Brow country, rich in all charms of field and town. Waving glances across the mists of history,' by humour, pathos, and eloquence. Shortly after the completion of this laborious History, Mr Carlyle was elected Lord Rector of Edinburgh University, and on April 2, 1866, he delivered his installation address-an extemporaneous effusion, or at least spoken without notes, and quite equal, in literary power, to his published works. His triumph on this occasion was followed by a heavy calamity, the loss of his wife, who died before his return to England. For forty years she was the true and loving helpmate of her husband, and by act and word unweariedly forwarded him as none else could, in all of worthy that he did or attempted. She died at London, 21st April 1866, suddenly snatched away from him, and the light of his life as if gone out.' Such is part of the inscription on the tomb of this excel lent woman. The subsequent publications of Mr Carlyle have been short addresses on the topics of the day. In 1867 an article in Macmillan's Magazine entitled Shooting Niagara, in the style of the Latter-day Pamphlets, predicted a series of evils and disasters from the Reform Act; another occasional utterance was in favour of emigration; and a third, on the war between France and Germany (1870), expressed the joy of the writer over the defeat of France. The fame of Mr Carlyle has been gradually extending, and a cheap edition of his works has reached the great sale of 30,000 copies. A brother of Mr Carlyle-DR J. A. CARLYLE, an accomplished physician-has published an admirable prose translation of the Inferno of Dante. Frederick the Great. About fourscore years ago, there used to be seen sauntering on the terraces of Sans-Souci, for a short In 1858 appeared the first portion of Mr Carlyle's where at an earlier hour, riding or driving in a rapid time in the afternoon, or you might have met him elselong-expected work, the History of Friedrich II., business manner, on the open roads or through the called Frederick the Great, volumes i. and ii. scraggy woods and avenues of that intricate amphibious The third and fourth volumes were published in Potsdam region, a highly interesting lean little old man, 1862, and the fifth and sixth, completing the work, of alert though slightly stooping figure; whose name in 1865. A considerable part of the first volume among strangers was King Friedrich the Second, or is devoted to 'clearing the way' for the approach Frederick the Great of Prussia, and at home among the of the hero, and tracing the Houses of Branden- common people, who much loved and esteemed him, was burg and Hohenzollern. Frederick, as Mr Carlyle Vater Fritz-Father Fred-a name of familiarity which admits, was rather a questionable hero. But he had not bred contempt in that instance. He is a king was a reality, and had 'nothing whatever of the every inch of him, though without the trappings of a hypocrite or phantasm.' This was the biographer's king. Presents himself in a Spartan simplicity of vesture: inducement and encouragement to study his life. no crown but an old military cocked-hat-generally old, or trampled and kneaded into absolute softness, 'How this man, officially a king withal, comported if new; no sceptre but one like Agamemnon's, a walkinghimself in the eighteenth century, and managed stick cut from the woods, which serves also as a ridingnot to be a liar and charlatan as his century was, stick (with which he hits the horse between the ears,' deserves to be seen a little by men and kings, say authors); and for royal robes, a mere soldier's blue and may silently have didactic meanings in it.' coat with red facings-coat likely to be old, and sure to And the eighteenth century is cordially abused as have a good deal of Spanish snuff on the breast of it; a period of worthlessness and inanity. What rest of the apparel dim, unobtrusive in colour or cut, little it did, we must call Friedrich; what little it ending in high over-knee military boots, which may be thought, Voltaire.' But as the eighteenth century brushed (and, I hope, kept soft with an underhand sushad also David Hume, Adam Smith, Samuel picion of oil), but are not permitted to be blackened Johnson, Henry Fielding, and Robert Burns-to bidden to approach. The man is not of god-like physior varnished; Day and Martin with their soot-pots forsay nothing of Chatham and Burke, we must demur to such extravagant and wholesale con- close-shut mouth with thin lips, prominent jaws and ognomy, any more than of imposing stature or costume; demnation. These idiosyncrasies and prejudices nose, receding brow, by no means of Olympian height; of Mr Carlyle must be taken, like his peculiar head, however, is of long form, and has superlative gray style, because they are accompanied by better eyes in it. Not what is called a beautiful man; nor things by patient historical research, by vivid yet, by all appearance, what is called a happy. On the contrary, the face bears evidence of many sorrows, as they are termed, of much hard labour done in this world; and seems to anticipate nothing but more still coming. Quiet stoicism, capable enough of what joy there were, but not expecting any worth mention; great unconscious and some conscious pride, well tempered with a cheery mockery of humour, are written on that old face, which carries its chin well forward, in spite of the slight stoop about the neck; snuffy nose, rather flung into the air, under its old cocked-hat, like an old snuffy lion on the watch; and such a pair of eyes as no man, or lion, or lynx of that century bore elsewhere, according to all the testimony we have. 'Those eyes,' says Mirabeau, 'which, at the bidding of his great soul, fascinated you with seduction or with terror' (portaient au gré de son âme héroïque, la séduction ou la terreur). Most excellent, potent, brilliant eyes, swift-darting as the stars, steadfast as the sun; gray, we said, of the azure-gray colour; large enough, not of glaring size; the habitual expression of them vigilance and penetrating sense, rapidity resting on depth. Which is an excellent combination; and gives us the notion of a lambent outer radiance springing from some great inner sea of light and fire in the man. The voice, if he speak to you, is of similar physiognomy: clear, melodious, and sonorous; all tones are in it, from that of ingenuous inquiry, graceful sociality, light-flowing banter (rather prickly for most part), up to definite word of command, up to desolating word of rebuke and reprobation: a voice the clearest and most agreeable in conversation I ever heard,' says witty Dr Moore. 'He speaks a great deal,' continues the doctor; 'yet those who hear him, regret that he does not speak a good deal more. His observations are always lively, very often just; and few men possess the talent of repartee in greater perfection.'. . The French Revolution may be said to have, for about half a century, quite submerged Friedrich, abolished him from the memories of men; and now on coming to light again, he is found defaced under strange mud-incrustations, and the eyes of mankind look at him from a singularly changed, what we must call oblique and perverse point of vision. This is one of the difficulties in dealing with his history-especially if you happen to believe both in the French Revolution and in him; that is to say, both that Real Kingship is eternally indispensable, and also that the Destruction of Sham Kingship (a frightful process) is occasionally so. On the breaking out of that formidable Explosion and Suicide of his Century, Friedrich sank into comparative obscurity; eclipsed amid the ruins of that universal earthquake, the very dust of which darkened all the air, and made of day a disastrous midnight. Black midnight, broken only by the blaze of conflagrations; wherein, to our terrified imaginations, were seen, not men, French and other, but ghastly portents, stalking wrathful, and shapes of avenging gods. It must be owned the figure of Napoleon was titanic-especially to the generation that looked on him, and that waited shuddering to be devoured by him. In general, in that French Revolution, all was on a huge scale; if not greater than anything in human experience, at least more grandiose. All was recorded in bulletins, too, addressed to the shilling-gallery; and there were fellows on the stage with such a breadth of sabre, extent of whiskerage, strength of windpipe, and command of men and gunpowder, as had never been seen before. How they bellowed, stalked, and flourished about; counterfeiting Jove's thunder to an amazing degree! Terrific Drawcansir figures, of enormous whiskerage, unlimited command of gunpowder; not without sufficient ferocity, and even a certain heroism, stage-heroism in them; compared with whom, to the shilling-gallery, and frightened excited theatre at large, it seemed as if there had been no generals or sovereigns before; as if Friedrich, Gustavus, Cromwell, William Conqueror, and Alexander the Great were not worth speaking of hence forth. Charlotte Corday—Death of Marat. Amid the dim ferment of Caen and the world, history specially notices one thing: in the lobby of the Mansion de l'Intendance, where busy Deputies are coming and going, a young lady, with an aged valet, taking graceful leave of Deputy Barbaroux. She is of stately Norman figure; in her twenty-fifth year; of beautiful still countenance: her name is Charlotte Corday, heretofore styled D'Armans, while nobility still was. Barbaroux has given her a note to Deputy Duperet-him who once drew his sword in the effervescence. Apparently, she will to Paris on some errand. 'She was a Republican before the Revolution, and never wanted energy.' A completeness, a decision, is in this fair female figure: by energy she means the spirit that will prompt one to sacrifice himself for his country.' What if she, this fair young Charlotte, had emerged from her secluded stillness, suddenly like a star; cruel, lovely, with half-angelic, half-demonic splendour, to gleam for a moment, and in a moment to be extinguished: to be held in memory, so bright complete was she, through long centuries. Quitting cimmerian coalitions without, and the dim-simmering twenty-five millions within, history will look fixedly at this one fair apparition of a Charlotte Corday; will note whither Charlotte moves, how the little life burns forth so radiant, then vanishes, swallowed of the night. ་ With Barbaroux's note of introduction, and slight stock of luggage, we see Charlotte on Tuesday the 9th of July seated in the Caen diligence, with a place for Paris. None takes farewell of her, wishes her good journey; her father will find a line left, signifying that she has gone to England, that he must pardon her and forget her. The drowsy diligence lumbers along; amid drowsy talk of politics and praise of the Mountain, in which she mingles not; all night, all day, and again all night. On Thursday not long before noon we are at the bridge of Neuilly; here is Paris, with her thousand black domes-the goal and purpose of thy journey! Arrived at the Inn de la Providence, in the Rue des Vieux Augustins, Charlotte demands a room; hastens to bed; sleeps all afternoon and night, till the following morning. On the morrow morning she delivers her note to Duperet. It relates to certain family papers, which are in the Minister of the Interior's hands, which a nun at Caen, an old convent friend of Charlotte's, has need of; which Duperet shall assist her in getting; this, then, was Charlotte's errand to Paris. She has finished this in the course of Friday, yet says nothing of returning. She has seen and silently investigated several things. The Convention in bodily reality she has seen; what the Mountain is like. The living physiognomy of Marat she could not see; he is sick at present and confined at home. About eight on the Saturday morning she purchased a large sheath-knife in the Palais Royal; then straightway, in the Place des Victoires, takes a hackney-coach. To the Rue de l'Ecole de Médecine, No. 44.' It is the residence of the Citoyen Marat!-The Citoyen Marat is ill, and cannot be seen, which seems to disappoint her much. Her business is with Marat then? Hapless, beautiful Charlotte; hapless, squalid Marat! From Caen in the utmost west, from Neuchâtel in the utmost east, they two are drawing nigh each other; they two have, very strangely, business together. Charlotte, returning to her inn, despatches a short note to Marat, signifying that she is from Caen, the seat of rebellion; that she desires earnestly to see him, and will put it in his power to do France a great service.' No answer. Charlotte writes another note still more pressing; sets out with it by coach about seven in the evening, herself. Tired day-labourers have again finished their week; huge Paris is circling and simmering manifold, according to the vague want: this one fair figure has decision in it; drives straight towards a purpose. It is yellow July evening, we say, the 13th of the month, eve of the Bastille day, when M. Marat, four years ago, in the crowd of the Pont-Neuf, shrewdly required of that Bessenval hussar party, which had such friendly dispositions, 'to dismount and give up their arms then,' and became notable among patriot men. Four years; what a road he has travelled; and sits now, about half-past seven of the clock, stewing in slipper-bath, sore afflicted; ill of Revolution fever-of what other malady this history had rather not name. Excessively sick and worn, poor man, with precisely elevenpence-halfpenny of ready money in paper; with slipper-bath, strong three-footed stool for writing on the while; and a squalid washerwoman, one may call her: that is his civic establishment in Medical School Street; thither and not elsewhither has his road led him-not to the reign of brotherhood and perfect felicity, yet surely on the way towards that. Hark! a rap again! a musical woman's voice, refusing to be rejected: it is the citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat, recognising from within, cries: 'Admit her.' Charlotte Corday is admitted. on tiptoe, the fatal cart issues; seated on it a fair young Death of Marie Antoinette. It is "Citoyen Marat, I am from Caen, the seat of rebellion, and wished to speak to you.' 'Be seated, mon enfant. Now, what are the traitors doing at Caen? What deputies are at Caen?' Charlotte names some deputies. 'Their heads shall fall within a fortnight,' croaks the Is there a man's heart that thinks without pity of eager People's Friend, clutching his tablets to write. those long months and years of slow-wasting ignominy; Barbaroux, Pétion, writes he with bare shrunk arm, turn- of thy birth, self-cradled in imperial Schönbrunn, the ing aside in the bath: Pétion and Louvet, and-Charlotte winds of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy has drawn her knife from the sheath; plunges it with foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendour; and one sure stroke into the writer's heart. A moi, chère then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the amie. Help, dear!' No more could the death-choked guillotine and Fouquier-Tinville's judgment-bar was but say or shriek. The helpful washerwoman running in, the merciful end! Look there, O man born of woman! there is no friend of the people or friend of the washer- The bloom of that fair face is wasted, the hair is gray woman left; but his life with a groan gushes out, indig-with care; the brightness of those eyes is quenched, nant, to the shades below. And so, Marat, People's Friend, is ended. ... their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale, as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand As for Charlotte Corday, her work is accomplished:has mended, attire the Queen of the World. The deaththe recompense of it is clear and sure. The chère amie and neighbours of the house flying at her, she 'overturns some movables,' intrenches herself till the gendarmes arrive; then quickly surrenders, goes quietly to the Abbaye prison: she alone quiet, all Paris sounding in wonder, in rage, or admiration, round her. Duperet is put in arrest on account of her; his papers sealed, which may lead to consequences. Fauchet in like manner, though Fauchet had not so much as heard of her. Charlotte, confronted with these two deputies, praises the grave firmness of Duperet, censures the dejection of Fauchet. On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and Revolutionary Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she dates it 'fourth day of the Preparation of Peace.' A strange murmur ran through the hall at sight of her-you could not say of what character. Tinville has his indictments and tape-papers; the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he sold her the sheath-knife. All these details are needless,' interrupted Charlotte; it is I that killed Marat.' By whose instigation?' 'By no one's.' 'What tempted you, then?' 'His crimes. I killed one man,' added she, raising her voice extremely (extrémement) as they went on with their questions-I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; a villain, to save innocents, a savage wild beast, to give repose to my country. I was a Republican before the Revolution; I never wanted energy.' There is, therefore, nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the hasty limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving; the men of law proceed with their formalities. The doom is death as a murderess. To her advocate she gives thanks; in gentle phrase, in high-flown classical spirit. To the priest they send her she gives thanks, but needs not any shriving, any ghostly or other aid from him. hurdle where thou sittest pale, motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac heads, the air deaf with their triumph-yell! The living-dead must shudder with yet one other pang; her startled blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is there no heart to say, God pity thee! O think not of these; think of HIM whom thou worshippest, the crucified-who also treading the wine press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper; and triumphed over it and made it holy, and built of it a 'sanctuary of sorrow' for thee and all the wretched! Thy path of thorns is nigh ended, one long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was once so light-where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block; the axe rushes-dumb lies the world; that wild-yelling world, and all its madness, is behind thee. Await the Issue. In this God's world, with its wild whirling eddies and mad foam oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and judgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think that there is therefore no justice? It is what the fool hath said in his heart. It is what the wise, in all times, were wise because they denied, and knew for ever not to be. I tell thee again, there is nothing else but justice. One strong thing I find here below: the just thing, the true thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing; and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton, and say: 'In God's name, No!' Thy 'success?' Poor devil, On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven what will thy success amount to? If the thing is unjust, o'clock, from the gate of the Conciergerie, to a city all | thou hast not succeeded; no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just things lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success? In few years, thou wilt be dead and dark-all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, dingdong of bells, or leading articles visible or audible to thee again at all for ever. What kind of success is that? It is true all goes by approximation in this world; with any not insupportable approximation we must be patient. There is a noble Conservatism as well as an ignoble. Would to Heaven, for the sake of Conservatism itself, the noble alone were left, and the ignoble, by some kind severe hand, were ruthlessly lopped away, forbidden ever more to shew itself! For it is the right and noble alone that will have victory in this struggle; the rest is wholly an obstruction, a postponement and fearful imperilment of the victory. Towards an eternal centre of right and nobleness, and of that only, is all this confusion tending. We already know whither it is all tending; what will have victory, what will have none! The Heaviest will reach the centre. The Heaviest, sinking through complex fluctuating media and vortices, has its deflections, its obstructions, nay, at times its resiliences, its reboundings; whereupon some blockhead shall be heard jubilating: 'See, your Heaviest ascends!' but at all moments it is moving centreward, fast as is convenient for it; sinking, sinking; and, by laws older than the world, old as the Maker's first plan of the world, it has to arrive there. Await the issue. In all battles, if you await the issue, each fighter has prospered according to his right. His right and his might, at the close of the account, were one and the same. He has fought with all his might, and in exact proportion to all his right he has prevailed. His very death is no victory over him. He dies indeed; but his work lives, very truly lives. A heroic Wallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hinder that his Scotland become, one day, a part of England; but he does hinder that it become, on tyrannous unfair terms, a part of it; commands still, as with a god's voice, from his old Valhalla and Temple of the Brave, that there be a just real union as of brother and brother, not a false and merely semblant one as of slave and master. If the union with England be in fact one of Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace withal that it was not the chief curse. Scotland is not Ireland: no, because brave men rose there, and said: 'Behold, ye must not tread us down like slaves; and ye shall not, and cannot!' Fight on, thou brave true heart, and falter not, through dark fortune and through bright. The cause thou fightest for, so far as it is true, no further, yet precisely so far, is very sure of victory. The falsehood alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it ought to be but the truth of it is part of Nature's own laws, co-operates with the world's eternal tendencies, and cannot be conquered. SIR GEORGE CORNEWALL LEWIS. SIR GEORGE CORNEWALL LEWIS (1806-1863), an able scholar and statesman, was the son of Sir Thomas Frankland Lewis, a Radnorshire baronet, who was for several years chairman of the Poorlaw Board, and by whose death in 1855 his son succeeded to the baronetcy and estate. Sir George was educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford, and having studied at the Middle Temple, was called to the bar in 1831. Entering into public life, he filled various government offices, and was M.P. for Herefordshire, and afterwards for the Radnor district of boroughs. His highest appointment was that of Chancellor of the Exchequer, which he held under Lord Palmerston for about three years-1855-58. He was also some time Secretary of State for the Home Department, and Secretary for War. He was for about three years (1852-55) editor of the Edinburgh Review. An accomplished classical and German scholar, Sir George examined the early history of Greece and Rome with the views of the German commentators, and he reviewed the theory of Niebuhr in an elaborate work, entitled An Inquiry into the Credibility of Early Roman History, two volumes, 1855. All attempts to reduce the picturesque narratives of the early centuries of Rome to a purely historical form he conceives to be nugatory, and he devotes considerable space to an examination of the primitive history of the nations of Italy. Dionysius, Livy, and the other ancient historians, had no authentic materials for the primitive ethnology and the early national movements of Italy, and, of course, modern inquirers cannot hope to arrive at safe conclusions on the subject. Hence he dismisses the results not only of the uncritical Italian historians, but those of the learned and sagacious Germans, Niebuhr and Müller. The legends are mere shifting clouds of mythology, which may at a distance deceive the mariner by the appearance of solid land, but disappear as he approaches and examines them by a close view.' The scepticism of Sir George, however, is considered rather too sweeping; and it has justly been remarked, that 'we may be contented to believe of Roman history at least as much as Cicero believed, without inquiring too curiously the grounds of his belief.' The following notice of Niebuhr's theory also appears to tell against Sir George's own rule with respect to the rationalistic treatment of early history. Niebuhr's Ballad Theory. He divides the Roman history into three periods: 1. The purely mythical period, including the foundation of the city and the reigns of the first two kings. 2. The mythico-historical period, including the reigns of the last five kings, and the first fourteen years of the republic. 3. The historical period, beginning with the first secession. The poems, however, which he supposes to have served as the origin of the received history, are not peculiar to any one of these periods; they equally appear in the reigns of Romulus and Numa, in the time of the Tarquins, and in the narratives of Coriolanus and of the siege of Veii. If the history of periods so widely different was equally drawn from a poetical source, it is clear that the poems must have arisen under wholly dissimilar circumstances, and that they can afford no sure foundation for any historical inference. For solving the problem of the early Roman history, the great desideratum is, to obtain some means of separating the truth from the fiction; and, if any parts be true, of explaining how the records were preserved with fidelity, until the time of the earliest historians, by termediate stages, have transmitted them to us. whom they were adopted, and who, through certain in For example, we may believe that the expulsion of the Tarquins, the creation of a dictator and of tribunes, the adventures of Coriolanus, the Decemvirate, the expedition of the Fabii and the battle of the Cremera, the siege of Veil, the capture of Rome by the Gauls, and the disaster of Caudium, with other portions of the Samnite wars, are events which are indeed to a considerable extent distorted, obscured, and corrupted by fiction, and incrusted with legendary additions; but that they, nevertheless, contain a nucleus of fact, in varying degrees: if where the fiction begins-and also what were the means so, we should wish to know how far the fact extends, and by which a general historical tradition of events, as they really happened, was perpetuated. This is the question to which an answer is desired; and therefore we are not assisted by a theory which explains how that part of the narrative which is not historical originated. Sir George C. Lewis was a laborious student and voluminous writer. How he found time, in the midst of official and public duties, and within the space of a comparatively short life, for such varied and profound studies, is remarkable. Among his works are treatises on the Romance Language, on the Use and Abuse of Political Terms, on the Influence of Authority in Matters of Opinion, on the Method of Observation and Reasoning in Politics, on the Irish Church Question, on the Government of Dependencies, on the Astronomy of the Ancients, a Dialogue on the Best Form of Government, &c. The indefatigable baronet was a frequent contributor to Notes and Queries. His death was lamented by all parties, and was indeed a national loss. REV. C. MERIVALE. The Roman History of Dr Arnold was left, as already mentioned, in an unfinished state, in consequence of the sudden death of the author. No good account of the period between the close of the second Carthaginian war and the death of Sylla existed in our English historical literature, and to supply the void, the REV. CHARLES MERIVALE, B.D., late Fellow of St John's College, Cambridge, commenced in 1850 a History of the Romans under the Empire, which he completed in 1862. 'Mr Merivale's undertaking,' said a critic in the Edinburgh Review, 'is nothing less than to bridge over no small portion of the interval between the interrupted work of Arnold and the commencement of Gibbon. He comes, therefore, between "mighty opposites." It is praise enough that he proves himself no unworthy successor to the two most gifted historians of Rome whom English literature has yet produced.' A cheap edition of Mr Merivale's History in eight volumes was published in 1865. Its author is son of the late John Herman Merivale, Commissioner of Bankruptcy; he was born in 1808, studied at St John's College, Cambridge, entered the church, and was successively rector of Lawford, Essex (1848-70), chaplain to the Speaker of the House of Commons (1863-69), and dean of Ely (December 1869). Augustus Cæsar (31 B.C.-14 A.D.) As the natural heat, and obliged to nurse himself throughout with the But although emperor in name, and in fact absolute master of his people, the manners of the Cæsar, both in public and private life, were still those of a simple citizen. On the most solemn occasions he was distinguished by no other dress than the robes and insignia of the offices which he exercised; he was attended by no other guards than those which his consular there was none of the etiquette of modern monarchies dignity rendered customary and decent. In his court to be recognised, and it was only by slow and gradual encroachment that it came to prevail in that of his successors. Augustus was contented to take up his residence in the house which had belonged to the orator Licinius Calvus, in the neighbourhood of the Forum; which he afterwards abandoned for that of Hortensius on the Palatine, of which Suetonius observes that it was remarkable neither for size nor splendour. Its halls were small, and lined, not with marble, after the luxurious fashion of many patrician palaces, but with the common Alban stone, and the pattern of the pavement was plain and simple. Nor when he succeeded Lepidus in the pontificate would he relinquish this private dwelling for the regia or public residence assigned that honourable office. In stature Augustus hardly exceeded the middle height, but his person was lightly and delicately formed, and its proportions were such as to convey a favourable and even a striking impression. His countenance was pale, and testified to the weakness of his health, and almost constant bodily suffering; but the hardships of military service had imparted a swarthy tinge to a com- Many anecdotes are recorded of the moderation with plexion naturally fair, and his eyebrows meeting over a which the emperor received the opposition, and often sharp and aquiline nose gave a serious and stern ex- the rebukes, of individuals in public as well as in pression to his countenance. His hair was light, and private. These stories are not without their importhis eyes blue and piercing; he was well pleased if any ance, as shewing how little formality there was in the one on approaching him looked on the ground and tone of addressing the master of the Roman world, and affected to be unable to meet their dazzling brightness. how entirely different the ideas of the nation were, It was said that his dress concealed many imperfections with regard to the position occupied by the Cæsar and and blemishes on his person; but he could not disguise his family, from those with which modern associations all the infirmities under which he laboured; the weak-have imbued us. We have already noticed the rude ness of the forefinger of his right hand and a lameness freedom with which Tiberius was attacked, although in the left hip were the results of wounds he incurred in a step-son of the emperor, and participating in the eminent battle with the Iapydæ in early life; he suffered repeated functions of the tribunitian power, by a declaimer in the attacks of fever of the most serious kind, especially in schools at Rhodes: but Augustus himself seems to have the course of the campaign of Philippi and that against suffered almost as much as any private citizen from the the Cantabrians, and again two years afterwards at Rome, general coarseness of behaviour which characterised the when his recovery was despaired of. From that time, Romans in their public assemblies, and the rebukes to although constantly liable to be affected by cold and which he patiently submitted were frequently such as |