BITS OF BOOKS.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXX, Issue 4439, 11 June 1875, Page 3

BITS OF BOOKS.

BKOUGHAM AND MACAULAY. Brougham, tall, thin, and commanding in figure, with a face which, however ugly, is full of expression, and a voice of great power, variety, and even melody, notwithstanding his occasional prolixity and tediousness, is an orator in every sense of the word. Macaulay, short, fat, and ungraceful, with a round, thick, unmeaning face, and with rather a lisp, though he has made speeches of great merit and of a very high style of eloquence in point of composition, has no pretentions to be put in competition with Brougham in the House of Commons. Nor is the difference or inferiority of Macaulay less marked in society. Macaulay, indeed, is a great talker, and pours forth floods of knowledge on all subjects ; but the gracefulness, lightness, and variety are wanting in his talk which -are so conspicuous in his wi'itinga ; there is not enough of alloy in the metal of his conversation ; it is too didactic, it is all too good, and not sufficiently flexible, plastic, and diversified for general society. Brougham, on the other hand, is all life, spirit, and gaiety—"from grave to gay, from lively to severe"—dashing through every description of folly and fun, dealing in those rapid transitions by which the attention and imagination are arrested and excited ; always amusing, always instructive, never tedious, elevated to the height of the greatest intellect, and familiar with the most abstruse subjects, and at the same moment conciliating the humble pretensions of inferior minds by dropping into the midst of their pursuits and objects with a fervor and intensity of interest which surprises and delights his associates, and, above all, which puts them at their ease.—" Greville's Memoirs." STOKY OF TAUL I. OF HUSSIA. One morning the Emperor met a young officer on a great wooden bridge. The officer was a wag, and on this particular occasion his assurance was stimulated by plenty of good old wine. The oldest generals in the army trembled before the crazy Emperor, but this young soldier had no fear of him. As he passed he gave the usual salute, but in a decidedly devil-may-care fashiou, which attracted the Emperor's attention. " Come this way," said his Majesty fiercely. The officer obeyed. " You belong to the stupid squad—the fellows who know nothing." " Oh, sire, excuse me, I know everything." " Indeed ! Then how many nails are there in this bridge ?" " Seventeen billions one hundred and eighty-four millions three hundred and fifty-eight thousand nine hundred and fifty-six, and four tacks." " Sure of that ?" " Perfectly sure, sire." "Hem, hem! How many fishes in the sea ?" " Three hundred and sixty-nine billions niue hundred and twenty-six millions four hundred and forty-eight thousand six hundred and thirty-eight, and three sprats." "Sure of that, too?" "Perfectly sure, sire, without counting the flukes." The Emperor looked pleased, and turned to go away, when the cunning soldier remarked, with great modesty, " But thereare two things, sire, that I don't know." " What are they ?" Baid Paul, turning round fiercely. "Where I live and what's my name." The Emperor at once made a Count of' him, and gave him a splendid estate. chestekfield's letters. Every page of the "Letters" is full of wisdom—wisdom of the worldly kind, no doubt, but still wisdom. I confess I cannot bring myself to be angry with Mrs. Eugenia Stanhope for giving to the world what was originally only intended for one pair of eyes. It is this that makes the book so very remarkable. What, we may well say, might Chesterfield have written in this direction, if he had only sat down to put it into an elaborate book. Yet, on the other hand, it is probable that his mind moved more freely in the sphere of private correspondence than it could have possibly done in a public arena. His published essays were elegant in the extreme, but they lack the charm of the " Letters ;" they are not so spontaneous, so real, so earnest; nor are they expressed so admirably. And, on the whole, I do not think the lady was too highly paid when she received her £1,500 for the copyright of her father-in-law's correspondence. The fact that they are so interesting to posterity would be sufficient to excuse them for their uselessness as regards the person to whoin they were addressed. But, for my part, I cannot see that they failed so egregiously to effect their purpose. They did not, certainly, convert Phillip Stanhope into a paragon of perfection— The perfect monster that the world ne'er saw. But they did the best they could with the materials they had at their disposal, and I do not sec that they could have done any more. I do not believe for a moment that Lord Chesterfield cherished for his son the extravagant hopes with which Mrs. Oliphant credits him, or that the result of all his care and teaching was so far below the expectations he had been led to furm. "We are not told," says this lady biographer, " by what gradual process the statesman's high hopes were brought down to a certain satisfaction, or pretended satisfaction, with this poor level of possibility. Chosterfield is heroic in his silence ; he leaves not a word behind him to express the passionate disappointment, the bitter mortification, which must have been his as he looked on the commonplace figure of which his imagination had made a hero. Neither to the young man liimself, nor to any of his correspondents, does he bewail the downfall, or blame the heavy soul which thus resisted all his efforts." How, then, comes Mrs. Oliphant to be cognizant of all this bitter mortification and all this passionate despair ? It is in the highest degree improbable that Lord Chesterfield permitted himself to be deluded into any such absurdity. He was kept well aware of his son's progress, or want of progress, and I dare say had a very clear idea of the appearance in life he was destined to make. Hence, I believe, his incessant harping upon the necessity of the graces. He knew that Philip had most of the ordinary virtues, and more than the ordinary amount of knowledge, and preferred to insist upon what he did not possess.—" Famous Books," by W. D. Adams.