nobleness and sincerity of the man, it is difficult for the world to forget that it once believed him-after having followed and stared at him as a prodigy-an impostor or a madman. And it is well known that the too lofty and unworldly strain of his great mind separated him from that homely standing-ground of fact upon which alone our mortal footsteps are safe; and from the very exaltation of his aspiring soul brought him down into humiliation, subjection to pettier minds, and to the domination of a sect created by his impulse, yet reigning over him.

The eloquence of Irving was like nothing else known in his day. Something of the lofty parallelism of the Hebrew, something of the noble English of our Bible, along with that solemn national form of poetic phraseology, "such as grave lovers do in Scotland use," composed the altogether individual style in which he wrote and spoke. It was no assumed or elaborated style, but the natural utterance of a mind cast in other moulds than those common to the men of the nineteenth century, and in himself at once a primitive prophet, a mediæval leader, and a Scotch Borderer, who had never been subject to the trimming and chopping influence of society. It is said that a recent publication of his sermons has failed to attract the public; and this is comprehensible enough, for large volumes of sermons are not popular literature. But the reader who takes the trouble to overcome the disinclination which is so apt to arrest us on the threshold of such a study, will find himself carried along by such a lofty simplicity, by such a large and noble manliness of tone, by the originality of a mind incapable of not taking God at His word, instinct with that natural faith in all things divine which is, we think, in its essence one of the many inheritances of genius-though sometimes rejected and disowned-that he will not grudge the pains. He who held open before the orphan that grand refuge of the "fatherhood of God," which struck the listening statesman with wondering admiration; he who, in intimating a death, "made known to them the good intelligence that our brother nas had a good voyage, so far as we could follow him or hear tidings of him," saw

everything around him with magnified and ennobled vision, and spoke of what he saw with the grandeur and simplicity of a seer-telling his arguments and his reasonings as if they had been a narrative, and making a great, poetic story of the workings of the mind and its labors and consolations.

In the most abstruse of his subjects this method continues to be always apparent. The sermon is like a sustained and breathless tale, with an affinity to the minute narrative of Defoe or of the primitive historians. The pauses are brief, the sentences long, but the interest does not flag. Once afloat upon the stream, the reader-and in his day how much more the hearer! -finds it difficult to release himself from the full, flowing tide of interest in which he looks for the accustomed breaks and breathing-places in vain.-Literary History of England.

SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO DE' MEDICI.

It was in the villa of Carregi, amid the olive-gardens, that Lorenzo lay, dying among the beautiful things he loved. As Savonarola took his way up the hill, with the old monk whose duty it was to accompany him, he told the monk that Lorenzo was about to die. This was, no doubt, a very simple anticipation, but everything Savonarola said was looked upon by his adoring followers as prophecy. When the two monks reached the beautiful house from which so often the Magnificent Lorenzo had looked out upon his glorious Florence, and in which his life of luxury, learned and gay, had culminated, the Prior was led to the chamber in which the owner of all these riches lay hopeless and helpless, in what ought to have been the prime of his days, with visions of sacked cities and robbed orphans distracting his dying mind, and no aid to be got from either beauty or learning. "Father," said Lorenzo, "there are three things which drag me back, and throw me into despair, and I know not if God will ever pardon me for them.' These were the sack of Volterra, the robbery of the Monte delle Fanciulle, and the massacre of the Pazzi. To this Savonarola answered by reminding his penitent of the mercy of God. The dramatic climax is wanting in the

account given by Politian; but we quote it in full from the detailed and simple narrative of Burlamacchi :

"Lorenzo," said Savonarola, "be not so despairing, for God is merciful to you, if you will do the three things I will tell you." Then said Lorenzo, "What are these three things?" The Padre answered, "The first is that you should have a great and living faith that God can and will pardon you." To which Lorenzo answered, "This is a great thing, and I do believe it." The Padre added, "It is also necessary that everything wrongfully acquired should be given back by you, in so far as you can do this, and still leave to your children as much as will maintain them as private citizens." These words drove Lorenzo nearly out of himself; but afterward he said, "This also will I do." The Padre then went on to the third thing, and said, "Lastly, it is necessary that freedom and her popular government, according to republican usage, should be restored to Florence." At this speech Lorenzo turned his back upon him, nor ever said another word. Upon which the Padre left him, and went away without other confession.

We do not know where to find a more remarkable scene. Never before, as far as we can ascertain, had these two notable beings looked at each other face to face, or interchanged words. They met at the supreme moment of the life of one, to confer there upon the edge of eternity, and to part-but not in a petty quarreleach great in his way; the Prince turning his face to the wall in the bitterness of his soul; the Friar drawing his cowl over his head, solemn, unblessing, but not unpitiful. They separated after their one interview. The Prince had sought the unwilling Preacher in vain when all went well with Lorenzo; but the Preacher "grieved greatly," as he afterward said, "not to have been sooner when at last they met; and Savonarola recognized in the great Medici a man worth struggling for a fellow and peer of his own.

Thus Lorenzo died at forty-four, in the height of his days, those distracting visions in his dying eyes-the sacked city, the murdered innocents of the Pazzi blood, the poor maidens robbed in their orphanage. He had

been victorious and splendid all his days; but the battle was lost at last; and the prophet by the side of his princely bed intimated to him, in that last demand, to which he would make no answer, the subversion of all his work, the downfall of his family, the escape of Florence from the skilful hands which had held her so long. The spectator, looking on at this strange and lofty conflict of the two most notable figures of the time, feels almost as much sympathy for Lorenzo-proud and sad, refusing to consent to that ruin which was inevitable— as with the patriotic monk, lover of freedom as of truth, who could no more absolve a despot at his end than he could play a courtier's part during his life.

As that cowled figure traversed the sunny marbles of the loggia, in the glow of the April morning, leaving doubt and bitterness behind, what thoughts must have been in both hearts! The one, sovereign still in Florence, reigning for himself and his own will and pleasure, proudly and sadly turned his face to the wall, holding fast his sceptre, though his moments were numbered. The other, not less sadly-a sovereign, too, to whom that sceptre was to fall, and who should reign for God and goodness-went forth into the Spring sunshine, life blossoming all about him, and the fair City of Flowers lying before him, white campanile and red dome glistening in the early light-life with the one, death with the other; but Nature, calm and fair, and this longlived, everlasting Earth, to which men, great and small, are things of a moment, encircling both. Lorenzo de' Medici died, leaving, as such men do, the deluge after him, and a foolish and feeble heir to contend with Florence, aroused and turbulent, and all the troubles and stormy chances of Italian politics; while the Prior of San Marco retired to his cell and his pulpit, from which for a few years thereafter he was to rule over his city and the spirits of men-a reign more wonderful than any which Florence ever saw.-The Makers of Florence.

OMAR KHAYYAM, a Persian poet and astronomer, born at Nishapur, in Khorasan, about A.D. 1050; died about 1125. He was born when Edward the Confessor reigned in England, and was approaching manhood when William the Norman conquered the island. He lived through the English reigns of William the Conqueror, William Rufus, Henry I., and Stephen, and far into that of Henry II., the first English Plantagenet. Khayyám means "the Tent-maker," and it is probable that Omar maintained himself by that craft until the sun of fortune rose for him. He was in youth a pupil of the most famous philosopher of Khorasan; he and two of his fellow-students entered into a compact that if either of them rose to fortune he should share it with the others. Nizam-ul-Mulk, one of the three, came, in time, to be Vizier of the mighty Alp Arslan, and his successor, Malek, son and grandson of Togrul Beg, the Tartar founder of the Seljouk dynasty. He was not unmindful of the youthful compact, and proffered every advancement to the others. But Omar had no aspirations for political greatness. He devoted himself to study, especially of astronomy, and when the Vizier undertook to reform the confused Mohammedan calendar, Omar was one of those to whom the work was confided. The result of their labors is thus described by Gibbon "The reign