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SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

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dise. We strolled along, now stooping to pluck there is a vivifying power; in the dust of the a primrose, and now leaning against some lofty grave there are signs of everlasting life: that

a scent of violets, and blossoming limes life shall last longer than the stars; they shall loitered around us.” We had not sauntered lose their brightness, and shall twinkle no far, when we came upon a sun-dial; it was a longer in the firmament; but it shall grow in plain but massive pillar; it stood within a lonely beauty and immortal vigour; we then shall wood, "where meeting hazels darkened;" the regain our beloved ones ; we shall be with them brook at its foot, with its clear, transparent for ever. Reader, thine home is there ! 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

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. were no hands to point the hours; nothing but shadows rolled across its figures : it was some

SPRING, light green spring is come! One feels thing mysterious ; the stillness gave it additional spring in all things: the air is spring; the influence; it seemed as if creation's heart had trees, spring; the modest primrose, spring : even ceased to beat; it might have been some dream the early walk to morning prayers is redolent land that we were in, so tranquillizing were the of spring; the reader's voice is spring; the sounds and sights of nature. And that stone— responses are all more sprightly and cheerful, that stone! it placed all things under a spell ; speaking sweetly of spring : every tone is gentle so simple, yet what influence it had! As we and more lute-like. One feels that the world passed onwards, the head and eye were often is budding: that the earth is clothing herself turned to look once more ;

we left it un- with transparent beauty. There is a quickness willingly; we could have stayed for ever.

in the throbbings of the heart. New blood The deep impression of that hour” subdues seems infused through the veins. There is the

silver dawn of life: the commencement of a

fresh and purer existence. Joy spreads itself So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade,

over all things; and heaven and earth advance Brief Time!--and hour by hour, and day by day,

towards each other. How fresh, how beautiful The pleasing pictures of the present fade, And like a summer-vapour steal away.

is spring! new hopes, new thoughts, new thirst

ings after the Holiest, new strivings to compass And have not they who here forgotten lieSay, hoary chronicler of ages past

the Infinite, new entwinings of the spirit around Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,

the lovely and the good! And then what reNor thought it fled-how certain and how fast !

membrances of youth! How the golden gleams Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, of sunshine recal the thousand memories of Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath; the swollen heart! Who has not felt this : The pastor and his flock alike have slept, And * dust to dust” proclaimed the stride of death.

felt a diviner and a higher being as spring

brought its treasures of the land ! Another race succeeds, and counts the hour; Careless alike, the hour still seems to smile,

But why speak of spring ? why not talk of the As hope, and youth, and life were in our power- subject in hand? we do so. April weather So smiling and so perishing the while.

is the characteristic of our author. Now gleam I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound - of glorious sunshine, and now over-clouded When to these scenes a stranger I drew near

skies; and yet the very light softened and fresh Proclaim the tidings to the village round, While memory slept upon the good man's bier.

and beautiful, purer than when summer walks

the earth. It is now spring, the birds trill their Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone ;

liquid notes in the morning, the buds look sweet While still the lapse of time thy shadows tell,

in the golden beam. There is the violet and And strangers gaze upon my humble stone.

the crocus and the snow-drop; all fresh and Enough, if we may wait in calm content

exquisite : and we feel the same when reading The hour that bears us to the silent sod;

the mellowed and soft-voiced autobiography Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent,

of Sir Egerton. To leave the issue to thy will, O God.

That was a delicious summer's day in which All our author's writings breathe much of we dreamed through this book. There was a this melancholy sweetness. If he does not raise peculiar sweetness in every line; and something the soul of his reader to scenes majestic and strangely moving in his talk of his forefathers, sublime, nor stir his thoughts by the energy and their old and venerable halls : and then his and grandeur of his conceptions, still he never boyhood, his clinging so fondly to home, his disappoints him; there is ever something love of literature, all, all was inexpressibly pleasing: he calms, soothes, and tranquillizes. touching. We dreamed onwards through the We may already feel this gentle influence on volumes. The casement was thrown open and our own mind; it has been painful for us to the languid breeze floated in, filling the room write, so deep has been the gloom and melan- with scents of fields. The trees waved gently choly he has brought over us; he has infused their luxuriant foliage; and the sun poured his pensive sadness into our own heart; earth forth his full golden light on the pages. We now appears dim and vain; the flowers droop turned and turned, dreaming and dreaming. their heads, and the winds moan languidly There was something so mellow in the old man's along; they seem ready to decay; the dark voice as he recalled his early days; and now cypress suits us—it should wave

over our that spring is come, our thoughts wander back tomb ; but we feel, too, that love can never to him with deeper feelings of regard. perish—it is inextinguishable; we take courage;

We are not so much about to criticise as to we look upwards. In the ashes of the tomb give up ourselves to pleasant thou

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mories. We shall talk of our feelings, shall busy humanity dreaming all golden things, and let them flow as they will.

looking upwards on the blue heavens mantling Then how the old man throws himself into the streets. And so we used to stroll on and the past in writing his autobiography. It is on till we emerged into the Green-Park, and not mere ledger-account, but sweet reminis- then crossing Hyde Park we passed on to Ken. cences of his former days. He becomes once more sington Gardens; and then what sweet intera child, tells us his pleasures, his dreams, the change of thought and feeling we had beneath beauty of the family mansion, till we become in those fine noble trees, how time sailed by with love with every thing he did or thought. There fleetest pinion as we walked in the sunny afteris calm mellowed sunshine over his story. The noons, not thinking of our morning tasks, but lines flow on so softly: babble so sweetly. We dreaming full well of beauty and perfect purity. forget ourselves in him. Then he telis us his Even King's did not keep us shackled, for bitter grief at leaving home and the fine old there we read and felt thrilled. How delighted hall; tells us and charms us with the simple we were when two or three of us got together tale of his sorrows. How one gently clings at the end form, so that we might wile away to the aged man: listens for every syllable. the hours, and ever and anon a bright gleam It is a dream, a quiet summer's dream, this of the sun would dart into the otherwise dim life of his : but let us linger awhile over his room, and make us throb to talk of love and

tenderness and faith amid fields and brooks. My sensitiveness from childhood was the source of the And then we took poets, and whilst the rest most morbid sufferings, as well as of the most intense were conning their tasks did we dream over pleasures. It unfitted me for concourse with other boys, these and commune. How bright our eyes ; and took away all self-possession in society. It also pro: how young and buoyant our hearts! And duced ebbs and flows in my spirits, and made me ca. pricious and humoursome; and the opinions formed were what pacings we had along the passage, passmost opposite ; some thinking well of my faculties, others ing over the grand stair-case and the rooms deeming me little above an idiot. I was so timid on entering of medical students deeply engaged in boisterous into school, and my spirits were so broken by separation from home, and the rudeness of my companions, that argument. They were sunny days and blessed in my first school-boy years, I never enjoyed a moment days! And oft we would leave the walls of of ease or cheerfulness.

King's and saunter round Somerset House or Many have suffered thus intensely on leaving along the Terrace immersed in happy visionshome for the cold atmosphere of school ; many for hours have we walked, and they were silver have gone broken-hearted. Nothing can com- hours. We think of them now; think of those pensate for the quiet, the tenderness, and the congenial spirits who then accompanied us; blessedness of home. We could never send a think where they are and whether they have child away from us. But passing onwards our realized what we so fondly anticipated. We author writes :

are widely scattered, but some one of them may At that time a new book was like wine to me, and come across our path, and then how different produced a temporary delirium of oblivion.

to what we were ! The heart frequently wanenthusiasms were all awakened, in defiance of earthly ders after each and all, and prays for blessedness oppressions. I had a noble room for my library and beautiful scenery around me. Before me rose a hill skirted upon their homes ! with wood; and behind, another hill more precipitous, There is something sweet in the sound of Kenat the foot of which the mansion stood, and over the sington-Gardens; and yet something melanbrow of which was placed the dear old seat in which I was born; to the east ran those meadows of emerald

choly-years have flown since we dreamed away green, of which Gray the poet speaks in his letters. the summer-afternoons therein. We well reAnd again a few pages further on :

member what bursts of happiness we felt when The volumes always lay in one of the windows of love of this our universe ; yea, in love of every;

painting the future; and how we revelled in the common parlour at Wootten: and how often have 1 rejoiced, when the rain and snow came, to keep me by thing pure and holy. We often too promised the winter fire-side, instead of mounting my pony, to kind services by and bye; services in the chastest follow all the morning my uncle's harriers !

and most exquisite dream of life. Just by the I was out, I counted the hours till I could return to my beloved books!

old red palace did wethus make our assignations Thus the heart recalleth years gone by and the other to a quiet blessed cot surrounded by

and often parted; one to a princely house, and summons up the loves, and fears, and hopes, and dreams of childhood. Once more we would

ivied trees and covered with roses and honeylisten to the old man :

suckles.

Then too did we meet in the study of that I love the month of August: it is the commencement peaceful abode, and what calm summer evenings of the fading year.

I have always found a pleasing mela in the fall of the leaves, from my early child

were spent! There were dreams of beauty, the hood, when I scattered them into heaps, and made bowers liquid warble of poets, the song of birds, the and huts of them. Thomson has described this melan. deep rich-toned organ, the beautiful flowers, choly admirably. But why should we like the year's and the exquisitely soft time. This was our why should we like storms and cold better than sunshine teaching; the study of the schools was thrown and genial warmth? A contemplative mind loves the aside: King's came poorly off with most of us. fire-side; and the darkness of winter is a veil which nurses

But no matter, we enjoyed exquisite moments; thought.

and these will be the sun-spots to which the There is a mixture of melancholy with spring- eye of all will often turn in after years and be tide in all these, touching peculiarly the soul refreshed. and awakening memories of our own days when We remember when we bought our first we strolled onwards from King's, stopping oft- pictures. We had left King's some three years, times to gaze upon some picture of beauty; and were looking forward to our degree. We and then did we move on amid the tread of ssed down Trumpington-street; and at an

Then my

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old-fashioned house we saw the very spirit are better history than Gibbon and Niebuhr, of beauty breathing itself in two exquisitely and the rest. They tell us what is doing; what coloured prints; their names Innocence and Mo- men are about; what they expect; what they desty. How we loved to gaze in that window; dread. Hence, too, letters are better history it seemed the opening of Paradise ; some place still. Horace Walpole and Lady Wortley Monout of this dull-world; some spot serene- tagu let us into more real knowledge of their circled, dove-like, and blessed. It was not times than a thousand Humes or Smolletts. We as other windows; they held no such sweet- are more interested in them; we feel that they

There were golden gleams ever hover- are living creatures, that they have spoken, and ing over this antique house.

thought, and been injured like ourselves. But we purchased the pictures; and we What is so full of life as Boswell's Johnson ; revelled when they came home. We felt they there is a charm about it which takes us comwere hallowed things; purity-breathing forms. pletely captive. We cease to be men of the We seemed to become better in their presence. nineteenth century. We are not of now; we We fancied that every sweet odour should be are of the past. l'hat past has become nownear; and ere we retired to rest, we gazed oft our present. We hear Johnson, we are his and long, wishing intensely for the morn that companions, we go with him to Oxford, we we might gaze again. So passed some of our suffer with him. We converse with him at college-days, dreaming of all things beautifui; Lichfield; we struggle with him onwards and and startling many by our worship of the true onwards from the old St. John's gate, till he and perfect. They were silver-sprinkled, violet- becomes the known one of the British empire. scented dreams,

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 com

panion from youth. Every one who has read CARLYLE.

this book has forgotten the present. He has

no existence in our world. He is living in We note the great distinguishing feature of the past ; living in the living past. Carlyle; the one pervading element of his cha- This fixing, this concentrating all the powers racter. Remark it once, and you remark it for upon the subject, bringing it before one as the

He seizes hold of the present; he iden- present, is Carlyle's distinctive characteristic. tifies himself with the present; he sees only | He has no faculty to harmonize his works into the present; he feels nothing but the present. a whole. Indeed this would destroy his effect. All the grandeur of his genius is brought to It is for the philosopher to view things as combear on the present. If he writes history he pleted ; to view them by certain great princiwrites it as it is. It is no dull cold account of ples ; it belongs not to a writer of history, the past; it is the living, speaking present. which we affirm Carlyle only and entirely to What the people think, what they hope, what be. His essays, his criticisms, are nothing but they imagine, what they fear; this he stamps sketches of history. He seizes entirely on on the page. What the individual is, and not this: some little striking incident, and with what he is not. We see a human being. We what pathos and feeling does he dwell upon it ! see one of ourselves. He too has been born of You see it everywhere. woman and has been rocked in the cradle. He We have said that he is deficient in protoo has loved, dreamed, and suffered. No idle ducing anything as a complete whole. Pertale; no mere image. It is vivid, it is life. haps this is seen most his French Revolution.

This perception of the present influences It is not a whole; there is no harmony of parts. everything he writes. You behold it in every One cannot view it as done; it is a mere chaos ; work. It produces his finest and most magni- for order we must look elsewhere. ficent passages. He does not create so much But were it otherwise, no Carlyle should we as he simply tells us what men did. Robertson have; we should have some follower of Hume and Hume do not write history; their's is no and the rest ; a mere accountant.

A true real, true, certain history. Mosheim and Milner writer of history cannot harmonize. He must are but dry unintelligible books. We know be disjointed. The parts cannot be consistent nothing from them; we thank them only for with our notion of proportion; that is impostheir extracts from living men, for nothing else. sible. We must have what did take place ; Carlyle is the only true historical writer we and not what we deem proper symmetry. have. There are none else beside. History is Carlyle writes as the people felt, or as the indinot a mere account book; a mere ledger; a vidual felt; and what oneness is there in this ? mere network of facts; a mere saying that this What oneness is there in our lives? Are we was done and that was left undone. This is not sometimes dull, and sometimes bright; not history. We know no more after we have sometimes loving, and sometimes hating; somefinished the details, than we did before we sat times hoping, and sometimes fearing? How can down to read: not so much.

we paint all this with one colour, and think of it History should be history; and nothing else. under one influence ? would it not be wrong? We want to know what people thought, and would there be any truth in the painting or in felt, and hoped for, as well as what they did. the thought? There cannot be harmony; there We want to know whether it was a fine summer cannot be proportion; there cannot be the same afternoon when such and such things were tint; there cannot be the like sound of pleasure done ; and whether the national heart rejoiced or of woe. Amid so much contrariety it were in the sunshine. The mere outside we want not; impossible to educe order; were it educed, it we want the soul. Hence the daily journals would be false. We know this well in our

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selves; and we should do better were we to Again in that only true history of the French know it of what has passed.

Revolution, we see this power more greatly exHence we see that the two powers of indivi- ercised. Once begin to read, and read you must. dualism and classification cannot exist together It takes hold of you with giant force. It is all in any great degree. The true writer of history strange; the chapters strange, the titles strange; must not, cannot generalize; the moment he but a sensible history it is for all that; nothing does, that moment he fails; and hence we feel in less and nothing more. You become a Frenchlaying down Carlyle's books that he has suc- man, you sigh over the famine desolating the ceeded in telling us all that men felt and did, fairest provinces, the people have to eat boilea because he has seldom, if ever, attempted to look grass ; something must come of this. So you upon the events under a certain light.

think; so others think : and there will be someBut we must proceed more fully to examine thing come of it. The minds of men are being this guiding, this entire characteristic of our shaken to and fro; and so is yours. No longer author. It is this which makes him differ- are you an Englishman or a Scot: either one ent from other men; it is this which makes or the other you lose when you gaze on the him all he is or ever will be. You find it first page of his book. You cease to have your breathing in his earliest works. Proceed on- personal identity: that is gone entirely. "But wards and it becomes the breath of a giant; no you have what you want: the feelings and longer only just perceptible, but the whole man. thoughts of 1791 : these are the things you In his Essay on Johnson reprinted in his want, nothing else, nothing less.

Read a Miscellanies, and published first in May 1832, history as one living now and you do not read we find this remarkable perception of what was correctly: neither can you judge correctly what doing and what was done, both in his own did take place and what men fondly anticipated. strictures and in his quotations. Observe how Hence you are no more a liver now; but are the following is imbued with this potency :-- rather à liver then and there. So the history Then there is the chivalrous Topham Beauclerk, with

rolls on; sometimes with tumult, and somehis sharp wit, and gallant country ways; there is Bennet

times with sunbeam. Both, you cannot always Langton, an orthodox gentleman, and worthy; though have, so must take as they are given. There Johnson once laughed, louder almost than mortal, at his last will be brilliant dreams of freedom, and you will and testament; and “could not stop his merriment, but continued it all the way till he got without the Temple

too will dream. There will be struggles, and gate, then burst into such a fit of laughter, that he ap- you too will struggle. There will be golden peared to be almost in a convulsion; and, in order to hope and a day all sweet and peaceful, and support himself, laid hold of one of the posts at the side of the foot-pavement, and sent forth peals so loud that,

you too will have hope and enjoy this day. in the silence of the night, his voice seemed to resound

There will come executions, many and marvelfrom Temple-bar to Fleet-ditch !

lous, and you will be there. The king and the By this we are ourselves taken from century queen and mighty souls will be cast down, and nineteenth to century eighteenth, and from this you will behold it all; every whit and every ancient library of Cambridge, where we are thing. You will be absent from not one, not now sitting, surrounded by books issued for a single one. Blood and deism, blood and the last four hundred years and more, and only atheism, blood and harlotry, all will engage you; hearing at intervals the hum of busy man; we nay, you will be engaged in them. Calm quiet say we are taken from all this to l'emple-bar evenings indeed will be yours; but also dismal and become real living persons of the evening,

and awful and tremendous ones. when the great Lexicographer rolled himself Thus when you open this Carlyle you cease along Fleet-street. Now this is the tremen- to be yourself; you go back into the opening of dous faculty of our author. He throws aside time; into what is long gone by. You become time whenever he willeth. By him we can then and there existing. And here is the great live, truly live, live as we now live, and perhaps marvel of the book, here is the true history. better, on the night when Johnson thus bois- We need no results, philosophically considered ; terously laughed at the curious will of Bennet these we leave to the moralist. Results are not Langton.

known for years after the event has occurred : So, reader, you have been in Fleet-street and could the people see the result of this Revoluunder Temple-bar. It is a dull smoky place, tion: they fancied what would be, and so must crowded with human beings indeed, but no you; not know what is. gaiety; no matter, wherever you are, wherever We said this history abounded in these living, you are here in London. The north mighty influences of taking you from the now cannot hold you; you must travel hitherwards and transferring you to the then. Open the when Carlyle speaks. No pleasant home, no book at any page and chance is, that you find tender tie of wife or child can keep you : here much to bear us out in our judgment; but you must and do come: come to this very spot, open at page 125 in the third volume of the and behold its dark buildings, and its care

second edition, and you will see it all exempliworn men passing and repassing. Mark you, fied; Louis is being condemned :the present century is not yet: that is in the

And so, finally, at eight in the evening this third stuwomb of to come. You recollect nothing of pendous voting, by roll-call or appel nominal, does yourself, your kindred, your abode, your pro

begin. What punishment? Girondins undecided, patriots fession, nothing whatever. Here you are, as

decided, men afraid of royalty, men afraid of anarchy,

must answer here and now. Infinite patriotism, dusky in much a dweller of this earth in that year, as the lamp-light, floods all corridors, crowds all galleries ; was Johnson. This is exactly Carlyle's spirit over sternly waiting to hear. Shrill-sounding ushers summon you; you cannot help it. Read and you are you by name and department; you must rise to the tri..

bune and say. captive to there and then. No matter striving:

Eye-witnesses have represented this scene of the third strivings avail nothing; so attempt not.

voting, and of the votings that grew out of it; a scene pro

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tracted, like to be endless, lasting, with few brief intervals Thirdly and lastly, for we must quote from from Wednesday till Sunday morning, as one of the strangest three of his works, look into the book entitled seen in the Revolution. Long night wears itself into day,

Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches with morning's paleness is spread over all faces; and again the wintry shadows sink, and the dim lamps are lit; but Elucidations, just at the beginning, in the first through day and night and the vicissitude of hours, volume and at page 60, and you will find this member after member is mounting continually those taking you out of self and making or transformlight, to speak his fate-word; then diving down into the ing you into another is here also : you have dusk and throng again. Like phantoms in the hour of one more gaze into time past. You learn what midnight; inost spectral, pandemonial! Never did Presi

was done on a certain day, on the 23rd day of dent Vergniaud, or any other terrestrial President, superintend the like. A king's life, and so much else that April 1616; what was doing at this our Camdepends thereon, hangs trembling in the balance. Man bridge and what was doing in sweet sunny Stratafter man mounts; the buzz hushes itself till he has ford-upon-Avon. This day is saved out of Many say death'; with what cautious well-studied phrases stands; and we see what was doing in truth spoken; death; banishment; imprisonment till

peace. oblivion : time cannot swallow it up. There it and paragraphs they could devise of explanation, of enforcement, of faint recommendation to mercy. Many too and what in truth was passing. None can read say, banishment; something short of death. The balance the passage without some feelings of awe. trembles, none yet guess whitherward. Whereat anxious There is certainly something marvellous in this of patriotism bellows; irrepressible by ushers.

preserving the actions of time past and forgotten; Turn to page 313 of the same Volume :- but read, and you will be the more content:The great heart of Danton is weary of it. Danton is

Curious enough, of all days on this same day, Shak. gone to native Arcis, for a little breathing time of peace; speare, as his stone monument still testifies, at Stratfordaway, black Arachne-webs, thou world of fury, terror, on-Avon, died: Obiit anno Domini 1616, Ætatis 53, and suspicion ; welcome, thou everlasting Mother, with Die 23 Apr.' While Oliver Cromwell was entering thy spring greenness, thy kind household loves and memo

himself of Sidney-Sussex College, William Shakspeare ries ; true art thou, were all else untrue!

The great

was taking his farewell of this world. Oliver's father Titan walks silent, by the banks of the murmuring Aube, had, most likely, come with him ; it is but twelve miles

young native haunts that knew him when a boy; wonders from Huntingdon; you can go and come in a day, what the end of these things may be.

Oliver's father saw Oliver write in the Album at Cam

bridge: at Stratford, Shakspeare's Ann Hathaway was Page 320:

weeping over his bed. The first world-great thing that Some five months ago the trial of the twenty-two

remains of English history, the literature of Shakspeare,

was ending; the second great-world thing that remains Girondins was the greatest that Fouquier had then done.

of English history, the armed appeal of Puritanism to the But here is a still greater to do; a thing which tasks the

invisible God of heaven, against very many visible devils, whole faculty Fouquier; which makes the very heart of

on earth and elsewhere, was, so to speak, beginning. They For it is the voice of Danton that rever

have their exits and their entrances. And one people in berates now from these domes; in passionate words, pierc

its time plays many parts. ing with their wild sincerity, winged with wrath. Your best witnesses he shivers into ruin at one stroke. He Now we pass by every other characteristic demands that the committee-men themselves come as witnesses, as accusers; he “will cover them with igno- dwelt upon in critiques upon his works, so

of our author; they have in general been mainly miny." black head, fire flashes from the eyes of him, – piercing this may as well stand as it is. One notion we to all Republican hearts : so that the very galleries, though have given of Carlyle; and we believe it to we filled them by ticket, murmur sympathy; and are like be a true one. False it cannot be, for we have to burst down, and raise the people, and deliver him! He complains loudly that he is classed with Chabots with

felt it; not only seen, but felt; that is ever swindling stock-jobbers; that his indictment is a list of better than seeing, something deeper. platitudes and horrors. “Danton hidden on the tenth of So here we conclude our paper, having just August ?" reverberates he, with the roar of a lion in the toils ; Where are the men that had to press Danton to expressed our thoughts on a single point; a shew himself that day? where are these high-gifted souls point worthy indeed to be studied by our hisof whom he borrowed energy? Let them appear, these torians, and those who praise our notable ones: accusers of mine; I have all the clearness of my self-here, in this library of the learned University possession when I demand them. I will unmask the three shallow scoundrels," les trois plats coquins, Saint

of Cambridge, having left a little while since Just, Couthon, Lebas, “who fawn on Robespierre, and

the Fellows' Buildings of Christ College, in a lead him towards his destruction. Let them produce quiet room of whicn we had been lectured in of which they ought never to have risen." The agitated gloom-work, bearing name mathematics, by President agitates his bell; enjoins calmness, in a vehe

one who gained the love and esteem of every ment manner: "What

is it to thee how I defend myself?” member of his class, and who could forgive our cries the other : "the right of dooming me is thine always. dull stupidity at this mill-labour and treat us The voice of a man speaking for his honour and his life, with gentle kindness ; in deep earnest sincerity may well drown the jingling of thy bell!” Thus Danton, higher and higher, till the lion voice of him dies away in

he has our heart-thanks: here then we conclude his throat: speech will not utter what is in that man. The this paper, and beg you reader to accept our galleries murmur ominously; the first day's session is thoughts as the thoughts of one who has read

Carlyle till the sounds of carnage, and the scenes Page 322 :

of slaughter, and the blasphemous cries of At the foot of the scaffold, Danton was heard to eja- been heard and seen by us; not in our own

atheism, and polluted voice of harlotry have culate, “O my wife, my well-beloved, I shall never see thee more then!"-but interrupting himself; “ Danton, no

person, but in the person of a Revolutionist of weakness !"

1791 ; till we have walked down Fleet-street So passes, like a gigantic mass, of valour, ostentation, and passed through Temple-bar with two refury, affection, and wild revolutionarymanhood, this Danton to his unknown home. He was of Arcis-sur-Aube; born

markable personages, the one Johnson and the of “good farmer-people" there. He had many sins; but

other Boswell; till we have forgotten now, and one worst sin he had not, that of cant. No hollow forma- been somehow or another transferred to this list, deceptive and self-deceptive, ghastly to the natural | pleasant town on the day in which Cromwell sense, was this, but a very man; with all his dross he was a man; fiery-real from the great fire-bosom of nature

entered, a youth dreaming naught of kingship herself.

or protectorship, and till we have been present

over.

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