early history of India is the sole result of his studies; but although little more than a fragment, it is an invaluable one. People have deplored, and wondered, that the history was never continued; and it was once foolishly stated in the House of Commons, that the East India Company, fearful of the consequences of Elphinstone’s honesty, had put up one of their own officials to write a history of India, and thus to drive him from the field. The statement was tdb absurd to require sober contradiction; but he said next morning, with an amused look, that he had written, as far as he had gone, because he possessed materials of history, within the reach of few other men, but that, approaching the period of our English conquests, he entered upon common ground, and that there was no reason why he should do what others could do as well, or better than himself; — an explanation more characteristic of the modesty of the man, than satisfactory to the public.
As years advanced, and his physical infirmities increased upon him, he withdrew more and more from society; only visiting the metropolis for a few weeks every year towards the close of the summer. His life was spent, for the most part, in his retreat on the Surrey Hills; and there death foimd him this November. He had been well content to fade out of the memory of the busy world. He told Metcalfe, many years ago, that if, on leaving India, he did not wish to be wholly forgotten, he must go into Parliament. This Elphinstone could not persuade himself to do, and he had accordingly been forgotten. But there were a few who still sought him out, and who visited the recluse among his books, and spent hours of deepest interest in converse with him, not wholly on affairs of State. His love of literature was undiminished to the last; and a day's talk with Elphinstone, at Hookwood, would embrace every conceivable subject from Veds and Shastrea to the last new poem. His memory was fresh, and his enthusiasm undiminished to the last; and if you did not leave his presence wiser for what had fallen from him, it was the fault of your own stolidity.
His place in history will be with Malcolm, Munro, and Metcalfe; whether above or below them it matters not to inquire. And, indeed, he differed from them all so essentially in many respects, that it would be difficult to assign him his exact position. But it may fitly be recorded as a memorial of honour upon the tomb of the East India Company, that it had four such servants as these, and was not ungrateful to them.
SAD WORDS.
The little threads break one by one
That bound my heart to thine;
Love’s, like the silkworm’s, web is spun, —
As perilously fine.
It snaps beneath an angry word,
'Neath an unloving look;
Frowns are more trenchant than the sword,
Or Autumn's reaping-hook.
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The maiden in the ceaseless mill
Watching the parting weft,
Stands ready to repair the ill
With fingers fast and deft.
But no fourth sister waits beside
Those fatal hands which sever
Life’s clue, which like Love’s thread untied,
Is join’d again, ah, never!
