University of Virginia Library

A. D. 1848–9

“Βασκ' ιθι, ουλε Ονειρε [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
“Παντα μαλ' ατρεκεως αγορευμεν”— [OMITTED]
ΙΛΙΑΔΟΣ. Β.

The “Peoples,” (the Universal Yankee Nation, of course, always excepted,) have now, for a long time, approved themselves, as it were.

“Darbyshire born, and Darbyshire bred,
Strong i' th' yarn, and weak i' th' yead.”

Let it be hoped that, as their heads become clearer, their arms may be found none the less strong.

“Chair á canon.”

“Ουτιν εγω πυματον εδομαι μετα οις εταροισιν
Τους δ' αλλους προσθεν”—
ΟΔΥΣΣΕΙΑΣ. Ι.

Thanks to Mr. Gladstone, the world is tolerably well informed of the atrocities perpetrated by the Neapolitan government. On authority less eminent, one could hardly have believed in the possibility of twenty thousand persons confined for political offences, in the vicinity of a single capital—of the shameless infamy of the chief judge, Navarro—of the horrors of the Vicaria and of Nisida—of the Maschio of Ischia, where men are buried alive, twenty-four feet beneath the level of the sea—of Procida, where a hundred and seventy-five prisoners were massacred by hand-grenades thrown among their crowded masses. These facts, unquestionably, at the time, were fully in possession of the two allied governments, a word from either of which would have been all powerful with the court of Naples—but not a finger was raised in behalf of the noble Poerio or his suffering companions. “If it be confessed, it is not redressed”—and indeed, the vague impertinence of the Neapolitan semi-official reply can be paralleled only by that of Falstaff himself—“You hear all these matters denied—you hear it, gentlemen.”

No respectable American, I am sure, but witnessed with sincere pleasure the final union, after an almost suicidal delay, of the two most civilized nations of Europe. But this pleasure was speedily dampened by the covert insinuation of the French government, and the insolent announcement of the English press, that the affairs of this hemisphere were thenceforth to be regulated by their joint interference.

To dance on the grave of an adversary has ever been accounted a pitiful piece of satisfaction—yet something very like this has Britannia been doing, if the press and the theatre are fair exponents of public feeling. Her demonstrations have been a little too much in the humor of Moliere's police, enraged at the mischievous Polichinelle and his pretended arsenal of weapons—

—“coquin, filou, voleur!
Vous osez nous faire peur!”
“The villain! who has dared to alarm us!” (they proceed to beat him.)

Saddest of all is it to see our old friend, Mr. Punch, whom we have always used to regard as a very saint, to venerate as the chiefest pillar in the whole fabric of British liberty, to defer to, in short, as the Fifth Estate of England—to see him, at his time of life, taking office under a government in exposing which nearly the whole of it has been spent—caricaturing (literally) the Corpse of that tremendous Enemy whom England, so little time ago, welcomed as her staunchest friend—and abasing himself, in complimentary verse, before the man whose person and whose deeds he has so perseveringly pilloried and pelted, and whose nose was the only ill feature in the case, which he could by any possibility exaggerate. A constitution torn in tatters, like a writ by a stout criminal—a couple of thousand blouses, scattered about the Boulevards, and dyed in the old approved mixture of blood and “boue de Paris”— are coolly disposed of in the precious couplet,

Perhaps it is—but you, Master Punch, are not exactly the man to make it—certainly not, until you can do it in better rhyme and more coherent reason. 'Tis a dog's trick you have played us, and shall long be remembered of you. After this, who can be blamed for renouncing all faith in virtue? Of the rest, it might have been expected, but—tu Punche! It was the drop too much—the drop of thee, oh Punch, with thy spirits and thine acid omitted (like Hamlet) by particular request—nothing but sugar allowed—and best sugar at that—mere eau sucrec of a Punch that thou art! Nominis Umbra! Ghost of a Punch! leave patting this live dog, and kicking that dead lion, and be our own dear, good, brave, honest, witty, magnanimous Punch again!

The curious in vaticination are referred to some remarkable verses of Thomas Campbell, entitled “The Power of Russia.” Prompted by the final supression of Polish nationality, they predict the present conjuncture in terms so clear and eloquent as to afford a fresh illustration of the force of the ancient nomenclature, which applied the single epithet—Vates—alike to the poet and the prophet.

Few readers of these lines can have forgotten one of the most frightful incidents of modern warfare. On the 18th of June, 1846, a tribe of Arabs, pursued by the French, under Colonel Pelissier, took refuge in the intricate caverns of Ouled-Riah. Unable to compel a surrender, the savage commander resolved to burn or stifle them. For many hours, an immense fire, constantly fed with fresh combustibles, roared within the entrance. As it was permitted to subside, the French soldiery, at the hazard of their lives, dashed into the furnace, and drew forth the charred and contorted bodies of nine hundred victims—men, women and children. About two hundred still breathed—but all perished in the course of the day. For this piece of energy, the French commander was censured—and promoted. London journalism, which then foamed at the mouth, and exhausted the vocabulary of horror, is now seen complacently anticipating that he may find “some means equally efficient” for disposing of the defenders of Sevastopol. The Illustrated News (June 23d) suggests the propriety of putting them all to the sword—when the place is taken. Perhaps it would be as well to wait till that event occurs. Meanwhile, General Pelissier might profitably pass his time in conning a little treatise, quaint but sound, entitled “God's Revenge upon Murther.” If he is to be ennobled for his exploits, ancient or recent, a motto appropriate to either, will doubtless be selected—

“E fulgore fumum.”

See the very extraordinary report of a surgical and military commission, made about a century since, on the subject of Vampyrism in Hungary or some province adjacent—(many of the victims, I remember, were “hey dukes.)” The so-called Vampyres, it would appear, were buried alive, in a state of epidemic trance, and their neighbors complained of being grievously haunted by their appearances. A number of them were exhumed, (some after a burial of many weeks,) and exhibited signs of life, in fresh blood at the lips, and in cries and groans, when their heads were cut off, or when a stake was driven through them, as they revived. The Anglo-French alliance seems desirous of pursuing a similar course of treatment toward any revival of Hungarian nationality. Vide Lord Palmerston's remarks on the subject, and the general attitude of the two governments, and of the presses of their respective capitals.