austere, though, when once known, no one was ever more beloved and respected."

I have before dwelt on her fondness for children. To the last this remained very conspicuously. Her eye was sure to follow the movements of a child, and children found her wonderfully attractive in her quiet, sympathising style; not attempting, after the manner of some elderly people, to be a playfellow to the young, which seldom or never succeeds, but only showing that she thought of and thought for them by a gentle way of anticipating their wishes. On one occasion, when she was nursing her own youngest daughter, Cecilia, she was found at home enjoying the society of her baby, while her husband and elder daughters were taking their pleasure at Margate.

"If they like to be gay," she wrote to a friend, "let them. I only wish they would let me stay at home and take care of my baby. But," she adds, "I am every day more and more convinced that one half of the world live to themselves and the other half for the comfort of others. At least this I am sure of, that I have had no will of my own since I remember; and, indeed, to be just, I fancy I should have little delight in so selfish an existence."

Knowing what this youngest of her children afterwards became to her mother-the one remaining treasure of her age-everything she says of Mrs Siddons becomes most interesting, and we like to read her recollections. In her private character, Mrs Combe observes that Mrs Siddons was not at all, as some fancied, of "a hard and haughty demeanour, ruling in her own family by fear and severity. It would be very easy, on the contrary," she says, "for me to give the lie to such accusations by adducing many circumstantial proofs of my mother being only too easy -too much disposed to be ruled by people inferior in every way to herself. One who knew her well says she was even credulous to an extraordinary degree, always trusting to appearances, and never willing to suspect any one."

Mrs Combe's mention of her own impression of her mother's acting is also interesting. She tells that she had never, except very rarely, seen her mother act till, in the season of 1809, "a friend having observed to my mother that she ought not to deprive her daughter of emotions and recollections which would one day be dear, she permitted me to be present at each one of her great representations. I can never be sufficiently grateful to the friend (the late Samuel Rogers) who gained me this privilege. Those moments are among the sweetest of my remembrances, and the impression left is so lively that even to-day, when many years are past, there is not a scene which I do not recall exactly, and which does not awaken sometimes a smile, sometimes

tears, just as if the drama were unfolding itself before my eyes."

Siddons' public and drawing-room readings of Shakespeare and Milton. Many who attended these readings are living still, and would agree with her biographer, Campbell, "that no acting, no dramatic criticism, seemed to illustrate Shakspeare so closely and so perfectly."

Mrs Siddons had considerable facility of versification; and Mr Campbell gives us a short specimen, which is here inserted. Its date is unknown:

"Say, what's the brightest wreath of fame,

But canker'd buds, that, opening, close;
Ah! what the world's most pleasing dream,
But broken fragments of repose?

"Lead me where peace, with steady hand,
The mingled cup of life shall hold,
Where time shall smoothly pour his sand,
And wisdom turn that sand to gold.
"Then haply at Religion's shrine,

This weary heart its load shall lay;
Each wish my fatal love resign,

And passion melt in tears away."

A deep sorrow and loss brought her once more upon the stage, three years after she had taken her leave of it. Her eldest son, Henry, who had become the respected proprietor of the Edinburgh Theatre, died, to her inexpressible grief, in 1815. This death of Henry laid a heavier hand on her mind than any she had received. Her voice, she says, was gone, and what was left of sight was almost washed away by tears. But before the close of that sad year she had taken her resolution-she would go to Edinburgh and do her best for her son's widow and children.

With that admirable wife and mother, Mrs Siddons' relations had always been perfect; and well they might be so, for the two women, extremely dissimilar in many respects, were alike in their probity, their love of goodness, their truthfulness and simplicity. Mrs Henry Siddons had, probably more than her mother-inlaw, the power of immediately charming in private life. She threw herself into a variety of characters by means of a remarkable degree of sympathy. A knowledge of character seemed to be intuitive with her; and, what was far more remarkable, she had the power of seizing on the good, without being in the least blind to the bad. She had all the light graceful play of manner which the grander mother wanted, and yet she had an innate dignity which repelled every species of impertinence.

For this excellent woman, under her great bereavement, and with numerous difficulties

* One of Mrs Siddons' most decided tastes was for

modelling. She was skilful, and often successful in moulding likenesses and figures, and had she had

opportunity would probably have excelled. Her visits

to her friend, Mrs Damer, were, it may be supposed, very enjoyable, and much time was past in the studio

pressing upon her, Mrs Siddons could not but long to do her utmost; and she gave ten performances at the Edinburgh Theatre for this purpose.

They cost her very dear. She came upon the stage the first night absolutely shaken by nervous agitation. Occasionally her voice could hardly be heard. In a short time, however, the wonted presence of mind returned, the strong feeling of duty was triumphant. She was Mrs Siddons still; and though added years and sorrow had told upon her, there was still the ripe judgment, the pure taste, the dignified expressive mien-much, very much, of all that had formerly delighted admiring crowds.

*

One cannot feel the same in remembering the nights of her appearance in London in 1816, by order of the lamented Princess Charlotte. The mandate was, must be owned, injudicious. But the last of her stage performances, on the 19th of June 1819, was the result of her own amiable desire to do what she could for her brother Charles. On that occasion she certainly did not spare herself, choosing the part of Lady Randolph; and perhaps she never received more applause than at her final exit. She was then sixty-three years of age.

The particulars of her life, after this, present little for the chronicler. In the summer of 1820 she went, accompanied by her daughter Cecilia, to Switzerland. It was her first view of those grand scenes, and no one of the party of friends assembled, entered into their beauty with a keener zest. Chamouni, then much less easily accessible than now, was forbidden her. "But," says her daughter, "we have eaten of chamois, crossed a lake, and mounted a glacier with two men cutting steps in the ice with a hatchet, and done most of the surprising things that (ordinary) travellers boast of. My mother bore all the fatigues much more wonderfully than any of us."

The great object, however, of this journey was to visit her brother John, who was living in a beautiful retreat at Lausanne. It was the last meeting of this wonderful brother and sister. Their happiness together, for the time permitted to their enjoyment of it, was great. It may not be generally known that Kemble, like his father and mother, was through life a Roman Catholic,

* Scott says of these reappearances: "Mrs Siddons, as fame reports, has taken another engagement at Covent Garden. Surely she is not wise! She should have no twilight, but set in the full possession of her powers" ("Scott's Life," vol. ii., p. 396).

Alas! who would not, if it were possible, have such a "set o' his sun?" But not such was Scott's own; and Mrs Siddons had, or deemed she had, a worthy object for her "twilight" exertions. It is placing mere reputation too high to exalt it above its moral uses. Perhaps, in the first instance, Mrs Siddons' reappearance was unwise; but she was very loyal, and the command of the princess had great weight with her.

while Mrs Siddons was a devout Protestant; but her brother was no bigot. He was attended in his last hours (in February 1823) with all Christian kindness by an English clergyman, who read prayers with him while he could attend to them; and was interred near Lausanne with the rites of the English Church. His age at the period of the final attack was sixty-six.

The remaining years of Mrs Siddons' life were wholly passed in England, the winters almost invariably in her house in Baker Street, where she had often large parties to whom she afforded the treat of hearing her read. One of her grandchildren, then a child, has described the interest of her visits to her. 66 'Frequently," she says, "my grandmother would read to us, giving us often the choice of the play. One evening in particular I remember when she read 'Othello.' It was a stormy night, and the thunder was heard occasionally, and she so grand and impressive! her look, her voice, her magnificent eyes still clear and brilliant. It was real reading, not declamation, and yet the effect was beyond anything I could conceive of the finest acting." This was the winter previous to her death.

In spite of her frequent and increased suffering from headaches, the greatest bodily trial of her life, she had, says Campbell, "till the last year of a long life, a hale and cheerful aspect. Time itself seemed to lay his touches reverentially upon her, for she always looked many years younger than her age. Her step, her voice, and her eyes, denoted a mind of unchanged tranquillity and intelligence." She was "most agreeably excited in her last years, by the favourable reception of Fanny Kemble on the stage. She went to see her niece's performance, and was moved to tears of joy."

Her last and fatal illness attacked her in April 1831, when she had reached her seventysixth year. It was the old enemy, erysipelas. She shook it off once more, however, in a degree; but about six weeks afterwards another and a fatal attack took place, and on the morning of the 8th of June she expired, after a week of great suffering.

She was buried in the churchyard of Paddington Church; her orders were that the interment should be strictly private, every arrangement of the plainest kind; but numbers, unbidden, crowded to the scene, and it was thought that there could not have been fewer than 5000 persons present. The stone erected above the spot where her honoured remains repose, bears this inscription:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

OF

SARAH SIDDONS,

Who departed this life, June 8, 1831,
in her 76th year.

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."

such attainments as afforded me the most promise to render me useful. For years I scarcely did anything at home or abroad without the inquiry being uppermost in my mind whether I could be better employed for general benefit; and I hope much of this temper has survived, and will attend me to my grave. The fame in which I found myself exalted my spirits, and rendered me more of a talker than I was before or have been since, and than is agreeable to my natural character. Certainly I attended now, and at all times, to everything that was offered in the way of reasoning and argument, with the sincerest desire of embracing the truth, and that only. | The Inquiry concerning Political Justice' was published in February [1793]. In this year also I wrote the principal part of the novel 'Caleb Williams,' which may, perhaps, be considered as affording no inadequate image of the fervour of my spirit; it was the offspring of that temper of mind in which the composition of my 'Political Justice' left me. In this year I acquired the friendship of many excellent personsThomas Wedgwood, Richard Porson, Joseph Gerrald, Robert Merry, and Joseph Ritson."... "He rose," says his daughter, "between seven and eight, and read some classic author before breakfast. From nine till twelve or one he occupied himself with his pen. He found that he could not exceed this measure of labour with any advantage to his own health or the work on hand. While writing 'Political Justice,' there was one paragraph which he wrote eight times over before he could satisfy himself with the strength and perspicuity of his expressions. On this occasion a sense of confusion of the brain came over him, and he applied to his friend Mr Carlisle, afterwards Sir Anthony Carlisle, the celebrated surgeon, who warned him that he had exerted his intellectual faculties to their limit. In compliance with his direction Mr Godwin reduced his hours of composition within what many will consider narrow bounds. The rest of the morning was spent in reading and seeing his friends. When at home he dined at four, but during his bachelor life he frequently dined out. His dinner at home at this time was simple enough. He had no regular servant; an old woman came in the morning to clean and arrange his rooms, and if necessary she prepared a mutton chop, which was put in a Dutch oven."

His friends Holcroft, Thelwall, and Horne Tooke, having been tried for high treason, he published a pamphlet containing strictures on Judge Eyre's charge to the jury, which is said to have had some influence on their acquittal and release. He published a series of essays, under the title of "The Inquirer," in 1797. This same year he married Mary Wollstonecraft, author of the "Vindication of the Rights of Women," and with whom he had lived before marriage. Her idea of the married state was

the following: "Mutual affection was marriage, and that the marriage tie should not bind after the death of love, if love should die." She died some months after marriage in giving birth to a daughter, afterwards known as Mrs Shelley. He married again, and started a bookseller's shop in Skinner Street, combining the professions of author and bookseller. "St Leon," a romance, was issued in 1799. His other chief publications are "Antonio," a tragedy, 1801; "Life of Chaucer," 1803; "Fleetwood," a novel, 1804; "Faulkner," another tragedy, 1807; "Essay on Sepulchres," 1808; and in 1815, "Lives of Edward and John Phillips, the nephews of Milton." 'Mandeville," another novel, was published by Constable of Edinburgh, the author having made arrangements for its publication when in Scotland in 1817. In 1820 he published a refutation of Malthus' views on population, and produced an elaborate " 'History of the Commonwealth," at intervals between 1824 and 1828. "Cloudesley," a tale, was issued in 1830. His next work was a treatise, "Thoughts on Men, etc.;" his last work was entitled "Lives of the Necromancers." Godwin is invariably credited with making an endeavour in all his literary undertakings, and with all his displays of mistaken zeal, of applying himself with ardour to their fullest ultimate accomplishment. He died April 7th, 1836, and was buried beside Mary Wollstonecraft, in Old St Pancras Churchyard. Hazlitt's portrait of Godwin is interesting, as having been written by a literary contemporary, as transporting the reader to the times in which he lived, and giving a fairly correct idea of the opinions held regarding God. win by his contemporaries.]

The spirit of the age was never more fully shown than in its treatment of this writer-its love of paradox and change, its dastard submission to prejudice and to the fashion of the day. Five-and-twenty years ago he was in the very zenith of a sultry and unwholesome popularity; he blazed as a sun in the firmament of reputation; no one was more talked of, more looked up to, more sought after, and wherever liberty, truth, justice, was the theme, his name was not far off:-now he has sunk below the horizon, and enjoys the serene twilight of a doubtful immortality. Mr Godwin, during his lifetime, has secured to himself the triumphs and the mortifications of an extreme notoriety and of a sort of posthumous fame. His bark, after being tossed in the revolutionary tempest, now raised to heaven by all the fury of popular breath, now almost dashed in pieces, and buried in the quicksands of ignorance, or scorched with the lightning of momentary indignation, at length floats on the calm wave that is to bear it down the stream of time. Mr Godwin's person is not known, he is not pointed out in the street, his conversation is not courted, his opinions are not asked, he is

at the head of no cabal, he belongs to no party in the State, he has no train of admirers, no one thinks it worth his while even to traduce and vilify him, he has scarcely friend or foe, the world makes a point (as Goldsmith used to say) of taking no more notice of him than if such an individual had never existed; he is to all ordinary intents and purposes dead and buried; but the author of "Political Justice" and of "Caleb Williams" can never die, his name is an abstraction in letters, his works are standard in the history of intellect. He is thought of now like any eminent writer a hundred and fifty years ago, or just as he will be a hundred and fifty years hence. He knows this, and smiles in silent mockery of himself, reposing on the monument of his fame:

"Sedet, in eternumque sedebit infelix Theseus."

Fatal reverse!

No work in our time gave such a blow to the philosophical mind of the country as the celebrated "Inquiry concerning Political Justice." Tom Paine was considered for the time as a Tom Fool to him; Paley an old woman; Edmund Burke a flashy sophist. Truth, moral truth, it was supposed, had here taken up its abode; and these were the oracles of thought. "Throw aside your books of chemistry," said Wordsworth to a young man, a student in the Temple, "and read Godwin on Necessity."" Sad necessity! Is truth then so variable? Is it one thing at twenty, and another at forty? Is it at a burning heat in 1793, and below zero in 1814? Not so, in the name of manhood and of common sense! Let us pause here a little. Mr Godwin indulged in extreme opinions, and carried with him all the most sanguine and fearless understandings of the time. What then? Because those opinions were overcharged, were they therefore altogether groundless? Is the very God of our idolatry all of a sudden to become an abomination and an anathema? Could so many young men of talent, of education, and of principle, have been hurried away by what had neither truth, nor nature, not one particle of honest feeling, nor the least show of reason in it? Is the "Modern Philosophy" (as it has been called) at one moment a youthful bride, and the next a withered beldame, like the false Duessa in Spenser? Or is the vaunted edifice of Reason, like his House of Pride, gorgeous in front, and dazzling to approach, while "its hinder parts are ruinous, decayed, and old?" Has the main prop, which supported the mighty fabric, been shaken and given way under the strong grasp of some Samson; or has it not rather been undermined by rats and vermin? At one time it almost seemed that

"If this failed,

The pillar'd firmament was rottenness, And earth's base built of stubble:"

"What then

to dust, nor is it even talked of! went ye forth for to see? a reed shaken with the wind?" Was it for this that our young gownsmen of the greatest expectation and promise, versed in classic lore, steeped in dialectics, armed at all points for the foe, well read, well nurtured, well provided for, left the university and the prospect of lawn sleeves, tearing asunder the shackles of the free-born spirit, and the cobwebs of school-divinity, to throw themselves at the feet of the new Gamaliel, and learn wisdom from him? Was it for this that students at the bar, acute, inquisitive, sceptical (here only wild enthusiasts), neglected for a while the paths of preferment and the law as too narrow, tortuous, and unseemly to bear the pure and broad light of reason? Was it for this that students in medicine missed their way to lectureships and the top of their profession, deeming lightly of the health of the body, and dreaming only of the renovation of society and the march of mind? Was it to this that Mr Southey's "Inscriptions" pointed? to this that Mr Coleridge's "Religious Musings" tended? Was it for this that Mr Godwin himself sat with arms folded, and, "like Cato, gave his little senate laws?" Or rather, like another Prospero, uttered syllables that with their enchanted breath were to change the world, and might almost stop the stars in their courses? and is all forgot? Is this sun of intellect blotted from the sky? Or has it suffered total eclipse? Or is it we who make the fancied gloom, by looking at it through the paltry, broken, stained fragments of our own interests and prejudices? Were we fools then, or are we dishonest now? Or was the impulse of the mind less likely to be true and sound when it arose from high thought and warm feeling, than afterwards, when it was warped and debased by the example, the vices, and follies of the world?

Oh!

The fault, then, of Mr Godwin's philosophy, in one word, was too much ambition-"by that sin fell the angels!" He conceived too nobly of his fellows (the most unpardonable crime against them, for there is nothing that annoys our self-love so much as being complimented on imaginary achievements to which we are wholly unequal)-he raised the standard of morality above the reach of humanity, and by directing virtue to the most airy and romantic heights, made her path dangerous, solitary, and impracticable. The author of the "Political Justice" took abstract reason for the rule of conduct, and abstract good for its end. He places the human mind on an elevation from which it commands a view of the whole line of moral consequences, and requires it to conform its acts to the larger and more enlightened conscience which it has thus acquired. He absolves man from the gross and narrow ties of sense, custom, authority, private and local attachment, in order