the House of Lords, that he applied himself with assiduity to the discharge of the duties of public life. He soon attained distinction as an orator; but it was as a diplomatist that he first really took a part in the active duties of official life. His ready tact, his keen insight into humanity, his courteous manners, his knowledge of modern languages-all eminently fitted him for the business of diplomacy. He was twice despatched as ambassador to Holland, and on both occasions acquitted himself with remarkable address. He was afterwards appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; and it is recorded to his honour that he entered upon the duties of his new office with a full determination not to tread in the path of those predecessors who had treated the office as a sumptuous sinecure, and lounged through it without a thought of the people. He governed Ireland upon principles of humanity and justice, and it is said, that his name is still held there "in honoured remembrance."

This was no small thing. If Chesterfield had done nothing else, his Irish vice-royalty would have entitled him to a niche in history. But he was invited to leave Ireland, and to accept the seals of Secretary of State. He consented, not without reluctance. The duties of the office he would have performed with advantage to the State, for he strove to bring about the peace, but he was thwarted by his colleagues, and imperfectly supported by the King, and his alliance with the royal favourite, through whom he hoped to influence the monarch, was not sufficient to protect him from defeat.

But public business did not suit him, he never liked it. With the King he was no great favourite; and a personal slight put upon him riveted his resolution to retire with dignity into private life. It has been said of him that his patriotism was somewhat lukewarm. But it would be well if some of those who esteem themselves patriots of a higher temperature, would ponder over such a passage as this in one of Chesterfield's letters-" Far from engaging in opposition, as resigning ministers too commonly do, I should"-he wrote to Mr. Dayrolles in 1748-" to the utmost of my power support the King and the Government, which I can do with more advantage to them and more honour to myself, when I do not receive £5000 a-year for doing it." The King, when he received his resignation, expressed a hope that the retiring minister would not betake himself to the ranks of the Opposition; but this the above passage clearly shows he had never intended to do. His Majesty, too, offered him a dukedom, but this he respectfully declined. From the period of his resignation he ceased to take any part in official affairs, but he was still an active member of the Upper House; and among the measures with which he was identified, were some of grave historical importance. In spite of much opposition, within and without the House, he carried the Bill for the reform of the Calendar, and gave us the "new Style," which ignorance and superstition in those days declared to be an impious proceeding, but of which among enlightened men, either in that age or in this, there have hardly been two opinions.

But although Chesterfield believed that he could retire without a pang from public life, and though he talked about his horse, his books, and his prints, as companions sufficient for his declining years, they were not enough for him. He wanted other excitement, and he endeavoured to solace his retirement with play. He had earnestly cautioned his son against gaming, but it was only amidst the turmoil of official life that he had been proof against its fascinations. From this he might have been rescued by a resumption of the old burdens of statesmanship, but for an hereditary infirmity, which grew upon him as he advanced in years, and unfitted him both for official and social intercourse. He became very deaf in his old age, and the "thousand infallible remedies" which he tried only left the affliction as they found it. There is but one human antidote to such an evil-it is to be found in a happy home. The domestic pleasures he had not cultivated, and his old age was very cheerless. He had but one child-the illegitimate son, Philip Stanhope, to whom his famous "Letters" were addressed, and he, after disappointing Chesterfield's expectations, was carried off in the prime of life. The aged peer survived him some five years-they were years of weariness and desolation. He adopted the heir to his title, but he could not secure the allegiance of a son; and he died in the year 1773, almost an octogenarian, with little to soothe the misery of the death-bed.

His works survive, and will long survive. In one of his letters to his son he says, with truth and prescience, "Buy good books and read them; the best books are the commonest, and the last editions are always the best, if the Editors are not blockheads, for they may profit of the former." This is especially true of his own works. The last edition of Lord Chesterfield's writings is incomparably the best-indeed it is the only edition which fully represents what he was capable of doing. This, in another way, his portrait very fairly exhibits. The face is full of refinement-full of shrewdness. There is no great openness or sincerity in it, and these qualities were absent from Chesterfield's character. He was not, indeed, a truthful man. It is difficult, if not impossible, to gather the real nature of the man from his writings. He often, indeed, belied himself. But what a world of sagacity is there in that face-what a keen insight into human nature, what a knowledge of all human frailties! He seems to look you through and through, as if his business were to over-reach men and to cajole women; and that was very much what he meant when he said that his great object was to make every man like and every woman love him-for how are we so easily cheated as through the medium of the affections?

225

INTERMITTENT RHAPSODIES ON THE QUASHEE QUESTION.

BY JERMAN JUMBELL, THE UNINTELLIGIBLE PHILOSOPHER.

MY DEAR SIR,

TO THE EDITOR.

IT must be two years ago since I was appointed by Mr. Bentley, at your kind (and may I add sagacious?) suggestion, Reviewer Extraordinary to the long-established and far-famed Miscellany. When I reflect on the scrupulous regularity with which I have drawn my very liberal salary, and my unscrupulous negligence of the duties which it was intended to reward, I feel humbled and penitent, and as this happens by an accident to be my birthday, (and I always make good resolutions on that anniversary,) I am determined for the future to be generally more respectable and industrious, and to discharge the duties of my critical station like-(I have no other simile at hand, and had therefore better say)-like an Englishman. Indeed I am astonished on looking through the back numbers of your Magazine, to find that my only official utterance dates as far back as March, 1852, when I called the attention of the reading world to two famous works of Jerman Jumbell and Israel Benoni. Since that period, I cannot say that I have been idle-for I have been thinking a great deal—but reading I found quite out of the question. By this I mean the perusal of contemporaneous works -for to the ancients I am as much attached as Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield, and have just concluded a re-perusal of Aristophanes and Lucian-whom I have read through before,-I am afraid to say how many times. Well, I was thinking the other day (of all the places in the world to do so) in an omnibus, when I was suddenly attracted by the extraordinary title of a pamphlet which a stout and contemplative looking gentleman sitting next to me was reading. It was nothing more nor less that the following-"Intermittent Rhapsodies on the Quashee Question," and the title-page went on to say, that this lucubration proceeded from the pen of no less a man than Jerman Jumbell, the Unintelligible Philosopher. Now the name of the author at once excited me; but the title of the tract set me quite beside myself. If there is a thing important now a-days, when cart-loads of new books are daily shot into the publishers' houses-it is a good title. I have a friend who is writing a three volume novel-which, inasmuch as his last, christened with some taste and decency, did not enjoy a success proportionate to its merits-he declares he will call "Blood and Thunder." A faithful band of friends are also meditating a new serial. It will in all probability fail-but if it has a chance, that chance is an eccentric name. If it appears at all-which is I think doubtful-it will be called "The Blasphemer." As a nice quiet name for a magazine not devoted to the discussion