procured the magnificent edition of Chrysostom by Montfaucon from a public library here, and turned over the eleven huge folios, reading wherever the subject was of peculiar interest. As to reading him through, the thing is impossible. These volumes contain matter at least equal to the whole extant literature of the best times of Greece, from Homer to Aristotle inclusive. There are certainly some very brilliant passages in his homilies. It seems curious that, though the Greek literature began to flourish so much earlier than the Latin, it continued to flourish so much later. Indeed, if you except the century which elapsed between Cicero's first public appearance and Livy's death, I am not sure that there was any time at which Greece had not writers equal, or superior, to their Roman contemporaries. I am sure that no Latin writer of the age of Lucian is to be named with Lucian; that no Latin writer of the age of Longinus is to be named with Longinus; that no Latin prose of the age of Chrysostom can be named with Chrysostom's compositions. I have read Augustine's Confessions. The book is not without interest; but he expresses himself in the style of a field-preacher.

Our Penal Code is to be published next week. It has cost me very intense labor; and, whatever its faults may be, it is certainly not a slovenly performance. Whether the work proves useful to India or not, it has been of great use, I feel and know, to my own mind.

Ever yours affectionately,

T. B. MACAULAY.

[Macaulay was six months on the voyage home, and meanwhile his father, Zachary Macaulay, died.]

TO MACVEY NAPIER

3 CLARGES STREET, June 26th, 1833.

DEAR NAPIER, I assure you that I would willingly, and even eagerly, undertake the subject which you propose, if I thought that I should serve you by doing so.

But, depend upon it, you do not know what you are asking for. I have done my best to ascertain what I can and what I cannot do. There are extensive classes of subjects which I think myself able to treat as few people can treat them. After this, you cannot suspect me of any affectation of modesty; and you will therefore believe that I tell you what I sincerely think, when I say that I am not successful in analyzing the effect of works of genius. I have written several things on historical, political, and moral questions, of which, on the fullest reconsideration, I am not ashamed, and by which I should be willing to be estimated; but I have never written a page of criticism on poetry, or the fine arts, which I would not burn if I had the power. Hazlitt used to say of himself, "I am nothing if not critical." The case with me is directly the reverse. I have a strong and acute enjoyment of works of the imagination, but I have never habituated myself to dissect them. Perhaps I enjoy them the more keenly for that very reason. Such books as Lessing's Laocoön,1 such passages as the criticism on Hamlet in Wilhelm Meister, fill me with wonder and despair. Now, a review of Lockhart's book ought to be a review of Sir Walter's literary performances. I enjoy many of them, — nobody, I believe, more keenly, but I am sure that there are hundreds who will criticise them far better. Trust to my knowledge of myself. I never in my life was more certain of anything than of what I tell you, and I am sure that Lord Jeffrey will tell you exactly the same.

There are other objections of less weight, but not quite unimportant. Surely it would be desirable that some person who knew Sir Walter, who had at least seen him and spoken with him, should be charged with this article. Many people are living who had a most intimate

1 "I began Lessing's Laocoön, and read forty or fifty pages: sometimes dissenting, but always admiring and learning." (Macaulay's Journal for September 21st, 1851.)

any

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acquaintance with him. I know no more of him than I know of Dryden or Addison, and not a tenth part so much as I know of Swift, Cowper, or Johnson. Then, again, I have not, from the little that I do know of him, fecormed so high an opinion of his character as most peoplealy seem to entertain, and as it would be expedient for the Edinburgh Review to express. He seems to me to have be men most carefully, and successfully, on his guard against tiche sins which most easily beset literary men. On that side bethe multiplied his precautions, and set double writer of note has been so free from watch. Hardly am morbid irritabilities of our caste. the petty jealousies a wrin he kept himself equally pure But I do not think that I am kind, from the faults of a from faults of a very different na bitter and unscrupulous man of the world. In politics, a Lo in expense; agitated partisan; profuse and ostentatious prose; perpetually sacrifiby the hopes and fears of a gambler stons, and the durabil cing the perfection of his compositions. ey; writing with ity of his fame, to his eagerness for monmselr satisfy wants the slovenly haste of Dryden, in order toed by circumwhich were not, like those of Dryden, cause Itroduced by stances beyond his control, but which were ults on; this is his extravagant waste or rapacious speculatihethery for it, the way in which he appears to me. I am sor for I sincerely admire the greater part of his work I cannot think him a high-minded man, or a man c strict principle. Now these are opinions which, ho softened, it would be highly unpopular to publish, pa ularly in a Scotch review.

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But why cannot you prevail on Lord Jeffrey to nish you with this article? No man could do it half well. He knew and loved Scott; and would perform th critical part of the work, which is much the most important, incomparably. I have said a good deal in the hope of convincing you that it is not without reason that I de. cline a task which I see that you wish me to undertake.

1 am quite unsettled. Breakfasts every morning, di,

e

ners every evening, and calls all day, prevent me from making any regular exertion. My books are at the baggage warehouse. My bookcases are in the hands of the cabinet maker. Whatever I write at present I must, as Bacon somewhere says, spin like a spider out of my own entrails, and I have hardly a minute in the week for such spinning. London is in a strange state of excitement. The western streets are in a constant ferment. The influx of foreigners and rustics has been prodigious, and the regular inhabitants are almost as idle and curious as the sojourners. Crowds assemble perpetually, nobody knows why, with a sort of vague expectation that there will be something to see; and after staring at each other disperse without seeing anything. This will last till the Coronation is over. The only quiet haunts are the streets of the City. For my part, I am sick to death of the turmoil and almost wish myself at Calcutta again, or becalmed on the equator. Ever yours most truly,

TO THE SAME

T. B. MACAULAY.

3 CLARGES STREET, LONDON, July 20th, 1838. DEAR NAPIER,- As to Brougham, I understand and feel for your embarrassments. I may perhaps refine too much; but I should say that this strange man, finding himself almost alone in the world, absolutely unconnected with either Whigs or Conservatives, and not having a single vote in either House of Parliament at his command except his own, is desirous to make the Review his organ. With this intention, unless I am greatly deceived, after having during several years contributed little or nothing of value, he has determined to exert himself as if he were a young writer struggling into note, and to make himself important to the work by his literary services. And he certainly has succeeded. His late articles, particularly the long one in the April number, have very high merit. They are, indeed, models of maga

zine writing as distinguished from other sorts of writing. They are not, I think, made for duration. Everything about them is exaggerated, incorrect, sketchy. All the characters are either too black or too fair. The passions of the writer do not suffer him even to maintain the decent appearance of impartiality. And the style, though striking and animated, will not bear examination through a single paragraph. But the effect of the first perusal is great; and few people read an article in a review twice. A bold, dashing, scene-painting manner is that which always succeeds best in periodical writing; and I have no doubt that these lively and vigorous papers of Lord Brougham will be of more use to you than more highly finished compositions. His wish, I imagine, is to establish in this way such an ascendency as may enable him to drag the Review along with him to any party to which his furious passions may lead him; to the Radicals; to the Tories; to any set of men by whose help he may be able to revenge himself on old friends, whose only crime is that they could not help finding him to be an habitual and incurable traitor. Hitherto your caution and firmness have done wonders. Yet already he has begun to use the word "Whig" as an epithet of reproach, exactly as it is used in the lowest writings of the Tories, and of the extreme Radicals; exactly as it is used in Blackwood, in Fraser, in The Age, in Tait's Magazine. There are several instances in the article on Lady Charlotte Bury. "The Whig notions of female propriety." "The Whig secret tribunal." I have no doubt that the tone of his papers will become more and more hostile to the Government; and that, in a short time, it will be necessary for you to take one of three courses, to every one of which there are strong objections to break with him; to admit his papers into the Review, while the rest of the Review continues to be written in quite a different tone; or to yield to his dictation, and to let him make the Review a mere tool of his ambition and revenge.