SIR MOUNTSTITART GRANT DUFF'S DIARY.* A GOOD fairy must have

presided at the christening of the writer of these pages to account for the degree in which he possesses the gift of interest, and consequent

enjoyment, in all the wonders that surround us mortals, and which too often we pass unheeding by. Nothing comes amiss to him, from the world of mind and thought, from the celestial orbs, all through the animal and vegetable kingdoms, down to the humblest worm that wriggles along the path and the tiniest moss that decks the glade. He succeeds even in communicating some portion of this in- estimable faculty to his readers, for we follow him with some of his unflagging zest in his rambles over hill and dale; in his researches in musty, worm-eaten libraries ; through dreary collections ; along the sands of the seashore ; among the tombs and ruins of departed cities. We wish we were also allowed to be his companions in his interviews with the great statesmen with whom it has been his privilege to come in contact. But we stop at the threshold, for our author announces his praiseworthy determination to leave out all political and personal details. The consequence is that the life in London, which ought to be the most absorbing, is the least interesting part of the Diary, for nothing is more tantalising than a catalogue of names, and even the most excel- lent story (and these volumes are fall of good stories racily told) requires to be led up to, to have its scenery indicated, or it passes out of one's memory like a flash, leaving nothing behind.

The great defect of the form of a diary is its want of unity. Desultory reading is fatiguing. One tries in vain to catch the shadows of thought which pass over one's mind. Now, a general historical and political background supplies to a certain extent this defect, and remains as a sort of set scene to the various events and figures which flit by. With regard to our author, it is all the more provoking that we know how much we lose, what treasures of information and interest he might pour forth if he pleased, and we envy the happy members of the next generation, now at school or in the nursery, who will have the privilege of reading these journals entire. One comfort is they will not appreciate them as we should, who have, many of us, lived through the events described, and known the actors in them.

Sir Monntstuart, however, sometimes relaxes in the case of foreign statesmen. He saw much of Baron Hiibner, whose account of the celebrated conversation with Louie Napoleon on New Year's Day, 1859, which was supposed to have hastened on the war between France and Austria, is very different from Lord Cowley's letters to Lord Malmesbury describing the incident :-

" August 3, 1887 [p. 166, Vol. I. of Diary].—Conversation turned upon the events of January 1, 1857. Hiibner said :—` The received account of that transaction makes me distrust history. What the Emperor really wished to do was to deceive me by saying something agreeable. He first addressed the Nuncio and said, " I trust the year which is now beginning will be one of peace for Europe and of prosperity for its inhabitants." Next, turning to Lord Cowley he said, " I have just received a most kind letter from the Queen. I will reply to it immediately, but meantime I trust you will say with how much pleasure I have read it." I came next, and to me he said, " I hope you will tell the Emperor that although the relations between our Ministers are not as satisfactory as I could desire, my feelings to him are most cordial." Lord Chelsea, who had caught the phrase about the relations between Ministers not being altogether satisfactory, hurried away with the impression that the Austrian Ambassador had been badly received, and communicated it to others. Before

° Notes from a Diary. By the Right Hon. Sir Mountstruart Grant DuII. London : J. Murray. Ma]

the Emperor had spoken to the last Chargé d'Affaires a rumour to that effect was all over Paris. He made the Empress give a ball immediately afterwards, at which he asked me, speaking very loud, whether I had heard the nonsensical story that was going about with regard to what he had said to me, " As if I should have chosen the let of January, of all days of the year, to say something unpleasant." It was too late, however ; the erroneous impression had been produced, and could not be got rid of.'" Here is another interesting interview which took place a few days afterwards :- " August 18, 1887.—Drove over to spend the day with the Mallets, with whom we went to see their neighbour, Lady de Ros, who is now 92. The conversation soon found its way to the ball of the 15th June, 1815, of which Lady de Ros was the heroine. I asked her if it had taken place in the Hotel de Ville. ' No,' she said, 'that is a common mistake. It really took place in my father's house, which is now pulled down. I looked for it in vain when I was in Brussels in 1869, and learned its fate from a stationer, the representative of one whom I remembered in the same place.' I inquired if she had danced that night, as I had been told, with the Duke of Brunswick. 'No,' she said, but I had just been present on horseback at a review of the Bruns- wickers, and on taking leave at the ball the Duke made me a sort of flourishing speech in which he expressed his hope that his men, who had been so much honoured, would distinguish themselves in the approaching battle.' Neither did she dance on that occasion with the Duke of Wellington, but when the rumour spread of what was about to happen she went up to him and asked if it was true. Yes,' he said, and we shall all be off by the morning.' The warlike tidings did not stop the ball ; many people went on dancing after they were known."

The want of unity is not felt so much in journals of travel, and of these the most interesting in these volumes are those kept in the East, especially in Palestine. In spite of the

never-ending stream of books on the subject, the Holy Land, from the days of the Crusades to the present time, never loses its fascination. The Grant Duffs spent a considerable time in the East. Not the least curious part is the account of the

winters they passed at Haifa in the house of Laurence Oliphant, that strange mixture of fine gentleman, scholar, and half-mad enthusiast. In society one saw only the languid but interesting and original man of the world. His first novel,

Piccadilly (of which Mrs. Procter used to say, " The man who wrote it is mad, and so is the woman who reads it "), describes the fanaticism which led him, at the command of an

impostor, to give up his career, and later on to separate him- self from his enchanting wife (who equally fell under the spell of Harris); to banish her to housemaid's work in

America, bestow her fortune on the Prophet and her jewels on the ladies of his Court, while Laurence Oliphant himself was Times correspondent in Paris, and his mother sold oranges at a railway station. There seems to be a sort of luxury in useless, blind obedience. The young wife was the first to find out the impostor. It was in the house on the slopes of Mount Carmel belonging to this remarkable couple

that the Grant Duffs spent the winter of 1887-88, and made it their headquarters, whence they travelled all over the Holy Land. Among their silent companions on these excur-

sions were the works of Renan, to whom, in spite of the sentimentality and want of reticence which jar on the Anglo-Saxon temperament, we owe a great debt, for he was almost the first writer to point out the beauty and brightness of the early scenes of the Gospel. We

English have a feeling that there is a kind of merit in gloom and sadness, and the touching close of our Lord's ministry awakens such grief, pity, and indignation that the beginning, full of youth and hope, seems to have faded from the minds of our early divines.

The book of all others which our author loves and admires is Mrs. Craven's Rgcit d'une Sceur, and assuredly it is a marvel of tact, deep feeling, and good taste. A more extraordinary contrast to the spirit of the Vie de Jesus and the Origines du Christianisme it would be impossible to conceive. Renan hardly knew himself whether be had any belief except a very

fervent one in sweetness and light, and was naturally a very amiable man. Surrounded by his friends and family, by whom he was appreciated and adored, when once he had shaken off the seminary there can have been few struggles in his life. There is no trace of the sharply defined, absolute faith, the intense feeling, and the strong passion portrayed in the journals of Alexandrine. It is no wonder that the deep reality of the book should find an echo in many hearts. Its votaries have compiled for it an almanac in which the important days are carefully chronicled. Sir Monntstnart writes :—

"January 23, 1888.—Very few days pass on which I do not take up Mrs. Awdry's calendar to the Rdcit cruse Rant; and read the passage to which it points."

And on another page we read :— " Later I read from the note-book which accompanied us on so many journeys, the passage from Pater's Conclusion which begins with the words ' Philosophise', says Novena,' down to the words, ' only for those moments' sake' ; the paragraph from Morley's Robespierre which details what, according to the writer's view, Chaumette should have said to the priest ; and the scene of the 13th July, 1847, in the RIM dune Sour. These three remain, as they have done for many years to me, unsurpassed by any piece of prose treating of kindred subjects with which I chance to be acquainted."

The passage alluded to is of such exceeding beauty that it

is impossible to forbear transcribing a portion of it. Several years had passed since the entire fabric of Alexandrine's earthly happiness had been shattered into fragments, and the almost frantic grief which had first overwhelmed her had become, not subdued, but transmuted into a sort of spiritual ecstasy, which lasted to the end of her pilgrimage on earth. It was not a life of useless contemplation. She ministered to the poor ; she was the angel of her own and her husband's family in the sore trials they had to undergo she was the

sunshine in many homes. " Je pleure mon Albert gaiement," she used to say. The diplomatic engagements of the Cravens had prevented their seeing their sister-in-law until the summer of 1847, when the Ferronays family met together at the Chateau of Boury. Mrs. Craven writes :-

" The eve of my departure from Boury, July 13, 1847, we went to the cemetery, as usual, to pray by the side of our two dear graves. Alexandrine knelt on the stone which covers both Albert's tomb and the resting-place which for the last 12 years had been marked out for her ; while I knelt by Olga's grave. It was a warm and lovely evening. When we left the cemetery we chose the longest way home, and walked slowly back As we left a cornfield, and came upon the road leading to the house, I stood still a moment to look at the sky, where the sun was setting in the midst of so radiant a glory that the whole dreary landscape looked beautiful in its light. I said to Alexandrine I love the sunset.'—' So do not I,' she replied, since my troubles,' an expres- sion she very seldom used. Since my troubles the sunset seems to me sad. It ushers in the night, and I do not like the night. I love the morning and the spring, for 'these typify to me the realities of eternal life. Night is the symbol of sin and darkness, evening makes me think that everything draws to an end. But spring and morning remind me that everything will wake up and be born again.' We walked on, and just as we had passed through the gate she said, Try and throw yourself into the thought that everything that gives us such pleasure on earth is absolutely nothing but a shadow, and that the reality of it all is in Heaven. After all, is not love—to love—the sweetest thing on earth ? Is it not, then, easy to believe that to love Love itself must be the perfection of all sweetness ? I should never have been comforted if I had not learnt that that kind of love really exists and lasts for ever.' We sat down on a bench, still conversing. A little while after Alexandrine got up to gather a spray of the jessamine which clothed the wall. She gave me the spray, and then stood before me with a little sprig of it in her hand, continuing the conversa- tion. I had said to her, It is a great blessing that you ,:an love God in that way.' She answered me in words and with an ex- pression which must always remain imprinted on my mind, ' Oh, Pauline, how can I help loving God ? How can I help being carried away when I think of Him ? How can I even have any merit in it when I think of the miracle which He has wrought in my soul ; when I feel that after having so loved and so ardently desired this world's happiness, after having possessed it and lost it and been drowned in the very depths of despair, my soul is now transformed and so full of happiness that all I have ever known or imagined is nothing—absolutely nothing—in comparison.' Surprised to hear her speak in this way, I said, But if life with Albert, such as you dreamed, were placed before you, and it were promised you for a length of years ? ' She answered without the least hesitation, I would not take it back.' "—(Memoir of Mrs. Craven, by Mrs. Bishop, Vol. I., p. 66.)

The above extracts may give some idea of the variety of subjects touched on in these volumes. To the author, who has made such admirable use of his exceptional opportuni- ties, the world owes a debt of gratitude, of gratitude of the best sort, that which consists in a lively appreciation of benefits to come.