Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 67, No. 411, January 1850

Such is the narrative of Mr Brown. It has been supposed that this midnight visitor was an officer of the police, and that, had Howard remained a few hours longer at his hotel, he would have been arrested. But some mystery still hangs over this adventure. Howard, in one of his letters, alluding to it, says that he had since learnt who his strange visitor was, and adds that "he had had a narrow escape;" and his biographer Mr Brown tells us that —

"He learned that the man in a black wig was a spy, sent with him to Paris, by the French Ambassador at the Hague, and that he himself would have been arrested then, (at Paris,) if Mr Le Noir had not been at Versailles on the day of his arrival; and, several persons having recently been arrested on very false or frivolous grounds, he had left orders for no arrests being made before his return, which was not until late in the evening of the next day, when he was pursued, but not overtaken."

If it was this that Howard learnt, we think his informant must have deceived him. An air of great improbability hangs over this story. The French government is represented as being so anxious to arrest Howard, if he should enter France, that it sends a spy to travel with him from the Hague; if so, the identity of Howard was sufficiently known to the police on his arrival at Paris. Yet we are next told that an officer visits Howard at midnight, only to assure himself that it is Howard; – pays a visit, in short, that can have no other effect than to give the alarm to his intended captive. In addition to this, we are to suppose that this person, whom the French government is so anxious to arrest, pursues his journey unmolested, and spends five days at Marseilles, visiting the very lazaretto to which it was known he was bound, and the inspection of which that government was so solicitous to prevent.

As to the other motives by which Mr Brown accounts for these hostile proceedings of the French government, we can attach no weight to them whatever. On a previous visit to Paris, Howard had been extremely desirous to survey the interior of the Bastille. Not being able to obtain permission, he had boldly knocked at the outer door, and, assuming an air of official authority, walked in. He had penetrated to some of the inner courts before this little ruse was detected. He was then, of course, conducted out. He was obliged to content himself with an account of the Bastille written in French, and the publication of which had been forbidden by the government. He obtained a copy, and translated it into English. For this, and for another cause of offence of a far slighter character, it is difficult to suppose that Howard had excited the peculiar animosity of the French government.

Howard visited the lazaretto of Marseilles, however, under the full impression that the police were on the search for him. From Marseilles he went to Toulon, and inspected the arsenal and the condition of the galley-slaves. To obtain admission into the arsenal, he dressed himself, says Mr Brown, "in the height of the French fashion," Englishmen being strictly prohibited from viewing it at all. We are told that this disguise was easy to him, "as he always had much the air and appearance of a foreigner, and spoke the French language with fluency and correctness." Mr Dixon, faithful to his system of caricaturing all things, describes him as "dressed as an exquisite of the Faubourg St Honoré!" We presume that it was the French gentleman of the period, and not the French dandy, that Howard imitated.

He next visited the several lazarettos of Italy – went to Malta – to Smyrna – to Constantinople, everywhere making perilous inquisitions into the plague. At Smyrna he is "fortunate enough" to meet with a vessel bound to Venice with a foul bill of health, and he embarks in it. On its way, the vessel is attacked by pirates. "The men," says Mr Brown, "defended themselves for a considerable time with much bravery, but were at length reduced to the alternative of striking, or being butchered by the Moors, when, having one very large cannon on board, they loaded it with whatever missiles they could lay their hands upon, and, pointed by Mr Howard himself, it was discharged amongst the corsair crew with such effect that a great number of them were killed, and the others thought it prudent to sheer off." Pointed by Mr Howard himself! We can well understand it. The intrepid, energetic man, Fellow too of the Royal Society, would look at the elevation of the gun, and lend a helping hand to adjust it.

We throw into a note a parting specimen of the manner of Mr Dixon. Not satisfied with the simple and probable picture which Mr Brown presents to us, he makes Howard load the gun as well as point it – makes him sole gunner on board; and in order to improve his tableau, after having fought half the battle through, recommences it, that he may discharge his gun with the more effect.11 Mr Dixon advertises, as his next forthcoming work, a history of our prisons. We are sorry that so good a subject has fallen into such bad hands. Unless he should greatly improve, we shall have a book necessarily replete with much popular and interesting matter, in not one page of which will the narrative be strictly trustworthy.

At Venice he is conducted to the lazaretto, to undergo the quarantine. He is shut up in a close loathsome room, the very walls of which are reeking with foul and pestilential odours. Surely never was a valuable life so heroically ventured, for so futile a purpose. Whilst lying here, smitten with a low fever, he received – we quote from Mr Brown – "intelligence from England of two circumstances which had transpired there, each of them an occasion of the deepest affliction to his mind. The first was the formation of a fund for the erection of a statue to his honour; the second the misconduct of his only son."

We can well believe they were both afflictions. Those who have entered into the character of Howard, will feel at once that the project of doing him any public honour would be, in his own language, "a punishment, and not a reward." It was mingling with his conduct and motives that very alloy of vanity, and consideration for men's opinion, which he was so anxious to keep them clear from. If a generous man has done a kind action for kindness' sake, how it spoils all if you pay him for it! You lower him at once. He refuses your payment; he would deny, if he could, his previous action; he begs, at all events, it may be utterly forgotten. To pay Howard in praise was, to his mind, as great an incongruity. He shrank from the debasing coin. He would have denied his philanthropy: "Say it is my hobby, if you will," he is heard at one time to mutter. Dying, he says to his friend – "Lay me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten." Child of Time – was it not enough?

When he had escaped the lazaretto and returned to England, he wrote a letter to the gentlemen who had undertaken to collect subscriptions, requesting them to lay aside their project. The money collected was in part returned, a part was spent in liberating a certain number of poor debtors, and the residue was applied towards erecting, at his death, the statue of him in St Paul's Cathedral.

His son he was compelled to consign to the care of a lunatic asylum. He now published the information he had obtained, at so much risk, upon lazarettos, and the mode of performing quarantine, together with additional observations upon prisons and hospitals at home and abroad. Connected with this publication, an incident is related, which shows the extraordinary value Howard had put on the materials he had collected, and also the singular perseverance and determination of the man. We give it in the words of Mr Brown: —

"On his return from his Turkish tour, one of his boxes was stolen as he was getting into a hackney-coach in Bishopsgate Street, from the stage in which he had travelled from Dover. It contained a duplicate of his travels, twenty-five guineas, and a gold watch. The plan of the lazaretto of Marseilles, of which he possessed no duplicate, was, happily, in the other box. Had it not been so, he declared to his friend Dr Lettsom, that, notwithstanding the risks he had run in procuring that document, so important did he consider it, that he would a second time have exposed himself to the danger of a visit to France to supply its place."

We believe he would.

This publication completed, and his son so unhappily disposed of, the veteran philanthropist quitted his country again, and for the last time. It was still against the plague that his enterprise was directed. He seems to have thought that successful barricades, by quarantine and other measures, might be erected against it. With the plague, as with the cholera, it is generally admitted there is some occult cause which science has not yet penetrated; but the predisposing, or rather the co-operating causes, are, in both cases, dirt and bad diet; and the quarantine which would attack these is the only measure which, in our present state of knowledge, is worthy of serious consideration. It was his purpose, this time, to travel through Russia into Turkey, and thence, perhaps, to extend his journey far into the East, to whatever city this grim enemy of mankind might have taken possession of.

He had reached as far as Cherson, on the eastern borders of Russia, visiting, according to his wont, prisons and hospitals on his way. Here he was seized by a fever which proved mortal, and which he is supposed to have caught in visiting, with his usual benevolence, a young lady, to whom also it proved fatal. He was buried in the grounds belonging to the villa of a French gentleman who had shown him much attention. A small brick pyramid, instead of the sun-dial he had suggested, was placed over his grave. The little pyramid or obelisk still stands, we are told – stands alone, "on a bleak desolate plain." But Protestant England has a monument in that little pyramid, which will do her as much honour as any colony or empire she has planted or subdued.

THE DARK WAGGON

BY DELTAIThe Water-Wraith shrieked over Clyde,The winds through high Dunbarton sighed,When to the trumpet's call repliedThe deep drum from the square;And, in the midnight's misty shade,With helm, and cloak, and glancing blade,Two hundred horsemen stood arrayedBeneath the torches' glare.IIAround a huge sepulchral vanThey took their stations, horse and man —The outer gateway's bolts withdrawn,In haste the drawbridge fell;And out, with iron clatter, wentThat sullen midnight armament,Alone the leader knew where bent,With what – he might not tell.IIIInto the darkness they are gone: —The blinded waggon thundered on,And, save of hoof-tramp, sound was none: —Hurriedly on they scourThe eastward track – away – away —To none they speak, brook no delay,Till farm-cocks heralded the day,And hour had followed hour.IVBehind them, mingling with the skies,Westward the smoke of Glasgow dies —The pastoral hills of Campsie riseNorthward in morning's air —By Kirkintilloc, Cumbernold,And Castlecary, on they hold,Till Lythgo shows, in mirrored gold,Its palaced loch so fair.12VBrief baiting-time: – the bugle sounds,Onwards the ponderous van reboundsMid the grim squadron, which surroundsIts path with spur and spear.Thy shrine, Dumanie, fades on sight,13And, seen from Niddreff's hazelly height,The Forth, amid its islands bright,Shimmers with lustre clear.14VIThe Maiden Castle next surveyed,Across the furzy hills of Braid,By Craig-Milor,15 through Wymet's gladeTo Inneresc they wound;16Then o'er the Garlton crags afar,Where, oft a check to England's war,Cospatrick's stronghold of Dunbar17In proud defiance frowned.VIIWeep through each grove, ye tearful rills!Ye ivied caves, which Echo fillsWith voice, lament! Ye proud, free hills,Where eagles wheel and soar,Bid noontide o'er your summits throwStorm's murkiest cloud! Ye vales below,Let all your wild-flowers cease to blow,And with bent heads deplore!VIIIYe passions, that, with holy fire,Illume man's bosom – that inspireTo daring deed, or proud desire,With indignation burn!Ye household charities, that keepWatch over childhood's rosy sleep,Ashes bestrew the hearthstone, – weepAs o'er a funeral urn!IXOn – on they speed. Oh dreary day,That, like a vampire, drained awayThe blood from Scotland's heart – delay,Thou lingering sun to set!Rain, twilight! rain down bloody dewsO'er all the eye far northward views;Nor do thou, night of nights! refuseA darkness black as jet.XHeroic spirits of the dead!That in the body nobly bled,By whom the battle-field for bedWas chosen, look ye down, —And see if hearts are all grown cold, —If for their just rights none are bold, —If servile earth one bosom hold,Worthy of old renown?XIThe pass-word given, o'er bridge of TweedThe cavalcade, with slackened speed,Rolled on, like one from night-mare freed,That draws an easier breath;But o'er and round it hung the gloomAs of some dark, mysterious doom,Shadows cast forward from the tomb,And auguries of death.XIIScotland receded from the view,And, on the far horizon blue,Faded her last, dear hills – the mewScreamed to its sea-isle near.As day-beams ceased the west to flout,Each after each the stars came out,Like camp-fires heaven's high hosts about,With lustre calm and clear.XIIIAnd on, through many a Saxon townNorthumbrian, and of quaint renown,Before the morning star went down,With thunderous reel they hied;While from the lattices aloof,Of many an angled, gray-stone roof.Rose sudden heads, as sound of hoofAnd wheel to southward died.XIVLike Hope's voice preaching to Despair,Sweetly the chimes for matin prayerMelted upon the dewy airFrom Hexham's holy pile;But, like the adder deaf, no sound,Or stern or sweet, an echo found'Mid that dark squadron, as it woundStill onwards, mile on mile.XVStreamers, and booths, and country games,And brawny churls, with rustic names,And blooming maids, and buxom dames, —A boisterous village fair!On stage his sleights the jongleur shows,Like strutting cock the jester crows,And high the morrice-dancer throwsHis antic heels in air.XVIWhy pause at reel each lad and lass?A solemn awe pervades the mass;Wondering they see the travellers pass,The horsemen journey-worn,And, in the midst, that blinded vanSo hearse-like; while, from man to man,"Is it of Death" – in whispers ran —"This spectacle forlorn?"XVIIBright are thy shadowy forest-bowers,Fair Ashby-de-la-Zouche! with flowers;The wild-deer in its covert cowers,And, from its pine-tree old,The startled cushat, in unrest,Circles around its airy nest,As forward, on its route unblest,Aye on that waggon rolled.XVIIIAnd many a grove-encircled town,And many a keep of old renown,That grimly watched o'er dale and down,They passed unheeding by;Prone from the rocks the waters streamed,And, 'mid the yellow harvests, gleamedThe reapers' sickles, but all seemed,Mere pictures to the eye.XIXBehold a tournay on the green!The tents are pitched – the tilters keenGambol the listed lines between —The motley crowds aroundFor jibe, and jest, and wanton playAre met – a merry holiday;And glide the lightsome hours awayIn mirth, to music's sound.XXAnd hark! the exulting shouts that rise,As, cynosure of circling eyes,Beauty's fair queen awards the prizeTo knight that lowly kneels."Make way – make way!" is heard aloud —Like Red Sea waters part the crowd,And, scornful of that pageant proud,On grinding rush the wheels!XXIHundreds and hamlets far from sight,By lonely granges through the nightThey camped; and, ere the morning lightCrimsoned the orient, theyBy royal road, or baron's park,Waking the watchful ban-dog's bark,Before the first song of the lark,Were on their southward way.XXIIBy Althorpe, and by Oxendon,Without a halt they hurried on,Nor paused by that fair cross of stone,Now for the first time seen,(For death's dark billows overwhelmBoth jewelled braid, and knightly helm!)Raised, by the monarch of the realm,To Eleanor his queen.18XXIIIFive times through darkness and through day,Since crossing Tweed, with fresh relayEver in wait, their forward wayThat cavalcade had held;Now joy!!! for, on the weary wights,Loomed London from the Hampstead heights,As, by the opal morning, Night'sThin vapours were dispell'd.XXIVWith spur on heel, and spear in rest,And buckler'd arm, and trellised breast,Closer around their charge they press'd —On whirled, with livelier roll,The wheels begirt with prancing feet,And arms, – a serried mass complete,Until, by many a stately street,They reached their destined goal.XXVGrim Westminster! thy pile severeStruck to the heart like sudden fear; —"Hope flies from all that enter here!"Seemed graven on its crest.The moat o'erpassed, at warn of bell,Down thundering the portcullis fell,And clang'd the studded gates, – a knellDespairing and unblest.XXVIYe guardian angels! that fulfilHeaven's high decrees, and work its will —Ye thunderbolts! launched forth to kill, —Where was it then ye slept —When, foe-bemocked, in prison square,To death fore-doomed, with dauntless air,From out that van,A shackled man —Sir William Wallace stept!

THE GREEN HAND

A "SHORT" YARNPART VII

"Well," continued the commander, his voice making use of the breeze as he stood aft of the group, "I could not have slept more than three or four hours on a stretch, when I was woke up by a fellow shoving his lantern in my face, and saying it wasn't me he wanted; for which I gave him a hearty objurgation, and turned over with a swing of the cot to go to sleep again. The sailor grumbled something about the parson being wanted for the captain, and all at once it flashed on my mind where we were, with the whole of last night's ticklish work – seeing that, hard rub as it was, it had clean left me for the time. "Try the aftermost berth, then," said I, slipping out in the dark to put on my trousers. The fact was, on going below to our state-room, I had found my own cot taken up by some one in the confusion; and as every door stood open at night in that latitude, I e'en made free with the nearest, which I knew was the missionary's. In a minute or two I heard Westwood meet the mate, who said he thought the captain would like to see him, and hoped they hadn't "disturbed the other gentleman." "Oh no, I daresay not," said Westwood, rather nervously, guessing, I daresay, what he was wanted for; while Finch slipped quietly past to listen at the state-room door, where both he and I might hear the "other gentleman," whoever he was, snoring pretty plain. When the first officer shut the door to, however, turned the key, and put it in his pocket, I nearly gave vent to a whistle. – "I see!" thought I; "but, my fine fellow, it seemed you never were meant for a good jailor, anyhow!" He was no sooner gone than I walked forward toward the captain's cabin, near the after-hatchway, anxious enough to see how the poor man was, since I had had such a share in bringing him to a point, one way or another. Westwood was standing against the light out of the open door, and I looked in along with him, at the cot slung high to the beams like a lump of shadow, the lamp striking across below it on all the captain's little affairs – his glazed hat and his wet coat, the names of two or three old books, even, hanging in shelves against the bulkhead – and into the little state-room off the cabin, where the surgeon was stooping to mix a draught. The hard-featured Scotch mate stood holding the captain's wrist with one clumsy flipper, as if trying to feel his pulse, fumbling about his own face with the other, and looking more concerned than I'd thought possible for him. "Well, I've slept a – good deal," said the captain, in a weak voice, putting up his hand slowly to rub his eyes, but seemingly quite composed, and knowing nothing of what had happened – which rid me of the horrid notion I could scarce help before, that he had known what he was about. His head was close shaved, and the look of a sailor clean gone off his face with the bluff, honest oak-colour it commonly had, till you'd have wished him decently in his bed thousands of miles off, with women slipping out and in; only the blood from his arm hanging down on the sheet, with the sharp point of his nose and the shape of his knees coming up off the shadow, kept it all in one with the wild affair on deck a few hours gone. "She's on her course, you say?" added he, listlessly. "Must be a very light breeze though, Mr Macleod." "So it is, sir; so it is, no doubt!" replied the second-mate, soothing him; "did ye say we'll pent the ship, sir?" "Ay, before we go into port, Mr Macleod, to be sure," said Captain Williamson, trying to put a cheerful tone into his voice; "she's had a good deal of buffeting, but we musn't let 'em see it, you know! Didn't you lose a mizen-topmast somehow, though, Mr Macleod?" "'Deed ay, sir," said Macleod hastily, afraid he was getting upon the scent of what had happened; "the first officer's watch it was, sir – will I tell Mr Finch ye're wanting to speak to him about it, Captain Williamson?" and he began to shuffle towards the door. "Finch? Finch?" said the sick man, passing his finger over his eyes again; "what voyage is this, Mr Macleod?" "Why – why," said the Scotchman, starting, and rather puzzled himself. "Oo, it's just this voyage, ye know, sir! Mr Finch, ye mind, sir?" "No, no; don't let him leave the deck for a moment, Macleod!" said the captain anxiously: "harkye, James, I'm afraid I've trusted overmuch to the young man all along! I'll tell ye, Mr Macleod, I don't know whether I was asleep or not, but I heard him somewhere wishing he had the command of this ship! I shouldn't like him to take her off my hands! Have you seen the Scilly lights yet, Mr Macleod?" The mate shook his head; he had contrived to persuade the poor man we were far homeward bound. "If you'd only get the pilot aboard, Mr Macleod," the captain went on, "I'd die contented; – but mind the charts – mind the charts – I've got the charts to mind for another sort of voyage myself, James!" "Hoot, hoot, captain!" said the Scotchman, "what sets ye for to talk after that fashion – you'll be up an' about decks directly, sir! What were ye saying about topem'sts now, sir?" Captain Williamson gave the second mate a glance that looked into him, and he held down his head, for the man evidently believed fully, as none of us could help doing, that there was death on the captain's face. "James, James!" said the captain slowly, "you've no notion how some things weigh on the mind at a pass of this kind! Other things one don't remember – but there's one in particular, almost as it were yesterday – why, surely you were with me that voyage, Mr Macleod! when I let some o' the passengers take a boat in a calm, and all – " Here he stopped, seemingly overcome. "There was one young creature amongst 'em," he went on, "the age of my own girl, Macleod – my own little Nan, you know – and now – now I miss her– and, and – " The poor man gave a great gulp, clutching the mate's arm, and gazing him in the face. "Wasn't it a long time ago?" said he, very anxiously; "if it wasn't, I would go mad! They were all drowned – drowned – I see that black squall coming down on the swell now, man, and the brig, and all of us looking out to the wind'ard!" "I mind something about it," replied Macleod stoutly, though he looked away; "'twas none o' your fault, though, Captain Williamson – they were just fey, sir; and more than that, if ye mind, sir, they took the boat again' all orders – on the sly, I may say." Westwood was on the point of starting forward to make known how the case stood, on the strength of our finding the paper in the bottle; when I pressed his arm, and whispered that it could only make things worse, and cheat the sick man of a notion more likely to do him good than otherwise. "It's a heavy charge, Mr Macleod, a heavy charge!" said he, falling back again; "and one Mr Brown needn't envy." "Mr Finch, sir, ye mind," put in the second mate, setting him right; "but keep up your heart, sir, for anysake!" "I feel I'll last over the time o' next full tide," said the captain solemnly. "I don't want to know how far we're off, only if there's any chance at all, Macleod, you won't spare canvass to carry her in." The Scotchman rubbed one of his hard cheek-bones after the other, and grumbled something or other in his throat by way of agreement. The whole thing was melancholy to see after last night's stir, with the dim lamp or two twinkling along the gloom of the steerage, the dead quietness of the ship, and the smothered sort of glare under the captain's cot bringing out the mere litter on the floor, to the very cockroaches putting their ugly feelers out of one of his shoes in a corner: he shut his eyes, and lay for a minute or two seemingly asleep, only murmuring something about a breeze, and then asking them to shove out the port, 'twas so close. The second mate looked to the surgeon, who signed to him to do it, as if it didn't much matter by this time; while he gave him the draught of physic he was mixing, however.