If any doubt could exist as to the natureof the loss which the prematuredeath of Dr Arnold has inflicted onthe literature of his country, the perusalof the volume before us must besufficient to show how great, how serious,nay, all circumstances taken together,we had almost said how irreparable,it ought to be considered.Recently placed in a situation whichgave his extraordinary faculties as ateacher still wider scope than theybefore possessed, at an age when thevivacity and energy of a commandingintellect were matured, not chilled, byconstant observation and long experience—giftedwith industry to collect,with sagacity to appreciate, withskill to arrange the materials of history—masterof a vivid and attractivestyle for their communication and display—eminent,above all, for a degreeof candour and sincerity which gaveadditional value to all his other endowments—whatbut leisure did DrArnold require to qualify him for aplace among our most illustrious authors?Under his auspices, we mightnot unreasonably have hoped forworks that would have rivalled thoseof the great continental writers indepth and variety of research; inwhich the light of original and contemporaneousdocuments would besteadily flung on the still unexploredportions of our history; and thatOxford would have balanced the fameof Schlösser and Thierry and Sismondi,by the labours of a writer peculiarly,and, as this volume proves,most affectionately her own.
The first Lecture in the presentvolume is full of striking and originalremarks, delivered with a delightfulsimplicity; which, since genius has becomerare among us, has almost disappearedfrom the conversation andwritings of Englishmen. Open thepages of Herodotus, or Xenophon, orCæsar, and how plain, how unpretendingare the preambles to their immortalworks—in what exquisite proportiondoes the edifice arise, withoutapparent effort, without ostentatiousstruggle, without, if the allusion maybe allowed, the sound of the axe orhammer, till "the pile stands fixedher stately height" before us—the justadmiration of succeeding ages! Butour modern filosofastri insist uponstunning us with the noise of theirmachinery, and blinding us with thedust of their operations. They willnot allow the smallest portion of theirvulgar labours to escape our notice.They drag us through the chaos ofsand and lime, and stone and bricks,which they have accumulated, hopingthat the magnitude of the preparationmay atone