan abominations." [The allusion is to some one or other of the many acts of grievous tyranny which were at that time perpetrated by the Neapolitan Bourbon government in its terrified attempts to protect itself against the rising indignation of the people.] "We countenance them. The despots are in Holy Alliance against constitutions." [Surely, Landor's old antagonism to former English governments led him into error and injustice when he accuses England of "countenancing" the tyrannies of the Neapolitan government. How much Gladstone's celebrated letter and English sentiment in all quarters contributed toward the overthrow of that tyranny was not then known as well as it is now.] "On the other side of this," he continues, "you will find a few verses I wrote on Agesiloa Milano, the finest and bravest patriot on record." [Agesilao Milano, whose name was just then in every mouth in Italy, was one of the numerous victims of Austrian severity, who had met his fate with admirable courage, and who willingly gave his life for his country. But there was nothing to distinguish him specially from hundreds of other Italians who in those evil days did as much, and nothing save chance to distinguish him from the tens of hundreds who were ready to do as much had the lot fallen to them. But the mention of this poor fellow in the letter is very specially Landorian. No superlatives were with him strong enough to express his sentiments on aught that immediately moved his feelings either of admiration or indignation.] "The concessions in Lombardy," he goes on, "are fabulous. Thieves and assassins are turned out of prison with quiet literary men and brave patriots.... With kindest regards to your circle, ever your affec.

"W. LANDOR."

The verses on Agesilao Milano announced as being "on the other side" are there preceded by two epigrams on the object of his indignation above alluded to, which I suppress for the same reason that I have suppressed that portion of the letter referring to the same subject. The verses on the young Italian patriot and martyr run as follows:

Sometimes the brave have bent the head To lick the dust that despots tread. Not so Milano; he alone Would bow to Justice on the throne. To win a crown of thorns he trod A flinty path, and rests with God.

T.A.T.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF DOCTORS' COMMONS.

On the 20th of last October a venerable London institution changed its quarters. Doctors' Commons may almost be said to be no more. Its heart is gone. The Principal Registry of the Court of Probate—the successor to the Prerogative Court of Canterbury—is no longer to be found there, and those who seek their fortunes in wills have now to prosecute their researches in that hub of British departmental records, Somerset House. The knell of "the Commons" was rung about twenty years ago, when a campaign against the abuses prevailing in the ecclesiastical courts was begun in the London Times. It unquestionably had been the home par excellence of sinecures and monopolies, which culminated in the office of registrar of the Prerogative Court of the archbishop of Canterbury. This office was in the gift of the archbishop, and was at the time these attacks began held by the Rev. Mr. Moore. Mr. Moore was a member of a family which had certainly good cause to stand steadfast in the faith of the Church of England, and not to waver one inch in attachment thereto. It may be doubted whether since its foundation any family—we except, of course, those to whom grants were made from abbey-lands—during the whole history of the Church has drawn such vast sums from it. His father, a singularly fortunate man, set the ball rolling. Having gone up to Christ Church, Oxford, as a sizar, or poor scholar, he happened about the time of taking his degree to cross the quadrangle at the moment when a nobleman of great position was asking the dean to recommend a tutor for his son. Young Moore at that moment caught the very reverend functionary's eye. There is the very man, thought he. He called him up, presented him to the peer, and an engagement was made. In those days the patronage of a powerful peer was a ready road to preferment. Young Moore gave satisfaction to his noble patron, and was pushed up the ecclesiastical tree until he reached its topmost branch, being created in 1783 archbishop of Canterbury. In 1770 he formed a very judicious marriage with Miss Eden. This lady was sister of Sir Robert Eden, governor of Maryland in 1776 (who married the sister and co-heir of the last Lord Baltimore), and of the first Lord Auckland, whom George III. very justly stigmatized as "that eternal intriguer." To the "eternal intriguer" the elevation of Moore to the archbishopric was probably mainly due. Lord Auckland was for many years as intimate a friend as Pitt ever had, and his daughter (afterward countess of Buckinghamshire) is the great minister's only recorded love. For twenty-three years Dr. Moore filled the archbishopric, and in those days it was a far better thing pecuniarily than it is now. He made hay whilst the sun shone, and then and for long after did his relatives bask in the sun. Registrarships, canonries and livings fell upon them in rich profusion, and the great prize of all, the registrarship of the Prerogative Court of the archbishop of Canterbury, fell to the luckiest of the lot.

Of course the registrar never came near his registry: his duties were discharged by three deputies. Not one penny, moreover, beyond what was absolutely necessary did he expend on the registry itself. Such a hole as it was! Cribbed, cabined and confined were the clerks who ran the reverend sinecurist's business in one of the most extraordinary rabbit-warrens, to use the epithet Bethell, Lord (Chancellor) Westbury, applied to it in the writer's hearing. In Great Knight Rider street—a name derived from the days of the Knights Templar—was a dingy passage-way leading into a yet dingier little court. Passing up a short flight of steps, you found yourself in a large room, with deep alcoves furnished with shelves, on which, above and on all sides, were ranged huge volumes with massive clasps. "What are all these books?" inquired a youthful visitor—"old Bibles?" "No, sir; they're testaments," was a waggish official's reply. They are, in fact, copies of wills. The originals are deemed too precious for exhibition except on special application, and the stranger who pays his shilling only sees a copy. Formerly, unless a searcher knew exactly when a will was proved, the process of finding it was very troublesome, because he had to search down indexes in Old English character arranged in order of date only; but now the registers have been put into alphabetical form.

The great change in Doctors' Commons took place in 1858, when the Probate Act came into operation. This was a very sweeping measure, which at a blow superseded the whole system of ecclesiastical courts, so far at least as wills were concerned. For them it substituted a Court of Probate, with jurisdiction over the whole of England. Attached to this court are about forty registries for wills. That in London is called the Principal Registry. A will must either be proved in the district in which a man dies or in the Principal Registry. The Principal Registry is a very large office, at the head of which are four registrars, who are also registrars of the Divorce Court, over which the judge of the Court of Probate presides, being styled "judge ordinary" of this latter. There are about forty registries scattered about the country, in most cases in places where formerly ecclesiastical courts existed for the proving of wills. The value of these registrarships ranges from three hundred to fifteen hundred pounds. They are all in the gift of the judge of the court, whose patronage is worth about sixty thousand pounds a year, and may be reckoned the best in England, inasmuch as he holds it continuously, whilst the lord chancellor and other political officers merely hold their patronage for the few years they may chance to continue in office. Moreover, the judge of the Court of Probate, not being a political officer, has no political pressure brought to bear upon him in the distribution of his patronage, and can dispense it precisely as he pleases. The registrars must, by the terms of the act of Parliament, be barristers, solicitors, or clerks who have served five years in the Principal Registry.

Doctors' Commons twenty years ago was a unique corner of the world. It lay so hid away that you might live for years in London, and be within a stone's throw of it, and yet never have its existence brought to your mind; and it had a life all its own. The ecclesiastical lawyers were called doctors and proctors, instead of barristers and attorneys; and although the former did not arrogate to themselves a higher rank socially and professionally than that of barrister, a proctor considered himself a great many cuts above an attorney, and indeed was, for the most part, the equal of the best class of attorneys. Proctors, it will be borne in mind, are sketched by Charles Dickens in the opening pages of David Copperfield, for Dora's papa, Mr. Spenlow, was in proctorial partnership with the reputably inexorable Jawkins. When the Probate Act came into force it was a frightful blow to the tribe of Spenlows. Not so much on account of the pecuniary loss. In that respect the blow was considerably tempered to the shorn lambs by a compensation all too liberal—for John Bull is unsurpassed as a respecter of vested interests—and the proctors were compensated on the basis of their incomes for the last five years, their returns proving in some instances curiously at variance with the amounts on which they had paid income-tax. But they regarded themselves as terrible losers in prestige and position by this rude invasion of the classic and aristocratic ground of the Doctores Commensales, and above all by being leveled down to the rank of attorneys. The clerks in the Prerogative Court—of which the registrars and head-clerks were all proctors, who, taking the cue from Chief Registrar Moore, executed their work by deputy, the deputies being clerks working long hours for small salaries—had kotooed to them with the most servile subserviency; but the Probate Office clerk was a government official, who could not be removed, even by the judge of the court, without the consent of the lord chancellor. What cared he, then, for Spenlow and Jawkins? "I am astonished, Mr. Spenlow," said a young clerk of the new regime, "that you should have made such a mistake!" Mr. Spenlow, in turn, was too much astonished to utter a word. Speechless with amazement and indignation, he left the "seat," as the different departments were called, to weep bitter tears in regret for the past in the solitude of his dingy sanctum in Bell Yard, leaving an emancipated clerk, who had served under the thraldom of the old regime, exclaiming, "Good Heavens! Only imagine any of us daring to use such language to a proctor two years ago!"

R.W.

* * * * *

THE LAY OF THE LEVELER.

Among the less known writings of Francis Quarles, author of the once famous Emblems, is a volume, now become very scarce, entitled The Shepheards Oracles, delivered in certain Eglogues. The copy of it to which I have access was published in 1646, or two years after Quarles's death. This spirited poem must have been perused with intense interest by Quarles's contemporaries. But history is constantly repeating itself with more or less of modification, and The Shepheards Oracles, at least here and there, and with reference to England, reads, but for its quaintness of manner and idiom, like a production of the nineteenth century. In the course of it there occur some verses, put into the mouth of Anarchus, which are well worth resuscitating. These verses, to which I have supplied a title as above, are, in a sufficiently exact transcription, as follows:

Know, then, my brethren, heav'n is cleare, And all the Clouds are gone; The Righteous now shall flourish, and Good dais are coming on. Come, then, my Brethren, and be glad, And eke rejoyce with me: Lawn Sleeves and Rochets shall goe down: And, hey! then up goe we.

Wee'l break the windows which the Whore Of Babylon hath painted; And, when the Popish Saints are down, Then Barow shall be Sainted. There's neither Crosse nor Crucifixe Shall stand for man to see: Romes trash and trump'ries shall goe downe; And, hey! then up goe we.

What ere [sic] the Popish hands have built, Our Hammers shall undoe; Wee'l breake their Pipes, and burn their Copes, And pull downe Churches, too: Wee'l exercise within the Groves, And teach beneath a Tree; Wee'l make a Pulpit of a Cart; And, hey! then up goe we.

Wee'l down with all the Varsities, Where Learning is profest, Because they practise and maintain The language of the Beast: Wee'l drive the Doctors out of doores, And Arts, what ere [sic] they be; Wee'l cry both Arts and Learning down; And, hey! then up goe we.

Wee'l down with Deans and Prebends, too; But I rejoyce to tell ye How then we will eat Pig our fill, And Capon by the belly: Wee'l burn the Fathers witty Tomes, And make the Schoolmen flee; Wee'l down with all that smels of wit; And, hey! then up goe we.

If once that Antichristian crew Be crusht and overthrown, Wee'l teach the Nobles how to crouch, And keep the Gentry down: Good manners have an evil report, And turn to pride we see: Wee'l, therefore, cry good manners down; And, hey! then up goe we.

The name of Lord shall be abhor'd; For every man's a brother: No reason why, in Church or State, One man should rule another. But, when the change of Government Shall set our fingers free, Wee'l make the wanton Sisters stoop: And, hey! then up goe we.

Our Coblers shall translate their soules From Caves obscure and shady; Wee' make Tom T—— as good as my Lord, And Joan as good as my Lady. Wee'l crush and fling the marriage Ring Into the Romane See; Wee'l ask no bans, but even clap hands; And, hey! then up goe we.

By "Barow," named in the second stanza, is intended, no doubt, Henry Barrow, the Nonconformist enthusiast who was executed at Tyburn in 1592. A follower of Robert Browne, founder of the Brownists, whence sprang the sect of Independents, he brought upon himself, by his zeal and imprudence, a vengeance which his wary leader contrived to evade. Browne himself is alluded to punningly in The Shepheards Oracles, where Philorthus, at sight of Anarchus approaching, asks whether he is "in a Browne study." Anarchus replies:

"Man, if thou be'st a Babe of Grace, And of an holy Seed, I will reply incontinent, And in my words proceed; But, if thou art a child of wrath, And lewd in conversation, I will not, then, converse with thee, Nor hold communication."

Philorthus rejoins, referring by his "we all three" to Philarchus, with whom he had just been conversing:

"I trust, Anarchus, we all three inherit The selfe same gifts, and share the selfe same Spirit."

Then follow the stanzas which I have first quoted. There is certainly ground to surmise that Lord Macaulay had in mind what I have called "The Lay of the Leveler" when in 1820 he wrote "A Radical War-song." In support of this opinion, I subjoin, for comparison, its last stanza but one:

Down with your sheriffs and your mayors, Your registrars and proctors! We'll live without the lawyer's cares, And die without the doctor's. No discontented fair shall pout To see her spouse so stupid: We'll tread the torch of Hymen out, And live content with Cupid.

F.H.

* * * * *

THE PHILOSOPHER STRAUSS AS A POET.

The writer of a sketch in a late number of a Leipsic journal presents the famous author of the Life of Jesus, David Friederich Strauss, in a new character. He mentions, first, that in the Unterhaltungen am haeuslichen Heerde ("Conversations around the Homehearth"), published by Strauss in 1856, the latter makes, in the introduction, the following graceful reference to the deceased friend of his youth, E.F. Kauffmann: "If I were a philosophical emperor and wrote self-confessions, I would thank the gods for giving me, among other blessings, a poet and musician for an early friend. He is dead now, alas! the noble man whom alone I have to thank that my ear, though still unskillful, has been opened to the world of harmony. He was not a professional musician, but he had a thoroughly musical nature. The laws of composition he had studied theoretically, and he followed them practically. His position, in reality, was that of a professor of mathematics. But music was his secret love. He not only knew the great masters, but he lived in them. He thought little of playing on the piano the whole of one of Mozart's operas, note for note, without any written music before him. I have often seen him do this. How much I have owed to those hours! How he could draw his hearers into the right mood! How he could illuminate the groping mind with the lightning flash of thought!"

To this friend Strauss sent from Munich in 1851 ten sonnets. They were accompanied by a versified dedication to Kauffmann himself, and they constitute his claim to be considered a poet as well as a philosophic theologian. The sonnets are all on musical subjects, and may be taken as the natural outgrowth of that cultivation of his musical taste which he owed to his intimate association with Professor Kauffmann. The metrical dedication and the first five sonnets are given in the sketch before referred to. The writer of that article looks upon the tendency, thus displayed by Strauss, to "drop into poetry," as Mr. Wegg was accustomed to say, as another strong proof of the affinity—elsewhere noticed—between the genius of Strauss and that of Gotthold Ephraim Lessing; who, it will be remembered, sometimes diverted himself with the composition of light poetical pieces, such as his famous song, beginning "Gestern, Brueder, koennt ihr's glauben?"

The first sonnet is on Haendel, the second on Glueck, the third on Haydn, the fourth on Don Juan, and the fifth on Figaro.

The following attempt at a translation of the fourth sonnet may serve to give some idea of how far the world-renowned philosopher and skeptic has succeeded in his effort to assume the anomalous role of a sonneteer:

DON JUAN.

How joyously life's fountains here are flowing! In crystal cups the purple flood is foaming; Through dusky myrtle-groves are lovers roaming, The dance begins in halls all bright and glowing. Be watchful, though! Here treachery is hiding. Wild passion naught for truth or ruth is caring: As hawks do doves, mild innocence 'tis tearing, And human vengeance lightly is deriding. But now, once more alive, the slain appear! They speak, with awful voice, the words of doom: Death his cold hand is silently extending. Now sinks the daring mood in ghastly fear. The golden dream of life dissolves in gloom; The silent grave brings on the bright joy's ending.

It is very hard, if not impossible, to render into any other language the true spirit of a German poem. But in the original this sonnet is far above mediocrity. It idealizes the opera of Don Juan very artistically, and displays a combination of force with harmony and grace which gives the impression, in connection with the other sonnets, that if Strauss had devoted his mental energy to poetry alone, he would not have taken a low rank among the poets of Germany.

W.W.C.



LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

The Life of Thomas Fuller, D.D., with Notices of his Books, his Kinsmen and his Friends. By John Eglinton Bailey. London: Pickering.

By no means to the credit of the nineteenth century, it is hardly prudent, as yet, to speak to the general public about Thomas Fuller without formally introducing him. Coleridge and Southey and Lamb were, to be sure, familiar with his writings, and prized them extremely. But they did the same by the writings of many another old worthy now undeservedly slighted; and, for all their eulogies on him, the great bulk of readers were still content to continue in ignorance of the treasures he has bequeathed to us. The neglect of him which at present prevails is, however, in large measure, a delinquency of long standing. His chief work is undoubtedly his Church History; and Heylin's elaborate impugnment of its accuracy appears to have had great weight, as with Fuller's contemporaries, so with the generation which immediately followed, and onward almost to our own time. To Heylin succeeded Bishop Nicolson in exerting himself to discredit that valuable work, and it is only within a few years that its character has been substantially rehabilitated. Together with the reputation of Fuller as an historian, his reputation in other respects for a long while underwent eclipse; for, as it is reviving again, we may not say that it passed away. His matter quite apart—and it is always interesting—and abstractedly from his pervasive pleasantry, which is always original, it is a wonder that he is not more esteemed than he is in an age which professes to set store by style. Mr. John Nichols, an editor of his Worthies, timidly hazarded the observation that, as against the strictures of Bishop Nicolson, there might be much said in "vindication of the language of Dr. Fuller"—a comment which excited Coleridge to a high pitch of exasperation. "Fuller's language!" he ejaculates. "Grant me patience, Heaven! A tithe of his beauties would be sold cheap for a whole library of our classical writers, from Addison to Johnson and Junius inclusive. And Bishop Nicolson!—a painstaking old charwoman of the Antiquarian and Rubbish Concern! The venerable rust and dust of the whole firm are not worth an ounce of Fuller's earth."

Of Fuller's ancestry nothing is known, on the paternal side, beyond his father, a college-bred clergyman, who died in 1632. His mother was a Davenant, of an ancient and respectable family. Fuller was born in June, 1608, at Aldwinkle, in Northamptonshire, at his father's rectory. When only about twelve years of age he was entered at Queen's College, Cambridge, his progress in his studies having been such as to authorize this unusually early transfer from school to the university. In 1628 he exchanged Queen's College for Sydney-Sussex College, and in the following year he was presented by the master and fellows of Corpus Christi College to the curacy of St. Benet's, Cambridge. Within a twelvemonth after—namely, in 1631—HE made his first appearance as an author. His Davia's Heinous Sin, Hearty Repentance, Heavy Punishment, which came out in that year, was his sole adventure of noteworthy compass as a versifier; and he certainly testified his discretion in choosing thenceforward to be satisfied with writing prose. A valuable prebend attached to the Salisbury Cathedral was bestowed on him at this time, near about which he is supposed to have delivered, in discourses, his so-called Comment on Ruth. Next we hear of him as rector of Broadwindsor, where, probably, he composed his History of the Holy War, published in 1639. His Holy State was given to the world in 1642. Having just before this removed to London under circumstances which are involved in some obscurity, he was there appointed lecturer to the Inns of Court and to the Savoy Chapel. But trouble awaited him, as it then awaited all other loyalists whom it had not overtaken already, and 1643 found him a refugee at Oxford. There he was warmly welcomed by the king and his adherents, but on his imprudently daring to urge lenient counsels, his moderation gave as much dissatisfaction to the court party as it had previously given to the Parliamentarians, and he fell into temporary disgrace. Nevertheless, he suffered, at the hands of the anti-royalists, the same spoliation which would have been visited on a malignant of the extremest stamp. To fill up the measure of his misfortune—as if it were not enough that he should be deprived of his stated means of livelihood—he was despoiled of his library. For a while, also, his loyalty was held, though without the slightest grounds, in considerable suspicion. On coming to be better known, however, he was restored to favor, and was enrolled among the royal chaplains. If the doubts as to the sincerity of his adhesion to Charles were ever actually thought to have good foundation, they must have been dissipated by his voluntarily exposing himself to danger, as he did at one of the sieges of Basing House. Like Isaac Barrow, he would at need have done duty militant just as effectually with carnal weapons as with spiritual. No longer required at Basing House, he repaired to Oxford again, and then to Exeter, where he was nominated chaplain to the princess Henrietta Anne. But he held his new post for only a short period. Leaving Exeter, he once more sought Oxford, and thence went to London. Forbidden to preach there, he retired to Northamptonshire, and then reappeared at the metropolis, where he was sojourning in the memorable year 1649. Becoming in that year curate of Waltham Abbey, he enjoyed an interval of quietude while all around him was turbulence. Yet he was soon in London afresh, lecturer at various churches from 1651 till near the end of his life. In 1658 he was appointed rector of St. Dunstan's, Cranford, but we read of him as subsequently journeying to The Hague and to Salisbury, and as preaching at the Savoy Chapel. It must have solaced his latter days to reflect that he had survived to welcome the Restoration. He died, from what is reasonably surmised to have been typhus fever, on the 16th of August, 1661, and lies buried in the chancel of the church to which he last ministered, at Cranford, Surrey.

Considering the unsettled and wandering life which Fuller led for many years, it may seem almost a marvel that in those very years he should have accomplished such laborious—nay, all but gigantic—enterprises as are to be referred to them; for it was then that he composed his voluminous Pisgah-sight of Palestine, Church History and Worthies, not to speak of many minor writings. But the secret of his prolificness amidst surroundings which would have paralyzed most men into stark sterility admits of ready elucidation. Besides being endowed with great physical vigor and enjoying uninterrupted health. Fuller never wasted a moment, was an unweariable student at odd hours, and moreover supplemented the advantage of a matchless memory by the strictest observance of method. Taken for all in all, he was without question one of the most remarkable of Englishmen—not of his own age merely, but of all bygone ages. "Next to Shakespeare," says Coleridge, "I am not certain whether Thomas Fuller, beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emotion of the marvelous.... Fuller was incomparably the most sensible, the least prejudiced, great man of an age that boasted a galaxy of great men." Others among his countrymen have been more learned, and others have surpassed him in this or that special faculty, but the whole that we have in him it would be hard to find a parallel to. Culeridge emphasizes the equity of his judgment; and this point is one regarding which there can be no diversity of opinion. As to his wit, granting that its quality may here and there be somewhat inferior, still, it has probably never been surpassed in quantity by any one man. It has the laudable character, too, of being nearly always impersonal, and while it amuses it almost in equal measure instructs. Had Fuller, with his mental agility and his mastery of incisive diction, been poisoned with the bile of Swift, it is terrible to think what a repertory of biting sarcasms and envenomed repartees he might have transmitted for the study and imitation of cynics and sneerers. Bitterer enemies no man ever had to contend against; and unenviable indeed must have been their disappointment at finding themselves wholly impotent to discompose his sage and large-hearted serenity. So impressive, withal, is his spirit of toleration and benevolence that a diligent reader of his pages is, as it were, perforce imbued by it. Indeed, we know of few writers whom we can point to with more confidence as calculated, in antidote to the fret and chafe inseparable from existence in our day, to induce a tone of repose and resignation in ourselves, and a disposition to take charity as our watchword in our dealings with others.

THE END