How tenderly he dwells on the wisdom and goodness of his departed father; how artlessly he intersperses his own sympathies and regrets, even as if he were breathing out his sorrows amid a circle of sympathizing friends! At the same time, how instructive are his reflections, how noble his sentiments, and how weighty his words, as if he were pronouncing an eulogium in the hearing of the world and of posterity! The sad experience of the writer in the very troubles through which he follows Agricola, conspires with the affectionate remembrance of his own loss in the death of such a father, to give a tinge of melancholy to the whole biography; and we should not know where to look for the composition, in which so perfect a work of art is animated by so warm a heart. In both these respects, it is decidedly superior to the Germania. It is marked by the same depth of thought and conciseness in diction, but it is a higher effort of the writer, while, at the same time, it gives us more insight into the character of the man. It has less of satire and more of sentiment. Or if it is not richer in refined sentiments and beautiful reflections, they are interwoven with the narrative in a manner more easy and natural. The sentiments seem to be only the language of Agricola's virtuous heart, and the reflections, we feel, could not fail to occur to such a mind in the contemplation of such a character. There is also more ease and flow in the language; for concise as it still is and studied as it may appear, it seems to be the very style which is best suited to the subject and most natural to the author. In another writer we might call it labored and ambitious. But we cannot feel that it cost Tacitus very much effort. Still less can we charge him with an attempt at display. In short, an air of confidence in the dignity of the subject, and in the powers of the author, pervades the entire structure of this fine specimen of biography. And the reader will not deem that confidence ill-grounded. He cannot fail to regard this, as among the noblest, if not the very noblest monument ever reared to the memory of any individual.