When your ladyship shall know that, in the shocking progress to this ruin, wilful falsehoods, repeated forgeries (particularly of one letter from your ladyship, another from Miss Montague, and a third from Lord M.), and numberless perjuries, were not the least of his crimes, you will judge that I can have no principles that will make me worthy of an alliance with ladies of yours and your noble sister's character if I could not from my soul declare that such an alliance can never now take place.

I will not offer to clear myself entirely of blame; but, as to him, I have no fault to accuse myself of; my crime was the corresponding with him at first, when prohibited so to do by those who had a right to my obedience; made still more inexcusable by giving him a clandestine meeting, which put me into the power of his arts. And for this I am content to be punished, thankful that at last I have escaped from him, and have it in my power to reject so wicked a man for my husband; and glad, if I may be a warning, since I cannot be an example, which once (very vain and very conceited as I was) I proposed to myself to be.

All the ill I wish him is, that he may reform, and that I may be the last victim to his baseness. Perhaps this desirable wish may be obtained, when he shall see how his wickedness, his unmerited wickedness! to a poor creature, made friendless by his cruel arts, will end.

It ends with early death, after many distresses, that continue the tale into an eighth volume, Clarissa steadily refusing marriage with a villain. She had sent, however, to Lovelace, at one time of her later distress, a calm letter, saying that she believed she was about to be taken into the home of a Father in whose love she had always trusted, and that he might, perhaps, hear from her again when she was in her Father's House. He took her words literally, and drew hope from them, but Clarissa was looking forward then to death. Here are two letters from Mr. Belford to Robert Lovelace, Esq. :

Tuesday night, Aug. 28. When I concluded my last, I hoped that my next attendance upon this surprising lady would furnish me with some particulars as agreeable as now could be hoped for from the declining way she is in, by reason of the welcome letter she had received from her cousin Morden; but it proved quite otherwise to me, though not to herself, for I think I never was more shocked in my life than on the occasion I shall mention presently.

When I attended her about seven in the evening, she told me that she found herself in a very petulant way after I had left her. "Strange," said she, "that the pleasure I received from my cousin's letter should have such an effect upon me! But I could not help giving way to a comparative humour, as I may call it, and to think it very hard that my nearer relations did not take the methods which my cousin Morden kindly took, by inquiring into my merit or demerit, and giving my cause a fair audit, before they proceeded to condemnation."

She had hardly said this when she started, and a blush overspread her sweet face on hearing, as I also did, a sort of lumbering noise upon the stairs, as if a large trunk were bringing up between two people, and, looking upon me with an eye of concern-“ Blunderers!" said she, "they have brought in something two hours before the time. Don't be surprised, sir; it is all to save you trouble."

Before I could speak in came Mrs. Smith-" Oh! madam," said she, "what have you done?" Mrs. Lovick, entering,

made the same exclamation. "Lord have mercy upon me, madam!" cried I, "what have you done?" For, she stepping at the instant to the door, the women told me it was a coffin. Oh, Levelace, that thou had'st been there at the moment! Thou the cause of all these shocking scenes. Surely thou could'st not have been less affected than I, who have no guilt, as to her, to answer for.

With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having directed them to carry it into her bed-chamber, she returned to us. "They were not to have brought it in till after dark," said she. "Pray excuse me, Mr. Belford; and don't you, Mrs. Lovick, be concerned; nor you, Mrs. Smith. Why should you? There is nothing more in it than the unusualness of the thing. Why may we not be as reasonably shocked at going to the church where are the monuments of our ancestors, with whose dust we even hope our dust shall be one day mingled, as to be moved at such a sight as this?"

We all remaining silent, the women having their aprons at their eyes, "Why this concern for nothing at all?" said she: "if I am to be blamed for anything, it is for showing too much solicitude, as it may be thought, for this earthly part. I love to do everything for myself that I can do. I ever did. Every other material point is so far done, and taken care of, that I have had leisure for things of lesser moment. Minutenesses may be observed where greater articles are not neglected for them. I might have had this to order, perhaps, when less fit to order it. I have no mother, no sister, no Mrs. Norton, no Miss Howe near me. Some of you must have seen this in a few days, if not now; perhaps have had the friendly trouble of directing it. And what is the difference of a few days to you, when I am gratified, rather than discomposed by it? I shall not die the sooner for such preparation. Should not everybody that has anything to bequeathe make their will? And who that makes a will should be afraid of a coffin? My dear friends" (to the women), "I have considered these things; do not, with such an object before you as you have had in me for weeks, give me reason to think you have not." How reasonable was all this! It showed, indeed, that she herself had well considered it. But yet we could not help being shocked at the thoughts of the coffin thus brought in; the lovely person before our eyes, who is in all likelihood so soon to fill it.

We were all silent still, the women in grief, I in a manner stunned. She would not ask me, she said; but would be glad, since it had thus earlier than she had intended been brought in, that her too good friends would walk in and look upon it. They would be less shocked, when it was made more familiar to their eye: "Don't you lead back," said she, "a starting steed to the object he is apt to start at, in order to familiarise him to it, and cure his starting? The same reason will hold in this case. Come, my good friends, I will lead you in."

I took my leave, telling her she had done wrong, very wrong; and ought not, by any means, to have such an object before her. The women followed her in. 'Tis a strange sex! Nothing is too shocking for them to look upon, or see acted, that has but novelty and curiosity in it.

Down I posted; got a chair; and was carried home, extremely shocked and discomposed: yet, weighing the lady's arguments, I know not why I was so affected-except, as she said, at the unusualness of the thing.

While I waited for a chair, Mrs. Smith came down, and told me that there were devices and inscriptions upon the lid. Lord bless me! is a coffin a proper subject to display fancy upon? But these great minds cannot avoid doing extraordinary things!

Friday morn. Sept. 2. It is surprising that I, a man, should be so much affected as I was at such an object as is the subject of my former letter, who also, in my late uncle's case, and poor Belton's, had the like before me, and the directing of it, when she, a woman of so weak and tender a frame, who was to fill it (so soon, perhaps, to fill it!), could give orders about it, and draw out the devices upon it, and explain them with so little concern, as the women tell me she did to them last night after I was gone.

I really was ill and restless all night. Thou wert the subject of my execration, as she of my admiration, all the time I was quite awake and when I dozed I dreamt of nothing but of flying hour-glasses, death's-heads, spades, mattocks, and eternity; the hint of her devices (as given me by Mrs. Smith) running in my head.

However, not being able to keep away from Smith's, I went thither about seven. The lady was just gone out; she had slept better, I found, than I, though her solemn repository was under her window, not far from her bedside.

I was prevailed upon by Mrs. Smith and her nurse Shelburne (Mrs. Lovick being abroad with her) to go up and look at the devices. Mrs. Lovick has since shown me a copy of the draught by which all was ordered. And I will give thee a sketch of the symbols.

The principal device, neatly etched on a plate of white metal, is a crowned serpent with its tail in its mouth, forming a ring, the emblem of eternity, and in the circle made by it is this inscription:

CLARISSA HARLOWE, April X. (Then the year)

ETAT. XIX.

For ornaments: at top an hour-glass, winged. At bottom

an urn.

Under the hour-glass, on another plate, this inscription:"Here the wicked cease from troubling: and here the weary be at rest."-Job iii. 17.

Over the urn, near the bottom :

"Turn again unto thy rest, O my soul! For the Lord hath rewarded thee: and why? Thou hast delivered my soul from death; mine eyes from tears; and my feet from falling."-Psa. cxvi. 7, 8.

Over this text is the head of a white lily snapped short off, and just falling from the stalk; and this inscription over that, between the principal plate and the lily:

"The days of man are but as grass. For he flourishes as a flower of the field: for, as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more."Psa. ciii. 15, 16.

She excused herself to the women on the score of her youth, and being used to draw for her needleworks, for having shown more fancy than would perhaps be thought suitable on so solemn an occasion.

The date, April 10, she accounted for, as not being able to tell what her closing-day would be, and as that was the fatal day of her leaving her father's house.

She discharged the undertaker's bill after I went away, with as much cheerfulness as she could ever have paid for the clothes she sold to purchase this her palace; for such she called it; reflecting upon herself for the expensiveness of it, saying that they might observe in her, that pride left not poor mortals till the last; but indeed she did not know but her father would permit it, when furnished, to be carried down to be deposited with her ancestors; and, in that case,

she ought not to discredit those ancestors in her appearance among them.

It is covered with fine black cloth, and lined with white satin; soon, she said, to be tarnished by viler earth than any it could be covered by.

The burial-dress was brought home with it. The women had curiosity enough, I suppose, to see her open that, if she did open it. And perhaps thou wouldest have been glad to have been present, to have admired it too!

Mrs. Lovick said, she took the liberty to blame her; and wished the removal of such an object-from her bed-chamber, at least; and was so much affected with the noble answer she made upon it, that she entered it down the moment she left her.

"To persons in health," said she, "this sight may be shocking; and the preparation, and my unconcernedness in in it, may appear affected: but to me, who have had so gradual a weaning time from the world, and so much reason not to love it, I must say, I dwell on-I indulge (and, strictly speaking, I enjoy) the thoughts of death. For, believe me" (looking stedfastly at the awful receptacle)"believe what at this instant I feel to be most true, that there is such a vast superiority of weight and importance in the thought of death, and its hoped-for happy consequences, that it in a manner annihilates all other considerations and concerns. Believe me, my good friends, it does what nothing else can do; it teaches me, by strengthening in me the force of the divinest example, to forgive the injuries I have re. ceived; and shuts out the remembrance of past evils from my soul."

And now let me ask thee, Lovelace, dost thou think that, when the time shall come that thou shalt be obliged to launch into the boundless ocean of eternity, thou wilt be able (any more than poor Belton) to act thy part with such true heroism as this sweet and tender blossom of a woman has manifested, and continues to manifest ?

Oh, no! it cannot be! And why can't it be? The reason is evident: she has no wilful errors to look back upon with self-reproach; and her mind is strengthened by the consolations which flow from that religious rectitude which has been the guide of her actions, and which has taught her rather to be a sufferer than an aggressor?

This was the support of the divine Socrates, as thou hast read. When led to execution, his wife lamenting that he should suffer, being innocent, "Thou fool," said he, “wouldst thou wish me to be guilty!"

After Clarissa's death there was this letter from her for Lovelace :

TO MR. LOVELACE.

Thursday, Aug. 24.

I told you in the letter I wrote to you on Tuesday last that you should have another sent you when I had got into my Father's house.

I presume to say that I am now, at your receiving of this, arrived there, and I invite you to follow me as soon as you can be prepared for so great a journey.

Not to allegorise further-my fate is now, at your perusal of this, accomplished. My doom is unalterably fixed, and I am either a miserable or happy being to all eternity. If happy, I owe it solely to the Divine mercy; if miserable, to your undeserved cruelty. And consider now, for your own sake, gay, cruel, fluttering, unhappy man, consider, whether the barbarous and perfidious treatment I have met with from you was worthy the hazard of your immortal soul, since your wicked views were not to be effected but by the wilful breach

of the most solemn vows that ever were made by man, and those aided by a violence and baseness unworthy of a human creature.

In time then, once more, I wish you to consider your ways. Your golden dream cannot long last. Your present course can yield you pleasure no longer than you can keep off thought or reflection. A hardened insensibility is the only foundation on which your inward tranquillity is built. When once a dangerous sickness seizes you, when once effectual remorse breaks in upon you, how dreadful will be your condition! How poor a triumph will you then find it to have been able, by a series of black perjuries and studied baseness, under the name of gallantry or intrigue, to betray poor unexperienced young creatures, who perhaps knew nothing but their duty till they knew you. Not one good action in the hour of languishing to recollect, not one worthy intention to revolve, it will be all reproach and horror, and you will wish to have it in your power to compound for annihilation.

Reflect, sir, that I can have no other motive in what I write than your good, and the safety of other innocent creatures who may be drawn in by your wicked arts and perjuries. You have not, in my wishes for your future welfare, the wishes of a suppliant wife, endeavouring for her own sake, as well as for yours, to induce you to reform those ways. They are wholly as disinterested as undeserved. But I should mistrust my own penitence were I capable of wishing to recompense evil for evil if, black as your offences have been against me I could not forgive as I wish to be forgiven. I repeat, therefore, that I do forgive you; and may the Almighty forgive you too! Nor have I, at the writing of this, any other essential regrets than what are occasioned by the grief I have given to parents, who, till I knew you, were the most indulgent of parents; by the scandal given to the other branches of my family; by the disreputation brought upon my sex; and by the offence given to virtue in my fall.

As to myself, you have only robbed me of what once were my favourite expectations in the transient life I shall have quitted when you receive this. You have only been the cause that I have been cut off in the bloom of youth, and of curtailing a life that might have been agreeable to myself, or otherwise, as had suited the designs and ends of Providence. I have reason to be thankful for being taken away from the evil of supporting my part of a yoke with a man so unhappy; I will only say that, in all probability, every hour I had lived with him might have brought with it some new trouble. And I am (indeed through sharp afflictions and distresses) indebted to you, secondarily, as I humbly presume to hope, for so many years of glory as might have proved years of danger, temptation, and anguish, had they been added to my mortal life.

So, sir, though no thanks to your intention, you have done me real service, and in return I wish you happy. But such has been your life hitherto that you can have no time to lose in setting about your repentance. Repentance to such as have lived only carelessly, and in the omission of their regular duties, and who never aimed to draw any poor creatures into evil, is not so easy a task, nor so much in our own power as some imagine. How difficult a grace, then, to be obtained where the guilt is premeditated, wilful, and complicated!

To say I once respected you with a preference, is what I ought to blush to own, since, at the very time, I was far from thinking you even a moral man, though I little thought that you, or indeed that any man breathing, could be what you have proved yourself to be. But, indeed, sir, I have long been greatly above you; for from my heart I have despised you and all your ways ever since I saw what manner of man you were.

Nor is it to be wondered that I should be able so to do, when that preference was not grounded on ignoble motives. For I was weak enough, and presumptuous enough, to hope to be a means, in the hand of Providence, to reclaim a man whom I thought worthy of the attempt.

Nor have I yet, as you will see by the pains I take, on this solemn occasion, to awaken you out of your sensual dream, given over all hopes of this nature.

Hear me, therefore, O Lovelace, as one speaking from the dead. Lose no time. Set about your repentance instantly. Be no longer the instrument of Satan, to draw poor souls into those subtle snares, which at last shall entangle your own feet. Seek not to multiply your offences, till they become beyond the power, as I may say, of the Divine mercy to forgive; since justice, no less than mercy, is an attribute of the Almighty.

Tremble and reform, when you read what is the portion of the wicked man from God. Thus it is written :

"The triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite but for a moment. He is cast into a net by his own feet-he walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, and shall drive him to his feet. His strength shall be hunger-bitten, and destruction shall be ready at his side. The first-born of death shall devour his strength. His remembrance shall perish from the earth: and he shall have no name in the streets. He shall be chased out of the world. He shall have neither son nor nephew among his people. They that have seen him shall say, Where is he?" "He shall fly away as a dream: he shall be chased away as a vision of the night. His meat is the gall of asps within him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him through. A fire not blown shall consume him. The heavens shall reveal his iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The worm shall feed sweetly on him. He shall be no more remembered. -This is the fate of him that knoweth not God."

Whenever you shall be inclined to consult the sacred oracles from whence the above threatenings are extracted, you will find doctrines and texts which a truly penitent and contrite heart may lay hold of for its consolation.

May yours, Mr. Lovelace, become such! And may you be enabled to escape the fate denounced against the abandoned man, and be entitled to the mercies of a long-suffering and gracious God, is the sincere prayer of

CLARISSA HARLOWE

Clarissa's generous cousin, Colonel Morden, who had come to her aid in her trouble, received also a letter in which she bade him not avenge her death. He passively assented to this till a letter from Lovelace swayed him to follow his own inclination. The result was the duel of which Lovelace's man, De la Tour, in the closing letter of the book, tells the result.

The two chevaliers came exactly at their time. They were attended by Monsieur Margate (the colonel's gentleman) and myself. They had given orders overnight, and now repeated them in each other's presence, that we should observe a strict impartiality between them, and that if one fell each of us should look upon himself, as to any needful help or retreat, as the servant of the survivor, and take his commands accordingly.

After a few compliments, both the gentlemen, with the greatest presence of mind that ever I beheld in men, stript to their shirts, and drew.

They parried with equal judgment several passes. My chevalier drew the first blood, making a desperate push, which, by a sudden turn of his antagonist, missed going clear through him, and wounded him on the fleshy part of the ribs of his right side, which part the sword tore out, being on the extremity of the body; but, before my chevalier could recover himself, the colonel, in return, pushed him into the inside of the left arm, near the shoulder, and the sword, raking his breast as it passed, being followed by a great effusion of blood, the colonel said, "Sir, I believe you have enough."

My chevalier swore by G-d he was not hurt; 'twas a pin's point; and so made another pass at his antagonist, which he, with a surprising dexterity, received under his arm, and run my dear chevalier into the body, who immediately fell, saying, "The luck is yours, sir. Oh! my beloved Clarissa-now art thou--" Inwardly he spoke three or four words more. His sword dropped from his hand. Mr. Morden threw his down, and ran to him, saying in French, "Ah, monsieur, you are a dead man! Call to God for mercy."

We gave the signal agreed upon to the footmen, and they to the surgeons, who instantly came up.

Colonel Morden, I found, was too well used to the bloody work; for he was as cool as if nothing extraordinary had happened, assisting the surgeons, though his own wound bled much. But my dear chevalier fainted away two or three times running, and vomited blood besides.

However, they stopped the bleeding for the present, and we helped him into the voiture; and then the colonel suffered his own wound to be dressed; and appeared concerned that my chevalier was between whiles (when he could speak, and struggle) extremely outrageous. Poor gentleman! he had made quite sure of victory!

The colonel, against the surgeons' advice, would mount on horseback to pass into the Venetian territories; and generously gave me a purse of gold to pay the surgeons; desiring me to make a present to the footmen, and to accept of the remainder as a mark of his satisfaction in my conduct, and in my care and tenderness of my master.

The surgeons told him that my chevalier could not live over the day.

When the colonel took leave of him, Mr. Lovelace said, "You have well revenged the dear creature."

"I have, sir," said Mr. Morden; "and perhaps shall be sorry that you called upon me to this work, while I was balancing whether to obey or disobey the dear angel."

"There is a fate in it!" replied my chevalier-"A cursed fate! or this could not have been! But be ye all witnesses, that I have provoked my destiny, and acknowledge that I fall by a man of honour."

"Sir," said the colonel, with the piety of a confessor (wringing Mr. Lovelace's hand), "snatch these few fleeting moments, and commend yourself to God."

And so he rode off.

The voiture proceeded slowly with my chevalier; yet the motion set both his wounds bleeding afresh; and it was with difficulty they again stopped the blood.

We brought him alive to the nearest cottage; and he gave orders to me to dispatch to you the packet I herewith send sealed up; and bid me write to you the particulars of this most unhappy affair; and give you thanks, in his name, for all your favours and friendship to him.

Contrary to all expectation, he lived over the night; but suffered much, as well from his impatience and disappointment as from his wounds; for he seemed very unwilling to die.

He was delirious, at times, in the two last hours; and then

several times cried out, as if he had seen some frightful spectre, "Take her away! Take her away!" but named nobody. And sometimes praised some lady (that Clarissa, I suppose, whom he had invoked when he had received his death's wound), calling her, "Sweet excellence! Divine creature! Fair sufferer!" And once he said, "Look down, blessed spirit, look down!"-and there stopped; his lips, however, moving.

At nine in the morning he was seized with convulsions and fainted away; and it was a quarter of an hour before he came out of them.

His few last words I must not omit, as they show an ultimate composure; which may administer some consolation to his honourable friends.

"Blessed-" said he, addressing himself, no doubt, to Heaven; for his dying eyes were lifted up. A strong convulsion prevented him for a few moments saying more; but, recovering, he again with great fervour (lifting up his eyes and his spread hands) pronounced the word "Blessed;" then, in a seeming ejaculation, he spoke inwardly so as not to be understood. At last, he distinctly pronounced these three words: "Let this expiate!" and then, his head sinking on his pillow, he expired, at about half an hour after ten.

He little thought, poor gentleman! his end so near, so had given no directions about his body. I have caused it to be embowelled, and deposited in a vault, till I have orders from England.

This is a favour that was procured with difficulty, and would have been refused had he not been an Englishman of rank-a nation with reason respected in every Austrian government-for he had refused ghostly attendance, and the sacraments in the Catholic way. May his soul be happy, I pray God!

FIELDING'S "Tom Jones," published in 1749, is a work as perfect as one of Shakespeare's; as perfect in construction, and as perfect in its sense of life and character.

It may be a small matter' to find good construction in a work of genius, if the author has failed in the constructor's very first requisite, the choice of a good, durable building material. A whipped syllabub may be as perfect in construction as the Parthenon, and there are doubtless people of certain taste who would prefer the syllabub. A carpenter building a pigsty may-if our criticism be confined to these particulars-be found to construct a work more perfect than St. Peter's. So there are novels and again novels. No critic has over praised the skilful construction of the story of "Tom Jones; " but the durability of the work depends on something even of more moment than its construction,-upon the imperishable character of its material, and on the security with which its foundations are laid, deep in the true hearts of Englishmen.

Fielding's first novel was provoked by an affectation; and it was prefaced with a distinct explanation of his own "idea of romance." In the first pages of his first novel he taught that "the only source of the true ridiculous is affectation." His jest was against insincerity in all its lighter forms; his power was against untruth. In all his novels, and in "Tom Jones" most conspicuously, a generous and penetrating mind familiar with the ways of men dealt mercifully with all honest infirmities, sympathised with human goodness, and reserved its laughter, or its scorn, only for what was insincere. In "Tom Jones," a work was planned upon the ample scale to which readers had become accustomed. There was room for a wide view of life. The scene was divided fairly between country and town. The story was built out of the eternal truths of human nature, and was exquisitely polished on its surface with a delicate and genial humour that suggested rather than preached censure on the follies of society in England, not unmixed with the directest Christian condemnation against crime. The very soul of the book enters into the construction of "Tom Jones." The picture of a good man, coloured by Fielding with some of the warmth of living friendship, is presented at once in Squire Allworthy; and there is a deep seriousness in the manner of presenting him on a May morning, walking upon the terrace before his mansion with a wide prospect around him, planning a generous action, when "in the full blaze of his majesty up rose the sun, than which one object alone in this lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr. Allworthy himself presented-a human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by doing most good to His creatures."

1 I reproduce here some notes upon "Tom Jones," from a book of my own, long out of print, and from a part of the book that will not be republished.

The two boys bred by Allworthy, Tom Jones and Blifil, about whom the whole story revolves, are as the two poles of Fielding's mimic world. One of them is everybody's friend but his own; the other nobody's friend but his own. One is possessed of natural goodness, with all generous impulses, but with instincts, as we are once or twice distinctly reminded, wanting the control of prudence and religion. He lies open to frequent heavy blame, and yet more frequent misconstruction; yet we have faith in him because he is true, his faults are open, his affections warm. We know that time and love will make a noble man of him. The other conceals treachery under a show of righteousness and justice. His fair outside of religion and morality, the readiness with which he gives an honest colouring to all appearances, are represented wholly without caricature. His ill deeds are secret, his affections cold, and he is base to us by reason of his falsehood. Let us in mature life read the book afresh, and while we come from the work with the old admiration of the sterling English in which it is written, and of the keen but generous insight into human character that animates every page, we probably shall find that we have strengthened greatly our sense of its brave morality. It may surprise a critic who tastes evil in the scenes of incontinence which the manners of his age permitted Fielding to include among his pictures of the life about him, to be told that they were not presented as jests by their author. Fielding differs in this, as in many things, essentially from Smollett, that in his novels he has never used an unclean image for its own sake as provocative of mirth in ruder minds. In Fielding's page evil is evil. In "Tom Jones" Allworthy delivers no mock exhortations; whenever Jones falls into incontinence the purity of Sophia follows next upon the scene, a higher happiness is lost, and his true love is removed farther from his reach. And at last the youth is made to assent to Sophia, when she replies, very gravely, upon his pleading of the grossness of his sex, the delicacy of hers, and the absence of love in amour: "I will never marry a man who shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am myself of making such a distinction."

Again, what can be more determined than the purpose underlying the invention of the theologian and the philosopher, Thwackum and Square, as tutors of Jones and Blifil?

In the account given by Fielding himself of the requisite qualities of the man who is "to invent good stories and tell them well," we find named after genius and study "a quick and sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation," and, of course, conversation with men. "Nor," he adds, "will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be capable of feeling."

I can only express here by a few hints the