and loathsome, and suggest the last convulsive efforts and perversities of the 'Monk' Lewis school of romance. There are two real mysteries about Melmoth-one that it should have fascinated Balzac and Rossetti; the other that in 1892 it should have been deemed worthy of republication, with a memoir, a bibliography, and a 'Note on Maturin,' whom the nameless editors seem to rank above Goethe, Byron, Calderon, Marlowe, and Milton. In 1824-the year of his premature death by accidentally swallowing an embrocation --Maturin published The Albigenses, intended as one of a series of romances illustrative of European feelings and manners in ancient, mediæval, and modern times. Laying the scene of his story in France, in the thirteenth century, the author connected it with the wars between the Catholics and the Albigenses, the latter being the earliest of the reformers of the faith. Such a time was well adapted for the purposes of romance, as has been proved both before and since. Maturin produced lively but fanciful pictures of the Crusaders, and eloquent descriptions of the Albigenses in their lonely worship among rocks and mountains; but he had not the power of portraying or creating living characters, and his attempts at humour were dismal failures. The following, from Melmoth, shows Maturin at his best or worst, according as one takes him :

The Victim of the Inquisition.

The reptiles, who filled the hole into which I had been thrust, gave me opportunity for a kind of constant, miserable, ridiculous hostility. My mat had been placed in the very seat of warfare;-I shifted it,—still they pursued me; I placed it against the wall,-the cold crawling of their bloated limbs often awoke me from my sleep, and still oftener made me shudder when awake. I struck at them;-I tried to terrify them by my voice, to arm myself against them by the help of my mat; but, above all, my anxiety was ceaseless to defend my head from their loathsome incursions, and my pitcher of water from their dropping into it. adopted a thousand precautions, trivial as they were inefficacious, but still there was occupation. I do assure you, Sir, I had more to do in my dungeon than in my cell. To be fighting with reptiles in the dark appears the most horrible struggle that can be assigned to man; but what is it compared to his combat with those reptiles which his own heart hourly engenders in a cell, and of which, if his heart be the mother, solitude is the father? I had another employment,-I cannot call it occupation. I had calculated with myself that sixty minutes made an hour, and sixty seconds a minute. I began to think I could keep time as accurately as any clock in a convent, and measure the hours of my confinement or my release. So I sat and counted sixty; a doubt always occurred to me that I was counting them faster than the clock. Then I wished to be the clock, that I might have no feeling, no motive for hurrying on the approach of time. Then I reckoned slower. Sleep sometimes overtook me in this exercise (perhaps I adopted it from that hope); but when I awoke, I applied to it again instantly. Thus I oscillated, reckoned, and measured time on my mat, while time

withheld its delicious diary of rising and setting suns, -of the dews of dawn and of twilight,-of the glow of morning and the shades of the evening. When my reckoning was broken by my sleep (and I knew not whether I slept by day or by night), I tried to eke it out by my incessant repetition of minutes and seconds, and I succeeded; for I always consoled myself, that whatever hour it was, sixty minutes must go to an hour. Had I led this life much longer, I might have been converted into the idiot who, as I have read, from the habit of watching a clock, imitated its mechanism so well that when it was dawn, he sounded the hour as faithfully as ear could desire. Such was my life.

Thomas Bowdler (1754-1825) has, as editor of the Family Shakespeare,' been made to furnish the English language with a series of words with unjustly suspicious associations. Born of wealthy parents at Ashley near Bath, he went at sixteen to St Andrews to study medicine, but graduated M.D. of Edinburgh in 1776. After some years of travel in France, Germany, Italy, and Sicily (twice climbing Mount Etna), he settled in London, but did not practise his profession; devoting himself rather to charitable work in connection with prisons, penitentiaries, and Magdalen asylums, he became the continuator of John Howard's good work. He was a friend of Howard's, an intimate of the circle to which Mrs Montagu, Mrs Chapone, and Hannah More belonged, and remembered Dr Johnson vividly. For ten years he lived at St Boniface in the Isle of Wight, and for the last fifteen years of his life at Rhyddings near Swansea. His Letters Written in Holland (1788) give an account of the revolutionary movement of the previous year, and in 1815 he published one or two minor biographical works. But it was in 1818 that he produced ‘The Family Shakespeare, in 10 vols.; in which nothing is added to the original text; but those words and expressions are omitted which cannot with propriety be read aloud in a family.' The work had a large sale, ran through more than half-a-dozen editions, and was long popular, spite of the ridicule it brought down upon the head of its editor. The last years of Bowdler's life were given to the task of preparing an expurgated edition of Gibbon's History, which was published in six volumes the year after his death, edited by his nephew, and described as being 'for the use of Families and Young Persons, reprinted from the original text, with the careful omissions of all passages of an irreligious or immoral tendency.' And the editor congratulated his uncle on 'the peculiar happiness' of having so purified Shakespeare and Gibbon that they could no longer raise a blush on the cheek of modest innocence, nor plant a pang in the heart of the devout Christian.' It would be unfair to say that he also Bowdlerized the Old Testament; but he prepared for a Sunday-school Society Select Chapters from the Old Testament, with Short Introductions, issued in 1822.

The word Bowdlerize, first used apparently in 1836, has become common (usually as Bowdlerise) since about 1870, with a whole train of derivatives -Bowdlerism, Bowdlerization, Bowdlerizer, &c.— and is rarely used save with sovereign contempt for the process, the theory, and the man, even by those who would unhesitatingly refuse to read aloud every and any passage of Shakespeare to boys and girls just old enough to understand and appreciate the jests and allusions Bowdler excised. If the work was to be done, it is doubtful if it could have been done much more judiciously. It is one thing to Bowdlerize for a special purpose; quite another to Bowdlerize by omissions what is meant to be a standard text (as Dr Mitchell for the Scottish Text Society has Bowdlerized in 1897 some of the Gude and Godlie Ballads); and a third thing to substitute as the author's considerable passages which the original writer never wrote or imagined. Bowdler was by no means the first or most prudish preparer of expurgated editions; he was, indeed, considerably less precise than many more recent expurgators of Shakespeare for schools. Castrated editions of the classics are an old-established institution, and the castration of Shakespeare had long been a familiar art. Garrick Bowdlerized him remorselessly, both on the stage and in print; all modern stage-managers carefully cut most of the passages Bowdler excised; and it is something for the typical English Expurgator to have Mr Swinburne's strong support and hearty commendation: More nauseous or foolish cant was never chattered than that which would deride the memory or depreciate the merits of Bowdler. No man ever did better service to Shakespeare than the man who made it possible to put him into the hands of intelligent and imaginative children' (Studies in Prose and Poetry, page 98). Bowdler himself defended his Shakespearean enterprise in a temperately argued pamphlet called A Letter to the British Critic, which he said was occasioned by the censure pronounced in the work on 'Johnson, Pope, Bowdler, Warburton, Theobald, Steevens, Reed, Malone, et Hoc Genus Omne.'

It is a really curious fact that, as has been pointed out in Vol. I. p. 433, the name Bowdler was associated with Elizabethan dramatic literature as the cognomen of the very free-spoken and 'amorous gallant' (of all things in the world!) in Heywood's Fair Maid of the Exchange.

Sir John Barrow (1764-1848), born in a thatched cottage in the village of Dragley Beck in North Lancashire, learnt mathematics at Ulverston, was timekeeper in a foundry, and made a voyage in a Greenland whaler before he became mathematical teacher at Greenwich. Thence he was taken by Lord Macartney as his secretary to China and to the Cape. In South Africa (1797– 1802) he was even more eminently serviceable

than in China as explorer, map-maker, and administrator; he was sent on missions to reconcile Boers and Kaffirs, and explored many outlying parts of the colony. He had bought a house near Table Mountain, where he meant to settle as a South African country-gentleman, when the Peace of Amiens restored the Cape (temporarily) to the Dutch (1802), and Barrow came home to serve his country for forty years as secretary to the Admiralty under fourteen administrations. His zeal in promoting Arctic exploration is indicated by the way his name figures on the map of the Arctic regions - Barrow Straits, Cape Barrow, &c. He was all his life an indefatigable worker and an inexhaustible writer. Among his publications are to be counted some two hundred articles in the Quarterly Review and a series in the Encyclopædia Britannica; Lives of Lord Macartney, Lord Howe, and Peter the Great ; accounts of his travels in China and in South Africa-long standard works; books on voyages to Cochin-China and the Arctic regions; and a very interesting Autobiography (1847). There is also a Memoir of him by Staunton (1852).

Robert Plumer Ward (1765-1846) was born in London and bred at Oxford, went to the Bar, and was successively a judge, Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs, a lord of admiralty, and auditor of the civil list. He wrote a history of the law of nations, several books on the law of belligerents, contraband, and the like, and in 1825 he published anonymously a discursively metaphysical and religious romance, Tremaine, or the Man of Refinement. As the author alluded to his intimacy with English statesmen and political events, and seemed to belong to the Evangelical party in the Church, much speculation took place as to the authorship of the novel. The prolixity of some of the dissertations and dialogues, where the story stood still for half a volume that the parties might converse and dispute, rendered Tremaine heavy and tedious, in spite of some originality. But it was, as Blackwood thought, 'extravagantly overrated,' and ran through four editions in one year. In De Vere, or the Man of Independence (1827), the public dwelt with keen interest on a portraiture of Mr Canning, whose career was then about to close in his premature death; and this desultory roman à clef used to be cited as a kind of authority on Canning's views and manner of speech, the Wentworth of the story being a close study of the statesman. De Clifford, or the Constant Man (1841), is also a tale of actual life; its hero is secretary to a Cabinet Minister, and the author revels in official details, social rivalries, and political intrigue. Canning sarcastically said that Ward's law-books were as pleasant as novels, and his novels as dull as lawbooks. Now it but rarely happens that a volume either of the one set or the other is disturbed out of its dust-covered repose in old libraries.

Henry Luttrell (c. 1765-1851), a man of wit and fashion, and a clever and graceful versifier, was author of Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme (1820); of Crockford House (1827), a satire against gambling; and of some elegiacs and shorter pieces. He was a natural son of the Lord Carhampton who as Colonel Luttrell had been the defeated Government candidate in opposition to Wilkes, but had by Parliament been declared duly elected; he afterwards became notorious by his severities upon the Irish rebels of 1798. The son sat in the last Irish Parliament 1798-1800, and spent some years managing his father's West Indian plantations, but came back to London to be a society lion and a favourite in the circle of Holland House: None of the talkers whom I meet in London society,' said Rogers, 'can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does.' As with other brilliant conversationists, his printed works hardly justify his fame, though they have happy descriptive passages, frequent touches of bright social satire, and couplets of epigrammatic inevitableness. Byron, Moore, and Christopher North were at one in praising his Advice to Julia, from which these are short extracts:

London in Autumn.

'Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat
Full on the scorching pavement beat.
As o'er it the faint breeze, by fits
Alternate, blows and intermits.
For short-lived green, a russet brown
Stains every withering shrub in town.
Darkening the air, in clouds arise
Th' Egyptian plagues of dust and flies;
At rest, in motion-forced to roam
Abroad, or to remain at home,
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions-' Be ye hot!'
Day is intolerable-Night

As close and suffocating quite;
And still the mercury mounts higher,
Till London seems again on fire.

November Fog.

First, at the dawn of lingering day,
It rises of an ashy gray;
Then deepening with a sordid stain
Of yellow, like a lion's mane.
Vapour importunate and dense,
It wars at once with every sense.
The ears escape not. All around
Returns a dull unwonted sound.
Loath to stand still, afraid to stir,
The chilled and puzzled passenger,
Oft blundering from the pavement, fails
To feel his way along the rails;
Or at the crossings, in the roll
Of every carriage dreads the pole.
Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun,
Blots from the face of heaven the sun.
But soon a thicker, darker cloak
Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke,
Which steam-compelling trade disgorges
From all her furnaces and forges

In pitchy clouds, too dense to rise,
Descends rejected from the skies;
Till struggling day, extinguished quite,
At noon gives place to candle-light.
O Chemistry, attractive maid,
Descend, in pity, to our aid:
Come with thy all-pervading gases,
Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses,
Thy fearful energies and wonders,
Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders;
Let Carbon in thy train be seen,
Dark Azote and fair Oxygen,
And Wollaston and Davy guide
The car that bears thee, at thy side.

If any power can, any how,
Abate these nuisances, 'tis thou;
And see, to aid thee, in the blow,
The bill of Michael Angelo;

Oh join-success a thing of course is-
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces;
Make all chimneys chew the cud

Like hungry cows, as chimneys should!
And since 'tis only smoke we draw
Within our lungs at common law,
Into their thirsty tubes be sent

Fresh air, by act of parliament.

John Hoole (1727-1803), born at Moorfields in London, was from 1744 to 1783 employed in the East India House, and earned the name of 'the translator' by his English versions of the Jerusalem Delivered (1763) and Rinaldo (1792) of Tasso, the dramas of Metastasio (1767), and the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto (1773-83). Scott describes the translator of the Ariosto as 'a noble transmuter of gold into lead.' His dramas Cyrus (1768), Timanthes (1770), and Cleonice (1775) were failures.

William Herbert (1778-1847), honourable and reverend, was third son of the first Earl of Carnarvon, and studied at Eton and Christ Church. He sat in Parliament from 1806 to 1812, took orders in 1814, and from 1840 was Dean of Manchester. He had begun to publish poetry in the first year of the century, and became especially famous for his translations from Scandinavian and his own poems on Scandinavian subjects, insomuch that Byron in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, speaking of his 'rugged rhymes,' talks of him as 'wielding Thor's hammer.' He translated also from German and from Portuguese, contributed to the Edinburgh Review, and wrote much on natural history. His chief original poems were Helga (1815); Hedin, or the Spectre of the Tomb (1820); and Attila, or the Triumph of Christianity (1838).

Henry Francis Cary (1772-1844), translator of Dante, was born at Gibraltar, and educated at Rugby, Sutton Coldfield, Birmingham, and Christ Church, Oxford. He took orders in 1796, became vicar of Abbot's Bromley in Staffordshire and Kingsbury in Warwickshire, but from 1807 lived in London, being assistant-librarian at the British Museum from 1826 to 1837. He was buried in

Westminster Abbey. Cary, who at sixteen published poetry, was very widely read in Italian and French, as well as in the classics and English literature. In 1805 he published the Inferno of Dante in blank verse, and an entire translation of the Divina Commedia in the same measure in 1814. He afterwards translated the Birds of Aristophanes and the Odes of Pindar, and wrote a series of short memoirs in continuation of Johnson's Lives of the Poets, which, with Lives of the early French poets, appeared anonymously in the London Magazine. First brought into notice by Coleridge, whom Cary had met on the seashore at Littlehampton, the English Dante passed through four editions during the life of the translator, and it still ranks as one of the principal translations. It has some of the inevitable defects of a foreign tongue and an alien measure, but has many merits, and is more English and more easily read than the metrical translations that endeavour, by terza rima or otherwise, more closely to imitate the rhythm of the original.

Francesca of Rimini.

I began: Bard! willingly I would address those two together coming, Which seem so light before the wind.' He thus: 'Note thou, when nearer they to us approach, Then by that love which carries them along, Entreat; and they will come.' Soon as the wind Swayed them toward us, I thus framed my speech: 'O wearied spirits! come and hold discourse With us, if by none else restrained.' As doves, By fond desire invited, on wide wings And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, Cleave the air, wafted by their will along; Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks, They, through the ill air speeding, with such force My cry prevailed, by strong affection urged.

'O gracious creature, and benign! who goest Visiting, through this element obscure, Us, who the world with bloody stain imbrued; If for a friend the King of all we owned, Our prayer to him should for thy peace arise, Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. Of whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, As now, is mute. The land that gave me birth Is situate on the coast, where Po descends To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. 'Love, that in gentle art is quickly learnt, Entangled him by that fair form, from me Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still: Love, that denial takes from none beloved, Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not. Love brought us to one death: Caina waits The soul who spilt our life.' Such were their words; At hearing which downward I bent my looks, And held them there so long that the bard cried : 'What art thou pondering?' I, in answer, thus: 'Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire, Must they at length to that ill pass have reached!' Then turning, I to them my speech addressed,

And thus began: Francesca! your sad fate,
Even to tears, my grief and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what and how Love granted, that knew
ye
Your yet uncertain wishes.' She replied:
'No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand! That kens
Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one who weeps and tells his tale. One day,
For our delight, we read of Lancelot,
How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, so rapturously kissed
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips

All trembling kissed. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors.
In its leaves that day
We read no more.' While thus one spirit spake,
The other wailed so sorely that, heart-struck,
I, through compassion fainting, seemed not far
From death; and like a corse fell to the ground.

Caina, in the Inferno, is the place to which murderers are doomed.

Ugolino and his Sons. A small grate

Within that mew, which for my sake the name
Of famine bears, where others yet must pine,
Already through its opening several moons
Had shewn me, when I slept the evil sleep
That from the future tore the curtain off.
This one, methought, as master of the sport,
Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps,
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight
Of Lucca to the Pisans. With lean brachs,
Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged
Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.
After short course the father and the sons
Seemed tired and lagging, and methought I saw
The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke,
Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard
My sons for they were with me-weep and ask
For bread. . . .

Now had they wakened; and the hour drew near
When they were wont to bring us food; the mind
Of each misgave him through his dream, and I
Heard, at its outlet underneath, locked up
The horrible tower: whence, uttering not a word,
I looked upon the visage of my sons.

I wept not so all stone I felt within.
They wept and one, my little Anselm, cried:
'Thou lookest so! father, what ails thee?' Yet
I shed no tear, nor answered all that day
Nor the next night, until another sun
Came out upon the world. When a faint beam
Had to our doleful prison made its way,
And in four countenances I descried
The image of my own, on either hand
Through agony I bit; and they who thought

I did it through desire of feeding, rose

O' the sudden, and cried: Father, we should grieve Far less if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gavest

These weeds of miserable flesh we wear;
And do thou strip them off from us again.'
Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down
My spirit in stillness. That day and the next
We were all silent. Ah, obdurate earth!
Why open'dst not upon us? When we came
To the fourth day, then Gaddo at my feet
Outstretched did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help
For me, my father?' There he died; and e'en
Plainly, as thou seest me, saw I the three

Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth :
Whence I betook me, now grown blind, to grope
Over them all, and for three days aloud
Called on them who were dead.
The mastery of grief.

Then fasting got

The story is told by Ugolino's ghost. During the contests between Guelphs and Ghibellines in 1289, Count Ugolino della Gherardesca, with two sons and two grandsons, was shut up by Archbishop Ruggiero, and left to perish of starvation in what has since been called the Tower of Hunger at Pisa. Ugolino, who had repeatedly allied himself with the Guelfic cities, and had for a time suppressed the Ghibelline party in Pisa in the hope of becoming despot of the city, was finally overthrown by his enemies, headed by the archbishop. Dante describes the count and the archbishop as being deservedly tormented together, 'pent in one hollow of the ice.'

This is how Cary renders the passage of Dante that was in Gray's mind when he wrote the first stanza of his Elegy, and was imitated by Byron in the third canto of Don Juan :

Now was the hour that wakens fond desire

In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart
Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell;
And pilgrim newly on his road with love
Thrills, if he hear the vesper-bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day.
There is a Life of Cary by his son (1847).

David Ricardo (1772–1823), author of several original treatises on economics, was bred to his own business by his father, a Jewish stockbroker originally from Holland, but through reading Smith's Wealth of Nations in 1799 was stirred to think and write on political economy. His first works were on The High Price of Bullion (1810), Proposals for an Economical and Secure Currency (1816), and Principles of Political Economy and Taxation (1817). The last work, that on which his reputation rests, is remarkable for its close logical argument and its acumen rather than for any literary merit; it is indeed very hard reading. But it was justly considered the most important treatise on that science, with the single exception of Smith's Wealth of Nations. As such it made an epoch in the science of political economy, and became the text-book of the classical or abstract

economic school. His special aim and achievement was to expound the theory of rent as the excess of the produce of the land over the cost of production of that land. And from this thesis came new statements as to wages and value, and as to the incidence of taxation. Ricardo afterwards wrote pamphlets on the Funding System and on Protection to Agriculture. He had amassed great wealth as a stockbroker, and, retiring from business, he entered Parliament as representative

for the borough of Portarlington; but he seldom spoke in the House, and only on subjects connected with his favourite studies. He died at his seat of Gatcombe Park in Gloucestershire.

His works were edited with a Life by M'Culloch (1846); his letters to Malthus were edited by Bonar in 1887, and those to M'Culloch by Hollander in 1896.

James Mill (1773-1836), born a shoemaker's son near Montrose, studied for the ministry at Edinburgh, but in 1802 settled in London as a literary man. He edited and wrote for various periodicals, and in 1806 commenced his History of British India (1817-18). In 1819 the directors of the East India Company made him (though a Radical) assistant-examiner with charge of the revenue department, and in 1832 head of the examiner's office, where he had the control of all the departments of Indian administration. Many of his articles (on government, jurisprudence, colonies, &c.) for the Encyclopædia Britannica were reprinted. In 1821-22 he published his Elements of Political Economy, in 1829 an Analysis of the Human Mind, and in 1835 the Fragment on Mackintosh. He was no mere disciple of Bentham, but a man of profound and original thought, as well as of great reading. In psychology and ethics he carried the association principle further than it had yet been applied. In political economy he followed Ricardo. His mind was eminently logical; he was a special enemy to all vagueness in thought and argument, to all looseness in statement. He was an unsparing critic, and Mackintosh's credit suffered from Mill's attack. His conversation gave a powerful stimulus to many young men like his own son and Grote; he ranked as one of the main moulders of philosophical radicalism, as his views and Grote's came to be called; and he took a leading part in founding University College, London. Throughout life he cherished high ideals for himself and others, and he was a strenuous and unselfish reformer. Clearness and precision are the main merits of his literary style. It was to Mill's disadvantage that when he wrote he had no direct knowledge of India, its peoples and customs; he applied his own precise political principles as a standard for judging men dealing with a civilisation he imperfectly understood. But, as is generally admitted, his History of India remains a great work in spite of the technical blunders specialists have pointed out, and in spite of his somewhat pronounced prejudices. The book dwelt perhaps overmuch on abuses, but it helped to bring about changes in administration; as might be expected, Mill summed up strongly against Warren Hastings. This is his account of

The Case of Nuncomar.

A few days after this suspicious but ineffectual proceeding, a new prosecution was instituted against Nuncomar. At the suit of a native, he was taken up on a charge of forgery, and committed to the