but he was not wholly without the spirit of the day. His early life had been spent in stirring times. He had scarcely entered college when the country was echoing with the war-cry from Tippecanoe in the West. He was reading of Platea and Salamis when the guns of the Chesapeake and Shannon were resounding in his ear from Boston Harbor. His life was sufficiently active for a historian. It may be questioned, also, whether our national character does not contain the elements of vigor and life in a degree sufficient to endanger constancy, if the American author participates in pursuits of a very active nature for the purpose of acquiring practical ideas for his book. To the public mind, also, surfeited with the boisterous style of the current literature, something of the opposite nature must ever be acceptable.

Mr. Prescott's private character was high and noble. He is remembered among a circle of honored friends as an estimable and agreeable companion. His nature was winning, and his attention was constantly on guard against any word or action to offend. If anything could be more praiseworthy than his amiability, it was his industry. It has been remarked that he was not naturally diligent. His habits show that his perseverence cost a painful struggle. "It is of little moment whether I succeed in this or that thing provided I am habitually industrious." This was his battle hymn when the conflict between Will and Inclination became critical, and it evinces that the historian's success was well earned. But his aversion to labor was not from an inactive mind. Reading was a pastime, and a style of reading which some would deem onerous, he considered his "literary loafing." His habits of composing abundantly prove that his mind was remarkably active and vigorous. Compelled to make it assume the duties of the eyes, he listened to the perusal of the historical materials, and then composed mentally, dictating the beautiful rythm of his histories to the pen of a secretary. This process necessitated the most comprehensive knowledge of the subject, the retention of all the facts in memory, and the complete maturity of the work. Cousequently his books are marked as productions of the intellect, and perhaps here may be discerned the cause of that vivacity of style for which they are notorious; for no critic has dared to disallow this merit.

Mr. Prescott's diligence was, remembering his advantages, prolific in results. Industry and perseverance are rivals of genius and ability, and the works of both are before the world to be judged of their relative merits. The former accomplish a sure and useful work. The latter lead a brilliant train; their effects shoot off like meteors, but like meteoric masses they lose their brilliancy with their heat, and

then can be judged only of their bulk and density and gravity. The ponderous efficacy of the former is then found to outweigh them. Genius and ability were not wanting to Prescott, but it was by uniting with them his patient industry that he conquered his nature and rose to a high position among the historians of the world. But stringent measures were adopted. His habits of literary labor and all the duties of life were subjected to such inexorable scrutiny and ceaseless regularity, that an insight to his rules of conduct suggests to the mind a living machine. But it is astonishing to find that these restrictions were unsuspected by his most intimate friends, and only discovered when the sacred mysteries of his private memoranda were exposed to view. Among his friends he seemed the most unconstrained of all. This indeed was a marked characteristic, and together with his genial nature, held in captivity to his graces the affections of all to whom fame gave introduction. These included the "fore front" rank of the literary world. He was the leading spirit in a circle of familiar companions whose names are written high in the estimation of the public. The social and literary gatherings of this pleasant coterie, call to mind those meetings of the "wits of the day" in England when Johnson's profound erudition, Goldsmith's absurd vagaries, and Garrick's facetious repartee, made in truth" a feast of reason and flow of soul." On such occasions the presence of Prescott was demanded, for in him alone were united the peculiarities which distinguished each of his three predecessors of the "Literary Club." But his friendships extended beyond his own community. Throughout this country he had devoted friends. In Europe they were equally numerous and attached. Where distinction and rank are wont to cool social intercourse, the great and illustrious were drawn into the magic toils of his fascination, and courtesy ripened to the warmest intimacy. Some of England's haughtiest aristocracy were proud to enlist among the number of his friends, and the impression of America and Americans, left by him on the minds of all, must justly increase our indebtedness.

His noblest characteristic was reflected from every page of his histories. His high regard for truth is manifest in every sentence. The ablest reviews could not find food for criticism in this quarter. His scrupulous regard for verity and truthfulness left no fuel for the scorching satire of professional censors. It was his habit to review and compare his productions until he was properly assured of their accuracy. He rightly considered that duty required unerring precision in historical statements, and admitted no deviation for speculative

indulgence. It is a historian's duty to moralize on the events of which he writes, but in such a manner as to preserve authenticity in his assertions. Caution against error led Prescott to dispense with speculation so far as to incur censure. But we must ever prize correct statements higher than the best conjecture. If we have the facts we may ourselves surmise and deduce our theory. But the historian who has the facts in his possession is a criminal if he does not present them uncolored. Justice insists that he shall not dye them in the hues of his own opinion. Mr. Prescott had not the insincerity to do this, and it requires no deep investigation to make the discovery. He wrote of the Inquisition, and though his heart shuddered at its bloody deeds, his pen did not tremble at the post of duty, and his fair impartiality is everywhere apparent. He wrote of the Reformation, and no one can allege that Catholicism received injustice from his religious opinions. He wrote of the discovery of America, and the hostility of his nation against the enemies of Columbus did not move him from the true character of the historian. His "Ferdinand and Isabella" treats of the age when literature was revived; when art was receiving its best incense at the altars of Angelo and Raphael; of the time when printing was learned, civilization advanced, a revolution of ideas begun-but in all questions the feeling which men of the nineteenth century must entertain toward the sixteenth, could not influence the sincere integrity of the historian. His highest ambition in writing was to make a truthful history. The judgment of the world. declares him preeminently successful in attaining his wish.

We may perhaps regret, at the first impulse, that Mr. Prescott did not devote his pen to the history of his own country. It was not for want of patriotism that he failed to do so. But the prospect did not seem so bright in that direction. It was occupied ground. Besides the thorough work of Mr. Bancroft, Hildreth had written the history of the United States. Many of Irving's historical works were upon American subjects. It was moreover not the period to write the history of this country as he wished. His manner was to wait till the causes could be discerned from the most remote effects, and portrayed with the certainty with which he pictured the times of Ferdinand. "I belong to the sixteenth century, and am quite out of place when I sleep elsewhere," was his humorous remark; but it is expressive of his actual feeling as a historian. He desired to wait till the events had become dimmed by age, then present them in such light that their beauty and force seemed almost new. In other paths also he was impeded. It was a time of historians. Writing in competition with

Hallam, Napier, Tytler and Macaulay, he deserves the highest credit for success; but he was obliged to select his subject warily. After mature investigation he descries a gap in the story of ages, which promised a glorious reward to the writer who could do it justice. Ten years of laborious research produced the "Ferdinand and Isabella," from the abundant materials collected by his perseverance and fortune. His popularity at home gave the book an immediate circulation. It crossed the ocean and sustained the ordeal of criticism in the best English reviews, with remarkable commendation. On the continent it was the same. It was translated into the languages of France, Italy, and Spain. The Spaniards received it with ecstacy. "Gonsalvo de Cordova," "Ximenas," were familiar names to them in tradition, but they had no good history of that age, and were not loth to acknowledge their obligation to the American author. It is probable that, had Prescott left this ground untrodden, American feet would never have ventured upon it, to win glory for this nation; to grant information intensely important to our early history; to write from our standpoint of view, and in such a manner as to be considered a standard authority throughout the world. His countrymen, then, cannot consider this, and "The Conquest of Mexico," subjects unfortunately chosen. On the contrary, they must be more thankful for Prescott, for his nativity, and his success.

A common affliction associates, in the mind, the name of Prescott with that of Milton. But though alike travelers on the road of misfortune, how unlike their voyages! Milton, his ship freighted with the accumulated products of study and learning, sails forth with a sublime imagination as his guiding star. Blindness overtakes him amid the storm of domestic and political persecution, and he is driven further and further from the path of comfort. His only faithful comrade is his cheerful spirit. His anchor drags through the sands of unmerited obloquy.

Prescott's fair craft puts to sea beneath a sunny sky, and from the lowering clouds of blindness falls only a shower of blessings. As he nears the end of life's journey, fame and reward send a cheering welcome. Milton, in a land where the family seat is handed down for centuries to successive descendants, died almost a wanderer. Prescott, in a country where children seldom drink from the same well as their fathers, lived and died in the home of his ancestors.

Within a short score of years the ranks of the literary world have been fearfully decimated. Humboldt fell at his post in Germany, Macaulay and Thackeray in England, Hawthorne, Choate, Everett,

and Prescott, in America. But though the same day saw the fall of so many captains, no name on the list has now a greater fame than Prescott.

The death of the great historian seemed a fit end to his life. A kind Providence seemed desirous of mitigating pain, and removing the terror of the grave. Death was sent in his mildest and most speedy form, and one quick stroke paralyzed the mortal frame, releasing a mind in the midst of its unimpaired vigor. He died engaged to the last in his work while each succeeding day was adding a brighter lustre to his renown. His farewell to life seems like the setting sun of a summer's day. We watch it from some eminence as it sinks lower, till now it hangs just above the edge of the horizon. Its disc is larger, and appears more beautiful, more subdued and gentle in its glare, than during its whole circuit over the heavens.

"Low walks the sun and broadens by degrees

Just o'er the verge of day,"

But behold, while we gaze, it quietly, suddenly, sinks away beneath the landscape,

"He dips his orb

Now half immersed; now a golden curve;
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears."

W. A. M.

Jugging.

If the jug is not an element of civilization, it must still be confessed that it has always been its constant companion. They have progressed together, hand in handle, so to speak. In gloomy times the jug

has

grown in importance, and the oftener and more completely it has been overturned, the stronger and more deeply felt has been its influence. I suppose a jug was broken upon the bows of the Pilgrim ship when she was christened "Mayflower." That the Pilgrims found this homely earthen vessel a reliable agent for the amelioration of the "Lo!" condition of the "Poor Indian" and the shortening of his dreary life. Their Yankee descendants for many generations, found it difficult to raise their barns or gather their crops without its presence.