The old house becomes a live thing, and we sympathize with it as though it were conscious of the rigours of its situation, and looked for the charities of human pity at our hand. Those four lines would establish Mr Bigg as a true poet, if there were nothing else extant from his pen.

The Christian spirit that pervades the poem of "Night and the Soul," is deep, elevated, and unaffected, and the concluding lines are bold and brave :

"So much as I have learnt, that will I sing;
And, if the world will listen, it is well.
If not, then God shall be my auditor,
And the still night shall know another soul,
And the great realm of spirits welcome me !"

So be it, say we; but there is a germ of life in Stanyan Bigg, that will shoot up, even in this world, to the more perfect day. Full of blemish, as we have shown the work to be, and, unfortunately blemishes such as retard popularity, it still has the glow-pulse of vigour that prognosticates longevity. The probation may have damped the author's ardour for a while, so that he may have occasionally forgotten the manly purpose of his closing words. But ultimately there can be no fear for him; he must take position sooner or later amongst the British classics. To bear the yoke in his youth, as Elizabeth said of Bacon, if wisely thought upon, may be turned to good account; it is better for ultimate developement than the sudden popularity of Smith and Gerald Massey. It incites a courageous spirit to bestow more pains and to labour harder at the next task, to anticipate criticism, and sedulously to remove all just ground for censure. No matter what amount of genius may be given to a man, there is no solid success to be achieved in a hurry; patient labour in some shape is the debt that must be paid to nature, even by Shakespere; hard work is the only simplifier of the intricacies of thought, even for the greatest capacities. If we would go forth clad in "complete steel," stroke upon stroke only, as in sturdy blacksmith's work, can construct the iron shirt for us, and the old French armourer's proverb is very good, "maille à maille se fait le haubergeon." Hammer is our advice to Mr Bigg:-Hammer! you have already constructed a good piece of armour, in many parts ingrained with gold, and gloriously burnished, splendid in ornament, but having weak spots. Hammer what you have now upon the anvil, and with your capabilities you will bring out next time" metal of proof."

MACAULAY.

OVER the grave of a great man, it is fitting that the voice of party rancour should be hushed. We may differ from many of the opinions expressed by him who has so recently been borne to his repose, and we may be earnestly devoted to principles which would have found

no sympathy in him, but we must not forget the ability of the man who has passed away from us, and the importance of the works which he has bequeathed for our instruction. A fair estimate of Macaulay is unlikely to be given by those whom he attacked or assisted in the political arena. Not by the writers of books, so much as by the studious readers of books, will he continue to be gratefully admired. Too many conflicting interests are at work to allow an impartial judgment to be spoken by the authorised dispensers of eulogy and blame. Even the tender halo that is shed around him by the hand of death, is not favourable to a clear perception of his rank among the great ones of the earth; for we are always tempted to yield favour to the memory of those from whom we are newly parted, and such tribute of affectionate regret is too nearly akin to the almsgiving of pity to be wholly satisfactory as a verdict on their efforts of a lifetime. Nor, to one who has long been calumniated, is there any solid gain from the hasty utterance of praise bestowed in the first hour of bereavement. The political opponents who, for that solemn moment, have awakened to a sense of their own former severity or injustice, and who give utterance to words of regret, if not of recantation, are very apt to lose a memory of what has been revealed so tardily, and to relapse into a bitterness of misconception when the novelty of sorrow has passed away. It is a knowledge of this general fact which causes our distrust regarding the praise bestowed on Macaulay by those who lately poured unmeasured censure on him, and on his labours. In his individual case there has been less than customary support from friends and partizans; and this because his manner was almost as unconciliating to them as it was to antagonists, whilst his determined assertion of opinions peculiar to himself, and not shared by the party to which he had been nominally attached, lent a chill of reserve, if not of suspicion, to allies. He stood aloof, in solitary lofty strength, and neither asked nor accepted favour from friend or foe. There was in him something scornful, which could not be pleasant to the small men with whom he was often called to deal. His scarcely concealed contempt or indignation was amply sufficient to account for much of the abuse which he received. It was not merely that he angered people of mediocre abilities, but he also humiliated them. There was a weight in his personal presence, which of itself, was a rebuke to the insignificant wasps and day-flies who tried to buz around him. With what quiet scorn he looked them down! with what merciless words of irony he impaled the annoying insects, and left them writhing, impotent but revengeful! Such creatures could never forgive him, or cease to lie in wait for opportunities of reprisal. The malignant Lilliputians, if they could not wholly confine Gulliver to the earth, by their puny threads of bondage, at least possessed the power and the will to shoot their poisoned arrows at his face and hands.

We were present at the meeting in Edinburgh, several years ago, when Macaulay was baited publicly by local busy-bodies, elated by possessing an opportunity of taunting a man so celebrated. They questioned, they insinuated, they fumed, they spirted their paltry

venom, and they "did all that dogs so diminutive can." It was the old spectacle of the lion assailed by a pack of curs. Now and then he turned and flashed a glance of haughty rebuke, or brushed one aside by the movement of a limb; but he scorned to indulge in such womanish scolding as they gave, and desired to provoke in recrimination. At length, tortured out of patience by their snarling and petulance, and after he had manfully declared that he would only accept the representation of Edinburgh, if untrammelled by "pledges," he concluded by making the memorable declamation, that if he failed in the contest, and were not returned for Parliament, there were other ways by which, in retirement, he might be able to serve his country. To the shame of Edinburgh and her factions, he was defeated as a candidate, but he nobly redeemed his promise by labouring on the "History of England:" the first and second volumes of which were soon afterwards given to the world. To some men misadventures become benefits, blots of obliquy are transfigured into stars of decoration. It was so with Macaulay.

Probably the same meeting in 1847 is the one referred to by a thoughtful poet and political writer in Glasgow, James Hedderwick, in his volume of "Lays of Middle Age." Concerning Macaulay he says:"A noise of talk was in the public ways,

One had approached the city's votes to claim,
At whose approach the invisible trump of Fame
Blew into life the echoes of all praise.
His song had stirr'd the dust of buried Rome;
His pen in England's annals had struck life;
His voice had made a muttering senate dumb.
Lo! a thronged hall with expectation rife,
And ears attent, and eyes of eager gaze!
"MACAULAY rose ;-a man of sturdy build,
With ageing hair, and face of dusky hue
Lit up with restless eyes of luminous blue;
His frame erect as with disdain to yield
To the high task to which it was upnerved.
In the first lull of welcome and applause,
His voice bespoke a soul that never swerved
In its devotion to a chosen cause,

And all the admiring multitude were thrilled."

The announcement of Macaulay's death came with a shock of unusual solemnity. It had long been known that his health was impaired, but as this had chiefly affected his public appearances, robbing the House of Lords of those eloquent orations which had been expected from him after his elevation to the Peerage, there had been little or no serious anxiety expressed; the world had learnt to look for another and another couple of volumes from his hand, with the popularity, if not also with the regularity, of a serial romance. All at once the illusion was dissipated, and we learnt that the great work which had delighted so many readers, and which had been exposed

"Lays of Middle Age." Cambridge: Macmillan.

to such a galling fire of criticism from party spite, and from brave investigators of truth, must remain a mere fragment, although colossal. Solemnly the nation felt the loss, and mourned over a great man who had died in the fulness of his powers, leaving, as it seems, no one behind him capable of finishing the work that was so well begun. Coming at the close of the year, a year that had already removed from amongst us, Hallam and Prescott, Humboldt, Leigh Hunt, Washington Irving, De Quincey, and others whose memory may not die, the death of Macaulay was a concluding stroke of warning, arousing many to the uncertainty of life, the necessity of preparation against the coming of that messenger for whom is no denial,-no repulse.

Since then, we have learnt that one more volume of the "History," if not two, had so nearly approached completion that it may yet be brought before the public. Such a posthumous gift cannot but be received with gratitude, whenever it arrives. It will be the Book of the Season, doubtless, and will increase the interest of the preceding volumes. The well-stored mind of Macaulay would have felt little fatigue in the production of the after parts, had he been spared. Indeed, it is questioned whether we have received the portion which he was most thoroughly fitted to accomplish. The days of Queen Anne, with those of the First and Second Georges, although far from being a noble period of British History, would have gained a lustre from the pen of Macaulay, that they are not likely to receive from another chronicler. The abject meanness of soul which, with very few exceptions, characterised our nation throughout the time, is sufficient to repel ordinary interest. The poison of French affectation and heartless frivolity, combining with the grossness of the Dutch and Hanoverians, often made men alike despicable by pettiness, and foul by wallowing sensuality. Many became apes under the bribes of a Louis, and hogs after the example of the German intruders. Courtiers had learned the cold-heartedness and selfish formalism from William of Orange, without imitating the philosophic insight and determined courage which partially redeem his character. We had ceased to have largeness or steadiness in everything but our vices. Our literary men were essayists and rhymesters, wholly artificial, insincere, and sceptical concerning all true heroism or spiritual fervour. There was scarcely a man of whom we can be justly proud in the whole three reigns, as compared with those preceding or those which followed them. The race of Englishmen appeared to have degenerated, and we scarcely find evidence of that sturdy honesty, that religious earnestness, that self-sacrificing patriotism, and that wide-embracing love of civil and religious liberty, which achieved such triumphs for the human race at other times. Yet there were features of society eminently fitted for pourtrayal, there were results of polity, good or bad, but never unimportant, which every wise statesman will do well to study. We see the evil consequences of each injustice, the poison of the Hanoverian court corruption festering in a thousand slimy streams through town and country, the curse which inevitably attends a neglect of

true religion in the stunted homage to hypocrisy, with all the danger which menaces a land that lies down and wallows in abject sensuality, or turns giddy with sickly pomp. All this, Macaulay was fitted to have shewn, and that too with a loftiness of aim, a brevity of conclusive description, which might have forced conviction home to every listener. It was one of those periods which seem given to mankind to show how loathsome even Peace can be, when devoid of that holiness of soul which alone renders Peace beautiful. If we learn not the lessons taught by the depravities of such a time of prosperity and comparative tranquillity, how little are we fitted to relinquish the stern discipline of War? Better the danger of the torrent, than the loathsome corruption of such a stagnant pond.

In the four parts of the "History of England," which have been given to us by Macaulay, we find many instances of prejudice, and of obstinacy. More than a few examples, also, of statements that must be stigmatised as false. Probably these were not intentional misrepresentations, although some wear the appearance of blameable carelessness. But the spirit of a partizan which lends a sort of fascination to the "Essays contributed to the Edinburgh Review," was not suitable for a grave historian, whose impartiality of judgment the world has a right to expect. We say the world, rather than the nation, inasmuch as the true Historian addresses himself to the whole human race, and not to secure popularity from a mere section. Macaulay was far from being thus impartial. His bias is no less evident than that of Clarendon, but in the opposite direction. The anti-Cavalier spirit animates Macaulay throughout, and he is far from just to whosoever belongs to the party of the Stuarts. His determination to make a hero out of so wooden a figure-head as Dutch William is simply ridiculous; or would be so, if it were not for the dignity which invariably attends Macaulay in all his work. There was such grandeur in him with his wealth of research and memory, and the impressive force of his language, that we are compelled to respect him as an author, even when we see the exaggeration of his views, the perversion in his statements. Yet even Macaulay, though he tries hard to make a hero out of that selfish formal intriguer, William of Orange, cannot succeed in making him appear worthy of reverence. His utmost efforts have not washed off the infamy of the Massacre of Glencoe from the memory of William and his murderous hirelings. The curse cleaves to them, and the stain of innocent blood, shed ruthlessly, and without the slightest palliation of necessity, weighs on their souls for

ever.

Great as have been the consequences of the Revolution of 1688, and dear as are the liberties of our country to every honest mind, we have little reason to be proud of the manner in which that Revolution was secured, or of the men who juggled through the game. The results have been beneficial, but it was for a paltry bribe that almost every one of those politicians wrought. We have no admiration for James II., who was unfitted for the position which he as king held, and forfeited; but we see how despicable were the plotters who triumphed