from the woods, which serves also as a riding-stick (with which he hits the horse 'between the ears say authors); and for royal robes, a mere soldier's blue coat with red facings-coat likely to be old, and sure to have a good deal of Spanish snuff on the breast of it; ret of the apparel dim, unobtrusive in colour of cut, ending in high overknee military boots, which may be brushed (and, I hope. kept soft with an underhand suspicion of oil), but are not permitted to be blackened or varnished; Day and Martin with their soot-pots forbidden to approach. The man is not of god-like physiognomy, any more than of imposing stature or costume; close-shut mouth with thin tips, prominent jaws and nose, receding brow, by no means of Olympian height; head, however, is of long form, and has superlative gray eyes in it. Not what is called a beautiful man; nor yet, by all ppearance, what is called a happy. On the contrary, the face bears evidence of many sorrows, as they are termed, of much hard labour done in this world; and seems to anticipate nothing but more still coming. Quiet stoicism, capable enough of what joy there were, but not expecting any worth mention; great unconscious and some conscious pride, well tempered with a cheery mockery of humour, are written on that old face, which carries its chin well forward, in spite of the slight stoop about the neck; snuffy nose, rather flung into the air, under its old cocked-hat, like an old snuffy lion on the watch; and such a pair of eyes as no man, or lion, or lynx of that century bore elsewhere, according to all the testimony we have. Those eyes,' says Mirabeau, which at the bid-ling of his great soul, fascinated you with seduction or with terror' (portaient au gré de son âme héroïque, la séduction ou la terreur). Most excellent, potent, brilliant eyes, swift-darting as the stars steadfast as the sun; gray, we said. of the azure-gray colour; large enough, not of glaring size; the habitual expression of them vigilance and penetrating sense, rapidity resting on depth. Which is an excellent combination; and gives us the notion of a lambent outer radiance springing from some great inner sea of light and fire in the man. The voice, if he speak to you, is of similar physionomy: clear, melodious, and sonorous; all tones are in it. from that of ingenuous inquiry, graceful sociality, light-flowing banter (rather prickly for most part), up to definite word of command, up to desolating word of rebuke and reprobation; a voice the clearest and most agreeable in conversation I ever heard.' says witty Dr. Moore. He speaks a great deal,' continues the doctor; yet those who hear him, regret that he does not speak good deal more. His observations are always lively, very often just; and few men possess the talent of repartee in greater perfection.'. . . The French Revolution may be said to have, for about half a century. quite submerged Friedrich, abolished him from the memories of men; and now on coming to light again. he is found defaced under strange mud-incrustations, and the eyes of mankind look at him from a singularly chang d what we must call oblique and perverse point of vision. This is one of the difficulties in dealing with his history-especially if you happen to believe both in the French Revolution and in him; that is to say, both that Real Kingship is eternally indispensable, and also that the Destruction of Sham Kingship (a frightful process) is occasionally so.

On the breaking out of that formidable Explosion and Suicide of his Century, Friedrich sank into comparative obscurity; eclipsed amid the ruins of that universal earthquake, the very dust of which darkened all the air, and made of day a disastrous midnight. Black midnight, broken only by the blaze of conflagrations; wherein, to our terrified imaginations, were seen. not men, French and other, but ghastly portents, stalking wrathful, and shapes of avenging gods. It must be owned the figure of Napoleon was titanic-especially to the generation that looked on him, and that waited shuddering to be devoured by him. In general, in that French Revolution, all was on a huge scule; if not greater than anything in human experience, at lea ́t more grandiose. All was recorded in bulletins, too, addressed to the shilling-gallery; and there were fellows on the stage with such a breadth, of sabre, extent of whisk age. str ngth of windpipe. and command of men and gunpowder, as had never been Been before How they be'lowed. stalked. and flourished about: counterfeiting Jove's thunder to an amazing degree! Terrific Drawcansir figures. of enormos whiskerage, unlimited command of gunpowder; not without sufficient ferocity, and even a certain heroism. stage-heroism in them; compared with whom, to the skil Ing-gallery, and frightened excited theatre at large, it seemed as if there had been no renerals or sovereigns before; as if Friederich, Gustavus, Cromwell. William Conqueror, and Alexander the Great were not worth speaking of henceforth.

Charlotte Corday-Death of Marat.

Amid the dim ferment of Caen and the world, history specially notices one thing: in the lobby of the Mansion de l'Intendance, where busy deputies are coming and going, a young lady, with an aged valet, taking graceful leave of Deputy Barbiroux. She is of stately Norman figure; in her twenty-fifth year; of beautiful still countenance: her name is Charlotte Corday, heretofore styled D'Armans, while nobility still was. Barbaroux has given her a note to Deputy Duperet-him who once drew his sword in the effervescence. Apparently, she will to Paris on some errand. She was a Republican before the Revolution, and never wanted energy. A completeness, a decision, is in this fair female figure; by energy she means the spirit that will prompt one to sacrifice himself for his country.' What if she, this fair young Charlotte, had emerged from her secluded stillness, suddenly like a star; cruel, lovely, with halfangelic, half-demoniac splendour, to gleam for a moment, and in a moment to be extinguished: to be held in memory, so bright complete was she, through long centuries. Quitting cimmerian coalitions without, and the dim-simmering twenty-five millions within, history will look fixedly at this one fair apparition of a Charlotte Corday; will note whither Charlotte moves, how the little life burus forth so radiant, then vanishes, swallowed of the night.

With Barbaroux's note of introduction, and slight stock of luggage, we see Charlotte on Tuesday the 9th of July seated in the Caen diligence, with a place for Paris. None takes farewell of her, wishes her good journey; her father will find a line left, signifying that she has gone to England, that he must pardon her and forget her. The drowsy diligence lumbers along; amid drowsy talk of politics and praise of the Mountain, in which she mingles not; all night all day, and again all night. On Thursday not long before noon we are at the bridge of Neuilly; here is Paris, with her thousand black domes-the goal and purpose of thy journey! Arrived at the Inn de la Providence, in the Fuedes Vieux Augustins, Charlotte demands a room; hastens to bed; sleeps all afternoon and night, till the following morning.

On the morrow morning she delivers her note to Duperet. It relates to certain family papers, which are in the Minister of the Inter.or's hands, which a nun at Caen, an old convent friend of Charlotte's, has need of; which Duperet shall assist her in getting: this, then. was Charlotte's errand to Paris. She has finished this in the course of Friday, yet says nothing of returning. She has seen and silently inveɛtigated several things. The Convention in bodily reality she has seen; what the Mountain is like. The living physiognomy of Marat she could not see; he is sick at present and confined at home.

About eight on the Saturday morning she purchased a large sheath-knife in the Palais Royal; then straightway, in the Flace des Victoires, takes a hackneycoach. To the Rue de l'Ecole de Médecine, No. 44.' It is the residence of the Citoyen Marat-The Citoyen Marat is ill, and cannot be seen, which seems to disappoint her much. Her business is with Marat then? Hapless, beautiful Charlotte: hapless, squalid Marat! From Caen in the utmost west, from Neuchâtel in the utmost east, they two are drawing nigh each other; they two have, very strangely, business together. Charlotte, returning to her inn, despatches a short note to Marat, signifying that she is from Caen, the seat of reb. llion; that she desires earnestly to see him, and will put it in his power to do France a great service.' No answer. Charlotte writes another note still more pressing; sets out with it by coach about seven in the evening, herself. Tired day-labourers have again finished their week; huge Paris is circling and simmering manifold, according to the vague want this one fair figure has decision in it; drives straight towards a purpose.

It is yellow July evening, wey, the 13th of the month, eve of the Bastille day. when M. Marat, four years ago, in the crowd of the Pont-Neuf, shrewdly required of that Bessenval hussar party, which had such friendly dispositions, to dismount and give up their arms then,' and became notable among patriot men. Four years; what a road he has travelled; and sits now, about half-past seven of the clock, stewing in slipper-bath, sore afflicted; ill of Revolution fever-of what other malady this history had rather not name. Excessively sick and worn, poor man, with precisely elevenpence-halfpenny of ready money in paper; with slipper-bath, strong threefooted stool for writing on the while; and a squalid washerwoman, one may call her: that is his civic establishment in Medical School Street; thither and not elsewhither has his road led him—not to the reign of brotherhood and perfect felicity,

yet surely on the way towards that. Hark! a rap again! a musical woman's voice, refusing to be rejected; it is the citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat, recognizing from within, cries: Admit her.' Charlotte Corday is admitted.

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

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

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

On this same evening, therefore, about half-pa-t seven o'clock, from the gate of the Conciergerie, to a city all on tiptoe, the fatal cart issues; seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life, journeying towards death-alone amid the world! Many take off their hats, saluting reverently; for what heart but must be touched? Others growl and howl. Adam Lux of Mentz declares that she is greater than Brutus; that it were beautiful to die with her; the head of this young man seems turned. At the Place de Révolution, the countenance of Charlotte wears the same still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet; she resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of explanation she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act, all being now ready, they take the neckerchief from her neck; a blush of maidenly shame overspreads that fair face and neck; the cheeks were still tinged with it when the executioner lifted the savered head, to shew it to the people.It is most true,' says Forster, that he struck the check insultingly; for I saw it with my eyes; the police impris oned him for it.' In this manner the beautifullest and the squalidest come in collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and Maric-Anne Charlotte Corday both suddenly are no more.

Death of Marie Antoinette.

Is there a man's heart that thinks without pity of those long months and years of slow-wasting ignominy; of thy birth, self-cradled in imperial Schönbrunn, the winds of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on Eplendour: and then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the guillotine ard Fouquier-Tinville's judgment-bar was but the merciful end! Look there, Ọ man

horn of woman! The bloom of that fair face is wasted, the hair is gray with care; the brightness of those eyes is quenched, their lids uang drooping, the face is stony pale, as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own and has mended, attire the Queen of the World. The death-hurdle, where thou sintest pale, motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudious sea of maniac heads, the air deaf with their triumph-yen! The living-dead must anudder with yet one other pang; he stariled blood yet again suituses with the hue of agony that pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is there no heart to say, God pity thee! O think not of these; think of HIM whom thou worshippest, the crucined-who a so treading the wine-press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper; and triumphed over it and made it holy, and built of it a sanctuary of sorrow' for thee and all the wretched! Thy path of thorns is nign ended, one long last look at the 1 milleries, where thy step was once so gut-where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block; the axe rusnes-dumb lies the world; that wild-yelling world, and all its madness, is behind thee.

Await the Issue.

In this God's world, with its wild whirling eddies and mad foam oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and judgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think that there is therefore no justice? It is what the fool hath said in his heart It is what the wise, in all times. were wise because they denied, and knew for ev r not to be. I tell thee again there is nothing else but justice. One strong thing I find here below: the just thing, the true thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing; and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt. to fling down thy baton, and say: In God's name. No! Thy success ?' Poor devil, what will thy success amount to? If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded; no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang and editors wrote leading articles, and the just things lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success? In few years, thou wilt be dead and dark-a cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles visible or audible to thee again and all for ever. What kind of success is that? It is true all goes by approximation in this world: with any not insupportable approximation we must be patient. There is a noble Conservatism as well as an ignoble. Would to Heaven, for the sake of Conservatism itself, the noble alone were left, and the ignoble, by some kind severe hand, were ruthlessly lopped away, forbidden ever more to shew itself! For it is the right and noble alone that will have victory in this struggle; the rest is wholly an obstruction, a postponement and fearful imperilment of the victory. Towards an eternal centre of right and nobleness, and of that only, is all this confusion tending. We already know whither it is all tending; what will have victory. what will have none! The Heaviest will reach the centre. The Heaviest, sinking through complex fluctuating media and vortices, has its deflections, its obstructions, nay. at times its resiliences, its reboundings; whereupon some blockhead shall be heard jubilating: See, your Heaviest ascends!' but at all moments it is moving centreward fast as is convenient for it; sinking, sinking; and, by laws older than the world, old as the Maker's first plan of the world, it has to arrive there.

Await the issue. In all battles, if you await the issue, each fighter has prospered according to his right. His right and his might, at the close of the account, were one and the same. He has fought with all his might, and in exact proportion to all his right he has prevailed. His very death is no victory over him. He dies indeed; but his work lives, very truly lives. A heroic Wallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hinder that his Scotland become, one day, a part of England; but he does hinder that it become, on tyrannons unfair terms, a part of it; commands still, as with a god's voice, from his old Valhalla and Temple of the Brave, that there be a just real union as of brother and brother, not a false and merely semblant one as of slave and master. If the union with England be in fact one of Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace withal that it was not the chief curse. Scotland is not Ireland: no, because brave men rose there, and said: Behold, ye must not tread us down like

slaves; and ye shall not, and cannot!' Fight on, thou brave true heart, and falter not, through dark fortune and through bright. The cause thou figutest for, so far us it is true, no further. yet precisely so far, is very sure of victory. The falsehood alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it ought to be: but the truth of it is part of Nature's own laws, co-operates with the word's eternal tendencies, and cannot be conquered.

SIR GEORGE CORNEWALL LEWIS.

SIR GEORGE CORNEWALL LEWIS (1806-1865), an able scholar and statesinan, was the son of Sir Thomas Frankland Lewis, a Radnorshire baronet, who was for several years chairman of the Poor-law Board, and by whose death in 1855 his son succeeded to the baronetcy and estate. Sir George was educated at Eaton and Christ Church, Oxford, and having studied at the Middle Temple, was called to the bar in 1831. Entering into public life, he filled various government offices, and was M.P. for Herefordshire, and afterwards for the Radnor district of boroughs. His highest appointment was that of Chancellor of the Exchequer, which he held under Lord Palmerston for about three years-1855-58. He was also some time Secretary of State for the Home Department, and Secretary for War. He was for about three years (1852-55) editor of the Edinburgh Review. An accomplished classical and German scholar, Sir George examined the early history of Greece and Rome with the views of the German commentators, and he reviewed the theory of Niebuhr in an elaborate work, entitled 'An Inquiry into the Credibility of Early Roman History,' two volumes, 1855. All attempts to reduce the picturesque narratives of the early centuries of Rome to a purely historical form he conceives to be nugatory, and he devotes considerable space to an examination of the primitive history of the nations of Italy. Dionysius, Livy, and the other ancient historians, had no authentic materials for the primitive ethnology and the early national movements of Italy, and, of course, modern inquirers cannot hope to arrive at safe conclusions on the subject. Hence he dismisses the results not only of the uncritical Italian historians, but those of the learned and sagacious Germans, Niebuhr and Müller. The legends are mere shifting clouds of mythology, which may at a distance deceive the mariner by the appearance of solid land, but disappear as he approaches and examines them by a close view.' The scepticism of Sir George, however, is considered rather too sweeping; and it has justly been remarked, that we may be contented to believe of Roman history at least as much as Cicero believed, without inquiring too curiously the grounds of his belief.' The following notice of Niebuhr's theory also appears to tell against Sir George's own rule with respect to the rationalistic treatment of early history.

Niebuhr's Ballad Theory.

He divides the Roman history into three periods: 1. The purely mythical period, including the foundation of the city and the reigus of the first two kings. 2. The mythico-historical period, including the reigns of the last five kings, and the first