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PS Ait LECTURES, LITERARY AND BIOGRAPHICAL. Baliantyne ^ Company, Printers, Edinburgh. LECTURES. LITERARY AND BIOGRAPHICAL. BY REV. M. HARVE\: FREE CHURCH, ST JOHN's, NEWFOUNDLAND. EDINBURGH: ANDREW ELLIOT, 15 PRINCES STREET. 1864. , , K ■^-- :;- v*^l:-r^ PREFACE. Of the Lectures contained in this voKime I have merely to say, that they were delivered at intervals, during the last few years, on be- half of Literary Institutes, in the town of St John's. Newfoundland. Composed originally without any view to publication, amid the pressure of professional duties, and intended to meet the tastes of popular audiences, they are now, after a hasty revision, sent to the press. These circumstances may serve to ex- tenuate some of their faults and imperfections ; and, at the same time, will account for the method adopted in the treatment of the differ- ent subjects. M. H. S r John's, Newfoundlanu, Atipi,t?>, 1864. *^1-:^:, Jjg^^. „ ^ CONTENTS. LECTURE THE FIRST. EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH-PART FIRST, i PACK LECTURE THE SECOND. EDMUND nURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH-PART SECOND, 37 LECTURE THE THIRD. WIT AND HUMOUR, LECTURE THE FOURTH. ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, . LECTURE THE FIFTH. THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, LECTURE THE SIXTH. IRELAND- HER HISTORY AND HER PEOPLE, LECTURE THE SEVENTH. DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 79 M6 196 240 ;86 VIM COiXTENTS. LECTURE THE EIGHTH. ' • '''''• '^^^"^^ SMi-,H-„,.s LIKE, Wi,, AND W.SL<.M, LECTURE THE NINTH. ••L'R MOIHER-AGE ; OR, THE TIMES WE LIVE IN, LECTURE THE TENTH. *- KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, LECTURE THE ELEVENTH. THOMAS HOOD-HIS LIFE AND POETRY l-AOE 402 44-' 470 ^M^,^ LECTURE THE FIRST. EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. PART FIRST. Few of the names emblazoned on the rolls of fame have a better title to a high and honourable place than those of the illustrious Irishmen, Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith. These are the names of which old Ireland, the mother of many gifted children, has most reason to be proud. To have given to the cause of humanity these two sons, in whose souls the sacred fire of genius burned so brightly, is enough to console her for centuries of tears. Reading her annals, dark- ened by woes and oppressions, we turn with delight to trace the story of the philosophic statesman and the gentle poet, whose names are for ever inter- twined with the memory of the fair land that gave them birth, and whose laurels shall never wither. Denied political greatness, her nationality merged in 2 EDMUND BURKE " J that of a more prosperous and powerfui neighbour, Ireland has given birth to one of the most able,' far-sighted, and profound legislators of modern times ' one who first taught Engh-shmen to understand,' appreciate, and love that constitution which is the' fruit of so much toil, struggle, and suffering, and whose great thoughts are still potent in swaving the councils of Britain. Like all great men of the front-rank, Edmuiid Burke was far in advance of his age. He had climbed the mountain tops, and with prophetic vision, saw far into the coming ages His imperial imagination and glowing eloquence robed his great ideas in beauty, and winged them with might, and sent them forth to subdue the world Condensed into aphorisms, his political wisdom has scamped itself on the memor>' of men, and become the practical maxims by which measures are tried and men are guided. As years roll on, it becomes more and more clear that Burke was immeasurably the greatest man of his era, and the greatest orator of his own, if not of every other age. Born with that regal presence which stamped him a ruler of men he could, amid the tumults and convulsions of nations, " ride in the whirlwind and direct the storm." Only partially understood, and imperfectly appreciated when living, his fame has extended over both hemi- spheres, and his works are now the political classic of the English tongue. The statesmen who are most AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 3 distinguished for liberality and grasp of thought, make his writings and speeches the subject of their deepest and most reverential study ; and in the halls of legislation, where the English language is uttered, no other authority is so often quoted as that of the Irish statesman. In his private life spotless; in his public life marked by incorruptible integrity, fearless adherence to the right, and hatred of wrong and oppression, his countrymen may proudly assert that there is not a single dishonouring blot on the fair fame of Edmund Burke. Our other hero, Goldsmith, was a man of a totally different mould ; a ruler of men's thoughts and feel- ings too, but in quite another way. We do not look up to him as a great teacher, or profound thinker, but we love the gentle Oliver ; we clasp him to our hearts, with all his errors and failings, as a brother. His fine fancies cheer our lonely hours ; his humour beguiles us out of our sadness, and awakens our sweetest smiles ; his creations people our world of imagination. Oliver Goldsmith has spoken to the universal human heart ; and hence, in hut and hall, all through civil- ised Europe and America, he Las found a kindly welcome. His tender graceful writings have added immensely to the sum of human happiness. Among our bosom-friends, we reckon those charming chart acters to whom his imagination has given " a local habitation and a name." Their visits at our homes t ■* EDMUND BURKE are welcome as those of angels ; but not "short or far between." They come not as strangers nor unawares. Jn lifes morning march," we make their acquaint- ance, and they accompany us to the close. Who has not spent some happy evenings with that most beauti- fu creation of English fiction, the " Vicar of Wake- field ;" of which Sir Walter Scott finely said "wc read .t in youth and in age; we return to it again and again, and bless the memory of an author who contnves so well to reconcile us to human nature.'" And how striking to find a greater than Scott-one .of the kings of modern lite. re_the great and wise Goethe, sitting as a scholar at the feet of the simple- hearted Irishman, and owning his obligations to this charming talc. Goethe writes thus .-" Jt j, „„£ ^ ^e descnbed, the effect that Goldsmith's 'Vicar' had upon me just at the critical moment of mental devel- opment. That lofty and benevolent irony,_that fair and mdulgent view of all infirmities and faults,-that meeknessundcr all calamities,-thatequanimity under all changes and chances, and the whole train of kmdred virtues, whatever names they bear, proved my best education ; and i« the end, these are the thoughts and feelings which have reclaimed us from all the errors of life." Nor did Goethe's estimate of the .. Vcar " alter as years increa.,ed. At the age of e.ghty-one, on the brink of the grave, he told a friend that he had recently, with unabated delight, "read AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 5 the charming book again from beginning to end, not a h'ttle affected by the lively recollection of how much he had been indebted to the author, seventy years before." Is not this true fame ? Nay, is not this an attribute of genius— the ability to charm alike the simplest and the sagest— the child and the philoso- pher ? For, in truth, while Goldsmith had a word for the learned and wise, he had that deep true love for humankind— that all-embracing benevolence, which made him the people's poet and teacher, and enabled him to strike those notes that thrill the hearts of all. Even Burns, Bera-ger, and Elliot, in their most im- passioned songs, have never surpassed these nolle lines : — " III fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made : But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied." No two men could be more strongly contrasted than Burke and Goldsmith ;-the former, far-seeing, stately, dignified, self-denying, laborious, proud ; th^'e latter, gay, impulsive, thoughtles.s, defective in fore- sight and plodding industry. From a situation of obscurity, Burke fought his way to renown, with a decision that never faltered, and a self-reliance that nothing could turn aside; and. at his death, the son of the Dublin attorney had achieved a proud position EDMUND BURKE ' among the greatest and noblest in the land Gold- -.th, after a terrible struggle with poverty, n,ise^, and neglect, came out at last victorious; was recog^ •lised and welcomed by the chosen few as a man of t.e w,thm h,s reach, he sank under a heavy burden o, to, and care. Many were his foibles and failings; but hrough all the hard battle he never lost the s,m- Pl-c..y of h,s noble nature, and, though fighting at ernble odds with the world's contumely, .Lligfity, and envy, he preserved his honest boy-heart I L clo.e. In this address I have ventured to link the=e two men together, though so dissimilar in characte'r because they were born at the same time and in the' same land,-because, in going through life, they were often m co„tact,_and because they found a sphere of ac.v,ty ,n the same metropolis. You will not expect from me, in a brief lecture, anything like a deuced account ertheir lives or labours' I c;'oni; attempt to g,ve you some glimpses of the men and he r t.mes, which, however imperfect, may help you to form a correct estimate of our heroes, and induce .ome of you to make a closer study of the subject. The year ,728 ought to be noted by Irishmen as a memorable one. I„ that year Oliver Goldsmith and Edmund Burke 6.st saw the light. I„ the county of Longford there is a small village named Pallas or 'K'^;?^ AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 7 Pallasmore, still so obscure, that few tourists have ever visited the spot. Here, in the year 1728, lived the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a Protestant clergyman of the Established Church. Hood wittily defined a curate as " one who lived hard by the churcn." The description held good in regard to this worthy man. He was " Passing rich with forty pounds a year." I rather think there was no great rapture in his household, this year, when a child was born ; for the little stranger, who was named Oliver, was the fifth, and when a father, in such circumstances, goes into a committee of ways and means with his wife, and en- deavou-s to solve the hard problem of sustaining a household of seven on an annual revenue of forty pounds, even the most hopeful might feel anxious as to the possibility of keeping the wolf from the door. Very likely, then, the Rev. Charles had some mis- givings of this kind, when, foi the first time, he looked into the very red face of his little boy, as he nestled close to the bountiful fountain kind Nature had provided for him. Little did the father imagine that this small fraction of humanity was to transmit his own name to the love and admiration of coming generations, and that, as the pastor of the " Deserted Village," and the original of the good "Vicar of Wakefield," he should be " welcomed with laughter, love, and tears," by myriads of men. Yet so it 8 EDMUND BURKE proved: it was his own kind-hearted father that Oliver painted in these genial, world-renowned char- acters. It was fortunate for this little scion of the Goldsmith stock that, two years after his birth, by a lucky turn in the wheel of fortune, his father wa« promoted to a better living, and his income of forty raised to two hundred pounds a year. Oliver's pros- pects, in regard to nourishment for body and mind, were thus much brightened. The family removed from Pallasmore to a respectable house near the pretty village of Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath An old dame v.as employed to teach Oliver the first steps of knowledge, but her efforts did not come to much, as may be gathered from the verdict she pro- nounced on her pupil, that he was "impenetrablj- stupid." Thomas Byrne, an old soldier who kept a school in Lissoy, next tried his hand on the boy • but, however good at "shouldering a crutch and shewmg how fields were won," I fear he was not very adroit at « teaching the young idea how to shoot " It was at this period of his life that the first of a Ion- tram of misfortunes happened to Oliver. The smallt pox seized him, brought him to the brink of the grave, and left his face deeply scarred and seamed for hfe. This was no light calamity; it made his features, never very handsome, positively ugly, and rendered a shrinking, sensitive boy, a butt for heart- less ridicule. But, happily. Nature had endowed him AND OLIVER GOLDSMI'IH. 9 with a sweetness of disposition and a cheerfulness of temper that all the world's scorn and ill usage could never mar. When eight years of age he was sent to a superior school in Roscommon, where he remained till his eleventh year. Here, then, we leave him for the present, to look after our other hero. It was on the 12th of January, in the year 1728, that Edmund Burke was born. His birthplace was Arran Quay, in the city of Dublin. His father was an attorney, in good practice and rather prosperous circumstances ; but owing to an irascible temper, his clients gradually got fewer, and his business declined. In fact, the choleric temper of the pa- ternal Burke made him, at times, hard and over- bearing, and his home can hardly be described as genial or happy. Still, as far as money could smooth the rugged path of life, little Ned had a much brighter out-look than his contemporary Oliver. Burke the elder had made some money by his pro- fession, and he resolved that his second son, Ed- .nund, should be a lawyer. His family consisted of three sons and one daughter, who were trained with much more worldly wisdom, and a keener eye to success in life, than the children of the easy- tempered, good-natured, unthrifty Charles Gold- smith, whose heart and purse were open to all comers, notwithstanding that his slender and uncer- tain income had now to sustain eight children. 10 EDMUND BURKE \ Several of Burkes biographer, have laboured in- dustnously to find a place ,„r his now famous name m the peerage, vainly hoping to add to his renown by discovering for him a patrician descent. Hence the attempts to connect the plain attorney of Arran prefix De, and change the two final consonants Burk^'V?. ''"' °' ^"'^'^ ^' -- becomes Burke. Had there been any foundation for .such a cla,m the acute attorney at the head of the family would not have failed to put it forward, for Z have all a l.ttle weakness-and Irishn.en most of a 1-about "good blood" and an illustrious pedigree It .s due to Edmund Burke to state that he nt-v.; was Eudty of the silly folly ,, ,,„.„g ,„ ».mself w,th the patrician De Burghs. He had too much good sense and self-respect to lay claim to a nobler Imeagc than he was fairly entitled to. Truly iias lennyson sung: "Trust nie, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue henvens above us bent Tiie grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good : Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood." Macknight, the latest and best biographer of Burke, AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. II renounces the De Burgh theory, and deduces the pedigree from a Burke who had once been mayor of Limerick. However that may be, the father of Ed- mund was a Protestant ; his mother, a woman of some culture and deep sensibility, from nhom he seems to have inherited his genius, as he derived his irritability from his father, was a Catholic — a member of the Nagle family, of Castletown Roche, in Cork. Mrs Burke never abandoned the religion of her fathers ; but her distinguished son adhered to his father's faith, and was, throughout life, a sincere member of the Church of England. Thus he who was afterwards to become one of ihe wisest of Ireland's emancipators one of the most eloquent pleaders for the redress of her grievances— had, on his mother's side. Catholics for his ancestors ; and was thus bound by the strong ties of kindred lo a race then sorely oppressed. Not only so, but some of his early years were passed among his mother's relatives, the Nagles, who had been for centuries adherents of the ancient faith. In Castletown Roche, he spent five years in the heart of the country which Spenser has immortalised in his " Faerie Queene." Whether he actually studied this immortal poem amid the scenes in which it was writ- ten, we cannot tell ; but, at all events, he was here familiarised with the raw material on which the mind of Spenser wrought : he walked by the banks of the Awbeg, the bright Mulla of the Faerie Queene ; 12 EDMUND BURKE from the ruins of Kilcolman. once th. proud residence of the Desmonds, he gazed on one of the noblest pros- pects m Ireland ; and he stood on the very spots where the great Raleigh and Spenser had so often spent their hours in lofty communings. We cannot doubt that such scenes and associations would enrich his mind with imagery, such as the poet-orator used long after m draping his glowing thoughts. Nor was the society m which he mingled less genial than the scenery He soon learned to respect and love his maternal relatives for their unostentatious kindness quick sagacity, and genuine worth ; and, in after- years, when he became famous, he often looked back to the period of his residence here as the happiest of h.s life. Burke's early education was rather neglected owmg to the delicacy of his health ; but at the age of thirteen, he had the good fortune to be sent to an exc^'lent school in Ballytore, county Kildare, at the head of wh.-ch was a Yorkshire Quaker of great worth and ability, named Abraham Shackleton. Here he found a happy home, kind friends, good impulses to- ward self-improvement, and the best instruction The friendships he formed with the Shackleton family were only severed by death ; anJ he had reason M regard the Hay he entered their friendly abode as one of the most fortunate of his life. It was under the fostering care of this teacher that Burke's rare abilities began to develop themselves. AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13 We must now pass over a few years, and change the scene to Trinity College, Dublin. It is the year 1746. In one of the top rooms of the college a youth of eighteen is sitting solitary and moody. He is of a low-sized, thick, robust, ungainly figure. On his countenance is the unmistakable handwriting of small-pox. His forehead, bulging so as to defy all the rules of sculpture, exhibits none of the lines of beauty. Yet is the light of the spirit gleaming brightly through those large, eager eyes, that gaze into vacancy. This unprepossessing youth has got hold of a diamond somewhere, and on the window- pane he scratches the name Oliver Goldsmith. T believe it is there to this day, in the window of room No. 35. Our Trinity student, we see at a glance of his coarse, black, sleeveless gown, and servant's red cap, belongs to the class of sizars, who were poor students, or servitors, whose duty it was to sweep the courts in the mornings, and carry up dishes from the kitchen to the Fellows' dining-hall. For this ser- vice their fees were greatly reduced. Our poor Oliver has a forlorn look on his pale, pitted face. It is night, and he lounges out through the coll ge gate, down the dimly-lighted street. A ballad-singer, with a loud, cracked voice, surrounded by a crowd, is roaring cut a song. Why does our gowned student stop and listen so eagerly to those discordant notes, ?.s though he were enraptured } The truth is, the ballad is one '4 EDMUND BURKE W of his own composition, the copyright of which he dis- posed of a few days since for five shilhngs, glad to get such an addition to his scanty store, and now it is positive happiness to him to watch its reception by a discerning pubhc : to note how s^me gentle faces .soften into smiles,-how the dust-covered artisan re- turning from his work, stops and h'stens, and plJn- mg his hand into his pocket, eagerly invests a penny in the strect-ware,-and how the open-mouthed ragged urchin ventures his little all in the purchase. Sweet music this of the old ballad-singer to the ear of the poor sizar. H. is drinking in the first intoxicating draughts of applause. He begins to see that a writer may get a public to buy his productions, and so has a glimpse of possible authorship. He returns home- ward with a lighter heart, thinking that one day his pen will do greater things than these. Courage, brave heart ! a wider and better audience will yet be thine ' He-is returning to his dull, bare college-room, wh.n a poor starving woman, with five shivering chilJren cros.es his path. Oliver cannot stand the loois and tones of misery. I„ a moment he is bounding up stairs to his room ; he seizes the blankets off his bed, and the poor beggar goes away rich and happy pray- ing fervently " that the heavens may be his bed " Bed time arrives-OIiver looks dolefully at his blanket- less bed. Shall he shiver in the cold air all ni^ht > Not so. His knife is out in a momer^ ; a slit is made AND OLIVER GO! DSMlTlf. 15 in the ticking large enough to admit his person ; in among the feathers he creeps, where, in a few mo- ments. he is snoring in the sleep of a good man who has done a virtuous action. Morning dawns ; but Oliver struggles in vain to effect his exit from the feathery envelope, till at length, in response to his outcries, a friendly hand helps to extricate him, pre- senting, we can fancy, rather a comical figure. This event in the college life of Oliver is attested by the best authority. In it we sec the genuine Irishman,- his kind heart, his uncalculating benevolence, and his comical way of meccing a difficulty. Had an Eng- lishman been in a similar predicament, he would have slept in his clothes. I dare say, and made himself pretty tidy and comfortable by placing the feather- bed above him. A Scotchman. I think, would not have parted with his blankets at all. but would have helped the poor outcast in .some more rea.sonable and prudent fashion. Only an Irishman would bestow his blankets in charity, and then cut a hole in the ticking and creep in among the feathers. Goldsmith's forlorn condition at Trinity College arcsv Troin the fraiteiied condition of the home l.nances. When little over a year at the university, his good father died ; and he became dependent for casual supplies on a kind uncle Contarine. and other relations, who, however willing, had little to spare. No wonder, then, that he was glad to turn an honest i6 EDMUND BURKE penny in writing ballads— as Homer had done before him. The sizar's life at Trinity was a hard one,— his position menial,— his privations numberless. Of course, the poor students were looked down upon by the wealthier commoners. The unlucky Oliver, too, got for a tutor an unfeeling, brutal-minded wretch, called Wilder, who never ceased insulting and huniili- ating him in presence of the class ; for which vile con- duct Nemesis has gibbeted his memory before the gaze of posterity. In working out the everlasting sum of things, substantial justice is done in the lono- run. On one occasion, when Oliver had won a prize of thirty shillings, and, on the strength of this, invited a few friends to -^ l,:tle supper in his room, (contrary to college rules,) this Wilder broke in upon the party whea the fun was getting rather " fast and furious," and knocked down our poor Oliver. But this out- rage on one who was as full of love and gentleness as a child, ha3 been amply avenged. All generations shall agree in calling the man who struck that blow, " a brute." The studies cf Trinity were not at all to the mind of Oliver; and he failed to distinguish him- self in any branch of learning. His reading, we may be sure, wai. of a very miscellaneous character, with a modicum of classics and mathematics, comprising a good deal of history, poetry, and general literature, which, in due time, would be turned to account At the age of twenty-one he managed to take his degree AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 17 of Bachelor of Arts; and then ^vent home to his widowed mother's house in Ballymahon, where for three years, he led a happy, easy life, to which, in after-years, he looked back with wistful eyes. Two note-worthy students were in attendance at Tnn.ty College at the same time as Oliver. These were Flood, afterwards the famous parliamentary orator, and Edmund Burke. Neither of them had any acquaintance with Goldsmith. They were fellow- commoners : and doubtless passed by the unc^ainly sizar with a careless glance. Years afterwards, how, ever, when Burke met Goldsmith at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter, in London, the former declared that he perfectly recollected his fellow-student. I dare say, however, it was simply as an uncommonly odd fish that he remembered the poor shabby sizar. Burke, when attending Trinity walked every morning from his father's house to the' University. Though he had none of the ills of po- verty to contend with, he had other trials. His father's temper was not improving with years ; and his home was not a happy one. His studies, like those of Oliver, were at this time of a desultory description; and his scholastic attainments rather •slender. He was, however, learning to appreciate Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Milton ; though strange to say, he never seems to have felt the tr^n- scendent superiority of Shakespeare as a poet and iS EDMUND BURKE dramatist. Without winning any laurels, he took his Bachelor's degree in 1748; and, being destined for the law, his name was entered at the Inner Temple, London. But his powers were rapidly expanding ; and with aspirations above the position of a success- ful barrister, he turned his face toward the great me- tropolis. We must now drop the curtain, and suppose a few years to elapse, before it rises on another scene. It is the year 1757. Our heroes a're in their twenty-ninth year. Let us first look up Oliver. It is now five years since he turned his back on dear, delightful, lazy Ballymah^n, never more to be gladdened by a sight of its green fields and the kindly faces of its inhabitants. He is now a book- sellers' hack, and in vassalage to a certain London publisher named Griffiths, who boards and lodges him, and allows a trifle for clothing. In return for this liberal allowance, he is bound to write six hours a day for the Alonthly Review, of which Griffiths is editor and proprietor. The dogs of hunger, following hard at his heels, have driven him into this doleful situation. During the last five years he has been a wanderer over Europe. Having spent a short time in Edinburgh, professedly in studying medicine, he has traversed on foot Flanders, Switzerland, Italy, and France. In fact, with the aid of his flute and learning, without any supplies from Ireland, he has made the grand tour. Reaching at length the shores AND OLIVER GOLDSM -R. {^ Of England, he has wandered-cold, penniless, and fnendless-ahout the lonely, terrible streets of Lon- don. He has tried to practise physic, but failed to get patients or fees. He has been for a time usher in an academy at Pe.Kham, where, it is on record he was always in advance with his small salarj-, charac- lenstically spending it on the day he received it in relief to beggars and in sweetmeats for the younger class, till at length the good-natured wife of the mas- ter said, "You had better. Mr Goldsmith, let me keep your money for you, as I do for some of the young gentlemen." To which he good-humouredly answered, " In truth, madam, there is equal need." But he has been further down in the social scale than this, having been driven for a time to take refuge among the beg- gars of Axe Lane. Now, however, he has risen a little in the world, being lodged in Griffith's attic ; and his task is, under the supervision of this man and his wife to review tiie new works that are issuing from the' press. I ook at him as he sits in bondage at the desk, painfully absorbing the contents of the volumes sent in for review,-most of them full of literary rub- bish. Suddenly the weary face brightens, and the large eyes are filled with eager interest, as he takes up a thin volume, fresh from the press, entitled "A riiilosophicl Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. By Edmund Burke " This was Burke's second literary production. He 20 EDMUND BURKE 'i I i< had already made a great impression by a previous work, entitled, "The Vindication of Na:„.al Society," and at once established his reputation as an eloquent and philosophical writer. Oliver is soon deep in " Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful ;" and his criti- cism of the volume in Griffith's Review is elaborate, honest, well-studied, and such as gave Burke sincere pleasure. As yet the two Irishmen have not met in London. Burke has all but abandoned his law studies, for which he has no taste, and is sailing for wider sea.s. His father is angry ; considers his allow- ance of ;^200 a year thrown away ; thinks hi:^ Ned is going to turn out a useless member of society ; and resolves to stop the supplies. And so our Edmund is trying to live by literature, and has rather humble lodgings, up two pair of stairs, over a bookseller's shop, off" the Strand. The world is beginning to hear of him. Dr Johnson pronounces his Treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful " a model of philosophic criti- cism ;" and David Hume, writing to Adam Smith, says, " An Irish gentleman wrote lately a very pretty treatise on the sublime." The theory propounded in this volume has been exploded long since ; but the style, illustrations, and imagery, make the book still worthy of perusal. Soon after its publication, Burke, without profession or prospects, had the courage, like a true Irishman, to marry. The object of his choice was Miss Nugent, daughter of Dr Nngent, a physi- V AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 21 cian of some note, practising in Bath. This gentle man v/as a Roman Catholic ; but, according to some accounts, his daughter was brought up a Presbyter . by her mother; and, as far as I can make out, was with her husband, an adherent of the Church of Eng- land after her marriage. All parties agree in describ- ing her as one of the best of wives. His marriage which seemed so reckless at the time, was the best step yet taken by Edmund Burke. Macknight, in c .cnbing his wife, says, "She glides with Quaker calmness, and an almost saint-like beauty, through the agitating .cenes of Burke's daily life, ever sooth- " ing his natural irritability by her natural gentleness standing by his side in moments of despondency' cheering him in poverty, nursing him in sickness consoling him in sorrow. Whatever may be his future troubles, it is much to remember that at his fireside there is, and will be, peace." In after-years Burke was accustomed to say, " Every care vanishes the moment I enter under my own roof" Meantime things were going hardly with our poor Oliver, who must have been born with a wooden spoon in his mouth. After some months' labour he broke away from Griffith's harness. The pay .vas small, the labour heavy, and the diet light. He made several desperate efforts to escape from Grub Street butdesti, td him in hand. He mu.st grind on in the literary mill,-deliverance for him there is none 22 EDMUND hURKH How to live is the grand cons-deration with OhVer, who, as he pathetically expressed it, is " in a garret, writing for bread, and expecting to be dunned for a milk score." In '.act, at times, the bread cannot be had, and the milk score cannot be paid. Still, gleams of light are reaching him in his doleful condition. He begins to have more belief in himself The morning will shortly break, and, for a time, the shadows fly away. The tree must be wounded before it will yield its balm. Through sufferings alone can perfection be reached. Our gentle Oliver bears his trials well ; hope never leaves him, nor does sorrow sour his heart He is the same gentle, kind-hearted being as ever ; never so poor as to be unable to assist some one poorer than himself Let us look in upon him in his poor, comfortless lodgings in Green Arbour Court, one of the poorest quarters in London, which was approached by the appropriate access of " Breakneck Steps." The room is naked, dirty, and unfurnished There is but one wooden chair and a window-bench. In this miserable home our forlorn adventurer sits all day long, for his clothes have become too ragged to submit to daylight scrutiny, and he can only venture out at night. We look over his shoulder at the manuscript before him, and what do we see } He is working away at " An Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning in Europe." A knock at the door is heard ; a grave, dignified, I ^ND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Zl wcll-drcssed personage enters. Oliver hands him the only chair, and takes the window-bench. His visitor is no other than Thomas Percy, a descendant of the ancient Earls of Northumberland, author of " Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," and afterwards Bishop of Dromore. He has made Goldsmith's acquaintance a few days before, at a coffee-house ; and, attracted by something uncommon in the man, has hunted him up in Green Arbour Court. They are just warming into some literary talk, when a timid knock is heard at the door; a poor, little, ragged girl enters, and dropping a curtsy to Oliver, says, " Mamma sends her compli- ments, and begs the favour of you to lend her a chamber-pot full of coals," at the same time present- ing this singular coal-scuttle to be filled. I have no doubt the good-natured Oliver paused in his learned discourse with this scion of the Percys and complied with the humble request, even though that potful of coals were his last. The " Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning in Europe," produced amid such unpropitious environr.ients, brought Goldsmith into notice, extended his reputation, and, what was of more consequence, secured him employment on some of the periodicals of t!:e day. At this period Edmund Burke was leading a most laborious life in London. By incessant study he was accumulating those vast stores of knowledge with which, in the House, of Commons, he was soon to H EDMUND BURKE fll' i. \ astonish his contemporaries. His industry may be judged of from the fact, tliat soon after the pubhca- t.on of the Treatise already referred to. another work of his m two volumes made its appearance, under the title of "An Account of the European Settlements in America." No sooner was this completed than he commenced •' An Abridgment of English History," ^vhich. however, was destined to remain a mere fra-- ment, and did not appear till ,?fter his death in the quarto edition of his writings. Much more important than either of these were his contributions to the pages of the Annual Regisfer, the historical section of which he wrote during several successive years -a work which secured him ;^ioo a year. He was all . tl:e while assiduously cultivating his powers of oratory by practice in the debating clubs and regular attend ' ance in the gallery of the House of Commons. The athlete was training himself for the arena. Like all great men, he had tremendous powers of industry and seemed to trust to no mere inspirations of genius' only relying on stern, ceaseless application. This is really the secret of the brilliant triumph with which a i^^x years after, he startled all England. Truly has n :.een said, that "excellence is never granted to man but as the reward of labour." Burke, however was no mere bookworm. He plunged fearlessly' "i„ among the throngs of men," proving himself to be a man of action as well as a student. He found his A. YD OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 25 way to the drawing-room of the brilliant and accom- plished Mrs Montague, one of the most noted patron- esses of men of letters. His good-natured country- woman, Mrs Vesey. one of the leaders of fashionable society, also welcomed him to her assemblies. She IS described as having beer "as full of Irish f-olic and Irish bulls as if she still flourished on the banks of the Liffey." It was this lady who, when inviting a gentleman to one of her balls, called after him, in an off-hand way, "Don't mind your dress; come in your blue stockings,"-an expression which was caught up, and m some unaccountable way applied to a class of lad.es who affect literature without any serious grounds for such pretensions. The most important acquaintance that Burke formed at this period-the one which most influenced his fortunes-was that of Wilham Gerard Hamilton, nick-named "Single-speech," from the fact of his having made one very brilliant speech in the House of Commons, and, through fear of losing his reputa- tion, never opening his lips for years afterwards. In- dolence, however, had perhaps more to do with this than timidity. Hamilton was the son of the first Scot- tish lawj-er who pleaded at the Englisn bar His mind was highly cultivated, his taste fastidious, his natural abilities very considerable. His moral quali- ties, however, were far below his intellectual. Without positive convictions, he was swa3-ed chiefl^- by consi jl I 26 EDMUND nURKE derations of expediency or selfishness. Cold-hearted though brilliant, he could stoop to mean and base ac- tions. Self-seeking and unprinc-pled. craft and decep- tion were his favourite .veapo. s. He attracted many admirers and flatterers, but no friends. This was the nian to whom, strangely and unhappily. Edmund Burke was led to attach his fortunes for some years Hamilton was acute enough to discover Burke's great powers, and hoped to turn them to account for his own selfish ends. Accordingly, when the Earl of Hahfax was appointed Lord-Lieutenant of Irclnnd and Hamilton Chief Secretary, the latter managed to engage Burke's services, and took him to Dublin This was Edmund's first step in the political world • and we can fancy with what pride and pleasure he' now returned to the place of his birth, as confidential tnend and adviser of the Chief Secretary of Ireland Though a nondescript, yet was he an effective mem- ber of the administration, and took up his abode in the vice-regal precincts of Dublin Castle. After eleven years of hard struggling, a glimpse of good fortune at length appeared. He was just in time to be reconciled to his father, and to close his eyes in death. No more would the old attorney be exasper- ated b, the waywardness and imprudence of his son. Hamilton proved, on the whole, an able Chief Secre- tary. Laying aside his indolence and timidity he delivered some splendid orations in the Irish House AND OLIVER COLDSMlTir. 2f of Commons. As yet Ireland had no orators in her legislative halls ; and it is rather curious that this Scot should have been the first to blow into a flame the b:illiant fire of Irish oratory, which after^vard flamed so high in Flood. Grattan, and O'Connell. The Parliament of those day., in Ireland, was not the lively, boisterous, rollicking assembly it afterwards became, when it attained legislative independence.- when its debates were marked by that fire, fun, and hghtning-wit peculiar to the Green Isle.-when that dear, delightful Sir Boyle Roche awoke such peals of merriment by his charming, immortal blunders. It was he who, on one occasion, in the ardour of his patriotism, exclaimed energetically, "Sir, I would give up half, nay, the whole jf the constitution, to pre- serve the remainder." It was he who. in the exuber- ance of his loyalty, described that remarkable per- formance in gymnastics, when he declared that he " stood prostrate at the feet of his sovereign." It was lie who stood up for the proper dimensions of the quart bottle, and proposed to Parliament that it should be made compulsory that "every quart bottle should contain a quart." It was Sir Boyle Roche who first introduced to public notice that charmin^ but slightly-confused metaphor when addressing the Speaker of t!ie Irish House of Commons, he ex- claimed. "Sir, I smell a rat-I see him floating in the air-but. mark me, I shall yet nip him in the bud " 2S EDMUND liURKE I^ot less remarkable was his reply to a member who bad protested against burdening posterity by a loan : "VVhat, Mr Speaker! and so we are to beggar our selves for fear of vexing posterity! Now. I would ask the honour.7ble gentleman, and this still mire honourable House, why we should put ourselves out of the way to do ^x^yt\ixng for posterity : for what has posterity done for us ?" A roar of laughter following. Sir Boyle, apprehending that he had been misunder- stood, begged leave to explain. " that by posterity he did not at all mean our ancestors, but those wi.o were to come immediately after them." The Irish Parliament, in Burl.e's time, was more d'gn.fied and stupid than what it became afterwards in the days of Grattan. which Hallam, a most compe- tent judge, describes as " a period fruitful of splendid eloquence, and of ardent though always uncompro- m.smg patriotism." Burke's position, behind the scenes, gave him excellent opportunities of observino- the real condition of Irish affairs. It was now tha't he who, years afterwards, was to arraign Warren Hastings for cruelties in India, acquired that horror of the atrocious penal laws that then disgraced the statute-book of Ireland, which rendered him, to the end of his days, the earnest advocate of their repeal, and the champion of his native land. There is little' difference of opinion now, among thinking men. re- garding the penal code of those days. The most AND OLIVER GOLDS.dlTH. 39 bigoted and prejudiced shrink from defendinjr it ; the most liberal and enlightened deplore the wrongs and woes that it inflicted, and the widespread ruin that it caused. The real design of those penal enactments of which we are now so thoroughly ashamed, was not the preservation of the Protestant religion, but the spoliation and abject humiliation of a conquered hated, dreaded ^ace. No code of laws could be more' ingeniously devised, to secure such ends.~to break the national spirit, to destroy energy and self re- hance, and to accumulate riches and power in the hands of a dominant class. Happily these disgrace- ful laws have long since been sweut from the statute- book ; and justice and liberality now dictate the administration of Irish afif.irs. Burke had collected materials for an elaborate work on the penal laws • but other engagements diverted his mind '"rom the undertaking. An incomplete fragment, which ap~ peared as a posthumous tract, is the only result of hi labours in this direction. When Hamilton went out of office, Burke returned with him to London -.nd finally quarrelled with his patron, threw up a pension of ;f300 per annum he had procured for him ; and getting some insight regarding the real character of the man, quitted all connexion with " Single-speech " for ever. The conditions he found attached to his pension were degrading ; and the high-minded, hon- ourable man flung it to the winds in scorn, and pre- 30 EDMUND BURKE served his independence. An ugly spectre was thus removed from the path of our hero. Hamilton was no more to influence his destiny. It is about this time, when Burke and Goldsmith were in their thirty-fifth year, that we find them com- panions in the literary - ■..'.., .,:• London. Not yet had Burke got solid gro .r _, to stand upon. He had returned to the Annual Register, and was eking out a living by his pen. Goldsmith's reputation was steadily on the increase; but, as yet, he was regarded merely as a clever essay-writer. Somewhere or other, probably at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the two Irishmen met; and speedily recognising, with the freemasonry of genius, the genuine worth of each other, formed a friendship that was only broken by death. Both had a hard battle before them— to win fame and a position, in the teeth of prejudice and dislike, with nothing to rely on but their own stout hearts and clear heads. The Literary Club was now flourishing, with the famous Dr Johnson at its head. Burke and Goldsmith were among the chosen nine who constituted the original membership. Very charming must those ambrosial evenings have been, when the club sat in the Turk's Head Tavern. Not in the proudest drawing-room in London— not in all broad Englanij, was there such society, or such con- versation, as when Johnson, Garrick, Reynolds, Lang- ton, and our two Irish heroes met around the social AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 31 board. The talk there was worth h-stening to. May the turf h'e hght on the breast of the Scottish Bos- well, who has preserved for us such a vivid picture of the famous men whose wit and wisdom sparkled and flowed at the meetings of the Club ! We can still fancy the unwieldy form of Dr Johnson in the chair, rolling his huge head from side to side, as he roared out his opinions, in his rough, dictatorial, bow- wow manner, that drowned all other voices, and made him such " a tremendous companion," as one put it who had suffered from his cataracts of talk. We can still enjoy that scene where his hearty con- tempt for Scotland came out so strongly. Some one had remarked that Scotland had, at least, a great many noble wild prospects. "Yes," roared the dic- tator; "Nor;vay, too, has noble wild prospects; and Lapland is remarkable for prodigious noble wild prospects. But, sir, let me tell you, the noblest pros- pect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high road that leads him to England." We can fancy how heartily Goldsmith and Burke joined in the roar of applause which, Boswell tells us, followed this "pal- pable hit" against Scotland. No member of the Club was able to cope with Johnson as a talker, except Burke. At times the great doctor was impatient that Burke did not sit quiet, and submit to be pumped into like a bucket, as his own copious talk flowed on like a river, and with as little prospect of 32 EDMUND BURKE runn,„g dry. But Burkes rich strea„,s of thought would overflow in eloquent words; and his powerful sonorous voice was able even to out-roar the great bamuel. I,, one endowment, it must be admitted, Johnson surpassed Burlet h,m for the first time in the street, where you were stopped by a drove of oxen, and you and he stepped aside to take shelter but for five minuses, he d talk to you in such a manner that, when you parted, you would say, .This is an extraordinary n>aa Now, you may be long enough with me with- out findmg anything extraordinary." (Modestly and generously spoken, doctor!) Goldsmith, who was only great with the pen, said of Burkes conversation '#ti?-. ^■*?»Js^ - ■ AA'D OL/VER COLDS.WTH. 33 " He winds into a subject like a serpent." What fine tl-.ings Burke could throv out in these flashes of conversation, n,ay be judged of by a specimen, lioswell had remarked of some writer that he had successfully imitated Johnson's style : " No, no," said Burke, ">t is not a good imitation of Johnson. It I.as all h,s pomp without his fjrce ; it has all the nodos,t.es of the oak without its strength." Then after a pause, "it has all the contortions of the Sibyl' wthout the inspiration." On another occasion, some one endeavoured to apologise for one of Johnsons fierce onslaughts by calling it "a rebuke of the nghteous_an excellent oil which breaks not the head." Burke drily corrected the speaker,' by su,.- gesting that, in this instance, it should be called "oil of vitriol." Nothing could surpass this quiet hit aga,nst what Miss Anna Seward called " the wit and aweless impoliteness of the stupendous creature that bore down every one before it." Even Johnson's laugh was of the boisterous, overpowering order, and was compared by some one, who must have had a profound acquaintance with natural history, to the laugh of a rhinoceros Boswell describe- it as re soundmg, in their midnight andcrings, from Temple Bar to Fleet Ditch. But, with all his roughness, Johnsons friends loved him heartily for his m.ny noble qualities. As he grew older, he became mo.e tolerant and less overbearing. " , am more candid." - -»&«.-^-^f.'.< J^^-^t-ZK^- 34 EDMUND BURKE he said at a later period, ' than when I was younger. As I know more of mankind, I expect les? of them, and am ready now to call a man a good man upon easier ter.ns than I was former! v." This reminds us of Burke's Rnc saying, that from all the large expe- rience he had had, he had learned to think better of mankind. Goldsmith's ronver°ational powers were by no means eqi'il to those of Burke or Johnson. He failed often, not from want of power, but from a want of coolness and self-possession, and from a ten- dency to utter thoughthssly whatever came upper- most in his mind. He disregarded the golden rule, " When you have nothing to say, say nothing." His nature was over-sensitive for the rough wit-combats of those intellectual gladiators. Yet there was no man whose company was more relished, or who was more entirely loved b)- those who knew him inti- mately. And, after all, the fragments of his talk that have floated down to us are far from justifying- the satirical remark, " that he talked like poor Poll." Nothing could be happier than his allusion to the pomposity of Johnson's style, " li you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like xv/ialcs" Talk- ing with fluent vivacity en one occasion, he was stopped in the middle of a sentence by his hearer exclaiming, on seeing John.son roll himself as if about to speak, " Hush ! hush ! Dr Johnson is going to say something." "And arc you sure you'll comprehend - - r ^T^ftl^l***^. r .ir^c^ ■ . . — i -1"--'- t.;~.:-y^.-'- , .^ '^€5^ ^'VZ) OZZ-f^-ff GOLDSMITH. 35 what he says?" was Goldsmith's happy retort Of some one he said, " He has only one fault, but that is a thumper. I„ fact, it is very evident that Gold- sra.ths conversation was very far from being the s.Ily twaddle it is sometimes represented. Doubt less, from being at times over-ambitious, he fell short of h,s mark. Not unjustly did Johnson say, "Gold- sm.,h should not be for ever attempting to shine in co„versat,o„ ; he has not temper for it, he is so much n|ort,fcd when he fails." But we must leave this pleasant Club. We love the great and good John- son for h,s own noble qualities. We love him espe aa,ly for his kindness to the simple-hearted Oliver Never d,d our gentle, sensitive poet cast himself in van, on that great, strong heart for sympathy or help Ai,d among the friendly voices that cheered Edmund Burke when entering on his great career, none was more hearty and honest than that of Samuel John- son. They are all gone,-Club and tavern melted .nto a,r. As Ca.lyle puts it, "The becking waiter who, w,th w^athed smiles, was wont to spread for Samuel and Bozzy their supper of the god.,, has Ion. s.nce pocketed his last si.xpencc, and vanished, sixt ponces and all, like a ghost at cock-crowing. The bottles they drank cut of are all broken, th chair hey sat on all rotted and burnt; the ve^ knives and fork, they ate w,th have rusted to the heart, and be come bro^vn ^-i-;^^ „r • . . oxid e of iron, and mingled witli the in- '^mmMiMi S^I^SSsiS^S mms^mmm ^«api£f! 36 EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. discriminate clay. All, all has vanished, in very dt^d and truth, iike the baseless fabric of Prospc. o's vision." Yes, gone ! and yet not wholly gone. For by the ma- gic power of a book we can still summon them before us, and listen to the pompous roll of Johnson's periods, the eloquent words of Burke, am' the spontaneous overflowings of Goldsmith's well-stored mind. We can enter the club-room once more, and, in imagina- tion, re-people it with the historic forms whose merri- ment made its walls re-echo, and whose shadows seem to linger round the ruins still. Though dead, they still speak to us, and their memory can never pass away. Ei? i LECTURE THE SECOND. EDMUm £UIlX£Am OLIVEg GOLDSMITH. PART SECOND. At the time when Goldsmith was attending, the weekly meetings of the Club, he was toiling labori- ously with the pen ; and by voluminous contributions to the periouicals of the day he managed to earn a modest competence. His improvident habits often brought him much suffering; but his difficulties failed to teach him any worldly wisdom. It was under the pressure of one of these pecuniary diffi- culties that he gave to the world his fine tale of The V,car of Wakefield." Every one is familiar with the story,_how a hard-hearted landlady ar- rested him for debt ; how he sent an imploring mes- sage to Johnson, who came at once, and found Gold- smith m a towering passion, his landlady grim and unrelenting, and a professional gentleman in attend- Sy** ■*^'*i'"5jP^i«i!.-i*\. -!--,»rifr-^%''^^^j fc-. I'i riSp^iii^^^;^. ,-- -j^;r.^:a? .,- - ^<«<^ a'^t- ^ ij^:;- ^- ^j^;.';: : 4^«L 38 EDMUND BURKE ance in the capacity of bailiff ; how poor OhVer, driven to extremities, took out of his desk the manu' script of " The Vicar," over which he must have spent many long, happy hours, and handed it to Johnson, who there and then sat down to its perusal, the bailiff looking on the queer scene in a kind of calm astonish- ment ; how the doctor, satisfied regarding the Intel- lectual flavour of the article, hurried away to a book- seller, and returned, triumphant and breathless, with sixty pounds, the product of the sale ; and then how Oliver paid his rent, and gave the heartless landlady a tremendous "blowing up," and, it is to be hoped, made her heartily ashamed of her conduct. The bookseller who was lucky enough to obtain such a bargain kept the manuscript by him for nearly two whole years before he ventured on publication. But m the same desk from which its author drew out "The Vicar, there lay a ridier treasure still, a higher and rarer product of genius,-his fine poem, - The Traveller," which for years he had been beating out and polishing with anxious care. Soon after, he parted with his interest in it for twenty guineas- such was the wretched remuneration of literary labour m those days. It won him, however, what gold could not buy-the laurel wreath of the true poet Soon the welcome murmurs of applause gladdened poor Oliver's heavy heart. Johnson pronounced it " the finest poem that had appeared since the death AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 39 of Pope." When he read it aloud in Re-nolds's drawing-room, the painter's sister exclaimed, "I shall never more think Dr Goldsmith ugly." ' No wonder that Charles James Fox, after reading it declared, " It is one of the f.ncst poems in the Eng- lish language;" or that the classic Langton should have said, "There is not a bad line in 'The Travel- ler.' " The easy flow of the verse, the exquisite finish of the diction, the graceful tenderness and harmony, -above all, the direct, irresistible appeal to the heart,' —are the charms that render " The Traveller" so uni- versally captivating. How some of the lines linger on the ear and in the memory with a soft, mellow flow! — " And leam the luxury of doing good." " Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. His first, best country ever is at liome." "But winter lingering chills the Inn of May." "The land of scholars and the nurse of arms." I' Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law." " Where tlie broad ocean leans against the land." How fine the picture of the Swiss!"— " Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. Clings c'-se and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,* But bind him to his native mountains more." ' "The Traveller" at once and for ever established Goldsmith's fame, and made him hundreds of friends. The laurel crown was won. The poor adventurer of 40 EDMUND BURKE Ballymahon now found himself welcomed and ap- plauded by the noblest and best. Now, too, for Burke the hour of victory had arrived, and thick and fast the honours were showered upon him. By the kindness of a kinsman he was intro- duced to the Marquis of Rockingham, who, speedily recognising his great powers, made him his private secretary. Soon after, he obtained the position of member of Parliament for the borough of Wendover, near the foot of the Chiltern Hills. It was the time of close boroughs, and it was Lord Verney's influence that obtained him the seat. His great, stormy future was opening. On the 27th of January 1766, Burke rose in the House of Commons to deliver his maiden speech. It was a gre„t and important occasion. The American Colonies had risen in fierce wrath against the Stamp Act, and the first mutterings were heard of a storm that was to end in revolution and final dis- memberment. The Colonies had banded together, and now, for the first time, came before Parliament in a federal capacity. Already their discontents fore- shadowed rebellion. Pitt, in his place in Parliament, had applauded the rising spirit of the colonists, little dreaming where it was to end ; and had uttered the famous words, " I rejoice that America has re- sisted"— words which were speedily wafted to every American home, and read with exultat-on, and wel- comed as an acknowledgment of the justice of their AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 41 cause, and their right to strike against wrong, by the foremost of British statesmen. Intense was the in- terest then, when, on the evening of the 27th of January 1766, a petition from a body calling them- selves the American Congress was presented in the House of Commons. A stirring debate aro'^c ; the courtiers resisted the admission of sucl document, as subversive of the authority of the Commons of England. Tt was known that Burke would address the House for the first time. As his noble, com- manding figure arose, dear friends in the galler>' looked down upon him with hearts anxiously throb- bing for his success. Two ,f his countrymen were there— the keen-eyed Arthur Murphy, and the affec- tionate Oliver Goldsmith ; and Samuel Johnson, in a neighbouring tavern, awaited the result. The success of the new member was complete. Th- astonished auditory listened to a speech in which weighty argu- ment, and vast and varied information, were clothed in gorgeous and harmonious periods, discovering at once strength of reasoning powers, splendour of imagination, and boundless mastery over language. That great assembly listened at first with bursts of applause, then in rapt attention and admiration ; and ^•/hen Burke sat down, the aspirations of years of toil were realised ; his reputation as an orator and statesman was established. Pitt rose, and warmly and generously eulogised the speaker, congratulat- 42 EDMUND BURKE ing the Ministry on their valuable acquisition. As Burke returned to his home on that January night, he felt, no doubt, the honest exultation of a man who, by patience, fortitude, and dauntless toil, has attained a noble end. Without stumble or failu.-e, lie had at once taken a place in the front rank of par- liamentary orators. " Sweet are the uses of adversity ;" bracing to the whole man is tne ascent of " the hill Difficulty ;" but, as Burke himself aftenvards declared, there are occasions on which sunshine is one of the most joyous things on earth. C.^.ly a week after the delivery of his first speech, he astonished and delighted the House by a second still more brilliant, in which he boldly crossed weapons vv'Mi the great Pitt him- self, surpassing the popular idol in the highest quali- ties of parliamentary eloquence. We can fancy how rapturously Goldsmith and the other members of the Club received ihe news of his triumph. The old literary dictator, however, was in no degree astonished. When some one professed to wunder at what had happened. Johnson exclaimed, "Sir, there is no won- der at all. We who know Mr Burke know that he will be one of the first men in the country." Writing to a friend soon after, he said, "Burke has gained more reputation than pe-haps any man at his first appearance ever gained Lefore. His speeches have filled the town with wonder." Such, indeed, was the fact. The orator had fairly taken the House by in AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 43 storm. All ranks and ages, able men and less able men, veteran politicians and young members, were ahke enraptured with his orations. Far from being mtoxicated or rendered indolent by success, Burke regarded his first victory as but a stcpping-slone to st.ll greater triumphs. His labours redoubled ; and feehng that now he had entered on his proper voca- tion, he conscientiously set to work, to qualify him- self fo.- the highest duties of statesmanship, by a thorough study of the vast and complicated interests of the British empire and the functions of Govern- ment. He did not aim at being a mere glittering rhetorician, who could dazzle an auaience by the brilliancy of his periods, nor a mere keen .swordsman in debate, adroit in discovering the weak points of an adversary, and sure nnd rapid in the home-thrust He soared higher. He aimed at mastering the pro- found philosophical principles by which government should be guided, as well as the complicated detai' of administral.on. All the powers of his great intel- lect were now bent in this direction ; and how com- plete was his acquaintan'-e with the foreign policy the revenue, the trade and commerce of the empire,' his after-career as a statesman furnishes conclusive evidence. In the dispute between England and her American Colonies, which was every day becomirc. more threatening, he advocated a moderate, concilit atory, but dignified course; and opposed, with all the *^ -if- ii :l! 44 EDMUND BURKE might of his eloquence and energy, that mad poh-cy by which an infatuated nmnarcu and imbecile statesmen drove the colonists into revolt. Had his suggestions been hstened to. England might have been spared the shame and humiliation of defeat, and the loss of her fairest possessions. Throughout the whole transac- tions of this stormy period, when the fortunes of Eng- land were o'ten at the lowest ebb, Burke's course was marked by thorough integrity and enlightened patriotism. Never was he found cringing to men in office, or bartering principle for preferment ; and while uue to his party, of which indeed he was the animating spirit, he never sacrificed the honour or interests of his country on the altar of faction. In a corrupt, venal age, amid scenes that lowered and dis- graced the public men of England, Burke was con- spicuous for spotless integrity and unflinching patri- otism. Fearless were his rebukes of wickedness even when it occupied the highest seats ; scathing his r c- posures of political corruption ; in the cause of freedom, truth, and right, he was ever found battling bravely' While mingling in the thick of party conflicts he shared in none of the contamination, profligacy, and falsehood that abounded on all hands ; and preferred exclusion from office and honours to dishonest gains and rapacious servili sh Goldsmith was at this time bask inc, as well as his illustrious friend. A ic^r days ing in a little sun- AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 45 after Burke's maiden speech had electrified the metro- pohs, "The Vicar of Wakefield" was published. " The Traveller" had reached a fourth edition, and was every day widening the reputation of its author. " The Vicar," on its appearance, did not take the town by storm,— was u.shered into existence by no flourish of trumpets. The leading Reviews scorned to notice such a trumpery production. Some of the leaders of taste remarked that it taught nothing, and that they could make nothing of it. Even Johnson thought he had made a good bargain v/hen he sold the copyright for sixty pounds. Burke alone, of all the members of the Club, appreciated its sweetness, simplicity, and pathos; and welcome to the author's ear must have been his approving verdict. But the response of the public was truer than the voice of the critics. The little tale, which was destined to confer an undying reputation on th- writer, slowly made its way ; but every year since its appearance it has been widening the circle of its readers. Even before his death, Goldsmith saw it reach the sixth edition, and heard of its translation into several continental languages. Vve have seen how German Goethe welcomed it, and how it gave the finst decided impulse to the intellect that was to create " Faust." Vast has been the employment supplied by the little tale to the busy fingers of printers, binders, and papermakers since it was first set up in type; countless the thousands of pounds it has poured into' • «'^ 46 EDMUND BURKE the coffers of the booksellers during the last hundred years. Even so.— the starving author may supply multitudes with the means of earning their bread ; may influence not only the thoughts of men, but their commerce, and arts, and manufactures; and penni- less himself, the productions of his genius may prove an inexhaustible mine of wealth to others. Who could reckon up the editions of "The Vicar" which the press has thrown off since the year 1766, or esti- mate the myriads of admiring readers that have laughed and wept over its pages .? The foremost of our artists,-our Wilkies, Stothards, Leslies, Maclises, and Mulreadys,_have tasked their genius in embody- mg its creations on their canvas. Far from losing its popularity, as years roll on it comes with a fresh charm to each new generation of readers, and is con- tinually appearing in bright and brighter glories of the printer's, binder's, and engraver's art. But then, who can pretend to calculate its moral results,— the sweet and gentle charities it has breathed into thousands of hearts ; the fretful impatience it has soothed or smiled away ; the sympathies for the fallen, the outcast, the lost it has awakened ; the tolerance of human frlilty and the love of humankind it has called forth ; the lonely hours of pain and sadness, of restlessnes.s and depression, it has brightened .? We can hardly fancy a bad man reading the sweet story without having his better nature awakened, at least for a moment, in ■ariSTTSP- -PT^i-r^iG: "rT Tfi^". ^m AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 47 response to such a picture of innocence and purity as the Primrose family group. Who does not know them all round ? Who does not love the vicar himseh',— so brave, and yet so simple and childlike,— so meek so true, and good ? Who does not sympathise with the good man, who was " by nature an admirer of happy faces," in his original method of getting rid of a troublesome guest by lending him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value > "and 1 always," observes the kind man, " had the satis- faction of finding that he never came back to return them." The whole family are our friends and neigh- bours ;-the loyal wife, so proud of her gooseberry wme and her husband ; Moses, the sage simpleton with his memorable bargain of the green spectacles ' the girls, "a glory and a joy;" and Dick and Bill' without whom the charming group would have been incomplete. I cannot help thinking that the period when Goldsmith was engaged in the composition of this tale, when his brain was teeming with these fine creations, and, in fancy, he must have been often re- visiting the parsonage at Lissoy, and wandering among Its green fields and by its bright streams, may be reckoned among his happiest hours, notwithstandino- his privations. It is a transcript of his own heart and exp:nence, and therefore goes direct to the heart of all. Not only has it immensely udded to our stock of good humour, but conferred on its author a kind of EDMUND BURKE K human immortality on earth. He has spoken to three generations ; and it would be difficult to name any work that is more likely to hold its place in the hearts of men. Who would not say, on closing the book, "Oh that Goldsmith had enriched literature with many more such creations!" Only a {^.w more incidents in the life of Oliver Goldsmith can be glanced at. Though his character as a writer was now established, he had still to carry on his literary toils in the presence of threatening want. No doubt " it is sweet to win one's laurels by blood or ink;" but our Oliver's laurels brought him little pecuniary gain, and an empty stomach is an inexorable creditor. Yet, now that he is no longer troubled with doubts as to his proper vocation, and has his work before him, he struggles on manfully, and never dropped the oar of labour till death struck it from hio grasp. "Think of me," he exclaimed pathetically to a friend, " that must write a volume every month." How marvellous that this homeless man, without the assistance of a friendly hand, writing so rapidly to procure the daily bread, should have written so well, and left on all he did the signet mark of genius ! It was at this period that he first thought of writing for the stage— the most remunera- tive description of literary labour. His first venture was the comedy of " The Good-na :ured Man," which met a favourable reception, and brought him in four AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 49 hundred pounds, the largest sum he had ever been in possession of, and which, to him, must have seemed mexhaustible. He at once proceeded to get rid of it by purchasing and furnishing rooms in the Inner Temple ; and from this date commenced a system of >vaste and debt that involved him in difficulties, from wh.ch he was only released by death. He h, i now another poem on the anvil; but while he threw off h.s prose productions rapidly, he bestowed the most elaborate care on his poems, as though he felt that he was wntmg for immortality It is known that the wrmng and revision of this poem-.-The Deserted Vdlage -extended over two whole years. With what accuracy, during these months, he must have pohshed the verses of this precious poetical gem we,ghmg every word and phrase, pruning all exu- berance, and filling in the minute details of the lovely P.cture ! Only the pure beaten gold remained, with! out a loy or imperfection. It is a poem of the heart, and the heart guards it alike from criticism and to r T ,?'■" ""'^ ■""' "^ ™"''^'' '° " than .0 The Traveller.- The sympathies it awakens are wder and deeper; its tenderness and pathos reach a 1 hearts ;m profound human interest it is unsur- passed. L,ke a noble piece of Greek sculpture, in wh,ch we can detect nothing superfluous, nothin. want,ng,_the marble seeming to glow with life,_th: poem contains nothing but pure poetry ; and though D .»li^<-'.:-«>£^'^;«.^>..^ ^1.^^!^. 5© EDMUND BURKE if I limited in its range, and covering but a few pages, it has on it the stamp of immortah-ty. One oft-quoted passage I cannot but quote once more,— it never palls. It is a picture of the poet's own longings, amid his sore toils in the din and roar of London,— aspirations, alas ! never to be realised : " In all my wanderings through this world of care, In all my griefs,— and God has given my share,— I itill had hopes, my latest hours to crown. Amidst these humble bowers to lay me ''own ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the ilame from wasting by repose : I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill ; Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return— and die at home at last." No wonder that Gray, author of "The Elegy," then spending the last summer of his life, should have ex- claimed, on listening to "The Deserted Village," " This man is a poctr No wonder that Goethe hailed its appearance with rapture, or that Edmund Burke should have declared that its pastoral images surpassed the efforts of Pope and Spenser. Four more years of toil, enjoyment, and sorrow yet lay before our Oliver. His second poem at once leaped into popularity. In three months it reached a fifth edition ; but in hard cash it brought its author I AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. j, only a small amount. His bram and pen had no rest Abndgments of English, Grecian, and Roman His- tones; toils on "Animated Nature- articles for penod,cals; a second comedy, .'She Stoops to Con- quer, more successful than the first; drudgery and depression, with occasional relaxations in the country and happy evenings at the Club,-these filled up the days of the overtasked man. His careless habits thoughtless liberality, and entire want of economy plunged h.m into debt, and drove him to obtain ad- vances .rom the publishers on works that were not as yet commenced. Could any condition be more piti- able than that of a man pressed by creditors, and havmg heavy mortgages on the unborn productions o h,s bra,„.> ..Staggering under a heavy load of debt, -,n dread of the bailiff,_pursued by a host of needy dependents, to whom he could not say '. No "- oppressed by the prospect of the wea:y drudgery ;hat y before h,m, the heart of our poor .'author „,ili. tant must have been often sad indeed. Still he scorned to complain ; kept his griefs confined to his own bosom ; never spoke of his difficulties to his great nends, who would doubtless have helped him had they known his distress. It was at this period, just when the clouds were gathering that were soon L end ;n darkness and night, that the following touching incident occurred Af -,« • ^ occurred. At an evening party, amid the din of conversation, music, and gaiety, the trembhng. 52 EDMUND BURKE % i cracked voice of a poor woman attempting to sing a ballad in the street, reached the ear of Goldsmith. The notes of woe struck a responsive chord in his own aching hear*. He rushed from the room, gave the poor sobbing creature his little all, and went back to the scene of pleasure with a lighter heart. We may- be sure too, that, with the shillings, he gave some kind words of hope and cheer that would brinhten the darkness of the outcast for a moment, and double the value of the gift. Speaking of Dean Swift, Thackeray says, " I think I would rather have had a potato and a friendly word from Goldsmith, than have been beholden to the Dean for a guinea and a dinner. He insulted a man as he served him, made women cry, guests look foolish, bullied unlucky friends, and flung his benefactions into poor men's faces. No ; the Dean was no Irishman. No Irishman ever gave but with a kind word and a kind heart." It was just before the closing scene of his life that Goldsmith produced one other poetical gem, " Re- taliation,"— a wonderful proof of the versatility of his powers, and a mournful evidence of the unexplored depths of his genius, when he was lost to the world. One more brilliant flash came, and then the darkness rushed down. His friends had been amusing them- selves, in his absence, at a dinner party, in writing a scrip- of epitaphs on him, in which his country, his brogue, and his person were objects of wit. I dare g-*/ vp ■ )»>;. -x. AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 53 say they meant no harm ; they did not know how sensitive his heart was at that moment, with a weight of untold woe, or they would have spared their shafts of ridicule. The good-humoured, gentle poet was roused to retaliate, not in bitterness or anger,— he Iiad no room for such feelings in his heart,— but in lines which have immortalised their subjects, and proved, in their case, epitaphs more enduring than brass or marble. Wonderful insight into the character of his literary friends, keen satire, marked by good taste and mingled with merited praise, and entire freedom from all malice, are the characteristics of " Retalia- tion." With one epitaph only have we to do— the famous one on Burke : •' Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though equal to all things, for all thin-s unfit ; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit. . . . In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place,* sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor." ' Of the justice of this delineation I shall have a few words to say at the close. The verses were still un- finished—in fact, one line in the epitaph on Reynolds was half written— when his last illness " struck the pen from the poet's hand for ever." He was in coun- try lodgings, finishing his " Animated Nature," when seized by a disease which terminated in nervous fever. $4 EDMUND BURKE His powers had long been over-tasked, and his bodily strength undermined, so that his illness made rapid progress. The troubles of his mind, too, arising from his heavy liabilities, aided the advances of the de- stroyer. How pathetic that scene, when the poor, lonely man lay tossing, sleepless, night after night,' with no mothers, wife's, or sister's soft hand to smooth his pillow, and when the good doctor, finding his pre- scriptions powerless, put the question, "Your pulse is in greater disorder than it should be, fro i the degree of fever you have. Is your mind at ease?" "No, it is not," was the sad response of the patient; and these were the last words of Oliver Goldsmith! On the morning of the 4th of April 1774, ho lay dead, having lived a icw months beyond his forty-fifth year.' His friends do not seem to have heard of his illness till news of his death reached them. "When Burke was told of it he burst into tears." Reynolds dropped his pencil, stricken by the bitterest grief he had yet known. Johnson mourned his loss with touching ten- derness, till he was summoned from the worid. Poor women, to whom he had been kind and charitable, crowded the staircase of his rooms, weeping bitterlj- over the loss of one to whom they never appealed in vani. Burke and Reynolds directed the arranc^e- n-ents for the funeral ; and all that was mortal^of Oliver Goldsmith was laid in the burial-ground of the Temple Church. Soon after, a noble monument was AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 55 erected to his memory, in the Poets' Corner of West- mmster Abbey, bearing a Latin inscription from the pen of Johnson, in which it is recorded that " he scarcely left any kind of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn." Edmund Burke survived his countryman twenty- three years. At the death of Goldsmith, he had little more than entered on his great career. When Oliver was toiling on his " History of Rome," in 1768, and brooding over "The Deserted Village," in his country lodgings on the Edgeware Road, news reached him that Burke had become a landed proprietor, having purchased an estate named The Gregories, after^vards Beaconsficld, in Buckinghamshire, about twenty-four miles from London. This purchase cost him ^23,000 Whence did Burke obtain this large sum ? By the' death of an elder brother, he had inherited property worth ;f6ooo ; from some of his relations he borrowed a further sum ; the remainder was advanced by the Marquis of Rockingham, who never reclaimed the debt, and cancelled it in a codicil of his will. It was mtended as a small acknowledgment of the immense services Burke had rendered to him and to his party By this purchase, Burke became owner of six hundred acres of land, and a beautiful residence. Here he re sided to the close of his life, going up to London only when called by his parliamentary duties. He de- lighted in a country life ; and, by judicious manage- x^iTi :^?Sfc^r:ia& -rsss EDMUND BURKE » ment, he speedily tripled the value of his property and astonished his neighbours and visitors by his im- provements. Tlie great advocate of financial reform shewed that his talents were of the practical order, by becoming the most prosperous and successful farmer in Buckinghamshire. His kindness and be- nevolence made him a universal favourite with the labounng classes, n whose welfare he took much in- terest, helping them in difficulties, and comforting and doctonng them in sickness. Altogether, his domestic life at Beaconsfield was a beautiful picture of quiet repose, active benevolence, independence, and purity Gladly did he escape from the smoke of London and the stormy scenes in which he had to mingle, to the pure air and lovely scenery of his beloved Beacons- field. There, during the parliamentaiy recess, his " hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed " were busily at work pruning trees, or rootin^ up weeds ; and the mind that could grasp all the multi- plied mterests of the empire, was directing the opera tions of harvest. We can still, in fancy, see the great man walking over his fields, followed by Ms pet lambs calmly listening to the homely talk of ...s labourers' calculating the value of his crops, and always difi-us- ing gladness by his presence and cheering words Old friends and new friends gathered round him in his noble mansion, and were welcomed with the hospi tality of a true Irishman. Dr Johnson spent some A WD OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 57 happy days at Beaconsfield in the autumn of the very year in which Goldsmith died. We can fancy their tender talk regarding their departed frier.o,— all his faults forgotten, and only loving, tearful memories of his goodness and worth, his endearing foibles and wonderful genius, filling their minds. How the strong, rough voice of Johnson would tremble with suppressed emotion, and the eyes of Burke would fill with tears as they spoke together of their gentle "Goldy!" Fascinated by the reception he met, and delighted with the ease, comfort, elegance, and peace of his friend's splendid abode, Johnson took leave at the close of his visit with a Latin quotation, which signi- fied that he "did ncc envy, but admired." What a contrast must have met him when he returned to his own dingy lair in Bolt Court ! Ten years later, news reached Burke that Johnson was dying. He hastened to town, and found that his friend was sinking ra- pidly. Several other friends were present; and on Burke expressing a fear lest the presence of so many might be oppressive, Jolinson answered, "No, sir, it is not so ; and I must be ill indeed when your com pany would not be a delight to me." In tears, and with unspeakably tender emotion, the two friends took solemn leave of each other ; and in a few days one of the greatest and best of Englishmen had left behind the weakness of the flesh, and assumed the garments of immortality. Burke wa^ one of the pall- ji •« 8 EDMUND BURKE lit 'II /:•# 'bearers when the morlal remains of Samuel Johnson were committed to the guardianship of tho tomb, in _ England's Walhalla-Westminster Abbey. " He has made a chasm," exclaimed Burke, in the anguish of . his grief, "which nothing can fill up." What depths , of tenderness there were in these two great souls • In this brief sketch I do not propose to enter into • the parliamentary career of Burke. That belongs to histor^and is so inextricably interwoven with the great*hi|torical-evpnts of his era that it could not be placed in an intelligible light, without entering into details that are quite foreign to a lecture. To be understood, B^^ke's public career must be studied in connexion v4|i.the history of England. He con- tinued to aqaghroughout his life, with the Rocking- ^ ham Whig^ of which party he was the commanding genius, and the ani'if ting and organising spirit. During the two brief periods when the Whigs were in power, he held office as Paymaster of the Forces ; for, to th^^ir shame be it recorded, his party rewarded him with *?>igher appointment, and uniform -xclu- sion from th^ Cat)iiiet. It was a wretched ven.l time when gerUus J«d b||a poor ch.nce against stupidity and broad acr^ " »iarrowness of his fortune," said Walpole, comRlSc«»"kept him down." Through- out those years whefflL American war was dragging Its length wearily anjSsgracefully aIong,-when the throes of that great ^oral earthquake, the French AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ,59 Revolution, were felt, shaking, in their convulsive upheavings, all the thrones of Europe, Burke, in the House of Commons, was pouring forth those grand orations which have immortalised his name, and will be read as long as the English language lasts. With- out dwelling on his political pamphlets, which made a profound impression on the public mind, — such as those on "The Present State of the Nation" and " The Causes of the Present Discontents," the latter teeming with political wisdom, and still influen r the constitutional policy of England,— we may refer to his speeches on "American Taxation" and " American Conciliation," as noble specimens of his powers. It is in the latter that thq^^lendid vision of the greatness of the British Colonies in America occurs, ard that the memorable words, in reference to the ties which should bind^lTe cblonies to Britain, are to be fouiid :— " My ho'd cV the colonies is in the close affection which grov/s from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of irop. Let the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your government ; they will cling and grapple to you; and no fo..:e under heaven will be" of power to tear them froi . their allegiance. But let it once be understood, that your govecnmcnt may be one thing, and their privileges another, that these two 6o EDMUND BURKE \k f \ \\ things may exist withct any mutual relation ; the cement is gone, the cohesion is loosened, and every- thing hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanrtuary of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever the choser. race and sons of England worship free- dom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends you will have ; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience." Every reader of history knows the effect produced by his speech on "Administrative Reform," delivered in i;8o, when his powers had reached their utmost intensity, and his position was most commanding. Mo>.t of his admirers point to it as the most finished specimen of his oratory. Its effect, when delivered, was overwhelming. Wit, poetry, imagination lighted up and adorned the most solid reasoning and the profoundest political sagacity ; while vivid appeals to the noblest passions of the soul stirred the hearts of his audience to their very depths. The tumultuous cheers that bore witness to the greatness of this ora- tion were re-echoed throughout the empire, and all Britain resounded with his praise. Even his oppo- nent. Lord North, said that it excelled all that he had ever heard in that House. In grandeur and power, however, even this effort was thrown into the shade :7$K^Si^^'¥j'i^^A AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 6l by his speech on the impeachment of Warren Hast- ings. Every historical student is familiar with that grand spectacle in Westminister Hall, in which Burke wa., the prominent figure, when the Commons of England arraigned Warren Hastings before the Lords, for high crimes and misdemeanours, and the son of the Dublin attorney arose "to plead the cause of Asia in the presence of Europe." It was the great act of Burke's life. Never before, perhaps, had it fallen to the lot of mortal man to address such an audience. That grand historic hall, "which had re- sounded with acclamations at the inaugurition of thirty kings,"— where Charles I. " had confronted the High Court of Justiciary with the placid courage which has half redeemed his fame," — was one blaze of scarlet, and was thronged by all that was most illus- trious in the rank and intellect of the British Empire. England's most distinguished statesmen, warriors, and judges formed the court thu<- was to determine the guilt or innocence of the accused. The impeach- ment was directed against an Englishman of great wealth and uncommon powers, who, as Governor- General of India, was charged with acts of cruelty and injustice towards the people of Hindostan. The conductors ot the impeachment —Burke, Sheri- dan, Eox — formed the most illustrious galaxy of orators that England had yet produced. In solemn procession, one hundred and seventy peers, Vim^^mm:^ 62 EDMUND BURKE M li and three-fourths of the members of the House of Commons, marched to the scene of trial. The gran- deur and impressiveness of the scene when Burke rose to commence his great task .vere almost over- whelming. Macaulay, in his brilliant essay on Warren Hastings, has painted it as only that great word-painter can describe such a scene. He has told us how the Lord Chancellor Thurlow sat enthroned under a rich state canopy, the judges of the land in ermme by his side; how the prelates of the Church m their lawn-sleeves, and the peers in their robes composed a venerable throng; how the queen and peeresses in their brilliant dresses, and a bri-^ht galaxy of English beauties, thronged the long gal- leries ; how the Queen of Tragedy, Mrs Siddons. was conspicuous, "in the prime of her majestic beauty, looking with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imitations of the stage;" how Gibbon, the historian of the Roman Empire, and Parr, the great classical scholar, and Reynolds, had left their studies to gaze upon the scene. " There, too," he says ''were seated around the queen the fair-haired daughters of the House of Brunswick. There the ambassadors of great kings and commonwealths gazed with admiration on a spectacle which no other country in the world could present." Burke's open- ing oration occupied the sittings of four days ; and at this distance of time, is still admitted t be one of isXM^iirz: ^r-mF T AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ^i the greatest efforts of genius on record, and one of the grandest triumphs of eloquence. As he drew towards the close, and, with the documents of im- peachment in his hands, raised as a testimony towards heaven, he detailed the cruelties of the ac- cused, and, with streaming eyes, told how his agents had inflicted unmentionable tortures on innocent women, and scourged children to death in the pres- ence of their parents, and hammered wedges of iron between the corded fingers of poor Hindoo labourers, the agony of the audience could no longer be en- dured-tears flowed fast-outbursts of sympathetic mdignation drowned the voice of the orator— Mrs Sheridan fainted-and the Queen of Tragedy ad- mitted that all stage-effect sank into nothingness in presence of such a scene. Even the accused was seen to turn pale, and Thurlow, for once, shed a tear. "At length," says Macaulay, "the orator concluded Raising his voice till the old arches of Irish oak re- sounded-' Therefore,' said he, 'hath it with all con- fidence been ordered, by the Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanours. I impeach him in the name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honour he has sullied. I impoach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and 64 EDMUND BURKE pi* I |i whose country he has turned into a desert. Lastly. in the name of human nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every raiik, I impeach the common enemy and op- pressor of all.' " The triumph of the orator's art could go no fuither. Windham, no mean judge of oratory, pronounced this peroration " the noblest ever uttered by man." Byron has celebrated the event in lines worthy of the great occasion :— " When the loud cry of trampled Ilindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder, his the avenging rod, The wrath— the delegated voice of God, Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed. Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised." Regarding the issue of this great trial, I can only mention that, after dragging its slow length through seven years, it ended in the acquittal of Warren Hast- ings. But, though the criminal escaped, such have been the results of that impeachment, that a milder and more righteous policy has been pursued ever since in Britain's Eastern Empire ; and it has never been necessary to impeach another Governor-General of India. The limits of this lecture, now almost reached, prevent me from referring to Burke's latest works, "Reflections on the French Revolution," and "Letters on a Regicide Peace ; " and his famous " Letter to a Noble Lord," published the year before his death. ¥m^S^R AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 65 I These productions discovered no traces of decay in his vast powers, and exerted an immense influence over the public mind. In the year 1794 he retired from public life, having served his country as a mem- ber of the House of Commons for twenty-eight years. He was a poor man when he entered on his labours, he was a poor man when he closed them; retiring with clean hands, but unrequited for all his toils by place or pension. His only s()n, Richard, whom he loved with devoted tenderness, and around whom all his hopes now gathered, succeeded him as member for the borough of Malton, Yorkshire, which Burke had represented for many years. Of the abilities of this young man, the fond father cherished the loftiest opinion. He hoped that, in the House of Commons, his son would not only be his successor, but even eclipse his own great fame ; and now his heart dilated with joy when he saw him a member of Parliament, and about to commence a ministerial career under Lord Fitzwilliam, the heir of his patron. Lord Rock- ingham. But these bright hopes, like all his grand projects, were destined to end in dark disappointment. One month after, Richard Burke, the darling object of his hopes and prayers, was cut off by a rapid con- sumption ; and the worn and weary man found himself childless in his old age. The loss of this son, who appears to have been every way worthy of the love his father lavished on him, was a fearful blow to -»*&-, ■ - -^^- €6 EDMUND BURKE Burke. At first, his grief was wild and terrible. "He burst forth," says Macknight, "with loud cries; rushed violently into the room where the corpse was lying, and again and again flung himself upon the bed, in the most heart-rending affliction. His poor wife, too, sufl-ered equally, though her grief was not so demon- strative." " For days their dinner hour was unregarded ; life, with the two mourners, seemed suspended; nights and days were spent in unavailing sorrow." Time mitigated his sorrow ; but from the hour of Richard's death, he was a heart-broken man. Life had lost all its charms. He suddenly became old and infirm, and spoke of himself as one dead. He compared himself to an old oak prostrated by the hurricane. " I am stripped of all my honours," he said ; " I am torn up by the roots." How pathetic ! From the time of his loss, he never dined from home, avoided all visitors, and wrapped himself in the mantle of his great sorrow.' Still, at times, his mind roused itself, and he escaped from his grief for a little, in intellectual labours, or the conversation of old friends. It is pleasant to know that some of the last hours of his life were spent in the perusal of "Wilbcrforce's Practical Christianity;" a- J so impressed was he with the piety and excellence of this admirable work, that he sent a message to its author, thanking him for having sent such a book into the world. On the 9th of July 1797, in the 68th year of his age, he calmly expired. His end was peace— .1 J li I AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 67 his death that of a Christian ; "in implicit trust," he said, "in that mercy which I have long sought with unfeigned humiliation, and to which I look forward with a trembling hope." By his own expressed desire, he was laid by the side of his Richard in Beaconsfield church. Years before, he had said in a letter to a friend, "I would rather sleep in the corner of a little churchyard than in the tomb of all the Capulets." He obtained his wish. Fox, in the House of Com- mons, proposed a public funeral, and Westminster Abbey as the resting-place of the great statesman ; but his own injunctions could not be disregarded. Permit me now to close with one or two remarks of a general character. Of the two men I have been attempting to delineate. Goldsmith is generally regarded as the most thoroughly Irish. In his thoughtlessness regarding to-morrow, in his inability to take care of money, in dearly earning his wages and spending them recklessly, in his anti-hoarding tendencies, in his easy good-humour, his elasticity of spirits, his unthriftiness and unworldliness, Oliver was undoubtedly an embodiment of the popular type of the Irishman. Though his earnings in the latter years of his life were considerable, he died two thou- sand pounds in debt. '< Was ever poet so trusted before!" said Samuel Johnson, in generous extenua- tion of his insolvency. Goldsmith was pre-eminently fitted for domestic life ; and if he had met with a good eg EDMUND BURKE n woman who could have overlooked his plain face and figure, and loved him for his great endowments and fine qualities of heart, his destiny n?I ,!il j.ive been different. Suppose "the Jessaniy i_^rxde," the lovely Mary Horneck, for whom it is thought Oliver cher- ished an unspoken affection, had consented to become his bride, what a delightful wedding there would ha/e been, with Johnson and Burke as " best men," and Boswell to take notes of all the good things uttered ! How well Mrs Goldsmith would have taken care of the money! what a devoted husband Oliver would have been, and how very fond of the children ! But it was not so to be. In loneliness he had to go through life, and sink uncomforted under a heavy load of trouble. Not that Oliver was on the whole an unhappy man. With almost unbroken health, buoy- ancy of spirits, and a sweetness of temper that no misfortunes could spoil, he could not be habitually unhappy. And if he got but small compensation for all the riches he lavished on the world, he did his work well and cheerfully, and at length the world is repaying its debt of gratitude in such love and admi- ration as seldom gather round any one man. News has just reached us of the inauguration of a noble statue to his memory in front of Trinity College, Dublin, — a tribute of veneration from his countrymen, long deferred, but heartily rendered at last. Surely a similar memorial of Edmund Burke will speedily AND r iVER GOLDSAflTH. ^ follow ; so that the statues of the greatest of Irish- men may stand side by side in the capital of their native land. But Goldsmith has had a nobler monu- ment than one of mirble erected to his memory some sixteen years ago by a loving hand,— a memorial that "Time's effacing finger" cannot obliterate. I refer to John Forster's beautiful biography of our poet. This admirable writer, like another Old Mortality, has, with gentle, skilful touch, cleared away the moss from Oliver's tomb, restored and deepened the in- scription, and beautified the whole for the loving veneration of posterity. The foul accumulations of envy, malice, and stupidity have been removed from Oliver's memory; and in this noble "Life" we have the living man before us, with his tenderness and love, his sore trials, and wonderful genius. "The great heart of the world is just." Truly does De Ouincey say of the author of this book, "By the piety of his service to a man of exquisite genius, so long and so foully misrepresented, Forster has earned a right to interweave for ever his own cipher and cog- nisance, in filial union, with those of Oliver Gold- smith." While it is true that trial and difficulty are good for man, and necessary to his development, as the storm- cradle to the oak sapling, yet sunshine is healthful and needful too. Recognition, and applause, and love, are the best stimulants of genius ; though the r^--r.,.ai ;o EDMUND BURKE world IS rather sparing in their apph-cation. and. as a general rule, prefers first to stone its benefactors, and after a reasonable interval, to build their sepulchres To meet genius with scorn and neglect, malignity and cruelty, and send it forth to wander with torn and bleeding breast, till it drops into an untimely grave, ,s certainly not the way to make the most of Heaven's most precious gift. Suppose that, instead of struggling with poverty, and wasting his powers on works that any commonplace man could have done almost as well, Goldsmith had met with a more genial welcome from his generation, had en- joyed a little more leisure, and had had twenty years added to his life, what far higher results his wonder- ful genius might have achieved than even " The De serted Village" and the " Vicar of Wakefield !" Rus- km, in his " Modern Painters. ' forcibly says:-" Love and trust are the only mother's milk of any man's soul. So far as he is hated and mistrusted, his powers are destroyed. Do not think that with im- punity you can follow the eyeless fool, and shout with the shouting charlatan, and that the men you thrust aside with gibe and blow are thus sneered and crushed into the best service they can do you As surely as the fruit-bud falls before the east wind so fails the power of the kindest human heart if you meet it with poison." On the whole, however, we have reason to be AiXD OLIVER GOLDSMITH. fi thankful for what Goldsmith has left us. His his- tories have won a permanent place in cjr :.u rature, by the iimplicity and beauty of thcii style and the purity, noderation, and wisd-.n that .cv ;de their pages. His delightful Essays, in which t»i-re are in- struction and amusement, but no cyn • ! ..i, will long command our smiles and our tears ; and will be read when the weightier moralisings of Johnson are con-, signed to oblivion. To his lionour be it recorded that in a coarse, licentious age, h- preserved perfect purity of expression; and never sullied his genius by thoughts, images, or words that could call up a blush on the rheek of modesty— never pandered, for gain, to vile or unholy passiors. VVe take leave of him' in the mble words of Thackeray:— "Think of him reckless, thriftless, if you like— but merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity. He passes out of our life, and goes to render his account beyond it. Think of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave ; think of the noble spirits that admired and deplored him; think of the righ.eous pen that wrote his epitaph,' and of the wond.^r^ul an-i unanimous response of affection with which the worid has paid back the love he gave it. His humour delights us still ; his song fresh and beautiful as w.ien first he charmed with \t; his words in all our mouths; his very weaknesses be- loved and familiar— his benevolent spirit seems still to smile upon us : to do gentle kindnesses : to succour 72 EDMUND BURKE i ; 1 i with sweet charity: to soothe, carers, and forgive: to plead with the fortunate for the i,nhappy and the poor," If, then, we are to reg^ard Goldsmith as the imperson- ation of one phase of Irish character,-of its generous warmth, its impulsiveness, its thoughtless benevolence and its improvidence,-it is but fair to allow Edmund Burke to stand fonvard as the representative of another aspect of the same character. He is a proof that a man may be an embodiment of the loftier and sterner virtues,-of self-denial, regulated foresight, temper- ance, and austere economy,-and yet be an Irishman; and that the race, known ail the worid over for that vivacity and buoyancy of nature which no amount of misery can eradicate, can also boast of producing a statesman - a philosopher, who all his life was ani- mated by .e lofty purpose, and pursued it, with unflinching perseverance and gigantic industry, to the last. If Burke cannot be quoted as the represent- ative of a numerous class of his countrymen, at least he IS an illustrious proof of what great possibilities are m the Irish nature; and a noble example for kmdling the heroic virtues in the hearts of each young generation of Irishmen, May many arise to tread in his footsteps, and rival his genius! Yes-Ireland claims as her own this man of imperial intellect, who ranks, in the judgment of such men as Mackintosh and Ai. caulay, with Bacon and Shako ,eare; of whom ^ ^ {■S ^^ ■ :;;:ar - - ■^'^ ^ • ■ -r-^ - --^VZ? OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 71 Lord Jeffrey said, "The greatest and most accom- plished intellect that England has produced for cen- turies, and of a noble and lovable nature;" of whom Robert Hall, m his "Apology for the Freedom of the Press," wrote :— " His imperial fancy has laid all nature under tribute, and has collected riches from every scene of the creation and every walk of art." Twelve years ago the Times contained the following noble words:—" The intellectual prowess of Edmund Burke is the admiration of the world. Since Bacon quitted life, England had not possessed so marvellous a son. Philosophy dwelt in his soul, and raised him to the dignity of a prophet. Gorgeous eloquence was his natural inheritance, practical wisdom his chief accom- plishment ; while all the intellectual graces were his hourly companions. Politics, when he dealt with them, assumed a grandeur which they had never known before, for he raised th-m above the exi gences of his own fleeting day, to apply them to the instruction and the wants of future ages. That which Vv'ill render Shakespeare familiar to our hearths, whiH a hearth can be kindled in Englr.nd, will also secure the immortality of Edmund Burke. There was no- thing local, nothing temporary, nothing circumscribed in his magnificent utterance. His appeals were not to the prejudices of nis contemporaries, or to the ever-changing sentiments of the time. He marched with a sublime movement ever in advance of the mul- t 1*i 74 EDMUND BURKE t'tude. Every generation can point to its popular chief and there are few epoehs whieh do not boast of •her l-ox. I., what political age shall we look for a statesman in all respects so illustrious as Burke ' " The language of this extract is as true as it is strong and beautiful ; and is another proof that the fame of Burke .s extending every day, and that the cobweb, are getting brushed away from his memory. How true the old Greek proverb-" The „,ill of the gods gnnds late, but it grinds fine.- It is true, as the wnter n, the Tiuus has .stated, that Burke was "ever ... advance of the multitude.'' He it was who first enuncated those greac measures of reform which, in our own day, are but partially carried out. He it was who first uttered the principles of free trade in the House of Comn>ons, to the horror of the great Pitt, be- fore Adam Smith had written his "Wealth of Nations " He ,t was who, fron, the outset of his career, urged the elanns of the Irish Catholics to emancipation, and enforced the justice and policy of the measure with h.s dy,ng breath. He opposed the cruel laws enacted aga,nst „,solvents, and laboured in mitigating the horr,ble penal code of that day. He denounced the slave-trade, he laboured at law-reform, and is „o« adm.tted to have been the first adn.inistrative and fina.,c,al reformer Britain has produced. In the midst of all h,s immense labour,s, he found time to help and cheer struggling genius. It was he who sustained the AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 7"? heroic Armenian, Emin, when poverty had him by the throat ; it was he who rescued Barry, the great painter, from obscurity, supported him during his studies, and set him on the high road to fortune; and it was he who saved the poet Crahbc, when almost sinking in neglect and starvation. What are we to say of Burke's character as sketched in " Retaliation," by his friend and admirer Goldsmith ? When we take into account that the poem was writ- ten twenty-three years before the death of Burke, whcra his great powers were only beginning to be felt, it must be admitted that the delineation is a wonder- ful proof of Goldsmith's insight— a striking instance of the unerring divinations of genius. But then it is quite an exaggeration to ..sscrt, as some have done, that it holds literally true in every particular. I think Goldsmith himself never meant it to be con- strued literally. There is evidently only the playful exaggeration of the satirist in the lines— '• Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for manlcind." To say that Burke was wholly uninfluenced by party ties all his life, would be to pronounce h.'m more than mortal; but when did he ever sacrifice truth or honesty to party considerations } or i.; ' at instance did he degrade his fine genius into the mere tool of party ? His separation from his -»rty, in consequence of his views regarding the French Revolution, is a V.«* ^:?-^5^- 76 EDAfUND BURKE ncble proof of his independence. Then, again, the statement that he was "Too deep for his hearers, still went on refining And tJiought of convincing, while they thought of dining," must be viewed as partly playful badinage, when we remember the overwhelming effect produced by his orations, and the eager applause with which they were listened to. No doubt, to the many-acred, top- booted gentlemen of the House of Commons, Burke's flights of imagination were often incomprehensible, and his orations wearisome, especially near dinner- hour ; but surely this is no disparagement of the orator, whatever it may be of some portion of his audience. The remainder of the epitaph, rightly un- derstood, reads as an eulogium on Burke. Goldsmith divined that his countryman never would become a successful statesman, in the worldly sense of the terms ; that being " too fond of the right to pursue the expedient," his proud genius would never stoop to the mean arts necessary to secure place and pay -would never allow him to wear any man's harness or toil as another's drudge ; and that his conscien- tiousness was too keen to permit him to sustain a dishonest cause. If this policy condemned him to " eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor," then poverty in his case was a mark of true nobility. It was from his teachings and writings that Fox con- structed that "short sentence drawn from a long AND OLIIER GOLDSMITH. 77y experience," which was the grand motto of Burke's own political life, — " What is morally wrong cannot be politically right." We may call his efforts in con- nexion with the American War, the French Revolu- tion, the impeachment of Hastings, in one sense failures ; but, in the highest and best sense, they were great victories. If his life was a battle and march, it was also a moral triumph. How some of his fine sayings linger in the memory ; and, having become so familiar, we have almost for- gotten who first struck them out ! Take a few illus- trations :— " Vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness." " Kings will be tyrants from policy when subjects are rebels from principle." "What shadows we are, and what .'■hadows we pursue.^' '♦There is, however, a limit at which forbearance ceases to be a virtue." "When bad men combine, the good must associate ; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice, in a contemptible struggle." " The age of chivalry is gone." " Geography, though an earthly subject, is a heavenly study." " It is the nature of all greatness not to be exact." " Those who are bountiful to crimes will be rigid to merit and penurious to service." " You had that action and counteraction, which in the natural and in the politi- cal world, from the reciprocal struggle of discordant powers, draws out the harmony of the universe." "All government, indeed every human benefit and 7^ EDMU: D BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. enjoyment, every virtue and every prudent act, is founded on compromise and barter." Here, then, we must part with Erin's most illustri- ous son, who, when living, was able " The applause of listening senates to command," and Who, with the author of "The Deserted Village." stands for ever crowned with the wreath of the im- mortals. Dear and hallowed be the memory of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith ! Honour to the fair land that gave them birth ! " When the pure soul of honour shall cease to inspire thee And kind hospitality leave thy gay shore And the nations that know thee shall cease' to admire thee 1 hen, Lrm ma voumeen, I '11 love thee no more. " When the trumpet of fame shall cease to proclaim thee Uf heroes the nurse, as in ages of yore And the muse and the records of genius disdain thee. Then, Erm ma vrurneen. I '11 love thee no mor. " When thy brave sons shall cease to be generous and witty And cease to be loved by the fair they adore. And thy daughters .shall cease to be virtuous and pretty ' Then, Enn ma vourneen, I 'IJ love thee no more " i LECTURE THE THIRD. WIT AND HUMOUR. \ Whatever we may make of it, there is no setting aside the fact, that a perception of the ludicrous, leading- to some corresponding outward manifesta- tion, is really an attribute of our common humanity. Throughout this strange, mysterious web of exist- ence there-runs the mirthful clement. Just as truly as there is in every mind, more or less, the percep- tion of beauty and harmony, is there also the per- ception of the ludicrous ; and just as truly as the elements of beauty and harmony are around us in nature and in human life, so truly are we encom- passed on all sides with the subtle elements of mirth. I do not mean to say that all minds are equally endowed with a sensibility for the ludicrous. You will meet with men so dull in this respect that, as Sydney Smith said, only a surgical operation could introduce into their dense heads the comprehension of a joke. There are individuals, too, to whom one I 11 I ^ ' 80 IV/T AND HUMOUR. of Handel's grand oratorios would be only a noise, more or less agreeable, and the Venus de Medicis' only a block of marble. Such instances, however, constitute the rare exceptions, and do not determine the rule; the vast majority of mankind manifesting a keen delight in beauty, harmony, and provocatives of mirth. For good and wise ends, our beneficent Creator has implanted in man the power of viewing things under a ludicrous aspect; and has spread around us objects and events which directly appeal to this internal sense. Like all our other original endowments, its purpose is clearly beneficent ; and, rightly exercised, it is productive of happiness. This life of ours is serious enough, with present duty press- ing on us, and the inexorable gates of destinv open- ing before us. No doubt it is a solemn thing for a human being to find himself alive, whirled through infinite space, on the surface of this earthly ball— "^ " Stars silent over him, > Graves silent under him." Deep and serious views of this mysterious existence must press at times on all true hearts that are in con- tact with fact and reahty. This world is no mere play-ground, or ball-room, or exchange; but " a hall of doom"— a training-ground for immortals. Yet while this is true, it is no less true that life has many sides, and presents itself under many aspects, and we are fitted to sympathise with them all; and to pro- IV/r AND HUMOUR. 8i mote our best culture we must do so. It is not good for us to be always in contact with what is stern and solemn. We must at times " sojourn in Mesech, and dwell in the tents of Kedar," but not take up our permanent abode there. To retain its health the mind must have variety It is therefore good for us to relax, — to unbind the heavy burden of care at times, — to let the genial smile smooth out the wrinkled brow, the hearty laugh shake the sides, and the glow of pure and innocent mirth light up the countenance. Thus are secured to us those blessed pauses in our course, in which we draw a deep bieath, and gather strength for the remainder of the journey. "One should take care," says Addison, "not to grow too wise for so great a pleasure of life as laughter." The bow, always strung, loses its elasticity ; the mind, always on the stretch of high thought or purpose, will give way. Mercifully and kindly is it appointed that the ludicrous should break in upon us, and lure away the mind from the cares of business, the pursuits of ambition, the fascinations of study, and the corroding anxieties of life. Think of dear, sweet childhood, with its shouts of merriment, its glee unclouded by thoughts of to-morrow ; — (I pity the man whose heart does not throb responsive to the sound) — think of manhood's and maidenhood's ringing laughter — of the " Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles. S3 IV/T AND HUMOUR. " Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides ;— " think of all this, and say would not this world of ours be a different and sadder place, were man not endowed with a capability of laughter, and sur- rounded with the elements of the ludicrous ? Is it not a striking proof of the benevolence of the Creator thai man, the creature most sensitive to the miseries of life, should be the only one of the ani- mated series capable of laughing at the woes of his existence ? Beyond all doubt, this endowment helps him to bear misfortunes that would otherwise press with intolerable weight, and blunts the keen edge of calamity. It may be disputed whether some of the lower creation do not possess the rudiments of reason ; but not even Darwin or Huxley pretend to discover any endowment in "our poor relations," the monkeys, approximating to risibility Heaven-gazing man alone' perceives the ludicrous, and indulges in the pleasant noise called laughter. The brute countenance has no smiles. It would be difficult, perhaps, to name any other faculty that plays a larger or more important part in the economy of human society. Where is the man, with the very longest and gravest face, who does not at times relax, and crack his joke with a friend .? Even the most supernaturally solemn man |i WIT AND HUMOUR. g^ must have "crowed" when a baby; and something must have gone wrong with him since if he has aban- doned the practice. Think of the mirth that is con- tinually circulating about our tea-tables and dinner- tables, and of the zest it imparts to social intercourse ! Don't we all laugh at one another, take each other off behind-backs, and indulge in playful remarks on the little personal peculiarities and slight frailties of our friends? Of course we do; and it is consolatory to know that the laugher of this circle is the laughed-at of that other; so that matters are very much equal- ised. Go among the labouring population, and hear how large a share of their conversation is made up of ludicrous remarks on one another, and on their betters too ; and how much this gladsome mirth lightens their toils ! Then, what a literature wit and humour have created ! what a host of witty and humorous writers we can marshal ! and what a powerful influence on human affairs they have wielded, and do wield ! In- deed, no great writer, who aims at presenting a faith- ful picture of human life, neglects the witty and humorous department; and however much of the grand and heroic may mingle therein, the work is found to be defective, as a mirror of nature, if the ludicrous have no place. Even grave Homer intro- duces his Thersites flinging his gibes at the Grecian heroes. Shakespeare— the all-comprehending— the IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // O #. 1.0 l.i 1.25 1^12.8 |S0 *^™ 132 1^ 2.2 2.0 1.8 JA i 1.6 ^. v; %. / >^ cP/^^ ^)nic SciCTices Corpomtion « a>^ ^^ \ ^9) ^ 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY 14SS0 (716) 873-4S03 \ O^ ^ 84 lV/7 AND HUMOUR. J greatest delineator of human life— has numberless embodiments of wit and humour in their rarest forms, from Jack Falstaff to the grave-digger in " Hamlet." Sir Walter Scott revels in this depart- ment, and has given us his immortal Bailie Nicol Jarvie, Dominie Sampson, Dugald Dalgetty, Peter Peebles, and Andrew Fairservice. In Mrs Stowe's fine tale of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," that has stirred so many millions of hearts, who does not like Topsy? and who does not feel that the story would be de- ficient without that ebony mover of mirth, with her unconscious, immeasurable ignorance, and calm stu- pidity ? Even our sweet poet Cowper, himself one of the saddest of men, has set all the world laughing by his humorous tale of "John Gilpin," whose ever- memorable ride, and well-known hat and wig, will continue to shake the sides of unborn generations, young and old. Thus, you see, the ludicrous must have its place; laughter will break out; the clown will tumble; Punch and Judy will be called for, in spite of the gravest objections. The man who would ignore this powerful tendency of humanity, or try to frown it down, has made but small progress in the study of life. Considering the wide sway exer- cised by this impulse, and the great and important results flowing from it, I think it is really worth while to mquire into its nature and tendencies, and thus try to get at the philosophy of the matter. WIT AND HUMOUR. 85 Not only has human life its ludicrous element, but even its serious side has its ludicrous points. Mirth seems to be ever lying in wait round the corner, ready to trip us up, even in our serious moods Through all the woof of life, the fine threads of wit largely penetrate. We are thus constantly on the verge of the ludicrous. A very serious affair has only to be turned a little round, and it becomes laughable; the grand, the heroic, the sublime, tumble into the comic. It was a favourite saying of Napo- leon,-" Between the sublime and the ridiculous there IS only a step." Suppose a stump-orator, brimful of patriotism and disinterested benevolence, addressing an enraptured audience ; some mischievous rogue comes behind him when in one of his loftiest flights of oratory, and with a smart blow knocks his hat completely over his eyes. No amount of patriotism could preserve gravity of countenance, as he struggles to extricate himself from the ruins of his hat. Even the eloquence of Lord John Russell would be extin- guished by such a mishap. The transition from the grave to the gay is instantaneous. Even the kindly greeting of " Auld Lang Syne" has a little of the ludi- crous lurking in it. The affectionate friend, who seems rather disposed to be jolly, meeting his old school- fellow, after years of separation, inquires pathetically, " Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind ?" 86 IVn AND HUMOUR. r And then he goes on, qnite tenderly, almost blubber- ing, to recount how they had, in youth, " Paidl'i i' the bum, And pu'djthe gowans fine." All this is very beautiful and touch! ig ; but mark how prudence mingles with ^jod fellowship. He adds— ■ ' "And surely ye'll be ^wr pint stoup, And surely I'll be w/«f." In the midst of all the outgushings of his affection, he has a wary eye on the reckoning, and is determined not to pay more than a fair share of the bill ; and therefore gently, but effectually, jogs his friend's memory as to the propriety of "standing treat" in the usual reciprocal method. Only a " canny Scotch- man" would have thought of that at such an interest- ing moment. I suppose it is owing to this proximity of the serious and the comic, that we find in many of our fine old cathedrals so many laughing, mirth-pro- vokmg faces, cut in stone or carved in oak. Here is the noble spire piercing the sky,_the graceful arch losmg itself in the vaulted roof,-the long-drawn aisle and splendid window, all suggestive of the loftiest Ideas ; but outside are groups of most grotesque faces smgularly provocative of mirth ; and under the seats are fine old oak carvings, highly comical in their sub- jects, as though the electors had. like school-boys been drawing laughable caricatures, to relieve the' tedium of life, aud give vent to the feeling of the #^^ IV/T AND HUMOUR. 87 ludicrous. It is a picture of human life. Take as another illustration of our position the laying of the Atlantic Telegraph. What could be grand'er than this achievement; noble, patient effort triumphing over obstacles; mind combating matter and gaining the victory; two worlds brought into contact! The whole civilised world was jubilant over it. The press assured us it was a great event. Even the pulpit admitted the topic into its sacred pr.^cincts, and many a preacher waxed eloquent over the sympa- thetic nerve laid down between the Old World and the New. Our American cousins, however, deter- mining to be foremost in the jubilation, managed to take the short step between the sublime and the ridiculous, and set all the world laughing. The extravagant antics gone through, in some of their cities, in this period of excitement, are hardly cred- ible. A western editor capped the climax, when, writing under a tremendous head of steam, he an- nounced the startling event thus:— "The world is finished,-its spinal cord is laid, and now it begins to think. A living nerve has been unwound from the Anglo-Saxon heart, and tied in a true-love knot between the old world and the new." Even such a grave body as the Corporation of New York lost its balance on this grave occasion ; and, in an address to the Telegraph Company, congratulated them on the fact that the earth was a sphere and not a plane; f wv: 88 WIT AND HUMOUR. " for," said they, " had it not been so, the operation of sin, working through the passions of nations and individuals, would have driven the weak to the ex- treme brink of humanity, and hurled them over the precipice once for all," (a fearful fall for the good people,—" Never ending, still beginning,"— " Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world. ") The twinkling eye of Puuc/i lighted on these pre- cious specimens of "buncombe," and he reproduced them in a slightly altered form, thus :— " The deed is done. A new heart-string, forgotten at creation, has been inserted into the world, and henceforth its pulses will keep time to the flapping of the wings of our almighty and inextinguishable eagle. May the blood of freedom course along that giant vein, with the ruch of Niagara, and sweep away be- fore its mightiness the mouldering ceremen:. of anti- quated hallucination. O noble men, let us liquor." " Two nations, in two different ages riz, Stand prominently out of the abyss: One, England, a respectable old hoss, And one, America, of giant force. The power of Nature could no further go. So made C. W. Field to join the two." "The aged and effete island ties herself to the apron-string of vigorous, young America. Among the awful chasms of the roaring ocean, shall fly the teachings of liberty, and Field's wire, like the spear lV/7 AND HUMOUR. 89 of Uranus, shall touch the squat toad of despotism at the ear of Eve, and the fiend, stprting up in all its sulphureous ignomity of ugliness, shall be spiked like a bug-beetle, upon the crystal weapon of Colum- bia." What a contrast did the imperturbable John Bull present, in the way in which he received the same intelligence. Instead of gomg into hysterics, he simply sat down and ate a more than usually substantial dinner. Now, the principle I am endeavouring to establish is, that even great, sublime, and solemn things have their ludicrous points. Noble feeling oversteps its due boundary, and becomes sentimentality; elo- quence, over-strained, becomes bathos ; and immedi- ately Wit, the moral policeman, pounces upon them, as fair food for mirth. The very best thing to be done is to let the shafts of ridicule rain upon them ; for they have become essential falsities, and should be driven out of society. All extravagance and ex- aggeration provoke, inevitably, the assaults of wit. Crinoline alone seems to be able to defy its utmost efforts, perhaps because the feminine mind is defec- tive in a sense of the ridiculous. In order to preserve our baIance,-to prevent indignation becoming too intense, or passion or feeling too violent, or condemna- tion too severe,— it is often desirable to let the ludic- rous aspect of a matter come int. view. Did we gaze at human wretchedness, folly, and wickedness, only with I 90 IV/T AND HUMOUR. the eye of conscience or passion, thought and observa- tion would drive many a good man to the borders of insanity. We should be thrown into utter despair or driven to blind destructive intolerance, anu v/ish the whole social fabric torn to pieces. But to counteract this over-sensitiveness, Nature has kindly provided a feeling of the ludicrous. Mirth appears and takes hold of these dark, exaggerated views of human con- dition, and exhibiting their ludicrous points, saves us from being injured by them. The very- faults and follies of our fellows, that threaten to drive us into madness or indignant disgust, when viewed under the kindly influence of humour, lose much of their repul- sive aspect. Hatred is disarmed, passion softened, and humanity preserved. Not that we are led in this vyay to call evil good, or to shut our eyes against the sight of what is bad ; buc a modifying element comes in, and we now see vice and folly to be contemptible and mean, as well as odious. Distorted and exagg^- rated views of life are thus corrected. Thus has it been kindly and wisely ordained that the fountains of laughter and of tears should lie close to one another in our composite nature, and that deepest pathos should have mirth for its nearest of kin. Nay, more ; it is found that the intermingling of these two renders the pathos more tender and mov- ing, and the mirth more wholesome. Take, as an illustration of this, a song written by Thomas Noel, lV/7 AND HUMOUR. 91 entitled, " The Pauper's Drive," in which sad truths are pathetically interwoven with a grim and terrible humour,— the humour deepening the hold the sad facts take upon the mind : — "There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot ; To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs. And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : Rattle his bones over the stones ; He's only a pauper that nobody owns. '« Oh • where are the mourners? Alas ! there are none, He has left not a gap in the world now he 's gone ; Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ;— ' To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can. Rattle his bones, &c. " What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din ! The whip how it cracks, and the wheels how they spin ! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurl'd ! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world. Rattle his bones, &c. " Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he's stretch'd in a coach ; He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last. But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast. Rattle his bones, &c ♦' But a tiuce to this strain, for my soul it is sad. To think that a heart, in humanity clad. Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end. And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Bear softly his bones over the stones, Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns." I am aware that some good men, whose views, I take the liberty of saying, are rather contracted, are inclined to condemn all manifestations of mirth, or, 92 ^!T AND HUMOUR. T\ at least, they are inclined to regard them with great suspicion, and to confine them within very narrow "mits. Let me quote for the benefit of such the words of th^ great and good Dr Chalmers. In his "Moral Philosophy" he says, speaking of our sense cf the ludicrous:-" It often ministers to the gaiety of man's heart, even when alone; and when he con- gregates with his fellows, is ever and anon breaking iorth into some humorous conception, that infects alike the fancies of all, and finds vent in one com- mon shout of ecstasy. Mirth begins to tumultuate in the heart of some one; on the first utterance of which, -it passes, with irrepressible sympathy, into the hearts of all around hirn ; whence it obtains discharge in a loud and general effervescence. It is thus that the pleasure connected with our sense of the ludic- rous forms one of the most current gratifications of human life, and has so much of happiness and so much of benevolence allied with it. . . . And when we see so much of human kindness and of human enjoyment associated with that exhilaration of the heart to which this emotion is so constantly givmg nse.-ministering with such copiousness both to the smiles of the domestic hearth and the gaieties of festive companionship,_we cannot but regard it ns the provision of an indulgent Father, who hath ordamed ,t as a sweetener or an emollient amid the annoyances and ills which flesh is heir to." He adds PV/r AND HUMOUR. 93 " There is unquestionable good done by it when it puts to flight the seriousness of resentment, or the serious- ness of suflrering,-softening the mahgnant asperities of debate, and reconcihng us to those misadventures and pettier miseries of life, which, if not so alleviated, would keep us in a state of continual festerment ; and thus it is a palpable testimony to the goodness and wisdom of Him who framed us." In this passage, Chalmers has admirably summed up the benefits that flow from our sense of the ludicrous, and the ends which it subserves in the economy of the universe. It is indeed " a palpable testimony to the goodness and wisdom of Him who framed us." An innocent child once said, " Mamma, did the cheerful God make all these beautiful flowers.?" Yes; all the flowers that gariand the earth are His smiles. And as He who clothed the lily in such beauty, and enriched the human soul with the faculty of enjoying it, has said thereby to man. " Adorn, create forms of beauty-paint the canvas and sculpture the marble;" so, in constituting a dis- tmctive faculty to perceive the endless combinations of the ludicrous and mirthful, He has intimated, as plamly as though it were written in letters of light upon the sky, that we are in due measure to enjoy the ludicrous. There is beauty all around us; beauty in "day and the sweet approach of eve and morn ;" beauty in vernal bloom and summer's rose; beauty in 94 IVIT AND HUMOUR. ! n nhe human face divine;" and man is fitted to revel in all this. Great are our substantial every-day mercies; but when we see superadded to this great stream of beneficence, the enjoyments flowing from gaiety and mirth, from the sparkling fountains of wit and humour, do we not feel the truth and beauty of the child's words, that God is indeed the "cheerful God," claiming not only our reverence, but the child- like love and trust of our hearts ? Thus, rightly con- sidered, this faculty has not only its lawful and innocent indulgence, but its very existence is a proof of Divme bcneficencc-as truly so as the flowers that, like orient pearls, are scattered over the earth; and . from it, too, we learn something of our Creator's char- acter, as well as from the galaxies that gem the sky. If, then, our wit and humour be pure, and free from malice, hatred, and selfish vanity; if they be indulged in only under the approbation of conscience, and kept within legitimate bounds, we can regard them as a source of pure and lawful enjoyment. At the proper time, cheerfulness is to be sought and mirth- fulness indulged. We have the highest authority for saymg, " there is a time to laugh." Our earth might have been created without the element of beauty • and were it a mere cattle-stall, where we were to eat' and sleep, and grow fat, there would be no need of star-radiance, or cloud-drapery, or flower-decking or ocean-music. And so, too, we could conceive of a IV/T AND HUMOUR. 95 world where there would be nothing to call up a smile or provoke a laugh,-a demure, well-behaved, model world, clad in drab, like a Quaker's household, no angularities or oddities, no incongruity to awaken mirth, and no talent in the unfortunate inhabitants for enjoying the ludicrous; but if there be such a world, it must be a very dull one; and we have reason to be thankful it is not our own laughter-loving httle planet. Fortunately for us, life has its comedy and broad farce, as well as its tragedy. In the extract I have already quoted, Dr Chalmers calls mirth " a sweetener or an emollient " amid life's annoyances. It lightens the woes and increases the joys of existence ; and thus mmisters, like a benefi- cent spirit, to our pure and innocent delights. This however, applies rather to humour than wit-a dis- tinction on which I shall dwell for a little by and by I believe that a vast amount of gladness, geniality,' charity, kindness, and happiness flows over the world from the fountain of humour. Its higher utterances " Fall as soft as snow on the sea. And melt in the heart as instantly." The man who creates a thoroughly humorous char- acter, must be regarded as a real benefactor of his species. Such a creation not only amuses and calls forth smiles and laughter, but also promotes sweet- ness of temper, cheerfulness of disposition, plucks the stmg out of many of life's ills, calls forth the tena.r 96 IVIT AND HUMOUR. and genial feelings of our heart, and disposes us to love our kind. What a real boon to society, for example, has been such a humorous creation as Shakespeare's fat knight. Sir John Falstaff-the jovial, the unimaginative, the epicurean, the delightful Falstafif;— his qualities, which are all "of the earth, earthy," floating in a perfect sea of fun, frolic, and good-humour. The present, the personal, the physical, make up the sum of his existence. For all fanciful and imaginative things he has an unlimited scorn ; or, rather, he has no sense of their existence. To him' life presents no perplexing problems, no heart-break- ing contradictions. How boisterously he would have laughed at the idea of " storming across the inane," or "standing between two eternities," as a descrip- tion of human life. He never troubles himself with the stars, the music of the spheres, or the shadows of the unseen. He is satisfied with things as they are. Unlike Hamlet, with his passionate questi(,iiings of destiny, and vain struggles with insoluble problems, and melancholy musings on this composite existence.' Falstaff's eye goes not beyond the actual, and sees no visions, no spectres. Yet, far from making this fine creation of the fancy dull or shallow, Shakespeare has endowed him with noble mental faculties; with an intellect possessed of clearness, precision, strength, and subtlety, though directed by no lofty or useful purpose. The wildness and prodigality of his ima-es WIT AND HUMOUR. 97 and illustrations, the inexhaustible freshness of his ideas and phrases, the ease with which he jumbles together things most unlike, all declare a mental nature of rich and rare endowment. But the essential element of his being is humour. To him every indi- vidual, every event, every thought, sentiment, and emotion has a ludicrous tinge. All things and all persons are objects of his mockery. His Wic is flash- ing, penetrating, scathing, unrestrained by any moral law. Such is Falstaff— an embodiment of wit un- softened by a loving heart, unguided by morality and religion. Selfish and voluptuous, he may be studied for the wonderful richness of his humour, but is not to be admired or imitated. What an inexhaustible fund of merriment, too, has the world found in that most richly humorous of all characters, the immortal Sancho Panza, so shrewd and matter-of-fact, so selfish, fat, and fond of good living ! What a delightful contrast to his chivalrous, lean master, wrapped in splendid illusions and liv^ ing outside the real world ! Sancho is sly, good- humoured, sensual ; cares nothing whatever for glory or honour, but a great deal for good feeding, a whole carcase, and a sound sleep ; and when he gets a satis- factory repose he "blesses the man that lavented sleep." The contrast and co-operation of these two characters form one of the most exquisite creations of the humorous imagination. There they are— an 98 tVIT AND HUMOUR. •; 'I if' ' inimitable pair— master and man— tossed in a blanket, amid boisterous peals of merriment, from generation to generation. They remind us c f another strongly contrasted pair— Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim— who have evoked many smiles, and, let us hope, called forth many deeds of charity. Nor must we forget that fine embodiment of Scottish humour— Bailie Nicol Jarvic— with his quaint oddities, his sly, half-conscious humour, and his captivating weak- nesses that make us all like him immensely. What could be finer than the defence he urged in presence of his brother magistrates, on behalf of his wild free- booter kinsman. Rob Roy ? " I tauld them," said the Bailie, "that I would vmdicate nae man's faults ; but set apart what Rob had done again the law, and the misforfme o' some folk losing life by him, and he was an honester man than stud on any o' their shanks." How deeply indebted is the world to Charles Dickens— the greatest of living humourists— for that host of laughter-moving creations with which he has brightened so many firesides, cheered so many lonely hours, and -peopled our world of thought with forms and faces whose beautiful facetiousntss sheds light and warmth over our whole being." The Wellers, senior and junior, lead the van, with Mr Pickwick in his spectacles ; Richard Swiveller, with the Marchioness on his arm ; Mrs Nickleby and the Crumles family; the irrepressible Sairey Gamp and WIT AND HUMOUR. gg her mythical friend Mrs Harris ; the improvident but dehghtful Micawber, and the immortal Pecksniff. These ar-^ now familiar names,-well-known acquaint- ances in thousands of households, all over the civil- ised world; and these exquisite creations have flooded us with mirth and delight. The world would be a great deal poorer wanting them ; and I think it IS unquestionable that, on the whole, they have acted in a wholesome way,-increasing good. humour and chanty, and thus indirecviy benefiting and advancing society. Many a dark hour has been brightened and many a happy home made happier by the visits of such personages. Open the door and let the whole merry crew come trooping in. _ Let us now, for a little, become metaphysical, and inquire in a passing way, in what wit and humour consist, and how they differ from one another It is no easy matter to define that subtle quality we recog- nise as the ludicrous ; it is almost too evanescent for the intellect to grasp. Like the beauty of a land- scape, or the aroma of the rose, it may be felt but not described, enjoyed but not defined. We can all laugh ; but try to discover in what the ludicrous con- sists, and the probability is that the effort will make you very serious indeed. This much, however, seems to me discoverable: that in all . -itty and humorous creations, you will find certain dissimilar ideas or miages brought together, and some unexpected simi r-a^^f; lOO tV/T AND HUMOUR. 1 I } i I ' larity between them expressed or suggested,— the sud- den discovery of unsuspected resemblance giving rise to that pleasurable surprise which expresses itself in smiles or laughter. Or the same effect is produced by bringing together incongruous circumstances, per- sonages, or images, which are rarely if ever found in juxtaposition, and exhibiting them in such contrast that a perception of the ludicrous follows. The essence in humour is incongruity; the result in both wit and humour is agreeable surprise. But wit ac- complishes its object by suggesting some resemblance between images and things that are wide apart; humour, by clashing together incongruities. Thus, for example, a traveller in the United States describes a republican whom he met as so furious against mon- archs, that he would not even wear a crown to his hat. The wit lies in the incongruous combination of the monarch's crown and the crown of the republican's hat, and the unexpected suggestion of a resemblance between them. A witness on a certain trial de- scribed an individual as "a most respectable man.' " What do you mean by being respectable .?" said the counsel. " I mean," was the reply, " that he always kept a gig." Here the ludicrous surprise depends on the incongruous combination of respectability and a gig. The same effect folio »vs the Irish definition of gentility. " He was a dacent, respectable man ; he always kept a pig;" and the description of the Irish WIT AND HUMOUR. lOr echo that, when you called out " How do you do?" answered " Quite well, I thank you." Robert Hall's wit did not desert him, even when insanity had clouded his noble intellect A stupid individual, visiting the asylum where he was, called out, " Why, what brought you here, Mr Hall.'"' "What will never bring you here," tapping his head; "too much brain!" "I hear you are going to marry Miss Blank," said some one to him, " What ! I marry Miss Blank! I should as soon marry Beelzebub's eldest daughter, and go home and live with the oiu folk !" " The land tortoise," said Sydney Smith, " has two enemies,— man and the boa-constrictor. Man takes him home and roasts him, and the boa-con- strictor swallows him whole, shell and all, and con- sumes him slowly in the interior, as the Court of Chan- eery does a great estate!' What could be finer than the same writer's retort on a clerical friend who had written him a note, not dated in the ordinary way, but after a certain ecclesiastical fashion,—" St Blank's Day— Eve of some other St Blank's Day." S> dney's reply was dated, " Washing Day— Eve of Ironing Day." Admirable too was the mixture of wit and humour in his advice to the newly-appointed Bishop of New Zealand, in allusion to the cannibal ten- dencies of his parishioners. He urged him to be attentive to the minor no less than the more import- ant duties of his office— to be given to hospitality ; I02 WIT AND HUMOUR. I n -+ ^j and in order to meet the tastes of his native guests, never to be without a smoked Utile boy in the bacon - rack, and a cold clergyman on the side-board ; and " as for yourself, my lord," he said, " I can only say. that when your parishioners eat you, I sincerely hope you will disagree with them." His description of the tropics is inimitable:-" Flies geL entry into your mouth, into your eyes, into your nose ; you eat flies, drink flies, and breathe flies. Lizards, cockroaches,' and snakes get into the bed ; ants eat up the books; scorpions sting you on the foot. Everything bites,' stings, and bruises ; every second of your existence' you are wounded by some piece of animal life, that nobody has ever seen before, except Swammerdam and Meriam. An insect with eleven legs is swim- ming in your tea-cup ; a nondescript with nine wings is struggling in the small beer; or a caterpillar, with several dozen eggs in his belly, is hastening over the bread and buttei*. All nature is alive, and seems to be gathering all her entomological hosts to eat you up, as you are standing, out of your coat, waistcoat, and breeches. Such are the tropics. All this recon- ciles us to our dews, vapours, and drizzles,— to our apothecaries rushing about with gargles and tinc- tures,— to our old British constitutional coughs, sore throats, and swelled faces." Now, in all these instances, the ludicrous surprise is caused by clashing together incongruous things and WIT AND HUMOUR. 103 ideas. The force which calls into play the muscles that are employed in laughter, lies in the rapid sur- prise produced. In the following anecdote, it is the quickness and unexpectedness of the rejoinder that amuse us :— A nobleman and his lady, walking through a magnificent avenue, in one of the finest parts of Ireland, were accosted by a poor woman as follows— "The Lord bless your noble lordship, and your gracious ladyship. I dramed a drame about you both last night. I dramed your lordship gave me a pound of tobacco and your ladyship a pound of tay." "Ah! my good woman," says the peer, " dreams go by contraries." " To be sure they do," says the woman, " so it will be your lordship that will give me the tay, and her ladyship will give me the tobacco." It is related that Lord Macaulay, on one occasion, in order to obtain a sample of street literature, made his way to one of the lowest districts of London, and bought of a singing-boy a roll of ballads. Happening to turn round, as he reached home again, he perceived the youth, with a circle of young friends, was keeping close at his heels. " Have I not given you your price, sir .? " was the great man's indignant remonstrance. "All ricrht guvnei," was the response; ''we're only waiting till you begin to sing! Here the incongruity of the brilliant historian roaring out a ballad in the street creates the shock of ludicrous surprise, How admir- 104 IVTT AND HUMOUR. able is the ridicule thrown upon caste-respectability by Douglas Jerrold, in the following passage!— " Wholesales don't mix with retails. Raw wool does not speak to halfpenny balls of worsted ; tallow in the cask looks down upon sixes in the pound, and pig-iron turns up its nose at tenpenny nails." Emi- nently witty too was his definition of dogmatism,— "it is ovAy puppyism come to its full growth." Wit and humour, though they are closely allied, have yet important points of difference, and are clearly distinguishable. Thackeray's definition of humour is the best with which I have met. He says, "Humour is wit and love; at any rate, I am sure that the best humour is that which contains most humanity, and which is flavoured throughout with tenderness and kindness." This, I think, seizes on the essence of the matter. Humour has all the peculiar characteristics of wit, including the principles of contrast and assimilation ; but it superadds a qua- lity higher than all— namely, love, springing from sym- pathy and sensibility, and a tender fellow-feeling with humanity, even in its lowest and queerest shapes. It is possible for wit to flow entirely from the head, while the heart remains cold, callous, and scornful,— as in the case of Swift; but humour must have heart as well as head, and cannot dwell in an icy, cynical bosom. Its very «ssence is deep, genuine sensibility towards all forms of existence. Not hatred, contempt, IJ ..?s i- WIT AND HUMOUR. 105 or scorn produce it,--only love. It elevates its ob- jects, however low, into our sympathies and affections. Both wit and humour produce pleasurable surprise by incongruous collisions ; but while wit deals rather with ideas, humour fixes upon human actions and manners, and thus has to do with emotions, sentiments, and, above all, with character. Wit is often caustic, severe, and condemnatory, and looks on human weaknesses and follies with bitter scorn and sneering contempt, lashing them with withering sarcasm or blighting ridi- cule. But genial, kind-hearted humour mingles ten- derness with its condemnation, and paints follies and weaknesses almost lovingly; so that, while we see their absurdity, we sympathise with the subject of them,— we love, not hate. Wit may accompany fierce passions, and give a sting to hatred, or malice, or Qmy ; humour never does so : it must have kind feeling and fellow-feeling. Thus humour is a higher gift than wit; it creates, while wit dissects and ana- lyses. In its purest form, humour is one of the rarest and most precious gifts of genius— the bloom of a creative, genial, loving nature. How humane is its influence ! How it softens the rude inequalities of existence, and bridging over the space between the exalted and the lowly, brings them into sympathetic unison! Thus does it throw a bright sunshine over existence, and helps us to kind, gentle, and tolerant views of life. io6 PV/T AND HUMOUR. ^MT M The distinction between wit and humour will come out clearcr^ perhaps, from an example or two. Take Pope and Swift,— they are pre-eminently witty writers, dealing in ail manner of sarcastic, ironical, and burlesque productions ; but they have almost nothing of the humorous element. Addison, on the other hand, lives and breathes in humour; and has be- queathed to us that noblest of humorous characters and finest of old English gentlemen. Sir Roger de Covcrly. Uncle Toby, Corporal Trim, Parson Adams, The Artful Dodger, Mark Tapley, Joe VVillct. Mrs Gamp, Major Pendennis, Mrs Poyser, are all humor- ous creations. Of modern writers, Jerrold and Thack- eray are most witty ; Charles Lamb and Dickens most humorous ; while Sydney Smith presents the happiest combination of both. The author of " Rab and His Friends "-Dr John Brown-may also be named as one of our most genial humourists ; and what quaintness, racincss, and tenderness mingle in his writings, all readers of " Hor^e Subseciv^ " well know. Wit and humour, however, being but diftbr- ent species of the ludicrous, oftenest blend with and overlap one another. We rarely find wit alto- gether untempered by humour, oi humour without a spice of wit. Humour is refined and sharpened by wit, and wit is softened and rendered kindlier by humour. In the writings of Sy^^r^^y Smith it %vould be difficult to say whether the wit or humour IV/r AND HUMOUR. 107 preponderates; and hence that genial sharpness which we so much admire in him. In his celebrated letters on American Debts, the sarcasm is keen, but the humour is genial, and we see that it is half in love and half in anger he w.ites. " I never meet a Pennsylvanian," he says, " at a London dinner, with- out feeling a disposition to seize and divide him,— to allot his beaver to one sufferer and his coat to an- other,— to appropriate his pocket-handkerchief to the orphan,— and to comfort the widow with his silver watch, Broadway rings, and London Guide, which he always carries in his pocket." Then wJ^h what inim- itable humour he exhorts the supposed rcpudiators of their debts to repentance and reformation :— " My dear Jonathan, make a great effort,— book up at once and pay. Bull is naturally disposed to love you; but he loves nobody that does not pay him. His imaginary paradise is some planet of punctual payment, where ready money prevails and where debt and discount are unknown." "It is not for gin-sling and sherry-cobble/ alone that man is to live; but for those great principles against which no argument can be listened to,— principles which give to every power a double power above their functions and their offices,— which -re the books, the arts, the academies that teach, lift up, and nourish the world ;— principles (I am quite serious in what I say) above cash, superior to cotton, io8 I i ^IT AND HUMOUR. l"Bhcr than currency.-principles without which it were better to die than live, whieh every servant of ^od, over every sea and in all lands, should cherish." Never was the folly of unreasoning obstinacy, on the part of governments, more happily illustrated than _m Sydney's account of American independence :- There was a period when the slightest concession would have safsfied the Americans ; but all the world was in heroics : one set of gentlemen met at he Lamb and another at the Lion ; blood-and-trea- ^uremen. breath.ng war, vengeance, and contempt; and ,„ e,ght years afterwards, an awkward-looking Bontleman, in plain clothes, walked up to the draw ■ng-roon, of St James's, in the midst of the gentlemen of the L,on and the Lamb, and was introduced as the ambassador fro,n the United Slates of America" , ^" ="-S""'™' for sustaining the dignity of the clergy becomingly, he says:_..A picture is drawn of a elergyman with ^,30 per annum, who combines all moral, physical, and intellectual advantages-a learned man dedicating himself intently .0 the care of h,s par,sh,-of charming mar.„ers and dignified deportment six feet two inches high, beautifully p.op„,t,o„ed, .v,th a magnificent countenance ex- press,ve of all the cardinal virtues and the ten 'com- niandments; and it i. asked with an air of triumph ■f such a man as this will fallmto contempt on account of his poverty? But substitute for hi a" TT \% IV/T AND HUMOUR. 109 average, ordinary, uninteresting minister: obese, dumpy, neither ill - natured nor good - natured, neither learned nor ignorant, striding over the stiles to church with a second-rate wife — dusty and deliquescent— and four parochial children, full of catechism and bread and butte:,— among all his pecuniary, saponaceous, oleaginous parishioners. Can any man of common sense say that all these outward circumstances of the ministers of religion have no bearing on religion itself?" As another illustration of the happ\ union of wit and humour, permit me to qaote a passage from Browning's ex- quisitely Amusing poem, founded on the legend of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin :"— " Into the street the pipe.- slept. Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while ; There, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled ; And ere three shrill notes the pipe utter'd. You heard as if an army mutter'd ; And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; And the rnimbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fatners, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers. Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — no iyiT AND HUMOUR. M V ' Follow'd the piper for their lives ' ' ^T ''""^^^ '^ street he pip^d advancing. And step for step they follow'd dancim^ Untd they come to river VVeser, Wherein all plunged and perish'd -Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar bwam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherish'd) To Rat-land home his commentary ; Wuch was-. At the first shrill notes of the pipe I heard a sound as of scraping tripe ^ ^ And putting apples, wondrous ripe' Into a cider-press's gripe; And a .v.oving away of pi'ckle-tub boards. And a leavmg ajar of conserve cupboards And a breakmg the hoops of butter-casks • And.tseem'dasifavoice (Sweeter by far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) call'd out, « O rats, rejoiceT The world ,s grown to one vast d;ysa;e;; l-ieakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon •" And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon," All ready staved, like a great sun, shone Glorious scarce an inch before me Just as methought it said, ''Com;, bore me -" -I found the Weser rolling o'er me. '" As a general rule, our Ampr,Vn« -'T^nierican cousins ar^^ A^a. countnes would be laughed down StiM A can boast or ,e.g.eat,K,„ou™uilt:::: '" ""="• --cspective walks. Here is a lifM of American humour, not bid „• "''""'" ' "ot Dad in Its way. The WJT AND HUMOUR. Ill author's name I do not know; the piece itself was read lately before some literary society in Massa- chusetts :- - " A certain school, not far away, 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys ; Some few upon their task intent, But more on furtive mischief bent ; The while the master's downward look Was fasten'd on a copy-book ; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose, sharp and clear, a rousing smack ! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss ! ♦ What's that ?' the startled master cries ; • That, thir,' a little imp replies, ' Wath William WiUith, if you pleathe— ' I thaw him. kith Thuthanah Peathe ! ' With frown to make a statue thrill. The master thunder'd, ' Hither, Will ! ' I-ike wretch o'ertaken in his track. With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head, in fear and shame. And to the awful presence came, A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun ; With smile suppress'd, and birch upraised, The threatener falter'u, ' I 'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude ! Before the whole set school to boot ! What evil genius put you to 't ?' "Twas herself, sir,' sobb'd the lad ; * I didn't mean to be so bad ; But when Susannah shook her curls. And whisper'd I was 'fraid of girls, And dursn't kiss a baby doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, 112 JVIJ AND HUMOUR. < 4 , But up and kiss'd her on the spot ! I know, '—boo, boo,— ' I ought to not, But somehow, from her looks,'— boo, l)oo,— , ' I thought she kind o' wish'd me to ! ' " It is satisfactory to know that the master gave this boy a free pardon ; for evidently, as of old, it was the little Eve who "beguiled" him. Here is another little specimen of American humour, by the grave philosopher, Emerson :— " The Mountain and the Squirrel Had a quarrel ; And the Mountain call'd the Squirrel, ' Little Prig.' Bun replied, ' You are doubtless very big ; But all sorts of things and weathers ^^^st be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I 'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I '11 not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ ; all is wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut." And SO little Squirrel walks round and over big, blus- tering Mountain ; and the spr^ logician at length fairly doubles up the lumbering old fellow, and scratches his head for him with a grave, satiric grace, that is quite edifj^'ing If we take pure wit, unmixed with humour, we WT AND HUMOUR. 113 find th " .n this shape its general tendency is aggres- sive, reformatory, and destructive. As a reformer of morals and manners, we must assign a high place to wit. Rightly employed, it assails and sweeps away the worn out and the thoroughly bad, and thus makes way for something better. Thus, it must be admitted, wit is slightly radical in its tendenr.es. Recognising no prescriptive right, it strikes right and left at the false and the corrupt ; and taking the most respectable and reverend things by the beard, will cover them with ridicule. And truly, in a world where there is so much vice, folly, hypocrisy, ab- surdity, pretension, ?nd selfish wickedness,— such a rank growth of falsehood, show, gullibility, and general rascality,— where we are all such mummers, walking behind a mask at Vanity Fair, it is a happy arrangement that there is a faculty capable of seeing into all this, and of unmasking the whole, so as to make them seem what they really are. Vanity, pre- tension, pride, hypocrisy, and selfish ambition, have no such dangerous assailant as wit, when rightly directed. It comes behind ; strips off the tawdry ornament that imposed upon the world, and exhibit- ing them,- with their real faces, in all their ludicrous absurdity, sets mankind in a roar of laughter at things that seemed lately very venetable and awful. It admits people behind the scenes, and points out all the dirty ropes, and pulleys, and paint-pots,— all the H 114 JV^T AND HUMOUR. ■f ; i i j tinsel and cheap stage-properties, by which the great shows of the world are got up ; and exhibits, too, the poor actors, in their everyday clothes, without their high-heeled boots and their awful robes a owns. All this is a positive and incalculable benetit to society. Without such a radical -eformer to smite down such things and keep them in order, we should be utterly ovenun by them. Nor is there, in such cases, any other weapon so effective as wit. Solemn argument is useless ; the lash of ridicule alone is of service. Have you never met with a stately pompous individual, solemn in gait, and measured and oracular in speech, uttering the dullest commonplaces with all the gravity of Nestor; able to settle the most difficult questions in a moment, and that incontrovertibly ; who seems to say — " I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark?" How utterly he extinguishes all small, humble people! How the poor, bright man is overawed by his very deportment, by the mere elevation of his eye-brows, and quails into silence ! How inex- pressibly he bores us all, but we dare not yawn or contradict him. If you presume to differ from his opinions he will retire on his moral dignity, and stare at you in solemn silence, which is far more appalling tL the strongest arguments. This imposing, official I IV/T AND HUMOUR. 1 1 5 sort of personage carries all before him ; and yet he succeeds pretty much in virtue of his stage-properties and deportment ; and has only sufficient sense to keep him from being an absolute stupiditarian, and to make him an inhuman bore. Society is greatly afflicted with such stilted characters, who really cause a deal of misery ; and are not only stupid themselves, but the cause of stupidity in others, for they are the' death of all geniality within their circle. How are they to be repressed? Why, I think they can only be successfully assailed by wit. They are proper subjects for Momus and his merry crew Let the shafts of ridicule rain upon their stupid pomposity. Let wit, with its bright glancing rapier, assail them; and just as a great gas-filled balloon collapses when pricked, so will these gaseous individuals come to the ground. In fact, we must hand over all such to the custody of Mr Punch, whose mission as a great moral and social reformer is now so generally ad- mitted. This merry old gentleman, with his hunch- back, hooked nose, and twinkling, mischievous eye, is now a welcome visitor everywhere, and enjoys an immense popularity among old and young. We all feel that he supplies a want of our common nature and exeits a wholesome influence in society, assault-' mg the contemptible, mean, and ridiculous, and exploding the false, the dastardly, and the corrupt. Mr Punch is not immaculate— who of us s so ?— but, ii6 W/r AND HUMOUR. on the whole, his influence is decidedly favourable to good morals. Rarely, if ever, do you find anything really good, pure, or venerable held up to ridicule, scorn, or contempt in the pages of Punch. He is a satirist, but without coarseness or malignity. No dig- nity is too exalted for his pungent ridicule or biting sarcasm. Rome, Oxford, and Exeter Hall alike come in for a knock when they fall into bigotry or absurdity ; and why should they not > All the little foibles' o'" society are pleasantly exposed. Many a piece of wickedness has he laughed to scorn and annihilation. Next to the Times, he is now one of the great powers of the empire. Society needs such a gleeful, good- humoured castigator. Wanting him, we should be more liable to be gulled by pretenders and quacks or to do silly, vain, absurd things. A nation, as well as an individual, requires a sense of the ridiculous to keep them from contemptible actions. For all absurd popular manias and delusions, by which weak heads are so apt to be turned, nothing is so effectual as ridicule. Did not Cervantes, by his Don Quixote, "laugh Spain's chivalry away."— or rather Spain's mawkish, sentimental taste for the absurd romances of chivalry.? When any institution becomes shaky, and gets into its dotage, wit is sure to assail it remorselessly. In all great reforms it is the pioneer— undermining the old, exposing the false, and urging the speedy interment of the dead and Wmt'^^^MWm WIT AND HUMOUR. 1 1 7 putrescent. So it was in the days of the Reforma- tion, the French Revolution, the Reform Bill, and the Corn-Law agitation. AU popular agitators well know the value of wit. Witness the enormous power once wielded over the public mind by Butler in his " Hudibras," by Swift and Churchill, and by Gilray and H. 3. as caricaturists. Fox, Sheridan, Pitt, and Canning influenced men's minds quite as much by their witty productions as by their graver eftbrts. and these are now read when their speeches are hardly glanced at. Wit is strictly of no party, but oftenest on the radical side. "A Conservative," says Douglas Jerrold, « is a man who will not look at the new moon, out of respect for that ancient institution, the old one." But Radicalism does not escape-reform IS a very good thing ; but, says quaint old Fuller, "many hope that tne tree will be felled who hope to gather chips by the fall." A German prince once gave his subjects a free constitution— what we call "responsible government." They were greatly dis- satisfied, and complained that "heretofore they had paid taxes and been saved the trouble of govern- ment ; but now they were not only taxed but had to govern themselves." " ' God save the king,' " says Sydney Smith, "very often means, save my pension and place,— give my sisters an allowance out of the privy purse,-make me clerk of the irons,-let me survey the meltings,-let me live on the fruit of it I h : M ii8 ^1 ; 1 J IV/r AND HUMOUR. other men's industry, and fatten upon the plunder of the pubh-c." Thus, right and left, without respect of parties, does wit deal its blows wherever they are deserved. Weak, unthinking benevolence is thus taken to pieces by Sydney Smith:— "The English are a calm, reflecting nation ; they will give time and money when they ate convinced, but they love dates, names, and certificates. In the midst of the most heart-rending nanatives, Bull inquires the day of the month, the year of our Lord, the name of the parish, and the counter-sign of three or four respectable housekeepe/s. After these affecting circumstances have been given, he can no longer hold out, but gives way to the kindness of his nature-puffs, blubbers, and subscribes." The practice of duelling is thus held up to ridicule in Carlyle's "Sartor Resartus:"- " Two little visual spectra of men, hovering wit . ir- secure enough cohesion, in the midst of the unfathom- able, and to dissolve therem at any rate very soon make pause at the distance of twelve paces asunder! whirl round, and simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism, explode one another into dissolution, and off-hand become air and non-extant. The little spitfires ! Nay, I think the angels must needs laugh outright, could such a thing be, to see our wondrous manikins here below." To describe and illustrate the various forms which wit and humour assume would require a volume. IVIT AND HUMOUR. 119 Fantastic and innumerable are their shapes. Simile and metaphor,— odd mixtures of words and ideas,— irony, raillery, sarcasm, satire,— the mock-heroic, the sparkling burlesque, the absurd exaggeration, the broad farce, the titillating droller)^— mockery, ridi- cule, parody, epigrams, puns,— in these and many other forms do wir and humour delight to disport themselves. Very beautifully has Milton depicted the mirthful train in his " L'Allcgro"— a portion of which I have already quoted : — " But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yc'ep'd Euphrosyne, And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth. With two sister Graces more. To ivy-crownbd Bacchus bore .... Haste thee, nymph, and bring with Ihee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. Nods and becks and wreathbd smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." Leaving to curious and learned investigation the recondite shapes that wit and humour assume, I shall only aim at furnishing a few examples of their more common forms. The simile is one of the most ordinary vehicles for bringing incongruous ideas to- gether. Syd' / Smith, in some remarks on the 120 IVIT AND HUMOUR. I habits of the sloth, says— " He moves suspended, rests suspended, sleeps suspended, and, in fact, passes his life in suspense, like a young clergyman distantly related to a bishopr Sheridan makes one of the char- acters in his farce of "St Patrick's Day," remonstrate thus against the impiopriety of her friend marrying a soldier:— "To want a husband, that may wed yci to- day, and be sent goodness knows where before night; then, in a twelvemonth perhaps, to come home, like a Colossus, with one leg at New York and the other at Chelsea Hospital." The came witty writer compares a Jew who had forsworn his faith, and "had not had time to get a new one," to "a dead wall standing between church and synagogue, or the blank -aves between the Old ana Vew Testamentr Praed has the following witty simile : — "I think that love is like a play, Where tears and smiles are blended ; Or like a faithless April day, Whose shine with shower is ended j Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough ; Like trade, exposed to losses ; And like a Highland plaid, all stuff, And very full of crosses. " The conversation of Robert Hall abounded at times with the keenest sarcasm. Speaking of Dr Ryland, he exclaimed— " Why, sir, Dr Ryland's all piety — all piety together, sir. If there were not room in heaven, God would turn out an archangel •■'v: ly/T AND HUMOUR. 121 for him." Person's criticism on Gibbon's Rome is a specimen o' the most biting sarcasm :— " His style is emphatic and expressive; his periods harmonious. His reflections are often just and profound; he pleads eloquently for the rights of mankind and the duty of toleration; nor does his humanity slumber except witen wotnefi are ravished and the Chistians perse- cuted. Though his style is in general correct and elegant, he sometimes draws out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. In endeavouring to avoid vulgar terms, he too frequently dignifies trifles, and clothes common thoughts in a dress that would be rich enough for the noblest ideas. In short, we are too often reminded of that great man Mr Puff, the auctioneer, v/hose manner was so inimitably fine that 'he had as much to say upon a ribbon as a Raphael' " The description in " Hudr- bris," of certain sour-minded religionists belongs to the same class : — "Compound for sins they are inclined to. By damning those they ha/e no mind to ; ."Still so perverse and opposite. As if they worshipp'd God for spite." There is no species of wit that palls upon us so soon as parody, or which requires less genius ; yet when attempted by a man of true hi mour, the result is exceedingly amusing. The " Reje« ted Addresses " belong to this class; and every .ne knows how 132 m '! / '■■ JV/r AND HUMOUR. laughtcr-provokingr arc those imitations of the re- spective styles of our great poets. Quotations from such well-known productions arc needless. Almost every popular poem is sure to be parodied, no mat- ter how lofty its subject. Longfellow's " Hiawitha" seems to have been peculiarly potent in provoking parod.es. Here is one. for example, on the adage that " Misfortunes never come single:"— " Never jumns a sheep th.it '., frirhten'(I, Over any fence whatever. Over w.'ill, or fence, or timber, lUit a second follows after, . And a third upon the second, And a fourth and f.ah, and so on,— First a sheep and then a dozen, Till they all, in (piick succession, One by r-^e, have got clear over ; So misfortunes, almost always. Follow after one another ; Seem to watch each other always. When they see the tail uplifted, In the air the tail uplifted, As one sorrow Icnpeth over >o they follow, thicker, faster, Till the air of earth seems darken'd." Daniel O'Conncirs famous parody on the well- known lines, " Three poets in three different ages bom," &c., &c.. is admirable of its kind. The three Colonels referred to are Sibthorp, Percival, and Verner: the first noted for his enormous beard, in which the man was almost r ■ WIT AND HUMOUR. 123 lost ; the others for their freedom from all hairy ap- pendages : — "Three Colonels, in three distant counties bom, Lincoln, Armagh, and Sligo did adorn — The first in matchless impMflence surpass'd. The next in bigotry,— in both the last ; The force of nature could no farther go, — To beard fhe third, she shavt . tnc other twa" Southcy's "Curse of Kchama" is also amusingly parodied in Barham's " Ingoldsby Legends," in the malediction pronounced by th . Cardinal upon the Jackdaw of Rhcims, that had stolen his ring:— " TIic Cardinal rose with a dignified look. He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book. In holy anger and pious grief. He solemnly cursed that rascally thief; He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed. From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream or" the devil and wake in a fright ; He cursed him in lating, he cursed him in drinking. He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying, He cursed him in walking, in riding, and flying, He cursed Mm in living, he cursed him in dying ;— Never was heard such a terrible curse ; But what gave rise To no little surprise. Nobody seem'd one penny the worse." The same author has parodied the " Burial of Sir John Moore:" — " Not a sous had he got, not a guinea or note, And he look'd ^unfoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the landlady after him hurried. 124 ^JT AND HUMOUR. \i We saw h,m again at dead of night, When home from the dub returning; ^\etw,gg'd the Doctor beneath the 4ht Of the gas lamps brilliantly burning. v . "All bare and exposed to the midnight dews Andhti ;r''^^""""^^-"^^™^ VV 1th his martial cloak around him. " We bore him home and put him to bed And we told his wife and daughter To ^ve him next morning a couple of red Herrings and soda water. ""^TJJ^T ?''' °'''^ '"""^y 'hat's gone And his lady began to upbraid him ;^' Shth""'"''''''^^^^'^----^ Neath the counterpane just as we laid hi;. •' We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done, When, beneath the window calin^ We heard the rough voice ofa son of'a gun Ofa watchman "one o'clock" bawlinr "Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down i-rom his room in the uppermost storv • sances. Yet how admirably Ho 'f .'"'"''"■•^'''^ ""'" vein, and by his fi„. ^ "'' ''"= '™'-'^-<>'' th'^ by h,s fine genius made even punning re- IV/T AND HUMOUR. J2S spectable ! Witness, for example, his ballad of " Ben Battle:"— " Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon ball took off his leers. So he laid down his arms. " Now as they bore him off the field. Said he, ' Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg. And the forty-second foot.' " The army surgeons made him limbs, Said he, ' They 're only pegs ; But they 're as wooden members quite As represent my legs.' **Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray ; So he went to pay her his devoirs When he devour'd his pay. "Now when he call'd on Nelly Gray She made him quite a scoff. And when she saw his wooden legs Began to take them off. " ' O Nelly Gray, O Nelly Gray, Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform.' " Said she, ' I loved a soldier once. But he was blithe and brave ; But I will never have a man • With both legs in the grave. " ' Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow ; But then you know you stand upon A different footing now.' i^=skit: ' j'-!!i^,''i^.. ^-^v ^^ _,. '-^'-7^ :ief.';er :"?i ■/!l(t,Wf -■v*i r m^:. .i r |: 126 ^^T AND HUMOUR. "' O Nelly Gray I O Nelly Gray - i- or all your jeering speeches. At duty's call I left my le^, '^^^a-'Xdiloz breaches!' •"VVhy, then,' said she. 'you've lost ^he feet 0» legs ,n war's alarms. And no., you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms.' "'O false and fickle Nelly Gray » I know whv you refuse : though I've no feet somp n-l, Isstanlmginmy'srs ''"'"^" -Iwishlne'er^dseenyourface; But now a long farewell J For you will be my death-alas .. > ou will not be my Nell ! ' ."Now when he went from Nelly Gray His hea- so heavy got ^' And life ^„,h a b„rd;n grown. It made him take a knot. " ^" ""O""^ J"s melancholy neck A rope he did ent"'ine, And for his second time in life Enlisted in the Line. "One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pe^rs . And as his legs were off-ofco'urse He soon was off his le"s "And there he hung till he was dead '^s any nail in town • Fc. though distress had cut h.m up, itcouh ot cut him down. "A dozen men sat on his corpse To find out why he died • And they Inined Ben in fbu; cross-road. VMlUaj/jXt'inhisinside." IVn- AND HUMOUR. i2y I can quote only one other specimen from the sparkhng pages of Hood. It belongs to no parti- cular species of the ludicrous, but is a mixture of the comic, the witty, and the humorous. It is entitled " The Bachelor's Dream : "— " My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd. My curtains drawn, and all is snug ; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream. Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg— What d' ye think of that, my cat ? What d'ye think of that, my dog? " She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo, and she was won ; Myself in blue, the bride in white The ring was placed, the deea as done • Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog— What d'ye think, &c. " What loving tSU-&-tiUs to come ! But ictc-a-mes must still defer ! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her ! With sister Belle she could not part j' But all my ties had leave to jog— What d'ye think, &c. " The mother bought a pretty Pol!— A monkey too, what work he made ! The sister introduced a beau— My Susan brought a favourite maid. She had a tabby of her own, A snappish mongrel, christen'd Gog— What d'ye think, &c. .5*S a 128 -, } i WIT AND HUMOUR. " The monkey bit, the parrot scream'd, All day the sister strumm d and sung ; The petted miid was such a scold, My Susan learn'd to use her tongue ; Her mother had such wretched health, She sat and croak'd like any frog— What d'ye think, &c. "No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, I soon came dow.i to simple ' M ' ! The very servants cross'd my wish, My Susan let me down to them ; The poker hardly seem'd my own, I might as well have been a log— What d'ye think, &c. " My clothes, they were the queerest shape I Such coats and hats she never met ! . My ways they were the oddest ways ! My friends were such a vulgar set ! Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd. She could not bear that Mister Blogg— What d'ye think, &c, " At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song ; The sister took a sister's part,— The maid declared her master wrong ; The parrot learn'd to call me ' Fool ' ! My life was like a London fog— What d'ye think, &c. " My Susan's taste was superfine. As proved by bills that had no end ; I never had a decent coat, I never had a coin to spend. She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog— What d'ye think, &c. " Now, was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug— WYT- AND HUMO UR. 1 29 With Pussy in the elbow-chair, And Tray reposing on the rug ? If I must totter down the hill, *Tis safest done without a clog What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d' ye think of that, my dog ? " In closing this address, I can barely refer to one familiar form of the ludicrous, which has obtained, for some unknown reason, the name of " bull," and is most frequently met with in Ireland— the land where wit is most sparkling and most relished. The " bull' involves a blunder, in which some ludicrous incon- gruity lurks. It has been defined as "the exact counterpart oi a witticism. Instead of discovering real relations which are not apparent, it admits ap- parent relations which are not real." " J will make her," says Sir Lucius O'Trigger of his mistress, "Lady O'Trigger, and a good husband into the bar- gain." A gentleman, in speaking of somebody's wife regretted that she had no children. "Ah!" said a medical man present on the occasion, "to have no children is a great misfortune, but I have remarked that It IS hereditary in some families." Six Boyle Roche's "bulls" will transmit his name and fame to an admiring posterity. "Sir, I would give up half, nay the whole of the constitution, to preserve the' remainder." Hearing that Admiral Hou-e was in quest of the French, he remarked, somewhat plea- I 130 U'lT AND HUMOUR. ii , santly, that the Admiral would "sweep the French fleet off the face of the earth." Writing to a friend, ■n roublous times, he said-" You may judge of our state, when I tell you that I write this with a sword • m one hand and a pistol in the other." It was he who denounced, in withering language, the apostate pohfcan, who « turned his back upon himself" His ■nvtation to the gentleman on his travels was hos- p.table and well meant, but equivocal-" I hope, my iord, .fever you come within a mile of my house you W.11 stay ,/.... all night." Ludicrously bovine, too was h,s rebuke to the shoemaker, when getting shoes for h,s gouty feet-" I told you to make one long.r than the other, and instead of that you have made Bulls^ however, are not wholly confined to the fertile Hibernian mind ; there is also a small Scottish vanety. It is related of Lord Polkemmet that he refused to let the dentist insert his finger in his mouth, saying, «Na. ye '11 bite me." A bovine ten- dency ran in the noble Lord's family; for his grand- son, when canvassing a borough, refused to take luncheon from an elector, on the ground "that it would be treating" When Miss Edgeworth pub- hshed her "Essay on Irish Bulls," it is said that an Enghsh agricultural society ordered fifty copies under the impression that it was a treatise on' ly/r AND HUMOUR. 131 Here was a practical English cattle - breeding, "bull." On the whole, then, I think we are justified in con- cluding that it is legitimate and desirable, at times, to hold converse with the ludicrous element of exist- ence; that our tempers and dispositions are thereby sweetened, our charity enlarged, and the heavy pres- sure of life's cares lightened. In life's rough journey the ludicrous is a kind of buffer, to break the rude shocks we have to encounter, and save us from un- pleasant collision with stern realities. Not only so; but it multiplies the sj mpathetic cords that bind us to our brothers, lifts the lowly into our regards, and leads us to exercise more love and less hatred. Our true humourists must therefore be ranked among our best benefactors ; they not only call forth our smiles, but add to our charity, kindness, and happiness, and shed a light and warmth around our whole being. A really humorous writer must necessarily be 1 warm-hearted, genial sort of man, tolerant in his ways of looking at men and things, and without bitterness or harshness. Take, for example, that sweetest and most delicate of humourists-Oliver Goldsmith. Could the heart that conceived and the hand that drew the "Vicar of Wakefield" be other than the gentle, loving hand and heart of a brother > Hence, if you find in a man a large endowment of I I 132 IVIT AND HUMOUR. w.t and humour, so that he can enjoy the ludicrous and laugh heartily, you may expect to find him honest, sincere, and free from mahgnity. On the other hand, if you find a man incapable of perceiving the nd.culous, averse to all mirthfulness, and without heartmess In his laughter, you had better not become too mtimate with him. Hear the author of " Sartor Rcsartus" on this point:-" No one who has once hcart.Iy and wholly laughed can be altogether irre cla,mably bad. How much lies in laughter, the apher-key wherewith we decipher the whole man • borne men wear an everlasting barren simper; in the sm.le of others lies a cold glitter, as of ice; the fewest are able to laugh what can be called laughing, but only sniff, and titter, and snigger from the throat out- wards_or at best produce some whififling, hu^^ky cachmnation, as if they were laughing th-ough wool- of none such comes good. The man who cannot laugh ,s not only fit for treason's stratagems and spoils, but his whole life is already a treason and a stratagem." Let no man fancy, then, that wit and humour are mere contemptible frivolities, to be shunned by all wise a:7d sober men ; on the contrary, they are the very salt of existence. Jeremy Taylor says "we may well be refreshed by a clean and brisk discourse as by the air of Campanian wines, and our faces and IVIT AND HUMOUR. 133 our heads may well be anointed and look pleasant with wit, as with the fat of the balsam tree." Let not the pompous, the solemn, or sour-minded turn away from such things, as being vain or contemptible Be assured that length of face by no means implies longitude of wisdom, and that gravity does not always veil an oracle. Genuine wit implies no small amount of wisdom and culture, and, as Sydney Smith says, "is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be con- sidered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding." To name the greatest humourists would be to enumerate some of the ablest and wisest men. that have ever lived. What great reform has ever yet made way in the world without the aid of wit and humour.? What countless services they have rendered in putting down impudence and hy- pocrisy, in detecting pretence and pomposity, in collaring solemn imbecility and varnished scoundrel- ism, and hurling them to the dust-bin ! How much we owe our great humourists of former times, and of the present day, who have turned their bat- teries against "old opinions, rags, and tatters," that have had their day; and who have pointed their guns against the vile and the bad -against fal- sity and foolishness in all their forms ! I am quite aware of the abuses into which wit and humour may ^34 IVn AND HUMOUR. K- ; , run. What good thing is there that may not be abused ? If they be not mingled with higher quah'- ttes, and directed by right principles, they will but corrupt head and heart, and cause wide-spread mis- chief. There is no more contemptible character than the professed wit, whose vanity shews itself through his painful efforts to be always funny and a nusing ; and the shallowness of whose understanding appear«=' in hi. uneasy attempts at hum 3ur. There is nothing we should more heartily unite in denouncing and re- peiling than witty attacks directed against purity, truth, virtue, or the solemnities of religion. Let us drive away with scorn and contempt the man who assails with the shaft, of wit the wise, the good, the h^ V, and who aims at bringing into contempt what che heart of humanity pronounces sacred. Let us warn the light fool that profanity cannot be per- mitted to tread the solemn aisle., of the temple of religion, and that wit employed against the cause of morality and piety is a flagrant abuse of one of God's kind gifts. But. in the words of Sydney Smith, "when wit is combined with sense and information- when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle ; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it-who can be witty and something better than witty -who loves honour, justice, decency, religion ten thousand times better n iVIT AND HUMOUR. 135 than wit,— wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. Genuine and innocent wit is surely the very flavour of the mind. Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by taste- less food ; but God has given us wit and flavour, and brightness and laughter, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and ' to charm his pained steps over the burning marie.' '' LECTURE THE FOURTH. ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. i ANcnoRr.1) off the coast of Europe, within sight of its shores, IS the most famous island on which the sun now looks down. Its name is Great Britain Be- tween its furthest extremities, it is not more than eight hundr J m,les ,n lengtl,, and some three hundred in average breadtl,; and is thus about equal in area to the States of Georgia and South Carolina-f.vo of those now struggling for independence. The popu- lat,on, mcluding the six or seven millions of Ireland .s somewhere about twenty-nine millions. On this' h tie sca-g,rt isle, wnich is a men- speck on the map of the world a race has grown up ar.d developed tself dunng the last thousand years which, in modern t.mes, has proved itself more potent in guiding the current of cvilisation, and influencing the worlds des- tm,es, than any other now extant. Confessedly the ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 3/ British race lead the van in the onward march of the nations ; and only one other nation— the French- can pretend to shiirc with them in this honour. The northern and southern portions of the island— Scot- land and England— were at first at variance, and wasted ear% other's strength in fierce contests ; but they have long since been recoi.-ilcd, have entered into partnership, and acted togetlier for the common weal. Now, consider what this race has achieved, :n a thousand years of working and fighting. An island which, when they entered on possession, was mostly forest and swamp, has been transformed into agard-n, incomparably the best cultivated and most productive on the face of the earth. The rich treasures beneath its surface chey have explored and dragged up to the sunlight; and, by the aid of these, they hrve be- come the manufacturers and clothiers of the worid. They have built up mighty London, to which, in point of wealth, magnitude, and population, no other capital approaches. They have created Glasgow, Manchester, Birmingham, and other great hives of industry, in which the strokes fall so fast and incessant on the anvil of labour. They have won tho dominion of the sea ; for centuries their flag " has braved the battle and the breeze;" and to-day it is "Britannia rules the waves." Swarm after swarm has left the parent hive, and colonised America and Australia, laying the foundations of new empires in these distant regions, '5?7-*'r US ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS and, besides, peopling numberless isles of the sea. A great empire has been conquered in India; and when recently all but lost, they grasped it more vigorously than ever, and subdu^^ it again. This strong-handed resolute, toiling race has also proved itself mighty in war ; and, from Cressy to Waterloo and Inkerman, can point to a proud array of victories. In the world of mnid. too, great have been their achievements I„ science, they boast of the great names of Bacon, New- ton, Herschel ; in the mechanical arts, they name Brindley,VVatt,Stephenson; in literature, Shake.speare, Spenser, Milton, Burns, Scott, Wordsworth. With the exception of Germany, there is no other literature so rich as that of England. Look at this side of the At- lantic, where England's greatest off-shoot, the United States, some eight)- years ago, was so strong and full- grown that they insisted on setting up in life on their own account ; and how they Iiave thriven, at what aK amazing pace thoy have advanced, we all know Already, in their towering ambition, they proclaim that the New World is their own. Now, the people that have done all this, and left their traces so broadly on the face of the earth though marked by distinctive peculiarities, are from tlic same stock, and are virtually the same race The Scotch are just the English " raised." as the Yankees say. on a poorer soil and in a colder clime than those of England, and subsisting more largely ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 139 on oatmeal and barley bread than their Southern brethren. And though in America the great human sandwich has more variety of mixture, drawn from Ireland, Germany, and other portions of the Old World, yet its spirit and substance, its might and energy, all that make it a nation, are Anglo-Saxon. Now, to sum up, there are at this moment on the earth sixty millions of English descent and language, and they are governing a population of two hundred and forty-five millions of souls. This calculation in- cludes the United States; but, exclusive of these, there are forty millions of pure British stocl:, and they are ruling two hundred and twenty-two millions, or a fifth of the population of the globe. So predo- minant have this strong-backed, earth-subduing race become. To-day, so far from declining, they are as strong as ever,— forging their Armstxong guns, launch- ing their iron-plated frigates, and bullying the worid, as in former times. It is worth considering how this man-conquering race arose, and .what were the primi- tive elements out of which it was constructed. Geologists inform us that Britain was once joined to the continent of Europe; and that long before man's day on earth, where at present the submerged wires of the electric telegraph lie, connecting the French and English coasts, a valley extended, covered with willows and palm-trees. Among the branches of these trees extinct owls and other birds roosted ; \iii '40 EJVCLfSff, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. and under their foUaje the nala-nfl, • and fnr„„« Pateotherium, mastodon, and fo gotten races of elephants found shelter As other lands arose, the displaced waters of the st ".shed ,nto this valky, and transformed it into It vTthf '"/"""^^^'y P'-ed for communication w th east and west-the very centre of the world The firs mhabitants of the island, of whom h L.' tory ma...es any record, were the ancient Briton s. But there ,s unquestionable evidence to shew that these ancent Britons were by no means the firs nhab,tants of the island; that they had the p. decessor, and these their predecessors again. H L of Bntam, from the time when Pharaoh built the p^ur Jenc „,„e„„„,^„,j„„.^^-'^^^^^ , '"'• ^"' ■'"""g "'is immense period or at least some portion of it there w.r. --ws in England ;:rLrndTrdirj^^ a I ttle hght has been thrown on what was utter darl.^ ness efore. A diligent examination of ancient tombs and their contents has made it clea,- that no less than three different human formations preceded th a^ ^n Br.to.s. At all events, antiquarians have clearly estab hs ed that there were three d-.inct epochs in th i e of th.s prehistoric race-the ages of stone, of bronz ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I41 and of iron. The stone period is so called because the men who then lived were acquainted with no other weapons or utensils save such as were con- structed out of stone. During the bronze age, we have evidence that the inhabitants were acquainted with tin and copper, and constructed vessels and weapons of bronze, a compound of these two metals. The iron age is so called because those who figured in it knew and employed iron. As this period closed, history began to indite her earliest records. The aboriginal Caledonian and Enghshman of the stone age must have been an uncouth savage. His dwell- ing was a hole excavated in the ground, and roofed in with stones. Armed with a ball of flint attached to the end of a thong, he lay in wait for his prey, and with this rude weapon struck down deer and other animals. The remains of the stone forixia- tion, treasured in the British Museum, shew that the first step he took in an upward direction was in the construction of a hatchet. This weapon was at first a sharp stone fastened to a wooden handle by a leathern thong. But a great invention fol- lowed-a method of piercing the stone, so as to be fastened on the wooden handle. Some primeval genius-some Arkwright or Watt of this era— worked out this idea, and soon the oldest trees in the British forests began to fall under the blows of the stone hatchets. Knife-blades and arrow-heads of flint, Ill is* H2 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. wedges and s-issors, followed ; and the rudiments of civilisation began to appear. However disagreeable, we are compelled to reckon the unkempt savages of this age among cur poor relations. They were not, perhaps, very respectable ; but let us not forget that they were the backwoodsmen whose stout arms first cleared the jungles, and felled the forests, and con- quered for us the savage beasts of prey ; nd thus laid the foundations of Britain's greatness. Considering their disadvantages, and that they had nothing to provide food with but arrow-heads and stone hatchets, they did great things in smoothing the rough surface of the earth ; and in their poor savage life, they had their human affections, and joys, and sorrows, as we have to-day. They must have belonged to the first wave of human population that overspread the earth, after the dispersion of Babel, and which, after the lapse of ages, at length touched the shores of Britain. Their mouldering remains shew that they were a short, poorly-developed race, with skulls of a low, flat, pyra- midal form, powerful jaws, but small foreheads. Such were the first inhabitants of Britain. Dr Pritchard gives the name of Ugro-Tatars to a group of nations whose principal types an> the Mongolian, the Tun- grian, the Tatar, and the Turkish. All indicates that the Ugro-Tatars, with whom arc connected certain hyperborean races,— the Samoyedes, the Lapons, and the Esquimaux,— constitute one of the oldest branches \ ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS I43 of the human race. This primitive race spread over Europe, and formed the first children of the soil in many parts where they settled. It has been inferred from various evidence, chiefly philological, that the aborigines of the United Kingdom belonged to one family of this primeval race, called the Lapons. They formed the primary strata of population in the British Isles, to which has been given the name of the stone formation. The first inhabitants were ignorant of the art of ^manipulating metals. Anew epoch dawned when copper and tin were discovered, and bronze, the result of their intermixture, came into use. The first step was the insertion of a spike of this metal in a hilt of split wood; and, after many experiments and long processes, a socket for receiving the handle was mani- pulated. This was the first metal tool— a vast ad- vance in hu.nan progress. In the British Museum may now be seen the first stone hammers employed in the old copper mines in breaking the mineral, and the first moulds employed to run the metal and give It ape— objects of profound interest to the philo- sophic mind. What a stretch between these and the Nasmyth hammer and iron foundry of the nineteenth century ! During the bronze period, rude tools were applied to the cultivation of the soil, primeval houses were constructed, and the ladies of those days had their fashions in bronze bracelets, collars, and head 144 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. ;i li: ornaments. Increased comforts, and improved means of attaining them, secured an advance in the physical development of the race ; and the men of the bronze period, though still marked by a wild animal life, were of a powerful mould, and, doubtless, looked back with contempt on their predecessors of the stone age. The skeleton of one of these bronze men, which has been preserved, shews that the living person must have been at least six feet six inches in height. The teeth are found in excellent preservation yet, shewing that dentists and dyspepsia were unknown in those primitive times. Gradually the bronze age passed into that of iron. Iron superseded all else in the con- struction of instruments of industry and weapons of war. Civilisation rapidly became more complicated and elevated. The horse was tamed; strongholds were built; the human skull enlarged; the facial angle increased ; the eyebrows retired, and the fore- head advanced ; and at length the true Celtic head appeared. The close of the iron period brings us up to the age of tradition— the times of Macbeth, St Pat- rick, St Keernan, and the Northmen. Then dawns the historic period— the ancient Uritons and the Ro- man invasion. It is highly probable that the last of these pre- historic men— our poor relations of the iron times were overwhelmed by the advance of a new migra- tion. This fresh wave of the great human deluge ENGLISH SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS I45 cv. isisted of the Celts, or Sidonides, who now entered and spread themselves over Britain. The origin of all races is lost in the obscure mists of the past. Of the Celts, we only know that their cradle was the sunny East, and that, like all the other great waves of population, they swept on towards the West. Their language, which contains traces of Sanscrit, indicates their Oriental origin. The race of Japhet sent out two great streams of migration-the Celtic first, then the German. Thus the Celtic is the oldest blood in the worid ; so that, as far as age goes, no man need be ashamed of having it in his veins. At an eariy period the Celts were a wide-spread race, having tribes numerous and powerful in France, Spain, and the middle and south of Europe ; while of Britam and Ireland they had exclusive possession. Until the birth of Christ, there was no people north of the Alps who could compare with them in the arts of civilised life. Gradually the whole of the British Jsles were occupied by this great race. The Irish Celt, a distinct family, reached Ireland by traversing Spam and crossing the Bay of Biscay. From Ireland m the third century, they passed into Western Scot- land and the Isle of Man. The Caledonian Celt held the northern portion of Scotland, and the modern Highlanders are his descendants. The British Celt or ancient Briton, possessed England, and is now represented by the Welsh and Cornish. The bulk K U :i '.Tl 146 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. of the population of Ireland, with the exception of the north, are the posterity of the Irish Celt. Thus the modern Welsh, Highlanders, Irish, and Manxmen are all branches of the Celtic stem, and in language, character, and many personal peculiarities have a strong family likeness. There <5pems to have been a closer affinity between the Caledonian and Irish Celt than either of these and the British Celt; for we fina that the Highlander, speaking his Gaelic, is understood by the Irish-speaking Celt; while the language of a Welshman is wholly unintelligible to both the former. The Gael and the Irishman can also partially understand the Manxman. A brilliant race were the Celts, full of energy and genius, war- like, fond of music, of the song and the dance. They contributed to the literature of the world the songs of Merlin, and the graceful mythology of Arthur and his Table Round. The genius of Tennyson has re- cently, in his " Idylls of the King," embodied some of their traditions in his melodious verse. They left behind them those funereal monuments called crom- lechs, (vulgarly, Druidic stones,) which were their sepulchres; and Stonehcnge, which is still a puzzle to the antiquarian. How ineffaceable is race ! " Can the Ethiopian change his skin > " Could you, by any amount of combing, washing, or training, transmute the black man into the white .? The Celtic branch of Japhet's family, that left the sunny East so many ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I47 centuries since, retains, in its modern representatives, its distinguishing characteristics in spite of change of clime and altered circumstances. In their warhke tendencies, their disHke to the practical conquests of industr>', their .attachment to fishing and pastoral pursuits, their mercurial temperament, their joyous, thoughtless disposition, that prefers present enjoy-' ment to future good,— in their passim, gaiety, fierce loves and hates,— do we not see traces of their Oriental origin— of the clime of the sun, the cradle of their race ? Compare Ireland, Wales, and the Highlands of Scotland with the north of Ireland, the west and south of Scotland, and England,-the lands of the Saxon,— and what a striking difference you observe i,> the in- habitants and in the countries themselves ! With all their brilliancy, the modern Celts, it must be admitted, are not thrifty,— do not, as a general rule, get on in the world,— have not the love of hard work and the talent for accumulation possessed by the slower Sax- ons. Like the Easterns, they like to enjoy. Eloquent, brave, sprightly, witty, but not worldly and prosper- ous, they earn and spend, and fail in grappling suc- cessfully with the practical realities of life. Are we to refer their peculiarities to the warm sun of the East, that land where " The cj-press and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ; Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into softness, now madden to crime ? " I ' M! ; t I 148 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. The stern Roman landed in Britain ; and the Celt, though he fought brav^Jy, went down before the superior military skill and higher civilisation of the Romans. Their defeats wore very much owing to an unhappy turn for quarrelling among themf,elves, for which they have ever been noted ; and not even the presence of imminent danger could keep them united. They could not hold their ground before the iron tread of the Roman legions. It was not, how- ever, the Roman policy to exterminate, but to civil- ise and govern. At length Roman decline set in ; pressing domestic troubles arose ; and the conqueror retired from Britain, leaving the British Celts to themselves. For them, however, there was no peace. Their thievish, marauding neighbours, the Picts and Scots, assailed them fiercely. The Picts were the Celts of the north of Scotland ; the Scots were a tribe of Celts who had emigrated from Ireland, and seized the south and west of Scotland, and who have given their name to the whole land, though hardly a drop of their blood runs in the veins of the Lowland Scotch, their origin being Saxon. Thus the Celts, as usual, got to fighting among themselves,— the two northern tribes, the Picts and Scots, assailing the southern or ancient Britons. The latter, in an evil day for themselves, implored the aid of another race, the Saxons of Germany, who wu.mgly came to their assistance. These were a totally different ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 149 people from any that had yet touched the shores of Britain. They were of the great Teutonic stock, that had spread over most of Germany, and for two hun- dred and fifty years had fought the Romans, and given them more trouble than any oiher enemy. A strong-limbed, fierce race were these Saxons, who were destined to form the primary stratum of the present British people. The cradle of this race was Scandinavia-Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Holstein ; from thence they spread along the shores of the Baltic and the banks of the Rhine, and finally pushed their way mto Germany, Switzerland, France. Greece, and England. For ages they were the brigands of the sea, pursuing piracy as a profession, and ravaging the shores of Europe. Physically they were, and con- tmue to be, the most powerful race of men in the world. They were distinguished from other races by the fairness of their complexion, their blue eyes, fair hair, large, round heads, lofty stature, and great mus- cular energy. Compared with the Celt, the Saxon had redder hair ; while the colour of that of the Celt was flaxen. The type of the Celtic skull was narrow and elongated ; the Saxon, short and wide. Of ro- bust, compact build, the Saxon excels the Celt in ful- ness of chest, width of shoulders, and muscularity of arms; while his framework is not so developed or so well-proportioned as that of the Celt,-his limbs not bemg in harmony with the upper part of his body t( \iU f ISO EVGL/S/f, score//, AND AMER/CANS. ■ Tacitus described them so in his day ; and the pure ^Anglo-Saxon has the same characteristics at the present hour. In moral qualities the Sr .on diftered greatly from the Celt. Slower, less impulsive, and less brilliant than the Celt, the Saxon had an indomi- table pride that rendered him superior to all the freaks of fortune, a self-reliance that made him firm and per- severing in his enterprises, and a self-esteem that gave him a conscious superiority over all others, and for- bade the idea of his ever being enslaved. A late French writer says : " If you wish tc form an idea of the beauty of the Saxon type, you must look at the female. She is remarkable for light hair, blue eyes, coral lips, chee':s ruddy as the flowers to which they are so frequently compared, a skin as white and trans- parent as alabaster, delicate features, arms admirably modelled, a perfect bust, and an air of flourishing health, yet bearing the stamp of birth. Who cannot recognise a true Saxon woman by her walk ? incessri patuit dca : you distinguish in it the movement of a haughty race, independent mistress of itself, and all it thinks proper to subjugate." Again : " The character of strength and greatness is found in all the chief cities founded by the Saxon race ; it is reflected even on the creations of industry. In all its labours the Saxon genius aims at the gigantic : it likes difficulties to overcome ; it sets its pride on conquering the most rebellious facts." Such, then, w-re the great race that ^' #■- ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I S I were destined to form the stem of the English nation, and to impress on them all their predominant char- acteristics. It seems to be a general law of nature, that wher(» two races, unequal in civilisation and force of charac- ter, are brought together on the same territory, they do not amalgamate ; the • .aker goes down and dis- appears before the str-nger. Instead of blending and forming a compouna, che inferior race is either ex- terminated, or slowly retires as the other advances. Such has been the history of the t ' and white races on the America! continent; such, too, was the pro- cess when Saxon and Celt met on the soil of Britain. The stronger Saxon prevailed. Fighting desperately, but hopelessly, for a hundred and fifty years, the Celt fell back before his conqueror into the fastnesses of Cornvvali.. behind the mountain ramparts of Wales, and into the cr: ^ns of the Highlands. The day of the Celt, as a ru . , / er, was over. Swarm after s wa-m arrived: the ^.les, from Jutland seized Kent and Hampshire; the Saxons, from North Germa'iy, and the Angles established themselves in the rest -^f the island ; and the new colonists got the name of Anglo- Saxons. Pushing their way north, they drove j.efore them the Gael, or Caledonian Celt, till he was cooped amid his rocky barriers behind the Grampians, whence, for ages after, he was accustomed to issue forth and make marauding excursions upon his southern op- ■tV' n \m 'If 152 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. pressors. Thus the Saxon race occupied all the Low- lands of Scotland, and the modern Scotch are conse- quently of the same race as the English. The Scotch tongue is simply a dialect of the Saxon ; and the Scottish people are, with some slight intermixt-.ires, thorough Saxons. When we now wish to find the representatives of the British Celt, we must cross the Grampians or sail for the Hebrides, or we must search amid the recesses of the Welsh mountains. In Ire- land, the best-preserved Celtic types are to b- foun 1 in Connaught, or among the athletic peasantry Con- nemara. But even in these retreats the expansive power of the ever-advancing Saxon is felt ; and the silent Invasion of Teutonic civilisation is pushin. out the Celtic remnant. Hence the ^reat exodus from Ireland to the New World, and the rapid de- population of the Highland glens and the northern isles of Scotland. The invasion of Engl.^d by the Saxons took place in the fifth century. In the tenth century another conquering race arrived in Britain, and the turn of the Saxon came. These were the D.nes, as they are commonly called, another Scandinavian tribe from Norway and Sweden; of the same race, therefore, as the Saxons. They were the " Vikings," or sea- kings of those days : their ships swept the ocean • and they weic accustomed to pillage, burn, and murder without mercy wherever they came This ",''=?■'' ?<'':- ^<4 x.'-jfsv'.'* ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 153 much can be said in defence of piracy — that it was the originator of navigation and commerce. For ages these Danes were in the habit of ravaging the coasts of Britain, carrying terror and destruction wherever they appeared. No doubt the Saxons fought well against the invaders, a-^.d at times got the better of the Vikings, who were occasionally made to stay where they landed, much against their will. There is a story told of some of them being caught, on one occasion, by the Saxons, who insisted strongly on their remaining; and in order to make sure of this, . they di^'ested the captured Danes of the one essen- tial and perfectly fittmg garment, indispensable in the mildest climates, — the covering which nature, not the tailor, makes up — namely, the skin; thej stripped them of this under-clothing, and nailed it on the church-door, as farmers do a dead crow, in order to be a terror to evil-doers of the \ .king brood. In modern days, the churchwardens were repairing and beautifying n old Saxon church in a certain EngUsh village; a*- ., among other things, they thought the door badly crusted, and would be all the better for scraping. One ma";, who had heard the old stor>', happened ♦"o be possessed of a microscope, and had the curiosity to examine the under part of the crust. There was no mistake about it ; " it was a genuine historical document "—the skin of the old Scandi- navian Viking, who had unwillingly left this record of i •54 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. h™se.f behind These were doubtless rough times ; yet the fou„dat,o„sof all that is now so fair and plea ^n were laid by these coarse hands. The Danes, t tha k,„g3 even occupied the throne of England. Con- siderable numbers of them spi-H^^ ,1 and northern coasts 7^ !^'"^''.=''°»ff ^e eastern Anrfo q,v T ' '""^™'"g"ng with the i„ t ' ™'' "° ■■"-"-■derable ingredient -n the compound British race. The Da„!s were darmg and skilful sailors; and no doubt it is a a" Oh., blood that has helped to make modern Bntons he great sea-kings, discoverers, and ex- porers of the nineteenth centur,. It was reserved f th wave-ruhng race to wrench from the Frost- f 7 1 T"' °' "■" ^ortb.^,,t Passage, and to rx? rr° '^ "^^'^"""^ ^°"-- 1" Scot 'and, and all along the east coast of England, there was a large admixture of Danish blood .'and '^2 day, m the manners, appearance, and language of the populat,on, there are un,..is.akable traceLf Scandi rav.a„,sm. The famil, of which Nelson came ^ ^Zu^ ' ^": '""' "' '"<= ^-'-^h ^'-™^. and tiugh Miller was Scandinavian u^ated and ravaged, were unable to conquer the ough, plucky Saxons, who had far too much bott m m hem to be pushed off the soil where they had settled, by the Scandinavian sea-rover. Altogether ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 155 the Danes did not hold their ground above half a century in England. The Saxons watched their op- portunity ; rose, killed a good many of the Vikings, and let the rest remain on the condition that they became Christians and conducted themselv^es pro- perly. But presently new troubles arose for the Saxons ; a more terrible foe than the Danes assailed them. This great race, with such a destiny before it, must be trained amid toils and troubles — savacre enemies without, and turmoils at home. No good comes of a man or people unless he and they have difficulties to overcome, — difficulties that will strain the muscles and tax brain and heart. The best men and the best races have been developed and trained amid hardships and sore toils and struggles. Did the wind always blow gently from the south, what a poor race of sailors we should have ! It needs the howl- ing blasts of the no'th to breed hard Englishmen ; for— *' 'Tis the black north-easter, Through the snow-storm hurl'd, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world ! Come as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquerhig from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come, and strong within us Stir the Viking's blood. Bracing brain and sinew ; Blow, thou wind of God !" »S i ^*'--- ''*>; iui '56 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMKRrCANS. The Saxons had no reason to complain of the want or rough north-easters. They had hardly done with the Danes, when another savage host leaped on their shores. In ,066 the Normans, under William Con- queror, arrived. These Normans came from Nor- mandy, a province in France ; but in reality they, too, w^re Seandmavian in their origin. One hundred and fifty years before, a host of the Norse pirates made he,r way to France, burn.ng, slaying, and pillagingas hey went. They got hold of Normandy and Ltld doned the,rw,ld habits, and became Christians after a fash,on ; and in the course of a century and a half got so combed and polished that their barbarian ch.efs had become Norman kn.ghts and barons. They had mtermingled a good deal with the French Celts, so that both Scandinavian and Celtic blood ran ■n the,r veins. Some si.xty thousand of these Nor- mans, or French Dar.es, with some Flemings and Walloons, now landed in England. They were far from bemg a reputable band ; in fact, if the truth mus be told, they were sadly addicted to robbety and hom,c,de. We all know the result. The battle of Hastmgs gave the crown of England to Norman W,l,am; the Saxons were vanquished ; and if you harned, and murdered the poor Saxons, read TluerrysHistory of the Norman Conquest" In m ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 5/ the end, however, Saxoii pluck and bottom won the day. The conquerors were conquered, though not exactly in battle. The Normans failed to drive out or improve the Saxons " off the face of all creation." On the contrary, they were absorbed by the van- quished ; compelled to adopt their language, laws, and usages ; and at Runnymede we find Saxons dictating their terms to Norman kings. Gradually the con- quered race came to be on equal terms with the victors, and were able to build up for the preserva- tion of their liberties the bulwark of the British Consti- tution. Macaulay tells us that early in the fourteenth century the fusion of the two races was complete, the distinction between Norman and Saxon ceased, and the enmity of the two races disappeared for ever. "Then it was," says the historian, "that the great English people was formed, that the national character began to exhibit those peculiarities which it has ever since retained, and that our fathers became emphati- cally islanders— islanders not merely in geographical position, but in their politics, their feelings, and their manners. Then first appeared, with distinctness, that constitution which has ever since, through all changes, preserved its identity ; that constitution of which all other free constitutions in the world are copies, and which, in spite of some defects, deserves to be re- garded as the best under which any great society has ever existed during many ages." The eloquent his- <■> t ^58 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. torian also tells us that now Britannia's sovereignty of the seas commenced, her common law became a science, and her most ancient colleges were founded. We see, then, from all that has been said, that the British nation has been formed by a fusion, a most happy fusion, of races. Saxon strength and indomi- table energy, Norman chivalry and gallantry, Scan- dinavian fierceness and daring,— these are the ele- ments that have entered into the composition; and, like the ingredients of the witches' caldron in "Mac- beth," they have made the mixture " slab and good." A thousand years elapsed, after the arrival of the Saxons, before the incoherent mass became tho- roughly fused, so as to be moulded into that national type which now marks the originality of the race, and distinguishes the Englishman from all others in re- gard to external appearance and internal faculties. I know of no grander study than the wonderful methods by which Providence has moulded and developed this race, who were destined to influence so widely the industry, the material progress, the government, the literature, and the religion of mankind. By what a vast chain of events, through what catastrophes, revo- lutions, wars, struggles of races has He, whose hand is discernible in all history, made " all things work together" for the production of this strong, rich, varied race, who for centuries to come will guide the material and moral progress of humanity ! Great has ■k:.^>. ENGLISH, SCO TCI/, AND AMERICANS. 1 59 been the stroke of work done by this people in the four hundred years that have passed since they at- tained their majority ; but if we look at the United States, the British Colonies of North America, Aus- tralia, India, and Britain herself, can we doubt that a great future lies before the Anglo-Saxon race ? No doubt, like all their precursors, they will have their day,— their rise, decline, and fall,— and doubtless they are preparing the way for a higher race, who will one day be studying their remains, and tracing the lines of their peculiar type of civilisation. But that day must be far distant. Not yet has the star of Anglo- Saxondom culminated. Before passing on, let us carefully note that the mixture of people which took place on the soil of Britain was not the fusion of different races of men. Saxon, Dane, Norman, as we have seen, were but branches of one stem— the Teutonic, which was ori- ginally Gothic in its origin. All three, we have learned, came from Scandinavia. She was the true nursing -mother of the English race. When the Saxon from Germany, the Dane from Norway, and the Norman from France, met and mingled on the soil of England, it was in reality a union of three branches of the same family, not a fusion of different races. There were strong family affinities in the blood before ; and hence the easy and happy union that took place under the genial skies of England, as 1 m IPPi l6o ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. of kindred long separated. Races that arc totally distinct do not easily amalgamate ; and if, by the force of circumstances, such intermixture be accom- plished, the result is not happy,— their progeny is neither an improved nor a permanent variety of the species. The offspring of mixed races are found to degenerate and tend towards extinction. It appears to be the order of Providence that each race should be endowed with peculiar gifts and instincts, and a special type of intellect ; and should thus be fitted to play a certain part in the drama of existence. Each has to work out its destiny apart,— not to lose its individuality in others ; and so accomplish its share in the work of the world. This law, however, does not apply to the crossing of varieties of the same race, as in the case of the English. Provided the original stem be the same, the branches may form a happy and friendly union ; nay, this variety in unity will be a decided improvement, producing various shades of character, and a corresponding ramification in the re- sources of civilisation. Distinct races, on the other hand, do not often freely intermingle. The Celt and the Saxon, for example, have never commingled to any extent. In the north of Ireland they have lived side by side for centuries, and the intermix- ture is quite inconsiderable; and their mutual an- tipathies, I am sorry to say, are almost as great as ever. So in regard to Scotland, Wales, and ENGLISH, SCOTCH, A^D AMERICANS. l6l America. In none of these countries do the two races intermingle in any appreciable degree. It is true that the distinguished writer, Dr Wilson, has re- cently reported a considerable fusion of the red and white races as going on in the back settlen^ents of America ; but it remains to be seen whether the re- sulting variety will be permanent, or is doomed to a rapid extinction. We are now in a position to glance for a little at this Anglo-Saxon race, and mark a few of their peculiarities and national traits. Very early there was a marked distinction between that branch of the Saxons that occupied North Britain, or the Scotch, and the English branch, that possessed the southern portion of the island. With the instinct of their race, which everywhere points toward independence and self-government, the North Britons formed them- selves into a separate kingdom, and, from the days of Bruce, had their own kings and laws. They had their own tongue also, which, says Macaulay, " did not differ from the purest English more than the dialects of Somersetshire and Lancashire differed from each other." They had hard work, however, to maintain their independence against the English monarchs, who were desirous of attaching Scotland as an appendage to their crown. In all history there is no nobler record than the pages which relate the heroic struggle for independence m.^intained b^' the Vi I 162 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. small kingdom of Scotland, with an insignificant population, against a nation far more numerous and powerful. To this day it is the proud boast of the Scot that England was never able to conquer his native land. In vain did English armies sweep over the country, burning and slaying ; the Scot would not yield. He proved that he possessed the Saxon toughness— the iron thews and sinews of the race- by the unflinching obstinacy with which he resisted the invader, and guarded his rights. This conflict created that nationality of which every true-born Scot is so proud to-day. The perils through which they passed, the fierce struggles through which they won the victory, endeared to them the soil on which they trod, and linked them to one another with a fervour which is now proverbial as one of their national traits. Shoulder to shoulder, they will everywhere stand by one another to the last ; and wherever they wander, they never cease to "love the land of mountain and of flood." Speaking of the Scotch, Macaulay says, " In perseverance, in self- command, in forethought, in all the qualities which conduce to success in life, the Scots have never been surpassed." Their mental development, at this time when they were fighting for their national existence, may be judged of from the same historian's state- ment. He says, "Though that kingdom was then the poorest in Christendom, it almost vied in every ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 163 branch of learning with the most favoured countries. Scotsmen, whose dwellings and whose food were as wretched as the Icelanders' of our time, wrote Latin verses with more than the delicacy of Vida, and made discoveries in science which would have added to the renown of Galileo" Thus this stout, hard- headed race fought their way, and at length joined England on honourable terms, " preserving all their dignity," as Macaulay puts it, "and giving a king instead of taking one." But with a poor soil, and continually harassed and plundered by her Southern neighbour, it is not wonderful that the Scotch, till comparatively recent times, were rather a poor people. They had not the rich, fertile plains of England, on which, with little effort, splendid wheat crops can be raised. Struggling for life and national existence, they could create few manufactures, and little trade. Thus, in wealth, in commerce, and manufactures, in modes of life, Scotland was, in those early days, far behind England, and has not yet ove/takeh her. Many a sneer has been indulged in by English writers at the poverty of Scotland, and at the wistful looks that all Scotchmen were supposed to cast on the road that led to rich Eng- land ; but they have forgotten the immense natural advantages enjoyed by their own people. Besides, in addition to repelling Southern invaders, the Scot- tish Saxon had to deal with the marauding Gael I !^ lii 11 U !:f. f ml ill } I .1 164 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. of the Highlands, and to keep this very trouble- some neighbour in order. How much '.oub' ■ this job gave ma;- be judged of by the S. oitis'i - /overb, "It's ii; getting the breeks af ^he J . ;• ndman." In days of old, the Highland clans.ncn . its accus- tomed to make forays on the south, t carry off cattle or any other movables that came in their way, on the principle, I suppose, that " The mountain sheep were sweeter, But the valley's sheep were fatter ; And tbey therefore thought it meeter To carry off the latter." The Southern Scots, finding how vain was the hope of obta-'ning redress or compensation from those who had nothing, contented themselves with cracking this joke on the breekless condition of the Gael. If we may judge by the rapidly-extending manu- factures and commerce of Scotland, and her splendid system of agriculti:re, in which she has led the way in all modern improvements, and left all competitors behind, it may be safely asserted that she will speedily be able to bear comparison with England in regard to material prospcjrity, in proportion to her popula- tion. Already sh , ^r x boast of possessing the second city in the kingdom— Glasgow novv ranking next to London in respect to population. We have seen that her people, in the midst of their poverty, were early distinguished for their intellectual prowess and love of learning, no less than for their intolerance of all ':■?. .-- -.«*«g i- ? ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 165 oppression, and their resolute independence of char- acter. History proves, I think, that in passionate love of freedom, in stern resistance to all wrong Pnd tyr- anny, the Scotch have surpassed their breth. of the Sout: . This may, perhaps, be accounted for by :he fact that they have in their veins a larger dash of the Scandinavian blood, derived from the Danes, than the English. Hence, too, they have more fervour and passion ; the perfervidum ingenium Scotonim, the fervid energy of the Scotch, had passed into a pro- verb, as early as the fifteenth century, in continental Europe. No doubt, too, the Gael of the north has contributed some of his hot blood to produce the Scottish temperament. The intellectual tendency of the race has produced that shrewdness which ..as long been a national trait, and is acknowledged in the epithet "hard-headed Scotchmen," or, as they de- scribe themse' ves, "canny Scotch." The word "canny" is of Scandinavian origin, and the root of it must have been imported in some of the Vikings' boat-. It is derived from the Icelandic kiacn,— astute and v/ary. ^? the Scotch dialect, its primary signifncacion is "cautious, prudent;" but the fact of its bemg used to signify all sorts of good qualities shews the hi /u value which the Scotch set upon caution and shrewdness- just as the fact that the French extend the use of the v/ord brave to signify a good fellow proves the high value which th y set upon that quality, When the l66 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. Yorkshire man, who has also a good dash of Scandi- navian blood in him, in reply to an attempt to ./t? him, says, with a knowing wink, " I 'se Yorkshire too;" and the Scotchman, in response to a similar useless effort, remarks, "We're too far north for that;" it is evident that, whatever other people may think of them, they both consider themselves rather more knowing than the rest of the world. But if the Scot is cautious in what he undertakes, he is proverbially persevering in following up his enterprises. J will not say— quoting from Tennyson's "Princess "--that "Fierce, and false, and fickle is the South ; And dark, and true, and tender is the North." Without any invidious comparisons, however, we may assert, and all the world will affirm it, that the Scotch are pre-eminently steady, tenacious, and persevering. According to his own proverb, in breasting the hill Difficulty, "he sets a stout heart to a stae brae," and is sure to win the top. Even in his humour the " canniness " of the Scot appears. Rich, racy, and in- dividual as is Scottish humour, it is generally sly and dry, " canny," and rather caustic, preserving a grave exterior, while laughing internally. Dean Ramsay, in his "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Char- acter," tells of a Scotchman whose tender toe was trodden on. The offer Jer, whose weight, no doubt, was considerable, said, " I am very sorry, sir~I beg your pardon." " You have muckle need, sir," was the ^m ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 67 rejoinder. An Irish beggar, however, surpassed this. An old, gouty gentleman refused him alms; and the beggar joon after managed to swing his crutch, quite accidentally, upon the tender toes of the rich man, whom his prayers failed to move to charity; and then, by way of soothing Dives, he said, " Bless yer honour! if yer heart was as tender as yer toes, it's a tinpenny you'd xiave been after givin' me." It was the same beggar, I suppose, who, when a newly-mar- ried couple were passing him one day, arm in arm, and very happy-looking, in order to touch heart and pocket at the same time, exclaimed, " May the bless- ing of the Lord, that brings love, and joy, and wealth, and a fine thum.ping family, follow you all the days of your life." The happy couple passed on without taking the least notice of his supplications, and the beggar added, by way of postscript, " and may they never overtake you." A lady in Scotland, being invited by a friend to dinner, replied that, " if spared, she would be there at the appointed hour." "Oh!" x-eplied the friend, "if you're deid we'll no expect you." This was thoroughly Scotch. Thus it is that the genius of a people breaks out in their humour, which is perhaps the most characteristic thing about them — their very life-juice — the flavour of their being. You may judge of a man's character by what he finds laughable, as truly as by anything else about him. It was a Scotchman who, when his ^& n^g0K0i-::Mc-' -^'^::^: 168 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS minister, in catechising, asked him how long Adam steed before he fell, replied, -Till he got a wife;" and then added, "Can ye tell me, sir, how long he stood after that?" The Scotch canniness and slyness come out sometimes in paying a compliment. Thus, (I quote Dean Ramsay,) when wishing to intimate that the worth of a handsome woman outweighs even her beauty, a Scot will say, "She 's better than she's bonnle." A Highlander rather ungallantly said of his wife the opposite of this: "She's bonnier than she's bette.." Mrs Poyser, who is a fine embodiment of rich English humour, explained the drawbacks of marrying late in life in her own homely and in- genious way: "I'm no friend to young fellows mar- rying afore they know the difference between a crab and an apple; but they may wait owre long." "To be sure," said Mrs Poyser, " if you go ptst j-our dmner-time, there'll be little relish o' your meat. You turn it o'er and o'er wi' your fork, and don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your meat, and the faut's all i' your own stomach." A long-drawn controversy has been waged between Scotch and English as to which surpasses in intel- lectual attainments and productions. Each can boast of a list of great men. Ramsay, Burns, a. Campbell are set over against Chaucer, Byron, and Shelley • Watt, with his steam-engine, is Scottish host in himself, equal to Brindley, Stephenson, and Brunei • %::MB^j.^&. ^fa ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. Walter Scott is put Into the scale opposite Dickens and Thackeray; while Hume and Macaulay challenge all English competitors in the art of writing history. There is '^ne name, however, that the English are very fono of brandishing ; Scotland, they say, has produced no Shakespeare. I believe it was an Irish- man who said that " he did not see what all this fuss about Shakespeare was for;" adding, "if it had not been for his writings the fellow never would have been heard of" It is true there is no Scotchman so intellectually tall as grand, old, kingly Shakespeare, to whom we all reverently doff our hats. The Anglo- Saxon race has produced one, and only one, Shake- speare ; the English have not yet sent forth his com- peer. He is the finest outgrowth of the old Saxon tree — England's, and yet Scotland's, and the world's. It is true Scotland, whose intellectual life began later than that of England, has not yet produced men to take rank with Suakespeare, Bacon, and Milton. These are the g^eat Englishmen who, like stars, dwell apart, in unapproachable spheres of their own. But while Scotland can reckon among her sons Sir Walter Scott, SirWilliam Hamilton, Edward Irving, Thomas Chalmers, Tohn Wilson, and Hi A\ Miller, she need experien .,j jealous or envious feeling towards he»' Southern neighbour. This much can be said in favour of Scotlanc, tnat the masses of her people are better educated and more intelligent than the masses of I70 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS Englishmen ; and that if she does not rise so high neither does she sink so low. If it be true that the' range of the English mind is great, and that it has struck the highest notes, let it be remembered that the man who is at this moment wielding the greatest mfluence in British literature is a North Briton Thomas Carlyle is a Scotchman of the true Titanic n^ould. England cannot claim Sir Isaac Newton as exclusively her own-his grandfather was a Scotch- man My belief is that these two branches of the Anglo-Saxon stock are the complements one of the other; that the one is necessary to supply the defi- aenc.es of the other. In all the sterling qualities that l^ave placed the British rac. so high among the nations, who will undertake to sav which is foremost > In the highest intellectual manifestations, if the Enghsh mind be most complete, the Scotch is the more intense and active. It has often been remarked that the Scotch are more abstract in their way of th.nk.ng-more inclined to drive down to first prin- ciples, and to follow these out to their logical conse- quences; the English mind succeeds better in apply- ing principles to the multiform conditions of human existence. Thus Adam Smith, a Scotchman, first enunciated tlic principles of free-trade ; but it required Sir Robert Peel to apply them. The Scotchman's political and religious creed is more rounded and logi- cal than that of the Englishman; but on this account ~5^r--# mtsmMtM ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. less fitted for general use and acceptance. Hugh Miller reckoned the Scotch less insular than the English — Ics'; inclined <•© be detached and solitary. The Englishman is more individual, self-sufficing, and self-contained. In " The Heart of Midlothian," Mrs Glass says to the Duke of Argyle, " Your Grace kens we Scotch are clannish bodies." " So much the better for us," replies the Duke, " and the worse for those who meddle with us." Stout, surly Samuel Johnson said, " One grand element in the success of Scotch- men in London is their nationality. Whatever any one Scotchman does, there are five hundred more pre- pared to applaud." It was the same observer, whose anti-Scottish prejudices were so strong, who made the rather ill-natured remark, " Most Scotchmen love Scotland better than truth, and almost all of them love it better than inquiry." Most people, I think, who have travelled or lived in both countries will admit that, in the habits and arrangements of social life, in those thousand nameless amenities that brighten and beautify everyday life, the Scotch are, as a whole, decidedly behind the English. A writer in the North British Review (Scottish in its lean- ings) says, " In Scotland there is a bareness of all beyond what is dictated by absolute utility, that is not pleasant and perhaps not wise ; and correspond- ing to this, there is a singular hardness and angularity of manner. In their anxiety to leave no mistake ^7^ ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. about the fortitcr in re, the suaviter in modo is too frequently forgotten." In due time, I doubt not, these Httle angularities will be rubbed off, in the rapidly-increasing intercourse which railways and business transactions have created between the two countries. Of the many noble qualities common to both Eng- h-sh and Scotch I have little time to speak, but shall merely indicate one or two. Take both together, and are they not appropriately called " the hands of the human race ?"_so industriously have they wrought in subduing the earth, and fitting it up as a habita- tion for man. No great talkers-priding themselves on a certain gruff taciturnity-they are born workers. — mdomitable, unresting, courageous. All that these Britons have is the purchase of hard toil— of honest hidustry. From earth and sea Britain has wrung her immense wealth by centuries of labour. " The Eng- lish," says Cariyle, "are a dumb people. They can do great acts, but not describe them. Like the old Romans, and some few others, their epic poem is written on the earth's surface: England, her mark. A terrible worker is Bull ; irresistible against marshes, mountains, impediments, disorder, incivilisation ; every- where vanquishing disorder, leaving it behind him as method and order. His epic is a mighty empire slowly built together-a mighty series of heroic » '*;■«, ENGLISHy SCOTCHy AND AMERICANS. 1 73 deeds — a mighty conquest over chaos, — v/hich epic the eternal melodies have and must have informed and dwelt in as it suiig itself. There is no mistaking that latter epic. Deeds are greater than words." " O Mr Bull," he says again, " I look in that surly face of thine with a mixture of pity and laughter, yet also with wonder and veneration. Unconsciously this great universe is great to thee. Thou art of those great ones whose greatness the small passer-by does not discern. Thy very stupidity is wiser than their wisdom. Nature alone knows thee — acknowledges the bulk and strength of thee ; thy epic, unsung in words, is written in huge characters on the face of this planet — sea-moles, cotton-trades, railways, fleets, and cities, Indian empires, Americas, New Hollands, legible throughout the solar system." In his " Eng- lish Traits," the American Emerson says, " Here exists the best stock in the world, — broad-fronted, broad-bottomed, best for depth, range, and equa- bility — men of aplomb and reserves, great range, and many moods, strong instincts, yet apt for cul- ture Their habits and instincts cleave to nature. They are full of coarse strength, rude exer- cise, butchers' meat, and sound sleep Half their strength they do not put forth. They arc cap- able of a sublime resolution ; and if hereafter the war of races should menace the English civilisation, these m- ''"'■A\v£^-^ :: f ;fS5lf*a=ii: |) a^i 174 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS sea-kings may take once again to their floating castles, and find a new home and a «econd millennium of power in their colonies." To do the world's work, these Britons require strong bodies, iron thews and sinews ; and nature has en- dowed them with immense bodily vigour and power of endurance. To sustain such a bodily frame under hard work, they must have generous living ; and good feeding is one of the points on which the Englishman prides himself the world over, very properly glorying in his roast beef and plum-pudding. A stout worker like John could never subsist on gruel or potatoes. With him dinner is an important matter— one of primary consideration ; and woe to the man who ven- tures to interfere with it ! Let him attend to his work, earn his wages, and eat his dinner in peace, and he will never be found engaged in insurrections or revolutions. In a liking for solid and substantial fare the English surpass the Scotch. The realised idea of the one is roast beef and foaming ale ; the other rejoices in haggis, broth, and brose. A Scotch- man was once dining, with great satisfaction, ofif a singed sheep's-head, and pronounced it a capital dish. "Dish!" said an Englishman who was present, "do you call that a dish .?" " Dish or no," replied Sandy, " there 's a deal of fine confused feeding in it, I can tell you." A foreigner, landing on the shores of Britain, is at ^-«:^i^a ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. i;s once impressed with the powerful pliysical develop- ment of the people. "Other countrymen," says Emerson, " look slight and under-sized beside them, and invalids. They are bigger men than the Ameri- cans. I suppose a hundred English, taken at random out of the street, would weigh a fourth more than so many Americans. Yet I am told the skeleton is not larger. They are round, ruddy, and handsome; at least the whole bust is well-formed, and there is a tendency to stout and powerful frames. I remarked the stoutness on my first landing at Liverpool ; por- ter, drayman, coachman, guard— what substantial, respectable, grandfatherly figures, with costume and manners to suit ! " " The fair Saxon man," he adds, " with open front and honest meaning, domestic, affec- tionate, is not the wood out of which cannibal or in- quisitor is made ; but he is moulded for law, trade, marriage, the nurture of children, for colleges, churches, charities, colonies." " The English are good at storm- ing redoubts, at boarding frigates, at dying in the last ditch, or any desperate service that has daylight and honour in it." As to the comparative strength of the English and Scotch, Hugh Miller says that it has been determined, by accurate experiment with the dynamometer, that the average strength of the full- grown Scot exceeds that of the full-grown Engli.sh- man by about one-twentieth. So much for oatmeal against wheaten bread and beer. ^^ 176 EXGLISH, SCOTCH, AXD AMERICANS. The British people have long been noted for their conservative tendencies, and their dislike of chan'^e For whatever has been established by actual experi- ment, for law and custom, they have a profound reverence ; for mere abstract theory no respect at all. Hence, unlike the French, they grow, retaining a firm hold of the old till the new is formed ; they dislike revolutions, and plant themselves on reforms. " Bull is a born conservative," says Carlyle ; " and for this too I inexpressibly honour him. All great peoples are conservative ; slow to believe in novelties ; patient of much error in actualities ; deeply and for ever cer- tain of the greatness that is in law, in custom once solemnly established, and now long recognised as just and final." Yet to all this there is a strono- counterpoise in that discontent with real or imagin- ary evils which forms the radical side of the British character, and secures progress by an antagonism of forces. The sacred and inalienable right of grum- bling, and of holding public meetings to give expres- sion to discontent with things as they are, is really one of the safeguards of British liberty, and one of the guarantees of improvement. Wanting this, con- servatism would become a stupid, blind obstructive. But liberty is secured by this antagonism of powers, and thus the complicated and majestic mechanism of institutions moves on smoothly, securing individual freedom and national peace. mm^:: 'r"-T^^ .J J ^W^'-^^ ^y^ mmm &''^ ENGLISH, SC07CH, AND AMERICANS. 1 77 Above all other people, the British are home-lov- ing and domestic in their habits. Amid life's storms, the Briton has a haven where he can cast anchor and be in safety, and that is home. The very word is dear to his heart, and calls up all that is truest and tenderest in his nature— all that is hallowed in afifec- tion, and sacred in virtue and religion The streii-rth of the family tics can scarcely be overrated. In the home, the temple of the family, all that purity, affec- tion, gentleness, truthfulness which beautify the char- acter are awakened and developed ; and here, too, the human heart first learns that love which finds its highest repose in God. To the home-life of England I would trace that love of truth which is admitted to be a national characteristic. John Bull is a thorough hater of shams, falsehoods, and deceptions in every form; shuffling and double-deal 'ng he scorns; vera- city and sincerity he loves. Th Scotch share in this noble trait, as one of their proverbs finely shews: " Leal heart never lee'd,"— a loyal heart scorns a falsehood. One result of this is a love of fair play, a disposition to hear both sides, and a scorn of takincr any unfair advantage. It has often been remarked that the English have no very lively sympathies with foreigners ; that they are devoted to England ; insular and narrow in their views of the affairs of other countries. This results, M i.rt^ i^JvV •• fr. 1 ►:'• ♦ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A v. 1.0 i.i 1.25 1^ U^ 1^ 112 2 1.8 1.4 1.6 V2 V. ^I^ /^ vV^ (P/1 Photographic Sciences Corporation ^^ ^ iV « 'o^^ o'^ 33 WIST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY MStO (716) S72-4S03 '^ ^ I. r > I7S ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS no doubt, from the pre-occupation of the national feeling with their own country and institutions, which IS the moral root of English freedom, and imparts strength to their passionate attachment to everything British. A French writer already quoted, M. Esqui- ros, .says, " I have seen peoples very punctilious on the point of national honour-the least critical obser- vation vexed them ; but before an Englishman you may mdicate the weak signs of British civilisation, and not even irritate him : he is silent, but it is the silence of contempt. In the sight of Englishmen there is no such thing as defeat; it is an error of for- tune. When they speak of their victories, they do so without boasting : Dame Fortune had done her duty this time-that was all. From this moral disposition springs an unbounded confidence in the imperishable greatness of the nation, even when you pretend to believe in its decadence. ' England for ever ! ' is the war-cry, the voice of the British blood." At the close of a lecture I can do little more than attempt a (cxy remarks on the Americans as a people. I cannot pretend to a right to speak from personal observation regarding the variety of the Anglo-Saxon race now reigning on the American continent. It is true, I once partook, for a few weeks, of Brother Jonathan's hospitality. I stood on Bunker's Hill, and thought of the bloody contest that once raged there, fought out with true Saxon E ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I7g pluck and mastiff tenacity on both sides. As I looked on the fine harbour of Boston, I remembered the remarkable infusion of tea once made in its waters-a historical " brew," that proved very costly to honest, obstinate John Bull. Passing through Cambridge on my way to Mount Auburn, I rever- ently raised my hat opposite the house of Long- fellow, the poet-laureate of the West, and ferventry wished that the sweet singer had been at the window to return the salutation. Before the houses of Agassiz, the great naturalist and geologist, who has so eloquently expounded some of the " manuscripts of God," and of Russell Lowell, who as a poet ranks next to Longfellow, I performed a similar act of silent reverence, and thought it was something to see even the outside of the habitations that sheltered these worid-renowned men. Mount Auburn the cemetery of Boston, I thought the sweetelt of "God's-acres" in which the weary could wish to rest. I stood awe-stricken before the thunders of Niagara-a sight which forms an epoch in one's existence, and stamps itself on memory's tablets too deeply ever to be effaced. During a long summer's day, I sailed down the St Lawrence, revelling in th-^ glorious scenery of " The Thousand Islands," shooting the rapids, and gazing on the forests and hills that line the shores of the mighty river. I formed a passing acquaintance with New York and some i I So ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, Others of the great cities of the West, and experi- mented cautiously in those two wonderful drinks that can be had only in America,-mint-julep and sherry-cobbler,-which I am bound to say are "not that bad," and do credit to the inventive genius of Jonathan. But my sojourn was too brief to qualify me for forming an opinion of the people or the country. Still, I suppose, in what I have got to say, some general impressions of both, derived from this hasty visit, will discover themselves. It would ill become any Briton to speak dis- paragmgly or unkindly of the Americans They are our own kindred-" bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh." They have exhibited many of the noblest qualities of the Anglo-Saxon stock-vast energy, indomitable resolution, patience, and en- durance. They have wrestled in grim earnest with the Western wilderness, clearing successfully wide fields, in which the human race may erect new empires, and find sustenance and a home. The amount of genuine work done by them since the Pil- grim Fathers landed on Plymouth Rock is incalcu- lable. With true Saxon vigour they have grappled with difl^culties and triumphed over innumerable ob- stacles ; they fought bravely for their independence and won it; they framed a political constitution' under which they have become a great and pros- perous nation, and secured liberty at home and re- ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. l8l spect abroad. It is needless to speak of their wealth, their world-wide commerce, their literature, their general intelligence. In some portions of New Eng- land the masses of the people are more generally educated, up to a certain point, than anywhere else in the world. They have produced literary men— such as Bancroft, Prescott, Washington Irving, Motley, Emerson, Audubon, Agassiz, (Swiss by birth,) Long- fellow, Lowell, Bryant, Hawthorne, Holmes, Mrs Stowe— whose place is in the front rank. I regard the eminence in literature attained by the Americans as their most creditable achievement, and that which gives most hope for their future. The general diffu- sion of education among the people of the Northern States is also a most hopeful sign. With genuine Anglo-Saxon industry, they are farming the best por- tion of the Western continent, and helping largely to feed the world. Honour to the brave workers, where- ever they are ! I, for one, believe, too, that the heart of the nation is sound— true Anglo-Saxon still— at bottom full of love and reverence for fatherland. No doubt Jonathan is often found squaring at his vener- able parent ; and numbers of his noisy politicians are continually sputtering with ill-will to England. But much of this is the result of not being certain of his position, and a determination to assert his independ- ence. Before we get angry with some of the more disgusting exhibitions of anti-British feelings, let us ;i-rf 1 82 ENCLISH, SCOTCH, AND AAfERlCANS.^ * remen,ber how much of the blackgu.rcli™ and scum of Europe is continually emptied on the shores of Amenca ; and how difficult it .nust be for th. sound Anglo-Saxon element to absorb and transmute the whole mto healthy humanity. I„ their public men. too, as a general rule, we sec the worst side of the Amencans. Owing to the working of democratic in- st.tut,ons, and the necessity that exists for all public men to pander to the passions of a mob that wields umversal suffrage, it is unhappily true that men of mtelhgence, refinement, culture, and honourable character are driven from the guidance of public aff..rs, wh,ch are now largely in the hands of coarse unscrupulous demagogues. It is an alarming thin<.' when t e best men of a country-t.he men whos: l..gh .ntellect and moral principles qualify them to be rulers-stand aloof and let the foolish, the corrupt and seWsh guide the vessel of the State. The best well-wishers of America know and lament that such has been for a long time the state of matters there Th,s ,s an evil, however, f ,t in due time will cure ■tself That America contains an immense number of educated, generous, noble, true-hearted people no one can doubt ; and these will, sooner or later' be compelled to bestir themselves, and arrest the knaves and fools that are now so rampant, otherwise the body politic cannot continue to exist. With pure democracy as a form of government, I confess that ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 83 so far as my light goes, I have few sympathies. The events that have occurred in America during the throe yeani of civil war confirm Macaulay'a verdict, that " institutions purely democratic must, sooner or later, destroy liberty or civilisation, or both." Democracy, such as we see it, may fairly be defined, in Carlyle's phrase, "anarchy plus the street constable." The great danger of all democracies is that of degenerat-' ing into a despotism of the mob — the government of the worst — the vilest of all possible govern- ments. The ballot-box rarely, if ever, places the really able man — the true king of men— the born ruler, upon the throne. Its creation is usually some- thing the reverse of kingly. Whatever other method may avail for discovering the able man, it is clear the ballot-box fails. For my part, I believe that the peculiarities of Americans, that offend or repel the English mind, spring fr^,>m their institutions, far more than from the native character of the people ; but I trust and hope that the soundness and energy of the Anglo-Saxon constitution will ultimately throw off all morbid influences. It is clear that the troubles of America have now fairly set in. A nation hitherto enjoying unbroken prosperity, possessed of boundless resources, now knows that perpetual peace and success are not for mortals or nations ; and that, in common with others, it must pass through the sore agony and the mortal struggle before victory shall arrive. More \tv 184 E.VCL/Sff, SCOTCH, AND AMERKANS. than a dozen years since, Carlyle, in his "Latter. Day Pamphlets," wrote-" America, too, will have to strain >ts energies in quite other fashion than this ; to crack US smews, and all but break its heart, as the rest of us have had to do, in thousandfold wrestle with the pythons and mud-demons, before it can become a hab,tation for the gods. America's battle is yet to %ht ; and we sorrowful, though nothing doubting, W.11 w,sh her strength for it. New spiritual pythons, plenty of then, ; enormous megatherions, as ugly as W'ere ever born of mud, loom, huge and hideous, out of the twilight future on An.erica." " Hitherto she but p oughs and hammers in a very successful n,a„- ner; h.therto, in spite of her 'roast goose with apple sauce, she is not much. Brag not to me of our Amencan cousins ! Their quantity of cotton, dollars -ndustry, and resources, I believe to be almost un- speakable ; but I can by no means worship the like o these. What great human soul, what great thought what great noble thing that one could wo.ship. „; loyally admire, has yet been produced there ? None • the American cousins have yet done none of these' things. The agony, predicted in this remarkable passage, commenced with the first shot fired against Fort Sumter. Whatever way the civil war may end, .t .s ev,dent that a new order of things, social and poht^al, w,ll arise for Jonathan. May it be happier and better than the past ! ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 185 Wishing, then, our American relatives happily through their troubles, we may turn and consider for a moment what sort of development the Anglo- Saxon race assumes on this side the Atlantic, Rus- sell Lowell, the well-known American poet, thus characterises the J^ankces— that is, the people of the New England States :— " Add two hundred years' influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its neo-ssary result of idiosyncracies, and we have the present Yankee,— full of expedients ; half-master of all trades ; inventive in all but the beautiful ; full of shifts ; not yet capable of comfort ; armed at all points against the old enemy, hunger; longanimous; good at patching; not so careful for .vhat is best, but for what will do; with a clasp to hio purse and a button to his pocket ; not skilled to build against time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing need ; accustomed to move the world with no other lever than his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circum- stances beget here in the New World upon the old Puritan stock ; and the earth never before saw such mystic practicalism, such niggard geniality, such cal- culating fanaticism, such cast-iron enthusiasm, such sour-faced humour, such close-fisted generosity. This new Grceculns csuriens will make a living out of any- thing. He will invent new trades, as well as tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he will 1 86 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. XI make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterwards " After this half-humorous but accurate fashion does Lowell depict his Yankee compatriots. Every one knows that the physical development and external appearance of the American differ from those of the Englishman. Jonathan is thin. tall, an- gular, bony, clipper-built, sharp at the bows, and fast to go. He has not the rotundity and muscular de- velopment of Bull; he is an Englishman "rendered down"-divested of his fat under the fierce summer suns and piercing colds of the New World. In con- sequence, he is far more nervous and quick in his movements than the solid Bull. He cannot be a mo- ment at rest ; when seated, he must have a stick to whittle. He has not the compact frame and robust health of his parent. Hitherto, in the American chmate, the Anglo-Saxon stock has clearly degene- rated, m a physical point of view. Their lank, juice- less bodies, pale, care-worn faces, thin, bloodless lips and tendency to quick development and early decay are all proofs how much the good old Saxon stock has fallen off They are nervous, not muscular Christians. Human hfe is shorter than in the Old World Men and women live faster. Their offspring .re reared with difficulty; large families are rare; the mortality among children is startling. These remarks apply to native-born Americans, not fresh arrivals from the old country. Worst of all, the Americans thems.Jves pro- ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 87 claim that their women are. as a general rule, feeble and unhealthy. I could quote to you page after page of American writers, in which they lament the physi- cal degeneracy of the race, and especially mourn over the increasing delicacy of their women. One of their leading medical writers says, " Our dear women of America are the most unhealthy women in the world." Miss Beecher declares that, in all sections of the country, a vigorous and perfectly healthy woman is an exception to the general experience- that not three out of ten can be classed as healthy women. This state of matters must tell fearfully on the physical, and, through it, on the moral condition of coming generations. Dr Knox, in his " Races of Men," has announced the doctrine that the Anglo- Saxon race flourishes only within a certain area of the earth's surface, and that it degenerates so rapidly in America that if it were not for the fresh blood poured in continually from Europe the race would speedily become extinct. Be this as it may, the un- natural craving for excitement among the Americans, the violence of their political contests, their brag and exaggeration of themselves and their institutions— so unlike silent, self-disparaging John Bull— their indis- position to manly sports and out-door amusements, all indicate that the old stock has undergone a marked change on this side the Atlantic, and certainly not for the better. The intermixture of races, too, which is 188 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, , taking place on a large scale, is. we have seen, opposed to the production of a robust, permanent variety of the species. Thus, whether we regard the climate or other mfluences. the greatest danger that seems to menace the race arises from the operation of a grim inexorable physiological law. No doubt it is possible that, m the course of generations, the climate may be m.t.gated. as the country is cultivated and drained and that improved habits and acclimatisation may counteract the present degeneracy; but at present these are distant and doubtful possibilities. Already alarmed at the thinning of their blood, and the skele- tomsmg process that is going on. one extreme party m the Northern States are calling out for a fusion of the wh.te and negro races, as a means of enriching the impoverished frames of the superior race. This notable scheme is called miscegenation; and its advo- cates gravely argue in favour of sinking the Anglo- Saxon m the negro, and transmuting him into a creole The theory is too absurd for discussion. It is well known that one result of the working of democratic institutions in America has been the crea- tion of an insHMion named, rather happily, "stump- oratory." The necessity of continually appealin^x to the passions of the mob. in ceaseless electioneering campaigns, has produced the stump-orator. of whose trade the staple is " buneomber I fear the moral effects of this institution are not favourable. I suspect that ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 89 the stump-orator generates a belief in shams as the best means of attaining an object, and a depraved taste for bluster and brag, and " the spread-eagle" style of talking and writing. The stump-orator has much to answer for. It would be an improvement if, in Yankee phrase, he were compelled to " absquatu- late," or "skedaddle." Their own poet Lowell has satirised very happily, in the amusing Bigloxu Papers, the tendency to which I refer. He makes one of his characters say, — 1 " I du believe in prayer and j- x To him that hez the grantin' O' jobs,— in everytlimg tliat pays; And most of all in cantin'. This doth my cup with maicies fill, This lays all thought of sin to rest; I don't believe in principle, But I du believe in interest. " In short, I hrmly du believe In Humbug generally; For it 's a thing that I perceive To hev a solid valiy. This heth my faithful shepherd been, In pastures sweet heth led me ; An' this '11 keep the people green To feed as they hev fed me." " Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies; .Sez they're nothing on earth but just fee, fa, fum; And that all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, and t'other half rum. But John P. Robinson he Sez it ain't no sech thing; and of course so must we. 190 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. " Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life That the apostles rigg'd out in their swaller-tail'd coats. An march'd round in front of a drum and a fife To git sor.e on 'em office, and some on 'em votes • But John P, ' ' , Robinson he Sez they don't know everything down in Judee." II In America the English language has undergone a considerable alteration. New words have been coined-a sign of life at all events-and a peculiar dialect has been created. As illustrations of this, I can only refer to a few instances. The word '^si'r" becomes "siree," to which the elegant addition of " bob " IS sometimes made. " You appear to me to be drunk," said a judge en one occasion, addressing a juror, who was evidently much "influenced." The juror straightened himself up defiantly, and replied, " No, siree, bob." " Very well," said the judge, " I fine you five dollars for the 'ree,' and ten for' the ' bob.' " V/here we would request a person to be off quickly, a Yankee would order him to •' make tracks," or to run " short metre,"-the latter phrase being derived from psalm or hymn tunes. Anything very shabby or mean of its kind is said to be "onet horse." They talk about a "one-horse bank," or a " one-horse lawyer." Ladies Mho get into what we call the " tantrums " are said in America to get into " conniption fits." The word " fixins " has a great variety of appHcations. Gentlemen dress in dieir b£2. ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I9I Sunday "fixins," and eat their mutton with "currant- jelly fixins;" and ladies who dress showily are said to have " loud fixins." Terms derived from the shop and counting-house are common. A person well-in- formed on a subject is said to be " posted up ;" an- other who is troublesome with his talk is requested to "shut up;" and the remainder is "the balance." General M'Clellan, in returning thanks for the pre- sentation of a sword, said "he hoped to spend the balance of his days in peace among them when the war was concluded." The word " sat" is usually pro- nounced " sot." They speak of a piece being " sot to music," or of being "sharp sot." A young lady at a ball having been long without a partner, was at length asked to dance. " Yes, siree," she replied with ani- mation ; " for I Ve sot, and sot, and sot till I Ve about tuck r ot." The American dialect varies with the locality. Certain modes of speech are peculiar to the New Engenders ; others are heard only among the West- ern men, who " eat wild turkey, and drink of the Mis- sissippi." The South and the South-west have their peculiar phrases. A Western man says of a story that it " smells rather tall." " Stranger," he says, " in bar-hunt.; I am numerous." Of a pathetic story he says that " it sank into his feelins like a snagged boat into the Mississippi." He tells of a person " as cross as a bar with two cubs and a sore tail." A Southern 18 S 192 ENGLISH, score//, AND AMER/CANS. man is " powerful lazy, and powerful slow ; " but if you visit him, he '11 go for you " to the hilt against creation, that's tatur." When people salute each other on meeting, he says they are " howdyin' and civilisin' each other." A man who has undressed has " shucked himself." The extreme of facility is not as easy as lying, but " as easy as shootin'." Yankees guess everything— past, present, and future. They are dreadful glad to see you, and powerful sorry you enjoy such bad health. It is the Southerners who "reckon and calkelate." The Yankee statement of the positive, comparative, and superlative duties of life is, "first, we get on ; then we get honour; and then we get honest."* A late American writer, Dr Nichols, says, " In no country are the faces of the people fur- rowed with harder lines of care. In no country is there so much hard, toilsome, unremitting labour ; in none so little recreation and enjoyment of life. Work and worry eat out the hearts of the people, and they die before their time. Why the universal and ever- lasting struggle for wealth here > Because it is the one thing needful— the only real distinction. No- where is money sought so eagerly,— nowhere does it bring so little to its possessor. It is an end— not a means." These are the words of a keen observer, an American by birth. They go to prove, at least, ' Dr Nichols' "Forty Years of American Life." ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 193 that America is not yet an earthly paradise; All travellers complain of the extravagant homage ren- dered to the ladies in America— wot that chivalrous deference which is accorded to woman in all civilised communities, but such treatment as is given to spoiled children. To such an extent is this foolish social usage carried, that it amounts to a tyranny, against which sensible Americans are ever threat- ening to rebel, and to commence an agitation on behalf of "men's rights," in opposition to female claims. Its effect on the ladies is the reverse of commendable, rendering them thanklessly exacting, unamiably tyrannical over the "weaker vessels," languid, and often incapable of self-help. Such a delicate and impartial observer as Miss Bremer, in her " Homes of the New Worid," says, in reference to the modes of life of American ladies,—" No, it is not good; it has not the freshness of nature, that life which so many bdies lead in this country ; that life of tv/ilight in comfortable rooms, rocking themselves by the fireside from one year's end to another ; that life of effeminate warmth and inactivity, by which they seclude themselves from the fresh air, from fresh, invigorating life. And the physical weakness of the ladies of this country must in great m.easure be ascribed to their effemitiate education. It is a sort of harem life, although with this (''fference, that they, unlike the Oriental women, are here in this Western N 'in If 194 ENCZ/Sff, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. country- regarded as sultanesses, and the men as their ^"bjeets." The offensive habit of boasting of them- selves and their institutions has laid Americans open to the an.madversion of European travellers. They not only feel themselves able to "whip erea.ion," bu they „ust be perpetually b^aggmg of this ab,l,ty Warburton, in his •■ Hochelaga," says, "The want of pride in Amerieans is made up for by the most astounding coneeit ; they perpetually deelare to each other their wisdom, virtue-i„ short, perfec- ts ; and will not allow even a share of this merit to other nations." John Bull .s too proud to be vain It .s devoutly to be hoped that the day may be very d.stant when America and England shall again meet m the deadly shock of battle. A war between these two great nations would be a calan.ity to the whole civilised worid. Mr Anthony Trollope, who has recendy been among the Americans, gives it as h.s opm,on that there is danger of such a collision, ow.ng partly to the increased soreness and bitter- ness on the part of the Americans towards England, smce the civil war broke out, and partly to the prob- ab,hty of a military despotism springing up, when the contest is ended. This writer remark., that though such a war would be highly injurious to England, .t would be doubly disastrous to America. Of one thmg I feel eertain,_that Britain will only take up arras against America when driven to do so i ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 195 by dire necessity. And if that stern necessity should arise, it will be seen that Old England has lost none of her ancient valour, and that her sailors and soldiers have not degenerated since the days of Trafalgar and Waterloo. " There she sits in iier island-home, Peerless among her peers ! And humanity oft to her arms doth come, To ease its poor heart of tears. Old England still throbs with the muffled fire Of a past she can never forget ; And again shall she banner the world up higher. For there 's life in the old land yet. " They would mock at her now who of old look'd forth In their fear as they heard her afar , But loud v.:il your wail be, O kings of the earth ! When the old land goes down to the war. The avalanche trembles, half-launch'd and half-riven. Her voice will in motion set ; Oh, ring out the tidings, ye winds of heaven ! There 's life in the old land yet. " The old nursing mother 's not hoary yet, There is sap in her Saxon tree ; Lo ! she lifteth a bosom of glory yet. Through her mists, to the sun and the sea. Fair as the Queen of Love fresh from the foam. Or a stir in a dark cloud set ; Ve may bla.on her shame-ye may leap at her name- But there 's life in the old land yet. •• Let the storm burst, it will find the old land Ready ripe for a rough red fray ! She will fight as she fought when she took tier stand For the right in the olden day. Ay, rouse the old royal soul, Europe's best hope Is her sword edge by victory set ! She shall dash freedom's foes adown death's bloody slope : !• or there 's life in the old land yet." LECTURE THE FIFTH. THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ^P i My object in this address is not to attempt an exposition of the principles of geology. A real ac- quaintance with this science can only be attained by a long and patient study of those great writers who are its recognised expounders, and cannot be hoped for by the cheap and easy method of listening to a few popular lectures. All that the lecturer can hope to accomplish is to indicate some of the grand fea- tures of this fascinating science, to make known some of its sublime discoveries, and to shew the practical application of its principles ; and thus to awaken a desire in the minds of his auditors for further informa- tion. The lecture is not the proper medium for im- parting minute instruction in geology, or any other science. The object I have in view in this brief address is very simple and very humble. It is to THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 197 take some of the established truths of geology— some of those startling discoveries about which there can now be no question— and to endeavour to p ace these before you, not in the clear, cold light of science, but rather in that of imagination. In other words, I shall endeavour to deal, not 'with the science, but \\\& poetry of geology— that is, with those features of it which appeal to the imagination. At first sight, it might seem almost hopeless to look for anything of a poetical type in the stony science, dealing as it does with rocks and earth-beds, and going down, as a great resurrectionist, into nature's awful charnel-house, and dragging thence, v/ith pick- axe and hammer, the long-buried remains of extinct generations. One might fancy that the study of this science must be a sort of "meditation among the tombs"— very dismal and repulsive— and that geolo- gists must be about as fascinating characters as grave- diggers. In reality, however, this rugged science is rich in poetic elements, and furnishes stores of the noblest food for the imagination. From the strong comes forth sweetness. In the coming ages, I doubt not, poets will find, in the magnificent disclosures of geology, some of tiieir finest inspirations ; and will eagerly occupy the vast fields it has laid open to imagination's soaring wing. We all admit the sub- limity and poetry of astronomy — the "star-eyed science"— that has thrown out its plumb-line, and !'i 198 THE POETRY Or GEOLOGY. sounded the mighty depths of space-that has tracked the comet in its fiery career, weighed the suns and planes, measured their distances, and extracted the ^^ecret of their movements, and even gauged those n-bulous masses that hang, as light clouds, on the outskirts of our sidereal system. But not less sublime ■s geology in its aims and achievements. It has decphered n.uch of that wondrous world-story- stranger far than all that fiction has invented-whieh .s wntten by an almighty hand in the solid rocks- the manuscripts of God" inscribed on tables of stone. It has read ofi" those mysterious hieroglyph- ■cs m which the history of our planet was wriUen, durmg the long ages that preceded man's entrance on the scene. It has recorded the convulsions and changes through which earth has passed, and told how Its huge granite ribs were n.olten and cast in the pnmeval fires,-how its rocky sides were formed, and hen torn and hurled to the surface, amid convulsive throes,_how its mountain-chains were raised aloft .ts sea-beds and river-courses scooped out, and its' contments built up. From the primeval granite hardening over the internal sea of fire, up to the' deposmon of the vegetable soil in which the "modest cnmson-tipp'd" daisy takes root,-through all the growth and decay of world after world, and the rise and fall of empires and dynasties on which no hu- man eye ever gazed, -tracing out their nnghty ruins THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 199 With the clear eye of reason.-geology aims at no- thing less than constructing a biography of our globe. Stranger still, the geologist can trace the march of life over this stage of being. He can tell of what wondrous races, long since passed away, it was the birth-place. He disinters their stony skeletons, and reconstructs their forms, and, to the eye of fancy, makes them live and breathe again. For myriads of years they had lain in their stony shrouds: under the waving of the geologist's wand, they visit once more " the glimpses of the moon ;" and we are lost in won- der at the uncouth, gigantic forms that were once lords of creation— monarchs of all they surveyed. Is there no poetry in all this— nothing to stir the imagination } Is there no beauty in that mighty plan, reaching " from everlasting to everlasting," by which the Great Architect has been working for countless ages, to awaken our wonder and worship ? Is there no melody to charm the ear of fancy in those v-onderful "rh3'mes of the universe" written on stony tablets •> Nay, I think, here is the sublimest poetry -the poetry of truth, not of fiction. Let a geologist tell you the talc of some granite peak that lifts^ts " bald, awful " head amid the clouds,-how it sprang of old from the fiery gulf-how once the sea-weeds were wrapped around its shoulders, and the sea-shells decked its summits as the waves played among its crests-how from the bottom of the sea slov^ly up- 200 Mi H THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. . heaved, through long ages, it rose to be a "heaven- hissing " mountain ; or lot him sit down by some gray, moss-covered boulder or wave-worn pebble, and nar- rate through what strange wanderings and vicissi- tudes they have passed, and you will listen to a tale more fascinating by far than "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner," more wonderful than all that even Milton's imagination bodied forth. In all things however poor or commonplace, there is poetry, if we have but the eyes to see it. Then what poetry lies embalmed in that gorgeous science that has the whole past eternity for its empire, that carries the imagina- tion back into the abysses of time, and "the long- faded glories they cover," and restores the creations that bloomed and fell myriads of ages before man stepped on the scene ! What are the ruins of Nine- veh, Egypt, Persepolis, or Rome compared with the ruins of ancient worlds, and "the storied urns" of those mighty dynasties that preceded man on earth ! If the hoary ruin, only a {q^n centuries old, commands our veneration; if we tread reverently over the buried dust of former generations of men, shall we not feel our awe and wonder stirred as we' gaze on relics whose date no human mind can fix, and compared with which the oldest transactions of human history are but as yesterday > And if we are lost in wonder over the excavated slabs that once hned the walls of Nineveh's proud palaces ; if we pore THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 201 over the hierogl>T5hics that tell the tale of Egypt's early history, should we not, with still deeper rapture, study the structure of our world, \vith its inscribed characters, and learn through what revolutions it has reached its present condition? Shakespeare said, long ago, that there were " sermons in stones ;" and geology may be regarded as a great homily from a stony text, or as a great prose-poem with the globe as its subject, or as a grand Oratorio of Creation :— " Through the circles, high and holy. Of an everlasting change. Now more swiftly, now more slowly, Form must pass and function range. Nothing in the world can perish, Death is life and life is death ; All we love and all we cherish Dies to breathe a nobler breath. " From the dark and troubled surges Of the roaring sea of time Evermore a world emerges, Solemn, beautiful, sublime. So of old, from Grecian water, 'Mid the music and the balm, Rose the dread Olympian's daughter, Floating on the azure calm." There is, then, such a thing as the poetry of geology. Even in the commonest things there is beauty, if we have the seeing eye ; and it is the peculiar function of the poet to discover the beauti- ful, wherever it exists, and to worship at its shrine. Where to the common eye there is only a grim rock 202 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. or a dark earth-bed, a geologist with a poetic eye, like Hugh Miller, sees a world of beauty, and con- nects the shattered fragment or the dingy stratum with the wondrous story of the globe. To him the fossil and the rock arc flashing with poetry. They are full of beauty, and call up wondrous associations and strange, rich memories. These are the characters in which are written the chapters of that great world- story whose leaves are the solid rock. One of the most startling disclosures of geology has reference to the original condition of our globe. We look abroad now over the surface of the earth, and see mountain ranges, hills and plains, rivers hurrying on towards the ocean, a bright, green carpet covering the soil. The rain and snow descend ; the seasons succeed one another with undeviating regularity; and we are apt to think that the order of nature' has been the same from the beginning. Six thou- sand years ago we fancy the earth sprang into exist- ence, complete from the Creator's hand ; and man, as lord of creation, we suppose then took his place at the head of the animated series. This is the short and easy method of -reation , but It is far from being the real one. Very differer.t I-Jced is the tale which geo- logy unfolds. It demonstrates, from an examination of the rocks that compose the crust of the earth, that the globe has slowly and gradually reached its pres- ent condition ; that the great creative and destruc- THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 203 tive processes, we now see going on around us, were in .operation for myriads of ages before man's day on earth; tiiat races of animals, totally different from those which now walk the surface of the planet, lived, died, and were wrapped in their stony winding-sheets,' during periods of the past eternity so vast as to defy the powers of imagination, and in comparison with which six thousand years are as a d. op taken from the mighty ocean. During these pre- Adamite ag^s, whose long, deep swells are marked on the shores of time by the wrecks they have cait up. the earth passed through vast changes : its rocks, thousands of feet in thickness, were gradually accumulated, its strata slowly deposited, and its solid framework bui!t up through myriads of ages, till it became fitted to be a dwelling-place for man. Geology does not pretend to determine what was the original condition of that matter out of which our globe was thus formed. The beginning and the end are to us alike impenetrably dark. Laplace and Herschel have conjectured tliat originally the assemblage of bodies, that at present form our solar system, were one celestial mass, and consisted of matter in its most attenuated state, float- ing through space, like one of those mysterious patches of light clouds, called nebulae, that we see swimming in the celestial spaces. This gaseous mass, they sup- pose, under the influence of gravitation, of cohesive force, and chemical attraction, became moulded into 204 : I J T//E POETRY OF GEOLOGY. a sphere ; and then, under the influence of the laws impressed on it by the Creator, threw off from its sur- face, masses which became separate spheres, whiriing round the central mass ; and thus we have the sun and the planets revolving round it as the central point of attraction. If this theory be correct, then the matter of each world was once a sort of fire-mist, and was afterwards collected into a vast fire-cloud, which in due time was condensed into planet-masses; and from chaos well-ordered worlds arose. This grand theory— which, whether true or false, could only have originated in a mind of vast capacity— has been thus expressed in the language of poetry :— ]\\ " But in vain you would aspire, Looking left and looking right. O'er that mist of golden fire To direct your aching sight. Silent is it, burning, breathing, Like a sea of crimson cloud. Waves on waves are wreath'd and wreathing, A self-convoluted cloud. — See it whirling, calm and steady ! See it surging to and fro ! As the waters gleam and eddy. In some whirlpool chafed to snow. Cooler, cooler is it glowing, Denser here and denser there ; Slowly, slowly orbs are growing Out of this gross, fiery air. One has, with a sudden motion, Left the old, parental fire ; Yet around this radiant ocean Is it drawn with strange desire. THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. Others now, with others, sever — The great mist itself is one ! y -" You may see them rolling ever, The bright children of the sun." 205 Whatever may be thought of this hypothesis,— usually called " the nebular," — geology furnishes indisputable evidence that when chaos was passing into cosmos, — when our world was leaving the rudi- mentary condition and taking definite shape, the materials composing its surface were at such a tem- perature as to be a molten mass, like glass in a furnace. So totally different was its condition i.t this period from that which it has now assumed, that it requires an eftbrt to believe that the primeval globe and the present are the same. To form some faint idea of its primeval state, we must conceive of the earth as one mass of boiling lava, — the whole planet one vast volcano, hurling aloft molten torrents, amid frightful thunder and terrific explosions. As yet the molten lava, surrounded by watery vapour, air, and carbonic acid gas, was the sole material existence. Out of these primitive elements our beautiful, flower-clad world was at length to be evolved, with all its living occupants. Gradually the lava cooled at the surface, and became solid rock. The grim reign of chaos may now be said to have ended — cosmos commenced — the almighty creative fiat had gone forth— the world began. The liquid 206 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. t lava had hardened into granite, and formed the mighty nbs of the globe. The central f.re, hov/ever, was no^ cxtmguished, but shut in by the granite ribs, under-^ neath which it continues to flame on still, finding venf now only through the volcanoes scattered over the globe. Thus, on the surface of this earth-ball we are whirled through space, while underneath our feet at the distance only of a i... miles, a raging furnace IS flaming-heaving its waves of fire fiercely against Its granite barriers, at times making the earth tremble with the earthquake's shock, and still flinging up its molten n^asses through the throat of the volcano. While the liquid granite was undergoing the coolin<. process, the expansive force of the internal heat, actt ing from beneath, threw it into a variety of shapes, so that It congealed in waves or jets, which now form many of our hills and mountains. Very wonderful it I. to think that such vast chains of mountains as the Andes, the Pyrenees, and the Grampians are just solidified bubbks of the primitive granit^, originally hurled up from the seething caldron and congealed mto their present form. It is owing to this that nearly all granitic hills and mountains have peaked summits and steep sides. In many cases, however the granite barely shews itself above the surface of the earth, as in Aberdeenshire, Devonshire, and Gal- way ; m which places ic furnishes the most durable of THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 207 all building materials. In thi". 'oiand* the granitic rocks abound, and rear their heads above the surface in many localities. In the peninsula of Avalon, on which St John's stands, there is a range of hills twenty miles in length, running from the back of Renews to Holyrood in Conception Bay; while, from the latter place, another range runs along the southern shore of Conception Bay, forming the White Hills and the lofty iron-bound coast from Topsail Head to Cape St Francis. At the Renews and HplyrooJ extremities of the former ridge stand two hills, each about a thousand feet above the level of the sea, called the Butter-Pots. They arc formed of these igneous rocks, of which I have been speaking, that were originally molten in the furnace beneath ; the one being principally porphyry-, the other capped by a mass of dark gray trap-rock. That bold clffif named Topsail Head, which most of you have seen, is chiefly a mass of pure white quartz-rock. Cape St Francis, again, is principally gray quartz-rock and greenstone! All round the head of Conception Bay the igneous' rocks prevail. In Trinity Gut, a sloping sheet of the primitive granite is exposed to view; and the Fair Islands, the islands around Greenspond, and the mainland around Cape Freels, are all formed of the same rocks. When that daring traveller, Cormac, * Newfoundland. ■^m^-:*: 208 TffE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. iSL !'■ ''H I "If penetrated the unknown interior of Newfoundland mto which the white man had never ventured before' he tells us that he passed over a long ridge of low gramte hills, and that he often aseended the insulated peaks to view the grand undulating forest all around whose beauty he describes as exquisite. Until he' reached Jamesons Lake, in the very centre of the .sland, he encountered no other kind of rock than the gran.te. It was when he reached the summit of Ais great granite range, which he estimated at from twent, .0 forty miLs in width, that the mysterious mtenor of Newfoundland (to this day a terra inco.. mta) broke upon his view. Or. the one hand lav a dense forest, spotted with bright yellow marshes Ind glearamg lakes; on the other, stretching away to the westward, were broad savannas, marbled with woods, bnght green 'ains, far as the eye could reach -a scene of striki,,^ beauty, and teeming with Hfe. Can we doubt that one day the tide of population will in- vade these solitudes, and that these lonely plains, as yet explored by but a single traveller, will become the happy homes of men ; and that the soft, sweet vo,ces of children at their sports will yet re-echo through these woods, where now the deer, the fox and the wolf reign undisturbed ? Not always will tae energetic inhabitants of this island be content to occupy Its shores, gathering the treasures of its sur- rounding seas. The geologic, survey which is about THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 20g to be initiated, under the direction of Sir William Logan, will lay open the interior, of which at present v;e know far less than of the interior of Afriia; and •* n once its agricultural and mineral resources are made known, we may hope that a new era of pros- perity will begin. Even the slight researches of a fr^w individuals have already proved that its primitive rocks are rich in minerals ; and lead and copper ore, of the most valuable character, are now rewarding the efforts of the miner, in several localities. When the rich alluvial plains of the western portion of the island are explored, the axe of the backwoodsman will speedily be ringing in the dark forest. Let us now suppose the granite foundations laid, and the earth so far cooled as to allow the molten surface to become solid; fancy what an extraor- dinary appearance our world must have presented ! In all probability, the whole surface was covered with bold and rugged ranges of granite mountains, with deep and fearful valleys intervening between them. Volcanoes were numerous and active, still throwing up the molten mass, to be solidified on Uie surface. Though the fierce spirits of fire were banished far down to the dark caverns of the globe, to rage and roar in angry passion below, the earth was still in sore travail in those early days, her heaving bosom belching forth torrents of fire, a thousand volcanoes pouring out blazing streams of O 210 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ^ ava am,d a trembling and thundering that shook the firmament. Thus the soHd land first rose out of the abyss, to greet the hght that God had created Seas would be formed in the valleys between the gramte peaks ; and as the moisture of the atmo • sphere condensed, vast torrents rushed down the sides of the mountains, and during long ages, aided by the action of the atmosphere, washed down the granite hills to the bottoms of seas, where their disintegrated particles were consolidated under vast pressure, and, being crystallised by heat, formed the next series of rocks, called, in geologic phrase, the metaphoric or transition series, or sometimes the gneiss formation. Thus the primitive granitic moun- tarns were slowly worn down, by the same agencies that are still at work levelling the mountains, and ^vere deposited in the waters of the ocean. The ranges that still lift their gray heads aloft are the remains of this primitive race of giants, whose ponderous strength has been able hitherto to resist the attacks of their foes. Down to the bottoms of seas were the granite particles rolled, not by sudden convulsions or rending earthquakes, but by gentle agencies. The water and air drilled and bored countless little holes and channels through the vast body ; the mild rain sto.e into every cleft and crevice, and oozed from vein to vein, filling the heart of the granite giant with dehcate and wondrously ramified little canals The THE POETR y OF GEOLOG V. 2 1 1 cold of winter froze these secret ducts; the veins swelled, loosp-.ing the vast fragments with irresistible force, and shattering even the solid granite. Mean- time the oxygen was gnawing at every corner and edge, grinding up the minute particles; and the thundering torrent at length comes and sweeps away in wild triumph the rifted fragment, or the glacier takes it up in its icy embrace, bears it down the sloping valley to the sea, and the iceberg floats it far away, and drops it in the dark depths of ocean. Thus, in the wondrous circulation of matter, the granite mountain is spread over the floor of ocean. Now geologists have ascertained that it was at the bottom of this ancient ocean that the creation of life first took place. Two varieties of a humble polypus, the oldhamia, have been found ; and to the eyes of the geologist this little creature is most veneiable as being the first denizen, as far as science has yet made out, of the oceanic chaos of this period During many thousands of years, the ground-up granite was deposited in sedimentary strata by the waters of the ocean, that held them in solution Meantime the expansive force of the internal heat wa-- slowly raising the bottoms of these seas, until at length they became dry land, and constituted the great Cambrian and Silurian formations, many thousand yards in thickness, and requiring enor- mous periods for their deposition. On the border of 212 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. I' ' I* ' Wales, not far from Shrewsbury, there is a .noun- tarn called Lorormynd. which, with other mountain groups m the same region, constitutes the basis of the Silurian system. These rugged rocks were the first that rose above the surface of the waters when the fou.idations of what was to become Britain were laid. Against this breakwater ^he waves dashed, as ^r the first time they met with any resistance. Here was the beginning of that sea-girt isle the name of which is familiar now in every land In these Welsh mountain, the geologist reads off the annals of this early world, and pores over the mysteries of the primitive creations. The granite world had departed ; its successor, formed out of its rums, was emerging from the depths of ocean. It was a great step in advance when the dry lard rose above the waves. Then a higher life than that vvh.ch could exist at the bottoms of oceans began • and a more varied climate followed. Geology de- monstrates that at first only a few islands rose above the surface of the waters. Where there are now con- tments, at the date we speak of there were only scat- tered groups of islands. The outline of England and Scotland was marked by a chain of small islands along what is now the western coast. France was an island-most of Germany an archipelago. The val- ley of the Mississippi formed a small continent by itself. Between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia there THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 213 was a Mediterranean Sea, bordered on all sides by land, which has disappeared beneath the waves. Most of what now constitutes the western counties of Scot- land, with Cumberland, Westmoreland, nearly the whole of Wales, and the east of Ireland, formed the bed of a ^ast sea. A new era dawned— that of the old red sandstone. This formation was builc out of the crumbled debris of the Silurian world, de- posited at the bottom of the ocea;;, and coloured by an infusion of oxide of iron. Gradually these beds rose from the deptls, towered into mountain ranges, had their river-systems, continents, and vegetable and animal creations. The remains of the old red sandstone world still shew themselves in the loftiest mountains of South Wales, Cornwall, and Devon- shire ; but, above all, in Northern Scotland they are piled :n imposing magnificence. Here the old red sandstone forms a huge mantle, that is wrapped around the shoulders of the Grampians— the gray giants of the granite age. In it are embedded the remains of numerous marine plants, and also of land cryptogamic ones. It was, however, emphatically the age of fish. Hugh Miller has made a special study of this great field, and has described, in his ov/n elo- quent words, the strange fantastic creatures that dis- ported themselves in the primeval Caledonian seas,— balls bristling with thorns, living boats with oars and rudder, the pterichtys, that aspired to ent the bird 214 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ■ family, and " the cephalaspi,, with its long tail fas- V u ,!°!,"'-'^«"'-^''='P<'d head covered with a heavy sh,eld. • The earliest of the great reptile dynasty also shewed themselves toward the elose of the old red sandstone era. Ages rolled on, new revolutions oecurred,_all ..di cat,„g progress, all marking steps in a Divine plan. The earboniferous era, with its enormous vegetation dawned ; and then gigantic ferns, palm-trees, and coniferous trees grew, and left their accumulated remains to form coal-beds as the fuel of the modern world The dry land enlarged ; islands were linked together, and formed continents; everywhere the ter- resinal masses vastly increased in bulk. The remains of this era shew a vast increase in the terrestrial ora mdicating an increment of soil. Immense fo.ests' whose colitudes no mammiferous animal yet dis' turbed, flourished in the warm, damp temperature. The rich coal-fields of England and Scotland are th» precious relics they have left. The tree-fern and the great sigillaria were then the monarchs of the woods The enormous duration of the carboniferous era may be judged of from the calculation of Professor Phillips that "it would require 122,400 years merely to accu-' mulate sixt>- feet of coal." This world, however at length closed, and the tertiary era dawned. The centre of Europe was now completed ; England still wanted her eastern portion. The site on which Paris and THE POETPV OF GEOLOGY. 215 London now stand was as yet a lake, into which the waters of several rivers were discharge 1, and in due time filled up the basin. The huge reptiles of the preceding era had disappeared, and a higher race of animals walked the earth— the number as well as the variety of living creatures being vaster. The tem- perature of the earth, though still high, was approach- ing its present condition. Decaying vegetable and animal structures, uniting with the crumblin^r rocks, formed soil. The new red sandstone, the oolite, and the chalk succeeded each other. All things were tending towards one grand result. The granite, the Silurian, the old red sandstone, the carboniferous veg.ation were all but means for the formation of that little dark-coloured superficial layer we call the vegetable soil ; and the object of this latest formation was, that rational, immortal m.an might occupy the scene. And now, when the huge tertiary monsters at length slept their stony sleep, the earth was ready for its lord. Then man, the youngest and fairest of all created things, for whom all the^e vast prepara- tions had been going on,— on whose account a bene- ficent Creator had fitted up this gorgeous dwelling- place and stored it so munificently, — man, " the paragon of animals," entered and took possession of his fair domains. For him, tlirough countless ages, were these vast beds of crumbled rock and decayed animal- and vegetable remains laid down; for his use 2i6 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. h i these treasures underneath the surface of the earth had been accumulated -the coal, l.mestone, and mineral deposits ; and now. as heir of all the ages he enters on his inheritance. ' SaiJ I not truly that geology has its poetry, and that of the noolest type ? What a grand subject for an epic poem would be the fortunes and vicissitudes of the pre-Adamite earth,-the rise, decline, and fall of Its empires and dynasties ! How the imagination m.ght linger over those strange existences, whose remams are enclosed in their strong sepulchres, and dehght ,n picturing the condition of earth, when these creatures trod its surface, rejoicing in their strengtn, and drinking in enjoyment from a thousand fountams of happiness,-all proclaiming the bnefi cence and wisd m of the omnipotent Creator ! What high employment the poetic fancy might find in re constructing those wondrous forms, faintly but accu rately sketched on the solid rock ; or in shadowing forth the outline of world after world, as it bloomed and decayed, in the great primeval morning of time » And then, what themes for imagination to work upon m the appearance and disappearance of noble races each having its appointed day, and, at the close, the' tomb and the sle.p of death, and as successor a still nobler dynasty- death ever passing into a higher life and all pointing to the great consr.mmation, the hu' man period ! How vividly the imagination might THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 217 contrast man's brief day on earth with the geologic eras of the past ! " We who for threescore years and ten Toil downwards from our birth, Deem sixty centuries of men A ripe old age for earth. " But all our deedi, though back we look With yearning keen and fond, Fill but a page ; the mighty book Lies fathomless beyond. " She is not old, or waxing cold, But vigorous as of yore. When 'mid her kindred globes she roll'd. Exulting evermore. " Six thousand years of human strife Are little in the sum— A morning added to hT "fe. And noon-day yet to con * *' Six thousand years, and what are they? A cycle scarce begun, — The fragment of a grander day. Unmeasured by the sun." Then, how these geolop:ic studies enlarge our views of the Divine plan of the universe, — how they expand our conceptions of that Being who is from everlast- ing to everlasting ! What miracles of beauty,— what lavish skill and adornment, — what profundity of aim, — what grandeur, bounty, and beneficence may the poetic eye trace in all these relics of the ancient worlds ! On them the sun shone as brightly as on our own world. The waves rolled, and sparkled, ai. \ foamed as they are doing to-day; the forests, and 21$ THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ■ '"•"f =^>'='"nas, and prairies were teeming with life ■ ants that liave not now a representative on eartl, Beauty and Divine ski,, were as lavishly bestowed on all created th„,g, when there was no rational being to adm,re or adore, as when ,„an became the high pnes, of nature, and the student of Gods immeasur- able plan. These are the poetic themes that geo- logy suggests, while it conducts us amid the wonders of Gods creat,on, and discovers to us the texture of that garment, so complex and beautiful, that has been woven ..fn the roaring loom of time," and which r>e.ty has wrapped around Him at various creative epochs, and then "changed li.e a vesture." and folded up, and laid aside in the successive evolutions cf His mighty plans :— " In the infinite creation Lies no dead unmeaning fact, But eternal revelation, t>eity in endless act,— Life that works and pauses never. Death that passes into life, Rest that follows motion ever. Peace that ever follows strife. Evermore the worlds are fading, Evermore the worlds will bloom, To refute our weak upbraiding. To throw brightness on the gloom. Ever the imperfect passes. But the perfect ever grows, Forests sink to drear morasse's, Fairer landscapes to disclose." THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 219 In truth, these " fairy tales of science " are far more wonderful than all other tales — more enrapturing than all the stories of genii, enchant-d castles, witches, and giants that ever fiction penned. What are the changes produced by Aladdin's wonder-working lamp, compared with the actual transformations that earth has undergone since her granite floors were laid ! How astonishing the fact that this beautiful, flower-decked world, with all its animal and vegetable growths, has been formed out of the basis of the original granite ! Yet such is literally the fact. Each successive world was formed out of that which pre- ceded it, the ground-up granite furnishing the original materials, and the plant, the animal, the action of heat, water, and air supplying other elements. The particles of the primitive rocki entered into a thou- sand new combinations, and underwent innumerable transformations — now in fresh rock formations, now in vegetable growths, and now in the structures of animals. Man himself, in his mortal part, may be re- garded as an extract from the granite — a fine essence concentrated from the flinty particles of the primitive rocks. The original granite mountain was worn down into minute particles, which were taken up by water and spread over the surface of the earth ; here they entered into the composition of plants whose roots drink, in rain and spring water, large quantities of dissolved flint The animal devoured the plant, and It 220 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. . so these part,cles entered into a higher Ufe. Man, h, UP T' "IV '"■■'"^' '' ''' P'^"'- -d '"us buMs parti as" ' T"""'" ^"" '"^ °"e'-' £-"''« part,des vanously compounded In fact, in eve^- of flmt held m solution ; in the cabbage, bean, and other vegetables tl,at we eat there are quan tL of -,ve «,,t, impalpable to the senses^nd I-ch thus go to the construction o. our bodily frames. In the course of a lifetime we thus dispose of a con- owt t r "' '""'" ""'"""'y ^"™S'>- '""^t - and m he ceaseless circulation of matter, the endless renewal by destruction that is going on, the particles composing our bodies may be again employed in the construct.on of some cloud-capped hill. - All flesh " ^'^'' •" """^ '° SO a step farther back, all flesh is gramte If it be true that •■ in the midst of life we are m death," it is no less true that in the midst of death we are in life. Gigantic mountains, huge con- t.nen s are swept down to the bottoms of seas-all that l,ves dies, but life still triumphs. That which seemmgly perishes only changes its fo. „, and rises and n-es again. Resurrection follows de.r ,, and new h,e springs from the grave. The flinty rock dissolved, refined, almost spiritualised, rises with the gentle water-drops, into the delicate roots of plants Want,ng this food, no wheat, oats, or bariey cou.a H'T- THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 221 grow. Mounting upwards, slily, slowly, these flinty particles form the straw of the rich wheat pknt, and the stalk of grass — structures which surpass in beauty and boldness man's proudest temples, so beautiful, yet so airy and solid, that the rain cannot enter, and the wind can bend, but not break the elastic pillar. And thus, through this hollow column, the plant draws up rich food for man, and stores it away in its chambers till the autumn comes, and finds the head bending with golden grain ; and so through vein and artery, the particles of the stone become part and portion of the being into which God himself has breathed the breath of life. These marvels of science may rudely dissolve the wonder-dreams of our child- hood; but so far from banishing poetry from our minds, they awaken richer trains of poetic thought, and pile wonder on wonder higher far than all the imagina- tion has ever bodied forth in its loftiest flights : — " I grieve not that ripe knowledge takes away The charm that nature to my childhood wore, For with the insight cometh day by day A greater bliss than wonder was before. To wm the secret of a weed's plain heart Reveals the clue to spiritual things. The soul that looks within for truth may guess The f '•"sence of some unknown heavenliness."* One of the most interesting chapters in geology is that which describes the formation of coal. Little do we think, as we gather round the cheerful hearth, • J. Russell Lowell. 222 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. While the winter storm is howhng without, and a nerce nor-easter is huriing the snow-drift against the windows, and as, poker in hand, we proceed to break- up a lump of " bright, round coal,"--Iittle do we think what a wonderful history that piece of black mineral hao had. Not only does it yield heat and light, but also poetry. That dark mass is a fragment from a tree that grew in the primeval forest countless millennium, before man's creation. The period during which the earth was taking in her stock of coal for world-con- sumption is called by geologists, as we have seen, the carboniferous era. Her coal-cellars were dug very deep indeed, immediately over the old red sandstone Fortunately for us. however, these stores have been elevated in many places near the surface, and so placed within man's ^each. Never before or since was the earth covered with such a rank vegetation as during the period when our coal-beds were depo- sited. The atmosphere was then warm and moist • and carbonic acid gas, which forms the chief food of plants, was far moro abundant then than at present These conditions favoured the development of a rank vegetation ; and this vast growth served a double purpose-it subtracted from the air the excess of noxious gas, and thus prepared for a higher animal hfe; while, at the same time, its remains, deposited in huge basins, underwent a chemical change that transformed them into coal, .o essential for civilisa- (. ^%&s. THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 223 tion and human comfort. Thus the generator of that mechanical force that was destined to drive our steam-ships, railway trains, power-looms, to work our factories and printing-pressej, and do all the world's drudgery, was, myriads of ages since, formed out of the superabundant carbonic acid gas, the sunbeams, and the mud of low-lying delta lands. In reality, as remarked by George Stephenson, the motive-power that works the steam engine is " light bottled up in the earth for tens of thousands of years, — light ab- sorbed by the plants and vegetables ; and, after being buried in the earth for long ages in fields of coal, that light is again brought forth and liberated, and made to work, as in the locomotive, for great human pur- poses." Let us try to get an idea of the wonderful proc( ss by which this great agent of civilisation was formed. The researches of geology shew that during the coal-forming era the chief forms of vegetation were marshy plants, luxuriating in low, muddy delta- lands, like the cypress swamps of the Mississippi, or the Sunderbunds of the Ganges. Favoured by heat and moisture, vast vegetable-growths shot up and decayed, age after age. The Icpidodcndra, seventy feet in height, shot forth their spiky branches ; vast tree-ferns and tall reeds, with stems as massive as those of our forest ^rees, rose out of the water; pines, in dark forests, covered the hills. Rivers 224 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. I M I . rushed ilong, loaded with drift-wood, pine trees, and leaves; and these, collecting in vast rafts, became water-logged, sank to the bottom, and being gradu- ally embedded in sand and mud, became in due time chemically altered into coal. It is now an established doctrine of geology that at least some of the coal-seams originated, in this way, from the" deposition of drift-wood in the mud and ooze of the sea-bottoms. Still, by far the greater proportion of these coal-beds arose from the decay and entomb- ment of vegetation on the spot zvhere it grcw—Xh^ swampy plains of the land. Where these huge growths arose they sank into their tombs, were covered over, and in due time converted into coal. This latter theory- of their formation has been gener- ally accepted since Sir William Logan's discovery that each coal-seam, for the mc 3t part, rests upon a bed of fire-clay, which, with its embedded roots, marks the site of an ancient soil. It is not un- common to find " erect stems of trees passing down through the coal-seams, and spreading out their divergent roots in the clay below, exactly as they must have done when they flourished green and luxuriant in the times of the carboniferous era."* In the coal-fields of Cape Breton, from which we get our supplies, a very remarkable appearance was presented in one locality. Four planes were laid ^^ Geikie's "Story of a Doulder." THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 225 bare, placed one over the other, and each supporting its group of erect stems of trees, and exhibiting in all seven ancient soils with their covering of vege- tation. These trees must have grown on the spot where their upright stems are still to be seen ; and consequently the accompanying coal-seams origin- ated, not from vegetation drifted by river-action, but from vegetation that there grew up. Under almost all coal-beds vegetable soil can be traced, thus unmistakably indicating their origin. Thus, where the miner, far down in the bowels of the earth, amid damp and dripping caverns, is exca- vating the coal, richly-clad forests bloomed and decayed, century after century. These vast jungles and forests, invaded by the changing currents of the river, were buried slowly in sediment deposited by its waters ; or the area on which they grew was submerged in the sea, and over this sunk forest mud accumulated for centuries. In due time the muddy bottom of the sea became dry land, and waved with a new forest, which in its turn sunk, to form new coal-beds. The same process was repeated age after age ; forest after forest spread its mantle of green over the low, swampy lands, and each in turn floundered amid the muddy waters,— the whole sunken vegetation forming the vast coal-measures, many thousand feet in thickness. Had these treasures been retained where they i^^^-^^^^^^iK-Jroml M'^ir 11 aad 7V/^ POETRY OF GEOLOGY. were originally formed, they would have been for ever buried in the earth, far beyond the reach of man. But, by gigantic subterranean forces, the ori- ginal deposits of coal have been broken up, changed in position, brought nearer the surface, and so placed within the reach of man. Geology affords invaluable aid in the discovery of coal, and saves the waste of time and money in searching for it where it cannot possibly be found. The practised eye of the geolo- gist at once detects the formations in which coal may be looked for. For example, he would at once pro- nounce it useless to search for this mineral in the neighbourhood of St John's ; because the whole peninsula of Avalon is composed of the lower slate formation, and contains no rocks of the carbonifer- ous series, in which alone coal-beds occur. New- foundland, however, has its coal regions, — like all its other treasures, yet unexplored. In the neighbour- hood of St George's Bay, it is well known, there is a tract of country, twenty miles in length and twelve in breadth, in which the coal strata crop out in many places. These beds are a continuation of the great coal-fields of Cape Breton and Nova Scotia, on the opposite side of the gulf. One day, we cannot doubt, the black smoke from the mouth of many a coal-mine will darken the air of this region ; and the heavy sob- bing of the steam-engine, dragging up the precious treasures, will re-echo amid the forest solitudes. Our THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 227 island has an area not far short of that of England ; and yet it sustains but 120,000 inhabitants, scattered along its coasts, and employed wholly in fishing. The breadth of land under culture is as yet quite insignifi- cant. It is very true that much of the island, especi- ally along its eastern shore, is uninviting to the agri- culturist ; it is true that the ugly coating of bog, that covers so much of the explored portion, acts like a great sponge in retaining the moisture, covering the surface with so many pond? or lakelets, and so pre- venting the forn^ation of large rivers to drain the soil ; It is true that, as far as we are acquainted with its soil, much of the surface is covered with drifted mate- rials, consisting of clay, sand, embedded boulders, and fragments of rocks rafted hither probaLIy by icebergs, wlien tho island lay at the bottom of the sea. I sup- pose it was the desolate aspect thus presented that induced the belief said to be current among the Red Indians who resorted hither, that when the Great Spirit was forming tne /American continent He fluno- the chips, broken fragments, and useless materials into a heap, and so formed Newfoundland. The be- lief that our island is only a heap of " shot rubbish," on which fishermen may dry their fish and nets, though long and widely prevalent, is simply the re- sult of ignorance. If you want to know what industry can accomplish, look at the smiling farms around St John's, and remember that the soil here is naturally 228 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ll . the very worst in the island. The western portion contains many noble tracts of fertile soil, without a single settler; and the unexplored interior may con- tarn many more. In " the good time coming" these will be colonised and cultivated ; the rich mineral trea- sures will be worked ; and Newfoundland will cease to be renowned only for fogs, cod-fish, and seal-oil. Perhaps no revelation of geology stirs the imagi- nation more strongly than that which shews us that since the earliest ages, the land has been slowly but ceaselessly passing into the sea, and again emerging from it ; so that all existing lands have been again and again sea-bottoms. Even the snow-canped mountain gives unmistakable evidence that it cnce dwelt at the bottom of the o< an, and the sandstone hill, on which gigantic trees have now rooted them- selves, was once a mass of loose sand down in the fathomless dep.is of the sea. The organic remains embedded in mountain-chains, table-lands, and plains prove that they were deposited, inch by inch, during vast ^ons of the past eternity, at the bottoms of seas, and slowly raised by the upheaving forces into their present positions. The two great processes of creation aad destruction are thus in continuous and antagonistic action. The moment the dry land is raised aloft, a host of destructive agents are at work tooth and nail, to hurl it down again to the bottom of the ocean. The hills, by the action of rain, frost, '11 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 229 torrents, and air, are gradually crumbled down into the valleys. The hardest rocks cannot resist the teeth of these untiring agents. The water filters ihro-gh the rock, parts wi«:h its carbonic acid, chemi- call, decomposes the solidei c materials, loosening the joints and undermining the strength even of the granite, trap, and sandstone; and then the frosts expand the water in the crevices, and wrench off enormous fragments. The rivers take up the spoils, grind them into minute particles, c.rry them off and scatter them over the floor of the ocean, ivhere they are hardened into rock, as solid as that whence they were derived. As ages roll on, these are raised, and once mc-e form portions of the dry land, are clothed with vegetation, and c ered with animal races. The sea, moreover, is ceaselessly thundering against the cliffs, battering them down, and encroaching on the low-lying shores. This vast process is going on to- day, just as in the earliest periods,— eating away old lands, r.nd forming new continents and islands at the bottoms of seas. Even the interior of the globe bears its part in the transmutations of matter. The inter- nal furnace fuses and melts the rocks,— pj.ssing the.-i through its fiery ovens, and dragging them from their hiding-places in the depths of the earth, and at length, in fierce fury, throws them out of volcan- -s as lava streams ; and thus they enter into the com- position of new lands. The glacier, too, is at work 230 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. i m as a destructive agent, rending fragments from the mountains, carr>'ing them to the sea, and exporting them, packed in the iceberg, to more sunny climes. From the icy regions of the north, the icebergs that are floating past our shores are bearing, as their freight, the rocks and stones of the Arctic mountains, dropping them, as they melt, in the bosom of the Atlantic, on the banks of Newfoundland, or the low shores at the mouth of the St Lawrence; and thus cir- culating matter from the pole towards the equator, and building up new continents at the bottom of the ocean. Rivers are depositing the particles washed down by their waters at their mouths, and thus creating deltas. Lower Egypt has thus been formed by the Nile ; the Mississippi and Ganges are bearing down masses of sand, mud, and fertile soil, intermixed with huge vegetable corpses, and building up peninsulas and islands far -'^ -'nto the sea. Thus there is only one doom for all existing lands— they must be ground up and deposited at the bottoms of sr.s, to rise again in nature's vast mutations and resurrections. Could we with prophetic eye look into the future, we should see the continents and islands of our globe sinking like mighty wrecks in the abysses of ocean, and in new forms rising, to be again washed back into the calm, impassive ocean. As the lands are thus melted down, so-ne of their vegetable and animal growths are sure to be embedded m the soft mud, where they THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. -0' arc gently interred. The mud above them hardens into rock ; they are entombed in its centre, and be- come the organic remains which future geologists shall explore, and by the aid of which they will construct a history of the wrecked continent whose fragtientE are thus preserved in the archives of nature. The geologist of to-day can point to .masses of rock, thousands of feet in thickness, and covering large areas of the globe, fo; raed out of hardened sediment that had been worn -pt is in reality a concretion of small THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ^11 shells chambered with the most perfect symmetry, and deposited in the course of innumerable ages. Let us never fancy, then, that any creature, intro- duced into the range of being by the adorable Creator, ever lives in vain. In closing, permit me to refer, very briefly, to a few of the more extraordinary animals with whose re- mains geology makes us acquainted. In this depart- ment of the stony science, also, we find ample sug- gestions addressed to the poetic imagination. On all hands it is admitted that there has been a gradual rise in the type of animated beings, from the earliest period till the present epoch. The facts revealed by geology seem to point to a beginning of organised life on the globe, however distant that era may be in the depths of the past. Undoubtedly there has been a progression in creation— the whole animal world, from its lowest to its highest forms, being one vast ascending series of organic structures, gradually in- creasing in complexity of organisation and perfection of development. The patient industry of the geolo- gist, during the last few years, has been rewarded by bringing him, as he believes, within view of the dawn of the animal world— the aboriginal creations- the very beginnings of life. At all events, he has reached that mysterious border land which divides the organic and inorganic world, beyond which all is darkness as to the origin of life. How profoundly interesting to i-ifT 234 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. v W:iii look upon the first order o^ animal existences that were endowed with the mysterious property of life when Nature was yet, as it were, trying "her 'prentice hand " on the earliest structures ! Yet these primi- tive animals, so simple in structure as to present dur- ing life the appearance of jelly, have left behind them microscopic shells of exquisite beauty and sym- metry ; and in the vast geological strata which they built up, age after age, they have left rocky monu- ments of themselves, in whicli th-^ir remains lie en- tombed. Not in vain have the protozoa lived and died,— they were among the chief architects of the earth's crust. As world-buildens, these tiny creatures were working for us. But though the invertebrate animals led the way,— though the oldest Cambrian rocks contain no traces of a higher life than the little radiated zoophyte named Oldhamia antigua—Sind though the vertebrate animals followed, beginning with fishes and ending with mammalia, yet the at*^ tempts to prove that the higher are a development from the lower have hitherto proved conspicuous failures. From the tiny zoophyte to the gigantic Saurian dynasty, that lorded it over creation dunng the era of the new red sandstone, was an enormous stride. There was a time when ^he clin^ate of England re- sembled the present climate of Africa ; when a great river swept through the land, on the banks of which THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 235 bamboos and palms shot up in tropical luxuriance, and in whose deltas the huge reptiles of this era dis- ported. The ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus, huge oceanic giants, fought and devoured one another monster forms of prodigious bulk and frightful vor- acity. The pterodactylus, the bat of primeval nights, now roamed about — a flying dragon, having a spread of wings of twenty-seven feet, that enabled it to soar to incredible heiglits, and fall like lightning on its prey. Hugh Miller describes it as having the jaws and teeth of the crocodile, added to the wings of a bat and the tail of an ordinary mammal. The sweep of its twenty-seven-feet wings, as it opened its croco- dile jaws, armed with sixty teeth, and darted on its prey, must have been truly terrific. Another of this class, rejoicing in the name of cetiosaurus, was about sixty feet in length. Most remarkable of all, how- ever, was the labyrinthodon, a gigantic frog, equal in size to a rhinoceros, and not less than thirty feet in length. This huge frog had jaws of immense length, furnished with more than a hundred fangs, the skin scaly and, in some places, protected by bony plates. In the Devonshire quarries a large cemetery of these monsters has been discovered. Lyell holds that if the same climate and conditions of life were brought back in England, these reptiles would again be tyrants of the scene. The age of great birds succeeded that of the rep- 236 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY tiles. One of these, called the dinornus, stood twelve feet high, its bones exceeding those of the largest horse. A still more gigantic bird has left nothing behind it but its foot-marks on the sandstone of Connecticut Valley. Its " foot-prints on the sands of time" are there, but no specimen of the creature has yet been found. The great mammals next trod the scene. The dinotherium, one of the largest quadru- peds that ever h'ved, carried about with him two immense pickaxes, in the shape of two bent tusks with which he grubbed up the largest trees and the' toughest roots for food. The mastodon, of which a complete skeleton is exhibited in the British Museum was about the height of the largest elephant, but attamed the enormous length of twenty-five feet, each of its grinders weighing from seventeen to twenty pounds. The limits of a lecture will not permit me to follow these topics farther. I have been able merely to in- dicate a {^v^ of the poetical aspects of geology; but these will readily suggest others, and you will soon discover that the seeing eye and the sympathetic heart will find poetry in every department of the stony science. It is true that " The dull sec no divinity in grass, Life in dead stone, or spirit in the air ; " but to the understanding heart, Nature, in all its THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. ^17 departments, speaks of beauty and divinity, and con- nects itself with the spiritual and the unseen, lifting the soul to the mighty, beneficent Parent of all. All true and lofty poetry must lay hold on the Divine element that mingles in all, and thus conduct to God. This is pre-eminently true of the poetry of ge- ology : it points with reverential hand to Him who is " the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever ; " who has presided over the vast cycles of the past eternity, guiding their changes and convulsions, and working out that Divine plan which we can but dimly divine. Wonderful is that mighty web that has been weaving during the aeons of the past— its threads of granite, its ornaments the porphyry, the precious stones, the veins of gold and silver, the rocks of fairy form, twined and intertwined ; tree, beast, bird, fish, insect all filling in the woof, all weavi, ^ for God the im- perial robes that He has wrapt around Him; but all telling us that He is in all, and yet above and apart from all— the Creative Spirit that moulds the earth and guides the spheres. If, then, geology, in its lofty song, sings of the ag vhen earth bore series after series of plants and animals, but no rational, immortal intelligence, and tells us that, compared with these periods, measured by hundreds and thou- sands of centuries, man's day is but a small ripple in the ocean of eternity ; yet does it, too, suggest a THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. glorious and lengthened future for our globe and for our race, during which vast and inconceivable strides of progress will be taken by man, ere the day shall amve when he must give place to some nobler exis- tence-when "the earth and all that is therein shall be burnt up," and "a new heavens and new earth" shall emerge from the ruins. And if there is some- thmg solemn and saddening in the thought that the re.gn of death has been universal-that the earth on wh,ch we tread is but a huge cemetery, and that all the beauty and splendour of the former worids lie in- erred beneath our feet,_that -nan, too, equally with the weakest and strongest, must enter the still abodes, and a„ t, 3 „„„ ^^ ^^.^^^ ^_^^ ^^.^^ ^^^ ^^^^ tender m human affection and glorious in human thought, must sleep beside the mastodon and ichthy- osaurus, yet the clear eye of faith, guided by God's wntten revelation, looks away from "the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds" to the bright abodes of .mmortality, and the soul defies all the destructive agenc =s of earth to shake its trust in God. To the soul mthe noblest sense, death is life-immortal life -and tne grave, too, a gift of Infinite Goodness. " ^^'ith a jjrand renunciation, Let him leave to earth and sun, For another generation. All the good that he has done. THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. Knowing that the Ir s eternal Never, never can deceive ; Raised above the sphere diurnal, And too noble far to grieve. Glad that he has been the agent Of the Universal Heart; That, in life's majestic pageant, He has play'd no worthless part." 239 ■>J3^'-«J I ' { LECTURE THE SIXTH. IRELAND— HER HISTORY AND HER PEOPLE. With its back to Europe, and its face to tlie west,— receiving the full shock of the mighty billows of the Atlantic on its northern, western, and southern shores —stands the fair and fertileisland named Ireland. A narrow sea, which at one point is but thirteen miles in width, severs it from the larger island of Great Britain. The name Ireland is partly Celtic and partlv Saxon in its origin. Its most ancient appellation, and that to which its people still cling with the at- tachment of veneration, was Eri, or Erin, which is de- rived from the Celtic lar or Eir, signifying western. When the Saxons came to know it, they added to the native name lar, their own term "land," and called it larland or Ireland. Thus Erin and Ireland are from the same root, and signify the western land. IP ■\tf..'. IRELAND. 241 Its greatest length does not exceed three hundred miles ; its breadth is between eighty-five and a hun- dred and ten miles. So admirably has nature adapted it for commerce, by ir ' nting its coasts with harbours, arms of the sea, and louths of rivers, that scarcely an acre of land in the country is more than fifty miles from the sea, or from good navigation. This little isle — a speck of earth— a mere freckle on the surface of the globe— has a history which, though generally dark and sad, stretches away back, amid the waves of time, far beyond the Christian era. A race have trod its soil who have made themselves felt in almost every country of the globe. To civilisation they have communicated some of its most quickening impulses ; to science, poetry, oratory, history, art, they have given some of their most illustrious names. Heroic souls, whose achievements are conspicuous on the rolls of fame, and whose thoughts have influenced the world's destinies, claim Ireland as their birth- place. Glory has blended with her dust. It is a land of song— of gorgeous traditions— of heroic me- mories. Its monuments tell, in their gray ruins which have withstood the storms of time, of a great past, to which the hearts of its people fondly and proudly turn. The voice of soldiers, scholars, poets, saints, speaks from that dim past, amid the echoes of the ages as they sweep along "the corridors of time." And how rich and plaintive the music that comes Q 242 IRELAND. from this region of song, stirring the pulses of the heart with its notes of sadness, or flushing the chee': with its passion and frenzy ! That music, low and sweet, martial or melancholy, melting into softness, or kindling to heroic ardour, has gone direct to the heart of the world. It tells of woes, wrongs, oppres- sions, as it sobs over the historic past. It seems to be the pathetic utterance of an imaginative, high-souled, proud, and passionate race, who are ^ndeavouring to escape from a dreary present, by taking refuge in the memories of a gorgeous past. Strikingly does it contrast with their wit and humour, gay, glancing, tender, buoyant, as though th^y were entire strangers to sighs and tears. And when we add to these the fervour and genius of the people— their passionate love of country and kindred— their billiancy and fancy; and when we remember the lovely land they possess, its fields of emerald green, its " heaven-kissing" hills blooming to their summits, Its valleys, whose streamlets seem to sing its legends, Its ruins in their pale and melancholy splendour, and, around all, "ocean narrowing to caress her," have we not a race and a land worthy our profoundest in- terests—a land of which it is hardly too much to say that ** One-half its soil has walk'd the rest In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages?" Ireland may be described as a great plain inter- IRELAND. 243 sperscd with low hills, which around the sea-coasts rise into mountain-ranges. The highest of these mountains, in Kerry, only reaches the height of 3400 feet. Nothing can surpass the beauty and magni.^ccnce of the coast-scenery; and while the interioi has many a bleak and rugged region, and many a hideous flat ana bog, it also contains spots of the rarest loveliness. The Vale of Avoca is famous in song : Killarney vies with the Highland lake-scenery of Scotland, with Windermere, Geneva, and Como ; and Connemara, with its wild grandeur, its balmy air, and " the poetry of its immense and lonely sea," has charms to touch all hearts. The genial influence of the Gulf Stream softens the cli- mate of Ireland, diffuses a mild and moist atmo- sphere, and so tempers the rigours of winter, that a mantle of living green wraps its shores, while in the same latitude, on this side the Atlantic, the coasts of Labrador are fast bound in fetters of ice. The vast volumes of vapour, rising from this great mass of warm water that washes the shores of Ireland, being wafted over the island by westerly winds, clothe its hills and vales in perpetual verdure. To the Gulf Stream it is therefore indebted for that bountiful supply of moisture that makes it the Emerald Isle, and renders its pasture-lands the i.nest in the world. These rain-clouds from the Atlantic, that drop fertility over the land, are not. IRELAND, ■ httJJii however, without their disadvantages and drawbacks. In many districts, the wheat and other cereal crops are harvested with difficulty, excessive rains often blighting the hopes of the farmer. On this account mamly, it cannot, as a wheat-growing country, be compared with England or the Lowlands of Scot- land ; but its grazing and dairy farms are unrivalled. Not without reason has the trefoil or shamrock been chosen as the heraldic emblem of the Green Isle, its rich herb-ge being, in fact, its inexhaustible mine of gold ; and for this, as we have seen, it is mainly indebted to the Gulf Stream. The fact that at this hour, under an improved system of agriculture, and with new energies infused into the population, there IS a steady decline in the productiveness of the principal crops, in consequence of the conversion of tillage into pasture-lands, shews that the country is found to be better adapted for pastoral farming than for the growth of wheat or other cereals, and that the tendency of the agriculture of the island is now in that direction more than formerly. It has been found that it is not the quantity of rain that falls, but the frequency of shower- and cloudy weatner that causes the humidity of the atmosphere. One consequence of this condition of the atmosphere is that the umbrella is an indispensable life-preserver in Ireland, or, as the Yankees say, "an institution ;" as, even in the finest day. it is hard to say how IRELAND. 245 soon an Atlantic cloud may burst over the devoted head of the traveller. It is very easy to get wet, out without going to the fire it is not easy to get dried, the atmosphere being so frequently charged with moisture. Arthur Young, an English traveller, who visited Ireland about a hundred years ago, wai^ struck with the dampness of the climate, as com- pared with that of his own country ; and rem .1 that, "if you wet a piece of leather, and lay it in a room where there is neither sun nor fire, it ^vill not, in summer even, be dry in a month." A more seri- ous drawback is, however, that the dampness of the climate, the source of vegetable wealth and beauty, has a tendency to relax the energies of the people, at least in the earlier stages of their progress, before mind has enabled them to grapple successfully with physical difficulties. Another feature of Ireland, -dUocd a ^o by tne humidity of her c ^ "■•- -s the numoe- and extent of her rivers and ! ^ These secure a fine internal water-communication ; but the terrible drawback is that, as a consequence of this superabundance, "one-seventh of her whole area is covered with bog." Ireland has the largest lake in the United Kingdom— Neagh, whose shores are low and flat, and its scenery tame and uninteresting. It has also the largest river in the British Isles— "the broad and brimming Shannon," na\ igable two hun- dred and forty miles from its mouth, and drainincr the 246 IRELAND. ^ celebrated Bog of Allen. This bog is not, however, as IS generally supposed, one huge morass ; on the contrary, tl.c bogs to which the name is applied are distinct from one another, and separated often by ridges of high and dry ground. The Shannon itself —half lake, half river— receives the drainage of these immense morasses ; and, witli a slow and almost im- perceptible current, pours its waters into one of the noblest estuaries in the world. The minos of Ire- land, though believed to be rich, will long continue to be of slight importance, unless a much larger capi- tal is available for developing its mineral resources Once the noblest forests covered almost tiic whole face of the country; but these have long since dis- appeared, and now the country is rather scantilv wooded. A celebrated forest, named "Shillelagh'" formerly flourished, from which the toughest and best of oak was obtained. The cunning Saxon when he came over, soon discovered its superiority to British oak ; and, without permission asked or obtained, cut down and carried off qr.antities of it • and to this dav Westminster Hall is roofed with thi.s abstracted Irish oak. I reed scarcely tell you that the wood of Shillelagh has given a name to a weapon which I hope none of our heads will ever encounter • for a "sprig of shillelagh," wielded by the brawny r.rm of a Tipperary man, is rather trying to the con- iititution, and only seasoned heads can stand it. IRELAND. 247 Such, then, is the island on which nature has la- vished so many bounties. Its people fondly reckon it " The first flower of the earth, And first gem of the sen." But though we may regard this as a little pardonable exaggeration, springing from an affectionate patriot- ism, yet when we consider the fertility of its soil, the be 'uty of its scenery, the salubrity of its climate, the a. nta<;es of its position in regard to commerce, we must admit that io.^ lands have in such profusion the elexnents of prosperity and greatness ; and we need not won Jer at the passionate attachment of its chil- dren to their own " green isle of the ocean :" — " The savage loves his native shore, Though rude the soil, and chill tiip air ; Then well may Erin's sons adore Their isle, which nature form'd so fair. '* What flood reflects a shore so sweet As Shannon jjreat, or pastoral Ba'-n ? Or who a friend or foe can meet So generous as an Irishman?" From the country we now turn to the inl abitants — their history and their characten-tic?. The great bulk of the population are of the pure Celtic race, the exception being the Protestant population of the North, who are Anglo-Saxons— the m.ajorit)' of them being descendants of colonists from the Lowlands of Scotland, or of some of Cromwell's Puritan Ironsides I IRELAND. . who settled here. Apparently there has been in Ire- and an intermixture of the two raees ; but in reality, though for eenturies the Celt and Saxon have been l.vu,g s,de by side on the same soil, no amalgamation J. s followed. Differences of raee.s, of language, of rehg,on. together with historieal antipathies which are st.Il act,ve, have operated to keep the two raees apart so completely that the slight fusion which has occurred .s not worth reckoning. This, I think, is not to be regretted ; nature does not pronounce in favour of an amalgamation of two races so wide apart in their in- stmets and habits as the Celtic and Saxon. Of the Anglo-Norman stock there was originally no ineon- s.derable element; many of the great landowners -non-res,dent for the most part-are of this descent, though the Norman blood, from other intermixtures .s now hardly discernible. In Ireland the Celtic race' has oeen preserved in more complete purity than in an; other land; but it would be difficult to conceive of any people being more unfavourably circumstanced ■n regard to national development. That there is no ■nherent defect in the old Celtic stock is evident from even a shght examination of their history. Whence th.s great branch of the human family can.e ori- g.nally, no one can tell. All we know with any cer- tamty is that long before hi.story had indited her first page, th,s great wave of human population came surgmg from .l,e East, and spread over all Western \ IRELAND. 249 Europe. They occupied Gaul, — the country now called France,— North Italy, Spain, Britain, and Ire- land. A most warlike people were the Celts. For four centuries they resisted the iron arm of Rome, and disputed with her the empire of the world. Under Brennus, they sacked Rome ; they vanquished the Romans at AUia, at Thrasymene, at Canns, re- ducing their enemy to the extremity from which she was saved by the prowess of Marius. They carried their terrible arms into Greece, and sacked the temple of Delphi. They defied Alexander the Great, and " overthrew the phalanx in the plains of Macedon." As mercenaries they fought the battles of Carthage. They defeated Attila. Under Charles Martel they forced the Crescent to retire for ever from the West, and saved Christendom from the Mohammedan yoke. Their most signal defeat was accomplished by the military genius of Julius Caesar, who, after a fierce- struggle, conquered Gaul, and formed it into a Roman province. This great conqueror also vanquished the British Celts, and established the supremacy of Rome in Britain. When the Roman legions withdrew from Britain, the more powerful Saxon pushed back the British Celts, who slowly retired, fighting desperately, into the fastnesses of Wales and Cornwall, and be- hind the moutain-ramparts of the Grampians. Ire- knd, however, was their great asylum; and here, though pursued by the Anglo-Normans, as we shall f/ i IRELAND. ■ find, and vanquished, they have held their ground till the present day. The representatives of the great Celfc race now are the brilhant, warlike people of France, the Welsh Cymry, the Scotch Highlanders and the Irish. It is i„ f,,„,, ,„^^ ,^^^ ^^^^^^^ thcr h,ghest pitch of civilisation, shewing us what are the capabilities of the race when placed in favour- able c.rcumstances. and c^chibiting a marked contrast to the Insh and British Celts. A race never loses its characteristics. The sunny East was the cradle of ti..s people ; and to this day they display traces of the,r Onental origin in their fiery impulsiveness, their fierce loves and hatreds, their indisposition to change the continuity of their national habits, their tendency' to enjoy the present moment and ignore to-morrow and the,r indisposition to steady industry. M Martin the French historian, as quoted by Professor Goldwin Sm.th m his admirable little volume, "Irbh History and Irish Character." thus characterises his country- men : " From the beginning of historic time the soil of France appears peopled by a race lively, witty .maginative, eloquent, prone at once to faith and to' scepticism, to the highest aspirations of the soul and to the attractions of sense ; enthusiastic and yet satiri- cal ; unreflecting and yet logical ; full of sympathy yet restive under discipline ; endowed with practical' ' good sense, yet inclined to illusions ; ,ore disposed to striking acts of self-devotion than to patient and IRELAND. 251 sustained effort ; fickle as regards particular things or persons ; persevering as regards tendencies and the essential rules of life ; loving action and knowledge, each for its own sake ; loving above all war, less for the sake of conquest than for that of glory and ad- venture, for the attraction of danger and the un- known ; uniting, finally, to an extreme sociability, an indomitable personality, a spirit of independence, which absolutely repels the yoke of the external world, and the face of destiny." There is, no doubt, as Professor Smith remarks, a touch of French vanity in this picture of the Celts by a Celt. As to the " practical good sense " which the historian attributes to the French, Smith very justly says that " of the highest pr ctical wisdom the political history of France can scarcely be called an example ;" and of their violent oscillations between extremes of all kinds, to which M. Martin points, he says, " It may lend an exciting interest to French history, and amuse while it troubles the world ; but the race which is conscious of such tendencies will do well, if it aspires to real greatness, not to boast of them, but to correct them." Let us Hear another able writer, of quite a different stamp, on the characteristics of the Celtic race. Dr Knox, in his " Races of Men," says, " War is the game for which the Celt is made. Herein is the forte of his physical and moral character ; in stature and weight, as a race inferior to the Saxon ; limbs muscu- -.siiiSS^ae^iii ^t&^ife-' 252 IRELAND. I I far and v,gorous; tor.„ and arms seldom attaining Z.T1 :T "^^^'"P'^-'-'^^ce the extrem! ranty of athletae amongst ,I,e race; hands broad- fingers squared at the points ; step elastic and' ^Pnngy ■ .„ muscular energy and rapidity of action surpassmg an other European races, cluris pi for stature-the strongest of men. Inventive ima- g.nat,ve he leads the fashions all over the 'cil ed world. Most new inventions and discoveries .".hearts may be traced to him; they are then appropnated by the Saxon race, who apply them o useful purposes. I„ .he ordinary affairs of We they desp.se order, economy, cleanliness; of to-morrow they take no thought; regular labour -unremmmg, steady, uniform, productive labour -they hold n, absolute horror and contempt. Irascble, warm-hearted, full of deep sympathies dreamers on the past, uncertain, treacherous, gallan and brave. They are not more eourageou! tha ' other races, but they are more warlike. Notwith- standmg .heir grievous defeat at Waterloo, they are ^ .11 the dommant race of the earth. Children of the m., even in the clear and broad sunshine of . day, they dream on the past-natures antiquaries. As lookmg on the darkening future, which they ca.v,ot try not to scan, by the banks of the noble Shannon, or hstening to the wild roar of the ocean IRELAND. 253 surf as it breaks on the Gizna Briggs, washing the Morochmore ; or listlessly wandering by the dark and stormy coast of Dornoch, gaunt famine behind them, no hopes for to-morrow, cast loose from the miserable patch he held from his ancestry, the dreamy Celt, the seer of second sight, still clinging to the past, exclaims, at his parting moment from the horrid land of his birth, ' We '11 maybe return to Lochabar no more.'" Knox further tells us that the Celt does not make a good colonist or agriculturist, disliking the lonely forest and desert, and clinging to the town and hamlet; while the Saxon fearlessly plunges into the prairie or forest, loving produc- tive labour, and declining to build his house within sight of his neighbours, if he can avoid doing so. An indisposition to continuous, productive labour is by most writers charged against the Celts gener- ally, and the Irish Celts in particular ; and doubtless there must be some truth in the accusation. Still these sweeping charges must be received with caution. Patrick the Celt may not be a good plodder, or a strict economist; but facts prove that he can and does toil tremendously, when there are sufficient inducements to labour. Here is one little fact that may be set over against the statements of philoso- phers on this point. The Irish emigrants who settled in America are known to have remitted, in the year 1847, the sum of ;^200,ooo to aid the famishing rela- II. i I »l 254 IRELAND. tions they had left behind, to join them in their adopted country. In 1853, their remittances for the same purpose reached the enormous amount of one milHon and a half Here then we find this people, on reaching a land where labour is well remunerated, toiling to some purpose, denying themselves, hoard- ing their earnings, that the loved ones in the dark cabins of Connaught and Munster might see happier days in a land of plenty. A noble and honourable deed truly, for which let all due applause be accorded. We must learn to distinguish between the faults and the misfortunes of the Irish. It is very true that they seek for excitement in preference to comfort. 1 here may be some truth in the saying that " what an Englishman wants to make him happy is a full belly and a warm back ; what an Irishman wants to make him happy is a glass of whisky and a stick," and I suppose, in addition, a friend whom he may knock down for love, when he is " blue-mouldin' for want of batin'. " This is the ludicrous side of the matter, and, as far as the past is concerned, the picture has too much truth in it. With improving circu; otances, however, Patrick is leaving all his shillelagh feats and spirituous achievements aside, and getting a due appreciation of Saxon creature- comforts, of a wholesome meal, a warm coat, a snug cabin, and an unbroken head. Speaking of the past, one of themselves says, " We were idle, for we had IRELAND. 255 nothing to do ; we were reckless, for we had no hope ; we were ignorant, for learning was denied us; we were drunken, for we sought to forget our misery. That time has passed away for ever." Of the state of Ireland before its conquest by the English, I shall say but a few words. The first arrivals of the Celtic race were probably from the coasts of Spain. Tribe followed tribe, the one sub- duing and exterminating the other. The Irish annals relating to this dark period give suspiciously minute accounts of tribes called the Fomorians, Fir-bolgs, Tuatha-da-Danans, and Milesians, that in succession poured into Ireland; but they are merely phantom shapes in a shadowy land ; and how much is legend, and how much, if any, is fact, in what is recorded of them, no one can tell. Bards and Sennachies have sung of Ollav-Fola, Hugoney the Great, Conn of the Hundred Battles, Fein M'Cooil or Fingal, Niallof the Nine Hostages, the Red Branch Knights, and other great kings and warriors. Tremendous stories are told of these, many of which, I am afraid, must be regarded as belonging to the genus "bouncers." Almost every one has heard of Fein M'Cooil, or, as he is commonly called, Finn Macool. He is usually represented in Irish legends as an enormous giant- one of the powerful but very stupid race of which Jack the Giantkiller made such havoc. In reality, however, Finn M'Cooil appears to have been a highly 256 IRELAND. 41 respectable personage. Moore, in his History of Ire- land, says he was son-in-law of King Cormac, who lived before the days of St Patrick, and general of the celebrated Fiana Eiriun, or ancient Irish militia. He is reported to have originated this military asso- ciation, into which admission was attainable only by proofs o*" valour and intelligence; and each newly admitted member came under an express engagement to choose a wife solely for her merits, never to ill treat a woman, and never to turn his back on an enemy. Peace to the ashes of brave Finn M'Cooil, wherever they lie. He must have been considerably in advance of his age; and in bravery and veneration for woman seems to have anticipated chivalry itself The Celtic tribes of ancient Ireland appear to have been neither better nor worse than their contempo- raries in other lands. They were, what we now, ia the pride of our civilisation, term barbarians, living- by the chase, and continually slaughtering one another, in savage wars. Their brethren, over the water in England, were quite as bad. Forests, mo- rasses, bogs, covered the greater part of the country. Wild cattle roamed in the forest glades, deer bounded from the thickets, the wolf disputed for empire with man. If these were the "good old times," I think we may be thankful that a considerable interval severs us from them. The grand tale, so often repeated by Irish chroniclers, of a Milesian colony that arrived in IRELAND. 257 Ireland, only nine hundred years before Christ, and introduced arts and a high civilisation, is now ad- mitted to be a pure myth. Thomas Moore, in his History of Ireland, calls it "a romance ; " and shews that the tribe led by Milesius, arrived about two hun- dred years before the Christian era, were classed under the general name of Scythians, and, except in wariike tendencies, were no better than their predecessors. Their tribal name was Scoti. From the predomin- ance they acquired, the whole inhabitants were long called Scots ; and a branch of them having settled in North Britain, gave to that region the name of Scot- land. The first great moral impulse was given to these rude tribes by St Patrick, who arrived in the year 432, and speedily converted the natives to Chris- tianity. Previously, they had been votaries of Druid- iSm. Such was the flame of enthusiasm kindled by this great apostle, that the Irish soon became a mis- sionary churcl not only founding .seats of piety and learning at home, but sending out apostles to other lands. In the centuries that followed the mission of St Patrick, the renowned establishments of lona Lindisfarne, and St Gall in Switzeriand, were planted by Irish missionaries, and diffused the light of the gospel over many dark regions. During the seventh eighth, and ninth centuries, Ireland was really the most famous seat of learning, such as it was in those days; and the Saxons owned its mental superiority, R 258 IRELAND, by fending their youths for instruction to such celebrated schools as Armagh and Clonniacnoise. " Charlemagne," says Professor Smith, " appreciated in the Irish preachers and scholars, powerful instru- ments of the civilisation which it was his mission to promote. He gave some of them places in his court, and employed them in the instruction of Prankish youth." The renowned scholar and first heretical teacher of the Middle Ages, John Scotus Erigena, was an Irishman, and a familiar guest of Charles the Bald of France. In connexion with John, a spark of Irish wit has come down to us from those dull old times, shewing that ;.t- talent fo -.vhich Irishmen arc still noted— ready wit— had begun to scintillate very early. This Irishman was known as "John the Scot ;" and Charles the Kald, sitting opposite to him at table one day, attempted to " take him off," by asking "how far a Scot was removed froiu a sot" " Only by the breadth of the tabic, your majesty," was the quick reply of John. His majcstv, I suppose, was obliged to join in the general laugh that fol- lowed, but with what degree of heartiness, I leave you to judge ; for it was no secret that hiS majesty of the Bald Head was fond of a gla.s, or rather of a bottle, so that John's was a home-thnL^t. Charlr , I am inclined to think, would hardly wish to exchange another pass with John the Scot in wit-combats. Early in the ninth century, the terrible Danes IRELAND. 259 commenced Jieir ravages on t! c coasts of Ireland. Ihe J were the fierce Scandinavian Norsemen, or TsJ^.thmen, the pirates, traders, and colonists of these iv'e ages. Out of the cold . nd stormy North tuii people came at the call of Providence, to pour the kindling energy of a robuster race into the stagnant nations of the Old World. Their influence in shaping the preseiu has been immense. That northern blood, tingling with electric fire, poured into the veins of the solid, plodding Scotch and English Sa.xon, formed him for future greatness; made him a sea-king,— a determined, liberty-loving freeman,— the world's great trader, coloniser, planter, builder, battler. No wonder that these fierce sea- rovers, landing on the shores of Britain only to pillage, burn, and kill, were painted as " the bloody Danes." They were, however, one of the great instruments of Providence. Fortunately, they con- tinued for ages to pour into England and the Low- lands of Scotland ; and though subdued by Alfred, yet a large mass of them remained, and being of the same stock originally as the Sa.xons, amalga- mated with them in kindly union, giving to the race that passion for the sea, that hunger for ad- venture, that restless tendency to explore and dis- cover new lands, that has carried them to the ends of the earth. But other characteristics, usual' reck- oned thoroughly British, are also of Scandinavian ,-«*SgS^l 111 260 JRELAND, • I li III origin. English love of liberty, of free representa- tive instigations, large and clear sincerity of char- acter, frankness, resolute earnestness, power of en- durance, fearlessness,— these come by our Norse farhers. The Normans, who under William the Conqueror subdued England, and finally mingled with the Saxons, were but another branch of the great Norse family that had long been settled in Normandy. Amid much suffering, they introduced into England a higher civilisation and a nobler method of life. It was these Normans, as we shall see, and not the Saxons, who conquered Ireland. But the great misfortune of Ireland was that it did not receive enough of the Scandinavian element to modify the character of the people. The Irish Celts were able to drive out the Danes almost completely ; but in reality it was a loss to them as a people. At one time the Danes were masters of nearly the whole island; but the Irish rose against them, under Malichy, and compl^<-ely vanquished them. It is of this Irish monarch Moore sings : " Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere htr fa tl l-ss sons betray'd her, When Mahchy wore the collar of gold Which he won from the proud invader. When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, Ere the Emerald Gem of the Western world Was set in the crown of a stranger," The indomitable Dane returned, and once mo-e mm -Sc^pji ^^^ IRELAND. 261 obtained a footing. The Irish tribes, however, united under the renowned monarch, B lan Boroihme, or Boru; and in the great battle of Clontarf, within three miles of Dublin, the Irish were victorious, and the Danish power was finally broken. The brave Brian fell in this battle covered with glory; and to this day his memory is affectionately chcrisaed in the hearts of his countrymen, after the lapse of 850 years. He was one of the best of Ireland's kings, and did much to unite hostile tribes, and introduce law and order among a wild people. So successful was he, that, according to a legend, a beautiful young lady, clad in jewelled robes, and carrying a gold ring of great value on a wand, rode unattended from one end of the kingdom to the other without meeting insult or injury. In the pretty ballad which Moore has written on this incident, he makes the heroine say, in reply tp the inquiry of a knight who encountered her, and asked whether, possessed of so much beauty and wealth thus " unprotected," she did not feel nervous when wandering about — •' Sir knight, I feel not the least alarm ; No son of Erin would offer me harm ; For though they love women and golden store, Sir knight, they love honour and virtue more. " Then on she went, and her maiden smile Lighted her safely round the green isle ; And blest for ever was she who relied Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride." ..^^6^ IRELAND. The story is so pretty that it would be shameful, as well as ungallant, to doubt it. After the death of Brian.-whose descendants, by the way, are called O'Brians till this day,_matters fell into confusion ; the monarchy was broken up • the mdependent tribes, called septs, acknowledged no superior but their chiefs, and carried on perpetual and destructive wars. When the eleventh century dawned, Ireland had declined ; cultivation was almost unknown; barbarous tribes sl^eltered themselves in rude burrows of turf and mud ; here and there a low- browed church raised its humble head. The land was the common property of the tribe that held it; the chief had the patriarchal power of parcelling i' out among the septmen ; but on the death of any of these, his share, instead of passing to his children, reverted to the tribe, and the chief proceeded to make a fresh distribution. The effect of this arrangement was, that the ownership of the soil remained practi- cally in the hands of the chief, though h. could not appropriate it for his personal benefit ; the holder had but a life-interest in it, and however frequently parted with, it inevitably returned to the head of the clan. This kind of possession resembled an arrangement which existed in modern times between an Irishman and his pig, who in company made the tour of Eng- land. The pig. as the story goes, was of a peculiar Irish breed ; of great sagacity and boundless buoy- j^-^jf^i\ ,||i ■ "^'W:f!^^-.-!/'i^-,^:^^^- IRELAND. 263 ancy of spirit ; lean, but muscular and springy of step ; with a back curved like the rainbow, and legs long and sinewy : it had al' the vigour of a racehorse, and the elasticity of a greyhound. • >etween it and its master there was the most perfect understanding. As the pair traversed England, the owner sold his pig again and again. But the Saxon enclosu/e was not built that could confine this enterprising animal. Eng- lish walls and gates it utterly despised ; and however often it was sold, it speedily rejoined its master on the road ; so that they went on lovingly toge .her, parting with the secret assurance that they \^ould soon meet again. So with the land of these tribes — the chieftain, in the exercise of his authority, gave it away to a clansman ; but back it came in the end, either to him or his successor in office. The step betv/een common and separate ownership in land had not yet been taken — the tr-^nsition, therefore, from the pastoral to the agricultural stage of society had not been accomplished. The unhappy relations existing at this day between the land-ownt: and the land-occupier in some districts of Ireland, shew that no great improvement has yet been effected on the old sept-system, in regard to security a crmanency of tenure, so far as the cultivator of Lne soil is con- cerned. As long as suicidal rapacity on the side of the proprietor grasped, hi the form of rent, the whole produce of the soil except the most wretched pit- ^. ^r^ > ^m^^-fe. K^%^^^m. ^JB 264 III : Rs^H/ IRELAND. tance, barely sufficient to sustain the life of the occu- pier of the land, leaving to him to execute all im- provements, but denying him for the most part any security of occupancy, we cannot wonder at the low moral and social state of the people. It is true that the action of the Land Court has introduced of late a better order of things, and gives hope of a fair adjustment between landlord and tenant being yet secured ; but while the wretched con-acre system still prevails widely, and forty thousand holdings still exist of not more than one acre in extent, I fear "the good time coming" is only yet in sight. On this point Goldwin Smith says, "Have the beneficial effects of separate ownership of land been long ex- perienced by the Irish peasantry } Has property \n land according to the English system, presented Itself to him in the course of his history in the form of security, independence, domestic happiness, dig- nity, and hope > Has it not rather presented itself to him in the form of insecurity, degradation, and despair } It would be too much to say that modern Irish agrarianism is the direct offspring of primitive Irish institutions ; but it is not too much to sxy, that even modern Irish agrarianism is rather the offspring of a barbarism prolonged by unhappy circumstances and bad government, than of anything more deserv- ing of unqualified indignation." To these septs, with their endless quarrels, jeal- ItaiiAl IRELAND. 265 ousies, and sometimes bloody conflicts, we may trace those "factions" which have been such blots on the fair fame of Erin and of which Carleton has given us such a terribly truthful picture. That the "factions" are not yet extinct, is evident from the fact that, quite recently, a prelate of the Roman Catholic Cnurch had the courage to expose in the public prints the doings of two factions known as the Two- Year-Olds and the Three- Year-Olds, and published a fearful list of maimings and murders they had perpetrated on each other, turning the thunders of his denunciation against them. The original cause of quarrel, it seems, was a difference of opinion about the age of a young bull— one party asserting that it was two and the other three years old. It would seem as if, in some obscure districts, the civilisation which had reached a certain stage eight hundred years ago, had been then arrested and remained stationary ever since. Happily such cases as that referred to are now very rare in Ireland. The year 11 69 is memorable in the annals of Ire- land. At that date the Anglo-Normans first effected a landing on the shores of Erin ; and that conquest by England was commenced which proved so fruitful of woes to unhappy Ireland, and at length resulted in a harvest of retribution to England, which she is reaping in many a form at the present hour. It is usual with Irishmen to attribute the conquest of ! Ifl i li W^ \ 266 IRELAND. their country to the Saxons ; and, in consequence, all the bitterness of their wrath has been poured out on this hated name. All their oppression has been traced to " the bloody hoof of the Saxon." This, however, is nure imagination. It was the Anglo- Normans who were the invaders— the peaceable, home-loving Saxons had nothing to do with the matter. In fact, they were then themselves ground to the dust under the heel of the Norman con- queror; and there is no evidence that they took part in the invasion of Ireland. These Norman knights, with their retainers, who now burst into Ireland, were! as we have seen, a branch of the Norse family. In fact, it was a return of the old hereditary foe, the Danes, who had been defeated on the plain of Clon- tarf, that now struck down Irish independence. The mailed Normans were the old Scandinavian sea- rovers, in another guise, and more formidable array ; and it is utterly unfair to make the innocent Saxon.s accountable for their doings. The truth is, when once England had been subdued by these invaders, the conquest of Ireland was but a question of time ; and, considering the inferiority in size of the one country,' its proximity to the English coasts, and above all,' the disunion that prevailed among its people, its' subjugation seemed as inevitable as that of Wales. Indeed, when the Normans first came to Ireland, the condition of the country was not greatly in advance IRELAND. 267 of that of Celtic England when Julius Caesar landed on its shores. A number of independent and gene- rally rival clans were scattered over the land, and it had no unity as a kingdom. An inferior civilisation placed alongside of a superior is sure to disappear before the advance of the latter. It is easy to conceive how the Norman conquest might have been a blessing to Ireland, just as ulti- mately it proved in England. There the Normans completed their conquest, fixed their residence, iden- tified their dignity with it; their children became natives of the soil and proprietors of the land ; they imparted a higher impulse to the Saxon character, and in the end a complete fusion of the two was effected. Had the same thing happened in Ireland, its history, instead of being a tragedy, mighv have become a glorious epic. But for invaders and in- vaded alike the misfortune was that Ireland was only partially conquered ; and the former were thus driven to sustain a condition of chronic warfare, the latter to prolong the agony, in frantic efforts to throw off the yoke. Thus from 1169 to 1800, the year of the Union, "the history of Ireland is that of a half- subdued dependency," carrying on a fierce but hope- less struggle against its conquerors. Had not the energies of the Normans been absorbed by the cru- sades and French wars, there is little doubt they would have completed the conquest of Ireland within m^L^^ 268 IRELAND. a bnef period ; but, unhappily, their main strength being thus allured to other enterprises, the band of conquerors in Ireland had to stand on the defensive and for ages held, with much difficulty, a tract of country round Dublin called "the Pale," with some towns on the coast-thus painfully Jjolding their ground, as a garrison in a hostile country, and keep- ing up war, with its attendant horrors, against the natives of the soil. This wretched state of matters contmued for two centuries., and proved fruitful in nnsery to both parties \n the conflict. Here we find the root of those terrible evils that are felt to this day Instead of blending, the two races converted the island into a battle-ground ; a contest raged for cen- tunes, inflaraed on both sides by the most rancorous passions. The contest assumed all the ferocity which characterises civil war; hopeless rebellion was fol- lowed by confiscation and penal laws, provoking in turn burning hatred and fierce acts of vengeance Then, when the Reformation came, to the contest of races was added the contest of hostile religions, thus J .^measurably increasing the bitterness of the strife When, then, we open the history of Ireland, and read there some of the darkest and saddest pages that have ever been written, let us remember the unhappy cir- cumstances in which, from the outset, the conquerors and conquered alike were placed-circumstances quite beyond the control of either party, by which the land IRELAND. 269 was divided into two hostile camps, and the worst passions of the human heart perpetually inflamed; and this will keep us from judging of the whole in the narrow spirit of a partisan, and will suggest to us that we should extend "the charity of history" to both parties who took part in these dark transactions of former ages. The originating cause we can now clearly discern, enveloping alike conquerors and con- quered in a terrible series of crimes and sufferings. " Thus," says Goldwin Smith, " at the commencement of the connexion between England and Ireland the foundation was inevitably laid for the fatal system of ascendancy ; a system under which the dominant party were paid for their services in keeping down rebels by a monopoly of power and emolument, and thereby strongly tempted to take care that there should always be rebels to keep down." What right had the Normans to invade Ireland .' Be it remembered that these were the days of con- quest, when invasion was almost a matter of course, and was far from appearing immoral or wrong in the eyes of men. It was one way in which Eternal Pro- vidence worked out the elevation of the race, and laid the foundations of our modern civilisation. " Might was right ;" and in a rough way this held good, the conqueror, as a general rule, being the superior in civilisation, and the promoter of a better order of things. These stout Normans, however, went about 2;o IRELAND. their conquests after a fashion thoroughly orthodox. William the Conqueror obtained the sanction of Hildebrand, the reigning Pope, for the subjugation of England ; and Henry II. was expressly author- ised by a bull of Adrian, who was then on the papal throne, to conquer Ireland. " VVc, therefore," said the pontiff, " looking on your pious and laudable design with the grace which it deserves, and favour- ably assenting to your petition, do hold it good and acceptable that, for extending the borders of the Church, restraining the progress of vice, the correction of manners, the planting of virtue, and the increase of religion, you enter this island, and execute therein whatever shall pertain to the honour of God and the welfare of the land ; and that the people of this land receive you honourably and reverence you as their lord : the rights of their churches still remaining sacred and inviolate ; and saving to St Peter the an- nual pension of one penny for every house." Armed thus with the highest religious sanction of the age, the Norman knights leaped fearlessly on the shores of Ireland ; and, no doubt, felt that they were doing a great and good work. Every schoolboy knows the circumstances in which the conquest of Ireland was effected : how a traitorous Irish prince, Dermot M'Murchad, king of Leinster, having been dethroned for certain misdemeanours, applied to the English king, Henry IL, for assistance to recover his princi- IRELAND. 271 pallty ; and how Strongbow, with his knights and retainers, — a mere handful,— landed in Ireland, and gradually beat down all opposition. The undisciplined and poorly-armed Irish had no more chance against the mailed and disciplined Norman ranks, than the Hindoos, when Clive subdued India, against the Anglo-Saxon battalions. Henry himself visited Ire- land, but was prevented by domestic troubles from remaining to complete the conquest of the country. He merely appointed the King of Connaught as king of the whole island, under himself; a district around Dublin, called " the Pale," was placed under feudal law — the rest of the country being left under Brehon, or Irish law. A more wretched state of mat- ters could hardly be imagined. These rapacious Norman knights, uncontrolled by the royal presence, aimed at winning immense possessions by their sword, and holding them for their private advanta"-e. Engaged in ceaseless continental wars, the English monarchs could give little attention to Irish affairs, and governed the country by deputy. Desolating wars followed between the inhabitants of the Pale and the natives. National animosity, thus perpetu- ated, sustained the spirit of war, and war raged on with a fierceness which time did nothing to mitigate. Covetousness was added to the other baser passions ; and rapacity inflamed the anarchy in which it hoped for gain. Conhscation of land followed unsuccessful IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) / {•/ ^ V O I/. v.. 1.0 I.I 1.25 |28 125 •^ Ui2 12.2 2,0 1.4 11.6 V^ <^ n '^w ^/: 4W f . never get meat except at Christmas. Easter, and Shrovetide." Late repentance is better than perpetual sin ; and though the most penitent remorse will not prevent the seeds of evil from springing up, yet in justice alone is national safety. England has at length been thoroughly awakened to the wrongs inflicted on Ireland ; ana with earnestness and sincerity she has for some time, been trying to right them. No doubt the process of dealing out justice has been slow, but It has advanced steadily, as the case was better under- stood. The year 1778 saw the worst articles of the penal code abolished. The year 1800 witnessed the consummation of the Union, by which Ireland became an integral part of the British empire; but unhappily Catholic emancipation was withheld ; and, instead of being conceded gracefully, was wrung from Parlia- ment by a fierce political agitation in 1829. A hap- pier era has now commenced ; though the effect of misgovernment extending over centuries cannot be removed in a day. The seaman knows that the bil- lows continue to roll for sometime after the storm 2?2 IRELAND. has spent its fury. Long years will be required to eradicate the evils from the disordered social system, and create a healthy state of public opinion. But now that all serious legislative grievances have been removed, there is a fair field for the operation of moral infl^ucnces, and we may hope that a brighter day has at length dawned. Under the new and improved order of things, Ireland has already made substantial progress. The noble system of national education, conceived in a thorough spirit of justice and instructed wisdom, is gradually working a beneficent change. For a higher culture, the Queen's Colleges secure an ad- mirable provision. The civil service is now open to the youth of Ireland. A poor-law reminds the wealthy of their duties towards poverty. A Board of Works guiaes and assists industrial enterprise. The Encumbered Estates Court has liberated the enor- mous extent of land that was in pawn, and trans- ferred it to solvent and enterprising hands. Emi- gration on an unprecedented scale is lelieving the pressure of a superabundant population. Already, within twenty years, two millions of the Irish popula- tion have found happier homes in other lands ; and, at this moment the tide of emigration swells as high as ever. The drain may continue with advantage to those that remain, for many a year to come. During the last twenty years, while the population has IRELAND. 283 diminished by two and a half milhons of persons, two millions of acres have been added to the arable land of Ireland ; competiiion for land has sensibly slackened; and wages have increased from 25 to 80 per cent. Landed estates are getting broken up, and the number of proprietors consequently is increased. Three thousand estates were sold by the Encumbered Estates Court, among eight thousand purchasers, so that each estate was, on an average, viivided into nearly three.* The number of farms above thirty acres in size has considerably increased ; those under fifteen acres have greatly diminished in recent years. '. address, together with a masonic flag. Th.s httle flag he promi.sed to plant on the North Pole, should he ever reach that mysterious locality ■ and .t ,s an interesting circumstaPce that it ^vas ear- ned, as their banner of hope and faith, by the dif- ferent excursion parties of the expedition; and on one occasion, as we shall find, it serv-ed to direct Kane to a party of his men who had lost their way 292 Z?^ A'^A^^'^ AUCr/C EXPLORA TIONS. were covered with snow-wreaths, and all but dead with cold and hunger. Thus the masonic symbol, in this case, as in many another instance, proved the means of preserving from death. In reply to the address of the Freemasons, Dr Kane said,— "To be thus received by brethren and Englishmen, and thus parted with on leaving this portion of the British ter- ritory, perhaps the last we may touch at on our way, is indeed most cheering to my spirit and encouraging to my hopes ; for the great cause in which I am em- barked is one which involves the feeling of universal brotherhood, bound by no limits, and contracted by no sectarian views or national prejudices, for it springs from a sympathy that embraces the wide family of man, and extends its efforts to relieve, wherever suf- fering, distress, or want mark out a path for it to fol- low. Should it be our lot to pass a period of our time in the long night which in those regions succeeds the day, amid a frozen wilderness, in the deep solitude of darkness, .0 palpably dense as to be almost tangible, where over the wide waste of desolation unbroken silence reigns-still, even there, despondency will find no resting-place in our bosoms, but the cheering hope will animate them, that when the day shall again dawn upon us, a bright and glorious morrow will break forth, to be rendered brighter and more glo- rious still by the crowning of our hopes, and the DR KANES ARCTIC BXPLORA TtONS. 2<)i reward of all our anxfeties and toils, in the recovery and restitution to society of England's nobly-enter- pnsmg son, your countryman, and mutually our bro- her. And so, witl, these brave words of cheer, Bro her KaneJ bade his -brethren of the mysti t.e farewell. The incidents on which I have been dwelhng are not recorded in Kanes Narrative; but the mterest which I know attaches to them in the m.nds of some who hear me, and whose voices were the last to bid hir. God-speed and farewell, must be my apology for bringing up these reminiscences. Shortly after the departure of Kane, a letter was received by a gentleman of this city from Lady Frankhn-that lady whose touching devotedness in he cause of rescuing her husband has won all hearts In that letter, dated London, July .o, ,854, she said, - It g.ves me great pleasure to learn that the plulanthropic and generous enterprise of these noble Amencans r. so fully appreciated by my eount^men n Newfoundland, and especially by the members of that worshipful society who have deemed my beloved husband worthy to be considered as a brother The cause in which these heroic citizens of the United States have embarked i., indeed, to use the beautiful language of Dr Kane, -one which involves the feeling of universal brotherhood;' and there is, perhaps, no one who can feel the truth of this trul, Christian and ,m'i 294 n/i KANES ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. generous sentiment with such profound gratitude as, your obedient and obhged servant, "Jane Franklin." Mr Grinnel, of New York, wrote to the same gentleman, saying.—" Dr Kane was highly pleaded with the unexpected attentions bestowed upon him while at your port. Independent of the search for Sir John Franklin, I think the Doctor has a strong inclination to place his foot on the North Pole." Never, surely, was the well-known hospitality of our city more worthily bestowed than in the present in- stance. Cheered by the reception they met with, the heroic band pointed their vessels prow to the north, slowly glided past all the haunts of civilised men' disappeared within the ghastly wilderness of the' Arctic Circle, and were heard of no more for two long and dreary years. What happened them in the interval I shall try to tell you. But. first, we must try to comprehend Kane's plan of operations and proposed method of reaching the Polar Basin. He arrived at the conclusion, by reasoning from •he analogies of physical geography, that Greenland was a vast peninsula stretching away to the far north, and probably touching the Polar Sea. He therefore determined to make Greenland itself the basis of his operations,-to force his vessel along its shores as far north as the ice would permit,-then, having secured DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 295 the brig in some creek or inlet, he proposed to send out travelling parties on sledge* drawn by' dogs, carrying with them light gutta-percha boats, and thus to explore the whole western coast, reach the extreme northern point of Greenland, embark there on the open water which he hoped to find, and so explore the unknown Polar Basin and arrive at the Tole. He promised himself great advantages from adopting this course. Sir Edward Parry had for- merly attempted to reach the Pole by travelling over the ice due north from Spitzbergen ; but after most heroic efforts he was compelled to abandon the at- tempt, in consequence of finding that the ice over which he was travelling was drifting so rapidly toward the south, that it carried him in that direc- tion more quickly than he could advance northward. Kane obviated this difficulty by taking the solid land for his line of advance, which was also the shortest . route to the open sea ; and he calculated that the fan- like abutment of land on the north face of Greenland would check the equatorial icedrift. He also hoped to procure in this route a more abundant supply of animal food, and the friendly assistance of the Es- quimaux, whose settlements had been found in a very high ktitude. On the 2ist of June 1853, the last farewell was waved, and the Advance left our harbour. We shall make the first stage of the expedition from the time 296 DH KAXPS ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. of leaving St John's till the brig was placed in her wmtcr harbour in Smith's Sound, on the coast of North Grcenland,-quartcrs which she was destined never to leave. On the ,st of July, thev arrived at F.skernaes, a Danish settlement, in South Green- land. Here Kane engaged an Esquimaux hunter, named Hans Christian, a youth of nineteen, fat and good-natured, and so expert that he could spear a b.rd on the wing. He proved a valuable acquisition to the party, and. as we shall find, performed no un- important part in the expedition, catering for the dogs, purveying for the table, and more than once savmg their lives by bringing a seasonable supply ci fresh meat. This fat youth, stolid and unimpressible though he seemed, had a soft place in his heart ; and when he accompanied Kane he left behind one of tl.e gentler sex to whom his thoughts often turned. Cupid is quite as active apparently amid the snows of the North as the flowers of the South After surmounting many dangers in company with Kane ' and sharing all the hardships of the enterprise, poor Hans became home-sick and love-sick, when Arctic darkness was brooding over the vessel ; and at length unable any longer to bear up, he took his rifle, bundled ip his clothes, and came to say good-bye. The Do- tor, however, took him in hand ; gave him a smart dose of Epsom salts, followed by other sharp persua- sives of the same character; and, as soon as he DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 297 became convalescent, promoted him to the high office of dog-harnesser. and made him companion of his ice travels. The treatment was for a time successful- but. as usual, love in the end won the day. If gbry and Epsom salts made Hans forget his first love another came in the way. An Esquimaux tribe' Vis.ted Kane in his winter-quarters, and a damsel of the party assailed and won the tender heart of Hans. Medical treatment failed in this instance • m the hour of need Hans deserted the expedition ;' and when last seen was mounted on a sledge, with a handsome supply of walrus and seal flesh on one side, and on the other a maiden, fair in his eyes as the opening day, and plump as a seal. Some Arctic Gretna Green was no doubt their destination. Passing slowly up the coast, Kane made purchases of dogs at the difl-erent settlements, and on the .4th of July arrived at Uppernavick, in North Greenland After a stay here of two days, he again pushed for- ward, left behind the last human habitation on that dreary coast, and entered Melville Bay, where the real difficulties and dangers of Arctic navigation began Instead of taking the usual inshore track, Kane boldly determined to double Melville Bay by an outside passage, and accordingly dashed into the midst of the ice-floes and floating bergs, hoping by this course to secure a much quicker though more hazardous passage to the north water. Now began 29? DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. perils from ice, storm, and tempest, that might make the boldest quail. They had a slight foretaste of what was awaiting them in the following incident. Finding the ice rapidly closing on the brig, and fear- ing a besetment, they determined to fasten to an iceberg, and, after eight hours' heavy labour, suc- ceeded in planting their ice-anchors in its sides, and found themselves beautifully sheltered under its jagged cliffs. A dangerous refuge it proved. Pres- ently a strange, crackling noise was heard ; fra ounded lump of ice to another. It is the morn: .^ ,.; the 20th of August. A breeze springs up from the south, freshens into a gale and at last nses into a perfect hurricane. The ice drives more madly than any one had seen before The bergs are careering wildly, dashing against one an- other, grinding the floes, or hurling them together in enormous masses. What will be the fate of our little bng m this wild uproar ? Will the ice-pack, with its heaving masses, seventy feet in thickness, crush her to atoms against the shore, or shall tv.o bergs meeting lock her in their icy embrace } She is moored by three stout hawsers to a friendly iceberg that is stranded : should they hold, all is well, but if they part. Heaven help her! The hurricane increases in fury, roaring like a lion as he bounds from his lair Suddenly a sharp, twanging snap is iieard-a six- inch hawser has parted ; and their hope is in the other two. A moment more, and another shrill rino- IS heard above the shrieking of the storm-a second hawser has gone. But there is hope yet. A noble ten-inch Manilla cable still defies the angry blasts and gallantly swings the brig in safety, vain hope ! With a .nap that rings out far above the roarin-s of the blasts, and the moanings of the shrouds, it gives DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 303 way ; and in the smoke that follows the recoil of the cable, the brig is dragged out by the wild ice, and in a moment, is in the midst of a roaring torrent, seem- ingly hurrying to inevitable destruction. Alas for the brave men that are now battling for their lives with mountains of ice ! Still no cheek is blanched v/ith unmanly fear— no exclamation of terror is heard ; calmly the orders are issued and obeyed. Desperate' efforts are made to beat back, but all in vain ; and now, with double-reefed top-sail, they are drifting before the gale and rapidly closing with the piled-up masses of ice. One enormous hummock rears itself above the gunwale, smashes the bulwarks, and de- posits half a ton of ice on the decks. The noble little ship trembles but never shrinks, battles with the waves like a mother for her child, and through all the wild adventure soems to have a charmed life. But a new and more terrible enemy comes in sight— a troop of icebergs right in the course of the vessel, that is drifting before the gale without any power to avoid them. Shall the brig get her deathblow here, or will the bergs furnish some providential nooU- of refuge from the storm > Courage, brave hearts ! See, an opening between the towering icebergs and the pilcd-up floes ! Here is a little haven, enter and be safe ! The tempest-tost vessel enters ; the ice- walls shelter her from the blast ; she loses her head- way, and is suddenly at rest. The poor mariners are ft Ilhii I 304 I?Ji KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. just beginning to breathe freely when, to their horror, they discover that the treacherous icebergs too are in motion, sweeping down rapidly on the heavy floes, and about to crush the helpless brig between them, as Naysmith's steam-hammer would smash a walnut. Nearer and nearer the huge jaws of ice are approaching each other : the bravest heart beats quick-the boldest pause. The crisis o{ their fate has come, when Kane sees a low, water-washed iceberg drifting from the southward, with sufficient momentum to render it independent of the wind The happy thought strikes him to make use of it to tow his vessel out of the jaws of destruction. As it is sweeping past, an ice-anchor is planted in its sloping s.de-a line is attached-the Advance is harnessed to this white steed of the waters. Our gallant Kane must tell the rest :-" It was an anxious moment. Our noble tow-horse, whiter than the pale horse that seem.:d to be pursuing us, hauled us bravely on -the spray dashing over his windward flanks, and his forehead ploughing up the lesser ice, as if in scorn. The bergs encroached upon us as we ad- vanced ; our channel narrowed to a width of perhaps forty feet ; we braced the yards to clear the impendin^r icewalls. We passed clear, but it was a close shave" Never did heart-tried men acknowledge with more gratitude Hieir merciful deliverance from a wretched death." Scarcely had the poor fellows breathed a -^/f4^^- -^W:m^mm^ DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 305 hurried thanksgiving, when they again found them- selves among the ice; their vessel was rejx^atedly nipped ; and at last a great ice-table, twenty feet thick came upon them. No iron or wood could stand this ; but the shoreward face of the berg haopened to present an inclined plane descending deep into the water; "and up this the brig was driven, as if some great steam screw-power was forcing her into a dry dock." "At one time," says Kane, "I expected to see her carried bodily up its face, and tumbled over on her side. But one of those mysterious relaxa- tions, which I have elsewhere called the pulses of the ice, lowered us quite gradually down again into the rubbish, and we were forced out of the line of pres- sure towards the shore." The brig now grounded in a place of safety, and after thirty-six hours of this fearful contention for life, the wearied Kane and his companions got repose. By yoking the men to the brig, and working like horses in tracking and warping, Kane succeeded in making a little more progress to the northward ; but after heroic efforts, they found it in vain to battle against the ice. It was the 23d of August, and already the winter had set in, the young ice, two inches thick, forming around the brig. They were at this time in latitude 78- 41 -farther north than any of their predecessors, except Tarry on his Spitz- bergen foot-tramp towards the Pole. The brig was U .1 ■ Mi', 306 DR K'ANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. now constantly grounding at low-water, and hcclinj;- over in a very unpleasant fashion. Kane resolved upon an expedition to discover a proper wintering spot, from wliich they could start on their winter travel, and enter on their search for Franklin. Ac- cordingly, with seven of his best hands, he set out on a sledge. Onward they pushed for some time with tolerable success, till their way was blocked up by a glacier, whose steep sides terminated in the sea. With much difficulty they .scrambled over this obstacle, and arrived at a large bay of open water, into which a tumultuous river, three quarters of a mile wide at its mouth, discharged its waters. Hav- ing forded this river, they advanced seven miles, and arrived at a cape which they named " Jefferson." Sixteen miles farther, they reached a headland which they named a^-fer the distinguished author of "The Ncwcomes." "Cape William Makepeace Thackeray,"- a graceful tribute to genius, in a high latitude. Why did they not name the next " Cape Charles Dickens " instead of "Cape Hawkes.?" Kane mounted this headland, eleven hundred feet high, and had a mag- nificent view of an expanse extending beyond the eightieth parallel of latitude. On one hand was a huge wall of ice, to which he gave the appropriate name of " The Great Glacier of Humboldt;" and beyond it he named the land " Washington," the area between being a solid sea of ice. Having found no place sr ^ ^^ f^'^i^E'S ARCTIC EXPLORATfOm 307 well fitted for a winter harbour as that in which he l^ad left the A^ivaua; Kane now retraced his stops, and placed the brig: in Rensellaer harbour, which he ^says <' tiiey were fated never to leave together-a lor-^'-rcsting place to her indeed, for the same ice is around her still." It was now the loth September, and no time was to be lost m making preparation for the long Arctic winter night that was rapidly '.pproacling. In an- oti,cr month the sun would disappear, and for one hundred and forty days they would not see his face. , of it!-t.venty sunlcs. week.s, with the moon only at times, and tue occasional glimmerings of the aurora-borealis. No white men had ever previously wintered in such a high northern latitude, and careful preparation must be made for encountering an un- known degree of cold, and the long prevalence of darkness. Their first care was to remove the con- tents of the hold of the vessel to a storehouse erected on a small islet. Then a deck-house was constructed o boards-every attention being given to secure ven- tilation, warmth, dryness, room, and comfort The washmg, cooking, ice-melting arrangements were care- fully attended to; and their domestic system was or- gamsed with .special reference to cleanliness, cheerful recreation, and especially a fixed routine which was carefully adhered to. The Sabbath was observed with religious exactness. They had in view, how- 308 DR KA NE'S ARCTIC EXP LOR A T/O.VS. ever, not only to search these shores for traces of the lost expedition, but to advance the intere 's of science. Accordingly they set to work, dragged blocks of granite over the ice, and built an obser- vatory, their .nortar being frozen water and moss. Here they planted their transit instrument and theo- dolite, Magn( tic observations in such a latitude be- ing of vast consequence to the interests of science, they constructed another edifice in which no iron was allowed, even the fireplace being of copper ; and here their magnetic implements were placed. In spite of ill their attempts to render it comfortable, it proved to be an icehouse of the coldest description, where a fire, the heav. t buffalo robes, and the warmest furs could barely enable the shivering observer to keep magnetic watch. A third erection was necessary for meteorological observations, where their thermome- ters might be suspended far from all disturbing in- fluences. A dog-house completed their arrangements; but the poor animals could not be kept away from their masters, and preferred hanging about the brig, and even slejping on the snow, to being at a distance from them. Things were now made pretty snug for winter. The evening shades were prevailing more and more— the gloom of the long, terrible Arctic night was gathering. Ere the sun disappeared, Kane determined to estab- lish a chain of provision-depots along the northern DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 309 coast, so that when the traveUing season arrived, they might be enabled to drive thei. dogs rapidly over the ice, unencumbered with a heavy load of provisions Accordingly he despatched a party of seven men with a considerable load of pemmican on a sledge' which they were to draw themselves, being harnessed to It by ropes and shoulder-belts. As the word " pem- ni.can " will frequently be used in this address, it may be as well to explain what kind of food is referred to under this name. Sir John Richardson, in the account of his Arctic Searching Expedition, thus describes the mode of its preparation :-" A round of beef of the best quality having been cut into thin steaks, from which the fat and membranous parts are pared away was dried in a malt-kiln over an oak fire until its moisture was entirely dissipated, and the fibre of the meat became friable. It was then ground in a malt- kiln, when it resembled finely-grated meat. Being next mixed with ncariy an equal weight of melted beef-suet or lard, the preparation of plain pemmican was complete; but to render it more agreeable to the unaccustomed palate, a proportion of the best Zante currants was added to part of it, and part was sweet- ened with sugar. After the ingredients were well incor- porated by stirring, they were transferred to tin canis- ter capable of containing 85 lb. each; and havin- been firm'y rammed down, and allowed to contract farther • , cooling, the air was completely expelled and ex- r 3 10 i)R KANeS ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. eluded by filling the canister to the brim with melted lard through a small hole left in the end. which was then covered with a piece of tin and soldered up." Yoked to a sledge loaded with this and other descrip- tions of food, Kane's men started on the 20th Sep- tember, equipped with a buffalo robe to lie on, a can- vas tent, and blanket bags to creep into at night Their clothing was furs from head to foot, leaving only a portion of the face exposed. The party, in fact, resembled in appearance a number of bears that had been trained to waddle on their hinder-legs. They had fearful difficulties to encounter :.., tin's sledge- journey-at times wading through broken ice, cross- ing fissures, and dragging their he- , 'oad among icebergs and hummocks, sustai.iing at the ,ame time the fiercest cold, and getting only broken snatches of unrefreshing sleep. With unflinching resolution, how- ever, the; executed their commander's orders to the very letter. Advancing as far as latitude 79° 50' they buried Soo lb. of provisions in a natural exca-' vation among the cliffs, piling over them heavy rocks, brought with immense labour. Smaller stones were placed over these, and mcorporated into one solid mass by a mixture of sand and water. They hoped by these arrangements to preserve them safe from the claws of the bears, whose powers in break- ing up such provision depots is almost incredible. The explorers are now snugly housed in for the < ' DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 3 1 1 winter. The sun has disappeared; a faint twihght, for a time, hngcrs at noonday. In the early part of November they can still read the thermometer at noon without a light ; " and the black masses of the hills are plain for about five hours, with thdr glaring patches of snow ; but all the rest is darkness. Lan- terns are always on the spa. -deck, and the lard lamps never extinguished below. The stars of the sixth mag- nitude shine out at noonday." The " cmpres. of the night," then at her greatest northern declination, per- forms the whole of her stately circuit m the sl:y, aj if to apologise for the absence of her more luminous partner. On the 12th December they have a grand incident in the great monotony of their life— an oc- cupation of Orion, of which they obtain a satisfactory observation. On the isth December, the last ves- tige of mid-day twilight is lost ; they ci^nnot see print ; noonday and midnight are alike, and except a vague' glimmer on the sky there is nothing to tell tht-m that the Arctic world around has a sun. Fearfully depressing is this long and intense darkness. Even the dogs cannot stand it ; and when the men stumble upon them in the darkness, they put their cold noses to their hands, and commence the most exuberant antics of satisfaction. They howl at an accidental light as if it reminded them of th- moon ; and the poor animals are allowed to see the lanterns fre- quently, as the best way of keeping up their spirits. ll r i j 312 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. To the great grief of Kane, some of the best of the Newfoundland pack are seized with a strange form of brain disease, which, having at first the synvtoms of epilepsy, became soon true lunacy. They bark frenziedly at nothing, walk automatically, howl as if pursued, and at length perish with symptoms of locked-jaw. In order to beguile the weary monoton- ous solitude, the crew try a fancy ball ; but in the ab- sence of lad.os, and with the thermometer 25° below zero, it proves rather a cold affair, but still breaks the dulness of the slow hours. An Arctic newspaper, with the appropriate name of T/ic Ice-Blink was pub- lished on board ; the crew being both contributors and readers. After a time this print became rather dull, owing partly to the non-arrival of the mails, and partly to there being no opposition newspaper-no " miserable, venal, lying contemporary " to have a good stand-up fight with, and to exhibit as a stupid, irreclaimable scoundrel. There is, however, no idle- ness on board the little brig ; every man has his allotted task ; every hour its duty. One is carpen- tering, another tinkering, some sketching, writing, or projecting maps. Records of the weather, the tides, the thermometers, the ice, are each day care- fully noted down. The most trying thing is to pass the whole twenty-four hours, on certain term-days, at the magnetic observatory, noting the movements' of the needle. In the darkness, the observer whose turn DR KANE'S ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. 3 1 3 has arrived, stumbles to this building, with a lantern in one hand and an ice-pole in the other, sits down and, first of all, kindles his fire; then, with a chrono- meter in one hand and a pencil in the other, he has to note every six minutes the flutterings of the mag- netometer. As the fire kindles, he finds the part of liis body fronting the stove 94° above zero, and the oppo- site portion of his corporation 10° below zero. On the floor the temperature is 75° below freezing point ; on a level with the head of the observer, as the warmth ascends, it is 20° above zero. Thus the unfortunate mortal has to remain on the watch, without winking, his turn of six hours, having all the while his feet Tt the Pole and his head in the Temperate Zone-his front in an English and his rear in a Spitzbergen clmiate. Yet no one shirks the duty; four hundred and eighty results arr -, . ,rdcd each week. If you ask what is the use of . " .... martyrdom in the cause of science, let it be remembered that magnetism and the electric telegraph are intimately connected, and that it is by these painful and laborious efforts on the part of her votaries that science perfects her knowledge of terrestrial magnetism. The cold expe- rienced by our voyagers during this dreary winter is the most intense on record. On the 17th of January the thermometers stand 49» below zero; on the 5th of February from 6o» to 75° below zero-the fiercest cold ever experienced I believe. Fancy life going on ii m 3 14 /)/C A'AN£rs ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. in an atmosplicrc 75° below zero, or 107' below the ■-'ezin- point of water-enough surely to freeze the very marrow in the bones! Even after the return of the sun. the mean temperature ^or the whole of March was 41- below zero. In addition to their other sufTenngs, fuel bej^an to fail. On the i.th March Kane makes the following entry in his journaI:_'thing in perfumed water. We know the value of our everyday mercies when they are withdrawn Ihe working-day had come; and now the thoughts DR h'ANE^S ARCTIC EXPLANA T/OA S. 315 of the leader turned anxiously towards the great object of the expedition. Preparations were pushed fonvard for a thorough exploration o( the immense untrod'l.-n coast that stretched away to the Polar liasin. ]Jefore entering on the track of these danng explorers, let us take a hasty survey of those frozen regions which have been the scenes of so many dar- ing adventures ; and try to understand something of the grand purposes served, in the economy f nature, by the vast icy territories that stretch around thj Pole. Ky the North Polar Regions is meai.t tlat portion of the globe which lies within the North Polar Circle, comMi diending the most northern portions of Europe^ Asia, and America ; and by the North Polar Sea, or Arctic Ocean, is meant that expanse of water which divides the northern coasts of Europe and Asia from those of America. This ocean is of enormous extent, the circle svhich encloses it being no less than 7200 miles in circumference. On the Asiatic side of this sea are Nova Zembla and the New Siberian Islands ; on the European and American sides are Spitzbergen and Greenland ; and facing the American coast are Parry and Melville's Islands, King William's Island, and a number of others. The North Pol r Ocean thus drains the northern slope of three continents, receiving the waters of an area of nearly 4,000.000 square miles. Now, this great Polar Sea has but m 3 16 n/! kane:s arctic explora tions. three avenues for entrance or exit-namely, Behring's Straits, the estuaries of Hudson's and Laffin's Bays and the interval between Greenland and Norway' upon the Atlantic Ocean, knoxvn rs the Greenland Sea. Thus, on one side this ocean communicates M.th the Pacific by Behring's Straits, and on the other side with the Atlantic. To discover a passage through it, from the Pacific to the Atlantic, has been the great problem of centuries; and, as is known to you all, .t was solved a few years ago by the gallant M Clure, though found to be impracticable for vessels owing to the ice. Indeed, it is now certain that the' lost navigator, Sir John Franklin, discovered another North-west Passage, further south, which at certain seasons may be practicable ; though, as no one of his party survived to bear home the news of his great d.scovery, we only learn it by inference from the route he is known to have followed. It is estimated that a crcle of 2000 miles diameter is occupied by frozen field^^ and floes of vast extent. Here giant masses of fantastic form rear their heads, " Whose blocks of sapphire seem to mortal eye ilewn from cerulean quarries in the sky, With glacier battlements that crowd the' spheres Tlie slow creation of six thousand years. Amidst immensity they tower sublime. Winter's eternal palace built by time." We are not to fancy this region to be perpetually locked in the stillness of an icy death. The lono- DR k-ANeS ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. 3 1 7 Arctic day relaxes the grasp of the frost, and the ice is broken up and floated away southerly to warmer regions. From October till May, these enormous fields of floating ice and the deeply-immersed bergs travel along the coast of Labrador, and approach the shores of Newfoundland, passing on till they are dis- solved in the warm breath of the south. Did not the Arctic ice, in its great southerly march, approach our shores, Newfoundland would have no seal-fishery ; so that in this island we are partly dependent on the regions of the Frost King for our bread. Away in his grim domains, the ice-meadows, on which the seals bring forth their young, arc manufactured, and then floated down to us, through Baffin's and Hud- son's Bay. But by what mysterious influence are they wafted with such regularity through the avenues of the Polar Sea, and borne away to the sunny south > Steadily these children of the Pole traverse the oc^an, independent of wind and tide, seeking, apparently, a change of climate ; but what unseen power propels them along and directs their march } The answer to this involves a reference to one of the most important discoveries of modern times, whi.h has been beauti- fully expounded in Maury's " Physical Geography of the Sea." From this admirable treatise we learn that the ocean has a vast circulating system, governed by fixed laws, and producing most important results. The great Gulf Stream, Maury appropriately names i :ilf i 318 M A-AA'es ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. a nver ,n the ocean ,- and he shews that, starting from the Gulf of Mexico, it crosses the Atlantic^ washes the shores o. Great Britain and Irdand, and raises the ten.perature nf their climate, pursues its course through the North Sea, and finally discharges .ts w,rm waters into the Arctic Ocean ; thus elevating the temperature of the colder regions of the earth But then, parallel with this stream of warm water pourmg into the chilly regions of the north, a cold nver, equal in extent, rushes from the Arctic Ocean towards the equator, floating on its bosom icefields and .cebergs, and carrying vhem irresistibly to the overheated south, i, order to produce there a grate- ful coolness. Thus are accomplished the beneficent des,g„s of the Creator. This cold current from the north rushes along our shores in its southerly course, as we know to our cost Were it not for this icv stream chilling our atmosphere, Newfoundland, from ^s laftude, would have a climate as warm as that of France ■ or, did the Gulf Stream strike on our shores we m,ght be growing the vine. This Arctic river bongs us. however, riches of another description. On .ts .ce-covered surface, during March and April, our seal-hunters find their game; and when the summer arr,ves. its cool waters, laving our shores, are the resort of the cod; so that it creates for us a mine that can never be exhausted. It is remarkable that wherever this Arctic current touches, the most valu- DR KANES ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. 3 19 able species offish are found ; while the fish of warm or trop.cal seas are coirparatively worthless. We thus see that the Creator has arranged these great warmmg and cooling processes so as to balance one another, and equalise the temperature of the globr It IS also remarkable that, in leaving the Arctic Ocean, the cold stream is a surface-current; while the warm st .am setting in is an under-current, whose waters do not rise to the surface till some distance -thm the Polar Sea. The warmer climate of the Pole which is inferred to exist may, therefore, be caused by the waters of the Gulf Stream coming in as a deep-sea current, and rising to the top at a tem- perature several degrees above freezing point, and thus mitigating the intense cold of these regions We ^.all find that Kane's observations :,o to sustain the theory of an open Polar Basin. In this address, frequent reference has been made to icebergs; and the natural history of these wan- derers of the deep is highly interesting. There are two ways in which most icebergs are formed. By the first method the iceberg is a land formation, havmg Its origin far up amid the Arctic mountains where for ages it is slowly reared, pushed seaward,' and, like a ship, at length launched in its destined element. The glacier is, in fact, the parent of the iceberg. But what is a glacier.^ We must try to get some idea of those great ice-growths called 320 DK A- AXE'S ARCTIC F.XPLOPATIONS. ^^ ■it glaciers, which are to be found in so many different mountain regions, before we can understand the for- mation of an iceberg. In those regions of the earth where, either from a high latitude or mountainous elevation, perpetual winter reigns, the moisture of the atmosphere is deposited only in the form of snow, rain being unknown. When the sun's rays strike this mass of recently-fallen snow in its feathery state, it undergoes a partial superficial melting, and presents the appearance of partially-boiled sago. It is now said to be in a granulated state. If you were to ascend the Swiss Alps you would find the vast valleys which separate the mountain peaks converted into great plains by this granular snow. But how are the mountains to be relieved of their ever-increasing burdens.? In this way chiefly: these basins between the mountain summits run off into narrow gorges, which pass by a gradual winding descent to the plains at the base of the mountain. These gorges receive the drainage of the snow-field above; the cold converts it into a solid mass of ice, which is named a glacier. But here is the wonderful thing — these ice-masses, which fill the mountain gorges, are found to be in motion, creeping slowly but surely down to the plain, at a rate varying from one to four feet per day. In fact, the glacier is a river of ice, conveying the moisture in this shape from the mountain-tops to the plains, ,: ~~. -^^^^^^^^^^^Jy^^ i»^?is3??5 Z?/? KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 32 1 just as an ordinary river drains the surface of a country t. a lower temperature. I cannot now pause to explain the cause of the glacier's motion. Professor Forbes's theory is that generally received. He regards these formations as viscous or semi-fluid masses, and holds that their motion is owing to the yielding and adjustment of their parts, under the influence of gravity. Whatever be the cause, cer- tain it is that they are travelling downward steadily bearing with them rock-masses, often of enormous size, torn from the mountain-sides ; and thus creep- ing along, tearing out the very bow 's of the moun- tains and carrying them to the plains below, they deposit these immense fragment?, mixed with earth, in the valleys, where the higher temperature melts the ice, and the muddy streams rush downwards, giving origin to rivers. Glaciers arc thus gigantic mountain-levellers. In the Alps alone upwards of four hundred arc at work,— irresistible navvies, — hurling these giant masses into the plains, where the rivers take up the particles and deposit them at the bottoms of seas, to build up new continents. These glaciers have been at work ever si/.ce the earth cooled sufficiently to allow of the formation of ice. The geologist finds traces of them everywhere, and in tlie formation of the globe they have played no unimportant part. In the Arctic regions this great glacier action is Z22 j)i^ K A NITS ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. going on. wherever there is land suited to its operation. But there is tliis great difference between the Alpine and the Arctic glaciers.-after being pushed down the slope of the Alps, the glacier is melted in the warm valley; but in the Arctic regions f,e glacier tcrmi- nates in an ice-covered ocean, so that its masses cannot be thawed. They are accordingly hurled into the sea. and floated o((, m the great southern drift, as icebergs. I'ar up in the icy gorges of those Arctic mountains, hundreds of miles from the coast, where human foot has never trod, the glacier is formed; slowly it presses, with its giant forces, towards the sea, and lines its margin with an enormous crystal precipice. But the great propelling power behind forces the masses onward in^ the deep sea; and now, in fearful throes, an iceberg is about to be born. Let us fancy ourselves present at the birth. A great c^iff of ice overhangs the waves, whose tides have worn away its base, so that a slight cause will bring it down. Presently a noise louder than thunder is heard. The ice-mountain has snapped asunder— the detached m.,ss comes grinding, crushing down ; the ice-giant leaps into the waves, t.iat start back as if in terror at his approach, fling up rlouds of spray, and madly toss themselves, as if in agony, high upon the shore. A ship four miles off" feels the shock ; a boat, a mile or two distant, would be swallowed up or hurled ashore. The young ice-monster dives as he DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 323 touches the waves-rises slowly, the water strean^ing from h,s huge sidcs-hc has received his baptism ; he sways to and fro, tumbles repeatedly, but at last secures his balance. Mis front, ninety or a hundred feet high, rises above the surface of the waves, and to keep him steady there must be eight times as much underne^.th. He is now fairly launched in life ; and as though disliking the cold region of his birth, he seeks the luxury of a warmer clime ; but. like many a wild youth who turns his back on home, he is rushing on his own destruction. On his broad shoulders he bears over the waves many a huge rock and earth- bed, torn from the Arctic mountains, dropping them as the increasing heat relaxes his grasp, and lighten- ing his burden as he gets further south. He is help- ing to lay, in the bed of the Atlantic, the foun- ds *' ns of new continents with rocks from the Pole. If . - .ould examine the bottom of the sea about the banks of Newfoundland, we would find them strewn wit)^ mighty rock-fragments borne there by the ice- bergs from Greenland. When another continent or group of islands shall arise there, some future genera- tion will quarry these boulders, employ them in the erection of churches or palaces, or hew them into monuments of the illustrious dead. Is not fact stranger than fiction >. Do not th. fairy tales of science M.r surpass all that imagination has dreamed of the wonderful > One of Kane's most interesting I '•I W4 324 DH k'ANFrS ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. discoveries was the Great Glacier of Humboldt, by far the most gij;antic specimen known to exist. It extends for sixty miles along the Greenland coast ; presenting,- a perpendicular front of three hundred feet. How far it stretches into the interior is unknown. There it has been at work for ages, pushing forward its bergs into the sea. Kane, however, consioers that for the mos^ part it discharges its bergs slowly and quietly propelling its masses ^tep by step, year by year, until they reach water Jeep enough to float them ; and then they quietly rise from the waves, like Venus from the foam .. ocean. He considers that the smaller bergs are broken violently off, and hurled into the waves ; but that the grander ones are quietly and gradually produced. The Hu.nboldt Glacier, according to Kane's account, must be one of the most magnificcn. .-ghts in the world. He con- siders Greenland, from .'ts great extent, being one thousand two hundred miles in length, entitled to be called a continent; and he calls this glacier "the mighty crystal bridge which connects the two con- tincnts of America and Greenland." " Imagine," he says, "the centre of such a continent, occupied throi gh nearly its whole extent by a deep, unbroken sea of ice. Imagine this moving onward, like a great glacial river, seeking outlets at every valley, rolling icy catarac:s into the Atlantic and Greenland Seas ; and having at last reached the northern limit of the' DR KANE S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 325 land that has borne it up, pourin^r out a mighty frozen torrent into u.iknown Arctic space." Thj fact is, however, that the whole of Greenlu-id may be legarded as u luge glacier. It is now in the same condition that the British Isles and parts of Europe were ages ago, during the glacial period. This vast country is swathed in an icy mantle, which li. ever receiving fresh accumulations from atmo- spheric precipitations, and is thus continually pressing downward .0 the sea; and its seaward edges, broken off, and floated away, form the icr- fields a..d icebergs that cover the bosom of the North Atlantic in certain latitudes. Thus a huge ice-sheet is grinding down the Greenland continent into the bottom of the ocean. The striated rock-surfaces ox Britain shew that, at one time, '^ was wrapped in a sim."'-xr sheet of ice, a.'d must have been worn down, hj glacier action, just as Greenland is at this moment. The portion of an iceberg that rises above the sur- face of the sea is but one-ninth part of its whole Uiuss. It is very common to encounter bergs towering one hundred feet above the waves, so that their lowest peak must be eight hundred feet underneath the surface. But some monsters have been met with rising three hundred feet over the sea; their entire mass therefore, from base to summit, must be two thousand seven hund-red feet. Fancy a mountain like Skiddaw, torn up by the roots and floating in the waters, sailing 326 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. from the gloomy portals of the Arctic Ocean, defying wind and wave as it proudly careers along, the sun's rays reflected from its crystal battlements and emerald caves. The warm breath of the South loosens its peaks and crags as it advances, and with a sullen plunge they drop into the waves. The submarine por- tion ,s dissolved, the berg becomes top-heavy, and reels over with an appalling noise. Shrouded in a mist of its own creation, it moves along, rivulets trickling from its sides, and at length disappears. " like the baseless fabric of a vision." Such is a his- tory of the more imposing class of icebergs. But a -smaller description are formed by the freezing of the water of the ocean in high northern latitudes. Sheet after sheet of ice is formed in the intense cold of those regions ; immense snowdrifts add to the mass till it reaches a height of thirty or forty feet. When summer comes, these ice-fields are broken up, and their drifting masses are the low flat icebergs, the terror of navigators. It is quite time that we were looking after the for- tunes of Kane pnd his companions. The Arctic day having dawned, they began preparations for their northern journey On the 19th March 1854, Kane despatched an advance-party to deposit a relief-cargo of provisions, at the distance of ten days' journey from the brig. The party, consisting of eight, started in good spirits, with rhree cheers for their commander DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 327 , " I gave them," says Kane, " the whole of my brothers great wedding-cake, and my last tw , bottles of port ; and they pulled the sledge they were harnessed to famously." This proved one of the most disastrous journeys they undertook ; and the account of it is certainly one of the most harrowing tales of human suffering, courage, and endurance on record. Eleven days after their departure, Kane and his companions are cheerily at work in the cabin. Suddenly foot- steps are heard on the deck above ; presently three of the party that had started so hopefully eleven days before, stagger in, swollen, haggard, almost unable to speak, and in the last stage of exhaustion from cold, fatigue, and hunger. With difficulty Kane gathers from them that five of their companions had broken down, and were lying somewhere on the ice, at a great distance, frozen and disabled ; and that, at the risk of their lives, they had come on to bring the news and send back help. They further informed him that, when they parted with them, the snow was drifting heavily around them. Such is their tale ; but the difficulty is where to find the sufferers, for the men who have returned only know that it is a spot to the north and east, within an area of forty miles. But Kane does not hesitate a moment— his poor friends are perishing miserably among the snow-drifts— he will to the rescue. A sledge is quickly prepared-nine of them start and press on, putting their trust in Him who 328 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. has already brought them through so many dangers. The wind rises and impedes their march ; but to halt in such a temperature is certain death. They are parched with thirst, but dare not stop to melt ice ; and the snow, put in the mouth, burns like caustic, and leaves the lips covered with blood. Two men of iron, who had never failed in any march, M'Garry and Bonsall, begin to breathe short, and shake with trembling fits ; and Kane twice faints on the snow. They are now out on this dreary search for eighteen hours without halting, or tasting food or water, and as yet have met no traces of their friends. Hope still flutters faintly ; but they begin to feel that an hour or two longer, and they must drop exhausted. But, hark ! a cry of joy— Hans, the Esquimaux, has discovered the track of a sledge almost obliterated by the drift ! With hearts beating anxiously they follow it up— footprints are discernible ; and at last a little masonic banner— the parting gift of the St John's Brotherhood— is seen fluttering from a tent- pole, hardly above the snow. The little tent itself is all but covered. Kane is requested to enter first alone. The burst of welcome and gladness from the poor sufferers who are still alive— the touchintr words "We expected you, we knew you would come," are too much for Kane, and the brave man is almost overcome. Their march has been one of twenty-one hours, without halt or refreshment; but the most IL DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 329 appalling prospect is yet before them. The difficulty now is to get back to the brig, exhausted as they are, dragging their helpless, disabled companions, in a temperature of 75° below freezing point. After a few hours given to sleep and refreshment, they wrap their helpless companions carefully and tenderly in buffalo-robes and furs, place them on the sledfre. their fingers being fearfully frost-bitten in the ope- ration ; and now, looking np to Heaven, they breathe a prayer for help, and commence their weary march. Slowly the sledge with its heavy burden creeps for- ward, at the rate of a mile au hour. At length they are within nine miles of a tent which they had left standing on their outward-bound march; but their strength is failing rapidly. The fatal craving foi sleep which intense cold produces shews itself; two of the stoutest implore permission to sleep ; Hans, the Esquimaux, too, succumbs, and is found insen- sible under a drift ; another stand- bolt upright with his eyes closed, unable to speak ; a fourth flings himself on the snow, and refuses to rise. In vain does Kane argue, reprimand, jeer, and even wrestle and box his men. The tent must be pitched ; their hands are too benumbed to strike a light; neither food nor fire can be had ; even the whisky is found frozen under the men's furs. The sick and exhausted are crowded into the tent; M'Garry is placed in charge, with orders to come on after four 330 DR KANrs ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. hours' rest ; and Kane, with a single companion, starts to reach the half-way tent, where some provisions were, m order, if possible, to have some food thawed on the arrival of the dying men. It is a fearfully penlous walk for Kane : he and his companion stag- ger on, drunk with the cold, in a kind of half-conscious stupor ; manage the nine miles in four hours ; find their ten overturned by a bear ; erect it ; crawl into the.r remdeer sleeping-bags, and sleep intensely for three hours. Kane awakes, and finds his long beard frozen to his buffalo-robe, and Godfrey has to cut him out with his jack-knife. They manage to get some water and soup ready for their companions, who arrive and enjoy the entertainment as only famished men can ; and now, with fresh courage, they start once more. The most fearful part of the journey is yet before them_a great chain of bergs and hum- mocks, hkc gigantic tombstones, has to be rossed Nature can hold out no longer; the men begin to lose their self-control, eat snow, and become speechless They are all more or less delirious ; take no note of anything around them ; and steer for the brig by pure mstinct. Kane is the soundest of the p.. .y, and hits on the plan of letting the rest sleep in turn, three minutes at once, on the runners of the sledge -an arrangement that proved very serviceable Thus staggering like drunken men, they at length totter to ■J DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 33 r the bnV, recognising no one ; their persons covered with snow; their beards a mass of ice; and in this phght roll into bed and sink into a deathlike slumber. When they awake they are in a raving delirium ; and for two days the ship presents the appearance of a madhouse, where there were only maniacs and frozen cripples, with but one sound man, Dr Hayes, to wait upon them all. The rescue-party had been out seventy-two hours, or three whole days ; had halted but eight hours; got water but twice; and dragged a heavily-loaded sledge about ninety miles. One cannot conceive of human courage and endurance going bey..nd this, when we consider that the mean temperature all the time was 41° below zero. For a week nearly all were confined to sick-beds ; some amputations had to be performed; and several had alarming symptoms of locked-jaw. Ultimately two died from the effects of the exposure; the others recovered. Very touching is Kane's account of the burial of Baker, the first who died. "We placed him." he writes, "in his coffin, and forming a rude but heartfelt procession, we bore him to the observa- tory, and deposited his corpse on the pedestals which had served to support our transit instrument and theodolite. We read the service for the burial of the dead, sprinkled over him snow for dust, and repeated the Lord's Prayer ; then icing up the opening in the 232 DR KANes ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. walls we had made to admit the coffin left him in his narrow house." Another corpse was soon after placed m the same lonely resting-place. Before the party had quite recovered, Kane was one morning startled with the report, " People hal- looing ashore." Going on deck, he beheld a number of wild, uncouth figures, evidently not bears, standing on the ice-hillocks around the harbour, vociferating and gesticulating violently. They proved to be a tribe of Esquimaux from a settlement further south ; and were quite pacific and inclined to be friendly! Kane treated them with the utmost hospitality ; and m return for cask-staves, beads, and needles, they gave him walrus-meat, and four fine dogs. They had, however, one unpleasant peculiarity— they were incor- rigible thieves; and, so far from feeling ashamed of stealing, when caught in the act, the rascals burst into a roar of laughter, and treated the whole thing as an exquisite joke. Passing over other incidents, we must now come to the final expedition for the exploration of the far North, and the discovery of the open Polar Sea. Kane's plan was to send out a party of four, (he was hnnself too weak to attempt the formidable journey,) with orders that two cf them were to husband their strength till they arrived at the Humboldt Glacier; these were then to start on a dog-sledge, and push for the north, leaving the others to return to the brig. DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. Z2,Z On arriving at the farthest of their provision depots, they were mortified to find that the bears had appro- priated the whole, having eaten the very flag that marked the spot. Arriving at the glacier, they tried to scale it, but in vain. Two of the party then re- turned to the brig; while Morton, with Hans, the Esquimaux, started on the ice parallel to the glacier, and drove away northward. After three days' travel amid the usual obstacles, they found themselves abreast of the termination of the Great Glacier. They then pushed on for an opening seen to the westward of a cape. This opening proved to be a channel. To their surprise, they now found the ice beneath weak and rotten, and so unsafe that the dogs began to Ci emble and refused to move. They were then compelled to leave the ice and take to the shore. To their unutterable amazement, when they advanced two miles they sighted open water, and observed birds flying about in great numbers. After turning the cape, which Kane named " Cape Andrew Jack- son," they travelled fifty miles up this channel of open water, the water being actually black with dove-kies, and the rocks crowded with birds. The wind was blowing strong frc m the north, yet no ice was borne uown. The channel appeared to be about thirty-five miles in width. At length they arrived at a cape where the land-ice, on which they had travelled hitherto, terminated ; and an open sea, with a current 334 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. running five knots an hour, broke against the cliffs. Vainly did they try to pass round this cape : perpen- dicular cliffs, two thousand feet high, prevented them advancing. Morton ascender knob, five hundred feet high, and saw before hin. an open iceless sea as far as the eye could reach. Here, on the highest northern land on the globe, nearer the Pole than any human being is known to have reached before, Mor- ton planted the Grinnel flag, and side by side with It our own Masonic banner. From this elevation Morton observed a peak, apparently about three thousand feet in height, which, being the most re- mote northern land yet known, Kane named after Sir Edward Parry, the great pioneer of Arctic travel. The cape he named " Constitution Cape " modestly declining the honour of giving it his own name, as Morton wished. This, then, was the termi- nation of the journey, and of the northern search of the expedition. The country round, Kane named Grinnel Land, in honour of his patron; and the mountains, the Victoria and Albert Range. It is impossible to contemplate thi^ grand dis- covery but with the deepest interest. What were these lonely waters on which the eyes of these two daring men alone were destined to gaze.? Were they a part of the great unexplored Arctic Basin- the long-dreamed-of open Polar Sea > It is difficult to avoid answering this question in the affirmative • DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA T/ONS. 335 and though the search was not so complete as .0 furnish absolute certainty, ali the probabilities of the case seem to be in favour of such a conclusion. The open sea followed for fifty miles, then "iewed from an elevation of five hundred feet, and found perfectly free from ice, vegetation advancing, animal I.fe abunda„t,_all these indicate not a mere local openmg in tl^ ice. but a great iceless sea stretching towards the Pole. Thus theory is borne out by facts and these seem to point to the conclusion that at least at certam seasons, if not always, an open iceless sea ex,sts around the Pole. The warm waters of the Gulf Stream discharge themselves into the space around the Pole and elevate the temperature. How deeply we must regret that the explorers had to turn back at Cape Constitution! On their return to the brig had Kane been in a condition to send out a thoroughly- equ.pped party, carrying with them their light india- rubber boats, so that they could have explored this open sea, more important results might have b-en secured. But, alas! their strength was unequal'to such an undertaking; and their poor stock of supplies was now very low. We can sympathise with Kane when he says, " There was not a man among us who d.d not long for the means of embarking on its bright and lonely waters." Had he been sufl^ciently stocked w,th necessaries when starting, or had the bears been less ravenous, the daring little man would doubtless 336 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. have reached the Pole. Now that the existence of such a sea is rendered hij^hly probable, the Anglo- Saxon, having already wrung the secret of the North- West Passage from the lips of the Frost King, will never rest till he has planted his foot on the Pole, or found some guod reason for leaving that locality un- explored. We must now pass over a great deal that is inter- esting in Kane's narrative. The month of August 1854 was now upon them; the brief Arctic summer was closing. Wearily and anxiously had they watched the eftect of the sun's rays upon the ice, hoping that their prison-doors would be opened, and that their ship would be released. All in vain ; their grim jailer held them fast. By the 23d August the last faint hope of the ship being released for that year had vanished. The dreary prospect of passing an- other winter in the cold and darkness of an Arctic night, was now before them : but it was far more appalling than the first. Their resources were utterly inadequate to another encounter with the raging cold, whose fearful power they had already experienced. They were a set of scurvy-stricken, broken-down men; their coal was exhausted, and little wood could be had ; their stock of fresh provisions was gone, and only the chances of the hunt to rely on. Looking these difficulties firmly in the face, Kane and his men set about preparations to brave a second winter. DR KANE^S ARCTIC EX FLORA TIONS. ^J *' It was my first definite resolve," he says, " that come what might, our organisation and its routine of obser- vances should be adhered to strictly. The arrange- ment of hours, the distribution and details of study, the religious exercises, the ceremonials of the table, the fires, the lights, the watch, even the labours of the observatory, and the notations of the tide„ and sky, nothing should be omitted that had contributed to make up the day." The resources of the party being very low, especially in regard to fuel, Kane formed another wise resolution-to imitate the dress, uiet, and dwellings of the Esquimaux as nearly as civilised man could do so ; for he .saw that these men, inured to all the hardships of Arctic life, had instinctively adopted the best mode of combating the difficulties of their situa- tion. Accordingly he fitted up a small apartment on board the brig, measuring twenty-eight feet by eighteen, and a little more than six feet high, on the model of an Esquimaux hut. He surrounded the walls with a casing of moss and turf cut from the frozen cliff; the deck above was thickly covered with a similar envelope ; and the floor with oak;m. This little burrow was to be kitchen, dining-room, and bed-room for the whole party. Heat was to be maintained partly by lamps fed with seal-oil or pork-fat, and partly by a stove sparingly fed with wood obtained by ripping off all the extra planking of the vessel. The entrance to this frost-proof cellar was formed on Y iilf 338 DR k'AXrs ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. an Esquimaux model, being a rloping tunnel, twelve feet in length, three feet high, and two and a half feet in bre3 'th, along which they must creep on all fours to pass to and from the deck. Having completed their winter abode, the next care was to secure a stock of fresh provisions before the darkness drew its gloomy mantle around them. They joined the Esquimaux in their hunting parties, and shared in the produce of the chase according to Ine established law of the savages. A most cordial understanding existed between the pale faces and these children of the snow ; and the Esquimaux soon learned to look on '•ne white men as benefactors, and to respect them as their equals in physical endurance, and their superiors in the resources which civilisation had taught. Under date September i6th Kane wrote, "Back last night from a wa>rus hunt. I brought in the spoil with my dogs. Five n'ghts campinT out in the snow, with hard workin. between, made me aJie a little in the joint. .1, strange to .say, I feel better than when I left the vessel. The climate exacts heavy feeding, but it in- vites to muscular energy." "Sunday, Sept. 17th.— All hands rested after a heavy week's work. Just as we were finishing our chapter this morning in the Book of Ruth, M'Gary and Morton came in triumphantly, pretty well worn down by their fifty miles' travel, but with good news and a flipper of walrus that must DR JCANrs ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 339 A'eigh some forty pounds. Our table-talk at supper was as merry as a marriage bell. One par;.y is just 1:. from a seventy.f..ur miles' trip with ihe ^-^js- another from a foot journey f r hundred ana sixty miles, with five nights on the noc. Each has his story to tell." Our friende keep a good h-.arf. with all theirgloomy prospe Is; and ^t ^.mcs their miser- able burrow rings with the heartiest laughter. Even Hans, the Esquimaux, cr .tributes his share of the fun, and has an eye for the \v iicrous. On one occa- -on, after a successful hunt, a party of Esquimaux ..c down to dinner, the joint being forty pounds of raw walrus-flesh. Hans, who had been present at the hunt, and shared in the feast, was much struck with their trencher-performances, and described it ver>- graphically to his commander. " Why, Caopen Ken, sir, even the children ate all night. You know the little two-yr ar-old, the one that bit you when you tickled it.^" - /es." "Well. Cappen Ken, sir, that baby cut for herself with a knife made out of an iron hoop, ai.! so hcav that it could hardly lift it, and cut and ate, and ate and cut, so long as I looked at It." " Well. Hans, try now and think, for I want an accurate an- ■ver,-how much as to weight or quantity should you :.ay that two-year- old child ate .? " Hans is an exact and truthful man. He pondered a little and said that he could not answer my question.' " But I know this. ' that it ate a lump as large as ....*^;-J' i'. I? i 340 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. its own head; and three hours afterwards, when T went to bed, she was cutting off another lump, and eating still." It would appear from this account that Esquimaux chiidren are favoured with exceedingly sharp appetites ; and it r-ust be a serious matter when papa has a number of such mouths to fill. Once more, then, the voyagers were plunged in the blackness of an Arctic night. In December scurvy broke out among them with renewed virulerce, owing to the wan; " fredi meat. In their strait? for fresh animal food lo resist the attacks of the sailor's dreaded enemy, they had recourse to expedients that would seem very disgusting to our more squeamish stom- achs. Every part of an animal, skin, claws, intes- tines, were turned to account in some shape or other. Finding one day a muscle adhering to an old bear's head that he was keeping as a specimen, Kane gave a luxurious raw meal from it to one of his scurvy- stricken men. The most adventurous of all, in his plundering for fresh meat, was Kane himsel The brig was swaraiing with rats, whose impudence wr.s becoming insufferr.ble. Here, thought the com- mander, is fresh beef in abundance. He tells us that he made a capital soup from a number of them ; , nd when going out to hunt, chopped a icw and rolled them in taiiow. His men, however, could not be persuaded to taste this 'uxury. The whole of them, however, relished intensely raw meat, and found it DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TTONS. 341 much better in this state than when cooked for resisting the scurvy. Raw blubber, used as we do butter, along with walrus beef or liver in alternate layers, was pronounced by all delicious. Kane de- clares that for sustaining the animal heat, and as an antiscorbutic, raw meat has no rival. One of the main uses of food is to sustain the animal heat— food being to the body what fuel is to the fire. We are a kind of portable stoves, and the colder the atmo- sphere in which we are immersed, the greater the demand for food ; or, in other words, for fuel to gene- rate the heat that is rapidly given off. Now, certain kinds of food generate more heat than others. Ani- mal focd is much more heat-creating than vegetable; and the fatter the animal food, the better for warmth.' When raw, it seems to be best of all. Hence instinct leads men, when they are fighting with the Arctic cold, to eat seal-fat, bear and walrus flesh, in huge quantities, anr^ to wash down their meals with oil. When the cold is very intense, raw flesh and blubber are indispensable to replace the waste. This is the teaching of nature, and we have no right to permit our miserable squeamishness and drawing-room re- finements to find fault with this. The low state to which the inmates of the Advance were now reduced, may be judged of by the fact that only three of them were able to do any work ; and with the utmost economy, they found that their wood 342 DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. would only last till the end of January. On the sth December, Kane mentions that he grated down two potatoes for two of his worst patients, and that he had only twelve left. " They were now three years old," he adds, "poor old frozen memorials of the dear land they grew in. They are worth more than their weight in gold." Christmas-day was observed with as much festivity as their means would admit. Their sole dish was pork and beans ; but they passed It round merrily, calling it oy the endeared names of roast turkey, roast beef, onions and potatoes; then, by way of desert, they had another allowance of pork and beans browned, and this was transformed into plum-pudding and custard. The health of absent friends was drunk in the eighteenth part of a bottle of wine-all they had left. The Esquimaux had moved further south ; and to get a supply of meat for his perishing men, Kane ventured out m the dark- ness to reach them, the distance being seventy miles. Heroic effortc were in vain ; he was driven back, and so ended the year 1854. Drearily the thirty-one days of January crept along, with our poor diseased, hunger-bitten band. The sick grew worse ; the hunt yielded nothing; for fuel they were using their tar-laid hawsers. On the 4th of February only Kine and another man were able to move about. The spirit and courage of the com- mander nev ^x gave in, while men with far more physical DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 34'' strength were prostrated. We may learn the value of reh'gion, as a sustaining power in such trying circumstances, by the following extract from Kane's journal: "A trust based on experience as well as on promises, buoyed me up at the worst of times. Call it fatalism, as you ignorantly may, there is that in the story of every eventful life which teaches the inefficiency of human means, and the present control of a Supreme Agency. See how often relief has come at the moment of extremity, in forms strangely un- sought, almost at the time unwelcome; see, still more, how the back has been strengthened to its increasing burden, and the heart cheered by some conscious influence of an unseen Power!" These were no mere words, but felt realities on the part of Kane, to which his heroic life was a testimony. Wearily February drew to a close. So nearly were they perishing, that " the sickness of a single addi- tional man would have left them without a fire;" and then it must have been soon all over with them. Early in March, Hans succeeded in reaching the Esquimaux settlement at Etah Bay, which Kane had vainly attempted ; and he returned with a small supply of fresh walrus-meat. From this time their circum- stances began slowly to improve; the hunt became more productive ; the sun had returned, and the poor waxen-faced invalids crawled up to bask in his rays. Some of them had not been on deck for five months. 344 DR A'AA'E'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. i We must „o«- hurry over the closing scene-the escape of Kane and his companions. Finding that notlung more could be done to secure the great objects for which they had set out, and despairing of a release for the vessel, the commander now formed the resolution of abandoning her, and of atten.ptino- to reach the nearest Danish settlen.cnt in South Greenland. The undertaking w-as enough to appal the stoutest heart. Thirteen hundred miles of ice and water lay between them and the nearest settle- ment of civilised man; and of these, eighty miles con- sisted of unbroken ice. They had three small boats so s^mttered as to be unseaworthy ; a scanty stock of sea.b,scuit, pork, and beans ; they numbered seven- teen md.viduals, of whom four were still invalids un- able to move fron-. their beds; and these must be transported by thirteen broken-down men who had gone through the sickness and hard,ships of a second Arc ,c „,ght. The only possible means of escape was by the combined use of sledges and boats. Provisions were stowed away in the most portable form, the three nckety boats were patched up and strengthened .n every possible way ; covered with a housing of canvas, and then mounted on sledges. Then these were to be dragged over the ice by the men, with straps wh.ch passed over the shoulder and were attached by a long trace to the sledge. It was a solemn and toucln-ng sight to witness these DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 345 brave men taking tlieir last farewell of the brig, with which so many memories were associated. It is the 17th May 1855 ; all hands are gathered into the now dismantled winter-chamber. Prayers and a chapter of the Bible are read. In such an hour the bravest heart turns ro a Father in Heaven. Kane briefly but touchingly addresses his companions, exhorting them to courage and subordination, md reminding them how often an unseen Power had rescued them from danger, and admonishing them to place reliance on Him who could not change. They take a last look at the brig, yoke themselves to the sledges, and slowly and painfully move off. There are no cheers— their hearts are too full for that. In the march, morning and evening prayers are never omitted. It is a touching sight to behold the forlorn band, at the commencement and close of each day's toil, gathering round in a circle, and standing with uncovered heads, while with full hearts they offer up a prayer that con- cludes with the words, " accept of our gratitude, and restore us to our homes." Very slowly the weary caravan moves over the ice. At the expiration of eight days they have advanced but fifteen miles. Some of them, with scurvy and swollen limbs, can scarcely keep their pin ;r> at the ropes. But now the genius of the commander shines out more resplendent than ever. He is constantly on the road with his sledge and dogs, bringing up fresh provisions, 346 DR KANrs ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. baking batches of loaves in the deserted brig, and driving with them to his fainting men, carrying down the sick, and cheering the hearts of all. Nothing seems to deter or weary him. The kindly Esqui- maux lend their dogs, and send provisions. On the I6th of June, a month after starting, open water is reached. The weary men, dragging their burden through ice-hummocks and snow-drifts, hail it as the Ten Thousand Greeks greeted the sight of the sea The whole tribe of the friendly Esquimaux come to say good-bye. Some of them weep at the partin-- all are touched. They load the voyagers with frtsh provisions in the shape of birds. Nothing is stolen now. " We are friends, they say-we are not hungry -we will not take-we want to help you." Kane gives them all some parting gift. His dogs go to the community; all but faithful old Newfoundland " VVhitey," and another that he could not part with. And now ^^'ith three cheers for Henry Grinnel, and homeward boi'.nd, the boats are launched. How the memories of •' home, sweet home," are thrilling those weary hearts ! Hope burns brighter. Visions of the dear land they left-of the welcome awaiting them- of the bright eyes that will look brighter when they come-float before them. But stern difficulties and frightful dangers yet lie before them. Storms arise— one of the boats is swamped-provisions fail-strength declines -but again and again providential relief DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 347 comes. Through twelve hundred miles of broken ice and water they plough their weary way. At length they are all but fainting with hunger, when they sight a seal asleep on a piece of ice. With trembling anxiety the rifle is pointed-the shot tells— the seal relaxes his long length, and with a ravenous yell of delight the men spring forward, crying, laugh- ing, brandishing their knives, and eagerly devour the strips of raw blubber. That night they draw up their boat, and have a rare, savage feast cooked on the ice- floe. This proves the last of their sufferings. Seals become more plentiful. Onward the little boat creeps-they pass Cape Shackleton-they are near- ing the happy homes of civilised men, and gradually realise that they are saved, and will yet grasp the loving hands they had hardly hoped to touch on earth. Presently, as they float onwards, a faint "halloo" is borne to them over the waves. It is the first Chris- tian voice that greets their return to the world. How eagerly the poor fellows bend to their oars and follow the sound ! The mast of a little shallop shews itself. Petersen, their Danish interpreter, recognises it as the Uppernavick oil-boat ; and overcome by his pent-up feelings, bursts into an incoherent fit of crying, relieved by broken exclamations in English and Danish, gulp- ing down his words and wringing his hands. How eagerly they hang on the words of the skipper of the oil-boat, as he doles out the news of the I ist two i m A'ANrs A-CTIC EXPLORATIONS. }cars ! " Sevastopol ain't taken yet," he says ; and now for the first time they learn that England and France have combined against Russia ; that Alma Balaklava, and Inkerman have been fought, that Czar Nicholas is dead ; and that Sebastopol is sur- rounded by a battling host of a hundred thousand nien. They also learn that traces of the lost Sir John Franklin have been found a thousand miles south of the locality they had been searching ; and that an expedition had passed up into the ice to search for themselves. A few hours more and they enter the harbour of Uppcrnavick, which they had left two years before. They had been eighty-four days m the open air, during their memorable retreat ; and find they cannot remain in a house without a distressing sense of suffocation. On the 6th of Sep- tember they set sail in a Danish vessel ; but just as they are leaving Godhavn the squadron sent in search of them appears, and their countrymen "welcome them back with cheers to the social world of love which they represented." Our tale is ended. Considering Kane's achieve- ment in all its aspects, are we not justified in ranking him among the heroic spirits of our age .? With a high and noble purpose before him, he pursued his object with the unflinching courage and perseverance of a hero, and in the spirit of a Christian-braving difficulties, dangers, sufferings the most appallincr DR k'ANE\S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 349 Whether we consider the work lie did, the inade- quate means at his disposal, or the spirit in which he wrought, we must equally pronounce his achievement glorious. If the truly great man is he who hews his way through obstacles that to other men are insur- mountable, not in a self-seeking, but a seif-denying spirit, under the guidance of conscience, sustained by a sense of duty, then must we reckon Kane one of heroic mould. The immediate results, the material benefits of such an enterprise may appear msig- nificant ; but the moral, the spiritual results cannot be reckoned. These self-denying heroic spirits, that from time to time God sends into our worid, are the very life of our humanity. They create epochs, break the sluggish sleep of ages, and raise our race to higher moral levels. The noble deed, wherever it is wrou^'ght, not only brings an immediate blessing to the d^'oer and to the object of his action, but becomes the seed of other noble deeds to coming generations. Duty bravely done, danger heroically encountered, suffer- ing patiently borne by gallant spirits, ever kindle a sacred enthusiasm in other souls, brace them for simi- lar deeds, and so lift humanity to nobler heights. The story of Kane and his gallant few will fire many a young heart with high resolves ; for it is everiastingly true that — " Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 350 DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. Our heart?, in glad surprise, To higher Ii>vels rise. " The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. " Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs; And by their overflow ' • Raise us from what is low." ti 1 i I I LECTURE THE EIGHTH. JIEK SYDNEY SMITH- HIS LIFE, WIT, AND WISDOM. Previous to the publication of " The Life and Cor respondence of the Rev. Sydney Smith." by his daughter, Lady Holland, he was widely known as the author of some of the ablest and raciest works in the English language, distinguished at once by sound sense and the richest humour. The appearance of this admirably-written memoir has raised his reputa- tion still higher. Before his life and letteis were given to the world, most people thought of Sydney Smath only as a brilliant wit, a fearless and able wnter of political and literary articles in the Fdin burgh Rcvtezv, and the most charming of table-com panions. But those who have read his life know that his Wisdom was as striking as his wit; that his heart was as kind and good as his head was strong and 352 SVD.\'£y SMITH. clear ; that he was a genial, tender man, a true lover of his Viiu! • a thorough hater of shams and insinceri- ties, .vlic, .-'l through life, fought bravely on the side of t-u'h md virtue, and did no small stroke of useful wor-: , lie world. I shall make use of .his memoir, in tryi; : to bring him before you under these aspects, so a.-i lo convey some idea of the man himself Sydney Smith v/as born at VVoodford, in Essex, in the year 1771. It is of much consequence to us all who our fathers and mothers are ; for upon them we are dependenc for most of our internal and external equipments for "the battle of life." Sydney was fortunate in both his parents. His father, a gentle- man with a moderate independence, was remarkable for his natural gifts, being both clever and odd by nature, and possessed of a very active and sa^-a- cious mind. Like most distinguished men, however, Sydney owed most to his mother. She was the daughter of a French refugee, beautiful, a-^com- plished, and highly gifted. To this infusion of French blood, bringing with it a dash of Celtic wit, Sydney believed that his constitutl nal gaiety was owing. In fact, he was a f'ne representative of the st'-ength, depth, and earnestness of the English character, combined with the vivacity and light- heartedness of the French. He was the second of four brothers, who were all remarkable for their talents and acquirements. His biographer says that <'to « SYDNEY SMITH. 353 mother's early i:are of them, and to the respect with which her virtues and high tone of feeling inspired their your, hearts, may be ascribed much that was good ana great in their characters," From Win- chester School, where he r^- to be captain. Sydney went to New College. Oxf . Here he was success- ful m obta.nmg a Fellowship, and from thit hour he was cast on his own resources, his father never a^'-er bemg called upon to contribute a farthing to his sup- port. It was most honourable to him th^t. with llie small income of ^,00 a year, the value of his Felicw- ship, he kept within his means, amid all th<« tempta- tions of Oxford-incurred no debt-and eve;, con- trived to spare £^0 to pay a debt of his younger brother Courtenay. who was going out to India. It was in deference to his father's wishes, rather than from any desires of his own, that h-z entered the Church. His first curacy was in the midst of Salis- bury plain. It would be difficult to imagine a more dreary outlook than that which prese ue-.^ its-ir Le- the y^oung curate at his first .ta.t in life-without books, without any congenial society, a solitary waste around, and the village where he resided consisting only of a fe>- scattered cottages. He used to relate that once a week a butcher's cart passed through .he village, when, if in funds, he procured a joint of meat ; but that he often dined on a mess of potatoes flavoured with catchup. His own picture of a ^ooH I I ... ^-^ mfmm>m^;?--is f I 354 SVDNEV SMITH. curate is very fine, and there can be no doubt that he exhibited at least some of the features he has delineated. "A curate is the poor working-man of God— a learned man in a hove!, good and patient— a comforter and a teacher— the first and purest pauper of the hamlet ; yet shewing that in the midst of worldly misery he has the heart of a gentleman, the spirit of a Christian, and the kindness of a pastor." Many a man would have lost heart and hope in such circumstances, and deteriorated in feelings and char- acter. But Sy^vity had that genuine, manly force of character that rises above outward circumstances ; and by doing cheerfully and thoroughly the duty that lies nearest, however poor or mean that may be, makes the most unpromising things stepping-stones to success. The young curate made such a favour- able impression on the squire of the parish, Mr Beach, that at the end of two years, he requested him to resign his living and become tutor to his eldest son, with a view to accompany him abroad. Their desti- nation was the University of Weimar in Saxony; and had Sydney spent a fow years here, in contact with German thought, and received an infusion of German philosophy as a counteractive to his lively tempera- ment, there is no saying what effect this ingredient might have produced. But it was not so to be. War broke out ; Germany was closed ; and the tutor, with his pupil, was sent to Edinburgh, where he resided •■ii»» sj jta . ■ ^ \ SYDNEY SMITH. 355 five years. Here he imbibed Scotch, instead of German philosophy; and residing here so long at the most critical period of a young man's life,-from h.s twenty-fifth to his thirtieth year,-we may truly say that Scottish ii.fluences largely helped to form the man. Scotland may, therefore, claim him as one of her foster-children. Let us see how Sydney fared in the refined society of Edinburgh. It was in the year 1797 that Sydney Smith arrived in the metropolis of the North. Edinburgh then num- bered a population of about 80,000— half its prese.it amount ; but then, as now, it could boast of possess- ing a highly-cultivated and intellectual society It would be difficult to find in any period, or in any one place, such an array of intellect-such a cluster of distinguished names as graced the society of "the Modern Athens "at this time. Among those whose locks were whitened by age were Professors Playfair Dugald Stewart, and Robison ; on the bench, lords Campbell, Glenlee, Meadowbank, and Cullen ; the witty Harry Erskine at the bar; Dr Inglis and the ' Rev. Archibald Alison in the pnlpit; Drs Gregory and John Bell in the medical profession. These were among the older or middle-aged worthies. The younger men. among whom Sydney Smith was more thrown, were of even higher mark. Walter Scott was becoming a celebrity; Francis Jeffrey was a young lawyer looking out for briefs ; Brougham, the most ^^^^r^^^^^M:^ '^2§^ 356 SVDNEV SMITH. vehement of orators, and the hottest of reformers, was there, and but twenty-three years had yet passed over his head; the amiable and talented Francis Horner; Henry Cockburn ; James Moncreiff; Thomas Brown, the future metaphysician ; Thomas Campbell, hose "Pleasures of Hope" had been recently published; Leyden, the poet and linguist ; the philosophic Lord Webb Seymour, and many others, made up such a brilliant intellectual circle as could then be paralleled in no other place. There was more freedom and sociality, and less conventionalism and expensive display, than now prevail; and, as a consequence, there was much pleasant and genial social inter- course. Sydney was welcomed here with genuine Scotch kindness, and retained ever after a grateful recollection of his reception. Some of his warmest and most lasting friendships were formed here. In his letters, written many years afterwards, he often refers to his residence in Edinburgh as a very happy period of his existence. In one of them he exclaims, " When shall I see Scotland again > Never shall I forget the happy days passed there amidst odious smells, barbarous sounds, bad suppers, excellent hearts, and most enlightened and cultivated under- stanc .. !" Sydney loved Scotland and the Sco. but with his vivid perception of the ludicrou-=;, he could not help deriving some amusement from t^-':- .Mcional peculiarities and foibles; and lie often made SYDNEY SMITH. 357 his Scotch friends laugh heartily by telling them -how things appeared to his English eye. He seems to have formed an unjust estimate of Scottish humour- for he used to say, "It requires a surgical operation to ^tt a joke well into a Scotch understanding" If Sydney meant this for anything more than a laugh- ter-provokmr exaggeration, then he must have formed his judgment from sone exceptional and wooden- headed specimens of Scotchmen; and he must have Ignored Scottish literature, which is rich in the raciest humour. The wit of Burns, Scott, Wilson, and a host of others, has not fallen upon their countrymen with- out due appreciation. In our own day Dean Ram- say has gathered up, in his "Reminiscences of Scot- tish Life and Character," some of the floating witti- cisms and traditionary humours of Scotland ; and after reading these volumes, I think the conclusion of most persons would be that Scottish national humour IS deep and full-bodied ; and I am of opinion that the man who does not relish this book ought to have a surgical operation performed on his "dome of thou^^ht " "No nation," said Sydney, "has so large a stock of benevolence of heart. If you meet an accident, half Edinburgh immediately flocks to your door to in- quire after your/«;> hand or your/«,> foot, and with a degree of interest that convinces you their whole hearts are in the inquiry. You find they usualh- arrange their dishes at dinner by the points of the 358 SYDNEY SMITH. compass. ' Sandy, put the gigot of mutton to the south, and move the singet sheep's-head a wee bit to the nor'-wast.' If you knock at the door, you hear a shrill female voice from the tifth flat shriek out, 'Wha's chapping at the door?' which is presently opened by a lassie with short petticoats, bare legs, and thick ankles. My Scotch servants bargained they were not to have salmon more than three times a week, and always pulled off their stockings, in spite of my repeated objurgations, the moment my back was turned." "Their temper stands anything but an attack on their climate : even the enlightened mind of Jefffey cannot shake off the illusion that myrtles flourish at Craigcrook. In vain I have represented ^o him that they are of the genus Carduus, and pointed out their prickly peculiarities." A troublesome bore at this time reigned in Edinburgh, who plagued every one with his favourite subject, the North Pole. One day he met Jeffrey in a narrow lane, and com- menced on the usual topic. Losinj patience, Jeffrey rushed past him, exclaiming, " Confound the North Pole!" Sydney met him soon after, boiling with in- dignation at Jeffrey's contempt of the North Pole. "Oh, my dear fellow," said Sydney, "never mind. No one minds what Jeffrey says, you know; he is a privileged person. He respects nothing, absolutely nothing. Why, you will scarcely believe it, but it is ^KZ)A^£-K SMITH. I! 359 not more than a week ago that I heard him speak disrespectfully of the equator." After -a residence of two years in Edinburgh, he returned to England to marry Miss Pybus, a young lady to whom he had been engaged for some time. He was so entirely unburdened with worldly goods wherewith to endow her, that his whole contribution to their housekeeping was six small silver teaspoons, the ghosts of their former selves, being skeletonised by long service. Running into the room one day, mad with joy, he flung these into his wife's lap, say- ing. " There, Kate, you lucky girl, I give you all my fortune." His wife, however, had some fortune, which he at once settled on herself; and with the proceeds from the sale of a pearl necklace, amounting to £^oo, they returned to Edinburgh and commenced house- keeping. His generosity of heart may be judged of from the fact that, when in these straitened circum- stances, he aided a poor lady in Edinburgh, who had fallen into difficulties, with a loan of £iqo, and con- tributed £^o to help on the education of a clever shepherd-boy in Teviotdale. An interesting event, too, was approaching, that might have made him' more selfish-he was about to attain the honours of paternity. He expressed a wish that it might be a daughter, and that she might be born with one eye, so that he might never lose her. A daughter it ^-^y*^^F' 360 SYDNEY SMITH. proved, but with two eyes ; and disdaining to take any of the ordinary hackneyed names, he invented a new one, and called her Saba. During his residence in Edinburgh, he was on terms of the closest intimacy with Dugald Stewart, Profes- sor of Moral Philosophy, and a constant attendant upon his lectures ; also with Dr Thomas Brown, his successor. He also studied medicine and anatomy, and in after life turned his medical knowledge to good account among his parishioners. By far the most important event in his Edinburgh life was the origination of the renowned periodical, which, under the title of the Edinburgh Review, flourishes still. This is his account of its origin :— " Towards the end of my residence in Edinburgh, BrougliHui, Jeffrey, and myself happened to meet in the eighth or ninth flat in Buccleuch Place, the then elevated residence of Mr Jeffrey. I proposed that we should set up a review; this was acceded to with acclamation. I was appointed editor, and remained long enough in Edinburgh to edit the first number of thj Review. When I left Edinburgh, it fell into the stronger hands of Lords Jeffrey and Brougham, and reached the high- est point of popularity and success." This was in 1802 ; and on the loth of October in that year the first num- ber of the Edinburgh Review saw the light. It at once produced a sensation ; and by the talent, originality, and honesty with which it was conducted, created a SYDNEY SMITH. 36r new era in British literaLure, and introduced a new order of things in literary criticism. All the great quarterly rivals that have arisen since have imitated its method, and attained influence by following its track. The Edinburgh Review embodied the opinions in politics and literature of the young, ardent, hopeful spirits of the day, who were dissatisfied with things as they were— with time-honoured abuses, ivy-grown re- spectabilities, stupidities, and blunders that were sadly in need of interment. Against these the Review de- clared war, and pursued its attacks with a vigour, courage, and consistency that soon won for it a high place in the esteem of the liberal and enlightened portion of society. Almost every one will now admit that the Edinburgh Review has done noble service in the cause of freedom and wise reform, and has aided most materially in creating a more healthy condition in the general thought and litera- ture of the country. Almost all the reforms for which it fought so bravely and so long., have been gradually yielded. At the beginning of the cen- tury, owing very much to the terror inspired by the principles and course of the French Revolution, a strong tendency was operating in Britain, leading to resistance to all changes and reforms ; and the grossest abuses, corruptions, and outrages against common sense, were defended as parts of that vener- able constitution under which England had risen to II, >?2? JS SYDNEY SMITH. greatness, and to meddle with which would be sacri- lege. Perfection was believed to be attained ; and any one who talked about the need of reform was regarded as a dangerous character-a cut-throat, or a French revolutionist. So great are the improvements that have taken place during the last half-century, that we can now scarcely credit the terrible abuses that were then not only tolerated, but fiercely de- fended. The Test and Corporation Acts were then in full force ; prisoners tried for their lives could have no counsel ; the law of libel was atrocious ; the Court of Chancery a hundred-fold more oppressive than in thes^ days, when it is tottering to its grave. Had Dickens published "Bleak House" in the days of Lord Eldon, he would inevitably have been imprisoned for hfe. The slave-trade was then most respectable sustained by Church and State alike. Tlie criminal laws were cruel and bloody; a petty theft was pun- ished by hanging. The game-laws were a disgrace to any civilised community. The Roman Catholics had no political rights. Political Economy was an unborn science ; and the most melancholy blunders in legislation prevailed. • It required no small amount of. moral courage to assail this host of venerable abuses ; to dr.re to belong to a small despised mino- rity; to incur the displeasure and hatred of men in power, whose interests and prejudices were all bound up with the continuance of things as they were. ^^1^ SYDNEY SMITH. l^l And it gives us a high opinion of the genuine no- bih'ty of heart and soul possessed by Sydney Smith, to find him clear-sighted enough to see where right and justice lay, and honest enough to follow them for their own sake, amid scorn and detraction. He originated, as we have seen, the Edinburgh Review, which, in due time, became a mighty force in political matters; and for years, in its pages and out- side them, he employed his great talents, his captivat- ing wit, his terrible powers *of ridicule, his sturdy logic, and clear, bright understanding, in the advocacy of those wise reforms of which we are to-day reaping the fruits, and the introduction of which has saved England from those revolutionary storms that have swept over other kingdoms. It is unrefonned abuses that create revolutions— that make wise men mad- that raise into power, for the time being, as in the French Revolution, the lowest and basest of mankind; and the true friend of his country is he who tries to remedy imperfections, right wrongs, remove corrup- tions, secure enlightened progress, and so make the new spring organically out of the old, instead of being born amid the rude convulsive throes of revolution. It was at no small sacrifice of self-interest that Sydney Smith, and those who thought with him, carried on the war against abuses and corruptions. He says him- self that the penalties exacted for such a course were " a long and hopeless career in your profession ; the M ^^^2k i-'fssxat^^^m^ i SVD.VEy SMITH. chuckling crin of noodle, ; the sarcastic leer of the (jenu.ne political rogue; prebcn.laries, deans, bishops made over your head. Not only was there no pay, but there were many stripes. Not a murmur against any abuse was permitted; to say a word against the su.torc,de delays of the Court of Chancery, or the cruel punishments of the game-laws, or against any abuse which a rich „,an inflicted or a poor man suffered, was treason against the plousiocncy, and was bUterly and steadily resented. Lord Grey had not then t,ken the bearing rein off the English people, as Sir Francis Head has done from ho^es" H,s daughter truly says of him, during the many years that he was engaged as a public writer, that h.s pen was never sullied by private passion, or pri- vate mtcrcst, never degraded by an impure or un- "■orthy motive; and, withal, iu unexampled powers of sarcasm, never wounded but for the public good " Lord Monteagle said, " Looking at all he did, and the "•ay m which he did it, it must be an inexpressible Pleasure to all who knew, valued, and loved him to observe that there was scarcely one question in which the moral, the intellectual, the social, or even physical wellbemg of his fellow-men were concerned, to the advancement of which he has not endeavoured to contr,bute." This is noble testimony, and nobly de- served. Throughout his whole life he was the advo- cate of toleration, of educational extension and im- SYDNEY SMITH. 365 provement, of justice for the colonies, of mercy and kindness for the poor lunatic, of humane treatment and justice for the prisoner, of tliat splendid reform I in our laws, initiated by Romilly and Mackintosh, ■ which has mitigated so many of the most crying evils connected with our civil and criminal code. If we are now living under happier skies than those who lived half a century ago. let us not forget that Sydney Smith, by his wit and logic, helped largely to abolish many of the foulest cobwebs ; and, with a strong arm and a stout heart, dealt some of the deadliest blows against those corruptions, consecrated shams, and wickedness in high places, that threatened, at one time, to destroy the national life of England, and drive her from her high place among the nations. For the brave and bold stroke of work in this direc- tion, achieved by Sydney Smith, let him have the applause and gratitude of all who love their kind. After a residence of between five and six years in Edinburgh, Sydney Smith settled in London. This step proved to be the commencement of a most suc- cessful career. At the outset of his course, when a friend procured for him a lectureship at the Foundling Hospital, worth only £^0 a year, he very gladly accepted it, and discharged its duties well and faith- fully. He was afterwards appointed morning preacher at Berkley Chapel. Here his services were so appre- ciated that in a few weeks the chapel, which had been 1 II ) - I IMAGE EVALUATJON TEST TARGET (MT-3) y .Jo ^ ^ % C/u (/^ 1.0 l.i 11.25 ^^ IIIM ^ us, 12.0 2.2 1.8 JA IIIIII.6 6" — vg ^ ^ ^1 f o // 5^-,. 1 • rliOlugTciprilC Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER. NY 14SB0 (716) 873-4503 'ij A^ ;\ \ 4>^ O^ > '^t- ^ '^ '^ ^ &3 366 SYDNEY SMITH. quite deserted before, was crowded to the very doors, and every pew was let. His bold, concise, racy style broke the slumbers of these church-going Londoners ; made them feel that a sermon was not necessarily an opiate; and that they were listening to a man of sense, earnestness, and intelligence, who had some- thing to say, and who felt what he said. Dugald Stewart said, after hearing him preach, " Those ori- ginal and unexpected ideas gave me a thrilling sensa- tion of sublimity never before awakened by any other oratory." In fact, he furnished a practical illustration of his own published views in regard to pulpit ora- tory. In 1801 he said, in a preface to one of his works, "Preaching has become a by-word for long and dull conversation of any kind ; and whoevet wishes to imply, in any piece of writing, the absence of everything agreeable and inviting, calls it a ser- mon." " The English, generally remarkable for doing very good things in a very bad manner, seem to have reserved the maturity and plenitude of their awkward- ness for the pulpit. A clergyman clings to his velvet cushion with either hand, keeps his eye riveted upon his book, speaks of the ecstasies of joy and fear with a voice and a face which indicate neither, and pinions his body and soul into the same attitude of limb and thought, for fear of being thought theatrical or affected. The most intrepid veteran of us all dares no more than wipe his face with his cambric suda- SYDKEY SMITH. 367 r'«m; ,{, by chance, his hand shp from its orthodox gnpe of the velvet, he draws it back as from liquid bnmstone, or the caustic iron of the law, and atones for th,s mdecorum by fresh inflexibility and more ngorous sameness. Is it wonder, then, that every sem-delirious sectary, who pours forth his animated nonsense with the genuine look and voice of passion, should gesticulate away the congregation of the most profound and learned divine of the Estabhshed Cnurch, and in two Sundays preach him bare to the very sexton > Why are we natural everywhere but in he pulpit > No man expresses warm and animated feehngs anywhere else, wi.h his mouth alone, but w.th h.s whole body ; he articulates with every limb, and ta,ks, from head to foot, with a thousand voices. Why th,s holoplexia on sacred occasions alone.' Why call in the aid of paralysis to piety ' Is it a rule of oratory to balance the style against the sub- ject, and to handle the most sublime truths in the dullest and the driest manner > Is sin to be taken from men, as Eve was from Adam, by casting them into a deep slumber .' Or from what possible perversion of common sense are we all to look like field-preachers m Zembia, holy lumps of ice numbed into quiescence and stagnation and mumbling ?" During his residence in London, Sydney Smith aaded immensely to his reputation by delivering a course of lectures on moral philosophy at the Royal (1 368 SYDNEY SMITH. I J Institution. Only a man of genius could have treated this dry subject in luch a way as to draw eager, listening crowds from the most refined and luxurious circles of the great metropolis. Perhaps no other man in London could have achieved such a triumph. His wonderful wit and humour did him good service on this occasion, enabling him to adorn and render attractive the solid information he imparted, and to relieve the attention agreeably by joke, anecdote, or pleasantry. Francis Horner, in his letters, says of these lectures, " his success was great beyond all possible conjecture — from six to eight hundred hearers — not a seat to be procured, even if you go there an hour before the time. Nobody else, to be sure, could have executed such an undertaking with the least chance of success. For who could make such a mixture of odd paradox, quaint fun, manly sense, liberal opinions, and striking language } " He continued these lectures for three successive seasons, with increased success, his audience filling the lobbies and doorways, and their carriages choking up the street. At this time Sydney formed a friendship with the celebrated Lord Holland, which continued unabated till his death. He was thus introduced to Holland House with its brilliant society. To this dazzling centre were attracted all that was notable in the scientific, literary, artistic, or political circles of London, or rather of Europe. The proceeds of his JSt^ .^s^ i^a^j SY£iNEY SMITH. 369 lectuies were considerable; still he was poor- but It was poverty easily borne. He had the sense' and courage to avow his poverty, and to live in accordance with has means: no false shame ; no ruinous attempts at kecpmg up appearances ; consequently, no debt He was satisfied with the simple comforts of life, but exercised the most rigid self-denial as to luxuries His favourite motto throughout life was, "Avoid shame ; but do not seek glory-nothing so expensive as glory." He had within himself a natural source of happmess, which never failed him throughout life-a perpetual flow of spirits-a cheerfulness of disposition for which he often thanked G\ as one of the greatest benefits conferred on him. His daughter says, "At this period of his life his spirits were often such that they were more like the joyousness and playfulness of a clever schoolboy than the sobriety and gravity of the father of a family; and his gaiety was so irresistible and so infectious, that it carried everything before it. Nothing could withstand the contagion of that ringing, joy-inspiring laugh." Sydney Smith's London life lasted three years, during which he was lecturing, preaching, and writ-' ,ing for the Edinburgh Review. At the end of this period he obtained, through his friend Lord Holland the living of Foston-le-Clay. in Yorkshire. It was just before his removal to this new scene of labour that he published " Letters from Peter Plymley to 2 A n !i ti 4** 4 370 SyDNEV SMITH. his brother Abraham," on the subject of the Irish Catholics. Never was wit turned co better account than in these celebrated letters; and never was its value in giving pungency to sound argument better exemplified. Edition after edition was called for, as fast as the press could supply copies. " Few works," says his daughter, " ever did more to open men's minds to the absurdity and danger of the system then pursued by England ; and there are, or rather were, few Catholics who did not venerate the name of Sydney Smith as one who, though an honest serv- ant of another Church, telt that the strongest tenet of that Church was charity and mercy; and in this feel- mg laboured incessantly to remove the heavy bur- dens and disqualifications imposed on them by the actual state of the laws." Soon after these letters appeared, Sydney left behind him all the popularity and intoxicating applause of London for the dull routine of a Yorkshire village. The prospects pre- sented in his new situation were anything but cheer- ing, and the difficulties he had to enco .iter were of a serious character. His living consisted of three hun- dred acres of the stifiest clay, no parsonage, no farm- buildings ; and as there was no tithe, and his income must be derived frcm land, he was compelled to turn farmer. A recent act of Parliament rendered it im- perative on him to build a parsonage-house out of his private resources, or resign his living. He must also SYDNEY SMTH. ' ,,, move his family and household furniture from Lon- don to the heart of Yorlcshire-an undertaking in the year ,808 as difficult as a journey to the back settle- rnents ot America now. to a man with small means Here were difficulties enough; and then add to these that he was as ignorant of farming as if he had never been beyond the bo.nds of London. He thus de- scnbcs h,s position at this time:-" A diner-out, a w.t and a popular preacher, I was suddenly caught up by the Archbishop of York and transported to my ".vmg in Yorkshire. Fresh from London, not know- mg a turnip from a carrot, I was compelled to farm three hundred acres, and, without capital, to build a parsonage-house." He faced his new difficulties, how- ever w,th a brave heart and the most indomitable good humour; and by sagacity, energy, and persever- ance overcar e them all, shewing true English •■ pluck " and proving that he was " no end of a man." He went about the bu.siness in hand with so m.jch good sense as to gam the respect even of his old clerk, the most important man in the village, who, after holding a long conversation with him, and observing him with Muster Sm.th, ,t often stroikes my moind that people as comes frae London are such fools ; but you," said he, nudg,ng him with his stick, .'I see you are no fool. Hear how the cheery, joyous man describes h.s achievement in after years, and observe how the 372 SYDNEY SMITH. wholesome, hearty nature of Sydney Smith could extract food for laughter out of his distresses, and bring music out of the most discordant elements : — " I landed my family in my new house, nine months after laying the first stone, on the 20th March ; and performed my promise to the letter to the arch- bishop, by issuing forth at midnight with a lantern to meet the last cart, with the cook and cat, which had stuck in the mud, and fairly established them before twelve o'clock at night in the new parsonage-house, — ;i feat, taking ignorance, inexperience, and pov^erty into consideration, requiring, I assure you, no small degree of energy. It made me a poor man for many years ; but I never repented it. I turned schoolmas- ter to educate my son. Mrs Sydney turned school- mistress to educate my girls, as I could not afford a governess. I turned farmer, as I could not let my land. A man-servant was too expensive; so I caught up a little garden-girl, made like a millstone, christ- ened her Bunch, put a napkin in her hand, and made her my butler. The girls taught her to read, Mrs Sydney to wait, and I undertook her morals. Bunch became the best butler in the country. I had little furniture ; so I bought a cart-load of deals, took a carpenter who came to me for parish relief, called Jack Robinson, with a face like a full moon, into my service, established him in a barn, and said, ' Jack, furnish my house.' You see the result." " Added to SYDNEY SMITH. 373 All these domesMc cates, I was village parson, village doctor, village comforter, village magistrate, and Edin- burgh Reviev/er; so you see I had not much time on my hands to /egret London." " My house was con- sidered the ugliest in tl.e country ; but all admitted it was one of the most comiortable.'' Here is a bright little picture, drawn by his daugh- ter, of their arrival at their new parsonage :—" It was a cold, bright Marc:, day, with a biting east wind. Waggon .ftcr waggon of furniture poured in every minute ; the ruads were so cut up that the carriage could not reach the door ; and my mother lost her shoe in the mud, which was ankle-deep, while brina. mg her infant up to the house in her arms. But, oh ! the shout of joy, as we entered and took possession —the first time in our lives we had inhabited a house of our own. How we admired it, ugly as it was ! With what pride my dear father took us from room to room. We thought it a palace ; yet the drawing- room had no door; the bare plaster-walls ran down with wet ; the windows were like ground glass, from the moisture. N> carpets-no chairs-nothing un- packed—rough men bringing in rougher packages at every moment. But then was the time to behold my father. Amidst the confusion he thought of every- body- encouraged everybody — kept everybody in good humour. How he exerted himself!— how his rich loud voice might be heard in all directions ! 374 SYDNEY SMITH. Each half-hour improved our condition ; fires blazed rn every room. At last we sat down to our tea, spread by ourselves on a huge package before the drawing- room fire, sitting on boxes round it, and retired to sleep on beds placed on the floor — the happiest, mer- riest, busiest family in Christendom. !n a few days, under my father's active exertions, everything was arranged with tolerable comfort in the little house- hold." This scene brings out strongly one of the most noticeable features of Sydney's mind— its thoroughly practical bent. The duty at hand, whatever it is, he does thoroughly, v/ith his whole soul— throwing all his energies into it— doing " whatever his hand finds to do with his might." No man was ever less inclined for abstractions. The world around him— its realities, its duties — for these he has an eye ; cloudland attracts him not. He must live in the tangible and actual. The strong, healthy mind of the man takes in small as woU as great matters. He can write an article for the Edinburgh Reviezv, and arrange the minutest affair of house-keeping equally well, and with almost equal ardour and enjoyment. One of his favourite mottoes was, " Take short views, hope for the best, and trust in God"— a sentence that might be advan- tageously written over every mantel-piece, and on every memory. Again he said, " Don't be too severe upon yourself and your own failings ; keep on ; don't t I SYDNEY SMITH. 375 faint ; be energetic to the last." " Fight against sloth, and do all you can to make friends." " When you meet with neglect, let it rouse you to exertion, instead of mortifying yoUr pride. Set about lessen- ing the defects which expose you to neglect, and im- prove those excellences which command attention and respect." "Rise early in the morning, not only to avoid self-reproach, but to make the most of the little life that remains." « Reverence and stand in awe of yourself" At times, however, this realistic man has his meditations. " How nature delights and amuses, by varying even the character of insects— the ill nature of the wasp, the sluggishness of the drone, the volatility of the butterfly, the slyness of the bug." He had a horse at this time, from whose back he got so many falls that he ceased to consider such adven- tures as at all dangerous; and he christened the un- lucky quadruped " Calamity." He was an unsightly, raw-boned animal, with an exceedingly keen appetite, and withal so sluggish that the whip had no effect.' Sydney's ingenuity, however, was equal to the occa- sion. He invented what he called a "patent Tantalus," "which consisted of a small sieve of corn suspended on a semi-circular bar of iron from the ends of the shafts, just beyond the horse's nose. The corn rattl- ing as the vehicle proceeded, stimulated Calamity to unwonted exertions; and, in the hope.of overtaking his imaginary feed, he did more work than all the 37^ SYDNEY SMITH. previous provender which had been poured down his throat had been able to obtain from him." Thus he works and laughs on, seeing the ludicrous on every side, and enjoying it. What else was it given for ? He corrects his servant Bunch's faults effectually, but he must do it in a humorous fashion. " Come here, Bunch," he said one day, " and repeat your faults to Mrs Marcet ; " and Bunch, a clean, fair, squat, tidy little girl, about ten or twelve years of age, quite as a matter of course, and as grave as a judge, without the least hesitation, and with a loud voice, began to repeat, " Plate-snatching— gravy-spilling— door-slam- ming— blue-bottle fly-catching— and courtesy-bob- bing." " Explain to Mrs Marcet what blue-bottle fly- catching is." " Standing with my mouth open, and not attending, sir." "And what is courtesy-bob- bing.?" "Courtesying to the centre of the earth, please, sir." "Good girl; now you may go." It might be worth while for some mistresses to consider whether a catechism of this kind, daily repeated by their servants, might not be more effectual in curing faults, than the less humorous method of scold- ing which is usually adopted, to the great injury of temper and comfort. For ten years he continued to work on cheerily, in this dreary little Yorkshire parish,— asking no favour —fawning on no patron — stooping to no mean de- grading acts to secure the favour of the great— SYDNEY SMITH. I I 117 carving out his own way in the world. He had a proud, sturdy independence, that would not brook any such meanness. He loved to be able to say that he was the fabricator of his own fortune ; and when asked for the Smith arms, his reply was, " The Smiths never had any arms, and have invariably sealed their letters with their thumbs." No man could be more genial in his domestic relations. He was emphatically a good husband, father, and master, anxious for the welfare and happiness of all around him. He had no pleasure apart from his wife and children. Like all kind-hearted men, he was very fond of children, and liked to have them around him. He took a lively interest in all the pursuits and happiness of his own children, and never lost an opportunity of instructing or amusing them. He loved to discuss with them, as they grew older, topics likely to interest and improve them; and would refute their crude and foolish opinions with the greatest patience. His daughter says, " As we grew up we became his companions ; we were called into all family councils ; his letters were common property; the tenderest mother could not have been more anxious and careful as to the religious tendency of any books we read." " In an evening, often with a child on each knee, he would invent a tale for their amusement, composed of such ludicrous images and combinations as nobody else would have thought of, succeeding each other with the greatest 378 SYDNEY SMITH. rapidity; these were devoured by them, with eyes and ears, in breathless interest; but, at the most thrilling moment, always terminated with 'and so *hey lived very happy ever after'— a kiss on each fat check— 'and now go to bed.'" Another touching anecdote is related. " One of his little children then in delicate health, had for some time been in the habit of waking suddenly every evening, sobbing, anticipating the death of parents, and all the sorrows of life, before life had begun. He could not bear this nnatural union of childhood and sorrow ; and for a long period, I have heard my mother say, each evening found him, at the waking of his child, with a toy, a picture-book, a bunch of grapes, or a joyous tale, mixed with a little .strengthening advice, and the tenderest caresses, till the habit was broken, and the child woke to joy and not to sorrow." Among his parishioners he was a most sympa- thising, kind, laborious pastor. He attended to their physical as well as their spiritual condition, setting on foot gardens for the poor, and offering prizes for the best vegetables. He also studied the best and cheapest diet for the poor ; and, says his daughter, "many a hungry labourer was brought in and stuffed with rice, or broth, or porridge, to test their relative effects on the appetite. In the year 1816 there was a failure of the harvest, and the sufferings of the poor were excessive. The wheat sprouted generally, and SYDNEY SMITH. 379 was unfit for bread. Like his poorer neighbours, Sydney and his family lived for a whole year on thin, unleavened, sweet-tasting cakes, like frost-bitten potatoes, baked on tins — the only way of using the damaged flour." Fever and infectious diseases pre- vailed in his parish during this trying season. His exertions among the poor were indefatigable — going from cottage to cottage, providing them with food and medicine, and seeing that the sick were properly attended to. His medical training stood him in good stead now. When the difficulty of obtaining nurses and burying the dead became great, owing to the terror of the people, he shamed them into better con- duct, by threatening to become nurse and undertaker himself Honour to those who, without hope of fame or reward, for the love of God and of their fellow-men, brave danger and death, to lighten the heavy load of human misery. Let us bear in mind, too, that the man who was here toiling among these Yorkshire peasants was lately the popular preacher and lecturer of London, and an established favourite in the bril- liant set of Holland House. But here, without any ostentation, and in the spirit of a Christian pastor, he is nobly doing his duty — comforting and helping the poor — enlightening the world by the productions of his pen — and, at the same time, diffusing an atmo- sphere of joyousness around him. Of the style of his preaching, I have already .spoken. He said to a I 38o SYDNEY SMITH. ■I ) friend one day, « I can't bear to be imprisoned, in the true orthodox way, in my pulpit, with my head just peeping above the desk. I like to 1 )ok down upon my congregation and fire into them. The common people say, I am a bould preacher, for I like to have my arms free, and to thump the pulpit." The heavy debt he was obliged to incur in building his parsonage-house long hung heavily on his spirits, giving him, as his wife used to tell afterwards, sleep- less nights of anxiety as to the future provision for his children. " It was very fine to see his wife pnd Idren, at this crisis of affairs, holding a family councH to see if it were not possible to economise in something more, and lessen their daily expenses to assist him." With such affectionate help he could hardly sink. He had the knack of making the best of circumstances, and the ingenuity that enabled him to combine economy, taste, and comfort. There can be little doubt that he was a very happy man, and had the art of making all around him happy He saia on one occasion, " Never give way to melancholy: resist it steadily, for the habit will encroach. I once gave a lady twenty-two recipes against melancholy : one ./as a bright fire; another, to remember all the pleasant things said to and of her; another, to keep a box of sugar plums on the chimney-piece, and a kettle simmering on the hob. I thought this mere trifling at the moment ; but have, in after-life, dis- ^3^^^ SYDNEY SMITH. 381 cov<-red how true it 13 that these little pleasures often banish melancholy better than higher and more exalted subjects, and that no means ought to be thought too trifling which can oppose it, either in ourselves or others." In another of his writings, he gives a still better recipe for making everyday happy: " When you rise in the morning form a resolution to make the day a happy one to a fellow-creature. It is easily done : a left-off garment to the man who needs it ; a kind word to the sorrowful ; an encour- aging expression to the striving; trifles light as air will do it, at least for the twenty-four hours ; and if you are young, depend upon it it will tell when you are old ; and if you are old, rest assured it will send you gently and happily down the stream of human time to eternity." "The haftnts of happiness are varied and rather unaccountable ; but I have oftener seen her among little children, home firesides, and country houses, than anywhere else, at least I thmk so." The practical skill he acquired in matters of domestic economy may be gathered from the follow- ing anecdote, which is worth the attention of all who have to buy soap. " Have you never observed," he said, "what a dislike servants have to anything cheap } They hate saving their master's money. I tried the experiment with great success Ihe other day. Finding we consumed a great deal of soap, I sat down in my thinking chair, and took the soap aues- 3S2 SYDNEY SMITH. tmn mto consideration, and found reason to sus- pect that we were using a very expensive article, where a much cheaper one would serve the purpose better. I ordered half-a-dozen pounds of both sorts, but took the precaution of changing the p.pers on which the prices were marlced, before giving them into the hands of Betty. 'Well, Betty, which soap do you find washes best?' <0h, please, sir, the dearest in the blue paper; it makes a lather as well again as the ether.' 'Well, Betty, you shall always have ,t then ;' and thus the unsuspecting Betty saved me some pounds a year, and washed the clothes better." The day of promotion at last arrived. Lord Lynd- hurst, CO hi. honour, though opposed to Sydney Smith in politics, from the reject he had for his talents and character, had the courage to brave the opinions a«d opposition of his own party, and to bestow on him a prebendal stall then vacant in Bristol ; and thus after being shut up in this dreary little corner of Yorkshire for nearly eleven years, he emerged into the sunshine once more as Prebend of Bristol Cathedral. His in- come was not improved by the change; buWt placed him ,n a much better position, and put him in the way of further promotion, by making his talents known. He considered it a piece of good fortune and an addition to his happiness. " Moralists tell you," said he, •' of the evils of wealth and 6f stafon SYDNEY SMITH. 383 and the happiness of poverty. I have been very poor the greater part of my life, and have borne it as well, I believe, as most people ; but I can safely say that I have been happier every guinea I have gained." He commenced his labours characteristically and boldly, by preaching, on the 5th Noveml>er, a sermon in favour of religious toleration, in presence of a num- ber of dignitaries who were expecting to hear some- thing very different, and to whom his sentiments were very distasteful. By his honest boldness, however, he won the respect even of those who differed from him most widely, and speedily became popular in his new sphere. His appointment rendered it necessary that he should resign his Yorkshire living, and settle in Somersetshire ; and, by the kindness of Lord Lynd- hurst, he was enabled to ex^ange Foston for the nwdi smaller, but more beautifully situated living of Combe Florey, near Taunton. Here, again, he found the parsonage-house in a ruinous condition, and had to spend two thousand pounds in repairing it; but with his enlarged means and experience, he was able to make it one of the most charming parsonages in England., The first use he made of his increased wealth was to enlarge his library. One of his sorest privations in Yorkshire was his want of books. They were so few in number as to occupy only one end of a little dining-room ; now he filled three sides of a large room with them, and revelled in their societv. " No ^--^:i- 384 SYDNEY SMITH. furniture," he used to say, "so charming as books, even if you never open them or read a single word." The world was now smiling on Sydney, and the honours came thick and fast. Lord Grey, on his accession to power in 1830, made him Canon of St Pauls Cathedral, London, -an office which he held up to the close of his life. It would seem, too, that It was in contemplation to raise him to the episcopal bench, though it was not acted on ; and Lord Mel- bourne said long afterwards, that "there was nothing he more deeply regretted, in looking back on his past career, than the not having made Sydney Smith a bishop." There can be no doubt that he would have discharged the duties of such an office admirably, had he been called to undertake them. In a posthumous fragment, he describes his views of the duties con- nected with such an exalted station thus: "I never remember in my time a real bishop-a grave, elderly man, full of Greek, with sound views of the middle voice and preter-pluperfect tense ; gentle and kind to his poor clergy; of powerful and cmmanding do- quence; in Parliament never to b. put down when the great interests of mankind were concerned ; lean- ing to the Government when it was right, leaning to the people when they were right; feeling that, if called to that high office, he was called for no mean purpose, but rather that, seeing clearly, acting boldly, and intending purely, he might confer lasting benefit SYDNEY SMITH. 385 upon mankind." The celebrated Miss Edgeworth was exceedingly desirous of seeing him made an Irish bishop; and in a letter to one of his daughters she thus happily and humorously describes the bless- ings he would be likely to confer on Ireland in that capacity : " One letter from Sydney Smith on the affairs of Ireland, with his name to it, and after hav- ing been there, would do more for us than his letters did for America and England. A bold assertion, you will say; and so it is; but I calculate that Pat is a far better subject for wit than Jonathan : it only plays round Jonathan's head, but it goes to Pat's heart— to the ver>- bottom of his heart, where he loves it ; and he don't care whether it is for or against him, so that it is real wit and fun. Now, Pat would doat upon your father ; and kiss the rod with all his soul he would— the lash just lifted— when he'd see the laugh on the face, the kind smile, that would tell him it was all for his good. Your father would lead Pat (for he'd never drive him) to the world's end, and maybe to common sense at the end ; and might open his eyes to the true state of things and persons." The remaining portion of Sydney Smith's life was uneventful, and furnishes no incident.-, worth dwelling on. He was now surrounded by admiring and loving friends, living in the beautiful Combe Florey during the summer, and spending a good deal of his time in London, where his society was much courted. By 2B 386 SYDNEY SMITH. the sudden death of his younger brother Courtenay, who had gone out to India, and amassed a large for- tune, he became unexpectedly a rich man, and for ever bade farewell to poverty. His former privations had not made h.m penurious, as is so frequently the case; and now that he had a fortune, he lived in accordance with his means. He was fond of a change of residence ; and on one occasion paid a visit to his old friend Lord Jeffrey, in Edinburgh, taking all his family with him. " A most agreeable visit we had," says his daughter ; "for in addition to the enjoyment of Lord Jeffrey's society, at every stray moment he could steal from his business, we were received with open arms by all our old Scotch friends ; and when they do open their arms, there are no people so kind and so hospitable as the Scotch." Ten years after leaving Foston, his daughter relates that she went there to see some of their old haunts, and was much gratified at finding her father's memory still fresh in the hearts of the villagers. From almost every cottage some one came out to greet her, and to re- mind her of some saying or some act of kindness, or to shew her his parting gift, or to remember how he doctored them, and lament his loss. Surely there must have been fountains of love and goodness in the heart of the man who could so captivate the affec- tions of others, and leave behind him such happy memories wherever he went. As years rolled on he SYDNEY SMITH. 387 had the trials incident to advancing age to encounter. His greatest trial was the loss of his eldest son, a most talented and promising young man, at the early age of twenty-four. Old friends, o.ie after the other, were dropping into the grave. Sir James M'Intosh's death, one of his eariiest and most attached friends, affected him rnuch.^ Of him he wrote, "When I turn from living spectacles of stupidity, ignorance, and malice, and wish to think better of the worid, I remember my great and benevolent friend M'Intosh." His friend and benefactor. Lord Holland, was next removed. Speaking of his death, he said, "It is indeed a great loss to me ; but I have learned to live as a soldier does in war, expecting that on any one moment the best and the dearest maybe killed before his eyes." Age, with its infirmities, was now creep- ing on him ; still his tendency to look at the ludicrous side of things continued as strong as ever. " I feel so weak," he said once, " in mind and body, that I verily believe if he knife were put into my hand, I should not have strength or energy enough to stick it into a dissenter:' Writing to the Countess of Cariisle regarding the state of his health, he said, " If you hear of sixteen or eighteen pounds of human flesh, they belong to me. I look as if a curate had been taken out of me." When his last illness commenced, from the dread of inflicting pain on those dearest to him, and of seeing sorrowful faces ar -und him, he 388 SYDNEY SMITH, \ always spoke calmly and cheerfully, and as if un- aware of his danger. Speaking of the extraordinary interest that had been evinced by his friends for his recovery,— for the inquiries at his door were incessant, —he said, " It gives me pleasure, I own, as it shews I have not misused the powers intrusted to me." He died at peace with himself and with all the world, anxious to the last to promote the happiness and comfort of others. He sent messages of kindness and forgiveness to the few he thought had injured him. Almost his last act was bestowing a small living of £i20 per annum on a poor, worthy, and friendless clergyman who had lived a long life of struggle with poverty, on £40 per annum. He died on the 22d February 1845, aged seventy-four years. His son closed his eyes. He was buried, by his own desire, as privately as possible, in the cemetery of Kensal Green, where his wife and son repose by his side. "And," says his daughter, "if true greatness consists, as my dear and valued friend, Mr Rogers, once quoted from an ancient Greek writer, ' in doing what deserves to be written, and writing what deserves to be read, and in making mankind happier and better for your life,' my father was a truly great and good man." On a survey of the whole career of Sydney Smith. I think you will agree with me in pronouncing him an honest and good man— one who, on the whole, fought life's battle well, and lived among his fellows- SYDNEY SMITH. 389 full of kind thoughts and good deeds ; loving and lovable; jur>t and sincere; walking in no vain show himself; dreading the very semblance of guile and hypocrisy; hating insincerity of all kinds himself; calling things by their right names ; and fearlessly doing what in him lay to root out wrong and injus- tice. There is that in his career which should rouse us all to the inquiry, whether we are engaged on the right side in the long-drawn battle between good and evil that is raging around us. If any young man is tempted, in this age of doubt and insincerity, to ques- tion whether life has any great purpose-whether, after all, self is not the thing to live for-not truth,' or righteousness, or goodness,— if in dark moments he is inclined to question whether a life of purity, honesty, virtue, religion be the main thing he should aim at, let him study the career of such a man as Sydney Smith; and I think it will help him to reverence the right and the good, to love truth better than self-interest, and to esteem the appro- bation of consdence better than the applause of the multitude, or the wealth of the world. Sydney Sm-th was a man who dared to think for him- self—to search after truth with a sincere desire to find it ; and having found it,— he cared not whether it was in a minority of one, or a majority of a million, —he fr jght for it, and, if necessary, suffered for it. Nearlv all his life he fmin 11 rr\efc on the sivie of '^i. 390 SYDNEY SAf TH. minority, and that often a very small one. Those great and beneficent reforms which he spent his un- rivalled powers in advocating, and which all wise men now approve of, were at first almost in a minority of one ; and that had to be worked up to a majority by hard battling before these improvements could be carried out practically. Let us give all due honour to those brave men who bore the burden and heat of the day, and who manfully stood up for the right in spite of scorn and obloquy. It is very easy to shout for the truth when she has the multitude at her back; but to lift up the voice in her behalf when she stands alonfe, or is hooted by the crowd— to bear contempt for her patiently,— this requires strong convictions and a sincere heart. This was Sydney Smith's choice. Had he been content to shout with the multitude, or even to hold his tongue instead of exposing corruption and ignorance, he need not have struggled with poverty so long. It is true he dif- fered from most men who are in advance of their age, in living to see tht triumph of his principles, and the introduction of those reforms for which he had so long contended almost hopelessly. ^u..L, h wever, was merely incidental, and not wha: he couiJ have hoped for or foreseen when he chose his course. If his public career was thus honourable, his private life was no less commendable. There is no better mark of a sound, strong mind, than to go through the SYDNEY SMITH. I i 391 little commonplace duties of life thoroughly, cheer- fully, so as to make all a part of ourselves, and leave our stamp upon them. We have seen how well Syd- ney did this— making excellent jokes, too, over h?s hard work. There was no meanness or moral care- lessness about him ; in every dealing with his brother- man he was most accurate and just. Good, kind, and thoughtfully affectionate in the bosom of his family, his servants respected him as truly as his noblest friends. The world, judging by his wit, thought him careless or reckless ; but nothing could be further from the truth. His wife, who knew him best, said, "People are not aware that Sydney, ^ith all his mirth, is one of the most cautious, prudent men that ever existed ; he is always looking fonvard and pro- viding against what may happen." He said himself, " I sometimes dine with Mr Blank, and the head of the family sits at the foot of the table, looking so attentive, and bowmg so obsequiously ; and when I talk humorously, as ; am apt to do, I see by his expression that he says to himself, 'There is a man I would not lend money to at fifteen per cent; he's a rash man; hs would buy bad Exchequer bills; he is not to be trusted.' He little knows me." It was the same laughter-loving but acute man who said, " If you want to make much of a small income, always ask yourself these two questions : first, ' Do I really want if *■ secondly, ' Can I do without it > ' Th iCSC 392 SYDNEY SMITH. 4 I two questions, answered honestly, will double your fortune." Sydney Smith had no pretensions to rank in the first class as a profound thinker and original genius. He was rather fitted to diffuse and render intelligible and practical the thoughts of others, and, by his wit, logic, and eloquence, to impress these on the general mind. As a thinker, he was most dstinguished for the possession of a strong, practical understanding, that grasped, with true Saxon energy, the realities of earth and time. With mere dreams and abstractions he had no patience ; cloudland he left to visionaries. " Never teach false morality," he said. " How ex- quisitely absurd to tell girls that beauty is of no value— dress of no use! Beauty is o'f value; her whole prospects and happiness in life may often depend on a new gown or a becoming bonnet ; and il she has five grains of common sense, she will find this out. The great thing is to teach her their just value, and that there must be something better under the bonnet than a pretty face for real happiness. But never sacrifice truth." 0[ a hard-headed utili- tarian he said, " If you were to bore holes in him with a gimlet, I am convinced sawdust would come out of him." " If everything is to be sacrificed to utility, why do you bury your grandmother at all ; why don't you cut her up into small pieces at once, and make port- able soup of her ? " Nothing gave him greater plea- SYDNEY SMITH, 393 sure, when he met with a specimen of that dull class who are incapable of understanding a joke, than to play on this peculiarity. One of these dull mortals was seated at the same dinner-table with him. on one occasion; Sydney remarked that "though he was not generally considered illiberal, yet he must con- fess he had one little weakness, one secret wish — he should like to roast a Quaker." " Good gracious ! Mr Smith," said his dull neighbour, full of horror, " roast a Quaker! " " Yes, sir," said Sydney, with the greatest gravity, " roast a Quaker." " But do you consider, Mr Smith, the torture.?" "Yes, sir," said Sydney, " I have considered everything ; it may be wrong, as you say, the Quaker would undoubtedly suffer acutely, but ev^ry one has his tastes— mine would be to roast a Quaker; one would satisfy me — only one; but it is one of those peculiarities I have striven against in vain, and I hope you will pardon my weakness." The whole company were in roars of laughter, but so entirely impenetrable to a joke was this gentleman's head, that he sat full of horror, and seemed inclined to fiy from such a dangerous character. A Mrs Jackson called on him one day. She belonged to the same genus; and among other things spoke of the oppressive heat of last week. " Heat, madam," said Sydney ; " it was so dreadful here that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones." " Take off your flesh and sit 394 SYDNEY SMITH. in your bones, sir ! O Mr Smith, how could you do that?" she exclaimed, with the utmost gravity. "Nothing more easy, ma'am; come and see next time." " But," he said, " she ordered her carriage, and evidently thought it a very unorthodox proceeding ' What a mixture of wit and good sense there i^ in the following description of a nice person, which he threw off carelessly on one occasion :— « A nice per- son is neither too tall nor too short, looks clean and cheerful, has no prominent feature, makes no difficul- ties, is never misplaced, is never foolishly affronted, and is void of affectations. There is something in the vefy air of a nice person which inspires you with confidence, makes you talk, and talk without fear of malicious misrepresentations; you feel that you a.e reposing on a nature which God has made kind, and created for the benefit and happiness of society. It has the effect on the mind which soft air and a fine climate has upon the body. If anybody is wanted for a party, a nice person is the first thought of; when the child is christened— when the daughter is married —all the joys of life are communicable to nice people. A nice person never knocks over wine or melted butter-does not tread upon the dog's foot, or molest the family cat— eats soup without noise— lau.-rhs in the right place— and has a watchful and attentive eye." "Ah!" he said, "what female heart can withstand a red coat > I think this should be a SYDNEY SMITH. 395 i part of female education ; it is much negleo*^ -^ As you have a rocking-horse to accustom them to ride, I would have military dolls in the nursery to harden their hearts against officers and red coats." Everett, the distinguished American statesman and orator, said, " The first remark I made to myself, after listen- ing to Mr Sydney Smith's conversation, was that if he had not been known as the wittiest man of his day, he would have been accounted one of the wisest." Then his wit, as some one said, " always had the dew upon it,"— it was so fresh and enlivening. It had no coarseness or buffoonery— no venom or cruelty—but was as sunny and tender as the man himself " You have been laughing at me constantly, Sydney," said Lord Dudley, " for the last seven years, and yet, in all that time, you never said a single thing to me that I wished unsaid." " It is quite extraordinary," said one of his friends, " how different every word that drops from Sydney's pen is from anything else in the world. Individuality is stamped on every sentence, and you can hardly read a page without coming to some sentence that no other man could have written. It was the same with his conversation." Here are a few of his conver- sational flashes: "Oh, don't tell me of facts; I never believe facts. You know Canning said nothing was so fallacious as facts, except figures." •' I agree with Sir James Mackintosh, and have found the world 396 SYDNEY SMITH, more gooa and more foolish than I thought when young." " Ah, you always detect a l-ttle of the Irish fossil, the potato, peeping out in an Irishman." Talkmg of Mrs _, .-She has not very clear ideas about the tides. I remember at a large party her ins,stmg that it was always high-tide at London Bndge at twelve o'clock. She referred to me. ' Now Mr Smith, is it not so V I answered, ' It used to be so, I beheve, formeriy, but perhaps the lord mayor and aldermen have altered it lately.'" "Mr once came to see us in Yorkshire ; and he was so small and so active, he looked exactly like a little spirit run- ning, about in a kmd of undress, without a body" I' People complaia of their servants; I never had a bad one; but then I study their comforts, that is one recipe for securing good servants." "O'Connel pre sented me to the Irish membei as the powerf-ul and entertaining advocate of the Ii.h Catholic claims" ''Oh the Dean of deserves to be preached to death by wild curates." "Yes; was merry, not wise. You know a man of small understanding is merry where he can, not where he should. Light- ning must, I think, be the wit of heaven." Speaking of a French revolutionist, " No man, I fear can effect great benefits for his country without some sacrifice of the minor virtues." " If you want to im- prove your understanding drinV coffee. Sir f.mes Mackintosh used to say he believed the diu..ence SYDNEY SMITH. 397 between one man and another was produced by the quantity of coffee he drank." " Luttrell used to say, ' I hate the s^'-t of monkeys, they remind me so of poor relation' '♦ Oh, they were all so beautiful, that Paris could not have decided between them, but would have cut his apple in slices." « It is a curious fact that the peasantry in England apply the mascu- line and feminine gender to things, like the French. My schoolmistress here, a very respectable young woman, hurt her leg. I inquired how it was the other day. She answered he was very bad, and gave her a deal of trouble at night. I inquired who, in some surprise, and found it was her leg." Some one men- tioned that a young Scotchman of his acquaintance was going to marry an Irish widow, double his age, and of considerable dimensions. " Going to marry her !" he exclaimed, "impossible ! You mean a part of her— he could not marry her all himself. It would be a case, not of bigamy, but of trigamy. There is enough of her to furnish wives for a whole parish. One man marry her!— it is monstrous. You might people a colony with her— or give an assembly with her— or take your morning's walk round her— or read the riot act and disperse her, or do anything with her but marry her." « I am a great doctor," he said to a lady on a visit to him, "would you like to hear some of my medicines > Well, there is ' The Gentlejog'— a pleasu-e to take it; 'The Bull-dog,' for more 30S SYDNEY SMITH. serious cases ; ' Peter's Puke' ; ' Heart's Delight,' the comfort of all the old women in the parish ; ' Rub-a- dub,' a capital embrocation ; ' Dead-stop ' settles the matter at once ; ' Up-with-it-then ' needs no explana- tion ; and so on." The nature of the man led him to view things on the ludicrous side ; and we have no right to quarrel with him for doing so. If he uttered so many good and wise things in a pleasant, humorous way, why get angry because he did not utter them in a di H, un- pleasant way } Many people say a large endowment of the humorous faculty is dangerous, and so it is ; but s6 is a great intellect, or any other great endow- ment, inasmuch as, if abused, it does more mischief. It is only mediocrit} that is safe ; it is only dulness that can be trusted. But are we to vote for igno- rance and stupidity on this account } A fallen angel becomes a devil ; but is the existence of angels dan- gerous or undesirable on this account > No man was ever possessed of great wit who abused it less than Sydney Smith. To have forbidden him. to express himself humorously would have been to clip the wings of the eagle. Many r^ood persons are prejudiced against Sydney on account of the course he took in reference to mis- sions to the heathen, when they were first projected. In his eadier years, he wrote against the attempts, then commenced, to Christianise India, in the pages SYDNEY SMITH. 399 of the Edinburgh Review; and no doubt his articles contain some harsh, unjust, and bitter statements against the originators and supporters of missions. This has been remembered against him when the many good things he did were forgotten; and to this day it is frequently brought forward on plat- forms as an accusation against him,— not always, I fear, in the most Christian spirit. I have no desire to palliate or deny the error into which Sydney fell in this respect ; but I ask you to consider calmly the circumstances. Fifty or sixty years ago, modern mis- sions to the heathen originated. Like all other good things, they were at first in a minority of half-a-dozen. The few earnest men who first broached the subject were regarded as madmen, or crack-brained enthusi- asts. Statesmen, Churchmen, Dissenters, Presbyte- rians, all decried the project as wild and visionary. It was supposed that the safety of our Indian empire was imperilled ; that the Hindoos would rise in re- bellion if their religion were interfered with. The press and the pulpit denounced the whole affair as fanaticism. It was when such ideas were current that Sydney Smith wrote the article in the Edin- burgh Review entitled " India Missions ;" and un- happily he fell into the popular view, and spoke ill of a noble undertaking. But this only proves that he was human, and shared in the prejudices of his age, which we.-e strongly against any manifestations 400 SYDNEY SMITH. of religious enthusiasm. I think the matter should not be rem-mbered against him now, for he liyed to see and admit his error. In Mrs Stowe's "Sunny Memories," she mentions that, when in conversation with Macaulay, she put forward the staple accusation against Sydney Smit.h, his friend vindicated him by saying that he lived to change his mind entirely in regard to missions. I find this confirmed by what his daughter says in her Memoir. Some one having in his presence attempted to ridicule missions, he dissented, saying, " that though all was not done that was projected, or even boasted of, yet that much good resulted ; and that wherever Christianity was taught, it brought with it the additional good of civilisation in its train, and men became better car- penters, better cultivators, better everything." I sub- mit that an error that has been confessed and re- nounced should not be made the ground of accusa- tion against a man. No admirer of Sydney Smith would pretend that he was immaculate— that he had not his faults and failings like other r-- At times he allowed himself to treat serious subjects too jo- cosely, though this was rarely the case ; and was in a few instances unjust to some whose religious senti- ments he did not comprehend ; yet rarely did he violate his own excellent principle, that "piety and honesty are always venerable, with whatever degree of error they happen to be connected." But, then, m ♦ SYDNEY SMITH. ' 401 what is to become of the best of men, if you judge them by their faults and failings ? It is easy enough to discover flaws and imperfections in a man ; but the real question is, What good is in him ? with what amount of "veracity" and honest enaeavour is he struggling against the evil, and battling towards the true and good? what is his life-purpose? Tried by this rule, the verdict must be entirely favourable to Sydney Smith. And then, in regard to some sc.ere thmgs he has written about certain manifestations of religious zeal, let us remember thit we are bound to inquire, in all cases, whether those signs we discover spring from spiritual health or disease; whether they arise from a disordered body and brain, or from right thinking and feeling in religion ; whether they spring from true piety or superstition. We know well that truly pious and nobl souls do fall into these diseased manifestations, and that we must separate these from them, and fling them aside, ere we can discover and reverence the divine heroism of the men. With many of the deeper and more terrible spirit-struggles through which pome have to pass, Sydney Smith, from temperament and training, was unable to sym- pathise; but I believe, whether right or wrong in his conclusions, he only attacked what he believed to be unfavourable to piety, and the offspring of fanati- cism. 2 C I if LECTURE THE NINTH. OUR MOTHER-AGE; OR, THE TIMES WE LIVE IN. EVERY age has its distinguishing pecu'iarities, by which it is marked oflf from all others. The great ideas that move humanity, the thoughts that shake mankind and determine the course of events, the hopes and fears, the vvants and aspirations of men, vary from age to age ; and the outward manifesta- tions of these— the institutions, arts, sciences, and religions, embodying and expressing these, present a corresponding variety. Ultimately everything rests on an idea : thought is the force that really moves humanity, and rules the world. All our laws, political and social institutions, customs, and transactions have originally sprung from thoughts surging in the minds of men, and finally taking these outward forms and embodiments. The seen is but the bodying forth of the unseen. This great universe is a realised thought OUR MOTHER.AGE. 403 Of the Divine mind. In human affairs, the invisible force of thought, working below the surface, has give . birth to all we see around us. As men's ideas change so do their habits, institutions, efforts, and environ- ment. Thought, therefore, is the great ruling power of the world. In estimating any age, if we would go below the surface, we must ascertain what are the thoughts, feelings, and wants that sway men's minds -what are the central ideas that make vital and mould the present time; for, whatever conflicting in- fluences are at work, these determine the character of any particular age. Now, all history tells us, that though, since man took his place on this planet, there are certam huma. :haracteri3tics common to all ages and races, yet that each age has certain individual features peculiar to itself, and distinguishing it from others. There are thoughts and tendencies common to humanity; yet no two ages are the- same in the real or relative strength of their unseen forces Change is the great regulating law of God's universe. Humanity is on the march, pursuing some mighy development, wc/king towards some great end The present is not a repetition of the past ; but either an advance on it, or something different from it, whether for better or worse. Our age is something individual and original. The nineteenth century is not the nmth. The thoughts that are heaving humanity's bosom now, and making its great heart u.rob tumul- /- : 404 OUR MOTHER-AGE. tuously, are not the thoughts of the seventeenth or eighteenth century. It may be profitable, then, to take a brief glance .t a few of the more striking tendencies and characteristics of our times— at some of the peculiarities of that evolution of humanity we name "Our Mother-^V ge "— the age that has pro- duced us, and in which we live and have our being. ' In judging of our age, we should beware of sepa- rating it from the ages that have gone before. To isolate the present time from the past, would be to misunderstand it. The age we live in is the product of all the centuries that have flitted over the earth s:\Ke man's existence commenced. We are truly— •* Heirs of all the ages, In the foremost files of time." For US all previous genera Ions have been toiling ; they laboured, and we have entered into their labours - -their rich bequest of thought, effort, and experience. Not in vain have they lived and died. Their labours produced the present, which is the surface-growth from the whole buried past. The Assyrian, Egyptian, Greek, and Roman, all lie buried in the silence of the tomb; but whatever of the true and good they achieved has not perished. It is possessed of a charmed life— is perennial, rod lives in the present. Many of our laws, institution-;, and modes of life, traced to their roots, would be found to have grown up originally on the banks of the Tigris or Nile, in OUR MOTHER-AGE. 405 sunny Greece, or under the blue skies of Italy. The buried past, therefore, lives in the present ; and in a thousand unsuspected ways moulds and influences it. The present age is a confluence of many rills, having their origin in the distant hill-tops of the past. Our ancestors have been our benefactors, painfully toiling and laying up for their children. Humanity has a life as truly as the individual ; every part is connected with every other, and all form one great whole. We cannot sepa.-ate ourselves from those who have trod the earth before us. As friends and brothers, they are connected with us by the closest tics. Only a shallow or ignorant mind, therefore, will despise the past. To all true souls it shines in :h. ^.. • moon- light of memory, "sad and yet holy." Si.all we treat contemptuously that which has been bedewed with human tears, fashioned by the sweat of a bro- ther's brow o...- brain, hallowed by prayers, and conse- crated by the joys and sorrows of our dead kindred > In the pride of our own achievements, let us never look at the past with other than reverential feelings But at the same time let us never live in slavish sub- jection to the past— never convert it into a supersti- tion, by fancying it something vast and wonderful, that can never be reached or surpassed, by which we are to model ourselves, without the hope of out- stripping its excellence. Whatever the past may have been, we cannot recall it, and we cannot live by ■'^a^v- 406 OUR MOTHER-AGE. it. It has been resolved into its elements, and these have entered into new combinations, and formed the new era. As well might we attempt to recall the tertiary period of the geologist, as the first, or fifteenth, or eighteenth century of the Caristian era. It is a puerile absurdity to array ourselves in the cast-off- clothes of a former age, and fancy we are living its life over again. Its thoughts, feelings, views, and wants cannot be ours, and we are only masqueraders in wearing its garments. There is evident, in our own day, in certain quarters, an extreme tendency to worship the past, to throw contempt on the present, and to go back to some buried age as an exemplar.' But it is all in vain to attempt arraying the nineteenth century in mediaeval garments. They do not fit, and or:ly render the wearers ridiculous. The attempt may appear very reverential, but it is only flving from one extreme to another— from the shallow self- conceit that would glorify the present and regard the past as contemptible, to an abject surrender of our- selves to the past as an authority and infallible guide. It is neither wise nor manlike. We must aim at living our own life and doing our own work bravely and well. Whatever the past may have been, we are to aim at making the present something nobler and better. The riches of the past are ours, not to waste as prodigals, not to gloat over as misers, but to use as invested capital, and transmit to the future as OUR MOTHER-AGE. 407 an enlarged sum. The course of humanity is not like that of a pendulum, perpetually traversing the same arc of a circle ; but like that of the iniolling tide— at times apparently receding and beaten back, but really gaining a little with every fresh wave, and finally reaching the highest attainable level. The golden age is before us, not behind us. " Then courage ! let us love the Trae, Accept as God's best gift the Real, Not only should we think, but do; Life blossoms now with the ideal, And our Romance shall be the real. " Then, O my brothers, trust and love, A golden country lies before us ; With man around us, God above. And truth and beauty doming o'er us, A golden country gleams before us." It is because we have faith in an All-wise plan on which the universe has been constructed— faith in a Divine purpose working towards a glorious end- faith in God and man— that we anticipate a brighter futurity for humanity. Whatever else may desert us, " Hope, the charmer, lingers still behind." Gleams of sunshine, too, are not wanting to cheer our path- glimpses of the far-off land of promise towards which humanity is marching. When the lion-hearted Co- lumbus was sailing towards the West through an un- explored waste of waters, with the black billows threat- ening to engulf him, and cowardly, mutinous seamen ready to rise and fling him overboard, all was dark 4o8 OUR MOTHER-AGE. I i around ; but the little star of faith and hope shone brightly in the brave man's heart. And at length there came floating around his little bark some weeds, leaves, and flowers, telling him that the land he had dreamr ' of was a reality, and that he was drawing near to i^s shores. Ah, how welcome to the drooping heart those little harbingers of victory — those first-fruits of the land of promise.-floated'to him on the dark waves of the Atlantic ! And by and by a flock of strange bright birds fluttered around the lonely vessel and alrghted on its mast-heads, like angels of hope beckoning him onward. So with our- selves, in the midst of turmoils, storms, and darkness, there come floating towards us intimations of that bright and beautiful land to which Providence is con- ducting our race. To begin with the more obvious and striking fea- tures of our age : even the least-informed are aware that it is distinguished from all preceding ages by great scientific discoveries, and, as a consequence surpasses all others in the application of mechanism to human purposes. The proofs of this meet the eye on every hand ; the benefits are felt by all classes- in palace and hovel ahke. We point triumphantly to the modern railroad, gradually covering the civilised worid with its iron network, opening up the luxuriant plains of T.,dia in the East, and startling the forest sohtudes of the '• Far West" with the shriek of its OUR AfOTHER-AGE. 409 rushing locomotive— linking together cities, coun- tries, and nations into one great commonwealth of interests and brotherhood of ideas. We point to the electric telegraph, stretching side by side, with the railroad, bearing the thoughts of men on the light- ning's pinion— flashing them across broad continents, under the bed of mighiy rivers, through the dread solitude of ocean's caves, over hill and plain, with a rapidity that cannot be measured. Or we turn to the steam-driven fleets that cover the ocean, proudly de- fying the storm-king, breasting the adverse billows and dashing them aside as playthings, bridging the ocean and annihilating distance. We point to the great mechanical triumphs of our day— such as the iron tube along which a railway train shoots .cross the mighty St Lawrence ; or, as in the case of the Menai and Britannia tubular bridges, leaps a broad arm of the sea. We turn to some of the huge manu- factories, where the Nasmyth hammer, wielded by the giant arm of steam, forges the enormous machinery that is to do the work of thousands of hands, or fashions the ponderous anchors that are to enable the leviPthans of the deep that guard the coasts of Eng- land to ride out the hurricc ne. We might easily swell our list of scientific trophies lately won, by enumerat- ing the production of a light from electricity rivalling almost the sun's brilliancy, and the marvels of the photographic art. These are discoveries and inven^ I 4^0 OUR MOTHER- tions that xhavc been made \ '-AGE. the memory of liv- ing men,— some of them are but of yesterday,— and they stamp a distinctive character upon our era, and will make it memorable to all coming generations. Ultimately they will revolutionise society, elevate the condition of all races of mankind, and immensely enlarge the physical and intellectual enjoyment of every inhabitant of earth. They can never be lost to our race; and the vast improvements they are rapidly spreading will stretch away into the coming centuries, and tell beneficially on unborn myriads. Looking at these achievements of science, have we nob reason to feel proud of our age.? We begin to see what transcendent powers have been intrusted to man, by the Creator, for the benefit of the race. Material nature is becoming obedient to human genius— revealing her secrets- - -yielding up her forces as man's servants, and ministering to his happiness and advancement. Can we doubt that all these indi- cate progress, and point to a brighter future for humanity } Take the steam-engtne, which we may re- gard as a type of this age of iron, and consider some of its results. In Britain alone it is doing the work of many millions of men ; in the factory, driving myriads of spinning-jennies; clothing a large portion of the human family; dragging up the treasures of the mine ; cutting and rolling huge masses of iron into the required shapes ; boring the Armstiong gun ; -1^ '^^ OUR MOTHER-AGE. . 411 polisliing the delicate hair-spring of a watch with an accuracy unattainable by human manipulation ; working up the beggar's cast-off rags into the pure sheet of paper; and by thv. printing-press stamping on this sheet, with inconceivable rapidity, the thoughts with which the brain is throbbing at this moment, and then scattering them over the earth. This "iron missionary" is carrying multitudes in an hour as far as they could have once gone in a day, after terrible toils and sufferings. Everywhere it is lightening man's toil. The weaver drops his shuttle; iron I fingers ply it with a hundred-fold rapidity. The seaman furls his sail ; a snorting sea-horsr does hi3 bidding, and bears him over the waves. Can we doubt that the design of the beneficent Creator, in permitting such inventions, is to free man from grinding and degrading toil, and give him time for the culture of his nobler powers > While engaged in a struggle for very existence, man's whole powers are absorbed in providing for his animal wants, and improvement is almost impossible. But our great, patient, broad-shouldered servant, steam, steps in, abridges the hours of human labour, performs all the drudgery, and thus liberates man for higher pursuits in the world of intellect, and gives to the masses the prospect of being able to develop their nobler nature. This seems to be the merciful design of Providence; and, in spite of selfish avarice, the toiling millions i^^.^^^ 06^^ MOTHER-AGE. Will yet reap the b-^nefit. /Vnd when we see the ex- cursion traJn carrying by thousands the toilers of the great city far away from the din and smoke, into some of the sweetest and lovehest scenes of rural beauty, that they may there breathe for an hour the free untainted air, thus breaking the dreadful mono- tony of their existence, and affording them a taste of those pure pleasures God has provided for all we have a foretaste of the benefits that will yet inevitably follow. " Blessings on Science, and her handmaid. Steam They make Utopia only half a dream ; And shew the fervour of capacious souls, Who watch the ball of progress as it rolls, That all as yet completed or begun Is but the dawning that precedes the sun." Nothing shews us more strikingly the importance of these discoveries than the projects for thj future they are already giving rise to. In fact, no human mind can predict the result of a great thought, once it is struck out. How little did Columbus anticipate what was to follow, when the shores of the New World first gladdened his eyes ! How little could Faust foresee the results, when the idea of movable types entered his brain ! When Professor Oersted of Copen- hagen first saw the little needle vibrate under the wire of a voltaic battery, and thus was led to the dis- covery of electro-magnetism, could he have looked into the future, he would have seen the instantaneous OUR MOTHER-AGE 413 transmission of thought over the world springing from this apparently insignificant fact. Consider the gigantic projects that are now before the world in connexion with the electric telegraph. Newfound- land was, for a few days, linked to Europe by the electric wire laid along the bed of the Atlantic ; and though the connexion was speedily severed, the year 1865 will doubtless witness a more successful experi- ment to bind together the Old Worid and the New. Already New York is joined by the wire to San Francisco ; and Calcutta will soon be able io whisper to London. Once the Atlantic Telegraph is com- pleted, Bombay can transmit a message, z//5 Eng- land, to San Francisco. It is impossible to predict the results that this seemingly insignificant ligature, the electric wire, is destined to work out. Already, generals are commanding their armies by electricity • and the result of every charge in the American conflict is flashed over the States before the smoke has cleared away, though it must be admitted the message is not always in accordance with facts, and requires generally subsequent correction. In the pursuits of peace, the electric telegraph is working out beneficial results. Railway travelling is rendered much more secure than formcriy ; trains are warned of danger, or speedily assisted in case of need. Hur- ricanes and tornadoes travel more slowly than the electric message along a line of coast ; so that their 414 OUR MOTHER-AGE. approach is made known before they are felt, and preparation made to resist them; ships are fore- warned not to put to sea, or trains to start till the tempest has spent its fury. So beneficent are all these discoveries of science. Improvements will follow of which we cannot now form a conception. It is true we cannot have a swifter messenger than electricity ; but facilities for transmitting messages may be vastly multiplied. In the year 1840, with the exception of the old clumsy wooden telegraphs, there was no means of transmitting intelligence' swifter than a horse could gallop ; and that could have been done as quickly, or even more so, in the days of Job. In 1850 the lightning was the courier ; so that, in ten years, we cleared the vast space be- tween the speed of a horse and the speed of lightning. What may not another century achieve.? Thus much we see to be possible-these advantages may be cheapened and brought within the reach of all classes ; so that, " in the good time coming." friend will be talking to friend, though half the globe sepa- rates them. If I should attempt enun>erating the other triumphs of science which our age has witnessed, I should weary you. Astronomy has immensely extended her con- quests, and proudly points to that great eye, six feet in diameter, which Lord Rosse has turned to search the depths of space. She points to a still greater I I (>t/i? MOTHER-AGE. 415 triumph-the discovery of the planet Neptune : not made out like the others by the eye in casually rang- ing the heavens, but demonstrated first by mathe- matical calculations to be in existence, and even its locality ascertained, before the telescope lighted on it Our age has also witnessed the rise and rapid growth of an entirely new science— that of geology, whose revelations exceed in marvellousness all that the wildest imagination had conceived, and cast new hght on the history of our earth. The recent dis- covery entitled "The Mechanical or Dynamical Theory of Heat," which points to the conclusion that heat, light, electricity, and magnetism are but expressions, in different languages, of one great power, and that they are mutually convertible, so that a certain quant' ^^ of one form may be made to produce ^ given quantity of another form, has quite upset the old doctrine of heat. It is now known that heat is only a peculiar condition of matter, "a vibration of its ultimate particles;" and that the destruction or creation of energy in the world is just as impossible as the creation or de- struction of matter itself Great results will flow from this beautiful disclosure of one of nature's great truths. Chemistry, too, has its discoveries of incalculable value. It has taught us to multiply the productions of the soil many fold, and is revealing the wondrous laws of the material creation. Phvsio- 4i6 OUR MOTHER-AGE. logy is investigating the structure of animated exist- ences—teaching the causes of disease, the means of restoring and preserving health, and thus lengthen- ing human life. Wc grow weary of wondering as we range ovei modern scientific discoveries. We are afraid to utter the word "impossible," and would exclude it from the language. The feat of jumping down our own throats was thought, in times of igno- rance, an impossibility; but science shews thv.t we are doing it every day. The food we swallow becomes part of our bodies— of bone, nerve; and muscle ; the old substance meantime passing away continually. In this way, in the course of seven years, we swallow the food which makes an entirely new body, and literally jump down our own throats. It is perhaps in part owing to these scientific ad- vances and mechanical triumphs, with their conse- quent changes, present and prospective, that an- other notable tendency of our times shews itself so strongly : our age is restless, clamorous for change, impatient of existing evils, and careless regarding the past. It may be our vast scientific progress that has taught us to decpise former ages and dis- trust " the wisdom of our ancestors." Whatever be the cause, the temper of the age is inclined to look with contempt on the past, to abandon old methods, and strike out new and daring experiments. Hence antiquity now is no passport to favour. However r i I OUR MOTIIER-AGE. 4,^ venerable by age, every institution seems doomed to undergo a searching investigation, and, if fo-.nd want- ing, to be irreverently hurled to the dust. The young spirit of the ..ge Professes to be impatient with the thm conventional:ies and respectabilitie: of society, and clamorous for facts and realities, for sunlight and Pur^ a.r. Hence its tone is somewhat supercilious and cynical, its temper sceptical, and its efforts de- structive. It names its enemies " Philistines "-foes of the chosen people, the children of light Those who are imbued with the modern spirit say, what was good for a past era will not do for the new day that has dawned upon us ; we cannot live at second-hand cannot get on by trad-'tion ; we, too, have minds and hearts of our own ; heaven is dom ,• over us, the children of the nineteenth century, even as of old and we must think and act for ourselves; we must look mto the heart of matters, and examine old dogmas, opinions, and systems. The consequence of all this is that, without cherishing mpny positive convictions on social, political, or moral subjects he young spirit of the times has strong destructive' tendencies. The waster has come ; the work of the pickaxe has begun ; the builder, with trowel and hammer, to erect the new, has yet to .opear I do not reckon this by any means the most beau- tiful feature of our times; still it maybe indispens- able as a transitional stage of affairs, and is not 4i8 OUR MOTHER-AGE. % without its hopeful symptoms. The ruins must be pulled down, and the rubbish removed, before the new building can rise. At times, an old, filthy, death- breeding quarter of a town has to be purified by fire ; and though the .-pectacle is not pleasant, and the danger to what is really good considerable, yet no- thing would be cfiectual but the fire. So when man- kind have outgrown the old methods, and feel the stirrings of a new spirit within, an age of destruction arrives, when rough democrats, as the demolishers, get the upper hand. But let us comfort ^ourselves with the reflection, that — \ " 'Tis but the ruin of the bad, The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had Is living still. " The conflagration will exhaust itself in di j time. The dust -cloud around the destructives v/ill roll away. A brighter era will come. Society cannot live by destruction; when the old is removed, the new will come forth clear and radiant. What an age of corruption and moral death was that when the huge Roman Empire tumbled into pieces ! The Goth, Vandal, and Hun, like beasts of prey, scented the carrion from afar, and never was there such a period of utter devastation and ruin. But out of that wel- tering chaos a new cosmos arose, and the present industrial scientific era has been evolved from the OUR MOTHER-ACE. . 419 wreck. In fact, everything around us seems to get on by a balance of antagonistic fo^ces-by a sort of tact compromise. The earth keeps its orbit so stead- ily in virtue of two opposing forces-the centrfugal and centripetal-that balance one another, and estab- lish a physical compromise. All our existing con.N"- nents and islands hold their place under the influence of the upheavinr and degrading forces acting in con- trary directions. So, too. society .olds together in virtue of the balance between chc conservative and radical tendencies of human nature. All ages, past and present, have been, or are, n...ked by these two antagonistic principles. The conservative takes his stand upon the past, and trusts to the ascertained and realised. " This method." he says, " has worked well m times past. Our forefathers found it sufficient ; why •should we not go by it i. ill time to come.?' He shrinks from the untried, ana dreads innovation and experiment. He has got hold of a partial truth The radical, on the oth.r hand, says. " Away with the old ; the worid has done with it ; we want some- thing better ; we must have progress." His motto is "Go ahead;" that of the former. "Halt and hold." The one is of the past, the other of the future. Each system is partially true ; between their antagonistic influences society moves on well. Were we to fall under the entire government of the conservative principle, we should become Chinese, and cease to 'PR 420 OC/Ji MOTHER-AGE. improve; were we wholly moved by the radical principle, we should be mere revolutionists, breaking and burning. Nature is wiser than either— strikes a balance, and society is guided along the safe middle path. If, then, our age is tormented with doubts, fretful, restless, questioning all things, grasping at changes, yet without established convictions or a centre of unity ; if democracy is abroad, with noisy demonstra- tions and clamourings for advance, let us understand that change is needed ; and, if rightly understood, there is nothing alarming in this. Fearful wrongs and abuses exist; is it not hopeful when society awakes and cries for their removal ? These impatient cries give promise of a brighter day; and assure us that the evil i>, not irremediable. Tennyson strikes a responsive chord in many a brave young heart, when he sings, — " Not in vain the diL.ancc beacons, forward, forward let us range; Let the great world spin for everdown the ringing grooves of change. Through the shadow of the globe we swe°p into the younger day ■ Better fifty years, of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. " Mother- Age> (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun : Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun — Oh ! I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set, Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet." Beyond ail doubt, the promise of our age is bright ; though it is very far indeed from perfection. These very throes and convulsions that startle so many, OUR MOTHER-AGE. rightly considered, are hopeful. They indicate the struggle that is going on between new and old ideas— between the moving forces of the strong young era that is, and the worn-out institutions of the past. Deep, earnest thoughts are heaving the great heart of humanity, and they must find expression. The worst features of any age are apathy, contented igno- rance, want of self-reliance, or moral despair. Beyond all question, our age is self-sufficing to an extreme, self-confident in boundless measure; conscious of great wants and fearful moral diseases, and resolute in seeking a remedy. AH these indicate vitality, energy, progress. Of that moral stagnation that indicates death, we see no symptoms. In fact, the banner of our time bears the aspiring device, " Excel- sior." Whatever be its faults and shortcomings, at all events its spirit is earnest and urgent for action. It cries out for real work-for practical issues. Its " Psalm of Life" is— " Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way ; But o act, that each to-morrow Finds us further than to-day. " Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, act in the living Present ! Heart within and God o'erhead. " Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Le?rn to labour and to wait." 422 OUR MOTHER-AGE. \\ The spirit of the age may, therefore, be fairly described as practical, earnest, hopeful. Sentimental dreams it discards ; present duty it preaches ; hopeful expectation it ceaselessly inculcates. All this seems to clothe the future in promise. We may, without any tmge of Utopianism, expect that the future will see humanity carried to higher levels-will witness many cruel wrongs swept away, and the introduction of " sweeter manners, purer laws." The real dreamers are those who obstinately cling to the past, and oppose advance. They are vainly opposing them- selves to the laws of tne universe; for the whole history of the past tells of progress. All noble souls, m every age,— prophets, poets, lords of thoughts — have cherished a belief in human progress as their dearest faith; and have accepted the onward march of humanity on earth as a pledge and foretaste of endless progress in the skies. That belief, I think, is deeper and stronger now than ever. The hope' of ;' a good time coming" is cheering many a weary spirit in the dusty highways of life. The gladdening notes of the song of hope are penetrating dingy workshop and busy factory, lonely cottage and crowded court and lane ; and pale labour lifts its weary head, and a flush of expectation mantles the pale cheek. Is not the night far spent and the day it hanJ > Are not these the roseate tints of morning in the eastern sky.? . • V OUR MOTHER-AGE. 423 " Darkness wanes, behold the light! Waken, brothers, and unite ! Waken and behold the dawn ! See the eternal morning rise ! And beneath the opening skies, Waving forest, gleaming lawn, Of returning Paradise !" Without dwelling on what many would reckon the imaginative aspects of our subject, we might easily convince the most matter-of-fact mortals that our age has great and substantial improvements to ex- hibit; and that as far as comfort, convenience, and the means of smoothing existence go, it is a much pleasanter age to live in than any of those that have preceded it. We are always discontented with the present ; and perhaps it is best so. Discontent is the parent of all improvement. For the privilege of grumbling, a Briton will die as readily as for Magna Charta. But let any subject of Queen Victoria, possessed of a proper British appreciation of the comforts and respectabilities of life, compare the present age with anyone of its predecessors, and then say whether he would wish to have been born in an earlier period of the world's history. Would he, for example, prefer to have seen the light in the ancient ci':y of Nineveh, so as to have had a hand in chiselling those winged bulls, and hauling them to their pedes- tals } We admire the grand old pyramids of Egypt ; but, at the same time, we may be very well satisfied they were constructed before our day. Or, taking 424 OUK MOTHER-A CE. a great leap over the intervening centuries, need we envy those who had the feliritv „f r • ! sceotre of n , ^ "'"S ""'''"' *<> !„TT ^? ™ ^""'' "''^" '^"eland had no roads and when Pnnee George of Denmark, making a vi^ o the Duke of Somerset, had to employ relys o ruts and quagm.res of the way, and spent six hours n ge tmg ove. the last nine miles of his journey? Z ftct the se„t,mcntal talk of many about the ^good old t,mes ,s sheer absurduy. Had they been born ir ; r;™ '""- ^'^y wouid We fouT them very different from the image which their ™agmat,o„ has constructed. J„st think o havnL been cast upon the worid before the days of tea and ThT,:t:;::n-r:r"rr^""^^^^ J 1 ^rncies alone will, when P-enerall^r used lengthen human life considerably. 'Z^l world wthout a newspaper or magazine ; without The penny post, railway, or telegraph 1 Hoiv did peop e ve before turnip, or potatoes were grown • befoe ana tragrant came into use > Un happy ancestors, tealess and bathless, with your beer" heavy bread, unbraced breeches, damp feet and 1 roads, we envvvounoH i i,- „P "''''■ and miry Macau,aysay7~no r^rTr'r^'- .o.aenageofHnglandintimerri^Ltr: OUR MOTHER-AGE. 425 destitute of comforts, the want of which would be in- tolerable to a modern footman-when farmers and shopkeepers breakfasted on loaves, the very sight of which would raise a riot in a modern workhouse- when men died faster in the purest country air than they now do in the most pestilential lanes of our towns -and wh-^n they died faster in our towns than they now do c , the coast of Guinea." Sydney Smith thus sums up, in his own graphic and humorous manner, the improvements that had taken place in his lifetime: " It is of some importance at what period a man is born. A young man, alive at this period, hardly knows to what improvements of human life he has been introduced. I would bring before his notice the following eighteen changes which have taken place in England since I first began to breathe in it the breath of life-a period amounting now tc nearly seventy-three years. Gas was unknown. I groped about the streets of London in all but the utter dark- ness of a twinkling oil-lamp, under the protection of watchmen in their grand climacteric, and exposed to every species of depredation and insu' In going from Taunton to Bath, I suffered between ten and twelve thousand severe contusions, before stone-break- ing Macadam was born. I paid £1^ in a single year for repairs of carriage-springs broken on the pavement of London ; I now glide, without noise or fracture, on wooden pavements. I can walk, by the assistance of m 426 OUR MOTHER-AGE. fiW the police, from one end of London to the other, with- out molestation; or, if tired, get into a cheap and active cab instead of those cottages on wheels, which the hackney coaches were at the beginning of my life 1 had no umbrella. They were little used, and very' dear. There were no water-proof hats ; and my hat has often been reduced by rains into its primitive pulp. I could not keep my small-clothes in their proper place, for braces were unknown. If I had the gout, there was no colchicum. If I were bilious, there was no calomel. If I were attacked by ague, there was no qumine. Quarrels about uncommuted tithes were endless. The corruption of Parliament, before reform, infamous. There were no banks to re- ceive the savings of the poor. The poor-laws were gradually sapping the vitals of the country ,■ and whatever miseries I suffered, I had no post to whisk my complaints, for a single penny, to the remotest corners of the empire ;-and yet, in spite of all these pnvat,o„s, I lived on quietly, and am now ashamed that I was not n.ore discontented, and utterly sur. pnsed that all these changes and inventions did not occur two centuries ago. I forgot to add, that as the basket of stage-coaches, in whic>, luggage was then earned, had no springs, your clothes were rubbed to Pieces; and that even in the best society, one-third of the gentlemen, at least, were always drunk " On the whole, then, we may fairly conclude that OUR MOTHER-AGE. 427 there is a rhythm in human h\itory; that we are not merely marching and countermarching; that there is more than mere endless creation and de- struction ; that there is real advance, and a gradual elevation to nobler heights. I have dwelt hitherto on what is bright and hopeful in our age ; but I am not ignorant that the picture has its dark shadows. Our Mother-Age presents many saddening and some threatening symptoms. The millennium— prophecies to the contrary, notwithstanding— must still be a long way off. Terrible evils afflict our modern society. While we have much outward material civilisation, and great advances in science, in art, in the general comforts of life, how slow is our moral progress ! It cannot be denied that great dangers threaten our modern civilisation, or rather semi-civilisation. These dangers do not preach despair, but they emphatically cry, " All hands to work !" The men of our age have to confront and solve terrible problems. These are pressing for solution ; and if we cannot solve them, or in selfish apathy refuse to entertain them, like the fabled sphinx when her riddles were unread, they will devour us. Look, for example, at that awful feature of society, on which so many good men gaze sadly and thoughtfully, the state of so many millions of our labouring classes, deep sunk in ignorance, poverty, vice, and irreligion ; and a lower stratum still, appal- ling in its extent in the lowest depths of degradation 428 OVR MOTHER-ACE. o wh.ch human beings can fall. Consider the posi- t.on of woman among these sunken masses ! With wealth aceumulated in large hoards, and threatening to accumulate still more, we have hunger-bitten, bare backed poverty all around-men broken in body and soul by heavy burdens, who by sorest toil can scarcely earn the daily bread. Looking at the toiling, strug- glmg mUhons, whose lives are worn out in joylets wre3thng with want, and whose whole existence is swa lowed up in one terrible effort to drive back the wolf from the door, we might well cry out " Is this your boasted civilisation of the nineteenth century- ^read so dear, flesh and blood so cheap'-the bulk of our population scarce able to secure the first con- d.t,on of existence.'" After a thousand years of human efi-ort, is this the result.' To a thoughtful m.nd there is something very solemn, if not deeply saddening, in the aspect of one of our great cities of the present era, such as London, Paris, or New York Walk through the main streets, and you see only splendour, luxury, overflowing abundance, magnifi- cent buildings, shops where the richest products of human industry are displayed, and for the supply of wh.ch all creation has been ransacked. Every con- ceivable means of ministering to human comfort, taste, luxury, and pride, meet the eye in glittering heaps. And then the gay throngs that roll along these .thoroughfares of commerce, how comfortable OUR MOTHER-AGE. 429 apparently their existence .'-glittering splendour around, industry, science, commerce, laying trophies at their feet! But step aside only a few paces from all this luxury and refinement, ; " you find yourself in poverty's squalid abode— in u.e midst of loath- some wretchedness, and moral degradation of the lowest type. Here the poor outcasts, "the wild Arabs of the streets," and multitudes, too, of the honest, toiling poor, are heaped and huddled to- gether in the filthy lane, the pestiferous court, the dark, fetid alley, breathing a poisonous atmosphere, that reeks with contagion and death. The sweet air of heaven finds no entrance here; the sun's rays struggle faintly through the darkened air. Here disease, in its most hideous forms, is unceasingly at work— consumption, cholera, typhus, holding their endless revels. The outward darkness and degrada- tion are only a type of the mental and moral dark- ness of thousands who find no other abode. Passing through these circles of prosperity, and all this mag- nificent girdle of refinement in the great thorough- fares, and these arteries filled with commerce, might we not enter this moral wilderness, these alleys of poverty, and sit down and weep over these victims of destitution and evil passions .? Without hope or pur- pose—with little to gladden existence— and, alas ! little thought of the dawning eternity, their life drags along. Here the fierce gnawings of hunger are felt 430 OUR MOTHER-AGE. I seizing the strong man by the throat, and killing the infant in its mothers arms. Here physical abomina- tions pollute the breath of life, and sap away the strength; and all the sweet charities, the tender affections, the love that bmds parent to child, sicken and die. Vice has no shame and no disguise here ; and stalks about in her most hideous and revolting aspects. The bottle brings the stupor of beastly in- toxication to ease the hearts of the sad, and drown the wretchedr ss of the present. The prosperous gin-palace and pawn-shop tell a wretched tale. What a training-ground for immortal souls! Only vice, bfute-passion, and nameless abominations can thrive' in this hot-'.ed of all that is vile. In these moral tombs there is no soil for the ideals that glorify our nature to take root. God is but a dark cloud of muttering thunder in the soul ; womanhood is dis- crowned and dishevelled ; and childhood trained in wickedness, and steeped in the evil passions that rages like a hell all around. How dark and inscrut- able human destiny appears, as we look in on these terrible abodes, where immortal spirits are struggling amid such destructive surroundings ! How poor seem all the victories of our gorgeous civilisation, when they leave untouched all this mass of men and women, formed in the image of God ! Here is a sad and humbling off-set to the pomp and glitter of our world-embracing commerce-wealth accumulating. OUR MOTHER.A GE. 43 , men decaying, perishing ! Nay, many of these are the victims of our civilisation ; and the very circum- stances in which they are placed, are the very results and conditions of our boasted progress in things material. Here is a picture of the toiling masses drawn by Hood, t! - poet of the poor :— " Who does not see them sally From mill and garret and room, In lane and court and alley, From homes in poverty's lowest valley, Fumish'd witl) shuttle and loom,— Poor slaves of civilisation's galley,— And in the road and footways rally, As if for the day of doom ? Some of hardly human form, Stunted, crook'd, and crippled by toil ; Dingy with smoke and dust and oil. And smirch'd besides with vicious soil. Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm,' Father, mother, and careful child. Looking as if it had never smiled— The seamstress lean, and weary and wan. With only the ghosts of garments on— The weaver, her sallow neighbour. The grim and sooty artisan ; Every soul— child, woman, and man— Who lives, or dies, by labour, Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal. And social impulse, a terrible throng ! Leaving shuttle, and needle and wheel. Furnace and grindstone, spindle and reel. Thread and yam, and iron and steel- Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal- Gushing, rushing, crushing along, A very torrent of man ! ''rged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong. Grown at last to a hurricane strong. Stop its course who can ! ^S'^m ^im^-*m: -.M^ |m^&?=?^ ^^^ OUR MOTHER-AGE. Stop who can its onwanl course I And -rresistible moral force— Oh, vain and idle dream ! For surely as men are all akin, Whether offair or sable skin, ' According to nature's scheme. That human movement contains within A blood-power stronger than steam. " Surrounded as we are, served and enriched by the splend,d agents of „,oder„ civilisation, we are in da„! eer of concluding that the n.aterial achievement is the h,ghest achievement; that the one thing .^edf .s to accumulate capital and secure wealth ; tha"t the problem of life is solved by the applicati™ of^^, ' _ch,„eryan,.„„„„^,„^^,^^^_^^^_^^ n^_ rnent of .mmortality amid the flash and din of the flymg wheels. We need something to remind us tha the most genuine progress is not that which gives us a stronger grasp of the material world, but that which .fts us to h.gher moral levels, enriches the inner lie and enlarges our sp.ri.ual being. The lesson we need most of all to learn is, that the railway, the st^am dnven ocean-ranger, and power-loom are Ll .Z^ only when moral earnestness and Christian charity oHc .hrough them all for ends that bring happine to m . and glory to God ; and that if they become mere y nunis.ers to human greed, or instrumen Tf cruelty and u,just,ce to our brothers, they will prove not bless,„8s, but curses. We need to be constantly -n..nded that there is a power higher ,ha„ tha ' I' OUR mother-aSe. '433 # fteam, nobler than mechanic force -- the ^ight of Christian love ; and that man has that within him which is more - -ecious than all the treasures of earth. Turning from these busy factories and roaring fur- naces, we must fix our eyes mor# steadil^ on that humanity that is now suffering and toiling and sin, ning/and feci that here are higher interests than*those of capital, and problems waiting for solution more im- portant than any that science or commerce has yet > presentou. How to elevate, civilise, and save these sunken classes, these savages of civilisation— how to deal with our pauperism and crime, and with the mul- titudes who are now hovering on the verge of both, and painfully, but nobly, struggling to keep out; of the devouring whiripool,— that is the great problem for our a|e to solve, and one calling for all the intel- lect -nd virtue of the times. To recUim the^e fallen brothers, to humanise these outcasts, to get them out of this living ^eath, and to prevent the vast multi- tudes who are drifting towards this maelstrom from being drawn in,— this is a task for statesmen, philo- sophers, divines, and philanthropists. The problem, too, is pressing for a speedy solution, and cannot be ignored. These " dangerous classes " may precipitate themselves on the wealthy governing class, and. in the volcanic throes of a social revolution, modern society may speedily be reduced to chaos. These foul plague-spots must be healed, or death will be the :' t 434 oVr Af other-age. 'i ill result. One cheering sign is that the disease is known, and the causes of it are getting investigated. It is now seen not to be contu;cd to the great manufactur- ing cities, but that every town, every village, lurnishes its cases in greafter or less proportions. Even the colonies, as we know here by bitter experience, are getting more deeply tainted. Republican America, with all her unoccupied lands and immense prosper- ity, feels already pauperism and crime gnawing at her vitals : — " Slowly comes a hur^jry people, as a lion creeping nigher." This is the danger that menaces our civilisation — this hungry, ignorant, hopeless people ; those helpless dumb millions weltering in a gulf that is daily widen- ing, and if not fi'.lcd up will one day swallow all. I think most thoughtful men are gettirfg to see that this terrible disease of modern society will by no means cure itself; but that if Ict alone it must get worse and worse. The conviction, too, is making way that the modern poor-law, though a great improve- ment on the old arrangement, is no cure, but only a temporary expedient, necessary for the moment, to save human beings from death by hunger; but cal- culated, in the end, to perpetuate or increase the evil. It is not a very cheering spectacle when, in the words of Carlyle, " British liberty, shuddering to interfere with the rights of capital, takes six or eight millions of money annually to feed the idle labourer whom it OUR MOTHER-AGE. 435 dare not employ." The great doctrine, too, that " to buy m the cheapest market and sell in the dearest " and, for the rest, to rely on ' unlimited competition/' IS getting to be r.spected as not embodying the gos- pel by which our era is to work out its deliverance In fact, wise n.en sec that there can be no one remedv -no panacea for expelling the complicated diseases of society. To reach the seat of the disease, '^^ is now plam the remc .r ^u ;t be mainly moral in its nature • though, hand . .and with this, physical improvement must be carried on. Miir tration to the sou.s of men must be accompanied by ministration to tl.'eir bodies The gospel of pur. air, personal cleanliness, and wholesome dwelhngs, must be preached and practised along with that higher gospel that orings healing and cleansing to the soul. Practical Christianity in the heart, flowing out into action, will proclaim and carr. out both. This was the method adopted by the worid's Redeemer-not teaching alone-not help br the sin-sick soul alone, but also for the weaknes. .nd wantc of the body. The paralytic He healed-the leper He clcansed-the demoniac He delivered-the sick He restored. Thus, too, must we vanquish ih. worid's evils, soothe humanity's sorrows, by removing the foul, unwholesome conditions in which our suffer- ing brothers are plunged : while at the same time v.e address ourselves to their immortal part. We shall err and fail, if we ignore the fact that man is an incar- 436 067? MOTHER-AGE. tf ^ |i nate spirit, and that thi« spirit can often be approached only through outward and material conditions. The noblest and most hopeful charities now at work among the sunken masses, are those which follow out the Saviour's plan of comfort and relief for the body, and instruction for the soul ; which teaches the poor how to help themselves, to assert their own manhood, and support themselves by the labour of their own hands. This is what we want— Christianity, in its beauty and power, for the heart ; and education, in the spirit of the gospel, to give light and guidance to these dark bewildered millions. These must be the main appliances ; but with these other remedies will be combined. Labour, surely, might be better orga- nised than at present ; the relation between employer and employed might be made more kindly whole- some and just— might havc more confidence on both sides infused into it. Our horrible mammon-worship might be abated ; human energies might be directed to nobler ends by nobler methods. Emigration from old and over-crowded communities, where men are choking one another, as in the Black Hole of Calcutta, might be organised on a grand scale ; and instead of being left, as now, to blind chance, or the prompting of interested knaves and fools, and the feebleness of unguided individual effort, men might be led out, under wise ana kind " capiains of industry," to culti- vate the unoccupied plains and fertile savannas of OUR MOTHER- AGE. 437 the West and East. The future will, doubtless, evolve projects of this nature, for the removal of existing evils. And when education is felt to be the birth- right of every human being; and when religion be- comes the great working power of human society animating to duty, and nerving to effort and self- denial, then may the poet s vision become a reality,- " For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the wodd. and all the wonder that woula be • Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. ' Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales, T:l the war drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle flags were furl'd In the parhament of man. the federation of the world- And the kirdly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law." I have only a word or two to say, inclosing, on the hterature of our age. That literature is becoming more and more a mighty power in society, is evident enough ; and this is but the natural result of intellec- tual, social, and moral advance. In fact, the influence that one man of genuine power can now wield by his pen-the omnipotence of thought when directed by genius, are among the most cheering signs of the times, and give most glorious promise for the future The vast increase in our current literature is proof of a vastly widened circle of readers ; and shews how extensively mind has become awakened among the great masses of our population. Very cheering, too, IS the growing tendency to cheapen wholesome htera- ture, so as to bring it within the reach of all clacses 438 OC/R MOTHER-AGE. This will help to lift the working classes above animal indulgences and brutalising pleasures, elevating them in the scale of being, and helping to give the man a mastery over the animal. The quality of our litera- ture, too, is another proof of progress. Take a peri- odical of the oresent day and compare it with a similar prciuction of fifty years ago, and what an immense improvement is discernible— what freedom, depth, and power, in handling the subject— what enlarged and enlightened views compared with those that formerly prevailed. Morally, as well as intellec- tually, the productions of literature are of a higher type. Our reviews and magazines number among their contributors sctT^e of the ablest writers of the day; and, for ^he most part, fairly and honestly instruct the public taste. Our fictitious literature has assumed a high place, and, on the whole, is exerting a healthful influence, making us at once wiser and happier, more charitable, tolerant, and loving. Rarely, if ever, does impurity now sully its pages ; for the most part, its influence is entirely on the side of virtue and good morals. And what an immense audience our writers of fiction have now obtained ; what a congregation do these " week-day preachers " constantly address. With what fine creat-ons they have peopled the fairy realms of fancy! Like friends and brothers, they comf to us in our lonely hours, to cheer and brighten our daily life, OJJR MOTHER-ACE. 439 ^ ♦' That the night may be fill'd with music, And the cares that infest the day, May fold their tente like the Arabs, And as silently steal away." Then consider our newspaper press— the greatest educator of the day. What a different thing it is from the days of old, and how -nighty its influence! How brilliant the talent it exhibits ! How fearlessly it aims its blows, even against the most exalted per- sonages, when guilty of wrong-doing ! What a won- derful world-history the daily paper presents, to be enjoyed with the morning meal. In fact, here are the materials out of which future Macaulays will construct history. On the whole, the great stream of news- paper literature is bearing blessi gs on its bosom: the immoral portion of it is getting weaker and dis- appearing ; the healthful and elevating is commanding a wider influence. The weekly newspaper press has now representatives of the highest excellence, and the superior quality of the writing, in the thoughtful and often profound essays on current topics contained in their columns, indicates at once the genuine power and culture of the contributors, and the growing taste for literary excellence among those whom they address. The conclusion of the whole matter, then, is— that human progress is a great reality, not a dream of enthusiasm ; that nobler manners, purer laws, juster and truer thoughts, are making way; and that, how- SSi / / y^440 c>t/y? MOTHER-AGE. f- ever slowly, man is really rising to a loftier place in God's universe— to a nobler life and a higher blessed- ness. We are yet far enough from the best, but we cai; point to substantial, undeniable gains— to solid improvements. Witii Bacon, we hold that these are "the old times;" for earth and man are older now than they ever were ; and as the vegetable soil is an accumulation from the riches of former creations, so the life of humanity now contains the best life and fruition of the past, along with a fresh vitality of its own. I have boundless faith in our modern progress, because it originated in our Divine Christianity, and »s upheld by that faith in God and man, and that chanty, kindled by the gospel of Christ, which seek to clasp the wide world in the arm. of their mercy. The impulse to which we owe all real progress has been imparted by that religion which recognises the dignity, sanctity, and worth of the human soul, and beholds in every man, however depraved and fallen, a priceless jewel, for the recovery of which angels are' solicitous, and for the redemption of which the Saviour died. This is the great truth that gives energy to the beautiful philanthropy that is the glory of our age, and sends it forth on its mission among the guilt and misery, the wrongs and injustice, the darkest depravities of our race, to search out the degraded outcast, the poor struggling victims of poverty and sin, to lift from the d.ist and restore the m^ OUR MOTHER-AGE. 441 Children of our Father in heaven. And have we not reason to rejoice and look to the future with hope, when we see in our great cities the doleful regions of poverty, vice, and crime becoming girdled round by the loveliest Christian charities; the church, the ragged school, the district mission, the clothing club, the savings-bank, springing up in the very hot-beds of iniquity, that have hitherto been the shame of our civilisation ? Gentle and loving hands are stretched out to help the fallen ; and by wise guidance and attention to the body as well as the soul, to make them self-helpful and self-respecting. Let us hope that these noble efforts, prompted and sustained by Christian motives, will yet make these moral deserts " rejoice and blossom like the rose." LECTURE THE TENTH. KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. The text of this discourse, I am bound to admit, is c'istressingly commonplace. For the last two hundred years or more, this phrase, " Knowledge is power," has been bandied about. Scholars of the higuest rank have quoted the famous saying, and placed it as a motto on their title-page ; and philosophers, as they ascended the steeps of science, have inscribed it on their banner. In our own day, however, this highly-respected aphorism has ceased to obtain cur- rency in the high.- circles of literature. It has, in fact, to some extent lost caste, and become vulgar- ised. From a great truth it has passed into a truism. The very schoolmaster has got ii for a copy-line, and embodied it among the choice moral maxims that his penmanship sets before the eyes of the rising genera- - (fir'^ ' 'm^^m Ss; -^9^ ;-^ KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 443 tion. People have become so bored with this stereo- typed phrase, that they are inclined to vote it a nui- sance that must be abolished. Even this is not the worst. Ever since the aphorism has got into circula- tion, it has passed current under the name of Bacon. All the world agreed in attributing the pithy saying to this great philosopher, and no doubt was suggested as to its authorship. Eminent scholars have quoted it with the venerable name of Bacon attached. Sir Archibald Alison, in the new series of his " History of Europe," does so ; and many a better read man has done the same thing before. In Sir E. B. Lyt- ton's " My Novel," the world is amusingly proved to have been hoaxed in believing the saying to have come from the pen of Bacon. Bulwer makes the sage Ricabocca exclaim indignantly, " Bacon make such aa aphorism ! The last man in the world to have said anything so pert and so shallow." Then he proceeds to assail it fiercely ; and having turned it inside out, he shakes it with contempt in the face of the community ; shewing that it must be understood with many limitations, if it has any truth at all ; and that, in its common acceptation, it is worthless. Ring- ing it hard, he finds it to be base coin, falsely bearing the superscription of Bacon, and he deliberately nails it to the counter. Thus, you see, the reputation of my text is not merely cracked, but absolutely rent asunder. It has been legally convicted of obtainin- 444 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. respect under false pretences. The words are really not Bacon's. They occur, I believe, in the index to some t . iition of his works ; but, in all prob- ?i fit;- ♦; author of them was some unknown editor, o- nameless bookseller's hack, to whom the task of making an index had been consigned. Altogether, the case is a str:!<;nr illustration how easy it is to im- pose on the world ; but it also reminds us that in the end the impostor is sure to be detected. After all, I am inclined to think that there is some genuine worth, and a real body of truth, in a saying that has been current so long, and th^t has gained And kept the ear of the world for such a length of time. Though Bacon did not write it, still men con- versant with his writings felt that it expressed, forcibly and clearly, the subtance of much that he wrote, and, without examination, let it pass current under his' name, as not unworthy the profoundest of modem thinkers. With all proper deference, then, to so great an authority as Bulwer, who has pointed out the mis- take under which the world was labouring, we may venture to say that, though Bacon did not write it, yet he " might, could, would, or should" have written it. While we rectify the blunder as to its author- ship, let us not rush to the extreme of discarding it as worthless. The words, I think, embody cor- rectly a great and valuable truth ; and rightly under- stood, with proper reservations, and connected with I ^^ KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 445 co-ordinate truths, are still worthy of respect and attention. Let us see in what sense it is everlast- ingly true that " knowledge is power." It frequently saves a world of mistakes and mis- apprehension to define clearly the terms we use. I begin, therefore, by a definition of the word " know- ledge." It is the peculiar distinction and glory of man that he is gifted with reason-that ray from the Divine Intelligence. In the exercise of this power, he can look abroad upon the universe and observe and classify what he perceives around him ; he can mark individual objects and occurrences, and from these deduce general laws, and thus rise to first prin- ciples. He can treasure up his attainments, work them into new combinations, and record his obser- vations. All this he does, in virtue of that intellec- tual power with which the Creator has gifted him. Just in the same way that the eye is fitted to receive the rays of light, and to tr.- mit a picture of external objects to the seat of sensation, so is the mind of man fitted to observe and comprehend the outward uni- verse. It is not more certain that the eye is adapted to light, than that the mind is adapted to the com- prehension of God's creation. Here, on the one hand, IS the glorious universe spread around us; here, on the other hand, is the intellect in which it is to be niirrored in its shadows and sunshine. The Creator has thus expressly formed the mind of m4n for fhe 446 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. comprehension of His wonderful works — for the ac- quisition of truth— that is, for the perception of facts as they are. The human intellect is the great trutl- organ ; realities, as they exist, are the objects of its study ; and knowledge is the result of its acquaint- ance with the things to which it is related. You will at once see that knowledge, in chis broad and philo- sophic sense, embraces the study of the two worlds of matter and mind. All possible subjects of human thought belong either to the material or spiritual dt- pai cment of existence. A knowledge of matter em- braces an acquaintance with its laws, properties, and ' relations — with its modes of actio . <;nd the re-'alts of its combinations. This is science in the widest sense of the term, and it has for its object the whole physi- cal creation. The knowledge of mind, again, includes within its wide sweep God, the Supreme Intelligence, the mental and moral faculties of man, his position, destiny, and duties, and his doings during the past, as recorded in the pages of history. These, then, are the objects of knowledge in the most extended sense, and it is obvious that no created intelligence could become perfectly acquainted with the whole. Know- ledge, perfect and unlimited, belongs only to the In- finite Mind, who created the whole, and therefore com- prehends every part and every relation. The know- ledge even of the highest created intelligence must be limited, and admit of continual advancement. The t KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 447 most exalted of the angelic beings, to wh.se pene- trating, fa- gi.^,i .ng intellect many worlds-nay per- haps, tl, e who'., of that strip of creation on which' man P..2S w • turns the telescope to the h> ivens— maybe ma.. ..• of intimate knowledge, could never exhaust .: .vrorks of the Creator, but throughout etermty will find enou^.i to employ all his soaring faculties. It is but the most insignificant fraction of creation that the mightiest mind on earth can know • and even that little is known but ia part The lof-' tiest intellect therefore, well aware how small a pro- portion the known bears to the unknown, will ever be the humblest. At the close of a long life spent in the study of nature's profoundest mysteries. Newton said " I feel that I am but like a child who has been amus- mg himself by collecting a few bright shells along the sea-shore-the great ocean of truth still lies undis- covered before me." A memorable utterance-worthy of the profound and reverential intellect that did so much to extend the boundaries of knowledge. But though our knowledge is necessarily limited, here is our encouragement-it xs, progressive. We cannot here know the whole, or even any portion, perfectly; but we can lay the foundation on which a lofty super- structure can be reared afterwards ; we can become acquainted with some portion of the works of the Infinite Mind ; we can enter on that glorious career of study for which the Creator designed all His intel- .^ - "V- 448 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. ligent creatures — a study of that universe which is a reahsation of His own thought. It is this that gives to the acquisition of knowledge all its dignity, gran- deur, and importance ; that it i ^ the employment God designed for man when He g.fted him with reason, and " made him but a little lower than the angels : " that in studying the universe, he is labouring to com- prehend the thoughts and works of the Father of all, from who«e creative hand all comes into existence ; and that thus he is fulfilling his destiny, pcrl'ecting his nature, and rising in the scale of being nearer and nearer to the soaring cherubim. It is this that throws ' a halo of glory around xnan's path, and gives import- ance to his feeble and imperfect efforts in the acqui- sition of knowledge ; that every step is leading him onward and upward in the scale of being, and devel- oping his powers ; and that when he here sits down to acquire the principles of any science, or to engage in any investigation, he is conquering a portion of the limitless kingdom that has been assigned him ; that he is coming nearer to the source of all know- ledge, and entering on the employment of eternity. Viewed in this light, and pursu .d with such a pur- pose, knowledge is sacred, and the pursuit of it a solemn duty. In the highest and noblest sense, there- fore, knowledge is power, as it raises man in the scale of being, and develops those exalted faculties with which his Creator has endowed him. "^ Mr-'- mi ls- - ^ -^ "15^-" ^-^^-'^^i^^W^J^lS.^-:- (BWv KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 449 Let us advance to another view of the matter If we consider the condition of man, as he has been placed on earth, „e see at once that wanting know- ledge, m the sense in which I have defined it, he is powerful and victorious. He finds himself placed in the m,dst of a vast theatre, with the stupendous powers of nature at work around him. He Les " first, m stupid astonishment, at the working :f these forces, wh.ch he can neither arrest nor co,f.rol. h" But that seemmgly barren earth has wondrous capa- t.l.ty and ,t needs but that man should acquire a knowledge of its capabilities, in order to render the 30.1 productive by his labour, clothe the face of ..ature n beauty, "scatter plenty oer a smiling land," and m,ke the desert rejoice and blossom as the rose," creation "l 'T'^'^^ ''"'''' "^ '-^ of creafon, Ig„o«„t, he is a rude, helpless savage He cannot, indeed cntrnl fl.. • l. natrr. H ^ ""^^^y "S'^ndes of na . re. He cannot arrest the majestic river as it oils ,ts torrents to the ocean; but he can make it s sen-ant to water his fields, to drive his machinery, or float h,s merchandise. He cannot dry „p the ocean, nor check its tides, nor chain its winds' but he can launch the strong-knit bark, and spread his canvas to the breeze ; or calling to his aid fhe giant 2 F ■^ "' ■^a^^ifc " S^^ ^^'^ ■^^ ^f-^. 450 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. power of steam, he can almost defy the force of wind and wave, in his stately ocean-ranger, that " walks the Waters like a thing of life." He began by floating some little lake-canoe constructed of bark, or by scooping out a boat from a tree with his stone hatchet ; and after many centuries of progress, he finds himself " lord of the mighty sea." And see how he has tamed the lower animals, and made them his servants ! Mark how his tool-bearing hand has bridged the river, constructed the road, covered the earth with cities and palaces, and converted the tangled forest and the dismal swamp into the lovely "landscape. Leaving earth, he has pierced the depths of the dark-blue heavens, numbered the stars, weighed the planets, tracked the comet's flaming course, gauged the depths of the milky way, resolved the mysterious nebulae, — the cloud-land of creation, — and read off nature's mighty laws in the "starry scriptures of the skies." All this, man— the in- tellectual monad — the only atom of organic life on earth that can grapple with the enigma of the universe — has done in virtue of that capability of acquiring knowledge with which his Creator has gifted him. When I look at man's achievements, I cannot but think with awe of the vast powers with which he has been intrusted — of the glorious nature he possesses. Is there not within him a spark of the Divinity } Though clay, he is not all clay ; but a KNOWLL^ GE IS POWER. 45 j wondrous union of the material and spiritual-of the mortal and immortal. It is such views of man as these that add force to the voice of that revelation which unveils his immortality. It is the sug^e n of a deathless existence, to v/hich this life is but the introduction, that lends solemnity to his studies, and anxiety to his pantings after that knowledge which iias a bearing on the seen and the unseen Nothing gives us a more exalted idea of the triumphs over the material worid which man has achieved by means of knowledge, than to contrast the present era with some of its predecessors. Let me present you with a single illustration. In the year 1754 the following advertisement appeared in the only newspaper Edinburgh could then boast of the Courant: — ' "The Edinburgh stage-coach, for the better ac- commodation of passengers, will be altered to a i.ew genteel, two-end glass coach-machine, hung on steei spnngs, exceeding light and easy, ,o go to London m ten days in summer and f^dve in winter -to set out the first Tuesday in March, and continue it from Hosea Eastgate's, the Coach and Horses, in Dean Street, oho, London, and f„>m John SommervilleV m the Can„.,gate, Edinburgh, every other Tuesday ■ and meet at Burrowbridge on Saturday night, and set ,t from thence on Monday mor,:ing, and get to London and Edinburgh on Friday. Passengers to m =:^a.: W^M^^SM^M "^ ^iS^:"' 452 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. pay as usual. Performed, if God permits, by your dutiful servant, HoSEA Eastgate." Thus you see, according to this announcement, honest Hosea, a cei.tury ago, started his "two-end glass coach-machine" on Tuesday morning from Edinburgh, and on the following Friday week, if no break-down took place, or no untoward mishap by highwaymen occurred on the way, his passengers were set down, with many an aching joint, I fear, in Dean Street, Soho, London. Travellers had ample time to look around them in those easy-going times, and enjoy the beauties of the landscape. The ' express train whirls passengers over the sam.e dis- tance now in ten hours, so :hat you may breakfast in Edinburgh and be in time for a late dinner in London ; and, if i-,o inclined, you may enjoy a com- fortable nap by the way. No suffering from jolts now — no fear of being called upon by a highway- man to " stand and deliver." What makes the dif- ference between 1754 and 1 864.' The expansion of that " knowledge which is power." Let me bring before you another view of the sub- ject. It is quite possible to prove that the greater the amount of human knowledge, the greater becomes man's power of lessening the evils that press upon him, and consequently of adding to his happiness. We have seen that knowledge means an acquaintance with some portions of the worlds of matter and mind. ■■.■■Yt'^ -w^^ ■ .ta---.,- gra--^'i:^»a-':;--- --: '¥.^i^:.:\^m4^ KNOWLEDGE /S POWER. 453 Even a slender amount of knowledge shews us that we are placed under a great system of law-that both the material and moral worlds are regulated by an unvao'ing code of laws. By attaehing a penalty, more or less severe, to the violation of these laws, the Creator has intimated that they are the expres- sion of H,s will, and that He requires obedience to them on our part. If we transgress them, we are pun,shed ; if we obey, we are rewarded. So that our happmess lies in obedienee; our misery is eaused by d.sobed.enee to moral and material laws. We can- not, however, obey laws of which we are ignorant Moreover, these laws are written, not in statute-books, but m the majestic volume of nature; and must be .-tud,ed. often painfully deciphered, and thoroughly understood, by the exercise of our rational powers Hence, to place ourselves in harmony with the uni- verse, and in intelligent obedience to the requirements of our Creator, we must first understand these laws- and the more perfectly we comprehend ti-em, the more power we shall possess to avoid miserv and secure happiness. Knowledge, therefore, is directly conducive to our wellbeing; ignorance will lead us to transgress in a thousand instances. Thus for ex ample, there are certain laws of our bodily constitu- tion, on the observance of which health depends If we breathe a polluted atmosphere, if we neglect cleanhness, or fail to secure a due amount of bodily 'tf I 454 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. exercise, we sow the seeds of disease, and we must suffer. Gluttony and drunkenness are followed by their appoint'^d penalties. If a nation permits a por- tion of its people to sink into a state of savage bru- tality, and to huddle tc ^ether in dens of filth and wretchedness, in the courts and lanes of great cities, where the sun never shines, and the sweet breath of heaven never blows— where the dark, polluted dwelling is a type of the darkened, polluted soul, —inevitably the deadly typhus and cholera sweep down, vindicating Heaven's outraged laws, and for- cibly reminding the rich and educated, by spread- ing these diseases among themselves, from the in- fected districts, that these savages of civilisation are their brothers, and that they have been criminally negligent of their duties towards them. Science steps in, and points to the physical law that has been violated, and demonstrates that the disease is no chance production— no mystenous visitation, and that the abomination must be removed before the punishment will cease. The root of the evil is thus laid bare; the connexion between the punishment and the transgiession is made clear , and so far know- ledge exerts a beneficent influence. Though it cannot root out human selfishness, yet it can forcibly appeal to self-interest ; and by shewing the true remedy, it can indirectly arouse benevolent effort, and shame men out of their greed and hard-heartedness. Al- KNO W LEDGE IS PO WER. 45 5 ready many a disease that was once considered the mysterious judgment of an angry God, has been removed, when advancing knowledge discovered it to be the result of a flagrant transgression of some physical law. Ignorance of any law is never in the order of nature admitted as a plea or apology for transgression. Our ancestors were, from ignorance, sufferers from frightful diseases that are now entirely unknown. Small-pox was once the scourge of the race, carrying off many thousands of victims annually, and disfiguring for life where it did not kill. Vac- cination has almost delivered us from the plague. Cleanliness and improved modes of life have freed us from many other awful diseases. Sanita .cicr.cc has shewn what are the producing causes of fever, ague, consumption, cholera ; it has mapped the chosen homes of pestilence in our great cities ; and when the cause is known, benevolence and self-interest will rush to the rescue. Medical science, though it is far enough from perfection, has done much to mitigate human woe. The amputation of a limb was once a fearful operation, the effusion of blood being stopped by searing the raw surface with red-hot irons ; and with the shrieks of the unhappy sufferers, the hissing of human flesh, and the groans of the dying, an hospital was an awful place in the olden time. . Now the patient is chloroformed, and after awaking from a gentle slumber, he finds the diseased member gone. 456 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. ^ And, then, what alleviations of suffering does medicine afford— what gentle anodynes of pain and restorers of the exhausted springs of life ! Suppose as great an advance to be made during the next fifty years as during the past half-century in such discoveries, and how many of "the ills that flesh is still heir to" may be swept away! Consumption may be almost un- known, or as rare as small-pox is now ; typhus anni- hilated ; cholera banished to its native jungle ; and man, living more in accordance with the laws of his physical nature, will rise in the scale of being, as he becomes free from the distressing evils that now press upon him. To understand and obey the material laws, will be an important step towards a recognition of the great moral laws, which are no less real and certain in their operation. " So man, by painful ages taught, Will build at last on truthful thought, And wisdom won from sorrow." The value of knowledge, in adding to human hap- piness and removing human woes, thus becomes more and more e^ .Jent. No truth can long remain barren or useless ; in some shape it will be found conducive to man's wellbeing. The results of a new discovery we can never foresee ; they may prove to be worid- wide, and lasting as time. The foolish old alchy- mists spent many a long year searching for the philosopher's stone, that was to transmute all metals KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 457 into gold. In their visionary search, however, they stumbled on certain great facts that laid the founda- tion of our modern chemistry, from which we are reapmg rich fruits to-day. What a revolution for the better, m our arts and manufactures, it has brought about ! What a reduction in the expense of produc- tion, thus bringing comforts and enjoyments within the reach of the million ! Chemistry has turned her keen gaze on the process of vegetation, analysed the composition of soils, and shewn that, by the applica- tion of science to agriculture, the productions of the earth may be increased manifold, and food provided for the multiplying populations of the worid She gathers up the sweepings of flax and cotton mills, and other vile, worthless rags, and surpasses the dreams of the alchymist, by transmuting them into paper on which men's thoughts are stamped, and fluttered over the worid. More wonderful still-she sets to work on an Irish bog, and applying her magic retort, she ex- tracts from it an inflammable substance known as Paraffine: and from the unsightly black bog produces snow-white candles, fit for the halls of nobles. Some centuries ago, a thoughtful Italian philosopher dis- covered that a certain piece of ore, dug out of the bowels of the earth, had the property of pointing out the unseen north, and ever trembled faithful to the Pole. That little pieceof seemingly worthless ore has made the pathless deep a highway for the nations of 458 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. the earth ; in the darkest night it guides the mariner out on ocean's heaving breast. By its aid the Cape of Storms was doubled, America and Australia dis- covered, the produce of the glowing East and the riches of the West brought to our doors ; and man- kind linked in a great brotherhood of interests. The whole creation is laid under contribution for the sup- ply of our wants. The poorest have now luxuries that once monarchs could not command. On our break- fast-tables we have the tea of China, the coffee of Turkey, the sugar of the East or West Indies. The cotton -that clothes us was grown in America or ' Egypt— the wool perhaps in Australia— the furs that exclude the winter's cold came from the icy north. The wood of which our household furniture is made, grew where "the feathery palm-trees rise." All these advantages and comforts we can trace to the man who first poised the trembling needle on its pivot. Then think of the results that are flowing from the application of steam-power to machinery. We can now traverse the land with eagle swiftn«ss ; we can ride the ocean in the teeth of the storm ; we can cross the mighty Atlantic in eight or ten days. India is every year coming nearer to England ; the isthmus of the Americas is pierced by a railroad, and will speedily be the great highway to Australia, Cali- fornia, and the Isles of the Pacific. Our untiring ser- vant, steam, is gradually taking all the heavy toil off KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 459 our shoulders— carding, spinning, weaving for us— forming our tools and working our mines. So true is it, to whatever department of nature we turn, that knowledge is power. But Ihere is a higher inquiry. What are likely to be the moral results of all these physical improvements ? Is the tendency of increasing knowledge favourable to the development of man's moral and religious nature > I think it is impossible to doubt that in arranging external nature, so that man's genius can strike out these great discoveries, the Creator designed to free man from grinding toil— to save him from being de- graded and crushed by heavy labour ; and thus to secure for him leisure to cultivate his intellectual nature in the pursuit of knowledge, and his moral nature in the practice of virtue. Wc infer, therefore, that the great discoveries of our nineteenth century have a moral purpose. Their ultimate result will be to raise man above the condition of a mere "hewer of wood and drawer of water ;" and to secure a clear sttoge for the development of his higher nature, under the teachings of science and the benign influence of Christianity. I am quite aware that such results are far enough from being yet attained. Among a limited class, no doubt, there has been some abridg- ment of the hours of labour, and there is a prospect of still farther improvement in this direction. But with the masses, in the over-crowded countries of mv^M^^^^^*:'^m^^^>m^ j.^'j^Mmm'^^mM^ ;^-!s^p!^i^sm m s^ -. ■e^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A r^ #^v \\ r^ ^ They give us, let us suppose, more to eat and diink, gayer clothing and more luxurious accommodation. But suppose they ■j'^^m KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 461 do-what then ? Is man, that wondrous piece of workmanship, a mere "patent digester," sent into the world for no higher purpose than to transmute animal and vegetable substances into human nature • and ,s it enough for him that his stall be well sup- plied? Or is he a mere clothes-horse, and the purpose of existence to deck his little person, and strut admiringly before Lhe looking-glass ? If steam and the electric telegraph did nothing more than enable Dives to increase his roll of bank-notes, and add house to house and acre to acre, their results would be poor indeed. Or if they only furnished more amusement, or enlarged the range of our material enjoyments, we need not boast very highly of our attainments. But just because we believe that the .ipread of knowledge makes men better as well as wiser-because we hold that the intellect is so closely connected with the moral nature, that as you cultivate the one you favourably influence the other -because we see that the reception of knowledge mto the mind has a purifying and elevating ten- dency,_we regard knowledge as a moral power. We see that it raises man above the condition of the animal ; gives him tastes for something better than sensual indulgence, and saves him from sinking into the condition of the brute. To impart to a man the mere power of reading, is to give him a source of enjoyment that he had not before; it is to introduce 462 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. him to the pleasures of the mind ; to awaken and stir the intellectual fire of !iis nature ; so that, at least, he is far less likely to become the slave of appetite and passion, or the victim of depraved and vicious habits. / We know, too, that conscience iiself requires the aid / of an enlightened intellect to preserve it from error. What but the want of knowledge gave rise to that superstition which maintained such a long and dreary reign over the world, and which is yet banished from but a small portion of the earth.' To banish superstition there is but one way — to let in light, and the darkness will disappear. Ignorance ii neither the mother of true devotion, nor yet its friend or helper. The religion that shrinks from the light and dreads investigation, and would keep its votaries in ignorance, is unworthy of the name, and must perish as the inevitable tide of knowledge rolls in. Looking at all these considerations, it seems to me little less than a libel on Him from whom all knowledge comes, to deny the moral tendency of knowledge. It is to impeach His infinitely wise arrangements, and to assert that the end for which He has placed man on earth is not conducive to his highest and best interests. Let no man, then, dread the spread of knowledge. Let not the Chris- tian suppose that it can shake the foundations of his faith, or lessen his reverence for religion. Let not the statesman suppose that it can en- jafeSB'gaaai afc.'gagzra KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 463 danger the stability of government to enlighten the people. In their ignorance alone is real danger to be apprehended. Let not the man of rank sup- pose that the spread of knowledge among the lower orders would unfit them for their station in hfe or render them less industrious. Let us ever cherish it, as one of our dearest beliefs, that the direct tendency of all true knowledge is to remove the evils that are oppressing man, and to increase and multiply the good that is in the world. And bearing in mind that all these discoveries on which we have been dwelling have a bearing directly or indirectly on man's intellectual and, moral n->ture, as well as his religious interests, we may welcome them as Heaven- sent gifts— as portions of a Divine plan that is ever unfolding. Let ;.ne refer you to one other benefit flowing from knowledge-one that is less palpable, and attracts less attention, but is no less real than those I have named. I mean the mental pleasure which it brings. ) Suppose no material benefits reached us by know- ledge, such is the pure, elevating mental enjoyment which ever accompanies the discovery of truth, that this alone would be a sufficient inducement, and an ample reward for the study of nature. Man's mind is so constituted, that knowledge is its natural and necessary food, which it receives with a keen relish and enjoyment. Every new fact, every fresh dis- 464 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. covery, is thus welcomed for its own sake, indepen- dent altogether of its consequences. The solitary mathematician, in his dreamy abstractions, pursuing, in devious and winding calculations, some great prob- lem, tastes a joy that is almost inexpressible when the long-sought truth brightens on his eager gaze, and he exclaims in rapture, with Archimedes of old, " Eureka ! eureka ! "—I have found it ! I have found it ! " All the soul in rapt suspension. All the quivering, palpitating' Chords of life in utmopt tension, With the fervour of invention, With the rapture of creating." It is said that when Sir Isaac Newton approached the grand discovery for which his name is world-re- nowned,— the great secret of the universe, the law of gravitation,— so overpowered was he by his emotions, as he found the proofs becoming clearer, that he was unable to proceed with his calculations, and had to obtain the assistance of a friend to complete them. And just fancy how the eyes of glorious old Galileo must have glistened, how tumultuous r his heart must have throbbed with delight, when he first turned his telescope to the heavens, and obtained a glimpse of the mazy dances of the sky, and got the first deci- sive intimation that the planets are whirling round the central luminary ! And when, in our own day, Galileo's little tube expanded into Rosse's gigantic telescope, enlarging the material universe visible to i\1 .,, ' •■■ — ^ KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 465 nian 125,000,000 times beyond what Herschel's in- struments had maue known, and bringing into view suns and systems whos. existence had been unsus- pected before, could we conceive of the glow of ecstasy with which its constructor first gazed upon the new fields of creation ? When, on pointing it to the dim patch of cloud, called the nebula of the great constellation Orion, on which Herschel and La Place had buait ni a great measure their nebular theory, he found the filmy masses of light resolved into clusters of stars, shining and rolling orbs, suns and centres of systems, thousands in number, evolved, as it were from small dusky spots. What a rapturous sight was that! What an enlargement of our conceptions re- gardmg the grandeur of God's creation ! What for- mer astronomers, owing to the weakness of their tele- scopic powers, concluded to be chaotic matter in the process of being condensed into systen.s of worids undergoing a gradual creative formation. Lord Reese's telescope has shewn to be blazing luminaries, whose immense distance in the depths of space caused them to appear as hazy films of light until this powerful instrument was brought to bear upon them. Thus a loftier anthem has been added to the swelling music of the spheres. These hazes floating through space are now significant. Each speck becomes a galaxy- a throng of roMing activities. Is there not something elevating, enrapturing in such discoveries .> And do 2G urn. m 466 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. N we not all sympathise with the feelings of the astro- nomer who a few years ago achieved one of the noblest triumphs of modern science, in pointing out the quar- ter of the heavens where a new planet would be found — beyond Uranus ; and not only so, but actually weigh- ing its mass and describing the dimensions of its orbit correctly, before the searching eye of the astronomer had singled it out. His feelings must have been akin to those of Newton on unfolding the law of gravita- tion, when his ^Iculations were verified by the dis- covery of the planet Neptune in the exact quarter indicated. Nor is it only the original discoverers of ^reat truths who experience such delight, though they must feel it most intently, but all pure minds to which they obtain admittance will experience some degree of the same pleasure. Let any one sit down and master the principles of modern astronomy, and its sublime revelations will bring him a delight un- dreamt of before ; and as he comprehends something of the great system of the universe, and learns that those twinkling stars are suns, with planets rushing round them — that there is no limit to creation, but the more the telescope's power is increased, the mightier are its revelat'ons — and that our solar system is but a mere atom of creation, — how such discoveries will enlarge his views and elevate his conceptions of the omnipotent Creator ! Or let him turn his gaze upon the earth, and dive into the KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 467 wonders of geology, and re'd the history of our globe as written in the stony tablets underneath our feet ; let him s^udy the remains of those gigantic, un- couth forms that once trod its surface, before man's day, anJ try to imagine the -norr.ious periods of time occupied in the formation of its strata, and how start- ling, as well as enrapturing, will he find such dis- closures. Talk of the pleasures of imagination! Did this faculty ever teii .,s anything half so wonder- ful as the revelaf:ons of science ? Who could sur- mise beforehand chat the light which is seen on the back of a cat, when gently rubbed in a frosty even- :ng, IS the same substance as darts from the thunder- cloud, in the lightning's lurid glare, irresistible in its might-that it is identical with light, heat, and mag- netism-nay, that in all probability it produces the phenomena of life, circulates the blood, digests the food, and conveys the command of the will to the muscles? All this, science shews that electricity accomplishes, besides carrying on colossal changes in our globe. Or, to take another example, did ever Eastern story tell us such a wondrous tale as that we find in the pages of science, regarding the circulation of matter } Not a particle of matter can ever be lost or destroyed ; it is continually passing into new com- binations, but is indestructible. The atom that this moment is glittering in the rainbow, will the next feed the fainting rose, and form part of its substance • f-/f^ J. I if hiS. II •iil 468 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. and tht rose will die, that its particles may live in another form. Nor less fitted to arrest the attention, and gratify curiosity, is the recent discovery of the dynamical theory of heat, which shews that the creation or destruction of energy is just as impossible as the creation or destruction of matter itself Permit me now to draw this address to a close, by mentioning one or two limitations with which you should receive these statements in reference to know- ledge. The attainment of knowledge is not the highest purpose of existence. It is but a means, after all, to enable us to reach a higher and nobler end. We are not sent into the world merely to be- come students or scholars, but to be and to act — to do the work appointed us manfully and well. We are to know, in order to be able to act rightly. While ignorant, we neither understand our work, nor how to set about it; we are but blind Cyclops groping round our cave, with huge strength, but no light to guide us. Knov/ledge is just like the sun in the heavens, inviting us to noble deeds, and lighting our path. Hence knowledge should ever be pursued under a deep religious purpose, and should be re- garded as a sacred trust — a handmaid to religion, which is man's highest attainment and end. The intellect is but a part of man's nature. He has, be- sides, a conscience, affections, and a capacity for religion; and intellectual culture alone would leave KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 469 these higher departments of his being uncared for. To intellectual we must add, therefore, moral and religious training, if we would educate the whole man. I believe Christianity to be the divinely-appointed instrument for the latter purpose. Still religion, if it be not founded on knowledge, and guided by an instructed intellect, will become superstition, as all history tells us. Many a daric dream of superstition has been swept away by knowledge ; and many more will share the same doom. A clearer and healthier day will beam on man, when these fogs from the swamps of superstition are ail dispersed. Let science and religion go hand in hand— the one the instru- ment, the other the guiding soul ; and then knowledge will indeed become a power, not sought after for low, selfish, or evil ends, but guided by the inspiration ofreligio.i, to work out the highest interests of humanity. ;S< r'r LECTURE THE ELEVENTH. THOMAS HOOD— HIS LIFE AND POETRY. In this working world, where the ordinance of labour is so stern and imperative, there always have been, and always will be, two orders of workers— those who labour with the hand, and those who labour with the head. Both are needed, and both are to be vene- rated. Great have been the achievements of that wondrous instrument, the human hand. All civilisa- tion and progress are but a testimony to its mighty powers. We may truly regard ^t as God's delegated missionary on earth, for without it the world would never have been conquered. Those cunning fingers, which first constructed the rude hut of the savage, in due time built up the Pyramids, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the Gothic cathedral ; wove an iron path- way over broad rivers ; laid down the railway, along which thunders the modem Titan— the hissing loco- THOMAS HOOD. 471 motive. The same instrument struck from the harp its hidden strains of harmony: poised the mariner's trembling needle upon its axis ; pointed the tubes of Galileo to search the depths of space ; spread the sails of Columbus ; wielded the sword with which freedom won her battles; spread out the page on which poet and sage were to inscribe their burning thoughts. Honour to the hand-workers—the men of the hammer, axe, and plough— who have smoothed and fertilised the rude earth ! Who shall dare to de- spise the men of the hard hand and iron sinew .? Not less deserving of honour are the brain-workers —the men of the book and pen— who do the world's thinkings— who beat out, on the mental anvil, the ideas which move and rule mankind— the inventors, discoverers, lawgivers, philosophers, writers, poets of our race. Without the thinking brain to guide it, what could the hand accomplish.? Wanting intel- lectual light to direct them, what useful end could the strokes of labour accomplish .? The hand can only achieve anything great by crystallising ideas, by mak- ing the speculations of the mind material. This great universe itself, with its worlds and seas and stars, its pomp and retinue of splendour, its heavens "fretted with golden fires,»_all was at first a thought in the Divine Mind, and before it took material shape was fashioned in the shrines of Infinite Wisdom. And so of all human workmanship ; time was when each ■ ^8!E.':..w ^^^^-; 472 THOMAS HOOD. part was shaped in the brain of some shrewd thinker; then it took form in iron, wood, or stone. Hand and brain are thus fellow-workers. The one cannot say to the other, " I have no need of you." The priest- hood of labour is in alliance with the priesthood of letters. The poet, who weaves our ballads, songs, and poems; the novelist, who gladdens us with the overflowings of his fancy or humour; the preacher Che moralist, the editor-nay, the lecturer, who talks away h,s little hour, are no less needed than he who smites upon the anvil or wields the axe and .spade. Let us honour, then, our workers in the world of ipind, who give light and guidance to the toiler for the daily bread, who hold up before us those great ideals of beauty and excellence, without which we must sink into mere mechanical drudges; who keep • us in contact with the spiritual realms of thought and imagination, and sweeten the springs of action and emotion ; who come to us, in our lonely hours, when the toils and cares of life are heavy on the heart, and charm us out of our sadness. Above all, let us love our gentle poets, who are hke angels on the ladder that reaches from earth to heaven, bringing us mes- sages from the skies, gladdening and brightening and beautifying our poor earthly life, and lifting us to nobler heights, and conveying to us some whisper- ings from the unseen. It is one of this class that I have undertaken to bring before you-one of our THOMAS HOOD. 473 poetic benefactors, who has left us, in his works, a legacy which the world is now beginning more fully to appreciate. Hardly any of you can be quite strangers to the name of Thomas Hood. That man must be living apart from the world of modern literature whose eyes have never lighted on one of Hood's tenderly sweet creations, or who has never smoothed the wrinkles from his brow over some of those humorous fancies, those grotesque effusions of his comic genuis, or those wonderful word-twistings, which made punning itself respectable and provocative of smiles. He is now some eighteen years in his grave ; but every day his fame is extending. The genuine worth that was in him, as writei and poet, is now better understood. The world is discovering that beneath that thin dis- guise of mockery ana laughter, there was a heart alive to all that was tender and good— a genuine human, loving heart, that throbbed responsive to every woe of humanity, and was keenly alive to the sorrow and mystery of this strange existence. It is now generally admitted that in Hood there was not only the sparkle of wit, but the gold of genius ; and that by the clear glittering stream of his wonder- ful, inexhaustible humour, there lay a fountain of tears that overflowed at the sight of human wretched- ness. He heard not only the gladdening ringing laughter, but also "the still sad music of humanity." 474 THOMAS HOOD. In him was that spirit of love and sympathy which evinces the kindred that all men recognise, and recog- nises the truth of nature beneath all changes, customs, and conventionalities. The poetry of Hood must live and continue to charm, just because it is human- universal in its sweep and melody — because it repro- duces all the feelings of our wayward nature — shewing how man was made to be merry, and how he was made to mourn — entering the soul both on its sunny and gloomy side, and at times expand- n^ the heart with laughter, or chastening \^ with melancholy. Two of Hood's children have given to he world Memorials of the'r father ; and these volumes supply materials from which, it is to be hoped, some duly-qualified writer will construct a life of our poet. It is true no life could be more devoid of stirring incidents. In him there were none of those wild outbursts of passion that lend such an interest to the careers of Byron or Burns. His was a quiet, domestic life, so broken by sickness, that it might be called a long disease. Still, though there is nothing glittering or startling in the life of Hood, there is a deep and touching lesson con- veyed to us in the heroic struggle he maintained with weakness, poverty, illness, and the rude buffetings of the world. Beneath the quiet exterior, we see a real tragedy enacted ; and ir the noble resolution, the cheerful endurance, the gentle acquiescence, we re- THOMAS HOOD. 475 cognise the spirit of the hero, true and brave to the close. All his bodily sufferings, all he endured i;- the weary years when, with shattered health and death constantly looking him in the face, he had to toil like a galley-slave in his profession,-all the rude buffetings of fortune failed to sour his heart, or infuse one drop of gall into the effusions of his pen. It was in London, and in the month of May 1799, that Thomas Hood drew his first breath. His father was a bookseller and publisher, a man of some cul- ture and literary tastes, who was the author of two novels, once rather popular, but now so entirely buried in the literary dust-h.ap of the past, that their very names are forgotten. His father was a Scotchman • his mother English. When Thomas was quite young, the father died, leaving a widow and four children but very slenderly provided for. His only brother perished early by consumption, a disease which after wards carried off his mother and another sister ; so that this deadly malady was an heirloom in the family. It was on the death of this sister that he wrote afterwards the pathetic lines entitled— TH" DEATHBE1>. " We watch'd her breathing through the night. Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wj. ve of life Kept heaving to and fra " So silently wo seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about. 47<5 THOMAS HOOD. As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. •* Our very hopes belied our f.-ars, Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept. And sleeping when she died. • For when the mom came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers. Her quiet eyelids closed— she had Another morn than ours." Not wishing to encroach on the family store, our future poet, at the age of fifteen, was apprenticed to an engraver; and so commenced " hfe in earnest" With the drudgery of this sedentary occupation. At this time he is described by one who knew him as " a singular boy, silent and retired, with much quiet humour, and apparently delicate health." Owing to the state of his health, } .i was speedily compelled to give up engraving, and was sent on a visit to some of his relatives in Dundee, where he made his first ap- pearance in print in one of the local newspapers, and also in the pages of a magazine. What led to this, unless, as he said himself, he " had a dash of ink in his blood," which broke out in a tendency to author- ship, is not stated in the Memorials. He after- •wards described his first literary triumph in the Dun- dee Advertiser and the Dundee Magazine, by saying that the respective editors "published his writings without char^ ing anything for inseriion." In Dundee J^aaSL.. THOMAS HOOD. I ! 477 he remained two years, and returned to London, much improved in health, in 1821. An old friend of his father's was at this time proprietor of a periodical called the London Magazine, and made Hood an offer of the situation of sub-editor, whose main duties were to correct the press and examine papers sent for in serticn. Thus was he fairly launched into the world of literature, and took kindly to the vocation nature had marked out for him. Speedily he became a con- tributor of original papers to the London Magazine— his first attempt being some verses o;i " Hope," the kind genius that wan now cheering his solitude and waving him up the steeps of literature. Soon other papers, chiefly in the humorous vein, followed ; and our young hero adopted fairly a laborious and un- certain profession, in which he must earn his bread by sweat and toil of brain. He was now one of the guild of letters,— a brotherhood which he afterwards described as "master-minds at journey-work; moral magistrates, greatly under-paid ; immortals, without a living ; menders of the human heart, breaking their own ; mighty intellects, without their mite." We naturally ask how it was that Hood, at the age of twenty-one, found himself qualified to write articles for a magazine that numbered among its contributors • such able writers as Charles Lamb, De Quincey, Allan Cunningham, Talfourd, and Hartley Coleridge ? By what training was he fitted, at such an early age, to y ~ 478 THOMAS HOOD. take his place among these eminent authors — to pro- duce a poem such as "Lycus the Centaur," or the humorous "Ode to Dr Kitchener?" To a great ex- tent Hood was self-taught. He received o fair ele- mentary education, and was a tolerable classical scholar. But, as a literary iian, he was self-equipped. In his case, it was fortunate that his training-school was London. Here, "in among the throngs of men," he was thoroughly at home ; and with the multitudin- ous billows of life heaving around him, and rushing and roaring along the stony arteries, he took his first life-lessons. We naturally fancy that the quiet coun- try, with its green fields and bright skies, must be the "meetest nurse for a poetic child;" but some of our greatest poets have been brought up, and have written amid the din and smoke of the great city. Only sup- pose the poetic faculty to exist, and we can readily see how the sights and sounds of the city should de- velop it. Here life appears in its intensest forms; thought is most active ; intelligence most rapid ; the best equipped intellectual workme-- are gathered; mental food, in books and conversanon, most abund- ant. It is in the city that life presents its most ani- mating and its most death-like pictures. Every variety of existence is crowded here; horror and beauty sit side by side; the devout song and the submissive prayer mingle with the shouts of revelry or the curses of profanity. Here benevolence drops THOMAS HOOD. 479 her tears ; and here, too, man preys upon his brother; and helpless, hopeless poverty creeps into its gloomy cell to pine and die. These crowds hurrying cease- lessly along the street3,_each unit a distinct indivi- dual, carrying with him a world of his own, apart from all the others,— what a study they are,— " The mild, the fierce, the stony face." Think of Hood as a delicate, pale-faced boy, roaming through the streets of mighty London, looking with his eager, poetic eyes on its magnificence and misery, its ghastliness and its glory, its wealth and its poverty,' Its bright Regent Street and its black Newgate, its silks and its jewels jostled by " Poverty, hunger, and dirt." Was it not here, in the London streets, reading the epic and tragedy of life in all their grand or gloomy aspects, that he acquired that deep and sympathetic understanding of the life of the poor who are hope- lessly imprisoned in these lanes and alleys, which at length found voice in the immortal " Song of the Shirt," and "The Bridge of Sighs.?" But in books he had another great teacher. The profession of his father brought him early into contact with these greatest of human instructors, and from his boyhood he had a passionate love for books. In one of his latest productions he thus gratefully recorded his obligations to these early companions :—" To litera- 48o THOMAS HOOD. ture I owe something more than earthly welfare. Adrift early in life upon the great waters, if I did not come to shipwreck, it was that, in default of paternal or f.-aternal guidance, I was rescued, like the Ancient Mariner, by guardian spirits, * each one a lovely light,' who stood as beacons to my course. Infirm health and a natural love of reading happily threw me, instead of worse society, into the company of poets, philosophers, and sages — to me good angels and ministers of grace. From these delightful asso- ciates I learned something of the Divine and more of the human religion. They were my interpreters in the House Beautiful of God, and my guides among the Delectable Mountains of Nature. They reformed my prejudices, chas<^ ned my passions, tempered my heart, purified my tastes, elevated my mind, and directed my aspirations. These bright intelligences called my mental world uut of darkness like a hew creation, and gave it 'two great lights,' hope and memory — the past for a moon, and the future for a sun." During Hood's engagement as sub-editor of the London Magazine, he enjoyed occasional intercourse with the leading contributors — Hazlitt, Allan Cun- ningham, and Charles Lamb. Of Lamb he has given us a pleasant sketch : — " With hi.« fine head on a small spare body ; his intellectual face full of wiry lines, and lurking quips and cranks of physiognomy; brown. THOMAS HOOD. 481 bright eyes, quick in turning as those of birds— look- ing sharp enough to pick up pins and needles ; shy with strangers, but instantly alight with a welcome smile of womanly sweetness for his friends." At times, too, he listened to the glorious talk of Cole- ridge, and the flowing, sparkling effusions of De Quincey. Hood speedily discovered that the public are much more willing to pay for being amused than for being instructed, and that his poetry was far from being as profitable as his puns. He was thus led to work two veins— the comic, which produced those laughter-moving "whims and oddities," droll fancies and surprising incongruities, that for years kept thousands in food for mirth ; and the poetic, Mhich brought him no pecuniary returns, but in its nches constituted his higher life. The former yielded him bread, the latter ultimately poetic fame. It was at this time, when Hood was in his twenty- fourth year, that he was rash enough to fall in love— a most unjustifiable proceeding, ?.s some would think, on the part of a young man whose purse was in a state of collapse, and whose prospects were the re- verse of cheering. I presume "the necessity of lov- ing " must have been strong within him ; and, after all, perhaps Douglas Jerrold is right when he ex- claims, " What ! live in a palace without a petticoat } —'tis but a place to shiver in. Whereas, take off the house-top, break every window, make the Joors creak, 2H 482 THOMAS HOOD. the chimneys smoke, give free entry to the sun, wind, and rain— still will a petticoat make the hovel habit- able—nay, bring the little household gods crowding about the fireplace." The family of Miss Reynolds, the young lady to whom Hood had formed an attach- ment, were opposed to the union, considering a young man who had only a bottle of ink out of which to sup- ply the wants of a wife and family as anything but an eligible offer. The young lady, however, thought otherwise, and, as usual, opposition made her more determined. " Strange," says Jerrold, " is the love of woman— it's like one's beard, the closer one cuts it the stronger it grows." I suppose those fine lines in his poem of " Miss Kilmansegg" must have been sug- gested by Hood's experience in love-making :— " And still when a pair of lovers meet, '^here 's a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet, That savours still of that happy retreat Where Eve by Adam was courted ; Whilst the joyous thrush and the gentle dove Woo'd their mates in the boughs above, And the serpent as yet only sported. " Who has not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere. When young hearts yearn together ?— All sweets below and all sunny above. Oh ! there s nothing in life like making love. Save making hay in fine weather." Matters speedily came to a crisis; courtship ended in marriage. Hood and his young wife set up house- ■v -^ THOMAS HOOD. 4«3 keeping in a quiet, modest way, in London ; and the first years of his married life were undoubtedly the happiest and most unclouded he ever knew. Though not rich in this world's goods, they had the wealth of afifect.on. and realised his own felicitous description of a happy, though humble home:— " For all is bright and beauteous and clear. And the meanest thing most precious and dear. When the magic of love is present ; I-ove that lends its sweetness and grace To the humblest spot and the plainest face, That turns Wii' and wounded, find no rest but in the ^rave ! THOMAS HOOD. 489 We must pass hastily over the portion of H , a's life spent in Germany. Though he had his good wife and children with him, yet he never seems to have felt at home— never took kindly to the country or the people, and was ever casting a longing to- wards dear old England, with its kindly faces and cheerful hearths. In his letters from the Rhine, we find his drollery breaking out occasionally in his remarks on the Germans. To one friend he writes, " I have been to the hotel of an evening, and got a good notion of German philosophy ; perhaps you are not aware that it is laid on with//>j-, like the gas in London. I have tried to draw some of them ; but a real smoker beats the pencil. It is a mistake, by the Avay, to say he is smoking; he is not active, but passive— being smoked. How they suck their pipes, like great emblems of second childhood— so placid, so innocent, so unmeaning— ' mild as the moon- beam !'" Of German cookery he said, " It is rank- it smells to heaven." Their beds were so narrow and short, that he described one of them as "a coffin for two;" and wrote to a friend that he would have no difficulty in finding him " a spare bed." The German system of doctoring seems to have astonished him by the strength of their applications. "I heard, the other da;/," he writes, "of a man having fifty-five leeches on his thigh at once. My wig ! why, they out-Sangrado Sangrado. One of their blisters 490 THOMAS HOOD. would draw a waggon. If I should be ill again, I shall presrribe for myself." The most wearing of all toil is that of the brain And now, an exile from home, delicate in constitution Hood has to undergo an amount of mental labour enough to break down the strongest man. But cre- ditors must be paid, bread must be found for the dear ones at home ; and so there must be no pause to the swift -flying pen -no rest for the inventing brain. Like his own needlewoman, in "The Song of the Shirt," it was with himself, ^ " Work, work, work, Till the brain begins to swim- Work, work, work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim." Manfully and cheerfully , d the noble M'orker toil on ; but the perpetual stra i on nerve and brain could not go on for ever. Day by day, and often far into the night, the scratch of his pen was heard ; the morning dawning but to witness a renewal of his toil. The inevitable crisis at length arrived. The symp- toms of a deadly malady, nursed by anxiety and unremitting exertion, began to develop themselves. Organic disease of the heart, accompanied with fre- quent attacks of blood - spitting, set in. Still there must b. no relaxation of speed ; the steed must gallop ovi till it drops from sheer exhau '■ i. The printer is waiting, and " copy " must be Had : the THOMAS HOOD. 491 article for the monthly must be ready on the day, or woe betide the unhappy author; the "Comic Annual" mast appear at '' -:=tmas, brimful of jokes, shaking the sides of the . ... 's with its comicalities ; while the poor worn-out writer, who has spun the whole out of his brain, lies panting and prostrated, the only one, except his anxious wife and children, who cannot laugh at the humours he is scattering over all England. Still it is " work, work, work," though the poor palpitating heart wants rest sore'y, and every additional effort is hastening the inevitable end; "work, work, work," though the very life-blood is oozing through the lungs. How profoundly pathetic to think of the poet writing his "Comic Annual," supplying food for mirth in thousands of homes, pour- ing out the strangest, wildest, most laughter-provok- ing conceits, the gayest, most satirical fancies, amidst the fierce attacks of disease, with gloomy prospects around and in the distance, and fears for the dear ones dependent on him heavy at his heart, while before him lay the inevitable goal, the grave, that at any moment might be reached ! What a brave spirit that even all this could not quell— that wrought on cheerfully and hopefully, uttering no foreboding, and burying its sorrows in its own bosom ! Not for wealth, or ^ame, or ambition was all this endured, but for duty; and in the paie, worn face of the father toiling for his children's bread, sacrificing self on the 492 THOMAS HOOD. altar of affection, we behold a spectacle that pitying angels might gaze upon. So manfully and cheerfully did he bear his trials, that we find him making his worst symptoms, which would have terrified an ordi- nary man, the subject of jokes which move at once our smiles and our tears. Writing to his kind friend, Dr Elliot, in England, after telling him how he had just finished a volume of the "Comic i^nnual," he says, " But who would think of such a creaking, croak- ing, blood-spitting wretch being 'the Com'-.?'" On another occasion he writes, " Your health in a tumbler of vitriolic," (that being a medicine he was in the 'habit of using;) "can my blood-spitting have ceased because I have none left.? What a subjert for a German romance, 'The bloodless man!' For four months I have never tasted animal food. Zounds, as I used to say on cattle days, one thing would now make my misfortunes complete— to be tossed by an ungrateful beast of a bullock." He proposed as his own epitaph, " Here lies one who spat more blood and made more puns than any man in England." To an- other friend he said, " I have to write till I arn sick of the sight of pen, ink, and paper. For one half the montJ' I have hardly time to eat, drink, or sleep." Still nearer the close he wrote to Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- ton, " I sleep little ; and my Head, instead of a shady chamber, is like a hall with a lamp burning in it all night. And so it will be to the end. I must die in fc^*-^** • 'y—«^' r2 '^ >Aw*. ^ THOMAS HOOD. 493 harness— like a hero— or a horse." How pitiable ! The old tale once more— gen-'v.s flinging itself on the spears, and the world coldly regarding the sacrifice ! Here was one of the finest minds in England com- pelled to toil in chains, and hurry to an early tomb ; and yet no helping hand was held out till it was too late— nothing was done to secure nim a little repose to recruit his exhausted energies. During his residence in Germany his chief pro- ductions were, "Up the Rhine," "Hood's Own," a volume a year of "The Comic Annual,"— all the drawings being by his own hand ; and numbers of fugitive pieces in prose and verse, which appeared in the pages of various magazines. In 1840, with shattered health, he at length returned to England. With brightening prospects, good medical advice, and a little less worry, he now rallied wonderfully ; and though in a state of constant suffering, he had yet five years of life before him. The feebler the body, the more vigorous seemed the mind to grow ; the more deeply the tree was wounded, the more fragrant and abundant the balm it yielded. It was during these closing years that he produced those poems that will most surely transmit his name to posterity— such as "The Bridge of Sighs," "The Song of the Shirt," "The Lady's Dream," "The Workhouse Clock," and "Miss Kilmansefrfj " A year after his return he became editor of the AVu/ 494 THOMAS HOCD. Monthly Magazine, with a salary of ;^3oo per annum ; and though the labours were great, he was now in comparative independence. After occupying the edi- torial chair for nearly three years, some misunder- standing arose between him and the proprietor ; and he took the bold, and, as it proved, unfortunate step, of starting a magazine of his own. The toil and anxiety of this new undertaking hasted the progress of his disease. The person with whom he entered Into partnership turned out to be a penniless specu- lator; difficulties and disappointments thickened; Hood's health again gave way; the shadows grew darker and darker; and soon he was pro- strated on the sick-bed from which he was to rise no more. Still the brave heart did not yield. Propped up with pilJows, he wrote on, pouring out such noble poetry, in the pages of his magazine, as "The Haunted House," "The Lady's Dream," and "The Bridge of Sighs;" the "Song of the Shirt" appeared a short time previously in the Christmas number of Punch for 1C43. It was now that the higher nature of the poet shone out most strongly ; as though he felt that his work was near a close, and that ere the pen dropped from his fingers, he must plead the cause of the poor, and startle the selfish rich from their indolent dreams, and rouse them to a sense of their criminal neglect of the needy. It is in these last effusions of the poet that »■» -* THOMAS HOOD. 495 we see what glorious possibilities dwelt in the depths of his genius, had time permitted the fruits to ripen, or had health been given him. The sorrows through which he passed made him more keenly alive to the woes of other breaking hearts, and his ear more sen- sitive to the sighs of the hopeless children of poverty. Friends at length came to his help. F«ght months be- fore his death they brought his case under the .lotice of Sir Robert Peel, with the view of procuring him a pension from the literary fund. That nobleman, with his usual generosity, at once acknowledged the justice of the claim, and procured him a pension of ^loo a year, which was continued after his death to his wife and children. Sir Robert Peel accompanied the in- telligence of this substantial kin.lness with a letter so generous and friendly that it must have gladdened the last moments of tl ooet. Among other things, he said,—" I assure you that there can be little which you have written and acknowledged which I have not read, and that there are few who can appreciate and admire more than myself the good sense and good feeling which have taught you to infuse so much fun and merriment into writings correcting folly and ex- posing absurdities, and yet never trespassing beyond those limits within which wit and facetiousness are not very often confined." This was indeed high praise from the grave statesman, with all the care.- of empire on his shoulders, and of whom the Duke A^ THOMAS HOOD. M of Wellington could say, after his death, " He never uttered what he did not firmly believe to be fact." But now, alas! for our poet help came too late; the rest for the weary was near. Loving friends gathered round with their sympathy and aid. Bul- vver and Dickens sent contributions for his magazine. But the worn and weary man was fast sinking into " the sleep that knows not breaking." " No words," says his daughter, "can describe his patience and resignation, amidst all the fierce sufferings of the last month or two of his dying, as he said himself, ' inch by inch.' " Once he said to his wife and children, " It is a beautiful world, and since I have been lying here, I have thougni; of it more and more ; it is not so bad, even humanly speaking, as people would make it. I have had some very happy days since I lived in it, and I could have wished to stay a little longer. But it is all for the best ; and we shall all meet in a better world." Under all the turmoils and pains of a life- time, his nature has lost none of its sweetness ; and after all his sad experiences he still feels the beauty and beneficence of God's world. One night his wife and children listened with blinding tears to his faint, low voice, amid his mental wanderings, repeating the pathetic lines — " I 'm fading awa', Jean, . Like snow-wreaths in thaw, Jean, I 'm fading awa To the land o' the leal I THOMAS HOOD. 497 " But weq> na, my ain Jean, The world's care '« in vain, Jean, We '11 meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal." Old friends came to press his hand for the last time, and speak the last farewell. Gentle, serene, resigned, lay the sufferer, a solemn beauty of repose on his countenance. Tendt.ly he blessed and took leave of wife and children, and calmly awaited the final moment. Bending over him, as the last hour drew near, his loving wife heard him faintly whisper, " O Lord ! say, Arise, take up thy cross, and follow me." Gently let us draw the curtains, as he sinks into that repose in which the weary a-e at rest, and where the hail-storms can reaci.him no more. His last words were, "Dying! dying!" as if welcoming the solemn transition. "OnSatuidayatnoon." says a v/riter in the Qi^r- terly Review, "Mays, 1845, the headache und the heartache were over ; the throbbing brow was quiet for the long rest under the sod of Kensali Green Cemetery. Thomas Hood, the man of many suffer- ings and most patient spirit, had passed on his way through the valley of the dark shadow, lighted by the sunshine of a heart at peace. His faithful wife, who so clung to him in life, was not long divided from him in death. In the language of an old poet, there were but eighteen months of wooing, and the grave became their second marriage-bed : — 2 I 498 THOMAS HOOD. r • Death could not sever man and wife. Because they both lived but one life ; Peace ! gc ~d reader, do not weep. Peace ! the lovers are asleep. They, sweet spirits, folded lie, In the list Knot that Love could tie.' After long struggling with the storms, and many tossings amongst the billows of life's sea, poor Hood went down. Many a wild wave had burst over him and his frail bark ; still they rose and righted from each shock, bearing right gallantly on. And just as he seemed about to touch land mentally, and win a firm foothold whereon to stand and do yet higher work; just when the harbour was in sight, and a multitude of friends stood on shore ready and eager to welcome the brave sailor, down he went in sight of them and home." The drawback, however, was that "the multitude of friends who stood on the shore" did not sooner think of sending out a life- boat to his rescue; and that he was left to buffet with the wav-^s so long that, when at length dragged ashore, life was all but extinct. His own case was another illustration of the truth which he saw so clearly and expressed so well, — " But evil iz wrought by want of thought As well as wan. ci !earL" Nine years after his death, a splendid monument was erected over his grave in Kensall Green Ceme- tery, by public subscription. It was inaugurated amid a concourse of spectators, that shewed how THOMAS HOOD. 499 deeply his poetry had sunk into the hearts of his countrymen, and how fondly his memory was cherished. The limits of this lecture will merely permit me to notice briefly a iW of the more striking pecu- liarities of Hoods poetry. Among the world's humorists Hood is entitled to be placed in the front rank. With Goldsmith, Charles Lamb, and Wash- ington Irving he had much in common— much of the same delicacy, purity, and subtlety in his percep- tions of the ludicrous ; while in felicitous mingling of the tender and pathetic with the sportive he stands alone. He was no mere provoker of barren laughter, but a man whose mirth had its iuo.. deep in sentiment and humanity, and who saw the seiious side of our stran je complex existence as clearly as the ludicrous. No one knew better than Hood that the fountain ot our tears lies close to that of mirth, and that to unseal the former you must often touch the latter ; no one more strikingly exemplified the truth that the profoundest feeling will at times robe itself in quaintnesses and oddities, as though it were seeking a disguise, or in "quips and cranks and wreathed smiles," as if to hide from Itself. In truth, under a mask of humours, "whims, and oddities," Hood conceals the earnestness and vehement intensity of a reformer— of one into whose soul the iron of the world's wrongs had entered, and whose heart was burning to right them. Hence often, 500 THOMAS HOOD. i in his gayest lyrics, there is an undertone of sadness;, and in the very extravagance of his humour he is aiming his blows, right and left, at bigotry, intolerance, and selfishness; and .^urstir^ irreverently, with a merry laugh, into the deepest sanctuaries of conven- tionalism. The very fierceness of his sarcasm against oppression and wrong betrays the earnestness of one alive to the true and the good; and even in his grotesque nonsense we often detect some moral or poetic meaning. But through all a vein of kindliness and sympathy runs ; so that while he laughs at the weaknesses, foibles, and wrong-doings of his fellows, and playfully holds them before our eyes, it is never in contempt, or wrath, or hatred. We feel that love is at the bottom of it all. Thus, for example, in one of the severest pieces he . ver wrote, his " Ode to Rae Wilson, Esq.," prompted by no slight provocation on the part of one of " the unco guid," what fine moral touches are mingled with his sarcasm ; and how admirable what Sydney Smith called his "way of putting a thing," in remonstrating with bigotr>' ! — " The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan b.Msts, But sometimes I have 'sat at good men's feasts,' And I have been where bells have knoU'd to church. " Dear bells ! how sweet the sound of village bells When on tlie undulating air they swim ! Now loud as welcomes ! faint now as farewells ! And trembling all about the breezy dells, As flutter'd by the wings of cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn ; THOMAS HOOD. 501 And, lost to sight, th' ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, — With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon ;— Pagans, Heathens, Infidels, and Doubters ! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion. Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters? " A man may cry. Church ! Church ! at every word, With no more piety than other people, — A daw 's not reckon'd a religious bird. Because it keeps a-cawing from tlie steeple. The temple is s jood, a holy place. But quacking only gives it an ill savour ; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavour. " Church is ' a little heaven below,— 1 have been there, and still would go j' Yet I am none of those who think it odd A man may pray unbidden from the cassock. And, passing by the customary hassock, Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue, in forma pauperis, to God. " Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind ; But who would rush at a benighted man. And give him two black eyes for being blind?" One of the finest satires ever written on the worship of the golden calf is Hood's poem of " Miss Kilman- segg." Here is one of " the beauties" of this piece, which I think is a very characteristic specimen of Hood's manner : — " The careful Betty the pillow beats, And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets. And gives the mattress a shaking ; But vainly Betty performs her part If a ruffled hfi.id and 3 rumpled heart, As well as the couch, want making. 502 THOMAS HOOD. " There's Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves, Where other people would make preserves. He turns his fruits into pickles ; Jealous, envious, and fretful by day, At night to his own sharp fancy a prey, He lies, like a hedgehog roll'd up the wrong way, ToLuenting himself with his prickles. " But a chi.d that bids the world good night In downright earnest, and cuts it qui«;e,— A cherub no art can copy,— 'Tis a perfect picture to see him lie. As if he had supp'd on dormouse pie,— An ancient classical dish, by the by,— With sauce of syrup of poppy. " O bed, bed, bed ! delicious bed ! That heaven upon earth to th .veary head, 1 Whether lofty or low its condition ! But instead of putting our plagues on shelves. In our blankets liow often we toss ourselves, Or are toss'd by such allegorical elves As Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition ! " One of our wisest and best writers, the late Arch- deacon Hare, says, " Nobody who is afraid of laugh- ing, and heartily too, at his friend, can be said to have a true and thorough love for him ; and, on the other hand, it would betray a sorry want of faith to distrust a friend because he laughs at you. Few men, I be- lieve, are much worth loving in whom there is no something well wor^h laughing at." Hood's laughter is of this genial, loving sort, with all the ringing joy- otisness of a happy, merry schoolboy in it. tones- all that .idtural playfulness springing from kindness which marked the greatest and best of men, such as Socrates, Luther, Sir Thomas More, Cervantes, Scott, THOMAS HOOD. 503 and, most of all, our own gentle Shakespeare. There is no coarseness or repulsiveness in his humour. His wit never breaks irreverently into the sanctities of our nature — never lays an impious touch on what is high or holy — never mocks at genuine affection — never grins sardonically over the mishaps, backslidings, humiliating moral diseases of our poor humanity. His own bitter lot in life had awakened no jealousy or envy in his own heart — no hatred of those who were more prosperous or successful — no scoffing cyni- cism, like that which tore the heart of Swift, and em- bittered his existence. He has no bitter scorn to fling at his brothers ; for the right, be has ever a kindly cheering word ; and for all, smiles and utterances of love and innocent mirth, that are felt in the blood .nd along the heart. We feel that our life is more beau- tiful and happy because he has lived, and that our moments of sorrow and abasement are brigrhtened by his words of cheer. Earnestness and pleasantry, humour and tenderness, fun passing at a bound into pathos, wit that shakes the sides, and the next mo- ment makes the eyes overflow, drollery dancing before our eyes, but also showering upon us the gold of wis- dom and the pearls of geniis — these are found inter- mingled in rich profusion in the writings of Hood. And when we take into account the sad background of his own 'ife of suffering and care, and remember that these sportive effusions have come from the couch of pain — that these jests have been thrown off S04 THOMAS HOOD. at intervrals as bodily anguish relaxed his gripe— that these comicalities were in many cases jotted down by a pale-faced invalid propped with pillows, who could 'augh at the gnawings of disease, and make puns on his very troubles— and that all this cheerful battling with misery wa- that the dear ones might have bread, we wonder and admire the more, and love our bene- factor more profoundly. We understand, too, when we connect his writings with his life, how it is that the undertones of woe so often mingle in his gayest laughter, and that he strikes the choids of sadness even in his wildest outbursts of mirth. These are the X sighs, as it were, of his own heart unconsciously escap- ing—the secret sadness which he so carefully con- cealed, but could not wholly repress. As a specimen of the way in which his sadness peeps from behind his spor\Veness, take a stanza or two from his " Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clap- ham Academy:" — , • " There was I birch'd ! there was I bred ! There, like a little Adam, fed From learning's woful tree ! The weary tasks I used to con ! The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! Most fruitless leaves to me ! " The summon'd class .'—the awful bow !— I wonder who is master now, And wholesome anguish sheds ! How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads ! " Ay, tliere's the playground ! there's the lime lieneath whose bhade in summer's prime fM^^Ui ;^-:-*s^v • 'f ?g^f »< sS;^ T'^t?" 7 NOMAS HOOD. 505 So wildly I have read ! Who sits there now, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread ? " Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, Aiid leap, and skip, and mob about At play, where we have play'd ! Some hop, some run, some tall, some twine Their crony arms ; some in the shine. And some are in the shade. " Thy tawes are brave! thy tops are rare ! — Our tops are spun with coils of care, Our dumps are no delight ! — The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse s ki»e. " Our hearts are dough, our heals are lead. Our topmost joys fall dull and dead, Like balls with no rebound ! And often with a faded eye We look b>-hind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground. " Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot. There 's sky-blue in thy cup ! Thou 'It find thy manhood all too fast, — Soon come, soon gone ! — and age at last,- A sorry breaking-up ! " More pathetic still are his longing^s, when looking back on the happy days of youth, in another of his short poems : — " I remember, I remember. The house where I was bom , The little window where the sun Came peeping in at moni; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; Btit now T often wish the night Had borne my breath away. 5°*^ THOMAS HOOD. " I remt her, I re-nember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is £.0 heavy now, And summer-pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. " I remember, I remember. The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky ; It was a childish ignorance. But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy." 1 Should any one fancy that a poet like Hood, who revelled in the humorous, could not be earnest, pathetic, or reverential, let him remember how Shake- speare, the greatest of poets, has intermit ^led the tragic with the comic, in his wondrous dramls-how he employs mirth to relieve and even deepen the effects of the awful and sublime, making the rude gibmg and carolling of the grave-digger precede the funeral of the fair Ophelia, and the wild wit of the fool in "King Lear," set the tragic pathos in a more lund hght. To prove that Hood felt in the very depths of his being, and with all a poefs earnestness the seriousness, the solemnity, the tragedy of man's life on earth, we have only to name such poems as "Eugene Aram." "The Haunted House," " The Ode to Melancholy," •• The Death-Bed." " The Lay of the THOMAS HOOD. 507 Labourer," " The Bridge of Sighs," and the world- renowned "Song of the Shirt." Undoubtedly the ' an who produced these, with health, leisure, and longer life, might have written tragedies, poems, or songs, that would live in the hearts and memories of men, with those of Shakespeare, Milton, or Burns. But, alas ! he had to get up the most marketable article, in order that there might be bread in the cup- board. Ke punned to live ; and when he ought to have been writing poems like the " Song of the Shirt," he was manufacturing drolleries and whimsicalities that would exchange for cash and secure the means of existence. Such, unhappily, is the way of the world ; it refuses to recognise genius when living, and employs Robert Burns in gauging beer and whisky barrels, and Thomas Hood in getting up " Comic Annuals" to tickle its sides for a moment ; and so must be content with what little of genuine song they can get breathing time to produce. Almost by stealth, and in hurried moments, they do get a little done, and that most imperfectly ; but from that which ought to be their life-work they are virtually cut off. " Chill penury repress'd their noble rage. And froze the genial current of the soul."' We have few poems possessed of more genuine tragic power in condensed form than Hood's " Bridge of Sighs," or that more effectually touches the foun- tains of our pity and tenderness. Poor womanhood's 5o8 THOMAS HOOD. wreck, maddened by want, shame, and despair, hurls herself on destiny. " The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch Or the black flowing river ; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world ! " In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, — Over the brink of it, Picture it, think of it, 1 . Dissolute man ! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can !" And then, when bending over the dead, dripping form, dragged from the muddy stream, how the genius of the poet wipes away all her stains, leaving only the beautiful, the womanly— deprecating in that solemn moment all human scorn, all scrutiny into past dis- honour, and urging us to think of her "mournfully, gently, humanly," as a poor, homeless, friendless daughter of Eve, who had been cut oflf from all love and sympathy, and madly rushed on destructi'^n :— " Who was her father? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet than all other ? THOMAS HOOD. 509 " Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! Oh, it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. '* Perishing gloomily, Spurn'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly. Over her breast ! " Owning her weakness. Her evil behaviour. And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour." Of the " Song of the Shirt," the words of whi'-h have engraven themselves on all hearts and memo- ries, it is ne-.dless to speak. It is one of those lays of the heart that go direct to the heart. One who felt deeply the wrongs that are often inflicted, under the sanction of law, on the helplc^^ toilers for daily bread, uttered those burning woids that have touched many a conscience and opened many an eye, and brought help to the sorrow-stricken poor. Sad ex- perience ever reminds that we need such poems to soften hard hearts, and to condense and direct to fitting objects the pity and sympathy that are often floating about as mere hazy sentimentality. Hood's song, startling as a shriek at midnight, roused many a luxurious dreamer on her silken couch to think of 510 THOMAS HOOD. a the slaves of the needle, whose wasted fingers had wrought the gay robes she wore, and whose s-rs had fallen, hot and fast, over " seam and gusset aud band." But for this midnight-cry, wealth, in its sel- fish indolence, would never have been made to know " {)f the hearts that daily break, Of the tears that hourly falJ, Of the many, many troubles of life That grieve this earthly ball- Disease and hunger, and pain and want ; But now I dreamt of them all. " Alas ! I have walk'd through life Too heedless where I trod — ) Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm. And fill the burial sod- Forgetting that even the sparrow falls Not unmark'd of God. " The wounds I might have heal'd ! The human sorrow and smart ! And yet it never w- in my soul To play so ill a part ; But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as w?nt of heart ! " Fitly has it been recorded, in few and simple words, on the tomb of Hood, " He sang the ' Song of the Shirt.'" No nobler epitaph could be wished for our gentle poet. The writer in tYiQ Quarterly Review, already quoted, finely closes his estimate of Hood in these words :— "When a man like this has lived his life and done his work, and Death has put his ' Finis ' to the book, one great question is, ' What has he laid up for himself I THOMAS HOOD. 5" I out of this life to bear interest in another?' The question on our side is, 'What has he done for the world ? what is the value of his life and writings to us V Hood'^ life ".as a long disease, for which death alone possessed he secret of healing; a hand-to- hai.d, foo^ ^o-foot, and face-to-face struggle, day by da; with adverse circumstances, for the means of living. Yet out of all the suffering he secreted a precious pearl of poetry, which will be 'a thing of beauty;' and in spite of poverty and pain, he shed on the world such a smile of fun and fancy, as will be a merry memory for ever. But it is Thomas Hood's chief glory, that 'he remembered the forgotten.' His greatest work is that which his poems will do for the poor. The ^ .udest place for his name is on the banner borne at the head of their great army, as it marches on to many a victory over ignorance, crime, and wrong." "When we have expa- tiated on the wit of Hood, or shewn his fancy at the daintiest, the highest praise we can award is sym- bolled on his own tombstone — ' He sang the " Song of the Shirt'" — he gave one fitting voice to the dark, dumb world of poverty." " He is no cold, polished, statuesque idol of the intellect, but one of the dar- lings of the English heart. We nevei think of Hood as dead and turned to marble. Statue or bust could never represent him to the imagination. It is always a real human being, a live workfellow or playfellow, that meets you with the quaintest, ki. dliest smile, ? 512 THOMAS HOOD. takes you by the hand, looks into your face, and straightway your heart is touched to open and let him in." "And whatsoever place his name may win lu the Temple of Fame, it is destined to be a household woru with all who speak the English language. Though not one of the highest and most majestic amongst immortals, he will always be among those who are near and dear to the English heart, for the sake of his noble pleading of the caus^ of the poor ; and few names will call forth so tender a familiarity of affection as that of rare ' Tom Hood.'" I close-with the memorial lines of Lowell : — "Let laurell'd marbles weigh on other tombs, Let anthems peal for other dead, Rustling the banner'd depths of minster-glooms With their exulting spread. " His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone. No lichen shall its lines efface; He needs these few and simple words alone To mark his reomig place: — " ' Here lies a poet. Stranger, if to thee His cl?- n to memory be obscure, If thou wouldst learn how truly great he was. Go ask it of the Poor.'" ballantyne &' Company, Printers, Edinburgh. *,.• 4 ^JfeW ,- 4%r^- '^ Vi^a^' f^'" , ^jT*^ :!|i^^