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THE MAHRATTA WAR.

And yet these negociations were to terminate in the most sanguinary war ever previously waged by the Anglo-Indians in Hindostan, in Wellington's victory of Assaye, and in Lake's even still more terrible victories, which fixed the British flag in Delhi, over the ruins of the great Mogul's dynasty and empire. Malcolm departed from Calcutta to his Mysore residency early in February, 1803, not satisfied with the position, because it removed him from the bustle of the capital to a distant post, and required his time in the discharge of its honourable and onerous duties. It is apparent from all the correspondence published that, at this date, the Marquis Wellesley had not any intention of risking a collision with the Mahrattas. Major Malcolm, as the confidential friend of the Governor-General, was able to give a complexion to even written letters that they did not bear on their face; and even Lord Clive at Madras consented to act upon his interpretation of an important document, although his views could only be justified by the omission of two words which certainly were found there. He joined the advanced forces under Major-General Wellesley upon the 19th March; and we may just observe in passing that, although Malcolm was the senior of Wellesley in years,—and had been far more fortunate than young men who have no hereditary patrons are usually-yet he was only a Major, although he had been Ambassador to Persia; while the future Duke of Wellington was already a Major-General, before Assaye had been gained and Argaum won; indicating thus how far political connexions serve a young man in his progress through life.

energy

The of General Wellesley at that early period gained for him more solid advantages than any political favouritism could confer. The latter only afforded to him that, which many men want, an open road to fame and power. One circumstance shows the terrible activity of the man. He wished to save Poonah from destruction, which was threatened by the Mahratta Chief, if the British forces should advance on the city. His plans were defeated by the rapidity of their march from Poonah. Major Malcolm wrote on the 21st April

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We arrived here yesterday, after a march of forty miles, which our light troops would have performed with great ease had we not been obliged to pass a most difficult ghaut, which though not half a mile in length, detained our guns five hours. After all, our damage does not exceed seven or eight horses and two or three tumbril wheels.

The march up to Poonah was perhaps unparalleled in Indian warfare. The march into Poonah on its last day was superior to the movements of a numerous force even in Europe. It had commenced long before the sun, but five hours of the day were lost, although they probably occurred at those hours when men cannot travel in India. Poonah was saved.

During the exciting summer which followed the Occupation of that city, Major Malcolm, although

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to resume.

The character of Sir John Malcolm is brought out very favourably in his home correspondence during these exciting periods. He was at the time the richest member of the family, and he paid the larger portion of the debts due by his father. For a long period he assisted materially in maintaining the numerous family at Burnfoot. Although he settled ultimately in the South of England, yet a Border home appears to have been his ambition during his early life.

The subjoined letter, written now long ago, by Sir John Malcolm to Count Woronzoff, bears on a topic of present interest :

The desire of securing the prosperity of Georgia and your other provinces in that quarter, and promoting the trade on the Caspian, will be your motives for interfering to prevent the north-western parts of Persia being disturbed, while we shall see in any troubles that disturb the southern and eestern parts of that kingdom a check to our profitable trade with the Gulf, and discover in your coming across the Arras (whatever be the professed object) a dangerous approximation to our possessions in the East. That all this will eventually happen I have no doubt. Besides the natural action of a great military empire there is (as my whole life has given me an opportunity of observing) an impelling power upon civiliresisted. These combined causes will bring Russia forward, sation when in contrast with barbarism that cannot be and there is no nation more constitutionally jealous than one which, like Great Britain, has its greatness in a considerable degree grounded upon extended commerce. wisest of nations, or, at least, those who have the greatest Besides, the anticipation of them, that mocks all calculation. reputation for wisdom, have a tendency to create evils by an

There is no subject upon which all my reasoning powers (such as they are) have been more exercised than on that of the relative interests of our respective countries regarding Persia; and the result is a conviction that as our policy must be always defensive in that quarter, it can never give serious alarm to your Court, and the latter, whether we consider the unproductiveness of the soil, or the character of the inhabitants of Persia, can have no object in advancing beyond your present limits, and the peace of all within them can be easily maintained and promoted, particularly with an increased openness and good understanding of our two nations respecting their mutual interests in this part of Asia.

In considering this question I have never entered into ever alarm men might endeavour to produce by talking of, the irrational project of an invasion of India, because, whator even making preparation for, such an expedition, I have been always convinced that the obstacles were of a magnitude that must prevent its ever being carried into execution.

The actual state of the British power in India must baffle all predatory efforts, and before a regular and well supported invasion could be attempted, a very lengthened line of communication must be made through countries which are, generally speaking, either desolate, or inhabited by the most rude and barbarous tribes of the universe. These, as and, after all, supposing an enormous sacrifice of wealth, and a part of this plan, must be civilised-no slight process;

16

CHARACTER OF SIR JOHN MALCOLM.

the lives of Russian soldiers, they had brought their victorious standards to Delhi-that they had, as was once proposed to Bonaparte," Hanged the Mogul in his grandmother's garters" -what would they do next ?-where march? How would they manage the country? Could they rely on the native princes-all the turbulent tribes, whom their success had emancipated from the English rule? Can it ever occur to any man in his senses that India is either worth conquering, or can be preserved by any nation that does not possess the superiority at sea? But I will not insult your good understanding by anything further upon this part of the subject. Continental Europe must leave England to subdue herself in the East before the invasion is contemplated in anything but a pamphlet.

Though a century or two must elapse before the revolution to which I have alluded happens, yet, if you and I live long, we shall hear and see as much clashing of interests upon this point as if it was a real and proximate danger. I have received late letters from Persia stating that the King has charged his ambassador in England to solicit my return; but I have no such wish. To a flying mission I would not object; but I want no residence there. I should like to go home through Russia, and, above all delight in seeing you again. Make my kind remembrance to the friends who recollect me.

We apprehend that this letter was written in a diplomatic spirit. Sir John Malcolm could not deceive the Russian into a belief in the unproductiveness of the Persian soil; for the Count Woronzoff had ample means of obtaining information. To his father, at Burnfoot, Sir John Malcolm had previously written-"The climate of this country is delightful. Had it the constitution of Great Britain, its inhabitants need not sigh for Paradise. As it is, I would rather live on Douglan Hill." It is curious how acute men deceive themselves regarding constitutions. At that time, Mr. Malcolm, of Burnfoot, to whom this letter was sent, had, probably, no vote whatever in the management of the business of his conntry. Scotland had then no ten-pounders even.

The following extracts show the means by which the great influence of the Malcolms in Indian life was obtained and preserved:

The great secret of Malcolm's success was, that he was neither too native nor too European. He understood the native character, and he could sympathise with the feelings of the native; but he never fell into native habits. There were political officers at this time who, under the deteriorating influences of isolation, sank into the very opposite extreme of the Calcutta civilian school here glanced at; and Malcolm commented on this evil as one to be as much deplored as the It was by preserving the high tone and the pure life of the English gentleman, and yet carrying to his work no European prejudices, no cut-and-dried maxims of European policy, to be applied however inapplicable to all cases of native Government, that Malcolm achieved an amount of success, and acquired a reputation among the people of

other.

Central India such as no man before or since ever earned for himself in that part of the world. When Bishop Heber, a few years afterwards, visited this tract of country, he wrote in his journal :-"How great must be the difficulties attendant on power in these provinces, when, except Sir John Malcolm, I have heard of no one whom all parties agree in commending. His talents, his accessibility, his firmness, his conciliating manners, and admirable knowledge of the native language and character, are spoken of in the same terms by all."

Nor were the tokens of respect amidst which Malcolm

quitted the country confined to these local manifestations. The Governor-General bade him God speed from Calcutta, and issued an order expressive of the high sense of the distinguished services of Sir John Malcolm entertained by the Supreme Government. After referring generally to his long career of distinguished service, the Government passed the following eulogium on his conduct in Central India :-" By a happy combination of qualities, which could not fail to win the esteem and confidence both of his own countrymen and of the native inhabitants of all classes, by the unremitting personal exertion and devotion of his time and labour to the maintenance of the interests confided to his charge, and by an enviable talent for inspiring all who acted under his orders with his own energy and zeal, Sir John Malcolm has been enabled, in the successful performance of the duty assigned him in Malwah, to surmount difficulties of no ordinary stamp, and to lay the foundations of repose and prosperity in that extensive province, but recently reclaimed from a state of savage anarchy, and a prey to every species of rapine and devastation."

But even more acceptable to him than this public testimonial was one which came to him from the political officers who had worked under him in Central India. They raised a liberal subscription among themselves for the purchase of a magnificent silver vase, which was afterwards presented to him in England. As a memorial of his labours in Central India, and of the many loving friends associated with him in this good work, it was ever greatly valued by him, beyond, as he said, anything he possessed.

«I shall view it with pride; and, when I am no more, my "While I live," he wrote, acknowledging the testimonial, children shall have learnt to contemplate it as a trophy of friendship, which their father won by cherishing habits and sentiments not unworthy of their emulation."

And they might well be proud, not only of this trophy of friendship, but of the good work done in Central India, whom they delighted to recognise as their master no less which had knit all these fellow-labourers together under one than they renerated him as a friend. Years afterwards, one of these children, then a captain of dragoons, travelling through Malwah, on his way to his regiment, met with the most touching proofs of the affection with which the memory of his father's good deeds was held by the people of the country. From all parts they came out to pay their respects to the son of Sir John Malcolm, pouring benedictions upon him for his father's sake, and loud in their expressions of gratitude to the friend to whom they owed so much. Many able public servants have since then laboured in Central India, but no name is so universally venerated as that of Sir John Malcolm.

This biography is an important contribution to Anglo-Indian history, although not the only one for which the country is indebted to its author. It is dffiicult to name a more interesting character in the same field than Sir John Malcolm, as a diplomatic, literary, and military man; although combinations change so rapidly in India, that with all his knowledge of character, he was deceived often, as in the contest with the Mahrattas, or when he wrote that our position towards Persia must always be defensive; and when he could not foresee the extension of our empire to Kurrachee and Peshawur, or the events which have rendered the Indus as much an Anglo-Indian river, as was the Ganges, when he first sailed up its waters, in a month, to Benares, from Calcutta, not dreaming of the rapidly coming day, when political messengers will travel no more rapidly than ordinary people, and yet pass between the cities in a single day.

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Ir was eleven o'clock on a cold New Year's Eve -of what year is of little moment, and less interest that I sat by the side of a bright log fire, in a dark, oak-wainscotted room, in a quaint, ivy-grown, Elizabethan manor-house, in Kent, a house, by-the-bye, bearing a somewhat "awesome" reputation among the simple cottagers of our village, on account of the alleged nocturnal visita tions of certain defunct gentlemen, ermined judges, gay light-o'-love cavaliers, and Tybalts of the first water, whose portraits frown down on their unworthy descendant from these walls; moreover, if credence can be given to the tedious holdingsforth of a grey-haired housekeeper of ours, at winter conclaves round the fire of the servants' hall, whenever the aforesaid ghostly visitants are pleased to favour the long, dreary, picture-hung rooms of this rambling old house with their presence, there is always heard during the weird midnight hour, a sound as of unearthly whisper ings, and muttering voices, till the same worthy domestic, lying in her warm bed, with the counterpane drawn tightly over her excited organs of sense-ears, eyes, nose, and mouth—is half delirious with the real or imagined horrors of such unhallowed nights. How this may be, I know not, and care as little. It is not on such ghostly subjects that my mind loves to dwell. I was never given to hobgoblin-cooking by the simple spell of a morbid imagination. I have little inclination, during my constant listenings to the chimes at midnight, to conjure up chimeras from charnelhouses to sit opposite to me, as I recline in this snug arm chair, with my meerschaum in my mouth, and my feet on the fender. Yet I am by no means destitute of that faculty peculiar to men who live much by or in themselves, whereby they can make things past present, or can even grasp by expectancy, the cloudy future, till it unfolds its "silver lining" to the dreamer who calls memory and imagination to his councils. Here I sat then-as I am sitting now-silently, sorrowfully, lonely, yet

never less alone. I have lived long years by myself, dear reader, and lonely men have queer ideas touching loneliness. Loneliness to me and men like me is not solitude, any more than a throng is society. The first breeds thought-the second dispels those waking-dreams wherewithal we lonely men, in our silent chambers, by our gleaming hearths, wrap ourselves as with a cloak. A quiet room, with its adjuncts of a roaring fire and a meerschaum charged with "right Varinas," is in nowise like the Balclutha of Ossian-it is in nowise desolate-its inmate can people it at will, by the exercise of memory's high prerogative, with sweet shadows trooping on from the past, or with the stray hopes for the future, intensified almost into hale, material life. Ask the student, pale with many a vigil kept over high and holy thoughts, in the hours "when night makes a weird sound of its own stillness," as he sits in his silent chamber, whiling away the midnight in eager communion with the mighty minds of the intellectual Titans -the mortal gods of a bygone time-as he sits poring over his huge, dusty tomes, whence, as though from their forgotten graves, the departed great he so reveres, being dead, yet speak to his soul; ask such an one, of the high, pale brow, and pure, poet-heart, if his mind is weary of his solitude, or if that dimly-lighted chamber of his is nothing but an unpeopled void. He is a recluse

a pure-souled worker-an acolyte of perfectibility-but yet, oh gentlest of readers, that man, and the many men of whom he is my chosen type, is, and are in nowise solitary. Doth not imagina. tion people his room with the ghost-like shadows of the flickering firelight, flitting stealthily along the dark, blank wall, with swarming phantasies which come and go, as unbidden visitants-as longregretted companions, leaving behind them lifelong memories as of the real, embodied presence of an earthly friend?

I was then, that New Year's Eve, no longer the listless ennuyé I had been all that day, as I strolled

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through dreary woods, over rustling leaves, over damp, misty meadows, startling the snipe away on whirring wing at every step I took; or on the long, terraced walk, with no other companion than a compassionate robin who seemed the only "embodied joy" of that deserted place, as he poured forth a sweetly-trilled song in the thankless ears of his "co-mate and brother in exile." How gloomily had I hated that sweet singer in my selfish sorrow! how I refused to be comforted, resolutely sulky ingrate as I was! Seemed not then the blithe music of that morning song but as a mocking voice from the past? But at nightfall, by my own fireside, with memory for my Achates, I wandered back into the golden dream-land of a half-forgotten past, now joying over early joys, now lamenting, in a strain half-sweet, half-sad, over early sorrows. Called up by memory, by a spell potent as hers of Endor, from the graves that Time delves for all joys that would else make man too loath to leave this weary world, come, hand in hand, departed friends, the fresh, young feelings, the lofty, yet undefined aspirations of the past-beckoned from afar, and brought by earnest, outlooking hope, to the fireside of the dreamer-into the thoughtthronged present come imaginations, as yet unenjoyed fulfilments, till the lonely one, keeping vigil over falling embers, is in "the seventh heaven" of dreamy bliss, being, even as he of whom Paul spake, "in a trance, yet having his eyes open."

Aye, on that same wild, wintry New Year's Eve, with the night wind making rude music as it sighed through the swaying pine tops, or moaned through the leafless trees, I was no more alone than you, reader, may be, when you sit around "the bonnie, blithe, blink o' your ain fireside," with your rosy-cheeked little ones playing at your feet, and your life's love at your side, singing some cheery ditty of her joyous girlhood. I think the poet errs not when he imagines a room like this peopled by the forms of the departed entering "at the open door" in angel guise, a holy presence felt solemnly, though to the fleshly eye unseen.

Most of us have two minds, the children, so to speak, of opposite influences-the hard, materia!, working-day spirit, and the purer, memory-softened, mildly speculative. Most of us have lost dear friends; and to most of us, I trust, God in our solitude sends dreamy glimpses of them, or, at least, ministering memories, fraught with a quiet sadness too pure for sorrow. By day, when the turmoil of the busy world without crushes all those gentle fancies, we may think unkindly of the past, despising its teachings, sneering callously at our better mind and former selves-but at nightfall, when we have closely drawn the rustling curtains and given up our souls unresistingly to the influences of time and place, we live again another and a truer life. The past is then present to us-we smile and sigh in quiet alternations, till the Marah of our worldliness is forgotten in a childlike, abstracted simplicity of soul. Many,

sweet in their very sadness, were the imaginings that thronged that room with fancies delicate as Ariel.

Again, the little meadow stretching greenly away to the edge of the river where first I met my lost love, was present to my mind-there once more she stood a palpable presence of beauty before me, with that quiet, dreamy sinile of hers that often led me to believe, in lover's fond reverence, that she was indeed but "present in the body" while her soul was elsewhere and afar -wandering away among the white, floating clouds with the soaring lark, or catching glorious glimpses of man's looked for hereafter at the portals of Heaven. These fancies may be the very scum and lees of speculation" to clearer heads and colder hearts; I care not-though I may never more on earth so vaguely conjecture, still in Schiller's love-wise words-

Ich habe genossen das irdische glück,
Ich have gelebt und geliebet-

I have dreamed my dream-the world has struck
home with sorrow to my heart-I may dream it
never more-I awake, and my cheek is wet with
tears. Is not memory stronger than the grave?
Again, my heart is beating, and my cheek is
flushing as of old. If, as say the children of this
world, wise in their generation, this was a lover's
frenzy-I would make answer that, if so, it was a
genial madness, a soul-purifying dream, which men,
who have dreamed it not, may contemn to their
own cold hearts as they will. I mentioned a while
ago a bygone New Year's Eve, because it was then
that I first fell into waking dreams, and so I
wished to have something definite to start from,
and something life-like to rest on, lest I be carried
helplessly away a bondsman into dream-land
altogether-of which I see my danger-yet can
hardly deplore such pleasant wandering now. For
now the shadows of my fire are flickering once
more along that oaken wainscot, and I hie away to
the past. Am I dreaming, or is not my dead
Helen's voice pleading softly against man's wilful-
ness, again ringing in my ear, sweet as
on that
unforgotten July evening, when for a few light
words spoken in merry jest, accepted in blind,
bitter earnest, we two parted never again to meet !

Such were the thoughts of that New Year's Eve; such are my thoughts now. Surely a quiet night like this should be hallowed to me by angel visits, by the compassionate spirit of her who is now a saint with God.

I see again-alas! that it should be but faintly and as through a mist of tears-the white gate swinging on its hinges heavily, creaking in the wind as she passes through, with a scarlet flush on her fair face, leaving me to pride's vain regrets for evermore. Well, as with the slumber sealed, spirit-opened eye of one in sleep, I see her now, walking slowly, with downcast eyes, through the long grass, damp with evening dew, through the old church yard, to the little

BROKEN MEMORIES.

grave with its white headstone in strong relief against the twilight sky, where her mother sleeps in death. Reader-if I be a dreamy egotist, a babbler of the past, bear with me; such things have been, or may be, in your life. Is a lost love a mere fancy? Is memory a liar? Has remorse no sting? Alas! we parted in anger, and met

never more

For life is thorny, youth is vain,
And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness on the brain.

Pride will not stoop, though young love lie bleed ing. Let grief be love's Nemesis on pride! So we parted; so in this room to-night, do I now in imagination, renew that parting-not in anger, but with hot tears glistening in my eyes. There, on my hearth lies a half-decayed ember, there a jagged, gleaming, fantastic cinder. Fancy has a witchcraft of her own-let Fancy speak. Now to me that is not a common ember; that is not a mere charred fragment of a faggot. These respectively symbo. lise an old church and a lowly grave. In that church I prayed, a happy child, at my love's side; in that church I learned that peace the world cannot give nor take away-and by that church wall I hope to sleep, when life is over, and calmly

Resteth my unquiet heart Under the quiet daisies.

Men say I am an aimless dreamer-m -men mock me and my day-dreams-of a truth they are something better than mere hollow seemings, for there lurks a spell in my vicinity this night which drags me away, as it were by the heart-strings, to my dead love's lowly grave. There, beneath the daisies and harebells of summer, lies that gentle heart-never shall love, outraged by mad jealousy, wounded by bitter scorn, bring one flush more on that cold, pale cheek.

In my well-worn, half-open escritoire, lies a paper of rose leaves, which she plucked long ago for me, withered like my hopes. I will carry these dead leaflets and strew them to-morrow upon

her grave.

CHAPTER II.

Mine eyes dazzle-She died young.

I think not so-his infelicity
Seemed to have years too many.

Webster's "Duchess of Malfi."

19

I HAVE replenished my meerschaum as the night wears on apace-I could not sleep-so I will pile more logs upon my fire, and then fall to memories of the past once more. The smoke-rings curl gracefully away-"a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, ,"to speak after the manner of "Hiawatha"the smoke-rings, the time, the place, conspire to remind me of a dead friend " 'gifted, yet most unfortunate." Many a year ago, sitting by this hearth side, talked I through the night with him whose mellow voice is now silent for ever. We had been happy children together-nurtured on the same hill side, school friends, college chums, inseparable on river, cricket ground, and field; as boys we clomb the same trees, dabbled in the same brook-angled for long hours together, with casts of flies round our hats and "Izaak Walton" in our pockets-or strolled arm in arm over dreary heath land, poring over Cicero's "De Amicitiâ" whose theory agreed so well with our loving practice. Long ago, walked I across those fields, now dark and dreary under a clouded moon, with him who was to me the dearest of childhood's second selves. I have no such friend now. How often on that terrace, where now I hear nothing but the rustling of leaves dancing over damp gravel, and the song of the night wind through the evergreens, have we two, in the pleasant summer twilight, strolled lovingly in joyous converse, when Youth, life's veritable alchemist, could transmute in Hope's magic crucible all the unpleasant realities of school and idle fancies of leisure into joy! That power leaves us with boyhood for the most part; we indeed toil, wander widely for materials to fill Hope's crucible withal, we sublime them-and the result is-but an aching heart, and a caput mortuum!

Then the simple sense of strong, young life was of itself enough to flood our pulses with a joy unutterable; then-alas! that Nature's face should now, as then, be as lovingly upturned to

But the poet teaches a high and holy truth when win my love, yet half in vain a summer evening, he sings, in love's wisdom wise,

"Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.

Who knows but that the All-Merciful, looking down in pity on his sorrowing children here, sends memory unto them as a Paraclete?

The embers are falling-their sound grates on this reverie-let me crush all bitter memories, and pay one more mental pilgrimage to that dead maiden's grave.

with its golden mists floating lazily over our glimmering river, with the coots diving merrily under the willow's drooping boughs, was more to us than summer evenings can be to me now.

They were to us emphatically what Byron said "high mountains" were to him-"a feeling;" and that was not less vivid because of my utter inability to paint it, now it is dead, in cold wordpictures like these. The fantastic banks of sunlit clouds were to us something more than mere gross exhalations of the marsh near home. They were the enchanted palaces wherein our Aladdin-like fancies disported-the treasure house whence we could filch mistily-pleasant thoughts, miniature Edens, with bright reflections of the joys of Satur

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