chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, said I, still thou art a bitter draught! and, though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.-'Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all, in public or in private, worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, nor chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron ;-with thee, to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose Court thou art exiled.-Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion,-and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them!

I sat

The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me,

-I took a single captive; and, having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish; in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood; -he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time; -nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice-His children!

But here my heart began to bleed; and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calender of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there :-he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down,-shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh.--I saw the iron enter into his soul!-I burst into tears. -I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

(From A Sentimental Journey.)

I

There is an edition of Sterne's works by the present writer (with the letters and sermons, 6 vols. 1894); of Tristram Shandy, by Messrs Henley and Whibley (1894); and of Tristram Shandy and the Sentimental Journey, in Macmillan's Library of English Classics (1900). For the biography consult Ferriar's Illustrations of Sterne (1812), Percy Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne (new ed. 1896), H. D. Traill's monograph in the English Men of Letters Series (1882),

the French Life by Paul Stapfer (1881), Scherer's Essay (trans. 1891), and Mr Sidney Lee's article in the Dictionary of National Biography. It ought, perhaps, to be said that this last adds very largely, from sources mostly unpublished and sometimes accessible with great difficulty, to our previous information. The particulars, however, though sometimes interesting, are in no single instance of great importance; and in a good many cases probably represent merely the gossip to which, unluckily, Sterne seems to have given more than sufficient handles. But on the whole they may be said materially to confirm and enliven, without in any way altering, the portrait of the author of Tristram Shandy that we derive from his own books and his long-known letters.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

James Townley (1714-78) was author of High Life below Stairs, a burlesque on the extravagance and affectation of servants in aping the manners of their masters, ultimately detected by the master in disguise. The play was said actually to have had some effect in correcting this abuse; at all events it provoked organised and violent protest from all the liveried servants in the gallery when it was produced in the Edinburgh theatre. Townley, son of a wealthy London merchant and brother of Sir Charles Townley, Garter King of Arms, was born at Barking and bred at St John's, Cambridge. From 1760 he was head-master of Merchant Taylors' School, and latterly he also held clerical preferments. Other two farces of his were failures. But it was said that from one of them came much of a piece produced by Garrick and Colman, and that many of the best things by Garrick, Townley's intimate, benefited greatly by Townley's suggestion and revision.

John Hawkesworth (c. 1715-73), born in London, in 1744 succeeded Dr Johnson on the Gentleman's Magazine; and in 1752 started, with Johnson and others, The Adventurer, half of whose 140 numbers were from Hawkesworth's pen, and show a not wholly unsuccessful imitation of the Johnsonian manner. Hawkesworth, who became LL.D., published a volume of fairy tales (1761), edited Swift, and prepared the account of Captain Cook's first voyage, which formed vols. ii. and iii. of Hawkesworth's Voyages (3 vols. 1773).

Dr

Charles Johnstone (c. 1719-1800) amused the town in 1760-65 by the clever contemporary satire of his Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea. Born of Annandale ancestry in County Limerick, Johnstone studied at Dublin, and was debarred by deafness from success as a lawyer. He went to India in 1782, was a proprietor of one of the Bengal newspapers, and died at Calcutta. Several other novels from his pen are now even more completely forgotten than Chrysal. Johnson to whom the manuscript was shown by the bookseller-advised the publication of Chrysal, whose author, Sir Walter Scott afterwards said, might safely be ranked as a prose Juvenal. The adventures are related somewhat in the style of Le Sage and of Smollett, but the satirical portraits are overcharged; the author exaggerated the vices of his age and of its public men, and his book was not altogether unjustly called the best scandalous chronicle of the day.

Horace Walpole (formally HORATIO), fourth Earl of Orford, was born 24th September 1717 (O.S.) in London, the third son of Sir Robert Walpole. At Eton and at King's College, Cambridge, he had Gray the poet as a friend, and while still at the university was appointed by his father to sinecures worth £1200 a year. He and Gray set out together on the grand tour, but after two years quarrelled and parted at Reggio, where Walpole fell ill. Returning to England (1741), he took his seat for Callington in Cornwall; but although he interested himself in cases like the Byng trial of 1757, his function in politics was that of the chronicling spectator rather than the energetic actor. He exchanged his Cornish seat in 1754 for the family borough of Castle Rising, and this in 1757 for that of King's Lynn. In 1745 his father died, leaving him with ample means; and he continued to live the life of collector and connoisseur, dabbling lightly in familiar verse and jeux d'esprit, trifling with history and art criticism, and corresponding voluminously. In 1747 he purchased, near Twickenham, the cottage which he gradually elaborated into the well-known 'Gothic Castle' and 'curiosity shop' of Strawberry Hill. This transformation, authorship, visits to Paris (1765, 1767, 1775, where he came to know Madame du Deffand), the establishment of a private press (1757), and correspondence with Sir Horace Mann and others constituted the occupations of his life. His acquaintance with the two Misses Berry, his 'twin wives,' dated from 1788; he died in London 2nd March 1797, and was buried at Houghton, the Norfolk seat of his family. In 1791, by the death of his eldest brother's son, he had become fourth Earl of Orford; he was never married. His essays in Moore's World exhibit a deft hand, and he had gifts as a verse-writer. In such squibs as the Letter from Xo Ho to his friend Lien Chi at Pekin (1757), in which he follows Montesquieu and Lyttelton and anticipates Goldsmith, he is at his best. His Castle of Otranto (1764), professedly a translation from the MS. of an Italian cleric, was, with its mediæval and supernatural machinery, a forerunner of the romantic movement. Lauded by Sir Walter Scott and denounced by Hazlitt, this romance had undoubtedly the honour, such as it is, of leading up to the School of Terror,' to Clara Reeve and Mrs Radcliffe, to Beckford and Monk Lewis and Maturin. Walpole's tragedy of The Mysterious Mother (1768), pronounced of the highest order' by Byron, is 'strong' but gruesome. Other works often quoted are the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors (1758; best ed. 1806), Fugitive Pieces in Verse and Prose (1758), Anecdotes of Painting in England (1761-71, a standard work for more than a century), a Catalogue of Engravers (1763), Historic Doubts on Richard III. (1768), an Essay on Modern Gardening (1785), Memoirs of the Last Ten Years of George II.(1822), Memoirs of the Reign of George III. (1845; good ed. by G. F. Russell Barker, 1892), &c. He also printed at the Strawberry Hill Press

the Odes of Gray (1757), Grammont's Memoires (1772), Life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury (1764), Lucan's Pharsalia, with Bentley's notes (1760), &c. Walpole's literary reputation rests chiefly upon his published letters, which, nearly 2700 in number, rival in interest those of his friend Gray, and deal in the most vivacious way with party politics, foreign affairs, literature, art, and personal gossip. His criticisms, frequently caustic, at times merely capricious, often show real literary insight.

Strawberry Hill.

You perceive by my date [1747] that I am got into a new camp, and have left my tub at Windsor. It is a little plaything house that I got out of Mrs Chenevix's shop [the place was sub-let to him by Mrs Chenevix, a toy-woman], and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. It is set in enamelled meadows, with filigree hedges

A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little finches wave their wings of gold. Two delightful roads, that you would call dusty, supply me continually with coaches and chaises; barges as solemn as Barons of the Exchequer move under my window; Richmond Hill and Ham Walks bound my prospects; but, thank God! the Thames is between me and the Duchess of Queensberry. Dowagers, as plenty as flounders, inhabit all around; and Pope's ghost is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight.

The Scottish Rebellion.

Νου. 15, 1745.

I told you in my last what disturbance there had been about the new regiments; the affair of rank was again disputed on the report till ten at night, and carried by a majority of twenty-three. The King had been persuaded to appear for it, though Lord Granville made it a party-point against Mr Pelham. Winnington did not speak. I was not there, for I could not vote for it, and yielded not to give any hindrance to a public measure (or at least what was called so) just now. The Prince acted openly, and influenced his people against it; but it only served to let Mr Pelham see, what, like everything else, he did not know, how strong he is. The King will scarce speak to him, and he cannot yet get Pitt into place.

The Rebels are come into England: for two days we believed them near Lancaster, but the Ministry now own that they don't know if they have passed Carlisle. Some think they will besiege that town, which has an old wall, and all the militia in it of Cumberland and Westmoreland; but as they can pass by it, I don't see why they should take it, for they are not strong enough to leave garrisons. Several desert them as they advance south; and altogether, good men and bad, nobody believes them ten thousand. By their marching westward to avoid Wade, it is evident that they are not strong enough to fight him. They may yet retire back into their mountains, but if once they get to Lancaster, their retreat is cut off; for Wade will not stir from Newcastle till he has embarked them deep into England, and then he will be behind them. He has sent General

Handasyde from Berwick with two regiments to take possession of Edinburgh. The Rebels are certainly in a very desperate situation: they dared not meet Wade; and if they had waited for him, their troops would have

was not sent.

deserted. Unless they meet with great risings in their favour in Lancashire, I don't see what they can hope, except from a continuation of our neglect. That, indeed, has nobly exerted itself for them. They were suffered to march the whole length of Scotland, and take possession of the capital, without a man appearing against them. Then two thousand men sailed to them, to run from them. Till the flight of Cope's army, Wade Two roads still lay into England, and till they had chosen that which Wade had not taken, no army was thought of being sent to secure the other. Now Ligonier, with seven old regiments, and six of the new, is ordered to Lancashire: before this first division of the army could get to Coventry, they are forced to order it to halt, for fear the enemy should be up with it before it was all assembled. It is uncertain if the Rebels will march to the north of Wales, to Bristol, or towards London. If to the latter, Ligonier must fight them: if to either of the other, which I hope, the two armies may join and drive them into a corner, where they must all perish. They cannot subsist in Wales but by being supplied by the papists in Ireland. The best is, that we are in no fear from France; there is no preparation for invasions in any of their ports. Lord Clancarty, a Scotchman [not so; he was Irish] of great parts, but mad and drunken, and whose family forfeited £90,000 a year for King James, is made vice-admiral at Brest. The Duke of Bedford goes in his little round person with his regiment; he now takes to the land, and says he is tired of being a pen-and-ink man. Lord Gower insisted too upon going with his regiment, but is laid up with the gout.

With the Rebels in England, you may imagine we have no private news, nor think of foreign. From this account you may judge that our cause is far from desperate, though disagreeable.

The Prince [Frederick, Prince of Wales], while the Princess lies-in, has taken to give dinners, to which he asks two of the ladies of the bed-chamber, two of the maids of honour, &c. by turns, and five or six others. He sits at the head of the table, drinks and harangues to all this medley till nine at night; and the other day, after the affair of the regiments, drank Mr Fox's health in a bumper, with three huzzas, for opposing Mr Pelham : Si qua fata aspera rumpas,

Tu Marcellus eris!' You put me in pain for my eagle, and in more for the Chutes, whose zeal is very heroic, but very ill-placed. I long to hear that all my Chutes and eagles are safe out of the Pope's hands! Pray, wish the Suareses joy of all their espousals. Does the Princess pray abundantly for her friend the Pretender? Is she extremely abattue with her devotion; and does she fast till she has got a violent appetite for supper? And then, does she eat so long, that old Sarrasin is quite impatient to go to cards again? Good-night! I intend you shall still be Resident from King George.

P.S.-I forgot to tell you that the other day I concluded the Ministry knew the danger was all over; for the Duke of Newcastle ventured to have the Pretender's declaration burnt at the Royal Exchange.

The Chutes were an English family of Walpole's acquaintance at Florence. The eagle was the antique found near the Baths of Caracalla at Rome in 1742, and purchased in 1745 by Walpole through the agency of Chute. It formed part of his collection at Strawberry Hill.

Nov. 22, 1745.

For these two days we have been expecting news of a battle. Wade marched last Saturday from Newcastle, and must have got up with the Rebels if they stayed for him, though the roads are exceedingly bad and great quantities of snow have fallen. But last night there was some notice of a body of Rebels being advanced to Penryth. We were put into great spirits by an heroic letter from the Mayor of Carlisle, who had fired on the Rebels and made them retire; he concluded with saying, And so I think the town of Carlisle has done his Majesty more service than the great city of Edinburgh, or than all Scotland together.' But this hero, who was grown the whole fashion for four-and-twenty hours, had chosen to stop all other letters. The King spoke of him at his levée with great encomiums; Lord Stair said: 'Yes, sir, Mr Paterson has behaved very bravely.' The Duke of Bedford interrupted him-'My Lord, his name is not Paterson; that is a Scotch name; his name is Pattinson. But alack! the next day the Rebels returned, having placed the women and children of the country in waggons in front of their army, and forcing the peasants to fix the scaling-ladders. The great Mr Pattinson, or Paterson (for now his name may be which one pleases), instantly surrendered the town, and agreed to pay two thousand pounds to save it from pillage.

Aug. 1, 1746.

I am this moment come from the conclusion of the greatest and most melancholy scene I ever yet saw! you will easily guess it was the trials of the rebel Lords. As it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine a coronation is a puppet-show, and all the splendour of it, idle; but this sight at once feasted one's eyes and engaged all one's passions. It began last Monday; three-parts of Westminster-hall were inclosed with galleries, and hung with scarlet; and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners at the bar, amidst the idle curiosity of some crowd, and even with the witnesses who had sworn against them, while the Lords adjourned to their own house to consult. No part of the Royal Family was there, which was a proper regard to the unhappy men, who were become their victims. One hundred and thirty-nine Lords were present, and made a noble sight on their benches frequent and full! The Chancellor was Lord High Steward; but though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curiously searching for occasion to bow to the Minister that is no peer, and consequently applying to the other Ministers, in a manner, for their order; and not even ready at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he was peevish; and instead of keeping up to the humane dignity of the law of England, whose character it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards defence. I had armed myself with all the resolution I could, with the thought of their crimes and of the danger past, and was assisted by the sight of the Marquis of Lothian in weepers for his son who fell at Culloden-but the first appearance of the prisoners shocked me! their behaviour melted me! Lord Kilmarnock and Lord Cromartie are both past forty, but look younger. Lord Kilmarnock is tall and slender, with an extreme fine person: his behaviour a most just mixture between dignity and submission; if in anything to be reprehended, a little affected, and his

hair too exactly dressed for a man in his situation; but when I say this, it is not to find fault with him, but to shew how little fault there was to be found. Lord Cromartie is an indifferent figure, appeared much dejected, and rather sullen: he dropped a few tears the first day, and swooned as soon as he got back to his cell. For Lord Balmerino, he is the most natural brave old fellow I ever saw: the highest intrepidity, even to indifference. At the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man; in the intervals of form, with carelessness and humour. He pressed extremely to have his wife, his pretty Peggy, with him in the Tower. Lady Cromartie only sees her husband through the grate, not choosing to be shut up with him, as she thinks she can serve him better by her intercession without. . . . When they were to be brought from the Tower in separate coaches, there was some dispute in which the axe must go-old Balmerino cried, 'Come, come, put it with me.' At the bar, he plays with his fingers upon the axe, while he talks to the gentleman-gaoler; and one day, somebody coming up to listen, he took the blade and held it like a fan between their faces. During the trial, a little boy was near him, but not tall enough to see; he made room for the child and placed him near himself. . . .

When the peers were going to vote, Lord Foley withdrew, as too well a wisher; Lord Moray, as nephew of Lord Balmerino-and Lord Stair, as, I believe, uncle to his great grandfather. Lord Windsor, very affectedly, said, I am sorry I must say, guilty upon my honour.' Lord Stamford would not answer to the name of Henry, having been christened Harry-what a great way of thinking on such an occasion! I was diverted too with old Norsa, . . . an old Jew that kept a tavern. My brother, as Auditor of the Exchequer, has a gallery along one whole side of the court. I said, 'I really feel for the prisoners!' Old Issachar replied, "Feel for them! pray, if they had succeeded, what would have become of all us?' When my Lady Townshend heard her husband vote, she said, 'I always knew my lord was guilty, but I never thought he would own it upon his honour.' Lord Balmerino said, that one of his reasons for pleading not guilty, was, that so many ladies might not be disappointed of their show. . . . He said, 'They call me Jacobite; I am no more a Jacobite than any that tried me: but if the Great Mogul had set up his standard, I should have followed it, for I could not starve.'

London Earthquakes and London Gossip.

Mar. 11, 1750.
Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent,
That they have lost their name.

-DRYDEN'S All for Love. My text is not literally true; but as far as earthquakes go towards lowering the price of wonderful commodities, to be sure we are overstocked. We have had a second, much more violent than the first; and you must not be surprised if by next post you hear of a burning mountain sprung up in Smithfield. In the night between Wednesday and Thursday last (exactly a month since the first shock) the earth had a shivering fit between one and two, but so slight, that if no more had followed, I don't believe it would have been noticed. I had been awake, and had scarce dozed again-on a sudden I felt my bolster lift up my head; I thought somebody was getting from under my bed, but soon

found it was a strong earthquake, that lasted near half a minute, with a violent vibration and great roaring. I rung my bell; my servant came in, frightened out of his senses in an instant we heard all the windows in the neighbourhood flung up. I got up and found people running into the street, but saw no mischief done : there has been some; two old houses flung down, several chimneys, and much china-ware. The bells rung in several houses. Admiral Knowles, who has lived long in Jamaica, and felt seven there, says this was more violent than any of them: Francesco prefers it to the dreadful one at Leghorn. The wise say, that if we have not rain soon, we shall certainly have more. Several people are going out of town, for it has nowhere reached above ten miles from London: they say they are not frightened, but that it is such fine weather, 'Lord! one

HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD. From Portrait by Nathaniel Hone in National Portrait Gallery.

can't help going into the country!' . . . A parson, who came into White's the morning of earthquake the first, and heard bets laid on whether it was an earthquake or the blowing up of powder-mills, went away exceedingly scandalised, and said: 'I protest they are such an impious set of people, that I believe if the last trumpet was to sound, they would bet puppet-show against Judgment.' . . .

The Middlesex election is carried against the Court: the Prince, in a green frock (and I won't swear but in a Scotch plaid waistcoat), sat under the park-wall in his chair, and hallooed the voters on to Brentford. The Jacobites are so transported, that they are opening subscriptions for all boroughs that shall be vacant.

The Round of London Life.

Dec. 29, 1763.

We are a very absurd nation (though the French are so good at present as to think us a very wise one, only because they themselves are now a very weak one); but

then that absurdity depends upon the almanac. Posterity, who will know nothing of our intervals, will conclude that this age was a succession of events. I could tell them that we know as well when an event, as when Easter, will happen. Do but recollect these last ten years. The beginning of October, one is certain that everybody will be at Newmarket, and the Duke of Cumberland will lose, and Shafto win, two or three thousand pounds. After that, while people are preparing to come to town for the winter, the Ministry is suddenly changed, and all the world comes to learn how it happened, a fortnight sooner than they intended; and fully persuaded that the new arrangement cannot last a month. The Parliament opens: everybody is bribed; and the new establishment is perceived to be composed of atlamant. November passes, with two or three selfmurders, and a new play. Christmas arrives; everybody goes out of town; and a riot happens in one of the theatres. The Parliament meets again: taxes are warmly opposed, and some citizen makes his fortune by a subscription. The Opposition languishes: balls and assemblies begin: some master and miss begin to get together, are talked of, and give occasion to forty more matches being invented; an unexpected · debate starts up at the end of the session, that makes more noise than anything that was designed to make a noise, and subsides again in a new peerage or two. Ranelagh opens and Vauxhall; one produces scandal, and t'other a drunken quarrel. People separate, some to Tunbridge, and some to all the horse-races in England; and so the year comes again to October.

From The Castle of Otranto.'

The marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in the princess's apartment. Concluding her, as he had been advertised, in her oratory, he passed on. The door was a-jar; the evening gloomy and overcast. Pushing open the door gently, he saw a person kneeling before the altar. As he approached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a long woollen weed, whose back was towards him. The person seemed absorbed in prayer. The marquis was about to return, when the figure, rising, stood some moments fixed in meditation, without regarding him. The marquis, expecting the holy person to come forth, and meaning to excuse his uncivil interruption, said, Reverend father, I sought the Lady Hippolita.-Hippolita! replied a hollow voice; camest thou to this castle to seek Hippolita? and then the figure turning slowly round, discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a hermit's cowl.-Angels of grace protect me! cried Frederic, recoiling.-Deserve their protection! said the spectre.-Frederic, falling on his knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him.-Dost thou not remember me? said the apparition. Remember the wood of Joppa! -Art thou that holy hermit? cried Frederic, trembling. Can I do aught for thy eternal peace?-Wast thou delivered from bondage, said the spectre, to pursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven engraven on it?--I have not, I have not, said Frederic: but say, blest spirit, what is thy errand to me? what remains to be done?-To forget Matilda! said the apparition, and vanished.

Frederic's blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he remained motionless. Then, falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he besought the intercession of

every saint for pardon. A flood of tears succeeded to this transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing, in spite of him, on his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. Ere he could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita, with a taper in her hand, entered the oratory alone. Seeing a man, without motion, on the floor, she gave a shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederic to himself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushed from her presence; but Hippolita, stopping him, conjured him, in the most plaintive accents, to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strange chance she had found him there in that posture.-Ah! virtuous princess! said the marquis, penetrated with grief and stopped.-For the love of heaven, my lord, said Hippolita, disclose the cause of this transport! What mean these doleful sounds, this alarming exclamation on my name? What woes has Heaven still in store for the wretched Hippolita?—Yet silent!-By every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble prince, continued she, falling at his feet, to disclose the purport of what lies at thy heart-I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest the sharp pangs that thou inflictestspeak, for pity!-does ought thou knowest concern my child?—I cannot speak, cried Frederic, bursting from her-Oh! Matilda!

Walpole's Works were edited by Mary Berry (5 vols. 1798) Peter Cunningham's collection of the Letters (9 vols. 1857-59) was superseded by Mrs Paget Toynbee's very full and careful edition (16 vols. 1904-6). See also Memoirs of Horace Walpole, edited by Eliot Warburton (1851) and the Life by Mr Austin Dobson (2nd ed. 1893). Macaulay's Essay is brilliant but unsympathetic. SainteBeuve's essays on Madame du Deffand (Causeries, vols. i. and xiv.) give an interesting account of Walpole's relations with the Parisian salons. Some Unpublished Letters were edited by Sir Spencer Walpole in 1902.

Alexander Carlyle (1722-1805) was born at Cummertrees manse near Annan, whence in 1724 his father was called to Prestonpans. Educated at Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Leyden, he was minister of Inveresk from 1748 till his death. He was

a divinity student when he volunteered for the defence of Edinburgh against Prince Charlie (the defence the authorities did not attempt); and he saw the flight of the defeated royal troops from his father's manse garden. The friend of Hume, Adam Smith, Smollett, John Home, &c., he was present in the theatre when Home's Douglas was first performed; and he belonged emphatically to the Broad Church party in the Scotland of the eighteenth century. With Robertson the historian he led the Moderates in the Church of Scotland; he was Moderator of the General Assembly, and was made Dean of the Chapel Royal in 1789. His imposing presence earned him the name of 'Jupiter' Carlyle; he was,' says Sir Walter Scott, 'the grandest demigod I ever saw.' His very interesting Autobiography was first edited in 1860 by John Hill Burton.

Prestonpans.

I directed the maid to awake me the moment the battle began, and fell into a profound sleep in an instant. I had no need to be awaked, though the maid was punctual, for I heard the first cannon that was fired, and started to my clothes; which, as I neither buckled