be, because he meets the requirements of his day and generation, because he does not import into a democratic age, and into a country in which the popular element is unprecedentedly active and powerful, the habits and qualities of mind which could only find their fitting field and natural development in aristocratic or despotic eras, is simply to join issue with the political necessities of the times. In England, in the middle of the nineteenth century, with a reformed parliament, with a free and powerful press, with a population habituated throughout all its ranks to the discussion of political affairs, a minister, whatever be his genius, can no longer impose his will upon the nation; to be useful and great he must carry the nation along with him, he must be the representative and embodiment of its soberest and maturest wisdom, -not the depository or exponent, still less the imperious enforcer, of views beyond their sympathy, and above their comprehension. The nature of our government prescribes the qualifications of our statesmen; to hanker after a different order of men is to pine for a different order of things.

With these remarks we close.our notice of Mr Johnston's work. It is a readable and well-written book, abounding with information of many kinds. Its faults are a want of purpose, too manifest a disposition to decry the present and exalt the past, and too blinding a habit of looking at most questions,—whether they concern things or persons,-from a party point of view.

To this last objection we may be peculiarly alive, the party views not being our own.

IV.

SIR R. PEEL'S CHARACTER AND POLICY.1

WITHIN one generation three statesmen have been suddenly called away in the zenith of their fame, and in the full maturity of their powers. All of them were followed to their graves by the sincerest sorrow of the nation; but the nature of the grief thus universally felt was modified in each case by the character of the individual, the position which he held, and the nature of the services which the country anticipated from him. When Sir Samuel Romilly fell beneath the overwhelming burden of a private calamity, the nation was appalled at the suddenness of the catastrophe, and mourned over the extinction of so bright a name. He had never held any very prominent public office, though the general estimation in which he was held designated him ultimately for the very highest. He had achieved little, because he was a reformer in a new path, and had to fight his way against the yet unshaken prejudices of generations, and the yet unbroken ranks of the veteran opponents of all change; but thoughtful men did honour to the wisdom and purity of his views, and there was steadily growing up among all classes of the community a profound conviction of his earnestness, sincerity, and superiority to

1 Westminster Review, July 1852.

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all selfish and party aims, and a deep and hearty reverence for the stern, grave, Roman-like virtue which distinguished him from nearly all his contemporaries. It was universally felt, that if he had lived he would have risen high and have done much; and that, whether he lived or died, the mere existence of so lofty and spotless a character reflected lustre on the country where he shone, and raised the standard by which public men were judged. It was felt that although England might not suffer greatly by the loss of his services, it would at least be the less bright and glorious for his departure; and hence he was mourned for with an unusually unselfish and single-minded grief. The regret of the nation at Canning's untimely death was at once more bitter and more mixed. brilliant "spirit was eclipsed;" the voice that had so long charmed us was henceforth to be silent; the intellect that had served the country so long and so gallantly could serve her no more. All this was sad enough, but there was something beyond this. There was the feeling that the curtain had fallen before the drama was played out, when its direction had just been indicated, but while the issue could as yet be only dimly guessed. There was a general impression that, with his acceptance of the Foreign Office in 1822, a new era and a noble line of policy had commenced for England, and that, with his accession to the premiership in 1827, the ultimate triumph of that policy was secured; that the flippancy and insolence which had made him so many enemies in early life, were

about to be atoned for by conscientious principle and eminent services; that years and experience had matured his wisdom, while sobering his temper and strengthening his powers;-that the wit and genius which, while he was the ill-yoked colleague of Pitt, Sidmouth, and Castlereagh, had too often been employed to adorn narrowness, to hide incapacity, and to justify oppression, would now be consecrated to the cause of freedom and of progress;-and that the many errors of his inconsiderate youth would be nobly redeemed by the dignified labours of his ripened age. With one memorable and painful exception, his former antagonists were yearning to forgive the past, and to form the most sanguine visions for the future; and the dismay which his elevation spread among the tyrants abroad, was the measure of the joy with which it was hailed by the Liberals at home. When, therefore, he died, after only four months' tenure of his lofty station, the universal cry was, that the good cause had lost its best soldier and its brightest hope. Men could scarcely forbear from murmuring that so brief a sceptre had been granted to one who meant so well and could have done so much; and to all the friends of human progress, the announcement of his death was like thick darkness settling down upon their cherished anticipations. But another feeling mixed with those of sorrow and despondency -a feeling of bitter indignation. Right or wrong, it was believed that Canning had fallen a victim, not to natural maladies, nor yet to the fatigues of his

position, but to the rancorous animosity of former associates and eternal foes.

It was believed that he had been hunted to death, with a deliberate malignity, which, to one so acutely sensitive as himself, could scarcely have been otherwise than fatal. There was much truth in this. The old aristocrats hated him as a plebeian, though Nature's self had unmistakably stamped him as a noble; the exclusives loathed him as an "adventurer;" the Tories abhorred him as an innovator; powerful and well-born rivals could not forgive him for the genius which had enabled him to climb over their heads; some could not forget his past sins; others could not endure his present virtues; and all combined to mete out to him, in overwhelming measure, the injustice, the sarcasm, the biting taunt, the merciless invective, with which, in days long gone by, he had been wont to encounter his antagonists. There was something of righteous retribution in the treatment which must have made it doubly difficult to bear what wonder that he sunk under the assault? But the British nation, which instinctively revolts from any flagrant want of generosity, and will not endure that a man should be punished for attempting, however tardily, to recover and do right, -have done full justice to his memory, and have never heartily pardoned his assailants.

The sudden and untimely death of Sir Robert Peel gave a severe shock to the feelings of the country, occasioned deeper and wider regret, a more painful sense of irreparable loss, and of uneasiness and appre