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Death of Goethe.

He had

The name of

The foregoing survey would be incomplete without some notice of the prices of things, the more so as we shall learn hereafter that the pension Karl August gave Schiller was 200 thalers-about £60 of our money-and-he tried to walk a little up and down the room, but, The following morning-it was the 22d March 1832 that the salary Goethe received as Councillor of Legation, after a turn, he found himself too feeble to continue. was only 1200 thalers-about£200 per annum. On reading this, Mr Smith jingles the loose silver in his Reseating himself in the easy chair, he chatted cheerfully pockets, and, with that superb British pride, redolent with Ottilie [his daughter-in-law] on the approaching of consols, which makes the family of Smith so accuspring, which would be sure to restore him. rate a judge of all social positions, exclaims: These no idea of his end being so near. beggarly Germans; I give my head clerk twice the Ottilie was frequently on his lips. She sat beside him, holding his hand in both of hers. It was now observed that his thoughts began to wander incoherently. See,' he exclaimed, the lovely woman's head, with black curls, in splendid colours-a dark background!' Presently he saw a piece of paper on the floor, and asked them how they could leave Schiller's letters so carelessly lying about. Then he slept softly, and, on awakening, asked for the sketches he had just seen-the sketches of his dream. In silent anguish they awaited the close now so surely approaching. His speech was becoming less and less distinct. The last words audible were, More light! The final darkness grew apace, and he whose eternal longings had been for more light, gave a parting cry for it as he was passing under the shadow of death. He continued to express himself by signs, drawing letters with his forefinger in the air while he had strength; and shawl which covered his legs. At half-past twelve he finally, as life ebbed, drawing figures slowly on the composed himself in the corner of the chair. watcher placed a finger on her lip to intimate that he was asleep. If sleep it was, it was a sleep in which a life glided from the world. He woke no more.

The

The influence which Goethe's writings exercised on all the literature of Europe has been noticed by Carlyle, and is fully traced by Mr Lewes. He gives copious analyses of the principal worksespecially the Faust-and on all points of the poet's history and his 'romances of the heart' (more properly of the imagination) we have ample details. No more original or exhaustive memoir has appeared since Lockhart's Life of Scott. A new edition of Mr Lewes's work, still further improved, was published in 1875.

At the little court, Goethe was all but idolised. He dressed in the costume which he had assigned to his Werther, and the dress was adopted by the duke and the courtiers. It was not very sentimental, as Mr Lewes suggests, being composed of blue coat and brass buttons, top-boots and leather breeches, surmounted by powder and pig-tail! The duke, Karl August, though patronising literature in the person of Goethe, seems to have been somewhat idle and dissipated; the Dowagerduchess Amalia was more intellectual. There was also a Baroness von Stein, wife of the Master of the Horse, who captivated Goethe, and the attachment lapsed into a liaison, not uncommon in that court, but which Mr Lewes passes over too slightly, as a matter of course. The poet, however, applied himself to business, was made President of the Chamber, Minister of the War Department, and, finally, elevated to the nobility. Henceforth he is Von Goethe. He gets tired, however, of public life; travels into Italy; and, by consent of the duke, is released, after his return to Weimar, from official duties. His passion for the Frau von Stein now cooled-all his love-scenes are dissolving-views; but in the autumn of 1788, Goethe, 'walking in the muchloved park, was accosted by a fresh, young, brightlooking girl, who, with many reverences, handed him a petition.' The petition contained a request that the great poet would exert his influence to procure a post for a young author, the brother of the maiden who then addressed him, and whose name was Christiane Vulpius. Christiane was humble in rank, clever, but not highly gifted— 'not a Frau von Stein.' She was, however, elevated to the same bad eminence in the poet's regard, and, fifteen years afterwards, when a son had been born to them-when Wilhelm Meister, the Faust, and Lyrics had placed Goethe at the head of German authors-he married Christiane Vulpius. The sunset,' which Mr Lewes put at the head of 'Book the Seventh,' had then commenced. But stirring incidents still remained-'poet' (Pope), the Young Chevalier' (Charles the battle of Jena and sack of Weimar, and, subsequently, the gratifying interview with Napoleon. Love-pasages also were interposed, and the sexagenarian poet 'deposited with deep emotion many a sad experience' in his fiction and poetry. All this German sentimentalism seems as unlike real life as the scenes in the sparkling comedies of Congreve or Wycherley. Goethe at seventy was younger, Mr Lewes says, than many men at fifty. The second part of Faust was completed in his eighty-first year, and at eighty-two he wrote a scientific paper on philosophic zoology. In his latter years his daughter-in-law kept house for him, Christiane having died in 1816. The poet survived her nearly sixteen years. Mr Lewes thus describes the last scene :

MRS OLIPHANT.

TO MRS OLIPHANT, the distinguished novelist, we are indebted for two volumes of Historical Sketches of the Reign of George II., 1869, which appeared first in Blackwood's Magazine. These consist of a series of short biographies, political, literary, and fashionable. Queen Caroline and Walpole head the list, and to these succeed the man of the world' (Chesterfield), the 'woman of fashion' (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu), the

Edward), the 'reformer' (John Wesley), the 'sailor' (Anson), the 'philosopher' (Berkeley), the 'novelist' (Richardson), the 'sceptic' (David Hume), and the painter' (Hogarth). The portraits in this little gallery are drawn with truth and nice discrimination, and give the reader a good idea of all the leading characteristics, the tastes and opinions, prevailing in the reign of the second George. Besides these Historical Sketches, Mrs Oliphant has written two original and interesting biographies-the Life of Edward Irving, and the Memoir of Count de Montalembert, the latter a chapter of recent French history,' in which Montalembert was for thirty years, till his death in 1870, a conspicuous actor.

The Rev. Edward Irving (1792-1834) was a

remarkable man, who, like George Whitefield, enjoyed amazing popularity as a preacher, but whose writings fail to give even a faint idea of his power and influence. De Quincey considered him 'the greatest orator of his times; Coleridge and Carlyle were his intimate friends; George Canning heard the Scotch minister preach the 'most eloquent sermon he ever listened to;' Sir James Mackintosh, too, was a hearer, and treasured up a saying of Irving's while praying for an orphan family, thrown upon the fatherhood of God. Hazlitt, Wordsworth, and Scott were all more or less attracted by this meteor, and for a time a whole host of distinguished, noble, and fashionable persons witnessed his manifestations.* Around him in London were 'mad extremes of flattery, followed by madder contumely, by indifference and neglect' (Carlyle). Edward Irving was a native of Annan, Dumfriesshire; was educated at the university of Edinburgh; then assistant to Dr Chalmers in Glasgow; afterwards minister of the Scotch Church in Hatton Garden, London, whence he removed to a larger church built for him in Regent Square. Whilst officiating in the latter, he was charged with heresy, and ultimately ejected by the trustees of the church, and deposed from the ministry by the presbytery of Annan, by whom he had been licensed. One of his delusions was a belief that the millennium would come in less than forty years. The heresy charged against him was maintaining the doctrine of the fallen state and sinfulness of our Lord's human nature -the oneness of Christ with us in all the attributes of humanity. He had also introduced at his church manifestations of miraculous gifts and prophecy and unknown tongues, occasioning scenes of great excitement and disorder. A number of his hearers still clung to him, and a sect of 'Irvingites' was formed, which is now represented by a body of Christians under the name of the Apostolic Catholic Church.' Irving was profoundly convinced of the truth of what he preached. "He clave to his belief as to his soul's soul,' says Mr Carlyle, 'toiling as never man toiled to spread it, to gain the world's ear for it-in vain. Ever wilder waxed the confusion without and within. The misguided, noble-minded had now nothing| left to do but die. He died the death of the true and brave.' His death took place at Glasgow, December 8, 1834, in the forty-second year of his age. His last words were: If I die, I die unto the Lord. Amen.' Mrs Oliphant adds: 'Scarce any man who knew him can yet name, without a softened voice and dimmed eye, the name of Edward Irving-true friend and tender heart-martyr and saint. When we open the works of Irving this mournful spell is broken. They are mostly written in a stilted, unnatural style. Their very titles betray them: i.e, For the Oracles of God, Four Orations; For Judgment to Come, an Argument in Nine Parts, 1823; and For Missionaries of

The personal appearance of Irving aided the effect of his preaching. He was a tall, athletic man, with dark, sallow complexion and commanding features, long glossy black hair, and with a very obvious squint. Sir Walter Scott, who met him one day at a dinner-party, says: "I could hardly keep my eyes off him while we were at table. He put me in mind of the devil disguised as an angel of light, so ill did that horrible obliquity of vision harmonise with the dark tranquil features of his face, resembling that of our Saviour in Italian pictures, with the hair carefully arranged in the same manner.' It was a question with the ladies whether his squint was a grace or a deformity! One lady said he might have stood as a model for St John the Baptist.

the Apostolical School, a Series of Orations in Four Parts, 1825. Irving also published several volumes of Sermons, Lectures, and Discourses. A collection of the writings of the once popular divine has recently (1864-5) been published by his nephew, the Rev. G. Carlyle. To the present generation,' says Mr G. Carlyle, ‘Edward Irving as a preacher and an author may be said to be unknown;' but the attempt to revive the writings has not, we believe, been successful. The Life, as told by Mrs Oliphant, and illustrated by his own journals and correspondence, constitutes his best and most durable memorial.

Foreign Memories.

There are some landscapes in the world in which foreign memories, alien to the place, and in some cases less touching and momentous than the natural local associations, thrust themselves in, and obscure to the of the spot. The English traveller, when he clirabs the spectator at once the nationality and individual character height of Tusculum, has a scene before him full of the grandest memories of a past which is the common inheritance of the whole civilised world. His boyish lessons, his youthful studies, if they have done anything for him, have qualified him to identify every hillock, and hear a far-off voice out of every tomb. Or, if it is not old but modern Rome that charms him, there are a hundred lights on that Campagna, a thousand influences of sound and sense about, enough to move the least Rome lying distant on the great imaginative soul. plain-and the dome that Buonarotti hung between full of suggestions of the treasures lying under and earth and heaven, standing out the one thing visible, about it-are sufficient to overbrim the eager brain. How is it that, as we stand upon the wistful plateau with that great scene before us, Rome and her memories fade from our eyes? Shrivelling like a parched scroll, the plain rolls up and passes away. The Highland hills all black with storms, the lonely, desolate, northern seas, the wild moors and mountain-passes, rise up a sad phantasmagoria over the gray olives and clustering vines. It is the wild pibroch that rings in our ears; it of the north that breathes into our faces. Why? is the heather that rustles below our feet, and the chill Because yonder in the Duomo a line of inscription has Rome, and all Italian thoughts: 'Karolus Edoardus, caught the traveller's eye, obliterating Frascati and Filius Jacobi. These are the words; and there lies the high heart mouldered into dust, which once beat against the breast of the Young Chevalier!...

Shipwrecked, weary of life, shamed by his knowledge of better things, consumed by vain longings for a real existence such as never could be his, the Chevalier sank as, God help us! so many sink into the awful abyss. To forget his misery, to deaden the smart of his ruin, what matters what he did? He lost in shame, in oblivion and painful decay, the phantasm which was life no longer-with other fantastic shadows-ill-chosen wife, ill-governed household, faithless and foolish favourites, a staring silly spectator-crowd-flitting across the tragic mist. A merciful tear springs to the eye, obscuring the fatal outlines of the last sad picture. There sank a man in wreck and ruin who was a noble prince when the days were. If he fell into degradation at the last, he was once as gallant, as tender, as spotless a gentleman as ever breathed English air or trod Scottish heather. And when the spectator stands by Canova's marble in the great basilica, in the fated land where, with all the Caesars, Charles Edward has slept for nearly a century, it is not the silver trumpets in the choir, nor the matchless voices in their Agnus Dei, that haunt the ear in the silence; but some rude long-drawn pibroch note, wailing over land and sea, wailing to earth and heaven, for a lost cause, a perished house, and, most of all, for the

HISTORIANS, ETC.

ENGLISH LITERATURE.

darkening, and shipwreck, and ruin of a gracious and tions in Ireland and Scotland. The work evinces
immense research, learning, and patient investi-
gation.
princely soul.

George Whitefield and the Bristol Colliers.
The colliers of Kingswood, near Bristol, were pro-
verbial for their savage character and brutality. They
had no place of worship near them, and nobody so much
as dreamt of inquiring whether by chance they too might
The wandering evangelist
have souls to be saved.
[Whitefield] saw, and with that instinct or inspiration
which in a great crisis often seems to direct the instru-
ment of Providence, saw his opportunity at a glance.
On the afternoon of Saturday, February 17, 1739,
breaking the iron decorum of the church, but not a
single thread of the allegiance which bound him to her,
he took his stand on a little summit in the benighted
heathen district, and proclaimed to the gaping amazed
populace the message they had never heard before. Ere
long, thousands gathered round him, eager to see so new
a thing, to hear so strange a communication. Under
the spring sunshine they gathered, in an awful manner,
in the profoundest silence,' says the preacher, moved to
the heart by the unhoped-for magnitude of his own
work. The rude miners stood still as death, turning
their dark countenance towards him, weeping white
tears down their grimy, coal-stained cheeks.
since barefooted friars had wandered that way, with the
wide and elastic commission of Rome, had preachers
stood in England by field and hedgerows, calling the
lost sheep to the fold. The eighteenth-century preacher,
in his curled wig and comely bands, is no such pictur-
esque figure as the Franciscan; but yet nothing could
have been more impressive than the scenes he de-
scribes with an evident awe upon his own mind. "The
trees and hedges were full,' he says; all was hushed
when I began.' Sometimes as many as twenty thou-
sand collected around the little hill-at times a thrill
of emotion ran through the crowd. They wept aloud
together over their sins; they sang together with that
wonderful voice of a multitude which has something in
it more impressive than any music. The sun fell aslant
over the sea of heads; the 'solemnity of approaching
evening' stole over the strange scene. Through the
preacher's minute, monotonous diary, there throbs a
sudden fullness of human feeling as he records it. It
And as he
was sometimes almost too much for him.
tells us the story at this long distance, we are still
touched by the tears in his voice.

DR WILLIAM REEVES.

Ever

LORD CAMPBELL.

The legal biographies of JOHN, LORD CAMPBELL, supply a blank that had often been felt in the record of British worthies, and they convey in a diffuse but agreeable way a general knowledge of history, political and social, and of constitutional law and principles. Had proper research been exercised, they would have been valuable. The Lives of the Chancellors and the Keepers of the Great Seal of England, from the Earliest Times till the Reign of George IV., extend to seven volumes, published in 1845-47; and the Lives of the Chief Justices of England, from the Norman Conquest till the Death of Lord Mansfield, form two volumes, 1849. The style of the noble biographer is often loose and careless, and there are many inaccuracies in dates and facts; but there are few more pleasant books than the Lives of the In his later biographies, Lord Campbell had the Chancellors, and it has been eminently successful. advantage of original papers, as well as some personal knowledge of the chancellors. The whole of Lord Loughborough's papers were communicated to him by Lord Rosslyn; he obtained many of Erskine's letters, and also letters of Lord Eldon. A love of anecdote and gossip seasons these memoirs, while, in conclusion, the noble author sums up the merits and demerits of each of his subjects with judicial impartiality and often with discrimination. Lord Campbell himself succeeded to the woolsack-the crowning glory of a long, laborious life. He was born September 15, 1781, the son of a Scottish minister, Dr George Campbell of Cupar, Fife. Having received his education, and taken his degree of A.M. at the university of St Andrews, he repaired to London, entered himself of Lincoln's Inn, and while keeping his terms, officiated as reporter and critic for the Morning Chronicle. He was called to the bar in 1806, and though retarded in promotion by his Whig principles, he was invested with the silk gown in 1827, and in 1830 was returned to parliament for the borough of Stafford. In 1834 he was

-a fortunate and brilliant career, with an old age of physical and intellectual vigour rarely paralrespect. He died June 23, 1861. In 1869, more leled. Yet its possessor failed to command general than eight years after his death, appeared Lives of Lord Lyndhurst and Lord Brougham, which had Campbell, as a continuation of his Lives of the been written but not finally revised by Lord Lord Chancellors. This is a gossiping, untrustspirit. worthy work, written in a mean, depreciatory

In 1857, DR WILLIAM REEVES, Dublin, pub-appointed attorney-general; in 1841, lord chanlished an edition of Adamnan's Life of St Col- cellor of Ireland, with a peerage; in 1850, chiefumba (Vita Sancti Columbæ: Auctore Adam-justice of England; and in 1859, lord chancellor nano Monasterii Hiensis), edited for the Irish Archæological Society. Adamnan was the ninth abbot of Hy or Iona, founded by Columba, the great apostle of the Western Highlanders or Scoto-Irish, said to be born in the year 521, arrived in Scotland from Ireland in 563, died in 597. It appears from Adamnan's narrative that Columba required an 'interpreter when communicating with the king of the Picts. It is stated, however, that before his death he had founded above one hundred monasteries, and three hundred churches, and had ordained three thousand clergy. So much could not have been done in one life-time if the Scoto-Irish and Pictish tongues had been radically different. Dr Reeves printed Adamnan's Life from a manuscript of the eighth century, with the various readings of six other manuscripts preserved in different parts of Europe. He added copious notes and dissertations illustrative of the early history of the Columban institu

JAMES SPEDDING.

The Letters and Life of Francis Bacon-Lord Bacon-collected and edited, with a commentary, by JAMES SPEDDING, M.A. (1874), is a work of great research and labour, extending to seven volumes. It is supplementary to the edition of Lord Bacon's works, collected and edited by Mr Spedding, Mr R. L. Ellis, and Mr D. D. Heath,

639

which also extends to seven volumes. The publication of the Works and Life was spread over the long period of seventeen years, during which the care and research of the editors seem never to have relaxed. Mr Spedding says his object was to enable posterity to form a true conception of the kind of man Bacon was,' and accordingly he gives an unusually full record of a more than unusually full life.' The question of legal guilt Bacon himself admitted. The moral culpability Mr Spedding does not consider so clear, considering the corrupt practices of the age, and the philosopher's carelessness as to money and household management.

his fellow-countrymen, and made his decease, at the end
of so long a life, to be deeply and sincerely regretted
were admirably described in words which Mr Gladstor
quoted from a former speech of Lord John Russell, a
which he eloquently complimented and applied to
present occasion.

the qualities he possessed, are unattainable by others,
'While many of the actions of his life, while many of
there are lessons which we may all derive from the life
and actions of that illustrious man. It may never be
given to another subject of the British crown to perform
services so brilliant as he performed; it may never be
given to another man to hold the sword which was to
gain the independence of Europe, to rally the nations
around it, and while England saved herself by her
constancy, to save Europe by her example; it may never
be given to another man, after having attained such
eminence, after such an unexampled series of victories,
to shew equal moderation in peace as he has shewa
greatness in war, and to devote the remainder of his life
to the cause of internal and external peace for that
country which he has so served; it may never be given
to another man to have equal authority both with the
sovereign he served and with the senate of which he was
to the end a venerated member; it may never be given
to another man after such a career to preserve even to
the last the full possession of those great faculties with
which he was endowed, and to carry on the services of
one of the most important departments of the state with
unexampled regularity and success, even to the latest
day of his life. These are circumstances, these are
this country. But there are qualities which the Duke of
Wellington displayed of which we may all act in humble
imitation: that sincere and unceasing devotion to our
country; that honest and upright determination to act
for the benefit of the country on every occasion; that
devoted loyalty, which, while it made him ever anxious
to serve the crown, never induced him to conceal from
the sovereign that which he believed to be the truth;
that devotedness in the constant performance of duty;
that temperance of his life, which enabled him at all
times to give his mind and his faculties to the services
which he was called on to perform; that regular, con-
sistent, and unceasing piety by which he was distin-
guished at all times in his life: these are qualities that
are attainable by others, and these are qualities which
should not be lost as an example.'

I know nothing more inexplicable than Bacon's unconsciousness of the state of his own case, unless it be the case itself. That he, of all men, whose fault had always been too much carelessness about money-who, though always too ready to borrow, to give, to lend, and to spend, had never been either a bargainer, or a grasper, or a hoarder, and whose professional experience must have continually reminded him of the peril of meddling with anything that could be construed into corruption-that he should have allowed himself on any account to accept money from suitors while their cases were before him, is wonderful. That he should have done it without feeling at the time that he was laying himself open to a charge of what in law would be called bribery, is more wonderful still. That he should have done it often, and not lived under an abid-qualities which may never again occur in the history of ing sense of insecurity-from the consciousness that he had secrets to conceal, of which the disclosure would be fatal to his reputation, yet the safe keeping did not rest solely with himself-is most wonderful of all. Give him credit for nothing more than ordinary intelligence and ordinary prudence-wisdom for a man's self-and it seems almost incredible. And yet I believe it was the fact. The whole course of his behaviour, from the first rumour to the final sentence, convinces me that not the discovery of the thing only, but the thing itself, came upon him as a surprise; and that if anybody had told him the day before that he stood in danger of a charge of taking bribes, he would have received the suggestion with unaffected incredulity. How far I am justified in thinking so, the reader shall judge for himself; for the impression is derived solely from the tenor of the correspondence.

A History of England from the year 1830 to 1874 has been published in three volumes by WILLIAM NASSAU MOLESWORTH, vicar of Spotland, Rochdale. Mr John Bright, M.P., has commended this work as a book 'honestly written,' and 'calculated to give great information to the young men of the country.' The work appears to merit the commendation, and it aims at no higher praise. We quote a brief notice of a memorable national loss and solemnity:

Death of the Duke of Wellington.

During the interval between the dissolution and the re-assembly of Parliament (1852) an event occurred which deeply stirred the heart of the whole nation, from the Queen on the throne to the lowest and meanest of her subjects. The Duke of Wellington, who had attained to the 84th year of his age, had for some time past been becoming more and more infirm. On the 14th of September his feebleness had very perceptibly increased, and at about a quarter past three in the afternoon of that day he tranquilly breathed his last at Walmer Castle, where he was then residing. The qualities which caused him to be regarded with such deep reverence and admiration by the great majority of

A public funeral was of course decreed; and never in any country was such a solemnity celebrated. The procession was planned, marshalled, and carried out, with a discretion, a judgment, and a good taste, which reflected the highest honour on the civil and military authorities by whom it was directed. Men of every arm and of every regiment in the service, for the first and last time in the history of the British army, marched together on this occasion. But what was more admirable still was the conduct of the incredible mass of sympathetic spectators, who had congregated from ali parts of the kingdom, and who formed no insignificant proportion of its population. From Grosvenor Gate to St Paul's Cathedral there was not one foot of unoccupied ground; not a balcony, not a window, that was not filled; and as far as could be observed, every face amidst that vast multitude wore an expression of respectful sorrow. An unbroken silence was maintained as the funeral cortège moved slowly and solemnly forward to the mausoleum prepared to receive the remains of England's greatest warrior in the centre of the stupendous masterpiece of Wren's architectural genius.

HEPWORTH DIXON.

The lives of John Howard, 1850; William Penn, 1851 (revised edition, 1872); and Admiral Blake, 1852, by MR WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON,

may also be characterised as original biographies. In the cases of Howard and Blake, Mr Dixon had access to family papers, and in that of Penn he has diligently studied the records of the period and the now neglected works of the Quaker legislator. In this memoir Mr Dixon has combated some of the statements of Lord Macaulay relative to Penn. We have already indicated our impression that the noble historian had taken too low and unfavourable an estimate of Penn's character and motives, and it is impossible, we think, to read Mr Dixon's memoir without feeling how greatly Penn transcended most of the public men in that venal period of English history. As a specimen of the biographer's style, which is occasionally too ornate, we extract part of his account of the death of Blake. The last great exploit of the admiral had been his punishing the corsairs, and freeing the Christian captives at Sallee, on the western coast of Africa.

The Death of Admiral Blake, August 27, 1657. This crowning act of a virtuous and honourable life accomplished, the dying admiral turned his thoughts anxiously towards the green hills of his native land. The letter of Cromwell, the thanks of parliament, the jewelled ring sent to him by an admiring country, all reached him together out at sea. These tokens of grateful remembrance caused him a profound emotion. Without after-thought, without selfish impulse, he had served the Commonwealth day and night, earnestly, anxiously, and with rare devotion. England was grateful to her hero. With the letter of thanks from Cromwell, a new set of instructions arrived, which allowed him to return with part of his fleet, leaving his squadron of some fifteen or twenty frigates to ride before the Bay of Cadiz and intercept its traders with their usual deference to his judgment and experience, the Protector and Board of Admiralty left the appointment of the command entirely with him; and as his gallant friend Stayner was gone to England, where he received a knighthood and other well-won honours from the government, he raised Captain Stoaks, the hero of Porto Ferino, and a commander of rare promise, to the responsible position of his vice-admiral in the Spanish_seas. Hoisting his pennon on his old flag-ship, the St George, Blake saw for the last time the spires and cupolas, the masts and towers, before which he had kept his long and victorious vigils. While he put in for fresh water at Cascaes Road, he was very weak. 'I beseech God to strengthen him,' was the fervent prayer of the English resident at Lisbon, as he departed on the homeward voyage. While the ships rolled through the tempestuous waters of the Bay of Biscay, he grew every day worse and worse. Some gleams of the old spirit broke forth as they approached the latitude of England. He inquired often and anxiously if the white cliffs were yet in sight. He longed to behold the swelling downs, the free cities, the goodly churches of his native land. But he was now dying beyond all doubt. Many of his favourite officers silently and mournfully crowded round his bed, anxious to catch the last tones of a voice which had so often called them to glory and victory. Others stood at the poop and forecastle, eagerly examining every speck and line on the horizon, in hope of being first to catch the welcome glimpse of land. Though they were coming home crowned with laurels, gloom and pain were in every face. At last the Lizard was announced. Shortly afterwards, the bold cliffs and bare hills of Cornwall loomed out grandly in the distance. But it was now too late for the dying hero. He had sent for the captains and other great officers of his fleet to bid them farewell; and while they were yet in his cabin, the undulating hills of Devonshire, glowing with the

tints of early autumn, came full in view. As the ships rounded Rame Head, the spires and masts of Plymouth, the woody heights of Mount Edgecombe, the low island of St Nicholas, the rocky steeps of the Hoe, Mount Batten, the citadel, the many picturesque and familiar features of that magnificent harbour rose one by behold this scene once more were at that very instant one to sight. But the eyes which had so yearned to closing in death. Foremost of the victorious squadron, the St George rode with its precious burden into the Sound; and just as it came into full view of the eager thousands crowding the beach, the pier-heads, the walls of the citadel, or darting in countless boats over the smooth waters between St Nicholas and the docks, ready to catch the first glimpse of the hero of Santa Cruz, and salute him with a true English welcome, he, in his silent cabin, in the midst of his lion-hearted comrades, now sobbing like little children, yielded up his soul to

God.

Mr Dixon is a native of the West Riding of Yorkshire, born in 1821. He was entered of the Middle Temple, but devoted himself to literature, and in 1853 became editor of the Athenæum. This weekly literary journal, often quoted in our pages, was established about the year 1828, and has certainly done more for modern literary history and bibliography than any other work of this century. Mr Dixon relinquished his connection with the Athenæum in 1869, and has since become a voluminous author. His chief works are-The Holy Land, 1865; New America, 1867; Spiritual Wives, 1868; Free Russia, 1870; Her Majesty's Tower, four volumes, 1871; The Switzers, 1872; History of Two Queens, 1874; &c.

The Black Man-the Red Man-the Yellow Man.

From New America.

The Black Man, a true child of the tropics, to whom warmth is like the breath of life, flees from the bleak fields of the north, in which the white man repairs his fibre and renews his blood; preferring the swamps and savannahs of the south, where, among palms, cottonplants, and sugar-canes, he finds the rich colours in which his eye delights, the sunny heats in which his blood expands. Freedom would not tempt him to go northward into frost and fog. Even now, when Massachusetts and Connecticut tempt him by the offer of good wages, easy work, and sympathising people, he will not go to them. He only just endures New York; the most hardy of his race will hardly stay in Saratoga and Niagara beyond the summer months. Since the south has been made free to Sam to live in, he has turned his back on the cold and friendly north, in search of a brighter home. Sitting in the rice-field, by the cane-brake, under the mulberry-trees of his darling Alabama, with his kerchief round his head, his banjo on his knee, he is joyous as a bird, singing his endless and foolish roundelay, and feeling the sunshine burn upon his face. The negro is but a local fact in the country; having his proper home in a corner-the most sunny corner-of the United States.

The Red Man, once a hunter of the Alleghanies, not less than of the prairies and the Rocky Mountains, has been driven by the pale-face, he and his squaw, his elk, his buffalo, and his antelope, into the far western country; into the waste and desolate lands lying westward of the Mississippi and Missouri. The exceptions hardly break the rule. A band of picturesque pedlers may be found at Niagara; Red Jackets, Cherokee chiefs and Mohawks; selling bows and canes, and generally sponging on those youths and damsels who roam about the Falls in search of opportunities to flirt. A colony, hardly of a better sort, may be found at Oneida

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