I suffered then! suffered more for the sake of others than myself! I wept, I entreated in the name of pity and humanity, in the name of our misfortunes, of the laws which govern the world; and I was only a woman, and yet how highly exalted above this adversary.' The monstrous attack of Napoleon on Spain added to her gloom. "It is a new finger trace of the iron hand," she writes, "which is passing over the face of Europe-a warning one for us." The gallantry of the Spaniards inspired her with some hope. But fresh blows were at hand. The faithful Stein, who had occasioned Napoleon's anger by his manly policy, was compelled to resign. The kindness of the emperor Alexander brought some alleviation. In proceeding to Erfurth, he had passed through Königsberg, and had urged the king and queen to return his visit at St. Petersburg. They did so early in 1809, were received with the utmost attention, and overwhelmed with gifts; but Louisa turned from the splendour and the gifts which the emperor heaped upon her with a weary heart. When some one remarked to her afterwards on the beauty of a set of pearl ornaments which she wore, "Yes," she said, "I kept these back, when I had to part with all my other jewels. Pearls suit me. They are emblematic of tears, and I have shed so many." It was a relief to her to return to Königsberg. "Nothing dazzles me now," she said, " and once more I repeat, my kingdom is not of this world." Her friend Borowski thus describes her: "Her seriousness has a quiet cheerfulness about it; and the faith and courage which God gives her, spread over her whole being a sweetness which may be called dignified. Her eyes, indeed, have lost their early liveliness, and one sees in them that she has wept, and still weeps much; but they have acquired a mild expression of soft melancholy and silent longing, which is better than mere joyousness. The bloom has vanished from her cheeks, and is replaced by a soft pallor; yet her face is still fair, and the white roses there please me almost better than the earlier red ones. Round her mouth, where a sweet happy smile used to play, one now from time to time remarks a trembling of the lips, which speaks of pain, but not of bitter pain." The gallant struggle in the Tyrol gave her a momentary delight. She hailed the flame of freedom kindled, as she says, both in the mountains of the Tyrol and of Spain. "What a man is this Andreas Hofer; a peasant is become a general, and what a general! His arms are prayer, his ally God. He fights on bended knee, with folded hands, and conquers as with the flaming sword of the cherubim." Then she hopes that the days of the maid of Orleans may return, and that thus, perhaps, the evil adversary will be overcome. But the war with Austria darkened her prospects. Her birthday had been kept by the simple citizens of Königsberg in March, 1809, by a banquet at the castle and a fête given by the inhabitants of the town. The poor queen was ill, and was heart-broken with sorrow and foreboding. Reproaches fell upon her, a huge burden of sorrow; she says she

"had to sigh and swallow her tears." "My birthday," she writes to her confidential friend," was a fearful day for me. My heart seemed breaking. I danced, I smiled, I said pleasant things to the fêtegivers. I was friendly to every one, while all the time I knew not which way to turn for misery. To whom will Prussia belong next year? whither shall we all be dispersed? God Almighty, Father, have pity!"

When afterwards she heard of the defeat of Austria at Wagram, she writes," Alas! O God, how much trouble is gone over me! Thou alone helpest. I no longer believe in an earthly future. God knows where I shall be buried; scarcely on German ground. Austria sings her swan song, and then, ade Germania."

But at length there was a change for the better. Prince William, after long negotiation, obtained the evacuation of Prussia by the French troops. Two days before Christmas, 1809, the king and queen returned to Berlin. However basely the upper classes had succumbed to Napoleon, the heart of the citizens was true. They sent as their gift a new carriage to meet the queen out of Berlin, which they had lined with lilac, her favourite colour; and in the midst of thundering cannon and pealing bells, the king on horseback, and the queen in her new carriage, re-entered the capital.

In the previous autumn she had given birth to a prince; and her health, undermined by sorrow and the severe climate, had been unusually delicate. She had then longed for a return to Berlin; but now, when her wish was granted, and she bent forward eagerly to see each well-known spot, and to return her people's greetings, the change that had passed since she had entered the capital a happy bride sixteen years before, came across her, and her smiles were mingled with tears.

In her desertion she had found a faithful friend. On a public occasion Napoleon had uttered one of his scandalous falsehoods against her. The French clergyman, Erman, an old man, bluntly exclaimed, "That is false, Sire !" which so astonished Napoleon, that he passed the remark by. Now, on a public occasion, the queen went to the old man with her filled glass, drank "to the health of the knight who had the courage to break a lance for the honour of his queen," and asked him to pledge her.

But though the joy of the citizens and the delight of her husband brought soothing thoughts, joy came too late for the worn spirit and overtasked frame. She had borne up during the tension of anxiety, but her strength gave way in the first moment of rest. She had herself said, as she returned to Berlin, "I feel overpowered with joy, but black forebodings trouble me." At first, a subdued melancholy took the place of her usual cheerfulness, and slight attacks of spasms showed where the malady had fixed itself. But she revived as spring advanced; her piety brought composure; that piety which spoke little, which approached religion with a sort

of diffident bumility, and yet presented to the thoughtful observer the evidence of a longing and thirsting for holiness which could not be mistaken. She received the sacrament on Easter Sunday, and the clergyman, who administered it, spoke afterwards of that scene as one never to be forgotten. Her countenance seemed lighted up with holiness, and her noble features wore a heavenly expression. Her old father, the duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, had met her in Berlin. She had promised to return his visit in summer, and see once more her grandmother, who was too infirm to travel. On the 24th of June she removed to Nen-Strelitz, where she was welcomed by all her own family, and where the king joined her on the 28th. She spoke to her brother of her happiness, and wrote a line on her father's desk, the last she ever wrote, expressive of her joy. On the 29th the attack of spasms of the heart came on; she rallied at first, and though during the king's absence (who was compelled to return to Berlin) the medical men hoped that the danger was over, the spasms returned with increased force.

She lay, except when the attack was on her, in perfect peace, looking, as some one remarked, like an angel, and repeating to herself parts of hymns which she had learned in her childhood. The king's letters she put under her pillow, and read them with delight. For her husband and children's sake she clung to life. "It would be hard," she said, "if I should die; think of the king and the children!" Before the last attack the king returned, and on the 19th of July all was over. His arm was round her when the spasms became more violent. "Lord Jesus, make it short," she

said, gave a low sigh, and so departed.

The king's anguish and affection were shown in his after-life. The mausoleum at Charlottenburg bears witness, through the genius of Rauch, to the lost queen. The school for the training of females, and the almshouses for the poor set up in her memory, were called by her name. The order of the Iron Cross was instituted on her birthday; and when the great struggle came, and Prussia once more took her part in behalf of the liberties of Europe on the well-fought fields of Dresden, and Leipsic, and Quatre Bras, the arm of many a Prussian soldier was nerved and his heart steadied by the recollection of her wrongs whom Prussia had lost,-lost through imperial cruelty and selfish ambition; but not till she had made for herself a spotless fame which has given lustre to queens, and set an example which, we trust, will secure a lasting blessing to the Prussian throne.

LIFE OF THE LATE BISHOP OF CALCUTTA.

Life of the Right Rev. Daniel Wilson, D D., late Lord Bishop of Calcutta, and Metropolitan of India, &c., &c. By the Rev. JOSIAH BATEMAN, Rector of North Cray, &c. 2 vols. Murray. 1860. FEW volumes, we believe, have been looked for with more interest than those now lying before us. Bishop Wilson could not pass from the stage of life without a strong desire being awakened, not merely to see the very last of him, but to trace out the course of his life, and, if possible, to detect the mainsprings by which the whole man was set in action, impelled and controlled. The mere outward history of a person, raised from a state of comparative obscurity to a high eminence as a thinker, writer, preacher and ruler in the church of Christ, is in itself a matter of much interest to every thinking mind. But it is an infinitely more interesting occupation to endeavour to look within, and search into the motives, principles, passions, by which all that was great and good and admirable in him was prompted; in fact, to observe the mainspring as well as the hands of the watch. Is there any way of solving the phenomenon of his superiority to other men; of his moving, as it were, like a giant among dwarfs; and all this in spite of great outward disadvantages-of a naturally strong temper, a headlong will, and an enthusiasm as likely to drive him onwards in a wrong course as in a right one? The work before us replies to all these questions; and shows us that the religion of the Cross, carried home to the soul by the all-powerful Spirit of the Living God, was the instrument by which the victory was won, and the child of corruption raised to an eminence scarcely attained by any one of his contemporaries. This constitutes the real value of these volumes. They profess to delineate both the outward and the inner man; and we are bold to say, they will disappoint none of their readers. They are executed with much ability and honesty; with a strong desire to exalt the truth and to commend it, and they are brightened all over, as every biography of such a man should be, with a glow of affection which meets our own sympathies and satisfies the craving of our heart.

But, now that we have got the volumes, what are we, as critics, to do with them? Our own judgment upon Daniel Wilson has been emphatically pronounced again and again. We have laboured, in sentences of our own and extracts from others, in reviews, comments, and an obituary, to give full scope to our reverence and admiration of him. It seems to us better not to recur at large to these topics, but, in our present notice, chiefly to let him speak for himself. There are few cases in which any much-occupied man has so resolutely carried forward the task of journalizing his own

thoughts, feelings, and actions; and it would, we think, be folly of a high order to force the pen out of his hands in order to use it ourselves. But even as to the matter of extracts from the volumes themselves, there is much difficulty. How are we to choose, when so very much is good? How are we, on the one hand, to supply enough to satisfy those who may find it impossible to read the volumes; and how keep back enough to whet the curiosity of our readers for more? All we can do is to make the attempt, hoping for the indulgence of all classes of readers, and assuring them that our extracts are only an infinitesimal part of what ought to be read, thought over, and prayed over in these volumes.

It will be our aim to supply such a sketch of the bishop's life in its different stages, as may serve to give the extracts a proper and consecutive place.

Daniel Wilson, who died the Metropolitan Bishop of India, sprang from what we have no hesitation in calling the best blood of England-that of the middle classes-that incorporation of the yeoman and the tradesman, which we believe to be the original stock of the manliness, vigour, simplicity, determination, which are the characteristics of Englishmen in all parts of the world. In his youth he was a "sickly boy," giving no promise of the strong nerves and sinews which served as the temple of one of the most energetic of all spirits, and helped to carry him through such extended and protracted labours. He had no sooner gone to school, than Mr. Eyre, his valuable master, discovered that he had received no common pupil into his establishment. How like the character of his more advanced days his language then; "If my head will not work, my body shall not eat!" At fourteen years of age he was bound apprentice to a near relative, Mr. Wilson, an eminent silk manufacturer-a kind but a strict master; and Daniel Wilson was placed in a position which he earnestly craved for all his fellow labourers afterwards-that of "bearing the yoke in his youth." In that position, we find, however, for a time, little good in him; except, indeed, his strong desire for self-improvement, moral and intellectual; and after a time, he was so far warped from the principles of his early education, as to learn to question some of the truths of Christianity, and then naturally to proceed to a violation of its prohibitions against sin. He himself thus describes his state at that time:

"As far back as I can remember, my whole heart was given to sin. Even when a boy at school, when particular circumstances recur to my mind, I am shocked at the dreadful depravity of my nature as it then discovered itself. I have indeed proceeded in a regular progression from the lesser sins of bad books, bad words, and bad desires, to the grosser atrocities of those emphatically known by the lusts of the flesh.' I was constantly acting against a better knowledge. I had received a religious education, and had been accustomed to a regular attendance on public ordinances. I could criticise a sermon, and talk and dispute about