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he is drawing continually towards him, in continual succession and variation, the materials of his structure, nay, his very plan of it, from the whole realm of accident, you may say, and from the whole realm of free-will: he is building his life together in this manner; a guessence, is, in the long run, this, or connected with this. Science itself, is it not, under one of its most interesting aspects, Biography; is it not the Record of the Work which an original man, still named by us, or not now named, was blessed by the heavens to do? That Sphereand-cylinder is the monument and abbreviated history of the man Archimedes; not to be forgotten, probably, till the world itself vanish. Of Poets, and what they have done, and how the world loves them, let us, in these days, very singular in respect of that Art, say nothing, or next to nothing. The greatest modern of the poetic guild has already said: "Nay if thou wilt have it, who but the poet first formed gods for us, brought them down to us, raised us up to them?"
and a problem as yet, not to others only but to himself. Hence such criticism by the bystanders; loud no-knowledge, loud misknowledge! It is like the opening of the Fisherman's Casket in the Arabian Tale, this beginning and growing-up of a life: vague smoke wavering hither and thither; some features of a Genie looming through; of the ultimate shape of which no fisherman or man can judge. And yet, as we say, men do judge, and pass provisional sentence, being forced to it; you can predict with what accuracy! "Look at the audience in a theatre," says one: "the life of a man is there compressed within five hours' duration; is transacted on an open stage, with lighted lamps, and what the fittest words and art of genius can do to make the spirit of it Another remark, on a lower scale, not unclear; yet listen, when the curtain falls, what worthy of notice, is by Jean Paul: that, "as in a discerning public will say of that! And now, art, so in conduct, or what we call morals, beif the drama extended over three-score and ten fore there can be an Aristotle, with his critical years; and were enacted, not with a view to canons, there must be a Homer, many Homers clearness, but rather indeed with a view to with their heroic performances." In plainer concealment, often in the deepest attainable words, the original man is the true creator (or involution of obscurity; and your discerning call him revealer) of Morals too: it is from his public occupied otherwise, cast its eye on the example that precepts enough are derived, business now here for a moment, and then there and written down in books and systems: he profor a moment?" Wo to him, answer we, who perly is the Thing; all that follows after is has no court of appeal against the world's judg- but talk about the thing, better or worse interment! He is a doomed man: doomed by con-pretation of it, more or less wearisome and inviction to hard penalties; nay, purchasing ac- effectual discourse of logic on it. A remark, quittal (too probably) by a still harder penalty, this of Jean Paul's which, well meditated, may that of being a trivialty, superficialty, self-ad-seem one of the most pregnant lately written vertiser, and partial or total quack, which is the on these matters. If any man had the ambihardest penalty of all. tion of building a new system of morals, (not a promising enterprise, at this time of day,) there is no remark known to us which might better serve him as a chief corner-stone, whereon to found, and to build, high enough, nothing doubting;-high, for instance, as the Christian Gospel itself. And to whatever other heights man's destiny may yet carry him! Consider whether it was not, from the first, by example, or say rather by human exemplars, and such reverent imitation or abhorrent aversion and avoidance as these gave rise to, that man's duties were made indubitable to him? Also, if it is not yet, in these last days, by very much the same means, (example, precept, prohibition, force of public opinion," and other forcings and inducings,) that the like result is brought about; and, from the Woolsack down to the Treadmill, from Almack's to Chalk Farm and the west-end of Newgate, the incongruous whirlpool of life is forced and induced to whirl with some attempt at regularity? The two Mosaic Tables were of simple limited stone; no logic appended to them: we, in our days, are privileged with Logic-Systems of Morals, Professors of Moral Philosophy, Theories of Moral Sentiment, Utilities, Sympathies, Moral Senses, not a few; useful for those that feel comfort in them. But to the observant eye, is it not still plain that the rule of man's life rests not very steadily on logic (rather carries logic unsteadily resting on it, as an excuse, an ex
But suppose farther, that the man, as we said, was an original man; that his life-drama would not and could not be measured by the three unities alone, but partly by a rule of its own too: still farther, that the transactions he had mingled in were great and world-dividing; that of all his judges there were not one who had not something to love him for unduly, to hate him for unduly! Alas! is it not precisely in this case, where the whole world is promptest to judge, that the whole world is likeliest to be wrong: natural opacity being so doubly and trebly darkened by accidental difficulty and perversion? The crabbed moralist had some show of reason who said: "To judge of an original" contemporary man, you must, in general, reverse the world's judgment about him; the world is not only wrong on that matter, but cannot on any such matter be right."
the sum of its strength, its sacred "property for ever," whereby it upholds itself, and steers forward better or worse, through the yet undiscovered deep of Time. All knowledge, all art, all beautiful or precious possession of exist
One comfort is, that the world is ever working itself righter and righter on such matters; that a continual revisal and rectification of the world's first judgment on them is inevitably going on. For, after all, the world loves its original men, and can in no wise forget them; not till after a long while; sometimes not till after thousands of years. Forgetting them, what indeed, should it remember? The world's wealth is its original men; by these and their works it is a world and not a waste: the memory and record of what MEN it bore-this is
position, or ornamental solacement to oneself | plosion and new creation of the world;" but and others;) that ever, as of old, the thing a the actors in it, that went buzzing about him. man will do is the thing he feels commanded to a "handvoll mücken, handful of flies." And to do; of which command, again, the origin yet, one may add, this same explosion of a and reasonableness remains often as good as world was their work; the work of theseindemoustrable by logic; and, indeed, lies flies? The truth is, neither Forster nor any mainly in this, that it has been demonstrated man can see a French Revolution; it is like otherwise and better by experiment; namely, seeing the ocean: poor Charles Lamb comthat an experimental (what we name original) plained that he could not see the multitudinman has already done it, and we have seen it to ous ocean at all, but only some insignificant be good and reasonable, and now know it to be fraction of it from the deck of the Margate so once and for evermore?-Enough of this. hoy. It must be owned, however, (urge these severe critics,) that examples of rabid triviality abound, in the French Revolution, to a lamentable extent. Consider Maximilien Robespierre; for the greater part of two years, what one may call Autocrat of France. A poor sea-green (verdâtre,) atrabiliar Formula of a man; without head, without heart, or any grace, gift, or even vice beyond common, if it were not vanity, astucity, diseased rigour (which some count strength) as of a cramp: really a most poor sea-green individual in spectacles; meant by Nature for a Methodist parson of the stricter sort, to doom men who departed from the written confession; to chop fruitless shrill logic; to contend, and suspect, and ineffectually wrestle and wriggle; and, on the whole, to love, or to know, or to be (properly speaking) Nothing;-this was he who, the sport of wracking winds, saw himself whirled aloft to command la première nation de l'univers, and all men shouting long life to him; one of the most lamentable, tragic, seagreen objects, ever whirled aloft in that manner, in any country, to his own swift destruction, and the world's long wonder!
He were a sanguine individual, surely, that should turn to the French Revolution for new rules of conduct and creators or exemplars of morality, except, indeed, exemplars of the gibbetted, in-terrorem sort. A greater work, it is often said, was never done in the world's history by men so small. Twenty-five millions (say these severe critics) are hurled forth out of all their old habitudes, arrangements, harnessings, and garnitures, into the new, quite void arena and career of Sansculottism; there to show what originality is in them. Fanfaronading and gesticulation, vehemence, effervescence, heroic desperation, they do show in abundance; but of what one can call originality, invention, natural stuff or character, amazingly little. Their heroic desperation, such as it was, we will honour and even venerate, as a new document (call it rather a renewal of that primeval ineffaceable document and charter) of the manhood of man. But, for the rest, there were Federations; there were Festivals of Fraternity, "the Statute of Nature pouring water from her two mammelles," and the august Deputies all drinking of it from the same iron saucer: Weights and Measures were attempted to be changed; the Months of the Year became Pluviose, Thermidor, Messidor (till Napoleon said, I faudra se débarrasser de se Messidor, One must get this Messidor sent about its business :) also Mrs. Momoro and others rode prosperous, as Goddesses of Reason; and then, these being mostly guillotined, Mahomet Robespierre did, with bouquet in hand, and in new nankeen trowsers, in front of the Tuileries, pronounce ⚫ the scraggiest of prophetic discourses on the Etre Suprême, and set fire to much emblematic pasteboard:-all this, and an immensity of such, the twenty-five millions did devise and accomplish; but (apart from their heroic desperation, which was no miracle either, beside that of the old Dutch, for instance) this, and the like of this, was almost all. Their arena of Sansculottism was the most original arena opened to man for above a thousand years; and they, at bottom, were unexpectedly common-place in it. Exaggerated common-place, triviality run distracted, and a kind of universal "Frenzy of John Dennis," is the figure they exhibit. The brave Forster,-sinking slowly of broken heart, in the midst of that volcanic chaos of the Reign of Terror, and clinging still to the cause, which, though now bloody and terrible, he believed to be the highest, and for which he had sacrificed all, country, kindred, fortune, friends, and life,compares the Revolution, indeed, to "an ex
So argue these severe critics of the French Revolution: with whom we argue not here; but remark rather, what is more to the purpose, that the French Revolution did disclose original men: among the twenty-five millions, at least one or two units. Some reckon, in the present stage of the business, as many as three: Napoleon, Danton, Mirabeau. Whether more will come to light, or of what sort, when the computation is quite liquidated, one cannot say: meanwhile let the world be thankful for these three;-as, indeed, the world is; loving original men, without limit, were they never so questionable, well knowing how rare they are! To us, accordingly, it is rather interesting to observe how on these three also, questionable as they surely are, the old process is repeating itself; how these also are getting known in their true likeness. A second generation, relieved in some measure from the spectral hallucinations, hysterical ophthalmia, and natural panic-delirium of the first contemporary one, is gradually coming to discern and measure what its predecessor could only execrate and shriek over: for, as our Proverb said, the dust is sinking, the rubbish-heaps disappear; the built house, such as it is, and was appointed to be, stands visible, better or worse.
Of Napoleon Bonaparte, what with so many bulletins, and such self-proclamation from artillery and battle-thunder, loud enough to
Forster's Briefe und Nachlass.
ring through the deafest brain, in the remotest enemies. De l'audace, et encore de l'audace, et nook of this earth, and now, in consequence, toujours de l'audace: to dare, and again to dare, with so many biographies, histories, and histo- and without limit to dare!"-there is nothing rical arguments for and against, it may be left but that. Poor "Mirabeau of the Sanscusaid that he can now sift for himself; that his lottes," what a mission! And it could not be true figure is in a fair way of being ascer- but done, and it was done! But, indeed, may tained. Doubtless it will be found one day there not be, if well considered, more virtue in what significance was in him; how (we quote this feeling itself, once bursting earnest from from a New England Book) "the man was a the wild heart, than in whole lives of immadivine missionary, though unconscious of it; culate Pharisees and Respectabilities, with and preached, through the cannon's throat, their eye ever set on "character," and the that great doctrine, La carrière ouverte aux talens, letter of the law: "Que mon nom soit flétri, Let (The tools to him that can handle them,) which my name be blighted, then; let the Cause be is our ultimate Political Evangel, wherein glorious, and have victory!" By and by, as alone can Liberty lie. Madly enough he we predict, the Friend of Humanity, since so preached, it is true, as enthusiasts and first many Knife-grinders have no story to tell him, missionaries are wont; with imperfect utter-will find some sort of story in this Danton. A ance, amid much frothy rant; yet as articu- rough-hewn giant of a man, (not anthropophalately, perhaps, as the case admitted. Or call gous entirely;) whose "figures of speech" (and him, if you will, an American backwoodsman, also of action) "are all gigantic;" whose who had to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle "voice reverberates from the domes,"—and with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely dashes Brunswick across the marches in a forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; very wrecked condition. Always his total whom, nevertheless, the peaceful sower will freedom from cant is one thing; even in his follow, and, as he cuts the boundless harvest, briberies, and sins as to money, there is a bless."-From "the incarnate Moloch," which frankness, a kind of broad greatness. Sinthe word once was, onwards to this quiet cerity, a great rude sincerity, (of insight and version, there is a considerable progress. of purpose,) dwelt in the man, which quality is the root of all: a man who could see through many things, and would stop at very few things; who marched impetuously, where to march was almost certainly to fall; and now bears the penalty, in a "name" blighted, yet, as
we say, visibly clearing itself. Once cleared, why should not this name, too, have significance for men? The wild history is a tragedy, as all human histories are. Brawny Dantons, still to the present hour," rend the glebe," as simple brawny Farmers, and reap peaceable harvests, at Arcis-sur-Aube; and this Danton-! It is an unrhymed tragedy; very bloody, fuliginous, (after the manner of the elder dramatists;) yet full of tragic elements; not undeserving natural pity and fear. In quiet times, perhaps still at a great distance, the happier onlooker may stretch out the hand, across dim centuries, to him, and say: "Illstarred brother, how thou foughtest with wild lion-strength, and yet not with strength enough, and flamedst aloft, and wert trodden down of sin and misery-behold, thou also wert a man!" It is said there lies a Biography of Danton written, in Paris, at this moment; but the editor waits till the "force of public opinion" ebb a little. Let him publish, with utmost convenient despatch, and say what he knows, if he do know it: the lives of remarkable men are always worth understanding instead of misunderstanding; and public opinion must positively adjust itself the best way it can.
Still more interesting is it, not without a touch almost of pathos, to see how the rugged Terra Filius Danton begins likewise to emerge, from amid the blood-tinted obscurations and shadows of horrid cruelty, into calm light; and seems now not an Anthropophagus, but partly a man. On the whole, the Earth feels it to be something to have a "Son of Earth;" any reality, rather than a hypocrisy and formula! With a man that went honestly to work with himself, and said and acted, in any sense, with the whole mind of him, there is always something to be done. Satan himself, according to Dante, was a praiseworthy object, compared with those juste-milieu angels (so over-numerous in times like ours) who “were neither faithful nor rebellious," but were for their little selves only trimmers, moderates, plausible persons, who, in the Dantean Hell, are found doomed to this frightful penalty, that "they have not the hope to die, (non han speranza di morte;) but sunk in torpid death-life, in mud and the plague of flies, they are to doze and dree for ever,-"hateful to God and to the Enemies of God:"
"Non ragionum di lor, ma guarda e passa!" If Bonaparte were the "armed Soldier of Democracy," invincible while he continued true to that, then let us call this Danton the Enfant Perdu, and unenlisted Revolter and Titan of Democracy, which could not yet have soldiers or discipline, but was by the nature of it lawless. An Earthborn, we say, yet honestly born of Earth! In the Memoirs of Garal, and elsewhere, one sees these fire-eyes beam with earnest insight, fill with the water of tears; the huge rude features speak withal of wild human sympathies; that Anteus' bosom also held a heart. "It is not the alarm-cannon that you hear," cries he to the terrorstruck, when the Prussians were already at Verdun: "it is the pas de charge against our
But without doubt the far most interesting best-gifted of this questionable trio is not the Mirabeau of the Sansculottes, but the Mirabeau himself: a man of much finer nature than either of the others; of a genius equal in strength (we will say) to Napoleon's; but a much humaner genius. almost a poetic one. With wider sympathies of his own, he appeals far more persuasively to the sympathies of men
Of him, too, it is interesting to notice the progressive dawning, out of calumny, misrepresentation, and confused darkness, into visibility and light; and how the world manifests its continued curiosity about him; and as book after book comes forth with new evidence, the matter is again taken up, the old judgment on it revised and anew revised; whereby, in fine, we can hope the right, or approximately right, sentence will be found; and so the question be left settled. It would seem this Mirabeau also is one whose memory the world will not, for a long while, let die. Very different from many a high memory, dead and deep buried long since then! In his lifetime, even in the final effulgent part of it, this Mirabeau took upon him to write, with a sort of awe-struck feeling, to our Mr. Wilberforce; and did not, that we can find, get the benefit of any answer. Pitt was prime minister, and then Fox, then again Pitt, and again Fox, in sweet vicissitude; and the noise of them, reverberating through Brookes's and the clubrooms, through tavern dinners, electioneering hustings, leading articles, filled all the earth; and it seemed as if those two (though which might be which, you could not say) were the Ormuzd and Ahriman of political nature; and now! Such difference is there (once more) between an original man, of never such questionable sort, and the most dexterous, cunningly-devised parliamentary mill. The difference is great; and one of those on which the future time makes largest contrast with the present. Nothing can be more important than the mill while it continues and grinds; important above all to those who have sacks about the hopper. But the grinding once done, how can the memory of it endure? It is important now to no individual, not even to the individual with a sack. So that, this tumult well over, the memory of the original man, and of what small revelation he, as Son of Nature and brother-man, could make, does naturally rise on us: his memorable sayings, actings, and sufferings, the very vices and crimes he fell into, are a kind of pabulum which all mortals claim their right to.
Concerning Peuchet, Chaussard, Gassicourt, and, indeed, all the former Biographers of Mirabeau, there can little be said here, except that they abound with errors: the present ultimate Fils Adoptif, has never done picking faults with them. Not as memorials of Mirabeau, but as memorials of the world's relation to him, of the world's treatment of him, they may, a little longer, have some perceptible significance. From poor Peuchet (he was known in the Moniteur once,) and other the like labourers in the vineyard, you can justly demand thus much; and not justly much more.
Etienne Dumont's Souvenirs sur Mirabeau might not, at first sight, seem an advance towards true knowledge, but a movement the other way, and yet it was really an advance. The book, for one thing, was hailed by a universal choral blast from all manner of reviews and periodical literatures that Europe, in all its spellable dialects, had: whereby, at least, the minds of men were again drawn to the subject: and so, amid whatever hallucination.
ancient or new-devised, some increase of insight was unavoidable. Besides, the book itself did somewhat. Numerous specialities about the great Frenchman, as read by the eyes of the little Genevese, were conveyed there; and could be deciphered, making allowances. Dumont is faithful, veridical; within his own limits he has even a certain freedom, a picturesqueness and light clearness. It is true, the whim he had of looking at the great Mirabeau as a thing set in motion mainly by him (M. Dumont) and such as he, was one of the most wonderful to be met with in psycho logy. Nay, more wonderful still, how the reviewers, pretty generally, some from whom better was expected, took up the same with aggravations; and it seemed settled on all sides, that here again a pretender had been stripped, and the great made as little as the rest of us (much to our comfort); that, in fact, figuratively speaking, the enormous Mirabeau, the sound of whom went forth to all lands, was no other than an enormous trumpet, or coachhorn, (of japanned tin,) through which a dexterous little M. Dumont was blowing all the while, and making the noise! Some men and reviewers have strange theories of man. Let any son of Adam, the shallowest now living, try honestly to scheme out, within his head, an existence of this kind; and say how verisimilar it looks! A life and business actually conducted on such coach-horn principle, we say not the life and business of a statesman and world-leader, but say of the poorest laceman and tape-seller, were one of the chief miracles hitherto on record. Oh, M. Dumont! But thus, too, when old Sir Christopher struck down the last stone in the Dome of St. Paul's, was it he that carried up the stone? No; it was a certain strong-backed man, never mentioned, (covered with envious or unenvious oblivion,)
probably of the Sister Island.
Let us add, however, more plainly, that M. Dumont was less to blame here than his reviewers were. The good Dumont accurately records what ingenious journey-work and fetching and carrying he did for his Mirabeau; interspersing many an anecdote, which the world is very glad of; extenuating nothing we do hope, nor exaggerating any thing: this is what he did, and had a clear right and call to do. And what if it failed, not altogether, yet in some measure if it did fail, to strike him, that he still properly was but a Dumont? Nay, that the gift this Mirabeau had of enlisting such respectable Dumonts to do hod-work and even skilful handiwork for him; and of ruling them and bidding them by the look of his eye; and of making them cheerfully fetch and carry for him, and serve him as loyal subjects, with a kind of chivalry and willingness,-that this gift was precisely the kinghood of the man, and did itself stamp him as a leader among men! Let no man blame M. Dumont (as some have too harshly done); his error is of oversight, and venial; his worth to us is indisput able. On the other hand, let all men blame such public instructors and periodical individuals as drew that inference and life-theory for him, and brayed it forth in that loud manner; or rather, on the whole, do not blame, but
pardon, and pass by on the other side. Such copiousness (having wagons enough) as gives things are an ordained trial of public patience, the reader many a pang. The very pains bewhich perhaps is the better for discipline; stowed on it are often perverse; the whole is and seldom, or rather never, do any lasting become so hard, heavy; unworkable, except injury. in the sweat of one's brow! Or call it a mine, Close following on Dumont's "Reminis--artificial-natural silver mine. Threads of cences" came this Biography by M. Lucas beautiful silver ore lie scattered, which you Montigny, "Adopted Son;" the first volume in must dig for, and sift: suddenly, when your 1834, the rest at short intervals; and lies thread or vein is at the richest, it vanishes (as complete now in Eight considerable Volumes is the way with mines) in thick masses of octavo: concerning which we are now to agglomerate and pudding-stone, no man can speak,-unhappily, in the disparaging sense. guess whither. This is not as it should be; In fact it is impossible for any man to say un- and yet unfortunately it could be no other. mixed good of M. Lucas's work. That he, as The long bad book is so much easier to do Adopted Son, has lent himself so resolutely to than the brief good one; and a poor bookseller the washing of his hero white, and even to the has no way of measuring and paying but by white-washing of him where the natural colour the ell, cubic or superficial. The very weaver was black, be this no blame to him; or even, comes and says, not "I have woven so many if you will, be it praise. If a man's Adopted ells of stuff," but "so many ells of such stuff:" Son may not write the best book he can for satin and Cashmere-shawl stuff,-or, if it be him, then who may? But the fatal circum-so, duffle and coal-sacking, and even cobweb stance is, that M. Lucas Montigny has not written a book at all; but has merely clipped Undoubtedly the Adopted Son's will was and cut out, and cast together the materials for good. Ought we not to rejoice greatly in the a book, which other men are still wanted to possession of these same silver-veins; and take write. On the whole M. Montigny rather sur-them in the buried mineral state, or in any prises one. For the reader probably knows, state; too thankful to have them now indewhat all the world whispers to itself, that when structible, now that they are printed? Let the "Mirabeau, in 1783, adopted this infant born world, we say, be thankful to M. Montigny, and the year before," he had the best of all con- yet know what it is they are thanking him for. ceivable obligations to adopt him; having, by No Life of Mirabeau is to be found in these his own act, (non-notarial,) summoned him to Volumes, but the amplest materials for writing appear in this World. And now consider both a Life. Were the Eight Volumes well riddled what Shakspeare's Edmund, what Poet Savage, and smelted down into One Volume, such as and such like, have bragged; and also that the might be made, that one were the volume! Mirabeaus, from time immemorial, had (like a Nay it seems an enterprise of such uses, and certain British kindred known to us) "pro-withal so feasible, that some day it is as good duced many a blackguard, but not one block-as sure to be done, and again done, and finally head!" We almost discredit that statement, well done. which all the world whispers to itself; or, if The present reviewer, restricted to a mere crediting it, pause over the ruins of families. article, purposes, nevertheless, to sift and exThe Haarlem canal is not flatter than M. Mon- tract somewhat. He has bored (so to speak) tigny's genius. He wants the talent which and run mine-shafts through the book in variseems born with all Frenchmen, that of pre-ous directions, and knows pretty well what is senting what knowledge he has in the most in it, though indeed not so well where to find knowable form. One of the solidest men, too: the same, having unfortunately (as reviewers doubtless a valuable man; whom it were so are wont) "mislaid our paper of references!" pleasant for us to praise, if we could. May he Wherefore, if the best extracts be not presented, be happy in a private station, and never write let not M. Lucas suffer. By one means and more-except for the Bureaux de Préfecture, another, some sketch of Mirabeau's history; with tolerably handsome official appointments, what befel him successively in this World, and which is far better! what steps he successively took in consequence; His biographical work is a monstrous quar- and how he and it, working together, made the ry, or mound of shot-rubbish, in eight strata,thing we call Mirabeau's Life,-may be brought hiding valuable matter, which he that seeks out; extremely imperfect, yet truer, one can will find. Valuable, we say; for the Adopted hope, than the Biographical Dictionaries and Son having access, nay welcome and friendly en- ordinary voice of rumour give it. Whether, reaty, to family papers, to all manner of ar- and if so, where and how, the current estimate chives, secret records; and working therein long|of Mirabeau is to be rectified, fortified, or in years, with a filial unweariedness, has made any important point overset and expunged, will himself piously at home in all corners of the hereby come to light, almost of itself, as we matter. He might, with the same spirit, (as proceed. Indeed, it is very singular, considerwe always upbraidingly think,) so easily have ing the emphatic judgments daily uttered, in made us at home too! But no: he brings to print and speech, about this man, what Egyplight things new and old; now precious illus-tian obscurity rests over the mere facts of his trative private documents, now the poorest external history; the right knowledge of which, public heaps of mere pamphleteer and parlia- one would fancy, must be the preliminary of mentary matter, so attainable elsewhere, often any judgment, however faint. But thus, as so omissible were it not to be attained; and we always urge, are such judgments generally jumbles and tumbles the whole together with passed: vague plebiscita,(decrees of the common such reckless clumsiness, with such endless people;) made up of innumerable loud empty