social superiority of France to the rest of the world was almost universally admitted. Unfortunately, the victories of the Republic and the Empire popularized and confirmed the belief which had long prevailed among the upper classes. The English have, however, in modern times, learned respect for their own character and history; the Germans have for nearly a century struggled to believe that they are a nation; and perhaps hereafter Spain and Italy may respect their independence in civilization and in political action.

Although Frederick unintentionally promoted German literature by the national spirit which his exploits elicited in Germany, it was impossible that the primitive provinces which he amalgamated into a kingdom, should acquire in his time an intellectual preponderance in Europe. It is true that Kant was a philosopher incomparably more profound than the lively writers of the Encyclopædia, and perhaps Lessing might be placed on an equality with any Frenchman of his time, with the single exception of Voltaire; but before Goethe, Germany could scarcely be said to possess a literature, and the Prussians were behind the English as well as the French in the graces and luxuries of life. Frederick, however, succeeded in making his army and himself objects of universal wonder, and in some degree models to be copied. From the close of the seven years' war to the outbreak of the revolutionary struggle, the Prussian discipline and tactics were regarded with the respect which had attached with still stronger reason in the early part of the sixteenth century to the famous Spanish infantry. Even after the triumphs of the Republic, of the Consulate, and the Empire, the Prussians believed, until they were undeceived at Jena and Auerstadt, that the traditions of a great name would avail them against the skill and vigour of Napoleon. They knew that in 1792 the Duke of Brunswick's advance on Paris had at first been deemed irresistible, and they suspected with reason that the subsequent

retreat was to be attributed to diplomatic rather than to military causes. The reputation of his army enabled Frederick for the last twenty years of his life to enjoy almost uninterrupted peace. The unworthy seizure of Poland was scarcely a military operation, and the threatened encroachments of Joseph II. on the princes of the Empire were checked without recourse to arms.

The Prussian theory of government, which Frederick inherited from his father and illustrated in his practice, was still more generally imitated by the younger generation of rulers. Utilitarian absolutism supplanted in royal imaginations the elegant licence and Epicurean splendour which had been admired at Versailles and Dresden. It began to be thought that kings ought to be men of business, or that at least their ministers should take some care for the greatness of the State and for the welfare of the people. A despotic instinct combined with reasons of administrative convenience to recommend the curtailment of aristocratic privileges and the suppression of the representative institutions which had survived from the Middle Ages. The accidents of Frederick's disposition and education were studied as servilely as the essential qualities of his character. It became fashionable to be exempt from religious prepossessions and prejudices; and perhaps the expulsion of the Jesuits from the Catholic States of Europe was indirectly caused by the influence of Frederick, who himself received the fugitives. In Prussia, the clergy had never been formidable; but Choiseul and Pombal acted in the spirit of Frederick when they attempted to destroy a power which was independent of the Crown. Joseph II. was a professed disciple of the King of Prussia, both in his absolute methods of government and in his genuine attachment to the public interest. In reducing the power of the Pope in his dominions, and in striving to recover a part of the old Imperial prerogatives, the Emperor attempted, with imperfect success, to make himself the agent

of beneficent reforms. Charles III. in Spain, and previously in Naples, partially followed the same pattern, until in his old age he sunk into a childish passion for shooting and for dull court ceremonials. The not dissimilar propensities of several modern sovereigns, may perhaps be derived rather from Napoleon than from Frederick; but the singular fancy of kings for amateur soldiership has probably a Prussian origin. Alexander and Nicholas of Russia, the present Emperor of Austria, and the present King of Prussia, have all been accustomed to manoeuvre regiments and to inspect brigades, as Frederick the Great reviewed his guards every morning on the parade at Potsdam. Mr. Carlyle ought to hold that when kings affect the character of drill sergeants, they are far distant from the eternal veracity of things.

The concluding volume of the history will contain the most important part of Frederick's military career, and it is unfortunately probable that it will include an apology for the partition of Poland. The Liberum veto, or Nie-poz-walam, is especially odious to the champion of subordination and obedience; and, indeed, wherever Mr. Carlyle meets with a Sclavonic population out of Russia, he summarily recommends it to Germanize itself as soon as possible. The old Polish constitution was undeniably absurd, and the anarchy which it produced invited the final spoliation; but the Poles themselves had discovered their error, and they were about to correct it, when Frederick and Catherine forbade the only means of cure, because they were determined to profit by the death of the nation. On Frederick's part the opposition

to Polish reform belonged to a political system which was also applied to the injury of Sweden. When there was a question of strengthening the Swedish government by diminishing the privileges of the nobility, the King of Prussia, who is applauded by his biographer for his contempt of the franchises of his own Estates, interfered to prevent the change with remonstrances and threats, on the assumption that he had himself a vested interest in the weakness of his neighbours. It was because Posen lay between Brandenburg and the province of Prussa, and not in the interest of regular administration, that Frederick shared or originated the first partition. The undeniable superiority of German civilization has been since proved by the increasing prevalence of German habits and language in the western part of the conquered territory; but the Poles themselves are still disaffected to the Prussian crown, and they heartily sympathise with the hostility of their Warsaw neighbours to the more tyrannical government of Russia. As Poland was too large to be absorbed, it ought to have been reformed. The partition will, on the whole, not form an inviting portion of the history; and it may be hoped that a larger space will be allotted to the remainder of the seven years' war. Mr. Carlyle's discussions; his episodes, and his apostrophes are all acceptable to those who understand and value his peculiar genius; but it is in the conduct of a continuous narrative, and especially in the description of military operations, that he becomes thoroughly interesting and attractive to all intelligent readers.

V.

RAIN, wind and sleet: sleet, wind

and rain. Such had been the course of the weather ever since daybreak, and things did not look any better now that the day was drawing to a close. The December Sun (coming out to take a farewell peep at the earth through a momentary break in the clouds) had beheld no drearier scene this winter's day than that presented by these dull Lincolnshire Fens at the hour when twilight was approaching. A rain-soddened earth, a leaden sky, a bleak expanse of flat naked fields stretching to the horizon, with here and there a troop of sea-gulls crying plaintively in the gloom-such was the landscape on which the December Sun looked out a few moments ere it sank to rest.

Dismayed by the dismal aspect of things, the Sun withdrew again at once, as though resolved to put an end to the day forthwith and renounce all further responsibility for the state of the weather. So, giving up our hemisphere as a bad job for the next twelve hours, the Sun sank westwards, and handed over the Lincolnshire Fens to the Night, already lurking along the sea on the eastern coast.

But it did not seem that the Lincolnshire Fens were likely to benefit by the change. No sooner did the Sun come to this decision than the Night, with a band of north-east Winds in its train, bore in from off the German Ocean in such a rough and savage mood that matters became ten times worse. A famous place was this flat fencountry for these northern Winds to disport themselves in. How they rushed and careered over the wide level land with nothing to check or oppose them! How they bent and tortured the poor willows, and lashed up the ponds into fury, and tore out the dead leaves from VOL. LXIX. NO. CCCCXIII.

the hedges, and whirled them off through the darkness! How they raved round the guide-posts at the four cross-roads, and fought with the sails of the old wooden windmill close by, and battered and beat at barn doors, and flapped and rattled the shutters of deserted dovecots, and bellowed their demon laughter down cottage chimneys, and tussled and tore at solitary ricks in outlying fields, and wrestled with the sign-boards of wayside inns, and scoured the whole country far and wide in search of objects on which to try their boisterous strength! At times they would fall off suddenly, these blustering Winds, as though worn out with their rough play, but it would only be to return to the charge with strength renewed, in the space of five minutes. After one of these pauses, they would dash across the country more riotous and defiant than ever, challenging every guide-post and sign-board near, and crying out, it seemed, that they were fresh as ever and ready for a wrestle with any one who would come out and try a round with them in the open.

It may be that this challenge was regarded by the Winds as accepted about eight o'clock in the evening, for, at that time, they appeared by mutual agreement to have combined their forces against one common enemy, whom they seemed resolved to stop and overthrow in the public road. But the enemy in question was no chicken-hearted opponent, to be frightened by bluster. It was the stout old stagecoach, the 'Perseverance,' that some one-and-twenty years ago used to ply between London and certain towns in the Lincolnshire Fens, against which the fury of these boisterous Winds was directed. If ever that respectable vehicle showed itself worthy of the name its godfathers and godmothers had be

stowed upon it in baptism, and did honour to their sagacity, it was to-night. 'Perseverance' indeed! Why, the sturdy old coach had been persevering, ever since daybreak, through difficulties such as would have tried the patience (to say nothing of the springs) of any four-wheeled conveyance that ever ran on a public highway. Not only were the roads axle-deep in mire; not only was there the full complement of passengers, inside and out (with a pile of luggage on the roof that endangered the equilibrium of the vehicle, and rendered the turning of a corner nothing less than a wanton trifling with the laws of gravitation)-but there were also these roystering Winds to make head against and contest the road with. Ever since sunset, these bullying fellows had so worried and teased, and baffled and buffetted, and hampered and hindered the poor old coach, that if it had not possessed an amount of natural perseverance rarely found either in men or stage-coaches, it must have given up long ere this, and left its passengers to spend the night in the Fens. But no; after all these years of trusty service and public confidence, the 'Perseverance' was not going to belie its name or bring disgrace upon its sponsors. As

long as the four bays would pull, and Sam Nash held the whip, the 'Perseverance' would never forget what the public and the coach proprietors expected of her.

Inspired with this noble selfreliance, the gallant old coach strained every spring afresh, and hied on through the dark, sturdy and invincible as ever.

But, at the moment when the coach approached the turnpike gate at Gooseham Green, it really seemed uncertain whether the wind or the 'Perseverance' were to have the better of it. Such a hurly-burly was in the air just then, that when Enos Sykes, the pike-keeper, spying the lamps from his little window, rushed out to throw open the gate, his hat was instantly carried off into the dark night, and a gust of wind got into the house that almost blew the pike-keeper's baby out of its cradle by the fire.

'A coarse night, Measter Nash!' cried Enos, as the coach came lurching up the road.

Ay, it's a teazer, by George! and no mistake,' roared the coachman, his voice half drowned by the wind. And then the 'Perseverance' staggered on through the gate, and was quickly swallowed up in the dark night, lamps and all.

Now it might have been the glimpse they had caught of the toll-keeper's bright fireside, or it might have been the natural consequence of their long exposure to the weather, or it might have been cramp in their legs, or it might have been any other cause, but certain it is that neither the tempers nor spirits of the majority of the passengers seemed at all improved about this period of the journey. They were worse, indeed, if anything, as both coachman and guard remarked. The inside passengers-who having the least to put up with naturally complained the most-found their seats harder and their legs more difficult to accommodate. The' outsides' inquired of the guard rather more frequently than before, how long they would be before they reached the next stage. Any attempt on the part of some more cheerful-minded traveller to look on the best side of things, was at once treated as an affront to all present, and resented accordingly.

There was a little party, however, at the back of the coach, who seemed less influenced by the state of the weather than their companions. The three persons who composed it had contrived to keep up their spirits under these adverse circumstances amazingly. Not that, at first sight, there seemed much in common between the three travellers. One was a young lady, almost buried in a great waterproof cape; the other a bronzed-face soldier, in a sergeant's uniform; and the third a young man of some two or three and twenty years of age, in a bear-skin coat and a foreign travelling cap. But they were all good friends, in spite of this outward dissimlarity, and had been for some hours. First of all, they had made a common alliance against the weather. The

Sergeant had lent the young lady his waterproof cape, and the young man had insisted on the Sergeant sharing some of his voluminous wraps. This latter arrangement the Sergeant (who seemed a resolute sort of man) would only fall into on condition that he should exchange places with his companion and take the seat to windward. Then, when they had all made themselves as comfortable as they could, the young lady had produced a basket, which had been handed up to her by her friends at the moment when she ascended the coach, and had found therein such an abundant stock of good things, that she was half ashamed to open it and offer of its contents to her companions. But she did summon up courage to do so, nevertheless, and laughed as heartily as they at the notions her friends must have of her appetite.

These mutual good offices had naturally put the travellers on a pleasant footing. The basket, indeed, had been the source of constant mirth, and had given rise to numerous jokes, especially when the young lady discovered in one corner of it a bottle of brown sherry, a joke which the guard, being invited to share in its contents, enjoyed as much as any one. Consequently, the three travellers at the back of the coach had not yet succumbed to the weather, and bade fair to defy its influences to the end of the journey.

Considering the number of hours they had been travelling together, that journey's end could not, in all probability, be far off now. The young lady had come all the way from the coach office, at the 'Bull Inn,' Holborn; the soldier had got up at Barnet; while the wearer of the bear-skin coat had missed the coach in Holborn, but caught it again at the Peacock' in Islington, by aid of furious driving and a guinea fare to the hackney coachman. It was surprising how much shorter the journey had seemed to the young man than he had expected, when he looked forward to the hundred and thirty long miles before him, on leaving the streets of London, in the cold December dawn.

Yes, in spite of the rain and the wind. Of course, the presence of the young lady-who hid a very charming face under her veil, by the way, and had the pleasantest, freshest little laugh, and altogether the most natural and agreeable manner possible-of course her presence in some measure accounted for this. But it is no less certain that the society of his dark-visaged companion, the Sergeant, with the armless sleeve pinned to his coat-breast, had had something to do with it.

Gilbert Rugge (for such was the younger traveller's name) had found the soldier a very intelligent and pleasant companion, with a considerable fund of information at his disposal. He was a man of some fiveand-forty years of age, of a swarthy, sunburnt complexion, good features, and a stalwart frame. His hair was slightly tinged with grey, and in the lines that furrowed his face there were traces of a rough military life. The man had evidently been no mere barrack-lounger, but a fighter and worker, and that too under a hot sun.

He seemed of a somewhat shy and reserved disposition, and had kept silence for many miles during the early part of the journey; but he had gradually warmed up towards his two younger companions, and, at their request, had entertained them with some account of his military experiences. It appeared that he had spent upwards of twenty years in India, in the Company's service; had fought in the Affghan war, which had then only recently terminated; and, having lost his left arm, and got a bullet somewhere in his back-things of which he made light enough-had returned home, pensioned, a few weeks ago. He was going northwards to visit his native place-a village near the Humber, to see if he had any friends still living there. Such, at least, was to be inferred from his words. But the Sergeant did not speak very cheerfully or explicitly on this score, and, though no braggart, seemed to prefer talking about his Indian exploits to dwelling on his present circumstances or future prospects.

'You see, sir,' he remarked to his