cellent account of those who from the beginning have edited 'Notes and Queries,' and it is this record which gives Mr Francis's work its greatest value. The first number of 'Notes and Queries' appeared on the 3rd of November 1849, under the auspices of W. J. Thoms. The staff which assisted him was highly distinguished. Sir George Cornewall Lewis, J. W. Croker, Lords Shaftesbury and Strangford, Hallam, Monckton Milnes, Halliwell, and Dr Doran were of the number. Though the editor's main interest was folklore, he did not close his columns to any subject which attracted his readers, and it was his pride that his was the first journal to encourage photography. The scholars of those days were more fearlessly outspoken than their descendants, and when it was suggested that writers should sign their articles there was a stout opposition. "If we were all to give our names," said one contributor, "N. and Q.' would, in three weeks, be a cock-pit.' The temper of the times has changed. To-day it is the general practice to sign, and anything less like a cock-pit than 'Notes and Queries' we do not know. For wellnigh a For wellnigh a quarter of a century Thoms edited the journal which he had founded. Dr Doran and Turle followed him, and then in 1883 Joseph Knight came to the editorial chair. Of Knight Mr Francis gives a just and sympathetic sketch, which will be approved by all who knew that sound scholar and wise critic. Never was there a writer who more nearly conformed to Lord Morley's critical standard of generosity. For him reproof was a positive pain. His profound learning showed him the weaknesses of the innumerable plays which it was the business of the dramatic critic to see; his kindness of heart forbade him always to tell the truth. That was his weakness as a critic, and though it erred on side of amiability, it greatly impaired the value of his work. If we were to judge the British drama of the last thirty years by Knight's account of it, we should pass far too lenient a sentence. But, after all, dramatic criticism was a small part of Knight's work. As editor of 'Notes and Queries' he found the widest scope for his multifarious knowledge and for his keen love of the humanities. was learned in many tongues and many literatures, a cunning collector of books, which he read as well as bought, a scholar without pedantry, a man of letters who still preserved a love of life. And all those who knew him knew also that the man was far greater than his work. He has left behind him little that does justice to his powers save the enduring memory of his friends. He, like many another, was put into the mill of journalism, which ground to powder what leisure might have fashioned into a gracious monument. However, that is the habit of our time, and Knight was in no way responsible for the fate He which overtook him with many shouting "Burke Sir Walter." of his contemporaries. His For this and other episodes in talk was fresh, humorous, and Ebsworth's career we refer our varied, and if we had a record readers to Mr Francis's pages, of that we should have the best and as 'Notes and Queries portrait of the man. But we preserves a love of apposite must be content with what we quotation, will conclude have, and give thanks to Mr Francis for the eloquent tribute he has paid to his friend and colleague. Adequate, too, is Mr Francis's sketch sketch of Joseph Woodfall Ebsworth, that sturdy Tory and tireless collector of ballads. Edinburgh knew him in his youth, and he remembered hearing "a howling London cad, a Reform Bill agitator, addressing the greasy rabble on Calton Hill." Still worse, he recalled the base ingratitude wherewith the Radi cals insulted Sir Walter Scott at Selkirk, where he had been "the Shirra," and how at Hawick they attempted to drag him out from his carriage, with a passage from Ben A FRIEND OF CARLYLE. I. MASTER of arts, for all those years Among these lonely Devon moors, (Lonely to you, but smiles and tears Have crowded thro' my school-house doors) And yet my trees have borne some fruit II. Drinking the sunlight as he spoke, Across his clear frank face there broke Half rapture, half adoring love, And steadfast as the soul of truth Which, though the thick grey gleamed above, Brightened his eyes with deeper youth. III. For think, he said, each year a score IV. Forgive me, Thou who knowest all The barren and the unhelpful days; For still to Thee my heart would call Before I went my morning ways, Or turned my pencilled old Carlyle, My guide thro' doubts of long ago, And thought, to-day some word or smile May teach them more than aught I know. V. For I did doubt: though all my youth To one great ministry aspired, To wrestle with the o'erwhelming gloom. VI. For truth, for truth I strove, and yet That all the learning was a dream) Thus on the very verge to turn And meet-Love's eyes with tears a-gleam? VII. And sacrifices had been made To give me . . . Well, the tale is old: My "whole career," and check your smile, When, having lost my God, I went To my great hero-soul-Carlyle. VIII. They chatter of him? Let that be! Wearing the gorgeous robes and hood. Of young men straining tow'rds his face. A little flushed, a little proud, He took his throne in that high place. IX. O, what a drama undiscerned Swelled to its climax in that hour, Where he the poor Scotch peasant burned Before us with a seraph's power, A nation's laurels on his brow While, far away, Death's levelled dart Unseen, unfeared, undreamed, e'en now Struck at his heart's belovéd heart. The flush of fame was on his cheek. He bore that regal splendour well, Then suddenly-cast the robes aside! Our hearts burned and our eyes grew wet: He spoke as at his own hearth-side, But O, we knew him kinglier yet. XI. Still through and through me thrills the fire, And blinded us with god-like tears! That face had suffered in the same Dark night, through which I still must grope; But, lit with some transfiguring flame, He closed-We bid you be of hope. XII. And so I went to him. He heard, O, kindly as a father might; And, here and there, some burning word Flashed sudden lightnings thro' my night: And, as he spoke, I felt and saw The night was only where I lay In one dark gulf, and truth's own law Would lead me tow'rds the perfect day. |