LITERARY SPECTATOR.

LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MUNRO,

'WE hardly know how to express the satisfaction we have derived from the perusal of these volumes—the more than satisfaction, the instruc- tion mingled with delight; pride and pleasure in the contemplation of such a character as that of MUNRO, combined with admiration of his labours, and vast information of a novel kind respecting India, its natives, and the position and condition of the British rule in that countiy. Indeed, in addition to its affording one of the most original and agreeable portraits of a great man, this book is a guide to the Indian statesman, and ought to be made the vade mecum of every young man looking to our Oriental possessions for useful and honour- able employment. THOMAS MUNRO was the son of a merchant of Glasgow, whose flourishing circumstances were ruined by losses sustained in conse- quence of the American Revolution.- He went to India as a military cadet, at the age of eighteen ; and commenced a series of laborious and invaluable services which only terminated.with his life. MUNRO'S career was of the most a-ritual description : the reputation attending his endeavours was of slow growth, for his exertions lay among dis- tant and obscure districts ; and though the results were permanent and important, demanding for their execution a combination of rare qualities, still it was only by dint of time and labour that his talents and virtues came to be appreciated—when whole districts began to call him their father, and every individual who came within his sphere was struck by his powers of mind, his personal acquirements, his good nature, good, sense, sagacity, and extraordinary accomplish- ments in Oriental literature, and general science. It was only late in life that he was intrusted with any elevated command, and then he showed what he might have done in an appropriate field. He sub- dued whole provinces with scarcely any more power than he derived from the inhabitants themselves, whom he brought over to him, partly by his wise regulations, partly by the able disposition and adminis- tration of his troops, and partly by the force of his good name. Sir Thoivens, however, was not to descend to posterity as a general : his destiny reserved him for the Governorship of Madras,—a post of great honour and heavy responsibility, which he filled as might have been expected from one who in a more limited circle of useful employments won the respect and love of all who knew him, for his justice, his temper, and humanity. Let the civilian, and statesman, and soldier, study the example of this excellent person in their several relations to him : our principal delight is in the study of his character as a man merely,—as a son full of filial sacrifices, as a friend the most faithful, and, if we did not too much fear falling into the commonplaces of epitaphs, we should speak of him as a father and a husband.

From his very school days THOMAS MUNRO was a remarkable character. He was the leader of all his comrades ; he was famous for his skill in all athletic sports, and bore away the prize as the first' boxer of his day: at the same time, as one of his old schoolfellows and survivors takes pleasure in telling us, he bore his faculties meekly ; it was with the utmost difficulty he could be provoked to quarrel ; and he legislated between his companions with the wisdom and integrity of a future Solon. He always remained strongly attached to athletic sports, more particularly fives, and swimming; and, with other emi- nent men, decidedly set his face against precocious learning, and the over-exertion of the youthful intellect. When told, long after, of his nephew's being chosen dux in the school, he says, "I had much rather hear he were the dux of his schoolfellows M all their sports :" bearing in mind, doubtless, the similar honour to which he had in his time arrived, and aware not only of the indication of character that boyish pre-eminence in sports afforded, but knowing that it laid the foundation both of health and manliness. The father of young Muivito had a country house near Glasgow, where he spent many of his early years, and to the scenes of which he always looks back with more than a Scotsman's fondness for home. Here he spent much of his time, not merely in solitary rambles or listless loungings on the Kel- vin, but in the eager perusal of eery book he could find containing such information as was congenial with his own character. At this early period, his store of reading ranged from Robinson Crusoe to the Wealth of Nations.

It is fortunate for us that Sir THOMAS MUNRO loved the habit of writing : his communications sent home to his family are absolutely voluminous ' • and as he discussed with the different members of his family almost every interesting Indian topic in those most interesting times of India, as well as all those movements chiefly important to himself, his letters become depositories of historical information, and make him his own biographer. The writer of his life has had the judgment to see that his proper office was the editing of his letters and a selection from his papers. The task has been performed with the discretion that might have been anticipated from the experience and taste of Mr. GLEIG: we cannot indeed help regretting that any portion of the writings of Sir THOMAS MUNRO should be consigned to oblivion, but for a selection, we do not doubt that the duty has been skilfully performed in the present work. As may be inferred from our notice, there are many relations in which Sir THOMAS MUNRO'S character might be viewed by one pro- posing to examine his biography: the aspect,' however, in which he has most pleased us is that of the man, the son and the brother, and the husband ; and the short space we can still further dedicate to this subject shall be devoted to a few extracts which illustrate him in this * The Life of Major-General Sir Thomas Munro, Bart. and K.C.B. late Governor of Madras. With Extracts from his Correspondence and Private Papers. By the Rev. G. 11, Gleig, DCA, mat.s.L. trcc. 2 vols, Londen,18:30. point of view. Some of them are passages of extreme beauty, and others have a personal interest of no ordinary kind. The first is from a letter to his sister : it relates to his mode of life when young in the service ; and confirms a remark of Bishop HEBER, that the boasted Oriental luxury resolves itself into a fresh wind and cold water.

" I have often wished that you were transported for a few hours to my room, to be cured of your Western notions of Eastern luxury, to witness the forlorn condition of old bachelor Indian officers ; and to give them also some comfort in a consolatory fragment. You seem to think that they live like those satraps that you have read of in plays ; and that Tin particular hold my state in prodigious splendour and magnificence—that I never go abroad unless upon an elephant, surrounded with a crowd of slaves—that I am ar- rayed in silken robes, and that most of my time is spent in reclining on a sofa, listening to soft music, while Jam fanned by my officious pages; or in dreaming, like Richard, under a canopy of state. But while you rejoice in my imaginary greatness, I am most likely stretched on a mat, instead of my real couch ; and walking in an old coat and a ragged shirt, in the noonday sun, instead of looking down from my elephant, invested in my royal gar- ments. You may not believe me when I tell you, that I never experienced hunger or thirst, fatigue or poverty, till I came to India,—that since then, I have frequently met with the first three, and that the last has been my constant companion. If you wish for proofs, here they are. I was three years in India before I was master of any other pillow than a book or a car- tridge-pouch ; my bed was a piece of canvas, stretched on four Cross sticks, whose only ornament was the greatcoat that I brought from England, which, by a lucky invention, I turned into a blanket in the cold weather, by thrust- ing my legs into the sleeves, and drawing the skirts over my head. In this situation I lay, like Falstaff in the basket,—hilt to point,—and very comfort- able, I assure you, all but my feet; for the tailor, not having foreseen the various uses to which this piece of dress might be applied, had cut the cloth so short, that I never could, with all my ingenuity, bring both ends under cover; whatever I gained by drawing up my legs, I lost by exposing my neck : and I generally chose rather to cool my heels than my head. This bed served me till Alexander went last to Bengal, when he gave me an European camp-couch. On this great occasion, I bought a pillow and a carpet to lay under me, but the unfortunate curtains were condemned to make pillow- cases and towels; and now, for the first time in India, I laid my head on a pillow. But this was too much good fortune to bear with moderation; I began to grow proud, and resolved to live in great style : for this purpose I bought two table-spoons, and two tea-spoons, and another chair,—for Iliad but one before—a table, and two table-cloths. But my prosperity was of short duration, for in less than three months, I lost three of my spoons, and one of my chairs was broken by one of John Napier's companions. This great blow reduced me to my original obscurity, from which all my attempts to emerge have hitherto proved in vain. " My dress has not been more splendid than my furniture. I have never been able to keep it all of apiece; it grows tattered in one quarter, while I am establishing funds to repair it in another; and my coat is in danger of losing its sleeves, while I am pulling it off to try on a new waistcoat. "My travelling expeditions have never been performed with much gran- deur or ease. My only conveyance is an old horse, who is now so weak, that, in all my journeys, I am always obliged to walk two-thirds of the way; and if he were to die, I would give my kingdom for another, and find nobody to ac- cept of my offer. Till I came here, I hardly knew what walking was. I have often walked from sunrise to sunset, without any other refreshment than a drink of water ; and I have traversed on foot, in any directions, almost every part of the country, between Vizagapatam and Madura, a distance of eight hundred miles."

We have remarked the tenacity with which Sir THOMAS MUNRO remained attached to the scenes of his early pleasures. The man who indulges in these fond recollections is not less the soldier, the iudge,`the administrator of whole provinces.

"Both your sprigs of ivy have reached their destination ; for they have several times visited the Cavery in my writing-table, and will yet, I hope, see the bank from whence they came. Were I a man of a devout turn of mind, they might give rise to many serious and comfortable reflections on the world to come : even as it is, they warn me that Jam not what I was—that I am as withered as they—that I may return home, but that my youth and freshness will never return ; and that I must, sooner or later, be mingled with the autumnal leaves of Vallambrosa, or some other valley of death. They often remind me of old women and their religious books, usually inter- spersed, for what reason I do not know, with dried leaves of roses and tulips in almost every page ; and then I fancy myself again in the English chapel, turning over the prayer-book of Miss Yule (I think), the old lady who sat in the same pew with our mother, which, besides a collection of withered leaves, contained many excellent pictures of prophets and angels. I fancy myself again listening to the drowsy doctrines of Mr. —, and wishing myself in the Green, or anywhere but with him, while he was soaring beyond this visible diurnal sphere. But when I read your verses, I forget the ivy-mantled towers and kirks, and all the dismal countenances of the crowds of quick and dead that are poured out of them on a Sunday evening, and am transported to my old haunts at Northside. I cannothowever recollect the old tree which supported your ivy-sprig. There was one pretty tall tree near Jackson's dam, at the sluice, and another higher up, near the hut made of fir branches, for undressing ; but I do not remember that either of them was encircled in ivy. The trees that attracted most of my attention were in the Glebe ; an old oak, (I believe,) under which I made a scat, and two fir-trees, with large projecting branches, on which I have often sat and cad voyages to the East Indies, much more pleasant then than I have found them since.

" I know not whether it is nature or early habits that give us an attach-

ment to particular ways of life, but I never passed any time so pleasantly as catching eels and minnows, unless, perhaps, when I was too indolent to fish, and sat on a rock under Jackson's darn, with my feet dangling in the stream, and my eyes fixed on the water gliding among the stones. Many an idle,

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vacant, ruminating hour have I spent n this position from which I was usually at length moved by some fell design against a shoal of minnows, or against the long black insect which, in a sunny day, is continually sliding along- the surface of the water. After so long an interval, I find my fondness for these amusements but little abated. I never was more happy to escape from school than I am now to escape from business to some sequestered spot, to spend a truant day, just as I have done five-and-twenty years ago. There is a place about twelve miles from. this, close to a little river, about half the size of Kelvin, with its banks shaded with large trees, in the midst of which stands the house or bower of Captain Irton, who has little to do himself, and is always ready to stroll or swim. I often visit him in this solitary retreat, and spend the day rationally, as I think, between walking, swimming, and fishing- in a basket-boat : and if patience be a virtue, a basket-boat is an ex- cellent school for it ; for I have sat in it three hours, with the sun burning almost as much from the water as from the heavens, without catching a single minnow." The following extract front alletter` to his brother is stillffmore touching : it combines the tender recollections of the exile with the manly grief of a surviving friend. • " I have received your letters of June and September 1794, and May 1795.

I cannot read your account of your ramble among our old haunts, without wishing myself along with you. I understand all the alterations you men- tion, as well as if I saw them ; but I have too much veneration for every thing about the place, to relish any changes : I neither like the stone wall, nor the =king the entrance from the hollow part of the road where the burn runs, instead of letting it go through the avenue as formerly. I hope the mill-lade is still full of mud ; that the short road through the garden still remains ; that the raspberries opposite to the dam still thrive for the benefit of wander- ing boys ; and that no flood has carried away the large stone in the deep water opposite to the liathing.house, from which we used to plunge. Often have I sat upon it, and encouraged you, in vain, to come in. Alexander and Wil- liam were not afraid of the water, and soon learned to swim ; but I could never prevail on you to come above the dam ; you always amused yourself among the stones in the shallow water below, where it was hardly deep enough for the minnows to play. This spot, next to our own family, if any thing ever draws me home, will do it. I have no friendships nor employment that should induce me to return. I had no companions in the grammar- school with whom I associated after leaving it, except John Brown's sons and my brothers : and they are now dispersed in all parts of the world. By spending so much of my time in the house, I was more among Erskine's ac- quaintances than any of my own, and I would much rather see them than any of my schoolfellows.

My attachment to India has been much weakened since you left it, by the loss of many valuable friends. You already know of James Irving; but Dods, the oldest and dearest of them all, is now gone ; he was my tent-mate in 80 at Conjeyeram' and from that time till the day of his death, my affec- tion for him grew stronger and stronger ; he was carried off, in the course of a week, by a hill fever which he caught at Gingee, where he had gone with another officer for the sake of solitary excursions, of which he was so fond, and of visiting the stupendous rocks and ruins about that place. No year ever passed that he did not contrive to spend several weeks with me. He was going to see some friends at Trichinopoly, and from thence had pro- mised to come through the 13aramahl on his way to Arnie. I wrote to him that I had a tent ready for him; but my letter came back under a cover, in- forming me of his death. You fancy to yourself Foulis and he and I meeting at Dera.mpoory : such a meeting I once flattered myself with seeing; but it is all over now, and the world has nothing which can ever give me so much pleasure as it would have done ; but I am afraid I shall soon have to lament the loss of another friend. Foulis is so ill, that there is hardly any chance of his recovery ; if he dies, I shall have seen the end of almost the only three men with whom I have ever been intimate. Taylor *is the only exception; and his constitution is so much impaired, that he will be obliged to go to Europe. I am now too old to form new friendships ; and I foresee that I must go through life like a stranger among people, some of whom I esteem, but for none of whom I have any particular partiality. Daniel's marriage inclines me to believe that 1 am still a young moan; .but when I see all my friends dropping off, I feel that I have survived all the pleasures of youth, and that I have only those of age to look to—the recollection of what is past."

After tfiree parts of a life spent in India, Sir THOMAS MUNRO re- turned in 1807 to England, where he remained several years : he went back in 1814, carrying with him a wife, to whom he seems to have been tenderly attached. She brought him objects which called forth his affections more strongly than even those favourite spots which he worshipped. The following letter was written soon after Lady Muwao had been compelled to hasten to England to save the life of their second boy, CAMPBELL, or KAMEN as he was called in the family. " we came here last night, for the first time since you went away ; Col.

Carfrie and I drove out together. We alighted at the old place, near the well. It was nearly dark, and we passed through the garden without finding you. We bad nobody in the evening but Captain Watson, which I was glad of. He has got the floors covered with new mats, which smell like hay; but they are of no use when those for whom they were intended are gone. The cause which occasioned the desertion of this house gives everything about it a melancholy appearance. I dislike to enter Kamen's room. I never pass it without thinking of that sad night when I saw him lying in Rosa's lap, with leeches on his head, the tears streaming down his face, crying with fear and pain, and his the uncertain. His image, iii that situation, is always present to me whenever I think of this house. I walked out this morning at daylight. I followed Captain Watson's new road, which is now made hard with "Tavel, as far as the place where it divides ; but on reaching this point, instead of turning to the left, as we used to do, I continued along the main

branch to the little tank, and there halted a few minutes to admire the view of the distant hills. I then turned towards the garden, where I always found you, and Kamen trotting before you, except when he stayed behind to ex- amine sonic ant-hole. How delightful it was to see him walking, or run- ning, or stopping, to endeavour to explain something with his hands to help his language. How easy, and artless, and beautiful, are all the motions of a child. Every thing that he does is graceful. All his little ways are endear- ing; and they are the arms which Nature has given him for his protection, because they make everybody feel an attachment for him.—I have lost his society just at the time when it was most interesting. It was his tottering walk, his helplessness, and unconsciousness, that I liked. By the time I see him again, he will have lost all those qualities —he will know how to behave himself, he wii have acquired some knowledge of the world, and he will not be half so engaging as he now is. I almost wish that he would never change:, Alas he never was permitted to see him again : not long time afterwards (on the 9th July 1827) the amiable, the enlightened, though perhaps somewhat eccentric Sir THOMAS MUNRO, fell a victim to cholera, while making a tour of inspection in certain districts which lie deemed it. his duty to visit before he left his government for his retirement in England.

Our extracts are of one description only—those of personal interest: let not the reader suppose that these two bulky volumes are chiefly Si) corn posed—their main theme is the important and deeply-interest- ing questions which relate jointly to Britain and India.

tic died on his return home.--En.