English winter, are now bethinking them- | our deification of this season of east wind selves of returning home. Yet they are is due. Probably English poets were also leaving the sunny shores of the Mediter- similarly moved by Italian writers, for unranean just when they are most beautiful. less the climate has changed - and we In these latitudes the spring comes on not have every reason for believing it has not timidly and uncertain of herself as in the spring which they sang of is a myth northern lands, but with a glow of glorious in this country, though a reality in Italy. sunshine, a burst of heat and an extraor- We do not mean to say that an English dinary exuberance of flower and blossom. spring is without beauty, only it is not The whole region is steeped in warmth that sort of beauty which is usually atand bounteous life. The sea, to borrow tributed to it. Now and then towards the Browning's picturesque phrase, is striped end of April, it is true, we enjoy at rare like a snake's back, in coils of color be- intervals an ideal day, blest with balmy tween polished silver and deepest blue, airs fresh from the Gulf Stream. Usually intermingled with patches of purple im- the blast that blows has howled across possible to paint. From Marseilles to Siberian deserts and whipped the grey Genoa, the lazy ripples lap the red crags waters of the North Sea into yeasty waves. of the broken coast with an exquisite But certainly our spring is not a time when fringe of foam, white and pure as the snow life in the open air is a luxury as it is in gleaming on the summit of the distant the south. It is the fickle period we all Alps. The white Mediterranean heath is know and welcome so fondly as the end blooming everywhere. As one brushes of five months' dreary weather and the through it the pollen is shaken from the harbinger perchance of a perfect English delicate bells in a cloud of fragrant dust. June. It is, perhaps, because we pine so In places the narcissi bloom in number- much for the sunshine that there exists so less profusion, and the air is rendered great a difference between the spring of almost oppressive by their odor. From our earlier literature and the one that is many a shore-built town the steep roads even now with us. Bitter blasts are not leading inland pass groves of fir, pine, and unknown in Provence, it is true. But graceful eucalyptus by precipitous gorges they come in January-blustering across musical with tumbling waterfalls, and the arid hills under a cloudless sky, swayrocks hidden under a canopy of clamber- ing the gray-green of the olives, and dising ivy leaves as fragrant as dews, flowers, closing the silvery under-side of their and pure air can make them. On all sides leaves. The peasants working in the are roses in profusion, trailing over the fields wear gray sheepskins to protect houses and wandering even into unculti- themselves against its sharp tooth. But vated hedgerows. The land is so benig- the worst mistral that ever blew in Pronant! The bees are humming everywhere. vence is more endurable than a cold east The dragon-flies are flashing through the wind on a cloudy day in England. Though shafts of sunshine that filter into the dark the mistral sweeps across the plains from woods, and great swallow-tailed butterflies the icy hills, rattling the windows, slamflit on their broad wings over the tall tops ming the doors, and whirling the dust, it of the cyprus-trees. "O to be in England bears with it a certain broad joyousness now that April's there!" exclaims the which the keen winds that come to us do author of "Paracelsus," but probably he not possess. The mistral is accompanied had the ideal spring in his mind-the almost invariably by a sky of the deepest spring that was blossoming round his Ital- blue, and the atmosphere becomes of alian home as he wrote. Imagine the dif- most unearthly clearness. Distant crags, ference between that season in Provence that before were dim and indistinct, stand and Perth! Long experience has led us out with extraordinary clearness against to doubt whether the spring as pictured the metallic sky. Poor Charles Kingsley by some of our poets Chaucer among was the only man who rejoiced at the east them ever really existed. We are not at wind, and he fell a premature victim to all sure that it was not the Trouvères from the severity of our climate. No; the the land of "Provençal song and sun- south, in spite of Chaucer and our poets, burnt mirth" whose influence on mediæval is the true home of the spring, although thought in England was so great, to whom we sometimes see her ghost. For EIGHT DOLLARS, vemitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents. TO A THRUSH IN JANUARY. I. BRAVE, happy bird! Yea, so thrice happy, thou, Who, heedless all of cold and suffering, Of sad times past, or what the days may bring Of hardship that will, haply, end thee, lo! There from yon leafless tree, on topmost bough, Flooding the landscape round, dost sweetly sing, Heart-full of joy and gladness as 'twere And only roses were to look for now! And vex his soul with comfortless concern, But, fain of heart, sure find some goodness yet In evil, till to grace itself it turn, II. Gaily thou singest this dull Winter morn, With joyous make-believe of May and mirth, As thou wert not a-hunger'd, for the dearth Of bud or berry upon tree or thorn, Throughout the range of wood and plain forlorn, Seek, starveling, as thou may; nor from thy birth Hadst known save peace and plenty on the earth, Nor nature e'er an unkind aspect worn! Swoons with rich odors, and their toil the bees Set to soft music, thou'rt no longer there! Sing, while thou art," thy song doth seem NATIONS need sometime suffering: when our mood Is soft, emasculate, and fearing pain; Be absent! come, and to our souls discover, Partly, perhaps, owing to a want of sympathy with the French and their existing form of government, partly to an intense dislike and distrust of her ruler, of whom he never speaks save in terms of reprobation, Mr. Motley did not share that love of Paris which is a proverbial attribute of his countrymen. From The Quarterly Review. art, science, and literature, as if those things MOTLEY'S CORRESPONDENCE. were worth something, and were entitled to AMONG the many Americans and for- some consideration, as well as high birth, offieigners who, in recent years, have under-cial rank, and wealth, which on the Continent taken to describe England, her customs, are the only passports. and her inhabitants, there are but few who have enjoyed such opportunities as did Mr. Motley of mixing with and studying the inner life of our best society; and never perhaps have such opportunities been combined with that genius of observation and faculty for description, which were possessed by the historian of the Dutch republic. They are but sketches that he gives us, but sketches which comprise most of the leading characters of the time, dashed off from day to day in all the ease and unrestraint of his familiar correspondence, and instinct with the natural humor and genial, if somewhat cynical, wit of the man. We have mentioned at the outset these outline sketches of London society, not because they form the largest or most important portion of the correspondence, but because it is to them that many of our readers will turn with the greatest eager ness. There is scarcely a capital in Europe with which Mr. Motley was not familiar; his diplomatic duties or his literary researches had, at one time or another, entailed residence at St. Peters burg and Vienna, at the Hague, Brussels, Berlin, and Rome. To the accounts of these are added descriptions of the best circles in Boston and Washington, both from his own pen and those of such correspondents as Oliver Wendell Holmes and James Russell Lowell; each interesting in no ordinary degree, but especially interesting to the insular mind of the Englishman as the background, and if we may be allowed the expression, the foil to that more extended picture of London society of which he wrote: I cannot help forming a favorable idea of English civilization when I see the position accorded in this country to those who cultivate 1. The Correspondence of John Lothrop Motley, DC.L., formerly United States Minister in England; Author of "Rise of the Dutch Republic," History of the United Netherlands," etc. Edited by George William Curtis. 2 vols. London, 1889. 2. John Lothrop Motley, a Memoir. By Oliver Wendell Holmes. London, 1878. 66 "Upon leaving Switzerland," he writes to his mother in 1855, we passed a month in Paris. in our history, because the immense fatigue I don't like to say much about that episode and expense of passing four weeks in that place so entirely counter-balances all satisfaction which can be derived from it, that I cannot speak upon the subject without injustice and exaggeration." And three years later: "The influences of Paris are very depressing to me. I dislike the place more and more every time I come to it.” Scarce twelve years have passed since he was moving about in London society, and yet in turning over the leaves of these volumes it is sad to reflect, how few of his intimate personal associates are still remaining among us. Those who had the privilege of his acquaintance will not readily forget the aristocratic air, the singularly handsome features, the cultured, if somewhat sarcastic wit, for which he was remarkable; those who knew him more intimately could not fail to be impressed with his deep sincerity and sympathy, but to the world at large he is now little more than a name. "An author may interest his public by his work, or by his personal. ity, or by both," writes the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table; Motley the historian is known, and will be known, wherever the English language is spoken or read; of Motley the man, but a vague and indefinite impression exists. It is true that a memoir of him has been written by his friend Oliver Wendell Holmes, but it is not so widely known in this country as it deserves to be, nor is it such a work as would, apart from any previous interest in its subject, appeal to the general reader; it is addressed rather to Motley's friends and enemies for he had enemies - than to the world at large. Moreover, the work is in the main an apologia pro vitâ ejus; his resignation of his post at Vienna in 1867; his recall from London in 1870; the attack on his religious opinions, his "Unitarianism" and "Rationalism," by Mr. Groen van Prinsterer, are all dealt with at considerable length, and give the book, intentionally perhaps, a polemical character. The two volumes before us contain merely a selection from his correspondence chiefly with the members of his own family and his intimate friends; the editorial notes are few and far between, and where gaps in the series, extending at times over two or three years, render a connecting link necessary, it is confined to the briefest possible narration of facts. In short, Mr. Motley's life can best be read and studied between the lines of his own correspondence, and we are confident that it is a study which will repay him who undertakes it. His career was passed among some of the most stirring events and most prominent characters of the present century, but was of itself devoid of any striking external incidents; it was, moreover, full of contrarieties, and it is in a great measure to them that we owe these charming volumes. Deeply attached to the members of his own family, he was, by the exigencies of his profession, separated, sometimes for long periods, from them; American to the backbone, and a thoroughgoing hater of monarchy, he was compelled to pass the best years of his life at European courts, and amidst European aristocracies; passionately attached to the cause of the North, he resided in England at a time when English sympathies were strongly drawn towards the Confederate cause; a devoted adherent of the Republican party, he was by two successive Republican presidents treated in a manner which wounded his sensitive nature to the quick, and contributed not a little to his early death. Amid such conflicting circumstances his natural genius was sharpened, and, to his credit be it said, the chastening which he underwent seems in the end to have strengthened the nobler qualities of his nature, and to have softened the rigid character of his political creed. John Lothrop Motley was born at Dor. chester, now a suburb of Boston, on April 15, 1814. His father, Thomas Motley, a man of no little ability, was the author of some of the once celebrated "Major Downing's Letters," and his mother, Anna Lothrop, was a descendant of the Checkley or Chichele family, so famous in the annals of Oxford University. When the author of the "Rise of the Dutch Republic" went to Oxford in 1860 to receive his D.C.L. degree, he wrote to his mother : I was sorry that on the Commemoration Day we lunched in University Hall rather than in All Souls', where we were also expected, because All Souls' was founded by Archbishop Chicheley, in the reign of Henry VI., of a Northampton family, of which your grandfather Checkley was no doubt descended. Until very recently, any one proving kindred with the old archbishop might claim free instruction at his college, so that I might have been educated at All Souls' at small expense, but the privilege is now done away with. Mr. and Mrs. Motley had the reputation of being the handsomest couple in Boston; and his mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, and to whom a large part of the best letters in this collection is addressed, is described by Mr. Holmes as a woman who could not be looked upon without admiration. I well remember the sweet dignity of her aspect, her "regal beauty," as Mr. Phillips truly styles it, and the charm of her serene and noble presence, which made her the type of a perfect motherhood. Her character corresponded to the promise of her gracious aspect. She was one of the fondest of mothers, but not thoughtlessly indulgent to the boy from whom she hoped and expected more than she thought it wise to let him know. At the age of ten years he was sent to a school at Jamaica Plain, near Boston, kept by a Mr. C. W. Greene, but within a year he was transferred to the Round Hill School at Northampton, Mass., an estab lishment which at that time had attained success and popularity under the manage. ment of Mr. Joseph S. Cogswell and Mr. George Bancroft, the future historian of the United States. We are told that |