In the House of Lords the Dnke was a regular attendant and not unfrequently a speaker, but the journals of that august body supply few testimonies of our hero's excellence. His opinions and votes, excepting when his natural Conservatism had not yet been sufficiently influenced by pressure from without, were rarely otherwise than soundly given, but his motives were often imperfectly expressed. It had been said that a collection of Cromwell's speeches would make the most nonsensical book in the world, and though such a remark is certainly not warranted by the orations of Wellington, yet in this point a certain resemblance is discoverable between the two great soldiers. The Duke allowed himself, in addressing the House, to be carried away, not perhaps by his feelings, but by the impetus of a delivery which, without being either fluent or rapid, was singularly emphatic and vehement. He magnified his own opinions in order to impress them upon his hearers. If he recommended, as he did with great alacrity, a vote of thanks to an Indian general, the campaign was always "the most brilliant he had ever known;" if he wished to stigmatize a disturbance of the peace, it was something transcending "anything he had ever seen in all his experience," though such a quality could hardly be predicated of any disorders under the sun. One of the best chroniclers of his deeds has attributed this precipitate bestowal of praise and censure to a natural failure of character, but we suspect that in many cases the error of the opinion was due to the manner of its delivery alone: Few men have been intrusted with more delicate missions in the distribution of rewards, and none could have discharged such duties with more unimpeachable discrimination. The Duke could appreciate events with unfailing nicety, but he failed in the capacity to describe them, and of late years his speeches, where they were not tautology, were often contradictions. Nor could the failing be traceable to age alone, for it was observed, though in a less degree, during the earlier stages of his career, and is the more remarkable from the contrast presented by his despatches. No letters could ever be more temperately or perspicuously expressed than these famous documents. Even as specimens of literary composition they are exceedingly goodplain, forcible, fluent, and occasionally, like those of Napoleon, even humorous withal. It is true that the correspondence, especially in the earlier volumes, often partakes of a more familiar character than pertains to a general's "despatches;" but if the reader desires to feel the full force of our encomium we need only refer him to the despatches of Marlborough for a subject of comparison. The private life of the Duke was simple, methodical and familiar in most of its features to all inhabitants and visitors of the metropolis. His attendance at the early service at the Chapel Royal and at the Whitehall sermons, his walk in the park in former years, and of late times his ride through the Horse Guards, with his servant behind him, are incidents which every newspaper has long chronicled for the information of the country. His personal habits were those of military punctuality, his daily duties were discharged systematically as they recurred, and his establishment was as thriftily regulated as the smallest household in the land. This economy enabled him to effect considerable savings, and it is believed that the property of the title must have been very largely increased. He married in 1806 the Hon. Catharine Pakenham, third daughter of the second Baron Longford-a lady for whose hand, as Arthur Wellesley, with nothing but the sword of an infantry captain to second his pretensions, he had previously, we are informed, been an unsuccessful suitor. The Duchess died in 1831, and the Duke's name was recently coupled with that of numerous ladies who were successively selected by report as the object of his second choice. He expired, however, a widower, leaving two sons to inherit his name. Full of years beyond the term of mortality, and of honors almost beyond human parallel, he has descended into his grave amid the regrets of a generation who could only learn his deeds from their forefathers, but who know that the national glory which they witness and the national security which they enjoy were due, under God's providence, to the hero whom they have just now los.. From Fraser's Magazine. EDWARD GIBBON. The narrative commences in a grave, philo A LITTLE figure, with a large head and | small bones, dressed with the most scrupu-sophic tone, which has raised the smile on lous precision; the buckles shining brightly in the shoes, the wrist-bands carefully turned down, the periwig hanging many inches below the shoulders, the breeches without a crease, the body bending forward, the forefinger stretched out, the others tapping a snuff-box; surely this must the picture of some meek, smiling old courtier, one who is seen in every drawing-room, at every whisttable, with nothing but the milk of human kindness in his bosom, and nothing but the prescriptions of etiquette in his head. We are for once mistaken. This modest, richlyapparelled little gentleman is one of the most learned, the most sarcastic, the most wary of human beings; this is Gibbon, the historian, the philosopher, the skeptic, whose heart was engrossed with the love of literary fame, who delighted in sneering at what men most reverence, and whose genius shed a light on the darkest parts of medieval history. The life and writings of this extraordinary man appear to us one of the most curious and the most interesting chapters of literary history, and we shall make no apology for giving, as far as our limited space will permit, our impression of the historian. Few autobiographies are more pleasing or more valuable than Gibbon's Memoirs of my Life and Writings. Enough is said, but no more than enough; and he has left us, by his own hand, as perfect a picture of himself, with all his pride, industry, vanity, and affectation, as he has drawn of any other man in the course of his elaborate history. One who has written about five thousand octavo pages on the lives of others, may be permitted to write a hundred and fifty on his the face of many readers. He then proceeds, as an English country gentleman ought to do, to give the public a long account of his ancestors. It appears that the Gibbons were landowners in the county of Kent in the fourteenth century, that there was a John Gibbon, who held the distinguished post of marmorius or architect to Edward the Third; that the Gibbons are frequently mentioned in the visitations of the heralds; that they were esquires during the time of Queen Elizabeth, when, as the historian takes care to tell us, that title was far from being so common as it afterwards became. Little more is known of the Gibbons until the seventeenth century, when the younger branch, from which the author himself descended, left the country for the city. But is this a blot on our escutcheon? Is it not as merchants only that young men of spirit can acquire independence? And in England as well as in the republics of Italy, is a gentleman degraded by being connected with trade? Have not the Gibbons of Kent borne their family arms, "a lion rampant, gardant, between three scallop-shells, argent, on a field of azure," in days when family-arms were considered something, and not as now, when everybody who has money can get a coat-ofarms painted on his coach-doors? Even our alliances by marriage do us some honor; for we are connected with Baron Say, whom Shakspeare has immortalizd as the liberal patron of the fine arts and the martyr to learning, in the last part of Henry the Sixth. Is not this a glorious alliance for a historian? Surely the Gibbons were very respectable; but there is only one Gibbon whom readers care much about. Edward Gibbon, the eldest son of his father, and the only child that reached maturity, came weak and almost lifeless into the world. For some time his existence was despaired of, and two brothers who were born after him had each the same Christian name given them, lest no more "Edward Gib His bons" should be known among men. tion; but in all that is called learning, and popularly knowledge, he was certainly never surpassed. In his Essay on the Study of Literature, he says that the ancients are now loaded with contempt, and that men of letters are called erudites. He then takes up the gauntlet in the cause of the scholars of the preceding generation, and proceeds, in a somewhat ostentatious manner, to talk about the gods and the authors of antiquity. It must be confessed that this production, if it be honorable to his industry, shows little appreciation of the highest provinces of criticism. Though he might afterwards glory in the name of an Englishman, it is quite evident that when this work was written, and indeed for long afterwards, he had little sympathy with the English spirit, and little admiration of English literature. As he advanced in years, he began to appreciate more In his eleventh year, young Edward lost his mother, whom he did not profess to remember with any extraordinary veneration. We, however, on carefully reviewing his life, with all its good and evil, cannot but think that, had Gibbon's mother been spared, he might have been a somewhat different being. His nature, if not capable of any very intense affection, was far from inhuman; it was even generous and sensi-justly the greatness of his native land, but tive to a certain depth; it was a nature for his youth and manhood showed an entire dewhich a mother's care might have done votion to the French shrine; his first works much. We have all a devil in us; we need were written in French, and he affected as all that this poor world affords of endear- much as he could all the airs of the literary ing warmth to thaw the ice that will gather men who at that time reigned supreme at round our hearts. A literary man, espe- Paris. Montesquieu was his model, and this cially, must have had a mother's love; a essay, without possessing all the merits, has mother's tears must have dropped upon his all the faults of the accomplished president's face, a mother's voice must have sung him compositions. Not a sentence is written with to rest, a mother's prayers, even amid the simplicity; every thought is stated as an eppompous systems of philosophy, must some-igram. The artificial liveliness is somewhat times be remembered, a mother's form must clumsy; whatever else he may do, the young now and then appear in his dreams, he must author is determined to dazzle, and he sucstand at times by his mother's grave, or so ceeds in being tedious in spite of his conmuch the worse for him, and for the many ciseness, and dull in despite of his wit. The of whom he is the teacher. Edward Gib matter is in some respects as exceptionable bon might hold religious disputes with his as the style. aunt; but he could not have disputed with a mother. The authority of an aunt is nothing over a young mind, compared with that of a parent. In this instance, there was an unquiet, curious spirit at work, which would not and could not acquiesce, which had never been taught how to venerate, how to cherish, how to believe. Thus he grew up a kind of literary Ishmael, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, reverencing nothing, believing nothing; and, amid the dreary desert of the barren eighteenth century, went on his way, satisfied that religion was but a many-colored mirage, amusing the eyes of man before the sand-storm rolled over him, and engulfed him forever. His love of books, even so early as his twelfth year, became his ruling passion, and it continued, and even grew stronger, to his last hour. Whether Gibbon was or was not a thoroughly educated man may be a ques What can we say of a man of original genius who scarcely ever mentions, in treating the subjects of general literature, an English author? Fénélon, Voltaire, Boileau, Perrault, Le Clerc, Desmaiseaux, Saint Marthe, and a multitude of French writers, are brought upon the scene, but, if we are not mistaken, neither Bacon nor Shakspeare is ever noticed. The work is indeed only a series of detached observations connected together by the most general of titles. If Gibbon's treatise be an essay on the study of literature, there is scarcely any literary work that might not with equal propriety bear the same name. The book was little read by Englishmen, but how could the author be surprised at this result? It is not written in the English language, it is altogether destitute of English spirit, it is written in a style which is directly opposite to those of our greatest writers. There is no denying it; Gibbon was for some time ashamed of his mother tongue. Hume writes to him very sensibly, and tells him to look to America, there see how the English language was striking root, and be assured that in the end it would beat the French out of the field. That this will ultimately be the case there can be now no question; every day is bearing testimony to the wonderful power of the language of Shakspeare and Milton; the Saxon idiom, like the Saxon race, is making head throughout the globe, and all languages, as well as all nations, seem destined to fall before this diffusive energy. Why is this so? Because our great writers, like all our great men, have done their work in the true national, earnest spirit; and for all the triumphs of the present, and all the glorious promises of the future, we owe few thanks either to Hume or Gibbon. Roman senate better than the British parliament, could appreciate much more clearly the greatness of Rome than the greatness of England; and that if he was at once the most luminous, the most comprehensive of historians, he was also one of the most irresolute, the least discerning, and the most time-serving of politicians. He could read human nature, but it was that of former generations. He was wise, but it was in the wisdom of the ancients. He was virtuous, but his was rather a negative than a positive virtue, and it kept him rather from doing harm than incited him to do good. His mental eye could discern things in the distance, but not those that were spread out immediately before him ; and the most atrocious of the persecutions and tyrannical acts of the Roman emperors, had they occurred during his own age, he would probably have applauded, and certainly would not have resisted. His life was a life on paper; his study was his world; and the real world a theatre on which his of "my fame," it was the only god that he really worshipped. Some men exist for their time, and are called the creatures of their age: Gibbon did not live for his time, he was not the mere creature of his age; he was Gibbon, and would in all ages and all times have been nearly what he was in the eighteenth century. Without going into a metaphysical dissertation on education, we may illustrate our idea of Gibbon by a comparison with two or three others. Milton was as learned as Gib-fame might be trumpeted. He often spoke bon, but we see well what a different effect learning had on their minds. Had Milton not been a great scholar, he would still have been a great genius. Gibbon, too, had an original mind, but still it was only because he was a most industrious student that he became one of the greatest of writers. Had Shakspeare possessed all Gibbon's knowledge about ancient Rome, it may still be doubted whether Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, and Marc Antony would have been improved; as they are, they remain masterpieces from the hand of a mighty creative artist. But what to Shakspeare would have been nothing, is to Gibbon everything; if he had not read much, he could have written very little. There is at once a great difference and a great likeness between Shakspeare and Pascal; neither of them could be called learned men, but they were both great men. What Shakspeare was in poetry and the drama, Pascal was in philosophy and theology; they were at once what others could never be, even by the most intense study and the most persevering research. Gibbon's mind was emphatically "slow." All its products were natural, but still the result of labor. Patient meditation, systematic study, were necessary, and indeed indispensable. Therefore it was that he understood the past better than the present, was far more sagacious in penetrating into the hidden causes of events which had occurred fifteen hundred years before than in reading the signs of his own troubled times, knew the All the apology for his faults that the last century affords he is entitled to receive. In the sixteenth century he would have been outwardly a Christian, in the nineteenth century he would have also been a nominal conformist. As it was, he had just enough of honesty to declare his disbelief, and not enough to survey every part of that ghastly temple in which no words of prayer are heard, and on the altar of which no fire is burning. Νο What, then, was the state of mind in England during this eighteenth century? England was at once great and little, false and true, full of glory and full of shame. man has yet had the courage to write boldly and truly the history of that time, and perhaps it may be long before it be properly written. Every one must read with pain the pages of Gibbon's autobiography, in which his academical experiences are recorded. Graver charges never were laid against any corporate body than are here brought against the University of Oxford. It may be that the prejudices of the sceptic can be traced in these paragraphs; it may be that there is a soreness arising from the attacks which had been directed against the historian; but the college reminiscences of many men even now must give unwilling testimony to the truth of some of these accusations. Gibbon was doubly unfortunate; the University caused him to relinquish his studies; the perusal of Middleton's sceptical Free Enquiry made him turn Roman Catholic. This apostacy appears less surprising in our day than it did in those of our grandfathers. In his later years, Gibbon comforted himself when he smiled, and sometimes sadly smiled, over his changes of opinion, by the examples of Bayle and Chillingworth. But he had little resemblance to either of these intellectual gladiators, who were estimable and even great in all their mental revolutions. In the person of William Chillingworth we see a noble, earnest, believing nature devoted to the search of truth, and through the very intensity of faith made an unbeliever in his own despite. Bayle had a bold, masculine intellect, a lofty, determined earnestness of purpose to which we fear Gibbon was a stranger. The English Master of Arts, and the philosopher of Rotterdam, commanded the respect of their most rancorous enemies; some of the greatest admirers of the Decline and Fall have condemned the moral character of the author. But Chillingworth, Bayle, and Gibbon all illustrate one truth. The melancholy experience of the last three centuries shows how difficult it is to establish again the faith that has been once unsettled. We have all heard of a road to belief even through the marshes of infidelity we can only say that it is a very dangerous road, and for one weary traveller who may emerge again into the clear light of heaven, a thousand will assuredly wander for ever in the darkness. A stupid schoolmaster was in the habit of discussing with his pupils the evidences of Christianity, and refuting, greatly to his own satisfaction, the objections of unbelievers. As few of his scholars were above the age of fifteen, nothing could be more pernicious than such controversies. Children ought never to doubt; they never do so until foolish parents and foolish teachers put doubts into their heads by telling them there is no cause for doubt. A strange feeling will come to the young heart when a conceited pedant turns the leaves of the Bible over, and says, "it is true," "it must be true,' "it proves itself to be true;" and then astonishes his little charges by saying that men have even denied it to be true; the question, in spite of the pedagogue, will rise to the lips of the child, Is it possible that men can, without any reason, disbelieve what every body reverences, the great Book that my mother first taught me to read, that I almost know by heart, that I peruse every evening, that the clergyman preaches from every Sunday, can it be that men disbelieve the book that was written by God?' Happy the child that has never doubted! Happy the child that officious blockheads have not taught to doubt, while piously thinking they were teaching it to believe. From his earliest years Gibbon was fond of religious disputation. Hinc illa lacrymæ. His kind aunt, Catherine Porten (peace to the good creature!) was often pushed hard by the objections of the acute little sickly sceptic. Both the aunt and the nephew have now gone to their account, and their religious contests can no longer occupy their minds. The same spirit accompanied young Gibbon to Lausanne. Mr. Pavilliard long afterwards told Lord Sheffield how surprised he was at the first appearance of the diminutive little fellow, with his head so much larger than the other proportions of his body, disputing with all the ardor of a Jesuit doctor, in favor of the Romish church. After all the weapons of controversy had been well handled, after defending every inch of ground, Gibbon was at length induced to recant his errors, and take the sacrament in the Protestant church. He was doubtless at the time sincere in his professions; but his belief, unknown to himself, was shaken for ever. The impressibility of his character was still the same; if he became a Protestant, he was no more an Englishman. He became a scholar, indeed, and even a lover, two characters which perhaps are not exclusively English, and the former even less than the other. Young Englishmen, when they go abroad, become lovers more often than scholars. A philosopher in love is now and then a curious spectacle. In only one instance during his early years did Gibbon show that he had any of this ordinary weakness of humanity; and even then he loved after his own fashion. Although he was at the time not very far distant from places which genius and passion have hallowed, Gibbon was not a man to sigh from the rocks of Meillerie for the absence of any earthly idol. Mademoiselle Curchod appears to have been everything a man of letters could have wished; she surely deserved as much love and devotion as one human being could give. But her lover was, after all, a recreant knight. He took credit to himself for having loved so purely; but he never thought that there was anything mean or false-hearted in offer |