Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 60, No. 374, December, 1846

The character of this illustrious man has been thus portrayed by two of the greatest writers in the English language, the latter of whom will not be accused of undue partiality to his political enemy. "It is a characteristic," says Adam Smith, "almost peculiar to the great Duke of Marlborough, that ten years of such uninterrupted and such splendid successes as scarce any other general could boast of, never betrayed him into a single rash action, scarce into a single rash word or expression. The same temperate coolness and self-command cannot, I think, be ascribed to any other great warrior of later times – not to Prince Eugene, nor to the late King of Prussia, nor to the great Prince of Condé, not even to Gustavus Adolphus. Turenne seems to have approached the nearest to it: but several actions of his life demonstrate that it was in him by no means so perfect as in the great Duke of Marlborough."39 "By King William's death," says Bolingbroke, "the Duke of Marlborough was raised to the head of the army, and indeed of the confederacy, where he, a private man, a subject, obtained by merit and by management a more decided influence than high birth, confirmed authority, and even the crown of Great Britain, had given to King William. Not only all the parts of that vast machine, the Grand Alliance, were kept more compact and entire, but a more rapid and vigorous motion was given to the whole; and instead of languishing or disastrous campaigns, we saw every scene of the war full of action. All those wherein he appeared, and many of those wherein he was not then an actor, but abettor, however, of their actions, were crowned with the most triumphant success. I take with pleasure this opportunity of doing justice to that great man, whose faults I know, whose virtues I admire, and whose memory, as the greatest general and greatest minister that our country or any other has produced, I honour."40

MILDRED;

A Tale

Part I. Chap. I

The town of Wimborne, in Dorsetshire, boasts the possession of a very ancient cathedral-like church, dignified with the title of Minster, but, with this exception, is as utterly devoid, we believe, of all interest to the traveller, as any of the numerous country-towns which he rapidly passes through, and so gladly quits, wondering for the moment how it is that any one can possibly consent to be left behind in them. He who has journeyed from Southampton to Poole will remember the town, from the circumstance that he quitted by the same narrow streets by which he entered it, his road not passing directly through, but forming an angle at this point. He will call to mind what appeared an unaccountable turning and twisting about of the coach, whilst the horses were being changed, and a momentary alarm at finding that he was retracing his steps; he will remember the two massive square towers of the old church, peering above the roofs of the houses; and this is all that he will know, or have the least desire to know, of the town of Wimborne.

If, however, the traveller should be set down in this quiet place, and be compelled to wait there half a day for the arrival of some other coach to carry him to his destination, he will probably wile away his time by a visit to its antique and venerable church; and after climbing, by the dark and narrow staircase, to the top of one of its towers, he will be somewhat surprised to find himself – in a library! A small square room is fitted up with shelves, whereon a number of books are deposited, and the centre is occupied by a large reading-desk, and a massive oak table, apparently coeval with the tower itself, and which was probably placed there before the roof was put on, since it never could have been introduced by the stairs or through the window. It is no modern library, be it understood – no vestry reading-room connected with the Sunday school of the place; they are old books, black-letter quartos, illuminated missals, now dark and mouldy, and whose parchment has acquired no pleasant odour from age. By no means is it a circulating library, for some of the books are still chained to the reading-desk; and many more have their rusty iron chain twisted about them, by which they, in their turn, were bound to the desk. If the traveller should not be favoured with that antiquarian taste which finds a charm in decyphering, out of mouldy and black-letter volumes, what would not be worth his perusal in the most luxurious type of modern days, he will at least derive some pleasure from opening the little windows of the tower, and inhaling the fresh breeze that will blow in upon him, and in looking over an extensive prospect of green meadows, with their little river meandering about in them. It must have formed a pleasant retreat at one time to the two or three learned clerks, or minor canons, or neighbouring monks or friars – we may be sure there were never many of such students – who used to climb this turret for their morning or their evening lucubrations.

The only student who had, perhaps for some centuries, frequented it – and she brought her own books with her, and was very unlike either learned clerk, or monk, or friar – was Mildred Willoughby. She used to delight – a taste savouring of extreme youth – to bring the book she was perusing from her own comfortable parlour, to climb up with it to this solitary height, and there read it alone. She had no difficulty in obtaining from the parish-clerk permission to be left in this chosen solitude – to draw the one wooden chair it possessed to the window, and there to sit, and read, or muse, or look upon the landscape, just as long as she pleased. It did not very frequently happen that this functionary was called upon to exhibit the old tower to the curiosity of strangers; but if this occurred whilst she was thus occupied, she would rise from her seat, and for a moment put on the air of a visitor also – walk slowly round the room, looking at the backs of the books, or out of the window at the prospect, as if she saw them for the first time! and when the company had retreated, (and there was little to detain them long,) would quietly return to her chair, her study, or her reverie.

One reason she might have given, beside the romantic and pensive mood it inspired, for her choice of this retreat – the charm of being alone. Nothing could be more quiet – to look at the exterior – than the house she called her home. It stood at the extremity of the town, protected from the road by its own neat inclosure of turf and gravel-walk – surely as remote from every species of disturbance or excitement as the most devoted student could desire. We question even whether a barrel-organ or a hurdy-gurdy was ever known to commit an outrage upon its tranquillity; and for its interior, were not Mr and Miss Bloomfield (they were brother and sister, uncle and aunt of Mildred) the most staid, orderly, methodical persons in the world? Did not the bachelor uncle cover every part of the house, and the kitchen stairs in particular, with thick carpet, in order that the footsteps of John and the maid should not disquiet him? The very appearance of the garden, both before and behind the house, was sufficient to show how orderly a genius presided over it. Could box be cut more neatly? or gravel-walks be kept cleaner? You saw a tall lance-like instrument standing by the steps of the back-door, its constant place. With this Mr Bloomfield frequently made the circuit of his garden, but with no hostile purpose: he merely transfixed with it the dry leaves or the splinters of wood that had strayed upon his gravel, carrying them off in triumph to a neat wooden receptacle, where they were both imprisoned and preserved. And Miss Bloomfield, she also was one of the most amiable of women, and as attached to a quiet and orderly house as her brother. Neither could any two persons be more kind, or more fond of their niece, than they were. But it was from this very kindness, this very fondness, that Mildred found it so pleasant at times to escape. Her aunt, especially, was willing to grant her any indulgence but that of being alone. This her love for her niece, and her love of talking, would rarely permit. Neither could Mildred very graciously petition for this unsocial privilege. In youth, nothing is so delightful as solitude, especially when it is procured by stealth, by some subtle contrivance, some fiction or pretence; and many a time did her aunt find it necessary to pursue Mildred to her own chamber, and many a time did she bring her down into the parlour, repeating, with unfeigned surprise, and a tone of gentle complaint, the always unanswerable question – what she could be doing so long in her own room? Therefore it was that she was fain to steal out alone – take her walk through the churchyard, ascend the tower, enter its little library, and plant herself in its old arm-chair for an hour of solitary reading or thinking.

Mildred Willoughby was born in India, and her parents (the greatest misery attendant upon a residence in that climate) were compelled to send her to England to be reared, as well as educated. She had been placed under the care of her uncle and aunt. These had always continued to live together – bachelor and spinster. As their united incomes enabled them to surround themselves with every comfort and personal luxury, and as they were now of a very mature age, it was no longer considered to be in the chapter of probabilities that either of them would change their condition. Miss Bloomfield, in her youth, was accounted a beauty – the belle of Wimborne; and we may be sure that personal charms, a very amiable disposition, and a considerable fortune, could not fail to bring her numerous admirers and suitors. But her extreme placidity of temper no passion seems ever to have ruffled; and it did so happen, that though her hand had often been solicited, no opportunity of marriage had been offered to her which would not have put in jeopardy some of those comforts and indulgences to which she was habituated. She was pleased with the attentions of gentlemen, and was studious to attract them; but there was nothing in that word love which could have compensated for the loss of her favourite attendants, or of that pretty little carriage that drew her about the country.

As for Mr Bloomfield, it was generally supposed that he had suffered from more than one tender disappointment, having always had the misfortune to fix his affections just where they could not be returned. But those who knew him well would say, that Josiah Bloomfield was, in fact, too timid and irresolute a man ever to have married – that being himself conscious of this, yet courting, at the same time, the excitement of a tender passion, he invariably made love where he was sure to be rejected. Many a fascinating girl came before him, whom he might have won, from whose society, for this very reason, he quietly withdrew, to carry his sighs to some quarter where a previous engagement, or some other obstacle, was sure to procure him a denial. He thus had all the pleasing pains of wooing, and earned the credit for great sensibility, whilst he hugged himself in the safe felicity of a single life. By this time, a more confirmed or obdurate bachelor did not exist; yet he was pleased to be thought to wear the willow, and would, from time to time, endeavour to extort compassion by remote hints at the sufferings he had endured from unreturned affection.

Two such persons, it will be supposed, were at first somewhat alarmed at the idea of taking into their establishment a little girl about four or five years old. Indeed, they had, in the first instance, only so far agreed to take charge of her as to find her a fit school – to receive her at the holidays – and, in this distant manner, superintend her education. But Mildred proved so quiet, so tractable, and withal so cheerful a child, that they soon resolved to depart from this plan. She had not been long in the house before it would have been a great distress to both of them to have parted with her. It was determined that she should reside perpetually with them, and that the remittances received from India should be employed in obtaining the very best masters that could be procured from Bath or Exeter. Mr Bloomfield found, in the superintendence of Mildred's education, an employment which made the day half as short as it had ever been before. He was himself a man fond of reading; and if he had not a very large store of thoughts, he had at least an excellent library, into which Mildred, who had now arrived at the age of fifteen, had already begun to penetrate.

And books – her music – &c., a few friends, more distinguished by good-breeding and good-nature than by any vivacity of mind, were all the world of Mildred Willoughby, and it was a world that there seemed little probability of her getting beyond. It had been expected that about this time she would have returned to India to her parents; but her mother had died, and her father had expressed no wish that she should be sent out to him. On the contrary, beyond certain pecuniary remittances, and these came through an agent's hands, there was nothing to testify that he bore any remembrance of his daughter. Of her father, very contradictory reports had reached her; some said that he had married again, and had formed an engagement of which he was not very proud; others that he had quitted the service, and was now travelling, no one knew where, about the world. At all events, he appeared to have forgotten that he had a daughter in England; and Mildred was almost justified in considering herself – as she did in her more melancholy moments – as in fact an orphan, thrown upon the care of an uncle and aunt, and dependent almost entirely upon them.

One fine summer's day, as she was enjoying her lofty solitude in the minster tower, a visitor had been allowed to grope up his way unattended into its antique library. On entering, he was not a little startled to see before him in this depository of mouldering literature a blooming girl in all the freshness and beauty of extreme youth. He hesitated a moment whether to approach and disturb so charming a vision. But, indeed, the vision was very soon disturbed. For Mildred, on her side, was still more startled at this entrance, alone and suddenly, of a very handsome young man – for such the stranger was – and blushed deeply as she rose from her chair and attempted to play as usual the part of casual visitor. He bowed – what could he less? – and made some apology for his having startled her by his abrupt entrance.

The stranger's manner was so quiet and unpresuming, that the timidity of Mildred soon disappeared, and before she had time to think what was most proper to do, she found herself in a very interesting conversation with one who evidently was as intelligent as he was well-bred and good-looking. She had let fall her book in her hurry to rise. He picked it up, and as he held the elegantly bound volume in his hand, which ludicrously contrasted with the mouldy and black-letter quartos that surrounded them, he asked with a smile, on which shelf he was to deposit it. "This fruit," said he, "came from another orchard." And seeing the title at the back, he added, "Italian I might have expected to find in a young lady's hand, but I should have looked for a Tasso, not an Alfieri."

"Yes," she replied gaily, "a damsel discovered reading in this old turret ought to have book of chivalry in her hand. I have read Tasso, but I do not prefer him. Alfieri presents me quite as much as Tasso with a new world to live in, and it is a more real world. I seem to be learning from him the real feelings of men."

The stranger was manifestly struck by this kind of observation from one so young, and still more by the simple and unpretending manner in which it was uttered. Mildred had not the remotest idea of talking criticism, she was merely expressing her own unaffected partialities. He would have been happy to prolong the conversation, but the clerk, or verger, who had missed his visitor – as well he might, for his visitor had purposely given him the slip, as all wise men invariably do to all cicerones of whatever description – had at length tracked his fugitive up the tower, and into the library. His entrance interrupted their dialogue, and compelled the stranger very soon afterwards to retreat. He made his bow to the fair lady of the tower and descended.

Mildred read very little more that day, and if she lingered somewhat longer in meditation, her thoughts had less connexion than ever with antiquities of any kind. She descended, and took her way home. The probability that she might meet the stranger in passing through the town – albeit there was nothing, disagreeable in the thought – made her walk with unusual rapidity, and bend her eyes pertinaciously upon the ground. The consequence of which was, that in turning the corner of a street which she passed almost every day of her life, she contrived to entangle her dress in some of the interesting hardware of the principal ironmonger of the place, who, for the greater convenience of the inhabitants, was accustomed to advance his array of stoves and shovels far upon the pavement, and almost before their feet. As she turned and stooped to disengage her dress, she found that relief and rescue were already at hand. The stranger knight, who had come an age too late to release her as a captive from the tower, was affording the best assistance he could to extricate her from entanglement with a kitchen-range. Some ludicrous idea of this kind occurred to both at the same time – their eyes met with a smile – and their hands had very nearly encountered as they both bent over the tenacious muslin. The task, however, was achieved, and a very gracious "thank you" from one of the most musical of voices repaid the stranger for his gallantry.

That evening Mildred happened to be sitting near the window – it must have been by merest hazard, for she very rarely occupied that part of the room – as the Bath coach passed their gates. A gentleman seated on the roof appeared to recognise her – at least, he took his hat off as he passed. Was it the same? – and what if it were? Evidently he was a mere passer-by, who had been detained in the town a few hours, waiting for this coach. Would he ever even think again of the town of Wimborne – of its old minster – or its tower – and the girl he surprised sitting there, in its little antique library?

Chapter II

Between two or three years have elapsed, and our scene changes from the country town of Wimborne to the gay and pleasant capital of Belgium.

Mr and Miss Bloomfield had made a bold, and, for them, quite a tremendous resolution, to take a trip upon the Continent, which should extend – as far as their courage held out. The pleasure and profit this would afford their niece, was no mean inducement to the enterprise. Mr Bloomfield judged that his ward, after the course of studies she had pursued, and the proficiency she had attained in most feminine accomplishments, was ripe to take advantage of foreign travel. Mr Bloomfield judged wisely; but Mr Bloomfield neither judged, nor was, perhaps, capable of judging how far, in fact, the mind of his niece had advanced, or what singular good use she had made of his own neglected library. She had been grappling with all sorts of books – of philosophy and of science, as well as of history and poetry. But that cheerful quietude which distinguished her manner, concealed these more strenuous efforts of her mind. She never talked for display – she had, indeed, no arena for display – and the wish for it was never excited in her mind. What she read and thought, she revolved in herself, and was perfectly content. How it might have been had she lived amongst those who would have called her forth, and overwhelmed her with praise, it would be difficult to tell. As it was, Mildred Willoughby presented to the imagination the most fascinating combination of qualities it would be possible to put together. A young girl of most exquisite beauty, (she had grown paler than when we last saw her, but this had only given increased lustre to her blue eye) – of manners the most unaffected – of a temper always cheerful, always tranquil – was familiar with trains of deep reflection – possessed a practised intellect and really cultivated mind. In this last respect, there was not a single person in all Wimborne or its neighbourhood who had divined her character. That she was a charming girl, though a little too pale – very amiable, though a little too reserved – of a temper provokingly calm, for she was not ruffled even where she ought to be – and that she sang well, and played well; such would have been the summary of her good qualities from her best and most intimate friends. She was now enjoying, with her uncle and aunt – but in a manner how different from theirs! – the various novelties, great and small, which a foreign country presents to the eye.

Those who, in their travels, estimate the importance of any spot by its distance or its difficulty of access, will hardly allow such a place as Brussels to belong to foreign parts. It is no more than an excursion to Margate: it is but a day's journey. True; but your day's journey has brought you to another people – to another religion. We are persuaded that a man shall travel to Timbuctoo, and he shall not gain for himself a stronger impression of novelty, than a sober Protestant shall procure by entering the nearest country where the Roman Catholic worship is in full practice. He has seen cathedrals – many and beautiful – but they were mere architectural monuments, half deserted, one corner only employed for the modest service of his church – the rest a noble space for the eye to traverse, in which he has walked, hat in hand, meditating on past times and the middle ages. But if he cross the Channel, those past times – they have come back again; those middle ages – he is in the midst of them. The empty cathedral has become full to overflowing; there are the lights burning in mid-day, and he hears the Latin chant, and sees high-priests in gorgeous robes making mystic evolutions about the altar; and there is the incense, and the sprinkling of holy water, and the tinkling bell, and whatever the Jew or the Pagan has in times past bequeathed to the Christian. Or let him only look up the street. Here comes, tottering in the air, upon the shoulders of its pious porters, Our Lady herself, with the Holy Child in one arm, and her sceptre in the other, and the golden crown upon her head. Here she is in her satin robe, stiff with embroidery, and gay with lace, and decked with tinsel ornaments beyond our power of description. If the character of the festival require it, she is borne by six or eight maidens clad in white, with wreaths of white roses on their heads; and you hear it whispered, as they approach, that such a one is beautiful Countess of C – ; and, countess or not, there is amongst those bearers a face very beautiful, notwithstanding that the heat of the day, and a burden of no light weight, has somewhat deranged the proportions of the red and white which had been so cunningly laid on. And then comes the canopy of cloth of gold, borne over the bare head of the venerable priest, who holds up to the people, inclosed in a silver case, imitative of rays of glory, the sacred host; holds it up with both his hands, and fastens both his eyes devoutly on the back of it; and boys in their scarlet tunics, covered with white lace, are swinging the censor before it; and the shorn priests on each side, with lighted tapers in their hands, tall as staves, march, chanting forth – we regret to say, with more vehemence than melody.

Is not all this strange enough? The state-carriage of the King of the Ashantees was, some years ago, captured in war, and exhibited in London; and a curious vehicle it was, with its peacocks' feathers, and its large glass beads hung round the roof to glitter and jingle at the same time. But the royal carriage of the Ashantees, or all that the court of the Ashantees could possibly display, is not half so curious, half so strange to any meditative spirit, as this image of the Holy Virgin met as it parades the streets, or seen afterwards deposited in the centre of the temple, surrounded by pots of flowers, real and artificial, by vases filled with lilies of glazed muslin, and altogether tricked out with such decorations as a child would lavish on its favourite doll if it had an infinite supply of tinsel.

And they worship that!

"No!" exclaims some very candid gentleman. "No sir, they by no means worship it; and you must be a very narrow-minded person if you think so. Such images are employed by the Catholic as representatives, as symbols only – visible objects to direct his worship to that which is invisible." O most candid of men! and most liberal of Protestants! we do not say that Dr Wiseman or M. Chateaubriand worship images. But just step across the water – we do not ask you to travel into Italy or Spain, where the symptoms are ten times more violent – just walk into some of these churches in Belgium, and use your own eyes. It is but a journey of four-and-twenty hours; and if you are one of those who wish to bring into our own church the more frequent use of form and ceremony and visible symbol, it will be the most salutory journey you ever undertook. Meanwhile consider, and explain to us, why it is – if images are understood to have only this subordinate function – that one image differs so much from another in honour and glory. This Virgin, whom we have seen parade the streets, is well received and highly respected; but there are other Virgins – ill-favoured, too, and not at all fit to act as representatives of any thing feminine – who are infinitely more honoured and observed. The sculpture of Michael Angelo never wins so much devotion as you shall see paid here, in one of their innumerable churches, to a dark, rude, and odious misrepresentation of Christ. They put a mantle on it of purple cotton, edged with white, and a reed in its hand, and they come one after the other, and kiss its dark feet; and mothers bring their infants, and put their soft lips to the wound that the nail made, and then depart with full sense of an act of piety performed. And take this into account, that such act of devotion is no casual enthusiasm, no outbreak of passionate piety overleaping the bounds of reason; it is done systematically, methodically; the women come with their green tin cans, slung upon their arm, full of their recent purchases in the market, you see them enter – approach – put down the can – kiss – take up the can, and depart. They have fulfilled a duty.