SOURCE: "The Chartists and Their Laureate," in English Review, vol. XVI, No. XXXI, October, 1851, pp. 55-86.

[In the following essay, the critic expounds upon the dangers posed to the British monarchy by democratic thinkers such as Lord John Russell, "the reforming Prime Minister," and Ernest Jones, "the chartist laureate."]

CHARTISM? IS not chartism defunct? may many a reader cry. Where are the noisy meetings of two years ago? Where is the loud parade of forces physical and moral? Where are the million pikes with which we were then threatened? Where is the O'Connell of that formidable movement—the redoubtable Fergus O'Connor? Surely, politically and virtually, this movement is defunct. The hubbub of voices has ceased to rise, the clouds of dust have scattered, the waves have subsided into peace. The safety of Old England seems no longer endangered by our domestic foe. What has become of Carlyle's forebodings and awful mystic prophecies? Surely the event has disproved them all. Where are the turbulent leaders of sedition, and where are their besotted followers? Has not all passed like a fever-dream? Like the unsubstantial fabric of a vision, leaving not a wrack behind? And may we not eat and sleep in safety now, and hug ourselves upon our calm security? Such is the notion, probably, of many of our readers, or something not far from it: they are disposed to say of these late formidable dangers, and of their own anticipations of insurrectionary violence,

The earth hath bubbles as the water hath,
And these are of them!

But is our political horizon really so cloudless? Is there no handwriting on the wall? Is there no little cloud rising out of the sea that bodes a coming tempest? Is chartism or, in other words, is pure and unmixed democracy really defunct amongst us? It is our present duty to dispel this agreeable delusion. We believe, on the contrary, that it is making gigantic, though comparatively quiet and silent strides, and that our constitution is in the extremist danger, or will be at least, some few months hence. For chartism has made a most illustrious convert, well-nigh the most illustrious in this land, even the Prime Minister of the British Empire. Lord John Russell has now pledged himself, alas! to introduce a bill next session for a large increase of the suffrage, which must of necessity conduct, in our opinion, to universal suffrage, and so to unmitigated chartism and pure democracy; and we fear that little reasonable hope can be entertained of successful opposition to it.

We shall return to this all-important theme anon; to this engagement of the minister's, which sounds, we fear, the knell of ruin to our country: meanwhile, it may suffice to affirm, that within the last year democracy has made a number of converts. It has found a talented, an elegant, we might almost say an aristocratic exponent in the weekly paper called The Leader, which goes beyond chartism far, in its advocacy of communism and equality: its earlier demagogues have made way for men possessed of a more liberal education, and pertaining to a higher sphere of social life: it has ceased to talk of blood and wounds, and therefore it has become the more intensely dangerous. For we have nothing to fear from democracy, the pike in its hand; every thing from its gradual, and, if we may so say, "constitutional" demolition of our constitution in Church and State.

Before we enter further on this grave question, we purpose to introduce our readers to the chartist laureate, a gentleman by birth, by education, by social status, and an orator and poet, in our estimation of positively startling power. For the present, we propose to deal with him as a poet only; because we feel, that as such, he has real claims upon our attention: it is not just that he should be passed by whilst many possessed of far less brilliant genius are commended and applauded to the skies. In our estimation he is a great, though undoubtedly a faulty poet; and we believe that we shall have succeeded in conveying this impression to our readers long before we draw this article to a close in which it is our intention, first, to comment on several of the leading poems of Mr. Ernest Jones, as the exponent of chartism, and then, in conclusion, to consider the prospects and the dangers of democracy.

First, then, it deserves to be noted, as a fact of some literary importance, that Ernest Jones, though a poet of this Tennysonian era, has not the slightest affinities in thought, or style, or manner, with the famous Alfred Tennyson. This is, of course, enough to seal his condemnation with the majority of the critics of the day, and may serve to account, (not forgetting, however, the influence of that bitter envy which always will pique mediocrity against genius,) may serve to account, we say, for the tone of disparagement, and the almost comic airs of patronage, in which The Leader, and other journals, have indulged with reference to Mr. Jones's poetry. Here and there, indeed, his poems have found enthusiastic and most warm-hearted admirers, as we see from the advertisements on the cover of his last publication, Notes to the People; but he is too emphatically "sui generis," has too marked a style of his own, and, above all, is too essentially distinct from the fashionable poets of the day,—in all respects, is too utterly devoid of Tennysonian mannerism, (with which all the secondary rhymesters, Mackay, Allingham, Westwood, &c. furnish us in such abundance—not forgetting the author of "Festus," and the rubbish of Sydney Yednys,)—he is too devoid of participles past, serving the purposes of nouns proper, and of adjectives figuring as capitals, and of that word-beauty, bordering on the finical, for which "In Memoriam" is so conspicuous, and further, of that vague indefmiteness of meaning which is happily so "suggestive, " and has such a potent charm for most lovers of poetry in this generation, not to be well-nigh certain to be disregarded! Not that he needs richness of colouring, for in this he may be rather said to excel his contemporaries; and single lines of great power he is rather too fond, in our opinion, of indulging in—so that he does, in a measure, possess certain Tennysonian characteristics: yet he lacks the principal of these. For, first, he assuredly has not, or has not yet displayed, that exquisite tenderness of feeling, and that deep internal passion, which are the glory of Tennyson's muse, as displayed in his "Love and Duty," "The Gardener's Daughter," "Locksley Hall," &c; nor has he equalled the charming simplicity and pathetic grace of "The Lord of Burleigh," "Lady Clare," and "The May Queen." But, on the other hand, Ernest Jones possesses a stern power and a majestic sweep of song which are emphatically his own. Lyrically he is more impulsive, though dramatically less so: at times he displays an almost barbaric splendour, so rich is his fancy, so brilliant is his imagery. In some respects his style may be said to approximate rather to that of Byron; but yet it differs essentially, being, we think, less passionate, but stronger and more sensible. Fancy of the most brilliant character is, perhaps, Ernest Jones's marked characteristic; but then this fancy is sustained by great powers of thought and vigour of language. Against all these qualities we have to set a certain love of splendour, which we might almost stigmatize as gaudiness, and the occasional preference of sound to sense, and we fear we must add, a general seeking for effect, which will scarcely escape the observation of the reader.

Let us now pass from these general eulogiums and censures to the more particular notice of his various productions, the earlier of which we can only afford space to name. "The Wood Spirit" is a prose romance of a very fantastic character, which will remind the reader strongly of "Fouquè"; it is fraught with grand materials, and possesses magnificent passages, and further, it contains some really very charming lyrics, which Mr. Jones never has surpassed; yet is there little art in the whole. There is nothing of the chartist element to be found in this work, nor in our author's finest poem, which, we believe, followed next, "Lord Lindsay," a composition which portrays the evils attendant on doubt, suspicion and uncertainty, with a force that has been rarely equalled. The sympathies of this work would rather seem to us eminently aristocratic than democratic, a proud and poor patrician being its hero. We would gladly dwell upon the beauties of "Lord Lindsay," but having resolved to confine our citations to his latest batch of poems, appearing in his Notes to the People, we shall only say, that it possesses very much of self-sustained grandeur and of descriptive power, combined with a high amount of lyric beauty. "My Life," which came next in order, was an attempt to pourtray the fortunes of a supposed aristocrat, who becomes a demagogue upon conviction; it is only fragmentary, but is marked with more of sweetness and pathos than we generally find in Mr. Jones's productions, whilst its satire is keen and biting, and reaches home.

Within the last few months this author has thought fit to institute a new organ of communication with his chartist friends; this is a weekly publication, entitled Notes to the People, almost exclusively edited by Mr. Jones himself, containing, essays, tales, histories, songs, and sundries, all designed to promote the progress of pure democracy, or of popular rights: the first four members of this year were devoted, for the most part, to the publication of poems, which, it seems, had been composed by the author during his late political imprisonment. It imports us little as critics how or where these works were written; whether with red ink or with blood, as Mr. Jones suggests to us; their artistic power and beauty is our theme, not excluding, however, their essential truth or falsity; and now we address ourselves seriously to the task of making our readers acquainted with the laureate of democracy.

The first of these poems, then, is entitled "The New World." We had better give the title, perhaps, in full:—"The New World; a Democratic Poem, dedicated to the People of the United Queendom, and of the United States"; and the preface thus commences—"Let no one accuse me of presumption in seeking so large an audience; the poorest tribute may be offered to the richest treasury. The poet is a citizen of the world and he is glad where the barrier of different languages no longer intercepts the travelling thought. Between the men of America and England should be eternal union, therefore I address them both. I write for the rising republic as well as for the decaying monarchy; but, alas! there is much of the Dead Sea apple on either shore of the Atlantic." Then follows an exposition of Mr. Jones's political creed: the decay of England's greatness is traced with only too much truth; as where he says, that though "it dazzles the world by its attitude of quiescent grandeur," yet "its commerce will die because it is unsound at the core: foreign competition has been met by home competition, and both have been founded on the fall of wages and the land's desertion for the loom; thus home trade has been destroyed," (seriously impaired at the least,) "for with the working class it flourishes or fades. Food is the staple wealth, and England has been made a pensioner on other lands for daily bread: we can command it still, but the hour of weakness may come; then, when we ask the nations for a loaf, they may remember that we gave them cannon-balls, and pay us back in kind." There is much more with which we generally concur upon the subject of unrestricted competition, but we would not seek to solve such a question here: pass we to the poem—indubitably a grand political manifesto, a species of prophecy of the years to come, in which the fate of England is shadowed forth under the name of Hindostan. The poet conceives for his purposes our Eastern empire to be destroyed, and a native monarchy to arise in its stead, resembling the Europe of the middle ages; of this monarchy he traces the gradual decay, till it takes the form of a virtual dogeship with a ruling aristocracy: of course, Mr. Jones wishes us to look on this as an equivalent to our English constitution; then succeeds the fall of the aristocracy, to which he conceives that we are fast approaching, and the absolute reign of the middle classes, the party of a Bright and Cobden, whom this author obviously holds in great abhorrence, though they are the "avant-garde" and pioneers of democracy. Finally, he paints the downfall of the system of competition and of middle-class government, and the access of the masses to power, when, after a short period of strife, every thing of course rights itself, and a flowery Utopia is the result. The poet commences by an energetic eulogy of America, or rather of the United States, thus:—

From freedom born to time, transcendent birth!
Colossus destined to bestride the earth,—
While heaved old empires with unwonted woes,
Man's sanctuary, America, arose.
Dull Europe, startled by thy first wild tones,
Propped up thy cradle with her crumbling thrones;
And France, sad nurse of thy rude infant days,
Lulled thy first slumber with her 'Marseillaise.'

Then follows a fine descriptive passage, in the course of which our author says,

No common guards before thy borders stand,
The elements themselves defend thy land;
Eternal frost thy northern frontiers meet;
Around thy south is rolled eternal heat.

This oratoric burst of eloquence will no doubt tell upon our trans-atlantic friends; and still more may they admire the picture of their country's future, in which the democrat shines so conspicuous.

Young nation-Hercules, whose infant grasp
Kingcraft and churchcraft slew, the twin-born asp,
What glorious visions for thy manhood rise
When thy full stature swells upon our eyes!
A crown of northern light shall bind thy head,
The south pole at thy feet its billows spread,
With island gems thy flowing robe be graced,
And Tyrian cameos glitter at thy waist;
Warm as its skies and spotless as its snow
Thy mighty heart shall beat at Mexico;
And on that mystic site of unknown eld
Such city rise, as mortal ne'er beheld;
Till Europe sees thy sovereign flag unfurl'd
Where'er thy waters wash the western world.

These are certainly splendid lines; a little of the prize-poem order possibly,—but where is the prize-poem to match them? The poet does not, however, paint the future of America as undisturbed by disasters; on the contrary, he forebodes civil strife, war of the poor against the rich, of the many against the few, of the Black against the White; yet he concludes by prophesying a triumphant close to all, and the permanent reunion of the shattered states. Then, after this species of introduction, he enters on the main subject of his poem: the fortunes of Hindostan as emblematic as those of England and the world. He paints powerfully our sinking Eastern empire (such as he believes it will be) and the efforts of our ministers at home to obtain new subsidies from Parliament, to resist the gathering forces of rebellion. Ironically he places these words on the minister's lips:

' 'Twere selfishness,' he chides, ' 'twere gross neglect
Their suit, and duty's service to reject;
To leave them lost in anarchy and night,
And, worse, without the blessed Gospel light!'
Upbraided oft for India's conquering scheme,
You urged, 'We civilize, reform, redeem!'
In proof whereof '—a smile escaped his lips—'
'You sent out bishops in your battle ships!' &c.

'Think of the souls entrusted to your care!
Think of the earthly hell awaits them there!
Of cursed Suttee—of Almeh's shameless trade—
And Venerable Heber's sainted shade!'—
Rang down the senate hall responsive cheers,—
For senates judge too often by their ears.

Well, fresh succours are sent; and a great leader, one of course who has risen from the ranks (this being so usual in our service), is found to rally the scattered forces of our empire: he is forcibly described, but we cannot find space for the portraiture. However; his subordinate generals, being aristocratic tent-loungers, will not second his endeavours, and the Company and President counteract them also; so he is compelled, though most unwillingly, to retire before the Indian army, which waxes of course prodigiously from the presage of victory thus acquired. At last the struggle comes: it is long and bloody:—

Here crashed the shot—there swept the Indian spear,
And death won grandeur from an English cheer.
Devotion vain! vain science' deadliest pride!
God, hope, and history take the Hindoo's side:
Here but a host, in misused courage strong,—
A nation there with centuries of wrong.

Then carnage closed beneath its cloudy screen;
Oft paused the guns—but terror shriek'd between;
And grimly smiled, the sulphury curtain through,
The gleaming form of chivalrous Tippoo!

We break off here, though all is fine: the English are defeated. "Courageous died that white-haired general." Now comes the hour of bloody retribution. The poet assumes that our Indian authorities in Church and State are the foulest of oppressors; the honest truth, that they are upon the whole beneficent rulers, not suiting his purposes. The final retreat of the English to the shore is graphically described. Then, for the last time, they rally "under some young chief," who has yet the power and spirit to lead them on to victory. We must again extract some noble lines:—

The crest-fallen armies, scatter'd and hewn down,
Give one last rally for their old renown;
And when the blue sea meets their longing eyes,
Turn yet again to face their enemies;
Once more the famous flags parading see,
'Sobraon,'—'Aliwal,'—and 'Meeanee,'—
Poor war-worn banners 'mid sulphureous gloom,
Like ghosts of victories round an empire's tomb'

¹

The thunder died to calm—the day was done—
And England conquer'd 'neath a setting sun!
At break of dawn the leader left his tent,
And walked the mountain's craggy battlement.
Far stretched the inland—not a foe seemed there—
Lorn lay the Ghaut beneath the untroubled air,
And, close in shore the strong obedient fleet
Attend, alike for succour or retreat.
The electric thought like lightning kindling came,
'Renew the war, and dare the glorious game!
Swoop on each straggling band, that singly hies
To hoped-for havoc of a host that flies!'
Hark! thrilling cheers from rock to harbour run:
Alas! they shout but for their safety won!

A mighty shadow, deep, and stern, and still,
Threw o'er the fleet and flood each Indian hill;
The encampment's flag just reached the rising light,
Like lingering glory of the evening's fight:
One hour, its last farewell majestic waved
Old England's pride, unchallenged and unbraved:—
But a soft wind at sunrise, like God's hand,
Quietly bent it homeward from that land!
Sad wound the weary numbers to the sea,
The signal's up, and Hindostan is free!

By this time we think our readers will be disposed to concur with us, that Ernest Jones is a poet, and a very eminent poet—one scarcely to be equalled indeed among his contemporaries in his own peculiar domain.—We should pass rapidly perhaps over the period that follows, and yet the poetry is so grand that we have not the heart to do so. We think our readers will pardon us for presenting them with certain passages, which will assuredly take their place among the standard "beauties" of out country's literature, and are not unlikely, some of them at least to become "household words." The poet proceeds then to paint the era of medieval chivalry and romance, under this Indian parallel: he says:

Then chivalry his proudest flag outroll'd,
And superstition crown'd her kings with gold;
Then solemn priests through awful temples pass'd,
Whose new god excommunicates the last:
Then banner'd towers with wild romances rung,
And bards their harps to love and glory strung;
Like moonlight's magic upon sculptures rare,
They show'd the true, but made it seem too fair.

But now also comes the era of decline, which is very forcibly portrayed. The following lines appear to us to be singularly fine of their kind, applicable rather to the ancient Roman empire than to any modern monarchy; but thus fade the glories of this fabled Oriental realm:—

Spread east and west their vast dominion wide,
From broad Amoo to Tigris' arrowy tide:
But valour's early impulse dies away
In easy, loitering, somnolent Cathay.
Most empires have their Capua:—bold endeavour
Retrieves a Cannae, but a Capua never.
Through that huge frame the times their signs impart,
Inert extremities and fevered heart;
Diluted laws with weaken'd pulses act,
Through province nominal, but realm in fact;

The sword of state escapes a feeble hand,
Nor dares to punish those who may withstand.
Powers, reft of substance, make amends in show;
Courts fear their generals, generals fear the foe:
Around the expiring realm the vultures wait,
The North knocks loudly at its Alpine gate,
Siberian tribes and Tahta nations come,
The Goths and Huns of Oriental Rome,
And westward rising, like the unruly Frank,
Impatient Persia presses at its flank,
While in the capital, with dangerous heat,
Sedition's flames against the palace beat,
And bold ambitious nobles, brooding ill,
Pass faction's mutiny as people's will.

From this point onward our poet seems to have kept France in his mind's eye throughout this portion of his poem, not that her nobles ever displayed such an excess of spirit, but certainly the fortunes of her royal line are narrated here. Four admirable lines express them—

With crime's hot ravage, time's more dull decay,
A great, old line, far lingering, droops away,
And leaves its race, more fallen from age to age,
Departed grandeur's mournful heritage.

However, royal blood makes a stand, so to speak, in the veins of one monarch, "Louis le Grand," we presume, whom Mr. Jones dismisses rather unceremoniously in the lines—

Till one long life exceeds in sin and years—
The palace laughs amid a land of tears,
As if that house, down hastening to the dust,
Took one last deepest draught of power and lust.

In what follows, Louis Quatorze, and Louis Quinze, "Louis le Désirè," seem blended in one, where we read,

A tearless funeral marks a regal death:
The chain is raised—the nations draw their breath,
As through the curious crowd's ungrieved array,
That cold black pomp rolls its slow weight away.

And now comes the unhappy Louis XVI on the stage, so good and so mild; but one who had yielded too much, who was too little a representative of any principles, to be classed with our own martyr monarch; at least, in our estimation. Mr. Jones says very finely—we may say, beautifully:—

From sickly, studious seclusion led,
Ere time could dry the tears that duty shed,—
In saddened youth, from childhood without joy,
Stepp'd to the throne a gentle-hearted boy.
Nature denied him health and strength, but gave
A generous spirit, and a patience brave.
Such is the mould of martyrs—and what more
Must meet to make one, fortune had in store.
Alas! for him who's doomed to face her rage
With thoughts too large to fit a narrow age.

Such was certainly not precisely the character of Louis XVI; but the resemblance is near enough to show that the poet's prophecy has been suggested by the past. Louis, also, was a liberal, at least to the extent of wishing to bestow a constitution, similar to our own, upon his people. Our author makes his visionary king sigh over the woes of his nation, and at last resolve to rend their fetters by one decree. He does so:

Throughout the realm bids servile tenure cease,
In hope bestowing happiness and peace,
And as a rocket on a mine is hurl'd
Give's liberty's great watchword to the world.
Mistaken hope! for since the world began,
A law ne'er yet has made a slave a man.
No golden bridge expected freedom brings,
No Jordan flows along the lives of kings.
O earthly foretaste of celestial joy!
Kings cannot give thee—swords cannot destroy;
Gold cannot buy thee; prayers can never gain;
Cowards cannot win thee; sluggards not retain.

And so the people, being socially oppressed, continue to suffer, and think the king the cause; in which impression the nobles confirm them: the latter grasp more and more at all power as their lawful due: at last the monarch is constrained to take arms against them, if he would keep the very semblance of authority. Here follows one of the most beautiful passages in the poem, which seems to show that Ernest Jones's sympathies at the bottom may be aristocratic yet. In this distress of the monarch we find he is not all deserted: some faithful servants abide beside him:—

Then forms are seen, unknown in happier hour,
Great-hearted courtiers of a sinking power:
Who saved the sire, neglected or undone,
Stake all he left, their lives, to save the son.
Brave gentlemen, whose unavailing lance
Throws round his fall their gallantry's romance;
Uncoronetted peers, who own, and claim
No title, but their old illustrious name,
Through swarming foes devotedly draw nigh,
And, highborn, come to claim a death as high.

Nor less beautiful is what follows:—

Then, touched with grandeur in his lowlier state,
Rose the poor peasant to as proud a fate:
Less polished, yet as precious, honour's gem,
No history e'er shall set in gold for them!
Toil's chivalry, they sink by myriads down,
Victors unlaurell'd, martyrs without crown:
They craved no grandeur, and they hoped no fame;
Wrong triumph'd, duty call'd them, and they came.

Is not this nobly conceived and grandly spoken? Mr. Jones teaches us how to write! We have the better cause, but we may not possess, alas! as happy a genius. All that follows here is singularly fine. The monarch withdraws from the capital: after an interval of truce he and his rebel nobles meet for a last peaceful interview, the royal-hearted sovereign having refused to risk the lives of his faithful followers on one desperate cast. Myriads of the people witness this interview. The king, unhappily, being weak and ill, is brought in a litter to the field: a cry rises against him, of "Base luxury!" the multitude imagine him a tyrant wrapped in sloth: the doom of the monarchy is sealed. The nobles mark the favorable moment: they avail themselves of the popular feeling; they seize the king as prisoner, and his farewell sign commands his faithful followers to forbear. All is over. Only his mock trial and execution remain. Powerfully Mr. Jones says:—

Then Freedom pass'd her Jordan's parted flood:—
The cruel scaffold drank a hero's blood,—
While Justice' verdict, in the book of Time,
That found him king, records no other crime;
And eager crowds their joyous clamours send
Above the ashes of their only friend.

Thus far we shall all sympathize: in what follows truth and error are strangely intermingled.

But blame the people not—blame those instead,
Who rich and great, the poor and weak mislead;
To selfish ends their ready passions use—
Who, prompt the deed, and then the act accuse!
The murderer might as well with pleading vain,
His heart exculpate and his hand arraign.
And, from the event be this great moral traced:
Virtue on thrones is like a pearl misplaced.
Break sceptres! break beneath the Almighty rod,
For every king's a rebel to his God.
Atonement for the sins of ages past,
The tarrying stream ran purest at its last;
Thus olden superstition's altars bring
The lamb, and not the wolf, as offering.
Still with the millions shall the right abide,
The living interest on the victim's side,—
Strange balance, that, 'twixt sympathy and fate,
Atones in pity what it wronged in hate!
The selfsame king, in different times of men,
Had been, their martyr now, their idol then;
And History, as the record sad she keeps,
Traces the mournful truth, and writing weeps.

²

Yet not in vain that gallant life has flown;
A glorious seed that gentle hand has sown:
Bread on those troubled waters, dark and dim,
Fruit for long years—tho' not returned to him.

From this point onward the narrative interest of the poem may be said to cease; the stream grows wider—it may be, more practically useful in its author's eyes, but indisputably less romantic: the rocks, the crags, the castled heights, have flown afar; the river broadens and broadens, and sandy wastes spread out on either shore; the individual gives way to the general.—The new constitution is next described. Soon the moneyocracy get a-head; the people's social state remains the same; nay, it rather grows worse and worse under the influence of competition: here, of course, the present state of England is shadowed forth. The chartist leaders find their antitypes also, in certain bold speakers, who are placed on their trial for sedition. Here Mr. Jones positively revels in his poetical denunciations of the law officers of the crown, with whom, if we remember rightly, he maintained a wordy conflict—we think it was with the present Lord Chief Justice Jervis in particular. The portraiture is certainly not a flattering one; but we, who remember that gentleman's pertness in the Hampden case—(amongst other strange absurdities, he stated that he claimed a far more absolute supremacy for the Queen of England over the Church than had ever been exercised by the Pope of Rome)—we, who remember this pert audacity, are not inclined to feel as shocked as we otherwise might be, by Mr. Jones's violence.

There brazen faction's never-blushing mask,
The public prosecutor plies his task;
For, when the pard has struck his murderous blow,
The jackal comes and tears his mangled foe.
In him is centred all that perfects knaves—
The heart of tyrants and the soul of slaves;
A bishop's sophistry, a bigot's fire,
A lawyer's conscience, and a brain for hire.

"Bitter words, my masters!" but they break no bones, that is one comfort; and we can scarcely wonder at the wrath of him who was for months deprived of all commune with his friends, of almost all books, of paper and ink "in toto," and was treated, in fine, as a criminal of the very lowest order. Accordingly, the judge also does not escape. The ensuing lines seem to us not capable of being easily rivalled for their bitter and biting power: they are founded, it seems, on fact.

Yet come their blows so hard, so home their hits,
On cushioned seat the judge uneasy sits;
With ignorant glibness refutation tries,
(Like sin, that reasons with its guilt—he lies!)
From shallow premise inference false would wrench,
And spouts 'Economy' from solemn bench;
'I drink champagne—that gives the poor man bread,
The grower takes our calico instead.
I keep my hunter—why that brow of gloom?
Does not my hunter also keep his groom?
I roll my carriage—well! that's good for trade!
Look at the fortunes coachmakers have made.'
Then his last argument, when others fail,
'To JAIL! TO JAIL! you wicked man! to jail!'

Now bring your fine blood-hunters to the plough,
And o'er the spade your liveried lacqueys bow!
If they must eat, 'tis right they should produce;
And, if you covet pomp, repay in use.
'Twere almost vain to these dark knaves to show,
So many lands but so much food can grow;
That so much land but so much produce bears,
And that our wheat is better than their tares!
That idle luxury turns, in evil hour,
To unproductive toil productive power;
And coachmaker and lacquey, horse and groom,
Impair production while they still consume.
But deep the people drink the precious lore,
And discontent speaks louder than before,
While near and nearer yet, with every year,
Claim the dread creditors their long arrear.

What political economists of ordinary stamp would answer to these arguments we know not; we suspect that they could only take refuge in a supposed necessity; but the real answer seems to us to be, that with wise care earth might be made to produce, first, enough for all, and then a superfluity for some. Beauty is, in a measure, a luxury certainly, though the highest works of art should be the property of the world, yet there are many rare and costly things which all cannot possess, but which some may and if I do, no other man is wronged, ipso facto, by my possession. Yet this rests on the assumption that such article of luxury is either not convertible into an article of utility for the use of all, or that it is not needed for that purpose. As long as our working classes are wretchedly underpaid, so paid as not to enable them to possess themselves and their families of the necessaries, of the ordinary comforts of life, so long wealth will appear an anomaly; so long it will be hard to justify unprofitable labour of any kind. This principle must not be pushed to an extreme—no principle can be without degenerating into wrong and error; but we cannot but conceive that the first necessity of every state is to provide for the good of its working classes, high or low. If the bees be once in good condition, there can be no possible objection to drones swilling any superfluous honey. And, as a matter of fact, the upper classes are not drones in England, but workers also in their sphere, and their luxuries, kept within due bounds, will react upon the working classes to their benefit, and tend to bind all men together by ties of mutual need and brotherhood. In Britain, however, under existing circumstances, we fear that the judge's argument scarcely holds good; under a wise system of mutual protection and association it certainly would do so. But let us return to the poem before us.

Our author next launches forth in a vigorous diatribe against emigration, as worse than needless, were a just policy resorted to; then he stigmatizes our system of pauperism; then, under the figure of "Ceylon's neighboring isle," he points attention to the woes of Ireland. Much of this he does, very mischievously and unjustifiably. Things are bad, but not so bad as it suits Mr. Jones to represent them, who is, we are compelled to say it, in our estimation, whether consciously or not, a thriver upon discontent and a trader in sedition.

We are not sorry, indeed, that such men should be found to represent the wrongs of the working classes, and we are ready to labour for the redress of these wrongs, fully as faithfully as they can, only not quite by their side. Mr. Jones, if he ever reads this, must pardon the frankness of our political criticism: let him know in us—an open, if not a worthy foe!

Now follows a grand section, describing the final outbreak of the people's wrath, and the overthrow of camps, courts, and councils. This is not what we dread most in this country, as we have already indicated, though after certain downward steps have once been taken, of which a large increase of the suffrage is by far the greatest, it is not impossible that the final downfall of the peerage and the throne may be accelerated by such an outbreak. But as yet, at all events, the country is not ripe for it: it would only reawaken and rally all the sound conservative thought and feeling of the nation. For further extracts from this poem we lack space. Two fine episodes succeed: one describing a future rising "en masse" of the black man against the white; another pourtraying the return of the Jews to Judea, but not, unhappily, in a Christian spirit. We must quote some few lines here.

They leave, they leave, a God-collected band,
Their homeless houses in the stranger's land.
You scarce would deem that risen race the same—
Thus one great thought transfigurates the frame:
Greed spurns its gold, affliction dries her tears,
Youth scorns its follies, age forgets its years.
The faint old man uprising in his bed,
Leans on his shrunken arms his silvery head;
Around him stand, half-sandall'd to depart,
His stalwart sons, the pillars of his heart.
What splendours kindle in that faded sight!
He sees—he sees—Judea's far-off light:
Why bends he as one listening? Hush! he hears
The cedars whispering of their thousand years:
A sudden ardour nerves his frame—he cries
'My cloak and staff!—Hosannah!, . . .' sinks and dies.
Low bend those mariners of life's fond wave
Around the barque safe anchor'd in the grave:
Though young, and strong, and eager for the way,
That old man won the promised land ere they.

Then follows a glowing description of a grand Australian empire, or rather republic, yet to rise; all manner of wonders of steam and electricity find their place; rain is drawn from the skies at will as lightning has been; heat is guided to distant and barren mountains; life is prolonged almost unmeasureably, pain and discord having finally disappeared; peace is perfect; one language is spoken over all the earth; there is no mine and thine, all property being in common; the very volcanoes expire; the very poles rebloom, since once, as geology tells us, they were inhabitable; in fine, our author sets the most glowing picture of the Millennium before our eyes, omitting the indispensable groundwork—that sense of reverence, that hatred of sin, that love of duty, that conquest of self-indulgence—without which the very earth he paints would be a hell. Then he concludes audaciously—we may say, blasphemously—but certainly with no little power and beauty:

Then, as the waifs of sin are swept away—

The poet has not told us how; has not even attempted to suggest; but we resume,—

Then as the waifs of sin are swept away,
Mayhap the world may meet its destined day;
A day of change and consummation bright,
After its long Aurora, and old night.
No millions shrieking in a fiery flood
No blasphemies of vengeance and of blood—
Making the end of God's great work of joy,
And of Almighty wisdom—to destroy
No kindling comet, and no fading sun,
But heaven and earth uniting melt in one.

The voyage is o'er. The adventurous flag is furl'd,
The pilot, Thought, has won the fair NEW WORLD.
The sailor's task is done. The end remains.

Must he, too, expiate his work in chains?
What though old prejudice the path opposed,
Though weeds corrupt around the vessel closed,
Though discord crept among the jealous crew,
His heart's his compass—and it told him true!

No, it told him not true: it painted him, if the heart was concerned at all, and not rather the fancy, an unreal and most delusive vision. The communism, the absolute equality, the absence of faith in a self-revealed and personal GOD here depicted, would be sufficient to blight the very fairest Eden; so indeed would any one of these three vital errors, of which the last is of course the most utterly destructive. A Millennium may be yet in store for man; we hope it, and believe it; a period of happiness and peace in the era of the Church's glories; but even then, evil will be lessened, not removed; even then that fatal necessity which attaches pain and suffering to error, will be in full and inevitable operation: even then GOD'S justice will punish sinners. Nothing can be weaker, vainer, more diametrically opposed to all the teaching of experience, to all the evidence of reality, than that specious benevolence, that indiscriminate charity, which would merge right and wrong on a kind of general happiness principle, and, attributing its own weakness to the Almighty, would either have Him annihilate that freedom of choice on which He has thought fit to rear the moral world, or would have Him act with supreme indifference to his own great law of compensation, and make the evil-hearted happy, despite their selfishness and sin. But more on this theme anon, when we come to Beldagon Church.

Let us now, ere we proceed to that poem, pause to ask our readers, whether we have or have not convinced them that Ernest Jones is a true, nay, and even a great poet? Where, since the days of Pope and Dryden, will they find such grand sustained heroic verse? And Mr. Jones's poetry has an element wanting to all the poetry of the seventeenth century, viz. the element of earnestness and passion. But how stately is the march of these lines, like the ocean tide majestically rolling in, wave after wave, in never-failing time and order, though now and then the billows be crested with some superfluous foam! What a power of conception have we not witnessed! What a grandeur of expression! What real beauty! Was this a poem to treat with an air of patronage, let us ask; condescendingly patting the author on the back, like the conceited "Leader," and its fellows? We repeat, that it is the total absence of any approximation to Tennysonianism which makes us value Mr. Jones's poetry as poetry so highly. It is high time for a literary reaction against a mannerism, which however delightful, threatens to overflood us with its morbid sweetness; and in this point of view Ernest Jones's muse may have a really important office to perform. Let small critics sneer to the utmost of their small ability, such genius as his must needs prove crushing to these wights; and the time may not be far distant when they will scarcely know how to express their sense of that genius too extravagantly; for mediocrity, being guided by fashion, not by instinct or true judgment, is ever in extremes of praise or blame. We shall now pass to a poem which has scarcely any thing political about it, because we wish to satisfy those who may yet be disposed to maintain, on the score of Ernest Jones's democracy, destructiveness, and demagoguery, that he can be no true poet.

This is a tale of Florence in the olden time, when, as the poet tells us, "Florence alone was bright;" to speak by the card, it is entitled, "The Painter of Florence: a domestic poem, being a story within a story." This last novelty of nomenclature the poem derives from the singular and somewhat inartistic length of its metrical introduction, which is English, while the story's self is Italian in its theme. The poet conceives himself, namely, to be paying a visit in a certain country-house, where he beholds a work of art, a beautiful picture, which he describes very glowingly, and which suggests to his imagination the tale of the Painter of Florence. The introduction, though spirited, must not detain us long; there we have a terse narrative of the ruin of the last scion of an ancient aristocratic line, mainly through the villany of his lawyer and agent, who prompts and plays upon his vices, and who finally, having "sucked the victim dry," turns him adrift, and takes possession of his fathers' halls. He is a busy, bustling, mean and cunning, vulgar and overbearing, representative of the moneyocracy, and is exceedingly well depicted, he, and his titled wife also, whom he marries for her title's sake. As a specimen of our author's powers in this peculiar line of biting satire, we shall extract the following passage: it is a little coarse, perhaps, but assuredly keen and graphic.

The Lady Malice is tall and thin;
Her skin is of a dusky tan,
With black hairs dotting her pointed chin;
She's like a long, lean, lanky man!
Her virtue's positively fierce;
Her sharp eyes every weakness pierce,
Sure some inherent vice to find
In every phase of human kind.
The simplest mood, the weakest mien,
She speckles with her venom'd spleen,
Construing to some thought obscene;
Shred by shred, and bit by bit,
With lewd delight dissecting it;
Till sin's worst school is found to be
Near her polluting purity.

Devilson's thick set, short, and red;
Nine-tenths of the man are his paunch and head;
His hair is tufty, dense, and dark;
His small eyes flash with a cold grey spark,
Whose fitful glimmer will oft reveal
When a flinty thought strikes on his heart of steel.
He's sensual lips and a bold hook-nose;
And he makes himself felt wherever he goes!

For the rest of this amiable portraiture we refer our readers to the original; we mean to Mr. Ernest Jones's poem,—not to the original whom he draws, though it is more than possible that such an one might not be sought for vainly within the circle of the reader's own acquaintance. Well, the poet is on a visit to this respectable country squire and his lady; (by the bye he does not seem over grateful to his hosts;) after dinner, Devilson, the new lord of the manor, falls asleep, and the poet's eye wanders to a picture on the wall. This is a magnificent work of art, pourtraying the return of a Florentine army in triumph after a great victory just achieved. The poet gazes, until the image of the bygone painter wakes a kindred ardour in his soul; till this "work of buried genius," as he calls it, conveys its tale of the past to his imagining; and this tale he then proceeds to tell. It commences with these fine lines:—

At Florence in the dark ages,
When Florence alone was bright,
(She has left on her marble pages
Her testament of light;)

At Florence in the dark ages,
When Florence alone was free,
(She rose, in the pride of her sages,
Like the sun on a troubled sea;)

While yet as an ark she drifted
On the earth's barbarian flood,
And the wreck of the arts uplifted
From the deluge of human blood;

Where many a feast of glory
And deed of worth were done,—
From the links of her broken story
I have saved to the world this one.

There is a peculiar wildness, freshness, and originality in these lines, which will scarcely fail to be appreciated; a fancy rich in its excess, an easy power that sports with verse and melody. Nor less original of its kind is what follows:—

Round Florence the tempests are clouding;
The mountains a deluge have hurl'd;
For the tyrants of nations are crowding
To blot that fair light from the world.

Like vultures that sweep from the passes
To come to the feast of the dead,
In black, heavy, motionless masses
Their mighty battalions are spread.

'Tis eve: and the soldiers of Florence
To meet them are marching amain:
The foe stand like ocean awaiting
The streamlet that glides o'er the plain.

Then the blood of the best and the bravest
Had poured like the rain on the sod—
But the spirit of night stood between them,
Proclaiming the truce of their God.

It touches the heart of the tyrant—
It gives him the time to repent:—
The morn on the mountain has risen!
The hour of salvation is spent!

The multitudes break into motion,
The trumpets are stirring the flood:—
An islet surrounded by ocean,
The ranks of the citizens stood.

But the vanguard is Valour and Glory;
The phalanx is Freedom and Right;
The leaders are Honour and Duty:
Are they soldiers to fail in the fight?

Then hail to thee! Florence the fearless!
And hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the mist from the mountain has faded,
What a triumph of arms shall be there!

So Florence wins the day, and its senators decree a mighty prize to the painter who in one work of genius shall commemorate the return from the field of battle of Florence' victor sons. Many embark in the glorious competition, for which a three years' term is granted; amongst them, a student, "the Painter of Florence," whose name does not appear. He has long loved the daughter of an artisan, and has been loved again, but her father discourages his suit, esteeming the youth a dreamer; and so he appears indeed, for as yet he has accomplished nothing great, and even now, with such a prize before him, it is long ere he can commence to realize his ideal. The poet thus defends him:—

Men counted him a dreamer. Dreams
Are but the light of clearer skies,
Too dazzling for our naked eyes:
And, when we catch their flashing beams,
We turn aside, and call them, dreams.
O, trust me, every truth that yet
In greatness rose and sorrow set,

That time to ripening glory nursed,
Was called an idle dream at first.

And so he passed through want and ill,
And lived neglected and unknown:
Courage he lacked not, neither skill,
But that fixed impulse of the will,
That guides to fame, and guides alone.
And opportunity ne'er smiled,
Without which, genius' royal child,
Is but a king without a throne.

His feverish efforts to achieve the sighed-for work of art are happily described: at last, after two years have flown, he seems to pass the Rubicon, he has fairly started on his high endeavour; but alack! meanwhile, fever is eating his very life away. He begins to fear he shall die young. Here occur these fine lines:—

'Twas on an eve of autumn pale
That first he felt his strength to fail.
The sun o'er Spain had shone its last;
The leaves around were falling fast;
The western clouds were turning grey;
And Earth and Heaven seem'd to say,
'Passing away! Passing away!'

However hope revives under the influence of love, and meanwhile the picture grows beneath his airy brush: its progress is finely shadowed forth. But the hour of decision comes at last. On the fated morn the young student is waiting the decree in his chamber, too weak and ill to leave it, flushed with fever's pangs: there he is visited by the maiden of his love and by her father. From this point forward we must let the poet speak for himself, merely premising that we scarcely know a passage more graphic and exciting in the whole range of narrative poetry; neither Byron nor Scott, we think, has surpassed it:—reader! be not captious!

A gentle hand tapp'd on his chamber door,
And a soft voice call'd;—'tis the voice of Lenore!—
Spirit of light, before passing the grave,
Angel of life! art thou come to save?
She knew the hours were hard to bear;
That the heart will fail and the spirit break
When life and more than life's at stake—
And had won on her father to bring her there:
But he sat him down,
With a silent frown,
Half anger'd to deem he had been so weak.
The painter's face with a smile is bright
As he reads his hope in the maiden's eyes;
But her cheek turns pale as the lustre dies,
Till it hangs on his lip like the mournful light
Of a wreck that may sink ere the proud sunrise.
And his fancy was busy again within
To think how much better his work might have been,
With a light brought there, and a shade thrown here:
'Twas well that he had not the canvas near,
For the painters, then, were Despair and Fear.

But hark! a sound in the distance steals:
'Tis a shout—a shout in the distance peals:
It gathers—it deepens—it rolls this way—
'Lenora, haste to the casement—say!'
"Tis finished! but who has won the day?'

Near and more near
Is the loud acclaim;
You could almost hear
The victorious name:
'They come,—by the beat
Of their flooding feet;
Now, now, they are reaching the end of the street!'

The maiden's heart is fluttering wild—
And even the father arose from his seat And stood by his child,—
But incredulous smiled,—
'There's a way to the left: they will turn to the square—
No! onward! right onward! they pause not there!
And the senators pass
Through the multitude's mass!
Scarce three doors off—they come! they come!'

The maiden has sunk from the window side.—
'Tis past a fear! 'tis past a doubt!
There's a stir within, there's a rush without,
They mount the stairs, the door flies wide—
O joy to the Lover, and joy to the Bride.
The eldest of the train advances;
In his hand the garland glances;
Gold—precious, glittering to the sight;
Pledge of hopes that are still more bright,
For love is wreathed in its leaves of light!

They call him. Is their voice unheard?
He rose not, as in duty bound;
He bowed not, as they gather'd round;
They placed the garland on his head:
He gave no thanks, he spoke no word,
But slowly sunk like a drooping flower
Beneath the weight of too full a shower—
The Painter of Florence was dead!

We need not subjoin the close of this sad story; nor the final burst of invective in which the author indulges at the expense of the picture-galleries of the great; the more unjust, since our noblemen display so liberal a spirit in exhibiting their treasures to the public gaze. But how much lyric energy and passion do we not find in this poem, glowing and rich with radiant colours, and exulting in rhythmical freedom and poetic power. We cannot pause to dilate upon its excellencies, though these are assuredly many, for our article has already extended itself to an alarming length. And, on this same account, we cannot afford to comment long upon "Beldagon Church," another poem in this same series, imbued with the most destructive and antichristian tendencies, in which the worship of nature is contrasted with the worship of God, to the supposed advantage of the former. Thus we are told that—

The blossom-loving bee,
Neglectful of her Maker
Though 'tis Sunday-morn,
Little Sabbath-breaker,
Winds her humming horn.

Beldagon's cathedral fame is then described, with "stately pews in rival rows," "cushioned seats," "oaken screen," &c. But first, the poet leads us forth to admire the ritual of nature. Much of this gospel of rationalism is, as might be expected, dreamy, indistinct, and moonshiny, in the highest degree; but it is impossible not to recognise the grace and lightness of these lines:—

Mistily, dreamily, steals a faint glimmer;
Hill-tops grow lighter, tho' stars become dimmer:
First, a streak of grey;
Then a line of green;
Then a sea of roses,
With golden isles between.
All along the dawnlit prairies
Stand the flowers, like tip-toe fairies
Waiting for the early dew:
Listening,
Glistening,
As the morning
Walks their airy muster thro',
All the new-born blossoms christening
With a sacrament of dew.
And from them, a flower with wings,
Their angel that watch'd through the night,
The beautiful butterfly springs
To the light.

This is poetry; but much which follows is forced and unnatural, with a poor and too transparent aim after "naiveté" and innocence; and almost sickening, in our estimation, is the "Io Paean" sung to the rationalist's deity of his own creation,—a deity—shall we dare to say it?—of very milk and water. Having pronounced a verdict of condemnation on these pretended raptures, we pass to the service of Beldagon Church, the delineation of which possesses at least some spirit. The ascent of the bishop to the pulpit is cleverly portrayed:—

Then like the flutter of a full pit
When a favourite passage comes,
As the bishop mounts the pulpit,
Sink the whispers, coughs, and hums:
And here and there a scattered sinner,
Winking in the house of God,
Shows he
Knows the
Rosy,
Cosy,
Dosy,
Prosy,
Bishop with a smile and nod.

Then comes an onslaught on the fatness of the clergy, commencing—

The prelate bows his cushion'd knee,
Oh, the prelate's fat to see!

And ending—

From mitre tall to gold-laced hat,
Fat's the place—and all are fat!

which we are inclined to pronounce a fair hit enough: and then follows from this "cosy, dosy, bishop," one of the most powerful rhymed sermons that it would be possible for the mind of man to conceive, contrasting indeed most favourably in its straightforward truthfulness and keen severity, with the fantastic and artificial raptures of the poet over "nature's ritual." Of course the intention is to make the bishop the prophet and advocate of slavery and woe: but his discourse establishes that self-evident fact from which we derive the need for a revelation,—the fact that this is a fallen world, a world subject to a curse. Setting aside a certain amount of exaggeration and of one-sided vindictiveness of purpose, and the total absence of the doctrine of earth's redemption by the Saviour of mankind (a vital deficiency this, of course)—still, setting these things for the moment on one side, or making allowance for them, the sermon of the Bishop of Beldagon remains unanswerable on deistical principles, ay, or on atheistical either. We cannot express our admiration too highly of this most powerful composition, the author of which has thought to condemn Christianity, while he has really sealed the condemnation of his own weak and morbid "natural religion," with his faith in a rose-water Providence, that would have made this earth a heaven were it not for the vices of nobles and of kings. Some part of this striking discourse we must at least cite, and we know not where to begin save with the beginning. Here then follows the opening of the Bishop of Beldagon's sermon:—

Sink and tremble, wretched sinners! The Almighty Lord has hurl'd
His curse for everlasting on a lost and guilty world:
Upon the ground beneath your feet, upon the sky above your head,
Upon the womb that brings you forth, upon the toil that gives you bread,
On all that lives and breathes and moves, in earth and air and wave,
On all that feels and dreams and thinks, on cradle, house, and grave,
For Adam murder 'd innocence—and since the world became its hearse,
Throughout the living sphere extending breeds and spreads the dreadful curse.
—The seasons through Creation bear our globe continually
To show its shame to every star that frowns from the recoiling sky:
And savage comets come and gaze, and fly in horror from the sight,
To tell it through unfathomed distance to each undiscover'd light.
Sin, its ghastly wound inflicting, damns, us to eternal pain—
And from the heart of human nature, flows an ever-bleeding vein.
You may blame your institutions, blame your masters, rulers, kings:
This is idle: 'tis the curse eternal, festering as it clings.
Change them—sweep them to destruction, as the billow sweeps the shore!
Misery, pain, and death, the curse, the curse will rankle but the more.—
If it were not thus, in nature you would surely witness joy—
Gaze around you, and behold the neverceasing curse destroy:
Flower and leaf and blade and blossom languish in a slow decay:
Fish on fish, and bird on bird, and beast on beast, unceasing prey—
Take the smallest drop of water—see, with microscopic view,
Thousand creatures ravin, slaughter, mangle, cripple, maim, pursue.
Breathe the air—where million beings in unending conflict dwell
Every tiny bosom raging with the raging Fires of hell!
And the curse eternal gives them weapons kindred to their hearts,
Claw, and tusk, and venom'd fang, and web, and coil, and poisoned
Nature is one scene of murder, misery, malice, pain, and sin,
And earth and air and fire and water grudge the little peace you win;
Blight and mildew, hail and tempest, drought and flood your harvests spoil,
Disputing inch by inch the conquests of your heart-subduing toil.

Now, it is true that the exaggeration of all this is self-evident; but not less evident is its partial truth. Manifest it is, we affirm, manifest and indisputable, that a curse has fallen on the world of nature, as well as on the world of mind. If you will not admit this, only one of two alternatives remains: either you must contend that the Deity is indifferent to the happiness of his creatures, or, plainly, not beneficent,—or if you reject this supposition with horror, you can only take refuge in a yet darker as well as utterly irrational creed, the creed of atheism: you must deny God altogether; you must deny Design and Providence, you must ascribe all you behold to an inexorable chance, a blind necessity. Against this the instincts of the human heart rebel, which teach it that "something holy lives above the skies," the very organs of reverence, awe, and wonder demand a fitting object, and can find one only in the Godhead. Design, we affirm, whatever the Newmans and the Froudes may tell us, is self-evident throughout the world-mechanism of creation: all things proclaim, "There is a God!" But those facts which the chartist poet has placed before us remain indisputable: life itself, is maintained by death; evil is interwoven with all things which we behold. How is this? How can this be? One answer only is possible. Evil is the consequence of sin: and sin itself was the free choice of those creatures whom the Almighty had created supremely happy and supremely good, but capable of fall, because free agents. This is the only possible answer that imagination or reason could devise and it is the answer of Revelation; that Revelation which proves its Divine origin by its perfect solution of all enigmas of existence; that Revelation, which has been born witness to by the wisest, holiest, purest, greatest of mankind; by a series of prophets, all claiming supernatural powers, all evincing amazing genius, boundless courage, perfect self-devotion, meekness, purity, the very ideal of all moral virtues, and who, nevertheless, if not really gifted with that supernatural power which they professed to exercise—a power to which a Mahomet dared to lay no claim,—must have been the very vilest of impostors;—a Revelation borne witness to by the mightiest of all poets, by the gravest of all seers by the most stubborn and stiffnecked of all nations, a nation scattered over the face of all the globe, a standing record of Almighty vengeance;—borne witness to by saints and martyrs the meekest and the bravest; by Apostles, twelve poor and ignorant men, who by their preaching regenerated a world, who, exhibiting in their lives the highest pattern of morality laid them down at last for the truths which they had witnessed,—or, if you think it were reasonable to believe so, for the fictions they had coated;—a Revelation, finally proclaimed by Him, who was promised from the beginning, who was hoped for by all the patriarchs, who was heralded by all the prophets, who appeared at last in the light of day to declare Himself the Son of the Living God: Such a Revelation stands on a basis that never can be shaken; that may well disdain all the rebellious waves that dash against its rock, whether the puny frettings of a philosophic Newman, or the bolder dash of a Froude, or the angry foam of an Ernest Jones.

It is needless to enlarge upon this subject here. But we repeat, the Bishop of Beldagon's sermon is perfectly unanswerable: sin has entered into the world, that world which issued happy and glorious from its Maker's hands; and by sin has entered woe. Yet, though on the animal creation and on nature's self the curse has fallen, let it not for an instant be conceived that the life of the creatures is not happy on the whole. True it is that creation groaneth and travelleth; yet the mere gift of existence is a boon and a blessing. By God's mercy life itself remains a joy to all the creatures, and the moment of death or of destruction is comparatively a moment only. It is the inevitable tribute paid by all creatures and things to the reign of death and sin. Yet even the insects, of which our anti-christian poet speaks, are blithesome and happy; as far as they are concerned, as far as the animal world generally is concerned, pain remains the exception, not the rule. The amount of evil which exists in creation proves that sin, resulting from the free will of the creature, whether man or angel, has entered into the world, and has infected it, drawing down the just punishment of the Almighty: yet does beneficence remain the rule which governs nature's laws, so that it is abundantly manifest that the Almighty must have willed originally the happiness of all his creatures. And if so, what remains to justify the course of Providence? Even the great mystery of REDEMPTION; that Divine, awful, and ever-glorious sacrifice, that stupendous work of love, the contemplation of which must fill our mortal hearts with joy and wonder. This it is which heals the breach, which solders the rent, which reconciles the creature and Creator.

Rightly Ernest Jones proceeds to show, through the medium of his episcopal sermon, that in the world of mind as well as in the world of matter, evil has gained a lodgement; that man cannot rely upon his brotherman; that selfishness, and not love, has become the master-motive of society. But utterly do we repudiate, as Christian Churchmen, that conclusion, which he places on his bishops lips, that nothing can be done for either rich or poor; that all must writhe for ever under the incurable curse; for this fictitious bishop simply ignores the blessings of Redemption!. . .

And let it not be thought that in thus saying we are indirectly promoting the progress of democracy; for it is not Mr. Ernest Jones, the demagogue, we have to fear, but rather Lord John Russell, the reforming prime minister. The common sense of the English nation will induce them to resist the onset of open and avowed democracy; they know well that there is no tyranny so absolute or so hateful as that of the one despotic majority; they know well that the great glory of our constitution has been, that it guarded against this tyranny, whilst it supplied a medium for the representation of every class; the working classes who have not the suffrage, making their wishes known by means of public meetings, petitions, and, above all, by the press; while the House of Commons represents (speaking broadly) the middle; and the House of Lords, the upper classes. The great principle which lies at the root of our British Constitution may be said to be the necessity for the division of power: it is right indeed, it is essential, that, in the long run, in the end, the common sense of the majority should rule; but then this majority must not be that of the moment, but that of years; it must not be a bare numerical majority, but that of the real knowledge, and wisdom, and science of the country which, after all, at the best, are liable to err: but what would be more terrible, let us ask, than the absolute reign of a single body, elected by the one majority, against whose decisions there could be no appeal?

We do not now purpose to argue this matter at any length at the fag end of our article; we are sure that the common sense of most Englishmen will revolt against the reign of such a majority as this, and will infinitely prefer our ancient government by Queen, Lords, and Commons, under which no sudden changes of importance can be effected, though the voice of the nation will always make itself heard in the end. We do not want an all-powerful, irresistible House of Commons; we are disposed to admit, indeed, that if any measure be sent up from that house repeatedly with vast and increasing majorites, the peers, generally speaking, will do well to yield; but we need a barrier against popular error and the mere love of novelty, and this is supplied by the existence of the two higher branches of the legislature. Now we believe that if the House of Commons directly represented the one majority of the nation, instead of the majority of the middle classes, as at present, it would be perfectly irresistible, and that the House of Lords would of necessity become a nullity. And therefore it is that we are so strongly opposed to any measure tending even in this direction. As it is, the commons are only too powerful; yet they do not directly represent the masses, and indirectly the masses are equally represented by the Peers; but the opposition of three hundred men to a body chosen by the one majority of the nation, whether under household or universal suffrage, would, we are persuaded, be weak, and almost nominal. Therefore does Lord John Russell's bill for a large increase in the suffrage appear so exceedingly dangerous to us. Any increase is to be dreaded, as tending to establish the supreme authority of the one tyrannical majority; in fact, the very existence of the constitution, with its fundamental principle of division of power, is assuredly here at stake.

Lord John Russell must know this; he has shown by his speeches in the house that he knows it: how can he then be instrumental to the ruin of his country?

But we may be told, the working classes will never rest satisfied without the suffrage, whatever be the consequence. We do not believe it: we do not think the majority would care one straw for the suffrage, were their social rights secured to them: the suffrage, we consider, should be within the reach of an honest and intelligent artisan who would make some sacrifices to secure it (and so it is at present); but it should be a privilege, and not the common right of all: and this last, a right, it cannot be without erecting the despotism of one tyrant majority, and whelming Queen, Lords, and Commons in one common ruin.

What would be the immediate effect of a large increase of the suffrage, such as Lord John Russell proposes? The return of a very democratic House of Commons, who would assuredly aspire to grasp all power—who would scarcely know how to refuse consistently that universal suffrage which would then be loudly clamoured for. And in any case, the days of the House of Lords would then, we fear, be numbered: it might linger for a few years as the shadow of its former self, until it gradually melted away; or if the thinking and more highly educated classes of this country were not disposed to submit without a struggle to the triumph of democracy, to the despotism of the one tyrant majority, then a civil war might be the issue. What then is most to be dreaded, in our opinion, is the gradual extension of the suffrage, whereby more and more of the governing power must be absorbed into a single branch of the legislature, rendering the others comparatively valueless; and if Lord John Russell's bill should prove half as comprehensive as we arc credibly informed it will be, it alone will suffice to destroy the equilibrium of our commonweal.

Some may suppose we are indulging in too melancholy anticipations, that our fears are, at all events, exceedingly exaggerated, but this is not the case; for the balance of the British Constitution it is essential that the House of Commons should not directly represent the majority of the population, or anything approximating to it; the danger is very near and very great, and it can scarcely be exaggerated. We apprehend no perils from open democracy, or from demagogism, least of all, from physical force chartism; but we do fear the gradual sapping of the very basis of our social state. In this point of view it seems to us expedient to give publicity to the sentiments and opinions of such thinkers as Mr. Ernest Jones, that men may know whither Lord John Russell is endeavouring constitutionally to conduct them. The barefaced monopoly of power by one majority England would not tolerate; but the gradual increase of the suffrage, however inevitably tending to that fatal goal, may be acceded to almost without a struggle. Lord John Russell will certainly not thank us for the compliment, but we must think him a far more dangerous enemy of the constitution, whether consciously or unconsciously, not only than Mr. Ernest Jones, the chartist laureate, but also than all the chartist orators throughout the country, and the whole of the scattered forces of democracy.

¹ The italics are throughout our own.

² The Cromwells and the Cobdens.