Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 340, February, 1844

THE PROPHECY OF THE TWELVE TRIBES

 
"And Jacob called into his sons, and said, Gather yourselves together,
that I may tell you that which shall befall you in the last days.
"Gather yourselves together, and hear, ye sons of Jacob; and hearken
unto Israel your father."
 

—GENESIS, xlix. 1, 2, &c.

 
The Patriarch sat upon his bed—
His cheek was pale, his eye was dim;
Long years of woe had bow'd his head,
And feeble was the giant limb.
And his twelve mighty sons stood nigh,
In grief—to see their father die!
 
 
But, sudden as the thunder-roll,
A new-born spirit fill'd his frame.
His fainting visage flash'd with soul,
His lip was touch'd with living flame;
And burst, with more than prophet fire,
The stream of Judgment, Love, and Ire.
 
 
"REUBEN,⁶ thou spearhead in my side,
Thy father's first-born, and his shame;
Unstable as the rolling tide,
A blight has fall'n upon thy name.
Decay shall follow thee and thine.
Go, outcast of a hallow'd line!
 
 
"SIMEON and LEVI,⁷ sons of blood
That still hangs heavy on the land;
Your flocks shall be the robber's food,
Your folds shall blaze beneath his brand.
In swamp and forest shall ye dwell.
Be scatter'd among Israel!
 
 
"JUDAH!⁸ All hail, thou priest, thou king!
The crown, the glory, shall be thine;
Thine, in the fight, the eagle's wing—
Thine, on the hill, the oil and wine.
Thou lion! nations shall turn pale
When swells thy roar upon the gale.
 
 
"Judah, my son, ascend the throne,
Till comes from heaven the unborn king—
The prophesied, the mighty one,
Whose heel shall crush the serpent's sting.
Till earth is paradise again,
And sin is dead, and death is slain!
 
 
"Wide as the surges, ZEBULON,⁹
Thy daring keel shall plough the sea;
Before thee sink proud Sidon's sun,
And strong Issachar toil for thee.
Thou, reaper of his corn and oil,
Lord of the giant and the soil!
 
 
"Whose banner flames in battle's van!
Whose mail is first in slaughter gored!
Thou, subtler than the serpent, DAN,¹⁰
Prince of the arrow and the sword.
Woe to the Syrian charioteer
When rings the rushing of thy spear!
 
 
"Crush'd to the earth by war and woe,
GAD,¹¹ shall the cup of bondage drain,
Till bold revenge shall give the blow
That pays the long arrear of pain.
Thy cup shall glow with tyrant-gore,
Thou be my Son—and man once more!
 
 
"Loved NAPHTALI,¹² thy snow-white hind
Shall bask beneath the rose and vine.
Proud ASHER, to the mountain wild
Shall star-like blaze, thy battle-sign.
All bright to both, from birth to tomb,
The heavens all sunshine, earth all bloom!
 
 
"JOSEPH,¹³ come near—my son, my son!
Egyptian prince, Egyptian sage,
Child of my first and best-loved one,
Great guardian of thy father's age.
Bring EPHRAIM and MANASSEH nigh,
And let me bless them ere I die.
 
 
"Hear me—Thou GOD of Israel!
Thou, who hast been his living shield,
In the red desert's lion-dell,
In Egypt's famine-stricken field,
In the dark dungeon's chilling stone,
In Pharaoh's chain—by Pharaoh's throne.
 
 
"My son, all blessings be on thee,
Be blest abroad, be blest at home;
Thy nation's strength—her living tree,
The well to which the thirsty come;
Blest be thy valley, blest thy hill,
Thy father's GOD be with thee still!
 
 
"Thou man of blood, thou man of might,
Thy soul shall ravin, BENJAMIN.¹⁴
Thou wolf by day, thou wolf by night,
Rushing through slaughter, spoil, and sin;
Thine eagle's beak and vulture's wing
Shall curse thy nation with a king!"
 
 
Then ceased the voice, and all was still:
The hand of death was on the frame;
Yet gave the heart one final thrill,
And breathed the dying lip one name.
"Sons, let me rest by Leah's side!"
He raised his brow to heaven—and died.
 

HAVILAH.

A BEWAILMENT FROM BATH;

OR, POOR OLD MAIDS

Mr Editor!—You have a great name with our sex! CHRISTOPHER NORTH is, in our flowing cups—of Bohea—"freshly remembered." To you, therefore, as to the Sir Philip Sidney of modern Arcadia, do I address the voice of my bewailment. Not from any miserable coveting after the publicities of printing. All I implore of you is, a punch of your crutch into the very heart of a matter involving the best interests of my sex!

You, dear Mr Editor, who have your eyes garnished with Solomon's spectacles about you, cannot but have perceived on the parlour-tables and book-shelves of your fair friends—by whose firesides you are courted even as the good knight, and the Spectator, by the Lady Lizards of the days of Anne—a sudden inundation of tabby-bound volumes, addressed, in supergilt letters, to the "Wives of England"—the "Daughters of England"—the "Grandmothers of England." A few, arrayed in modest calf or embossed linen, address themselves to the sober latitudes of the manse or parsonage-house. Some treat, without permission, of "Woman's Mission"—some, in defiance of custom, of her "Duties." From exuberant 4to, down to the fid-fad concentration of 12mo—from crown demy to diamond editions—no end to these chartered documentations of the sex! The women of this favoured kingdom of Queen Victoria, appear to have been unexpectedly weighed in the balance, and found wanting in morals and manners; or why this sudden emission of codes of morality?

No one denies, indeed, that woman has, of late, ris' wonderfully in the market; or that the weaker sex is coming it amazingly strong. The sceptres of three of the first kingdoms in Europe are swayed by female hands. The first writer of young France is a woman. The first astronomer of young England, idem. Mrs Trollope played the Chesterfield and the deuce with the Yankees. Miss Martineau turned the head of the mighty Brougham. Mademoiselle d'Angeville ascended Mont Blanc, and Mademoiselle Rachel has replaced Corneille and Racine on their crumbling pedestals. I might waste hours of your precious time, sir, in perusing a list of the eminent women now competing with the rougher sex for the laurels of renown. But you know it all better than I can tell you. You have done honour due, in your time, to Joanna Baillie and Mrs Jamieson, to Caroline Southey and Miss Ferrier. You praised Mrs Butler when she deserved it; and probably esteem Mary Howitt, and Mary Mitford, and all the other Maries, at their just value—to say nothing of the Maria of Edgworthstown, so fairly worth them all. I make no doubt that you were even one of the first to do homage to the Swedish Richardson, Frederika Bremer; though, having sown your wild oats, you keep your own counsel anent novel reading.

You will, therefore, probably sympathize in the general amazement, that, at a moment when the sex is signalizing itself from pole to pole—when a Grace Darling obtains the palm for intrepidity—when the Honourable Miss Grimston's Prayer-Book is read in churches—when Mrs Fry, like hunger, eats through stone walls to call felons to repentance—when a king has descended from his throne, and a prince from royal highnesshood, to reward the virtues of the fair partners to whom they were unable to impart the rights of the blood-royal—when the fairest specimen of modern sculpture has been supplied by a female hand, and woman, in short, is at a premium throughout the universe, all this waste of sermonizing should have been thrown, like a wet blanket, over her shoulders!

But this is not enough, dear Mr Editor. I wish to direct your attention towards an exclusive branch of the grievance. I have no doubt that, in your earlier years, instead of courting your fair friends, as Burns appears to have done, with copies of your own works, you used to present unto them the "Legacy of Dr Gregory to his Daughters"—or "Mrs Chapone's Letters," or Miss Bowdler's, or Mrs Trimmer's, appropriately bound and gilt; and thus apprized of the superabundance of prose provided for their edification, are prepared to feel, with me, that if they have not Mrs Barbauld and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded by the frippery tomes which load the counters of our bazars. This perception has come of itself. If I could only be fortunate enough to enlarge your scope of comprehension!

My dear Mr Editor, I am what is called a lone woman. Shakspeare, through whose recklessness originate half the commonplaces of our land's language, thought proper to define such a condition as "SINGLE BLESSEDNESS"—though he aptly enough engrafts it on a thorn! For my part, I cannot enough admire the theory of certain modern poets, that an angel is an ethereal being, composed by the interunion in heaven, of two mortals who have been faithfully attached on earth—and as to "blessedness" being ever "single," either in this world or the next, I do not believe a word about the matter! "Happiness," Lord Byron assures us, "was born a twin!"

I do not mean to complain of my condition—far from it. But I wish to say, that since, from the small care taken by English parents to double the condition of their daughters, it is clear the state of "single blessedness" is of higher account in our own "favoured country" than in any other in Europe; it certainly behoves the guardians of the public weal to afford due protection and encouragement to spinsters.

Every body knows that Great Britain is the very fatherland of old maids. In Catholic countries, the superfluous daughters of a family are disposed of in convents and béguinages, just as in Turkey and China they are, still more humanely, drowned. In certain provinces of the east, pigs are expressly kept, to be turned into the streets at daybreak, for the purpose of devouring the female infants exposed during the night—thus benevolently securing them from the after torments of single "blessedness."

But a far nobler arrangement was made by that greatest of modern legislators, Napoleon—whose code entitles the daughters of a house to share, equally with sons, in its property and bequeathments; and in France, a woman with a dowery is as sure of courtship and marriage, as of death and burial. Nay, so much is marriage regarded among the French as the indispensable condition of the human species, that parents proceed as openly to the task of procuring a proper husband for their daughter, as of providing her with shoes and stockings. No false delicacy—no pitiful manoeuvres! The affair is treated like any other negotiation. It is a mere question of two and two making four, which enables two to make one. How far more honest than the angling and trickery of English match-making—which, by keeping men constantly on the defensive, predisposes them against attractions to which they might otherwise give way! However, as I said before, I do not wish to complain of my condition.

I only consider it hard that the interests of the wives of England are to be exclusively studied, when the unfortunate females who lack the consolations of matronhood are in so far greater want of sustainment; and that all the theories of the perfectionizement of the fair sex now issuing from the press, should purport to instruct young ladies how to qualify themselves for wives, and wives how to qualify themselves for heaven; and not a word addressed, either in the way of exhortation, remonstrance, or applause, to the highly respectable order of the female community whose cause I have taken on myself to advocate. Have not the wives of England husbands to whisper wisdom into their ears? Why, then, are they to be coaxed or lectured by tabby-bound volumes, while we are left neglected in a corner? Our earthly career, the Lord he knows, is far more trying—our temptations as much greater, as our pleasures are less; and it is mortifying indeed to find our behavior a thing so little worth interference. We may conduct ourselves, it seems, as indecorously as we think proper, for any thing the united booksellers of the United Kingdom care to the contrary!

Not that I very much wonder at literary men regarding the education of wives as a matter of moment. The worse halves of Socrates, Milton, Hooker, have been thorns in their sides, urging them into blasphemy against the sex. But is this a reason, I only ask you, for leaving, like an uncultivated waste, that holy army of martyrs, the spinsterhood of Great Britain?

Mr Editor, act like a man! Speak up for us! Write up for us! Tell these little writers of little books, that however they may think to secure dinners and suppers to themselves, by currying favour with the rulers of the roast, the greatest of all women have been SINGLE! Tell them of our Virgin Queen, Elizabeth—the patroness of their calling, the protectress of learning and learned men. Tell them of Joan of Arc, the conqueror of even English chivalry. Tell them of all the tender mercies of the Soeurs de Charité! Tell them that, from the throne to the hospital, the spinster, unharassed by the cares of private life, has been found most fruitful in public virtue.

Then, perhaps, you will persuade them that we are worth our schooling; and the "Old Maids of England" may look forward to receive a tabby-bound manual of their duties, as well as its "Wives." I have really no patience with the selfish conceit of these married women, who fancy their well-doing of such importance. See how they were held by the ancients!—treated like beasts of burden, and denied the privilege of all mental accomplishment. When the Grecian matrons affected to weep over the slain, after some victory of Themistocles, the Athenian general bade them "dry their tears, and practise a single virtue in atonement of all their weaknesses." It was to their single women the philosophers of the portico addressed their lessons; not to the domestic drudges, whom they considered only worthy to inspect the distaffs of their slaves, and produce sons for the service of the country.

In Bath, Brighton, and other spinster colonies of this island, the demand for such a work would be prodigious. The sale of canary-birds and poodles might suffer a temporary depression in consequence; but this is comparatively unimportant. Perhaps—who knows—so positive a recognition of our estate as a definite class of the community, might lead to the long desiderated establishment of a lay convent, somewhat similar to the béguinages of Flanders, though less ostensibly subject to religious law—a convent where single gentlewomen might unite together in their meals and devotions, under the government of a code of laws set forth in their tabby-bound Koran.

Methinks I see it—a modern temple of Vesta, without its tell-tale fires—square, rectangular, simple, airy, isolated—chaste as Diana and quiet as the grave—the frescoed walls commemorating the legend of Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand—the sacrifice of Jephtha's daughter—Elizabeth Carter translating Epictetus—Harriet Martineau revising the criminal code. In the hall, dear Editor, should hang the portrait of Christopher North—in that locality, appropriately, a Kit-cat!

Ponder upon this! The distinction is worthy consideration. As the newspapers say, it is an "unprecedented opportunity for investment!" For the sole Helicon of the institution shall be—"Blackwood's Entire" its lady abbess—

Your humble servant to command, (for the old maids of England,)

TABITHA GLUM.

1st Jan. 1844.

Lansdowne, Bath.

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN

PART VIII

 
"Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"
 

SHAKSPEARE.

The action was a series of those grand manoeuvres in which the Prussians excelled all the other troops of Europe. From the spot on which I stood, the whole immense plain, to the foot of the defiles of Argonne, was visible; but the combat, or rather the succession of combats, was fought along the range of hills at the distance of some miles. These I could discover only by the roar of the guns, and by an occasional cloud of smoke rising among the trees. The chief Prussian force stood in columns in the plain below me, in dark masses, making an occasional movement in advance from time to time, or sending forth a mounted officer to the troops in action. Parks of artillery lay formed in the spaces between the columns, and the baggage, a much more various and curious sight than the troops, halting in the wide grounds of what seemed some noble mansion, had already begun to exhibit the appearance of a country fair. Excepting this busy part of the scene, few things struck me as less like what I had conceived of actual war, than the quietness of every thing before and around me. The columns might nearly as well have been streets of rock; and the engagement in front was so utterly lost to view in the forest, that, except for the occasional sound of the cannon, I might have looked upon the whole scene as the immense picture of a quiet Flemish holiday. The landscape was beautiful. Some showery nights had revived the verdure, of which France has so seldom to boast in autumn; and the green of the plain almost rivalled the delicious verdure of home. The chain of hills, extending for many a league, was covered with one of the most extensive forests of the kingdom. The colours of this vast mass of foliage were glowing in all the powerful hues of the declining year, and the clouds, which slowly descended upon the horizon, with all the tinges of the west burning through their folds, appeared scarcely more than a loftier portion of those sheets of gold and purple which shone along the crown of the hills.

But while I lingered, gazing on the rich and tranquil luxury of the scene, almost forgetting that there was war in the world, I was suddenly recalled to a more substantial condition of that world by the sound of a trumpet, and the arrival of my troop, who had at length struggled up the hill, evidently surprised at finding me there, when the suttlers were in full employment within a few hundred yards below. Their petition was unanimous, to be allowed to refresh themselves and their horses at this rare opportunity; and their request, though respectful in its words, yet was so decisive in its tone, that to comply was fully as much my policy as my inclination. I mounted my horse, and proceeded, according to the humble "command" of my brave dragoons. This was a most popular movement—the men, the very horses, evidently rejoiced. The fatigue of our hard riding was past in a moment—the riders laughed and sang, the chargers snorted and pranced; and, when we trotted, huzzaing, into the baggage lines, half their motley crowd evidently conceived that some sovereign prince was come in fiery haste to make the campaign. We were received with all the applause that is given by the suttler to all arrivals with a full purse in the holsters, and a handsome valise, no matter from what source filled, on the croupe of the charger. But we had scarcely begun to taste the gifts that fortune had sent us in the shape of huge sausages and brown bread—the luxuries! for which the soldier of Teutchland wooes the goddess of war—than we found ourselves ordered to move off the ground, by the peremptory mandate of a troop of the Royal Guard, who had followed our movement, more hungry, more thirsty, and more laced and epauleted than ourselves. The Hulans tossed their lances; and it had nearly been a business of cold steel, when their officer rode up, to demand the sword of the presumptuous mutineer who had thus daringly questioned his right to starve us. While I was deliberating for a moment between the shame of a forced retreat, and the awkwardness of taking the bull by the horns, in the shape of the King's Guard, I heard a loud laugh, and my name pronounced, or rather roared, in the broadest accents of Germany. My friend Varnhorst was the man. The indefatigable and good-humoured Varnhorst, who did every thing, and was every where, was shaking my hand with the honest grasp of his honest nature, and congratulating me on my return.

"We have to do with a set of sharp fellow," said he, "in these French; a regiment of their light cavalry has somehow or other made its way between the columns of our infantry, and has been picking up stragglers last night. The duke, with whom you happen to have established a favouritism that would make you a chamberlain at the court of Brunswick, if you were not assassinated previously by the envy of the other chamberlains, or pinked by some lover of the "dames d'honneur," was beginning to be uneasy about you; and, as I had the peculiar good fortune of the Chevalier Marston's acquaintance, I was sent to pick him up if he had fallen in honourable combat in the plains of Champagne, or if any fragment of him were recoverable from the hands of the peasantry, to preserve it for the family mausoleum."

I anxiously enquired the news of the army, and the progress of the great operation which was then going on.

"We have beaten every thing before us for these three hours," was the answer. "The resistance in the plain was slight, for the French evidently intended to make their stand only in the forest. But the duke has pushed them strongly on the right flank; and, as you may perceive, the attack goes on in force." He pointed to the entrance of one of the defiles, where several columns were in movement, and where the smoke of the firing lay heavily above the trees. He then laid his watch on the table beside our champagne flask. "The time is come to execute another portion of my orders. What think you of following me, and seeing a little of the field."

"Nothing could delight me more. I am perfectly at your service."

"Then mount, and in five minutes I shall allow you one of the first officers in Europe, the Count Clairfait, he is a Walloon, 'tis true, and has the ill luck to be an Austrian brigadier besides, and, to finish his misfortune, has served only against the Turks. But for all that, if any man in the army now in the field is fit to succeed to the command, that man is the Count Clairfait. I only wish that he were a Prussian."

"Has he had any thing to do in this campaign?"

"Every thing that has been done. He has commanded the whole advance guard of the army; and let me whisper this in your ear—if his advice had been taken a week ago, we should by this time have been smoking our cigars in the Palais Royal."

"I am impatient to be introduced to the Comte; let us mount and ride on." He looked at his watch again.

"Not for ten minutes to come. If I made my appearance before him five minutes in advance of the time appointed by my orders, Clairfait would order me into arrest if I were his grandmother. He is the strictest disciplinarian between this and the North Pole."

"A faultless monster himself, I presume."

"Nearly so; he has but one fault—he is too fond of the sabre and bayonet. 'Charge,' is his word of command. His school was among the Turks, and he fights à la Turque."

"I should like him the better for it. That dash and daring is the very thing for success."

"Ay, ay—edge and point are good things in their way. But they are the temptations of the general. Frederick's maxim was—The bullet for the infantry, the spur for the dragoon. The weight of fire is the true test of infantry, the rapidity of charge is the true test of cavalry. The business of a general is manoeuvring—to menace masses by greater masses, to throw the weight of an army on a flank, to pierce a centre while the flanks were forced to stand and see it beaten; these were Frederick's lessons to his staff: and if Clairfait shall go on, with his perpetual hand to hand work, those sharp Frenchmen will soon learn his trade, and perhaps pay him back in his own coin. But, Halt squadron. Dress—advance in parade order."

While I was thus taking my first tuition in the art of heroes, we had rode through a deep ravine, from which, with some difficulty, we had struggled our way to a space of more level ground. Our disorder on reaching it, required all the count's ready skill to bring us into a condition fit for the eye of this formidable Austrian. But before we were complete, a group of mounted officers were seen coming from a column of glittering lances and sabres, resting on the distant verge of the plain. My friend pronounced the name of Clairfait, and I was introduced to the officer who was afterwards to play so distinguished a part in the gallant and melancholy history of the Flemish fields. I had pictured to myself the broad, plump face of the Walloon. I say a countenance, darkened probably by the sultry exposure of his southern campaigns, but of singular depth and power. It was impossible to doubt, that within the noble forehead before me, was lodged an intelligence of the first order. His manners were cold, yet not uncourteous, and to me he spoke with more than usual attention. But when he alluded to the proceedings of the day, and was informed by Varnhorst that the time appointed for his movement was come, I never saw a more rapid transition from the phlegm of the Netherlander to the vividness of the man of courage and genius. Waiting with his watch in his hand for the exact moment appointed in the brief despatch, it had no sooner arrived than the word was given, and his whole force, composed of Austrian light infantry and cavalry, moved forward. Nothing could be more regular than the march for the first half mile; but we then entered a portion of the forest, or rather its border, thinly scattered over an extent of broken country: to preserve the regularity of a movement along a high-road, soon began to be wholly impossible. The officers soon gave up the attempt in despair, and the troops enjoyed the disorder in the highest degree. The ground was so intersected with small trenches, cut by the foresters, that every half dozen yards presented a leap, and the clumps of bushes made it continually necessary to break the ranks. Wherever I looked, I now saw nothing but all the animation of an immense skirmish, the use of sabre and pistol alone excepted. Between two and three thousand cavalry, mounted on the finest horses of Austria and Turkey, galloping in all directions, some springing over the rivulets, some dashing through the thickets, all in the highest spirits, calling out to each other, laughing at each other's mishaps, their horses in as high spirits as themselves, bounding, rearing, neighing, springing like deer; trumpets sounding, standards tossing, officers commanding in tones of helpless authority, to which no one listened, and at which they themselves often laughed. The whole, like a vast school broke loose for a holiday; the most joyous, sportive, and certainly the most showy display that had ever caught my eye. The view strongly reminded me of some of the magnificent old hunting pieces by Snyders, the field sports of the Archduke Ferdinand, with the landscape and horses by Rubens and Jordaens: there we had every thing but the stag or the boar and the dogs. We had the noble trees, the rich deep glades, the sunny openings, the masses of green; and all crowded with life. But how infinitely superior in interest! No holiday sport, nor imperial pageant, but an army rushing into action; one of the great instruments of human power and human change called into energy. Thousands of bold lives about to be periled; a victory about to be achieved, which might fix the fate of Europe; or perhaps losses to be sustained which might cover the future generation with clouds; and all this is on the point of being done. No lazy interval to chill expectancy; within the day, within the hour, nay, within the next five hundred yards, the decisive moment might be come.

Still we rushed on; the staff pausing from time to time to listen to the distant cannonade, and ascertain by its faintness or loudness, the progress of the attack which had been made on the great centre and right defiles of the forest. In one of these, while I had ridden up as near as the broken ground would suffer me, towards Count Clairfait, he made a gesture to me to look upwards, and I saw, almost for the first time, a smile on his countenance. I followed the gesture, and saw, what to me was the novelty of a huge shell, leisurely as it seemed, traversing the air. The Count and his staff immediately galloped in all directions; but I had not escaped a hundred yards, when the shell dropped into the spot where I had been standing, and burst with a tremendous explosion almost immediately on its touching the ground. The cavalry had dispersed and the explosion was, I believe, without injury. But this, at least, gave evidence that the enemy were not far off, and the eagerness of the troops was excited to the highest pitch: all pressed forward to the front, and their cries, in all the languages of the frontier of Europe, the voices of the officers, and the clangour of the bugles and trumpets became an absolute Babel, but an infinitely bold and joyous one. The yagers were now ordered to clear the way, and a thousand Tyrolese and Transylvanian sharpshooters rushed forward to line the border. A heavy firing commenced, and the order was given to halt the cavalry until the effect of the fire was produced. This was speedily done; the enemy, evidently in inferior force and unprepared for this attack, gave way, and the first squadrons which reached the open ground made a dash among them, and took the greater part prisoners.