Disraeli, Macaulay, Dumas, and Leopardi. He had exceptional gifts as a theatrical critic. In Mr Frederic Harrison's words, he 'began life as a journalist, a critic, a novelist, a dramatist, a biographer, and an essayist; he closed it as a mathematician, a physicist, a chemist, a biologist, a psychologist, and the author of a system of abstract general philosophy.' An intellect clear and sharp if not profound, a wit lively and piquant if not very rich, and a style both firm and graceful made Lewes an eminent critic, biographer, and populariser of science and of what he accepted as philosophy.

The last twenty-four years of his life were coloured by his close relations with George Eliot. He had been married, but unhappily, in 1840; divorce was not practicable; but in 1854 he and Miss Evans went to Germany, and thenceforward till his death they lived as man and wife, not without embarrassment to both. Lewes greatly helped to encourage George Eliot in her literary work, though one cannot but believe that his advice and influence must in many respects have been disadvantageous. Neither of his own novels, Ranthorpe (1847) and Rose, Blanche, and Violet (1848), had or could have any permanent place in literature, and their slender merits consist in direct borrowings from the French; the second, aiming to illustrate three types of character, the gay, the gentle, the decided, satirises current fallacies, follies, and delusions. His successful play, The Game of Speculation, is largely a reproduction of Balzac's Mercadet; his comparatively original Noble Heart and Chain of Events were failures on the stage and are now forgotten.

His Biographical History of Philosophy (1845) was in the third edition recast and expanded as The History of Philosophy from Thales to Comte. He had a singular gift in popularising dissertations on philosophical and psychological subjects; but as he started from the Comtist position that metaphysics leads to nothing, his history of philosophy is rather a history of the vanity of philosophising. By degrees he drifted farther from Comte's position, and insisted that psychology was entitled to rank as a scientific study. As he was neither trained in philosophy nor a completely equipped biologist, there is much of the amateur in all his works on philosophical subjects, which are rather unsystematic but frequently brilliant disquisitions, sometimes containing original and luminous suggestions that have been adopted by authoritative physiologists such as Wundt. He associated psychology and physiology more closely than was then usual. Among works in this department are his exposition of Comte's Philosophy of the Sciences (1853); The Physiology of Common Life (1859-60); Aristotle (1864-showing that his anticipations of modern scientific results were smaller than is sometimes alleged); and Problems of Life and Mind (1874-79), dealing in five volumes with the foundations of a creed, the physical basis of

mind, the study of psychology, and mind as a function of the organism. Among Lewes's works were also Seaside Studies (1858) and Studies in Animal Life (1862); a book on The Spanish Drama (1846); an apologetic Life of Robespierre (1848); On Actors and the Art of Acting (1875). But by far his best-known work is his Life and Works of Goethe (2 vols. 1855), which not merely took its place as the standard English Life, but was made the basis of two French works on Goethe, and had before the end of the century passed through sixteen editions in the German translation. It has defects, no doubt, especially in the view of those who emphasise the spiritual element in Goethe. Lewes disliked mysticism, allegory, and much that Germans love; but the book is eminently interesting and readable, and is sane and sensible and independent in criticism. The Story of Goethe's Life (1873) is an abridgment.

Weimar in 1775.

Weimar is an ancient city on the Ilm, a small stream rising in the Thuringian forests, and losing itself in the Saal at Jena, a stream on which the sole navigation seems to be that of ducks, and which meanders peacefully through pleasant valleys, except during the rainy season, when mountain torrents swell its current and overflow its banks. The Trent, between Trentham and Stafford the smug and silver Trent,' as Shakspeare calls it will give you an idea of this stream. The town is charmingly placed in the Ilm valley, and stands some eight hundred feet above the level of the sea. 'Weimar,' says the old topographer Mathew Merian, 'is Weinmar, because it was the wine-market for Jena and its environs. Others say it was because some one here in ancient days began to plant the vine, who was hence called Weinmayer. But of this each reader may believe just what he pleases.'

On a first acquaintance, Weimar seems more like a village bordering a park than a capital with a court, and having all courtly environments. It is so quiet, so simple; and though ancient in its architecture, has none of the picturesqueness which delights the eye in most old German cities. The stone-coloured, light-brown, and apple-green houses have high-peaked, slanting roofs, but no quaint gables, no caprices of architectural fancy, none of the mingling of varied styles which elsewhere charm the traveller. One learns to love its quiet, simple streets and pleasant paths, fit theatre for the simple actors moving across the scene; but one must live there some time to discover its charm. The aspect it presented when Goethe arrived was of course very different from that presented now; but by diligent inquiry we may get some rough image of the place restored. First be it noted that the city walls were still erect; gates and portcullis still spoke of days of warfare. Within these wails were six or seven hundred houses, not more, most of them very ancient. Under these roofs were about seven thousand inhabitants-for the most part not handsome. The city gates were strictly guarded. No one could pass through them in cart or carriage without leaving his name in the sentinel's book; even Goethe, minister and favourite, could not escape this tiresome formality, as we gather from one of his letters to the Frau von Stein, directing her to go out alone, and meet him beyond the

gates, lest their exit together should be known. During Sunday service a chain was thrown across the streets leading to the church to bar out all passengers-a practice to this day partially retained: the chain is fastened, but the passengers step over it without ceremony. There was little safety at night in those silent streets; for if you were in no great danger from marauders, you were in constant danger of breaking a limb in some hole or other, the idea of lighting streets not having presented itself to the Thuringian mind. In the year 1685 the streets of London were first lighted with lamps; and Germany, in most things a century behind England, had not yet ventured on that experiment. If in this 1854 Weimar is still innocent of gas, and perplexes its inhabitants with the dim obscurity of an occasional oillamp slung on a cord across the streets, we may imagine that in 1775 they had not even advanced so far. And our supposition is exact.

A century earlier stage-coaches were known in England; but in Germany public conveyances, very rude to this day in places where no railway exists, were few and miserable, nothing but open carts with unstuffed seats. Diligences on springs were unknown before 1800, and what they were even twenty years ago many readers doubtless remember. Then as to speed; if you travelled post, it was said with pride that seldom more than an hour's waiting was necessary before the horses were got ready, at least on frequented routes. Mail travelling was at the rate of five English miles in an hour and a quarter. Letters took nine days from Berlin to Frankfort, which in 1854 require only twenty-four hours. So slow was the communication of news that, as we learn from the Stein correspondence, so great an event as the death of Frederick the Great was only known as a rumour a week afterwards in Carlsbad. By this time,' writes Goethe, 'you must know in Weimar if it be true.' With these facilities it was natural that men travelled but rarely, and mostly on horseback. What the inns were may be imagined from the unfrequency of travellers and the general state of domestic comfort.

Death of Goethe.

The following morning-it was the 22nd March 1832 - he tried to walk a little up and down the room, but, after a turn, he found himself too feeble to continue. Reseating himself in the easy-chair, he chatted cheerfully with Ottilie [his daughter-in-law] on the approaching spring, which would be sure to restore him. He had no idea of his end being so near. The name of 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 finally, as

life ebbed, drawing figures slowly on the shawl which covered his legs. At half-past twelve he composed himself in the corner of the chair. The 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.

See the works cited in the article on George Eliot, especially the Life of her by Mr Cross (1885-86); and articles on Lewes by Anthony Trollope in the Fortnightly for January 1879, and by Professor Sully in the New Quarterly for October 1879.

Alexander Bain (1818-1903), writer on philosophy, was born in Aberdeen, filled the chair of Logic there from 1860 to 1881, and then was elected Rector of his university. Associationist and empiricist, he was conspicuous in bringing physiology to bear on psychological research and method; and from 1855 onwards published nearly a score of works the most important The Senses and the Intellect (1855), The Emotions and the Will (1859), Mental and Moral Science (1868), Logic (1870), Education as a Science (1879), and books on the two Mills, besides works on grammar and rhetoric.

Henry Longueville Mansel (1820-71), Dean of St Paul's, was born at Cosgrove rectory, Northamptonshire, and was educated at Merchant Taylors' and at St John's College, Oxford. Successively reader in Philosophy and Waynflete professor there, he was made Professor of Ecclesiastical History and canon of Christ Church in 1867, and Dean of St Paul's in 1869. Pupil and part-editor of Hamilton, he went beyond his master in emphasising the relativity of knowledge-alleging, to the consternation of many, that we have no positive conception of the attributes of God. His works include, besides an edition of Aldrich's Logic (1849), Prolegomena Logica (1851), Metaphysics (1860; written for the Encyclopædia Britannica), The Limits of Religious Thought (Bampton Lectures, 1858), The Philosophy of the Conditioned (1866), and The Gnostic Heresies (with Life, 1874). See Dean Burgon's Twelve Good Men (1888).

Sir Austen Henry Layard (1817-94) was born in Paris, the son of a Ceylon civilian and grandson of a London physician of Huguenot descent. He passed his boyhood mainly in Italy, spent six years in a solicitor's office in London, but resolved to seek an appointment in Ceylon. Passing by way of Constantinople into Asia Minor, Mesopotamia, and Persia, he became fascinated by these countries and keenly interested in attempts made by M. Botta and others to excavate ancient Nineveh. Sir Stratford Canning made him a wandering agent in those parts (giving him £200 a year), and encouraged his scheme of digging at Nimrûd and Kuyunjik, a business to which he was led by his happy genius-for he had little or no educational equipment for such a task. successes moved the British Museum to take up the scheme-the inscriptions and the reliefs, the winged human-headed bulls, and other relics brought to light being sent to our national collec

His

tions, where they still form a most conspicuous feature. Layard erroneously identified Nimrûd, where he exposed several palaces, with Nineveh (really at Kuyunjik) instead of with Calah. But his discoveries were great and brilliant; and his book on Nineveh and its Remains (1848), followed by The Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon (1853), after he had excavated with success at Kuyunjik and elsewhere, made him famous as 'Nineveh Layard,' although his first book had little to do with Nineveh, but with the palaces of Ashur-nasirpal, Esarhaddon, and Shalmaneser II. at Calah, another capital of the Assyrian kings. Received with enthusiasm as a great discoverer, he was presented with the freedom of the city of London, was made D.C.L. by Oxford, and was Lord Rector of Aberdeen University 1855-56; and he became M.P. for Aylesbury 1852-57, for Southwark 1860-69, Foreign Under-Secretary 1861-66, Chief Commissioner of Works 1868-69. In 1869 he went as British Ambassador to Spain, and in 1877 to Constantinople, where he strenuously supported Beaconsfield's policy. His philo-Turkish sympathies during and after the war provoked comment at home; and in 1878, having been made a G.C.B., he withdrew from public life. Two volumes of basreliefs in plates were called Monuments of Nineveh (1849 and 1853), and he issued abridged editions of his two descriptive books. He was a skilled excavator and a good describer, but no archæologist; the decipherment of the inscriptions was done by Rawlinson and others. But he was keenly interested in Italian art, revised Kugler's Handbook of Painting, edited a handbook to Rome, and wrote the Introduction to the English version of Morelli's great book on the Italian painters and their methods. In 1887 he published an interesting volume on his Early Adventures in Persia, Susiana, and Babylonia; his Autobiography and Letters was edited in 1903 by the Hon. W. N. Bruce, who made it known that a work by Layard on his diplomatic experiences would at some future date be given to the public. The extracts are from his first book.

Nimroud.

It was evening as we approached the spot. The spring rains had clothed the mound with the richest verdure, and the fertile meadows which stretched around it were covered with flowers of every hue. Amidst this luxuriant vegetation were partly concealed a few fragments of bricks, pottery, and alabaster, upon which might be traced the well-defined wedges of the cuneiform character. Did not these remains mark the nature of the ruin, it might have been confounded with a natural eminence. A long line of consecutive narrow mounds, still retaining the appearance of walls or ramparts, stretched from its base, and formed a vast quadrangle. The river flowed at some distance from them: its waters, swollen by the melting of the snows on the Armenian hills, were broken into a thousand foaming whirlpools by an artificial barrier built across the stream. On the eastern bank the soil had been washed away by the current; but a solid mass of masonry still withstood its impetuosity. The Arab who guided

my small raft gave himself up to religious ejaculations as we approached this formidable cataract, over which we were carried with some violence. Once safely through the danger, my companion explained to me that this unusual change in the quiet face of the river was caused by a great dam which had been built by Nimrod, and that in the autumn, before the winter rains, the huge stones of which it was constructed, squared, and united by cramps of iron, were frequently visible above the surface of the stream. It was, in fact, one of those monuments of a great people, to be found in all the rivers of Mesopotamia, which were undertaken to ensure a constant supply of water to the innumerable canals spreading like network over the surrounding country, and which, even in the days of Alexander, were looked upon as the works of an ancient nation. No wonder that the traditions of the present inhabitants of the land should assign them to one of the founders of the human race! The Arab was telling me of the connection between the dam and the city built by Arthur, the lieutenant of Nimrod, the vast ruins of which were now before us-of its purpose as a causeway for the mighty hunter to cross to the opposite palace, now represented by the mound of Hammum Ali-and of the histories and fate of the kings of a primitive race, still the favourite theme of the inhabitants of the plains of Shinar, when the last glow of twilight faded away, and I fell asleep as we glided onward to Baghdad.

The Unearthing of a Winged Bull.

On the morning I rode to the encampment of Sheikh Abd-ur-rahman, and was returning to the mound, when I saw two Arabs of his tribe urging their mares to the top of their speed. On approaching me they stopped. 'Hasten, O Bey,' exclaimed one of them-hasten to the diggers, for they have found Nimrod himself. Wallah, it is wonderful, but it is true! we have seen him with our eyes. There is no god but God;' and both joining in this pious exclamation, they galloped off, without further words, in the direction of their tents.

On reaching the ruins I descended into the new trench, and found the workmen, who had already seen me as I approached, standing near a heap of baskets and cloaks. Whilst Awad advanced and asked for a present to celebrate the occasion, the Arabs withdrew the screen they had hastily constructed, and disclosed an enormous human head sculptured in full out of the alabaster of the country. They had uncovered the upper part of a figure, the remainder of which was still buried in the earth. I saw at once that the head must belong to a winged lion or bull, similar to those of Khorsabad and Persepolis. It was in admirable preservation. The expression was calm yet majestic, and the outline of the features showed a freedom and knowledge of art scarcely to be looked for in the works of so remote a period. The cap had three horns, and, unlike that of the human-headed bulls hitherto found in Assyria, was rounded and without ornament at the top.

I was not surprised that the Arabs had been amazed and terrified at this apparition. It required no stretch of imagination to conjure up the most strange fancies. This gigantic head, blanched with age, thus rising from the bowels of the earth, might well have belonged to one of those fearful beings which are pictured in the traditions of the country as appearing to mortals, slowly ascending from the regions below. One of the workmen, on catching the first glimpse of the monster, had thrown down his

basket and run off towards Mosul as fast as his legs could carry him. I learned this with regret, as I anticipated the consequences.

Whilst I was superintending the removal of the earth which still clung to the sculpture, and giving directions for the continuation of the work, a noise of horsemen was heard, and presently Abd-ur-rahman, followed by half his tribe, appeared on the edge of the trench. As soon as the two Arabs had reached the tents and published the wonders they had seen, every one mounted his mare and rode to the mound, to satisfy himself of the truth of these inconceivable reports. When they beheld the head they all cried together, There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his prophet!' It was some time before the sheikh could be prevailed upon to descend into the pit and convince himself that the image he saw was of stone. This is not the work of men's hands,' exclaimed he, but of those infidel giants of whom the prophet-peace be with him!-has said that they were higher than the tallest date-tree; this is one of the idols which Noah-peace be with him!-cursed before the flood.' In this opinion, the result of a careful examination, all the bystanders concurred.

Sir George Webbe Dasent (1817-96) was born in St Vincent, of which his father was Attorney-General; the family, of Norman-French extraction, had owned property in the West Indies since the Restoration. He was educated at Westminster School and King's College, London, and graduated B.A. from Magdalen Hall, Oxford, in 1840. Through John Sterling he came to know his father 'The Thunderer,' Carlyle, Mill, Julius Hare, and Thackeray. In 1841 he went to Stockholm as secretary to the British Envoy, and during his four years' sojourn there developed his love for the Scandinavian literature and mythology, in which he was encouraged by Jakob Grimm. About 1840 he had begun to write for the Times; on his return to England in 1845 he became assistant-editor to Mr Delane (whose sister he married), and for twenty-five years filled this post with great ability. Called to the Bar in 1852, and made D.C.L., he was for thirteen years Professor of English Literature and Modern History at King's College. He often acted as Civil Service examiner in English and modern languages, from 1870 to 1892 was a Civil Service Commissioner, and was knighted in 1876. He more than once visited Iceland. Among his works were four novels -The Annals of an Eventful Life, Three to One, Half a Life, and The Vikings of the Baltic; an Icelandic grammar; a translation of The Prose or Younger Edda (1842), dedicated in gratitude for encouragement to Carlyle; Popular Tales from the Norse (1859) and Tales from the Fjeld (1874), both from the Norwegian of Asbjörnsen; and translations from the Icelandic of the Saga of Burnt Njal (1861) and the Story of Gisli the Outlaw (1866), as also of the Orkney and Hacon sagas for the Rolls Series in 1894. A Life of Delane by him has been withheld from publication till 'the times are ripe.' His Introduction to Asbjörnsen's Popular Tales was a solid contribution to folklore, and was by him considered his best piece of work; his com

mand of terse and vigorous English is best known to the average reader from Burnt Njal. He wrote frequently for the Edinburgh, the Quarterly, and Fraser's Magazine. A new edition of the Popular Tales, with a biographical Preface by his son, was issued in 1903.

Sir William Stirling-Maxwell (1818-78) was the son of Mr Stirling of Keir, and it was only on the death of his uncle, Sir John Maxwell of Pollok, in 1865, and his succession to the estates, that he assumed the baronetcy and changed his name to Stirling-Maxwell. He was born at Kenmure House near Glasgow; graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge; travelled in Italy, Spain, and the Levant (1839-42); and sat in the House of Commons as Conservative representative for Perthshire. He repeatedly visited Spain, and lived mainly a life of learned leisure, but was Rector of the Universities of St Andrews and of Edinburgh, Chancellor of Glasgow University, D.C.L., and K.T.; and he died of fever at Venice. His second wife was the Hon. Mrs Norton (see page 386). His minor publications-save the first, poems published in 1839-mainly concern bibliography and engravings. His first important work was The Annals of the Artists of Spain (3 vols. 1848), part of which was rewritten and published separately as Velazquez and his Works (1855). The book showed remarkably wide information and great good taste, proved highly entertaining, and completely eclipsed all earlier works dealing with the subject, though the style was somewhat laboured. The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V. (1852) supplied deficiencies and corrected errors in the popular account of the emperor in Robertson's History. Stirling-Maxwell had access to documents unknown to Robertson, and was greatly more familiar with Spanish literature; and his story, while adding materially to what had been known of Charles's last years, rather impaired the romantic conception till then prevalent. At once accepted as authoritative and admirable by scholars like Richard Ford, Prescott, and Motley, it is still by far the most complete and interesting account in English, though Mignet in France and Gachard in Belgium have both dealt more exhaustively with the same subject. StirlingMaxwell's most elaborate work, at which he had been working ever since he finished the Cloister Life, was not published till 1883, five years after his death-Don John of Austria, or Passages from the History of the Sixteenth Century. He had bestowed much labour on precise verification of facts, and on the perfecting of the style, which is simpler and clearer than in his earlier works.

Charles V., even after his retirement to the cloisters at Yuste (in February 1557), continued to wield the imperial power as firmly and almost as fully as he had done at Augsburg or Toledo, though he joined earnestly in the religious observances of the monks, and even performed special rites

himself. In the Cloister Life Stirling-Maxwell thus tells how

Charles performed a Funeral Service for Himself. About this time [August 1558], according to the historian of St Jerome, his thoughts seemed to turn more than usual to religion and its rites. Whenever during his stay at Yuste any of his friends, of the degree of princes or knights of the fleece, had died, he had ever been punctual in doing honour to their memory, by causing their obsequies to be performed by the friars; and these lugubrious services may be said to have formed the festivals of the gloomy life of the cloister. The daily masses said for his own soul were always accompanied by others for the souls of his father, mother, and wife. But now he ordered further solemnities of the funeral kind to be performed in behalf of these relations, each on a different day, and attended them himself, preceded by a page bearing a taper, and joining in the chant, in a very devout and audible manner, out of a tattered prayer-book. These rites ended, he asked his confessor whether he might not now perform his own funeral, and so do for himself what would soon have to be done for him by others. Regla replied that his Majesty, please God, might live many years, and that when his time came these services would be gratefully rendered, without his taking any thought about the matter. 'But,' persisted Charles, 'would it not be good for my soul?' The monk said that certainly it would, pious works done during life being far more efficacious than when postponed till after death. Preparations were therefore at once set on foot; a catafalque, which had served before on similar occasions, was erected; and on the following day, the 30th of August, as the monkish historian relates, this celebrated service was actually performed. The high altar, the catafalque, and the whole church shone with a blaze of wax-lights; the friars were all in their places, at the altars, and in the choir, and the household of the emperor attended in deep mourning. 'The pious monarch himself was there, attired in sable weeds, and bearing a taper, to see himself interred and to celebrate his own obsequies.' While the solemn mass for the dead was sung, he came forward and gave his taper into the hands of the officiating priest, in token of his desire to yield his soul into the hands of his Maker. High above, over the kneeling throne and the gorgeous vestments, the flowers, the curling incense, and the glittering altar, the same idea shone forth in that splendid canvas whereon Titian had pictured Charles kneeling on the threshold of the heavenly mansions prepared for the blessed. . . . The funeral-rites ended, the emperor dined in his western alcove. He ate little, but he remained for a great part of the afternoon sitting in the open air and basking in the sun, which, as it descended to the horizon, beat strongly upon the white walls. Feeling a violent pain in his head, he returned to his chamber and lay down. Mathisio, whom he had sent in the morning to Xarandrilla to attend the Count of Oropesa in his illness, found him when he returned still suffering considerably, and attributed the pain to his having remained too long in the hot sunshine. Next morning he was somewhat better, and was able to get up and go to mass, but still felt oppressed, and complained much of thirst. He told his confessor, however, that the service of the day before had done him good. The sunshine again tempted him into his open gallery. As he sat there he sent for a portrait of the empress, and hung for some

time, lost in thought, over the gentle face, which, with its blue eyes, auburn hair, and pensive beauty, somewhat resembled the noble countenance of that other Isabella, the great queen of Castile. He next called for a picture of Our Lord Praying in the Garden, and then for a sketch of the Last Judgment, by Titian. Having looked his last upon the image of the wife of his youth, it seemed as if he were now bidding farewell, in the contemplation of these other favourite pictures, to the noble art which he had loved with a love which cares and years and sickness could not quench, and that will ever be remembered with his better fame. Thus occupied, he remained so long abstracted and motionless that Mathisio, who was on the watch, thought it right to awake him from his reverie. On being spoken to, he turned round and complained that he was ill. The doctor felt his pulse, and pronounced him in a fever. Again the afternoon sun was shining over the great walnut-tree, full into the gallery. From this pleasant spot, filled with the fragrance of the garden and the murmur of the fountain, and bright with glimpses of the golden Vera, they carried him to the gloomy chamber of his sleepless nights, and laid him on the bed from which he was to rise no more.

There is a biographical note in the six-volume edition of StirlingMaxwell's Works (1891), which includes The Artists of Spain (new ed.), The Cloister Life (4th ed.), and a volume of Esssays, Addresses, &c.

James Anthony Froude.

Like his master, Carlyle, Froude holds a place apart among the historical writers of his age: both the one and the other (due proportion guarded) are, in the first place and pre-eminently, prophets and men of letters rather than historical specialists. In choosing to write history, both were primarily determined not by the simple scientific desire of ascertaining what had actually happened in the past, but by the consideration that historical narrative was a suitable vehicle for the expression of their individual views regarding man's life and destiny. In the case of Froude the distinction is forced upon us at once by the character of his work as a whole, and by the special gifts and temperament of which it is the expression. He belongs to a different order of spirits from Hallam or Macaulay or Freeman; and it is as a literary artist and a teacher of complex and illusive nature that he presents himself equally in his writings and in his mental history.

James Anthony Froude was born at Dartington near Totnes, Devonshire, 23rd April 1818. His father was Archdeacon of Totnes, and, according to his son, was a typical English Churchman of the period preceding the upheaval caused by the Tractarian movement. The Church he regarded as part of the constitution, and the Prayer-book as an Act of Parliament which only folly or disloyalty could quarrel with.' 'Dissent in all its forms,' adds his son, 'was a crime in our house.' In certain traits of the archdeacon's character we find suggestions at once of contrast and resemblance to his distinguished son. He had been a hard rider' in youth; and it was a marked trait in his son that all through life he was passionately fond of outdoor