himself still in doubt as to the subject he shall select, until one famous evening he "sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted fryars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter." So he invites us to be present on the night of the 27th of June 1787, when between the hours of eleven and twelve he wrote the last lines of the last page in a summer-house in his garden. "After laying down my pen," says he, "I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatever might be the future fate of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious." To few men has it been given to pen so proud a passage; few men have known Gibbon's triumphant happiness. And something of this happiness, and very much of the incomparable talent which fashioned it, shines forth in the autobiography, which has given to the historian the immortality which the history will always enjoy.

FEBRUARY.

To all such as are interested in the demeanour of the crowd, the triumphal return of Lord Roberts to London must have seemed a bewildering spectacle. The return The experience of the past year might have of Lord persuaded us that the British mob was un

Roberts.

controllable. Our foreign critics especiallythey are many and malicious-censured the riotous joy which the people so riotously expressed when the Imperial Volunteers came marching back to their native city. And the censure was in a measure deserved. Only they let their satisfaction get the better of themthese foreign critics. After their invariable fashion, they hastily skipped from the particular to the general. "Look at the base English," they shouted, "who, not content with sending out their soldiers soddened with gin, can devise no better welcome for their favourites than a drunken orgie!" So the wish being father to the thought, they fasten together a dozen links in the chain of argument. England is losing her restraint, said they, and since she has lived for centuries upon the reputation of an estimable coldness, she is rushing headlong to ruin. But the arrival of Lord Roberts not only gave the lie to our amiable critics, but also solved a difficult problem.

When the City Volunteers entered London, they faced a mob of equals and fellow-townsmen. The enthusiasm which they provoked was none too deeply tinged with respect; and the men on the pavement broke the ranks, interrupting the procession, because the "citizen-soldiers"

were (or might have been) their familiar friends. The fête was for London an affair of the hearth, and London behaved as she might behave beneath the secrecy of her own roof, when she thought nobody was looking on. But the reception of Lord Roberts was marked by a sober dignity which instantly corrects the foreign generalisation. The enthusiasm of the crowd was tempered by respect; even the cheers were subdued by a grateful and serious admiration. "Here is the great strategist," the crowd seemed to murmur, "who captured Cronje on Majuba Day, who kept his word to Mafeking, and who left the Union-Jack flying over Pretoria." And in his presence the crowd doffed its cap and lowered its voice. There was no trace of the noisy, impertinent familiarity which warmed the hearts of our enemies a few months ago: the crowd dared and did no more than salute in proud humility the veteran who has served the Empire, and repelled the invader from a British Colony.

Throughout the line of march, then, the Field-Marshal was greeted by a mob which neither said nor did anything inconsonant to a great occasion, and The philos- when the philosophy of the crowd comes to ophy of the be written, the philosopher may argue from crowd. the experience of the past year that the crowd shouts inversely to the grandeur of its purpose. And the sympathy between the people and its hero was so profound that the hero's pleasure was cordially expressed. Yet he has neither the aspect nor the qualities which inspire a quick popularity. He does not bluster nor make a parade. He is all untouched by the bravado of the miles gloriosus. His manner is quiet, for all its alertness, and he returns to London with the simple satisfaction due to a great task greatly accomplished. But perhaps it was within the quadrangle of Buckingham Palace that he received the tribute most proper to his achievement. The few there gathered together raised no cheer, uttered no cry. They merely stood with hats

off in respectful silence, and even though we heard from without the faint echo of a thousand "hurrahs," we realised that they best honour the brave who refrain in his presence from idle acclamation.

Australia.

And though the impatient grumble that the last shot has not yet been fired in Africa, though Lord Roberts prefers to postpone the City's demonstration until "happier times," the Empire may congratulate itself without vanity or afterthought. The past year has not only been witness of a campaign whose unparelleled difficulties of transport and progression have been successfully overcome; it has also seen the peaceful accomplishment of Australian Federation. To those The Feder- critics who pray for England's ruin, the founation of dation of a new empire across the seas may appear a trivial incident. But our history records no event of greater import, and if only a consistent policy be pursued, we need never deplore our splendid isolation. Of what use is a Continental alliance to a State which has the support of vaster colonies than ever gave an allegiance to Rome? Nor are our colonies merely vast in wealth and extent, they are bound to us by the chains of loyalty which they themselves have forged. Free to come or go, they prefer to remain under the flag; masters of their own hearths, they are still proud of the mother-State which sent them forth. Never again shall we repeat the blunder of George III. and Lord North; never again shall we attempt to shackle a free and liberally governed colony with the chains of pedantry. But we shall rejoice in the friendship of Canada and Australasia, because it is established on the sure foundation of blood and language. Moreover, sentiment and interest are for once united, and our colonies will reciprocate the aid which we give them, because in seeking our advantage they find their own. Nor is the help which Canada and Australasia have rendered us in South Africa the expression of a vague friendship. It is a clear

proof, given by democratic colonists, that Australians and Canadians hate the corrupt oligarchy of Kruger as bitterly as they resent the mean rebellion of the Cape Dutch. No better instance of imperial solidarity could be found than the demeanour of the Australians, who kept the rebels in check at the Worcester Conference. So anxious were they to show their sympathy with England, to demonstrate their dislike of sedition, that their commanding officer (it is said) had the utmost difficulty in controlling their temper. At the slightest warning, their Maxims would have been turned upon the conference of revolt, and we should have witnessed the spectacle of free and democratic colonists firing upon insurgent colleagues in the name of the mother country.

Wherefore we have every reason to be proud of our colonies, and to look with a contented curiosity to the achievement of Australia's federal Parliament. One of the richest countries in the world owes us a willing allegiance, and during the last year the bonds have been solidly strengthened. In other words, the branches are growing out from the parent stem as they list; but there is no talk of lopping them off, and the old trunk can still bear the burden of shade and leafage imposed upon it. But the croakers are never satisfied, and, despite our good fortune, complaints are heard at every corner. England is in decay, we are told. Her trains are slower than anybody else's; her trade is gone; she cannot compete with the newer markets of the world; she is ceasing to bear sons, and her population before long will decrease as rapidly as the population of France. And lastly, says a monger of statistics, even her death-rate is low! Think of that final tragedy, and tremble! Englishmen are born with difficulty, and once they come into the world they cannot get out of it with a proper despatch. Now, what is the meaning of these figures and prophecies we do not know. They are chiefly concocted in order

England in decay.