the castle is destroyed, Manfred is killed, and the true heir comes into his own.

It

Walpole's next work was a tragedy entitled "The Mysterious Mother" in blank verse. was never acted, although the author wrote an epilogue for Mrs. Clive to speak. Byron praises the play, but Scott and Macaulay say it has no merit. The very name of it made Miss Burney shudder.

He also wrote "Historic Doubts on Richard III.," in which he undertook to prove that Richard was not the tyrant and murderer that history has made him out to be. The argument is not convincing.

His two historical works, the memoirs of the reign of George II. and George III., are very interesting, giving much of the secret history of those reigns, but the greatest of his writings is his "Letters" addressed to various private friends and published after his death. They are indeed a history of English society during a large part of the eighteenth century. Living in London a greater part of the period he kept his correspondents informed of what was going on, at court, in society, at the clubs, and in parliament. He was a keen observer and had a sure hand in describing what he saw. The littleness of great men, the

hypocrisy of virtuous men, the self-seeking of patriots, the pretentiousness of mediocrity, all this and more may be found in these brilliant pages. They contain the quintessence of amusing gossip, with witty, sarcastic, and sometimes malicious comment. Here he tells of the highwayman Macleane and his feats, of his arrest, trial, and execution, there he narrates the trial of the Scotch lords for high treason. The escapades of Miss Chudleigh, her marriages, and her trial for bigamy are all related, what mobs of people followed the beautiful Miss Gunnings through the streets and parks, what bets Charles Fox made at the clubs, and the last good saying of George Selwyn. They are all delightful and charming.

Horatio Walpole-or Horace as he himself always wrote it-was born September 24, 1717, O. S., a date corresponding to October 5 under the present calendar. He was the reputed youngest son of Sir Robert Walpole, the great prime minister. Gossip, however, assigns him a different parentage and that he was the son of Lord Hervey-Pope's "Lord Fanny "-who was one of his mother's admirers. Lady Louisa Stuart, the daughter of the first Earl of Bute, makes this charge in her memoirs, and it is supported by other private chronicles of the time. It is also said that phys

ically and mentally he resembled the Herveys, and had little in common with the robust, coarse, fox-hunting and deep-drinking prime minister. On the other hand it is to be said that Horace had no suspicion of such a parentage; that he was deeply attached to his father and mother, and that Sir Robert provided for him as he did for his other children.

Horace was educated at Eton and Cambridge, and at the latter place had the poet Gray for friend and companion. Gray was subsequently one of Walpole's correspondents.

After making the grand tour Walpole at the age of twenty-four was elected to parliament and served continuously for twenty-six years, though he never made politics his serious business.

After his father's death in 1745 Horace removed to the famous house-with "pie crust battlements "-at Twickenham, on the Thames, known as Strawberry Hill, which is imperishably associated with his name. Here he resided until March 2, 1797, when he died in his eightieth year. He was never married.

BOSWELL AND HIS BOOK.

(1740-1795.)

THE key to eighteenth century literature is Boswell's "Life of Johnson," new editions of which still come from the press as if it were one of the most popular of novels. In fact, it always has been one of the most popular of books since it first appeared in 1791, and in the many years of its existence new editions have been published every four or five years with notes and comments by various editors.

It will be remembered that it was Croker's first edition of this great book, published in 1831, that gave Macaulay the opportunity to "beat Croker black and blue." "See if I do not dust that varlet's jacket in the next number of the Blue and Yellow," writes Macaulay to his sister, concerning Croker. And there is little question that he did it. As a specimen of the old-fashioned horse-whip style of critical castigation Macaulay on Croker's Boswell leads all the rest.

But after it was all over and the editor was soundly thrashed, Macaulay closed his review by thanking Mr. Croker, notwithstanding his shortcomings, for having induced him to read once again Boswell's fascinating volumes. For fascinating they most assuredly are by the unanimous verdict of every class of reader and critic in all the years since they were first published. They contain not only the biography of a great man, but the history of a literary epoch.

But many as there have been of admirers of Boswell's book, there have been few enough admirers of Boswell himself. Never was a book and its author so distinctly separated in the general contemplation as in this case. Even the editors who have thrived on Boswell's labors speak of him as a rule with contempt.

There have been several biographies of James Boswell and attempts to rescue the great biographer from the pillory in which Macaulay placed him.

The truth is that when Macaulay once placed his mark on a man, even where it has been pointed out that he was in some error, that mark, save perhaps in the single instance of William Penn, where he was singularly misled by a confusion of names, has remained, and the world has