country, rich in all charms of field and town. Waving blooming country of the brightest green; dotted all over with handsome villas, handsome groves; crossed by roads and human traffic, here inaudible or heard only as a musical hum; and behind all swam, under olivetinted haze, the illimitable limitary ocean of London, with its domes and steeples definite in the sun, big Paul's and the many memories attached to it hanging

high over all. Nowhere, of its kind, could you see a grander prospect on a bright summer day, with the set of the air going southward-southward, and so draping with the city-smoke not you but the city. Here for hours would Coleridge talk concerning all conceivable or inconceivable things; and liked nothing better than to have an intelligent, or failing that, even a silent and patient human listener. He distinguished himself to all that ever heard him as at least the most surprising talker extant in this world-and to some small minority, by no means to all, as the most excellent. . . . Brow and head were round, and of massive weight, but the face was flabby and irresolute. The deep eyes of a light hazel were as full of sorrow as of inspiration; confused pain looked mildly from them, as in a kind of mild astonishment. The whole figure and air, good and amiable otherwise, might be called flabby and irresolute; expressive of weakness under possibility of strength. He hung loosely on his limbs, with knees bent, and stooping attitude; in walking, he rather shuffled than decisively stepped; and a lady once remarked, he never could fix which side of the garden-walk would suit him best, but continually shifted, in corkscrew fashion, and kept trying both. A heavy-laden, high-aspiring, and surely much-suffering man. His voice, naturally soft and good, had contracted itself into a plaintive snuffle and sing-song; he spoke as if preaching-you would have said preaching earnestly and also hopelessly the weightiest things. I still recollect his 'object' and subject,' terms of continual recurrence in the Kantean province; and how he sung and snuffled them into om-m-mject' and 'sum-m-mject,' with a kind of solemn shake or quaver, as he rolled along. No talk in his century, or in any other, could be more surprising.

In 1858 appeared the first portion of Mr Carlyle's long-expected work, the History of Friedrich II., called Frederick the Great, volumes i. and ii. The third and fourth volumes were published in 1862, and the fifth and sixth, completing the work, in 1865. A considerable part of the first volume is devoted to 'clearing the way' for the approach of the hero, and tracing the Houses of Brandenburg and Hohenzollern. Frederick, as Mr Carlyle admits, was rather a questionable hero. But he was a reality, and had 'nothing whatever of the hypocrite or phantasm.' This was the biographer's inducement and encouragement to study his life. How this man, officially a king withal, comported himself in the eighteenth century, and managed not to be a liar and charlatan as his century was, deserves to be seen a little by men and kings, and may silently have didactic meanings in it.' And the eighteenth century is cordially abused as a period of worthlessness and inanity. "What little it did, we must call Friedrich; what little it thought, Voltaire.' But as the eighteenth century had also David Hume, Adam Smith, Samuel Johnson, Henry Fielding, and Robert Burns-to say nothing of Chatham and Burke, we must demur to such extravagant and wholesale condemnation. These idiosyncrasies and prejudices of Mr Carlyle must be taken, like his peculiar style, because they are accompanied by better things-by patient historical research, by vivid

glances across the mists of history,' by humour, pathos, and eloquence.

Shortly after the completion of this laborious History, Mr Carlyle was elected Lord Rector of Edinburgh University, and on April 2, 1866, he delivered his installation address-an extemporaneous effusion, or at least spoken without notes, and quite equal, in literary power, to his published

works.

His triumph on this occasion was followed by a heavy calamity, the loss of his wife, who died before his return to England. For forty years she was the true and loving helpmate of her husband, and by act and word unweariedly forwarded him as none else could, in all of worthy that he did or attempted. She died at London, 21st April 1866, suddenly snatched away from him, and the light of his life as if gone out.' Such is part of the inscription on the tomb of this excel

lent woman.

The subsequent publications of Mr Carlyle have been short addresses on the topics of the day. In 1867 an article in Macmillan's Magazine entitled Shooting Niagara, in the style of the Latter-day Pamphlets, predicted a series of evils and disasters from the Reform Act; another occasional utterance was in favour of emigration; and a third, on the war between France and Germany (1870), expressed the joy of the writer over the defeat of France. The fame of Mr

Carlyle has been gradually extending, and a cheap edition of his works has reached the great sale of 30,000 copies.

A brother of Mr Carlyle-DR J. A. CARLYLE, an accomplished physician-has published an admirable prose translation of the Inferno of Dante.

Frederick the Great.

About fourscore years ago, there used to be seen sauntering on the terraces of Sans-Souci, for a short where at an earlier hour, riding or driving in a rapid time in the afternoon, or you might have met him elsebusiness manner, on the open roads or through the scraggy woods and avenues of that intricate amphibious Potsdam region, a highly interesting lean little old man, of alert though slightly stooping figure; whose name among strangers was King Friedrich the Second, or Frederick the Great of Prussia, and at home among the common people, who much loved and esteemed him, was Vater Fritz-Father Fred-a name of familiarity which had not bred contempt in that instance. He is a king every inch of him, though without the trappings of a king. Presents himself in a Spartan simplicity of vesture: old, or trampled and kneaded into absolute softness, no crown but an old military cocked-hat-generally if new; no sceptre but one like Agamemnon's, a walkingstick cut from the woods, which serves also as a ridingstick (with which he hits the horse between the ears,' say authors); and for royal robes, a mere soldier's blue coat with red facings-coat likely to be old, and sure to have a good deal of Spanish snuff on the breast of it; rest of the apparel dim, unobtrusive in colour or cut, ending in high over-knee military boots, which may be brushed (and, I hope, kept soft with an underhand suspicion of oil), but are not permitted to be blackened bidden to approach. The man is not of god-like physior varnished; Day and Martin with their soot-pots forognomy, any more than of imposing stature or costume; close-shut mouth with thin lips, prominent jaws and nose, receding brow, by no means of Olympian height; head, however, is of long form, and has superlative gray eyes in it. Not what is called a beautiful man; nor yet, by all appearance, what is called a happy. On the

It is yellow July evening, we say, the 13th of the month, eve of the Bastille day, when M. Marat, four years ago, in the crowd of the Pont-Neuf, shrewdly required of that Bessenval hussar party, which had such friendly dispositions, 'to dismount and give up their arms then,' and became notable among patriot men. Four years; what a road he has travelled; and sits now, about half-past seven of the clock, stewing in slipper-bath, sore afflicted; ill of Revolution fever-of what other malady this history had rather not name. Excessively sick and worn, poor man, with precisely elevenpence-halfpenny of ready money in paper; with slipper-bath, strong three-footed stool for writing on the while; and a squalid washerwoman, one may call her: that is his civic establishment in Medical School Street; thither and not elsewhither has his road led him-not to the reign of brotherhood and perfect felicity, yet surely on the way towards that. Hark! a rap again! a musical woman's voice, refusing to be rejected: it is the citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat, recognising from within, cries: 'Admit her.' Charlotte Corday is admitted.

Citoyen Marat, I am from Caen, the seat of rebellion, and wished to speak to you.' 'Be seated, mon enfant. Now, what are the traitors doing at Caen? What deputies are at Caen?' Charlotte names some deputies. "Their heads shall fall within a fortnight,' croaks the eager People's Friend, clutching his tablets to write. Barbaroux, Pétion, writes he with bare shrunk arm, turning aside in the bath: Pétion and Louvet, and-Charlotte has drawn her knife from the sheath; plunges it with one sure stroke into the writer's heart. A moi, chère amie. Help, dear!' No more could the death-choked say or shriek. The helpful washerwoman running in, there is no friend of the people or friend of the washerwoman left; but his life with a groan gushes out, indignant, to the shades below. And so, Marat, People's Friend, is ended. . . .

As for Charlotte Corday, her work is accomplished: the recompense of it is clear and sure. The chère amie and neighbours of the house flying at her, she 'overturns some movables,' intrenches herself till the gendarmes arrive; then quickly surrenders, goes quietly to the Abbaye prison: she alone quiet, all Paris sounding in wonder, in rage, or admiration, round her. Duperet is put in arrest on account of her; his papers sealed, which may lead to consequences. Fauchet in like manner, though Fauchet had not so much as heard of her. Charlotte, confronted with these two deputies, praises the grave firmness of Duperet, censures the dejection of Fauchet.

'By

On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and Revolutionary Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she dates it 'fourth day of the Preparation of Peace.' A strange murmur ran through the hall at sight of her-you could not say of what character. Tinville has his indictments anditape-papers; the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he sold her the sheath-knife. All these details are needless,' interrupted Charlotte; it is I that killed Marat.' 'By whose instigation? no one's.' 'What tempted you, then?' 'His crimes. I killed one man,' added she, raising her voice extremely (extrémement) as they went on with their questions—'I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; a villain, to save innocents, a savage wild beast, to give repose to my country. I was a Republican before the Revolution; I never wanted energy.' There is, therefore, nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the hasty limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving; the men of law proceed with their formalities. The doom is death as a murderess. To her advocate she gives thanks; in gentle phrase, in high-flown classical spirit. To the priest they send her she gives thanks, but needs not any shriving, any ghostly or other aid from him.

On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven o'clock, from the gate of the Conciergerie, to a city all

on tiptoe, the fatal cart issues; seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life, journeying towards death-alone amid the world! Many take off their hats, saluting reverently; for what heart but must be touched? Others growl and howl. Adam Lux of Mentz declares that she is greater than Brutus; that it were beautiful to die with her; the head of this young man seems turned. At the Place de Révolution, the countenance of Charlotte wears the same still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet; she resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of explanation she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act, all being now ready, they take the neckerchief from her neck; a blush of maidenly shame overspreads that fair face and neck; the cheeks were still tinged with it when the executioner lifted the severed head, to shew it to the people. most true,' says Forster, 'that he struck the cheek insultingly; for I saw it with my eyes; the police imprisoned him for it.' In this manner the beautifullest and the squalidest come in collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday both suddenly are no more.

Death of Marie Antoinette.

It is

Is there a man's heart that thinks without pity of those long months and years of slow-wasting ignominy; of thy birth, self-cradled in imperial Schönbrunn, the winds of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendour; and then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the guillotine and Fouquier-Tinville's judgment-bar was but the merciful end! Look there, O man born of woman! The bloom of that fair face is wasted, the hair is gray with care; the brightness of those eyes is quenched, their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale, as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended, attire the Queen of the World. The deathhurdle where thou sittest pale, motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac heads, the air deaf with their triumph-yell! The living-dead must shudder with yet one other pang; her startled blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is there no heart to say, God pity thee! O think not of these; think of HIM whom thou worshippest, the crucified-who also treading the wine press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper; and triumphed over it and made it holy, and built of it a 'sanctuary of sorrow' for thee and all the wretched! Thy path of thorns is nigh ended, one long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was once so light-where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block; the axe rushes-dumb lies the world; that wild-yelling world, and all its madness, is behind thee.

Await the Issue.

In this God's world, with its wild whirling eddies and mad foam oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and judgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think that there is therefore no justice? It is what the fool hath said in his heart. It is what the wise, in all times, were wise because they denied, and knew for ever not to be. I tell thee again, there is nothing else but justice. One strong thing I find here below: the just thing, the true thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing; and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton, and say: 'In God's name, No!' Thy 'success?' Poor devil, what will thy success amount to? If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded; no, not though bonfires blazed

from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just things lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success? In few years, thou wilt be dead and dark-all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, dingdong of bells, or leading articles visible or audible to thee again at all for ever. What kind of success is that? It is true all goes by approximation in this world; with any not insupportable approximation we must be patient. There is a noble Conservatism as well as an ignoble. Would to Heaven, for the sake of Conservatism itself, the noble alone were left, and the ignoble, by some kind severe hand, were ruthlessly lopped away, forbidden ever more to shew itself! For it is the right and noble alone that will have victory in this struggle; the rest is wholly an obstruction, a postponement and fearful imperilment of the victory. Towards an eternal centre of right and nobleness, and of that only, is all this confusion tending. We already know whither it is all tending; what will have victory, what will have none! The Heaviest will reach the centre. The Heaviest, sinking through complex fluctuating media and vortices, has its deflections, its obstructions, nay, at times its resiliences, its reboundings; whereupon some blockhead shall be heard jubilating: 'See, your Heaviest ascends!' but at all moments it is moving centreward, fast as is convenient for it; sinking, sinking; and, by laws older than the world, old as the Maker's first plan of the world, it has to arrive there.

Await the issue. In all battles, if you await the issue, each fighter has prospered according to his right. His right and his might, at the close of the account, were one and the same. He has fought with all his might, and in exact proportion to all his right he has prevailed. His very death is no victory over him. He dies indeed; but his work lives, very truly lives. A heroic Wallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hinder that his Scotland become, one day, a part of England; but he does hinder that it become, on tyrannous unfair terms, a part of it; commands still, as with a god's voice, from his old Valhalla and Temple of the Brave, that there be a just real union as of brother and brother, not a false and merely semblant one as of slave and master. If the union with England be in fact one of Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace_withal that it was not the chief curse. Scotland is not Ireland: no, because brave men rose there, and said: 'Behold, ye must not tread us down like slaves; and ye shall not, and cannot !' Fight on, thou brave true heart, and falter not, through dark fortune and through bright. The cause thou fightest for, so far as it is true, no further, yet precisely so far, is very sure of victory. The falsehood alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it ought to be but the truth of it is part of Nature's own laws, co-oper ates with the world's eternal tendencies, and cannot be conquered.

SIR GEORGE CORNEWALL LEWIS.

SIR GEORGE CORNEWALL LEWIS (1806-1863), an able scholar and statesman, was the son of Sir Thomas Frankland Lewis, a Radnorshire baronet, who was for several years chairman of the Poorlaw Board, and by whose death in 1855 his son succeeded to the baronetcy and estate. Sir George was educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford, and having studied at the Middle Temple, was called to the bar in 1831. Entering into public life, he filled various government offices, and was M.P. for Herefordshire, and afterwards for the Radnor district of boroughs. His highest appointment was that of Chancellor of the Exchequer, which he held under Lord Palmerston for about three years 1855-58. He was also some time Secretary of State for the Home Department, and Secretary for War. He was for about three years

(1852-55) editor of the Edinburgh Review. An accomplished classical and German scholar, Si George examined the early history of Greece and Rome with the views of the German commentators, and he reviewed the theory of Niebuhr in an elaborate work, entitled An Inquiry into the Credibility of Early Roman History, two volumes, 1855. All attempts to reduce the picturesque narratives of the early centuries of Rome to a purely historical form he conceives to be nugatory, and he devotes considerable space to an examination of the primitive history of the nations of Italy. Dionysius, Livy, and the other ancient historians, had no authentic materials for the primitive ethnology and the early national movements of Italy, and, of course, modern inquirers cannot hope to arrive at misses the results not only of the uncritical Italian safe conclusions on the subject. Hence he dishistorians, but those of the learned and sagacious Germans, Niebuhr and Müller. The legends are mere shifting clouds of mythology, which may at a distance deceive the mariner by the appearance of solid land, but disappear as he approaches and examines them by a close view.' The scepticism of Sir George, however, is considered rather too sweeping; and it has justly been remarked, that 'we may be contented to believe of Roman history at least as much as Cicero believed, without inquiring too curiously the grounds of his belief.' The following notice of Niebuhr's theory also appears to tell against Sir George's own rule with respect to the rationalistic treatment of early history.

Niebuhr's Ballad Theory.

He divides the Roman history into three periods: 1. The purely mythical period, including the foundation of the city and the reigns of the first two kings. 2. The mythico-historical period, including the reigns of the last five kings, and the first fourteen years of the republic. 3. The historical period, beginning with the first secession. The poems, however, which he supposes to have served as the origin of the received history, are not peculiar to any one of these periods; they equally appear in the reigns of Romulus and Numa, in the time of the Tarquins, and in the narratives of Coriolanus and of the siege of Veii. If the history of periods so widely different was equally drawn from a poetical source, it is clear that the poems must have arisen under wholly dissimilar circumstances, and that they can afford no sure foundation for any historical inference.

For solving the problem of the early Roman history, the great desideratum is, to obtain some means of separating the truth from the fiction; and, if any parts be true, of explaining how the records were preserved with fidelity, until the time of the earliest historians, by termediate stages, have transmitted them to us. whom they were adopted, and who, through certain in

For example, we may believe that the expulsion of the Tarquins, the creation of a dictator and of tribunes, the adventures of Coriolanus, the Decemvirate, the expedition of the Fabii and the battle of the Cremera, the siege of Veii, the capture of Rome by the Gauls, and the disaster of Caudium, with other portions of the Samnite wars, are events which are indeed to a considerable extent distorted, obscured, and corrupted by fiction, and incrusted with legendary additions; but that they, nevertheless, contain a nucleus of fact, in varying degrees: if so, we should wish to know how far the fact extends, and by which a general historical tradition of events, as they where the fiction begins-and also what were the means really happened, was perpetuated. This is the question to which an answer is desired; and therefore we are not assisted by a theory which explains how that part of the narrative which is not historical originated.

Sir George C. Lewis was a laborious student and voluminous writer. How he found time, in the midst of official and public duties, and within the space of a comparatively short life, for such varied and profound studies, is remarkable. Among his works are treatises on the Romance Language, on the Use and Abuse of Political Terms, on the Influence of Authority in Matters of Opinion, on the Method of Observation and Reasoning in Politics, on the Irish Church Question, on the Government of Dependencies, on the Astronomy of the Ancients, a Dialogue on the Best Form of Government, &c. The indefatigable baronet was a frequent contributor to Notes and Queries. His death was lamented by all parties, and was indeed a national loss.

REV. C. MERIVALE.

The Roman History of Dr Arnold was left, as already mentioned, in an unfinished state, in consequence of the sudden death of the author. No good account of the period between the close of the second Carthaginian war and the death of Sylla existed in our English historical literature, and to supply the void, the REV. CHARLES MERIVALE, B.D., late Fellow of St John's College, Cambridge, commenced in 1850 a History of the Romans under the Empire, which he completed in 1862. Mr Merivale's undertaking,' said a critic in the Edinburgh Review, 'is nothing less than to bridge over no small portion of the interval between the interrupted work of Arnold and the commencement of Gibbon. He comes, therefore, between "mighty opposites." It is praise enough that he proves himself no unworthy successor to the two most gifted historians of Rome whom English literature has yet produced.' A cheap edition of Mr Merivale's History in eight volumes was published in 1865. Its author is son of the late John Herman Merivale, Commissioner of Bankruptcy; he was born in 1808, studied at St John's College, Cambridge, entered the church, and was successively rector of Lawford, Essex (1848-70), chaplain to the Speaker of the House of Commons (1863-69), and dean of Ely (December 1869).

Augustus Cæsar (31 B.C.-14 A.D.)

In stature Augustus hardly exceeded the middle height, but his person was lightly and delicately formed, and its proportions were such as to convey a favourable and even a striking impression. His countenance was pale, and testified to the weakness of his health, and almost constant bodily suffering; but the hardships of military service had imparted a swarthy tinge to a complexion naturally fair, and his eyebrows meeting over a sharp and aquiline nose gave a serious and stern expression to his countenance. His hair was light, and his eyes blue and piercing; he was well pleased if any one on approaching him looked on the ground and affected to be unable to meet their dazzling brightness. It was said that his dress concealed many imperfections and blemishes on his person; but he could not disguise all the infirmities under which he laboured; the weakness of the forefinger of his right hand and a lameness in the left hip were the results of wounds he incurred in a battle with the Iapydæ in early life; he suffered repeated attacks of fever of the most serious kind, especially in the course of the campaign of Philippi and that against the Cantabrians, and again two years afterwards at Rome, when his recovery was despaired of. From that time, although constantly liable to be affected by cold and

heat, and obliged to nurse himself throughout with the care of a valetudinarian, he does not appear to have had any return of illness so serious as the preceding; and dying at the age of seventy-four, the rumour obtained popular currency that he was prematurely cut off by poison administered by the empress. As the natural consequence of this bodily weakness and sickly constitution, Octavian did not attempt to distinguish himself by active exertions or feats of personal prowess. The splendid examples of his uncle the dictator and of Antonius his rival, might have early discouraged him from attempting to shine as a warrior and hero: he had not the vivacity and animal spirits necessary to carry him through such exploits as theirs; and, although he did not shrink from exposing himself to personal danger, he prudently declined to allow a comparison to be instituted between himself and rivals whom he could not hope to equal. Thus necessarily thrown back upon other resources, he trusted to caution and circumspection, first to preserve his own life, and afterwards to obtain the splendid prizes which had hitherto been carried off by daring adventure, and the good fortune which is so often its attendant. His contest therefore with Antonius and Sextus Pompeius was the contest of cunning with bravery; but from his youth upwards he was accustomed to overreach, not the bold and reckless only, but the most considerate and wily of his contemporaries, such as Cicero and Cleopatra; he succeeded in the establishment of his tyranny; and finally deceived in the end in deluding the senate and people of Rome the expectations of the world, and falsified the lessons of the Republican history, in reigning himself forty years in disguise, and leaving a throne to be claimed without a challenge by his successors for fourteen centuries.

But although emperor in name, and in fact absolute master of his people, the manners of the Cæsar, both in public and private life, were still those of a simple citizen. On the most solemn occasions he was distinguished by no other dress than the robes and insignia of the offices which he exercised; he was attended by no other guards than those which his consular there was none of the etiquette of modern monarchies dignity rendered customary and decent. In his court to be recognised, and it was only by slow and gradual encroachment that it came to prevail in that of his successors. Augustus was contented to take up his residence in the house which had belonged to the orator Licinius Calvus, in the neighbourhood of the Forum; which he afterwards abandoned for that of Hortensius on the Palatine, of which Suetonius observes that it was remarkable neither for size nor splendour. Its halls were small, and lined, not with marble, after the luxurious fashion of many patrician palaces, but with the common Alban stone, and the pattern of the pavement was plain and simple. Nor when he succeeded Lepidus in the pontificate would he relinquish this private dwelling for the regia or public residence assigned that honourable office.

Many anecdotes are recorded of the moderation with which the emperor received the opposition, and often the rebukes, of individuals in public as well as in private. These stories are not without their importance, as shewing how little formality there was in the tone of addressing the master of the Roman world, and how entirely different the ideas of the nation were, with regard to the position occupied by the Cæsar and his family, from those with which modern associations have imbued us. We have already noticed the rude freedom with which Tiberius was attacked, although step-son of the emperor, and participating in the eminent functions of the tribunitian power, by a declaimer in the schools at Rhodes: but Augustus himself seems to have suffered almost as much as any private citizen from the general coarseness of behaviour which characterised the Romans in their public assemblies, and the rebukes to which he patiently submitted were frequently such as