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or one of them ought very greatly to preponderate over the other.

Not less valuable than Mr. Ruskin's remarks on proportion are his observations on the conditions of architectural colouring. But for these and many other matters of much import and interest we recommend our readers to go to the book itself, which is one of the few works that, while they are calculated for the especial edification of a limited guild, are also adapted, by brilliant style and popular treatment, for the reading-desk of every educated man. The style, like the thought, becomes occasionally rash and careless, but, if it sometimes flags, it makes amends by culminations of a splendour which has seldom been equalled in its way since the days of Jeremy Taylor.

ART. III. The Letters of Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chester

field; including numerous letters now first published from the original manuscripts. Edited, with Notes, by LORD Mahon.

Bentley. (2.) Junius: including Letters by the same writer under other signatures.

With a preliminary Essay, Notes, &c. Printed by G. Woodfall. (3.) Cowper's Letters. Edited by Souther. Baldwin and Craddock.

The majority of men say, with Horace, that Fame consists in being pointed at with the finger. Some, however, who have failed to get this mark, maintain that it consists in the praise of the wise, or standards of opinion ;-while others, who have not been either pointed at by the many or applauded by the few, insist that it can only be awarded by posterity. A very small minority, with a courage that does them honour, declare that there is no such thing as true fame in this world at all.

The finger-pointing fame is mostly conferred without much reflection, and withdrawn without any scruple. The object of it is seldom worthy, and cannot keep it. The public pump is got to work, and the water comes, but the vessel receiving it being a sieve, the liquid slips away. That faine which is conferred by the wise, or standards of opinion,' can of course only fall permanently to the greatest minds. No others can stand test, or bear the winnowing; and even if they could, the

standards' of to-morrow always have it in their power to reverse the verdict of the standards of to-day. The people who appeal to posterity do so only as a refuge. They would otherwise be open to the ridicule of having laboured in vain-of having run, and lost. But their satisfaction is false. They care no more for posterity than you do. They have not lived and acted only to obtain praise which they can never hear; they rather solace their pride by imputing to blindness what they are ashamed to allow they should impute to merited contempt.

For the courageous minority—we cannot deal with it at present. It denies the existence of real fame in this world altogether; we must therefore mention it in quite another place.

These are the chief sorts of fame; and each exhibits it as very scarce and very fickle. The be-sung, be-flattered, and besought (but never be-guiled) goddess, even when won, seems to watch to slip away. Like the heart of Miss Pardoe's slave, she is a fetterless thing. Like the trained negro who was sold, under disguises in all the States, (having a happy knack of slipping the collar, and rejoining his seller before his buyer could turn him to account,) she appears ever to be on the outlook to take flight. She should not be represented with a trumpet, therefore, but with a staff. She should be painted with the loins girt and the wings spread, to show constant readiness to flyto intimate, moreover, that her hunters need not only swiftness to obtain her, but their utmost vigilance to hold her when she has been caught.

The finger-pointing fame has as many shapes as Proteus. Like the ancient kings in battle she has many doubles; but, like the Banquo of the feast, most of these are false. They wear the seeming of reality, but are as insubstantial as the wind. A man believes that they are as solid as they seem to be, and rushes in pursuit-he grapples with them, he looks into them, and finds that, like the crater of Vesuvius, there is little beside vacuity. Chief in this ghostly army is political fame. It is a swift game, and for a long time baffles the keenest hunter, but at last he seizes it and makes it his. It voices out his name until he thinks the farthest age must hear; it echoes and re-echoes his praises; it trumpets him along the way: and then, when his soul is swelling in him, and he hugs himself with the assurance that he will be for ever known,' it suddenly dissolves under his touch, and leaves him-all the voices cease, the trumpets die away, and he falls headlong, never to be pointed at again. Political fame is like a brilliant firework, that blazes wildly for a little, and then suddenly expires, leaving but a dim smoulder, which ere long fades out into the darkness.

In 1714 the celebrated, or notorious, Lord Bolingbroke was ousted from the Secretaryship of State, and Addison the Spectator stepped into his shoes. Queen Anne died. The hasty regency party proclaimed George I., and Addison stepped out

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of the shoes, which were given to General Stanhope, whose kinsman, Philip Dormer Stanhope, afterwards Earl of Chesterfield, was at Cambridge. George, on ascending the throne, declared for the Whigs, and the Tories, who had been in power since Sacheverel's time, kicked the beam. In 1715 Walpole impeached Lord Bolingbroke, who fled the country. The late leader was outlawed, lived some years in France, and acquired French notions of belief. When the storm passed, he returned to England, had his outlawry reversed, made much noise, and won much applause and censure; on the whole deserving Dr. Croly's summary for his fame now: that 'He gave from youth "to age the unhappy example of genius rendered useless, rank degraded, and opportunities thrown away. Gifted with powers which might have raised or sustained the fortunes of empire, his youth was distinguished only by systematic vice, his manhood by unprincipled ambition, and his age by callous in fidelity'

In the same 1715 young Mr. Stanhope made his first speech in the House against Ormond, who was likewise impeached of high treason. This done, he immediately took a pleasure trip to Paris by advice—for he was under age, and the opposition threatened to expose him if he voted. During his stay here he is thought to have been of much service to Lord Stair, in discovering the Jacobins' plot—but be that as it may, the Chevalier de St. George's friends were induced to make the first attemptwe know with what disastrous results to every one but the dastard for whom they made it. Stanhope returned to England, and though his rising was for a time delayed, in consequence of a dispute between his Majesty and the Prince of Wales, whose side he took, his kinsman had his eye on him, and showed desire to push him on.

With the South-Sea swindle we have now no more to do than to note, that in consequence of the excitement caused in England by its failure, the Stuart made another throw for the sceptre, but was himself thrown. The king was just at that time very popular, and Stanhope spoke in favour of augmenting the army; a declaration of attachment for which he was made a captain in the Guards. In 1725, however, he refused the order of the Bath, then revived, and ere long was dismissed from his post.

This might have been serious for him, had not both his king and his father died in the year following. He became Earl of Chesterfield. He left the Lower House with the Walpoles and Pulteneys, and other stars, shining there, and joined company with Wharton, Argyle, Carteret, Queensbury, and the other great men of the Upper one-whose names are the stumbling-blocks in Pope's verses, and whom we anathematize when asterisks and patent pot-hooks call us down from the poetry, to prosy memoranda of their lives.

George II., on acceding to power, retained his father's favourites, much to the chagrin of those who championed him when Prince of Wales. But Chesterfield was not quite forgotten. He was sent ambassador to Holland in 1728, and in consequence of his tact in that position, won the king's praise when he was, a little after, travelling on the Continent. This induced Townshend to attempt to turn out Newcastle, then Secretary, and put in the Earl, which, however, he was not able to do, and Chesterfield, who had accompanied George to London, returned to Holland, after having been gartered at the king's charges. It was about this time that the Commons objected to public reports of hon. members' speeches. We hope to be pardoned for sometimes almost wishing that it objected now.

We need say little of the next years. The tragic seaman who kept his ear in his pocket, for exhibition when the time came to rouse up the Lion to revenge it, has told his story about Spanish wrongs, and got satisfied—at least we hope so. The French intrigues, too, and the Danish and Dutch, are over, now. The things intrigued about were rarely worth half the noise they made; and the landmarks so curiously set in those days, by battles and treaties, have been mostly washed away by the tides of later wars. Suffice it for us that Chesterfield, in 1731, gained much honour in getting the Vienna treaty signed. In 1732 he returned to England, and distinguished himself by opposition to Sir Robert Walpole. In 1734 he found time to marry.

In 1737 he made his once-celebrated speech against dramatic censorship, proposed by Walpole. Fielding had produced a satire on the ministers, (Pasquin, for which Hogarth drew an illustrated bill,) which the town, as the public was then called, flocked to hear. The example was much followed, till the premier resolved to stop it, which he did in spite of opposition. After this, a quarrel between Walpole and the Prince of Wales, whose side Chesterfield took, brought about an open breach between the factions, and the so called country party was obliged to go-into the country. Bath was chosen as the place of refuge, and Beau Nash (Douglas Jerrold's hero) becomes visible in the solemnity of history, anticking and fooling for a moment, on the scene.

In 1739, however, the tide showed signs of turning. War was commenced against Spain, and Vernon was sent to Darien. The trans-Pyrenean nation had done our shipping so much damage, and robbed us so infamously in Honduras, that the country would no longer suffer Walpole's patience of insult and shyness of fight. His popularity was sinking ;—the shadow was melting from his grasp. In 1740, Sandys, the motionmaker, attacked him Anstey-wise. He failed; but in 1742, when a new parliament was convened, and the nation was sick of the war, which had been prosecuted till the Panama business brought it to an anti-climax, the opposition to his longer holding office was so great and general that he thought it well to retire. Poor Walpole! The once famous statesman found himself, now his career was wellnigh closed, the object of resentment, not of finger-pointing. He had done his best-and now his life was scarcely safe. Fond of the shows of greatness, he had but little greatness to deserve the shows. But Time has hung the curtains around him, do not let us too roughly rend them back. His premiership is over now,—and its cares

and its toils, and his life, are over. He is away;-his fame, too, is away-one day the morning will break, and we shall be away.

The kaleidoscope once moved, many things shifted together. Pulteney, the people's friend of those days, was naturally looked to as Walpole's successor.

He was a living dissolving view. His face was said to wear a new expression every day. He was by turns a saint, a savage, and a sage. like Mulligan in the ball-room, all hilarity; and now, like Mulligan on the door-step, after supper, in tears. His cry was liberty, and his aim was power. Such an one, invaluable for opposition, could not govern. Such talents are as opposed to those needed by a statesman as abilities for criticism are from those for authorship. He failed, of course, in time of need. He was made Earl of Bath, and so sailed comfortably awayto oblivion.

Of the ensuing parliamentary history and war-work we are too sick to make notes here. Ministers came short, as usual, and speeches were made, and applauded, and forgotten, as usual. There was another Stuart landing, and droves of victims were led to and offered at Saint George's altar, not in Hanoversquare. We can, however, recollect or imagine these, and pass to 1745, when Chesterfield, after another successful embassage to Holland, was made Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. This was the best part of his life. He gave himself to the melioration of that blessed island, which was then, as now, boisterous as the surrounding element. He was liberal, but firm. He would not, like others, hunt the Catholics to please the Protestants. He saw the crow's feet round the Scarlet Lady's eyes; he saw that decay was at work, and he would not help her to fictitious

He was now,

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