as if he were writing for a select circle of scholars and specialists.

As a historian Macaulay must be judged, not by the Essays, nor by the first two chapters of the History, which are prefatory and scarcely more solid than the Essays, but by his account of the reigns of James II. and William III. And in forming an estimate we must remember what was Macaulay's deliberate aim in writing history. We have it in his own words. History, at least in its state of ideal perfection, is a compound of poetry and philosophy. It impresses general truths on the mind by a vivid representation of particular characters and incidents.' 'A truly great historian would reclaim those materials which the novelist has appropriated.' 'I shall not be satisfied unless I produce something which shall for a few days supersede the last fashionable novel on the tables of young ladies.' His avowed intention was to combine the picturesqueness of the historical novel with the accuracy of the historian; his models were Thucydides and Sir Walter Scott. History in his mind must be above all things pictorial and dramatic; it must bring the characters and their actions on the stage-all the accessories in the way of scenery and subordinate personages must be supplied by the writer. And he unquestionably succeeded in his aim. Carlyle with a few impressive touches may paint isolated scenes even more vividly than Macaulay, but he cannot produce such a uniform and continuous pageant. Some may hold that Macaulay's supreme art as a scene-shifter is never sufficiently concealed, that the machinery by which puppets are worked is too obvious; others may doubt whether the pictorial conception of history is the highest or even in the end the truest; but no one can deny that Macaulay had a perfectly clear conception of the object which he desired to attain, and that he showed himself a perfect master of the means by which it could be achieved. It is inevitable that in such a scheme the reader must be left in large measure to draw his own conclusions from the events which are described. It is a lengthy process to apply the methods of the cinematograph to history, and Macaulay took five volumes to complete the animated picture of some sixteen years. But the machinery would hardly work at all if at every turn it was necessary to explain not only that the event took place in a particular way, but also the why and the wherefore of each occurrence. Lack of philosophic insight is not the only charge which is brought against Macaulay. is also accused of excessive party-spirit and of inaccuracy resulting from the use of uncritical methods. The first of these charges has been enormously exaggerated. That Macaulay was a Whig, that he admired William III., and that he thoroughly approved of the principles of the Revolution nobody disputes. It is neither possible

the

He

nor wholesome for a man to write as if he had no opinions of his own. But it cannot be contended that Macaulay is deliberately unfair, or that he set himself to write, not a history, but a political pamphlet. Within the permissible and easily recognisable limits of political inclination he distributes praise and blame with praiseworthy fairness. It is less easy to disprove the assertion that he was violently prejudiced against individuals, as Shaftesbury, Penn, and Marlborough; but his diatribes against them are quite independent of party-spirit. In fact, Shaftesbury was the founder and first leader of the Whigs, and Marlborough in his later life became their intimate ally. The second charge is perhaps the most formidable. It is not that Macaulay neglected his authorities, but that he used them in an uncritical way; that he deliberately rejected the systematic analysis of sources which was inculcated and practised by Von Ranke and other eminent contemporaries. Macaulay had read everything that was accessible at the time on the period which he treated. That he did not do more was probably due to the extraordinary memory which too often saved him from the necessity of abstract thought. All his information was collected, sorted, and fused together in his mind. He adjusted the evidence and drew his conclusions not so much by the processes of reason as by a sort of instinct. It is not a method that could be safely recommended to every student of the past; but it is marvellous how successful it was in Macaulay's case. Considering the scale on which he worked, inaccuracy in occasional details was inevitable; yet those which have been detected by malevolent critics are comparatively few and unimportant. On the other hand, there is a subtle inaccuracy in Macaulay's methods of statement which is almost as serious a fault as actual blunders. His extreme precision and his excessive emphasis are often in themselves misleading. Two instances must suffice. 'The House of Commons was more zealous for royalty than the king, more zealous for episcopacy than the bishops.' 'To the seared consciences of Shaftesbury and Buckingham the death of an innocent man gave no more uneasiness than the death of a partridge.' Such assertions, which might be indefinitely multiplied, go much further than could be justified by any authority. In fact, Macaulay is a great artist in black and white rather than a great colourist; and the most delicate shading, a process in which he did not excel, can never supply the place of the infinite gradations of colour, and of those neutral tints. which may not produce such brilliant pictures, but are nevertheless predominant in human history. From 'Horatius.'

But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream:

And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.
And, like a horse unbroken

When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard,
And tossed his tawny mane;
And burst the curb, and bounded,
Rejoicing to be free;

And whirling down in fierce career,
Battlement, and plank, and pier,
Rushed headlong to the sea.

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before,

And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.'

Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus nought spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river

That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'O Tiber! Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!' So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

Parliamentary Reform.

We support this Bill. We may possibly think it a better Bill than that which preceded it. But are we therefore bound to admit that we were in the wrong, that the Opposition was in the right, that the House of Lords has conferred a great benefit on the nation? We saw-who did not see?-great defects in the first Bill. But did we see nothing else? Is delay no evil? Is prolonged excitement no evil? Is it no evil that the heart of a great people should be made sick by deferred hope? We allow that the changes which have been made are improvements. . . . There probably never was a law which might not have been amended by delay. But there have been many cases in which there would have been more mischief in delay than benefit in the amend

ments.

The first Bill, however inferior it may have been in its details to the present Bill, was yet herein far superior to the present Bill, that it was the first. If the first Bill had passed, it would, I firmly believe, have produced a complete reconciliation between the aristocracy and the people. It is my earnest wish and prayer that the present Bill may produce this blessed effect; but I cannot say that my hopes are so sanguine as they were at the beginning of the last session.

The decision of the House of Lords has, I fear, excited in the public mind feelings of resentment which will not soon be allayed. What then, it is said, would you legislate in haste? Would you legislate in times of great excitement concerning matters of such deep concern? Yes, sir, I would; and if any bad consequences should follow from the haste and excitement, let those be held responsible who, when there was no need of haste, when there existed no excitement, refused to listen to any project of Reform-nay, who made it an argument against When Reform that the public mind was not excited. few meetings were held, when few petitions were sent up to us, these politicians said, 'Would you alter a constitution with which the people are perfectly satisfied?' And now, when the kingdom from one end to the other is convulsed by the question of Reform, we hear it said by the very same persons, 'Would you alter the representative system in such agitated times as these?' Half the logic of misgovernment lies in this one sophistical dilemma: If the people are turbu lent, they are unfit for liberty; if they are quiet, they do not want liberty.

I allow that hasty legislation is an evil. I allow that there are great objections to legislating in troubled times. But reformers are compelled to legislate fast, because bigots will not legislate early. Reformers are compelled to legislate in times of excitement, because bigots will not legislate in times of tranquillity. If ten years ago, nay, if only two years ago, there had been at the head of affairs men who understood the signs of the times and the temper of the nation, we should not have been forced to hurry now. If we cannot take our time, it is because we have to make up for their lost time. If they had reformed gradually, we might have reformed gradually; but we are compelled to move fast, because they would not move at all. (From Speech on the Reform Bill.)

On the Maynooth College Bill. Can we wonder that the eager, honest, hot-headed Protestants, who raised you to power in the confident hope that you would curtail the privileges of the Roman Catholics, should stare and grumble when you propose to give public money to the Roman Catholics? Can we wonder that, from one end of the country to the other, everything should be ferment and uproar, that petitions should, night after night, whiten all our benches like a snowstorm? Can we wonder that the people out of doors should be exasperated by seeing the very men who, when we were in office, voted against the old grant to Maynooth, now pushed and pulled into the House by your whippers-in to vote for an increased grant? The natural consequences follow. All those fierce spirits, whom you hallooed on to harass us, now turn round and begin to worry you. The Orangeman raises his warwhoop Exeter Hall sets up its bray: Mr Macneile shudders to see more costly cheer than ever provided for the priests of Baal at the table of the Queen; and the

:

Protestant operatives of Dublin call for impeachments in exceedingly bad English. But what did you expect? Did you think when, to serve your turn, you called the Devil up, that it was as easy to lay him as to raise him? Did you think, when you went on, session after session, thwarting and reviling those whom you knew to be in the right, and flattering the worst passions of those whom you knew to be in the wrong, that the day of reckoning would never come? It has come. There you sit, doing penance for the disingenuousness of years. If it be not so, stand up manfully and clear your fame before the House and the country. Show us that some steady principle has guided your conduct with respect to Irish affairs. Show us how, if you are honest in 1845, you can have been honest in 1841. Explain to us why, after having goaded Ireland to madness for the purpose of ingratiating yourselves with the English, you are now setting England on fire for the purpose of ingratiating yourself with the Irish. Give us some reason which shall prove that the policy which you are following, as Ministers, is entitled to support, and which shall not equally prove you to have been the most factious and unprincipled Opposition that ever this country saw. (From Speech on the Maynooth Grant.)

The Roman Catholic Church. There is not, and there never was on this earth, a work of human policy so well deserving of examination as the Roman Catholic Church. The history of that Church joins together the two great ages of human civilisation. No other institution is left standing which carries the mind back to the times when the smoke of sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and when camelopards and tigers bounded in the Flavian amphitheatre. The proudest

royal houses are but of yesterday, when compared with the line of the Supreme Pontiffs. That line we trace back in an unbroken series, from the Pope who crowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century to the Pope who crowned Pepin in the eighth; and far beyond the time of Pepin the august dynasty extends till it is lost in the twilight of fable. The Republic of Venice came next in antiquity. But the Republic of Venice was modern when compared with the Papacy; and the Republic of Venice is gone, and the Papacy remains. The Papacy remains, not in decay, not a mere antique, but full of life and youthful vigour. The Catholic Church is still sending forth to the farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those who landed in Kent with Augustine, and still confronting hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted Attila. The number of her children is greater than in any former age. Her acquisitions in the New World have more than compensated her for what she has lost in the Old. Her spiritual ascendency extends over the vast countries which lie between the plains of the Missouri and Cape Horn, countries which a century hence may, not improbably, contain a population as large as that which now inhabits Europe. The members of her communion are certainly not fewer than a hundred and fifty millions; and it will be difficult to show that all the other Christian sects united amount to a hundred and twenty millions. Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term of her long dominion is approaching. She saw the commencement of all the governments and of all the ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the world; and we feel no assurance that she is not destined to see the end of them all. She was great and respected

before the Saxon had set foot on Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, when Grecian eloquence still flourished in Antioch, when idols were still worshipped in the temple of Mecca. And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St Paul's.

(From Essay on Ranke's History of the Popes, Edinburgh Review, Oct. 1840; in Works, 1866, vol. vi.)

There have been numerous anticipations of this famous last sentence, the latest by Macaulay himself at the very end of his article on Mitford's History of Greece, published in Knight's Quarterly Magazine in 1824. Five years before, in the preface to Peter Bell the Third, Shelley had spoken of the time when London shall be an habitation of bitterns, when St Paul's and Westminster Abbey shall stand shapeless and nameless ruins for the contemplation of some transatlantic commentator. Wilcocks in his Roman Conversations (1792-94) imagined 'foreigners 2000 years hence sailing up the Thames in search of antiquities,' passing through some arches of the broken bridge,' and viewing 'with admiration the still remaining portico of St Paul's.' Still earlier, in 1791, there is Volney's meditation in the second chapter of Les Ruines, that some day on the banks of the Seine, the Thames, or the Zuider Zee' a traveller may 'seat himself on silent ruins and bemoan in solitude the ashes of nations and the memory of their greatness.' And seventeen years before Volney's book appeared, Horace Walpole in 1774 had warned Sir Horace Mann that at last some curious traveller' would 'visit England and give a description of the ruins of St Paul's.' Other anticipations are cited in our articles on Mrs Barbauld (Vol. II. p. 582) and on Henry Kirke White (Vol. II. p. 729).

The Death of Chatham.

The Duke of Richmond had given notice of an address to the throne, against the further prosecution of hostilities with America. Chatham had, during some time, absented himself from Parliament, in consequence of his growing infirmities. He determined to appear in his place on this occasion, and to declare that his opinions were decidedly at variance with those of the Rockingham party. He was in a state of great excitement. His medical attendants were uneasy, and strongly advised him to calm himself, and to remain at home. But he was not to be controlled. His son William, and his son-inlaw Lord Mahon, accompanied him to Westminster. He rested himself in the Chancellor's room till the debate commenced, and then, leaning on his two young relations, limped to his seat. The slightest particulars of that day were remembered, and have been carefully recorded. He bowed, it was remarked, with great courtliness to those peers who rose to make way for him and his supporters. His crutch was in his hand. He wore, as was his fashion, a rich velvet coat. His legs were swathed in flannel. His wig was so large and his face so emaciated that none of his features could be discerned, except the high curve of his nose, and his eyes, which still retained a gleam of the old fire.

When the Duke of Richmond had spoken Chatham rose. For some time his voice was inaudible. At length his tones became distinct and his action animated. Here and there his hearers caught a thought or an expression which reminded them of William Pitt. But it was clear that he was not himself. He lost the thread of his discourse, hesitated, repeated the same words several times, and was so confused that, in speaking of the Act of Settlement, he could not recall the name of the Electress Sophia. The House listened in solemn silence, and with the aspect of profound respect and compassion. The stillness was so deep that the dropping of a handkerchief

would have been heard. The Duke of Richmond replied with great tenderness and courtesy ; but while he spoke, the old man was observed to be restless and irritable. The Duke sat down. Chatham stood up again, pressed his hand on his breast, and sank down in an apoplectic fit. Three or four lords who sat near him caught him in his fall. The House broke up in confusion. The dying man was carried to the residence of one of the officers of Parliament, and was so far restored as to be able to bear a journey to Hayes. At Hayes, after lingering a few weeks, he expired in his seventieth year. His bed was watched to the last, with anxious tenderness, by his wife and children; and he well deserved their care. Too often haughty and wayward to others, to them he had been almost effeminately kind. He had through life been dreaded by his political opponents and regarded with more awe than love even by his political associates. But no fear seems to have mingled with the affection which his fondness, constantly overflowing in a thousand endearing forms, had inspired in the little circle at Hayes.

Chatham, at the time of his decease, had not, in both Houses of Parliament, ten personal adherents. Half the public men of the age had been estranged from him by his errors, and the other half by the exertions which he had made to repair his errors. His last speech had been an attack at once on the policy pursued by the Government and on the policy recommended by the Opposition. But death restored him to his old place in the affection of his country. Who could hear unmoved of the fall of that which had been so great, and which had stood so long? The circumstance, too, seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than to real life. A great statesman, full of years and honours, led forth to the Senate House by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council while straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his country, could not but be remembered with peculiar veneration and tenderness. Detraction was over

awed. The voice even of just and temperate censure was mute. Nothing was remembered but the lofty genius, the unsullied probity, the undisputed services, of him who was no more. For once, all parties were agreed. A public funeral, a public monument, were eagerly voted. The debts of the deceased were paid. A provision was made for his family. The City of London requested that the remains of the great man whom she had so long loved and honoured might rest under the dome of her magnificent cathedral. But the petition came too late. Everything was already prepared for the interment in Westminster Abbey.

Chatham sleeps near the northern door of the church, in a spot which has ever since been appropriated to statesmen, as the other end of the same transept has long been given to poets. Mansfield rests there, and the second William Pitt, and Grattan, and Canning, and Wilberforce. In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow a space. High over those venerable graves towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from above his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes. The generation which reared that memorial of him has disappeared. The time has come when the rash and indiscriminate judgments which his contemporaries passed on his character may be calmly revised by history. And history, while, for the warning of vehement, high, and

daring natures, she notes his many errors, will yet deliberately pronounce that, among the eminent men whose bones lie near his, scarcely one has left a more stainless and none a more splendid name.

(From Essay on the Earl of Chatham, Edinburgh Review, Oct. 1844; in Works, 1866, vol. vii.)

The Relief of Londonderry.

It was the twenty-eighth of July. The sun has 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 boom. The huge barricade cracked and gave way; but the shock was such that the Mountjoy rebounded, 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 Phanix 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 master 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 heart 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 landingplace 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 ration 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 towards Strabane.

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Five generations have since passed away, and still the wall of Londonderry is to the Protestants of Ulster what the trophy of Marathon was to the Athenians. lofty pillar, rising from a bastion which bore during many weeks the heaviest fire of the enemy, is seen far up and down the Foyle. On the summit is the statue of Walker, such as when, in the last and most terrible emergency, his eloquence roused the fainting courage of his brethren. In one hand he grasps a Bible; the other, pointing down the river, seems to direct the eyes of his famished audience to the English topmasts in the distant bay. Such a monument was well deserved; yet it was scarcely needed, for in truth the whole city is to this day a monument of the great deliverance. The wall is carefully preserved; nor would any plea of health or convenience be held by the inhabitants sufficient to justify the demolition of that sacred enclosure which, in the evil time, gave shelter to their race and their religion.

The summit of the ramparts

forms a pleasant walk. The bastions have been turned into little gardens. Here and there, among the shrubs and flowers, may be seen the old culverins which scattered bricks, cased with lead, among the Irish ranks. One antique gun, the gift of the fishmongers of London, was distinguished during the hundred and five memorable days by the loudness of its report, and still bears the name of Roaring Meg. The cathedral is filled with relics and trophies. In the vestibule is a huge shell, one of many hundreds of shells which were thrown into the city. Over the altar are still seen the French flagstaves, taken by the garrison in a desperate sally. The white ensigns of the Bourbons have long been dust, but their place has been supplied by new banners, the work of the fairest hands in Ulster. The anniversary of the day on which the gates were closed, and the anniversary of the day on which the siege was raised, have been down to our own time celebrated by salutes, processions, banquets, and sermons. There is still a Walker Club and a Murray Club. The humble tombs of the Protestant captains have been carefully sought out, repaired, and embellished. It is impossible not to respect the sentiment which indicates itself by these tokens. It is a sentiment which belongs to the higher and purer part of human nature, and which adds not a little to the strength of states. people which takes no pride in the noble achievements of remote ancestors will never achieve anything worthy to be remembered with pride by remote descendants. Yet it is impossible for the moralist or the statesman to look with unmixed complacency on the solemnities with which Londonderry commemorates her deliverance, and on the honours which she pays to those who saved her. Unhappily, the animosities of her brave champions have descended with their glory. The faults which are ordinarily found in dominant castes and dominant sects have not seldom shown themselves without disguise at her festivities; and even with the expressions of pious

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gratitude which have resounded from her pulpits have too often been mingled words of wrath and defiance. (From History of England, Chap. XII.; Works, 1866,

vol. ii.)

Trevelyan's Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay (1876) is one of the great biographies of the nineteenth century. Interesting criticisms of Macaulay may be found in J. Cotter Morison's Macaulay (English Men of Letters' series), in Leslie Stephen's Hours in a Library, in Bagehot's Literary Studies, in John Morley's Critical Miscellanies, and in vol. ii. of M. Taine's History of English Literature. His accuracy has been disputed by John Paget, in his New Examen (1861) and Puzzles and Paradoxes (1874); by James Spedding, in Evenings with a Reviewer (1881); and by Sir J. F. Stephen, in The Story of Nuncomar (1885).

RICHARD LODGE.

John Austin (1790-1859), born at Creeting Mill, Suffolk, served some five years in the army in Sicily and Malta, but in 1818 was called to the Bar, In 1820 he married Sarah Taylor (daughter of John Taylor of Norwich;' see Vol. II. p. 742), and from 1826 to 1832, when he resigned from lack of students, was Professor of Jurisprudence in the newly founded university of London (now University College). His Province of Juris prudence Determined, defining (on a utilitarian basis) the sphere of ethics and law, practically revolutionised English views on the subject. He was once or twice put upon a royal commission, but his health was bad; in 1841-44 he lived in Germany, and in 1844-48 in Paris. The Revolution of 1848 drove him back to England, and he then settled at Weybridge, where he died. His Lectures on Jurisprudence were published by his widow (1863; new ed. by Campbell, 1869). A Memoir by Mrs Austin was prefixed to a new edition of the Province (1861). Mrs Austin (1793-1867) was known by her translations from German and French, including Ranke's Popes and Guizot's Civilisation, and wrote books on Germany and national education. The only child of this gifted couple, Lucie (1821-69), who married Sir Alexander Duff Gordon (1811-72; latterly a Commissioner of Inland Revenue), was also an accomplished translator from the German, and in South Africa, whither she had gone for her health, indited her vivacious Letters from the Cape (1862; new ed., with preface by George Meredith, 1903). From 1862 she lived, almost like a native, on the Nile or in Egypt, whence she sent to the press two series of Letters from Egypt. See Three Generations of Englishwomen (1889), by Janet Ross, daughter of Lady Duff Gordon; who has also written several books on things Tuscan.

John Kitto (1804-54), son of a Plymouth stone-mason, worked at his father's craft, but in 1817 became stone-deaf through a fall, and, sent to the workhouse, learned shoemaking. In 1824 he went to Exeter to learn dentistry; in 1825 he published Essays and Letters; at the Missionary College at Islington he learned printing; in 1829-33 he accompanied a patron on a tour to the East. The rest of his life was spent in the service of the publishers, chiefly in that of Charles Knight. His