epigrammatic phrases, it has a germ of truth. At certain epochs in the experience of mankind it has been tolerably correct. The biography of Caesar for the last three or four years of his life is the history for the time of the Roman Empire. The record of the lives of Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey is the history of the reign of Henry the Eighth. The biography of Napoleon, from the time he became First Consul to his abdication, is the history of the French people. So long as history was regarded as a succession of wars, the great figure of a conqueror filled the whole stage, and there was nothing more to know. But wars are not the whole of history any more than Acts of Parliament are. What then should the History of England be? By your leave, beardless Bachelors of Arts, and newly elected Fellows of All Souls, let Macaulay speak.

The history of England is emphatically the history of progress. It is the history of a constant movement of the public mind, of a constant change in the institutions of a great society. We see that society, at the beginning of the twelfth century, in a state more miserable than the state in which the most degraded nations of the East now are. We see it subjected to the tyranny of a handful of armed foreigners. We see a strong distinction of caste separating the victorious Norman from the vanquished Saxon. We see the great body of the population in a state of personal slav. ery. We see the most debasing and cruel superstition exercising boundless dominion over the most elevated and benevolent minds. We see the multitude sunk in brutal igno. rance, and the studious few engaged in acquir. ing what did not deserve the name of knowledge. In the course of seven centuries the wretched and degraded race have become the greatest and most civilized people that ever the world saw, have spread their dominion over every quarter of the globe, have scattered the seeds of mighty empires and republics over vast continents of which no dim intimation had ever reached Ptolemy or Strabo, have created a maritime power which would an. nihilate in a quarter of an hour the navies of Tyre, Athens, Carthage, Venice, and Genoa together, have carried the science of healing, the means of locomotion and correspondence, every mechanical art, every manufacture, everything that promotes the convenience of life, to a perfection which our ancestors would have thought magical, have produced a literature which may boast of works not inferior to the noblest which Greece has bequeathed to us, have discovered the laws which regulate the motions of the heavenly bodies, have speculated with exquisite subtlety on the operations of the human mind, have been the

acknowledged leaders of the human race in the career of political improvement. The history of England is the history of this great

change in the moral, intellectual and physical state of the inhabitants of our own island.

Truly, to record the "history of this great change in the moral, intellectual and physical state" of the English race were a task for the noblest brain that even England herself should ever produce, a task to be undertaken with humility and pride, humility on account of inadequacy for the work, pride to be thought worthy to attempt it. Why then do modern historians refuse to trace the moral change, the physical change, or the intellectual change, and virtually confine themselves. to constitutional change? It is as though a man should walk through the midst of the loveliest scenery with looks bent only on the straight high road, and eyes that only mark the mile-stones by the way. The historic landscape is full of beauty;. vista after vista opens into the picturesque past; yet these plodding intellectual pedestrians pursue their laborious way along the arid and dusty track of constitutional development, looking neither to the right band nor to the left.

It

It may be doubted whether it be right, in any sense, to make so prominent a feature of constitutional change. Acts of Parliament have the smallest possible influence upon the real life of the nation. That an Act of Parliament can turn a man out of a public-house but cannot make him sober, has become a truism. Quid leges sine moribus vanæ proficiunt? The reason is sufficiently clear. The Act of Parliament is itself an effect and not a cause. It is a conclusion, not a beginning. initiates nothing. It defines in words and reduces to writing the formless principle that has gradually grown to maturity in the mind of the community. Constitutional change is but the outcome of the "change in the moral, intellectual, and physical state of the inhabitants of our own island.' It is simply the manifestation of that mysterious, heterogeneous, complex, irresisti ble force known as public opinion. The senatorial decree, it is true, is formulated and promulgated at Westminster; but it has been debated, voted, and passed long since in the heart of the whole country.

There is, of course, a narrative in these Constitutional Histories. It is a clear but vapid stream, running with an even and steady current, broken by no roguish ripples, enlivened by no brilliant sparkles, toying with no flowers, checkered by no

light and shade. The events recorded in brief opposite the dates in our pocket almanacs are not more free from decent adorninent. Mar. 26, D. of Cambridge b. 1819. Mar. 28, D. of Albany d. 1884. Mar 30, Sicilian Vespers, 1282. Why, that one passage in Cariyle's French Revolution about the Bastille Clock does more to bring before our minds a great historical event than anything between the title-page and the conclusion of Dr. Bright's volumes. Let us quit for a moment the closing nineteenth century, let us go back a hundred years, let us cling to the skirts of the magician and suffer ourselves to be transported straight into the very thick and turmoil of the greatest social convulsion that the modern world has known. We are in the midst of the living tide that surges round the great dark fortress; we hear the rattle of aimless musketry, the cries of vengeance, the shrieks of despair; we see the eight grim towers upraising their wicked heads above the eddying smoke; we see fire bursting from buildings in the outer courts; we hear the clank of axes, the thunder of great guns.

How the great Bastille Clock ticks (inaudible) in its Inner Court there, at its ease, hour after hour, as if nothing special for it, or the world, were passing! It tolled One when the firing began, and is now pointing toward Five, and still the firing slakes not. Far down, in their vaults, the seven Prisoners hear muffled

din as of earthquakes; their Turnkeys answer

vaguely.

Woe to thee, De Launay, with thy poor hundred Invalides! Broglie is distant, and his ears heavy; Besenval hears, but can send no help. One poor troop of Hussars has crept, reconnoitring, cautiously along the Quais as far as the Pont Neuf.

"We are come to join you," said the Captain; for the crowd seems shoreless. A large headed dwarfish individual, of smoke-bleared aspect, shambles forward, opening his blue lips, for there is sense in him; and croaks: " Alight then, and give up your arms!" The Hussar-Captain is too happy to be escorted to the Bar. riers, and dismissed on parole. Who the squat individual was? Men answer, It is M. Marat, author of the excellent pacific Avis au Peuple! Great truly, O thou remarkable Dogleech, is this thy day of emergence and new. birth and yet this same day come four years--But let the curtains of the Future hang.

What a picture! Let us now relate the same events in the approved modern style. The attack commenced at one o'clock, and at five it still showed no sign of abating. The seven prisoners inquired from their jailers the

cause of the disturbance, but received vague replies. De Launay had only a hundred Invalides under his command. No help could come from Broglie, who was too far distant, or from Besenval. A troop of Hussars reconnoitred along the Quais as far as the Pont Neuf; but finding themselves hopelessly out

numbered, fraternized with the mob, and having given up their arms, were escorted to the barriers and dismissed. This was done on the suggestion of Marat, a veterinary surgeon, who had written a book called Avis au Peuple, and who, four years subsequently, became one of the chief personages in the worst period of the Revolution.

caricatured an imaginary baldness of style, Lest the reader should suppose I have I append Dr. Bright's description of the siege of Derry, an event not usually regarded as devoid of striking and picturesque incident. Of the heroic Walker, he merely says, "The inhabitants

appointed Walker, a clergyman, and Major How Henry Baker, joint governors." with cannon on the roof of their Cathethe men of Derry preached and prayed, dral and gunpowder in its vaults, how wives and sisters stood behind the defend

ers and loaded muskets for them, how every one of those hundred and five days had its heroic achievement, and its not less heroic endurance of want and privation, how the stout old parson sallied forth from the gates and rescued his hardpressed friends, how they fired brick-bats coated with lead through dearth of ammunition, how happened any of the thousand and one striking incidents which marked the course of "this great siege, the most memorable in the annals of the British Isles," we learn not from Dr. Bright. This is bis description of the relief of the city.

The fate of Londonderry and Enniskillen was watched with absorbing interest. A fleet, with some troops under command of Kirke, was at length despatched, but Kirke refused to risk the passage of the river which led from Lough Foyle, and which was now guarded by forts and a boom, and the starving population of Londonderry had the misery of watching the ships as they lay idly in the Lough. At length, in July, the fate of Londonderry seemed sealed. Nearly everything eatable had been devoured-horse-flesh, rats, salt hides, all that could possibly be converted even into the most objectionable food. It seemed im•possible to feed the population in any way for two days longer. At last a peremptory order reached Kirke to relieve the city at all haz. ards. On the 30th of July three vessels, two transports and a frigate, sailed up the river, and after a few minutes of difficulty, broke the boom, and in the evening, at ten o'clock,

Among the merchant ships which had come to Lough Foyle under his [Kirke's] convoy was one called the Mountjoy. The master, Micaiah Browning, a native of Londonderry, had brought from England a large cargo of provisions. He had, it is said, repeatedly protested against the inaction of the armament. He now eagerly volunteered to take the first risk of succoring his fellow-citizens; and his offer was accepted. Andrew Douglas, master of the Phoenix, who had on board a great quantity of meal from Scotland, was willing to share the danger and the honor. The two merchantmen were to be escorted by the Dartmouth frigate of thirty-six guns, commanded by Captain John Leake, afterward an admiral of great fame.

It was the twenty-eighth of July. The sun had just set; the evening sermon in the cathedral was over; and the heart-broken congregation had separated; when the sentinels on the tower saw the sails of three vessels coming up the Foyle. Soon there was a stir in the Irish camp. The besiegers were on the alert for miles along both shores. The ships were in extreme peril; for the river was low; and the only navigable channel ran very near to the left bank, where the headquarters of the enemy had been fixed, and where the batteries were most numerous. Leake performed his duty with a skill and spirit worthy of his noble profession, exposed his frigate to cover the merchantmen, and used his guns with great effect. At length the little squadron came to the place of peril. Then the Mountjoy took the lead, and went right at the bɔom. The huge boom cracked and gave way; but the shock was such that the Mountjoy rebound. ed, and stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph rose from the banks; the Irish rushed to their boats, and were preparing to board; but the Dartmouth poured on them a well-directed broadside, which threw them into disorder. Just then the Phoenix dashed at the breach which the Mountjoy had made, and was in a moment within the fence. Meantime the tide was rising fast. The Mountjoy began to move, and soon passed safe through the broken stakes and floating spars. But her brave mas.. ter was no more. A shot from one of the batteries had struck him; and he died by the most enviable of all deaths, in sight of the city which was his birthplace, which was his home, and which had just been saved by his courage and self-devotion from the most frightful form

of destruction. The night had closed in before the conflict at the boom began; but the flash of the guns was seen, and the noise heard, by the lean and ghastly multitude which covered the walls of the city. When the Mountjoy grounded, and when the shout of triumph rose from the Irish on both sides of the river, the hearts of the besieged died within them. One who endured the unutterable anguish of that moment has told us that they looked fearfully livid in each other's

eyes. Even after the barricade had been passed, there was a terrible half-hour of suspense. It was ten o'clock before the ships arrived at the quay. The whole population was there to welcome them. A screen made of casks filled with earth was hastily thrown up to protect the landing place from the batteries on the other side of the river; and then the work of unloading began. First were rolled on shore barrels containing six thousand bushels of meal. Then came great cheeses, casks of beef, flitches of bacon, kegs of butter, sacks of peas and biscuit, ankers of brandy. Not many hours before, half a pound of tallow and three quarters of a pound of salted hide had been weighed out with niggardly care to every fighting man. The rations which each now received was three pounds of flour, two pounds of beef, and a pint of peas. It is easy to imagine with what tears grace was said over the suppers of that evening. There was little sleep on either side of the wall. The bonfires shone bright along the whole circuit of the ramparts. The Irish guns continued to roar all night; and all night the bells of the rescued city made answer to the Irish guns with a peal of joyous defiance. Through the three following days the batteries of the enemy continued to play. But on the third night flames were seen arising from the camp; and, when the first of August dawned, a line of smoking ruins marked the site lately occupied by the huts of the besiegers; and the citizens saw far off, the long column of spikes and standards retreating up the left bank of the Foyle toward Strabane,

And now we know something about the relief of Derry. If it is not history, what is it ?

Not only does Dr. Bright neglect to avail himself of legitimate opportunities for vivid and striking relation of events; he actually goes out of his way to avoid them. What shall we say of a historian who relates the story of the Gordon Riots, and omits to mention that Newgate prison was stormed and burned by the mob? Why, Fry's Illustrated Guide to London is better history! What shall we say of a historian who describes the battle of Trafalgar and omits Nelson's famous signal to his fleet, a message from the doomed hero not merely to his captains and their crews for that one day, but to his countrymen and their posterity for all

time? Can any one calculate the extent to which that proud and noble rule of conduct, declared amid so mournful and pathetic circumstances, has worked upon the English character? Does the author of a history of England do well to leave that out? We fancy that Nelson's declaration, illustrated and enforced by his own superb example, that to do his simple duty is the glory of an Englishman, has had quite as much practical effect upon the hearts and the actions of Englishmen, in every quarter of the globe, in every circumstance of danger and adventure, as seven-eighths of the Acts of Parliament that decorate the Statute Book. Was there no room for it in the volume of 1472 pages that records the history of England from the accession of William the Third to our own time?

The art of character drawing is wholly disdained by Dr. Bright. Of the graphic touch which charms us ever and anon in the pages of Sallust, of Tacitus, or of Thucydides, the touch that brings before us the very man as he lived and acted in his day, we are never treated to a specimen. It is not space that forbids. It did not cost Sallust many words to describe Catiline. "Corpus patiens inedia, vigilia, algoris, supra quam cuiquam credibile est; animus audax, subdolus, varius, cujus rei libet simulator ac dissimulator; alieni appetens, sui profusus; ardens in cupiditatibus; satis eloquentiæ, sapientiæ parum. He possessed a frame that could dispense with food, rest and warmth to an incredible degree. His intellect was daring, subtle, and many-sided. Placed in any situation whatever he could pretend to be what he was not, he could conceal what he was. He coveted his neighbor's goods, yet was lavish of his

own.

He was hot in his passions. Eloquence he had in plenty; wisdom he had none. Why the man moves before us. Are there no subjects for such sketches to be found in English history? Has there been no one who, like Sylla, was "Cupidus voluptatum, sed gloriæ cupidior, who loved pleasure much, but who loved honor more?" Did not the reign of Anne show forth its Alcibiades ? Are not the famous figures of the past worthy to be adorned with a few descriptive lines? The Constitutional Historian seems to have stolen from his darling politics the motto "Measures not men," and to have

applied the aphorism to a record that is vastly more concerned with men than measures. We feel sorry for the owner of any name that is mentioned in his pages. The poor bare proper noun stands there in a most improperly nude state, without a rag of an epithet to cover its nakedness. Yet if the poet with two or three adjectives can place before our imagination the picture of a vast and varied landscape, cannot the historian spare a word or two to give reality and life to the great figures of the past?

Calm and still light on yon great plain

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main. The adjective is scarcely the enemy of the noun in that third line.

When we read history, we want to be told how the people were clothed, fed, housed; how they looked and spoke; how they fought and revelled; what manDer of world it was in which they worked and loved and sighed and hoped from the cradle to the grave.

If the historian, for instance, proposes to write the record of the “ spacious times of great Elizabeth," it should be his delight as well as his duty to give a faithful picture of the epoch. He should show us the maid of honor with her ruff, the rhyming courtier with his padded hose, the bold adventurer on his solitary bark in the Spanish main, the gables of the Tudor manor-house rising amid the rook-thronged elms, the game of bowls on the Hoe at Plymouth while the Armada crept up the Channel, the noble in his castle, the peasant in his hut, the poet and the playwright, the dance around the Maypole. For what reason are the amusements of the people to be excluded from history? In a man's own personal history, all that he lives of his life is lived in his pleasures. Sir Joshua Reynolds observed that the real character of a man was found out by his amusements. Dr. Johnson added, "Yes, sir; no man is a hypocrite in his pleasures." The dull routine of work goes on, day after day, -he lives not; the history of one week's work is the history of the next,--he lives not; he reads his paper, and marks that the political machine is creaking slowly, steadily as ever, he lives not; only he lives during his few hours' daily freedom from his toil, and above all during those blessed