He survived Macaulay too--an early contributor of whom we shall have more to say--and though he was past eighty at the death of the historian, he was alert still, and his brain vagrantly active; but the days of his early glory and fame--when the young blusterer bolstered up Reform, and slew the giants of musty privilege and sent “the schoolmaster abroad,” and antagonized slavery, were gone;[39] so, too, were those palmy times when he made the courts at Westminster ring with his championship of that poor Queen (who, whatever her demerits--and they were many--was certainly abominably maltreated by a husband far worse than she); times when the populace who espoused her cause shouted bravos to Harry Brougham--times when he was the best known and most admired man in England; all these, and his chancellorship, and his wordy triumphs in the House of Lords, were far behind him, and the inevitable loss of place and power fretted him grievously. He quarrelled with old coadjutors; in Parliament he shifted from bench to bench; in the weakness of age, he truckled to power; he exasperated his friends, and for years together--his scoldings, his tergiversations, and his plaid trousers made a mine of mockery for Mr. Punch. As early as 1835-40, Lord Brougham had purchased an estate in the south of France, in a beautiful nook of that mountain shore which sweeps eastward from the neighborhood of Marseilles--along the Mediterranean, and which so many travellers now know by the delights of the Cornice Road and Monaco, and Mentone, and San Remo. The little fishing village where years ago Lord Brougham set up his Villa of Louise Eléonore (after a darling and lost child) is now a suburb of the fashionable resort of Cannes. At his home there, amongst the olives, the oleanders and the orange-trees, the disappointed and petulant ex-chancellor passed most of the later years of his life. Friends dropping in upon him--much doubting of their reception--found him as the humors changed, peevish with strong regrets and recriminations, or placid under the weight of his years, and perhaps narcotized by the marvellous beauty of the scenes around him. He was over ninety at his death in 1868. To the very last, a man not to be reckoned on: some days as calm as the sea that rippled under his window; other days full of his old unrest and petulancies. There are such men in all times and in all societies--sagacious, fussy, vain, indefatigable, immensely serviceable, cantankerous; we _can’t_ get on without them; we are for ever wishing that we could. * * * * *