beguile them. Forgetful of the weary march | mation. But it seems that Keane-yes, before them-forgetful of the grim encoun- there it is, in black and white, in Lucy ter to which the march would lead-forget-Locksley's hand-Keane was in league or ful almost, bride and bridegroom, of their partnership with Walter Sherbrooke, junior, own exclusive, new-found happiness-forget- had thrown the game up, had absconded, ful almost, solitary, disappointed heart, of had been heard of from New York. all its troubles, there they sat far on into the soft, warm, Indian night, recalling earliest scenes, thoughts, feelings, and associations, from the bright hearths whose blazing kindled once more out of remembered Christmas hours at home. And yet Ned's heart would ache, less from regret than sharp anxiety. What if his own eyes caught no Christmas cheer from camp-fires glaring upon dusky heathen forms. At least, the brightness of that hearth at home by which he might not sit, would not be darkened by the fall of even shadowy dishonor. For that his manly heart was well contented to forego even the homeless happiness, asking no home, which his friend Florence and her soldier husband found upon the restless march, each in the other's dear companionship. But on him a sickening impatience lay to know that it was truly so; to hear from Keane that his dear father's name was clear; thus to be certified that his heart-whole sacrifice, at least, was timely. A mail reached the camp the very night they pitched it by the stream which parted the hostile forces.. No sadder token was needed of the change in poor Ned's life than just the shiver, wherewith he recognized his own dear mother's handwriting upon the solitary letter brought him. His mother's hand; not Keane's! Let him recall what passed between them at Malta. Down he sits, his head between his hands, as he was wont to puzzle out some case made intricate by perjuries, and reserved from his cutcherry court, in Trans-Nerbuddah times. The understanding of a noble heart is sensitive to light of good. One second's flash will print on it the meaning of a noble deed. But glare of evil finds the surface dull. It must have time to photograph on such the outline of a baser act. At last, he saw the truth. Thank God! His father's mind had not belied its nobleness! How could the instinct of his own have thus belied its perfect trust in him? Meanwhile, his hand, with nimblest, gentlest eagerness, had pushed its way beneath whatever folds lay on his breast, and it had grasped the locket hanging there. Delicious hope! By dawn on the twenty-ninth of December, the British army crossed the Kohuree. Valliant's brigade, with Littler in support, was launched on Chonda, defended by a triple intrenchment and a powerful artillery. By one of those strange oversights, or strange deceptions, which occur in war, the village of Maharajpore itself was not known to be filled, or ready for filling, by formidable masses of the enemy. But a cannonade, To think that this should be a cruel dis- of which the first trial shots exposed to imappointment. Strong soldier as he was, his fingers trembled almost too much to break the seal. Then with one hasty notice of the date, the eye went glancing down the pages, fearing alike to catch or not to catch some word significant of shame or sorrow. Presently Keane's name arrests it; Keane's, and in close contact, Sherbrooke's! What? What is this strange version of a story too familiar in his thoughts? What is this unexpected combination of these names? Stop! He will reread the letter with forced patience, lest he be mistaken. Not one previous word of loss, embarrassment, or risk in any of the Locksleys' own affairs? No, not an inti minent danger the British general's own wife and other ladies with the civilians of the expedition, soon burst out of the clump of trees and houses to undeceive the columns in the rear. Littler must turn his movement in support into a daring onslaught, beginning thus the day. The fight was stern and bloody. But Valliant's troops, changing their front at Sir Hugh Gough's command, bore down in reverse on the contested village. Their bayonets and Littler's silenced the guns, whose unexpected fire had wrought confusion in the British plan of battle; twenty-eight fell there into the power of this undaunted infantry. Meanwhile, upon the left, Scott, with unequal forces, the restrained, then broke, then swept away The Kattiwaree rises on his hind legs wildly, paws the air, and falls back, his rider under him. The battery is carried. So that they have not far to bear him out of reach of the dropping matchlock fire, which the brave Mahrattas will not even yet entirely give over. There was a tope of trees, and a fragment of a mud wall; both bore the crashing marks of cannon. "Give my love to-my father-mother, Tommy. Tell-I charge-forgive ― my Cousin Keane." Then he was silent, till Wilmot heard him say, "Lord! now lettest thou thy servant-" But the froth and blood came bubbling up to choke the words upon his dying breath. They buried him at sundown. "Put this in with him," said the old, oneeyed Mussulman. It was the little Testament he had picked up. "Allah Kerim ! God is merciful. He was a servant of the Book!" "And put in this!" "No not that," said the sergeant-major. It was his grandfather's sword. "Allah Kebir!" the stern old trooper answered gravely, snapping the sword in two against his knee; "God is great! No bungler shall wield the weapon. He was a master of it." Therewith he threw the pieces in beside Ned Locksley. But Thakali, the Bheel's wife, sat on the ground the night long, by the grave, mourning and casting dust upon her head. Poor half-savage heart, yet wholly grateful! Lucy Locksley would have clung to it. Forever, in the after years, it clung to any who kept or brought, in kindliness, remembrance of her soldier son. "Lay me down here, Tommy." "I knowed he were hard hit, sir," would the earl's head-keeper say, in aftertimes at countess her that had been Rosa Barrington, For that, when Philip brought home as his home, to Robert Locksley. "He were a not his own mother's arms embraced her very partickler officer, sir, for all he were so with more loving fervor. For that, did Lucy kind-hearted, were Master Ned, sir. He al-knit, through her, close correspondence with ways said 'Serjeant-major,' sir, just soldierlike. And so I knowed he were hard hit, sir, when he says to me, Tommy,' he says, like as was of old times, here at Cransdale, sir." her Cousin Florence, his early and discerning friend on Indian ground. For that, visit Rookenham, Amy, for it was she, felt in when Max Gervinus also brought a bride to her heart's core Lucy's tenderness. age, were busy with his brown curls, so like her own Ned's, as once again she talked with Lady Royston of him who lay beneath the mangoe trees. The Roystons had a second son, to whom They leaned him up against the little they craved her leave to give the name of broken wall. Then the Bheel, at Nusred-Edward Locksley. deen's word ran to fetch a little water and Her fingers, tremulous with advancing some bearers from a neighboring group of huts. With an effort Ned drew from his breast-flap his little Greek New Testament; but his hand faltered, and his eyes swam. He let it fall beside him. His breathing was heavy and interrupted. Wilmot and the one-eyed Jemadar held him, looking at each other in blank despair. "Tommy! Tommy Wilmot!" It was little louder than a whisper. "Yes, dear Master Ned, sir," said the sergeant-major, bending his ear almost to touch his lips, whilst big salt tears went rolling down his long flaxen mustachios. "No, Constance dear, not even such a loss need leave a mother's heart robbed of all consolation. Look on this forehead, where, with your kisses, you shower hopeful prayers. What if an angel touched your eyes to read on its white parchment this answer to them: 'He shall be tender-hearted, yet strong-souled, just in rule, brave in war, serving God, in faith of Christ.' What if beads of death-dew blurred all else, would not enough be written? Would you not say, 'Thank God! His holy will be done'?" From The Edinburgh Review. Neither the versatile Bolingbrook, nor the 1. The History of England from the Acces- wayward, graceful, inspired, and impracticasion of James the Second. Vol. V. By ble Burke, need have disdained the compariLord Macaulay. Edited by his Sister, son. In pliancy and ease Bolingbroke surLady Trevelyan. London: 1861. 2. The New Examen; or an Enquiry into passes him, as Burke does in delicacy of fancy, the Evidence relating to certain Pas- but in fertility of resource, fire, and power he sages in Lord Macaulay's History. By excels them both. We choose these two John Paget, Barrister-at-Law. Edin-names as the greatest of the class to which burgh and London: 1861. Macaulay properly belongs,-the literary FOR the last time we prefix to our crit- statesmen of England. It is needless to ical labors a volume of Macaulay's "His- compare him with historians like Hume or tory of England." The last sounding chords Gibbon, or with political leaders like the which the hand of the great master ever great chiefs of the rival parties. He did struck have now reached the ear of the pub-not belong to either order. His writings lic: the hand is cold, and the great heart were for the most part political, not philowhich inspired it has ceased to beat. The sophical; and like those both of Bolingbroke country which he loved so well, the liberty and Burke, they derived their tendency and which he cherished, and the constitution color from his views of public and political which he fenced round with his eloquence life. He was a statesman writing of history. and research, have lost their ardent de- With Burke, indeed, he has a strong afinfender. Over the recent grave of so great ity: the same impetuous temperament, the a man criticism must lower its tone, and same ear for sonorous composition, the same even malice must be subdued, if not silent. delightful power of abstracting and absorbHis powers were great, his aspirations ing the mind, and the same genuine and unlofty, his ends noble and generous. Prej-affected warmth. But Burke, with all his udices and peculiarities, as fall to the lot refinement, has an element of coarseness of all, no doubt he had; but they arose about him, of which Macaulay was entirely chiefly from his impetuous sense of right, destitute, and if the touch of the Irish stateshis disdain of meaner minds and motives, man was freer, his drawing was not so true. and his wrath against oppression. When Burke's judgment followed, Macaulay's lead, the volcano once began to work, the lava the course of passionate and intense emotion, overflowed in a torrent which, while irresist- which frequently lured the first astray, but ible, was sometimes perhaps undiscriminat-never beguiled the manly sense of the last. ing; but there was breadth, massiveness, Bolingbroke, in capacity and power, is, and grandeur throughout; a noble example of prodigious intellect dedicated to the purest and truest patriotism, without one selfish tinge to sully, or one base ingredient to taint its influence. Macaulay writes himself so plainly in his works, that it would be impertinent to attempt any labored delineation of his genius; but as it begins to recede from the point of vision its radiance increases. Gradually taking his place among those that dwell in that Pantheon in which the present world places the heroes of the past, he fills a higher position than when envious critics and indignant friends wrangled over his intellectual conquests, and grudged or defended his renown. Now that he is gone we can better appreciate what we have lost, and what in our day we cannot look to have replaced. With whom shall we rank him? In intellectual power certainly with the greatest. perhaps, a more ambitious standard than Burke. But he must be judged more by what he could have done than by what he did. He seems, so far as we know him, to have had, like Macaulay, a prodigious memory, which served him as a storehouse where he found everything worthy of remembrance in letters or in time whenever he had occasion for it, and he wielded, perhaps, the most brilliant, pure, and sparkling style of any writer in the language. He had also an amount of ability as a man of affairs, with a knowledge of, and power of adaptation to, men and things, to which the two others had no pretensions. But he has left, after all, only nominis umbra—the shadow, ill-defined and misty, of a mighty name. Save that he has in a few tracts, intended to be ephemeral, embalmed in the richest words the language could furnish some grand muscular delineations of that constitution which he had the rare result of converting a minority into a majority,—indeed a very small minority into an overwhelming majority. The question was the right of the Master of the Rolls to sit in Parliament. The bill which had for its object to render that judicial functionary ineligible, had passed the second reading without a division. On the motion for the Speaker leaving the chair, Macaulay came down and delivered one of his most weighty and effective orations. The consequence was that the bill was lost by a large majority, and although we regret to say that since that time the privilege has never been taken advantage of, the Master of the Rolls remains eligible for a seat in Parliament. did his best to upset, nothing tangible remains of his genius. He did nothing, and the fault lay not in his stars which he blamed so freely, but in himself,-in the coldness, selfishness, and insincerity of his nature. Alongside either, Macaulay holds his place, nor does he suffer by the contrast. Within his own range, and it was large, his power was prodigious. Gifted with a force of memory of the rarest kind, retentive and precise to a degree which rendered pastime to him what to most men is laborious toil; an extent of scholarship both cultivated and varied; a glowing fancy which colored and tinted with the flush of poetry the inmost recesses of his learning; a fine ear for rhythm; a true pleasure in the roll and Thus while alongside even the thunders of music of words, he brought these rare ma- Burke, and the vast influence of Bolingterials to bear on the best and highest in- broke, Macaulay holds his place; while he terests of his country and mankind. In large was a debater and an orator, a scholar, and and single-hearted views of public policy he a poet; while he could inspire the fancy far outstrips either of his rivals. As an or- either in its graver or lighter moods, impress ator, as a deliverer of great, weighty, pow- the judgment and warm the heart; he had erful rhetorical appeals, we know not any beyond them that steady-burning flame of one who can be placed before him. Had he patriotism, that ardent love of liberty, that not been so soon removed, and to a certain strong, consistent, impressive sense of the extent physically disabled from pursuing his rights of his fellow-countrymen, which from parliamentary career, there was no height first to last, in the midst of great political of eminence to which he might not have at- excitement, living when great questions were tained. It is the fashion to say he was not canvassed by strong heads, kept him cona debater. We do not at all concur in this stant in his course. Liberty was his earliestimate of him. Except in practice, he had est, and was his latest theme. The scorn of all the qualities which make up a debater oppression and fraud and falsehood, sympaquickness, ready wit, ever-present resources, thy with all struggling humanity against inkeen reasoning, powerful, sonorous, although justice and wrong, and above all the honest sometimes ponderous, declamation. Indeed, pride of an Englishman in the former conif his reputation in other departments had tests of his countrymen, and their triumphs not been so high, and if his tastes had not and successes, were the prevailing emotions rather led him to shun the contention of po- of his mind. For these he wrote and spoke ; litical assemblies and to prefer the retire- to these ends he used all those great stores ment of his more studious avocations, there of learning, all those wondrous powers of is no height to which Macaulay might not memory and reflection, with which he was have risen in the arena of debate. His endowed. He wore his harness to the end. power, perhaps, was somewhat unwieldy for He fell in the battle. It was his ambition the ordinary gladiatorship of the House of to lay the foundations on which future hisCommons. But he had versatility enough torians should build the structure of English to have overcome that defect. He showed constitutional history. He has not, alas! on more than one occasion that aptitude for lived to complete the great book which he reply, and, above all, that power of swaying contemplated. He has left us, after all, but large assemblies, which constitutes the true a mighty fragment; yet his work is to a power and efficiency of parliamentary ora- great extent accomplished. Time-honored tory. Even as it is, some of his recorded error, prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-minded speeches may rank with the greatest ever intolerance have fled before the voice of the delivered in the House of Commons. enchanter. These mists and clouds he has very last speech he ever made in that House, cleared away forever; and although the The fabric remains an unfinished monument of own expectation, that his work might have his genius, he has done more for British liberty, and for healthful political feeling in his time, than we need hope for from any other pen in this generation. There is something very touching and melancholy in the fragmentary volume before us. Lady Trevelyan has done her part with great good taste and discretion. She has rightly judged that the public would prefer to receive at her hand the last words of the great historian precisely as he left them; and the fidelity with which this is done is so complete, the grand, sonorous utterances are so strong and powerful to the last, and break off with so sudden and abrupt a fracture, that we could almost have told, even had we not known, that the full-toned string had snapped in an instant, and that death had found and claimed his victim in full career. To ourselves there is something inexpressibly affecting in this transition from life to silence-from vigor to the grave, which without a word of comment, or a line of epitaph, this volume suggests. It begins, as it ends, abruptly. It embraces in its range the period from the rejoicings for the peace of Ryswick in December, 1697, to the passing of the Resumption Bill in the summer of 1700; and contains a supplementary passage or chapter of little more than twenty pages, commencing with the death of James in April, 1701, and ending with the death of William in March, 1702. reached to the end of the reign of Queen Anne. But much as we have lost, by the want of his account of the first twelve years of the eighteenth century, so brilliant both in literature and in arms, and splendid as, beyond doubt, would have been the historical epic which he would have composed out of Blenheim and Ramillies, Swift and Atterbury, Bolingbroke and Addison, the last reign of the house of Stuart and the first adherents of the house of Hanover, the chief part of his design has been achieved. He has written the English history of William of Orange in characters deeply carved on our constitution-never to be obliterated while it remains. To clear away the rust and rubbish which time had accumulatedto scatter the mists and vapors of subservience and party rancor, and time-serving philosophy which obscured our great Exodus from arbitrary power-to disclose in their massive grandeur the true foundations of our present liberty, was a task equal to, and not too great for, his genius; and this he has performed. As time mellows the judgment, and distance combines more completely the proportions of this history, the vast gift which he has bestowed upon his country will be the more truly appreciated. We have not been slow, as our criticism on his last two volumes evinces, to speak our minds freely on his faults, and defects, and prejudices. But now that all is done, trying to bring back our minds and associations and impressions to what they were in 1847, it is impossible not to feel that the real narrative of the Revolution settlement dates from this publication. The bones, indeed, existed previously, scattered up and down in recesses more or less obscure; but the life was wanting until breathed into them by his ardent and courageous spirit-and as long as the memory of English liberty survives, we believe these five volumes will be regarded as its noblest vindication. It will thus be seen that although the conclusion has been deprived of the rounding and finishing touches of the author, the most essential portion of the work which Macaulay proposed to himself has been accomplished. He has not, indeed, written the History of England from the accession of James II. " down to a time which is within the memory of men still living," according to the comprehensive and ambitious design with which he started. It soon must have become obvious to himself that the scheme The characteristics, indeed, of the three which he had sketched in his fertile brain, publications vary with the characteristics of was beyond the physical powers he could the three periods to which they are devoted. command. No life could be long enough, The first, full of incident, adventure, and no constitution sufficiently vigorous, to af- romance-the shaking of thrones, and the ford the leisure or to sustain the labor which such a task, to be so performed, must have put in requisition. It was, however, within reasonable hope, and formed the limit of his agitations of society which accompany changes of dynasty, afforded to his brilliant pencil a theme of rare attraction; and no one will ever forget the admiration and won |