dise. We strolled along, now stooping to pluck a primrose, and now leaning against some lofty elm; "a scent of violets, and blossoming limes loitered around us." We had not sauntered far, when we came upon a sun-dial; it was a plain but massive pillar; it stood within a lonely wood, "where meeting hazels darkened;" the brook at its foot, with its clear, transparent waters, murmured; we gazed thereon with "infant wonderment,' scarce deeming it a thing of earth. We were told it measured time-but how, we could not conceive: there were no hands to point the hours; nothing but shadows rolled across its figures: it was something mysterious; the stillness gave it additional influence; it seemed as if creation's heart had ceased to beat; it might have been some dreamland that we were in, so tranquillizing were the sounds and sights of nature. And that stone--that stone! it placed all things under a spell; so simple, yet what influence it had! passed onwards, the head and eye were often turned to look once more; we left it unwillingly; we could have stayed for ever. "The deep impression of that hour" subdues

us now:

As we

So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade,
Brief Time!-and hour by hour, and day by day,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And like a summer-vapour steal away.

And have not they who here forgotten lie-
Say, hoary chronicler of ages past-
Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,
Nor thought it fled-how certain and how fast!
Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath;
The pastor and his flock alike have slept,
And "dust to dust" proclaimed the stride of death.
Another race succeeds, and counts the hour;
Careless alike, the hour still seems to smile,
As hope, and youth, and life were in our power-
So smiling and so perishing the while.

I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound-
When to these scenes a stranger I drew near-
Proclaim the tidings to the village round,
While memory slept upon the good man's bier.
Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone;
While still the lapse of time thy shadows tell,
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone.

Enough, if we may wait in calm content
The hour that bears us to the silent sod;
Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent,
To leave the issue to thy will, O God.

All our author's writings breathe much of this melancholy sweetness. If he does not raise the soul of his reader to scenes majestic and sublime, nor stir his thoughts by the energy and grandeur of his conceptions, still he never disappoints him; there is ever something pleasing he calms, soothes, and tranquillizes. We may already feel this gentle influence on our own mind; it has been painful for us to write, so deep has been the gloom and melancholy he has brought over us; he has infused his pensive sadness into our own heart; earth now appears dim and vain; the flowers droop their heads, and the winds moan languidly along; they seem ready to decay; the dark cypress suits us-it should wave over our tomb; but we feel, too, that love can never perish-it is inextinguishable; we take courage; we look upwards. In the ashes of the tomb

27

there is a vivifying power; in the dust of the grave there are signs of everlasting life: that life shall last longer than the stars; they shall lose their brightness, and shall twinkle no longer in the firmament; but it shall grow in beauty and immortal vigour; we then shall regain our beloved ones; we shall be with them for ever. Reader, thine home is there!

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

SPRING, light green spring is come! One feels spring in all things: the air is spring; the trees, spring; the modest primrose, spring: even the early walk to morning prayers is redolent of spring; the reader's voice is spring; the responses are all more sprightly and cheerful, speaking sweetly of spring: every tone is gentle and more lute-like. One feels that the world is budding: that the earth is clothing herself with transparent beauty. There is a quickness in the throbbings of the heart. New blood seems infused through the veins. There is the silver dawn of life: the commencement of a fresh and purer existence. Joy spreads itself over all things; and heaven and earth advance towards each other. How fresh, how beautiful is spring! new hopes, new thoughts, new thirstings after the Holiest, new strivings to compass the Infinite, new entwinings of the spirit around the lovely and the good! And then what remembrances of youth! How the golden gleams of sunshine recal the thousand memories of the swollen heart! Who has not felt this: felt a diviner and a higher being as spring brought its treasures of the land!

But why speak of spring? why not talk of the subject in hand? we do so. April weather is the characteristic of our author. Now gleam of glorious sunshine, and now over-clouded skies; and yet the very light softened and fresh and beautiful, purer than when summer walks the earth. It is now spring, the birds trill their liquid notes in the morning, the buds look sweet in the golden beam. There is the violet and the crocus and the snow-drop; all fresh and exquisite and we feel the same when reading the mellowed and soft-voiced autobiography of Sir Egerton.

That was a delicious summer's day in which we dreamed through this book. There was a peculiar sweetness in every line; and something strangely moving in his talk of his forefathers, and their old and venerable halls and then his boyhood, his clinging so fondly to home, his love of literature, all, all was inexpressibly touching. We dreamed onwards through the volumes. The casement was thrown open and the languid breeze floated in, filling the room with scents of fields. The trees waved gently their luxuriant foliage; and the sun poured forth his full golden light on the pages. We turned and turned, dreaming and dreaming. There was something so mellow in the old man's voice as he recalled his early days; and now that spring is come, our thoughts wander back to him with deeper feelings of regard.

We are not so much about to criticise as to give up ourselves to pleasant thoughts and me

28

Then how the old man throws himself into the past in writing his autobiography. It is not mere ledger-account, but sweet reminiscences of his former days. He becomes once more a child, tells us his pleasures, his dreams, the beauty of the family mansion, till we become in love with every thing he did or thought. There is calm mellowed sunshine over his story. The lines flow on so softly: babble so sweetly. We forget ourselves in him. Then he tells us his bitter grief at leaving home and the fine old hall; tells us and charms us with the simple tale of his sorrows. How one gently clings to the aged man: listens for every syllable. It is a dream, a quiet summer's dream, this life of his but let us linger awhile over his page:

My sensitiveness from childhood was the source of the most morbid sufferings, as well as of the most intense pleasures. It unfitted me for concourse with other boys, and took away all self-possession in society. It also produced ebbs and flows in my spirits, and made me capricious and humoursome; and the opinions formed were most opposite; some thinking well of my faculties, others deeming me little above an idiot. I was so timid on entering into school, and my spirits were so broken by separation from home, and the rudeness of my companions, that in my first school-boy years, I never enjoyed a moment

of ease or cheerfulness.

Many have suffered thus intensely on leaving home for the cold atmosphere of school; many have gone broken-hearted. Nothing can compensate for the quiet, the tenderness, and the blessedness of home. We could never send a child away from us. But passing onwards our author writes:

At that time a new book was like wine to me, and produced a temporary delirium of oblivion. Then my enthusiasms were all awakened, in defiance of earthly oppressions. I had a noble room for my library and beautiful scenery around me. Before me rose a hill skirted with wood; and behind, another hill more precipitous, at the foot of which the mansion stood, and over the brow of which was placed the dear old seat in which I was born; to the east ran those meadows of emerald green, of which Gray the poet speaks in his letters.

And again a few pages further on :

The volumes always lay in one of the windows of the common parlour at Wootten: and how often have 1 rejoiced, when the rain and snow came, to keep me by the winter fire-side, instead of mounting my pony, to follow all the morning my uncle's harriers ! And when I was out, I counted the hours till 1 could return to my beloved books!

Thus the heart recalleth years gone by and summons up the loves, and fears, and hopes, and dreams of childhood. Once more we would listen to the old man :

I love the month of August: it is the commencement of the fading year. I have always found a pleasing melancholy in the fall of the leaves, from my early childhood, when I scattered them into heaps, and made bowers and huts of them. Thomson has described this melan

choly admirably. But why should we like the year's decline? Does not old age come upon us too fast? And why should we like storms and cold better than sunshine and genial warmth? A contemplative mind loves the fire-side; and the darkness of winter is a veil which nurses thought.

There is a mixture of melancholy with springtide in all these, touching peculiarly the soul and awakening memories of our own days when we strolled onwards from King's, stopping ofttimes to gaze upon some picture of beauty; and then did we move on amid the tread of

looking upwards on the blue heavens mantling the streets. And so we used to stroll on and on till we emerged into the Green-Park, and then crossing Hyde Park we passed on to Kensington Gardens; and then what sweet interchange of thought and feeling we had beneath those fine noble trees, how time sailed by with fleetest pinion as we walked in the sunny afternoons, not thinking of our morning tasks, but dreaming full well of beauty and perfect purity. Even King's did not keep us shackled, for there we read and felt thrilled. How delighted we were when two or three of us got together at the end form, so that we might wile away the hours, and ever and anon a bright gleam of the sun would dart into the otherwise dim room, and make us throb to talk of love and tenderness and faith amid fields and brooks. And then we took poets, and whilst the rest were conning their tasks did we dream over these and commune. How bright our eyes; how young and buoyant our hearts! what pacings we had along the passage, passing over the grand stair-case and the rooms of medical students deeply engaged in boisterous argument. They were sunny days and blessed days! And oft we would leave the walls of King's and saunter round Somerset House or along the Terrace immersed in happy visions— for hours have we walked, and they were silver hours. We think of them now; think of those congenial spirits who then accompanied us; think where they are and whether they have realized what we so fondly anticipated. We are widely scattered, but some one of them may come across our path, and then how different to what we were! The heart frequently wanders after each and all, and prays for blessedness upon their homes!

And

There is something sweet in the sound of Kensington-Gardens; and yet something melancholy-years have flown since we dreamed away the summer-afternoons therein. We well remember what bursts of happiness we felt when painting the future; and how we revelled in love of this our universe; yea, in love of everything pure and holy. We often too promised kind services by and bye; services in the chastest and most exquisite dream of life. Just by the old red palace did we thus make our assignations the other to a quiet blessed cot surrounded by and often parted; one to a princely house, and ivied trees and covered with roses and honeysuckles.

Then too did we meet in the study of that peaceful abode, and what calm summer evenings were spent! There were dreams of beauty, the liquid warble of poets, the song of birds, the and the exquisitely soft time. This was our deep rich-toned organ, the beautiful flowers, teaching; the study of the schools was thrown aside: King's came poorly off with most of us. But no matter, we enjoyed exquisite moments; and these will be the sun-spots to which the eye of all will often turn in after-years and be refreshed.

We remember when we bought our first pictures. We had left King's some three years, and were looking forward to our degree. We passed down Trumpington-street; and at an

old-fashioned house we saw the very spirit of beauty breathing itself in two exquisitely coloured prints; their names Innocence and Modesty. How we loved to gaze in that window; it seemed the opening of Paradise; some place out of this dull-world; some spot serenecircled, dove-like, and blessed. It was not as other windows; they held no such sweetnesses. There were golden gleams ever hovering over this antique house.

But we purchased the pictures; and we revelled when they came home. We felt they were hallowed things; purity-breathing forms. We seemed to become better in their presence. We fancied that every sweet odour should be near; and ere we retired to rest, we gazed oft and long, wishing intensely for the morn that we might gaze again. So passed some of our college-days, dreaming of all things beautiful; and startling many by our worship of the true and perfect. They were silver-sprinkled, violetscented dreams.

racter.

CARLYLE.

WE note the great distinguishing feature of Carlyle; the one pervading element of his chaRemark it once, and you remark it for ever. He seizes hold of the present; he identifies himself with the present; he sees only the present; he feels nothing but the present. All the grandeur of his genius is brought to bear on the present. If he writes history he writes it as it is. It is no dull cold account of the past; it is the living, speaking present. What the people think, what they hope, what they imagine, what they fear; this he stamps on the page. What the individual is, and not what he is not. We see a human being. We see one of ourselves. He too has been born of woman and has been rocked in the cradle. He too has loved, dreamed, and suffered. No idle tale; no mere image. It is vivid, it is life.

This perception of the present influences everything he writes. You behold it in every work. It produces his finest and most magnificent passages. He does not create so much as he simply tells us what men did. Robertson and Hume do not write history; their's is no real, true, certain history. Mosheim and Milner are but dry unintelligible books. We know nothing from them; we thank them only for their extracts from living men, for nothing else. Carlyle is the only true historical writer we have. There are none else beside. History is not a mere account book; a mere ledger; a mere network of facts; a mere saying that this was done and that was left undone. This is not history. We know no more after we have finished the details, than we did before we sat down to read: not so much.

History should be history; and nothing else. We want to know what people thought, and felt, and hoped for, as well as what they did. We want to know whether it was a fine summer afternoon when such and such things were done; and whether the national heart rejoiced in the sunshine. The mere outside we want not; we want the soul. Hence the daily journals

are better history than Gibbon and Niebuhr, and the rest. They tell us what is doing; what men are about; what they expect; what they dread. Hence, too, letters are better history still. Horace Walpole and Lady Wortley Montagu let us into more real knowledge of their times than a thousand Humes or Smolletts. We are more interested in them; we feel that they are living creatures, that they have spoken, and thought, and been injured like ourselves.

What is so full of life as Boswell's Johnson; there is a charm about it which takes us completely captive. We cease to be men of the nineteenth century. We are not of now; we are of the past. That past has become nowour present. We hear Johnson, we are his companions, we go with him to Oxford, we suffer with him. We converse with him at Lichfield; we struggle with him onwards and onwards from the old St. John's gate, till he becomes the known one of the British empire. We know Sir Joshua as well as though he were by us truly. We are as much acquainted with Langton as though he had been our companion from youth. Every one who has read this book has forgotten the present. He has no existence in our world. He is living in the past; living in the living past.

This fixing, this concentrating all the powers upon the subject, bringing it before one as the present, is Carlyle's distinctive characteristic. He has no faculty to harmonize his works into a whole. Indeed this would destroy his effect. It is for the philosopher to view things as completed; to view them by certain great principles; it belongs not to a writer of history, which we affirm Carlyle only and entirely to be. His essays, his criticisms, are nothing but sketches of history. He seizes entirely on this: some little striking incident, and with what pathos and feeling does he dwell upon it! You see it everywhere.

We have said that he is deficient in producing anything as a complete whole. Perhaps this is seen most in his French Revolution. It is not a whole; there is no harmony of parts. One cannot view it as done; it is a mere chaos; for order we must look elsewhere.

But were it otherwise, no Carlyle should we have; we should have some follower of Hume and the rest; a mere accountant. A true writer of history cannot harmonize. He must be disjointed. The parts cannot be consistent with our notion of proportion; that is impossible. We must have what did take place; and not what we deem proper symmetry. Carlyle writes as the people felt, or as the individual felt; and what oneness is there in this? What oneness is there in our lives? Are we not sometimes dull, and sometimes bright; sometimes loving, and sometimes hating; sometimes hoping, and sometimes fearing? How can we paint all this with one colour, and think of it under one influence? would it not be wrong? would there be any truth in the painting or in the thought? There cannot be harmony; there cannot be proportion; there cannot be the same tint; there cannot be the like sound of pleasure or of woe. Amid so much contrariety it were impossible to educe order; were it educed, it would be false. We know this well in our

Again in that only true history of the French Revolution, we see this power more greatly ex

But we must proceed more fully to examine this guiding, this entire characteristic of our author. It is this which makes him different from other men; it is this which makes him all he is or ever will be. You find it breathing in his earliest works. Proceed onwards and it becomes the breath of a giant; no longer only just perceptible, but the whole man. In his Essay on Johnson reprinted in his Miscellanies, and published first in May 1832, we find this remarkable perception of what was doing and what was done, both in his own strictures and in his quotations. Observe how the following is imbued with this potency :-

Then there is the chivalrous Topham Beauclerk, with his sharp wit, and gallant country ways; there is Bennet Langton, an orthodox gentleman, and worthy; though Johnson once laughed, louder almost than mortal, at his last will and testament; and "could not stop his merriment, but continued it all the way till he got without the Templegate, then burst into such a fit of laughter, that he appeared to be almost in a convulsion; and, in order to support himself, laid hold of one of the posts at the side of the foot-pavement, and sent forth peals so loud that, in the silence of the night, his voice seemed to resound from Temple-bar to Fleet-ditch!

By this we are ourselves taken from century nineteenth to century eighteenth, and from this ancient library of Cambridge, where we are now sitting, surrounded by books issued for the last four hundred years and more, and only hearing at intervals the hum of busy man; we say we are taken from all this to Temple-bar and become real living persons of the evening, when the great Lexicographer rolled himself along Fleet-street. Now this is the tremendous faculty of our author. He throws aside time whenever he willeth. By him we can live, truly live, live as we now live, and perhaps better, on the night when Johnson thus boisterously laughed at the curious will of Bennet Langton.

So, reader, you have been in Fleet-street and under Temple-bar. It is a dull smoky place, crowded with human beings indeed, but no gaiety; no matter, wherever you are, wherever living, you are here in London. The north cannot hold you; you must travel hitherwards when Carlyle speaks. No pleasant home, no tender tie of wife or child can keep you: here you must and do come: come to this very spot, and behold its dark buildings, and its careworn men passing and repassing. Mark you, the present century is not yet: that is in the womb of to come. You recollect nothing of yourself, your kindred, your abode, your profession, nothing whatever. Here you are, as much a dweller of this earth in that year, as was Johnson. This is exactly Carlyle's spirit over you; you cannot help it. Read and you are captive to there and then. No matter striving: strivings avail nothing; so attempt not.

It takes hold of you with giant force. It is all strange; the chapters strange, the titles strange; but a sensible history it is for all that; nothing less and nothing more. You become a Frenchman, you sigh over the famine desolating the fairest provinces, the people have to eat boiled grass; something must come of this. So you think; so others think: and there will be something come of it. The minds of men are being shaken to and fro; and so is yours. No longer are you an Englishman or a Scot: either one or the other you lose when you gaze on the first page of his book. You cease to have your personal identity: that is gone entirely. But you have what you want: the feelings and thoughts of 1791: these are the things you want, nothing else, nothing less. Read a history as one living now and you do not read correctly: neither can you judge correctly what did take place and what men fondly anticipated. Hence you are no more a liver now; but are rather a liver then and there. So the history rolls on; sometimes with tumult, and sometimes with sunbeam. Both, you cannot always have, so must take as they are given. There will be brilliant dreams of freedom, and you too will dream. There will be struggles, and you too will struggle. There will be golden hope and a day all sweet and peaceful, and you too will have hope and enjoy this day. There will come executions, many and marvellous, and you will be there. The king and the queen and mighty souls will be cast down, and you will behold it all; every whit and every thing. You will be absent from not one, not a single one. Blood and deism, blood and atheism, blood and harlotry, all will engage you; nay, you will be engaged in them. Calm quiet evenings indeed will be yours; but also dismal and awful and tremendous ones.

Thus when you open this Carlyle you cease to be yourself; you go back into the opening of time; into what is long gone by. You become then and there existing. And here is the great marvel of the book, here is the true history. We need no results, philosophically considered; these we leave to the moralist. Results are not known for years after the event has occurred: could the people see the result of this Revolution? they fancied what would be, and so must you; not know what is.

We said this history abounded in these mighty influences of taking you from the now and transferring you to the then. Open the book at any page and chance is, that you find much to bear us out in our judgment; but open at page 125 in the third volume of the second edition, and you will see it all exemplified; Louis is being condemned::

And so, finally, at eight in the evening this third stupendous voting, by roll-call or appel nominal, does begin. What punishment? Girondins undecided, patriots decided, men afraid of royalty, men afraid of anarchy, must answer here and now. Infinite patriotism, dusky in the lamp-light, floods all corridors, crowds all galleries; sternly waiting to hear. Shrill-sounding ushers summon you by name and department; you must rise to the tribune and say.

Eye-witnesses have represented this scene of the third voting, and of the votings that grew out of it; a scene pro

tracted, like to be endless, lasting, with few brief intervals from Wednesday till Sunday morning, as one of the strangest seen in the Revolution. Long night wears itself into day, morning's paleness is spread over all faces; and again the wintry shadows sink, and the dim lamps are lit; but through day and night and the vicissitude of hours, member after member is mounting continually those tribune-steps; pausing aloft there, in the clearer upperlight, to speak his fate-word; then diving down into the dusk and throng again. Like phantoms in the hour of midnight; most spectral, pandemonial! Never did President Vergniaud, or any other terrestrial President, superintend the like. A king's life, and so much else that depends thereon, hangs trembling in the balance. Man after man mounts; the buzz hushes itself till he has spoken; death; banishment; imprisonment till peace.

Many say death; with what cautious well-studied phrases

and paragraphs they could devise of explanation, of enforcement, of faint recommendation to mercy. Many too say, banishment; something short of death. The balance trembles, none yet guess whitherward. Whereat anxious patriotism bellows; irrepressible by ushers.

Turn to page 313 of the same Volume :—

The great heart of Danton is weary of it. Danton is gone to native Arcis, for a little breathing time of peace; away, black Arachne-webs, thou world of fury, terror, and suspicion; welcome, thou everlasting Mother, with thy spring greenness, thy kind household loves and memories; true art thou, were all else untrue! The great Titan walks silent, by the banks of the murmuring Aube, in young native haunts that knew him when a boy; wonders what the end of these things may be.

Page 320:

Some five months ago the trial of the twenty-two Girondins was the greatest that Fouquier had then done. But here is a still greater to do; a thing which tasks the whole faculty of Fouquier; which makes the very heart of him to waver. For it is the voice of Danton that reverberates now from these domes; in passionate words, piercing with their wild sincerity, winged with wrath. Your best witnesses he shivers into ruin at one stroke. He demands that the committee-men themselves come as

witnesses, as accusers; he "will cover them with ignominy." He raises his huge stature, he shakes his huge black head, fire flashes from the eyes of him,-piercing to all Republican hearts: so that the very galleries, though we filled them by ticket, murmur sympathy; and are like to burst down, and raise the people, and deliver him! He complains loudly that he is classed with Chabots with swindling stock-jobbers; that his indictment is a list of platitudes and horrors. "Danton hidden on the tenth of August?" reverberates he, with the roar of a lion in the toils; "Where are the men that had to press Danton to shew himself that day? where are these high-gifted souls of whom he borrowed energy? Let them appear, these accusers of mine; I have all the clearness of my selfpossession when I demand them. I will unmask the three shallow scoundrels," les trois plats coquins, SaintJust, Couthon, Lebas, "who fawn on Robespierre, and lead him towards his destruction. Let them produce themselves here; I will plunge them into nothingness out of which they ought never to have risen." The agitated President agitates his bell; enjoins calmness, in a vehement manner: "What is it to thee how I defend myself?" cries the other: "the right of dooming me is thine always. The voice of a man speaking for his honour and his life, may well drown the jingling of thy bell!" Thus Danton, higher and higher, till the lion voice of him dies away in his throat: speech will not utter what is in that man. The galleries murmur ominously; the first day's session is

over.

Page 322:

At the foot of the scaffold, Danton was heard to ejaculate, "O my wife, my well-beloved, I shall never see thee more then!"-but interrupting himself; "Danton, no weakness!"

So passes, like a gigantic mass, of valour, ostentation, fury, affection, and wild revolutionary manhood, this Danton to his unknown home. He was of Arcis-sur-Aube; born of "good farmer-people" there. He had many sins; but one worst sin he had not, that of cant. No hollow forma

list, deceptive and self-deceptive, ghastly to the natural

sense, was this, but a very man; with all his dross he was a man; fiery-real from the great fire-bosom of nature herself.

Thirdly and lastly, for we must quote from three of his works, look into the book entitled Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches with Elucidations, just at the beginning, in the first volume and at page 60, and you will find this taking you out of self and making or transforming you into another is here also: you have one more gaze into time past. You learn what was done on a certain day, on the 23rd day of April 1616; what was doing at this our Cambridge and what was doing in sweet sunny Stratford-upon-Avon. This day is saved out of stands; and we see what was doing in truth oblivion: time cannot swallow it up. There it and what in truth was passing. None can read the passage without some feelings of awe. There is certainly something marvellous in this of preserving the actions of time past and forgotten; but read, and you will be the more content:

Curious enough, of all days on this same day, Shakspeare, as his stone monument still testifies, at Stratfordon-Avon, died: 'Obiit anno Domini 1616, Etatis 53, Die 23 Apr.' While Oliver Cromwell was entering himself of Sidney-Sussex College, William Shakspeare was taking his farewell of this world. Oliver's father had, most likely, come with him; it is but twelve miles from Huntingdon; you can go and come in a day. Oliver's father saw Oliver write in the Album at Cambridge at Stratford, Shakspeare's Ann Hathaway was weeping over his bed. The first world-great thing that remains of English history, the literature of Shakspeare, was ending; the second great-world thing that remains of English history, the armed appeal of Puritanism to the invisible God of heaven, against very many visible devils, on earth and elsewhere, was, so to speak, beginning. They have their exits and their entrances. And one people in its time plays many parts.

Now we pass by every other characteristic of our author; they have in general been mainly dwelt upon in critiques upon his works, so this may as well stand as it is. One notion we have given of Carlyle; and we believe it to be a true one. False it cannot be, for we have felt it; not only seen, but felt; that is ever better than seeing, something deeper.

So here we conclude our paper, having just expressed our thoughts on a single point; a point worthy indeed to be studied by our historians, and those who praise our notable ones: here, in this library of the learned University of Cambridge, having left a little while since the Fellows Buildings of Christ College, in a quiet room of whicn we had been lectured in gloom-work, bearing name mathematics, by one who gained the love and esteem of every member of his class, and who could forgive our dull stupidity at this mill-labour and treat us with gentle kindness; in deep earnest sincerity he has our heart-thanks: here then we conclude this paper, and beg you reader to accept our thoughts as the thoughts of one who has read Carlyle till the sounds of carnage, and the scenes of slaughter, and the blasphemous cries of atheism, and polluted voice of harlotry have been heard and seen by us; not in our own person, but in the person of a Revolutionist of 1791; till we have walked down Fleet-street and passed through Temple-bar with two remarkable personages, the one Johnson and the other Boswell; till we have forgotten now, and been somehow or another transferred to this pleasant town on the day in which Cromwell entered, a youth dreaming naught of kingship or protectorship, and till we have been present