It is probable that his History will long hold place on our library shelves; its style might almost be counted a model historic style--if we were to have models (of which the wisdom is doubtful). It is clear, it is precise, it is perspicuous, it is neat to a fault. It might almost be called a reticent style, in its neglect of those wrappings of wordy illustration and amplification which so many historians employ. He makes us see his meaning as if we looked through crystal; and if the crystal is toned by his prejudices--as it is and very largely--it is altogether free from the impertinent decorative arabesques of the rhetorician. Many of the periods of which he gives the record, have had new light thrown upon them by the searching inquiries of late days. Old reputations with which he dealt reverently have suffered collapse; political horizons which were limited and gave smallness consequence, have widened; but for good, straightforward, lucid, {157} logical setting forth of the main facts of which he undertook the record, Hume will long remain the reference book. There will be never a time when lovers of good literature will not be attracted by his pathetic picture of the career of Charles I.; and never a time when the judicious reader will accept it as altogether worthy of trust. The life of the historian--by Dr. Huxley--is rather a history of his philosophy than of his life; in which the eminent scientist--with due apology for intrusion upon literary ground--sets his logic to an easy canter all around the soberer paces of the great Scotch charger--showing nice agreement in the paces of the two, and commending and illustrating the metaphysics of the Historian, with a pretty fanfaronade of Exposition and Applause. _A Pair of Poets._ [Sidenote: Two poets.] Were it only to change the current of our talk, I bring now a brace of poets to your notice; not well paired indeed, as you will find: but each one in his own way giving us music that strongly {158} contrasts with _The Deserted Village_, and the ponderous Satires of Johnson. [Sidenote: Shenstone.] Shenstone[4] is a name not very much known--not very much worth knowing: he was a big, somewhat scholarly, fastidious, indolent, rhyme-haunted man, who had studied at Oxford, and who, when the muses were buzzing about his ears, came into possession of a pretty farm in that bit of Shropshire which (by queer English fashion) is planted within the northern borders of Worcestershire; and it was there that he wrote--what is typical of all that he ever wrote, and what has his current and favorite sing-song in it:-- "Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look I never once dreamt of my vine. May I lose both my pipe and my crook If I knew of a kid that was mine! I prized every hour that went by Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh; And I grieve that I prized them no more." And again--