THE profession of Letters is becoming bon ton. No one less than a Baronet, or a very wellplaced Member of Parliament, ought to think of writing a book. This Quarter, Buckingham's Duke leads off the ball, bearing more Memoirs of that house of Grenville, whereof we have, in former Numbers, said so much. It seems odd that a man should not be ashamed to shew the world the exact number of small meannesses that will make rounds to a ladder long enough to reach a Dukedom. All the Stowe Papers, whatever collateral lights they may shed upon history, point directly to two facts: first, that no Grenville was ever alone with his sovereign without having it in his mind to ask for something, and seizing the first opportunity of a royal smile to cry "give:" second, that the house of Grenville, by this single virtue, rose in three generations from little squires to great Dukes. One Grenville, during an interview, catches a moment of good humour, and asks for, and obtains-a lighthouse; another never writes to his brother an account of an interview with the king during the harassing interregnum that preceded the Coalition Cabinet, but he winds up by saying he had no opportunity of slipping in Earl Temple's request for a Marquisate. This publication of familiar letters throws too much light upon the acts and motives of the great men of an age. We rise from all such books with a worse opinion of human nature. They would make us all as sceptical of patriotism as a prime minister, as distrustful of a hero as his valet de chambre. Lord Chatham was an English Washington before some one bethought himself of publishing four volumes of his letters.

An ex-cabinet minister, and an Earl to boot, comes forth to submit the principles upon which

he has governed our colonial empire to the criticism and judgment of English citizens; but the Duke and the Earl have more special mention hereafter.

A descendant of the Devereux invites us to go back with him into an examination of the fortunes of his ancestors, but the offer has been generally declined. The lives of the Earls of Essex are one of those still-borns that will excuse no lengthy epitaph. Such of the original papers as have not been previously published will be valuable as materials for future historical inquirers. The public seem to us to be right in their judgment, that the hard labour of delving through these volumes would not be remunerative.

Divers Baronets follow in the procession, and make notable figure. Sir George Larpent, making his first pas as an Editor; Sir Bulwer Lytton with the firm and easy step of an old stager. Ladies, whose ennobled Christian names proclaim them to be at least earl's daughters, seek to win us to Catholicism or Evangelism by their pious fictions, or to interest us by their anecdotes of travel. Mr. Layard finds leisure enough from official life to give us another batch of Nineveh discoveries. Lord Maidstone comes last, and pours what he calls a "deluge" over all. The deluge, however, turns out to be only a pan of very dirty water. We wonder by the way that more people have not read Lord Maidstone's satire. In the first place, it will remind the reader of nearly every fine line in English poetry. His Lordship has chosen them carefully, and mutilated them hor

"Lives and Letters of the Devereux, Earls of Essex, 1540-1646." By the Hon. Walter Bourchier Devereux, in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. Captain in the Royal Navy. 2 Vols. Murray

1853.

ribly. Cibber or Dennis might rejoice to see how Pope hobbles on false feet, and the Scotch Reviewer might grin to see the British Bard made lamer in his verse than in his person by the small larceny of a brother Lord. Another reason for glancing at Lord Maidstone's scolding is, that feebleness of wit becomes amusing when joined to much strength of malice. As it is comfort to know that the cobra has not the legs of a greyhound, so is it a sort of security to see the will to wound matched by an incapacity to strike. Lord Maidstone must feel always, what most men have experienced only in their dreams, an inordinate desire to hit somebody restrained by an invincible incapacity to move a muscle. We pass this "satirist" by just as we walk secure in Regent's Park. What mischief those tigers, nay, even those monkeys, would do if they were not so stupid! The roaring and bellowing of the one, and the grinning of the others, would not amuse us if we fancied they had wit enough to effect any practical change in their own condition. But they can't reach the objects either of their fury or their spite.

A word to one who deserves a kind parting thought: who, if he had not high genius, had earnest aspirations. We have upon several occasions had to notice the literary productions of the young Earl of Belfast. His career has closed in an early death. He had great versatility, industry, and ambition, and perhaps we have right to

-think

Life only wanting to ensure him fame.

A little book, containing a series of lectures delivered by the Earl at Belfast upon the poets and poetry of the nineteenth century, will be perused with a mournful interest by many. Who can refuse sympathy when a high-spirited and gallant youth perishes at the threshold of a career nobly chosen? But the volume has also intrinsic claims to attention. The genius of some of our modern poets, and the peculiarities of others, are discussed with delicate taste, and often with judgment. Here is a general observation well imagined and well expressed. "The work of the poet is to catch indelibly the impression which has often floated over the mind of others, and to recall to our thoughts a variety of impressions, which we remember to have experienced, but have been unable to record." This is indeed but a half truth, for the work of the true poet is much more than this. He should be to the heart what the minstrel is to his harp-teach it capacities it knew not, draw forth from it fresh harmonies, thrill it to strains of unsuspected power; but the half truth is neatly put. The Earl's life was not even a half life. Those whom the gods love die young.

Professor Ranke's History of France from the days of the Gauls to the reign of Henry the Fourth was worth translating; and it is pleasant to find it honestly published as a translation, with the translator's name upon the title page. Ranke looks at history with a single object: he brings out in high relief the abuse of ecclesiastical power. To those who need this lesson we recommend the work. It is a pity that the Professor's style is so hard and dry that his works require something more than a translation to render them easy reading.

Professor Creasy's "Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World" has reached a fourth edition; a circumstance which proves that there is still extant a general taste for wholesome historical literature. We noticed this work long since as a collection of the "leading cases" of ancient and modern history. We mark this fourth edition only because we find that the chapter upon Waterloo has been rewritten, and is now the best existing relation of the battle. Alison is full of gross errors; other more accurate accounts are entombed in military memoirs that have lost their novelty; the Professor comes last into the field, gathers, collates, corrects, and gives us at last the true historic narrative.

For the numerous tales of travel that invite attention we must beg to refer to the Table of Contents and the references therein given. They all have their separate notices except Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley's "&c." Sorry are we to say that this " &c." is only the sweepings of a very worthless portfolio, tied up and labelled with an attempt at quaintness. We have here every thing that was spared us in her travels in the United States, all her experience in the north of Africa, all her recollections of the various editions of Joe Miller, and more of her melancholy attempts at verse. Until we read Lady Emmeline's painful strivings after wit we never felt how difficult it may possibly be to indite the very worst jokes that appear in "Punch." Here is a specimen of this lady's painful jocosity :

I have often regretted that in America more care has not been taken to preserve the noble and significant names which abound in every locality. "What's in a name?" said Shakspeare. Nothing certainly, or very little, if no meaning be attached to it. Shakspeare, had he had the felicity of making acquaintance before his death with "The Flying Cloud,' The Storm on the Wing," "The Great Tortoise," or the sweet "Spotted Fawn of the Forest," perhaps would have acknowledged his error, retracted his observation, re-written the passage, and told us, in his own exquisite language, how much there is in a name, instead of how little.

* "Civil Wars and Monarchy in France in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, being a History of lated by M. A. Garvey. In Two Vols. London: BentFrance during that period." By Leopold Ranke. Transley. 1853.

66

The East Indians, as well as those of the Western world, appear to adopt the practice of attaching a pertinent significance to their names; and, by the way, what a graceful and very poetic meaning is conveyed in the name of Gholab Singh, which, I have been told, means "The Lion of Rose Water!" Of course implying that the bearer of the fair appellation is mild as well as bravethe true character of the heroes of chivalry. It is undoubtedly true, that in older times it was the custom, even in prosaic England, to give names to persons which had a certain sort of meaning, not having reference generally to their qualities, but to their trades, callings, and position in life. One might almost imagine, from these denominations being pretty nearly all applicable solely to the professions of the bearers, that the English were somewhat of a characterless sort of people in past times. Yet, surely such could not have been the case. How, then, comes it we have plenty of Bakers, Carpenters, Tailors, Cooks, Gardeners, Porters, Knights, and Drapers, but no "Noble Spirits," no Magnanimous-andGentles," and so forth? Complexions we have of every shade-Black, Brown, Green, White, Grey, &c.; yes, and we have occasionally a Strong i' th' Arm" and a "Lion," and "Wolf," and a "Hawke," and I have heard of an "Eagle," (beasts and birds of prey), but never a Strong i the Mind," or "Owl" (bird of wisdom.) A vast multitude seemed to be so little individualised by any characteristics of their own, as to render it necessary they should be distinguished merely as such a one's sonJohn-son, William-son, Stephen-son, Jack-son, Job-son, Dicken-son, Harri-son, Tom-son, Robert-son, Richardson: these must surely have been formerly very particularly milk-soppy persons, remarkable for nothing but their extreme insipidity. We find some named originally after their mothers, too-Patti-son (Patty's son), and others. One might imagine our forefathers generally to have been the merest nonentities, deriving their sole importance in the social scale from their fathers, or even their mothers; but occasionally we are warned not to judge too rashly on this point. A startling difficulty presents itself in the way of this little theory of ours. Is it possible for a single moment to imagine that any, even a remote, ancestor of our great, glorious Nelson could be so utterly devoid of all personal peculiarities, of all distinguishing traits and qualities, as to be known merely as Nel's son? That seems unlikely, truly; but it is possible it may be accounted for in another way-that Nell might have been a most extraordinarily distinguished person herself, a woman of decision, energy, talent, courage, like the mother of Napoleon in our day, and thus it happened that her son was known as her son. With regard to " Stephen's son," too, the progenitor of our great engineers, and "John's son,' the ancestor of our mighty lexicographer, sturdy Samsomething of the same kind may have happened respecting their fathers, and so with other distinguished "sons," descended from sons of somebodies, which sons seemed to be considered as nobodies themselves.

So Wortley may be derived from the Ley, or land laid down to lie fallow, where a brewer exercised his calling and cooled his wert, or perchance was bestowed upon some moist baby discovered in a ley where wortleberries grew: the name Montagu was doubtless given to some foundling discovered squalling under a bill shaped like a night-cap.

It must, however, be a curious mass of mud wherein nothing sparkles. Here are a couple of stories the lady picked out of Yankee newspapers.

A LIVE CORPSE.

During the summer of 1846, corn being scarce in the upper country, and one of the citizens being hard pressed

The dark side of the picture is their singular recklessness where human life is at stake: such carelessness, unless peremptorily checked, will be found, I fear, to be a growing evil. Many amusing absurdities and whimsicalities are sprinkled among the narrated horrors of the frequent disasters on the great Western waters. Among others is the tale of the surgeon of a celebrated racingboat, who in a fearful explosion was blown right through the slight roof of a hard-working artisan (leaving the house, consequently, in a damaged and very exposed condition), and who was noisily deposited with a crash on the table before his involuntary host. Without moving from his occupation, and scarcely taking the trouble to raise his eyes, the invaded one-whose apparently vivacious visitor had thus selected the roof as his singular way of ingress, without previously, by the chimney or otherwise, sending down his card-observed philosophically, "I reckon, stranger, you'll pay me thirty dollars for this here." "I reckon I won't," responded the invader: "I never paid more 'n ten dollars for the same thing, and aint a going to begin now." Again, it is said,

when a keen race was taking place once, the captain courteously begged those passengers who had not yet paid their fares to transfer themselves and pockets to the part of the boat farthest removed from the boilers and danger! "and you," added he, with equal politeness, to those near the machinery who had booked up, "may all stay here, for it doesn't matter in the least."

We might, however, gather such paragraphs by the hundred, from the transatlantic files we receive every week.

The "Water-Lily on the Danube" is a sort of continuation of the "Log of the WaterLily." It professes to be an account of the perils of a two-oar cutter during a voyage from Lambeth to Pesth. All the sea part of the voyage, however, was passed in a steam-boat, and the single merit of the book is the tone of joyousness and youthful spirit which pervades it. Fine air, strong exercise, new scenery, rapid motion, and a rushing river-these are the elements of the story. The crew of the WaterLily did nothing which any one of the youths who step from Davis and King's barge into the Oxford racing-boats would not do without an effort for a year together. We, who have

handled an oar or worked a paddle upon most of the rivers of Europe, have skimmed the little volume with pleasure, but we question whether the general public will be equally indulgent. These youths are too anxious to convince us that their mild excursion was a marvellous feat.

Those who are interested in the fortunes of the Canterbury Settlement may read a pleasant account of its actual condition in a little work by Mr. Warren Adams. Mr. Adams went to New Zealand in search of health, and he came away with a good stock of statistics. Churches, schools, land purchases, sheep farming, and the "ecclesiastical fund," are all duly discussed; and we are glad to have the assurance that the climate is so excellent that the colonists speak of it as "the English climate with all the bad parts taken out." Mr. Adams, moreover, thinks that "Canterbury Block must ultimately succeed and become a large and flourishing colony, in despite &c. &c.

Miss Martineau's" Letters from Ireland," are a reprint of communications that appeared in the Daily News, during the autumn of last year. They were written, as she tells us, "sometimes in a coffee-room, sometimes in the crowded single parlour of a country inn; now to the sound of the harp, and now to the clatter of knives and forks, and scarcely ever within reach of books."

Hurried, however, as was this lady's journey, she gave four times the number of weeks to her task which Sir Francis Head thought sufficient for his; and her work, although somewhat less amusing than that of the gay tattling baronet, is infinitely more instructive. In fact, the author and the authoress would seem to have doffed their respective sexes, and each to have assumed that of the other. The baronet appears in his book a bustling, funny, gossiping old woman, hobbling about with a constant expenditure of little interjections, and in a terrible fright all the while of Jesuits, Baptists, Terry Alts, Molly Macguires, and agitating Priests. The spinster, on the other hand, looks about her with a calm, penetrating reason, and writes with the firm nerve of a man in his prime. The baronet traces all the woes of Ireland to the Roman priesthood: the lady declares that the weal and woe of Ireland are alike independent of both churches; that the priesthood is obviously destined to the decline; that although it may become more noisy and quarrelsome as it declines, yet its power and mischief will soon be But, on the other hand, she thinks that

over.

*Letters from Ireland," by Harriet Martineau, reprinted from the Daily News. London: John Chapman, 142 Strand. 1852.

the Church of England in Ireland is now the most formidable mischief in the catalogue of Irish ills, and that, if she continues in place, wealth, and artificial power, she may set about numbering her days. It is not for us to discuss these momentous topics with Miss Martineau, nor do we feel it necessary to enter into any detailed notice of a work that has already acquired full publicity by appearing in the columns of a daily paper. But we may remark, that however much the reader may differ from the conclusions this lady draws, he cannot but admire the energy with which she has pursued her investigations, and the industry with which she has collected her facts.

We fear that we must now pass to the "Wellingtoniana." Surely public decency ought to be invoked to stop the hail-storm of bad rhymes and false quantities that is rattling against the Iron Duke. Certain gentlemen, who enjoy the names of Sebastian Evans and John Dodd, aided and abetted by an individual who prudently shields himself from the contempt of mankind, and casts his crime upon his guiltless alma mater,† have together produced a greater quantity of dissonant doggrel than it has hitherto been our fate to read, even on this subject. O what a Dunciad might be made out of the Wellington Bards! Yet what laurels and lucre might they not have gained had they confined themselves to a department of their subject. It is possible that if the death of Wellington is not forgotten, it will not be because the "Commemorative" sonnets of Mr. Evans will remind posterity of the fact: but if, instead of his death, Mr. Evans had sung of his hat, Messrs. Moses and Son would probably have paid, and, prompted by them, "The Times" would certainly have printed. The other "bards" might have taken a garment each: Tupper might have treated the paletôt for Mr. Nicholls; Dodd should have his waistcoat; and the Oxford graduate his real Eureka shirt, because the Greek name is congenial to his learned mind; but to the laureat should be reserved the great subject suggestive of Plutarchian parallel between Wellington and Charles XII. Tennyson should have sung, and polished, the Wellington boots. With the warning word "advertisement" prefixed, it would be pleasant to see those gentle sonnets mean

"Sonnets on the Death of the Duke of Wellington," by Sebastian Evans." Lines commemorative of the Death and Burial of the Duke of Wellington," by John T. Dodd." Dirge for Wellington."-"Elegy supposed to be written in the Cathedral on the occasion of the Funeral of the Duke of Wellington," by a Graduate of the University of Oxford, &c. &c. &c.

Tennyson has published an amended edition of what Lord Maidstone calls

"Alfred's late howl o'er British Arthur's grave."

dering in neat nonpareil through the newspapers, and to feel that congenial genius employed upon appropriate matters had met its honest reward.

Did the Oxford graduate, or did Mr. "Satan" Montgomery, who has been unable to restrain his muse from singing a dreary ponderous undertaker's chaunt upon the same subject, ever hear of a certain great scholar called Passerat, who wrote his own epitaph as follows

Mea molliter ossa quiescent,

Sint modo carminibus non onerata malis? The Duke doesn't mind. Ten thousand hurdy-gurdies, or, what is more than equivalent, a whole set of bagpipes, would not move a little finger bone of his alive or dead (although Mr. Larpent does indeed tell us that the Duke, when in Spain, was annoyed to hear silly people wasting their time in "singing psalms" to him); but the survivors have great right to demand that this nuisance should cease. Come, my lads, shoulder your noise-boxes, and shut up your white mice. The procession is over, and people want to be quiet.

The prose compositions upon the same subject will of course continue, until every one who has seen the Duke in the Park has described exactly how he looked upon the occasion, and the spot where the meeting took place. Where novelty is not immediately at hand the publishers translate or reprint. Thus we have "Baron Muffling's Memoirs" translated, we do not know whether for the first time; and "Paris after Waterloo," reprinted after a deep sleep of more than five-and-thirty years. Family letters and old journals come suddenly to light. Sir George Larpent+ publishes the private journal of his brother, the Judge-Advocate General, which does not much differ from the thousand-and-one journals that have been published in the military newspapers and magazines, in one unbroken series, ever since Waterloo was fought. The only novelties arise from the peculiarity of the author's position, which gave him frequent access to Wellington, and opportunity for many anecdotes and traits of character. We fear the reader will be disappointed as to the quantity of these, and will turn over the rest of the work very rapidly. We have marked a specimen or

two.

*The Hero's Funeral," by Robert Montgomery, M.A.

Just to a hair, inflexible as truth,
Thus lived great Wellington from age to youth.
&c. &c. &c.

"The Private Journal of F. S. Larpent, Esq., JudgeAdvocate General of the British forces in the Peninsula." Edited by Sir George Larpent, Bart. 3 Vols. London: Bentley, 1853,

AN ESCAPE.

Lord Wellington the other day was again talking of the battle at Fuentes d'Onore: he said he was obliged to ride hard to escape, and thought at one time, as he was on a slow horse, he should have been taken. The whole of head-quarters, general and all, he said, English dragoons and French dragoons, were all galloping away together across the plain, and he more than once saw a French dragoon in a green coat within twenty yards of him. One Frenchman got quite past them all, and they could not knock him off his horse. At last they caught his bridle and stopt him.

ANOTHER.

Reports say Lord Wellington had a narrow escape with his staff, whilst reconnoitering on the right in the late move. He is said to have been going up a hill when a French cavalry regiment was coming up the other side. The engineer officer was going round, and he saw the regiment, and galloped back to give information; but before he could reach Lord Wellington they were just close to the top of the hill, and Colonel Gordon, who was in the advance, saw some of the French videttes close: he gave the alarm, and they all had a gallop for it, pursued by some of the dragoons.

It has been said that great men cannot af ford to be grateful.

You ask me if Lord Wellington has recollected with regard? He seems to have had a great opinion of him, but scarcely has ever mentioned him to me. In truth, I think Lord Wellington has an active, busy mind, always looking to the future, and is so used to lose a useful man, that as soon as gone he seldom thinks more of him. He would be always, I have no doubt, ready to serve any one who had been about him who was gone, or the friend of a deceased friend, but he seems not to think much about you when once out of the way. He has too much of every thing and everybody always in his way to

think much of the absent.

Here is the Wellington doctrine as to the point of honour upon

PAROLE OF PRISONERS OF WAR.

He also said Soult once complained that six of our officers had escaped from their guard near Oporto, on that retreat, and had committed a breach of honour, but

that he (Lord Wellington) having inquired into it, found they were placed in confinement under a guard, and their parole not relied upon, and that they had got the better of their guard. Lord Wellington, therefore, told the Marshal, that the parole being abandoned by the imprisonment, the point of honour was gone, and that there were two ways of prisoners and their guards separating, and that he believed the guard had run away from their prisoners, and not the prisoners from their guard. To

this also he had no answer.

Lord Wellington also talked of Grant's case, who lately got away from Paris. Lord Wellington had advised him not to give his parole in Spain, and had provided persons to rescue him in several places on the march to France. They offered this to Grant in consequence, but the offer was from honour declined, as the parole had been given and acted upon. The moment he was in France the French placed him under a guard, and at Bayonne he got away from them, and went to Paris, remained there nine months, and got to England at last. How Wellington invented

THE WELLINGTON BOOT.

In one instance Lord Wellington is not like Frederick the Great. He is remarkably neat, and most particular in his dress, considering his situation. He is well made, knows it, and is willing to set off to the best what nature has bestowed. In short, like every great man, present or past, almost without exception, he is vain. He cuts