Blackwood's Edinburgh magazine, Vol. 93, No. 571, May, 1863

by Various

THE LANDSCAPE OF ANCIENT ITALY, AS DELINEATED IN THE POMPEIAN PAINTINGS.

“Und aber nach zweitausend Jahren

Kam ich desselbigen Wegs gefahren.”

“Et puis nous irons voir, car décadence et deuil

Viennent toujours après la puissance et l’orgueil,

Nous irons voir....”

We are so much accustomed to depend on the four great literary languages for the whole body of our information and amusement, that it occurs to few to consider that ignorance of other European dialects involves any inconvenience at all, except to those who have occasion to visit the countries in which they are spoken. Yet there is much of really valuable matter which sees the light only in the minor tongues, especially those of the industrious North, and with which the world has never been made familiar through translation. Joachim Frederic Schouw, the Danish botanist, is one of the writers of our day who has suffered most prejudicially both to his own fame and to the public from having employed only his native language. For his writings are not only valuable in a scientific point of view, but belong to the most popular order of scientific writing, and would assuredly have been general favourites, had not the bulk of them remained untranslated. His ‘Tableau du Climat de l’Italie’ has, however, appeared in French, and is a standard work. A little collection of very brief and popular essays, entitled ‘The Earth, Plants, and Man,’ has been translated both into German and English. One of these, styled ‘The Plants of Pompeii,’ is founded on a rather novel idea. The paintings on the walls of the disinterred houses of that city contain (among other things) many landscape compositions. Sometimes these are accessory to historical representations. But they often merely portray the scenery of ordinary out-door life. The old decorators of the Pompeian chambers had indeed an evident taste for those trivial tricks of theatrical deception, which are still very popular in Italy. Their verdure, sky, and so forth, seem often as if meant to impose on the spectator for a moment as realities; and are, therefore, executed in a “realistic” though sketchy style. “Consequently,” says Schouw, “the observation of the plants which are represented in these paintings will give, as far as they go, the measure of those which were familiar to the ancient eye, and will help to show the identities and the differences between the vegetation of the Campanian plains a hundred years after Christ, and that which adorns them now.”

We propose to follow the Professor through this confined but elegant little chapter of his investigations. But by restraining ourselves to this alone, we should be dealing with only part of a subject. In most regions, two thousand years have made considerable changes in the appearance of the vegetable covering of the earth; but in that land of volcanic influences in which Pompeii stood, great revolutions have taken place, during that time, in the structure of the ground itself. Sea and land have changed places; mountains have risen and sunk; the very outlines and main landmarks of the scene are other than what they were. Let us for a moment imagine ourselves gazing with Emperor Tiberius from his “specular height” on precipitous Capri, at that unequalled panorama of sea and land formed by the Gulf of Naples, as thence descried, and note in what respects the visible face of things has changed since he beheld it.

The central object in his view, as in that of the modern observer, was Vesuvius, standing out a huge insulated mountain mass, unconformable with the other outlines of the landscape, and covered then, as now, with its broad mantle of dusky green. Then, as now, its volcanic soil was devoted to the cultivation of the vine. But in other respects its appearance was widely different. No slender, menacing column of smoke rose perpetually from its summit. Nor was it lurid, at night, with that red gleam of the slow river of fire,

“A cui riluce

Di Capri la marina

E di Napoli il porto e Mergellina.”

It was an extinct volcano, and had been so for unknown ages. Nor did it exhibit its present characteristic cone, nor probably its double top; Vesuvius and Somma were most likely one; and the deep half-moon-shaped ravine of the Atrio del Cavallo, which now divides them, is thought to be a relic of the ancient crater. That crater was a huge amphitheatrical depression, several miles in circuit, filled with pasture-lands and tangled woods. Spartacus and his servile army had used it not long before as a natural fortress. But this feature was scarcely visible to the spectator at Capri, opposite the mountain, to whom the summit must have appeared as a broad flat-topped ridge, in shape and height very similar to the Table Mountain at the Cape of Good Hope.

At the time in question, scarcely a few vague traditions remained to record the fact that the mountain had once “burnt.” The fiery legends of Magna Græcia related to the country west of Naples, where volcanic action had been more recent: the Phlegræan fields, the Market-place of Vulcan (Solfatara), the cone of Gnarime (Ischia), through which the imprisoned Typhœus breathed flame, from whence he has been since transferred to Vesuvius, as a Genoese monk informed us when we and he first looked on that volcano together. Vesuvius awoke from his sleep of unknown length, as every one knows, in A.D. 79, when he celebrated his resumption of authority by that grand “extra night” of the 24th August, which has had no rival since, in the way of pyrotechnical entertainment, except on the distant shores of Iceland, the West Indies, and the Moluccas. His period of activity lasted nearly a thousand years. Then he relapsed into lethargy for six hundred. In 1631, he had resumed (as old prints show), something nearly resembling the form which we have attributed to him in classical times. His top, of great height, swollen up by the slow accumulation of burning matter, without a vent, was a level plateau, with a pit-like crater, filled with a forest of secular oaks and ilexes: only a few “fumaroles,” or smoke-holes, remained here and there to attest his real character. Even the legends of his conflagrations had become out of date. The old “Orearch” or mountain-spirit, Vesevus, is portrayed by the local poet Pontanus in the fifteenth century, as a rustic figure, with a bald head, hump back, and cincture of brushwood—all fiery attributes omitted. Even his terrible name was only known to the learned: the people called him the “Monte di Somma.” The suburban features of a great luxurious city, convents, gardens, vineyards, hunting-grounds, and parks of the nobility, had crept again up the sides of the mountain, until they almost mingled with the trees on the summit. The approaching hour was not without its premonitory signs, many and strange. The phenomena which Bulwer makes his witch of Vesuvius recount, by way of warning, to Arbaces, are very closely borrowed from contemporary narratives of the eruption of 1631. Nor were the omens of superstition wanting, accommodated to the altered feelings of the times. At the Plinian eruption, the people imagined that the old giants buried in the Phlegræan fields had risen again, and renewed their battle with the gods: “for many phantoms of them,” says Dio Cassius, “were seen in the smoke, and a blast, as of trumpets, was heard.” In 1631, carriages full of devils were seen to drive, and battalions of diabolical soldiers to gather in marching array along the precipitous flanks of the mountain. The footsteps of unearthly animals were tracked on the roads. “A peasant of the name of Giovanni Camillo” (so we are informed by the Jesuit Giulio Cesare Recupito, a contemporary), “had passed Easter Eve at a farm-house of his own on the mountain. There, without having taken a mouthful of anything, he was overtaken by a profound slumber, from which awakening suddenly, he saw no longer before his eyes the likeness of the place where he had fallen asleep, but a new heaven, a new soil, a new landscape: instead of a hill-side covered with wood, there appeared a wall crossing the road, and extending on each side for a great distance, with a very lofty gate. Astonished at this new scene, he went to the gate to inquire where he was. There he found a porter of the order of St Francis, a young man in appearance. Many conjecture that this was St Antony of Padua. The porter at first seemed to repulse him, but afterwards admitted him into the courtyard, and guided him about. After a long circuit they arrived at a great range of buildings breathing fire from every window.” In short, the poor peasant was conducted, after the fashion of such visions, through the mansions of hell and purgatory, where he saw, of course, many of his acquaintance variously tormented. “At last, on the following day, he was restored to himself, and to Vesuvius: and was ordered to inform his countrymen that a great ruin was impending over them from that mountain: wherefore they should address their vows and prayers to God. On Easter Day, at noon, he came home, and was observed of many with his dress sprinkled with ashes, his face burnt black, as if escaped from a fire.” This was two years before the eruption, and during the interval Camillo always told the same story; wherefore, after passing a long time for either mad or drunk, he was finally raised to the dignity of a prophet. At last, on the night of the 15th December, the ancient volcano signalised his awakening by a feat of unrivalled grandeur. In forty-eight hours of terrific struggles, he blew away the whole cap of the mountain; so that, on the morning of the 18th, when the smoke at last subsided, the Neapolitans beheld their familiar summit a thousand feet lower than it had been before; while its southern face was seamed by seven distinct rivers of fire, slowly rolling at several points into the sea.

Since 1631, the frequency, if not the violence, of the eruptions seems to have gradually increased, and Vesuvius is probably more “active” now, in local language, than at any former time in his annals, having made the fortunes of an infinity of guides and miscellaneous waiters on Providence within the last twelve years, besides burning a forest or two, and expelling the peasantry of some villages. But his performances on a grand scale seem for the present suspended. Frequent eruptions prevent that accumulation of matter which produces great ones. Indeed, the late Mr Laing, whose ‘Notes of a Traveller’ show him to have been that identical “sturdy Scotch Presbyterian whig” who visited Oxford in company with Lockhart’s Reginald Dalton, “reviling all things, despising all things, and puffing himself up with all things,” deliberately pronounced the volcano a humbug, and believed the depth of its subterranean magazines to be extremely trifling. Still, the curious traveller, like that fabulous Englishman who visited the lion-tamer every night for the chance of seeing him devoured, cannot help looking with a certain eagerness for the occurrence of those two interesting catastrophes, of which the day and hour are written down in the book of the Fates—that combination of high tide, west wind, and land-flood, which is to drown St Petersburg; that combination of south-east wind and first-class eruption which is to bury Naples in ashes. This finale seemed nearer in that recent eruption of December 1860, which spent its fury on Torre del Greco, than perhaps on any former occasion; but once more the danger passed away.

To return, however, from this digression, which has nothing to excuse it except the interest which clings even to often-repeated stories respecting the popular old volcano. Other features in that wonderful panorama, seen from Capri, have undergone scarcely inferior changes since the time of Tiberius. Yonder rich tract of level land at the mouth of the Sarno, between Torre dell’ Annunziata and Castellamare, did not exist. The sea has retreated from it. Tiberius saw, instead of it, a deep bay washing the walls of the compact little provincial city of Pompeii. But the neighbouring port of Stabiæ is gone: not a vestige of its site remains. Above it to the right, Monte Sant’Angelo, and the limestone sierra of which it forms a part, remain, no doubt, unchanged by time. Only that marvellous range of Roman villas and gardens which lined its foot for leagues, almost rivalling the structures of the opposite Bay of Baiæ for magnificence, has disappeared, no one knows how or when. The diver off the coast of Sorento can touch with his hand the long ranges of foundation-work, brick and marble, which now lie many feet beneath the deep clear water. It was a strange fit of short-lived magnificence, that which induced the grandest of millionnaires, the chiefs of the Augustan age, to raise their palaces, all round the Gulf of Naples, on vaulted ranges of piles laid within the sea, so that its luxurious ripple should be heard under the rooms in which they lived. Niebuhr, who, with all his curious insight into the ways of antiquity, was not superior to the temptation of finding a new reason for everything, asserts that they did so in order to escape the malaria. But that mysterious evil influence extended some way beyond the shore. The country craft will, to this day, keep as far as they can, in the summer nights, off the coast of the Campagna, while the quiet land-breeze is wafting death from the interior. The real causes were, doubtless, what the writers of the time disclose. The land close to the shore was dear and scanty, and ill-accommodated for building, from its steepness. The first new-comer who set the fashion of turning sea into land, was imitated by others in the mere wantonness of wealth, until the whole shore became lined with palatial edifices, like the Grand Canal of Venice; but not so durably. These classical structures, frequently delineated with more or less detail in the Pompeian frescoes, were as beautiful and as transitory as those of our dreams; or like the vision which Claude Lorraine transferred to canvass in the most poetical of landscapes, his ‘Enchanted Palace.’ Judging from the singular phenomena exhibited by the ‘Temple of Serapis,’ and by other topographical records, geologists have concluded that land and sea, in this volcanic region, wax and wane in long successions of ages. Thus the sea rose (or rather the land sank) on the coast of the Bay of Naples for about eleven centuries previous to A.D. 1000; then the reverse movement took place until about A.D. 1500: and the land is now sinking again. If so, these marine palaces must have gradually subsided into the sea, and their owners may have been driven out by the invasion of cuttle-fish and sea-hedgehogs, and other monsters of the Mediterranean shallows, in their best bedrooms, even before Norman or Saracen incursions had reduced them to desolation. But whatever the cause of their disappearance, they had vanished before modern history began: nor has modern luxury, in its most profuse mood, ever sought to reproduce them. Their submarine ruins remain as memorials of ages when men were at all events more daring and earnest in their extravagance, and the “lust of the eye and the pride of life” were deified on a grander scale, than at any other epoch of the world’s history.

Naples herself, the “idle” and the “learned” (for the ancients called her somewhat inconsistently by both epithets, nor had she as yet acquired her more recent soubriquet of the “beautiful”), formed a far less conspicuous object in the view than now; it was a place of some twenty or thirty thousand souls, according to Niebuhr’s conjectural estimate; confined between the modern Mole on the one hand, and the Gate del Carmine on the other; and nestling close in the neighbourhood of the sister city Herculaneum. The lofty line of the houses on the Chiaia—of which you may now almost count the windows in the top storeys from the sea-level at Capri, through that pellucid atmosphere, while the lower storeys are hidden by the earth’s curvature—did not then exist. But instead of it there extended the endless terraces and colonnades, the cypress avenues and plane groves, of that range of fortress-palaces erected by Pollio and Lucullus, enlacing island, and beach, and ridge, even to the point of Posilippo, with tracery of dazzling marble. Here, however, the mere natural changes have been small, except that an island or two (like that of the Castel dell’ Uovo) has since been joined to the continent. But farther west, round the Bay of Baiæ, fire and water have dealt most fantastically with the scenery. Scarcely a prominent feature on which the Roman eye rested remains unchanged. Quiet little Nisida was a smoking semi-volcano. Yonder level dun-coloured shore, from Pozzuoli to the Lucrine, was under water, and the waves dashed against a line of cliff now some miles inland. That crater-shaped Lake of Agnano, now the common resort of Neapolitan holiday-makers, did not exist; it must have been formed by some unrecorded convulsion of the dark ages. Yonder neatly truncated cone, rising five hundred feet above the plain, seems as permanent a feature in the landscape as any other of the “everlasting hills;” but it was the creation of a few days of violent eruption, only three centuries ago—as its name of Monte Nuovo still indicates—whether by “upheaval” or by “ejection,” philosophers dispute. But the beautiful Lucrine Lake, the station of Roman fleets and the very central point of Roman luxury, disappeared in the same elemental commotion; leaving a narrow stagnant pool behind. Only yon slight dyke or barrier of beach, between this shrunken mere and the sea, deserves respect; for that has remained, strange to say, almost unaltered throughout. It is one of the very oldest legendary spots of earth; doubtless the very road along which Hercules dragged the oxen of Geryon; the very “narrow shore” on which Ulysses landed, in order to call up the melancholy shades of the dead. Farther inland, again, Avernus remains unchanged, in shape at least; but many and strange are the revolutions which it has undergone in other respects. We first hear of it as a dark pool, surrounded by forests; the bed, doubtless, of an ancient crater filled with water, and retaining much of volcanic action; but not (as commonly supposed) fatal to the birds that flew over it. That notion is not classical; or rather, it is founded on a misconception of classical authorities. The pool is not called by the best writers “lacus Avernus” but “lacus Averni,” the lake of the Avernus. What is an Avernus? Lucretius tells us that it is a spot where noxious gases escape from the earth, so that the birds which fly over it fall dead on the earth or into the lake if there happens to be a lake below them.

“Si forte lacus substratus Averno est.”

And Virgil’s description, accurately construed, gives exactly the same meaning.

“Spelunca alta fuit....

....tuta lacu nigro nemorum que tenebris,

Quam super” (not quem super, over the cavern, not the lake)

....“haud ullæ poterant impune volantes

Tendere iter pennis....

Unde locum” (not lacum) “Graii dixerunt nomine Aornon.”

It was the exhalations from the mysterious cavern that were deadly, not those from the lake. Such an “Avernus” is the “Gueva Upas” or Valley of Death, in Java, to which condemned criminals were formerly sent to perish; whence the romance about the Upas Tree. And such an Avernus, on a small scale, still exists on the shore of the peaceful little Lake of Laach in Germany, also an extinct crater: there are spots on its beach where bird-corpses are to be found in numbers, killed by mephitic exhalations. But—to return to our lake—it must at that time have lain at or (like some other extinct craters) below the level of the sea; for Augustus’s great engineering operation consisted in letting the sea into the lake.

“Tyrrhenusque fretis immittitur æstus Avernis.”

Fifteen hundred years afterwards, and just before the Monte Nuovo eruption, the place was visited by that painful old topographer, Leandro Alberti, the Leland of Italy. The channel made by Augustus was then gone; but the lake was still on a level with the sea, for he asserts that in storms the sea broke into it: and the water, as he expressly affirms, was salt. Now, its level is several feet above that of the sea, and the water is fresh. The upheaval must have been gradual and peaceful, for the outline of the lonely mere is as perfectly rounded now as the poet Lycophron described it;—but a portion only of that bewildering succession of changes of which this coast has been the theatre: the latest vibration of that vast commotion figured in the legendary war of the Giants. Nor is it quite so wild a conjecture as some have deemed it, that the tradition which peopled this bright coast with Cimmerians—then dwellers in the everlasting mist, on the border-land between the dead and the living—had its origin in the tales of primeval navigators, who had visited the neighbourhood during some mighty and prolonged eruption, covering sea and shore with a permanent darkness which “might be felt:” like the coast of Iceland in 1783, when for a whole summer continual eruptions arose from the sea as well as the land: when “the noxious vapours that for many months infected the air, enveloped the whole island in a dense fog which obscured the sun, and was perceptible even in England and Holland.”

Still farther westward in our panoramic view, the confusion between past and present becomes even more undecipherable. Baiæ has disappeared; a stately city of pleasure, which, to judge by its remaining foundations, rose on a hillside in terraces, something like its British counterpart Bath, but with its foot washed by the Mediterranean instead of the Avon: so has Misenum, with its naval station: and not only are these towns gone, but the land on which they stood seems so to have changed its shape, through earthquakes, marine encroachments, and the labour of men, that its very outlines are altered, until the eye rests at last on the peak of Ischia, which ends the semicircle.

Thus much by way of introduction to the more immediate point of our inquiry: the changes in the general aspect and character of the earth’s vegetable covering which have taken place in the same period of two thousand years, and in the same locality.

One of the greatest features of interest to the scientific botanist, and even to the less instructed lover of nature, which Italy presents, consists in the circumstance that the northern and southern types of vegetation—to speak more closely, the northern-temperate and the sub-tropical—meet together, especially in its warmer regions, in stronger contrast than probably anywhere else. The same remark is true, no doubt, of the Mediterranean shores in general: but those of France and of Turkey approach more to the general northern aspect; those of Barbary to the tropical: in favoured Italy the two types seem sometimes to blend and sometimes to contrast in ever-changing and ever-striking variety. The same was doubtless, to some extent, the case in ancient times. But the northern character was probably far more prevalent than now. The early Greek settlers landed on a forest region, where the common deciduous trees of the north, now driven back to the scantily clothed gorges of the central Apennines, flourished in great abundance. Such a nature as this may still be observed in the few forest patches left in the higher Abruzzi, the Sila of Calabria, and so forth. “The beech-forest,” says Schouw, “is called the symbol of the Danish character. But I have wandered in Calabria through large and beautiful beech-woods, on the higher plateaux of the Apennines, where the vegetation as well as the bracing air constantly reminded me of my home.” Probably the wild shores of Corsica, or those of Dalmatia, with their shaggy growth of northern forest and their undergrowth of mixed northern and Mediterranean shrubs, present an aspect more resembling what the followers of Ulysses and Æneas beheld when they landed, than may elsewhere be found. We may notice historical traces of the continued existence of this ruder and fresher nature, not only in the agricultural writers of the Romans, who speak far more of deciduous trees than of the evergreen, now deemed so characteristic of Italy, but in the well-known pages of Virgil. There is not in general much of “local colour” in the ‘Eclogues’ and ‘Georgics:’ that is a poetical artifice of later day. But what there is, represents the physiognomy, not of the Lombard plains where he was born, but of the neighbourhood of Naples in which he lived. His sea-sand is “black,” not brown or yellow, like that of all other bards,—the volcanic sand of the bays of Baiæ and Naples—very coal-dust in appearance. When he recommends the farmer to place his hives near a tree, for the bees to swarm on, it is a “palm-tree, or huge oleaster”—advice which he might as well have tendered to a Scythian as to a colonus of his native Mantua. Now, the general idea which the verses of Virgil convey of the region with which he is concerned, is that of a sylvan country—not, emphatically, the “land of the cypress and myrtle,” but of the oak, ash, linden, wych-elm, beech, citizens of the great Transalpine forests. Some of the trees of which he celebrates the grandeur are now not only become scarce in his country, but it is difficult to ascertain with accuracy their real character. The mighty æsculus, for example, the noblest denizen of Latian forests, which formed of itself great woods, “lata æsculeta,” is a mere puzzle for antiquarian botanists: no one knows what it was, and there may be some question whether it has not disappeared from the face of earth, or whether it survives only in some nearly extinct variety of oak.[^[5]]

Man has doubtless done much towards the effecting of this change, the more valuable plants of the south having been gradually introduced, and the indigenous woods cleared for their reception; but Nature has done much of herself. In the remaining woodland districts of maritime Italy—such as the Maremme of Tuscany and the Latian Campagna—the evergreen species seem to be gradually supplanting the deciduous, the foreign the indigenous. We talk familiarly of the hardy vegetation of the North; but, where the two meet on conditions of climate endurable by both, the children of the tropical sun seem to show the greater hardihood, and to come out survivors in the great battle for existence. Their every aspect, their rough bark and leathery leaves, seem indicative of a stronger vitality than that which animates the more majestic but more delicate structure of the leafy giants of the northern temperate zone. A similar law—if the analogy does not appear too fanciful—seems to govern the migrations of trees and shrubs, and of the human family itself. The North produces the races of more commanding aspect: it sends them forth conquering and to conquer; they establish empires, they subjugate the so-called feebler races of the South; but, in the midst of their conquests, they sicken and perish, and become extinct. The children of the South gradually penetrate northwards, and by their own more prolific multiplication, as well as by crossing or intermixture, in which their more essentially vigorous nature attains predominance, they efface the type of the Northern race, and cause it ultimately to disappear. What has become of the descendants of those hordes which swarmed from the populous North, in the decline of the Roman Empire, over all the regions adjacent to the Mediterranean? They have vanished, or are scarcely recognised by antiquaries in a few problematical instances, where small insulated communities, thought to be of Teutonic or Gothic origin, maintain a precarious existence among the descendants of their former subjects. Where are the historical Gauls, with their tall figures, their fleshy frames, their golden hair, and eyes of truculent blue? A few of them, possibly, to be found in Flanders; but anything less like the Gaul of antiquity than the sinewy, nervous, agile, undersized, brown-skinned, and black-haired biped, who now inhabits some eighty out of the eighty-five departments of France, can hardly be imagined. What is become even of the purer Northern breed of Germany itself? Scarcely to be found, except on the shores of the Baltic: elsewhere the ordinary European type prevails, olive skin and cheveux châtains. “I sought for the fair population of classical Germany in vain,” says Niebuhr, “until I found it in Scandinavia.” On the other hand, the Greek in Provence, the Moor in Spain, Southrons, transplanted into those countries in no very great numbers, have impressed their type on the general population, and, as it were, changed the very breed. When dark and fair intermix, the odds seem to be greatly in favour of the dark complexion prevailing in the offspring. We heard lately of a society formed in France for the conservation of the “Xanthous,” or yellow-haired variety of the human race, which they regard as the true aristocracy of nature, and rightly conceive to be threatened with extinction: their object to be attained by portioning from time to time blonde maidens who might take to themselves husbands of the same complexion. Even so—to return to our trees—the meridional vegetation gradually drives back that of the North in the battlefield of species. If we figure to ourselves the appearance of the plains of England two thousand years ago, with their indigenous vegetable covering only—without the common elm, the linden, plane, sycamore, poplar, acacia, chestnut, fruit-trees of every kind, and cultivated plants in general—without, probably, a single species of pine or fir, or indeed any evergreen but box, yew, and holly—and remember that every foreign plant has displaced a native, we may gather some idea of the conquests which the South has effected even here, not indeed without the aid of human industry, but in part by sheer physical superiority. But on the Mediterranean coast these conquests have been much more marked. Take the following description of the change which two thousand years have made in the common flora of Greece, from the work of a German botanist (Fraas, Klima und Pflanzenwelt):—

“The following species from the flora known to Theophrastus have either entirely disappeared from Greece, or have emigrated from the habitations which he assigns to them, and withdrawn into the moister climate of more northerly regions; the varieties commonly known to the ancients of the Linden; the Yew, that child of damp and shady hillsides, of which rare and dwarfed specimens only are now to be found on the highest mountains; the Hornbeam, the Beech, and Alder of Homer; and, with scanty exceptions, the ‘spear-furnishing’ Cornel and the tall Ash. Instead of these, another class of plants has conquered for itself greater space in the vegetable realm—thick-leaved, hard-leaved, down-covered, thorny and prickly bushes, evergreen for the most part, and adding, by their rich flowers, great beauty to the spring. This vegetation, analogous to that of the American savannas and Asiatic steppes, has now replaced the ancient flowery meadows, resembling those of middle Europe, with wastes of heath and pines, carob-trees and grey oleasters. Together with these we have the various kinds of arbutus, myrtle, oleander, philyreæ, pistachios, kermes-oaks, rosemary, thyme, and the flora of dry mountain regions in general.”

Let us now see how far the historical indications furnished by the Pompeian relics corroborate what has been already said respecting this “intrusion of the climate of the South,” as Fraas terms it, into the regions north of the Mediterranean.

In order to ascertain the plants known to the citizens of Pompeii, says Schouw, two records remain to us—namely, the pictures discovered in its ruins, and the remnants of plants themselves. But, he adds, the use of the first requires some care:—“Many representations of plants are naturally so little precise that their particular species cannot be ascertained, as would be the case in modern pictures of the same kind. And, if the plant be recognisable, it does not follow as certain that it was known at Pompeii, for the plants of foreign countries are also occasionally represented. Thus the Nile-nature is often delineated—marshy landscapes, with the lotus and the nelumbium, the hippopotamus, ichneumon, flocks of geese, and date-palms at the water’s edge; as, for instance, in the lower rim of the famous mosaic supposed to represent Alexander and Darius. Frequently, also, the representations are fanciful—for instance, a laurel growing out of a date-palm, and even appearing to rise out of it as a shoot from the same root—a physiological impossibility, unless, perhaps, it has reference to that strange practice of the ancients—the planting of different kinds so close to each other that they might appear to the eye connected.”

After making these allowances, we may safely arrive at the following conclusions. Among the trees which gave the Neapolitan landscape its character were then (as now) the stone-pine and the cypress. The former is frequently represented, with its peculiar branchless stems and cloud-like head—the product not only of close planting but of actual pruning in nurseries, as may now be noticed in the neighbourhood of Naples. This tree was cultivated for its edible nuts; and pine cones have been found among the charred objects in the shops of Pompeii. The beautiful cypress often occurs in the Pompeian frescoes, not unfrequently mingled with the pine, and gracefully combining with the outlines of the fanciful villas and temples represented. It is Gilpin, we think, who points out the peculiar adaptation, by contrast, of the spiral cypress and poplar to the long horizontal lines of southern buildings; while the square masses of the lime and elm combine well with the pointed Gothic. The “Pinus halepensis,” adds Schouw (the common maritime pine of Italy), is also found in these pictures. The vine, of course, occurs constantly—so does the olive. They were, no doubt, as universal then as now; and preferred respectively, as they do now, the volcanic and the calcareous hills in the vicinity of Naples. Preserved olives were found in Pompeii, which even retained something of their taste. The myrtle, and the beautiful oleander, or laurel-rose, as the French call it—common shrubs of to-day—also appear in the frescoes. Add to these the laurel and bay tribe, the ilex, fig, pomegranate, the “arundo donax” or gigantic reed—cultivated then as now for its various uses, and covering the marshy grounds with its dense brake, strange to the northern eye, are most of them recognisable also in these pictures. And we are enabled to say that the common vegetable forms on which the eye of the Pompeian citizen rested were, to this extent, similar to those on which his descendant gazes now.

But there were many species, now common, then rare or unknown, some of which are mentioned by Schouw in the little essay before us; others, we are able to add, from different sources. The aloe or agave, and the Indian fig (figue de Barbarie, as the French call it), are now among the familiar plants of maritime Italy. The former vigorously protrudes itself in every stony, solitary spot, from the old ramparts of Genoa to the lava-fields of Aeta; the latter is half-cultivated in a careless sort of way for its luscious bulb; and the two seem, in many places, to have almost extirpated the older vegetation. Both of these lusty children of the South are of quite modern origin in Italy, having come over from America. Some have fancied that the pineapple is represented in one Pompeian fresco. “But this,” says our Professor, “is undoubtedly the edible crown of a young dwarf palm, or chamærops humilis.”

A still more important want of classical ages was that of the whole tribe of Agrumi, as the Italians call them—the orange, lemon, citron, and so forth. “Italy was not then,” says our Professor, “the land

Wo die Citronen blühn,

Im dunkeln Laub die gold-orangen glühn;”

and was consequently without one of the favourite features with which æsthetic Northerns adorn their notions of Italy. They are of course absent from the frescoes. They were known to Pliny as foreign plants only. The “Median Apple” (citron) was cultivated in Italy no earlier than the third century after Christ; lemons came from the Saracens; oranges, last of all, were brought by the Portuguese from the East.

The white, or silk-worm mulberry, now the commonest of all trees in the richer parts of Italy, was also unknown to the Pompeians. Its cultivation on the peninsula began, according to Schouw, in the sixth century. Silken fabrics were scarce and expensive, and imported by the Romans from the East. Voltaire somewhere makes the great superiority of a femme de chambre of Madame de Pompadour over the Empress Livia consist in the unlimited enjoyment of silk stockings. It may, however, be questioned whether the Empress would have appreciated such a luxury, or whether, as the audacious French traveller, Monsieur Nodier, asserted respecting the Glasgow ladies not many years ago, she would not have got rid of such incumbrances whenever free from the restraints of company. The picturesque Carouba tree (Ceratonia siliqua), which now forms groves along many parts of the Italian coast, is also probably of modern introduction. We may add another more important plant which the Professor has omitted—the chestnut. Not, of course, that this magnificent native of Thessaly was unknown to Roman antiquity. It was, on the contrary, extensively cultivated in ancient Italy for its fruit. Naples was particularly famous for the excellence of its chestnuts—

“Quas docta Neapolis creavit,

Lento castaneas vapore tostas”—

such as Martial appetisingly describes, and such as that flâneur of a poet had doubtless often purchased, scalding hot, from the tripod of some hag-granddaughter of Canidia or Sagana, in the alleys of the learned city. But it was probably as yet a fruit-tree only. Introduced but two centuries before Christ,[^[6]] it had not had time to form forests; to become, as it now is, the characteristic tree of the lower Apennines, supplanting its ancient but thriftless relative the beech, and driving the latter back to the narrow domain which it still occupies on the top of Monte Sant’ Angelo. The gnarled and twisted chestnut trunks, with their pointed foliage, under which Salvator Rosa studied his art when sojourning among the brigands at the back of Amalfi, have no counterpart in the drawings of Pompeii any more than in the poetry of Virgil.

Of cultivated crops, wheat and barley are represented in the Pompeian frescoes, and grains of them have been discovered in the houses. In one pretty sketch a quail is picking at an ear of barley; in another at a kind of millet. Other less known cereals seem to have been familiar to the ancients. But two of the most important, both in an economic and picturesque point of view, are missing from these sketches,—maize and rice. Both are of modern introduction. The “polenta” of the classical peasant was of barley. Cotton, it need scarcely be added, is of very modern introduction; it now covers extensive fields at the southern foot of Vesuvius.

After this long list of acquisitions, we must turn to some few instances of vegetable forms familiar to the ancient eye, and which the modern misses. The absolute extinction of a species is indeed a rare thing. Decandolle, in his ‘Geographie Botanique,’ likens the changes in vegetation to those which take place in a language: the appearance of a new word, or a new species, attracts observation at once; the disappearance of an old one is very gradual, and seldom total. We have already spoken of the comparative scarcity at present of deciduous trees, and of one—the æsculus—which modern botanists have been unable to define. But one or two ornamental foreigners, introduced in old times, have also disappeared, or nearly so. The most remarkable of these is the oriental Plane. Every Latin scholar is well aware of the modish passion for these trees which prevailed among the wealthy Romans, a preference not wholly æsthetic; it was partly a fashion, borrowed like other fashions from the despotic East, in days when republican millionaires at Rome, like those of Washington, had begun to discover that everything really meritorious came from lands possessing a “strong government.” The Platanus had been from hoary antiquity the object of veneration of Persian monarchs and Grecian heroes. No tree had anything like the same amount of historic and fabulous tradition attached to it. Marsyas was hanged on one, when duly skinned, by Apollo: Agamemnon and Menelaus planted a couple, each of which, a monstrous relic, was shown to Pausanias in his travels. Xerxes had caused his whole host to halt before a noble specimen in Lycia. “He was so enamoured of it,” says old Evelyn, “that for some days neither the concernment of his expedition, nor interest of honour, nor the necessary motion of his portentous army, could persuade him from it. He styled it his mistress, his minion, his goddess: and when he was forced to part from it, he caused a picture of it to be stamped on a model of gold, which he continually wore about him.” As it is now the glory of Ispahan and Shiraz, so it was of the Greek cities of yore. The groves of the Academe and Lyceum were composed of it. “By the Plane Tree” was the favourite oath of Socrates: the more shame to him, said his accuser Melitus, that he should blaspheme so fine a tree. The famous Plane of Buyukdéré on the Bosphorus is popularly said to serve even now as a tent for the Seraskier when he encamps there. The Romans took to it, as we have said, with that extravagant enthusiasm which characterised their follies; “the only tree,” says Pliny, in his sententious stoical way, “which ever was transplanted for the sake of its shade alone.” Julius Cæsar himself planted the first specimen in Spain, at Corduba; it was a noble tree in Martial’s time, and flourished, as he says, by being irrigated with wine.

“Crevit et affuso lætior umbra mero.”

It became so common in the Roman pleasances, that groves of planes, as well as laurels, are spoken of by the same poet as the ornaments of every citizen’s place of ordinary pretensions.

“Daphnones, platanones, et aëriæ cyparissi.”

Undoubtedly, in fashionable Campania, it must have been so common as to form a familiar feature in the landscape. But it perished with the remainder of that luxurious civilisation. In a convent garden at Naples—so a traveller tells us—there remains one enormous specimen, of an antiquity which can only be conjectured: the grandchild, it may be, of some forlorn ornament of a ruined villa, which had seen the Goths march into Italy. We have heard of no others of the genuine race. Of late years, indeed, the plane has begun to resume its popularity as an ornamental tree, and for the same reasons—its delightful shade, namely, and its adaptation to the atmosphere of great cities; being able to throw off the noxious residuum of coal smoke by the peeling of its bark. Planes are now the common trees of the market place in Southern Europe, as they are in our London squares. But, unhappily, the variety almost always seen is of new importation, not of the old stock; not the princely oriental, but its plebeian cousin the occidental, or button-wood of the United States; faster in growth, taller,—stronger perhaps—but incomparably uglier: a melancholy instance of the encroachments of modern democracy.

To the Oriental plane we must add the date-palm: not indeed as strange now to the Italian eye, nor as very abundant in classical times; but as certainly more abundant then than now; an exception to the general law which we have indicated of the increasing prevalence of Southern forms of vegetation. The date-palm in Italy is, after all, but an occasional exotic. Mayer, the painstaking German author of a book on ‘Naples and the Neapolitans,’ says there are scarcely a dozen or two of them in the gardens of that city and its suburbs. There are eight or ten only in Rome, says M. Ampère. It does not ripen its fruit. It dwells uncomfortably, in the uncongenial neighbourhood of the pine; for in America and other unsophisticated regions, the natural limit of the palm ends where that of the pine begins. Picturesque as its solitary form often is, in the villa garden, or behind the convent wall, we cannot look at it without thinking of some poor captive Saracen maiden, shivering at the door of a Northern crusading baron. Even on the coast of the Riviera, where it appears to thrive the most, it affords a melancholy sight when writhing under the icy Mistral, which ever and anon turns the flank of the precarious barrier of the Maritime Alps, and whirls its blasts of snow-dust against the broad leaves. It appears in many of the Pompeian frescoes. Schouw suggests that this does not prove it a native, as the scenes represented may be foreign or symbolical. But the caution is unnecessary. The date-palm was certainly common of yore in maritime Italy, though no doubt in single specimens.[^[7]] “Vulgo in Italiâ, sed steriles,” says Pliny: who accurately distinguishes it from the dwarf-palm or chamærops, then, as now, more characteristic of Sicily. We have already noticed the use for which Virgil recommends it in the ‘Georgics.’ Varro, ‘De Re Rusticâ,’ is still more to the point, when he classes the fibres of the palm along with flax, hemp, and reeds, among materials grown on the farm, which may be turned to account for making cordage.

“Thus we perceive,” concludes our naturalist, “that the vegetable world, and in particular the list of cultivated vegetables, has undergone many changes since the age when Pompeii flourished; and that, while the ancient Pompeians enjoyed a great superiority over the moderns in respect of many enjoyments of life, particularly those arising from the arts, they lacked nevertheless some very valuable plants which increased geographical knowledge and extended commerce have procured for their descendants.”

But however this may be, no one can well contemplate in earnest these relics of a most curious and refined civilisation—in some respects perhaps the most curious and refined which the world has ever seen—and return with satisfaction to the coarse generalisation of the disciples of universal progress in the affairs of humanity, with whose speculations we have been lately surfeited. The feelings which such inquiries excite are assuredly more akin to those with which they inspired the proud and melancholy Leopardi, when he turned from them and from the wealth of conception and nobleness of sentiment with which the ancient world abounded, to that long degradation of subsequent ages, out of which humanity is in truth only now emerging. Very grand, though profoundly sorrowful, are those lines of his, entitled ‘Bruto minore,’ in which he portrays the expiring patriot, not as bewailing his present catastrophe, nor calling on the gods for present revenge, but as brooding, in utter hopelessness of spirit, over “the dark forward and abysm of time”—the Erebus-like blackness of that prospect of coming degeneracy and decay: the trance of ages, into which the human soul was about to fall.

“In peggio

Precipitano i tempi: e mal s’affida

Ai putridi nipoti

L’onor d’egregie menti, e la suprema

De’ miseri vendetta.”

For the duration of that era of decline was indeed such as we are sufficiently accustomed to measure backwards, in historical reflection; but such as, when contemplated as a future, the conception shrinks from with a painful sense of incapacity. Thirteen centuries were to elapse ere the first Italian could stretch his hand across the chasm to the last Roman. As the paradise of cultivation, in which those Campanian cities nestled, was separated from the fertile aspect of the same region in modern times by a formidable blank of centuries of duration, so was the ancient civilisation from the modern by a similar space of intellectual desert; and in each instance alike, the succeeding age can scarcely appreciate its predecessor as a reality.

“Credetne virûm ventura propago,

Cum segetes iterum, cum jam hæc deserta virebunt,

Infra urbes populosque premi.”

And yet there are those who persist in cramming us with that dry formula of Positivism, that each generation enjoys the “accumulated knowledge” of preceding ones! Ask those countless millions of Chinese who vegetate, generation after generation, in the vast interior of their empire apart from all foreign influence, how much of “accumulated knowledge” their community has gathered since the days of Confucius; ask the black nations of the interior of Africa what amount of “progress” distinguishes them from their ancestors known to Herodotus or to Leo Africanus; ask the wretched remnants of tribes which wander over the American wilderness, whether their progenitors, the sons of those who came thither over the ocean, were fewer and feebler and more ignorant than they? For those who seek truth and not phrases, “progress,” as the term is used in social science, is an attribute not of mankind, but of the European family alone; and of that family only since the discovery of printing. What that incomparably greatest of all merely human events may have done towards fixing the elements of social improvement, and converting into a permanent advance that which was before only a precarious, oscillatory movement, we need not now consider. It may be that the so-called triumphal march of humanity is now secured from repulse, and that, as some of our latest speculators seem to hold, the powers of nature which we employ will begin of themselves to decay before our capability of employing them abates. But all this, if so, does not annul the melancholy record of previous periods of loss and retreat. It is extremely difficult, no doubt, for us to realise those periods. In our healthy exuberance of life we can hardly conceive a state of chronic political ebb or decline—a state, that is, in which each generation, instead of profiting by the “accumulated knowledge” of its predecessors, lets something of the results of that knowledge drop from its enfeebled grasp; is reduced in numbers, less provided with the external comforts of life, weaker against aggression, poorer in substance, feebler in spirit, inferior in mental acquirements; nevertheless, such periods have been beyond all doubt. The history of the Byzantine empire furnishes one well known to all: and many such have rolled drearily away in the dimmer ages of early time, since the subjects of Nimrod were dispersed on the plain of Shinar. But let us take the most familiar, and at the same time the truest, instance of what we mean, and which happens also to be most germane to the matter in hand. Could a modern really do what many a visitor to Pompeii has striven to do in intense eagerness of fancy; could he restore those truncated columns and repeople those desolate streets, and actually converse with some cultivated contemporary of Pliny and Juvenal, or Cicero and Horace; one can fancy that the feeling on both sides, after the first strangeness of the meeting had been got over, would be one of surprise, that two specimens of humanity of such distant origin could have so much in common. In moral and social philosophy; in political speculation; in appreciation of eloquence, literature, art, they would really find themselves—some exceptions apart which would give zest to the conversation—almost on the same ground. In respect of matters of still more intimate interest—the inner clothing, as it were, of civilised existence—in their estimate of physical and mental pursuits, tendencies, weaknesses, pleasures, and pains, and their relation to each other—each would feel that he understood his companion; each would be conscious, as it were, of possessing a key to many of the other’s inmost feelings. This would be partly owing, no doubt, to the circumstance that the ancients have been our tutors, and that much of our mental furniture is derived directly from them. But also, in great measure, to mere similarity of circumstances, which engenders similarity of ideas. Civilisations so nearly resembling each other, even in many points of minuteness, as those of modern Europe and of the Rome of Cicero or the Athens of Demosthenes, must, from the necessity of the case, have strongly corresponding spiritual and mental emotions, and corresponding language wherein to express them.

Now let us alter the picture: let the man of the nineteenth century wake up under the shadow of Winchester or Canterbury Cathedral, such as the Saxons had reared them, and, to give him the best company of the day, let him consort with a baron or an abbot of the time of the Norman conquest. Except the subject of religion, of which we would not now speak, what single topic could they have in common? Would they not be separated from each other by a barrier as high and strong as any which divides contemporary civilised from savage man? What object (except possibly horses and dogs), could they appreciate together? What points of morals or science or politics, small talk, sentiment, or humour, would suit them both? How could they argue on premises which one would assume as certain and the other would treat with contempt? The medieval wight would certainly rate the modern at a very different value from his own estimate of himself; and if the modern escaped with a whole skin from the interview, which is greatly to be doubted of, he would find his romantic respect for the baron, or veneration for the ecclesiastic, very little increased. They would be denizens of alien spheres, and would converse in utterly dissonant tongues.

And yet the Norman was our countryman; was nearer to us by many an age than the Roman; and possessed the “accumulated knowledge” (had such a thing really existed before the invention of printing), of many an intervening generation. But these were in truth generations of decline, not of advance; a decline often hardly sensible, or arrested for a time, but on the whole prodigious. And if the enthusiastic disciple of progress chooses to count these ebbs as insignificant exceptions to his general theory of flow, let us remember that a space of a thousand years, however unimportant to a geologist, is a considerable fraction of the historical existence of man.

And this, as many have said, though not many truly feel it, is one of the most real advantages of classical study, and one of the charms which make us turn back to it with recurring affection, after resultless wanderings in company with the “Positivists.” He who has imbibed its lessons deeply can hardly find his judgment much affected by those metaphors turned into arguments which pass commonly current, likening the youth, manhood, and old age of the world to those of an individual; nor will he readily adopt the formulas of a recent clever writer of the Positive school, that “we may expect to find, in the history of man, each successive age incorporating into itself the substance of the preceding,” and that “this power, whereby the present ever gathers into itself the results of the past, transforms the human race into a colossal man, whose life reaches from the creation to the day of judgment.” Classical study made men pedants, after a fashion, two centuries ago; at present its effect is to preserve them from an equally tasteless and less innocent pedantry. By bringing clearly before our view that magnificent phantasma of great communities entombed, and great conceptions buried with them, it weakens the ordinary temptation to overvalue ourselves and our age. It displays to us the vast ocean of moral and intellectual being such as it really is, subject to æons of rise and fall, and not a steady onward current continually gaining ground; and, by so doing, administers a reasonable check to that “Excelsior” tendency which elevates but often misleads us—an indiscriminating confidence in the destiny and powers of our species.

AMERICAN STATE PAPERS.[^[8]]

It is not probable that many of our readers will meet with the volumes, lately published in Washington, containing the correspondence of American diplomatists during the period of the civil war; but, after perusing some of the specimens we shall offer, they will no doubt agree with us in thinking it a pity that these productions should not be generally known. Under any circumstances, most people would find something comical in a set of elderly gentlemen, engaged in important business, exchanging by letter moral sentiments suited to a schoolboy’s theme. But when the compositions thus embellished are of the kind known to the world as State Papers, and when the writers, who thus aim, like the interlocutors in a religious novel, at the instruction of the universe through the medium of dialogue, are American politicians, the effect produced is such as few professed humorists could hope to rival. For most people are aware nowadays that the atmosphere through which those politicians must pass before they can attain to that eminence, one condition of which is the writing of state papers, is much more likely to develop in them the wisdom of the serpent than the guilelessness of the dove. Remembering the pushing and scrambling, the elbowing of vile competitors, the truckling and corruption, the wire-pulling and log-rolling, the acquaintance with all the small and dirty ramifications of tickets and platforms, which success in politics demands in the States, the very last vein of composition we should expect to find these gentlemen especially cultivating would be that in which the sage Imlac addresses Rasselas, or in which the good godmother improves every occasion in a children’s story. A difficulty to believe in the existence of craft or guile or self-interest as motives of political conduct, yielding at last to a surprised and mournful conviction of the sad truth, and a touching and simple style of moralising over human delinquency, are the characteristics, on paper, of the diplomatists who have particularly distinguished themselves in the pleasing and pastoral pursuits we have attempted to enumerate. Everybody who has read American speeches must have noticed in them a tendency to flowery sentiment and to ancient and fish-like metaphors, such as the audiences of the Old World would reject. Why the not very immaculate or poetical classes who constitute a New York mob should especially relish this style of oratory, we cannot explain; but it is the fact that it seems to succeed in America whether the audience be a constituency, or a house of assembly, or the population of a Boston lecture-room, or the entertainers of an American celebrity, or a jury in a criminal case—and all the scribes of their newspapers indulge in the same vein. That it does succeed may appear to be a sufficiently good reason why the parliamentary and stump orators of America should habitually launch at their audiences such sentences as are, on this side of the water, never addressed to any but the galleries at a Surrey melodrama. But directly the speakers are placed in relation to foreign Governments, they think it necessary to engraft on the florid Rosa-Matilda style which deals with “star-spangled banners,” “great, glorious, and free people,” and “the best Government the world ever saw,” the virtuous didactic style we have attempted to describe, and which we suppose they imagine to be particularly likely to influence the counsels of such guileless and simple-minded statesmen as Gortchakoff, Rechberg, Russell, Palmerston, and the Emperor Napoleon.

The principal agent in the pious attempt to inoculate mankind, through their Governments, with virtuous principles, is Mr William Henry Seward. The circumstances under which the benevolent sage perseveres in his philanthropic efforts are not such as are favourable to placid meditation or composition. His lucubrations must have been disturbed not unfrequently by the booming of Confederate cannon. The sudden irruption on his privacy of a distracted Finance Minister, a desperate War Secretary, or a bewildered President, must have been extremely unfavourable to the prosecution of the task. Yet that he struggled successfully with those hostile influences is proved by the enormous volume of his essays, which must, we estimate, be equal in bulk, for one year, to about four volumes of the original edition of ‘The Rambler’—under which title, indeed, they might not inappropriately have been published. Seated at his desk, with the copybooks of his boyhood at hand for quotation, in a glow of philanthropy that cannot fail to warm what he would himself call the “moral atmosphere” of barbaric Europe, he can shut his eyes to passing events, and find sermons in civil wars, and good in everything. Immediately on his accession to office, he begins a circular to all the Ministers at foreign courts in the following style: “Sir,—The advocates of benevolence, and the believers in human progress, encouraged by the slow though marked meliorations of the barbarities of war which have obtained in modern times, have been, as you are well aware, recently engaged,” &c.

Since that was written, the advocates of benevolence and the believers in human progress have been further encouraged by the “meliorations” of stone fleets, of corps of licensed plunderers, of the submersion of great tracts of cultivated land, of the devastation of half a State, of the incitement to servile insurrection, and of the rule of Benjamin F. Butler at New Orleans—illustrations of his remark, which the eminent essayist probably did not at that time expect.

In the early part of his correspondence, Mr Seward’s opinions of the policy to be pursued towards the South are much more indulgent than at a later period. “The Union,” he says, on March 22, 1861, “was formed upon popular consent, and must always practically stand on the same basis.” He says, on April 10, that Secession is “a bad enterprise,” and that the Secessionists are “a misguided portion of our fellow-citizens.” But he goes on to say that the President “would not be disposed to reject a cardinal dogma of theirs (the citizens of the Southern States), namely, that the Federal Government could not reduce the seceding States to obedience by conquest, even although he were disposed to question that proposition. But, in fact, the President willingly accepts it as true. Only an imperial or despotic government could subjugate thoroughly disaffected and insurrectionary members of the State. This Federal republican system of ours is, of all forms of government, the very one which is most unfitted for such a labour.” And he goes on to suggest the following paternal method of bringing back the prodigal South, and providing a fatted calf for it:—

“The system has within itself adequate peaceful, conservative, and recuperative forces. Firmness on the part of the Government in maintaining and preserving the public institutions and property, and in executing the laws where authority can be exercised without waging war, combined with such measures of justice, moderation, and forbearance as will disarm reasoning opposition, will be sufficient to secure the public safety until returning reflection, concurring with the fearful experience of social evils, the inevitable fruits of faction, shall bring the recusant members cheerfully back into the family, which, after all, must prove their best and happiest, as it undeniably is their most natural, home. The constitution of the United States provides for that return by authorising Congress, on application to be made by a certain majority of the States, to assemble a national convention, in which the organic law can, if it be needful, be revised so as to remove all real obstacles to a reunion, so suitable to the habits of the people, and so eminently conducive to the common safety and welfare.”

These be brave words and high sentiments; but their value as an expression of conciliatory policy is a little diminished by the fact that, as the seceding States were then seven out of thirty-four, the concession spoken of, being dependent on the “application to be made by a certain majority of the States” (two-thirds), was an impossibility. And in fact one of the best arguments in favour of Secession is, that the constitution provides no means whereby a minority, or indeed anything but a large majority, of States can obtain a remedy for their grievances, should the interests of the remainder render them adverse.

On the 19th of June, however, a change has come over the spirit of the Secretary’s dream, leading him to retract even this visionary compromise.

“What is now seen in this country,” he tells Mr Adams, “is the occurrence, by no means peculiar, but frequent in all countries, more frequent even in Great Britain than here, of an armed insurrection engaged in attempting to overthrow the regularly constituted and established Government. There is, of course, the employment of force by the Government to suppress the insurrection, as every other Government necessarily employs force in such cases. But these incidents by no means constitute a state of war impairing the sovereignty of the Government, creating belligerent sections, and entitling foreign States to intervene or to act as neutrals between them, or in any other way to cast off their lawful obligations to the nation thus for the moment disturbed. Any other principle than this would be to resolve government everywhere into a thing of accident and caprice, and ultimately all human society into a state of perpetual war.”

Here the facts of the Union, founded on consent, and of the President’s acceptance of the dogma, together with the unfitness of the Federal system for the task of subjugation—a task proper to imperial or despotic governments—are suddenly lost sight of along with the benevolent scheme for calling on the misguided citizens to abandon their “bad enterprise,” and return within the fold of the Union; and this great, glorious, and free Government is driven to confess that its only alternative is the rude and barbarous one hitherto repudiated, of force, such as the most abject monarchy might adopt. To such complexion must even the most beneficent institutions come under the pressure of necessity. And this change of Mr Seward’s tone is contemporaneous with his observation of the sudden appearance of inflexible and enthusiastic resolve on the part of the people of the North to put down the Secession by military power.

At this time two objects are diligently prosecuted by the high-minded Seward, always on the highest grounds. The one is the task of convincing the British Government that it has fallen into a grave error in acknowledging the South as a belligerent, and warning it against receiving the “missionaries of the insurgents,” as he terms the commissioners of the Southern Confederacy. “The cause of the North,” he says, “involves the independence of nations and the right of human nature.” “We feel free to assume that it is the general conviction of men, not only here, but in all other countries, that this Federal Union affords a better system than any other that could be contrived to assure the safety, the peace, the prosperity, the welfare, and the happiness of all the States of which it is composed.” “It is a war,” he says elsewhere, “against human nature;” and again, “The wit of man fails to suggest, not merely a better political system, having the same objects as the present Union, but even any possible substitute for it.” And on the 21st July, “I cannot leave the subject without endeavouring once more, as I have so often done before, to induce the British Government to realise the conviction which I have more than once expressed in this correspondence, that the policy of the Government is one that is based on interests of the greatest importance and sentiments of the highest virtue, and therefore is in no case likely to be changed, whatever may be the varying fortunes of the war at home, or the action of foreign nations on this subject, while the policy of foreign States rests on ephemeral interests of commerce or ambition.” “Sure we are that the transaction now going on in our country involves the progress of civilisation and humanity, and equally sure that our attitude in it is right, and no less sure that our press and our statesmen are equal in ability and influence to any in Europe.”

Manifestly, to countenance any power hostile to so beneficent a system would be almost as bad as to acknowledge Satan and the rebel angels as belligerents. But lest “the cupidity and caprice of Great Britain,” to which, he says, the disunionists will appeal, should render her blind to such high considerations, he takes a lower ground with her, and delivers, May 21, 1861, the following ominous and prophetic warning:—

“Great Britain has but to wait a few months, and all her present inconveniences will cease with our own troubles. If she take a different course, she will calculate for herself the ultimate as well as the immediate consequences, and will consider what position she will hold when she shall have for ever lost the sympathies and affections of the only nation on whose sympathies and affections she has a natural claim.”

It is a sad picture thus presented to us of the British Pythias abandoned by the American Damon, and left alone and friendless in the world. Yet with that direful consequence we are threatened unless we accept the idea of neutrality entertained in common by Mr Seward and Mr Bright, who regard it not as a “cold and unfriendly,” but as a highly enthusiastic, condition.

But, as we said, this was not the only point to which the high-minded Secretary at this period directed his efforts. At the Congress of Paris in 1856 the maritime Powers of Europe had come to an agreement in order to mitigate the severities of war, by which, among other stipulations, privateering was abolished so far as the parties to the compact were concerned. In this agreement America had refused to join, unless an article, specially favourable to herself, should be introduced. But the flame of philanthropy which glowed so ardently in Mr Seward’s breast, now lit up the question which had been buried in obscurity since 1857, and he proposed, of course from the most elevated motives, that America should now join the convention. As provision had originally been made for the admission of parties wishing subsequently to accede to it, no difficulty appeared, and everything seemed to work smoothly—Ministers arranging and conceding, conventions made ready for signature, and all going merry as a marriage-bell.

But it had occurred to the suspicious mind of Lord Russell, whose political morals had been debauched by long diplomatic intercourse with the barbaric Cabinets of Europe, and who was incredulous of public virtue even in the immaculate statesmen of America, that a great advantage would accrue to the Northern Government by joining in the Declaration at this juncture, because the abolition of privateering would exclude the South from all the ports of Europe, which would of course still be open to the regular navy of the North. Not that the proposals of Mr Seward were likely to inspire the suspicion; for, taking the lofty grounds of benefit to the human race, his papers on the subject contained but two slight incidental allusions to the minor point. The Provisional Government of the Confederates had, he said, “taken the bad resolution to invite privateers to prey upon the peaceful commerce of the United States.” And on the 21st May he says to Mr Adams, “You already have our authority to propose to her our accession to that Declaration. If she refuse it, it can only be because she is willing to become the patron of privateering when aimed at our devastation.” These are the only hints on the subject given to the American Ministers. Towards foreign Governments the elevated tone of public virtue was never for a moment jarred by the discordant note of immediate advantage.

But the crafty Russell, led by the low cunning of the European diplomatic mind, had, while appearing to accede with perfect frankness to the American proposal, made this seemingly casual remark, “I need scarcely add that, on the part of Great Britain, the engagement will be prospective, and will not invalidate anything already done”—meaning, of course, We shall be happy to receive your adhesion to the compact, but the prohibition of privateering must not apply to the Confederates, whom we have already acknowledged as belligerents.

The manner in which the virtuous statesmen of the Republic viewed this passage or “implied reservation” was highly characteristic. Incapable of guile themselves, they could not suspect that they could be the objects of suspicion. It was impossible to say what might be hidden behind the mysterious words. Mr Seward professed himself totally in the dark, and demanded explanation. Whereupon Lord John declares “that her Majesty does not intend thereby to undertake any engagement which shall have any bearing, direct or indirect, on the internal differences now prevailing in the United States.”

If the high-minded Secretary was startled by the original passage, he was deeply wounded by the explanation. To suppose that the American Government were aiming at any petty advantage over the Confederates in the matter was a point beneath notice. The Minister appointed to conclude the convention says, indeed—

“The natural effect of such an accompaniment would seem to be to imply that the Government of the United States might be desirous at this time to take a part in the Declaration, not from any high purpose or durable policy, but with the view of securing some small temporary object in the unhappy struggle which is going on at home. Such an inference would spoil all the value that might be attached to the act itself.”

It might be supposed that the best way to restore the full value to the act would have been to reject the petty despised advantage by accepting the convention with the reservation. But so deeply have the virtuous statesmen been wounded by the unworthy suspicion, that they have no heart to proceed in the business. They have done their best for humanity, and failed. The reservation was so unusual, so informal, and it so complicated the matter, that the negotiation must be suspended, said the American Secretary—hoping, however, with habitual pathos, that it might be resumed “in some happier time.”

Britannia having thus, by the refusal of the American Government to proceed with the negotiation, clearly constituted herself the patron of privateering, and having also declined to accept Mr Seward’s interpretation of neutrality, must henceforth expect him to regard her as a Puritan conscious of being in a state of grace would regard some wretched backslider still in the bonds of iniquity. But in the midst of his homilies an event had occurred which had forced from him a very natural expression of alarm, the effect of which in the state papers is very much as if Mr Spurgeon, in the delivery of an eloquent sermon, should howl with anguish on feeling a sharp twinge of the gout. Mr Seward’s howl being a short one, we give it entire:—

“[Confidential.]

Department of State,

Washington, July 26, 1861.

“Sir,—My despatch, No. 42, dated July 21, was delayed beyond the proper mail-day by circumstances entirely beyond my control. I trust, however, that it will still be in time.

“Our army of the Potomac on Sunday last met a reverse equally severe and unexpected. For a day or two the panic which had produced the result was followed by a panic that seemed to threaten to demoralise the country. But that evil has ceased already. The result is already seen in a vigorous reconstruction upon a scale of greater magnitude and increased enthusiasm.

“It is not likely that anything will now be done here hastily or inconsiderately affecting our foreign relations.

“I am, sir, respectfully, your obedient servant,

William H. Seward.

Charles Francis Adams, Esq.,

&c. &c. &c.”

An interval of three days sufficed, however, in a considerable degree, to restore the elastic spirits of the buoyant Secretary, for on 29th July he says:—

“You will hear of a reverse of our arms in Virginia. The exaggerations of the result have been as great as the public impatience, perhaps, which brought it about. But the affair will not produce any serious injury. The strength of the insurrection is not broken, but it is not formidable. The vigour of the Government will be increased, and the ultimate result will be a triumph of the Constitution. Do not be misled by panic reports of danger apprehended for the capital.”

And on the 12th August Seward’s himself again,—

“The shock produced by the reverse of our arms at Bull Run has passed away. The army is reorganised; the elections show that reaction against disunion has begun in the revolutionary States, and we may confidently look for a restoration of the national authority throughout the Union. If our foreign relations were once promptly reestablished on their former basis, the disunion sentiment would languish and perish within a year.”

In this way, after each defeat, or “reverse of our arms,” he presently consoles himself by extracting a precious jewel, in the shape of a moral, from the front of adversity, and transmitting it for the comfort of the American envoys. We all remember the achievement which first made Jackson famous, of turning suddenly on Banks at Winchester and driving him headlong over the Potomac, previous to joining in the general movement against M‘Clellan on the Chickahominy. Upon that event Mr Seward remarks to Mr Adams:—

“The defeat of General Banks at Winchester yesterday, and his withdrawal across the Potomac, are just now the prominent incidents of the war. A careful consideration of the affair results in the satisfactory conclusion that the movement of the enemy was one of merely energetic strategy.”

What this can possibly mean, or why it should be satisfactory to Mr Seward, or what satisfaction it could convey to Mr Adams, we are utterly at a loss to divine. Again, on July 7th, when M‘Clellan had been driven from the York to the James River, he tells Mr Adams that—

“The efficiency of the army of the Union is improved.... If the representative parties had now to choose whether they would have the national army where it is and as it is, or back again where it was and as it was, it is not to be doubted that the insurgents would prefer to it the position and condition on the Pamunkey, and the friends of the Union the one now attained on the banks of the James.... The insurgents and the world abroad will see that the virtue of the people is adequate to the responsibilities which Providence has cast upon them.”

July 12th, he states the cheering fact that a force is “under the command of Major-General Pope, who has achieved great successes in the Western States, and is esteemed an officer of great ability.”

July 28th, he says: “Our assault upon Richmond is for the moment suspended. No great and striking movements or achievements are occurring, and the Government is rather preparing its energies for renewed operations than continuing to surprise the world with new and brilliant victories.” Thus much in the way of particular information, but the moral presently follows:—

“It is not upon isolated events, much less upon transitory popular impulses, that Governments are expected to build their policies in regard to foreign countries. What I think is important, not less for foreign nations than for ourselves, is always to hold our civil war under contemplation, not merely as streams of unequal widths and intermitting currents, but as one continuous river, and so not to forget its source, its direction, and not only its immediate and local, but also its ultimate and universal, effects.”

And before the reader can recover from this tremendous passage, it is followed up by another:—

“It is only the reflecting observer who habitually considers the course of events occurring in any one country as being determined, or at least materially influenced, by natural causes lying wholly or in part outside of that country, and which create a force commonly recognised under various names as the opinion of mankind, or the spirit or the genius of the age or of the times.”

After uttering this extraordinary sentence, one might expect the oracle to become exhausted; but not at all: it continues to pour forth pages of reasoning equally close and clear on this same 28th July. And what do our readers think of this splendid passage, written April 14th?—

“It is believed that this survey of the military position of the Government may serve to satisfy Great Britain that those statesmen here and abroad who, a year ago, mistook a political syncope for national death and dissolution, altogether misunderstood the resources, the character, and the energies of the American Union. The blood that at first retreated to the heart, is now coursing healthily through all the veins and arteries of the whole system; and what seemed at first to be a hopeless paralysis, was in fact but the beginning of an organic change to more robust and vigorous health than the nation has ever before enjoyed.”

And when M‘Clellan finally abandoned the peninsula with the wreck of his army, it is announced to Mr Adams, and to Mr Dayton, the Minister to France, in this way:—

“General Halleck, upon taking command of the army, made a careful survey of the entire military position, and concluded thereupon to withdraw the army of the Potomac from the peninsula, and to combine all our forces in front of Richmond. It is believed to have been substantially accomplished without any casualty. Our new levies are coming in in great numbers and in fine spirits. The gloom has passed away from the public mind. Although our arrangements for resuming offensive operations are yet incomplete, we have much confidence in being able to do so speedily and with decisive effect.... It is represented to us that the popular determination to maintain the Union has at no time been as unanimous and as earnest as it is now.”

And so on of all events, whether promising success or ending in disaster; the object being to persuade foreign Governments what a mistake they made in countenancing such a failing business as Secession. And when the prospect is especially cheerful—when patriots under arms are counted by hundreds of thousands, and when any successes call for a fresh enumeration of the triumphs of the Republic—a judicious menace is insinuated in the despatch, by hinting that as soon as the rebellion is crushed (which it is always just going to be) the shortcomings of those whose duty it was to assist the Union in its “hour of distress,” will not be forgotten by the victorious and thrice-potent Northern people. For instance, on January 31 he says:—

“I have observed that the British people were satisfied with the vigour and the energy of the preparations which their Government made for the war which they expected to occur between them and ourselves. It may be profitable for us all to reflect that the military and naval preparations which have been made by this Government to put down the insurrection have, every day since the 1st of May last, equalled, if not surpassed, the daily proportion of those war-preparations which were regarded as so demonstrative in Great Britain.”

And again, 2d June 1862:—

“The President thinks it desirable that the Government of Great Britain should consider, before the war closes, what are likely to be the sentiments of the two nations in regard to each other after that event shall have occurred.”

We wonder whether it ever occurred to Mr Seward that if the imaginary injuries of one nation upon another are to be visited with such remote vindictiveness, it may be probable that very real and deep sufferings may leave still more indelible rancour behind them; and that there is a people at this moment not only undergoing treatment at the hands of the Union which excites the horror of civilised nations, but proving itself perfectly capable of executing future vengeance.

But in providing for the probability that Great Britain will be indifferent to the high moral ground which he indicates for giving her sympathies to the Union, Mr Seward does not trust entirely to threats. A lower argument, better suited to her defective moral sense, consists in pointing out that it is the interest of European countries to see the war terminate as quickly as possible; that it is also the interest of the Union to terminate the war as quickly as possible: ergo, the way to attain the common object is to unite in procuring it. But he omits to show why the same argument might not apply with equal force to an alliance with the South.

All this eloquence and logic has a double object—first, to avert the recognition of the South, followed by subsequent intervention; and, secondly, and chiefly, to induce the European Powers to retrace the step they had taken of acknowledging the South as a belligerent. The original protest against this step had been on the particular ground that the Government had taken it more hastily than was needful, and ought to have awaited the arrival of Mr Adams, charged with the reasons which the Federal Government might urge in protesting against it. As the measure was one of neutrality, it was manifestly proper that it should be adopted without hearing the arguments of one side only. However, the North considered itself injured, and expressed its sense of injury; but until we read these papers we had thought that the precipitation of the measure was the chief ground on which it was complained of. But so far from that being the case, the measure itself constitutes, down to the present time, the chief point of dispute. It is not going too far to say that, had the Federal Government accepted the position of neutrality of foreign Governments, and conducted its relations with them on that basis, the greater part of these despatches need never have been written. Nine-tenths of them are the result of looking at the same facts from two points of view—of looking at the war, on the one side, as a conflict between great sections, each possessed of power sufficient to maintain itself against the other, and to produce consequences highly important to neutrals; on the other side, as a domestic difficulty caused by a weak and failing faction, and which should not be noticed by foreign Powers any more than any other insignificant outbreak. Our Government saw in it the division of the Republic into portions, strongly defined by a territorial line, arming themselves for a conflict in which the balance of right was a subtle question open to opposite interpretations, but in which, it was evident, the Federal Government could never be victorious consistently with its own principles. The magnitude of the quarrel was such as powerfully to affect our own interests, and to render the probability imminent that the Queen’s subjects would be involved in the struggle, on the one side or the other, in such a manner as to compromise themselves, perhaps the Government. That the nature of the war was rightly estimated, events have more than sufficiently proved; that it was the first duty of the Government to protect its own subjects will probably be admitted by most moralists. But there is one moralist, Mr Seward, who thinks that the British Government, however bound to protect the interests of its own subjects, as it might be, he admits, in an inferior degree, is still more bound to consider the interests of the human race as involved in the maintenance of the Federal Union,—of the system, be it remembered, whose inevitable results have been to make a Lincoln the chief magistrate, and a Seward the chief minister—a system which has for years been the most corrupt ever known, and the inability of which to produce any kind of political merit is one of the wonders of the world.

Mr Seward’s view, which he insists that foreign Governments should adopt, is that they must not admit the existence of any war at all; that Bull’s Run and Fredericksburg, and all the disasters of M‘Clellan and Pope, are the work of a small insurrectionary faction; that the inability of the Federalists to recover authority in the South does not at all affect the integrity of the Republic; and that the millions of men whom he so complacently describes as determined to restore the Union have been called to arms to quell a few “misguided fellow-citizens” who have taken the “bad resolution” of seceding from its authority. But neither great defeats, nor vast armaments, nor huge debt, nor impending dissolution, can divert Mr. Seward from his singular efforts to persuade foreign Governments, chiefly ours, to adopt his extraordinary fiction as their rule of action. If mere acquiescence in his view were all that he demanded, it might be no great matter; but he requires that we shall not merely admit the fictitious view, but proceed to found thereon the extraordinary measures which we shall presently find indicated in his correspondence. What the view itself is may be gathered from a few extracts.

19th June 1861:—

“The United States are still solely and exclusively sovereign within the territories they have lawfully acquired and long possessed, as they have always been.... Great Britain, by virtue of these relations, is a stranger to parties and sections in this country, whether they are loyal to the United States or not; and Great Britain can neither rightfully qualify the sovereignty of the United States, nor concede nor recognise any rights or interests or power of any party, State, or section, in contravention to the unbroken sovereignty of the Federal Union.”

6th March 1862:—

“If Great Britain should revoke her decree conceding belligerent rights to the insurgents to-day, this civil strife, which is the cause of all the derangement of those relations, and the only cause of all apprehended dangers of that kind, would end to-morrow. The United States have continually insisted that the disturbers of their peace are mere insurgents, not lawful belligerents. This Government neither can nor is likely to have occasion to change this position; but her Majesty can, and it would seem that she must, sooner or later desire to relinquish her position. It was a position taken in haste, and in anticipation of the probable success of the revolution. The failure of that revolution is sufficiently apparent. Why should not the position be relinquished, and the peace of our country thus be allowed to be restored?”

10th March 1862:—

“Let the Governments of Great Britain and France rescind the decrees which concede belligerent rights to a dwindling faction in this country, and all their troubles will come to a speedy end.”

15th March 1862:—

... “We are brought to lament anew the precipitancy with which foreign Powers so unnecessarily conceded to the insurrection belligerent rights. The President trusts that you are sparing no efforts to convince Earl Russell that the time has come when that concession can be revoked with safety to Great Britain and advantage to the great material interests of that country.”

To which Mr Adams responds, 27th March:—

“I am bound to notice in several of your late despatches a strong disposition to press upon the British Government an argument for a retraction of its original error in granting to the rebels the rights of a belligerent. There may come a moment when such a proceeding might seem to me likely to be of use. But I must frankly confess that I do not see it yet.”

We will now show by a few other extracts what consequences Mr Seward expected to follow the adoption of his view.

6th March 1862—Mr Seward to Mr Adams:—

“Is it not worth your pains to suggest to him the inquiry whether it would not be wiser and better to remove the necessity for our blockade than to keep the two nations, and even the whole world, in debate about the rightfulness or the expediency of attempting to break it, with all the consequences of so hostile a measure?”

2d April:—

“It is a matter of deep regret to us that our troubles at home render it hazardous to withdraw a part of our great land and naval forces from operating here, and send them to China to co-operate with the forces of the Allies there. As you are well aware, the continuance of the insurrection in the United States is due to the attitudes of Great Britain and France towards our country. It would seem to be desirable for those two States to have our co-operation in China in preserving a commerce of vast importance to them as well as to ourselves. That co-operation we could give if we were relieved from the necessity for maintaining a blockade and siege of our southern ports.”

Whether Mr Seward desired that Great Britain should herself undertake the blockade of the Southern ports, or should pass a law, and persuade other States to pass similar laws, prohibiting all commercial intercourse with the South, and should enforce the prohibition, does not appear. But that he desired one of these measures to be adopted is clear, and the one would not be more extraordinary than the other.

Another operation of the adoption of Mr Seward’s fiction is seen in the case of the British Consul at Charleston. The British and French Governments agreed that it was expedient to communicate to the persons exercising authority in the Confederate States the desire of those Governments that certain articles of the Declaration of Paris should be observed by them in the prosecution of hostilities. Mr Seward remarks thereupon—

“It is enough to say that in our view the proper agents of the British Government to make known its interest here, are the diplomatic, not the consular agents of her Majesty; and that the only authority in this country to which any diplomatic communication whatever can be made is the Government of the United States itself.”

The articles to which France and England desired to call attention were those which relate to the capture of the property of neutrals at sea. It was very necessary to the protection of our commerce that they should be made known, and to do so was not in any way contrary to any of the pretensions of the Federal Government. Yet because the Powers had chosen the English Consul as their medium, instead of the Federal authorities, who did not acknowledge or maintain communications with the Southern Government, the Consul’s exequatur was withdrawn.

The case of the Trent is too well known, and that of the Alabama is too recent, to need recapitulation here. It is only necessary to remind the reader that in the late debate in Parliament it was shown that Mr Seward’s demands could only be complied with by passing a special law, having for its exclusive object to aid the Federal Government by stopping vessels, not on evidence, but on suspicion, that they were intended to become Confederate ships of war. In the case of the Emily St Pierre he expressly tells us his views. That vessel had been captured in attempting to run the blockade, and had then been recaptured from the prize-crew and brought into Liverpool. Whereupon the Federal authorities demanded that she should be restored to them by the British Government. Lord Russell replied that “neutral nations are not bound to punish their subjects for offences committed only against the laws of war as enforced by belligerents, nor to restore property rescued by their subjects from foreign captors.” When our Government communicated its decision declining to restore her, Mr Seward remarked—

“I think it proper to observe at present that the reasons seem to be limited to a want of power vested in the Government to restore, and do not bear at all on the justice or legality of the demand. Under such circumstances this Government has in more than one instance admitted the claim, and appealed to legislative authority for the power to satisfy it, and it has been promptly conferred and exercised.”

The American Minister was directed to press these demands for an alteration of the law. In reply, Lord John Russell, after adverting to the injury sustained by England in the blockade, says:—

“Yet Her Majesty’s Government have never sought to take advantage of the obvious imperfections of this blockade, in order to declare it ineffective. They have, to the loss and detriment of the British nation, scrupulously observed the duties of Great Britain towards a friendly State. But when Her Majesty’s Government are asked to go beyond this, and to overstep the existing powers given them by municipal and international law, for the purpose of imposing arbitrary restrictions on the trade of Her Majesty’s subjects, it is impossible to listen to such suggestions.... If, therefore, the United States consider it for their interest to inflict this great injury on other nations, the utmost they can expect is that European Powers shall respect those acts of the United States which are within the limits of the law. The United States Government cannot expect that Great Britain should frame new statutes to aid the Federal blockade, and to carry into effect the restrictions on commerce which the United States for their own purposes have thought fit to institute, and the application of which it is their duty to confine within the legitimate limits of international law.”

Mr Seward’s demand, that we should adopt his interpretation of the character of the war, would entail the consequences that we should ourselves enforce the Federal blockade; that we should refuse all Southern vessels admission to our ports, while allowing the freest use of them to the Federal ships; that we should stop all exports of commodities to the South, while granting fullest commercial intercourse with the North: and that we should alter our own laws for the purpose of making ourselves the agents of the belligerent interests of the Federal Government. His interpretation of neutrality in affording supplies to the belligerents is amusingly, though we daresay quite unintentionally, illustrated by himself in a couple of sentences. It will be recollected that, at the time of the Trent affair, Federal agents had bought up a great quantity of saltpetre here, and that, in expectation that this might be used against ourselves in case of war, the export of the article was prohibited by an Order in Council. This prohibition was withdrawn when the settlement of the Trent affair removed the apprehension of war. “It affords me pleasure,” says Mr Seward thereupon, “to know that the inhibition of saltpetre, which was so unnecessary, has been rescinded.”

“It has been only European sympathies and European aid,” he proceeds in the next sentence, “that have enabled our disloyal citizens to prolong the civil war.” The coupling of his pleasure at getting munitions of war from England with his complaint against European aid to the South, is too impudent not to be, we hope, accidental.

Now, does any foreign European statesman living think that it would be a light task to persuade England to restrain the liberty of her subjects, or to change her laws? Would any such statesman think that he was labouring for a practicable object, if he were to found his efforts on the assumption that such changes would be made at his suggestion? Would any European people, of whose Government he should be the agent, regard such efforts with other feelings than derision? Yet there are ministers of potent Governments who could show plausible reasons for expecting that their efforts might prevail, and who could urge their arguments with skill and eloquence. But even if, confident in their long experience and profound knowledge of diplomacy, they might venture on the experiment, is it possible to suppose that, when the failure should be manifest, they would, instead of abandoning the ground for surer footing, continue to build an entire policy on the shadowy foundation, though certain to see the baseless fabric sink as often as it should be raised? Yet such is the hopeless task in which the American Secretary persists with dreary pertinacity. Some malign spell seems to rule his course like that by which Michael Scott compelled the devil to make ropes of sand, and to bale out the sea with a limpet-shell. All his arguments, all his complaints, all his homilies, are based on the delusion that he can compel the British Government, by the marvellous force of his persuasive eloquence, to occupy with him a cloudland of his own creation; where a resolute people in arms is a dwindling faction; where a strife that drenches a continent in blood is a waning insurrection; where the victorious result always seems close, yet is always receding; where in the obstruction of a commercial system there is nothing which the partners in that system are entitled to take note of; where the Union, repelled at all points, and staggering under a load of debt, is said to exercise authority in all but a few rebellious spots, and to keep firm hold on the affections of all but a few misguided men; and where nefarious contracts, armies of mercenaries and deserters and plundering generals, are bright examples of the virtue and patriotism of a great people elicited in the hour of trial. All his instructions, all his remonstrances, all his prophecies, proceed upon the assumption that these delusions are facts. If it were not so, the vast volume of despatches would shrink to the size of a pamphlet; for every dispute, every argument, every feeling of injury, has its root in the shadowy standing-ground which he chooses to occupy. Of this he appears sensible himself when he says:—

“I have not failed to see that every wrong this country has been called to endure at the hands of any foreign Power has been a natural if not a logical consequence of the first grave error which that Power committed in conceding to an insurrection, which would otherwise have been ephemeral, the rights of a public belligerent. It has seemed, therefore, to be wise, as well as more dignified, to urge the retrogression upon that false step, rather than to elaborate complaints of the injuries that have followed it.”

It would have been well had he done so; but instead he has, without ceasing to urge retrogression, indulged in ceaseless complaints. Wrapt in his delusions, he drifts calmly on the tide of events that is bearing him and his despatches to chaos, and takes the crack of doom for a wholesome thunderstorm which is to clear the political atmosphere. Nothing can surpass the feeble complacency with which he records his perpetual illusions as incontrovertible facts. On Feb. 19, 1862, he writes to Mr Adams:—

“I was just about instructing you how to answer the querulous complaints in Parliament which you have anticipated, the chief of which is the assumed incompetency of Government to suppress the insurrection. But a very shrewd observer, a loyal, and at present exiled Virginian, fell in at the moment, and expressed to me the opinion that the end of the war is in sight; that there will be a short and rapid series of successes over a disheartened conspiracy, and then all will be over. I give you these opinions as entitling us to what is sometimes granted by candid tribunals—namely, a suspension of judgment.”

It is a pity that the name of the shrewd observer has not been preserved. So sagacious a man ought not to be anonymous.

On the 10th of February he tells us:—

“The process of preparation has steadily gone on in the loyal States, while that of exhaustion has been going on in the disloyal.... We have the most satisfactory evidence that the Union will be hailed in every quarter just as fast as the army shall emancipate the people from the oppression of the insurgent leaders.”

March 15—“The financial and moral, as well as the physical, elements of the insurrection seem to be rapidly approaching exhaustion.” On 25th March it seems impossible to the sanguine Secretary that the organisation of the insurgents can be longer maintained. On 28th April he asserts that “to-day the country is assuming that the fate of this unnatural war is determined by the great event of the capture of New Orleans.” On the 5th May the fiscal system of the insurgents must, he calculates, have exploded, and their military connections be everywhere broken. On 28th May the Federal Government is said to possess the Mississippi and all the other great natural highways. And on June 2—

“The war in the Mississippi valley may be deemed virtually ended.... The army of General M‘Clellan will be rapidly strengthened, although it is already deemed adequate to the capture of Richmond.... No American now indulges any doubt that the integrity of the Union will be triumphantly maintained.”

24th June:—

“You tell me that in England they still point to the delays at Richmond and Corinth, and they enlarge upon the absence of displays of Union feeling in New Orleans and Norfolk. Ah, well! scepticism must be expected in this world in regard to new political systems, insomuch as even Divine revelation needs the aid of miracles to make converts to a new religious faith.”

On 7th July, after M‘Clellan’s disasters, he says:—

“The military situation is clearly intelligible, and ought to be satisfactory to the cool and candid judgment of the country.... We have a rumour that Vicksburg is actually taken. But the report is premature, though we have no doubt but the capture has before this time occurred.”

And on the 10th November, just before the defeat of Fredericksburg, we find him “apprehending no insurmountable obstacles to complete success.”

Nor are his prophecies addressed only to England. On the 15th April he tells Mr Dayton:—

“A few days will probably complete the opening of the Mississippi river, and restore to the country that national outlet of the great granary of America which disunion, in its madness, has temporarily attempted to obstruct, in violation not more of political laws than of the ordinances of nature.”

22d April:—

“We have reason to expect Savannah to come into our possession within the next ten days.”

5th May:—

“We shall have peace and union in a very few months, let France and Great Britain do what they may. We should have them in one month if either the Emperor or the Queen should speak the word, and say, If the life of this unnatural insurrection hangs on an expectation of our favour, let it die. To bring the Emperor to this conviction is your present urgent duty.”

On the 10th May he has a vision of a Yankee millennium:—

“Less than a year will witness the dissolution of all the armies; the ironclad navy will rest idly in our ports; taxes will immediately decrease; and new States will be coming into the Confederacy, bringing rich contributions to the relief and comfort of mankind.”

On the 10th July he says:—

“The reduction of Vicksburg, the possession of Chattanooga, and the capture of Richmond, would close the civil war with complete success. All these three enterprises are going forward. The two former will, we think, be effected within the next ten days.”

And in September he actually bites his thumb at the Emperor:—

“We have not been misled,” he says, “by any of the semblances of impartiality or of neutrality which unfriendly proceedings towards us in a perilous strife have put on. When any Government shall incline to a new and more unfriendly attitude, we shall then revise with care our existing relations towards that Power, and shall act in the emergency as becomes a people who have never yet faltered in their duty to themselves while they were endeavouring to improve the condition of the human race.”

Compared with these prophecies the ravings of Mother Shipton become respectable oracles. Yet on them was founded the entire foreign policy of the Federal Government; the complaints that foreign statesmen and other sane persons would not confide in them were incessant; and they were the lights by which American envoys were expected to steer.

These gentlemen, with more or less sense and discretion, all write in the stilted creaking style, stuck over with hard metaphors, which distinguishes the master-spirit Seward, and which appears to be the characteristic of American public compositions. They seem to have caught, and to express very honestly, not only his style but his ideas, and to represent perfectly the querulous, arrogant, exacting tone of the Secretary. It is not, probably, from a wish to do him homage that they thus accurately reflect him, but rather because it is natural to American politicians to take abroad with them that idea of the pre-eminence of their country which they have passed their lives at home in asserting, and because their habit of regarding England as the abode of a jealous aristocracy, and as being always in the wrong, places them in a position of natural antagonism to us in every case that can arise. But, granting this to be inevitable, we may consider ourselves very fortunate that America is represented among us by a gentleman in every way so entitled to respect as Mr Adams. The son of one President and the grandson of another, both of whom were elected to the chief place in the Republic at a time when something else besides obscurity and the absence of any quality which could excite the jealousy of aspiring men, was demanded for the attainment of the position which Washington had filled, the claims of Mr Adams as a public man evidently rest on other grounds than those of ordinary American politicians. We do not doubt that the expressions of goodwill and courtesy addressed to him from our Foreign Office are perfectly sincere and deserved. It is true that the tone of his correspondence with that office is often captious, and his demands are sometimes unreasonable. Without prompting from his own Government he seems often to prejudge questions of international law with a bias that blinds him to the true bearing of the question, as in the case of the Emily St Pierre, and leads him to treat as an injury the denial of concessions which are denied because impossible to be granted. But this is the traditionary character of American diplomacy: it thus expresses the spirit of the people, with the promptings of which a Minister may think himself bound to comply; and both Mr Adams and Mr Dayton, Minister to France, appear in their correspondence to discharge their duties with great zeal and fidelity, and, moreover, to display the virtue, not by any means universal among their brethren, of confining themselves to the business of their own legations.

We need not say that our remarks relate only to Mr Adams’s share in the published correspondence, and not to his later acts. The extraordinary step he took on the 9th April, in granting a permit to an English vessel enabling her to pass the blockade, is fraught with consequences too important to be dwelt on here, and, if unexplained, would force us largely to qualify our encomium.

It might be supposed that the ties between Austria and America are neither numerous nor close, and that consequently the Minister to Vienna would find but a narrow field for the display of his qualities as a diplomatist. Accordingly we find Mr Motley, in the dearth of other matter, falling back upon the grand resource of American politicians, and discussing English affairs as the most natural topic possible to engage the attention of an envoy at Vienna. From that convenient point of observation, then, he proceeds to enlighten the Washington Cabinet on the disposition and intentions of the statesmen, and organs of the press, of Great Britain; and as other ministers elsewhere imitate this course, the Government of Mr Lincoln has the advantage of seeing British policy represented, not merely in the aspect in which it is seen by Mr Adams the special photographer, but as it appears when viewed by amateurs from the various capitals of Europe.

Should a Tory Government succeed the present Cabinet, Mr Motley anticipates much trouble. Nothing, he says, can exceed the virulence with which the extreme Conservative party regard America, nor the delight with which they look forward to its extinction as a nation. The hatred to the English Radicals is, he has discovered, “the secret of the ferocity and brutality with which the ‘Times,’ the ‘Saturday Review,’ and other Tory organs of the press, have poured out their insults upon America ever since the war began.” How the journals thus classified may approve being linked together as Tory organs, we cannot say. To ourselves we, of course, see nothing personal in the general allusion, our leaning to Radicalism and Republicanism being too notorious to admit of any mistake. Subsequently Mr Motley writes a long essay about British matters, explaining the sentiments of the “venerable Premier of England” and our Foreign Minister, and criticising the speech made by Mr Gladstone at Newcastle, part of which makes him very angry, and causes him to express a hope that that statesman’s tongue may be blistered. Nor, unusual as his style of diplomatic correspondence may appear, does he stand quite alone in it.

It is possible that the godfathers and godmothers of Mr Cassius Marcellus Clay are, in principal degree, responsible for the efforts made by that gentleman to attain notoriety. It would be mean to sneak obscurely about the world under such magnificent appellations. Better, in such a case, be called John Thomas. Hence, without any quality apparent that would entitle the bearer of these historic names to claim distinction amid the company of a pothouse, his efforts to become known in the world have been as unceasing as if he were some wronged genius entitled to a hearing. At the outbreak of hostilities he launched from Paris a tremendous defiance against our unfortunate country. Then he published a letter in the ‘Times,’ telling us what we ought to do in the American quarrel, and, in case we should not comply, threatening our great-grandchildren with the vengeance of we forget how many millions of unborn Yankees. At this time he was on his way to St Petersburg as United States Minister to Russia. For his guidance he had received one of Mr Seward’s most elaborate moral essays, beginning in this remarkable way: “Sir,—Nations, like individuals, have three prominent wants: first, freedom; secondly, prosperity; thirdly, friends. The United States early secured the two first objects by the exercise of courage and enterprise. But, although they have always practised singular moderation, they nevertheless have been slow in winning friends.” Fortified with a great deal of this kind of composition, Mr Clay arrived in the Russian capital. From his own correspondence we learn that he found the Emperor “absent in the direction of Moscow,” and being advised by the Assistant-Secretary of State to await his Majesty’s return, “I presumed,” he says, “it would not be agreeable to the Emperor for me to follow on.” In a few days he had an interview with Prince Gortchakoff, who “asked after Pickens” (whether Pickens is something, or some place, or somebody, does not appear), “my family, and other things in a familiar way, when I was dismissed by again shaking hands.” Soon after we learn that he and “his suite, Green Clay, William C. Goodloe, and T. Williams,” set out for Peterhoff, where the Emperor received them, and addressed Mr Clay in a set speech, which was delivered in Russian, though, says he, “the Emperor spoke American mostly.” We are at liberty, therefore, to suppose that his Majesty, during great part of the interview, spoke through his nose; and, no doubt, Prince Gortchakoff, who spoke only English, beheld with wonder, not unmixed with envy, this exhibition of his Imperial master’s accomplishments as a linguist.

Mr Clay then addressed to the Emperor an essay on the moral government of Russia, which, from internal evidence, we pronounce to have been learnt by heart from a prize paper by Seward. “The Emperor,” he says, “seemed much gratified and really moved by this last remark,” possibly because it was the last; and, besides speaking Russian and American, Alexander was so ostentatious as to conclude the interview by speaking English, perhaps deeming it appropriate to the subject-matter. “He wanted to know if I thought England would interfere. I told him we did not care what she did; that her interference would tend to unite us the more; that we fought the South with reluctance; we were much intermarried and of a common history; but that the course of England had aroused our sensibilities towards her in no very pleasant manner. The Emperor seemed to like my defiance of old John Bull very much. He wanted to know if I was a relative of Henry Clay, and what was my military rank. I told him I was only a distant relation of Clay, and that I wore the uniform of an American colonel” (borrowed, perhaps, from another relation, Pipe Clay), “which rank I filled in my own country.” His Majesty then shook hands twice with the Ambassador, and dismissed him.

Before concluding the despatch from which we learn the foregoing interesting particulars, it seems to have occurred to Mr Clay that it would be judicious to show Mr Seward that moralising on the war was a game which two could play at; and he wound up in the following style:—

“I have already made this letter too long; but I cannot conclude without saying how much more and more I value the great and inestimable blessings of our Government, and how I trust in God that no compromise will be made of the great idea for which we have so long fought, but that General Scott, following out the programme of Mr Lincoln’s inaugural, will slowly and surely subdue the rebellion, ‘stock, lock, and gun-barrel,’ ‘hook and line, bob and sinker,’ and that we may all be spared to see once more the glorious old banner restored,—‘Liberty and union, now and for ever—one and inseparable.’”

These extracts from the Clay correspondence of 1861 will no doubt cause the reader keenly to regret that we cannot give more. But the fact is that, whether Mr Seward was jealous of Mr Clay’s native humour as displayed in these papers, or considered him a formidable rival as a moral essayist, or whatever the cause might be, the omissions are so numerous that a great part of the Ambassador’s correspondence consists of asterisks, leaving only the driest details, such as any ordinary John Thomas or Green Clay might have written. So numerous are the stars between the stripes of print, that the successive pages look like so many representations of the American banner. But in January last year he wrote an essay on the subject of the perfidy and general villainy of Great Britain, which has fortunately been preserved entire. “In this critical time,” he says, “whether war or peace with England ensues, I deem it my duty to give the President my impressions of European sentiment.” He then details the reasons why the monarchies and aristocracies of Europe have always regarded his republic with jealousy. “Their jealousy, their secret hate, their blind vengeance verges,” Mr Clay thinks, “upon insanity;.... they renew with us the fable of the wolf and the lamb; though we are below on the mountain stream, we are accused of muddying the waters.” His method of dealing with Secession is tersely expressed—“I have always thought that the whole property of the rebels, slaves and all, should be summarily confiscated.” But before prescribing this treatment for the South, he devotes a paragraph to the way in which England should be handled:—

“In case of war with England,” he says, “Canada should be seized at all hazards. A large force should be first placed in fortifications in some place suitable near the coast, which would cut off reinforcements from England. Union with us, with equal rights, should be offered the Canadians, and the lives and property of friends secured. Men and money should be sent to Ireland, India, and all the British dominions all over the world, to stir up revolt. Our cause is just; and vengeance will sooner or later overtake that perfidious aristocracy.”

Such was the esteem in which the Cabinet of Washington held either the practical qualities evinced in this essay, or the diplomatic services veiled under the asterisks, that they were considered to entitle him, on his return to America, to the position of a Brigadier-General. In the records of the war we cannot, however, find that Brigadier Cassius Marcellus ever performed any military achievement worthy either of the foe of Cæsar or the foe of Hannibal. He seems to have worn his warlike honours with remarkable meekness, and never to have done anything to fulfil his own aspiration that “liberty and union may be for ever inseparable,” by taking the smallest step towards the subjugation of the enemy. Under these circumstances Mr Seward, finding his military so inferior to his diplomatic talents, seems to have thought that the Brigadier who had failed to bid defiance to the South would find a more appropriate field of action in resuming his employment of gratifying the Emperor of Russia with other defiances of “old John Bull”—and accordingly we learn that the eminent statesman either is, or is to be, once more Minister to St Petersburg, and may possibly be at this moment engaged in his favourite occupations of shaking the hand of the Emperor, and shaking his own hand at the British monarchy. If it be so, we may perhaps hope to read, in another state paper, of his second reception at the Court of Russia—which, judging from the familiar cordiality displayed in the first, may, if the Czar should again deign to express himself in the American language, open something in this way,—“Wal, Cassius M. Clay, how air you, old hoss? Do you feel pretty brisk and spry, sir? How is it you ha’n’t chawed up them rebels yet, lock, stock, and gun-barrel, hook and line, bob and sinker? What do you think of our insurrection to Poland, sir?”

Future volumes of these documents will probably reveal Mr Seward as still assuring his correspondents that the end of the rebellion is at hand; that foreign Governments will soon see dire reason to repent their hostility; that the Union is growing stronger with every “reverse of our arms;” that discord and desertion and corruption are only “fresh developments of patriotism;” and that the flooding of the lands on the Mississippi, far from being an act of barbarous vindictiveness, will be as beneficent in its consequences as the overflowing of the Nile. We shall probably see, too, that American envoys, addressing themselves, not to Mr Seward, but to the masses behind him, his masters and theirs, are still denouncing our perfidious aristocracy and jealous monarchy. Is it a comedy or a tragedy that these men are acting? If unconscious absurdity and ludicrous unfitness for the conduct of grave affairs were all the elements of the exhibition, we might well afford to laugh; but, unfortunately, the grotesque display has its terrible side, and incapacity and conceit only increase the tremendous power of mischief wielded by the principal characters in the burlesque. Meanwhile the course of foreign Governments is not likely to be materially affected by the lucubrations of the American Secretary of State; and, amidst the strange displays of weakness made by the North, not the least strange will be the futility of its diplomacy.