violence was anarchy. Even the army was disorganized. Some
great generals and a crowd of excellent officers had fallen, and it had
been impossible to supply their place. The difficulty of finding
recruits had, towards the close of the war, been so great, that
selection and rejection were impossible. Whole battalions were composed
of deserters or of prisoners. It was hardly to be hoped that thirty
years of repose and industry would repair the ruin produced by seven
years of havoc. One consolatory circumstance, indeed, there was. No debt
had been incurred. The burdens of the war had been terrible, almost
insupportable; but no arrear was left to embarrass the finances in time
of peace.

Here, for the present, we must pause. We have accompanied Frederic to
the close of his career as a warrior. Possibly, when these Memoirs are
completed, we may resume the consideration of his character, and give
some account of his domestic and foreign policy, and of his private
habits, during the many years of tranquillity which followed the Seven
Years' War.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Frederic the Great and his Times. Edited, with an Introduction by
Thomas Campbell, Esq. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1842.

DIARY AND LETTERS OF MADAME D'ARBLAY[7]

_The Edinburgh Review_, January, 1843

Though the world saw and heard little of Madame D'Arblay during the last
forty years of her life, and though that little did not add to her fame,
there were thousands, we believe, who felt a singular emotion when they
learned that she was no longer among us. The news of her death carried
the minds of men back at one leap over two generations, to the time when
her first literary triumphs were won. All those whom we had been
accustomed to revere as intellectual patriarchs seemed children when
compared with her; for Burke had sat up all night to read her writings,
and Johnson had pronounced her superior to Fielding, when Rogers was
still a schoolboy, and Southey still in petticoats. Yet more strange did
it seem that we should just have lost one whose name had been widely
celebrated before anybody had heard of some illustrious men who, twenty,
thirty, or forty years ago, were, after a long and splendid career,
borne with honor to the grave. Yet so it was. Frances Burney was at the
height of fame and popularity before Cowper had published his first
volume, before Porson had gone up to college, before Pitt had taken his
seat in the House of Commons, before the voice