id even if they remain
innoxious. The Cloaca Maxima can hardly mingle its contents with the
stream of the Aqua Claudia, without taking something from its crystal
clearness. We need not go so far as one of our well-known politicians has
recently gone in saying that no great man can reach the highest position
in our government, but we can safely say that, apart from military fame,
the loftiest and purest and finest personal qualities are not those which
can be most depended upon at the ballot-box. Strange stories are told of
avowed opposition to Mr. Motley on the ground of the most trivial
differences in point of taste in personal matters,--so told that it is
hard to disbelieve them, and they show that the caprices which we might
have thought belonged exclusively to absolute rulers among their
mistresses or their minions may be felt in the councils of a great people
which calls itself self-governing. It is perfectly true that Mr. Motley
did not illustrate the popular type of politician. He was too
high-minded, too scholarly, too generously industrious, too polished, too
much at home in the highest European circles, too much courted for his
personal fascinations, too remote from the trading world of caucus
managers. To degrade him, so far as official capital punishment could do
it, was not merely to wrong one whom the nation should have delighted to
honor as showing it to the world in the fairest flower of its young
civilization, but it was an indignity to a representative of the highest
scholarship of native growth, which every student in the land felt as a
discouragement to all sound learning and noble ambition.

If he was disappointed in his diplomatic career, he had enough, and more
than enough, to console him in his brilliant literary triumphs. He had
earned them all by the most faithful and patient labor. If he had not the
"frame of adamant" of the Swedish hero, he had his "soul of fire." No
labors could tire him, no difficulties affright him. What most surprised
those who knew him as a young man was, not his ambition, not his
brilliancy, but his dogged, continuous capacity for work. We have seen
with what astonishment the old Dutch scholar, Groen van Prinsterer,
looked upon a man who had wrestled with authors like Bor and Van Meteren,
who had grappled with the mightiest folios and toiled undiscouraged among
half-illegible manuscript records. Having spared no pains in collecting
his materials, he told his story, as we