sustain his reputation, and which led to those discoveries that are now the glory of his name. It is on these discoveries alone that Davy's great reputation must ultimately depend; for his published works on scientific subjects, though, proceeding from such a source, they could not be without value, are not by any means equal to his fame. His later writings, "Salmonia" and "The Last Days of a Philosopher," came from his pen after he had suffered from an apoplectic seizure, which, however slight, is generally felt as the touch of death. He submitted to great labor, not to speak of serious dangers, in making his experiments; but the labor of writing is of a different kind, much less exciting, and requiring, not impulse, but still and patient determination, as we, in our critical capacity, have sufficient reason to know. He was fond of society, though English in his manners; that is, shy and reserved, covering with a somewhat supercilious bearing the conscious want of self-possession. But he was also fond to enthusiasm of natural scenery, a taste which implies a certain degree of refinement; though Lord Brougham represents him as indifferent as the Chancellor himself is to the fine arts, and willing to confess that deficiency which others so ambitiously conceal.

Much has recently been said of the failure of his "safety lamp," which, when first invented, was so warmly hailed as a perfect security against those terrible firedamp explosions in mines, by which so many lives were destroyed. The free use of this lamp he generously gave to the public, without securing to himself any benefit from the invention. It seems very strange, that, after thirty years' experience of its value, without any suspicion arising that the safeguard was not complete, it should all at once be found useless. One cannot help thinking, that the fault is less in the lamp itself than in the carelessness of those who use it, men, for the most part, very indifferent to dangers and precautions. But we are told, that the lamp, which in a still atmosphere affords a perfect security, does not prevent a current of air from passing through the meshes of the wire to the flame, and so causing an explosion. Had the inventor lived, he would doubtless have found means to obviate this objection, which is serious, because, in mining, currents of air often come without any possible warning. But such failures cannot be common; for Lord Brougham says that a great engineer

bore testimony before a parliamentary committee, that he had seen a thousand, and sometimes fifteen hundred, safety lamps in daily use, and in every possible variety of explosive mixtures, and never had known a solitary instance of an explosion. So, then, the value of the invention is undeniable, and the amount of security which it affords is beyond all price, even if there are circumstances in which it is not complete.

Without saying any thing of the life of Simson, the mathematician, which closes this first volume, we shall only express our satisfaction at seeing these portraits executed by so eminent a hand. Even if they had no other value, they would make us acquainted with the opinions of the writer, who is as much a subject of interest as any individual whose lineaments he has drawn. He shows a familiarity with the details of science, of the mathematics particularly, which could hardly be expected after the busy and tumultuous life which he has led. This cannot be a mere remnant of early education; he must have given to these pursuits the same sort of attention which English statesmen generally devote to classical studies and recollections. And the effect is seen in his oratory, as reported, where strength and energy abound, while grace and elegance are wanting. His style is bold and manly, though sometimes strangely careless and lounging; but it is always expressive of his mind and heart, and through the most labyrinthian sentence it is always easy to follow the sentiments and reasoning of the writer. These are strong in favor of liberality, truth, and freedom; too strong to be relished always by the blind adorers of the past. It is not to be denied, that there is here and there some slight want of Christian meekness; but his buffets are generally bestowed on those who deserve them. He abounds in unfriends, as the Scotch call them, having carried on for years a large and successful manufacture of that article, which few desire to possess. But on the whole, we say, Serus in cœlum redeat; if that be his destination, which the persons last mentioned will be inclined to question; and whenever he departs, let it be remembered, that he lifted his heavy warclub on the side of liberty and toleration, and struck many a crushing blow at the enemies of truth and virtue, while soundly belaboring his own.

ART. V.1. Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford, to Sir Horace Mann, his Britannic Majesty's Resident at the Court of Florence, from 1760 to 1785. Now first published from the original MSS. Concluding Series. Philadelphia Lea & Blanchard. 1844. 2 vols. 8vo. 2. Memoirs of the Reign of King George the Third. By HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD, youngest Son of Sir Robert Walpole. Now first published from the original MSS. Edited, with Notes, by SIR DENIS LE MARCHANT. London: Bentley. London Bentley. 1844. 2 vols. 8vo.

It is not long since the collected correspondence of Horace Walpole was made the subject of an article in this Journal. We certainly did not at that time expect another large addition to be so soon made to it. We had scarcely reflected enough upon those curious provisions of his last will, by which he seems to have studied to fix the attention of posterity for an indefinite period upon himself. It is true, that the ostensible cause of the sealing up of the contents of the blue chests marked A and B for many years after his death was, that "the wit of the dead should be reserved until it could appear without pain to the living." We are therefore to infer from the present publication that those, being, as the preface tells us," the immediate descendants of the subjects of some of Walpole's racy anecdotes, who might have been pained by their early publication," are now all dead. "The Earl of Euston, surviving executor of the late Earl of Waldegrave, has placed the whole of Walpole's unpublished manuscripts, including his letters, memoirs, private journals, &c., in the hands of Mr. Bentley"; and the works now before us are the first results of this step. How much more is to come it is impossible to conjecture. But we may, perhaps, be allowed to express some doubt of the genuineness of the charity which confines its regard to the feelings of one generation only. Horace Walpole might have remembered, that the immediate descendants of the subjects of his racy anecdotes would probably leave an increasing circle of posterity, and that the revival of long-forgotten stories would be more likely to give pain to them than the scandal itself probably did to their parents in a generation to which it had ceased to be any novelty. In England, where the pride

of descent is peculiarly strong, we should be inclined to consider this mode of proceeding rather as refining upon cruelty, than to give the author of it much credit for his generosity. In this view, Walpole appears in little better light than the fox in the fable. He well knew his own unfortunate family history; and probably supposing that it could not escape the investigation which his own writings would be likely to invite, he became the less inclined to spare his wit for the sake of saving his neighbours. The directions of his will seem to us, therefore, to have had a very different intent from the one assigned. They bear the mark of the author's original mind. A more ingenious mode of endeavouring to keep the public curiosity continually awake to his productions for a long period after his death was never contrived. If it proved successful, he might well afford to appear to save the feelings of one generation in the pursuit of his object, particularly as he left no one behind him liable to suffer much by any attempt at retaliation.

But whatever may be our judgment of the motives of the author, the world has most to do with his works. If Walpole has succeeded in showing off to the greatest possible effect the panorama of high life in England during half a century, with all its spots, whether of darkness or brightness, posterity will thank him and take little account of the family feelings he may have lacerated in the process. That he has done this, few who read his works will be inclined to deny. His letters are the history of his generation put into a most readable shape; not always exactly correct, may be, but hitting the truth in the long run more accurately than any formal and elaborate narrative written by some one a century or two afterwards in the seclusion of his closet. The only thing we fear for them is that the collection is becoming too voluminous. The twenty or thirty volumes of Voltaire's correspondence have already furnished a signal example how much a distinguished man will sometimes repeat himself. Yet, as compared with Walpole, he appears to write rather from impulse than meditation, and with the characteristic vivacity of his country. His repeating seems, therefore, to be natural, and like that of a man in conversation upon the same general topics with a succession of individuals. It is not so with Walpole. His phrases are too nicely picked; his anecdotes too carefully told. When they are read the first time, they earn

for him the credit of ready wit. But when seen to be transferred from place to place with no essential change, they smack something too much of study. Neither do we detect this solely in his letters. He often produces in his "Memoirs" the counterpart of what he writes to Lord Hertford, or Mann, or Montague. We find the same stories in even the same words. We must, then, already begin to deny him the greatest merit of epistolary composition, its natural and spontaneous flow. But besides this, the repetition of the same thing, however well told, when it is not connected with important events, soon becomes fatiguing. We are not sure that the publication of a great many letters, even though they may in themselves be excellent, is not dangerous to a writer. Even a spirited conversation may be kept up until listening becomes a labor. Madame de Sévigné is scarcely read so much now as when her collection was embraced in small compass. And so it will be with Walpole. The last volume of these letters to Sir Horace Mann will oftener be shut up than read through. Satiety, always to be apprehended in literature, is peculiarly likely to happen in epistolary composition, even though the author be the best in that department to be found in the language.

After all, the chief value of Walpole's letters does not depend upon the epigrammatic form of his style. It is to be found in the contribution they make to the knowledge of his times. They describe not merely great events, but men and manners, in so vivid a manner as to make his voluntary addition of a formal narrative a work of supererogation. With the exception of a sketch or two of striking scenes in parliament, we remember little of the "Memoirs of George the Second," formerly published under the eye of Lord Holland, worth preserving. And, if we are to judge of the continuation into the succeeding reign, now edited by Sir Denis Le Marchant, from the half of it which has appeared and is before us, our verdict would not be very much more friendly. The mere change of form, which gives to the same array of facts and impressions the appearance of history instead of conversation, does not give us a whit more of confidence in their accuracy. The author himself guards his readers against misconception on this score. He does not claim to write a narrative like a cool and impartial judge of probabilities. He gives his view of events and