dissentient voices were drowned in the general chorus of
admiration. German eulogy was extravagant; French Republicanism
was overjoyed; Englishmen, at home and abroad, read eagerly for the
first time in close and vivid sequence events which, when spread
over thirty months of daily newspapers, few had the patience to
follow, none the qualifications to condense. Macaulay tells us
that soon after the appearance of his own first volumes, a Mr.
Crump from America offered him five hundred dollars if he would
introduce the name of Crump into his history. An English gentleman
and lady, from one of our most distant colonies, wrote to Kinglake
a jointly signed pathetic letter, intreating him to cite in his
pages the name of their only son, who had fallen in the Crimea. He
at once consented, and asked for particulars--manner, time, place--
of the young man's death. The parents replied that they need not
trouble him with details; these should be left to the historian's
kind inventiveness: whatever he might please to say in
embellishment of their young hero's end they would gratefully
accept.

Unlike most authors, from Moliere down to Dickens, he never read
aloud to friends any portion of the unpublished manuscript; never,
except to closest intimates, spoke of the book, or tolerated
inquiry about it from others. When asked as to the progress of a
volume he had in hand, he used to say, "That is really a matter on
which it is quite out of my power even to inform myself"; and I
remember how once at a well-selected dinner-party in the country,
whither he came in good spirits and inclined to talk his best, a
second-hand criticism on his book by a conceited parson, the
official and incongruous element in the group, stiffened him into
persistent silence. All England laughed, when Blackwood's