Physical.

The appearance of Sir George Grey and his bearing were distinguished. Originally tall, though latterly shrunken, he had never carried his height well; as late as his seventy-fifth year his step, like Gladstone's, was still light and elastic. The head, well covered with gray hair, was of an average size, but the convolutions of the brain must have been many and fine. The soft blue eyes reflected the well of poetry that lay deep in him. A fierce moustache, cropped so close as to make it resemble bristles rather than human hair, betrayed the ineradicable savagery that was also deep. The firm chin and jaw were fit organs of the iron will. On the whole, the face had in it, when in repose, nothing of greatness. In animation, when every line and feature obeyed the perceptions of the mind and the passions of the heart, it was legible as a printed page, luminous as a transparency. When lighted up with humorous appreciation, it broke into a million wrinkles, best described in Aeschylean phrase. In anger, though he was deemed a dangerous man, he did not pale, as dangerous men are said to do, but face, neck, and scalp flushed red. It may be proof of the wholesomeness of his blood and the essential sweetness of his nature that when, at the unexpected sight of a political opponent, a flash of hatred transformed his features, and the irregular nose lengthened to a point, his face never blackened. The imperious look, as of one who would brook no disobedience, though he might be guilty of it, was perhaps the most characteristic. The visible ardour of middle life gave way in old age to a pathetic expression of moral defeat, as if it were love for his fellows and not lust of power that had met so rude a repulse.

Evolution of his Physiognomy.

Five portraits of Grey are speaking and significant. The one from a painting by Richmond, taken in the fifties and prefixed to the first volume of the English edition of Mr. Rees's biography, is assuredly that of a good and kind, yet firm and strong, man, who has a striking resemblance to the great preacher, Robertson of Brighton. No trace is there of the later savagery.

A photograph taken at Capetown in 1861 reveals a notable change. The beautiful symmetry of the features in Richmond's perhaps flattered portrait has disappeared, and the mouth, possibly by the fault of the engraver, is distorted into an expression of obstinacy and perversity. "It is the mouth of a thoroughly unscrupulous man," said a good judge who saw it. Self-assertion, carried to an extreme has brought him to this! In later years his mouth was concealed by his bristly moustache. Had he inherited his mother's sensitive and quivering, yet firm, lips, how very different a man he might have been, and how different a career he might have had!

A third portrait prefixed to the second volume of Mr. Rees's work and possibly belonging to the seventies, shows a complete revolution. The ardour visible but latent in the earlier physiognomy has kindled in the eyes and whole gaze into an inward flame. The early Victorian whiskers have been replaced by a moustache, already cropped close, but not yet bristly or quite savage. In a fourth, belonging to the eighties, the hirsute moustache, as of the Wild Boar of the Ardennes in Quentin Durward, and the hardened face, reveal patent savagery and a deep moral descent. A savage vindictiveness, a fanaticism of rebellion, a defiant self-assertion are its notes.

A still more tragic change is disclosed by a fifth portrait which hangs in the Public Library at Auckland. The self-assertion and the savagery have almost disappeared, quenched in a strange new expression—that of irremediable moral defeat. It must have been taken in the late eighties or early nineties, when he at last page 213realised that, in public life at all events, lie was a beaten man. This fifth portrait pathetically embodies the final summing up of a long and active life. We are reminded of the words of Hildebrand: "I have loved justice and hated iniquity, and therefore I die in exile.'' Some such sentiment would translate the physiognomy of the old Governor as, in his last years in New Zealand, he walked, almost deserted, the streets of the city where he had once trodden as an almost absolute ruler.

His Health.

A medical practitioner whom he transferred from New Zealand to the Cape to superintend his scheme of South African hospitals, Dr. Fitzgerald, referred to Grey's delicate health during his first term in New Zealand. He himself mentioned, a little theatrically, that he had drafted the constitution of the Anglican Church in New Zealand "on a sickbed in Taranaki." He was subject to severe spasms of the heart. Yet he must have had extraordinary powers of endurance. He had the large feet we associate with the explorer, and in his expeditions in Western Australia he performed exploits that would have been beyond the capacity of most men. His powers remained nearly intact to an advanced age. When he was past seventy, he would leave Auckland after breakfast, arrive at Kawau in the evening without having partaken of lunch, and immediately set out to show a visitor round the island. At times, in 1888, he was so exhausted that he could hardly stand, but he could not be induced to take a seat. Two or three years later he frequently walked on a Sunday afternoon from Parnell (Auckland) to visit an acquaintance residing in Epsom—a journey of some miles—and people who saw him tottering wondered how he was ever to get back, but he rejected aid. His power of rallying was an old feature that baffled prognostics. On a stumping tour through the Colony in 1879, when he was Premier, he would arrive in a steamer in a state of prostration, but as the hour approached for addressing a public meeting, the old page 214war-horse woke up at the sound of the trumpet, and he proceeded to the hall and delivered an impassioned address. After a similar tour in 1884 he returned to Auckland more vigorous than when he set out. It was otherwise in 1887, when he came back from such a tour in a state of complete prostration, from which it took him weeks to recover. There was therefore a tough vitality that rose afresh from weakness and (more than half spiritual) preserved him through apparent failure to win for him, just before the end, a semblance of victory.

Intellectual.

His mental faculties had the same quality of distinction as his appearance. He had a predilection for great things and high themes. His mind had affinities with grandeurs. Through all the declamation of the French poet he felt the greatness of Victor Hugo, and he keenly resented an irreverent biography of him that contained sentences which, he probably felt, might be applied to himself. He admired the theatrical proclamations of Napoleon. He had natural elevations, rose without an effort, and sustained himself, like the albatross he so well described, with hardly a stroke of the pinion. He was born to soar.

An Inductive Reasoner.

In boyhood, and again in youth, when he was an ensign in a regiment stationed at Dublin, he came under the influence of a man who influenced many men, including some New Zealand colonists—the remarkable and eccentric Dr. Whately, Archbishop of Dublin, and he claimed that the growth of his mind had been affected by that teacher of teachers. Whatever he may have learnt from him, he never learnt the art of reasoning, at least in syllogistic form. For this, at all times, he evinced a notorious incapacity, and often the ratiocination of his Parliamentary speeches in later years evoked the emphatic contempt of his fellow-legislators. But, if his faculty of deductive reasoning was in defect, a far higher page 215power—the commanding faculty of inductive reasoning —was of lordly proportions. It was first shown in his despatches from New Zealand, and next in those from South Africa. Through the long and very interesting succession of these you always perceive, under whatever obscurations of masked passion or undisguised perversity, the inductive reasoner who is travelling slowly to his end along a devious route with many a winding and turning, and with not a little bowing and scraping and all manner of deprecatory formulas; when at last he arrives, you perceive that he has gained his destination by the path the easiest for him to follow and the best to convince his reader (the powerful Secretary for the Colonies or his still more potent Under-Secretary) that the end was one to be supremely desired or else most anxiously shunned. Such despatches exhibit, as many of his speeches exhibited, a higher species of logic than the scholastic. It would be easy to convert any of the more elaborate into a sorites—a chain of syllogisms.

His Constructiveness.

Flowering out of this high faculty arose another of a still higher type—the grand power that Kant named the architectonic faculty, and which Herbert Spencer claimed as one of his distinctive attributes. It was strikingly shown so early as 1851, in an address to the New Zealand Society that was worthy of Guizot, when he sketched a lofty programme for the historians of New Zealand, who should study its history as "tending to illustrate and clear up the history of the entire human race, and of all time, considered as one harmonious whole." It was effectively shown in the drafting of a political and of an ecclesiastical constitution, and in the imaginative construction of two or three great federations. Such efforts demand high, almost the highest, powers of the human mind. Not all who essay them succeed. The formation of political constitutions has often tempted the thinker. Locke drew up a constitution for Carolina that proved unworkable and was transitory.

Rousseau drafted a constitution for Corsica, and Bentham one for Russia, neither of which was ever brought into operation or treated seriously. It was far otherwise with Grey's constructive efforts. The constitution that he drew up for New Zealand was, with amendments, which he regarded as mutilations, sanctioned by the British Parliament, and remained for twenty years in successful operation. The constitution he drew up for the Church of England in New Zealand laid the basis of the constitution by which that Church has ever since been governed. He schemed a confederation of the South Sea Islands which might well have been effected. He planned a confederation of the South African States such as is on the eve of realisation. "Dotham's dreamer dreamed anew," and he dreamt of a federation of all English-speaking peoples, which the twentieth century may see realised. Evidently, he possessed the architectonic faculty in a high degree. A not infelicitous parallel with Herbert Spencer might be traced. The philosopher who organized the sciences of life and mind, society and morals, and who meditated the reconciliation of antagonist philosophies in a synthetic system, was the complementary half of the colonial Governor who first gave a constitutional framework to a colony and a church, and who sought to bring many diverse races under one political system.

His Imagination.

His breadth of view and his large schemes were directly connected with an imperial imagination. He had the vivid visual realisation of one who saw things in the concrete. A defeated Premier had appointed himself Speaker of the Legislative Council and created a number of his friends members of the Council. To Grey it was "like a king entering the Chamber surrounded by his retainers." A condemned House of Representatives, which awaited dissolution and yet legislated for its successor, reminded him of "the living governed by the dead." All appeared to him in picture. John Bright page 217had a vision of America, from the frozen North to the glowing South, as "the home of freedom and a refuge for the oppressed of every nation and of every clime." Grey's vision may not have been nobler than that, but it was wider, deeper, and richer. He had a vision of a grand Pan-Anglican federation, where the two great races of the world would blend harmoniously into a living unity and exhibit a new social type. All these things he saw with his bodily eyes, and he spoke and wrote of them with the passion of belief proper to a seer. He made others see with him, when his perceptions were true. It was thus he convinced them.

Perhaps it was a corollary of the predominance of imagination in his mind that, though he had perceptions which nothing escaped, and an extraordinary memory which let slip nothing it ever held, he had no grasp of details; and when a measure was under discussion, he was frivolous in the cabinet, useless on a committee, and silent in the legislature. His projects of taxation would have made Turgot or Gladstone smile, so childishly futile were they. His reasonings for or against a tax were also puerile.

The same high faculty of imagination gave elevation to his oratory. Did a great cause move him? Breathing thoughts came at will, and burning words seemed to come of themselves. Passion kindled them. Indignation heated them white. Others cite poetry when they should be eloquent; his eloquence was poetry.

His Culture.

Like many imaginative men, he was not deep in reflection or formidable in argument. His culture was tinged with dilletantism. He had the taste for Italian poetry more characteristic of his generation than of ours. He had learnt German at Sandhurst, and been intoxicated with Schiller, like German students of a bygone time, but with neither that nor any other literature was his acquaintance extensive or exact. In earlier years he must have read or rather gleaned abundantly, but in later years he page 218read practically nothing. Proud of his long-sightedness, he must have made a vow, like Swift, that he would never use spectacles, and though he so far condescended to infirmity as to use a magnifying glass, on most occasions he depended on his unarmed eyes, and they increasingly ceased to serve him. More and more, he was therefore, like Swift and Herbert Spencer, thrown back on his own thoughts, and he was often thus, like them, plunged into hypochondria.

His knowledge of men was wide and deep, yet in one instance a conspiracy that for ever excluded him from political office was matured under his unperceiving eyes. It is not that, like Wallenstein, in a similar case, he was too magnanimous to be suspicious. The experience of a long life had made him all eyes to his fellows' treachery; but, for once, he was misled by his belief in one who played him false. Either he did not always accurately measure the men he had to cope with and the environment he was placed in, or else he was blinded by passion. His conversation was witty, genial, discursive, interminable: he talked on for ever, and you wished him to talk on for ever. It was literary, political, egotistical; a score of times over he must have talked his auto-biography right through. On rare occasions it would blaze out into wild revolutionary schemes that might have emanated from Bedlam.

Moral.

His moral qualities ran parallel with his intellectual. His high ambition, hampered throughout life, his subjugating will, often thwarted, and his passionate persistency were but the emotional side of his large views. His attributes, with all their defects, were those of the born ruler. His pride was that of the savage chiefs he once ruled over, and it would well have become an absolute monarch, but it made obedience on his part difficult, and co-operation with him all but impossible. The path of his life was strewn with broken friendships, and he was latterly on speaking terms with not one of page 219the colonial leaders. The point of honour once touched, he was implacable. Henceforward, with no moment of weak relenting or relaxed vigilance, he pursued his foe as the bloodhound his quarry, but in a manner fatal to himself as well as to his victim. His self-possession was perfect, and his courage rose as danger thickened, yet it was rather military than civic courage. With a bishop on his right hand and a chief-justice on his left, he was ready to defy Imperial Parliament. With his Ministers behind him, he could flout the Colonial Office. With the people at his back he could have gone from opposition to revolt and from revolt to revolution. Before a blast of unpopularity he was a mere reed. It was as if his foundation were not on the adamant of principle but the quicksands of pride.

His Sympathies.

His sensitiveness to the changing humours of the populace may have sprung out of the keenness of his sympathies. The sight of injustice or oppression roused him almost to madness. Distress in every shape excited his compassion. There may have been some affectation in carrying medicines to a sick man at ten o'clock at night, but there was none in walking a long distance day after day to visit an invalid, at a time when his bodily strength was failing and he looked frail indeed, though the iron will of old remained indomitable. His generosity did not, as a rule, take a commonplace form, save when, as in the Queensland floods of 1890, the object appealed to his imagination. But, like Bessarion and other celibates, he had a costly passion for founding great libraries, and the philological library that he presented to the Cape places him of right, in the opinion of Max Müller, by the side of Sir Thomas Bodley.

His Tact.

He was accused of wanting tact by mediocrities who had none, though no woman ever had more. By a fine instinct, which was half perception and half sympathy, page 220he seemed to know far in advance when he was approaching dangerous ground. Like the Maori female guide who conducts the tourist over the quaking and steaming sides of the hills near Rotorua, he infallibly picked his way among the pitfalls of social intercourse. He followed the turns and windings of his interlocutor's talk with sympathy, with approval, at times with condemnatory silence, but always with full appreciation.

Unclubbable.

Holding somewhat aloof from his fellows, though cordial when he met with them, he went little into what was called society. He did not follow the example of King Edward and many colonial Governors by dining with his subjects. Pride may have had something to do with it, but higher tastes and aversion to the loss of time involved had more. In his later years he went almost nowhere. Now and then, but very rarely, he dined at Government House, Wellington, and he often visited invalids to whom he wished to show a kindness. When he finally returned to England, he was little more associative. In earlier days he had rather cultivated the territorial and official aristocracy. He was fond of relating—and Mr. Rees has enshrined the narrative— how, at the Duke of Argyll's house in London, he had foregathered with men of political and literary distinction, and had easily held his own with them on topics of importance. He particularly delighted in the breakfasts that were then fashionable, before Londoners became too much engrossed to breakfast late. His table manners were charming, and his conversation unaffected and delightful.

His Humours.

His humour was genuine, free, and unforced, answering like a flash to all demands on it. As Liszt said of Chopin, "his caustic spirit caught the ridiculous rapidly and far below the surface at which it usually strikes the eye." He was no great laugher and seldom laughed heartily.

Sometimes, when a pointed retort made him realise the tragedy of his situation, his laugh was almost gruesome. His smile was various, often delightful, always charming. It was fashioned less by the mouth than by the eyes, which would stream over with merriment, and by the whole mobile face. Few faces were capable of lighting up as his was at some stroke of wit or some humorous situation. It then grew beaming, luminous, and radiant. But whether of amusement or appreciation, of scorn or anger, his expression was total and organic. He was all smiles or all frowns, all allurement or all menace. His anger, especially, was formidable. His voice, ordinarily feeble, suddenly grew powerful and harsh or threatening. The complete transformation of his countenance when he saw a hated political opponent showed how much anger is a devil's passion. In him it was not the righteous indignation of the just man. The mood grew upon him. After his return to New Zealand in 1869 he would often, in his solitude, sink into black rages at the remembrance of some bitter injustice or some abominable outrage. He could at times be seen in the Parliamentary Library sitting absorbed in melancholy thought or on fire with some internal consuming passion. At such times he seemed to respire flame and wrath, as Saul breathed forth slaughter and threatenings. He was then almost unapproachable. Was he in his house? His niece would send one or more of her children into his room, and their caresses or innocent guileless ways would lay healing balm on the wounded spirit. But for them, and but for the few honours he received in England, he might have passed his last years as Swift spent his, and the world might have witnessed such another spectacle as Johnson and Taine have so vividly painted.

His Religion.

The religion of the man of action is usually traditional or orthodox. All the social forces by which the ruler is himself ruled tend to breed in him a hereditary awe of the Upper Powers. Herbert Spencer has proved, and page 222all history confirms the argument, that the earthly and heavenly hierarchies are inseparably connected. Whichever may be first—whether the spiritual is the earlier, as Dionysius the Areopagite, Quinet, and Fustel de Coulanges maintain, or whether the celestial is modelled on the terrestrial, as Voltaire wonld have said and Spencer asserts—the two closely reflect one another. Hence the secular arm commonly supports the ecclesiastical, and George III. made it a rule to stand up while the Hallelujah Chorus was being performed, as if it had at least an equal claim to such an honour with the National Anthem. The religion of the governing classes is usually conventional and is rarely personal, as with Cromwell, or sceptical, as with Frederick the Great, or philosophical, as with William von Humboldt, or universally tolerant, as with Alexander Severus or Akbar. It is now and then innovating, as was shown by Constantine and the early European kings who accepted Christianity and, at a later date, Protestantism. Sometimes it is reactionary, as with the Emperor Julian and the many sovereigns who have apostatized from Protestantism to Catholicism, but then the reversion is towards more religion, not less.

Grey's religion was that of the ruler or the ruling class. He was an orthodox Anglican, and, although he associated familiarly with avowed freethinkers, two of whom—the President and the Vice-President of the Freethought Associations of New Zealand—were members of his cabinet in 1877-8, and in private he was tolerant of dissent, he never abandoned his early position. His first book is strongly impregnated with the religious sentiment, and he avows that in times of trial he sought for consolation and support in religious beliefs and the perusal of the Bible. It is difficult for those who knew him in the last twenty years of his life to take those simple confessions quite seriously and equally difficult to doubt his sincerity. Religious faith of some kind was deeply ingrained in him. During his West Australian explorations, when more than once page 223death seemed imminent, he fell back on religious consolations, and almost fifty years afterwards he did the same thing. He kept the Bible by him in 1838-9, and in 1884 he got up, as he confessed, at five o'clock in the morning to read the New Testament—in the original, it was understood. Yet there were few outward manifestations of belief. He quarrelled violently with the missionaries in New Zealand, but on just grounds. Therein resembling persons so unlike as Milton, Bismarck, and Henry Drumrnond,—all of them professedly religious men—he did not, in later years at least, attend Divine worship. In 1884, at a time of great trial and possible calamity, he began to conduct religious worship at Kawau on Sunday mornings. He read the Church of England service with simple dignity and with some impressiveness, but delivered or read no discourse. His library was not lacking in religious books. He possessed a complete set of the once-famous Tracts for the Times, and he had the works of Theodore Parker. To these in his trouble he had recourse, but found "something wanting" in them, as well he might. What is wanting—is it not?—is what Christians call the Cross of Christ—the gaining of eternal life through death to self and the world. That profound perception of the law of sacrifice and the darkening of "the Father's" face, or of the world and the cosmos, to the innocent wronged one generates a deeper theology than Parker in his optimism ever knew. It is also the supreme lesson which men of Grey's stamp never learn.

The problem is much of the same character as Bismarck's professions and practice present. "Fancy Bismarck believing in a God!" it was said when Busch's candid reminiscences, flavoured with pious declarations, were published. Bismarck was probably as sincere a believer as Cromwell, whose sincerity is not now so often disputed as it used to be. We shape the Deity in our own image, and the God of Cromwell, Bismarck, and Grey was doubtless a very different being to the Heavenly Father of the Gospels or the Christ-God who supplanted him.

In spite of his surprising perusal of the New Testament, Grey was not a New Testament Christian. The Beatitudes by no means expressed his ideal of life. He was not humble. "Blessed are the merciful" did he read —he who never spared? ''Blessed are they that hunger and thirst"—but one's sense of congruity is too severely shocked. He let the sun go down upon his wrath. Often cruel, hard-hearted, oppressive, tyrannical, relentless, and savagely vindictive, he was at times an old savage, whose heart had never been softened by religious influences, but only hardened by tragic experiences of life. His was an unawakened mind, and, though he speculated on many topics, he never allowed his clear intelligence to play on any of the mysteries of the Christian faith. He probably would have said, with Lord Acton, that he was not conscious of ever in his life having "held the slightest shadow of a doubt about any dogma of the" Church of England. His (believers in revealed religion would say) was an unconverted nature, where the primitive passions had never been purified in Heavenly furnaces and the principles of the natural man had never been illuminated by Divine light. We need not too harshly condemn one who had many a hard battle to fight, and who generally fought for the good cause. Only a few fighting statesmen—Cromwell, Guizot, Montalembert, Gladstone, McKinley,—have in the strife preserved "the whiteness of their souls."

A "Tropical Man."

Carlyle, who not unjustly appraised him, would have said that Grey belonged to another class than those to whom the precepts of the Sermon on the Mount apply, and must be judged by a different code of ethics. He looked, indeed, an alien figure as he flitted about among the colonial legislators, who doubtless also felt that he did not belong to them or their kind. He was of the great race of the uebermenschen—the giants whom Renan and Nietzsche have set up for the homage of "the dim common populations." The passion of subjugation page 225and domination lay at the base of his character. He realised Nietzsche's idea of life as consisting essentially in aggression—in the appropriation and subjection of all that is alien and feebler; accompanied or not—and it mattered little to him whether it was or was not accompanied—by hardness and oppression; and issuing in the imposing of its will, its forms of thought and feeling, on others, and the incorporation of those others with itself or, at least, their exploitation for its own ends. He was of the same lineage as Julius Caesar, Frederick, and Napoleon, if not of the same stature. And yet, who knows? These mighty hunters of men were made great by their surroundings. Had they been planted down in a British colony sixty years ago, they would have shown no greater faculties than Grey displayed; and had Grey been placed in the wider environment of Canada or India, or been set to govern a kingdom or an empire, he might have revealed himself one of the colossi of mankind. His earlier days were passed in circumstances where one of Nietzsche's "tropical men" was possible and was required, and his doings in those days must be judged by a standard adapted to the time and the place. He lived on into an age when powers or limitations that he lacked were needed, and his special attributes were an offence. He was then a living anachronism and his life a tragedy.

A Maker of Australasia.

Yet, after all, the limitations of his ethics and the defects of his personal character will, at the great assize, weigh but slightly in the balance against the real and great services Sir George Grey has rendered to particular colonies, to the Empire, and (may we not say?) to humanity at large. The private and personal element in his nature, charming or repellent, lofty and soaring, or tortuous and grovelling, as it may be held, is insignificant by the side of his altruist attributes and activities. He was what Emerson calls "a public soul,'' with all his doors and windows open to airs and breezes that came page 226from another world than that of the egoist life. It was interesting to observe, in conversing with him, to how small an extent his thoughts ran on the private affairs of himself or of others. Topics of colonial, imperial, or world-wide interest were the sole themes of his most intimate converse. Just so, as one remembers, did the eminent Grecian come home from a tour in old Hellas and have nothing to say abont the country of his predilection, save in relation to general ideas. Just so, as one also remembers, did the celebrated philosopher refuse to answer gossiping questioners; he, too, returning from Egypt with stores of ideas, but with nothing to tell in the way of personal adventure. Though Grey was exacting of due respect to himself, as he was in general careful to pay it to others, all his actions—and his feelings and thoughts almost always issued in action— had public ends.

So it had been with him all his days. In his youth he dreamt of gaining fame only through the rendering of great services, and his earliest achievements were designed to open up undiscovered countries for the relief of the poverty-stricken and the oppressed. Fortune led him to the Antipodes, where his career began, and where it ended. He was a maker of Australasia by discovering hills and mountain-chains, small or noble rivers, and fertile grassy plains in Western Australia where (as he believed) millions of agricultural settlers would one day dwell. He was a maker of Australasia when he checked South Australia in a course of political blundering that was fruitful of economic disaster; when he set himself to rescue and raise its aboriginals, and thus redeemed the colonists who had robbed them of their domains; when he devised there, as also in New Zealand, a policy of democratic landed settlement; and when he promoted a system of emigration that dowered the Colony with a valuable ethnical variety. In New Zealand he was less a maker of Australasia than he would have been its unmaker, when he endeavoured to amalgamate the Maoris and the colonists into a single hybrid race of page 227mingled blood and culture; but lie was really a maker of Australasia when he subjugated and then conciliated the Maoris and thus fitted the islands for the settlement of a new British community; when he clothed this community with the political and ecclesiastical organization of a federal free people; and he would have been the maker of a Greater Australasia, had his constructive ideas of a South Sea Islands federation been completely, as they have been partially, realised. He was a maker of South Africa by his sympathetic treatment of the Boers and his scheme of a South African federation—unfulfilled indeed, and still destined to bear abundant fruit in our own time. He was yet once more a maker of Australasia when he returned to the Legislature of his favourite colony and there sat as a legislator where once he had sat as a deputy of the Sovereign. For in those halls and throughout the Colony he fashioned the democracy that is now leading the policy of the world, and he laid the foundation stones of the structure that is being imitated in Australia and the Motherland. By all that he achieved, and hardly less by what he failed to accomplish he approved himself a famous maker of Australasia and a heroic builder of the British Empire.