Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 349, November, 1844

When John Brown, Esquire, found his intentions of wintering within the walls of – so unexpectedly defeated, he cast about diligently in his own mind for a resting-place for himself, his books, and a nondescript animal which he called a Russian terrier. Home he was determined not to go – any where within the boundaries of the University, the College were equally determined he should not stay; and we all settled that he would fix himself for the vacation either at Woodstock, or Ensham, or Abingdon; the odds were in favour of the latter place, for John was a good judge of ale. It was not, therefore, without considerable astonishment that one morning, at breakfast in my room, after devouring in rigid silence a commons of broiled ham for two, and the last number of Pickwick, (John seldom laughed, but read "Boz" as gravely as he would Aristotle,) we heard him open his heart as follows: —

"I say, old fellow, where do you think I am going to put up this vacation?"

"Really, John, you're such an odd fellow it's impossible to guess; if it had been summer, I shouldn't have been at all surprised to hear of your having pitched a tent at Bullingdon, or hired a house-boat, and lived Chinese fashion on the river; but I suppose you would hardly think of that plan at this time of the year."

"Nonsense, man; you know the Moated Grange, as you call it – old Nutt's! – I've taken lodging there."

"The Grange! Well, there's no accounting for tastes; but if there were any empty rooms in the county jail, I almost think I should prefer them, especially when one might possibly get board and lodging there gratis."

"Don't be absurd; I shall be very comfortable there. I'm to have two rooms up-stairs, that will look very habitable when they've cleaned down the cobwebs, and got rid of the bats; Farmer Nutt is going to lay poison for the rats to-night, and I can go in, if I like, on Monday."

"Upon my honour, John, Chesterton and I can never come and see you in that miserable hole."

"Don't, then; I'm going there to read: I sha'n't want company."

It turned out that he was really in earnest; and the day after the University term was ended, the Grange received its new tenant. We went down there to instal him; it was the first time Chesterton had seen the place, and he was rather envious of our friend's selection, as he followed him up-stairs into the quaint old chambers, to which two blazing log-fires, and Mrs Nutt's unimpeachable cleanliness, had imparted an air of no little comfort. The old oaken floor of the sitting-room had been polished to something like its original richness and brilliancy of hue, and reflected the firelight in a way that warmed you to look at it. There was not a cobweb to be seen; and though old Bruin snuffed round the room suspiciously, Farmer Nutt gave it as his conscientious opinion that every rat had had a taste of the "pyson." There was no question but that if one could get over the dulness of the place, as far as accommodation went there need be little cause to complain.

"I shall get an 18-gallon of Hall and Tawney, and hire an easy-chair," said John, "and then won't I read?"

Full of these virtuous resolutions we left him; and how he got on there my readers shall hear another day.

H.

THE TOMBLESS MAN. A DREAM

By DeltaII woke from sleep at midnight, all was dark,Solemn, and silent, an unbroken calm;It was a fearful vision, and had madeA mystical impression on my mind;For clouds lay o'er the ocean of my thoughtsIn vague and broken masses, strangely wild;And grim imagination wander'd on'Mid gloomy yew-trees in a churchyard old,And mouldering shielings of the eyeless hills,And snow-clad pathless moors on moonless nights,And icebergs drifting from the sunless Pole,And prostrate Indian villages, when spentThe rage of the hurricane has pass'd away,Leaving a landscape desolate with death;And as I turn'd me to my vanish'd dream,Clothed in its drapery of gloom, it roseUpon my spirit, dreary as before.IIAlone – alone – a desolate dreary wild,Herbless and verdureless; low swampy moss,Where tadpoles grew to frogs, for leagues begirtMy solitary path. Nor sight nor soundOf moving life, except a grey curlew —As shrieking tumbled on the timid bird,Aye glancing backward with its coal-black eye,Even as by imp invisible pursued —Was seen or heard; the last low level raysOf sunset, gilded with a blood-red glowThat melancholy moor, with its grey stonesAnd stagnant water-pools. Aye floundering on,And on, I stray'd, finding no pathway, saveThe runlet of a wintry stream, begirtWith shelvy barren rocks; around, o'erhead,Yea every where, in shapes grotesque and grim,Towering they rose, encompassing my path,As 'twere in savage mockery. Lo, a chasmYawning, and bottomless, and black! BeneathI heard the waters in their sheer descentDescending down, and down; and further downDescending still, and dashing: Now a rush,And now a roar, and now a fainter fall,And still remoter, and yet finding still,For the white anguish of their boiling whirl,No resting-place. Over my head appear'd,Between the jagged black rifts bluely seen,Sole harbinger of hope, a patch of sky,Of deep, clear, solemn sky, shrining a starMagnificent; that, with a holy light,Glowing and glittering, shone into the heartAs 'twere an angel's eye. Entranced I stood,Drinking the beauty of that gem serene,How long I wist not; but, when back to earthSank my prone eyes – I knew not where I was —Again the scene had shifted, and the time,From midnight to the hour when earliest dawnGleams in the orient, and with inky linesThe trees seem painted on the girding sky.IIIA solemn hour! – so silent, that the soundEven of a falling leaflet had been heard,Was that, wherein, with meditative step,With uncompanion'd step, measured and slow,And wistful gaze, that to the left, the right,Was often turn'd, as if in secret dreadOf something horrible that must be met —Of unseen evil not to be eschew'd —Up a long vista'd avenue I wound,Untrodden long, and overgrown with moss.It seem'd an entrance to the hall of gloom;Grey twilight, in the melancholy shadeOf the hoar branches, show'd the tufted grassWith globules spangled of the fine night-dew —So fine – that even a midge's tiny treadHad caused them trickle down. Funereal yewsNotch'd with the growth of centuries, stretching roundDismal in aspect, and grotesque in shape,Pair after pair, were ranged: where ended these,Girdling an open semicircle, tower'dA row of rifted plane-trees, inky-leavedWith cinnamon-colour'd barks; and, in the midst,Hidden almost by their entwining boughs,An unshut gateway, musty and forlorn;Its old supporting pillars roughly richWith sculpturings quaint of intermingled flowers.IVEach pillar held upon its top an urn,Serpent-begirt; each urn upon its frontA face – and such a face! I turn'd away —Then gazed again – 'twas not to be forgot: —There was a fascination in the eyes —Even in their stony stare; like the ribb'd sandOf ocean was the eager brow; the mouthHad a hyena grin; the nose, compress'dWith curling sneer, of wolfish cunning spake;O'er the lank temples, long entwisted curlsAdown the scraggy neck in masses fell;And fancy, aided by the time and place,Read in the whole the effigies of a fiend —Who, and what art thou? ask'd my beating heart —And but the silence to my heart replied!That entrance pass'd, I found a grass-grown court,Vast, void, and desolate – and there a house,Baronial, grim, and grey, with Flemish roofHigh-pointed, and with aspect all forlorn: —Four-sided rose the towers at either endOf the long front, each coped with mouldering flags:Up from the silent chimneys went no smoke;And vacantly the deep-brow'd windows stared,Like eyeballs dead to daylight. O'er the gateOf entrance, to whose folding-doors a flightOf steps converging led, startled I saw,Oh, horrible! the same reflected faceAs that on either urn – but gloomier stillIn shadow of the mouldering architrave.VI would have turn'd me back – I would have fledFrom that malignant, yet half-syren smile;But magic held me rooted to the spot,And some inquisitive horror led me on. —Entering I stood beneath the spacious domeOf a round hall, vacant, save here and there,Where from the panelings, in mouldy shreds,Hung what was arras loom-work; weather-stainsIn mould appear'd on the mosaic floors,Of marble black and white – or what was white,For time had yellow'd all; and opposite,High on the wall, within a crumbling frameOf tarnish'd gold, scowl'd down a pictured formIn the habiliments of bygone days —With ruff, and doublet slash'd, and studded belt —'Twas the same face – the Gorgon curls the same,The same lynx eye, the same peak-bearded chin,And the same nose, with sneering upward curl.VIAgain I would have turned to flee – againTried to elude the snares around my feet;But struggling could not – though I knew not why,Self-will and self-possession vaguely lost. —Horror thrill'd through me – to recede was vain;Fear lurk'd behind in that sepulchral court,In its mute avenue and grave-like grass;And to proceed – where led my onward way?Ranges of doorways branch'd on either side,Each like the other: – one I oped, and lo!A dim deserted room, its furnitureWithdrawn; gray, stirless cobwebs from the roofHanging; and its deep windows letting inThe pale, sad dawn – than darkness drearier far.How desolate! Around its cornicesOf florid stucco shone the mimic flowersOf art's device, carved to delight the eyesOf those long since but dust within their graves!The hollow hearth-place, with its fluted jambsOf clammy Ethiop marble, whence, of yore,Had risen the Yule-log's animating blazeOn festal faces, tomb-like, coldly yawn'd;While o'er its centre, lined in hues of night,Grinn'd the same features with the aspick eyes,And fox-like watchful, though averted gaze,The haunting demon of that voiceless home!VIIHow silent! to the beating of my heartI listen'd, and nought else around me heard.How stirless! even a waving gossamer —The mazy motes that rise and fall in air —Had been as signs of life; when, suddenly,As bursts the thunder-peal upon the calm,Whence I had come the clank of feet was heard —A noise remote, which near'd and near'd, and near'd —Even to the threshold of that room it came,Where, with raised hands, spell-bound, I listening stood;And the door opening stealthily, I beheldThe embodied figure of the phantom head,Garb'd in the quaint robes of the portraiture —A veritable fiend, a life in death!VIIIMy heart stood still, though quickly came my breath;Headlong I rush'd away, I knew not where;In frenzied hast rushing I ran; my feetWith terror wing'd, a hell-hound at my heels,Yea! scarce three strides between us. Through a doorRight opposite I flew, slamming its weight,To shut me from the spectre who pursued:And lo! another room, the counterpartOf that just left, but gloomier. On I rush'd,Beholding o'er its hearth the grinning face,Another and the same; the haunting faceReflected, as it seem'd, from wall to wall!There, opening as I shut, onward he came,That Broucoloka, not to be escaped,With measured tread unwearied, like the wolf'sWhen tracking its sure prey: forward I sprang,And lo! another room – another face,Alike, but gloomier still; another door,And the pursuing fiend – and on – and on,With palpitating heart and yielding knees,From room to room, each mirror'd in the last.At length I reach'd a porch – amid my hairI felt his desperate clutch – outward I flung —The open air was gain'd – I stood alone!IXThat welcome postern open'd on a court —Say rather, grave-yard; gloomy yews begirtIts cheerless walls; ranges of headstones show'd,Each on its hoary tablature, half hidWith moss, with hemlock, and with nettles rank,The sculptured leer of that hyena face,Softening as backwards, through the waves of time,Receded generations more remote.It was a square of tombs – of old, grey tombs,(The oldest of an immemorial date,)Deserted quite – and rusty gratings black,Along the yawning mouths of dreary vaults —And epitaphs unread – and mouldering bones.Alone, forlorn, the only breathing thingIn that unknown, forgotten cemetery,Reeling, I strove to stand, and all things roundFlicker'd, and wavering, seem'd to wane away,And earth became a blank; the tide of lifeEbbing, as backward ebbs the billowy sea,Wave after wave, till nought is left behind,Save casual foam-bells on the barren sand.XFrom out annihilation's vacancy,(The elements, as of a second birth,Kindling within, at first a fitful spark,And then a light which, glowing to a blaze,Fill'd me with genial life,) I seemed to wakeUpon a bed of bloom. The breath of springScented the air; mingling their odours sweet,The bright jonquil, the lily of the vale,The primrose, and the daffodil, o'erspreadThe fresh green turf; and, as it were in love,Around the boughs of budding lilac wreathedThe honeysuckle, rich in earlier leaves,Gold-tinctured now, for sunrise fill'd the cloudsWith purple glory, and with aureate beamsThe dew-refreshen'd earth. Up, up, the larksMounted to heaven, as did the angel wingsOf old in Jacob's vision; and the fly,Awakening from its wintry sleep, once moreSpread, humming, to the light its gauzy wings.XIA happy being in a happy place,As 'twere a captive from his chains released,His dungeon and its darkness, there I layNestling, amid the sun-illumined flowers,Revolving silently the varied scenes,Grotesque and grim, 'mid which my erring feetHad stumbled; and a brightness darting inOn my mysterious night-mare, something toldThe what and wherefore of the effigies grim —The wolfish, never-resting, tombless man,Voicelessly haunting that ancestral home —Yea of his destiny for evermoreTo suffer fearful life-in-death, untilA victim suffer'd from the sons of men,To soothe the cravings of insatiate hell;An agony for age undergone —An agony for ages to be borne,Hope, still elusive, baffled by despair.XIIThus as an eagle, from the altitudeOf the mid-sky, its pride of place attain'd,Glances around the illimitable void,And sees no goal, and finds no resting-placeIn the blue, boundless depths – then, silently,Pauses on wing, and with gyrations downAnd down descends thorough the blinding clouds,In billowy masses, many-hued, aroundFloating, until their confines past, green earthOnce more appears, and on its loftiest cragThe nest, wherein 'tis bliss to rest his plumesFlight-wearied – so, from farthest dreamland's shores,Where clouds and chaos form the continents,And reason reigns not, Fancy back return'dTo sights and sounds familiar – to the birdsSinging above – and the bright vale beneath,With cottages and trees – and the blue sky —And the glad waters murmuring to the sun.

FRENCH SOCIALISTS. 28

Socialism, as well in this country as in France, may be regarded as an offset of the French Revolution. It is true that, in all times, the striking disparity between the conditions of men has given rise to Utopian speculations – to schemes of some new order of society, where the comforts of life should be enjoyed in a more equalized manner than seems possible under the old system of individual efforts and individual rights; and it may be added that, as this disparity of wealth becomes more glaring in proportion as the disparity of intelligence and political rights diminishes, such speculations may be expected in these later times to become more frequent and more bold. Nevertheless we apprehend that the courage or audacity requisite to attempt the realization of these speculative schemes, must confess its origin in the fever-heat of the French Revolution. It required the bold example of that great political subversion to prompt the design of these social subversions – to familiarize the mind with the project of reducing into practice what had been deemed sufficiently adventurous as reverie.

What a stride has been taken since those olden times, when the philosophic visionary devised his Utopian society with all the freedom, because with all the irresponsibility, of dreams! He so little contemplated any practical result, that he did not even venture to bring his new commonwealth on the old soil of Europe, lest it should appear too strange, and be put out of countenance by the broad reality: but he carried it out to some far-off island in the ocean, and created a new territory for his new people. A chancellor of England, the high administrator of the laws of property, could then amuse his leisure with constructing a Utopia, where property, with all its laws, would undergo strange mutation. How would he have started from his woolsack if any one had told him that his design would be improved upon in boldness, and that such men as his own carpenter and mason would set about the veritable realization of it! At the present time nothing is more common or familiar than the project of changing entirely the model of society. "To subvert a government," writes M. Reybaud of his own country men, "to change a dynasty or a political constitution, is now an insignificant project. Your socialist is at peace with kings and constitutions; he merely talks in the quietest manner imaginable of destroying every thing, of uprooting society from its very basis."

Indeed, if the power of these projectors bore any proportion to their presumption, our neighbours would be in a most alarming condition. To extemporize a social system, a new humanity, or at least a new Christianity, is now as common as it was formerly, on leaving college, to rhyme a tragedy. The social projector, sublimely confident in himself, seems to expect to realize, on a most gigantic scale, the fable of Mesmerism; he will put the whole world in rapport with him, and it shall have no will but his, and none but such blind, imitative movements as he shall impress on it. And it is to a sort of coma that these projectors would, for the most part, reduce mankind – a state where there is some shadow of thought and passion, but no will, no self-direction, no connexion between the past and present – a state aimless, evanescent, and of utter subjugation. Fortunately these social reformers, however daring, use no other instruments of warfare than speech and pamphlets; they do not betake themselves to the sharp weapons of political conspiracy. They must be permitted, therefore, to rave themselves out. And this they will do the sooner from their very number. There are too many prophets; they spoil the trade; the Mesmerizers disturb and distract each other's efforts; the fixed idea that is in them will not fix any where else. Those who, in the natural order of things, should be dupes, aspire to be leaders, and the leaders are at a dead struggle for some novelty wherewith to attract followers. We have, for instance, M. Pierre Leroux, most distinguished of the Humanitarians, the last sect which figures on the scene, bidding for disciples – with what, will our readers think? – with the doctrine of metempsychosis! It is put forward as a fresh inducement to improve the world we live in, that we shall live in it again and again, and nowhere else, and be our own most remote posterity. We are not assured that there is any thread of consciousness connecting the successive apparitions of the same being; yet some slight filament of this kind must be traceable, for we are informed that M. Leroux gives himself out to have been formerly Plato. He has advanced thus far in the scale of progression, that he is at present M. Leroux.29

Still the frequent agitation of these social reforms cannot be, and has not been, without its influence on society. It is from this influence they gain their sole importance. Such schemes as those of St Simon, of Fourier, and of our own Robert Owen, viewed as projects to be realized, are not worth a serious criticism. In this point of view they are considered, at least in this country, as mere nullities. No one questions here whether they are feasible, or whether, if possible, they would be propitious to human happiness. But the constant agitation in society of such projects may be no nullity – may have, for a season, an indisputable and very pernicious influence. As systems of doctrine they may not be ineffective, nor undeserving of attention; and in this light M. Reybaud, in the work we now bring before our readers, mainly considers them.

M. Reybaud has given us a sketch of the biography and opinions of the most celebrated of those men who have undertaken to produce a new scheme of human life for us; he has introduced his description of them and their projects by some account of the previous speculations, of a kindred nature indeed, but conducted in a very different spirit, of Plato, Sir Thomas More, and others; and he has accompanied the whole with observations of his own, which bear the impress of a masculine understanding, a candid judgment, and a sound, healthy condition of the moral sentiments. The French Academy has distinguished the work by according to it the Montyon prize – a prize destined annually to the publication judged most beneficial to morals; and in this judgment of the Academy every private reader, unless he has some peculiar morality of his own, will readily acquiesce.

Our author is not one of those who at once, and without a question, reject all schemes for the amelioration of society; nor has he sat down to write the history of these social reformers for the mere purpose of throwing on them his contempt or irony. He has even been accused, it seems, by some of his critics, of manifesting too much sympathy with the enthusiasts he has undertaken to describe. He tells us, in the preface to his second edition, that he has encountered the contradictory accusations of being too severe, and too indulgent, towards them; from which he concludes, that he cannot have widely departed from the tone which truth and impartiality would prescribe. This is a conclusion which authors are very apt to draw; they very conveniently dispatch their several critics by opposing them to each other. But this conclusion may be drawn too hastily. Two contradictory accusations do not always destroy each other, even when they are made by judges equally competent. The inconsistency may be in the author himself, who may, in different portions of his work, have given foundation for very opposite censures. In the present case, although we have already intimated that M. Reybaud writes with a spirit of fairness and candour, we cannot admit him to the full benefit of the conclusion he draws in his own favour, from the opponent criticisms he has met with. There are individual passages in his work which it would be difficult to reconcile with each other, and which invite very different criticisms. On some occasions he appears to attribute a certain value to these tentatives at social reform, and intimates that they may probably be the precursors, or may contain the germ, of some substantial improvement; whilst at other times, he scourges them without pity or compunction, as a species of moral pestilence. He seems not to have been able, at all moments, to defend himself from the vertige which possesses the personages of whom he is writing; like a certain historian of witchcraft, whom we have somewhere read of, who had so industriously studied his subject that a faith in the black art imperceptibly gained upon him. The narrative goes on to say, that the unfortunate historian of witchcraft attempted to practise the knowledge he had obtained, and was burned for a wizard. But there the analogy will certainly fail. M. Reybaud soon recovers from the visionary mood, and wakes himself thoroughly by inflicting the lash with renewed vigour upon all the other dreamers around him.

This shadow of inconsistency is still more perceptible when speaking of the lives and characters of his socialists. Sometimes the reader receives the impression that an egregious vanity, an eccentric ambition, and perhaps a little touch of monomania, would complete the picture, and sufficiently explain that conduct, of a hero of socialism. At another time his enthusiasts assume a more imposing aspect. St Simon sacrificing his fortune, abjuring the patronage of the court, dying in extreme poverty – Charles Fourier refusing all entrance into commerce that would implicate him with a vicious system, and pursuing to the end, amidst want and ridicule, the labours of social regeneration – our own Robert Owen quitting ease and fortune, and crossing the Atlantic for the New World, there to try, upon a virgin soil, his bold experiment of a new society; – these men rise before us endowed with a certain courage and devotion which ought to command our admiration. We see them in the light of martyrs to a faith which no one shares with them – sacrificing all, enduring all, for a hope which is of this world, for schemes which they will never see realized, for a heaven which they may prophesy, but which they cannot enter; manifesting, in short, the same obstinacy of idea, and the same renouncement of self, which distinguish the founders of new religions. And indeed we are not disposed to deny, that in their character they may bear a comparison, in many points, with religious impostors. There is this striking difference, however, in the effect of their teaching: the religious impostor has often promised a paradise of merely voluptuous enjoyment, but he has promised it as the reward of certain self-denying virtues to be practised here on earth; whilst the socialist insists upon bringing his sensual ill-ordered paradise, wherein all virtue is dispensed with as superfluous, here, at once, upon this earth we have to live and toil in.