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Lyttelton Times, Volume III, Issue 105, 8 January 1853, Page 7

A fanatical monk, Populaki, has been preaching a sort of crusade in Greece. The populace is perfectly mad with excitement. He travels about from place to place, followed by a body of about 2000 women and children and 500 armed men. Some notion of his formidable mode of proceeding may be formed by the following proclamation which he issued when he was ordered to withdraw from Ralamata:— *' Whoever kills one of the king's soldiers is a saint; whoever is killed in a skirmish is a martyr';'whoever can kill one of the king's soldiers and refrains from doing so, shall go to hell; whoever takes part in this holy war shall keep all the booty he can lay hands on, and shall likewise receive 100 Spanish dollars ; whoever distinguishes himself shall receive military rank and honours." As soon as this proclamation appeared, the inhabitants of the city and the chief of the property were removed to a place of safety, and 60 soldiers, headed by a major, were sent in pursuit of the monk, who iled like a goat from crag to crag. They at last brought him to a stand still, and called on him to surrender. The monk replied, " Let me go, I hurt no man. lam only proclaiming the word of God, of which you are so lamentably ignorant.' The soldiers and their leaders bowed down before the monk and crossed themselves, and the major snapped his sword and suffered the robber monk to escape. The Government at Athens, upon receiving intelligence of this, immediately deposed the major and appointed another to take his \)\\\.ce.—-Galignani.

LYTTELTON COLONISTS' SOCIETY. The next ordinary meeting will be held on Wednesday evening next, January 12th.

'. Business. —Mr. Fitzgerald's proposition :— " That a Committee be appointed to draw up a Keport upon the Law of Trespass as at present enforced in this Settlement,and to suggest such alterations in the law as may be thought desirable."— The Librarian is in attendance daily to receive the Quarter's subscriptions, now due.

An Organised Party of Emigrants.—A party of highly respectable individuals, many of them of scientific acquirements, and who have resigned valuable situations in this country, have formed themselves into a party for the purpose of proceeding to the Australian gold regions. This party is to be known by a distinctive appellation. Its uumbers are limited in this country, but are to be increased in Australia. Passage has been taken for all the members in one of Green's first-class ships, just about to sail. The officers appointed over the party consist of a chairman, vice-chairman, treasurer, secretary; pioneer or captain, lieutenant, steward or storekeeper and caterer, and a chaplain. The rules the members have agreed to, signed and certified, are 56 in number, and comprehend everything that can contribute to their social and physical comfort on their voyage, and in the gold regions, and that can enable them to reap the full benefits of worldly prosperity,'or mitigate worldly adversity. By the rules, the members are to observe perfect equality towards each other in private, complete subordination to officers on duty ; they are to adhere to each other in health, sickness, or danger ; to give freely what they may be able to render in physical labour, talent, or information ; to respect religious opinions, abstain from labour on the Sabbath, avoid unnecessary controversy ; respect all possible order and cleanliness ; submit implicitly to the will of the majority ; and divide the proceeds of their common labour. The punishment for disobedience of the rules is fines, and in extreme cases, expulsion. All proceedings are to be decided by the majority of members. Provision is made in case of incurable illness or physical inability of a member: such provision has due regard to the interests of the party and to the taking proper care of the afflicted individual. The members of the party are all in the prime of life, and most of them are intimately acquainted with each other. This is the first instance of a party proceeding to the gold diggings upon ah organised and intelligible plan. Tents, light carts, a variety of useful implements, and a stock of suitable clothing, will be taken out from this country for the use of the party. A journal of its proceeding's will be kept from the day of embarkation. — Home News.

Cotton Cultivation in Australia.—The Rev. Dr. Lang, who has long been known for the interest he has taken in the colony of Australia, has submitted to tbe Manchester Chamber of Commerce, nine samples of cotton which he brought with him from Australia. These samples were of such a kind as not only delighted all by whom they were seen, but also seemed, in the opinion of Mr. T. Bazley, the president of the chamber, " indisputably to prove the capability of Australia to produce most useful and beautiful cotton, adapted to the English markets." — Home News. We hear great things of the new picture by Paul de la Roche, now resting for a few days

at Dresden on its way from Vienna to Paris. It represents the Queen of France, the beautiful Marie Antoinette, leaving the hall of her judges after hearing sentence of death passed upon her. The artist has chosen a moment of the deepest tragedy in the life of the ill-fated Queen, and has so handled the subject that the impression produced is almost startling. The tribunal before which she has been dragged chooses the darkness of night for its assembling,and the judges sit in the back ground beneath a lamp which casts a lurid glare upon their stern impassible countenances. The Queen has turned from the hall, and is passing into the light of the morning which has dawned without. The whole interest of the picture centres on her individually—-exquisite in beauty, the traces or rather ravages of agony are stamped on every feature ; tbe proud mouth set in scorn, the swollen eye heavy with burning tears, the hair luxuriantly tailing on her shoulders, whitened by the intensity of her grief, betray the fierce anguish she has endured. The tone of the colouring is described as being subdued, and the drawing vigorous.— Athenceum.

Death of the Duke of Wellington. (From the Atlas.) His Grace the Duke of Wellington died suddenly, at a quarter past three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, the 14th September, at his marine residence, Walmer Castle, where he had been staying for some time. He was seized with an epileptic fit between nine and ten o'clock in the morning, when he became insensible, and so remained up to the moment of his death in the afternoon. Nothing had occurred in the usual state of his Grace's health to cause serious uneasiness, though of course his age, and the attacks to which of late years he had been more than once exposed, rendered what has taken place extremely probable. Preserving to the last those temperate habits and that bodily activity for which he was so remarkably distinguished, on Monday he took his customary walk in the grounds attached to the Castle, inspected the stables, made many minute inquiries there, and gave directions with reference to a journey to Dover on the following day, where Lady Westmoreland was expected to arrive on a visit to Walmer. His appetite had been observed to be keener than usual, and some remarked that he looked pale while attending Divine service on Sunday, but otherwise nothing had occurred to attract notice or to excite uneasiness, and after dining heartily on venison, he retired to rest on Monday night apparenlly quite well. Lord and Lady Charles Wellesley were the only visitors at the Castle. A sudden death, caused by fits of an epileptic nature, at a very advanced age, left no opportunity for final adieus or parting words. The usual interval of sickness and suffering was spared to an exhausted frame, bowed down by the weight of years, and, after a life crowded with incidents of the highest import to his country and to mankind, the Duke of Wellington was permitted to pass from the present scene so silently that the exact moment of his departure could not be detected by those who watched his death-bed.

Early on Tuesday morning, when Mr. Kendall, the valet, came to awake him, his Grace refused to get up, and desired that the " apothecary" should be sent for immediately. In obedience to his master's orders, Mr. Kendall despatched a note to Mr. Hulke, surgeon, at Deal, who has been attached to the family for many years, and whom he desired to repair at once to the Castle, and to make a secret of the summons. So great had for many years past been the public interest in the Duke's health, that rumours and fears magnified his most trifling ailments, and the news of his desire for medical aid was consequently suppressed. Mr. Hulke hastened to the Castle, where he arrived at about nine o'clock. He found the Duke, to all appearance, suffering from indigestion, and complaining of pains in the chest and .stomach. He was in the full possession of his faculties, and described his ailment very clearly. This his last conversation on earth related entirely to his state of health, and so slight and seemingly harmless were the symptoms that Mr. Hulke confined himself to prescribing some dry toast and tea. He then left, promising to call at about eleven o'clock, but at Lord Charles Wellesley's request he said he would come at ten. Mr. Hulke on leaving called upon Dr. MsArthur, and told him what he had done, which the latter approved of. Neither of the medical gentlemen appear to have been present when the fatal attack commenced—an attack to which the Duke's constitution has for years been liable, and which, a year and a half ago, had been conquered by their successful treatment. His Grace, when seized, lost the power of speech and of consciousness. On the arrival of the medical attendants emetics were'administered, which, however, produced no effect. Every effort was used to afford relief, but in vain. His Grace was removed from bed into an arm chair, where it was thought be would be more at ease; and the attendants of his dying moments stood in a group around him, watching the last efforts uf expiring nature. On one side were Lord Charles Wellesley and Dr. M'Arthur, on, the other Mr. Hulke and the valet. As the time passed on, and no sign of relief was visible, telegraphic messages were despatched, first for Dr. Hume and then for Dr. Ferguson, who, however, were ir.ifiutiinately both out of town. Finally, Dr. Williams was sent for, but he did not arrive at the Castle till 11 o'clock at night, when all earthly aid was useless. About uuuu a fie-di attack, >liown

in the exhausted state of the patient by shivering only, came on, and from that time hardly any sign of animation could be detected. Mr. Hulke could only ascertain by the continued action of the pulse the existence of life. He felt it from time to time till about a quarter past 3, when he found that it had ceased to beat, and declared that all was over. .Dr. M'Arthur tried the other arm, and confirmed the fact; but Lord Charles Wellesley expressed his belief that the Duke still breathed, and a mirror was held to his mouth by the valet. The polished surface, however, remained undimmed, and the great commander had departed Avithout a struggle or even a sigh to mark the exact momont when the vital spark was extinguished. Expresses were immediately despatched to Lord Fitzroy Somerset, his Grace's military secretary, and to Mr. Parkinson, his solicitor, informing them of the event which had taken place, and requesting their attendance at the Castle. The news had previously reached town by telegraph, and had been communicated to Lord Fitzroy at Apsley-house, but was not credited by him until the express arrived. Dcs- , patches were also forwarded to her Majesty and the Earl of Derby, apprising them of the Duke's death. In Deal and Walmer the event produced the impression which was to be expected, and which will be shared in throughout every part of the country. All the shops were closed, the streets were deserted, the flag at the fort was hoisted half-mast high, and an air of gloom prevailed, with which the state of the weather was in sorrowful keeping. An occurrence which in the nature of things was to have been looked for, and- could not possibly long have been postponed, has taken every one by surprise at last; and though the Duke of Wellington has quitted life full of years and full of honours, the suddenness of his removal falls upon the public mind, from the greatness of the man, with something of the shock of a premature death. The Duke was in his eighty-fourth year.

We are enabled to announce that the Duke has left a will, though the contents of it as yet remain, undisclosed. It is dated as far back as 1818, and was found at Coutt's Bank. The existence of this document was, we believe, unknown even to those most nearly connected with the Duke, who, though of late years Tie had ordered several wills to be prepared, yet never could make up his mind to execute them. The Duke appears to have always avoided the subject of his own death, and the arrrangements connected with it, Those who knew him best hardly ever remember to have heard him talk of such matters: and, in illustration of this feature in his character, a curious fact may bementioned. Every one knows that he received, in the course of his long and distinguished life, many presents of immense value, and that Apsley-house is filled with a great variety of objects, theinterest attached to which can hardly be overrated. This collection, as personal property, was, of course, exposed to the risk of dispersion after the Duke's death, and, with a view to its preservation, an act of Parliament was obtained, enabling his Grace, within a space of two years, to make heirlooms of such objects as he wished to see inalienably attached to his title and estates. Singularly enough, it was not till the last day of the time thus granted that he signed the documents requisite to make the act available.

The body remains at Walmer Castle, and, indeed, there seems no good reason for hastening tbe removal to Apsley-house, as probably, two months, and perhaps a still longer period, may elapse before the public funeral takes place. Although, of course, it is desirable that a ceremonial of the kind should be concluded with as little delay as possible, the amount of preparation which it involves, the number of people to be consulted in regulating the details, and the magnitude of the scale on which the whole affair is to be conducted, all render time necessary. Though Nelson fell in October, and was brought hoinc to England without delay, it was the Bth of January before his funeral took place, and even then the arrangements were in many points extremely defective. Nor is it surprising that such should be the ease, for public ceremonials of this description are of extremely rare occurrence, and the authorities, to whose management they are entrusted, have in consequence little personal experience to guide them. It is also to be borne in mind that a State funeral is a matter

in which so many people interfere, and the chief regulation of which devolves upon officers little qualified for such a duty. The Lord Chamberlain holds his situation by a temporary tenure, and the Earl Marshal's office is hereditary in the family of the Duke of Norfolk. Both may be quite capable of drawing out programmes according to the strictest rules of etiquette, but neither have much idea of the exact limits to precedence and heraldic proprieties in the midst of a great public manifestation. The people require to be considered as well as the due ordering of the solemnities, and in this respect it is to be hoped that the funeral of Wellington will be an improvement upon that of Nelson. In the mean time, beyond the fact that the Duke's obsequies will be performed at the public expense, and in such a manner as to give the whole nation an opportunity of evincing its gratitude for his services, and its reverence for his memory, nothing is decided. Every arrangement is in abeyance until the return of the Earl of Derby from Scotland; and even after his arrival, some days will probably be occupied before the course of procedure is so far settled that the extensive preparations necessary for the funeral jioinp may be proceeded with.

One of the first questions that must be decided is the proper place for the interment, and upon this point there already exists much speculation. Of course there prevails an almost complete unanimity of opinion that the Duke should be buried either at St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey, but the feeling is divided as to which edifice should be selected. The Abbey, with its thousand historic associations, appears to some the most fitting resting-place after a life so famous. The majority, however, give the preference to the Great Metropolitan Cathedral, assigning reasons for their choice which appear convincing. They say that a funeral procession from Apsley-house into the heart of London affords facilities for a public manifestation which could never be secured along the route to Westminster: that the great area of St. Paul's will accommodate four or five times more people than the Abbey ; that on all occasions of a national character it has taken the precedence ; and, finally, that there would be an affecting propriety in laying Wellington by the side of Nelson under that gigantic dome, so grandly adapted to enshrine two such heroes. St. Paul's certainly has an undeniable advantage over the Abbey in respect to space. In the latter on coronation days there is only room for 5000 people, while the former would hold from 15,000 to 20,000 with great ease. The tomb of Nelson stands so directly in the centre of the Cathedral, that anything dropped from the ball at the top of the 'dome would fall directly upon it. The coffin is walled in with granite, and surmounted by a sarcophagus of black marble, designed by Cardinal Wolsey, for himself, but which remained unused for centuries, until placed in its present position. On the south side, the space near the tomb is occupied by the graves of some of Nelson's relatives and that of Lord Coliingwood, but the north side is still vacant, and there the Great Duke might be laid with an amount of funeral splendour adequate to express the veneration of his country.

It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of the anxiety which is being manifested throughout the country to attend the funeral. In all the towns which lie along the Great Northern Railway and other lines, information is being most eagerly sought with regard to the removal of the body to London, and there can be no doubt that,"had it been determined to convey it to Apsley-house, the metropolis would have been visited by crowds of persons thronging together to witness the lying-in-state. It is to be hoped that this ardent longing i to pay homage to the great man who has^ left us will not be disappointed, but that by the selection of some suitable place, such as Westminster Hall, and other arrangements, the nation which has suffered the loss may be able to pass by the remains of the deceased.

Although the sudden death of the Duke has taken the public by surprise, it is evident that " the press" were prepared for the event— the elaborate biographies of the deceased which appeared iv some of the leading journals on the following morning showing, both from their extreme length and their minuteness, that they could not have been written in the course of a few hours, The Times on Wednesday, in ad-

dition to a leader (the only leader in the paper) on the Duke's death and character, had nearly twenty-one cohimns devoted to his biography; and on Thursday, the article was completed in eleven columns more! The memoirs in the Daily News filled nearly twelve columns in small type. The Morning Chronicle gave no memoir of the Duke. The editor says, "While the great Duke of Wellington's ashes are hardly.'"*1, yet cold—while the greatest life which was amongst us has as yet been but barely offered up—it seems to us ungracefully and ungenerously premature, and harsh, and frigid, to treat the career which has just closed with the hurried and impromptu literary manipulation which befits an ordinary great man." We subjoin the leading article from the Times: — If aught can lessen the grief of England upon the death of her geatest son, it is the recollection that the life which has closed, leaves no duty incomplete and no honour unbestowed* The Duke of Wellington has exhausted nature and exhausted glory. His career was one unclouded longest day, filled from dawn to nightfall with renowned actions, animated by unfailing energy in the public service, guided by unswerving principles of conduct and statesmanship. He rose by a rapid series of achievments which none had surpassed to a position which no other man in this nation ever enjoyed. The place occupied by the Duke of Wellington in the councils of the country and in the life of England can no more be filled. There is none left in the army or the senate to act and speak with like authority. There is none with whom the valour and the worth of this nation were so incorporate. Yet when we consider the fulness of his years and the abundance of his incessant services, we may learn to say with the Roman orator " Satis div viocisse dicito," since, being mortal, nothing could be added either to our veneration or to his fame. Nature herself had seemed for a time to expand her inexorable limits, and the infirmities of age to lay a lighter burden on that honoured head. Generations of men have passed away between the first exploits of his arms and the last counsels of his age, until, by a lot unexampled in history, the man who had played the most conspicuous part in the annals of more than half a century became the last survivor of his contemporaries, and carries with him to the grave all living memory of his own achievements. To what a century, to what a countiy, to what achievements was that life successfully dedicated ! For its prodigious duration, for the multiplicity of'contemporary changes and events, far outnumbering the course of its days and years—for the invariable and unbroken stream of success which attended it from its commencement to its close—from the first flash of triumphant valour in Indian war to that senatorial wisdom on which the Sovereign and nation hung for counsel to its latest hour—for the unbending firmness of character which bore alike all labour and all prosperity—and for unalterable attachment to the same objects, the same principles, the same duties, undisturbed by the passions of youth, and unrelaxed by the honours and enjoyments of peace and age—the life of the Duke of Wellington stands alone in history.

In war, in politics, and in the common transactions of life, the Duke of Wellington adhered inflexibly to the most precise correctness in word and deed. His temperament abhorred disguises and despised exaggerations. The fearlessness of his actions was never the result of speculative confidence or fool-hardy presumption, but it lay mainly in a just perception, of the true relation in which he stood to his antagonists in the field or in the senate. The greatest exploits of his life—such as the passage of the Douro, followed by the march on Madrid, the battle of Waterloo, and the passing the Catholic Relief Bill—were performed under no circumstances that could inspire enthusiasm. Nothing but the coolness of the player could have won the mighty stakes upon a cast apparently so adverse to his success. Other commanders have attained the highest pitch of glory when they disposed of the colossal re-^ sources of the empires, and headed armies already flushed with the conquest of the world. The Duke of Wellington found no such encouragement in any part of his career. At no time were the means at his disposal adequate to the ready and certain execution of his designs. His steady progress in the Peninsular campaigns went on against the current of fortune,

till that current was itself turned by perseverance and resolution. He had a clear and complete perception of the dangers he encountered, but he saw and grasped the latent power which baffled those dangers and surmounted resistance apparently invincible. That is precisely the highest degree of courage—for it is courage, conscious, enlightened, and determined.

His superiority over other men consisted rather in the perfection of those qualities which he pre-eminently possessed than in the variety or extent of his faculties. These powers, which were unerring when applied to definite and certain facts, sometimes failed in the appreciation of causes which had not hitherto come under their observation. It is, perhaps, less to be wondered that the soldier and the statesman of 1815, born and bred in the highest school of Tory politics, should have miscarried in his opinion of those eventful times which followed the accession of William IV., than that the defeated opponent of Reform in 1831 should have risen into the patriot senator of 1846 and 1851. Yet the administration of 1828, in which the Duke of Wellington occupied the first and most responsible place, passed the Catholic Emancipation Act, and thereby gave the signal of a rupture in the Tory party, n'erer afterwards entirely healed, and struck the heaviest blow on a system which the growing energies of the nation resented and condemned. Resolute to oppose what he conceived to be popular clamour, no man ever recognised with more fidelity the claims cf a free nation to the gradual development of its interests and its rights ; nor were his services to the cause of liberty and improvement the less great because they usually consisted of bending the will or disarming the prejudices of their fiercest opponents. Attached by birth, by character, and by opinion, to the order and the cause of the British aristocracy, the Duke of Wellington knew that the true power of that race of nobles lies, in this age of the world, in their inviolable attachment to constitutional principles, and their honest recognition of popular rights. Although his personal resolution and his military experience qualified him better than other men to be the champion of resistance to popular turbulence and sedition, as he showed by his preparation in May, 1832, and in April, 1818, yet wisdom and forbearance were ever the handmaidens of his courage, and, while most, firmly determined to defend, if necessary, the authority of the State, he was the first to set an example of conciliatory sacrifice to the reasonable claims of the nation. He was the Catullus of our Senate, after having been our Caesar in the field; and, if the commonwealth of England had ever saluted one of her citizens with the Roman title of Parens Patriaj, that touching honour would have been added to the peerage and baton of Arthur Wellesly, by the respectful gratitude and faith of the people.

Though singularly free from every trace of cant, his mind was no stranger to the sublime influence of religious truth,' and he was assiduous in the observances of the public ritual of the church of England. At times, even in the extreme period of his age, some accident would betray the deep current of feeling which he never ceased to entertain towards all that was chivalrous and benevolent. His charities were unostentatious but extensive, and he bestowed his interest throughout life upon an incredible number of persons and things which claimed his notice and solicited his aid. Every social duty, every solemnity, every ceremony, every merrymaking, found him ready to take his part. He had a smile for the youngest child, a com • pliment for the prettiest face, an answer to the readiest tongue, and a lively incident of life, which it seemed beyond the power of age to chill. When time had somewhat relaxed the sterner mould of his manhood, its effects were chiefly indicated by an unabated taste for the amusements of fashionable society, incongruous at times with the dignity of extreme old age, and the recollections of so virile a career. But it seemed a part of the Duke's character that everything that presented itself was equally welcome, for he had become a part of everything, and it was foreign to his nature to stand aloof from any occurrence to which his presence could contribute. lie seems never to have felt the flagging spirit or the reluctant step of indolence or ennui, or to have recoiled from anything that remained to be done; and this complete performance of every duty, however small, as long as life remained,..was the same

quality which had carried him in triumph through his campaigns, and raised him to be one of the chief Ministers of England and an arbiter of the fate of Europe. It has been said that in the most active and illustrious lives there comes at last some inevitable hour of melancholy and of satiety. Upon the Duke of Wellington that hour left no impression, and probably it never shed its influence over him ; for he never rested on his former achievements or his length of days, but marched onwards to the end, still heading the youthful generations which had sprung into life around him, and scarcely less intent on their pursuits than they are themselves. It was a finely balanced mind to have worn so bravely and so well. When men in after times shall look back to the annals of England for examples of energy and public virtue among those who have raised this country to her station on earth, no name will remain more conspicuous or more unsullied than that of Arthur Wellesley, the Great Duke of Wellington. The actions of his life were extraordinary, but his character was equal to his actions. He was the very type and model of an Englishman; and though men are prone to invest the worthies of former ages with a dignity and merit they commonly withhold from their contemporaries, we can select none from the long array of our captains and our nobles who, taken for all and all, can claim a rivalry with him who is gone from amongst us, an inheritor of imperishable fame.