by the rebel chief, and the necessity is inculcated of a return to the ancient morals and principles of government, as laid down in the canonical books, and exemplified in the reigns of many of their earlier sovereigns.

The present rebellion is following the same course. The effeteness of this Mantchoo dynasty is rendered more than usually intolerable by the fact that they are of foreign extraction, and everything conspires to show that they will be ejected from the throne, and their whole race expelled from the country, precisely as their Tartar predecessors were by the rebellion four centuries ago, headed by the founder of the native dynasty of Ming, of which the present aspirant to the throne claims to be a lineal descendant. Whether the country is to emerge from the struggle a still united empire, or to resolve itself into two great kingdoms, as it did for several centuries once before, with the broad stream of the Yangtsekeang for their boundary, and with Nanking (the old and natural capital of the empire, from whence the seat of government was transferred to Peking by Kublai Khan, in order to be nearer to his Tartar allies) as the metropolis of the southern kingdom,—or finally, whether it is to be for a time split up into a number of separate states, as it was in the days of Confucius, only with municipal and democratic institutions in place of the now wholly obsolete ones of feudalism, will depend entirely upon the amount of power possessed by the chief of the insurgents. But whether the empire continue united or not, the Chinese are so thoroughly homogeneous and clannish a race that they will ever hold together in bonds of the strongest national sympathy.

The exultation that will ensue among this strange people on once more becoming the lords of their own soil, is likely, in conjunction with the influence of new ideas pressing upon them from without, to inaugurate a stirring and revival of the national intellect, and the development of practical abilities amongst them which will astonish the self-complacent critics of the West. A new religion and civilisation now stand at the door and knock. And, be it said, we know no country in the world where the peo

ple are so well fitted by their own native training to appreciate them. Religion, like everything else, must to some extent be coloured by the peculiar temperament and associations of the people who adopt it; and hence the sanguine hope that the Chinese will forthwith become Christians in all respects like unto ourselves, is hardly destined to be realised. Nevertheless, Christianity never had a fairer field. Three hundred and sixty millions of the human race here lie open to its influence,-whose moral doctrines are almost identical with those of the New Testament,-who are singularly tolerant, inquisitive, and anxious to learn, and who (greatest and most remarkable help of all) have no definite creed of their own, no positive form of religious belief, in fact, no counter revelation with which to oppose the entrance of a purer faith. For four thousand years they have been waiting for a divinelysent religion-wisely making the most, in the interim, of that natural religion of the soul which God gives to all mankind alike. Now, at length, that religion comes unto them, and finds them better prepared for its reception than any other pagan nation whom the blessed light from on high has visited. Let, then, our missionaries take courage, and our Bible societies redouble their efforts; for the good work has already received a beginning, and the results will amply repay their most generous efforts.

But Christianity does not come alone. The stores of European knowledge come along with it, and (although a closer acquaintance with the Chinese will show that we have much to learn as well as to impart) will confer upon them inestimable advantages, of which they will not be slow to avail themselves. The late war, and increased communication with the

must come. For the first time in its history, while a mighty revolution is stirring and shaking the empire within, foreign powers stand at its gates, watching the progress of events, deeply interested in the issue, and ready, if necessary, to take a decisive part in the struggle. Of these powers, three stand forth as the leading empires of the world. Russia, the great nascent power of the Old World, already stretches her giant arms from the Baltic Sea to the distant shores of the Pacific, and, despite the deserts and mountain-chains of Central Asia, is steadily working her way southwards. As if at once to invite and facilitate her advance, settled habits, the first forerunners of civilisation, are spreading among the Nomades of the Steppes; and, according to Gutzlaff, they were never so easily ruled as at the present day. It is as certain as anything yet future can be, that the sway over the greater part of these tribes will soon pass from the Chinese Emperor to the Russian Czar,-and by means of them he will act directly and powerfully upon China. This much he will assuredly succeed in; but there is a further and definite enterprise which he will attempt, of which the success is much more doubtful. Siberia is not all ice and wilderness. One half of it lies south of the latitude of St Petersburg, and its southern limits reach the latitude of Paris. In its southern portion-as, for instance, around Lake Baikal-exist tracts at once fertile and beautiful; and in the mountain-ranges which separate it from the Chinese territory, gold and other minerals have of late years been discovered, and worked with great profit. It is a region, therefore, whose resources are worth developing; but at present it is only by a tedious land journey to Europe that its products can find an outlet. In Asia there is none. Southwards, the way is barred by immense mountain-chains, and the deserts of Central Asia; on the north stretches the Frozen Ocean, into which all its great rivers hopelessly fall,-save one, the Amour or Sagalien, which flows westwards into the Sea of Japan. This is the only proper outlet for Siberia; but, at present, the whole lower part of its course lies within the dominions of

China. We know that the possession of the mouths of this great river is already a coveted object of Russian policy; and, at this moment, there is a capital move on the cards by which the enterprising Czar may reasonably calculate to win his point. The part of the Celestial Empire traversed by the Amour is Mantchooria,-in other words, that northern portion of the empire, which is the native province of the dynasty and race whose supremacy is at present on the point of being overthrown by the Chinese. Is it not very probable, therefore, that the Czar will espouse the cause of the unpopular Mantchoos, on the simple condition, thus placed in extremis, (which they will be ready to grant), that, if he succeed in keeping them on the throne, they shall cede to him the lower course of the coveted river; -or foreseeing that, even in the event of their expulsion, he shall be able with their help to take possession of the Mantchoorian provinces? Nor are the movements of Russia, carefully shrouded as they ever are, in discordance with this supposition. For, in autumn last, two ships of war sailed from Cronstadt to Canton, raising the Russian naval force in the Chinese seas to five vessels; during summer, a force of six or seven thousand regulars was despatched to Irkutsk, close to the Chinese frontiers, and the entrepôt of Russian commerce with China by Kiachta; while, recently, General de Brankberg, after being summoned to St Petersburg to receive instructions, was despatched to take command of the Russian troops, regular and irregular, along the Chinese frontiers.

Whatever may be the designs of the Czar in that quarter, however, he is likely to encounter an antagonist of superior strength in the rival power of the Anglo-Saxons. Russia is ever for despotism and exclusion,-Britain and America for freedom and toleration; and the latter powers will carry their point so far as China is concerned. America is approaching in great strength direct from California; and another twelvemonth will probably witness the annexation of the Sandwich Islands, and the establishment of a settlement in Japan, as firm stepping-stones by which the

Pacific may be crossed, and the enterprising Anglo-Americans brought into direct contact with the now awakened land of the Celestials. Not less steadily are we advancing overland through the territories of Burmah; and the new struggle commencing there will probably soon extend our dominion still farther up the noble stream of the Irrawaddy. Ava is within a hundred and ninety miles of the Chinese frontier, and from Bhamothe entrepôt between the two nations a highway leads north-eastwards through the southern provinces of the Celestial Empire, along which a commerce is conducted by each nation to the value of more than half-a-million sterling. But it is by sea that, whether peacefully or otherwise, the enterprise of England will most seriously infringe upon the seclusion of China; and, if we are wise, we will direct our advanc

ing steps not by Hong-Kong and Canton into the mountainous provinces of the south-eastern coast, but by Chusan and Shang-hae, up the magnificent artery of the Yang-tseKeang, into the great valley-region of China, fertile beyond measure, containing Nanking and some of the wealthiest cities of the empire, intersected by a network of canals, and so vast and populous that a hundred and seventy millions of inhabitants are supported on its surface. Six hundred miles from the sea this immense river is nearly a league in width, and of depth sufficient to bear junks of considerable tonnage; and up its broad stream and countless tributaries, and along the canals communicating with all parts of the interior, the powers of steam-navigation will ere long convey the religion and science, the arts, produce, and arms of the Christian world.

THIS title," The Last Fruit off an Old Tree," cannot be read here with indifference—cannot certainly be read by us without grateful retrospect of the ampler store of still riper fruit we have gathered from the same branches. If there is such a thing in botany as a cedar bearing fruit, or if it is permissible to imagine such a creation in the vegetable world, it is under some such tree that we remember to have reclined of old-less majestic than the oak, more graceful, and dropping ripest dates from branches of cool, impenetrable shade.

The reputation, we believe, of Mr Landor's writings has been of slow growth. The form of dialogue which he chiefly affected bad lost its popularity amongst us, and from this and other causes which it is not difficult to divine, there was a less hearty and general recognition of his merits than of any of the distinguished contemporaries amongst whom he lived and wrote. This, we believe, is matter of literary history. But, speaking personally, and from our own experience, we look back upon the Imaginary Conversations as amongst the earliest of

The Last Fruit off an Old Tree.

our favourites and of our treasures. The English language appeared to us never to have assumed its complete and most classical type till the happy idea occurred to Landor of so refining without impoverishing, so harmonising and modulating without inflating or enfeebling, as to give it an almost ideal grace and strength, and thus fit it for the dialect of those Greek orators and poets to whom we are accustomed to ascribe a quite imaginary perfection of speech. Landor succeeded in his enterprise. He formed a style of that almost ideal purity which takes it from the accidents of time and of country, and adapts it to all ages and all thinkers; and we feel that every man of genius, whether Greek or Roman, English or Italian, is speaking in his own language, because he speaks in what is not unworthy to be the universal language of men of genius, of power, and of reflection. It follows, as an understood corollary, that he who framed such a style had answerable thoughts to express in it; for a style grows from within, and forms only round a nucleus of thought. It is

By Walter Savage Landor.

not, however, in the writings of Mr Landor (and this may have occasioned disappointment to some) that the student ever arrives at the first elements of the subject treated of, whether moral or political philosophy, or whatever that subject may be. His writings bear much the same relation to severe didactic exposition, as a beautiful statue to an anatomical drawing. Those who would see or feel the truth of the anatomy in the marble, must bring their knowledge with them.

We must confess, for our own part, that special studies, and a ruder inquest into truth, have withdrawn us much from books in which the æsthetic element may be said to prevail: we have become chiefly solicitous for some contribution to our stock of knowledge and of ideas, let the matter be rough-hewn as it may; and we must conjure up the feelings of the past if we would do full justice to the author before us. We must recall the days when we read for the fifth time the dialogue of Epicurus, Leontine, and Pernissa-when we lived under the roof of Pericles, and in correspondence with Aspasia and Cleone and Anaxagoras-when we listened to the genial talk of Boccaccio and Petrarch, aud, though we had known the one in his hundred tales, and the other in his more than hundred sonnets, confessed that we liked them both far better speaking English in the Pentameron.

Most men of original genius are liable to sink at times even below mediocrity. It is not the highest path that preserves the truest level. Perhaps this is owing to the simple reason that self-confidence survives though the hour and the theme be not propitious; or it may be that exuberance is one quality of genius, -and it lies not in the Fates themselves to grant that a tropical luxuriance of vegetation, where every slender plant and every towering tree are climbing into the air together, should be combined with the selectness of the trim garden or the plot of orchard-ground. Chaucer and Spencer and Shakespeare, amongst our own ancients, show the greatest inequality in their production; and it would not be difficult, amongst

modern authors, to point to some who have had failures almost as signal as their successes. This inequality is conspicuous in Landor. He who wrote Eschines and Phocion wrote the Citation of William Shakespeare. Unhappily in the last, as in some few other dialogues, he has attempted the humorous. Now, Mr Landor has wit and sarcasm at command, and of the severest and the keenest order, but to be humorous the gods have positively denied. Not his the wit that raises mirth or laughter. When he thinks to pelt us with snowballs, he is throwing things about him heavy as lead. There is nothing comic in his genius. Punchinello is the last character for whom he could find fitting speech. He should have had nothing to do with such people as Sir Silas. The folds of his drapery fall gracefully and somewhat heavily to the ground: it will not do to tuck them round the haunches of any fat and stupid knight. He could drape a goddess perfectly-an Ariel not so well; but amongst all his properties he has not a single suit of motley that would become a fool of any species whatever. Those who most admire the gallery of statues into which he admits the reader, would be most pleased if they could eject certain uncouth figures grinning from the obscurer parts of the room, or rather distorting their features into what is to pass for a grin.

It is, however, by his best that every author should finally be judged; and we hold that criticism has for its ultimate end to detect everywhere the best and the good, and present them for the admiration, and it may be, for the grateful admiration of the reader. If it looks for faults and blemishes, and holds these also up for notice and reprehension, it is because we can only learn to admire what is good by comparison with what is less good, or by distinguishing it from what is absolutely bad. Were we, on the present occasion, engaged in a general review of the whole writings of Mr Landor, we should feel ourselves compelled to enter more fully than we are disposed or intend to do, into certain defects both of manner and of matter which detract

from their excellence; but we should

only perform the less grateful portion of our task, for the ultimate purpose of fixing attention on the high qualities which really constitute their excellence.

Speaking of the public at large, we have said that the works of Landor have been slowly growing into popularity, or rather into general circulation and esteem. Popular, in one sense of the word, they are not likely to become. The Paradise Lost can never be half so popular as the Pilgrim's Progress, although the very persons who often open their Bunyan, and rarely or never their Milton, would not venture, in defiance of the opinion of their more intellectual countrymen, to prefer their favourite allegory to our great national epic. It is probable that the causes which at first retarded the general reception of our author's works, may always continue to limit the number of those who read them with genuine pleasure. Let us look at some of these causes.

The dialogue, as we have intimated, has lost ground amongst us as a form of composition, and there are other reasons than the caprice of fashion or the love of change for this general distaste towards it. In an age when many books are to be read, we like to come at once and rapidly to the gist of the matter; we wish to be led straightway to the conclusion we are finally to rest in. We have little time to spare, and cannot afford to be bandied about from one speaker to another. Why this circuitous path, when we might have gone in a direct road from one point to the other? Why this zigzag, this tacking about, as if we were for ever under contrary winds? Or, let it be the line of beauty itself that we are illustrating, why these undulations here, when we have our wicket-gate before us, and might reach it by a straight and level path? It is still worse when there is no wicket-gate to enter, no final conclusion to rest in; and a dialogue, replete with thought and discussion, proves to be written with a dramatic rather than a didactic purpose. Art for the sake of art, where the province is speculative truth, becomes a rather questionable matter. Earnestminded men like to see clearly where it is that the author himself is earnest

and sincere-where it is that he really intends to work upon their conviction, and where he is merely exercising his ingenuity to give pleasure or create surprise.

We note these objections to the dialogue, without, however, entirely acquiescing in them. If this form of composition may be sometimes wearisome or vexatious to the reader, it may be all but necessary to the writer. That very incertitude and fluctuation which it admits of may be inseparable from minds whose thoughts and reflections we would nevertheless willingly listen to. Men of this temper could not write at all if they might not draw something of a mask or a veil between themselves and the public. If it is troublesome to the active impatient man to be bandied about, or partially mystified by dramatic inventions, it may be infinitely to the ease of the writer to adopt some form of composition which does not rigidly compromise him, which gives a certain scope for oscillation, which permits him to say what seemed truth yesterday, though he already suspects that it will not wear exactly the same appearance to-morrow. There are men who grow bold only when they speak in the name or the person of another; they could not utter the "last word" of the problem, if in their own persons they must pledge themselves for ever to their own solution. They see much of the subject, much of its difficulties; they have something withal to say which is worth our hearing; but they doubt if they are in possession of the whole of the truth. Well, we must permit them some device, some fiction, some dramatic form which will give them liberty of speech, which will sanction half-truths and partial contradictions. We must not tender the book and the oath to all our witnesses. We shall get more truth from some by diminishing the weight of responsibility. Not to add to all this, that there are readers also of kindred minds, who more frequently find themselves in the attitude of impledged contemplation than of direct search for truth or strenuous advocacy of opinions.

But if the dramatic or conversational form of Mr Landor's writings renders many thinking men impatient