REV. A. K.    BOYD'S WRITINGS.
RECREATIONS OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
2 vols. 16mo. $3.00.
Comprising First and Second Series, and sold together or
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LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN.
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[JX   The above writings of the " Country Parson" are handsomely bound in muslin, bevelled board and gilt tops, and are
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TICKNOR & FIELDS, PUBLISHEBS.




LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN
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LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN
BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE RECREATIONS OF A COUNTRY PARSON
BOSTON
TICKNOR AND FIELDS
1863




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusett.
RIVERSIDE, OAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON




CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGB
CONCERNING THE PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN  7
CHAPTER II.
CONCERNING VEAL; A DISCOURSE OF IMMATURITY. 16
CHAPTER III.
CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT...     57
CHAPTER IV.
GONE......... o. e..93
CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM MORE MIGHT HAVE
BEEN  MADE........... 103
CHAPTER VI.
CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE:
WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON THOSE WHO NEVER
HAD A CHANCE............ 138
CHAPTER VIo
COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW........ 172
CHAPTER VIII.
CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION, WITH SOME
THOUGHTS ON COWED PEOPLE o..   o.   210




vi                  CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IX.
PAUS
CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.. 244
CHAPTER X.
THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND..o... 274
CHAPTER XI.
THORNDALE; OR, THE CONFLICT OF OPINIONS o. 295
CHAPTER XII.
CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER... 334
CHAPTER XIII.
OULITA THE SERF....   e..371
CHAPTER XIV.
SCOTCH PECULIARITIES....        405
CONCLUSION.   o e.  e.         o..  485




CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING  THE PARSON'S LEISURE  HOURS
IN  TOWN.
1^ Hm EHIS is Friday evening.  It has been a
gloomy November day.  And now, about
nine o'clock, I hear the wind moaning as
*5rLx    if there were to be a stormy night. But
the fire is blazing, and the curtains are drawn: and
here, in this little room, once the study of a wit and a
poet, things are almost as quiet as if it were miles away
fiom the great city in which it is. You might hear an
occasional shout, from a street which is not far distant:
and I am aware of a sound which appears to originate
in the beating of carpets in the lane behind this row of
houses. But the door-bell, which rings perpetually in
the forenoon, and very frequently in the evening, is not
likely to be rung any more to-night by any one whose
business is with me: and no humble parishioner, interrupting the thread of one's thoughts, is likely to come
now upon his little errand to his minister. This is indeed
an hour of leisure: and oh, what a rest and relief such
an hour is, to the man who has it only now and then!
Both my sermons for Sunday are ready; and they are
in a drawer in this table on which I write.  I have seen,
I believe, every sick person in the congregation on some
day during this week. As for the parish, that is by far




8                 CONCERNING THE
too large and populous to be personally overtaken by any
single clergyman; but I have the great comfort of being
aided by a machinery of district visitation, which does not
suffer one poor person in the parish to feel that he is forgotten in his parish church. I cannot, at this moment,
think of any one matter of ministerial duty which demands instant attention: though of course I have the
vague sense, which I suppose will never be absent, that
there are many duties impending; many things which
Monday morning at the latest will bring. Surely, then,
if such are ever to come in a large town parish, here is
one of my leisure hours.
When a country parson, leaving a little rustic cure,
undertakes the charge of such a parish, if he be a man
whose heart is in his work, he is quite certain greatly to
overwork himself. It is indeed a total change, from the
quiet of a country parish, where dwellings are dotted
singly here and there, with great fields between them,
to the town, where street after street of tall. houses is
filled with your parishioners, all entitled to some measure
of your care and thought.  And with that change, there
comes a sudden acceleration of the wheels of life. You
begin to live in a hurry. Your mind gets into a feverish
state. You live under a constant feeling of pressure.
You think, while you are doing anything, that something
else is waiting to be done. It need not be said that such
a feeling is, with most men, quite fatal to doing one's
best: more particularly with the pen. And if you be of
an anxious temperament, the time never comes in which
you can sit down and rest, feeling that your work is done.
You sit down sometimes and rest, through pure fatigue
and exhaustion: but all the while you are thinking of
something else which demands to be done, and which you




PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN.             9
are anxious to do. You will often wish for the precious
power possessed by some men, of taking things easily:
you may even sometimes sigh for the robust resolution
of Lord Chancellor Thurlow.  "I divide my work," he
said, "into three parts.  Part I do: part does itself:
and part I leave undone."  But many men could n'ot
for their lives resolve to do this last. They go with a
hearty will at their work, till body and mind break
down.
There is no work so hard, to a conscientious man, as
that which he may make as easy or as hard as he chooses.
It is a great blessing to have one's task set; and to be
able to feel, when you have done it, that your work is
done, and that you may rest with a clear conscience.
But in the Church, that can never be. There is always
something more that might be done.  What clergyman
can say that he has done for the good of his parish all
that is possible for man to do; —that there is no new
religious or benevolent agency which by energy yet more
unsparing might be set in operation?  It may here be
said, that I do not in any degree approve the system of
trying to dragoon people, whether poor or rich, into
attention to their religious duties and interests, which is
attempted by some good people whose zeal exceeds their
discretion: and that I have no fancy for making a church,
what with perpetual meetings, endless societies, and everrecurring collections of money for this and that purpose,
look like nothing so much as a great cotton-mill, with
countless wheels whirring away, and dazing the brain
by their ceaseless motion. It is fit to recognize the fact,
that the poorest folk are responsible beings; and that
intelligent artisans will not submit to be treated like children, even by people who wish to make them good chil



10                CONCERNING THE
dren. And you know that a boy, who has learnt to swim
by the aid of corks and bladders, is very apt to sink when
that support is taken away.  His power of swimming is
not worth much.  It seems to me to be even so with that
form of religion, which can be kept alive only by a constant series of visits, exhortations, tracts, and week-day
church-services. I venture to judge no man: but give
me, say I, not the sickly exotic, but the hearty evergreen,
that can bear frosts and winds. But the faithful clergyman, even trying to hold this principle in view, will find,
in a large parish in a great city, work that would occupy
him profitably, were each of his days as long as a week,
and had he the strength of half a score of men.  I firmly
believe, that almost all the clergymen I know do day
by day their very utmost to overtake that overwhelming duty.  And now and then, there comes a special
sense of the clergyman's weighty responsibility, and of
the momentous consequences that may depend upon his
exertions: and under that stimulus, resolving "to spend
and be spent" in the work to which he has given himself, you will find him laboring in a fashion that endangers health and life.
Now, it is not right to do that.  Even setting apart the
consideration of the duty he owes his children, his duty
to the Church is to work in that fashion in which he may
hope to labor longest and most efficiently.  And that
fashion is not the breathless and feverish one.  Yet
nothing but constant watchfulness and firmness can prevent the town clergyman's life from  growing one of
chronic hurry and weariness.  It is not merely his
preaching, and his preparation for preaching: but the
other calls of duty are innumerable. Pound after pound
is added, till the camel labors along with weary foot: or




PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN.           11
even till the camel's back is broken. It is the rule in
large towns, so far as I have known them, that the clergy
shall be overwrought.  Not that they are overdriven
by the unreasonable expectations of their parishioners;
though that may sometimes be the case: but that they
are spurred on by the exactions of their own conscience.
Then, every now and then, you will find one making a
stand against this over-pressure: feeling that he is breaking down; and determining that he must have some
leisure.  You will find him beginning to take an hour's
daily walk; or resolutely setting himself to maintain
some acquaintance with the literature of the day. You
will find him resolving to see a little of his fellow-creatures, besides what he sees of them in the way of his
duty; and wondering if many men know what it is to
feel, for days together, every word they speak an effort,
and almost every step they walk.  But all this is as
when you determine to break yourself of the bad habit
of walking too fast. You are walking along at five miles
an hour. You pull up, and resolve you shall walk slowly.
You set off at a moderate pace. But in a few minutes
you cease to think of the rate at which you are progressing: and in a quarter of an hour you find of a sudden
that you are going on at your old unreasonable speed
again.
Going through your duty at this high pressure, you
will, in a few months, find what will follow. Your brain
gets fevered: your mind is confused: you cannot take a
calm and deliberate view of any large subject: and by
degrees your heart (I speak literally, not morally) tells
you that this will not do. You seem almost to have lost
the power of sleeping.  And you find, that if you are to
live and labor much longer in this world, you must do




12                CONCERN-ING THE
one of two things: either you must go back again to the
country, or you must make a definitive arrangement that
you shall have some appreciable amount of leisure in
town. You may probably find, on looking back, that
for a long time you have had none at all: except, indeed, in that autumnal holiday, which will not suffice to
keep up for a whole year's work: and whose good effect
you have probably used up within three weeks after its
close. Yes, you must have leisure: a little of it every
day: a half-holiday at least once a week. And I do not
call it satisfactory leisure, when, at the close of a jading
day, you sit down, wearied beyond talking, reading, or
thinking: and feeling the presence even of your children too much for your shaken nerves. I call it leisure,
when you can sit down in the evening, tired indeed, but
not exhausted beyond chasing your little boy or girl about
the lobby, and thinking of the soft green turf of quieter
days. I call it leisure to sit down in your easy-chair by
the fireside, and to feel that you may peacefully think, and
dream if you please: that you may look vacantly into
the fire: that you may read the new review or magazine
by little bits: that you may give your mind total rest.
And to this end, let us fix it in our remembrance, that all
our Master requires of us is to do what we can: and
that if after we have done our utmost, there still remains
much more we would wish to do, we must train ourselves
to look at it without disquiet, even as we train ourselves
to be submissive in the presence of the inexplicable mysteries and the irremediable evils which are inherent in
the present system of things. No doubt, it is hard to do
this; but it is the clergyman's duty to do it. You have
no more right to commit suicide by systematically overtasking your constitution, than by swifter and coarser




PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN.            13
means.  Life is given to you as a trust to make the best
of; and probably the worst you can make of it is to cut
it short, or to embitter it by physical exhaustion and depression.
I dare say many clergymen with large parishes have
known what it is to delight in a day of dreadful rain and
hurricane: I mean a day when chimney-pots and slates
are flying about the streets; and when no question can
be raised, even by the most exacting moral sense, as to
whether it is possible to go out or not. A forenoon of
leisure comes so very seldom, that it is very precious and
enjoyable when it comes.  The leisure hours commonly
attainable are in the evening. If you sit at your desk
from ten o'clock in the morning till one or two in the
afternoon: and if you then go out to your pastoral work
till six: you may very fairly lay it down as a general
rule, that at six the day's work shall be deemed over.
In addition to this, it may be well to make the afternoon
of Saturday a time of recreation.  You will be much
fitter for your Sunday work, which implies a good deal
of physical fatigue as well as mental wear. And I begin
to doubt if it be good or safe to begin the round of labor
again on Monday after breakfast: and to think that possibly as much work would be done, and better done, if
the forenoon of that day were given to recruiting one's
energies after the Sunday duty. And I am not claiming
these seasons of leisure for the clergymen, merely for
Aristotle's reason: merely because " the end of work is
to enjoy leisure:" merely because leisure is pleasant,
and the hard-working parson has earned it fairly.  I
think not merely of the pleasure of the. pastor, but of
the profit of the flock.  I do not think it expedient that
a Christian congregation should get almost all its relig



14               CONCERNING THE
ions instruction from a fevered and overdriven mind. I
have been struck, in listening to the preaching of one or
two very able and very laborious fiiends, by a certain
lack of calmness and sobriety of thought: by a something that reminded one of the atmosphere of a hothouse, and that seemed undefinably inconsistent with the
realities of daily life. And it seemed to me that all this
came of the fact, that they lived, worked, and wrote, in
chronic excitement and hurry.
I trust that my non-clerical readers will pardon all this
professional matter: it is a comfort to talk out one's mind
even to friends whom one will never see. I dare say
discerning folk will know, that the writer has been describing his own constant temptation; and that, however
needful he may feel these seasons of rest to be, it is only
now and then that he can train himself to take them.
And he has found that nothing gives the mind more
effectual rest, than change of employment.  You have
heard, doubtless, of that mill-horse, which all days of the
week but Sunday was engaged in walking round and
round a certain narrow  circle.  You may remember
what was the Sunday's occupation of that sagacious
creature.  An unthinking person might have surmised
that the horse, which had perpetually to walk on working
days, would have chosen on its day of rest to lie still and
do nothing. But the horse knew better.  It spent Sunday in walking round and round, in the opposite direetion from  that in which it walked on week-days.  It
found rest, in short, not in idleness; but in variation
of employment.  I commend that horse. I have tried
to do something analogous to what it did. These essays
have been to me a pleasant change, from the writing of
many sermons. And even in leisure hours, if it be (as




PARSON'S LEISURE HOURS IN TOWN.             15
Sydney Smith said) " the nature of the animal to write,"
the pen will be taken up naturally and habitually.
I can say sincerely, that more important duties have
never been postponed to the production of these chapters: and I please myself with the belief, that the hands
into which this volume is likely to fall, will not be those
of total strangers. You may perhaps find, my friendly
rcader, that these essays of an old friend, whom  you
knew in the days when he was a country parson, have
somewhat changed their character, in consistence with
his total change of life.  But I have reason to cherish
a quiet trust, that they have done good to some of my
fellow-creatures. I suppose the like happens to all authors, who write in sincerity and in kindness of heart:
but I cannot forget what numbers of men and women,
otherwise unknown, from either side of the Atlantic, have
cheered and encouraged the writer, sometimes in weary
hours, by thanking him for some little good impression
left by these pages upon heart and life.  I have not
been able to forego the great delight of trying to produce what might afford some pleasure and profit to
friends far beyond the boundaries of my parish: nor
have I been  able to think that it was my duty to
do so.




CHAPTER II
CONCERNING  VEAL:
A DISCOURSE OF IMiVMATURITY.
^' y    rHE man who, in his progress through life,
has listened with attention to the conversation of human beings; who has carefully
read the writings of the best English authors; who has made himself well acquainted with the
history and usages of his native land; and who has
meditated much on all he has seen and read; must
have been led to the firm  conviction that by VEAL,
those who speak the English language intend to denote
the flesh of calves; and that by a calf is intended an
immature ox or cow. A calf is a creature in a temporary and progressive stage of its being.  It will not
always be a calf; if it live long enough, it will assuredly cease to be a calf. And if impatient man, arresting the creature at that stage, should consign it to the
hands of him whose business it is to convert the sentient
animal into the impassive and unconscious meat, the nutriment which the creature will afford will be nothing
more than immature beef. There may be many qualities
of Veal; the qalf which yields it may die at very different stages in its physical and moral development; but
provided only it die as a calf-provided only that its




CONCERNING VEAL,                 17
meat can fitly be styled Veal- this will be characteristic of it, that the meat shall be immature meat.  It
may be very good, very nutritious and palatable; some
people may like it better than beef, and may feed upon
it with the liveliest satisfaction; but when it is fairly and
deliberately put to us, it must be admitted even by such
as like Veal the best, that Veal is but an immature production of nature.  I take Veal, therefore, as the emblem of IMMATURITY; of that which is now in a stage
out of which it must grow; of that which, as time goes
on, will grow older, will probably grow better, will certainly grow very different.  That is what I mean by
Veal.
And now, my reader and friend, you will discern the
subject about which I trust we are to have some pleasant
and not unprofitable thought together. You will readily
believe that my subject is not that material Veal which
may be beheld and purchased in the butcher's shops. I
am not now to treat of its varied qualities, of the sustenance which it yields, of the price at which it may be
procured, or of the laws according to which that price
rises and falls. I am not going to take you to the green
fields in which the creature which yielded the veal was
fed, or to discourse of the blossoming hawthorn hedges
from  whose midst it was reft away. Neither shall I
speak of the rustic life, the toils, cares, and fancies of
the farm-house near which it spent its brief lifetime.
The Veal of which I intend to speak is Moral Veal, or
(to speak with entire accuracy), Veal Intellectual, Moral,
and }Esthetical.  By Veal I understand the immature
productions of the human mind; immature compositions,
immature opinions, feelings, and tastes. I wish to think
of the work, the views, the fancies, the emotions, which
2




18               CONCERNING VEAL.
are yielded by the human soul in its immature stages 
while the calf (so to speak) is only growing into the ox;
while the clever boy, with his absurd opinions and feverish feelings and fancies, is developing into the mature
and sober-minded man. And if I could but rightly set
out the thoughts which have at many different times
occurred to me on this matter, if one could catch and fix
the vague glimpses and passing intuitions of solid unchanging truth, if the subject on which one has thought
long and felt deeply were always that on which one could
write best, and could bring out to the sympathy of others
what a man himself has felt, what an excellent essay this
would be! But it will not be so; for as I try to grasp
the thoughts I would set out, they melt away and elude
me. It is like trying to catch and keep the rainbow
hues you have seen the sunshine cast upon the spray of
a waterfall, when you try to catch the tone, the thoughts,
the feelings, the atmosphere of early youth.
There can be no question at all as to the fact, that
clever young men and women, when their minds begin
to open, when they begin to think for themselves, do pass
through a stage of mental development which they by
and by quite outgrow; and entertain opinions and beliefs, and feel emotions, on which afterwards they look
back with no sympathy or approval. This is a fact as
certain as that a calf grows into an ox, or that veal, if
spared to grow, will become beef. But no analogy between the material and the moral must be pushed too far.
There are points of difference between material and
moral Veal. A calf knows it is a calf. It may think
itself bigger and wiser than an ox, but it knows it is
not an ox. And if it be a reasonable calf, modest, and




CONCERNING VEAL.                 19
free from prejudice, it is well aware that the joints it
will yield after its demise, will be very different from
those of the stately and well-consolidated  ox which
ruminates in the rich pasture near it. But the human
boy often thinks he is a man, and even more than a
man. He fancies that his mental stature is as big and
as solid as it will ever become.  He fancies that his
mental productions —the poems and essays he writes,
the political and social views he forms, the moods of
feeling with which he regards things —are just what
they may always be, just what they ought always to be.
If spared in this world, and if he be one of those whom
years make wiser, the day comes when he looks back
with amazement and shame on those early mental productions,  He discerns now how immature, absurd, and
extravagant they were; in brief, how vealy. But at the
time, he had not the least idea that they were so. He
had entire confidence in himself; not a misgiving as to
his own ability and wisdom. You, clever young student
of eighteen years old, when you wrote your prize essay,
fancied that in thought and style it was very like Macaulay; and not Macaulay in that stage of vealy brilliancy
in which he wrote his essay on Milton, not Macaulay the
fairest and most promising of calves, but Macaulay the
stateliest and most beautiful of oxen. Well, read over
your essay now at thirty, and tell us what you think of
it. And you, clever, warm-hearted, enthusiastic young
preacher of twenty-four, wrote your sermon; it was very
ingenious, very brilliant in style, and you never thought,
but that it would be felt by mature-minded Christian
people as suiting their case, as true to their inmost experience. You could not see why you might not preach
as well as a man of forty. And if people in middle age




20              CONCERNING VEAL.
had complained that, eloquent as your preaching was,
they found it suited them better and profited them more
to listen to the plainer instructions of some good man
with gray hair, you would not have understood their feeling; and you might perhaps have attributed it to many
motives rather than the true one. But now, at five-andthirty, find out the yellow manuscript, and read it carefully over; and I will venture to say, that if you were a
really clever and eloquent young man, writing in an ambitious and rhetorical style, and prompted to do so by the
spontaneous fervor of your heart and readiness of your
imagination, you will feel now little sympathy even with
the literary style of that early composition; you will see
extravagance and bombast where once you saw only eloquence and graphic power. And as for the graver and
more important matter of the thought of the discourse, I
think you will be aware of a certain undefinable shallowness and crudity. Your growing experience has borne
you beyond it. Somehow you feel it does not come home
to you, and suit you as you would wish it should. It will
not do. That old sermon you cannot preach now, till you
have entirely recast and rewritten it. But you had no
such notion when you wrote the sermon.  You were
satisfied with it. You thought it even better than the
discourses of men as clever as yourself, and ten or fifteen
years older. Your case was as though the youthful calf
should walk beside the sturdy ox, and think itself rather
bigger.
Let no clever young reader fancy from what has been
said, that I am about to make an onslaught upon clever
young men. I remember too distinctly how bitter and
indeed ferocious I used to feel, about eleven or twelve
years ago, when I have heard men of more than middle




CONCERNING- VEAL.                 21
age and less than middling ability speak with contemptuous depreciation of the productions and doings of men
considerably their juniors, and vastly their superiors;
describing them as boys, and as clever lads, with looks
of dark malignity. There are few more disgusting sights,
than the envy and jealousy of their juniors, which may
be seen in various malicious, commonplace old men; as
there is hardly a more beautiful and pleasing sight than
the old man hailing, and counselling, and encouraging the
youthful genius which he knows far surpasses his own.
And I, my young friend of two-and-twenty, who relatively
to you, may be regarded as old, am going to assume no
preposterous airs of superiority.  I do not claim to be a
bit wiser than you; all I claim is to be older. I have
outgrown your stage; but I was once such as you, and
all my sympathies are with you yet. But it is a difficulty
in the way of the essayist, and, indeed, of all who set out
opinions which they wish to be received and acted on by
their fellow-creatures, that they seem, by the very act of
offering advice to others, to claim to be wiser and better
than those whom they advise.  But in reality it is not so.
The opinions of the essayist or of the preacher, if deserving of notice at all, are so because of their inherent truth,
and not because he expresses them.  Estimate them  for
yourself, and give them the weight which you think their
due. And be sure of this, that the writer, if earnest and
sincere, addressed all he said to himself as much as to any
one else. This is the thing which redeems all didactic
writing or speaking from the charge of offensive assumption and self-assertion.  It is not for the  preacher,
whether of moral or religious truth, to address his fellows as outside sinners, worse than himself, and needing
to be reminded of that of which he does not need to be re.




22               CONCERNING VEAL.
minded. No, the earnest preacher preaches to himself as
much as to any in the congregation; it is from the picture
ever before him in his own weak and wayward heart, that
he learns to reach and describe the hearts of others, if indeed he do so at all. Andit is the same with lesser things.
It is curious and it is instructive to remark how
heartily men, as they grow towards middle age, despise
themselves as they were a few years since. It is a bitter
thing for a man to confess that he is a fool; but it costs
little effort to declare that he was a fool, a good while
ago.  Indeed, a tacit compliment to his present self is
involved in the latter confession; it suggests the reflection what progress he has made, and how vastly he has
improved, since then.  When a man informs us that he
was a very silly fellow in the year 1851, it is assumed
that he is not a very silly fellow in the year 1861. It is
as when the merchant with ten thousand a year, sitting
at his sumptuous table, and sipping his'41 claret, tells
you how, when he came as a raw lad from the country,
he used often to have to go without his dinner.  He
knows that the plate, the wine, the massively elegant
apartment, the silent servants so alert yet so impassive,
will appear to join in chorus with the obvious suggestion,
"You see he has not to go without his dinner now!" Did
you ever, when twenty years old, look back at the diary
you kept when you were sixteen; or when twenty-five
at the diary you kept when twenty; or at thirty, at the
diary you kept when twenty-five?  Was not your feeling
a singular mixture of humiliation and self-complacency?
What extravagant, silly stuff it seemed that you had thus
written five years before! What Veal; and oh what a
calf he must have been who wrote it! It is a'difficult




CONCERNING VEAL.                   23
question, to which the answer cannot be elicited, Who is
the greatest fool in this world?  But every candid and
sensible man of middle age, knows thoroughly well the
answer to the question, Who was the greatest fool. that
he himself ever knew?  And after all, it is your diary
especially if you were wont to introduce into it poetical
remarks and moral reflections, that will mainly help you
to the humiliating conclusion. Other things, some of
which I have already named, will point in the same
direction.  Look at the prize essays you wrote when
you were a boy at school; look even at your earlier
prize essays written at college (though of these last I
have something to say hereafter); look at the letters you
wrote home when away at school or even at college, especially if you were a clever boy, trying to write in a
graphic and witty fashion; and if you have reached sense
at last (which some, it may be remarked, never do), I
think you will blush even through the unblushing front
of manhood, and think what a terrific, unutterable, conceited, intolerable blockhead you were.  It is not till people attain somewhat mature years that they can rightly
understand the wonderful forbearance their parents must
have shown in listening patiently to the frightful nonsense
they talked and wrote.  I have already spoken of sermons.  If you go early into the Church, say at twentythree or twenty-four, and write sermons regularly and
diligently, you know  what landmarks they will be of
your mental progress. The first runnings of the stream
are turbid, but it clears itself into sense and taste month
by month and year by year.  You wrote many sermons
in your first year or two; you preached them with entire
confidence in them, and they did really keep up the at.
tention of the congregation in a remarkable way.  You




24               CONCERNING VEAL.
accumulate in a box a store of that valuable literature
and theology, and when by and by you go to another
parish, you have a comfortable feeling that you have a
capital stock to go on with. You think that any Monday morning when you have the prospect of a very busy
week, or when you feel very weary, you may resolve
that you shall write no sermon that week, but just go
and draw forth one from the box. I have already said
what you will probably find, even if you draw forth a
discourse which cost much labor. You cannot use it as
it stands. Possibly it may be structural and essential
Veal: the whole framework of thought may be immature. Possibly it may be Veal only in style; and by
cutting out a turgid sentence here and there, and above
all, by cutting out all the passages which you thought
particularly eloquent, the discourse may do yet. But
even then, you cannot give it with much confidence.
Your mind can yield something better than that now.
I imagine how a fine old orange-tree, that bears oranges
with the thinnest possible skin and with no pips, juicy
and rich, might feel that it has outgrown the fruit of its
first years, when the skin was half an inch thick, the
pips innumerable, and the eatable portion small and poor.
It is with a feeling such as that that you read over your
early sermon.  Still, mingling with the sense of shame,
there is a certain satisfaction. You have not been standing still; you have been getting on. And we always like
to think that.
What is it that makes intellectual Veal?  What are
the things about a composition which stamp it as such?
Well, it is a certain character in thought and style hard,
to define, but strongly felt by such as discern its presence




CONCERNING VEAL.                  25
at all.  It is strongly felt by professors reading the compositions of their students, especially the compositions of
the cleverest students.  It is strongly felt by educated
folk of middle age, in listening to the sermons of young
pulpit orators, especially of such as think for themselves,
of such as aim at a high standard of excellence, of such
as have in them  the makings of striking and eloquent
preachers.  Dull and stupid fellows never deviate into
the extravagance and absurdity which I specially understand by Veal.  They plod along in a humdrum manner:
there is no poetry in their soul; none of those ambitious
stirrings which lead the man who has in him  the true
spark of genius to try for grand things and incur severe
and ignominious tumbles.  A heavy dray-horse, walking
along the road, may possibly advance at a very lagging
pace, or may even stand still; but whatever he may do,
he is not likely to jump violently over the hedge, or to
gallop off at twenty-five miles an hour. It must be a
thorough-bred who will go wrong in that grand fashion.
And there are intellectual absurdities and extravagances
which hold out hopeful promise of noble doings yet: the
eagle, which will breast the hurricane yet, may meet
various awkward tumbles before he learns the fashion
in which to use those iron wings.  But the substantial
goose, which probably escapes those tumbles in trying to
fly, will never do anything very magnificent in the way
of flying.  The man who in his early days writes in a
very inflated and bombastic style, will gradually sober
down into good sense and accurate taste, still retaining
something of liveliness and eloquence.  But expect little
of the man who as a boy was always sensible, and never
bombastic.  He will grow awfully dry. He is sure to
fall into the unpardonable sin of tiresomeness. The rule




26               CONCERNING VEAL.
has exceptions; but the earliest productions of a man of
real genius are almost always crude, flippant, and affectedly smart; or else turgid and extravagant in a high
degree.  Witness Mr. Disraeli; witness Sir E. B. Lytton; witness even Macaulay.  The man who as a mere
boy writes something very sound and sensible, will probably never become more than a dull, sensible, commonplace man.  Many people can say, as they bethink
themselves of their old college companions, that those
who wrote with good sense and good taste at twenty,
have mostly settled down into the dullest and baldest of'
prosers; while such as dealt in bombastic flourishes and
absurd ambitiousness of style, have learned as time went
on to prune their early luxuriances, while still retaining
something of raciness, interest, and ornament.
I have been speaking very generally of the characteristics of Veal in composition.  It is difficult to give any
accurate description of it that shall go into minuter details. Of course it is easy to think of little external
marks of the beast — that is, the calf.  It is Veal in
style when people, writing prose, think it a fine thing to
write. o'er instead of over, ne'er instead of never, poesie
instead of poetry, and methinks under any circumstances
whatsoever.  References to the heart are generally of
the nature of veal, also allusions to the mysterious throbbings and yearnings of our nature. The word grand has
of late come to excite a strong suspicion of Veal; and
when I read the other day in a certain poem something
about a great grand man, I concluded that the writer of
that poem is meanwhile a great grand calf.  The only
case in which the words may properly be used together
is in speaking of your great grandfather. To talk about




CONCERNING VEAL.                  27
mine affections, meaning my affections, is Veal; and mine
bonnie love was decided Veal, though it was written by
Charlotte Bronte.  To say mayhap, when you mean perhaps, is Veal.  So is it also to talk of human ken, when
you mean human knowledge.  To speak of something
higher and holier is invariably Veal: and it is usually
Veal to speak of something deeper.  Wife mine is Veal,
though it stands in The Gaxtons.  I should rather like to
see the man who in actual life is accustomed to address
his spouse in that fashion. To say Not, oh never, shall
we do so and so, is outrageous Veal.  Sylvan grove or
sylvan vale in ordinary conversation is Veal. The word
glorious should be used with caution; when applied to
trees, mountains, or the like, there is a strong suspicion
of Veal about it.  But one feels that in saying these
things we are not getting at the essence of Veal. It is
Veal in thought that is essential Veal, and that is very
hard to define. Beyond extravagant language, beyond
absurd fine things, it lies in a certain lack of reality and
sobriety of sense and view -  in a certain indefinable
jejuneness in the mental fare provided, which makes
mature men feel that somehow it does not satisfy their
cravings.  You know what I mean better than I can
express it. You have seen and heard a young preacher,
with a rosy face and an unlined brow, preaching about
the cares and trials of life. Well, you just feel at once
he knows nothing about them.  You feel that all this is
at second-hand.  He is saying all this because he supposes it is the right thing to say.  Give me the pilot to
direct me who has sailed through the difficult channel
many a time himself! Give me the fiiend to sympathize
with me in sorrow, who has felt the like.  There is a
hollowness, a certain want, in the talk about much trib



28               CONCERNING VEAL.
ulation of the very cleverest man who has never felt
any great sorrow at all. The great force and value of
all teaching lie in the amount of personal experience
which is embodied in it. You feel the difference between the production of a wonderfully clever boy and
of a mature man when you read the first canto of Childe
Harold and then read Philip van Artevelde.  I do not
say but that the boy's production may have a liveliness
and interest beyond the man's.  Veal is in certain respects superior to beef, though beef is best on the whole.
I have heard vealy preachers whose sermons kept up
breathless attention.  From the first word to the last of
a sermon which was unquestionable Veal, I have witnessed an entire congregation listen with that audible
hush you know.  It was very different indeed from the
state of.matters when a humdrum  old gentleman was
preaching, every word spoken by whom was the maturest
sense, expressed in words to which the most fastidious
taste could have taken no exception; but then the whole
thing was sleepy; it was a terrible effort to attend.  In
the case of the Veal there was no effort at all.  I defy
you to help attending. But then you sat in pain. Every
second sentence there was some outrageous offence against
good taste; every third statement was absurd or overdrawn or almost profane.  You felt occasional thrills of
pure disgust and horror, and you were in terror what
might come next.  One thing which tended to carry all
this off was the manifest confidence and earnestness of
the speaker. He did not think it Veal that he was saying.  And though great consternation was depicted on
the faces of some of the better educated people in church,
you could see that a very considerable part of the congregation did not think it Veal either. There can be no




CONCERNING VEAL.                  29
doubt, my middle-aged friend, if you could but give your
early sermons now with the confidence and fire of the
time when you wrote them, they would make a deep
impression on many people yet. But it is simply impossible for you to give them; and if you should force yourself some rainy Sunday to preach one of them, you would
give it with such a sense of its errors, and with such an
absence of corresponding feeling, that it would fall very
flat and dead. Your views are maturing: your taste is
growing fastidious; the strong things you once said you
could not bring yourself to say now. If you could preach
those old sermons, there is no doubt they would go down
with the mass of uncultivated folk, - go down better than
your mature and reasonable ones.  We have all known
such cases as that of a young preacher who, at twentyfive, in his days of Veal, drew great crowds to the church
at which he preached; and who at thirty-five, being a
good deal tamed and sobered, and in the judgment of
competent judges vastly improved, attracted no more than
a respectable congregation. A very great and eloquent
preacher lately lamented to me the uselessness of his
store of early discourses. If he could but get rid of his
present standard of what is right and good in thought
and language, and preach them with the enchaining fire
with which he preached them once! For many hearers
remain immature, though the preacher has matured.
Young people are growing up, and there are people
whose taste never ripens beyond the enjoyment of Veal.
There is a period in the mental development of those
who will be ablest and maturest, at which vealy thought
and language are accepted as the best.  Veal will be
highly appreciated by sympathetic calves; and the greatest men, with rare exceptions, are calves in youth, while




30               CONCERNING VEAL.
many human beings are calves forever.  And here I
may remark, as something which has afforded me consolation on various occasions within the last year, that it
seems unquestionable that sermons which are utterly
revolting to people of taste and sense, have done much
good to large masses of those people in whom common
sense is most imperfectly developed, and in whom taste
is not developed at all; and accordingly, wherever one
is convinced of the sincerity of the individuals, however
foolish and uneducated, who go about pouring forth those
violent, exaggerated, and all but blasphemous discourses
of which I have read accounts in the newspapers, one
would humbly hope that a Power which works by many
means, would bring about good even through an instrumentality which it is hard to contemplate without some
measure of horror.  The impression produced by most
things in this world is relative to the minds on which the
impression is produced.  A coarse ballad, deficient in
rhyme and rhythm, and only half decent, will keep up
the attention of a rustic group to whom you might read
from  In Memoriam  in vain.  A  waistcoat of glaring
scarlet will be esteemed by a country bumpkin a garment
every way preferable to one of aspect more subdued.
A nigger melody will charm  many a one who would
yawn at Beethoven.  You must have rough means to
move rough people.  The outrageous revival-orator may
do good to people to whom Bishop Wilberforce or Dr.
Caird might preach to no purpose; and if real good
be done, by whatever means, all right-minded people
should rejoice to hear of it.
And this leads to an important practical question, on
which men at different periods of life will never agree,




CONCERNING VEAL.                   31
When shall thought be regarded as mature? Is there a
standard by which we can ascertain beyond question
whether a composition be Veal or Beef? I sigh for fixity
and assurance in matters aesthetical.  It is vexatious
that, what I think very good my friend Smith thinks very
bad. It is vexatious that what strikes me as supreme
and unapproachable excellence, strikes another person at
least as competent to form an opinion, as poor. And I am
angry with myself when I feel that I honestly regard as
inflated commonplace and mystical jargon, what a man as
old and (let us say) nearly as wise as myself thinks the
utterance of a prophet. You know how, when you contemplate the purchase of a horse, you lead him up to the
measuring-bar, and there ascertain the precise number of
hands and inches which he stands. How have I longed for
the means of subjecting the mental stature of human beings
to an analogous process of measurement! Oh for some
recognized and unerring gauge of mental calibre!  It
would be a grand thing if somewhere in a very conspicuous position - say on the site of the National Gallery
at Charing-cross - there were a pillar erected, graduated
by some new Fahrenheit, on which we could measure the
height of a man's mind.  How delightful it would be to
drag up some pompous pretender who passes off at once
upon himself and others as a profound and able man,
and make him measure his height upon that pillar, and
understand beyond all cavil what a pigmy he is! And
how pleasant, too, it would be to bringup some man of
unacknowledged genius, and make the world see the
reach of his intellectual stature! The mass of educated
people even are so incapable of forming an estimate of a
man's ability, that it would be a blessing if men could
be sent out into the world with the stamp upon them,




32               CONCERNING VEAL.
telling what are their weight and value, plain for every
one to see. But of course there are many ways in
which a book, sermon, or essay, may be bad without being Vealy. It may be dull, stupid, illogical, and the like,
and yet have nothing of boyishness about it. It may be
insufferably bad, yet quite mature.  Beef may be bad,
and yet undoubtedly beef. And the question now is, not
so much whether there be a standard of what is in a
literary sense good or bad, as whether there be a standard of what is Veal and what is Beef.  And there is a
great difficulty here. Is a thing to be regarded as mature
when it suits your present taste; when it is approved by
your present deliberate judgment?  For your taste is always changing: your standard is not the same for three
successive years of your early youth. The Veal you now
despise you thought Beef when you wrote it.  And so,
too, with the productions of other men. You cannot read
now without amazement the books which used to enchant
you as a child.  I remember when I used to read Hervey's Mleditations with great delight.  That was when
I was about five years old.  A  year or two later I
greatly affected Macpherson's translation of Ossian. It
is not so very long since I felt the liveliest interest in
Tupper's Proverbial.Philosophy.  Let me confess that I
retain a kindly feeling towards it yet; and that I am
glad to see that some hundreds of thousands of readers
appear to be still in the stage out of which I passed some
years since. Yes, as you grow older your taste changes:
it becomes more fastidious; and especially you come to
have always less toleration for sentimental feeling and for
flights of fancy. And besides this gradual and constant
progression, which holds on uniformly year after year,
there are changes in mood and taste sometimes from day




CONCERNING VEAL.                   33
to day and from hour to hour. The man who did a very
silly thing thought it was a wise thing when he did it.
He sees the matter differently in a little while. On the
evening after the battle of Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington wrote a certain letter.  History does not record
its matter or style. But history does record that some
years afterwards the Duke paid a hundred guineas to get
it back again; and that on getting it he instantly burnt it,
exclaiming that when he wrote it he must have been the
greatest idiot on the face of the earth.  Doubtless, if we
had seen that letter, we should have heartily coincided in
the sentiment of the hero. He was an idiot when he
wrote it, but he did not think that he was one. I think,
however, that there is a standard of sense and folly; and
that there is a point at which Veal is Veal no more. But
I do not believe that thought can justly be called mature
only when it has become such as to suit the taste of some
desperately dry old gentleman with as much feeling as a
log of wood, and as much imagination as an oyster. I
know how intolerant some dull old fogies are of youthful
fire and fancy.  I shall not be convinced that any discourse is puerile because it is pronounced such by the
venerable Dr. Dryasdust.  I remember that the venerable man has written many pages, possibly abundant in
sound sense, but which no mortal could read, and to
which no mortal could listen.  I remember that though
that not very amiable individual has outlived such wits
as he once had, he has not outlived the unbecoming emotions of envy and jealousy; and he retains a strong tendency to evil-speaking and slandering.  You told me,
unamiable individual, how disgusted you were at hearing a friend of mine who is one of the best preachers in
Britain, preach one of his finest sermons. Perhaps you
3




34              CONCERNING VEAL.
really were disgusted: there is such a thing as casting
pearls before swine, who will not appreciate them highly.
But you went on to give an account of what the great
preacher said; and though I know you are extremely
stupid, you are not quite so stupid as to have actually
fancied that the great preacher said what you reported
that he said: you were well aware that you were grossly
misrepresenting him. And when I find malice and insincerity in one respect I am ready to suspect them in
another: and I venture to doubt whether you were disgusted.  Possibly, you were only ferocious at finding
yourself so unspeakably excelled. But even if you had
been really disgusted; and even if you were a clever
man; and even if you were above the suspicion of jealousy; I should not think that my friend's noble discourse
was puerile because you thought it so. It is not when
the warm  feelings of earlier days are dried up into a
cold, time-worn cynicism, that I think a man has become
the best judge of the products of the human brain and
heart. It is a noble thing when a man grows old, retaining something of youthful freshness and fervor.  It is a
fine thing to ripen without shrivelling: to reach the calmness of age, yet keep the warm heart and ready sympathy of youth.  Show me such a man as that, and I shall
be content to bow to his decision whether a thing be Veal
or not. But as such men are not found very frequently, I
should suggest it as an approximation to a safe criterion,
that a thing may be regarded as mature when it is deliberately and dispassionately approved by an educated
man of good ability, and above thirty years of age.  No
doubt a man of fifty may hold that fifty is the age of
sound taste and sense: and a youth of twenty-three may
maintain that he is as good a judge of human doings now




CONCERNING VEAL.                   35
as he will ever be. I do not claim to have proposed an
infallible standard. I give you my present belief, being
well aware that it is very likely to alter.
It is not desirable that one's taste should become too
fastidious, or that natural feeling should be refined away.
And a cynical young man is bad, but a cynical old one is
a great deal worse.  The cynical young man is probably
shamming; he is a humbug, not a cynic.  But the old
man probably is a cynic, as heartless as he seems. And
without thinking of cynicism, real or affected, let us
remember that though the taste ought to be refined
and daily refining, it ought not to be refined beyond
being practically serviceable. Let things be good; but
not too good to be workable.  It is expedient that a cart
for conveying coals should be of neat and decent appearance.  Let the shafts be symmetrical, the boards wellplaned, the whole strong yet not clumsy; and over the
whole let the painter's skill induce a hue rosy as beauty's
cheek, or dark-blue as her eye.  All that is well; and
while the cart will carry its coals satisfactorily, it will
stand a good deal of rough usage, and it will please the
eye of the rustic who sits in it on an empty sack, and
whistles as it moves along. But it would be highly inexpedient to make that cart of walnut of the finest grain
and marking, and to have it French-polished. It would
be too fine to be of use; and its possessor would fear to
scratch it; and would preserve it as a show, seeking some
plainer vehicle to carry his coals. In like manner, do
not refine too much either the products of the mind, or
the sensibilities of the taste which is to appreciate them.
I know an amiable professor very different from Dr. Dryasdust.  He was a country clergyman; a very interesting plain preacher. But when he got his chair, he had




36               CONCERNING VEAL.
to preach a good deal in the college chapel; and by way
of accommodating his discourses to an academic audience,
he re-wrote them carefully; rubbed off all the salient
points; cooled down whatever warmth was in them  to
frigid accuracy; toned down everything striking.  The
result was that his sermons became eminently classical
and elegant; only they became impossible to attend to,
and impossible to remember.  And when you heard the
good man preach, you sighed for the rough and striking
heartiness of former days.  And we have all heard of
such a thing as taste refined to that painful sensitiveness,
that it became a source of torment; that is, unfitted for
common enjoyments and even for common duties. There
was once a great man, let us say at Melipotamus, who
never went to church. A clergyman once in speaking to
a friend of the great man, lamented that the great man
set so bad an example before his humbler neighbors.
" How can that man go to church," was the reply;' his
taste and his entire critical faculty, is sharpened to that
degree, that in listening to any ordinary preacher, he feels
outraged and shocked at every fourth sentence he hears,
by its inelegance or its want of logic; and the entire ser.
mon torments him  by its unsymmetrical structure, its
want of perspective in the presentment of details, and
its general literary badness."  I quite believe that there
was a moderate proportion of truth in the excuse thus
urged; and you will probably judge that it would have
been better had the great man's mind not been brought
to so painful a polish.
The mention of dried-up old gentlemen reminds one
of a question which has sometimes perplexed me. Is it
Vealy to feel or to show keen emotion? Is it a precious
result and indication of the maturity of the human mind,




CONCERNING VEAL.                  87
to look as if you felt nothing at all? I have often looked
with wonder, and with a moderate amount of veneration,
at a few old gentlemen whom I know well, who are leading members of a certain legislative and judicial council,
held in great respect in a country of which no more need
be said. I have beheld these old gentlemen sitting apparently quite unmoved when discussions were going on in
which I knew they felt a very deep interest, and when
the tide of debate was setting strongly against their peculiar views.  There they sat, impassive as a Red Indian
at the stake.  I think of a certain man, who, while a
smart speech on the other side is being made, retains a
countenance expressing actually nothing; he looks as if
he heard nothing, felt nothing, cared for nothing.  But
when the other man sits down, he rises to reply.  He
speaks slowly at first, but every weighty word goes home
and tells: he gathers warmth and rapidity as he goes on,
and in a little you become aware that for a few hundred
pounds a year, you may sometimes get a man who would
have made an Attorney-General or a Lord Chancellor;
you discern that under the appearance of almost stolidity,
there was the sharpest attention watching every word of
the argument of the other speaker, and ready to come
down on every weak point in it; and the other speaker is
(in a logical sense) pounded to jelly by a succession of
straight-handed hits.  Yes, it is a wonderful thing to find
a combination of coolness and earnestness.  But I am
inclined to believe that the reason why some old gentlemen look as if they did not care, is that in fact they don't
care.  And there is no particular merit in looking cool
while a question is being discussed, if you really do not
mind a rush which way it may be decided.  A keen,
unvarying, engrossing regard for one's self, is a great




38               CONCERNING VEAL.
safeguard  against over-excitement in  regard  to  all
the questions of the day, political, social, and religious.
It is a curious but certain fact, that clever young men,
at that period of their life when their own likings tend
towards Veal, know quite well the difference between
veal and beef; and are quite able, when necessary, to
produce the latter.  The tendency to boyishness of
thought and style may be repressed, when you know you
are writing for the perusal of readers with whom that
will not go down. A student of twenty, who has in him
great talent, no matter how undue a supremacy his imagination may meanwhile have, if he be set to producing
an essay in Metaphysics to be read by professors of philosophy, will produce a composition singularly free from
any trace of immaturity.  For such a clever youth,
though he may have a strong bent towards Veal, has in
him an instinctive perception that it is Veal; and a keen
sense of what will and will not do for the particular readers he has to please. Go, you essayist who carried off a
host of university honors; and read over now the prize
essays you wrote at twenty-one or twenty-two. I think
the thing that will mainly strike you will be, how very
mature these compositions are; how ingenious, how judicious, how free from extravagance, how quietly and
accurately and even felicitously expressed.  They are not
Veal.  And yet you know, that several years after you
wrote them you were still writing a great deal which was
Veal beyond all question. But then a clever youth can
produce material to any given standard; and you wrote
the essays not to suit your own taste, but to suit what
you intuitively knew was the taste of the grave and even




CONCERNING VEAL.                  39
smoke-dried professors who were to read them and sit in
judgment on them.
And though it is very fit and right that the academic
standard should be an understood one, and quite different
from the popular standard, still it is not enough that a
young man should be able to write to a standard against
which he in his heart rebels and protests.  It is yet more
important that you should get him to approve and adopt
a standard which is accurate, if not severe. It is quite
extraordinary what bombastic and immature sermons are
preached in their first years in the Church by young
clergymen who wrote many academic compositions in a
style the most classical. It seems to be essential that a
man of feeling and imagination should be allowed fairly to
run himself out. The course apparently is, that the tree
should send out its rank shoots, and then that you should
prune them, rather than that by some repressive means
you should prevent the rank shoots coming forth at all.
The way to get a high-spirited horse to be content to
stay peaceably in its stall, is to allow it to have a tearing
gallop, and thus get out its superfluous nervous excitement and vital spirit. Let the boiler blow off its steam.
All repression is dangerous.  And some injudicious folk,
instead of encouraging the highly-charged mind and heart
to relieve themselves by blowing off in excited verse and
extravagant bombast, would (so to speak) sit on the
safety valve.  Let the bursting spring flow! It will run
turbid at first; but it will clear itself day by day. Let a
young man write a vast deal: the more he writes, the
sooner will the Veal be done with.  But if a man write
very little the bombast is not blown off; and it may remain till advanced years. It seems as if a certain quantity of fustian must be. blown off before you reach the




40               CONCERNING VEAL.
good material.  I have heard a mercantile man of fifty
read a paper he had written on a social subject.  He
had written very little save business letters all his life.
And I assure you that his. paper was bombastic to a degree that you would have said was barely tolerable in a
youth of twenty. I have seldom listened to Veal so outrageous. You see he had not worked through it in his
youth; and so here it was now. I have witnessed the
like phenomenon in a man who went into the Church at
five-and-forty.  I heard him  preach one of his earliest sermons, and I have hardly ever heard such boyish
rodomontade.  The imaginations of some men last out
in liveliness longer than those of others; and the taste
of some men never becomes. perfect; and it is no doubt
owing to these things that you find some men producing
Veal so much later in life than others.  You will find
men who are very turgid and magniloquent at five-andthirty, at forty, at fifty.  But I attribute the phenomenon in no small measure to the fact that such men had
not the opportunity of blowing off their steam in youth.
Give a man at four-and-twenty two sermons to write a
week, and he will very soon work through his Veal.
It is probably because ladies write comparatively so little,
that you find them writing at fifty poetry and prose of
the most awfully romantic and sentimental strain.
We have been thinking, my friend, as you have doubt
less observed, almost exclusively of intellectual and
vesthetical immaturity, and of its products in composition,
spoken or written. But combining with that immaturity,
and going very much to affect the character of that Veal,
there is moral immaturity, resulting in views, feelings,
and conduct, which may be described as Moral Veal.




CONCERNING VEAL.                  41
But indeed it is very difficult to distinguish between the
different kinds of immaturity; and to say exactly what
in the moods and doings of youth proceeds from each.
It is safest to rest in the general proposition that, even
as the calf yields Veal, so does the immature human
mind yield immature productions. It is a stage which
you outgrow, and therefore a stage of comparative immaturity, in which you read a vast deal of poetry, and
repeat much poetry to yourself when alone, working
yourself up thereby to an enthusiastic excitement.  And
very like a calf you look when some one suddenly enters
the room in which you are wildly gesticulating or moodily laughing, and thinking yourself poetical and indeed
sublime.  The person probably takes you for a fool; and
the best you can say for yourself is that you are not so
great a fool as you seem to be. Vealy is the period of
life in which you filled a great volume with the verses
you loved; and in which you stored your memory, by
frequent reading, with many thousands of lines.  All
that you outgrow.  Fancy a man of fifty having his
commonplace book of poetry! And it will be instructive to turn over the ancient volume, and to see how year
by year the verses copied grew fewer, and finally ceased
entirely. I do not say that all growth is progress; sometimes it is like that of the muscle which once advanced
into manly vigor and usefulness, but is now ossifying into
rigidity. It is well to have fancy and feeling under command: it is not well to have feeling and fancy dead.
That season of life is vealy in which you are charmed
by the melody of verse quite apart from its meaning.
And there is a season in which that is so. And it is curious to remark what verses they are that have charmed
many men.  For they are often verses in which no one




42                CONCERNING VEAL.
else could have discerned that singular fascination. You
may remember how Robert Burns has recorded that in
youth he was enchanted by the melody of two lines of
Addison's: -
For though in dreadful whirls we hung,
High on the broken wave.
Sir Walter Scott felt the like fascination in youth (and
he tells us it was not entirely gone even in age), in
MIickle's stanza: —
The dews of summer night did fall;
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Not a remarkable verse, I think.  However, it at least
presents a pleasant picture. But I remember well the
enchantment which, when twelve years old, I felt in a
verse by Mrs. Hemans, which I can now see presents an
excessively disagreeable picture.  I saw it.not then; and
when I used to repeat that verse, I know it was without
the slightest perception of its meaning. You know the
beautiful poem called the Battle of Morgarten.  At least
I remember it as beautiful; and I am not going to spoil
my recollection by reading it now. Here is the verse: —
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed,
When the Austrian turned to fly:
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die 
As I write that verse (at which the critical reader will
smile), I am aware that Veal has its hold of me yet. I
see nothing of the miserable scene the poet describes;
but I hear the waves murmuring on a distant beach,
and I see the hills across the sea, the first sea I ever
beheld; I see the school to which I went daily; I see




CONCERNING VEAL.                  43
the class-room and the place where I used to sit; I see
the faces and hear the voices of my old companions,
some dead, one sleeping in the middle of the great Atlantic, many scattered over distant parts of the world,
almost all far away. Yes, I feel that I have not quite
cast off the witchery of the Battle of Morgarten.  Early
associations can give to verse a charm and a hold upon
one's heart which no literary excellence, however high,
ever could.  Look at the first hymns you learned to
repeat, and which you used to say at your mother's
knee; look at the psalms and hymns you remember
hearing sung at church when you were a child: you
know how impossible it is for you to estimate these upon
their literary merits. They may be almost doggrel; but
not Mr. Tennyson can touch you like them! The most
effective eloquence is that which is mainly done by the
mind to which it is addressed: it is that which touches
chords which of themselves yield matchless music; it is
that which wakens up trains of old remembrance, and
which wafts around you the fragrance of the hawthorn
that blossomed and withered many long years since. An
English stranger would not think much of the hymns we
sing in our Scotch churches: he could not know what
many of them are to us. There is a magic about the
words.  I cal discern, indeed, that some of them are
mawkish in sentiment, faulty in rhyme, and on the whole
what you would call extremely unfitted to be sung in
public worship, if you were judging of them  as new
things: but a crowd of associations which are beautiful
and touching gathers round the lines which have no great
beauty or pathos in themselves.
You were in an extremely vealy condition when, having
attained the age of fourteen, you sent some verses to the




44               CONCERNING VEAL.
county newspaper, and with simple-hearted elation read
them in the corner devoted to what was termed "Original
Poetry." It is a pity you did not preserve the newspapers
in which you first saw yourself in print, and experienced
the peculiar sensation which accompanies that sight. No
doubt your verses expressed the gloomiest views of life,
and told of the bitter disappointments you had met in
your long intercourse with mankind, and especially with
womankind.  And though you were in a flutter of anxiety and excitement to see whether or not your verses
would be printed, your verses probably declared that you
had used up life and seen through it; that your heart was
no longer to be stirred by aught on earth; and that, in
short, you cared nothing for anything. You could see
nothing fine, then, in being good, cheerful, and happy;
but you thought it a grand thing to be agloomy man, of
a very dark complexion, with blood on your conscience,
upwards of six feet high, and accustomed to wander
from land to land, like Childe Harold. You were extremely vealy when you used to fancy that you were
sure to be a very great man; and to think how proud
your relations would some day be of you, and how you
would come back and excite a great commotion at the
place where you used to be a schoolboy. And it is because the world has still left some impressionable spot in
your hearts, my readers, that you still have so many fond
associations with "the schoolboy spot, we ne'er forget,
though we are there forgot."  They were vealy days,
though pleasant to remember, my old school companions,
in which you used to go to the dancing-school (it was in
a gloomy theatre, seldom entered by actors), in which
you fell in love with several young ladies about eleven
years old; and (being permitted occasionally to select




CONCERNING VEAL.                  45
your own partners) made frantic rushes to obtain the
hand of one of the beauties of that small society. Those
were the days in which you thought that when you grew
up it would be a very fine thing to be a pirate, bandit, or
corsair, rather than a clergyman, barrister, or the like;
even a cheerful outlaw like Robin Hood did not come up
to your views; you would rather have been a man like
Captain Kyd, stained with various crimes of extreme
atrocity, which would entirely preclude the possibility
of returning to respectable society, and given to moody
laughter in solitary moments.  Oh, what truly asinine
developments the human being must go through before
arriving at the stage of common sense! You were very
vealy, too, when you used to think it a fine thing to astonish people by expressing awful sentiments, such as that
you thought Mahommedans better than Christians, that
you would like to be dissected after death, that you did
not care what you got for dinner, that you liked learning
your lessons better than going out to play, that you would
rather read Euclid than Ivanhoe, and the like.  It may
be remarked that this peculiar vealiness is not confined
to youth; I have seen it appearing very strongly in
men with gray hair.  Another manifestation of vealiness, which appears both in age and youth, is the entertaining a strong belief that kings, noblemen, and
baronets, are always in a condition of ecstatic happiness. I have known people pretty far advanced in life,
who not only believed that monarchs must be perfectly
happy, but that all who were permitted to continue in
their presence would -catch a considerable degree of
the mysterious bliss which was their portion.  I have
heard a sane man, rather acute and clever in many
things, seriously say, "If a man cannot be happy in




46               CONCERNING VEAL.
the presence of his Sovereign, where can he be hap.
py? "
And yet, absurd and foolish as is moral vealiness, there
is something fine about it. Many of the old and dear associations most cherished in human hearts, are of the
nature of Veal. It is sad to think that most of the
romance of life is unquestionably so. All spooniness, all
the preposterous idolization of some one who is just like
anybody else, all love (in the narrow sense in which the
word is understood by novel readers), you feel when you
look back, are Veal. The young lad and the young girl,
whom at a pic-nic party you have discerned stealing off
under frivolous pretexts from the main body of guests,
and sitting on the grass by the riverside, enraptured in
the prosecution of a conversation which is intellectually
of the emptiest, and fancying that they two make all the
world, and investing that spot with remembrances which
will continue till they are gray, are (it must in sober
sadness be admitted) of the nature of calves. For it is
beyond doubt that they are at a stage which they will
outgrow, and on which they may possibly look back with
something of shame. All these things, beautiful as they
are, are no more than Veal. Yet they are fitting and excellent in their time. No, let us not call them veal, they
are rather like lamb, which is excellent though immature.
No doubt, youth is immaturity; and as you outgrow it
you are growing better and wiser; still youth is a fine
thing, and most people would be young again if they
could.  How cheerful and light-hearted is immaturity!
How cheerful and lively are the little children even of silent and gloomy men! It is sad, and it is unnatural, when
they are not so. I remember yet, when I was at school,
with what interest and wonder I used to look at two or




CONCERNING VEAL,                 47
three boys, about twelve or thirteen years old, who were
always dull, sullen, and unhappy-looking. In those days,
as a general rule, you are never sorrowful without knowing the reason why. You are never conscious of the
dull atmosphere, of the gloomy spirits, of after-time. The
youthful machine, bodily and mental, plays smoothly; the
young being is cheery. Even a kitten is very different
from a grave old cat; and a young colt, from a horse
sobered by the cares and toils of years. And you picture fine things to yourself in your youthful dreams. I
remember a beautiful dwelling I used often to see, as if
from the brow of'a great hill. I see the rich valley below, with magnificent woods and glades, and a broad
river reflecting the sunset; and in the midst of the valley,
the vast Saracenic pile, with gilded minarets blazing in
the golden light. I have since then seen many splendid
habitations, but none in the least equal to that. I cannot even yet discard the idea that somewhere in this
world there stands that noble palace, and that some day
I shall find it out. You remember also the intense delight with which you read the books that charmed you
then: how you carried off the poem or the tale to some
solitary place, how you sat up far into the night to read
it, how heartily you believed in all the story, and sympathized with the people it told of. I wish I could feel now
the veneration for the man who has written a book which
I used once to feel. Oh that one could read the old volumes with the old feeling! Perhaps you have some of
them yet, and you remember the peculiar expression of
the type in which they were printed: the pages look at
you with the face of an old friend. If you were then of
an observant nature, you will understand how much of
the effect of any composition upon the human mind de



48               CONCERtNING VEAL.
pends upon the printing, upon the placing of the points,
even upon the position of the sentences on the page. A
grand, high-flown, and sentimental climax ought always
to conclude at the bottom of a page. It will look ridiculous if it ends four or five lines down from the top of the
next page.  Somehow there is a feeling as of the difference between the night before and the next morning.
It is as though the crushed ball-dress and the dishevelled
locks of the close of the evening re-appeared, the same,
before breakfast.  Let us have homely sense at the top
of the page, pathos at the foot of it. What a force in the
bad type of the shabby little Clilde Harold you used to
read so often! You turn it over in a grand illustrated
edition, and it seems like another poem. Let it here be
said, that occasionally you look with something like indignation on the volume which enchained you in your
boyish days.  For now you have burst the chain.  And
you have somewhat of the feeling of the prisoner towards
the jailer who held him in unjust bondage.  What right
had that bombastic rubbish to touch and thrill you as it
used to do?  Well, remember that it suits successive
generations at their enthusiastic stage. There are poets
whose great admirers are for the most part under twenty
years old; but probably almost every clever young person regards them at some period in his life as among the
noblest of mortals.  And it is no ignoble ambition to
win the ardent appreciation of even immature tastes and
hearts.  Its brief endurance is compensated by its intensity.  You sit by the fireside and read your leisurely
Times, and you feel a tranquil enjoyment.  You like it
better than the Sorrows of Werter, but you do not like it
a twentieth part as much as you once liked the Sorrows
of Werter.  You would be interested in meeting the man




CONCERNING VEAL.                  49
who wrote that brilliant and slashing leader; but you
would not regard him with speechless awe, as something
more than human.  Yet, remembering all the weaknesses
out of which men grow, and on which they look back
with a smile or sigh, who does not feel that there is a
charm  which will not depart about early youth?  Longfellow knew that he would reach the hearts of most men
when he wrote such a verse as this:The green trees whispered low and mild;
It was a sound of joy!
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild;
Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy!
Such readers as are young men, will understand what
has already been said as to the bitter indignation with
which the writer, some years ago, listened to self-conceited elderly persons who put aside the arguments and
the doings of younger men with the remark that these
younger men were boys. There are few terms of reproach which I have heard uttered with looks of such
deadly ferocity. And there are not many which excite
feelings of greater wrath in the souls of clever young
men.  I remember how in those days I determined to
write an essay, which should scorch up and finally destroy all these carping and malicious critics. It was to
be called A Chapter on Boys.  After an introduction of
a sarcastic and magnificent character, setting out views
substantially the same as those contained in the speech of
Lord Chatham in reply to Walpole, which boys are taught
to recite at school, that essay was to go on to show that
a great part of English literature was written by very
young men.  Unfortunately, on proceeding to investigate
4




50               CONCERNING VEAL.
the matter carefully, it appeared that the best part of
English literature, even in the range of poetry, was in
fact written by men of even more than middle age. So
the essay was never finished, though a good deal of it
was sketched out. Yesterday I took out the old manuscript; and after reading a bit of it, it appeared so remarkably vealy, that I put it with indignation into the
fire. Still I observed various facts of interest as to great
things done by young men, and some by young men
who never lived to be old. Beaumont the dramatist died
at twenty-nine.  Christopher Marlowe wrote Faustus at
twenty-five, and died at thirty.  Sir Philip Sidney wrote
his Arcadia at twenty-six.  Otway wrote The Orphan
at twenty-eight, and Venice Preserved at thirty.  Thomson wrote the Seasons at twenty-seven.  Bishop Berkeley had devised his Ideal System  at twenty-nipe; and
Clarke at the same age published his great work on the
Being and Attributes of God.  Then there is Pitt, of
course.  But these cases are exceptional; and besides,
men at twenty-eight and thirty are not in any way to be
regarded as boys.  What I wanted was proof of the
great things that had been done by young fellows about
two-and-twenty; and such proof was not to be found. A
man is simply a boy grown up to his best; and of course
what is done by men must be better than what is done
by boys. Unless in very peculiar cases, a man at thirty
will be every way superior to what he was at twenty;
and at forty to what he was at thirty. Not indeed physically; let that be granted. Not always morally; but
surely intellectually and aesthetically.
Yes, my readers, we have all been Calves.  A great
part of all our doings has been what the writer, in figu



CONCERNING VEAL.                 51
rative language, has described as Veal.  We have not
said, written, or done very much on which we can now look
back with entire approval.  And we have said, written,
and done a very great deal on which we cannot look
back but with burning shame and confusion. Very many
things which, when we did them, we thought remarkably
good, and much better than the doings of ordinary men,
we now discern, on calmly looking back, to have been
extremely bad.  That time, you know, my friend, when
you talked in a very fluent and animated manner after
dinner at a certain house, and thought you were making
a great impression on the assembled guests, most of them
entire strangers; you are now fully aware that you were
only making a fool of yourself. And let this hint of one
public manifestation of vealiness, suffice to suggest to
each of us scores of similar cases.  But though we
feel, in our secret souls, what calves we have been,
and though it is well for us that we should feel it
deeply, and thus learn humility and caution, we do not
like to be reminded of it by anybody else. Some people have a wonderful memory for the vealy sayings and
doings of their friends. They may be very bad hands
at remembering anything else; but they never forget the
silly speeches and actions on which one would like to
shut down the leaf. You may find people, a great part
of whose conversation consists of repeating and exaggerating their neighbor's Veal; and though that Veal may
be immature enough and silly enough, it will go hard
but your friend Mr. Snarling will represent it as a good
deal worse than the fact.  You will find men who while
at college were students of large ambition but slender
abilities, revenging themselves in this fashion upon the
-lever men who beat them.  It is easy, very easy, to




52               CONCERNING VEAL.
remember foolish things that were said and done even
by the senior wrangler or the man who takes a double
first-class; and candid folk will think that such foolish
things were not fair samples of the men; and will remember, too, that the men have grown out of these, have
grown mature and wise, and for many a year past would
not have said or done such things. But if you were to
judge from  the conversation of Mr. Limejuice (who
wrote many prize essays, but through the malice and
stupidity of the judges never got any prizes), you would
conclude that every word uttered by his successful rivals
was one that stamped them as essential fools, and calves
which would never grow into oxen.. I do not think it is
a pleasing or magnanimous feature in any man's character, that he is ever eager to rake up these early follies.
I would not be ready to throw in the teeth of a pretty
butterfly that it was an ugly caterpillar once, unless I
understood that the butterfly liked to remember the fact.
I would not suggest to this fair sheet of paper on which
I am writing, that not long ago it was dusty rags and
afterwards dirty pulp.  You cannot be an ox without
previously having been a calf; you acquire taste and
sense gradually; and in acquiring them you pass through
stages in which you have very little of either. It is a
poor burden for the memory, to collect and shovel into it
the silly sayings and doings in youth of people who have
become great and eminent.  I read with much disgust a
biography of Mr. Disraeli, which recorded, no doubt accurately, all the sore points in that statesman's history.
I remember, with great approval, what Lord John Manners said in Parliament in reply to Mr. Bright, who had
quoted a well-known and very silly passage from Lord
John's early poetry.  "I would rather," said Lord John,




CONCERNING VEAL.                 5&
"have been the man who in his youth wrote those silly
verses, than the man who in mature years would rake
them up."  And with even greater indignation I regard
the individual who, when a man is doing creditably and
Christianly the work of life, is ever ready to relate and
aggravate the moral delinquencies of his schoolboy and
student days, long since repented of and corrected.
"Remember not," said a man who knew human nature well, " the sins of my youth." But there are men
whose nature has a peculiar affinity for anything petty,
mean, and bad. They fly upon it as a vulture on carrion. Their memory is of that cast, that you have only
to make inquiry of them concerning any of their friends,
to hear of something not at all to the friends' advantage.
There are individuals, after listening to whom you think
it would be a refreshing novelty, almost startling from
its strangeness, to hear them say a word in favor of any
human being whatsoever.
It is not a thing peculiar to immaturity; yet it may
be remarked, that though it is an unpleasant thing to
look back and see that you have said or done something
very foolish, it is a still more unpleasant thing to be well
aware at the time that you are saying or doing something
very foolish. If a man be a fool at all, it is much to be
desired that he should be a very great fool, for then he
will not know when he is making a fool of himself. But
it is painful not to have sense enough to know what you
should do in order to be right, but to have sense enough
to know that you are doing wrong.  To know that you
are talking like an ass, yet to feel that you cannot help
it; that you must say something, and can think of nothing better to say; this is a suffering that comes with advanced civilization. This is a phenomenon frequently to




54               CONCERNING VEAL.
be seen at public dinners in country towns, also at the
entertainment which succeeds a wedding.  Men at other
times rational, seem to be stricken into idiocy when they
rise to their feet on such occasions; and the painful fact
is, that it is conscious idiocy.  The man's words are asinine, and he knows they are asinine.  His wits have
entirely abandoned him: he is an idiot for the time.
Have you sat next a man unused to speaking at a publie dinner; have you seen him nervously rise and utter
an incoherent, ungrammatical, and unintelligible sentence
or two, and then sit down with a ghastly smile? Have
you heard him say to his friend on the other side, in bitterness, "I have made a fool of myself! "  And have
you seen him sit moodily through the remainder of the
feast, evidently ruminating on what he said, seeing now
what he ought to have said, and trying to persuade himself that what he said was not so bad after all?  Would
you do a kindness to that miserable man?  You have
just heard his friend on the other side cordially agreeing
with what he had said as to the badness of the appearance made by him.  Enter into conversation with him;
talk of his speech, congratulate him upon it; tell him
you were extremely struck by the freshness and naturalness of what he said, that there is something delightful
in hearing an unhackneyed speaker, that to speak with
entire fluency looks professional - it is like a barrister or
a clergyman.  Thus you may lighten the mortification
of a disappointed man; and what you say will receive
considerable credence. It is wonderful how readily people believe anything they would like to be true.
I was walking this afternoon along a certain street,
coming home from visiting certain sick persons, and won



CONCERNING VEAL.                  55
dering how I should conclude this essay, when, standing
on the pavement on one side of the street, I saw a little
boy of four years old, crying in great distress.  Various
individuals, who appeared to be Priests and Levites,
looked as they passed at the child's distress, and passed
on without doing anything to relieve it. I spoke to the
little man, who was in great fear at being spoken to, but
told me he had come away from his home and lost himself, and could not find his way back. I told him I would
take him home if he could tell me where he lived: but
he was frightened, into utter helplessness, and could only
tell that his name was Tom, and that he lived at the top
of a stair.  It was a poor neighborhood, in which many
people live at the top of stairs, and the description was
vague.  I spoke to two humble, decent-looking women
who were passing, thinking they might gain the little
thing's confidence better than me; but the poor little
man's great wish was just to get away from us, though
when he got two yards off he could but stand and cryL
You may be sure he was not left in his trouble, but that
he was put safely in his father's hands. And as I was
coming home, I thought that here was an illustration of
something I have been thinking of all this afternoon. I
thought I saw in the poor little child's desire to get away
firom those who wanted to help him, though not knowing
where to go when left to himself, something analogous to
what the immature human being is always disposed to.
The whole teaching of our life is leading us away from
our early delusions and follies, from all those things
about us which have been spoken of under the similitude
which need not be again repeated.  Yet we push away
the hand that would conduct us to soberer and better
things, though when left alone we can but stand and




56              CONCERNING VEAL.
vaguely gaze about us; and we speak hardly of the
growing experience which makes us wiser, and which
ought to make us happier too. Let us not forget that
the teaching which takes something of the gloss from
life is an instrument in the kindest Hand of all; and let
us be humbly content if that kindest Hand shall lead us,
even by rough means, to calm and enduring wisdom 
wisdom by no means inconsistent with youthful freshness
f feeling, and not necessarily fatal even to youthful
gaiety of mood; — and at last to that Happy Place,
where worn men regain the little child's heart, and old
and young are blest together!




CHAPTER  III.
CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY  LEARNT..%L'Al  s OU will see in a little while what sort of
3   A:x'   things they are which I understand by
^1:    Things Slowly Learnt.  Some are facts,
some are moral truths, some are practical
lessons; but the great characteristic of all those which
are to be thought of in this essay, is, that we have
to learn them  and act upon them  in the face of a
strong bias to think or act in an opposite way. It is
not that they are so difficult in themselves; not that they
are hard to be understood, or that they are supported by
arguments whose force is not apparent to every mind.
On the contrary, the things which I have especially in
view are very simple, and for the most part quite unquestionable. But the difficulty of learning them lies in
this: that, as regards them, the head seems to say one
thing and the heart another.  We see plainly enough
what we ought to think or to do; but we feel an irresistible inclination to think or to do something else. It
is about three or four of these things that we are going,
my friend, to have a little quiet talk. We are going to
confine our view to a single class, though possibly the
most important class, in the innumerable multitude of
Things Slowly Learnt.
The truth is, a great many things are slowly learnt




58                  CONCERNING
I have lately had occasion to observe that the alphabet
is one of these.  I remember, too, in my own sorrowful
experience, how the Multiplication Table was another.
A good many years since, an eminent dancing-master
undertook to teach a number of my schoolboy companions a graceful and easy deportment; but comparatively
few of us can be said as yet to have thoroughly attained
it. I know men who have been practising the art of extempore speaking for many years, but who have reached
iio perfection in it, and who, if one may judge from their
confusion and hesitation when they attempt to speak, are
not likely ever to reach even decent mediocrity in that
wonderful accomplishment. Analogous statements might
be made with truth, with regard to my friend Mr. Snarling's endeavors to produce magazine articles; likewise
concerning his attempts to skate, and his efforts to ride
on horseback unlike a tailor. Some folk learn with remarkable slowness that nature never intended them for
wits. There have been men who have punned, ever
more and more wretchedly, to the end of a long and
highly respectable life.  People submitted in silence to
the infliction; no one liked to inform those reputable individuals that they had better cease to make fools of
themselves.  This, however, is part of a larger subject,
which shall be treated hereafter.  On the other hand,
there are things which are very quickly learnt; which
are learnt by a single lesson.  One liberal tip, or even a
few kind words heartily said, to a manly little schoolboy,
will establish in his mind the rooted principle that the
speaker of the words or the bestower of the tip is a jolly
and noble specimen of humankind.- Boys are great
physiognomists: they read a man's nature at a glance.
Well I remember how, when going to and from school, a




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                59
long journey of four hundred miles, in days when such
a journey implied travel by sea as well as by land, I
used to know  instantly the gentlemen or the railway
officials to whom I might apply for advice or information.  I think that this intuitive perception of character
is blunted in after years.  A man is often mistaken in
his first impression of man or woman; a boy hardly
ever.  And a boy not only knows at once whether a
human being is amiable or the reverse; he knows also
whether the human being is wise or foolish. In particular, he knows at once whether the human being always
means what he says, or says a great deal more than he
means.  Inferior animals learn some lessons quickly. A
dog once thrashed for some offence, knows quite well not
to repeat it. A horse turns for the first time down the
avenue to a house where he is well fed and cared for;
next week, or next month, you pass that gate, and though
the horse has been long taught to submit his will to
yours, you can easily see that he knows the place again,
and that he would like to go back to the stable with
which, in his poor, dull, narrow mind, there are pleasant
associations.  I would give a good deal to know what
a horse is thinking about.  There is something very
curious and very touching about the limited intelligence
and the imperfect knowledge of that immaterial principle, in which the immaterial does not imply the immortal.  And yet, if we are to rest the doctrine of a
future life in any degree upon the necessity of compensation of the sufferings and injustice of a present, I think
the sight of the cab horses of any large town might plead
for the admission of some quiet world of green grass and
shady trees, where there should be no cold, starvation,
over-work, or flogging.  Some one has said that the most




60                   CONCERNING
exquisite material scenery would look very cold and dead
in the entire absence of irrational life.  Trees suggest
singing-birds; flowers and sunshine make us think of
the drowsy bees.  And it is curious to think how the
future worlds of various creeds are described as not without their lowly population of animals inferior to man.
We know  what the " poor Indian " expects shall bear
him company in his humble heaven; and possibly various
readers may know some dogs who in certain important
respects are very superior to certain men. You remember how, when a war-chief of the Western woods was
laid by his tribe in his grave, his horse was led to the
spot in the funeral procession, and at the instant when
the earth was cast upon the dead warrior's dust, an arrow reached the noble creature's heart, that in the land
of souls the man should find his old friend again.  And
though it has something of the grotesque, I think it has
more of the pathetic, the aged huntsman of Mr. Assheton Smith desiring to be buried by his master, with two
horses and a few couples of dogs, that they might all be
ready to start together when they meet again far away.
This is a deviation; but that is of no consequence. It
is of the essence of the present writer's essays to deviate
from the track. Only we must not forget the thread of
the discourse; and after our deviation we must go back
to it. All this came of our remarking that some things
are very quickly learnt; and that certain inferior classes
of our fellow-creatures learn them quickly. But deeper
and larger lessons are early learnt. Thoughtful children
of a very few years old, have their own theory of human
nature. Before studying the metaphysicians, and indeed
while still imperfectly acquainted with their letters, young
children have glimpses of the inherent selfishness of




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                 61
humanity. I was recently present when a small boy of
three years old, together with his sister, aged five, was
brought down to the dining-room at the period of dessert.
The small boy climbed upon his mother's knee, and began by various indications to di;play his affection for her.
A stranger remarked what an affectionate child he was.
"Oh," said the little girl, "he suspects (by which she
meant expects) that he is going to get something to eat!"
Not Hobbes himself had reached a clearer perception or
a firmer belief of the selfish system in moral philosophy.
" He is always very affectionate," the youthful philosopher
proceeded, " when he suspects he is going to get something
good to eat!"
By Things Slowly Learnt, I mean not merely things
which are in their nature such that it takes a long time
to learn them; such as the Greek language, or the law
of vendors and purchasers.  These things indeed take
long time and much trouble to learn; but once you have
learnt them, you know them.  Once you have come to
understand the force of the second aorist, you do not find
your heart whispering to you as you are lying awake at
night, that what the grammar says about the second aorist
is all nonsense; you do not feel an inveterate disposition,
gaining force day by day, to think concerning the second
aorist just the opposite of what the grammar says. By
Things Slowly Learnt, I understand things which it is
very hard to learn at the first, because strong as the reasons which support them are, you find it so hard to make
up your mind to them.  I understand things which you
can quite easily (when it is fairly put to you) see to be
true; but which it seems as if it would change the very
Aworld you live in to accept. I understand things you




62                  CONCERNING
discern to be true, but which you have all your life been
accustomed to think false; and which you are extremely
anxious to think false.  And by Things Slowly Learnt I
understand things which are not merely very hard to
learn at the first; but which it is not enough to learn for
once, ever so well.  I understand things which, when
you have made the bitter effort, and admitted them to be
true and certain, you put into your mind to keep (so to
speak); and hardly a day has passed when a soft quiet
hand seems to begin to crumble them down and to wear
them away to nothing.  You write the principle which
was so hard to receive, upon the tablet of your memory;
and day by day a gentle hand comes over it with a bit of
india-rubber, till the inscription loses its clear sharpness,
grows blurred and indistinct, and finally quite disappears.
Nor is the gentle hand content even then; but it begins,
very faintly at first, to trace letters which bear a very
different meaning. Then it deepens and darkens them
day by day, week by week, till at a month's or a year's
end the tablet of memory bears in great, sharp, legible
letters, just the opposite thing to that which you had
originally written down there.  These are my Things
Slowly Learnt. Things you learn at first in the face of
a strong bias against them; things when once taught you
gradually forget, till you come back again to your old
way of thinking.  Such things, of course, lie within the
realm to which extends the influence of feeling and prejudice. They are things in the accepting of which both
head and heart are concerned. Once convince a man
that two and two make four, and he learns the truth without excitement, and he never doubts it again. But prove
to a man that he is of much less importance than he has
been accustomed to think; or prove to a woman that her




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                63
children are very much like those of other folk; or prove
to the inhabitant of a country parish that Britain has
hundreds of parishes which in soil, and climate, and productions, are just as good as his own; or prove to the
great man of' a little country town that there are scores
of towns in this world where the walks are as pleasant~
the streets as well paved, and the population as healthl
and as well conducted; and in each such case you will
find it very hard  to convince the individual at the
time, and you will find that in a very short space
the individual has succeeded in entirely escaping from
the disagreeable  conviction.  You may possibly find,
if you endeavor to instil such belief into minds of
but moderate cultivation, that your arguments will be
met less by force of reason than by roaring of voice
and excitement of manner; you may find that the person you address will endeavor to change the issue you
are arguing, to other issues, wholly irrelevant, touching your own antecedents, character, or even personal
appearance; and you may afterwards be informed by
good-natured friends, that the upshot of your discussion
had been to leave on the mind of your acquaintance the
firm  conviction that you yourself are intellectually a
blockhead, and morally a villain.  And even when dealing with human beings who have reached that crowning
result of a fine training, that they shall have got beyond
thinking a man their "enemy because he tells them  the
truth," you may find that you have rendered a service
like that rendered by the surgeon's amputating knife --
salutary, yet very painful - and leaving forever a sad
association with your thought and your name.  For
among the things we slowly learn, are truths and lessons
which it goes terribly against the grain to learn at first;




64                   CONCERNING
which must be driven into us time after time; and which
perhaps are xlever learnt completely.
One thing very slowly learnt by most human beings, is,
that they are of no earthly consequence beyond a very
small circle indeed; and that really nobody is thinking
or talking about them.  Almost all commonplace men
and women in this world have a vague but deeply-rooted
belief that they are quite different fiom  anybody else,
and of course quite superior to everybody else. It may
be in only one respect they fancy they are this, but that
one respect is quite sufficient. I believe that if a grocer
or silk-mercer in a little town has a hundred customers,
each separate customer lives on under the impression
that the grocer or the silk-mercer is prepared to give to
him or her certain advantages in buying and selling which
will not be accorded to the other ninety-nine customers.
" Say it is for Mrs. Brown," is Mrs. Brown's direction
to her servant when sending for some sugar; " say it is
for Mrs. Brown, and he will give it a little better."  The
grocer, keenly alive to the weaknesses of his fellow-creatures, encourages this notion. " This tea," he says, " would
be four-and-sixpence a pound to any one else, but to you
it is only four-and-threepence."  Judging fiom  my own
observation, I should say that retail dealers trade a good
deal upon this singular fact in the constitution of the human mind, that it is inexpressibly bitter to most people
to believe that they stand on the ordinary level of humanity; that, in the main, they are just like their neighbors. Mrs. Brown would be filled with unutterable wrath
if it were represented to her that the grocer treats her
precisely as he does Mrs. Smith, who lives on one side
of her, and Mrs. Snooks, who lives on the other.  She




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                 65
would be still more angry if you asked her what earthly
reason there is why she should in any way be distin.
guished beyond Mrs. Snooks and Mrs. Smith.  She
takes for granted she is quite different from them: quite
superior to them.  Human beings do not like to be
classed, at least with the class to which in fact they belong. To be classed at all is painful to an average
mortal, who firmly believes that there never was such
a being in this world.  I remember one of the cleverest
friends I have -  one who assuredly cannot be classed intellectually, except in a very small and elevated class -
telling me how mortified he was, when a very clever boy
of sixteen, at being classed at all.  He had told a literary
lady that he admired Tennyson.  "Yes," said the lady,
"I am not surprised at that: there is a class of young
men who like Tennyson at your age."  It went like a
dart to my friend's heart.  Class of young men, indeed 
Was it for this that I outstripped all competitors at school,
that I have been fancying myself an unique phenomenon
in nature, different at least from every other being that
lives, that I should be spoken of as one of a class of
young men!  Now, in my friend's half-playful reminiscence, I see the exemplification of a great fact in human
nature.  Most human beings fancy themselves, and all
their belongings, to be quite different from all other beings, and the belongings of all other beings. I heard an
old lady, whose son is a rifleman, and just like all the
other volunteers of his corps, lately declare that on the
occasion of a certain grand Review her Tom  looked so
entirely different from all the rest.  No doubt he did to
her, poor old lady, for he was her own.  But the irritating thing was, that the old lady wished it to be admitted that Tom's superiority was an actual fact, equally
5




66                  CONCERNING
patent to the eyes of all mankind. Yes, my friend: it is
a thing very slowly learnt by most men, that they are
very much like other people. You see the principle
which underlies what you hear so often said by human
beings, young and old, when urging you to do something
which it is against your general rule to do. "Oh, but
you might do it for me! "  Why for you more than for
any one else, would be the answer of severe logic. Bu
a kindly man would not take that ground: for doubtles,
the Mfe, however little to every one else, is to each unit
in human-kind the centre of all the world.
Arising out of this mistaken notion of their own difference from all other men, is the fancy entertained by
many, that they occupy a much greater space in the
thoughts of others than they really do. Most folk think
mainly about themselves and their own affairs.  Even a
matter which " everybody is talking about," is really
talked about by each for a very small portion of the
twenty-four hours.  And a name which is "in everybody's mouth," is not in each separate mouth for more
than a few minutes at a time.  And during those few
minutes, it is talked of with an interest very faint when
compared with that you feel for yourself. You fancy it
a terrible thing when you yourself have to do something
which you would think nothing about if done by anybody else.  A  lady grows sick, and has to go out of
church during the sermon.  Well, you remark it; possibly indeed you don't; and you say, Mrs. Thomson
went out of church to-day; she must be ill; and there
the matter ends.  But a day or two later you see Mrs.
Thomson, and find her quite in a fever at the awful fact.
It was a dreadful trial, walking out, and facing all the
congregation: they must have thought it so strange; she




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                 67
would not run the risk of it again for any inducement.
The fact is just this: Mrs. Thompson thinks a great deal
of the thing, because it happened to herself. It did not
happen to the other people, and so they hardly think of
it at all. But nine in every ten of them, in Mrs. Thomson's place, would have Mrs. Thomson's feeling; for it is
a thing which you, my reader, slowly learn, that people
think very little about you.
Yes, it is a thing slowly learnt: by many not learnt at
all.  How  many persons you meet walking along the
street who evidently think that everybody is looking at
them! How few persons can walk through an exhibition of pictures at which are assembled the grand people
of the town and all their own grand acquaintances, in a
fashion thoroughly free from self-consciousness! I mean
without thinking of themselves at all, or of how they
look; but in an unaffected manner, observing the objects
and beings around them.  Men who have attained recently to a moderate eminence, are sometimes, if of small
minds, much affected by this disagreeable frailty. Small
literary men, and preachers with no great head or heart,
have within my own observation suffered from it severely.
I have witnessed a poet, whose writings I have never
read, walking along a certain street.  I call him a poet
to avoid periphrasis.  The whole get-up of the man, his
dress, his hair, his hat, the style in which he walked,
showed unmistakably that he fancied that everybody was
looking at him, and that he was the admired of all admirers. In fact, nobody was looking at him at all. Some
time since I beheld a portrait of a very, very small literary man.  It was easy to discern from it that the small
author lives in the belief that wherever he goes he is the
object of universal observation.  The intense self-con



68                  CONCERNING
sciousness and self-conceit apparent in that portrait were,
in the words of Mr. Squeers, "more easier conceived
than described."  The face was a very commonplace and
rather good-looking one: the author, notwithstanding his
most strenuous exertions, evidently could make nothing
of the features to distinguish him fiom other men. But
the length of his hair was very great; and oh, what
genius he plainly fancied glowed in those eyes! I never
in my life witnessed such an extraordinary glare. I do
not believe that any human being ever lived whose eyes
habitually wore that expression: only by a violent effort
could the expression be produced; and then for a very
short time, without serious injury to the optic nerves.
The eyes were made as large as possible; and the thing
after which the poor fellow had been struggling was that
peculiar look which may be conceived to penetrate through
the beholder, and pierce his inmost thoughts. I never
beheld the living original, but if I saw him I should like
in a kind way to pat him on the head, and tell him that
that sort of expression would produce a great effect on
the gallery of a minor theatre.  The other day I was at
a public meeting.  A great crowd of people was assembled in a large hall: the platform at one end of it remained unoccupied till the moment when the business of
the meeting was to begin. It was an interesting sight
for any philosophic observer seated in the body of the
hall to look at the men who by and by walked in procession on to the platform, and to observe the different ways
in which they walked in. There were several very great
and distinguished men: every one of these walked on to
the platform and took his seat in the most simple and
unaffected way, as if quite unconscious of the many eyes
that were looking at them  with interest and curiosity.




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                69
There were many highly respectable and sensible men,
whom  nobody cared particularly to see, and who took
their places in a perfectly natural manner, as though well
aware of the fact.  But there were one or two small men,
struggling for notoriety; and I declare it was pitiful to
behold their entrance.  I remarked one in particular,
who evidently thought that the eyes of the whole meeting were fixed upon himself; and that as he walked in
everybody was turning to his neighbor, and saying with
agitation, "See, that's Snooks I"  His whole gait and
deportment testified that he felt that two or three thousand eyes were burning him up: you saw it in the way
he walked to his place, in the way he sat down, in the
way he then looked about him.  If any o)ne had tried to
get up three cheers for Snooks, Snooks would not have
known that he was being made a fool of. He would
have accepted the incense of fame as justly his due.
There once was a man who entered the Edinburgh theatre at the same instant with Sir Walter Scott.  The audience cheered lustily; and while Sir Walter modestly
took his seat, as though unaware that those cheers were
to welcome the Great Magician, the other man advanced
with dignity to the front of the box, and bowed in acknowledgment of the popular applause.  This of course
was but a little outburst of the great tide of vain self-estimation which the man had cherished within his breast
for years. Let it be said here, that an affected unconsciousness of the presence of a multitude of people is as
offensive an exhibition of' self-consciousness as any that is
possible. Entire naturalness, and a just sense of a man's
personal insignificance, will produce the right deportment.
It is very irritating to see some clergymen walk into
church to begin the service.  They come in, with eyes




70                  CONCERNING
affectedly cast down, and go to their place without ever
looking up, and rise and begin without one glance at the
congregation. To stare about them as some clergymen
do, in a free and easy manner, befits not the solemnity of
the place and the worship; but the other is the worse
thing. In a few cases it proceeds from modesty: in the
majority from  intolerable self-conceit.  The man who
keeps his eyes downcast in that affected manner fancies
that everybody is looking at him. There is an insufferable self-consciousness about him; and he is much more
keenly aware of the presence of other people than the
man who does what is natural, and looks at the people
to whom he is speaking. It is not natural nor rational
to speak to one human being with your eyes fixed on the
ground; and neither is it natural or rational to speak to
a thousand.  And I think that the preacher who feels in
his heart that he is neither wiser nor better than his
fellow-sinners to whom  he is to preach, and that the
advices he addresses to them  are addressed quite as
solemnly to himself, will assume no conceited airs of elevation above them, but will unconsciously wear the demeanor of any sincere worshipper, somewhat deepened
in solemnity by the remembrance of his heavy personal
responsibility in leading the congregation's worship; but
assuredly and entirely free from the vulgar conceit which
may be fostered in a vulgar mind by the reflection, " Now
everybody is looking at me!"  I have seen, I regret
to say, various distinguished preachers whose pulpit demeanor was made to me inexpressibly offensive by this
taint of self-consciousness. And I have seen some, with
half the talent, who made upon me an impression a
thousand-fold deeper than ever was made by the most
brilliant eloquence; because the simple earnestness of




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                71
their manner said to every heart, " Now, I am not thinking in the least about myself, or about what you may
think of me: my sole desire is to impress on your hearts
these truths I speak, which I believe will concern us all
forever!"  I have heard great preachers, after hearing
whom you could walk home quite at your ease, praising
warmly the eloquence and the logic of the sermon. I
have heard others (infinitely greater in my poor judgment), after hearing whom you would have felt it profanation to criticize the literary merits of their sermon, high
as those were: but you walked home thinking of the lesson and not of the teacher; solemnly revolving the truths
you had heard; and asking the best of all help to enable you to remember them and act upon them.
There are various ways in which self-consciousness
disagreeably evinces its existence; and there is not one
perhaps more disagreeable than the affected avoidance
of what is generally regarded as egotism.  Depend upon
it, my reader, that the straightforward and natural writer
who frankly uses the first person singular, and says, "I
think thus and thus," " I have seen so and so," is thinking
of. himself and his own personality a mighty deal less
than the man who is always employing awkward and
roundabout forms of expression to avoid the use of the
obnoxious 1  Every such periphrasis testifies unmistakably that the man was thinking of himself; but the simple, natural writer, warm with his subject, eager to press
his views upon his readers, uses the I without a thought
of self, just because it is the shortest, most direct, and
most natural way of expressing himself.  The recollection of his own personality probably never once crossed
his mind during the composition of the paragraph from
which an ill-set critic might pick out a score of I's. To




72                   CONCERNING
say "It is submitted" instead of "I think," "It has been
observed" instead of "6 I have seen," " the present writer"
instead of " I," is much the more really egotistical.  Try
to write an essay without using that vowel which some
men think the very shibboleth of egotism, and the remembrance of yourself will be in the background of your
mind all the time you are writing. It will be always intruding and pushing in its face, and you will be able to
give only half your mind to your subject. But frankly and
naturally use the "6 I," and the remembrance of yourself
vanishes.  You are grappling with the subject; you are
thinking of it and of nothing else.  You use the readiest
and most unaffected mode of speech to set out your
thoughts of it. You have written 1 a dozen times, but
you have not thought of yourself once.
You may see the  self-consciousness of some men
strongly manifested in their handwriting. The handwriting of some men is essentially affectedl; more especially their signature.  It seems to be a very searching test whether a man is a conceited person or an unaffected person, to be required to furnish his autograph to
be printed underneath his published portrait.' I have
fancied I could form a theory of a man's whole character
from  reading, in such a situation, merely the words
"Very faithfully yours, Eusebius Snooks."  You could
see that Mr. Snooks was acting when he wrote that signature.  He was thinking of the impression it would
produce on those who saw it.  It was not the thing
which a, man would produce who simply wished to write
his name legibly in as short a time and with as little
needless trouble as possible.  Let me say with sorrow
that I have known even venerable bishops who were not
superior to this irritating weakness.  Some men aim at




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                73
an aristocratic hand; some deal in vulgar flourishes.
These are the men who have reached no farther than
that stage at which they are proud of the dexterity with
which they handle their pen.  Some strive after an affectedly simple and student-like hand; some at a dashing
and military style. But there may be as much self-consciousness evinced by handwriting as by anything else.
Any clergyman who performs a good many marriages
will be impressed by the fact that very few among the
humbler classes can sign their name in an unaffected
way. I am not thinking of the poor bride who shakily
traces her name, or of the simple bumpkin who slowly
writes his, making no secret of the difficulty with which
he does it. These are natural and pleasing. You would
like to help and encourage them.  But it is irritating
when some forward fellow, after evincing his marked
contempt for the slow and cramped performances of his
friends, jauntily takes up the pen and dashes off his signature at a tremendous rate and with the air of an exploit, evidently expecting the admiration of his rustic
friends, and laying a foundation for remarking to them
on his way home that the parson could not touch him
at penmanship. I have observed with a little malicious
satisfaction that such persons, arising in their pride from
the place where they wrote, generally smear their signature with their coat-sleeve, and reduce it to a state of
comparative illegibility. I like to see the smirking, impudent creature a little taken down.
But it is endless to try to reckon up the fashions in
which people show that they have not learnt the lesson
of their own unimportance.  Did you ever stop in the
street and talk for a few minutes to some old bachelor?
If so, I dare say you have remarked a curious phenome



74                  CONCERNING
non. You have found that all of a sudden the mind of
the old gentleman, usually reasonable enough, appeared
stricken into a state approaching idiocy, and that the
sentence which he had begun in a rational and intelligible way was ending in a maze of wandering words,
signifying nothing in particular.  You had been looking
in another direction, but in sudden alarm  you look
straight at the old gentleman to see what on earth is
the matter; and you discern that his eyes are fixed on
some passer-by, possibly a young lady, perhaps no more
than a magistrate or the like, who is by this time a good
many yards off, with the eyes still following, and slowly
revolving on their axis so as to follow without the head
being turned round. It is this spectacle which has drawn
off your friend's attention; and you notice his whole
figure twisted into an ungainly form, intended to be dignified or easy, and assumed because he fancied that the
passer-by was looking at him.  Oh the pettiness of human nature! Then you will find people afraid that they
have given offence by saying or doing things which the
party they suppose offended had really never observed
that they had said or done. There are people who fancy
that in church everybody is looking at them, when in
truth no mortal is taking the trouble to do so. It is an
amusing though irritating sight to behold a weak-minded
lady walking into church and taking her seat under this
delusion. You remember the affected air, the downcast
eyes, the demeanor intended to imply a modest shrinking
from notice, but through which there shines the real desire, " Oh, for any sake, look at me! "  There are people
whose voice is utterly inaudible in church six feet off,
who will tell you that a whole congregation of a thousand
or fifteen hundred people was listening to their singing




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                75
Such folk will tell you that they went to a church where
the singing was left too much to the choir, and began to
sing as usual, on which the entire congregation looked
round to see who it was that was singing, and ultimately
proceeded to sing lustily too. I do not remember a more
disgusting exhibition of vulgar self-conceit than I saw a
few months ago at Westminster Abbey.  It was a weekday afternoon service, and the congregation was small.
Immediately before me there sat an insolent boor, who
evidently did not belong to the Church of England. He
had walked in when the prayers were half over, having
with difficulty been made to take off his hat, and his
manifest wish was to testify his contempt for the whole
place and service. Accordingly he persisted in sitting,
in a lounging attitude, when the people stood, and in
standing up and staring about with an air of curiosity
while they knelt.  He was very anxious to convey that
he was not listening to the prayers; but rather inconsistently he now and then uttered an audible grunt of disapproval.  No one can enjoy the choral service more than
I do, and the music that afternoon was very fine; but I
could not enjoy it or join in it as I wished for the disgust
I felt at the animal before me, and for my burning desire
to see him turned out of the sacred place he was profaning.  But the thing which chiefly struck me about the
individual was not his vulgar and impudent profanity; it
was his intolerable self-conceit. He plainly thought that
every eye under the noble old roof was watching all his
movements.  I could see that he would go home and
boast of what he had done, and tell his fiiends that all
the clergy, choristers, and congregation had been awestricken by him, and that possibly word had by this time
been conveyed to Lambeth or Fulham of the weakened




76                  CONCERNING
influence and approaching downfall of the Church of
England.  I knew  that the very thing he wished was
that some one should rebuke his conduct, otherwise I
should certainly have told him either to behave with
decency or to be gone.
I have sometimes witnessed a curious manifestation
of this vain sense of self-importance.  Did you ever, my
reader, chance upon such a spectacle as this: a very commonplace man, and even a very great blockhead, standing in a drawing-room where a large party of people is
assembled, with a grin of self-complacent superiority upon
his unmeaning face?  I am  sure you understand the
thing I mean. I mean a look which conveyed that, in
virtue of some hidden store of genius or power, he could
survey with a calm, cynical loftiness the little conversation and interests of ordinary mortals.  You know the
kind of interest with which a human being would survey
the distant approaches to reason of an intelligent dog, or
a colony of ants. I have seen this expression on the face
of one or two of the greatest blockheads I ever knew.
I have seen such a one wear it while clever men were
carrying on a conversation in which he could not have
joined to have saved his life. Yet you could see that
(who can tell how?) the poor creature had somehow persuaded himself that he occupied a position from which
he could look down upon his fellow-men in general. Or
was it rather that the poor creature knew he was a fool,
and fancied that thus he could disguise the fact? I dare
say there was a mixture of both feelings.
You may see many indications of vain self-importance
in the fact that various persons, old ladies for the most
part, are so ready to give opinions which are not wanted,
on matters of which they are not competent to judge.




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                77
Clever young curates suffer much annoyance from these
people: they are always anxious to instruct the young
curates how to preach.  I remember well, ten years ago,
when I was a curate (which in Scotland we call an assistant) myself, what advices I used to receive (quite
unsought by me) fiom well-meaning but densely stupid
old ladies. I did not think the advices worth much,
even then; and now, by longer experience, I can discern
that they were utterly idiotic. Yet they were given with
entire confidence. No thought ever entered the head of
these well-meaning but stupid individuals, that possibly
they were not competent to give advice on such subjects.
And it is vexatious to think that people so stupid may do
serious harm  to a young clergyman by head-shakings
and sly innuendos as to his orthodoxy or his gravity of
deportment. In the long run they will do no harm, but
at the first- start they may do a good deal of mischief.
Not long since, such a person complained to me that a
talented young preacher had taught unsound doctrine.
She cited his words.  I showed her that the words
were taken verbatim from the Confession of Faith, which
is our Scotch Thirty-nine Articles. I think it not unlikely that she would go on telling her tattling story just
the same. I remember hearing a stupid old lady say, as
though her opinion were quite decisive of the question,
that no clergyman ought to have so much as a thousand
a year; for if he had, he would be sure to neglect his
duty. You remember what Dr. Johnson said to a woman
who expressed some opinion or other upon a matter she
did not understand.  "Madam," said the moralist, "before expressing your opinion, you should consider what
your opinion is worth."  But this shaft would have
glanced harmlessly from off the panoply of the stupid




78                   CONCERNING
and self-complacent old lady of whom  I am thinking.
It was a fundamental axiom  with her that her opinion was entirely infallible.  Some people would feel as
though the very world were crumbling away under their
feet, if they realized the fact that they could go wrong.
Let it here be said, that this vain belief of their own
importance which most people cherish, is not at all a
source of unmixed happiness. It will work either way.
When my friend, Mr. Snarling, got his beautiful poem
printed in the county newspaper, it no doubt pleased him
to think, as he walked along the street, that every one
was pointing him out as the eminent literary man who
was the pride of' the district; and that the whole town
was ringing with that magnificent effusion.  Mr. Tennyson, it is certain, felt that his crown was being reft
away.  But on the other hand, there is no commoner
form  of morbid misery than that of the poor nervous
man or woman who fancies that he or she is the subject of universal unkindly remark. You will find people, still sane for practical purposes, who think that the
whole neighborhood is conspiring against them, when in
fact nobody is thinking of them.
All these pages have been spent in discussing a single
thing slowly learnt: the remaining matters to be considered in this essay must be treated briefly.
Another thing slowly learnt is that we have no reason
or right to be angry with people because they think poorly
of us.  This is a truth which most people find it very
hard to accept, and at which, probably, very few arrive
without pretty long thought and experience.  Most people are angry when they are informed that some one has
said that their ability is small, or that their proficiency in




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                79
any art is limited.  Mrs. Malaprop was very indignant
when she found that some of her friends had spoken
lightly of her parts of speech.  Mr. Snarling was wroth
when he learned that Mr. Jollikin thought him no great
preacher. Miss Brown was so on hearing that Mr. Smith
did not admire her singing; and Mr. Smith on learning
that Miss Brown did not admire his horsemanship. Some
authors feel angry on reading an unfavorable review of
their book. The present writer has been treated very,
very kindly by the critics; far more so than he ever deserved; yet he remembers showing a notice of him which
was intended to extinguish him for all coming time, to a
warm-hearted friend, who read it with gathering wrath,
and vehemently starting up at its close, exclaimed (we
knew who wrote the notice) "Now, I shall go straight
and kick that fellow!"  Now all this is very natural;
but assuredly it is quite wrong.  You understand, of
course, that I am thinking of unfavorable opinions of
you, honestly held, and expressed without malice. I do
not mean to say that you would choose for your special
friend or companion one who thought meanly of your
ability or your sense; it would not be pleasant to have
him always by you; and the very fact of his presence
would tend to keep you from doing justice to yourself.
For it is true, that when with people who think you
very clever and wise, you really are a good deal cleverer
and wiser than usual; while with people who think you
stupid and silly, you find yourself under a malign influence which tends to make you actually so for the time.
If you want a man to gain any good quality, the way is
to give him credit for possessing it.  If he has but little,
give him credit for all he has, at least; and you will find
him daily get more.  You know how Arnold made boys




80                   CONCERNING
truthful; it was by giving them credit for truth. Oh
that we all fitly understood that the same grand principle should be extended to all good qualities, intellectual and moral!  Diligently instil into a boy that
he is a stupid, idle, bad-hearted blockhead, and you are
very likely to make him all that. And so you can see
that it is not judicious to choose for a special friend and
associate one who thinks poorly of one's sense or one's
parts. Indeed, if such a one honestly thinks poorly of
you, and has any moral earnestness, you could not get
him for a special friend if you wished it. Let us choose
for our companions (if such can be found) those who
think well and kindly of us, even though we may know
within ourselves that they think too kindly and too well.
For that favorable estimation will bring out and foster
all that is good in us. There is between this and the
unfavorable judgment all the difference between the
warm, genial sunshine, that draws forth the flowers and
encourages them  to open their leaves, and the nipping
frost or the blighting east-wind that represses and disheartens all vegetable life. But though thus you would
not choose for your special companion one who thinks
poorly of you, and though you might not even wish to
see him  very often, you have no reason to have any
angry feeling towards him.  He cannot help his opinion.
His opinion is determined by his lights.  His opinion,
possibly, founds on those  esthetic considerations as to
which people will never think alike, with which there is
no reasoning, and for which there is no accounting. God
has made him so that he dislikes your book, or at least
cannot heartily appreciate it; and that is not his fault.
And, holding his opinion, he is quite entitled to express
it. It may not be polite to express it to yourself. By




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                81
common consent it is understood that you are never, except in cases of absolute necessity, to say to any man
that which is disagreeable to him. And if you go, and,
without any call to do so, express to a man himself that
you think poorly of him, he may justly complain, not of
your unfavorable opinion of him, but of the malice which
is implied in your needlessly informing him of it. But if
any one expresses such an unfavorable opinion of you in
your absence, and some one comes and repeats it to you,
be angry with the person who repeats the opinion to you,
not with the person who expressed it. For what you do
not know will cause you no pain. And all sensible folk,
aware how estimates of any mortal must differ, will, in
the long run, attach nearly the just weight to any opinion,
favorable or unfavorable.
Yes, my friend, utterly put down the natural tendency
in your heart to be angry with the man who thinks poorly
of you.  For you have, in sober reason, no right to be
angry with him. It is more pleasant, and indeed more
profitable, to live among those who think highly of you.
It makes you better.  You actually grow into what you
get credit for. Oh how much better a clergyman preaches
to his own congregation, who listen with kindly and sympathetic attention to all he says, and always think too well
of him, than to a set of critical strangers, eager to find
faults and to pick holes! And how heartily and pleasantly the essayist covers his pages, which are to go into a
magazine whose readers have come to know him well, and
to bear with all his ways! If every one thought him a
dull and stupid person, he could not write at all. Indeed,
he would bow to the general belief, and accept the truth
that he is dull and stupid. But further, my reader, let
us be reasonable when it is pleasant; and let us some6




82                   CONCERNING
times be irrational when that is pleasant too.  It is
natural to have a very kindly feeling to those who think
well of us.  Now, though, in severe truth, we have no
more reason for wishing to shake hands with the man
who thinks well of us, than for wishing to shake the man
who thinks ill of us; yet let us yield heartily to the former pleasant impulse. It is not reasonable, but it is all
right. You cannot help liking people who estimate you
favorably, and say a good word of you.  No doubt we
might slowly learn not to like them more than anybody
else; but we need not take the trouble to learn that lesson. Let us all, my readers, be glad if we can reach that
cheerful position of mind at which various authors have
arrived, that we shall be extremely gratified when we
find ourselves favorably reviewed, and not in the least
angry when we find ourselves reviewed unfavorably;
that we shall have a very kindly feeling towards such as
think well of us, and no unkind feeling whatever to those
who think ill of us.  Thus, whenever we have written
an article in a magazine, at the beginning of the month
shall we look with equal minds at the newspaper notices
of it; we shall be soothed and exhilarated when we find
ourselves described as sages, and we shall be amused and
interested when we find ourselves shown up as little better than geese.
Of course, it makes a difference in the feeling with
which you ought to regard any unfavorable opinion of
you, whether spoken or written, if the unfavorable opinion
which is expressed be plainly not honestly held, and be
maliciously expressed.  You may occasionally hear a
judgment expressed of a young girl's music or dancing,
of a gentleman's horses, of a preacher's sermons, of an
author's books, which is manifestly dictated by personal




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                  83
spite and jealousy, and which is expressed with the intention of doing mischief and giving pain to the person
of whom the judgment is expressed.  You will occasionally find such judgments supported by wilful misrepresentation, and even by pure invention.  In such a case as
this, the essential thing is not the unfavorable opinion; it
is the malice which leads to its entertainment and expression.  And the conduct of the offending party should be
regarded with that feeling which, on calm thought, you
discern to be the right feeling with which to regard
malice, accompanied by falsehood.  Then is it well to be
angry here?  I think not.  You may see that it is not
safe to have any communication with a person who will
abuse and misrepresent you; it is not safe, and it is not
pleasant.  But don't be angry.  It is not worth while.
That old lady, indeed, told all her friends that  you said,
in your book, something she knew quite well you did not
say.  Mr. Snarling did the like.  But the offences of
such people are not worth powder and shot; and besides
this, my friend, if you saw the case from their point of
view, you might see that they have something to say for
themselves. You failed to call for the old lady so often
as she wished you should. You did not ask Mr. Snarling
to dinner. These are bad reasons for pitching into you;
but still they are reasons; and Mr. Snarling and the old
lady, by long  brooding over them, may have come to
think that they are very just and weighty reasons.  And
did you never, my friend, speak rather unkindly of these
two persons?  Did you never give a ludicrous account
of their goings-on, or even an ill-set account, which some
kind friend was sure to repeat to them? Ah, my reader;
don't be too hard on Snarling; possibly you have yourself done something very like what he is doing now.




84                   CONCERNING
Forgive, as you need to be forgiven!  And try to attain
that quite attainable temper, in which you will read or
listen to the most malignant attack upon you, with curiosity and amusement, and with no angry feeling at all.  I
suppose great people attain to this.  I mean cabinet
ministers and the like, who are daily flayed in print
somewhere or other.  They come to take it all quite
easily.  And if they were pure angels, somebody would
attack them.  Most people, even those who differ from
him, know that if this world has a humble, conscientious,
pious man in it, that man is the present Archbishop of
Canterbury.  Yet last night I read in a certain powerful
journal, that the great characteristics of that good man,
are cowardice, trickery, and simple rascality!  Honest
Mr. Bumpkin, kind-hearted Miss Goodbody, (do you fancy
that you can escape?
Then we ought to try to fix it in our mind, that in all
matters into which taste enters at all, the most honest and
the most able men may hopelessly, diametrically, differ.
Original idiosyncrasy has so much to say here; and training has also so much.  One cultivated and honest man
has an enthusiastic and most real love and enjoyment of
Gothic architecture, and an absolute hatred for that of
the classic revival; another man equally cultivated and
honest, has tastes which are the logical contradictory of
these.  No one can doubt the ability of Byron, or of
Sheridan; yet each of them thought very little of Shakspeare.  The question is, what suits you?  You may have
the strongest conviction that you ought to like an author;
you may be ashamed to confess that you don't like him;
and yet you may feel that you detest him.  For myself, I confess with shame, and I know the reason is in
myself; I cannot for my life see anything to admire in the




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                  85
writings of Mr. Carlyle.  His style, both of thought and
language, is to me insufferably irritating. I tried to read
the Sartor Resartus, and could not do it.  So if all people who have learned to read English were like me, Mlr.
Carlyle would have no readers.  Happily the majority, in
most cases, possesses the normal taste.  At least there is
no further appeal than to the deliberate judgment of the
majority of educated men.  I confess, further, that I
would rather read Mr. Helps than Milton: I do not say
that I think Mr. Helps the greater man, but that I feel
he suits me better.  I value the Autocrat of the Breakfast-table more highly than all the writings of Shelley put
together.  It is a curious thing to read various reviews
of the same book; particularly if it be one of those books
which, if you like at all, you will like very much, and
which if you don't like you will absolutely hate.  It is
curious to find opinions flatly contradictory of one another
set forth in those reviews by very able, cultivated, and
unprejudiced men.  There is no newspaper publishedin
Britain wlich contains abler writing than the Edinburgh
Scotsman.  And of course no one need say anything as
to the literary merits of the Times.  Well, one day within the last few months, the Times and the Scotsman each
published a somewhat elaborate review of a certain book.
The reviews were flatly opposed to one another; they
had no common ground at all; one said the book was
extremely good, and the other that it was extremely bad.
You must just make up your mind that in matters of taste
there can be no unvarying standard of truth. In esthetic
matters, truth is quite relative.  What is bad to you, is
good to me perhaps.
If you, my reader, are a wise and kind-hearted person
(as I have no doubt whatever but you are), I think you




86                   CONCERNING
would like very much to meet and converse with any person who has formed a bad opinion of you.  You would
take great pleasure in overcoming such a one's prejudice
against you; and if the person were an honest and worthy
person, you would be almost certain to do so. Very few
folk are able to retain any bitter feeling towards a man
they have actually talked with, unless the bitter feeling
be one which is just. And a very great proportion of all
the unfavorable opinions which men entertain  of their
fellow-men found on some misconception.  You take up
somehow an impression that such a one is a conceited,
stuck-up person: you come to know him, and you find he
is the frankest and most unaffected of men.  You had a
belief that such another was a cynical, heartless being,
till you met him one day coming down a long black stair
in a poor part of the town from a bare chamber in which
is a little sick child, with two large tears running down his
face; and when you enter the poor apartment you learn
certain facts as to his quiet benevolence which compel you
suddenly to construct a new theory of that man's character.  It is only people who are radically and essentially
bad whom you can really dislike after you come to know
them.  And the human beings who are thus essentially
bad are very few.  Something of the original Image lingers yet in almost every human soul.  And in many a
homely, commonplace person, what with vestiges of the
old, and a blessed planting-in of something new, there is
a vast deal of it. And every human being, conscious of
honest intention and of a kind heart, may well wish that
the man who dislikes and abuses him could just know him.
But there are human beings whom, if you are wise,
you would not wish to know you too well.  I mean the
human beings (if such there should be) who think very




THINGS SLOWLY  LEARNT.                87
highly of you; who imagine you very clever and very
amiable.  Keep out of the way of such! Let them see
as little of you as possible. For when they come to know
you well, they are quite sure to be disenchanted.  The
enthusiastic ideal which young people form of any one
they admire is smashed by the rude presence of facts.  I
have got somewhat beyond the stage of feeling enthusiastic admiration, yet there are two or three living men
whom I should be sorry to see. I know I should never
admire them  so much any more.  I never saw Mr.
Dickens: I don't want to see him.  Let us leave Yarrow
unvisited: our sweet ideal is fairer than the fairest fact.
No hero is a hero to his valet: and it may be questioned
whether any clergyman is a saint to his beadle.  Yet the
hero may be a true hero, and the clergyman a very excellent man: but no human being can bear too close inspection.  I remember hearing a clever and enthusiastic
young lady complain of what she had suffered on meeting
a certain great bishop at dinner.  No doubt he was dignifled, pleasant, clever; but the mysterious halo was no
longer round his head.  Here is a sad circumstance in
the lot of a very eminent man: I mean such a man as
Mr. Tennyson or Professor Longfellow.  As an elephant
walks through a field, crushing the crop at every step, so
do these men advance through life, smashing, every time
they dine out, the enthusiastic fancies of several romantic
young people.
This was to have been a short essay. But you see it
is already long; and I have treated only two of the four
Things Slowly Learnt which I had noted down. The
ather two must be very briefly stated.
The first of the two things is a practical lesson.  It is




88                   CONCERNING
this: to allow for human folly, laziness, carelessness, and
the like, just as you allow for the properties of matter,
such as weight, fiiction, and the like, without being surprised or angry at them.  You know that if a man is
lifting a piece of lead he does not think of getting into a
rage because it is heavy; or if a man is dragging a tree
along the ground he does not get into a rage because it
plows deeply into the earth as it comes.  He is not surprised at these things.  They are nothing new.  It is
just what he counted on.  But you will find that the
same man, if his servants are lazy, careless, and forgetful; or if his friends are petted, wrong-headed, and imnpracticable; will not only get quite angry, but will get
freshly angry at each new action which proves that his
friends or servants possess these characteristics.  Would
it not be better to make up your mind that such things
are characteristic of humanity, and so that you must look
for them in dealing with human beings?  And would it
not be better, too, to regard each new proof of laziness,
not as a new thing to be angry with, but merely as a
piece of the one great fact that your servant is lazy, with
which you get angry once for all, and have done with it?
If your servant makes twenty blunders a day, do not regard them as twenty separate facts at which to get angry
twenty several times. Regard them just as twenty proofs
of the one fact, that your servant is a blunderer; and be
angry just once, and no more. Or if some one you know
gives twenty indications in a day that he or she (let us say
sle) is of a petted temper, regard these merely as twenty
proofs of one lamentable fact, and not as twenty different facts to be separately lamented.  You accept the
fact that the person is petted and ill-tempered: you regret it and blame it once for all. And after this once




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                 89
you take as of course all new manifestations of pettedness and ill-temper.  And you are no more surprised at
them, or angry with them, than you are at lead for being
heavy, or at down for being light. It is their nature, and
you calculate on it, and allow for it.
Then the second of the two remaining things is thisthat you have no right to complain if you are postponed
to greater people, or if you are treated with less consideration than you would be if you were a greater person.
Uneducated people are very slow to learn this most obvious lesson. I remember hearing of a proud old lady,
who was proprietor of a small landed estate in Scotland.
She had many relations, some greater, some less.  The
greater she much affected, the less she wholly ignored.
But they did not ignore her; and one morning an individual arrived at her mansion-house, bearing a large box
on his back.  He was a travelling peddler; and he sent
up word to the old lady that he was her cousin, and
hoped she would buy something from him.  The old lady
indignantly refused to see him, and sent orders that he
should forthwith quit the house.  The peddler went; but
on reaching the court-yard, he turned to the inhospitable
dwelling, and in a loud voice exclaimed, in the ears of
every mortal in the house, " Ay, if I had come in my
carriage-and-four, ye wad have been proud to have ta'en
me in!"  The peddler fancied that he was hurling at his
relative a scathing sarcasm: he did not see that he was
simply stating a perfectly unquestionable fact.  No doubt
earthly, if he had come in a carriage-and-four, he would
have got a hearty welcome, and he would have found his
claim of kindred eagerly allowed.  But he thought he
was saying a bitter and cutting thing, and (strange to




90                  CONCERNING
say) the old lady fancied she was listening to a bitter and
cutting thing.  He was merely expressing a certain and
innocuous truth.  But though all mortals know that in
this world big people meet greater respect than small
(and quite right too), most mortals seem to find the principle a very unpleasant one when it comes home to themselves.  And we learn but slowly to acquiesce in seeing
ourselves plainly subordinated to other people.  Poor
Oliver Goldsmith was very angry when at the club one
night he was stopped in the middle of a story by a
Dutchman, who had noticed that the Great Bear was
rolling about in preparation for speaking, and who exclaimed to Goldsmith, " Stop, stop; Toctor Shonson is
going to speak! "  Once I arrived at a certain railway
station. Two old ladies were waiting to go by the same
train. I knew them well, and they expressed their delight that we were going the same way. " Let us go in
the same carriage," said the younger, in earnest tones;
"and will you be so very kind as to see about our luggage?"  After a few minutes of the lively talk of the
period and district, the train came up. I feel the tremor
of the platform yet.  I handed my friends into a carriage, and then saw their baggage placed in the van. It.was a station at which trains stop for a few minutes for
refreshments.  So I went to the door of the carriage
into which I had put them, and waited a little before taking my seat. I expected that my friends would proceed
with the conversation which had been interrupted; but
to my astonishment I found that I had become wholly
invisible to them. They did not see me or speak to me
at all.  In the carriage with them was a living peer, of
wide estates and great rank, whom they knew.  And so
thoroughly did he engross their eyes and thoughts and'In?11~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~c




THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.                91
words, that they had become unaware of my presence,
or even my existence.  The stronger sensation rendered
them unconscious of the weaker.  Do you think I felt
angry?  No, I did not.  I felt very much amused.  I
recognized a slight manifestation of a grand principle. It
was a straw showing how a current sets, but for which
Britain would not be the country it is. I took my seat
in another carriage, and placidly read my Times.  There
was one lady in that carriage.  I think she inferred,
from the smiles which occasionally for the first few miles
overspread my countenance without apparent cause, that
my mind was slightly disordered.
These are the two things already mentioned.  But
you cannot understand, friendly reader, what an effort
it has cost me to treat them so briefly. The experienced
critic will discern at a glance that the author could easily
have made a great many pages out of the material you
have here in very few. The author takes his stand upon
this-that there are few people who can beat out thought
so thin, or say so little in such a great number of words.
I remember how a dear fiiend, once the editor of a certain well-known magazine (whom all who knew him well
miss more and more as days and weeks go on, and never
will cease to miss), used to remark this fact in various
warm-hearted and playful letters, with wonder not unmixed with indignation.  And I remember how a very
great prelate (who could compress all I have said into
a page and a half) once comforted me by telling me that
for the consumption of many minds it was desirable that
thought should be very greatly diluted; that quantity as
well as quality is needful in the dietetics both of the body
and the mind.  With this soothing reflection I close the
present essay.




92    CONCERNING THINGS SLOWLY LEARNT.
Annotations on the foregoing Chapter.
BY THE ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.
(1.) The Indian Brahmin who purchased, for a great
price, an elaborate microscope which had shown him that
he swallowed multitudes of minute animalculke in every
draught of water, dashed it to pieces, saying it should
never inflict that misery upon others it had upon him.
(2.) E. S. (now Lord St. L.), is the son of a hairdresser,
said to have been very eminent in his own way.  A gentleman asked the man who was cutting his hair whether
he remembered anything of him.  " Oh, yes; I remember him very well when I was an apprentice. Wonderful
man! Had half-a-guinea for cutting hair! Nobody like
him since! "  " Well," said the other, " his son is a very
eminent man too in his way."  " Oh, is he, sir?   "Yes;
the first lawyer in England."  "Oh, is he, sir -     never
heard of him."
(3.) A gentleman who was fond of attending at the
Lord Mayor of London's, to hear the trials and petitions
and memorials that were going on, heard a memorial sent
in by some Chimney-Sweepers, who complained of an
interference which encroached on their annual May-Day
festival, on which they dress themselves up and go round
to receive contributions from  their customers.  They
complained that their place had been usurped by certain
Dustmen and other low fellows pretending to be ChimneySweepers i




CHAPTER IV.
GONE.
I I:K KDGAR ALLAN  POE  thought the most
l   touching of all words, Nevermore; which,
Kl Bi; } in American fashion, he made one word.
~  B1   American writers do the like with Forever,
I think with bad effect. Ellesmere, in that most beautiful story of Gretchen, tells of a sermon he heard in Germany, in which "that pathetic word verloren (lost) occurred many times."  Every one knows what Dr. Johnson
wrote about The Last.  It is, of course, a question of
individual associations, and how it may strike different
minds; but I stand up for the unrivalled reach and pathos
of the short word GONE.
There is not very much difference, you see, between
the three words. All are on the suburbs of the same
idea.  All convey the idea of a state of matters which
existed for a time, and which is now over. All suggest
that the inmost longing of most human hearts is less for
a future, untried happiness than for a return, a resurrection, beautified and unalloyed with care, of what has
already been.  Somehow, we are ready to feel as if we
were safest and surest with that.
It is curious, that the saddest and most touching of
human thoughts, when we run it up to its simplest form,
is of so homely a thing as a material object existing in a




94                      GONE.
certain space, and then removing from  that space to
another.  That is the essential idea of Gone.
Yet, in the commonest way, there is something touching in that: something touching in the sight of vacant
space, once filled by almost anything.  You feel a blankness in the landscape when a tree is gone that you have
known all your life. You are conscious of a vague sense
of something lacking when even a post is pulled up that
you remember always in the centre of a certain field.
You feel this yet more when some familiar piece of furniture is taken away from a room which you know well.
Here that clumsy easy-chair used to stand: and it is gone.
You feel yourself an interloper, standing in the space
where it stood so long.  It touches you still more to look
at the empty chair which you remember so often filled
by one who will never fill it more. You stand in a large
railway station: you have come to see a train depart.
There is a great bustle on the platform, and there is a
great quantity of human life, and of the interests and
cares of human life, in those twelve or fourteen carriages,
and filling that little space between the rails. You stand
by and watch the warm interiors of the carriages, looking
so large, and so full, and as if they had so much in them.
There are people of every kind of aspect, children and
old folk, multitudes of railway rugs, of carpet-bags, of
portmanteaus, of parcels, of newspapers, of books, of
magazines. At length you hear the last bell; then comes
that silent, steady pull, which is always striking, though
seen ever so often.  The train glides away: it is gone.
You stand, and look vacantly at the place where it was.
How little the space looks; how blank the air! There are
the two rails, just four feet eight and a half inches apart:
how close together they look! You can hardly think that




GONE.                      95
there was so much of life, and of the interests of life, in
so little room.  You feel the power upon the average
human being of the simple, commonplace fact, that something has been here, and is gone.
Then I go away in thought, to a certain pier: a pair
of wooden piles, running two hundred yards into the sea,
at a quiet spot on a lovely coast, where various steamvessels call on a summer day. You stand at the seaward
end of the pier, where it broadens into a considerable
platform: and you look down on the deck of a steamer
lying alongside.  What a bustle: what a hive of human
beings, and their children, and their baggage, their hopes,
fears, and schemes, fills that space upon the water of a
hundred and fifty feet long and twenty-five wide 1 And
what a deafening noise, too, of escaping steam fills the
air! Men with baggage dash up against you; women
shrilly vociferate above the roar of the steam; it is a
fragment of the vitality and hurry of the great city carried for a little to the quiet country-place. But the last
rope is thrown off; the paddles turn; the steamer moves
-it is gone.  There is the blank water, churned now
into foam, but in a few minutes transparent green, showing the wooden piles, encrusted with shells, and with
weeds that wave about below the surface.  There you
stand, and look vaguely, and think vaguely.  It is a
curious feeling.  It is a feeling you do not understand
except by experience.  And to a thoughtful person a
thing does not become commonplace because it is repeated hundreds of thousands of times.  There is something
strange and something touching about even a steamboat
going away from a pier at which a dozen call every
day.
But you sit upon the pier, you saunter upon the beach,




96                      GONE.
you read the newspapers; you enjoy the sense of rest.
The day wears away, and in the evening the steamboat
comes back again.  It has travelled scores of miles, and
carried many persons through many scenes, while you
were resting and idling through these hours; and the
feeling you had when it was gone is effaced by its return.
The going away is neutralized by the coming back. And
to understand the full force of Gone in such a case, you
must see a ship go, and see its vacant space when it is
gone, when it goes away for a long time, and takes some
with it who go forever.  Perhaps you know by experience what a choking sensation there is in looking at an
emigrant vessel clearing out, even though you have no
personal interest in any one on board. I have seen such
a ship depart on her long voyage.  I remember the
confusion and hurry that attended her departure: the
crowded deck, thronged with old and young; gray-headed men bidding farewell to their native land; and little
children who would carry but dim  remembrances of
Britain to the distant Australian shore.  And who that
has witnessed such a scene can forget how, when the
canvas was spread at length, and the last rope cast off,
the outburst of sobs and weeping arose as the great ship
solemnly passed away?  You could see that many who
parted there, had not understood what parting means till
they were in the act of going.- You could see that the
old parents who were willing, they thought, to part from
their boy, because they thought his chances in life were
so much better in the new country, had not quite felt
what parting from him was, till he was gone.
Have you ever been one of a large gay party who
have made an excursion to some beautiful scene, and
had a picnic festival?  Not that such festivals are much




GONE.                      97
to be approved; at least to spots of very noble scenery.
The noble scenery is vulgarized by them.  There is an
inconsistency in seeking out a spot which ought to awestrike, merely to make it a theatre for eating and drinking, for stupid joking and laughter.  No; let small-talk
be manufactured somewhere else. And the influence of
the lonely place is lost, its spirit is unfelt, unless you go
alone, or go with very few, and these not boisterously
merry.  But let us accept the picnic as a fact. It has
been, and the party has been very large and very lively.
But go back to the place after the party is gone; go back
a minute after for something forgotten; go back a month
or a year after. What a little spot it is that you occupied,
and how blank it looks!  The place remains, but the
people are gone; and we so lean to our kind, that the
place alone occupies but a very little part in our recollection of any passage in our history in which there were
both scenery and human life. Or go back after several
years to the house where you and your brothers and
sisters were children together, and you will wonder to find
how small and how blank it will look. It will touch you,
and perhaps deeply; but still you will discern that not
places, but persons, are the true objects of human affection; and you will think what a small space of material
ground may be the scene of what are to you great human
events and interests. It is so with matters on a grander
scale. How little a space was ancient Greece —how
little a space the Holy Land! Strip these of their history and their associations, and they are insignificant.
And history and associations are invisible; and at the
first glimpse of the place without them the place looks
poor. Let the little child die that was the light and hope
of a great dwelling, and you will understand the truth of




98                      GONE.
the poet's reflection on the loss of his: "'T was strange
that such a little thing, Should leave a blank so large! "
There is no place perhaps where you have such a
feeling of blankness when life has gone fiom it as in a
church. It is less so, if the church be a very grand one,
which compels you to attend to itself a good deal, even
while the congregation is assembled.  But if the churcl
be a simple one, and the congregation a very large one,
crowding the simple church, you hardly know it again
when the congregation is gone. You could not believe
that such a vast number of human beings could have
been gathered in it. The place is unchanged, yet it is
quite different.  It is a curious feeling to look at the
empty pulpit where a very great preacher once was accustomed to preach.  It is especially so if it be thirty
years since he used to preach there; more so, if it be
many centuries.  I have often looked at the pulpit
whence Chalmers preached in the zenith of his fame;
you can no more bring up again the excited throng that
surrounded it, and the rush of the great orator's eloquence, than when standing under a great oak in December you can call up plainly what it looked in June.
And far less, standing under the dome of St. Sophia,
could one recall as a present reality, or as anything but
a dreamy fancy, the aspect and the eloquence of Chrysostom, ages since gone.
The feeling of blankness, which is the essential thing
contained in the idea suggested by the word Gone, is
one that touches us very nearly.  It seems to get closer
to us than even positive evil or suffering present with
us.  That fixes our attention: it arouses us; and unless
we be very weak indeed, awakens something of resistance.  But in the other case, the mind is not stimulated:




GONE.                      99
it is receptive, not active; and we muse and feel, vacantly, in the thought of something gone. You are, let
us suppose, a country parson; you take your wife and
children over to your railway-station, and you see them
away to the seaside, whither you are not to follow for a
fortnight: then you come back from the railway-station,
and you reach home.  The house is quite changed.
How startlingly quiet it is! You go to the nursery,
usually a noisy place: you feel the silence. There are
the pictures on the walls: there the little chairs: there
some flowers, still quite fresh, lying upon a table, laid
down by little hands.  Gone! There is something sad
in it, even with the certainty of soon meeting again, -
that is, so far as there is certainty in this world. You
can imagine, distantly, what it would be if the little
things were gone, not to return. That is the GONE consummate.  All who have heard it know the unutterable sadness of the farewell of the Highland emigrant
leaving his native hills. You would not laugh at the
bagpipes, if you heard their wild wailing tones, blending
with broken voices joining in that Jliacrimmon's Lament,
whose perpetual refrain is just the statement of that consummate Gone. I shall not write the Gaelic words, because you could not pronounce them; but the refrain is
this: We return, we return, we return no more!  Yes;
Gone for ever! And all to make room for deer! There
was a man whose little boy died. The father bore up
wonderfully. But on the funeral day, after the little child
was laid down to his long rest, the father went out to
walk in the garden. There, in a corner, was the small
wheelbarrow with its wooden spade; and the foot-prints
in the earth left by the little feet that were gone! You
do not think the less of the strong man that at the sight




100                     GONE.
he wept aloud: wept, as Some One Else had wept before him.  You may remember that little poem of Longfollow's, in which he tells of a man, still young, who once
had a wife and child: but wife and child were dead.
There is no pathos like that of homely fact, which we
may witness every day.  They were gone; and after
those years in their company, he was left alone.  lIe
walked about the world, with no one to care for him
now, as they had cared.  The life with them  would
seem like a dream, even if it had lasted for years. And
all the sadder that so much of life might yet have to
come.  I do not mind about an old bachelor, in his solitary room.  I think of the kind-hearted man, sitting in
the evening in his chair by the fireside: once, when he
sat down there, little pattering feet were about him and
their little owners climbed upon his knee.  Now, he
may sit long enough, and no one will interrupt him.
He may read his newspaper undisturbed.  He may
write his sermon, and no sly knock come to the door:
no little dog walk in, with much barking quite unlike
that of common dogs, and ask for a penny.  Gone! I
remember, long ago, reading a poem  called the Scottish Widow's Lament, written by some nameless poet.
The widow had a husband and two little children, but
one bleak winter they all went together: —
I ettle whiles to spin,
But wee, wee patterin' feet,
Come runnin' out and in,
And then I just maun greet.
I ken it's fancy a'
And faster flows the tear,
That my a' dwined awa',
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
You have said good-bye to a dear friend who has




GONE.                     101
stayed a few days with you, and whom you will not see
again for long: and you have, for a while, felt the house
very blank without him. Did you ever think how the
house would seem, without yourself?  Have you fancied
yourself gone; and the place, blank of that figure you
know?  When I am gone; let us not say these words
unless seriously; they express what is, to each of us
the most serious of all facts.  The May Queen has few
lines which touch me more than these: -
For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here.
Lord Macaulay, a few years before he died, had something presented to him at a great public meeting in Scotland; something which pleased him  much. "I shall
treasure it," he said, "as long as I live; and after I
am gone " — There the great man's voice faltered, and
the sentence remained unfinished.  Yet the thought at
which Macaulay broke down, may touch many a lesser
man more.  For when we are gone, my friends, we may
leave behind us those who cannot well spare us. It is
not for one's own sake, that the Gone, so linked with
one's own name, touches so much. We have had enough
of this world before very long; and (as Uncle Tom expressed it) " heaven is better than Kentuck."  But we
can think of some, for whose sake we may wish to put
off our going as long as may be.  "Our minister," said a
Scotch rustic, " aye preaches aboot goin' to heaven; but
he'll never go to heaven as long as he can get stoppin'
at Drumsleekie."
No doubt, that fit of toothache may be gone; or that
unwelcome guest who stayed with you  three weeks




102                      GONE.
whether you would or not; as well as the thing or the
friend you most value.  And there is the auctioneer's
Going, going, as well as this July sun going down in
glory.  But I defy you to vulgarize the word.  The
water which makes the Atlantic will always be a sublime sight, though you may have a little of it in a dirty
puddle.  And though the stupid bore who comes when
you are busy, and wastes your time, may tell you when
you happily get rid of him, that he will often come back
again to see you (ignorant that you instantly direct your
servant never to admit him more); even that cannot detract from the beauty of Mr. Tennyson's lines, in which
the dying girl, as she is going, tells her mother that
after she is gone, she will (if it may be) often come
back: 
If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face:
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away.




CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM MORE MIGHT
HAVE BEEN MADE.? T is recorded in history that at a certain publie dinner in America a Methodist preacher
2g~ W    was called on to give a toast.  It may be
Wa^    ~supposed that the evening was so far advanced, that every person present had been toasted
already, and also all the friends of every one present.
It thus happened that the Methodist preacher was in
considerable perplexity as to the question, what being,
or class of beings, should form the subject of his toast.
But the good man was a person of large sympathies;
and some happy link of association recalled to his mind
certain words with which he had a professional familiarity, and which set forth a subject of a most comprehensive character.  Arising from  his seat, the Methodist
preacher said that, without troubling the assembled company with any preliminary observations, he begged to
propose the health of ALL PEOPLE THAT ON EARTH
DO DWELL.
Not unnaturally, I have thought of that Methodist
preacher and his toast as I begin to write this essay.
For though its subject was suggested to me by various
little things of very small concern to mankind in general,
though of great interest to one or two individual beings,




104        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
I now discern that the subject of this essay is in truth as
comprehensive as the subject of that toast. I have something to say Concerning People of whom More might have
been Made: I see now that the class which I have named
includes every human being.  More might have been
made, in some respect, possibly in many respects, of All
people that on earth do dwell.  Physically, intellectually,
morally, spiritually, more might have been made of all.
Wise and diligent training on the part of others; selfdenial, industry, tact, decision, promptitude, on the part of
the man himself; might have made something far better
than he now is of every man that breathes. No one is
made the most of. There have been human beings who
have been made the most of as regards some one thing;
who have had some single power developed to the utmost;
but no one is made the most of, all round; no one is even
made the most of as regards the two or three most important things of all. And indeed it is curious to observe
that the things in which human beings seem to have attained to absolute perfection, have for the most part been
things comparatively frivolous; accomplishments which
certainly were not worth the labor and the time which it
must have cost to master them.  Thus, M. Blondin has
probably made as much of himself as can be made of
mortal, in the respect of walking on a rope stretched at a
great height from the ground. Hazlitt makes mention of
a man who had cultivated to the very highest degree the
art of playing at rackets; and who accordingly played
at rackets incomparably better than any one else ever
did. A  wealthy gentleman, lately deceased, by putting
his whole mind to the pursuit, esteemed himself to have
reached entire perfection in the matter of killing otters.
Various individuals have probably developed the power




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              105
of turning somersets, of picking pockets, of playing on
the piano, jew's-harp, banjo, and penny trumpet, of mental calculation in arithmetic, of insinuating evil about
their neighbors without directly asserting anything, - to
a measure as great as is possible to man. Long practice
and great concentration of mind upon these things, have
sufficed to produce what might seem to tremble on the
verge of perfection: what unquestionably leaves the attainments of ordinary people at an inconceivable distance
behind. But I do not call it making the most of a man,
to develop, even to perfection, the power of turning somersets and playing at rackets. I call it making the most
of a man, when you make the best of his best powers
and qualities; when you take those things about him
which are the worthiest and most admirable, and cultivate these up to their highest attainable degree. And it
is in this sense that the statement is to be understood,
that no one is made the most of. Even in the best, we
see no more than the rudiments of good qualities which
might have been developed into a great deal more; and
in very many human beings, proper management might
have brought out qualities essentially different from those
which these beings now possess.  It is not merely that
they are rough diamonds, which might have been polished into blazing ones; not merely that they are thoroughbred colts drawing coal-carts, which with fair training would have been new Eclipses: it is that they are
vinegar which might have been wine, poison which might
have been food, wild-cats which might have been harmless
lambs, soured miserable wretches who might have been
happy and useful, almost devils who might have been but
a little lower than the angels. Oh the unutterable sadness that is in the thought of what might have been 




106        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
Not always, indeed.  Sometimes, as we look back, it
is with deep thankfulness that we see the point at which
we were (we cannot say how) inclined to take the right
turning, when we were all but resolved to take that which
we can now see would have landed us in wreck and ruin.
And it is fit that we should correct any morbid tendency
to brood upon the fancy of how much better we might
have been, by remembering also how much worse we
might have been.  Sometimes the present state of matters, good or bad, is the result of long training; of influences that were at work through many years; and that
produced their effect so gradually that we never remarked
the steps of the process, till some day we waken up to a
sense of the fact, and find ourselves perhaps a great deal
better, probably a great deal worse, than we had been
vaguely imagining.  But the case is not unfrequently
otherwise. Sometimes one testing time decided whether
we should go to the left or to the right. There are in
the moral world things analogous to the sudden accident which makes a man blind or lame for life: in an
instant there is wrought a permanent deterioration. Perhaps a few minutes before man or woman took the step
which can never be retraced, which must banish them
forever from  all they hold dear, and compel them to
seek in some new country far away a place where to
hide their shame and misery, they had just as little
thought of taking that miserable step as you, my reader,
have of taking one like it.  And perhaps there are
human beings in this world, held in the highest esteem,
and with not a speck on their snow-white reputation,
who know within themselves that they have barely escaped the gulf; that the moment has been in which all
their future lot was trembling in the balance; and that




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.               107
a grain's weight more in the scale of evil, and by this
time they might have been reckoned among the most degraded and abandoned of the race.  But probably the
first deviation, either to right or left, is in most cases a
very small one.  You know, my friend, what is meant
by the points upon a railway.  By moving a lever, the
rails upon which the train is advancing are, at a certain
place, broadened or narrowed by about the eighth of an
inch.  That little movement decides whether the train
shall go north or south. Twenty carriages have come so
far together; but here is a junction station, and the train
is to be divided.  The first ten carriages deviate from the
main line by a fraction of an inch at first; but in a few
minutes the two portions of the train are flying on, miles,apart. You cannot see the one from the other, save by
distant puffs of white steam through the clumps of trees.
Perhaps already a high hill has intervened, and each
train is on its solitary way - one to end its course, after
some hours, amid the roar and smoke and bare ugliness
of some huge manufacturing town; and the other to
come through green fields to the quaint, quiet, dreamylooking little city, whose place is marked, across the
plain, by the noble spire of the gray cathedral rising into
the summer blue.  We come to such points in our journey through life: railway-points (as it were), which decide not merely our lot in life, but even what kind of
folk we shall be, morally and intellectually.  A hair'sbreadth may make the deviation at first.  Two situations
are offered you at once: you think there is hardly anything to choose between them.  It does not matter which
you accept; and perhaps some slight and fanciful consideration is allowed to turn the scale.  But now  you
look back, and you can see that there was the turning



108       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
point in your life; it was because you went there to the
right, and not to the left, that you are now a great English prelate and not a humble Scotch professor. Was there
not a time in a certain great man's life, at which the lines
of rail diverged, and at which the question was settled,
should he be a minister of the Scotch Kirk, or should he
be Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain?  I can imagine a stage in the history of a lad in a counting-house,
at which the little angle of rail may be pushed in or
pushed back that shall send the train to one of two places
five hundred miles asunder; it may depend upon whether
he shall take or not take that half-crown, whether, thirty
years after, he shall be taking the chair, a rubicund baronet, at a missionary society meeting, and receive the
commendations of philanthropic peers and earnest bishops; or be laboring in chains at Norfolk Island, a brutalized, cursing, hardened, scourge-scarred, despairing
wretch, without a hope for this life or the other. Oh,
how much may turn upon a little thing'! Because the
railway train in which you were coming to a certain
place was stopped by a snow-storm, the whole character
of your life may have been changed.  Because some
one was in the drawing-room when you went to see Miss
Smith on a certain day, resolved to put to her a certain
question, you missed the tide, you lost your chance, you
went away to Australia and never saw her more. It
fell upon a day that a ship, coming from Melbourne, was
weathering a rocky point on an iron-bound coast, and
was driven close upon that perilous shore.  They tried
to put her about; it was the last chance. It was a moment of awful risk and decision.  If the wind catches
the sails, now shivering as the ship comes up, on the
right side, then all on board are safe.  If the wind




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              109
catches the sails on the other side, then all on board
must perish.  And so it all depends upon which surface of certain square yards of canvas the uncertain
breeze shall strike, whether John Smith, who is coming
home from the diggings with twenty thousand pounds, shall
go down and never be heard of again by his poor mother
and sisters away in Scotland; or whether he shall get
safely back, a rich man, to gladden their hearts, and buy
a pretty little place, and improve the house on it into the
pleasantest picture; and purchase, and ride, and drive various horses; and be seen on market days sauntering in
the High-street of the county town; and get married, and
run about the lawn before his door, chasing his little children; and become a decent elder of the Church; and live
quietly and happily for many years. Yes: from what precise point of the compass the next flaw of wind should come,
would decide the question between the long homely life in
Scotland, and a nameless burial deep in a foreign sea.
It seems to me to be one of the main characteristics of
human beings, not that they actually are much, but that
they are something of which much may be made.  There
are untold potentialities in human nature. The tree cut
down, concerning which its heathen owner debated whether lie should make it into a god or into a three-legged
stool, was positively nothing in its capacity of coming to
different ends and developments, when we compare it with
each human being born into this world. Man is not so
much a thing already, as he is the germ of something. He
is (so to speak) material formed to the hand of circumstances.  He is essentially a germ, either of good or evil.
And he is not like the seed of a plant, in whose development the tether allows no wider range than that between
the more or less successful manifestation of its inherent




1.10       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM3
nature.  Give a young tree fail play: good soil and
abundant air; tend it carefully, in short, and you will
have a noble tree. Treat the young tree unfairly: give
it a bad soil, deprive it of needful air and light, and it
will grow up a stunted and poor tree.  But in the case
of the human being, there is more than this difference in
degree. There may be a difference in kind. The human
being may grow up to be (as it were) a fair and healthful
fiuit tree, or to be a poisonous one.  There is something
positively awful about the potentialities that are in human
nature.   The Archbishop of Canterbury might have
grown up under influences which would have made him a
bloodthirsty pirate or a sneaking pickpocket.  The pirate
or the pickpocket, taken at the right time, and trained in
the right way, might have been made a pious exemplary
man.  You remember that good divine, two hundred
years since, who, standing in the market-place of a certain town, and seeing a poor wretch led by him to the
gallows, said, "There goes myself, but for the grace of
God."  Of course, it is needful that human laws should
hold all men as equally responsible.  The punishment of
such an offence is such an infliction, no matter who committed the offence.  At least the mitigating circumstances which human laws can take into account must be all
of a very plain and intelligible character.  It would not
do to recognize anything like a graduated scale of responsibility.  A  very bad training in youth would be in a
certain limited sense regarded as lessening the guilt of
any wrong thing done; and you may remember accordingly how that magnanimous monarch, Charles II., urged
to the Scotch lords, in extenuation of the wrong things
he had done, that his father had given him a very bad
education.  But though human laws and judges may




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              111
vainly and clumsily endeavor to fix each wrong-doer's
place in the scale of responsibility; and though they must,
in a rough way, do what is rough justice in five cases out of
six; still we may well believe that in the view of the Supreme Judge the responsibilities of men are most delicately
graduated to their opportunities.  There is One who will
appreciate with entire accuracy the amount of guilt that is
in each wrong deed of each wrongdoer, and mercifully allow for such as never had a chance of being anything bult
wrongdoers. -And it will not matter whether it was from
original constitution or from unhappy training that these
poor creatures never had that chance.  I was lately quite
astonished to learn that some sincere but stupid American
divines have fallen foul of the eloquent author of Elsie
-Venner, and accused him of fearful heresy, because he declared his confident belief that " God would never make
a man with a crooked spine and then punish him for not
standing upright."  Why, that statement of the Autocrat
appears to me at least as certain as that two and two
make four.  It may indeed contain some recondite and
malignant reference which the stupid American divines
know, and which I do not: it may be a mystic Shibboleth
indicating far more than it asserts; as at one time in
Scotland it was esteemed as proof that a clergyman
preached unsound doctrine if he made use of the Lord's
Prayer.  But, understanding it simply as meaning that
the Judge of all the earth will do right, it appears to
me an axiom  beyond all question.  And I take it as
putting in a compact form the spirit of what I have been
arguing for  to wit, that though human law must of
necessity hold all rational beings as alike responsible, yet
in the eye of God the difference may be immense.  The
graceful vase that stands in the drawing-room under a




112        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
glass shade, and never goes to the well, has no great
right to despise the rough pitcher that goes often and
is broken at last. It is fearful to think what malleable
material we are in the hands of circumstances. And a
certain Authority, considerably wiser and incomparably
more charitable than the American divines already mentioned, has recognized the fact when He taught us to
pray, " Lead us not into temptation! "  We shall think,
in a little while, of certain influences which may make
or mar the human being; but it may be said here, that
I firmly believe that happiness is one of the best of
disciplines. As a general rule, if people were happier,
they would be better.  When you see a poor cabman
on a winter day, soaked with rain, and fevered with
gin, violently thrashing the wretched horse he is driving,
and perhaps howling at it, you may be sure that it is
just because the poor cabman is so miserable that he is
doing all that.  It is a sudden glimpse, perhaps, of his
bare home and hungry children, and of the dreary future which lies before himself and them, that was the
true cause of those two or three furious lashes you saw
him deal upon the unhappy screw's ribs.  Whenever I
read any article in a review, which is manifestly malignant, and intended not to improve an author but to
give him  pain, I cannot help immediately wondering
what may have been the matter with the man who wrote
the malignant article.  Something must have been making him  very unhappy, I think.  I do not allude to
playful attacks upon a man, made in pure thoughtlessness and buoyancy of spirit; but to attacks which indicate a settled, deliberate, calculating rancor.  Never be
angry with the man who makes such an attack; you
ought to be sorry for him.  It is out of great misery




-MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              113
that malignity for the most part proceeds.  To give the
ordinary mortal a fair chance, let him  be reasonably
successful and happy.  Do not worry a man into nervous irritability, and he will be amiable.  Do not dip a
man in water, and lie will not be wet.
Of course, my friend, I know who is to you the most
interesting of all beings; and whose history is the most
interesting of all histories.  You are to yourself the centre of this world, and of all the interests of this world.
And this is quite right.  There is no selfishness about all
this, except that selfishness which forms an essential element in personality; that selfishness which must go with
the fact of one's having a self. You cannot help looking
at all things as they appear from your own point of view;
and things press themselves upon your attention and your
feeling as they affect yourself.  And apart from anything
like egotism, or like vain self-conceit, it is probable that
you may know that a great deal depends upon your exertion and your life.  There are those at home who would
fare but poorly if you were just now to die.  There are
those who must rise with you if you rise, and sink with
you if you sink.  Does it sometimes suddenly strike you,
what a little object you are, to have so much depending
on you?  Vaguely, in your thinking and feeling, you add
your circumstances and your lot to your personality; and
these make up an object of considerable extension. You
do so with other people as well as with yourself. You
have all their belongings as a background to the picture
of them which you have in your mind; and they look
very little when you see them in fact, because you see
them  without these belongings.  I remember when a
boy, how  disappointed I was at first seeing the Archbishop of Canterbury.  It was Archbishop  Howley.
8




114        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
There he was, a slender pale old gentleman, sitting in
an arm-chair at a public meeting.  I was chiefly disappointed, because there was so little of him. There was
just the human being.  There was no background of
grand accessories.  The idea of the Primate of England which I had in some confused manner in my mind,
included a vision of the venerable towers of Lambetl, -
of a long array of solemn predecessors, from  Thomas
A'Becket downwards, —of great historical occasions on
which the Archbishop of Canterbury had been a prominent figure; and in some way I fancied, vaguely, that
you would see the primate  surrounded by all these
things.  You remember the highlander in Waverley who
was much mortified when his chief came to meet an
English guest, unattended by any retinue; and who exclaimed in consternation and sorrow, " He has come
without his tail!"  Even such was my early feeling.
You understand, later, that associations are not visible;
and that they do not add to a man's extension in space.
But (to go back) you do, as regards yourself, what
you do as regards greater men; you add your lot to
your personality, and thus you make up a bigger object.  And when you see yourself in your tailor's shop,
in a large mirror (one of a series) wherein you see your
figure all round, reflected several times, your feeling will
probably be, what a little thing you are! If you are a
wise man, you will go away somewhat humbled, and possibly somewhat the better for the sight. You have, to a
certain extent, done what Burns thought it would do all
men much good to do; you have "seen yourself as others
see you." And even to do so physically, is a step towards
a juster and humbler estimate of yourself in more important things. It may here be said as a further illustration




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.             115
of the principle set forth, that people who stay very much
at home, feel their stature, bodily and mental, much lessened when they go far away from home, and spend a
little time among strange scenes and people.  For, going
thus away from home, you take only yourself. It is but
a small part of your extension that goes. You go; but
you leave behind your house, your study, your children,
your servants, your horses, your garden.  And not only
do you leave them behind; but they grow misty and unsubstantial when you are far away from  them.  And
somehow you feel that when you make the acquaintance
of a new friend some hundreds of miles off, who never
saw your home and your family, you present yourself before him, only a twentieth part or so of what you fedl
yourself to be when you have all your belongings about
you.  Do you not feel all that?  And do you not feel,
that if you were to go away to Australia for ever, almost
as the English coast turned blue and then invisible on the
horizon, your life in England would first turn cloud-like,
and then melt away?
But without further discussing the philosophy of how
it comes to be, I return to the statement that you yourself, as you live in your home, are to yourself the centre
of this world; and that you feel the force of any great
principle most deeply, when you feel it in your own case.
And though every worthy mortal must be often taken out
of himself, especially by seeing the deep sorrows and
great failures of other men, still, in thinking of people
of whom more might have been made, it touches you
most to discern that you are one of these. It is a very
sad thing to think of yourself, and to see how much more
might have been made of you.  Sit down by the fire in
winter; or go out now in summer and sit down under a




116       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
tree; and look back on the moral discipline you have
gone through; look back on what you have done and
suffered. Oh how much better and happier you might
have been   And how very near you have often been to
what would have made you so much happier and better!
If you had taken the other turning when you took the
wrong one, after much perplexity; if you had refrained
from saying such a hasty word; if you had not thoughtlessly made such a man your enemy! Such a little thing
may have changed the entire complexion of your life.
Ah, it was because the points were turned the wrong
way at that junction, that you are now running along a
line of railway through wild moorlands, leaving the warm
champaign below ever more hopelessly behind.  Hastily,
or pettedly, or despairingly, you took the wrong turning;
or you might have been dwelling now amid verdant fields
and silver waters in the country of contentment and success. Many men and women, in the temporary bitterness
of some disappointment, have hastily made marriages
which will embitter all their future life; or which at least
make it certain that in this world they will never know
a joyous heart any more. Men have died as almost
briefless barristers, toiling into old age in heartless wrangling, who had their chance of high places on the bench;
but ambitiously resolved to wait for something higher;
and so missed the tide.  Men in the church have taken
the wrong path at some critical time; and doomed themselves to all the pangs of disappointed ambition.  But I
think a sincere man in the church has a great advantage
over almost all ordinary disappointed men.  He has less
temptation, reading affairs by the light of after-time, to
look back with bitterness on any mistake he may have
made. For if he be the man I mean, he took the deci



MORE MI(GHT HAVE BEEN MADE.            11 7
sive step not without seeking the best of guidance; and
the whole training of his mind has fitted him for seeing a
higher IHand in the allotment of human conditions. And
if a man acted for the best, according to the light he had;
and if he truly believes that God puts all in their places
in life: he may look back without bitterness upon what
may appear the most grievous mistakes. I must be suffered to add, that if he is able heartily to hold certain
great truths, and to rest on certain sure promises, hardly
any conceivable earthly lot should stamp him a soured
or disappointed man. If it be a sober truth, that "all
things shall work together for good" to a certain order
of mankind; and if the deepest sorrows in this world
may serve to prepare us for a better; why, then, I think
that one might hold by a certain ancient philosopher (and
something more), who said "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content! "
You see, reader, that in thinking of People of whom
more might have been made, we are limiting the scope of
the subject. I am not thinking how more might have
been made of us originally. No doubt the potter had
power over the clay.  Give a larger brain, of finer quality, and the commonplace man might have been a Milton.
A little change in the chemical composition of the gray
matter of that little organ which is unquestionably connected with the mind's working as no other organ of the
body is, and oh, what a different order of thought would
have rolled off from your pen when you sat down and
tried to write your best! If we are to believe Robert
Burns, some people have been made more of than was
originally intended. A certain poem records how that
which, in his homely phrase, he calls "stuff to mak' a




118        CONCERNING PEOPLE F0I  WHOMv
swine," was ultimately converted into a very poor specie
men of a human being.  The poet had no irreverent
intention, I dare say; but T am not about to go into the
field of speculation which is opened up by his words.  I
know indeed that in the hands of the Creator each of us
might have been made a different man.  The pounds of
material which were fashioned into Shakespeare might
have made a bumpkin with little thought beyond pigs
and turnips; or, by some slight difference beyond man's
skill to trace, might have made an idiot. A little infusion of energy into the mental constitution might have
made the mild, pensive day-dreamer who is wandering
listlessly by the river-side, sometimes chancing upon
noble thoughts, which he does not carry out into action,
and does not even write down on paper, into an active
worker, with Arnold's keen look, who would have carved
out a great career for himself, and exercised a real influence over the views and conduct of numbers of other
men.  A  very little alteration in feature might have
made a plain face into a beautiful one, and some slight
change in the position or the contractibility of certain
of the muscles might have made the most awkward of
manners and gaits into the most dignified and graceful.
All that we all understand.  But my present subject is
the making which is in circumstances after our natural
disposition is fixed- the training, coming from a hundred quarters, which forms the material supplied by
nature into the character which each of us actually
bears.  And setting apart the case of great genius,
whose bent towards the thing in which it will excel is
so strong that it will find its own field by inevitable selection, and whose strength is such that no unfavorable
circumstances can hold it down, almost any ordinary hu



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.             119
man being may be formed into almost any development.
I know a huge massive beam of rough iron, which supports a great weight. Whenever I pass itb I cannot help
giving it a pat with my hand, and saying to it, "You
might have been hair-springs for watches."  I know an
odd-looking little man attached to a certain railway-station, whose business it is when a train comes in to go
round it with a large box of a yellow concoction, and
supply grease to the wheels.  I have often looked out
of the carriage-window at that odd little man, and thought
to myself, "Now you might have been a chief justice."
And indeed I can say from  personal observation, that
the stuff ultimately converted into cabinet ministers does
not at an early stage at all appreciably differ from that
which never becomes more than country parsons. There
is a great gulf between the human being who gratefully
receives a shilling, and touches his cap as he receives it,
and the human being whose income is paid in yearly or
half-yearly sums, and to whom a pecuniary tip would appear as an insult; yet of course that great gulf is the result
of training alone. John Smith the laborer, with twelve
shillings a week, and the bishop with eight thousand a year,
had, by original constitution, precisely the same kind of
feeling towards that much-sought yet much-abused reality
which provides the means of life. Who shall reckon up
by what millions of slight touches from the hand of circumstance, extending over many years, the one man is
gradually formed into the giving of the shilling, and the
other man into the receiving of it with that touch of his
hat?  Who shall read back the forming influences at
work since the days in the cradle, that gradually formed
one man into sitting down to dinner, and another man
into waiting behind his chair? I think it would be occa




120        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
sionally a comfort if one could believe, as American
planters'profess to believe about their slaves, that there
is an original and essential difference between men; for
truly the difference in their positions is often so tremen.
dous that it is painful to think that it is the selfsame clay
and the selfsame common mind that are promoted to
dignity and degraded to servitude.  And if you sometimes feel that, you in whose favor the arrangement tends,
what do you suppose your servants sometimes think upon
the subject?  It was no wonder that the millions of Russia were ready to grovel before their Czar, while they
believed that he was "an emanation from the Deity."
But in countries where it is quite understood that every
man is just as much an emanation from the Deity as any
other, you will not long have that sort of thing. You
remember Goldsmith's noble lines, which Dr. Johnson
never could read without tears, concerning the English
character.  It is not true that it is just because the humble but intelligent Englishman understands distinctly that
we are all of us people of whom more might have been
made, that he has " learnt to venerate himself as man! "
And, thinking of influences which form the character,
there is a sad reflection which has often occurred to me.
It is, that circumstances often develop a character which
it is hard to contemplate without anger and disgust.
And yet in many such cases it is rather pity that is due.
The more disgusting the character formed in some men,
the more you should pity them.  Yet it is hard to do
that. You easily pity the man whom circumstances have
made poor and miserable; how much more you should
pity the man whom circumstances have made bad. You
pity the man from whom some terrible accident has taken
a limb or a hand; but how much more should you pity




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.            121
the man from whom the influences of years have taken
a conscience and a heart! And something is to be said
for even the most unamiable and worst of the race. No
doubt it is mainly their own fault that they are so bad;
but still it is hard work to be always rowing against wind
and tide, and some people could be good only by doing
that ceaselessly. I am not thinking now of pirates and
pickpockets.  But take the case of a sour, backbiting,
malicious, wrong-headed, lying old woman, who gives
her life to saying disagreeable things and making mischief between friends.  There are not many mortals
with whom one is less disposed to have patience. But
yet, if you knew all, you would not be so severe in what
you think and say of her.  You do not know the physical irritability of nerve and weakness of constitution
which that poor creature may have inherited; you do
not know  the singular twist of mind which she may
have got from nature and from bad and unkind treatment in youth; you do not know the bitterness of heart
she has felt at the polite snubbings and ladylike tortures
which in excellent society are often the share of the poor
and the dependent. If you knew all these things, you
would bear more patiently with my friend Miss Limejuice; though I confess that sometimes you would find
it uncommonly hard to do so.
As I wrote that last paragraph, I began dimly to fancy
that somewhere I had seen the idea which is its subject
treated by an abler hand by far than mine. The idea,
you may be sure, was not suggested to me by books, but
by what I have seen of men and women. But it is a
pleasant thing to find that a thought which at the time is
strongly impressing one's self, has impressed other men.
And a modest person, who knows very nearly what his




122          CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
humble mark is, will be quite pleased to find that another
man has not only anticipated his thoughts, but has expressed them much better than he could have done. Yes,
let me turn to that incomparable essay of John Foster,
On a Man's writing Memoirs of Himself.  Here it is:Make the supposition that any given number of persons, a hundred,
for instance, taken promiscuously, should be able to write memoirs of
themselves so clear and perfect as to explain, to your discernment at
least, the entire process by which their minds have attained their present state, recounting all the most impressive circumstances. If they
should read these memoirs to you in succession, while your benevolence and the moral principles according to which you felt and estimated, were kept at the highest pitch, you would often, during the
disclosure, regret to observe how many things may be the causes of
irretrievable mischief. Why is the path of life, you would say, so
haunted as if with evil spirits of every diversity of noxious agency,
some of which may patiently accompany, or others of which may suddenly cross, the unfortunate wanderer?  And you would regret to observe into how many forms of intellectual and moral perversion the
human mind readily yields itself to be modified.
I compassionate you, would, in a very benevolent hour, be youi
language to the wealthy, unfeeling tyrant of a family and a neighborhood, who seeks in the overawed timidity and unretaliated injuries of
the unfortunate beings within his power, the gratification that should
have been sought in their affections. Unless you had brought into
the world some extraordinary refractoriness to the influence of evil,
the process that you have undergone could not easily fail of beiig
efficacious. If your parents idolized their own importance in their son
so much, that they never opposed your inclinations themselves, nor
permitted it to be done by any subject to their authority; if the humble companion, sometimes summoned to the honor of amusing you,
bore your caprices and insolence with the meekness without which he
had lost his enviable privilege; if you could despoil the garden of some
nameless dependent neighbor of the carefully reared flowers, and tornent his little dog or cat, without his daring to punish you or to
appeal to your infatuated parents; if aged men addressed you in a
submissive tone, and with the appellation of "Sir," and their aged
wives uttered their wonder at your condescension, and pushed their
grandchildren away from around the fire for your sake, if you haptened, though with the strut of pertness, and your hat on your head,




MORE MTIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.                   123
to enter one of their cottages. perhaps to express your contempt of the
homely dwelling, furniture, and fare; if, in maturer life, you associated
with vile persons, who would forego the contest of equality to be yout
allies in trampling on inferiors; and if, both then and since, you have
been suffered to deem your wealth the compendium or equivalent of
every ability and every good quality - it would indeed be immensely
strange if you had not become, in due time, the miscreant, who may
thank the power of the laws in civilized society that he is not assaulted
with clubs and stones; to whom one could cordially wish the opportunity and the consequences of attempting his tyranny among some
such people as those submissive sons of nature in the forests of North
America; and whose dependents and domestic relatives may be almost
forgiven when they shall one day rejoice at his funeral.
What do you think of that, my reader, as a specimen
of embittered eloquence and nervous pith? It is something to read massive and energetic sense, in days wherein
mystical twaddle, and subtlety which hopelessly defies all
logic, are sometimes thought extremely fine, if they are
set out in a style which is refined into mere effeminacy.
I cherish a very strong conviction (as has been said)
that, at least in the case of educated people, happiness is
a grand discipline for bringing out what is amiable and
excellent.  You understand, of course, what I mean by
happiness.  We all know, of course, that light heartedness is not very familiar to grown-up people, who are
doing the work of life - who feel its many cares, and
who do not forget the many risks which hang over it. I
am not thinking of the kind of thing which is suggested
to the minds of children, when they read, at the end of a
tale, concerning its heroine and hero, that " they lived
happily ever after."  No; we don't look for that.  By
happiness, I mean freedom  from   terrible anxiety and
from  pervading depression of spirits: the consciousness
that we are filling our place in life with decent success




124        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
and approbation: religious principle and character: fair
physical health throughout the family; and moderate
good temper and good sense.  And I hold, with Sydney
Smith, and with that keen practical philosopher, Becky
Sharpe, that happiness and success tend very greatly to
make people passably good.  Well, I see an answer to
the statement, as I do to most statements; but, at least,
the beam is never subjected to the strain which would
break it. I have seen the gradual working of what I
call happiness and success in ameliorating character. I
have known a man who, by necessity, by the pressure of
poverty, was driven to write for the magazines: a kind
of work for which he had no special talent or liking, and
which he had never intended to attempt.  There was no
more miserable, nervous, anxious, disappointed being on
earth than he was when he began his writing for the
press.  And sure enough his articles were bitter and illset to a high degree.  They were thoroughly ill-natured
and bad.  They were not devoid of a certain cleverness;
but they were the sour products of a soured nature. But
that man gradually got into comfortable circumstances:
and with equal step with his lot the tone of his writings
mended; till as a writer he became conspicuous for the
healthful, cheerful, and kindly nature of all he produced.
I remember seeing a portrait of an eminent author, taken
a good many years ago, at a time when he was struggling into notice, and when he was being very severely
handled by the critics.  That portrait was really truculent of aspect. It was sour, and even ferocious-looking.
Years afterwards I saw that author, at a time when he
had attained vast success, and was universally recognized
as a great man.  How improved that face! All the savage lines were gone: the bitter look was gone: the great




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.             125
man looked quite genial and amiable.  And I came to
know that he really was all he looked.  Bitter judgments
of men, imputations of evil motives, disbelief in anything
noble or generous, a disposition to repeat tales to the
prejudice of others, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, -all these things may possibly come out of a
bad heart; but they certainly came out of a miserable
one. The happier any human being is, the better and
more kindly he thinks of all. It is the man who is always worried, whose means are uncertain, whose home is
uncomfortable, whose nerves are rasped by some kind
friend who daily repeats and enlarges upon everything
disagreeable for him to hear: it is he who thinks hardly
of the character and prospects of humankind, and who
believes in the essential and unimprovable badness of the
race.
This is not a treatise on the formation of character: it
pretends to nothing like completeness. If this essay were
to extend to a volume of about three hundred and eighty
pages, I might be able to set out and discuss, in something
like a full and orderly fashion, the influences under which
human beings grow up, and the way in which to make
the best of the best of these influences, and to evade or
neutralize the worst. And if, after great thought and
labor, I had produced such a volume, I am well aware
that nobody would read it. So I prefer to briefly glance
at a few aspects of a great subject just as they present
themselves, leaving the complete discussion of it to solid
individuals with more leisure at their command.
Physically, no man is made the most of. Look at an
acrobat or a boxer: there is what your limbs might have




126       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
been made for strength and agility.  That is the potential
which is in human nature in these respects.  I never
witnessed a prize-fight, and assuredly I never will witness one: but I am told that when the champions appear
in the ring, stripped for the combat (however bestial and
hlackguard-looking their countenances may be), the clearness and beauty of their skin testify that by skilful physical discipline a great deal more may be made of that
human hide than is usually made of it.  Then if you
wish to see what may be made of the human muscles as
regards rapid dexterity, look at the Wizard of the North
or at an Indian juggler. I am very far indeed from saying or thinking that this peculiar pre-eminence is worth
the pains it must cost to acquire it.  Not that I have a
word to say against the man who maintains his children
by bringing some one faculty of the body to absolute perfection: I am ready even to admit that it is a very right
and fit thing that one man in five or six millions should
devote his life to showing the very utmost that can be
made of the human fingers, or the human muscular system as a whole: it is fit that a rare man here and there
should cultivate some accomplishment to a perfection that
looks magical, just as it is fit that a man here and there
should live in a house that cost a million of pounds to
build, and round which a wide tract of country shows
what may be made of trees and fields where unlimited
wealth and exquisite taste have done their best to improve nature to the fairest forms of which it is capable.
But even if it were possible, it would not be desirable
that all human beings should live in dwellings like Hamilton Palace or Arundel Castle; and it would serve no
good end at all, certainly no end worth the cost, to have
all educated men muscular as Tom Sayers, or swift of




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              127
hand as Robert Houdin.  Practical efficiency is what is
wanted for the business of this world, not absolute perfection: life is too short to allow any but exceptional in
dividuals, few and far between, to acquire the power of
playing at rackets as well as rackets can possibly be
played.  We are obliged to have a great number of irons
in the fire: it is needful that we should do decently well
a great number of things; and we must not devote oufr
selves to one thing to the exclusion of all the rest.  And
accordingly, though we may desire to be reasonably muscular and reasonably active, it will not disturb us to think
that in both these respects we are people of whom more
might have been made.  It may here be said that probably there is hardly an influence which tends so powerfully to produce extreme self-complacency as the conviction that as regards some one physical accomplishment,
one is a person of whom more could not have been made.
It is a proud thing to think that you stand decidedly
ahead of all mankind: that Eclipse is first and the rest
nowhere; even in the matter of keeping up six balls
at once, or of noting and remembering twenty different
objects in a shop window as you walk past it at five miles
an hour.  I do not think I ever beheld a human being
whose aspect was of such unutterable pride, as a man I
lately saw playing the drum as one of a certain splendid
military band.  He was playing in a piece in which the
drum music was very conspicuous; and even an unskilled
observer could remark that his playing was absolute perfection. He had the thorough mastery of his instrument.
He did the most difficult things not only with admirable
precision, but without the least appearance of effort. He
was a great tall fellow: and it was really a fine sight to
see him standing very upright, and immovable save as




128        CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
to his arms, looking fixedly into distance, and his bosom
swelling with the lofty belief that out of four or five
thousand persons who were present, there was not one
who, to save his life, could have done what he was doing
so easily.
So much of physical dexterity. As for physical grace,
it will be admitted that in that respect more might be
made of most human beings.  It is not merely that they
are ugly and awkward naturally, but that they are ugly
and awkward artificially.  Sir Bulwer Lytton in his earlier writings was accustomed to maintain that just as it is
a man's duty to cultivate his mental powers, so is it his
duty to cultivate his bodily appearance. And doubtless,
all the gifts of nature are talents committed to us to be
improved; they are things intrusted to us to make the
best of  It may be difficult to fix the point at which the
care of personal appearance in man or woman becomes
excessive. It does so unquestionably when it engrosses
the mind to the neglect of more important things. But
I suppose that all reasonable people now believe that
scrupulous attention to personal cleanliness, freshness, and
neatness, is a Christian duty. The days are past almost
everywhere in which piety was held as associated with
dirt. Nobody would mention now as a proof how saintly
a human being was, that (for the love of God) he had
never washed his face or brushed his hair for thirty
years.  And even scrupulous neatness need bring with
it no suspicion of puppyism.  The most trim  and tidy
of old men was good John Wesley; and he conveyed to
the minds of all who saw him the notion of a man whose
treasure was laid up beyond this world, quite as much as
if he had dressed in such a fashion as to make himself an
object of ridicule, or as if he had forsworn the use of soap.




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              125
Some people fancy that slovenliness of attire indicates
a mind above petty details.  I have seen an eminent
preacher ascend the pulpit, with his bands hanging over
his right shoulder, his gown apparently put on by being
dropped upon him from  the vestry ceiling, and his hair
apparently unbrushed for several weeks. There was no
suspicion of affectation about that good man; yet I regarded his untidiness as a defect and not as an excellence.  He gave a most eloquent sermon; yet I thought
it would have been well had the lofty mind that treated
so admirably some of the grandest realities of life and of
immortality, been able to address itself a little to the care
of lesser things. I confess that when I heard the Bishop
of Oxford preach, I thought the effect of his sermon was
increased by the decorous and careful fashion in which he
was arrayed in his robes. And it is to be admitted that
the grace of the human aspect may be in no small measure enhanced by bestowing a little pains upon it. You,
youthful matron, when you take your little children to have
their photographs taken, and when their nurse in contemplation of that event attired them in their most tasteful
dresses, and arranged their hair in its prettiest curls,
you know that the little things looked a great deal
better than they do on common days. It is pure nonsense to say that beauty when unadorned is adorned the
most.  For that is as much as to say that a pretty young
woman, in the matter of physical appearance, is a person
of whom no more can be made.  Now taste and skill can
make more of almost anything.  And you will set down
Thomson's lines as flatly opposed to fact, when your lively
young cousin walks into your room  to let you see her
before she goes out to an evening party; and when you
compare that radiant vision, in her robes of misty texture,
9




130       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
and with hair arranged in folds the most complicated -'
wreathed, and satin shoed -  with the homely figure that
took a walk with you that afternoon, russet-gowned, tartan-plaided, and shod with serviceable boots for tramping
through country mud.  One does not think of loveliness
in the case of men, because they have not got any: but
their aspect, such as it is, is mainly made by their tailors.
And it is a lamentable thought, how very ill the clothes
of most men are made.  I think that the art of draping
the male human body has been brought to much less excellence by the mass of those who practise it, than any
other of the useful and ornamental arts. Tailors, even in
great cities, are generally extremely bad. Or it may be
that the providing of the human frame with decent and
well-fitting garments is so very difficult a thing, that (save
by a great genius here and there) it can be no more than
approximated to. As for tailors in little country villages,
their power of distorting and disfiguring is wonderful.
When I used to be a country clergyman, I remember
how, when I went to the funeral of some simple rustic, I
was filled with surprise to see the tall, strapping, fine
young country lads, arrayed in their black suits.  What
awkward figures they looked in those unwonted garments! How different from their easy, natural appearance in their every-day fustian! Here you would see a
young fellow, with a coat whose huge collar covered half
his head when you looked at him from behind; a very
common thing was to have sleeves which entirely concealed the hands; and the wrinkled and baggy aspect of
the whole suits could be imagined only by such as have
seen them.  It may be remarked here, that those strong
country lads were in another respect people of whom
more might have been physically made. Oh for a drill



MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.             131
sergeant to teach them to stand upright, and to turn out
their toes; and to get rid of that slouching, hulking gait
which gives such a look of clumsiness and stupidity! If
you could but have the well-developed muscles and the
fresh complexion of the country, with the smartness and
alertness of the town! You have there the rough material
of which a vast deal may be made; you have the waterworn pebble which will take on a beautiful polish. Take
from the moorland cottage the shepherd-lad of sixteen;
send him to a Scotch college for four years; let him be
lutor in a good family for a year or two; and (if he be an
observant fellow) you will find in him the quiet, self-possessed air and the easy address of the gentleman who has
seen the world. And it is curious to see one brother of a
family thus educated and polished into refinement, while
the other three or four, remaining in their father's simple
lot, retain its rough manners and its unsophisticated feelings.  Well, look at the man who has been made a gentleman, probably by the hard labor and sore self-denial
of the others; and see in him what each of the others
might have been!  Look with respect on the diamond
which needed only to be polished.  Reverence the undeveloped potential which circumstances have held down.
Look with interest on these people of whom more might
have been made!
Such a sight as this sometimes sets us thinking how
many germs of excellence are in this world turned to no
account.  You see the polished diamond and the rough
one side by side.  It is too late now; but the dull colorless pebble might have been the bright glancing gem.
And you may polish the material diamond at any time;
but if you miss your season in the case of the human one,
the loss can never be repaired.  The bumpkin who is a




132       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
bumpkin at thirty, must remain a bumpkin to threescore
and ten.  But another thing that makes us think how
many fair possibilities are lost, is to remark the fortuitous
way in which great things have often been done; and
done by people who never dreamt that they had in them
the power to do anything particular. These cases, one
cannot but think, are samples of millions more. There
have been very popular writers who were brought out by
mere accident.  They did not know what precious vein
of thought they had at command, till they stumbled upon
it as if by chance, like the Indian at the mines of Potosi.
It is not much that we know of Shakespeare, but it seems
certain that it was in patching up old plays for acting that
he discovered within himself a capacity for producing that
which men will not easily let die.  When a young military man, disheartened with the service, sought for an
appointment as an Irish Commissioner of Excise, and
was sadly disappointed because he did not get it, it is
probable that he had as little idea as any one else had
that he possessed that aptitude for the conduct of war
which was to make him the Duke of Wellington.  And
when a young mathematician, entirely devoid of ambition,
desired to settle quietly down, and devote all his life to
that unexciting study, he was not aware that he was a.
person of whom more was to be made; - who was to
grow into the great Emperor Napoleon.  I had other
instances in my mind, but after these last it is needless to
mention them.  But such cases suggest to us that there
may have been many Folletts who never held a brief,
many Keans who never acted but in barns, many Vandyks who never earned more than sixpence a day, many
Goldsmiths who never were better than penny-a-liners,
many Michaels who never built their St. Peters; and




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.             133
perhaps a Shakespeare who held horses at the theatre
door for pence, as the Shakespeare we know of did, and
who stopped there.
Let it here be suggested, that it is highly illogical to
conclude that you are yourself a person of whom a great
deal more might have been made, merely because you
are a person of whom it is the fact that very little has
actually been made. This suggestion may appear a truism; but it is one of those simple truths of which we al
need to be occasionally reminded. After all, the great
test of what a man can do, must be what a man does.
But there are folk who live on the reputation of being
pebbles capable of receiving a very high polish, though
from circumstances they did not choose to be polished.
There are people who stand high in general estimation
on the ground of what they might have done if they had
liked. You will find students who took no honors at the
university, but who endeavor to impress their friends with
the notion that if they had chosen, they could have attained to unexampled eminence.  And sometimes, no
doubt, there are great powers that run to waste. There
have been men whose doings, splendid as they were, were
no more than a hint of how much more they could have
done. In such a case as that of Coleridge, you see how
the lack of steady industry, and of all sense of responsibility, abated the tangible result of the noble intellect
God gave him. But as a general rule, and in the case
of ordinary people, you need not give a man credit for
the possession of any powers beyond those which he has
actually exhibited.  If a boy is at the bottom of his class,
it is probably because he could not attain its top. My
friend Mr. Snarling thinks he can write much better arti.
cles than those which appear in any of the magazines;




134       CONCERNING PEOPLE OF WHOM
but as he has not done so, I am not inclined to give him
credit for the achievement.  But you can see that this
principle of estimating people's abilities not by what they
have done, but by what they think they could do, will be
much approved by persons who are stupid, and at the
same time conceited.  It is a pleasing arrangement that
every man should fix his own mental mark, and hold by
his estimate of himself.  And then, never measuring his
strength with others, he can suppose that he could have
beat them if he had tried.
Yes, we are all mainly fashioned by circumstances;
and had the circumstances been more propitious, they
might have made a great deal more of us. You sometimes think, middle-aged man, who never have passed the
limits of Britain, what an effect might have been produced upon your views and character by foreign travel.
You think what an indefinite expansion of mind it might
have caused; how many narrow prejudices it might have
rubbed away; how much wiser and better a man it might
have made you.  Or more society and wider reading in
your early youth might have improved you; might have
taken away the shyness and the intrusive individuality
which you sometimes feel painfully; might have called
out one cannot say what of greater confidence and larger
sympathy.  How very little, you think to yourself, you
have seen and known! While others skim great libraries, you read the same few books over and over; while
others come to know many lands and cities, and the faces
and ways of many men, you look, year after year, on the
same few square miles of this world, and you have to
form your notion of human nature from the study of hut
few human beings, and these very commonplace.  Perhaps it is as well. It is not so certain that more would




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.              135
have been made of you if you had enjoyed what might
seem greater advantages.  Perhaps you learned more by
studying the little field before you earnestly and long,
than you would have learned if you had bestowed a cursory glance upon fields more extensive by far. Perhaps
there was compensation for the fewness of the cases you
had to observe, in the keenness with which you were able
to observe them. Perhaps the Great Disposer saw that
in your case the pebble got nearly all the polishing it
would stand; the man nearly all the chances he could
improve.
If there be soundness and justice in this suggestion,
it may afford consolation to a considerable class of men
and women. I mean those people who, feeling within
themselves many defects of character, and discerning in
their outward lot much which they would wish other
than it is, are ready to think that some one thing would
have put them  right; that some one thing would put
them  right even yet; but something which they have
hopelessly missed, something which can never be. There
was just one testing event, which stood between them
and their being made a vast deal more of.  They would
have been far better and far happier, they think, had
some single malign influence been kept away which has
darkened all their life; or had some single blessing been
given which would have made it happy.  If you had
got such a parish which you did not get; if you had
married such a woman; if your little child had not died;
if you had always the society and sympathy of such an
energetic and hopeful friend; if the scenery round your
dwelling were of a different character; if the neighboring town were four miles off instead of fifteen; if any
one of these circumstances had been altered, what a dif:




136        CONCERNLNG PEOPLE OF WHOM
ferent man you might have been!  Probably many
people, even of middle age, conscious that the manifold
cares and worries of life forbid that it should be evenly
joyous, do yet cherish, at the bottom of their heart, some
vague yet rooted fancy, that if but one thing were given
on 0which they had set their hearts, or one care removed
forever, they would be perfectly happy, even here. Perhaps you overrate the effect which would have been produced on your character by such a single cause.  It
might not have made you much better; it might not
even have made you very different.  And assuredly
you are wrong in fancying that any such single thing
could have made you happy; that is, entirely happy.
Nothing in this world could ever make you that.  It is
not God's purpose that we should be entirely happy
here.  "This is not our rest."  The day will never
come which will not bring its worry.  And the possibility of terrible misfortune and sorrow hangs over all.
There is but one place where we shall be right; and
that is far away.
Yes, more might have been made of all of us; probably, in the case of most, not much more will be made
in this world. We are now, if we have reached middle
life, very much what we shall be to the end of the chapter.  We shall not, in this world, be much better; let
us humbly trust that we shall not be worse.  Yet, if
there be an undefinable sadness in looking at the marred
material of which so much more might have been made,
there is a sublime hopefulness in the contemplation of
material, bodily and mental, of which a great deal more
and better will certainly yet be made. Not much more
may be made of any of us in life; but who shall estimate




MORE MIGHT HAVE BEEN MADE.               137
what may be made of us in immortality?  Think of a
" spiritual body;" think of a perfectly pure and happy
soul!  I thought of this on a beautiful evening of this
summer, walking with a much valued friend through a
certain grand ducal domain.  In front of a noble sepulchre, where is laid up much aristocratic dust, there
are sculptured by some great artist, three colossal faces,
which are meant to represent Life, Death, and Immortality. It was easy to represent death: the face was one
of solemn rest, with closed eyes; and the sculptor's skill
was mainly shown in distinguishing Life fiom  Immortality.  And he had done it well.  There was Life, a
careworn, anxious, weary face, that seemed to look at
you earnestly, and with a vague inquiry for something
- the something that is lacking in all things here. And
there was Immortality: life-like, but oh! how different
fiom  mortal Life!  There was the beautiful face; calm,
satisfied, self-possessed, sublime; and with eyes looking
far away.  I see it yet, the crimson sunset warming the
gray stone; and a great hawthorn tree, covered with
blossoms, standing by. Yes, there was Immortality; and
you felt, as you looked at it, that it was MORE MADE OF
LIFE!




CHAPTER VI.
CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO CARRIED WEIGHT
IN LIFE.
WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON THOSE WHO NEVER HAI
A CHANCE.
^;,.i~p OU drive out, let us suppose, upon a cer4p tain day. To your surprise and mortification, your horse, usually lively and frisky,
is quite dull and sluggish.  He does not
get over the ground as he is wont to do. The slightest
touch of whipcord, on other days, suffices to make him
dart forward with redoubled speed; but upon this day,
after two or three miles, he needs positive whipping,
and he runs very sulkily with it all. By and bye his
coat, usually smooth and glossy and dry through all
reasonable work, begins to stream  like a water-cart.
This will not do. There is something wrong.  You
investigate; and you discover that your horse's work,
though seemingly the same as usual, is in fact immensely greater. The blockheads who oiled your wheels
yesterday have screwed up your patent axles too tightly;
the friction is enormous; the hotter the metal gets, the
greater grows the friction; your horse's work is quadrupled.  You drive slowly home; and severely upbraid
the blockheads.
There are many people who have to go through life
at an analogous disadvantage.  There is something in




CARRYING WEIGHT IN LIFE.            139
their constitution of body or mind; there is something in
their circumstances; which adds incalculably to the exertion they must go through to attain their ends; and
which holds them  back from  doing what they might
otherwise have done. Very probably, that malign something exerted its influence unperceived by those around
them.  They did not get credit for the struggle they
were making.  No one knew what a brave fight they
were making with a broken right arm; no one remarked
that they were running the race, and keeping a fail
place in it too, with their legs tied together. All they
do, they do at a disadvantage. It is as when a noble
race-horse is beaten by a sorry hack; because the racehorse, as you might see if you look at the list, is carrying twelve pounds additional. But such men, by a desperate effort, often made silently and sorrowfully, may
(so to speak) run in the race; and do well in it; though
you little think with how heavy a foot and how heavy a
heart.  There are others, who have no chance at all.
They are like a horse set to run a race, tied by a strong
rope to a tree; or weighted with ten tons of extra burden.  That horse cannot run, even poorly.  The difference between their case and that of the men who are
placed at a disadvantage, is like the difference between
setting a very near-sighted man to keep a sharp lookout, and setting a man who is quite blind to keep that
sharp look-out. Many can do the work of life with
difficulty; some cannot do it at all. In short, there are
PEOPLE WHO CARRY WEIGHT IN LIFE; and there are
some WHO NEVER HAVE A CHANCE.
And you, my friend, who are doing the work of life
well and creditably: you who are running in the front
rank, and likely to do so to the end; think kindly and




140          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
charitably of those who have broken down in the race.
Think kindly of him who, sadly over-weighted, is struggling onwards away half-a-mile behind you; think more
kindly yet, if that be possible, of him who, tethered to a
ton of granite, is struggling hard and making no way at
all; or who has even sat down and given up the struggle
in dumb despair.  You feel, I know, the weakness in
yourself which would have made you break down if sorely tried like others.  You know there is in your armor
the unprotected place, at which a well-aimed or a random
blow would have gone home and brought you down. Yes,
you are nearing the winning-post, and you are among the
first; but six pounds more on your back, and you might
have been nowhere.  You feel, by your weak heart and
weary frame, that if you had been sent to the Crimea in
that dreadful first winter, you would certainly have died.
And you feel, too, by your lack of moral stamina, by your
feebleness of resolution, that it has been your preservation from you know not what depths of shame and misery,
that you never were pressed very hard by temptation.
Do not range yourself with those who found fault with a
certain great and good Teacher of former days, because
he went to be guest with a man that was a sinner. As if
He could have gone to be guest with any man who was
not!
There is no reckoning up the manifold impedimenta by
which human beings are weighted for the race of life;
but all may be classified under the two heads of unfavorable influences arising out of the mental or physical nature of the human beings themselves, and unfavorable
influences arising out of the circumstances in which the
human beings are placed.  You have known men who,




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.            141
setting out from a very humble position, have attained to
a respectable standing: but who would have reached a
very much higher place but for their being weighted with
a vulgar, violent, wrong-headed, and rude-spoken wife
You have known men of lowly origin, who had in them
the makings of gentleren; but whom this single malign
influence has condemned to coarse manners and a frowsy
repulsive home for life.  You have known many men
whose powers are crippled and their nature soured by
poverty; by the heavy necessity for calculating how far
each shilling will go; by a certain sense of degradation
that comes of sordid shifts.  How can a poor parson
write an eloquent or spirited sermon, when his mind all
the while is running upon the thought how he is to pay
the baker, or how he is to get shoes for his children? It
will be but a dull discourse which, under that weight, will
be produced even by a man who, favorably placed, could
have done very considerable things. It is only a great
genius here and there who can do. great things, who can
do his best, no matter at what disadvantage he may be
placed; the great mass of ordinary men can make little
headway with wind and tide dead against them.  Not
many trees would grow well if watered daily (let us say)
with vitriol. Yet a tree which would speedily die under
that nurture, might do very fairly, might even do magnificently, if it had fair play; if it got its chance of common
sunshine and shower.  Some men, indeed, though always
hampered by circumstances, have accomplished much;
but then you cannot help thinking how much more they
might have accomplished had they been placed more happily. Pugin, the great Gothic architect, designed various noble buildings; but I believe he complained that he
never had fair play with his finest; that he was always




142          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
weighted by considerations of expense, or by the nature
of the ground he had to build on, or by the number of
people it was essential the building should accommodate.
And so he regarded his noblest edifices as no more than
hints of what he could have done. He made grand running in the race; but oh what running he could have
made if you had taken off those twelve additional pounds!
I dare say you have known men who labored to make a
pretty country-house on a site which had some one great
drawback. They were always battling with that drawback, and trying to conquer it; but they never could
quite succeed. And it remained a real worry and vexation. Their house was on the north side of a high hill,
and never could have its due share of sunshine. Or you
could not reach it but by climbing a very steep ascent;
or you could not in any way get water into the landscape.
When Sir Walter was at length able to call his own a
little estate on the banks of the Tweed he loved so well,
it was the ugliest, bleakest, and least interesting spot upon the course of that beautiful river; and the public road
ran within a few yards of his door. The noble-hearted
man made a charming dwellingat last; but he was fight..
ing against nature in the matter of the landscape round
it; and you can see yet, many a year after he left it, the
poor little trees of his beloved plantations, contrasting
with the magnificent timber of various grand old places
above and below Abbotsford. There is something saddei
in the sight of men who carried weight within themselves;
and who, in aiming at usefulness or at happiness, were
hampered and held back by their own nature.  There
are many men who are weighted with a hasty temper;
weighted with a nervous, anxious constitution; weighted
with an envious, jealous disposition; weighted with a




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.            143
strong tendency to evil speaking, lying, and slandering; weighted with a grumbling, sour, discontented spirit; weighted with a disposition to vaporing and boasting;
weighted with a great want of common sense; weighted
with an undue regard to what other people may be thinking or saying of them; weighted with many like things
of which more will be said by and bye. When that good
missionary, Henry Martyn, was in India, he was weighted
with an irresistible drowsiness. He could hardly keep
himself awake.  And it must have been a burning earnestness that impelled him to ceaseless labor, in the presence of such a drag-weight as that. I am not thinking
or saying, my friend, that it is wholly bad for us to carry
weight; that great good may not come of the abatement
of our power and spirit which may be made by that
weight. I remember a greater missionary than even the
sainted Martyn, to whom the Wisest and Kindest appointed that he should carry weight, and that he should
fight at a sad disadvantage. And the greater missionary
tells us that he knew why that weight was appointed him
to carry; and that he felt he needed it all to save him
from a strong tendency to undue self-conceit.  No one
knows, now, what the burden was which he bore; but it
was heavy and painful; it was " a thorn in the flesh;"
three times he earnestly asked that it might be taken
away; but the answer he got implied that he needed it
yet; and that his Master thought it a better plan to
strengthen the back than to lighten the burden. Yes,
the blessed Redeemer appointed that St. Paul should
carry weight in life; and I think, friendly reader, that we
shall believe that it is wisely and kindly meant, if the
like should come to you and me.
We all understand what is meant when we hear it




144          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
is said that a man is doing very well, or has done very
well, considering.  I do not know  whether it is a Scotticism to stop short at that point of the sentence.  We
do it, constantly, in this country: the sentence would be
completed by saying, considering the weight he has to
carry, or the disadvantage at which he works. And things
which are very good, considering, may range very far up
and down the scale of actual merit.  A  thing which is
very good, considering, may be very bad, or may be tolerably good.  It never can be absolutely very good; for,
if it were, you would cease to use the word considering.
A thing which is absolutely very good, if it have been
done under extremely unfavorable circumstances, would
not be described as very good, considering; it would be described as quite wonderful, considering, or as miraculous
considering.  And it is curious how  people take a pride
in accumulating unfavorable circumstances, that they may
overcome them, and gain the glory of having overcome
them.  Thus, if a man wishes to sign his name, he might
write the letters with his right hand; and though he write
them very clearly and well and rapidly, nobody would think
of giving him any credit. But if he write his name rather
badly with his left hand, people would say it was a remarkable signature, considering.  And if he wrote his name,
very ill indeed, with his foot, people would say the writing
was quite wonderful, considering.  If a man desire to walk
from one end of a long building, to the other, he might do
so by walking along the floor; and though he did so steadily, swiftly, and gracefully, no one would remark that he
had done anything worth notice. But if he choose for his
path a thick rope, extended from one end of the building
to the other, at a height of a hundred feet; and if he walk
rather slowly and awkwardly along it, he will be esteemed




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.              145
as having done something very extraordinary; while if, in
addition to this, he is blindfolded, and has his feet placed
in large baskets instead of shoes, he will, if in any way
lie can get over the distance between the ends of the
building, be held as one of the most remarkable men of
the age.  Yes, load yourself with weight which no one
asks you to carry: accumulate disadvantages which you
need not face unless you choose; then carry the weight in
any fashion, and overcome the disadvantages in any fashion; and you are a great man, considering; that is, considering the disadvantages and the weight.  Let this be
remembered: if a man is so placed that he cannot do his
work, except in the face of special difficulties, then let him
be praised if he vanquish these in some decent measure,
and if he do his work tolerably well.  But a man deserves no praise at all for work which he has done tolerably or done rather badly, because he chose to do it under
disadvantageous circumstances, under which there was no
earthly call upon him to do it. In this case he probably
is a self-conceited man, or a man of wrong-headed independence of disposition; and in this case, if his work be
bad absolutely, don't tell him that it is good, considering.
Refuse to consider.  He has no right to expect that you
should. There was a man who built a house entirely with
his own hands. Hie had never learned either mason work
or carpentry: he could quite well have afforded to pay
skilled workmen to do'the work he wanted; but he did
not choose to do so.  He did the whole work himself.
The house was finished: its aspect was peculiar.  The
walls were off the perpendicular considerably, and the
windows were singular in shape, the doors fitted badly,
and the floors were far from  level.  In short, it was a
very bad and awkward-looking house; but it was a won10




146          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
derful house, considering.  And people said that it was
so, who saw nothing wonderful in the beautiful house
next it, perfect in symmetry and finish and comfort, but
built by men whose business it was to build.  Now, I
should have declined to admire that odd house, or to express the least sympathy with its builder.  He chose to
run with a needless hundredweight on his back: he chcse
to walk in baskets instead of in shoes. And if, in consequence of his own perversity, he did his work badly, I
should have refused to recognize it as anything but bad
work. It was quite different with Robinson Crusoe, who
made his dwelling and his furniture for himself, because
there was no one else to make them for him.  I dare say
his cave was anything but exactly square, and his chairs
and tables were cumbrous enough; but they were wonderful, considering certain facts which he was quite entitled to
expect us to consider.  Southey's Cottonian Library was
all quite right; and you would have said that the books
were very nicely bound, considering; for Southey could
not afford to pay the regular binder's charges; and it was
better that his books should be done up in cotton of
various hues by the members of his own family, than
that they should remain not bound at all.  You will
think, too, of the poor old parson who wrote a book
which he thought of great value, but which no pubisher would bring out.  He was determined that all
his labor should not be lost to posterity.  So he bought
types and a printing-press, and printed his precious work,
poor man; he and his man-servant did it all. It made a
great many volumes; and the task took up many years.
Then he bound the volumes with his own hands; and
carrying them to London, he placed a copy of his'work
in each of the public libraries. I dare say he might have




CARRIED WEIGHT IN IIFE.              147
saved himself his labor. How many of my readers could
tell what was the title of the work, or what was the name
of its author? Still, there was a man who accomplished
his design, in the face of every disadvantage.
There is a great point of difference between our feel.
ing towards the human being who runs his race much
overweighted, and our feeling towards the inferior animal
that does the like.  If you saw  a poor horse gamely
struggling in a race, with a weight of a ton extra, you
would pity it. Your sympathies would all be with the
creature that was making the best of unfavorable circumstances.  But it is a sorrowful fact, that the drag weight
of human beings not unfrequently consists of things which
make us angry rather than sympathetic. You have seen
a man carrying heavy weight in life, perhaps in the form
of inveterate wrongheadedness and suspiciousness; but
instead of pitying him, our impulse would rather be to
beat him upon that perverted head.  We pity physical
malformation or unhealthiness; but our bent is to be
angry with intellectual and moral malformation or unhealthiness.  We feel for the deformed man, who must
struggle on at that sad disadvantage; feeling it, too,
much more acutely than you would readily believe. But
we have only indignation for the man weighted with far
worse things; and things which, in some cases at least,
he can just as little help. You have known men whose
extra pounds, or even extra ton, was a hasty temper, flying out of a sudden into ungovernable bursts: or a moral
cowardice leading to trickery and falsehood: or a special
disposition to envy and evil speaking: or a very strong
tendency to morbid complaining about his misfortunes and
troubles: or an invincible bent to be always talking of




148          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
his sufferings through the derangement ot' his digestive
organs. Now, you grow  angry at these things. You
cannot stand them.  And there is a substratum of truth
to that angry feeling. A man can form his mind more
than he can form  his body. If a man be well-made,
physically, he will, in ordinary cases, remain so: but he
may, in a moral sense, raise a great hunchback where
nature made none.  He may foster a malignant temper,
a grumbling, fretful spirit, which by manful resistance
might be much abated, if not quite put down. But still,
there should often be pity, where we are prone only to
blame.  We find a person in whom a truly disgusting
character has been formed: well, if you knew all, you
would know that the person had hardly a chance of being
otherwise: the man could not help it.  You have known
people who were awfully unamiable and repulsive: you
may have been told how very different they once were,
- sweet-tempered and cheerful.  And surely the change
is a far sadder one than that which has passed upon the
wrinkled old woman, who was once (as you are told) the
loveliest girl of her time. Yet many a one who will look
with interest upon the withered face and the dimmed
eyes, and try to trace in them the vestiges of radiant
beauty gone, will never think of puzzling out in violent
spurts of petulance the perversion of a quick and kind
heart; or in curious oddities and pettinesses the result of
long and lonely years of toil in which no one sympathized; or in cynical bitterness and misanthropy, an old
disappointment never got over. There is a hard knot in
the wood, where a green young branch was lopped away.
I have a great pity for old bachelors.  Those I have
known have for the most part been old fools.  But the
more foolish and absurd they are, the more pity is due to




CA-RRIEI WEIGHT IN LIFE.             149
them.  I believe there is something to be said foi' everi
the most unamiable creatures.  The shark is an unamiable creature.  It is voracious.  It will snap a man in
two.  Yet it is not unworthy of sympathy.  Its organization is such that it is always suffering the most ravenous
hunger.  You can hardly imagine the state of intolerable
famine in which that unhappy animal roams the ocean.
People talk of its awful teeth and its vindictive eye. I
suppose it is well ascertained that the extremity of physical want, as reached on rafts at sea, has driven human
beings to deeds as barbarous as ever shark was accused
of. The worse a human being is, the more he deserves
our pity.  Hang him, if that be needful for the welfare
of society; but pity him  even as you hang.  Many a
poor creature has gradually become hardened and inveterate in guilt, who would have shuddered at first had the
excess of it ultimately reached been at first presented to
view.  But the precipice was sloped off: the descent was
made step by step.  And there is many a human being
who never had a chance of being good: many who have
been trained, and even compelled, to evil from very infancy.  Who that knows anything of our great cities,
but knows how the poor little child, the toddling innocent,
is sometimes sent out day by day to steal; and received
in his wretched home with blows and curses if he fail to
bring back enough: who has not heard of such poor little
things, unsuccessful in their sorry work, sleeping all night
in some wintry stair, because they durst not venture back
to their drunken, miserable, desperate parents?  I could
tell things at which angels might shed tears, with much
better reason for doing so than seems to me to exist in
some of those more imposing occasions on which bombastic writers are wont to describe them as weeping. Ah,




150          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
there is One who knows where the responsibility for all
this rests  Not wholly with the wretched parents: far
from that.  They, too, have gone through the like: they
had as little chance as their children.  They deserve our
deepest pity too. Perhaps the deeper pity is not due to
the shivering, starving child, with the bitter wind cutting
through its thin rags, and its blue feet on the frozen pavement, holding out a hand that is like the claw of some
beast, but rather to the brutalized mother who could thus
send out the infant she bore. Surely the mother's condition, if we look at the case aright, is the more deplorable.
Would not you, my reader, rather endure any degree of
cold and hunger than come to this! Doubtless, there is
blame somewhere that such things should be: but we all
know that the blame of the most miserable practical evils
and failures can hardly be traced to particular individuals.
It is through the incapacity of scores of public servants
that an army is starved.  It is through the fault of millions of' people that our great towns are what they are:
and it must be confessed that the actual responsibility is
spread so thinly over so great a surface, that it is hard to
say it rests very blackly upon any one spot. Oh, that we
could but know whom to hang, when we find some flagrant, crying evil! Unluckily, hasty people are ready to
be content if they can but hang anybody, without minding much whether that individual be more to blame than
many beside.  Laws and kings have something to do
here: but management and foresight on the part of the
poorer classes have a great deal more to do. And no
laws can make many persons managing or provident.  I
do not hesitate to say, fiom what I have myself seen of
the poor, that the same short-sighted extravagance, the
same recklessness of consequences, which are frequently




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.              151
found in them, would cause quite as much misery if they
prevailed in a like degree among people with a thousand
a-year. But it seems as if only tolerably well-to-do people have the heart to be provident and self-denying. A
man with a few hundreds annually does not marry unless
he thinks he can afford it: but the workman with fifteen
shillings a-week is profoundly indifferent to any such calculation.  I firmly believe that the sternest of all selfdenial is that practised by those who, when we divide
mankind into rich and poor, must be classed (I suppose)
with the rich.  But I turn away from  a miserable subject, through which I cannot see my way clearly, and on
which I cannot think but with unutterable pain. It is an
easy way of cutting the knot to declare that the rich are
the cause of all the sufferings of the poor; but when we
look at the case in all its bearings, we shall see that that
is rank nonsense. And on the other hand, it is unquestionable that the rich are bound to do something.  But
what?  I should feel deeply indebted to any one who
would write out, in a few short and intelligible sentences,
the practical results that are aimed at in the Song of the
Shirt. The misery and evil are manifest: but tell us
whom to hang; tell us what to do!
One heavy burden with which many men are weighted
for the race of life, is depression of spirits.  I wonder
whether this used to be as common in former days as it
is now.  There was, indeed, the man in Homer, who
walked by the sea-shore in a very gloomy mood; but
his case seems to have been thought remarkable. What
is it in our modern mode of life, and our infinity of cares;
what little thing is it about the matter of the brain, or the
flow of tie blood, that makes the difference between buoy



152          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
ant cheerfulness and deep depression? I begin to think
that almost all educated people, and especially all whose
work is mental rather than physical, suffer more or less
from  this indescribable gloom.  And although a certain
amount of sentimental sadness may possibly help the
poet, or the imaginative writer, to produce material which
may be very attractive to the young and inexperienced, I
suppose it will be admitted by all that cheerfulness and
hopefulness are noble and healthful stimulants to worthy
effort, and that depression of spirits does (so to speak)
cut the sinews with which the average man must do the
work of life. You know how lightly the buoyant heart
carries people through entanglements and labors under
which the desponding would break down, or which they
never would face.  Yet, in thinking of the commonness
of depressed spirits, even where the mind is otherwise
very free from  anything morbid, we should remember
that there is a strong temptation to believe that this depression is more common and more prevalent than it
truly is.  Sometimes there is a gloom  which overcasts
all life, like that in which James Watt lived and worked,
and served his race so nobly; like that from which the
gentle, amiable poet, James Montgomery, suffered through
his whole career.  But in ordinary cases the gloom is
temporary and transient.  Even the most depressed are
not always so.  Like, we know, suggests like powerfully.
If you are placed in some peculiar conjuncture of circumstances, or if you pass through some remarkable scene,
the present scene or conjuncture will call up before you
in a way that startles you, something like itself which
you had long forgotten, and which you would never have
remembered but for this touch of some mysterious spring.
And accordingly, a man depressed in spirits thinks that




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.             153
he is always so, or at least fancies that such depression
has given the color to his life in a very much greater
degree than it actually has done so. For this dark season wakens up the remembrance of many similar dark
seasons which in more cheerful days are quite forgot, and
these cheerful days drop out of memory for the time.
Hearing such a man speak, if he speak out his heart to
you, you think him inconsistent, perhaps you think him
insincere.  You think he is saying more than he truly
feels. It is not so; he feels and believes it all at the
time.  But he is taking a one-sided view of things: he is
undergoing the misery of it acutely for the time: by and
bye he will see things from quite a different point. A
very eminent man (there can be no harm  in referring
to a case which he himself made so public) wrote and
published something about his miserable home. He was
quite sincere, I do not doubt. He thought so at the time.
He was miserable just then; and so, looking back on past
years, he could see nothing but misery. But the case was
not really so, one could feel sure. There had been a vast
deal of enjoyment about his home and his lot; it was forgotten, then. A man in very low spirits, reading over his
diary, somehow lights upon and dwells upon all the sad
and wounding things; he involuntarily skips the rest, or
reads them with but faint perception of their meaning.
In reading the very Bible, he does the like thing. He
chances upon that which is in unison with his present
mood.  I think there is no respect in which this great
law of the association of ideas holds more strictly true,
than in the power of a present state of mind, or a present state of outward circumstances, to bring up vividly
before us all such states in our past history. We are
depressed, we are worried; and when we look back, all




154           CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
our departed days of worry and depression appear to
start up and press themselves upon our view to the exclusion of anything else: so that we are ready to think
that we have never been otherwise than depressed and
worried all our life.  But when more cheerful times
come, they suggest only such times of cheerfulness, and
no effort will bring back the depression vividly as when
we felt it. It is not selfishness or heartlessness, it is the
result of an inevitable law of mind, that people in happy
circumstances should resolutely believe that it is a happy
world after all; for looking back, and looking around, the
mind refuses to take distinct note of anything that is not
somewhat akin to its present state.  And so, if any ordinary man, who is not a distempered genius or a great fool,
tells you that he is always miserable, don't believe him.
lie feels so now, but he does not always feel so.  There
are periods of brightening in the darkest lot.  Very,
very few live in unvarying gloom.  Not but what there
is something very pitiful (by which I mean deserving of
pity) in what may be termed the Micawber style of
mind; in the stage of hysteric oscillations between joy
and misery.  Thoughtless readers of David Coppe:field
laugh at Mr. Micawber, and his rapid passages from the
depth of despair to the summit of happiness, and back
again.  But if you have seen or experienced that morbid condition, you would know that there is more reason
to mourn over it than to laugh at it. There is acute
misery felt now and then; and there is a pervading,
never-departing sense of the hollowness of the morbid
mirth.  It is but a very few degrees better than " moody
madness, laughing wild, amid severest woe." By depression of spirits, I understand a dejection without any
cause that could be stated, or fiom  causes which in a




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.              155
healthy mind would produce no such degree of dejection.  No doubt many men can remember seasons of dejection which was not imaginary, and of anxiety and
misery whose causes were only too real. You can remember, perhaps, the dark time in which you knew quite
well what it was that made it so dark.  Well, better cayhave come.  That sorrowful, wearing time, which exhausted the springs of life faster than ordinary living
would have done, which aged you in heart and frame
before your day, dragged over, and it is gone.  You
carried heavy weight, indeed, while it lasted.  It was
but poor running you made, poor work you did, with
that feeble, anxious, disappointed, miserable heart.  And
you would many a time have been thankful to creep into
a quiet grave.  Perhaps that season did you good. Perhaps it was the discipline you needed.  Perhaps it took
out your self-conceit, and made you humble. Perhaps
it disposed you to feel for the grief and cares of others,
and made you sympathetic. Perhaps, looking back now,
you can discern the end it served.  And now that it has
done its work, and that it only stings you when you look
back, let that time be quite forgotten!
There are men, and very clever men, who do the work
of life at a disadvantage, through this, that their mind is
a machine fitted for doing well only one kind of work; or
that their mind is a machine which, though doing many
things well, does some one thing, perhaps a conspicuous
thing, very poorly.  You find it hard to give a man
credit for being possessed of sense and talent, if you
hear him make a speech at a public dinner, which speech
approaches the idiotic for its silliness and confusion.
And the vulgar mind readily concludes that he who does




156          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
one thing extremely ill, can do nothing well; and that
he who is ignorant on one point, is ignorant on all.  A
fiiend of mine, a country parson, on first going to his
parish, resolved to farm his glebe for himself.  A neighboring farmer kindly offered the parson to plough one of
his fields.  The farmer said that he would send his man
John with a plough and a pair of horses on a certain
day.  "If ye're goin' aboot," said the farmer to the
clergyman, " John will be unco' weel pleased if you
speak to him, and say it's a fine day, or the like o'
that; but dinna," said the farmer, with much solemnity,
"dinna say onything to him aboot ploughin' and sawin';
for John," he added, " is a stupid body, but he has been
ploughin' and sawin' all his life, and he'll see in a minute that ye ken naething aboot ploughin' and sawin'.
And then," said the sagacious old farmer, with extreme
earnestness, "if he comes to think that ye ken naething
aboot ploughin' and sawin', he'll think that ye ken naething aboot onything!"  Yes, it is natural to us all to
think that if the machine breaks down at that work in
which we are competent to test it, then the machine
cannot do any work at all.
If you have a strong current of water, you may turn
it into any channel you please, and make it do any work
you please.  With equal energy and success it will flow
north or south; it will turn a corn-mill, or a threshingmachine, or a grindstone.  Many people live under a
vague impression that the human mind is like that.
They think -  Here is so much ability, so much energy,
which may be turned in any direction, and made to do
any work; and they are surprised to find that the power,
available and great for one kind of work, is worth nothing for another.  A man very clever at one thing, is




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.              157
positively weak and stupid at another thing.  A very
good judge may be a wretchedly bad joker; and he must
go through his career at this disadvantage, that people,
finding him silly at the thing they are able to estimate,
find it hard to believe that he is not silly at everything.
I know for myself that it would not be right that the
Premier should request me to look out for a suitable
Chancellor.  I am not competent to appreciate the depth
of a man's knowledge of equity; by which I do not mean
justice, but chancery law. But though quite unable to
understand how great a Chancellor Lord Eldon was, I
am quite able to estimate how great a poet he was; also
how great a wit.  Here is a poem by that eminent person.  Doubtless he regarded it as a wonder of happy
versification, Ias well as instinct with the most convulsing
fun. It is intended to set out in a metrical form, the
career of a certain judge, who went up as a poor lad
from Scotland to England, but did well at the bar, and
ultimately found his place upon the bench.  Here is
Lord Chancellor Eldon's humorous poem:
James Allan Parke
Came naked stark,
From Scotland:
But he got clothes,
Like other beaux,
In England!
Now the fact that Lord Eldon wrote that poem, and
valued it highly, would lead some folk to suppose that
Lord Eldon was next door to an idiot.  And a good
many other things which that Chancellor did, such as
his quotations from Scripture in the House of Commons,
and his attempts to convince that assemblage (when Attorney-General) that Napoleon I. was the Apocalyptic




158          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
Beast or the Little Horn, certainly point towards the
same conclusion.  But the conclusion, as a general one,
would be wrong.  No doubt Lord Eldon was a wise and
sagacious man as judge and statesman, though as wit and
poet he was almost an idiot. So with other great man.
It is easy to remember occasions on which great men
have done very foolisl things.  There never was a truer
hero nor a greater commander than Lord Nelson; but
in some things he was merely an awkward, overgrown
midshipman.  But, then, let us remember, that a locomotive engine, though excellent at running, would be a poor
hand at flying.  That is not its vocation.  The engine
will draw fifteen heavy carriages fifty miles in an hour;
and that remains as a noble feat, even though it be ascertained that the engine could not jump over a brook
which would be cleared easily by the veriest screw.  We
all see this. But many of us have a confused idea that a
great and clever man is (so to speak) a locomotive that
can fly; and when it is proved that he cannot fly, then
we begin to doubt whether he can even run.  We think
he should be good at everything, whether in his own line
or not.  And he is set at a disadvantage, particularly in
the judgment of vulgar and stupid people, when it is
clearly ascertained that at some things he is very inferior.  I have heard of a very eminent preacher who
sunk considerably (even as regards his preaching) in the
estimation of a certain family, because it appeared that
lie played very badly at bowls. And we all know that
occasionally the Premier already mentioned reverses the
vulgar error, and in appointing men to great places, is
guided by an axiom which amounts to just this: this locomotive can run well, therefore it will fly well. This man
has filled a certain position well, therefore let us appoint




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.               159
him  to a position entirely different; no doubt he will do
well there too.  Here is a clergyman who has edited certain Greek plays admirably: let us make him a bishop.
It may be remarked here, that the men who have attained the greatest success in the race of life, have gel.
erally carried weight.  Nitor in cdversumn  might be the
motto of many a man, besides Burke.  It seems to be
almost a general rule, that the raw material out of which
the finest fabrics are made, should look very little liko.
these, to start with.  It was a stammerer, of uncom
manding mien, who became the greatest orator of graceful Greece. I believe it is admitted that Chalmers was
the most effective preacher, perhaps the most telling
speaker, that Britain has seen for at least a century; yet
his aspect was not dignified, his gestures were awkward,
his voice was bad, and his accent frightful.  He talked
of an oppning when he meant an opening; and he read
out the text of one of his noblest sermons, " He that is
filthy, let him be fulthy stull."  Yet who ever thought
of these things, after hearing the good man for ten minutes! Aye, load Eclipse with what extra pounds you
might, Eclipse would always be first! And, to descend
to the race-horse, he had four white legs, white to the
knees; and he ran more awkwardly than racer ever did,
with his head between his forelegs, close to the ground,
like a pig.  Alexander, Napoleon, and Wellington, were
all little men; in places where a commanding presence
would have been of no small value.  A  most disagreeably affected manner has not prevented a barrister, with
no special advantages, from. rising with general approval
to the highest places which a barrister can fill. A hid.
eous little wretch has appeared for trial in a Criminal




160          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
Court, having succeeded in marrying seven wives at
once.  A painful hesitation has not hindered a certain
eminent person from being one of the principal speakers
in the British Parliament, for many years.  Yes, even
disadvantages never overcome have not sufficed to hold
in obscurity men who were at once able and fortunate.
But sometimes the disadvantage was thoroughly overcome.  Sometimes it served no other end than.to draw
to one point the attention and the efforts of a determined
will; and that matter, in regard to which nature seemed
to have said that a man should fall short, became the
thing in which he attained unrivalled perfection.
A heavy drag-weight upon the powers of some men,
is the uncertainty of their powers.  The man has not his
powers at command.  His mind is a capricious thing,
that works when it pleases, and will not work except
when it pleases.  I am  not thinking now  of what to
many is a sad disadvantage; that nervous trepidation
which cannot be reasoned away, and which often deprives
them of the full use of their mental abilities just when
they are most needed.  It is a vast thing in a man's
favor that, whatever he can do, he should be able to do
at any time, and to do at once. For want of coolness of
mind, and that readiness which generally goes with it,
many a man cannot do himself justice; and in a deliberative assembly he may be entirely beaten by some flippant person who has all his money (so to speak) in his
pocket, while the other must send to the bank for his.,
How many people can think next day, or even a few
minutes after, of the precise thing they ought to have
said, but which would not come at the time! But very
frequently the thing is of no value, unless it come at the




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.               161
time when it is wanted.  Coming next day, it is like the
offer of a thick fur great-coat on a sweltering day in July.
You look at the wrap, and say, Oh if I could but have
had you on the December night when I went to London by the limited mail, and was nearly starved to death!
But it seems as if the mind must be, to a certain extent,
capricious in its action.  Caprice, or what looks like it,
appears of necessity to go with complicated machinery,
even material.  The more complicated a machine is, the
liker it grows to mind, in the matter of uncertainty and
apparent caprice of action.  The simplest machine —
say a pipe for conveying water - will always act in precisely the same way.  And two such pipes, if of the
same dimensions, and subjected to the same pressure,
will always convey the self-same quantities.  But go to
more advanced machines.  Take two clocks, or two locomotive engines; and though these are made in all respects exactly alike, they will act (I can answer at least
for the locomotive engines) quite differently.  One locomotive will swallow a vast quantity of water at once;
another must be fed by driblets; no one can say why.
One engine is a fac-sinile of the other; yet each has
its character and its peculiarities, as truly as a man has.
You need to know'your engine's temper before driving
it, just as much as you need to know that of your horse,
or that of your friend.  I know, of course, there is a
mechanical reason for this seeming caprice, if you could
trace the reason.  But not one man in a thousand could
trace out the reason. And the phenomenon, as it presses
itself upun us, really amounts to this: that very complicated machinery appears to have a will of its own; appears to exercise something of the nature of choice.  But
there is no machine so capricious as the human mind.z
11




162          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
The great poet who wrote those beautiful verses, could
not do that every day.  A good deal more of what he
writes is poor enough; and many days he could not
write at all.  By long habit the mind may be made
capable of being put in harness daily for the humbler
task of producing prose; but you cannot say, when you
harness it in the morning, how far or at what rate it will
run that day.
Go and see a great organ, of which you have been
told. Touch it, and you hear the noble tones at once.
The organ can produce them  at any time.  But go and
see a great man; touch him; that is, get him to begin
to talk. You will be much disappointed if you expect,
certainly, to hear anything like his book or his poem.
A great man is not a man who is always saying great
things; or who is always able to say great things.  He
is a man who on a few occasions has said great things;
who on the coming of a sufficient occasion may possibly
say great things again; but the staple of his talk is commonplace enough.  Here is a point of difference from
machinery, with all machinery's apparent caprice. You
could not say, as you pointed to a steam-engine, The
usual power of that engine is two hundred horses; but
once or twice it has surprised us all by working up to
two thousand.  No; the engine is always of nearly the
power of two thousand horses, if it ever is. But what
we have been supposing as to the engine, is just what
many men have done.  Poe wrote The Raven; he was
working then up to two thousand horse power.  But
he wrote abundance of poor stuff, working at about
twenty-five.   Read straight through the volumes of
Wordsworth: and I think you will find traces of the
engine having worked at many different powers, vary



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.             163
ing fiom twenty-five horses or less, up to two thousand
or more.  Go and hear a really great preacher when
he is preaching in his own church upon a common Sunday; and possibly you may hear a very ordinary sermon.  I have heard Mr. Melvill preach very poorly.
You must not expect to find people always at their
best.  It is a very unusual thing that even the ablest
men should be like Burke, who could not talk with an
intelligent stranger for five minutes, without convincing
the stranger that he had talked for five minutes with a
great man. And it is an awful thing when some clever
youth is introduced to some local poet who has been
told how  greatly the clever youth admires him; and
what vast expectations the clever youth has formed of'
his conversation; and when the local celebrity makes a
desperate effort to talk up to the expectations formed
of him. I have witnessed such a scene; and I can sincerely say that I could not previously have believed that
the local celebrity could have made such a fool of himself.  He was resolved to show  that he deserved his
fame; and to show that the mind which had produced
those lovely verses in the country newspaper, could not
stoop to commonplace things.
Undue sensitiveness, and a too lowly estimate of their
own powers, hang heavily upon some men; probably
upon more men than one would imagine.  I believe
that many a man whom you would take to be ambitious,
pushing, and self-complacent, is ever pressed with a sad
conviction of inferiority, and wishes nothing more than
quietly to slip through life.  It would please and satisfy him if he could but be assured that he is just like
other people. You may remember a touch of nature




164          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
(that is, of some people's nature) in Burns; you remember the simple exultation  of the peasant mother
when her daughter gets a sweetheart: she is "well
pleased to see her bairn respeckit like the lave," that is,
like the other girls round.  And undue humility, perhaps even befitting humility, holds back sadly in the
race of life. It is recorded that a weaver in a certain
village in Scotland, was wont daily to offer a singular
petition; he prayed  daily and fervently for a better
opinion of himself.  Yes, a firm  conviction of one's own
importance is a great help in life.  It gives dignity of
bearing; it does (so to speak) lift the horse over many
a fence at which one with a less confident heart would
have broken down.  But the man who estimates himself and his place humbly and justly, will be ready to
shrink aside, and let men of greater impudence and not
greater desert step before him. I have often seen, with
a sad heart, in the case of working people, that manner,
difficult to describe, which comes of being what we in
Scotland sometimes call sair hadden down.  I have seen
the like in educated people too.  And not very many
will take the trouble to seek out and to draw out the
modest merit that keeps itself in the shade.  The energetic, successful poople of this world are too busy in
pushing each for himself, to have time to do that. You
will find that people with abundant confidence, people
who assume a good deal, are not unfrequently taken
at their own estimate of themselves. I have seen a
Queen's Counsel walk into court, after the case in which
he was engaged had been conducted so far by his junior,
and conducted as well as mortal could conduct it.  But
it was easy to see that the complacent air of superior
strength with which the Queen's Counsel took the man



CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.             165
agement out of his junior's hands, conveyed to the jury
(a common jury) the belief that things were now to be
managed in quite different and vastly better style. And
have you not known such a thing as that a family, not
a whit better, wealthier, or more respectable than all
the rest in the little country town or the country parish,
do yet, by carrying their heads higher (no mortal could
Bay why), gradually elbow themselves into a place of
admitted social superiority? Everybody knows exactly
what they are, and from  what they have sprung; but
somehow, by resolute assumption, by a quiet air of
being better than their neighbors, they draw ahead of
them, and attain the glorious advantage of one step
higher on the delicately graduated social ladder of the
district.  Now  it is manifest that if such people had
sense to see their true position, and the absurdity of
their pretensions, they would assuredly not have gained
that advantage, whatever it may be worth.
But sense and feeling are sometimes burdens in the
race of life; that is, they sometimes hold a man back
fiorn grasping material advantages which he might have
grasped had he not been prevented by the possession of
a certain measure of common sense and right feeling. I
doubt not, my friend, that you have acquaintances who
can do things which you could not do for your life, and
who by doing these things, push their way in life. They
ask for what they want, and never let a chance go by
them. And though they may meet many rebuffs, they
sometimes make a successful venture.  Impudence sometimes attains to a pitch of sublimity; and at that point
it has produced a very great impression upon many men.
The incapable person who started for a professorship, has
sometimes got it. The man who, amid the derision of




166          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
the county, published his address to the electors, has occasionally got into the House of Commons. The vulgar,
half-educated preacher, who without any introduction
asked a patron for a vacant living in the Church, has
now and then got the living. And however unfit you
may be for a place, and however discreditable may
have been the means by which you got it, once you have
actually held it for two or three years, people come to
acquiesce in your holding it. They accept the fact that
you are there, just as we accept the fact that any other
evil exists in this world, without asking why, except on
very special occasions. I believe too, that in the matter
of worldly preferment, there is too much fatalism in many
good men. They have a vague trust that Providence
will do more than it has promised. They are ready to
think that if it is God's will that they are to gain such a
prize, it will be sure to come their way without their
pushing.  That is a mistake.  Suppose you apply the
same reasoning to your dinner.  Suppose you sit still in
your study and say, "If I am to have dinner to-day, it
will come without effort of mine; and if I am not to have
dinner to-day, it will not come by any effort of mine; so
here I sit still and do nothing." Is not that absurd?
Yet that is what many a wise and good man practically
says about the place in life which would suit him, and
which would make him happy. Not Turks and Hindoos
alone have a tendency to believe in their Kismet. It is
human to believe in that. And we grasp at every event
that seems to favor the belief. The other evening, in
the twilight, I passed two respectable-looking women,
who seemed like domestic servants; and I caught one
sentence which one said to the other with great apparent
faith. "You see," she said, " if a thing's to come your




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.             167
way, it'll no gang by ye!"  It was in a crowded street
but if it had been in my country parish where every one
knew me, I should certainly have stopped the women,
and told them that though what they said was quite true,
I feared they were understanding it wrongly; and that
the firm belief we all hold in God's Providence which
reaches to all events, and in His sovereignty which orders all things, should be used to help us to be resigned,
after we have done our best and failed; but should never
be used as an excuse for not doing our best. When we
have set our mind on any honest end, let us seek to compass it by every honest means; and if we fail after having used every honest means, then let us fall back on the
comfortable belief that things are ordered by the Wisest
and Kindest; then is the time for the Fiat Voluntas Tua.
You would not wish, my friend, to be deprived of common sense and of delicate feeling, even though you could
be quite sure that once that drag-weight was taken off,
you would spring forward to the van, and make such
running in the race of life as you never made before.
Still you cannot help looking with a certain interest upon
those people who, by the want of these hindering influences, are enabled to do things and say things which you
never could. I have sometimes looked with no small
curiosity upon the kind of man who will come uninvited,
and without warning of his approach, to stay at another
man's house: who will stay on, quite comfortable and
unmoved, though seeing plainly he is not wanted: who
will announce, on arriving, that his visit is to be for three
days, and who will then, without further remark, and
without invitation of any kind, remain for a month or six
weeks: and all the while sit down to dinner every day
with a perfectly easy and unembarrassed manner.  You




168          CONCERNING PEOPLE WVLHO
and I, my reader, would rather live on much less than
sixpence a day than do all this.  We could not do it.
But some people not merely can do it, but can do it
without any appearance of effort.  Oh, if the people who
are victimized by these horse-leeches of society could but
gain a little of the thickness of skin which characterizes
the horse-leeches, and bid them  be off, and not return
again till they are invited! To the same pachydermatous class belong those individuals who will put all sorts
of questions as to the private affairs of other people, but
carefully shy off from any similar confidence as to their
own affairs: also those individuals who borrow  small
sums of money and never repay them, but go on borrowing till the small sums amount to a good deal. To the
same class may be referred the persons who lay themselves out for saying disagreeable things: the "candid
friends " of Canning: the " people who speak their mind,"
who form such pests of society.  To find fault is to rightfeeling men a very painful thing; but some take to the
work with avidity and delight.  And while people of
cultivation shrink, with a delicate intuition, fiom saying
anything which may give pain or cause uneasiness to
others, there are others who are ever painfully treading
upon the moral corns of all around them.  Sometimes
this is done designedly: as by Mr. Snarling, who by long
practice has attained the power of hinting and insinuating,
in the course of a forenoon call, as many unpleasant things
as may germinate into a crop of ill-tempers and worries
which shall make the house at which he called uncomfortable all that day.  Sometimes it is done unawares, as
by Mr. Boor, who, through pure ignorance and coarseness, is always bellowing out things which it is disagreeable to some one, or to several, to hear.  Which was it,




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.             169
I wonder, Boor or Snarling, who once reached the dignity of the mitre; and who, at prayers in his house, uttered this supplication on behalf of a lady visitor who
was kneeling beside him: " Bless our fiiend, Mrs. -
give her a little more common sense; and teach her to
dress a little less like a tragedy queen than she does at
present? "
But who shall reckon up the countless circumstances
which lie like a depressing burden on the energies of
men, and make them work at that disadvantage which we
have thought of under the figure of carrying weight in
life? There are men who carry weight in a damp, marshy
neighborhood, who, amid bracing mountain air, might
have done things which now they will never do.  There
are men who carry weight in an uncomfortable house:
in smoky chimneys: in a study with a dismal look-out:
in distance from a railway-station: in ten miles between
them and a bookseller's shop.  Give another hundred a
year of income, and the poor, struggling parson who
preaches dull sermons will astonish you by the talent
he will exhibit when his mind is fieed from the dismal
depressing influence of ceaseless scheming to keep the
wolf from the door.  Let the poor little sick child grow
strong and well, and with how much better heart will its
father face the work of life! Let the clergyman who
preached in a spiritless enough way, to a handful of
uneducated rustics, be placed in a charge where weekly
he has to address a large cultivated congregation; and
with the new stimulus, latent powers may manifest themselves which no one fancied he possessed, and he may
prove quite an eloquent and attractive preacher.  A
dull, quiet man, whom  you esteemed as a blockhead,
may suddenly be valued very differently when circum



170          CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO
stances unexpectedly call out the solid qualities he possesses, unsuspected before. A man, devoid of brilliancy,
may on occasion show that he possesses great good sense;
or that he has the power of sticking to his task. in spite
of discouragement.  Let a man be placed where dogged
perseverance will stand him in stead, and you may see
what he can do when he has but a chance. The especial
weight which has held some men back - the thing which
kept them from doing great things and attaining great
fame - has been just this: that they were not able to
say or to write what they have thought and felt. And
indeed a great poet is nothing more than the one man
in a million who has the gift to express that which has
been in the mind and heart of multitudes. If even the
most commonplace of human beings could write all the
poetry he has felt, he would produce something that
would go straight to the hearts of many.
It is touching to witness the indications and vestiges
of sweet and admirable things which have been subjected
to a weight which has entirely crushed them down: things
which would have come out into beauty and excellence
if they had been allowed a chance. You may witness
one of the saddest of all the losses of nature in various
old maids. What kind hearts are there running to waste!
What pure and gentle affections blossom to be blighted!
I dare say you have heard a young lady of more than
forty sing; and you have seen her eyes fill with tears at
the pathos of a very commonplace verse. Have you not
thought that there was the indication of a tender heart
which might have made some good man happy; and, in
doing so, made herself happy too?  But it was not to
be. Still, it is sad to think that sometimes upon cats
and dogs there should be wasted the affection of a kindly




CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE.             171
human being! And you know, too, how often the fairest
promise of human excellence is never suffered to come to
fruit. You must look upon gravestones to find the names
of those who promised to be the best and noblest specimens of the race. They died in early youth; perhaps
in early childhood.  Their pleasant faces, their singular words and ways, remain, not often talked of, in the
memories of subdued parents, or of brothers and sisters
now grown old, but never forgetting how that one of
the family that was as the flower of the flock was the
first to fade. It has been a proverbial saying, you know,
even from heathen ages, that those whom the gods love
die young. It is but an inferior order of human beings
that makes the living succession to carry on the human
race.




CHAPTER  VII.
COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
N the last days of October, just when winter
is fairly settling down upon smoky and noisy
~         l^  Glasgow; when every leaf has gone (for
the leaves go early) from the trees near it,
and when fogs shorten the day at its beginning and its
end; there begins to appear, intermingled with the crowd
in the Trongate, and staring in at the shop-windows of
Buchanan-street with a curiosity fresh from the country,
a host of lads, varying in age from  decided boyhood to
decided manhood, conspicuous by the scarlet mantle they
wear. Those glaring robes have not been seen before
since May-day- for the vacation at Glasgow College
lasts from  the first of May to about the twenty-sixth
of October: - and now their appearance announces to
the citizens that winter has decidedly set in; the season, in Glasgow, of ceaseless rain, fog, and smoke; of
eager business, splendid hospitality, and laborious study.
Through the close stifling wynds or alleys of the Highstreet the word runs, that "The Colley dougs have come
back again;" and by the time that November is a few
days old, the college courts, which through the summer
months lay still and deserted, are thronged with a motley
crowd of many hundreds of young men, students of arts,
theology, medicine, and law.




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               173
The stranger in Glasgow who has paid a visit to the
noble cathedral, has probably, in returning  from  it,
walked down the High-street, a steep and filthy way
of tall houses, now abandoned to the poorest classes of
the community, where dirty women in mutches, each followed by two or three squalid children, hold loud conversations all day long; and the alleys leading from which
pour forth a flood of poverty, disease, and crime.  On
the left hand of the High-street, where it becomes a
shade more respectable, a dark, low-browed building, of
three stories in height, fronts the street for two or
three hundred yards.  That is Glasgow College, or the
University of Glasgow; for here, as also at Edinburgh,
the University consists of a single College. The first
gate-way at which we arrive opens into a dull-looking
court, inhabited by the professors, eight or ten of whom
have houses here.  Further down, a low archway, which
is the main entrance to the building, admits to two or
three quadrangles, occupied by the various class-rooms.
There is something impressive in the sudden transition
from  one of the most crowded and noisy streets of the
city, to the calm  and stillness of the College courts.
The first court we enter is a small one, surrounded by
buildings of a dark and venerable aspect.  An antique
staircase of massive stone leads to the Faculty Hall, or
Senate-house; and a spire of considerable height surmounts a vaulted archway leading to the second court.
This court is much larger than the one next the street,
and with its turrets and winding staircases, narrow windows and high-pitched roofs, would quite come up to our
ideas of academic architecture; but unhappily, some years
since one side of this venerable quadrangle was pulled
down, and a large building in the Grecian style elected




174         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
in its place, which, like a pert interloper, contrasts most
disagreeably with the remainder of the old monastic pile.
Passing out of this court by another vaulted passage, we
enter an open square, to the right of which is the University library, and at some little distance an elegant
Doric temple, which is greatly admired by those who
prefer Grecian to Gothic architecture.  This is the
Hunterian Museum, and contains a valuable collection
of subjects in natural history and anatomy, bequeathed
by the eminent surgeon whose name it bears.  Beyond
this building, the College gardens stretch away to a considerable distance.  The ground is undulating — there
are many trees, and what was once a pleasant country
stream  flows through the gardens; but Glasgow  factories and Glasgow smoke have quite spoiled what must
once have been a delightful retreat from  the dust and
glare of the city. The trees are now quite blackened,
the stream  (named the Molendinar Burn) became so
offensive that it was found necessary to arch it over,
and drifts of stifling and noisome smoke trail slowly
all day over the College gardens.  There are no evergreens nor flowers; and the students generally prefer to
take their "constitutional" in the purer air of the western
outskirts of Glasgow.
Let us suppose that the young student, brought from
the country by parent or guardian, has come to town to
enter upon his university career.  The order in which
the classes are taken is as follows: first year, Latin and
Greek; second, Logic and Greek; third, Moral Philosophy and Mathematics; fourth, Natural Philosophy. The
classes must be attended in this order by those students
who intend taking their degree, or going into the church;
but any person may attend any class upon signing a dec



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               175
aration to the effect that he is not studying for the
church.  Practically, the classes are almost invariably
attended in the order which has been mentioned, which is
called the College curriculum.  For several days before
the classes open, the professors remain in their houses,
that students may call upon them to enter their class.
Our young friend and his governor call upon the professor whose class is to be entered.  They find him seated
in his study, a low-roofed chamber of small dimensions,
but abundantly provided with the comforts which beseem
a sedentary and studious life.  There is the writing-table
at which to sit; by the window, the desk at which to
write or read while standing; there is the cool seat of
polished birch, without a trace of cushion; and the vast
easy-chair, where horse-hair and morocco have done their
utmost, to receive the weary man of learning in the day's
last luxurious hour of leisure. The professor is seated
at his table, fresh and hearty from his six months' holiday, brown from  his shooting-box in the Highlands, or
his ramble over the Continent, or his pretty villa on the
beautiful Frith of Clyde. Three or four lads who have
come to enter the class, fidget uneasily on their chairs,
with awe-struck faces.  The professor may perhaps, for
his own guidance, make some inquiry as to the previous
acquirements of the student, but there is no preliminary
test applied to ascertain the student's fitness for entering
college. The ceremony of entering the class is completed
by paying the professor his fee, which in almost every
class is three guineas.  In return, the professor gives the
student a ticket of admission to the class-room; on which,
at the end of the session, he writes a certificate of the
student's having attended his class. The more civilized
students take care to have the exact amount of the fee




176         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
prepared beforehand, which they place on the professor's
table, and which he receives without remark, thus softening the mercantile transaction as much as may be. Others hand their money to the professor, and demand the
change in regular shop fashion.  It is amusing to remark the demeanor of the different professors in taking
their three guineas.  Some are dignifiedly unconscious
of the sum received, and although a sharp glance may
ascertain that the amount is there, no remark is made.
Others take up the money, count it over, and pocket it
with a bow, saying, " Thank you, Sir; much obliged to
you, Sir."
And what a strange mixed company the thirteen or
fourteen hundred students of Glasgow College make up!
Boys of eleven or twelve years old (Thomas Campbell
entered at the latter age); men with gray hair, up to the
age of fifty or sixty; great stout fellows from the plough;
men in considerable number from the north of Ireland;
lads from counting-houses in town, who wish to improve
their minds by a session at the logic class; English dissenters, long excluded from the Universities of England,
who have come down to the enlightened country where a
Turk or a Buddhist may graduate if he will; young men
with high scholarship from the best public schools; and
others not knowing a letter of Greek and hardly a word
of Latin. Mr. Lockhart (formerly editor of the Quarterly Review), says with truth that " the greater part of
the students attending the Scotch colleges, consists of persons whose situation in life, had they been born in England, must have left them no chance of being able to
share the advantages of an academical education." "Any
young man who can afford to wear a decent coat, and
live in a garret upon porridge or her'ings, may, if he




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.                177
pleases, come to Edinburgh, and pass through his aca
demical career just as creditably as is required or expected."  And, in consequence of all this,  the Universities of Scotland educate, in proportion to the size and
wealth of the two countries, twenty times a larger number than those of England educate." 
Let us imagine our student now fairly entered upon
his work. In company with three or four hundred of the
newest and brightest gowns, he has, no doubt, attended
the ceremony of opening the session in the Common
Hall, and listened to many good advices from the Principal, who used regularly to beg his youthful auditors to
remember they were "1no longer schoolboys;" a request
invariably received with loud applause. The bustle of
the first start over, the student has fallen into the regular
order of his work.  The Latin and Greek classes he
finds are very much like classes at school, the main difference being that they are attended by larger numbers,
and accordingly that each student is but rarely called on
for examination.  When a student is " called," he construes five or six lines; the professor then puts a number of questions upon what has been read.  Should he
fail to answer any question, the professor asks if any one
in the same bench can answer it. If no one can, he next
names the numbers of the various benches one after
another, and the students in each have then an opportunity of making their knowledge and application apparent
to their fellow-students; by whom, at the end of the session, the class prizes are voted.  Lockhart says with justice of the Scotch professors of Latin and Greek, that
"The nature of the duties they perform of course reduces them to
something quite different from what we (in England) should under1 Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk.  Vol. i. pp. 187, 192, 198.
12




178           COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
btand by the name they bear. They are not employed in assisting
young men to study, with greater facility or advantage, the poets, the
historians, or the philosophers of antiquity; nay, it can scarcely be
said, in any proper meaniig of the term, that they are employed
in teaching the principles of language.  They are schoolmasters in
the strictest sense of the word; for their time is spent in laying the
very lowest part of the foundation on which a superstructure of learning must be reared.  A profound and accomplished scholar may at
times be found discharging these duties; but most assuredly there is
no need either of depth or elegance to enable him to discharge them as
well as the occasion requires."
The reiterated complaints of Professor Blackie, of the
Greek Chair at Edinburgh, prove what indeed needs no
proof to any one acquainted  with  the  Universities of
Scotland, that no improvement has taken  place in  the
years since Lockhart thus wrote.  Greek  professors are
still expected to begin with the alphabet.  The truth is,
that while things remain as at present, a good, energetic
teacher from  a public school would make a better Latin
or Greek professor than a man of fine scholarship. Fancy
Mr. Blackie  patiently listening to a dunce blundering
through o  - TO!  Or think  of assigning the task  of
grounding a ploughman in the inflections of -rVTrw, to
the gentle and refined Mr. Lushington of Glasgow! We
do not think that Mr. Tennyson was sketching the characteristics of the right man for such work when he wrote
of Lushington thus: 
And thou art worthy; full of power;
As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
Consistent; wearing all that weight
Of learning lightly like a flower.
It is the old story of " cutting blocks with a razor;"
it is like setting the winner of the Derby to pull a dray.
&nd so long as the work remains what it is, we believe




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               179
it would be better and more cheerfully done by ma~
chinery a good deal more rough and ready.
The students attending the Latin class may' number
about 250; but the class is taught in two separate divisions.  The Greek class (h;cl  l meets in three divisions) has about 300 students; when Sir Daniel Sandford
was professor, it sometimes numbered 500.  The Logic
class has from  150 to 180 students, the Moral Philosophy, 100 to 120; the Natural Philosophy, 70 to 90.
It is a curious thing to witness the beginning of a
working day at Glasgow  College.  We must, to do so,
rise at six A. M. in a dark winter morning;  for if we live
in the better part of the town, we have a walk of halfan-hour to get over before the classes meet.  Through
darkness and sleet we make our way to the College,
which we reach, say at twenty minutes past seven A. M.
A crowd of students, old and young, wrapped in the red
mantles, shivering and sleepy, is pouring in at the low
archway already mentioned.  The lights shining through
the little windows point out the class-rooms which are
now to be occupied.  At the door of each stands an
unshaven servant, in whose vicinity a fragrance as of
whisky pervades the air.  The servants in former days
were always shabby and generally dirty; not unfrequently drunk.  They wear no livery of any kind.  By
long intercourse with many generations of students, they
have acquired the power of receiving and returning any
amount of "chaff."  At length a miserable tinkling is
heard from the steeple; the students pour into the classrooms, and arrange themselves in benches, like the pews
of a church.  A low pulpit is occupied by the professor.
The business of the day is commenced by a short prayer.
After prayer, a student, placed in a subsidiary pulpit,




180         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
salls over the names of the students, who severally signify their presence by saying Adsum.  The work of the
class then goes on till the hour is finished. An hour is
the invariable period for which the class remains. The
Latin and Greek classes meet at the early hour we have
mentioned; and, strange to say, it is at this unseasonable
time that the eloquent Professor of Moral Philosophy
lectures.  It is a remarkable proof Gf his power, that he
is able to touch and excite such a wretchedly cold and
sleepy auditory.  The applause which generally attends
his lectures, makes the houses nearest his class-room  the
least desirable in the professor's court. At half-past
eight many of the classes are in operation -as the
Latin, Greek, Logic, Natural Philosophy, and Theology.
Though it is always an effort to be at College at hours
so early, still the arrangement soon comes to be liked
by both professors and students.  By half-past nine the
hardest of the day's work is over; and thus these early
morning hours, which otherwise would probably be turned
to little account, save the more valuable hours of the
morning and afternoon.
Each of the Philosophy Classes meets two hours a
day. The morning hour is occupied by a lecture; and
an hour later in the day is given to the examination of
the students on the lectures they have heard, and to
hearing them  read essays on the subjects under consideration.  Thus Scotch students have the pen in their
hand from the very commencement of their course; and
the same system is kept up to the close of even the long
course of eight years for the church.  A very large proportion of young men thus acquire no inconsiderable
command of that noble instrument, the English language;
which is very seldom  written with ease and accuracy,




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.              181
except as the result of long-continued practice.  The
lectures read are verbatim the same, session after session,
so that a Scotch Professor of Philosophy, with his two
hours a day of work, and his six months' holiday in the
pleasantest part of the year, has (once his course of lectures is written) a very comfortable place of it.
The present Professor of Latin (or Humanity, as it
is called) is Mr. Ramsay, a graduate of Cambridge, and
the author of the work on " Roman Antiquities" in the
Encyclopedia Metropolitana.  Mr. Lushington is the
Professor of Greek, having succeeded Sir Daniel Sandford in 1838.  He was the first Grecian of his time at
Cambridge.  The Chair of Logic has been filled by Mr.
Buchanan for many years.  There is no more admirable teacher in the University. Many a young man has
dated his intellectual birth to the period of his attendance
on the Logic class at Glasgow.  Mr. Buchanan is a
clergyman of the Scotch church, but resigned his parish
on his appointment to the chair.  Dr. Fleming is the
Professor of Moral Philosophy: he, too, was a parish
clergyman before his appointment. He is a man of vast
information in every department of metaphysical philosophy, and is, perhaps, not surpassed in a somewhat
tawdry eloquence by any man in Scotland.  He is a
heavy-looking man when in repose, but when animated,
brightens up wonderfully. The intensity with which he
himself feels, gives him  a great power in moving the
feelings of his hearers.  Mr. Thomson, a few years since
second Wrangler and first Smith's Prizeman, is the Professor of Natural Philosophy.  He took a leading part
in the laying of the Atlantic Telegraph Cable.
At the end of three years, students may take the degree of Bachelor of Arts, on passing an examination in




182           COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
Classics, Logic, and Moral Philosophy.  At the end of
four years, on passing a further examination in Mathematics and  Natural Philosophy, they  may take their
Master's degree.  Few  students comparatively graduate.
It is not necessary in order to enter the church; and not
many young men are willing to undertake no inconsiderable amount of study to attain an honor which, in Scotland, brings with it no advantage whatever.  And even
the small fee, of from three to five guineas, which is paid
at graduation, is a serious consideration to most Scotch
students. A university education in Scotland, comes far
down in the social scale; and while at the universities of
England the great majority of the young men are the
sons of gentlemen, in Scotland the vast preponderance
consists of sons of farmers, tradesmen, and working men;
and of poor lads, without relations or friends, struggling
on amid unheard-of difficulties and privations.  No one
can look round the benches of any class-room in Scotland,
without being struck by the harsh features and coarse attire of most of the young men; no one can converse with
nine out of ten of them, without being struck by their
vulgar accent and manner.  A  writer in the Quarterly
Review perhaps speaks somewhat severely when he alludes
to " those tag-rag and bob-tail concerns, the Scotch Universities:" but there is truth in Lockhart's remark, that -
A person whose eyes had been accustomed only to such places as the
schools of Oxford, would certainly be very much struck with the prima
facie mean condition of the majority of the students assembled at the
prelections of these Edinburgh [and Glasgow] professors. Here and
there one sees some small scattered remnant of the great flock of dandies, trying to keep each other in countenance, in a corner of the class.
room; but these only heighten, by the contrast of their presence, the
general effect of the slovenly and dirty mass which on every side surrounds them with its contaminating atmosphere.1
1 Peter's Letters. Vol. i. p. 187.




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               183
Yet ability is given by nature with little regard to social
position: many of those rough specimens of humanity
possess no ordinary talent; many will take on polish
wonderfully, before they pass from  college to life: and
there is really a deep pathos in the story of toil, privation, and resolution, which is the story of many a Glasgow
student's college days.
There are, of course, young men of good families at
Glasgow  College.  There are students who wear allround collars of extreme stiffness, who walk down to
their classes from the aristocratic districts of Blythswoodsquare and Woodside-terrace; who are in much request
at evening parties, and who strut in the afternoon in the
Sauchyhall-road, the fashionable promenade of Glasgow.
But most of the students live in very plain lodgings, in
various parts of the town, and know no more of Glasgow
society than if they were living in the Sandwich Islands.
There are some streets near the College, consisting of
tall houses divided into flats, in which great numbers of
students dwell.  The life of almost all is one of struggle
and self-denial.  It touches us, and that deeply, to think
of poor lads of eighteen or nineteen, toiling on with their
studies, with many a thought as to how they are to get
food and raiment; with all those cares upon their heads
which are heavy enough, God knows, when they press
upon maturer years, yet supported by the hope that at
some time in the distant future they may get into the
church at last, or even into a parish school.  What a
princely dwelling must a country manse seem  to such;
what an inexhaustible revenue a living of three or four
hundred a year'! We have been told that many students
have managed to live upon fifteen or twenty pounds a
year.  After writing this, we were almost startled on re



184          COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
curling to it; but Mr. Lockhart, a Glasgow student himself, and the son of a Glasgow  minister, confirms us: " I
am assured," he says, " that the great majority of students
here have seldom  more than thirty or forty pounds per
annuml, and that very many most respectable students contrive to do with little more than half so much money." 1
Our readers may perhaps remember the touching fact recorded in the life of Dr. Adam, the very eminent Rector
of the High School of Edinburgh, -  that when at Col
lege, his dinner consisted of a penny roll; and that to save
the expense of a fire, he was accustomed to eat it as he
climbed some long and lonely stair in the. Old Town,
where there are houses of fourteen stories in height.2
We have heard of students from  Ireland who brought
with them a bag of scones, or cakes of oatmeal, on which
alone they lived in some poor garret.  And many a poor
family is pinching itself at home, to keep the clever son
at College.  A  clergyman of the Church of Scotland
who published a work on Clerical Economics dedicated it
" To a father who, on a hundred'pounds a year, brought
up six sons to learned professions, and who has often sent
his last shilling to each of them  in their turn, when they
were at College."  The motto which Sydney Smith proposed for the Edinburgh Review, " Tenui musam meditamur avena," -" We cultivate literature on a little oatmeal," might be the motto of many a Glasgow  student.
A few years since, a poor fellow, whose education was so
deficient that he could not earn anything by teaching
others, supported himself by becoming a night-watchman,
and studied his Greek Testament by the light of the
1 Peter's Letters. Vol. i. p. 193.
2 " Life of Dr. Adam," in Chambers' Scottish Biographical Dictions
ary.




COLLEGE LIFE  AT  GLASGOW.                     18.5
street lamps.  The Census of 1851  in Glasgow was in a
great degree taken up by students, thankful thus to make
a few  shillings.  We cannot refrain  from  making a quotation which tells a story which, to our personal knowledge
is true in scores of cases,-  aye, in hundreds:My father was a poor man -a common working wright, in a little
village not far fiom Glasgow.  My mother and he pinched themselves
blue to give me my education. I went to college when I was about
fifteen years old, and they sent me in cheese and vegetables, even oatmeal to make my porridge, every week by the carrier. I did not taste
butcher's meat three times, I believe, in the first three years I was a
student. But then I began to do something for myself. I got a little
private teaching, and by degrees ceased to be a burden on the old people. Step by step I wrought on, till I became tutor in a gentleman's
family. Then I was licensed, and I remained a preacher for twenty
years, - sometimes living in a family, sometimes teaching from house
to house, and latterly I had a school of my own in Glasgow. I was
forty years old and upwards ere I got the kirk, Mr. Wald; and my
dear parents never lived to see me in it.l
Not less true and not less touching is another passage
from  the same masterly pen:
If I was poor, I had no objections to living poorly. After attending
classes and hospitals from daybreak to sunset, I contented myself with
a dinner and supper in one, of bread and milk, - or perhaps a mess of
potatoes, with salt for their only sauce. A deal table, a half-broken
chair, and a straw pallet, were all the furniture T had about me; and
very rarely did I indulge myself with a fire.  But I could wrap a
blanket over my legs, trim my lamp, and plunge into the world of
books, and forget everything.2
There  is not a  whit of exaggeration  in  Sir Walter
Scott's  description  of  the  early  struggles  of Dominie
Sampson.  And we confess we cannot read without emotion the description  in Matthew  Wald, of the poor tutor
going for his evening's work with his pupils, to the house
1 History of Matthew WVald, pp. 148-9.
2 Matthew Wald, 203-5.




186          COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
of some wealthy burgess, and being saluted in his lobby
" with the amiable fragrance of soup, roast meat, rumpunch, and the like dainties," himself just from his spare
mess of potatoes and salt.  Ah, there is much pathos
about the daily life of the poor students of Glasgow!
Let no one indulge in the heartless sneer at the poor
fellow's threadbare coat, his whity-brown paper, his linen
so coarse that it looks like sail-cloth, his patched boots
and his worn anxious face.  God bless him, and hell
him, say we!  Speak kindly to him, dandified young
student; deal gently with him, grave professor; his heart
is very likely so full already that it will almost break
with one drop more.  He is the hope and pride, and the
anxious care, too, of some poor family far away, whose
members are grinding themselves down to life's last
necessaries to give him advantages which (sad that in
the nature of things it must be) will, when obtained,
draw a line of separation between him and themselves.
They will make him, perhaps, the scholar and the gentleman, but all this will only serve to introduce him into a
world of which they know nothing.  They may be proud
of him still, when he gets a kirk at last; but he will perhaps marry a lady, and then they will hardly ever see
him, and it will be with a vague, blank feeling of disappointment when they do.  Ard the old parents -it may
be, left alone in the last days of life, with the single return for years of struggle, that they can say that the son
whom  they hardly ever see, is a parish minister a hundred  miles off -may think that, after all, it might
have been better had he saved his home-bred virtues in
his parents' lowly lot, and by his daily presence smoothed
his parents' passage to their lowly grave.
It is sad to think that not unfrequently all this effort




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.              187
and self-denial on the part of the family at home, and the
student at college, are found in the case of poor fellows
who are so completely deficient in ability, that it is impossible that they should ever get on in life.  The Divinity
Hall of each University is never without a sprinkling of
lads who would have made excellent ploughmen, or
schoolmasters, or mechanics, but whose whole future life
must be blasted by the unfortunate fact that nothing
would serve themselves or their relations but that they
must try to get into the church.  We have known of
poor deformed creatures who toiled and starved on year
after year, hoping, with a despairing earnestness that in
some cases settled down into monomania, that they might
yet pass the Presbytery, and be presented to a living. It
is a very painful duty which the Presbyteries have sometimes to perform, in rejecting applicants for orders who
are manifestly unfit, yet whose rejection crushes the
cherished hopes and foils the utmost endeavors of a poor
family for many years.  We believe that such a case has
been as that such a person has come up for examination
five or six successive times at intervals of a year or two,
before abandoning the hope of passing.  We have heard
of a case in which a grown-up man, on being told by the
Moderator or President of the Presbytery that he " was
recommended still further to prosecute his studies," the
mild formula by which rejection is conveyed, dropped
senseless on the floor of the court, and lay for long as
dead.  We know of a case in which a person, in like
manner rejected, had to be conveyed to a place of restraint, a wild raving maniac. The dogged energy and
determination of the Scottish character can bear a man.
through almost anything so long as hope remains; but
when the last hope breaks down, we believe that the firm




188         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
Scottish heart may be roused to a frenzy of despair as
keen as ever stirred in the hot blood of the tropics.
Those students who are poor and who possess fair
scholarship, very generally maintain themselves by private teaching.  They instruct lads in the junior classes,
hastening from house to house in the evenings, and usually remaining one hour with each pupil.  The fee for
such attendance is a guinea a month.  We find it mentioned in the Life of James Halley, one of the most distinguished of Glasgow students in recent years, that dur
ing the period in which he made his reputation, " his
principal source of maintenance was the product of his
own exertion as a private tutor.  A  very considerable
portion of his time - always four, and sometime five,
hours a day    was taken up in this way.  This very
materially enhances his merit in maintaining so high a
position in all the classes."'  Campbell the poet, writing
of a period when he was just eighteen years old, records
that " after my return from  Mull, I supported myself
during the winter by private tuition." 2  We have known
of students who made a respectable figure in their classes,
who were engaged in teaching for six, eight, or ten hours a
day. There are a great many exhibitions, or Bursaries, as
they are called, which are intended to aid deserving students.. These vary in amount from three or four pounds
a year up to forty.  But, unhappily, hardly any of them
are open to competition, and they are very frequently
given to those students who least need them and least
deserve them.
On the whole, looking at the way in which Glasgow
1 Memoir of James Halley, B.A., Student of Theology, p. 17. Edinburgh. 1842.
2 Life, prefixed to Poems. Edition of 1851; p. 28.




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.                 189
students generally do live, and the way in which they
may live, we must admit that it was not without reason
that the old Glasgow  merchant in Cyril Thornton boasted of the accessibility of a Scotch University educa
tion:
So ye've come down here to be a colleaginer. It's a lang gait to
gang for learning. But after a', I am no sure that you could ha'e
done better. Our colleges here are no bund down like yours in the
south, by a wheen auld and fizzionless rules, and we dinna say to ilka
student, either bring three hundred pounds in your pouch, or gang
about your business. We dinna lock the door o' learning, as they do
at Oxford and Cambridge, and shut out a' that canna bring a gouden
key in their hand, but keep it on the sneck, that onybody that likes
may open it.1
At the end of the four years' course in Arts, students
for the church begin their theological studies, which extend over four years more.  On "entering the Divinity
Hall," as it is termed, the student lays aside the red
gown, and for the remainder of his college course wears
no distinguishing dress.  During each of these four sessions he attends the lectures of the Professor of Theology, and the lectures of the Professors of Hebrew and
Church History for two sessions each.  The Professor of
Theology is necessarily a clergyman, and is, ex officio, a
member of the Presbytery of Glasgow.  Laymen are eligible for the Chairs of Hebrew and Church History; but
in practice they are always filled by clergymen. Dr. Hill
is the Professor of Theology; Mr. Weir, a young clergyman, has lately succeeded to the Chair of Hebrew; and
that of Church History is filled by Dr. Jackson, an able
man, whose besetting sin is a tendency to become most
abstrusely metaphysical in his lectures.   The Hebrew
class is taught very much as the Latin and Greek classes
1 Youth and Manhood of Cyril Thornton. Vol. i. p. 60.




190        COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
are; the Theology and Church History, like the Philosophy classes. The number of students attending the
Divinity Hall is, we believe, above a hundred. The vacancies in the Church caused by death average about
thirty-five annually, and Glasgow College alone could
supply nearly that number of candidates for orders.
The University of Edinburgh turns out yearly almost
as many; the Universities of St. Andrew's and Aberdeen
as many more.  Our readers may suppose that there is a
pretty sharp competition for every living that becomes vacant, while the supply is thus nearly threefold in excess
of the demand.
After the student for the Church has completed his college course, he applies for orders to the Presbytery within whose bounds he resides.  He is " taken on trials" by
that Church-court. He is examined in all the branches
he has studied at college, and is required to compose and
read to the Presbytery five or six discourses.  These
" trials " occupy perhaps six months, at the end of which
time he is licensed to preach. He is not permitted to
administer the sacraments until he has been ordained;
and in practice no one is ever ordained till he has been
appointed to a church as minister. It will thus be seen
that nearly nine years pass from the time a student enters college, down to the period at which he is licensed
to preach. If licensed at the age of twenty-two, as is
not unfrequently the case, having left off his classical
studies six or seven years before, it may be left to our
readers to imagine how much claim  he can have to be
regarded as a scholar, in the English sense. We think
that reform in the Scotch University system is impera
tively needed, and in no respect more imperatively than
in the abbreviation of the enormous course for the




COLLEGE LIFE IN GLASGOW.              191
Church.  To finish that course in anything like reasonable time, the student must enter college at an absurdly early age.
The competition for academic honors is as keen at
Glasgow as it can be anywhere.  The prizes for general
eminence in each class are voted by the students in it, at
the end of the session.  The prizes are almost always
given with perfect fairness; so the system  is better in
practice than it looks in theory. When ten or twelve
prizes are given in a class, it may be supposed that the
degrees of merit are less strongly marked among the lowest on the list of prizemen, and private feeling may
weigh in the adjudication of the inferior prizes. But
there is hardly an instance on record of the first, second,
or third prize going otherwise than as the professor
would have awarded it.  The first prize in each class is
of course a matter of special ambition; it has often been
contested with an eagerness prejudicial to health and even
life.  We have known of Glasgow students who for five
months of the session, have allowed themselves not more
than three or four hours of sleep nightly, the entire waking day being devoted to study.  In such cases the feverish anxiety of the competition has sometimes kept up
the student in working trim to the end of the session,
while at its close, the stimulus removed, he has utterly
broken down.  The higher Latin and Greek prizes are
keenly contested, as success in obtaining any of them
marks out a student for appointment to one of the Snell.Exhibitions.  Under the Snell endowment, the University of Glasgow sends ten students to Balliol College,
Oxford, giving to four of them a stipend of ~135-a year
each, and to the remaining six ~120 a year each. These
exhibitions are tenable for ten years. And for the credit




192         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
of the University, the professors generally send to Oxford the best classical students who are willing to go.
Classical learning,, however, is undervalued in Scotland,
and the principal honors of the University go for proficiency in Mental Philosophy, in its various departments.
For students who purpose completing their course in
Scotland, the testing classes are those of Logic and Moral
Philosophy - Moral Philosophy implying at Glasgow a
complete course of Metaphysics.  Whoever obtains the
first prize in that class, is pretty safe to carry the honors
of the Divinity classes.  The work of these classes demands the same kind of ability; and, with the exception
of importations from other universities, which are rarely
of first-class students, the competition in these classes will
be with the same men.
Among the most coveted distinctions of the University,
are the prizes for the " University Essays."  These prizes
are eight or nine in number annually, and the competition for them  is extensive.  Two gold medals, given on
alternate years, are open to the competition of all students attending any class in the University; one of these
is given for an essay in history, the other for an essay in
political economy.   Then there are one or two prizes
open to the competition of all students of theology; two
or three to all students of philosophy; one to all students
of medicine.  The following, from the published prizelist, will give an idea of the kind of subjects prescribed.
In 1842, the Gartmore gold medal was given for the
best essay on "The Expediency or Inexpediency of
Capital Punishments."  In 1844, for the best essay on
" Secondary Punishments."  In 1848, for the best essay
on "Under what Circumstances, and in what Mode,
should a Constitutional State encourage Emigration?"




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.                193
In 1843, the Ewing gold medal was given for the best
account of " The Circumstances which led to the Peace
of Westphalia in 1648, with the Results of that Treaty."
In 1845, the subject was, "An Account of the First Partition of Poland in 1772."  In 1847, "An Account of
the Establishment and Progress of the British Empire in
India, to the termination of the Government of Warren
IHastings." Among the subjects to be written on in different years by students of Philosophy, we find " An
Analysis of the Faculty of Judging;" "Poetic Diction,
its Use and Abuse by the Orators;" " The Nature and
Influence of Motives in Moral Action; " " The Historical
Episode and its Conditions, Critically Considered, Illustrated by Examples; " " A  Classification and Analysis
of the Passions."  Among the subjects for students of
Theology, we have, " The Analogy of the Mosaic and
Christian Dispensations;" "The Extent of the Atonement of Christ; " " Baptismal Regeneration;" "Apostolical Succession;" "Auricular Confession."  And in
Physics, "The Principles and Practicability of Atmospheric Railways;" "The Form  and Construction of
Arches;" "The Methods of Supplying Large Towns
with Water."
These essays are very laboriously written. They are
often complete works on the subjects proposed, extending
to some hundreds of pages, and the result of original research and protracted thought. We have reason to know
that the prize essays written by one very successful student in one year extended to nearly two thousand pages.
There are generally two or three of the University essay
prizes open to the competition of each student each year;
and besides the prizes for general eminence voted by the
students, there is usually, in each class, a prize for an
13




194            COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
essay, which is adjudicated by the professor. A student
of extraordinary energy may thus compete for five or six
essay prizes in one session.  Sometimes a man who has
carried all the honors which belong to his own department, makes an excursion  into another field, to find a
fresh subject and new competitors.  An amusing instance
of this is recorded in the Life of Halley: 
In the summer of 1834 he enrolled as a student in the botanical class.
This was done chiefly with a view to benefit his health. The garden
in which the lecture-room was situated lay at a distance of about two
miles from his place of residence, and the hour of lecture was fiom
eight to nine in the morning. This secured for three months a system
of early and regular exercise. It happened that during that session a
gentleman, whose name was not given, empowered Dr. (now Sir William) Hooker to offer a gold medal for the best essay on " The Natural
History and Uses of the Potato."  Halley had not paid much attention
to the study of botany, and the prescribed subject of the essay did not
at all lie in his way, yet he determined to write by way of amusement,
and, as he said, "to beat the medicals'"  The result was a treatise
of 172 closely-written quarto pages  It was pronounced the best; and
the interloper carried off the medal, fairly won, fiom the medical students on their own proper field. Whether this achievement had found
its way into the Farmer"'s -Mcagazine. we cannot tell, but it had nearly
procured for him a reputation of which he was not desirous. One day
a stranger was ushered into his room, announcing himself as an Irish
agriculturist, who had devoted considerable attention to the failure of
the potato crop. Having heard that Mr. Halley had been studying
the same subject, he had waited upon him to hear the result of his
researches. Mr. Halley received his visitor with due politeness and
gravity; laid aside his folios, and entered, with all becoming solemnity, irto the comparative merits of late and early planting - of whole
sets a-nd single eyes, and after a long consultation dismissed his visitor,
highly delighted with the interview.1
The subjects of the University  prize essays are announced on the first of May in each year; the essays are
taken into the Principal's house in December following.
Each essay bears two mottoes, and is accompanied by a
I Halley's Life, pp. 23, 24.




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.                 195
sealed letter bearing the same mottoes, and containing
the name of the author, with a declaration that the essay
is of his unaided composition.  The successful essay is
announced at the distribution of prizes in the Common
Hall on the first of May, and the letter containing the
author's name is opened in the presence of the assembled
Comitia.  The  other letters are  destroyed  unopened.
The prize essay is placed in the library, where, however,
it is accessible only to the professors. A proof how fairly
the students vote the highest prizes, is furnished by the
fact that these prizes for essays, adjudicated by the professors in utter ignorance of their authorship, are given
in nineteen  cases out of twenty to students who have
"taken" (such is the college phrase) the first prize in
their respective classes by the students' votes.  We have
examined the prize-list for a number of years, and we find
that the honors awarded by students and professors almost
invariably fall to the same men.
The distribution of prizes on Miay-day is a gay scene.
Students and professors alike are in high spirits in the
anticipation of their holiday time. Tickets of admission
to the ceremony are in great request.  Our readers may
perhaps remember that the first poetical composition of
the author of the Pleasures of Hope, was A Description
of the Distribution of Prizes in the Common Hall of the
University of Glasgow, on the first of May, 1793.  All
old Glasgow  students have many pleasant associations
with this day of the year.
The first of May is the day fixed by immemorial usage in the University for the distribution of the prizes, a day looked forward to with
" hopes, and fears that kindle hope," by many youthful and ardent
spirits. The Great Hall of the college on that day certainly presents
a very pleasing and animated spectacle. The academical distinctions
are bestowed with much of ceremonial pomp, in the presence of a vast




196         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
concourse of spectators, and it is not uninteresting to mark the flush
of bashful triumph on the cheek of the victor; the sparkling of his
downcast eye as the hall is rent with loud applause, when he advances
to receive the badge of honor assigned him by the voice of his fellowstudents.  It is altogether a sight to stir the spirit in the youthful
bosom, and stimulate into healthy action faculties which, but for such
excitement, might have continued in unbroken slumber.1
The Common Hall is a plain square apartment, with a
gallery at each end.  It is capable of containing about a
thousand persons.  Along one side runs a raised bench,
occupied by the professors.  The Principal presides at
the distribution, unless when the Lord Rector is present.
Long before the appointed hour, which is always ten
A. M., the body of the hall is thronged with students,
and the galleries with ladies. The students beguile the
time'by throwing volleys of peas at one another; after a
distribution, several bushels are gathered up from the
floor.  There is a prescriptive toleration for peas, but no
other missile is permitted; and a strong-minded man who
introduced eggs, narrowly escaped expulsion.  The bald
heads of some of the servants present tempting marks,
and are furiously assailed. At length the professors (all
of whom  wear gowns) enter in procession, preceded by
the bedellus, bearing a huge mace of silver.  A prayer in
Latin is offered by the Principal. Then the University
prize essays are announced; the letters containing the
Authors' names are opened, and the prizes are delivered
to the successful students by the Lord Rector or Principal.
The divinity prizes are given next; then the medical
then the philosophy and classical. The proceedings are
over about one o'clock; and ere the sun has set, the last
red gown, now  sadly faded from  its November brightness, has disappeared from the streets of Glasgow.  The
1 Cyril Thornton. Vol. i. pp. 215, 216.




COLLEGE LIFE AT GI,ASGOW.                  197
students are scattered over the country; tutors in gentlemen's families, teaching parish schools, acting as missionaries or catechists under the clergy of large towns,
watching sheep, busy at farm-work, and  some of the
more  distinguished, by the  time  a week  has passed,
busy  collecting  materials  for next year's  University
essays.
The names of the students stand in the class catalogue
in Latin;  and the professor, in addressing a student,
uses his Latinized Christian name in the vocative. There
is no such thing known in Scotland as that entire sinking of the Christian name which is usual in the public
schools of England.   At one period the professors at
Glasgow  always addressed  their students in the Latin
language.  The impression produced on a stranger was
decidedly that of the ridiculous.  Mr. Lockhart tells us
that when he went to the class-room  of Mr. Young, the
very eminent Greek Professor at Glasgow, forty years
since, the first thing done was calling over the roll of
the class, which was done by one of the students:The professor was quite silent during this space, unless where some
tall, awkward Irishman, or voung indigenous blunderer happened to
make his entree in a manner more noisy than suited the place, on
which occasion a sharp cutting voice from the chair was sure to thrill
in their ears some brief but decisive query, or command, or rebuke: —
" Quid agas tu, in isto angulo, pedibus strepitans et garriens!"  " Cave
tu tibi, Dugalde JM' Quhirter, et tuas res agas! "  " Notetur, Phelimhls
O'Shaughnessy, sero ingrediens, ut solvat duas asses sterlinenses! " "lteruemne adinonendus es, Nicolaei Jarvie? "  Quid hoc rei, Francisce
IVWaper?" &c. &c. &c.
The custom  of the Professor addressing the class in
Latin has now  almost entirely disappeared.   The last
vestiges of it linger in the Philosophy class-rooms, in
such beautifully classical sentences as " Silentium, gen



198          COLLEGE LIFE IN GLASGOW.
tlenien, silentium!"  " Nigellius M'Lamroch is breaking silentium!"  The fact is, the custom  was found to
be a very inconvenient one at once to professors and
students. It is not too much to say that most of the
latter understood English very much better than Latin,
and few of the professors had such a command of Latin
as to be able to express themselves in it correctly when
they got angry.  It is a tradition in Glasgow  College
that a professor, who died some years since, once commanded a noisy student to be still.  The lad replied
that he had been perfectly so.  The professor's indignation at this misstatement was too much for his Latinity.  He burst out, " Nonne video te jumpantenz  over
the table!"
The University library is a very good one.  We believe that in Scotland it ranks second only to the Advocates' library in Edinburgh.  It was founded in the
fifteenth century.  We understand that the Senate can
afford to expend on the purchase of new books about
~1,000 a year.  Of this sum  the Treasury pays ~700
annually as compensation for the loss of the Stationers'
Hall privilege.  Each student has likewise to pay seven
shillings annually to the library, and in return has the
privilege of having two volumes at a time during the
session at his own home, and of consulting as many as
he pleases in the reading-room.  "No novels, romances,
tales, nor plays " are lent to the students.  These, however, pour into the library in great profusion for the use
of the wives and daughters of the professors.
At one time, degrees in Arts were granted after a
merely formal examination.  The examination is now
a real one, so far as it extends. It may interest some
of our readers to know its extent.  For the ordinary




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               199
degree of Bachelor of Arts, the subjects of examination
are as follows:
In Latin: Livy, Three Books; Virgil, Eneid, Three
Books; Horace, Odes, Three Books.
In Greek: The Four Gospels; Homer, Three Books.
In Logic: The Intellectual Powers; the Ancient or
Aristotelian Logic; the Modern or Inductive Logic.
In Moral Philosophy: The Intellectural, Active, and
Moral Powers; the Will; Practical Ethics; Natural Theology.
To obtain the degree of M. A., the student must further be examined
In Natural Philosophy: The subjects lectured on in
the class.
In Mathematics; Euclid, first Six Books; Plane Trigonometry; Simple and Quadratic Equations.
For the degrees with honors, the examinations are
much more severe.
The examinations for degrees are held on the Thursdays in March and April.  With very little exception,
they are conducted viva voce.  The statute requires that
they should take place in the presence of at least two
professors, but in practice the candidate for a degree is
examined in each branch by the professor under whom
he has studied it, the other professor present not inter
fering in the examination, nor even attending to it. A
strong effort has been made of late years to raise the
standard of attainment required in graduates; and sometimes as many as one third of the students who go up for
examination are plucked.  In the good old times no one
was ever rejected; to ask for a degree, and to get it, were
convertible terms. We have already stated that very many
students take no degree; no advantage is derived in after



200         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
life from having taken one. It is not required of men entering the Church, that they should have one. And in
the case of the ordinary run of young men, whose desire
is to get through their " curriculum " with as little trouble
as possible, it is hardly to be expected that some toil and
some anxiety will he endured, with no inducement of
countervailing advantage. Still (counting both Bachelors
and Masters), some sixty or seventy students take their
degree in each year; and among the graduates, we may
say, are all students of any eminence who have advanced
so far in their course as to have it in their power to go
up.  The degree in honors is very seldom  sought, even
by the most distinguished, except under the stimulus of
an occasional prize.  In order to go up for such a degree
with the least hope of success, a man must spend on his
preparations an amount of labor which would yield a
better return if given to class-work or the composition
of prize essays. College distinction in Scotland, though
so eagerly sought, does not aid a man in after-life as it
does in England.  Even in the Church it goes for very
little.  It may lead to a good deal being expected of a
young preacher at his first outset: but it is his popularity with ordinary congregations that determines his success, unless where patronage is administered with a higher
hand than it has been of late years in Scotland; and very
great dunces indeed are often endowed by nature with
very loud voices, and are quite competent to practise a
howling and sudorific oratory, which goes down amazingly with the least intelligent of the Scottish peasantry.
A  marked feature of Glasgow college life is what is
termed the Blackstone Examination.  The name is de.
rived from an antique chair of oak, with a seat of black
marble, which is occupied by the student under examina



COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.              201
tion.  This examination is compulsory.  Before entering
the Logic class, the students are examined on the Blackstone in Greek.  Before entering the Moral Philosophy,
in Logic; and before entering the Natural Philosophy,
in Moral Philosophy.  This examination is a mere form:
no one is ever turned at it.  It is amusing to witness the
odd mixture of Latin and English in which, on this occasion, communication is held between the student and
the professor.  The latter is seated in a large chair at
one side of the table; on the other side stands the formidable Blackstone.  A great crowd of students fills the
examination-room; "Carole Dickie," says the professor.
Carolus, pale and trembling, walks up to the table. "Well,
Carole," says the professor, " what do you profess?" Answer: "Doctissime Professor, Evangelium secundum Joannem  profiteor."  Carolus then takes his seat on the
Blackstone, and construes a verse or two.
A prize is given yearly to the student who passes the
best examination on the Blackstone, in Latin; also for
the best in Greek.  This prize is a matter of very keen
competition, as success in obtaining it, coming at the commencement of the session, almost insures a student of the
first prize in the class. A very great number of books is
often " professed " by competitors for these prizes. There
are traditions in the college of students who arrived at
the examination-room  with a wheelbarrow, containing
the works on which they were willing to be examined.
The examination is viva voce, and lasts for several hours.
A number of years since, three competitors went in for
the Greek Blackstone prize: Tait, Smith, and Halley.
Halley made a most brilliant appearance, and carried off
the prize.  He studied for the Scotch Church, but died
before obtaining license. Of his competitors, Smith went




202         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
to Cambridge, where he became Senior Wrangler; Tait
succeeded Dr. Arnold as head-master of Rugby, and is
now  Bishop of London.  It cannot be said that any
special brilliancy of talent recommended him  to that
eminent place; but it is generally admitted that he has
filled it with great judgment.
The character and conduct of the students.of Glasgow
are generally unexceptionable.  There may be a black
sheep now and then, but such cases are very rare.  Indeed, no one without considerable moral stamina would
ever think of living the life of nine tenths of the Glasgow students.  And " their lot circumscribes " the errors
and follies of which they could by possibility be guilty.
They have not the money to indulge the tastes, whether
good or bad, of most English University men.  Wineparties, riding-horses, escapades to London, coursing and
hunting, even rowing matches, are beyond the tether of a
man to whom  every penny is a serious consideration;
and who cannot but think of his poor sisters wearing out
their eyes at needlework, and his old father denying himself the long-prized solace of a little tobacco, to keep the
brother and the son at college.  He would be a blackhearted villain who could be vicious or even extravagant
when either extravagance or vice would be sure to frustrate their hopes and break their hearts.  The grosser
vices are, we believe, unknown. An occasional gaudeamus, at which whisky-toddy is the chief luxury; a visit
to the theatre, made with fear and trembling; a row with
the police once in eight or ten years; constitute the utmost dissipation of the mass of Glasgow students. Mr.
Lockhart's description of the moi-ale at the University of
St. Andrew's holds true of Glasgow as well:
I lived a life almost solitary, and in general certainly very simple




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.                205
and innocent. The lads there were mostly poor, and had few means
of signalizing themselves by any folly. Our greatest diversion in the
way of sport was a game at golf; and we had little notion of any debauch beyond a pan of toasted cheese, and a bottle or two of the (ollege ale, now and then on a Saturday night.l
The service of the Scotch Church used to be performed
on Sundays during the session in the Common Hall, but
hardly any one went to it, and a few years since the arrangement was allowed to drop.  The students are now
permitted to dispose of themselves on Sunday as they
please.
We have mentioned that a number of professors have
houses in the College.  One court is filled entirely with
these houses, and a few others are jammed in, in unexpected corners of the class-room  courts.  They are all
quaint, old-fashioned dwellings, with a strong smack of
academic repose about them.  The apartments are small,
and the ceilings very low.  The very filthiest lane in
Glasgow runs parallel to one side of the quadrangle, at
a distance of some twenty yards.  During the railway
mania, a company obtained an act to remove the College
buildings to a pretty situation in the western outskirts of
the town, converting the present College and gardens
into a terminus. Although the New College was to have
been a magnificent piece of Gothic architecture, the general feeling was against the abandonment and desecration of the old walls.  But the resident professors and
their wives and  daughters, long poisoned by the vile
odors of the " Havannah Vennel," were delighted at the
idea of a transference to the pleasant slopes of Kelvin
Grove.  The railway company, however, went to ruin,?,nd the New College scheme fell to the ground.
I Matthew Wald, p. 57.




204         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
Glasgow has by far the best endowed University in
Scotland.  The professors form a close corporation, and
keep their affairs very much to themselves; so it is only
from  common report we can speak of the value of the
several chairs.  But upon that authority, we believe that
the Chair of Greek is worth above ~1,000 a year; those
of Philosophy fiom  ~800 to ~900.  That of Theology,
though the premier chair of the University, does not
stand first in point of emolument. It is said to be worth
about ~600 a year.  The sums mentioned do not include
the value of the residences. Many of the more recentlyfounded chairs have exceedingly small endowments, and
their income is derived mainly from  the fees paid by the
students.  In all the classes, the professors retain the
fees paid them: so that a professor's income may be
materially increased should his fame attract a greater
number of disciples.  When Sir D. Sandford was Greek
professor, he crowded his class-room  not merely with
regular students, but with Glasgow clergymen, lawyers,
and merchants, who attended his eloquent and enthusiastic prelections. And we have heard it said that in those
days the revenue of the Greek chair was above ~1,500
a year.
Among other little advantages, the professors are free
from payment of the local taxes; they are also supplied
with coals and gas. An abundant supply of newspapers
and periodicals is provided for themselves and their families.  And the fine old " Fore Hall," a large apartment,
wainscoted with black oak, and by far the most picturesque chamber in the University, is occupied by the professors as a club-room.  On the whole, a Glasgow professor on the old foundation leads a very comfortable life.
One or two of the professors are unable to induce




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               200
any one to attend their lectures. It may therefore be regarded as difficult to explain what purpose these professors serve.  Dr. TNichol, the late eloquent Professor of
Astronomy, gave occasionally short courses of popular
lectures, which were open to all students, and which
were well attended.  But no class demandiing labor and
sustained attention will find students, unless attendance
upon it is made compulsory.  We think it would be utterly useless to found new chairs in the Scotch Universities, as has lately been proposed.  We believe that to do
so would be the very reverse of a reform or improvement.  Unless attendance upon them  is made an essential part of the curriculum, no one would attend them.
And we believe that to make attendance upon them compulsory would, in the case of many a student who has
more than enough to do already, be the last pound that
breaks the camel's back.  It is in the Latin and Greek
classes that reform  is needed.  Raise the standard of
scholarship by an examination at entering College; give
the professors of Latin and Greek professor's work to do,
not that of hedge schoolmasters; shorten to half, the preposterously extended course for the Church; let students
enter the University at eighteen or nineteen instead of at
twelve or thirteen: they will thus not be hurried through
the Philosophy classes while mere children, -and the
Scotch Universities will have all the reform they need.
But on this subject we have not time to enter.
The first fortnight of the session, every alternate year
is taken up with a series of violent disturbances connected with the election of the Lord Rector.  We believe that at one time this officer had various duties to
perform; but for many years past his sole function has
been to give an address to the students in the Common




206         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
Hall upon his inauguration.  The Lord Rector is elected
by the professors and students.  The election goes almost
invariably upon political grounds, and is conducted with
unparalleled bitterness of party feeling. Although the
professors always vote at the election, they profess to
leave the management of it in the hands of the students;
tile leaders of whom, however, are virtually directed in
their movements by the professors of their own party.
All the arts usual at other contested elections are brought
into play, aggravated by the hot-headedness incidental to
the youth of the parties engaged.  Public meetings are
held, and addresses and squibs of all kinds are printed
and circulated in immense profusion.  The most violent
attacks are made by either party upon the leaders of
the other, and upon the opposing candidate. Sometimes
these attacks end in physical violence. At a meeting in
one of the class-rooms, a few years ago, the platform was
charged by a large force of antagonistic students.  It
was gallantly defended with cudgel and fist, and more
than one of the attacking party was felled like an ox.
The air is darkened in the Hall on the election-day by
clouds of peas, of which missiles the professors get even
more than their share.  These dignitaries always behave
with great good-humor upon the occasion; and the saturnalia once over, discipline is restored, and all parties return quietly to work.
Among the Lord Rectors of the last thirty years, are,
Lord Jcffrey, Sir James Mackintosh, Lord Brougham,
Thomas Camnpbell (who was elected in opposition to Sir
Walter Scott), the Marquis of Lansdowne, the Earl of
Derby, Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Earl Russell, Lord Macaulay, the Duke of Argyle, and Sir E.
Bulwer Lytton.  The inaugural addresses since Jeffrey's




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.               207
time have been published   in a large volume.  Edmund
Burke was rector in 1783; he fairly broke down in his
address, and stopped in the middle of it.  Brougham's
address is regarded as the most eloquent; Macaulay's
was a very fine one.  We remember that great man, in
a large yellow waistcoat, getting on in a slow sing-song
through his address, and drinking a little water at the
close of each short paragraph.  The Rector wears at his
inauguration a very ancient and shabby gown, decorated
with faded gold lace.  It is never forgot in Glasgow
College, that Sir Robert Peel said, on assuming it, that
he felt greater pride in putting on that gown, than in
putting on the robes of Prime Minister.
This chapter has run to such a length that we must
forego our intention of saying something about the conflicts with the police, few and far between, yet very desperate when they occur; of the occasional breaches of
discipline; of traditions of the odd professors of the last
generation; of publications written by the students, most
of which are remarkably poor; of the extraordinary
scenes which are sometimes presented at the breakfastparties given by the professors in the course of the session.  Every Saturday morning in the months of March
and April, each professor has fifteen or twenty of his
class at breakfast, till he has got through his roll.  It
would require another pen than ours to depict the sheepishness and timidity of some poor fellows on entering
The Presence, their gradually growing confidence, and
the jaunty and jocular free-and-easiness which they occasionally attain before the close of the entertainment.
We have thus endeavored to afford our readers some




208         COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.
idea of how things go on in the University of Glasgow:
an institution which sends forth from its plain and even
tumble-down class-rooms, "a mighty population of men,
who have a kind and measure of education which fits
them for taking a keen and active management in the
affairs of ordinary life;" and whose long course of study
many a one has entered on a raw boy, and emerged
from comparatively a thoughtful man.  We can but very
rarely trace the after career of Glasgow students, as we
often may trace that of Oxford and Cambridge men, in
the history of the senate and the country. A seat on the
Scotch Bench is about the highest thing that a Glasgow
man can look to, and by far the most eminent among the
students of Glasgow pass into the simple life of a Scotch
parish minister. It is quite remarkable to what a degree
the Church absorbs the highest talent of the University.
And it is a significant fact, that only two Glasgow students - Campbell and Jeffrey - have ever risen to the
dignity of Lord Rector.
Yet there are few  Glasgow  students who do not
cherish a fond recollection of their College life, even
though it may have been a hard one at the time.  For
ourselves, as we look back, not so many years, that time
rises again before us.  We call to mind the dark mornings on which we hurried to College, only half awake;
the midnight hours of solitary study, when we heard
the clock strike two, three, four, five, through the silent
house; the time when we wearily rose to our day's work,
and saw the moon hardly moved from  that place in the
sky which it held when we lay down to our poor hour of
rest.  We call to mind the half-dozen chairs littered with
old books, fished out from the dustiest corners of the college library; the pages of paper daily covered, with a




COLLEGE LIFE AT GLASGOW.              200)
pleasant sense, unknown to other work, that here was
something tangible accomplished; the indescribable feeling of weariness growing day by day; the pen which,
towards the end of the session, we could sometimes
scarcely hold in the trembling hand, till we had got
warmed with half an hour's work; the "constitutional
walk" for an hour before dinner; the delightful Saturday
evening allowed to relaxation; the carrying in the prize
essays; the list made out of all the prizes we were conpeting for, how many we shall not say; the thankfulness
rather than pride with which, during the last fortnight
of the session, we marked off each in succession as won;
the throbbing anxiety of the first of May, which was to
decide the University essay prizes; and how musical the
Principal's voice as he read out the mottoes we knew so
well; then the delightful relief of total leisure in those
bright days of May; the summer-time spent in research
and labor against another session; the intense veneration
for work which a man comes to have when he knows
what it means.  Nothing to others, all these things are
deeply interesting to one's own self; and perhaps they
may touch some chords of recollection in some of our old
college companions, now scattered over every quarter of
the earth.  We believe that for real hard work, for real
mental discipline, for training to habits of industry and
self-denial, for fitting average men to fill respectably an
average place in society, there are very few things better than College Life at Glasgow.
14




CHAPTER  VIII.
CONCERNING  THE WORLD'S OPINION:
WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON COWED PEOPLE.
T seems to me that there are few things in
which it is more difficult to hold the just
11^ 11  mean, than our feeling as to the opinion of'S 4' those around us.  For the most part, you
will find human beings taking a quite extreme position
as to what may be called the World's Opinion.  They
pay either too much regard to it, or too little.  Either
they are thoroughly cowed by it, or they stand towards
it in an attitude of defiance. The cowed people, unquestionably, are in the majority. Most people live in a
vague atmosphere of dread of the world, and of what
the world is saying of them.  You may discern the
belief which prevails with the steady-going mass of
humankind, in the typical though not historical fact
which was taught most of us in childhood,   that DON'T
CARE came to a bad end. The actual idea which is pres.
ent to very many minds is difficult to define. Even to
attempt to define it takes away that vagueness which is
of the essence of its nature, and which is a great reason
of the fear it excites. And the actual idea varies much
in different minds, and in the same mind at different
times. Sometimes, if put into shape, it would amount




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    211
to this: — that some great and uncounted number of
human beings is watching the person, is thinking of him,
is forming an estimate of him, and an opinion as to what
he ought to do.  Sometimes the world's opinion becomes
a more tangible thing: it means the opinion of the little
circle of the person's acquaintance; or the opinion of the
family in which he or she lives; or the opinion of even
some single individual of a somewhat strong, and probably somewhat coarse and meddlesome nature.  In such
a case the world becomes personified in the typical Mrs.
Grundy; and the fear of the world's opinion is expressed
in the well-known question -What will Mrs. Grundy say?
Most people, then, live in a vague fear of that which
may be styled Mrs. Grundy: and are cowed into abject
submission not merely to her ascertained opinions, but
also to what they fancy that possibly her opinions may
be.  Others, again - a smaller number, and a number
lessening as the individuals who constitute it grow older
- confiont Mrs. Grundy, and defy her.  DON'T CARE
was a leader of this little band. But even though Don't
Care had not come to trouble, it is highly probable that
as he advanced in years he would have found that he
must care, and that he did care.  For a good many
years I have enjoyed the acquaintance and the conversation of a man who, even after he became SolicitorGeneral, held bravely yet temperately by the forlorn
hope of which a large part has always consisted of the
young and the wrongheaded; and fiom which, with advancing years and increasing experience, men are so apt
to drop away.  I know that it was not vaporing in him
to say, " The hissing of collected Europe, provided I
knew the hissers could not touch me, would be a grateful sound rather than the reverse — that is, if heard




212     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
at a reasonable distance."   But though I believe the
words were sincere when he said them, yet I am convinced it was only by the stiffening of a moral nature,
implying effort too great to last, that he was able to keep
the feeling which these words express. I see in these
words the expression of a desperate reaction against a
strong natural bias; and I believe that time would gradually crumble that resolute purpose down. By a determined effort you may hold out a heavy weight at arm's
length for a few minutes; you may defy and vanquish
the law of gravitation for that short space; but the law of
gravitation, quietly and unvaryingly acting, will beat you
at last. And even if Ellesmere could peacefully go about
his duty, and tranquilly enjoy his home, with that universal hiss in his ears, I know of those into whose hearts
that hiss would sink down, -whose hearts that hiss would
break.  How  about his wife and children?  And how
would the strong man himself feel, when day by day he
saw by the pale cheek, the lined brow, the anxious eye,
the unnatural submissiveness, that they were living in a
moral atmosphere that was poisoning them?  Think of
the little children coming in and saying that the other
children would not play with them  or speak to them.
Think of the poor wife going to some meeting of charitable ladies, and left in a corner without one to notice
her or take pity on her.  Ah, my friend Ellesmere,
once you have given hostages to fortune, we know where
the world can make you feel!
Let us give a little time to clearing up our minds on
this great practical question, as to the influence which
of right belongs to the world's opinion; as to the deference which a wise man will accord to it. Let us try to
define that great shadowy phantom which holds numbers
1 Ellesmere. in Companions of my Solitude.




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.             213
through all their life in a slavery which extends to all
they say and do; to the food they eat, and the raiment
they put on, and the home they dwell in; and in many
cases even to what they think, and to what they will
admit to themselves that they think.  The tyranny of
the world's opinion is a tyranny infinitely more subtle
and farther-reaching than that of the Inquisition in its
worst days; one which passes its sentences, though no
one knows who are the judges that pronounce them;
and one which inflicts its punishments by the hands of
numbers who utterly disapprove them.  And yet, one
has not the comfort of feeling able to condemn this
strange tribunal out and out; you are obliged to confess that in the main its judgments are just, and its
supervision is a wholesome one.  Now and then it does
things that are flagrantly unjust and absurd; but if I
could venture, with my experience of life, to lay down
any general principle, it would be the principle, abhorent
to warm young hearts and to hasty young heads, that in
the main the world's opinion is right in those matters to
which the world's opinion has a right to extend.  I dare
say you will think that this is a general principle promulgated with considerable reservation.  So it is; and I
hardly know to which thing, the principle or the reservation, it seems to me that the greater consideration is due.
It is wrong, doubtless, to be always thinking what people will say. It is a low and wretched state of mind to
come to.  There is no more contemptible or miserable
mortal than one of whom this can be said  -
While you, you think
What others think, or what you think they'll say;
Shaping your course by something scarce more tangible
Than dreams, at best the shadows on the stream
Of aspen trees by flickering breezes swayed -




214     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
Load me with irons, drive me from morn till night,
I am not the utter slave which that man is
Whose sole thought, word, and deed are built on what
The world may say of him!
The condition of mind described in these indignant
lines is doubtless wrong and wretched.  But still one
feels that these lines must be understood with much
qualification and restriction. Neither in moral principle, nor in common sense or taste, can one go with
those who run to the other extreme.  It is as well for
most people to be cowed by a rule which in the main
will keep them right, as to be suffered to run wild with
no rule at all. The road to insanity is even more short
and direct to the man who resolves that he shall do
nothing like anybody else, than to the poor subdued
creature in whom the fear of the world's judgment has
run to that morbid excess that she fancies that as she
goes along the street every one is pointing at her.
There was nothing fine in Shelley's wearing a round
blue jacket after he was a married man, just because
men in general do not wear boys' jackets.  And his
writing Atheist after his name in the tourists' book, to
shock people, does not strike me for its profanity half
so much as for its idiotic silliness and its contemptible
littleness. I do not admire the woman who walks about,
a limp and conspicuous figure, in the days when crinoline
is universally accepted. The extreme of crinoline is silly;
the utter absence of it is silly; the wise and safe course
is tne middle one. I do not think it wise or admirable
for a lady to walk a quarter of a mile bareheaded along a
crowded street to a fiiend's house, even though thus she
may save the trouble of going up-stairs for her bonnet. I
do not approve the young fellow who tells you, when you




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    215
speak to him about some petty flying in the face of the
conventional notion of propriety, that he will do exactly
what he likes, and that he does not care a straw what
any one may think or say.  That young fellow is in a
very unsafe, and a very unstable position. It is not likely
that he will long remain at his present moral stand-point.
It is extremely probable that after a few signal instances
of mischief brought upon himself by that defiant spirit,
lie will be cowed into abject submission to what people
may think, and become afraid almost to move or breathe
for fear of what may be said by folk whose opinion he
secretly despises. He will gain a reputation for want of
common sense, which it will be very difficult to get rid of.
And even the humblest return to his allegiance to Mlrs.
Grundy may fail to conciliate that individual's favor, lost
by many former insults.
There are some persons who are bound, not merely in
prudence, but in principle, to consider the world's opinion
a good deal.  They are bound, not merely to avoid evil,
but to avoid even the appearance of evil.  And this because their usefulness in this world may be very prejudicially affected by the unfavorable opinion of those
around them.  It is especially so with the clergy.  A
clergyman's usefulness depends very much on the estimation in which he is held by his parishioners. It is
desirable that his parishioners should like him: it is
quite essential that they should respect him. It is not
wise in the parson to shock the prejudices of those
around him.  It will be his duty sometimes to yield to
opinions which he thinks groundless.  However fond a
clergyman of the Anglican Church may be of a choral
service, it will be extremely foolish and wrongheaded in
him to endeavor to thrust such a service upon a congre



216    CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
gation of people who in their ignorance think it Popish.
And it will not be prudent in a clergyman of the Scotch
Church, placed in a remote country parish where the
population retains a good deal of the old covenanting
leaven, to fill his church windows with stained glass, or
even to put a cross above the eastern gable. And such
a man will also discern that it is his duty to practise a
certain economy and reticence in the explaining of his
views as to instrumental music in church, and liturgical
services.  If it be the fact that many rustics in the parish regard these things as marks of the Beast, he need
not obtrude the fact that he holds a different opinion.
For he would then, in some quarters, bring all his teaching into suspicion.  Let Mr. Snarling take notice, that
I am counselling no reserve in the grave matters of doctrine: no reserve, that is, in the sense of making your
people fancy that you believe what you do not believe,
or that you do not believe what you do. The only
economy in doctrine which I should approve would be
that of bringing out and applying the truth which seems
most needful at the time, and best fitted for its exigencies.  But as to other things, both in statement and in
conduct, I hold by a high authority which states that
many things may be lawful for the parson which are
not expedient.  And I believe that in little things the
world's judgment is right in the main. There is a gravitation of society towards common sense: at least to approving it, if not to acting upon it. I am not going to
defend hats and the like; or to stand up for our angular
Western dress against the flowing garments of the East,
though I believe our dress is more convenient if it be
less graceful.  And I do not believe there is any perverse bent of society to what is ugly and inconvenient




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.              217
at least in male attire: if any hatter or tailor produced
a better covering, which would be as cheap, it would
doubtless find acceptance.  But I hold that it is not
wise for any ordinary man to take issue with his race
on any point of dress.  He will not be the wisest of
judges who shall first lay aside the venerable wig of
gray horsehair.  It is not expedient that a young clergyman should fly in the face of his parishioners on such
a question as the wearing of a shooting-coat or a black
neck-tie, or as going out with the hounds.  It was not
wise in John Foster, the great Baptist preacher, to horrify his simple flock by appearing in his pulpit in a gray
coat and a red waistcoat.  No doubt, in logic, his position was unassailable.  For people who reject all clerical robes as Popish, it is manifestly absurd to make a
stand for a black coat and a white neckcloth.  By making a stand for these, you cut the ground from  under
your feet: you admit the principle which justifies satin
and lawn.  Let me say, a sound and reasonable principle too.  It is not fitting that in every-day attire a man
should conduct the worship of God's house.  But even
with folk who thought differently, John  Foster acted
unwisely.  As lawyers would say, it was a bad issue to
take.  I know how  a certain eminent essayist, whom  I
much revere, stands up for eccentricity.  He holds it
to be a useful protest against our tendency to a dead
conformity.  I venture to say that, generally, it is not
wise to be eccentric.  You find that eccentric people
are usually eccentric in little things, not worth fighting
about.  We all know  that there are great and important things in which the world thinks wrongly: take
issue there with the world, if you like: but it is not worth
while to do so in small matters of dress and behavior.




218    CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
It is not worth while to take a beard into the pulpit where
it will interfere with the congregatipn's attention to the
sermon; nor to appear in the same place in lavender
gloves in a country where lavender gloves, in such a
locality, are unknown. It is wise to give in to the little
requirements on which the world's opinion has been
plainly expressed.  If you are resolved to take a part
of opposition to all the world, do so in the behalf of
things which are worth the trouble of the strife.  Let
it not be engraven on your tombstone, Here lies the
man who confronted the human race on the question of
the wide-awake hat.  Stand up for truth and right, if
you are fond of fighting: you will have many opportunities in this life. Smite the flunkey, pierce the humbug, violently kick the aristocratic liar and seducer, and
probably you will find abundant occupation. But though
you know it is a pleasant and enjoyable thing for yourself and your children to sit on the steps of your country-house in the sunshine after breakfast, you will not
gain the approval of wise men by doing the like on the
steps of your town-house in a much-frequented street:
say, for example, in Princes-street in Edinburgh. And
though you often roll on the grass with your little boy
in the country, do not attempt the like on the pavement
of such a public way. For in that case it is conceivable
that you may be jeered at by the passers-by, and apprehended by the police. And while you are being conveyed to the station-house, instead of being esteemed as
a philosopher and revered as a martyr, it is not impossible that you may be laughed at as a fool. "We sat on
the bridge, and swung our legs over the water:" with
these words an eloquent writer lately began an essay.
Of course, the bridge was in a quiet rural spot. If the




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    219
writer and his friend had done the like on London
bridge, the small boys would have liallooed at them,
and the constable would have moved them  on. Yet
the merits of the deed are the same in either case. Only
in the one case the world says You may; in the other
case it says You must not. And the human being who
resists the world's judgment in these little matters, shows,
not strength, but weakness. Where principle is involved,
it is noble to swing your legs; but not otherwise. But
doubtless you have remarked that it is a common thing
to find great obstinacy in petty concerns in a man who
has no real firmness. You will find people who are
squeezable and facile in the great affairs of life, and in
their larger opinions have not a mind of their own, but
adopt the opinion of the last person they heard express
one; yet who persistently stick to some little absurd or
bad habit which they have often been entreated to leave
off, which annoys their fiiends, and makes them ridiculous. You will find a man whom you might turn round
with a straw in his belief on any question political,
moral, or literary, but who, having taken up the ground
that once one is three, would go to the stake rather than
give in to the world's way of thinking on that point.
I beg the reader to observe, that I do not counsel a
general conformity to the appointments of his particular
world, merely on the ground that non-conformity maj
cause him  to be derided, or disliked, or suspected. J
wish him to think of the injury which his non-conformity may occasion to others. If your shooting-coat, my
clerical brother, however light and easy to walk in on
a hot summer day, is to stand between a poor dying
girl and the comfort and profit she might get from your
counsels and prayers, why, I think, if you are the man




220     CONCERNING TI-E WORLD'S OPINION.
I mean, that you will determine never to go beyond your
own gate but in the discomfort (often very great in country parishes) of severely clerical attire. Possibly few
of my readers know that in various rural districts of
Scotland a sermon, however admirable, will do no good
if the preacher reads it: he must either give it extempore, or appear to do so by having previously written
it and committed it to memory.  "I canna thole the
paper," I have heard an intelligent farmer say.  He
meant, he could not bear the sight of the manuscript
discourse. It is fair to add that this prejudice is fast
dying out, even in rural parishes; while in large towns
in Scotland, it has entirely disappeared.  But however
unreasonable and stupid may have been the prejudice
which condemned overwrought ministers to several hours
weekly of the irksome school-boy labor of getting their
sermons by heart, and however painful the anxiety which
a man with an uncertain memory must often have felt on
a Sunday morning, in the fear that he might forget what
he had painfully prepared, and be reduced to a state of
utter blankness, and ignominiously stick in his sermon;
still, you will think that a conscientious man, earnest to
do good, would make this painful sacrifice, not to his
popularity, but to his usefulness.  Let me confess, for
myself, that I cannot imagine how the elder clergy of
the Scotch Church were able to accomplish this awful
toil.  The father' of tlie!,:llt iuvlte', for thirty years,
wrote and colmmitted to memory two sermons of forty
minutes each, every week; and hundreds of his bretlren
did the same. I could not do it, to save my life. Surely
the intellectual fibre of the new generation is less muscular than that of their fathers.  I have made mention
of a judicious economy in giving instruction.  You may




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    221
discern the result of the want of it in what we are told
about a poor dying laborer, in one of the midland counties of England.  It is quite unquestionable that the
world goes round the sun; but it is not in the weakness
of the parting hours of life that a poor uneducated man
should be called to reconstruct the theory of the universe
under which he had lived all his days. And though it
was certainly needful to explain to the dying man the
meaning of Christian faith, it might have been done
without going into anything like metaphysics; and in a
way in which a child of six years old might understand
it, possibly as well as the parson himself. But a young
parson could not see this.  He would correct all the intellectual errors of his humble parishioner.  He would
pour upon him a flood of knowledge.  Possibly you may
smile at the odd expressions; but I remember few sentences which have so touched me with their hopeless
pathos, as that with which the dying man feebly turned
to the wall, and spoke no more.  " Wut wi' faeth," he
said, "and wut wi' the earth goin' round the sun, and
wut wi' the railways all a-whuzzin' and a-buzzin', I'm
clean muddled, confoozled, and bet! "  Well, let us
hope that light came at the evening-time upon that
blind, benighted way.
It should be borne in mind, that as to any particular
subject, there is sometimes great difficulty in ascertaining
what the world (by which I mean our own particular
world) is actually saying.  It seems to me especially difficult to know, in a small community, what is the general
opinion upon almost any matter.  For you may fall in
with people holding quite exceptional opinions. And exceptional opinions are often very strongly held; and held




222      CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
by very clever men.  I remember hearing a really able
man (one whom the great world has recognized as such)
declare that in his judgment a certain clergyman, not remarkable for talent, earnestness, oddity, or anything but
self-conceit, was the greatest preacher he had ever listened
to; incomparably greater than A, B, C, or D, each of
whom is well known to fame.  The man who expressed
this opinion was one you would have been obliged to
admit as most competent to form an opinion; yet somehow, for some inexplicable reason, some sympathy or antipathy beyond the reach of reasoning, he had come
firmly to hold an opinion which was entirely exceptional,
which was shared by no other human being. And thus
the world may be saying one thing at one tea-table, and
just the opposite at another tea-table, in some little country town. At one tea-table, the sermon of last Sunday
may be very good; at the other it may be very bad. The
like difference of opinion may exist as to the efficiency of
the member of parliament. At one table, he may be a
worthy, hard-working man; at the other, a poor silly
creature.  So with the singing of Miss X. If you are
enjoying the cup that does not particularly cheer with
Mrs. Smith and her set of friends, you may be informed,
as a stranger to the town, that a great treat awaits you in
listening to Miss Xs songs. Her voice is splendid, and
admirably cultivated; her taste exquisite.  She is generally regarded as singing better than Jenny Lind.  You
naturally go away with the belief that in the opinion of
the world at Drumsleekie, Miss X is a very great singer.
But all this is due to the accident of your taking tea with
Mrs. Smith. Had it been Mrs. Jones, you would have
been told that Miss X  overstrained her voice; that she
sang untruly; that she sang flat; that she sang harshly;




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    223
that her affectation in singing was such that it was hard to
refrain fiom throwing something at her head; and finally,
that she could not sing at all. All this is perplexing.
It would be a comfort to get over the preliminary difficulty, and to find out what it is that the world actually
does say. Its voice, however, conveys an uncertain sound.
And it would cost more time. and trouble than the result
would be worth, to add up the tea-tables on one side,
and the tea-tables on the other side, and then discover on
which side is the preponderant weight. And in case it
should be found that the tea-tables on either side exactly
balanced each other, the difficulty would arise, that it
would appear that in Drumsleekie, on the subject of
Miss X's singing, the world had no opinion at all. The
favorable and unfavorable would just neutralize one
another.  And as with the singing of Miss X, so will you
find it with the beauty of Miss Y, and the manners of
Miss Z.  Likewise with the horses of Mr. Q, and the poems of Mr. R.  In short, to sum the matter up, it depends
entirely on the set into which you get in a small community,
what impression you are to carry away as to the general
opinion upon any question.  For though one slice taken
from a leg of mutton will give you a fair idea of the general flavor of all the joint; yet you may (so to speak) cut
a slice out of the talk of the town which shall be entirely
different from all the rest. You may have chanced on
the faction which cries up the new town-hall, or on the
faction which cries it down. You may have chanced on
the party which thinks the parson the greatest of men, or
on the party which esteems him as one of the least.
Then it is certain that Mrs. Grundy may be made to
appear to say almost anything, by the skilful management
and the energy of two or three pushing individuals.  It




224      CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
is possible for a very small number of persons to get up
a sough (to use the Scotch phrase) either for or against
a man.  A few. clacking busybodies, running about from
house to house, may disseminate a vague unfavorable impression.  A  few  hearty, active, energetic friends may
cause the world's opinion, in a little place, to seem to be
setting very strongly in a man's favor.  You have probably heard the legend, which very likely is fabulous, of the
fashion in which the blacking of a certain eminent man
rose into universal fame.  The eminent man hired four
footmen, of loud and fluent power of expression, and of
brazen countenance.  He arrayed them  in gorgeous liveries; the livery of each being quite different from that
of the other three.  Then, each alone, from morning to
evening they pervaded London; and this was what they
did. When each footman saw a shop in which blacking
appeared likely to be sold, he rushed into it with great
appearance of excitement, and exclaimed in a hurried
manner, " Give me some of Snooks's blacking instantly."
Snooks, it should be mentioned, was the name of his
eminent employer.  " Snooks's blacking," said the man
in the shop; " we never heard of it!" "Not heard of
Snooks's blacking!" exclaimed the footman; "why, my
master won't let me brush his boots with any other; and
just now he is roaring at me for brushing his boots this
morning with that of Stiggins; I must be off elsewhere
and get Snooks's blacking forthwith."  This interview
naturally startled the man in the shop; he began to think,
"I must get some of Snooks's blacking; everybody must
be using Snooks's blacking!"  And when, in the course
of the day, the other three footmen severally visited
his shop as the first had done; one exclaiming, "the
Chancellor wont use anything but Snooks's blacking;"




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.           225
another " his Grace wont use anything but Snooks's
blacking;" the last (in crimson livery)," his Majesty wont
use anything but Snooks's blacking;" the man in the shop
took his resolution.  He found out the factory of Snooks,
and ordered a large quantity of his blacking.
That which has pushed blacking into fame, has done
the like for other things. Two or three individuals, vigorously puffing a book, may cause it to seem that the
world's judgment in the locality where they live is in that
book's favor. And most people will bow to that judgment.  Not very many people have so much firmness, or
confidence in themselves, as to hold their own opinion in
the presence of the strongly expressed opinion of the
world on the other side. And a loud and confident declaration that something is very bad, will silence and put down
many people, who in their secret soul think it very good.
The sough, or general opinion and belief in a country
district, may occasionally be got up by persons who are
little better than idiots.  Let me relate a story which I
heard, long ago.  A very distinguished preacher once
went to preach in the parish church of a certain big
and ugly village in Scotland.  The village lies among
the hills, in a pastoral district. It had no railway communication; no near neighbors; no large town within
many miles. The people, many of them, were very ignorant, very pragmatical and self-conceited.  The big
and ugly village thought it was the centre of the world;
possibly, that it was the whole world.  Its population
formed an unfavorable estimate of the preaching of the
great orator. It was generally said in the village that
"his sermons were no' very weel conneckit." It happens
that the discourses of that clergyman are remarkable for
their logical linkedness of thought; for the symmetry and
15




226     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
beauty of their skeleton, no less than for the brilliance
and range of their illustrations.  But some blockhead
said (not having anything particular to say) that they
were " no' very weel conneckit."   Other blockheads
grasped at this.  It was something to say; and to say
it seemed to imply the possession of some critical acumen.  So the voice of Mrs. Grundy, in that village,
reechoed that statement on every side.  The statement
was, indeed, absurd.  You might as well have said that
the sermons were distinguished by their ignorant impatience of the relaxation of taxation, or by their want
of mezzotinto.   But people seized it, and repeated it.
I remember going as a boy to that locality; and hearing several persons, all densely stupid, and most of
them very conceited, speak of the great preacher. They
all criticized him in the selfsame terms:' His sermons
were no' very weel conneckit! "  But there is no opinion expressed with so great confidence as the opinion
of the man who is incapable of forming any opinion.
I remember an old gentleman telling me how he went
to hear Dr. Chalmers.  " I could not understand the
man," said he; "I could not see what he was driving
at." I am entirely satisfied that the old gentleman told
the truth.  Like the Squire in the Vicar of Wakefield,
Dr. Chalmers could supply argument, but he could not
supply intellect to comprehend it.
An unfavorable sough may be got up in a rural district,
by a man who combines caution with malignity; and all
in such a way that you cannot lay hold of the malicious
but cautious man.  Let us suppose a new doctor is coming to the village. You, the old doctor, may go about the
village and beg the people to try and receive him civilly;
he may not be such a bad man after all.  The truth




CONCERNING THE WTORLD'S OPINION.    227
probably is, that nobody supposes him  a bad man, or
intends to receive him otherwise than civilly; but a few
days judiciously spent may excite a prejudice which it
will take some time to allay.  Some one speaks to you in
praise of an acquaintance. You may reply, in a hesitating way, "Yes; he is rather a nice fellow; but -
well, I don't want to say anything bad of any one."  In
this way you have not committed yourself; but you have
conveyed a worse impression than you could probably
have conveyed by any definite charge you could have
made against the man. Honest and manly folk, indeed,
may possibly call you a sneak.  What do you care?
Some muscular Christian may kick you. In that case
you will have the comfort of knowing that it unquestionably serves you right.
There is something worrying and vexatious, in thinking that the sough of the country-side, which in Scotland
signifies the general opinion of the neighborhood, is running against yourself and your possessions; even though
you heartily despise the individuals whose separate judgments go to make up that sough.  For you gradually
come to attach considerable importance to the opinion of
the people among whom you live, even though that opinion be in itself worth nothing. There is compensation,
however, in the fact, that if the unfavorable opinions of
stupid and incompetent people are able to depress a man,
the favorable opinions of stupid and incompetent people
are able to elate and encourage even a very clever and
wise man.  Maaiy such men are kept up to the mark at
which they do good and even great things, by rumors of
the high estimation in which they are held by Mrs.
Grundy.  There is probably as much happiness commu



228     CONCEIINING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
nicated to a human being by the favorable estimate of
those around him - though they are people of no great
standing, and not very wise - as if they were the wisest
and noblest of the land.  For, by degrees, even the wise
man begins to fancy that these people who think so highly
of him are not quite ordinary folk; they are more capable judges of human excellence than people in their
station in life usually are.  I can quite understand that
the author who finds his book praised in the Little Peddlington Gazette, or the TWhistlebinkie Banner of Freedom,
will conclude that these are important newspapers, conducted with intelligence much surpassing that of country
papers in general. He will be quite cheerful for a whole
forenoon after reading in either of those journals, that he
is one of the most original thinkers of the age.  So a
clergyman, who is popular in his own parish, will quite
honestly come to think that its population is remarkable
for its intelligence and its power of appreciating a good
sermon.  Of course, as has been said, the converse case
holds good.  The ill opinion of those around you, if quite
universal, is depressing, however much you may despise
that opinion.  Not only is that unfavorable estimate
always around you, like an unhealthy atmosphere, but
you gradually come to think that the people who hold it
are rather wise and important people.  A parson, going
from a large and intelligent parish to one where the people are few and uncultivated, knows at first very nearly
what is the mark of his present position and his present
congregation.   He knows that, seriously, the opinion
which his parishioners form  of him is neither here nor
there.  But he learns very soon that comfort and discomfort may be caused by judgments which are absolutely
valueless.  You may remember what Philip Van Arte



CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    229
velde says of that which may be regarded as the most
favorable of all individual estimates of man: —
How little flattering is a woman's love! -
Worth to the heart, come how it mayv a world;
Worth to men's measures of their own deserts,
If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing!
And gradually you go farther than Van Artevelde.
Probably even that philosophic man, as he found day by
day new indications of the warm affection and the hearty
admiration of the woman he had in his mind when he
said such words, began to think that, after all, there must
be something unusual about him  to elicit all that devotion; began to think that her opinion was sound and just;
and that she must be a person of no ordinary sagacity
who arrived at a judgment so true. You will do all that.
You will not only be pleased by the favorable estimate of
incompetent judges: you will come to think that they are
very competent judges. A clergyman who at one time
used to preach to a great crowd of cultivated folk in
London, told me that after he had been a few months in
a little country-parish, he felt quite pleased when he
found the mill-girls of a manufacturing town four miles
off, walking over on Sundays to hear him preach; and
also that he began to think these mill-girls very intelligent people, whose appreciation was worth having. Your
nature is subdued to what it works in."  You stand in
considerable awe of things amid which you always live.
And the truth is, that almost everything, when you come
to know it well, is bigger than the stranger fancies it.
It is because things, when you come to know them, are
really so good, that the lues Boswelliana prevails to such
a degree in biographers; that each parson thinks his own
church in some one respect superior to the general run;




230     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
and that the rustics of each parish think their own the
finest in the country.  The things are really very good;
and it is difficult to estimate how good, relatively to others. When a wise man finds himself second, or ninth, or
nineteenth, in competition with others, whether the competition be in the size of his turnips, the speed of his horses,
the beauty of his pictures, the bitterness of his reviews,
the amiability of' his children, or the badness of his headaches (all matters of which people are given to boast),
the wise man will not necessarily conclude that he himself or his belongings are less good or great than he had
previously bestowed.  The right conclusion is this: that
other men and their belongings are better or bigger than
he had fancied them.  And though the favorable appreciation of judges, barristers, cabinet ministers, and the
like, is undoubtedly worth more than that of factory-girls,
still the favorable appreciation of the factory-girls may
be regarded as worth a good deal, by one who lives exclusively among factory-girls.
Besides this, there is a further consideration that comes
in to give weight to the unfavorable judgment of Mrs.
Grundy. A wise man, knowing how human vanity leads
people to over-estimate their own merits, would, if he
found that everybody thought he was a fool, begin to fear
that he was one; and also to fear that the fact that he
could not see he was a fool showed the hopelessness of
his condition; as we know that a maniac occasionally
believes that he is the only sane person,in the world.  I
believe that there is nothing that can hold a man up
against the depressing effect of being held in little esteem
by those around him, as his family, or his neighbors; but
the fact of his being held in good estimation by some person or persons elsewhere, whom he can regard as wiser




CONCERNING TIlE WORLD'S OPINION.           231
and worthier judges of him than those around him are.
I have known a great preacher, whose church was nearly
empty on Sundays.  It was in a remote rural district.
But whenever he went to preach in any large town, the
church in which he preached was crowded to excess.
So he could set the opinion of the remote Mtrs. Grundy
against that of the near Mrs. Grundy, and, though surrounded by the unfavorable estimation of the near Mrs.
Grundy, he could retain composure and confidence in
himself, by backing up his estimate of himself with that
of the distant world.  And there are people with no distant friends to lean on, who yet, in a remote situation,
find the support and sympathy they want, in the better
part of our periodical literature.  The Times, coming
daily to an educated man in a very rustic place, is a
great blessing.  So is the Saturday Review to the country parson.  So are the Quarterly Reviews generally.
He will find much in them with which he cannot agree;
a good deal which is extremely distasteful to him. But
in reading them, he breathes a different atmosphere from
that in which he is placed by many of his daily concerns
and acquaintances. He finds in them something to prevent him from  being cowed into conformity.  He finds
the thoughts of cultivated men, holding the same canons
of taste with himself; and, in the main, holding nearly
the same great points of belief on more important things.
I felt it as a comfort, after lately hearing a man say that
a certain noble cathedral was " a great ugly jail of a
place," to read a brilliant article in praise of Gothic
architecture.  And  when you are building a pretty
Elizabethan house, with all its graceful characteristics,
you do not mind a bit that Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Snarling,
and Miss Limejuice go about saying that it is gimcrack,




232     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
barbarous, Popish, inconvenient, dark, and fit only for
monks and nuns, when you are able to turn to many
pages on which competent men have set out the beauties
and comforts of that delightful style, and shown up the nonsense of the stupid and tasteless folk who abuse it. But if
you stood alone in the world in your love for the well-shown
gable and the pointed arch, it may be feared that, unless
you had the determination of the martyr, you would be
badgered into keeping your opinions to yourself, and into
conforming your practice to that of other people. There
are few more delightful things to any one who has long
lived among those with whom he feels no sympathy, than
to find himself among people who think and feel as he
does.  And there is more than pleasure in the case;
there is something in this that will strengthen and vivify
his tastes and beliefs into redoubled energy.
You will not unfrequently find people who loudly profess their contempt for the world's opinion, who are really
living in abject terror of it. A coward, you know, often
assumes a bullying manner.  And there is no weaker or
sillier way of considering Mrs. Grundy, than to be ever
on the watch for opportunities of shocking her. It is for
the most part nervous people, very much afraid of her,
who do this.  We all know persons who take great delight in trying to astonish mankind by the awful opinions
they express, and by conduct flatly opposed to the rules
of civilized society. You will find parsons who in their
sermons like to frighten people, by sailing as near unsound doctrine as possible; or by a manner very devoid
of that gravity which becomes the time and place. So
with young ladies who smoke cigars, or talk in a fast
manner to gentlemen on subjects and about people of




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    233
which they ought to know nothing. So with the greater
part of all eccentricity.  One can bear eccentricity, however great, when it is genuine.  One can bear the man,
however oddly he may act, who acts in Mrs. Grundy's
presence as though he saw her not; and who bond idle
does not see her.  But it is a very wretched and contemptible thing, to witness a man doing very bold things,
going through all kinds of eccentric gyrations, with a
side-glance all the while at Mrs. Grundy, and with an ear
upon the stretch to remark what she is going to say.
There are men who are right in carefully observing
the world's opinion of them  and their doings: whose
duty it is to observe these things carefully.  There are
men who know for certain that the world has an opinion of
theml: an opinion varying from day to day; and an opinion upon whose variations very tangible results depend.
Such a man is the Prime Minister in Britain.  His possession of actual power and of profitable place depends just
upon the world's opinion of him; an opinion which ebbs
and flows from week to week: which is indicated unmistakably by his parliamentary majority as it rises and sinks;
and which is affected by a host of circumstances quite
away from the Premier's merits. If the Premier is desirous to retain his place, I should fancy that, till he gets
indurated to it, it must be a most disagreeable one. From
what a variety of quarters the voice c  Mrs. Grundy
must be borne to his ears; and how difficult it must be
to know precisely what importance to attach to this or that
specific bellow! Judging fiom the easy way in which the
present head of the government bears his functions, one
would suppose that to be Prime Minister must be like
being stoker of an American high-pressure steamer. At




234     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
first, you will be in momently expectation of being blown
up; but by and by you will come to take it quite coolly;
indeed, with a hardihood rather appalling to most people
to see. There is no one who has it in his power to know
so certainly and immediately what his own world thinks
of him, as a great actor.  It is an index of his popularity, as certain as the mercury in the thermometer is of
the temperature, how the theatre fills at which he performs.  And to him, popularity is more than empty
praise. It is substantial pudding. The bread and butter of his wife and children depend upon it. There are
cases in which it is a miserable spectacle to see a man
eagerly anxious about the world's opinion.  There is no
more contemptible and degrading sight, than a clergyman
who sets his heart upon popularity as a preacher; who
is always fishing for compliments, and using claptrap
arts to draw a crowd and amaze people.  You come to
hear of preachers who, it is plain, are prepared to go
any length: men who would preach standing on their
head rather than fail of creating a sensation.  I thank
God I never listened to such; but I have read in print
addresses described as having been given in buildings
professedly used for the worship of the Almighty, which
addresses, in their title, subject, and entire tone, were
perfectly analogous to the advertisements and exhibitions
of a juggler.  Their vulgar buffoonery and disgusting
profanity were intended as a bait to the lowest and worst
classes in the community. You may have known persons,
in various walks of life, who were in the possession of
the world's good opinion, but who could not be said to be
in the enjoyment of it. It did not make them happy to
have it, but it would have made them miserable to lose
it.  To go down a peg or two in the scale of fame would




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    235
have been unendurable. And you would find them occasionally putting out feelers, to try whether the popular
gale was slackening.  Should it show signs of slackening,
you have various acquaintances who will be careful to
inform you. I knew a young divine who preached for
almost the first time at a certain country church. A few
days after, a man from the parish, a vulgar person, and
almost a stranger, came and assured him that his sermon
did not by any means guv sahtisfawkshun. I have known
a person, a stupid and ignorant blockhead, who devoted
himself to going about and retailing to every one he
knew, any wretched little piece of tattle which might be
disagreeable to hear. I don't believe the man was malignant. I suppose he yielded to an impulse analogous to
that which makes a hen cackle when it has laid an egg.
Unhappily, some men are so weak that though they find
it unpleasant to be informed that the world is pronouncing opinion against them, they yet find a certain fascination impelling them to learn all particulars as to this
unfriendly opinion. And so the ignorant blockhead found
many attentive auditors.  Doubtless this gratified him.
My readers, cut such a man short at once.  Snub him.
Shut him up. As you would close the window through
which a bitter north-east wind is blowing into your chamber on a winter day, so shut up this wretched gutter that
conveys to you the dregs of Mrs. Grundy!
As you go on through life, my friend, you will discover
a good many Cowed People.  These people have been
fairly beaten by their fear of what the world will say.
They are always in a vague alarm. They are afraid of
doing or saying the most innocent thing, lest in some
way, they cannot say how, it may turn to their prejudice.




236    CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
They are in mortal dread of committing themselves,
They live in some general confused apprehension of
what may come next.  They are always thinking that
Mr. A bowed rather stiffly to them, and wondering what
it can mean; that Mrs. B looked the other way as they
passed, and no doubt intends to finally cut their acquaintanice; and the like. All this shades off into developments which pass the limit of sanity; as believing that
the entire population of the place have combined against
them, and that the human race at large is resolved to
thwart their plans and crush their hopes. I do not mention these things to be laughed at. The sincerest sympathy is due to such as suffer in this way.  No doubt all
this founds upon a nervous, anxious nature; but it has
been greatly fostered by lending a ready ear to such
stupid, if not malicious, tatlers as have just been mentioned. There is, indeed, much of natural temperament
here; much of physical constitution.  There are boys
who go to school each morning, trembling with vague
apprehension, they cannot say of what. Possibly there
is some idea that all their companions may league against
them.  There is not much of the magnanimous about
boys; and such a poor little fellow probably leads a sad
enough school life. And years afterwards, when he is a
man in business, you may find him going away from his
cottage on the outskirts into town each morning, to get
his letters and attend to the day's transactions, as Daniel
might have gone into the den.  To many human beings
the world is as a great, fierce machine, whirring and
grinding inexorably on; and their great desire is to keep
away from it. And possibly the man who is most thoroughly cowed by the world is not the man who lives in
an even and equable awe of it; but rather he who now




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    237
and then rebels, makes a firantic, foolish fight for fieedom,
gets terribly mauled in a quarrel with the world on some
stupid issue, and then gives up, and sinks down beaten
into a state of utter prostration. Probably such a man,
for a while after each desperate rally, is the most cowed
of cowed men.
There are human beings of this temperament who
seem to feel as though any street in which an acquaintance lives were barricaded against their passage.  They
will tell you they don't like to pass Mr. Smith's house,
lest he should see them.  You listen with wonder, and
possibly you reply: " Suppose he does, what then?"  Of
course they cannot answer your question; they cannot
fix on any specific evil result which would follow if Mr.
Smith did happen to see them; they have simply a vague
fear of the consequences of that event. You will find
such people, if they are walking along the street, and see
any one they know coming in their direction, instantly
get out of the way by turning down some side lane.  I
believe that in the hunting-field the cry of " Ware wheat! "
warns the horseman to keep off the ground sown with
that precious grain, lest the crop suffer damage.  I think
I have seen human beings, the voice of whose whole nature, as they advanced through creation, appeared to be
"Ware Friends!"  Their wish was just to keep out of
anybody's way.  It was vain to ask what harm  would
follow even if they met Mr. Green or the Miss Browns,
They did not know exactly why they were afraid: they
were vaguely cowed.  Is it because the present wr"er
feels within himself something which might ultimately
land him  in that wretched condition of moral prostration, that he is anxious to describe it accurately and protest against it bitterly? You find people so thoroughly




238     CONCERNING THE WORLDS OPINION.
cowed, that they appear to be always apologizing for
venturing to be in this world.  They seem  virtually to
say to every one they meet, but especially to all baronets, lords, and the like, "I beg your pardon for being
here."  You will find them  saying this even to wealthy
mercantile men.  Not only is this a painful and degrading point to arrive at; I do not hesitate to say that it is
a morally wrong one. It implies a forgetfulness of Who
put you in this world, my friend, that you should wish to
skulk through it in that fashion.  Is not this the right
thing for a human being to feel.  The Creator put me
here, in my lowly place indeed; but I have as good a
right in this world, in my own place in it, as the Queen
or the President. My title to be here is exactly the same
as that of the greatest and noblest: it is the will of my
Maker.  And I shall follow the advice of a good and
resolute man in an early century, who was always ready
to give honor to whom  it was due, but who would not
abnegate his rights as man, for mortal.  I intend to do
what he said should be done by "every man,"- I intend, " wherein I am called, therein to abide with God."
There are few more contemptible exhibitions of human
slavery than you may find in cowed people who, in every
little thing they do, are guided not by their notion of
what is right, but by their belief as to what Mrs. Grundy
may say, more especially the Grundy whose income and
social standing somewhat surpass their own. I once
heard a parson, who had a large income, say that he
could not venture to put his man-servant into livery, because the gentry in his parish would not like it! I suggested that it was no concern of the gentry how he might
attire his servant; that the questions to be considered
concerned only himself, and appeared to me to be these: —




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    239
1. Whether he could afford it;
2. Whether he would like it.
And that for myself, if I could answer these questions in
the affirmative, I should like to see the man in my parish who would venture to interfere with what I thought
fit to do in the matter.  Not but what I believe that vulgar and impertinent individuals might be found who
would not like to see my friend approximating too closely
to their own magnificence; but if there be a thing in this
world to be decisively and instantly snubbed, it assuredly
would be the insolence of venturing to express, in my
fiiend's presence, either liking or dislike in the case.  I
have known a talking busybody, a relation of Miss Limejuice, who called at the house of a family lately come to
settle in a remote country region, to inform them  that
their dining so late as they did was regarded as presumptuous; and that various neighboring families felt
aggrieved that their own dinner-hour, hitherto esteemed
the most advanced in fashion, had been transcended by
the new-comers. It may suffice to say, that though the
relation of Miss Limejuice was treated with entire civility,
she never ventured in that house to recur to that topic
again. It is curious how rapidly it comes to be understood, whether any individual possesses that cowed and
abject nature which permits impertinent interference in
his private concerns, or not.  The most meddlesome of
tattling old women knows when she may venture to repeat Mrs. Grundy's opinion, and when she had better
not.  And all this without the least noisy demonstration;
all this with very little reference to the absolute social
position of the person to be interfered with. It is a question of the nature of the animal.  An eagle, you know,
is a smaller animal than a goose; but it is inexpedient




240     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
to interfere with the former bird.  If you have any unpleasant advice to offer, stick to the goose, my friend I
It is worthy of notice, that in the respect of the attitude which men assume towards the world's opinion, the
most remarkable change sometimes passes over them.
We all know that human beings, in the course of their
lives, go through many phases of opinion and feeling
as to most matters: but I think  there is no single
matter in which they may exhibit extremes so far apart
as in the matter of confidence and cowedness.  You will
find men who as schoolboys were remarkable for their
forwardness: who were always ready to start up and
roar out an answer in their class; and who even at
college were pushing and confident, and quite willing
to take a lead among their fellow-students; but who
ten years after leaving the university, have shrunk into
very modest and retiring and timid men. I have known
several cases in which this was so; always in the case
of men who had carried off very high honors.  Doubtless this loss of confidence is in some measure the result
of growing experience, and of the lowlier estimate of
one's own powers which that seldom  fails to bring to
men of sense; but I believe that it is in no small
measure the result of a nervous system  early overdriven, and of a mental constitution from  which th.
elasticity has been taken by too hard work, gone through
too soon.  You know that if you put a horse in harness
at three years old, he will, if he be a good horse, do his
work splendidly; but he will not do it long.  At six
years old, he will be a spiritless, broken-down creature.
You took it out of him too soon.  He is used up.  And
the cleverest young men at the universities are often like




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.    241
the horse set to hard work at three.  By the time they
are two and twenty, you have sometimes taken out of
them the best that will ever come. They will probably
die about middle age; and till that time they will go
heavily through life, with little of the cheerful spring.
They will not rise to the occasion. They cannot answer
the spur.  They are prematurely old: weary, jaded,
cowed. Oh that the vile system  of midnight toil at the
universities, of England and Scotland and America, were
finally abolished! It directly encourages many of the
most promising of the race to mortgage their best energies and their future years, to sustain the reckless
expenditure of the present.  It would be an invaluable
blessing if it were made a law, inexorable as those of
the Medes, that no honors should ever be given to any
student who was not in bed by eleven o'clock at latest.
It is a sad thing when any person, old or young, goes
through his work in a cowed spirit.  I do not mean, goes
through his work in a jaded, heartless way merely, but
goes through his work in the bare hope of escaping
blame.  A  great part of all that is done in this world
is done in this way.  MIany children, many servants,
many clerks, and even several parsons, go through their
daily round thus. I need not say how poorly that work
will usually be done which the man wishes just to get
through without any great reprobation; but think how
unhappily it will be done, and what a miserable training
of mind and heart it is! It seems to me that few people
do their work heartily, and really as well as they can.
And people whose desire is merely to get through somehow, seem to stand to their work as at a level below it.
The man who honestly does his best, works from above;
his task is belowv him; he is master of it, however hard
16




242     CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINION.
it may be.  The man who hopes no more than to escape
censure, and who accordingly aims at nothing more,
seems to work fiom below; his task is above him; he
is cowed by it. Let us resolve that we shall always give
praise when we can.  You will find many people who
are always willing to find fault with their servants, if
their servants do anything wrong, but who never say an
approving word when their servants do right. You will
find many people who do the like as to their children.
And only too often that wretched management breaks
the spring of the youthful spirit. Yes, many little children are cowed; and the result is either a permanent,
dull quiescence, never to be got over, or a fierce reaction
against the accursed tyranny that embittered early years
— a reaction which may sometimes cast off entirely the
bonds of natural affection, and even of moral restraint.
How it encourages and cheers the cowed little fellow,
growing up in the firm belief that he is hopelessly wicked, and never can do anything to please any one, to try
reward as a change from constant punishment and bullying! I have seen the good effect upon such a one of the
kind approving word.  How much more cheerfully the
work will be done; how much better it will be done;
and how much happier a man he will be that does it!
A poor fellow who never expects that he can please, and
who barely hopes that he may pass without censure and
abuse, will do his task very heartlessly. Let us praise
warmly and heartily wherever praise is deserved. And
if we weigh the matter, we shall find that a great deal of
hearty praise is deserved in this world on every day that
shines upon it.
May I conclude by saying, that many worthy people




CONCERNING THE WORLD'S OPINIONo.    24
go through their religious duties in a thoroughly cowed
spirit?  They want just to escape God's wrath - not to
gain His kind favor. The great spring of conduct within
them is not love, but abject terror.  Truly a mistaken
service!  You have heard of the devil-worshippers in
India; do you know why they worship the devil?  Because they think him a very powerful being, who can do
them  a mischief if they don't. Does not the worship
of the Almighty, rendered in that cowed spirit, partake
of the essential nature of devil-worship?   Let us not
love and serve our Maker, my reader, because we are in
fear that He will torment us if we do not. Let us humbly love and serve Him  because He is so good, so kind
to you and me, because He loved us first, and because
we can see Him  and His glory in the kindest face this
world ever saw! I do not think we should have been
afraid of Jesus of Nazareth. I do not think we need
have gone in a cowed spirit to Him.  And in Him we
have the only manifestation that is level to our understanding, of the Invisible God. I think we could have
gone to Him  confidingly as a little child to a kind
mother.  I think we should have feared no repulse, no
impatience, as we told to Him the story of all our sins and
wants and cares.  We can picture to ourselves, even yet,
the kindly, sorrowful features which little children loved,
and which drew those unsophisticated beings to gather
round Him without a fear. Let there be deep humility,
but nothing of that unworthy terror.  You remember
what we know on the best of all authority is the first
and great thing we are to do. It is not to cultivate a
cowed spirit.  It is to LOVE our Maker with heart and
soul and mind.




CHAPTER IX.
CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
LA      NCE upon a time, Mr. Smith, who was
seven feet in height, went out for a walk
".W.l~l( with Mr. Brown, whose stature was three.7 i~:,~ j feet and a half. It was in a distant age, in
which people were different from what they are now, and
in which events occurred such as do not usually occur in
these days. Smith and Brown, having traversed various
paths, and having passed several griffins, serpents, and
mail-clad knights, came at length to a certain river.  It
was needful that they should cross it; and the idea was
suggested that they should cross it by wading. They
proceeded, accordingly, to wade across; and both arrived
safely at the farther side. The water was exactly four
feet deep, - not an inch more or less. On reaching the
other bank of the river, Mr. Brown said, -
"This is awful work; it is no joke crossing a river
like that. I was nearly drowned."
"Nonsense! " replied Mr. Smith; " why make a fuss
about crossing a shallow stream like this? Why, the
water is only four feet deep: that is nothing at all  "
"Nothing to you, perhaps," was the response of Mr.
Brown, "but a serious matter for me.  You observe,"
he went on, "that water four feet deep is just six inches




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 245
over my head. The river may be shallow to you, but it
is deep to me."
Mr. Smith, like many other individuals of great physical bulk and strength, had an intellect not much adapted
for comprehending subtile and difficult thoughts.  Ile
took up the ground that things are what they are in themselves, and was incapable of grasping the idea that greatness and littleness, depth and shallowness, are relative
things.  An altercation ensued, which resulted in threats
on the part of Smith that he would throw Brown into the
river; and a coolness was occasioned between the friends
which subsisted for several days.
The acute mind of the reader of this page will perceive that M1r. Smith was in error; and that the principle
asserted by Mr. Brown was a sound and true one.  It is
unquestionable that a thing which is little to one man
may be great to another man.  And it is just as really
and certainly great in this latter case as anything ever
can be. And yet, many people do a thing exactly analogous to what was done by Smith.  They insist that the
water which is shallow to them shall be held to be absolutely shallow; and that, if smaller men declare that it is
deep to themselves, these smaller men shall be regarded
as weak, fanciful, and mistaken.  Many people, as they
look back upon the sorrows of their own childhood, or as
they look round upon the sorrows of existing childhood,
think that these sorrows are or were very light and insignificant, and their causes very small. These people do
this, because to them, as they are now, big people, (to use
the expressive phrase of childhood,) these sorrows would
be light, if they should befall.  But though these sorrows
may seem  light to us now, and their causes small, it is
only as water four feet in depth was shallow to the tall




246- CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
M1r. Smith.  The same water was very deep to the man
whose stature was three feet and a half; and the peril
was as great to him as could have been caused by eight
feet depth of water to the man seven feet high.  The
little cause of trouble was great to the little child. The
little heart was as full of grief and fear and bewilderanent as it could hold.
Yes, I stand up against the common belief that childhood is our happiest time. And whenever I hear grownup people say that it is so, I think of Mr. Smith and the
water four feet deep.  I have always, in my heart, rebelled against that common delusion. I recall, as if it
were yesterday, a day which I have left behind me more
than twenty years. I see a large hall, the hall of a certain educational institution, which helped to make the
present writer what he is. It is the day of the distribution of the prizes. The hall is crowded with little boys,
and with the relations and friends of the little boys.
And the chief magistrate of that ancient town, in all the
pomp of civic majesty, has distributed the prizes. It is
neither here nor there what honors were borne off by me;
though I remember well that that day was the proudest
that ever had come in my short life. But I see the face
and hear the voice of the kind-hearted old dignitary, who
has now been for many years in his grave. And I recall
especially one sentence he said, as he made a few eloquent remarks at the close of the day's proceedings.
"Ah, boys," said he, "I can tell you this is the happiest time of all your life!"
" Little you know about the matter," was my inward
reply.
I knew that our worries, fears, and sorrows were just
as great as those of any one else.




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 247
The sorrows of childhood and boyhood are not sorrows of that complicated and perplexing nature which sit
heavy on the heart in after-years; but in relation to the
little hearts that have to bear them, they are very overwhelming for the time. As has been said, great and little
are quite relative terms.  A  weight which is not absolutely heavy is heavy to a weak person.  We think an
industrious flea draws a vast weight, if it draws the eighth
part of an ounce.  And I believe that the sorrows of
childhood task the endurance of childhood as severely as
those of manhood do the endurance of the man. Yes, we
look back now, and we smile at them, and at the anguish
they occasioned, because they would be no great matter
to us now. Yet in all this we err just as Mr. Smith the
tall man erred, in that discussion with the little man, Mr.
Brown.  Those early sorrows were great things then.
Very bitter grief may be in a very little heart.  " The
sports of childhood," we know from Goldsmith, " satisfy
the child."  The sorrows of childhood overwhelm  the
poor little thing. I think a sympathetic reader would
hardly read without a tear, as well as a smile, an incident
in the early life of Patrick Fraser Tytler, recorded in his
biography.  When five years old, he got hold of the gun
of an elder brother and broke the spring of its lock.
What anguish the little boy must have endured, what a
crushing sense of having caused an irremediable evil,
before he sat down and printed in great letters the following epistle to his brother, the owner of the gun:- " Oh,
Jamie, think no more of guns, for the mainspring of that
is broken, and my heart is broken!"  Doubtless the poor
little fellow fancied that for all the remainder of his life
he never could feel as he had felt before he had touched
the unlucky weapon.  And looking back over many




248  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
years, most of us can remember a child crushed and
overwhelmed by some trouble which it thought could
never be got over; and we can feel for our early self as
though sympathizing with another being.
What I wish in this essay is, that we should look away
along the path we have come in life; and that we should
see, that, though many cares and troubles may now press
upon us, still we may well be content.  I speak to ordinary people, whose lot has been an ordinary lot. I know
there are exceptional cases; but I firmly believe, that,
as for most of us, we never have seen better days than
these.  No doubt, in the retrospect of early youth, we
seem to see a time when the summer was brighter, the
flowers sweeter, the snowy days of winter more cheerful,
than we ever find them  now.  But, in sober sense, we
know that it is all an illusion. It is only as the man
travelling over the burning desert sees sparkling water
and shady trees where he knows there is nothing but arid
sand.
I dare say you know that one of the acutest of living
men has maintained that it is foolish to grieve over past
suffering. He says, truly enough in one sense, that the
suffering which is past is as truly non-existent as the suffering which has never been at all; that, in fact, past
suffering is now nothing, and is entitled to no more consideration than that to which nothing is entitled.  No
doubt, when bodily pain has ceased, it is all over: we do
not feel it any more.  And you have probably observed
that the impression left by bodily pain passes very quickly away.  The sleepless night, or the night of torment
from toothache, which seemed such a distressing reality
while it was dragging over, looks a very shadowy thing
the next forenoon.  But it may be doubted whether you




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 249
will ever so far succeed in overcoming the fancies and
weaknesses of humanity as to get people to cease to feel
that past sufferings and sorrows are a great part of their
present life. The remembrance of our past life is a great
part of our present life. And, indeed, the greater part
of human suffering consists in its anticipation and in its
recollection. It is so by the inevitable law of our being.
It is because we are rational creatures that it is so. We
cannot help looking forward to that which is coming, and
looking back on that which is past; nor can we suppress,
as we do so, an emotion corresponding to the perception.
There is not the least use in telling a little boy who knows
that he is to have a tooth pulled out to-morrow, that it is
absurd in him to make himself unhappy to-night through
the anticipation of it. You may show with irrefragable
force of reason, that the pain will last only for the two or
three seconds during which the tooth is being wrenched
from its place, and that it will be time enough to vex
himself about the pain when he has actually to feel it.
But the little fellow will pass but an unhappy night in
the dismal prospect; and by the time the cold iron lays
hold of the tooth, he will have endured by anticipation a
vast deal more suffering than the suffering of the actual
operation.  It is so with bigger people, looking forward
to greater trials. And it serves no end whatever to prove
that all this ought not to be.  The question as to the
emotions turned off in the workings of the human mind
is one of fact. It is not how the machine ought to work,
but how the machine does work.  And as with the anticipation of suffering, so with its retrospect. The great
grief which is past, even though its consequences no
longer directly press upon us, casts its shadow over afteryears. There are, indeed, some hardships and trials upon




250  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
which it is possible that we may look back with satisfac.
tion.  The contrast with them  enhances the enjoyment
of better days. But these trials, it seems to me, must be
such as come through the direct intervention of Providence; and they must be clear of the elements of human
cruelty or injustice.  I do not believe that a man who
was a weakly and timid boy can ever look back with
pleasure upon the ill-usage of the brutal bully of his
school-days, or upon the injustice of his teacher in cheating him out of some well-earned prize. There are kinds
of great suffering which can never be thought of without
present suffering, so long as human nature continues what
it is.  And I believe that past sorrows are a great reality
in our present life, and exert a great influence over our
present life, whether for good or ill. As you may see in
the trembling knees of some poor horse, in its drooping
head, and spiritless paces, that it was overwrought when
young: so, if the human soul were a thing that could be
seen, you might discern the scars where the iron entered
into it long ago, -  you might trace not merely the enduring remembrance, but the enduring results, of the incapacity and dishonesty of teachers, the heartlessness of
companions, and the idiotic folly and cruelty of parents.
No, it will not do to tell us that past sufferings have
ceased to exist, while their remembrance continues so
vivid, and their results so great. You are not done with
the bitter frosts of last winter, though it be summer now,
if your blighted evergreens remain as their result and
memorial.  And the man who was brought up in an unhappy home in childhood will never feel that that unhappy home has ceased to be a present reality, if he knows
that its whole discipline fostered in him a spirit of distrust
in his kind which is not yet entirely got over, and made




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 251
him set himself to the work of life with a heart somewhat soured and prematurely old. The past is a great
reality.  We are here the living embodiment of all we
have seen and felt through all our life, - fashioned into
our present form by millions of little touches, and by
none with a more real result than the hours of sorrow
we have known.
One great cause of the suffering of boyhood is the
bullying of bigger boys at school. I know nothing practically of the English system offagging at public schools,
but I am not prepared to join out and out in the cry
against it. I see many evils inherent in the system; but
I see that various advantages may result from it, too.
To organize a recognized subordination of lesser boys to
bigger ones must unquestionably tend to cut the ground
from under the feet of the unrecognized, unauthorized,
private bully. But I know that at large schools, where
there is no fagging, bullying on the part of youthful
tyrants prevails to a great degree.  Human nature is
beyond doubt fallen. The systematic cruelty of a schoolbully to a little boy is proof enough of that, and presents
one of the very hatefullest phases of human character.
It is worthy of notice, that, as a general rule, the higher
you ascend in the social scale among boys, the less of
bullying there is to be found. Something of the chivalrous, and the magnanimous comes out in the case of the
sons of gentlemen: it is only among such that you will
ever find a boy, not personally interested in the matter,
standing up against the bully in the interest of right and
justice. I have watched a big boy thrashing a little one,
in the presence of half a dozen other big boys, not one
of whom  interfered on behalf of the oppressed little fel



252  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
low.  You may be sure I did not watch the transaction
longer than was necessary to ascertain whether there was
a grain of generosity in the hulking boors; and you may
be sure, too, that that thrashing of the little boy was, to
the big bully, one of the most unfortunate transactions
in which he had engaged in his bestial and blackguard,
though brief, life.  I took care of that, you may rely on
it. And I favored the bully's companions with my sentiments as to their conduct, with an energy of statement
that made them  sneak off, looking very like whipped
spaniels.  My friendly reader, let us never fail to stop
a bully, when we can.  And we very often can. Among
the writer's possessions might be found by the curious
inspector several black kid gloves, no longer fit for use,
though apparently not very much worn.  Surveying
these integuments minutely, you would find the thumb
of the right hand rent away, beyond the possibility
of mending.  Whence the phenomenon?  It comes of
the writer's determined  habit of stopping the bully.
Walking along the street, or the country-road, I occasionally see a big blackguard fellow thrashing a boy
much less than himself.  I am  well aware that some
prudent individuals would pass by on the other side,
possibly addressing an admonition to the big blackguard.
But I approve Thomson's statement, that "prudence to
baseness verges still;" and I follow a different course.
Suddenly approaching the blackguard, by a rapid movement, generally quite unforeseen by him, I take him  by
the arm, and occasionally (let me confess) by the neck,
and shake him  till his teeth rattle.  This, being done
with a new glove on the right hand, will generally unfit
that glove for further use. For the bully must be taken
with a gripe so firm and sudden as shall serve to paralyze




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 253
his nervous system for the time. And never once have
I found the bully fail to prove a whimpering coward.
The punishment is well deserved, of course; and it is
a terribly severe one in ordinary cases.  It is a serious
thing, in the estimation both of the bully and his companions, that he should have so behaved as to have
drawn on himself the notice of a passer-by, and especially of a parson.  The bully is instantly cowed;
and by a few words to any of his school-associates who
may be near, you can render him unenviably conspicuous
among them for a week or two. I never permit bullying
to pass unchecked; and so long as my strength and life
remain, I never will.  I trust you never will.  If you
could stand coolly by, and see the cruelty you could
check, or the wrong you could right, and move no finger
to do it, you are not the reader I want, nor the human
being I choose to know.  I hold the cautious and sagacious man, who can look on at an act of bullying without stopping it and punishing it, as a worse and more
despicable animal than the bully himself.
Of course, you must interfere with judlgment; and
you must follow  up your interference with firmness.
Don't intermeddle, like Don Quixote, in such a manner
as to make things worse. It is only in the case of continued and systematic cruelty that it is worth while to
work temporary aggravation, to the end of ultimate and
entire relief. And sometimes that is unavoidable. You
remenber how, when Moses made his application  to
Pharaoh for release to the Hebrews, the first result
was the aggravation of their burdens.  The supply of
straw was cut off, and the tale of bricks was to remain
the same as before. It could not be helped. And though
things came right at last, the immediate consequence was




254  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
that the Hebrews turned in bitterness on their intending
deliverer, and charged their aggravated sufferings upon
him.  Now, my friend, if you set yourself to the discomfiture of a ~bully, see you do it effectually.  If needful,
follow up your first shaking.  Find out his master, find
out his parents; let the fellow see distinctly that your
interference is no passing fancy. Make him understand
that you are thoroughly determined that his billying
shall cease.  And  carry out your determination unflinchingly.
I frequently see the boys of a certain large public
school, which is attended by boys of the better class;
and judging from  their cheerful and happy aspect, I
judge that bullying among boys of that condition is
becoming rare.  Still, I doubt not, there yet are poor
little nervous fellows whose school-life is embittered by
it. I don't think any one could read the poet Cowper's
account of how he was bullied at school, without feeling
his blood a good deal stirred, if not entirely boiling. If
I knew of such a case within a good many miles, I should
stop it, though I never wore a glove again that was not
split across the right palm.
But, doubtless, the greatest cause of the sorrows of
childhood is the mismanagement and cruelty of parents.
You will find' many parents who make favorites of some
of their children to the neglect of others: an error and
a sin which is bitterly felt by the children who are held
down, and which can never by possibility result in good
to any party concerned.  And there are parents who deliberately lay themselves out to torment their children.
There are two classes of parents who are the most inexorably cruel and malignant: it is hard to say which




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 255
class excels, but it is certain that both classes exceed all
ordinary mortals.  One is the utterly blackguard: the
parents about whom  there is no good nor pretence of
good.  The other is the wrongheadedly conscientious and
religious: probably, after all, there is greater rancor and
malice about these last than about any other.  These act
upon a system of unnatural repression, and systematized
weeding out of all enjoyment fiom life.  These are the
people whose very crowning act of hatred and malice
towards any one is to pray for him, or to threaten to
pray for him.  These are the people who, if their children complain of their bare and joyless life, say that
such  complaints indicate a wicked heart, or Satanic
possession; and have recourse to further persecution to
bring about a happier fiame of mind. Yes: the wrongheaded and wrong-hearted religionist is probably the very
worst type of man or woman on whom  the sun looks
down.  And, oh! how sad to think of the fashion in
which stupid, conceited, malicious blockheads set up their
own worst passions as the fruits of the working of the
Blessed Spirit, and caricature, to the lasting injury of
many a young heart, the pure and kindly religion of the
Blessed Redeemer! These are the folk who inflict systematic and ingenious torment on their children: and,
unhappily, a very contemptible parent can inflict much
suffering on a sensitive child.  But of this there is more
to be said hereafter; and before going on to it, let us
think of another evil influence which darkens and embitters the early years of many.
It is the cruelty, injustice, and incompetence of many
schoolmasters.  I know a young man of twenty-eight,
who told me, that, when at school in a certain large city
in Peru, (let us say,) he never went into his class any




256  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
cay without feeling quite sick with nervous terror.  The
entire class of boys lived in that state of cowed submission to a vulgar, stupid, bullying, flogging barbarian.  If
it prevents the manners fiom becoming brutal diligently
to study the ingenuous arts, it appears certain that diligently to teach them  sometimes leads to a directly contrary result. The bullying schoolmaster has now become
an almost extinct animal; but it is not very long since
the spirit of Mr. Squeers was to be found, in its worst
manifestations, far beyond the precincts of Dotheboys
Hall. You would find fellows who showed a grim delight in walking down a class with a cane in their hand.
enjoying the evident fear they occasioned as they swung
it about, occasionally coming down with a savage whack
on some poor fellow who was doing nothing whatsoever.
These brutal teachers would flog, and that till compelled
to cease by pure exhaustion, not merely for moral offences, which possibly deserve it, (though I do not believe
any one was ever made better by flogging,) but for making a mistake in saying a lesson, which the poor boy had
done his best to prepare, and which was driven out of his
head by the fearful aspect of the truculent blackguard
with his cane and his hoarse voice. And how indignant,
in after-years, many a boy of the last generation must
have been, to find that this tyrant of his childhood was
in truth a humbug, a liar, a fool, and a sneak! Yet how
that miserable piece of humanity was feared! How they
watched his eye, and laughed at the old idiot's wretched
jokes! I have several friends who have told me such
stories of their school-days, that I used to wonder that
they did not, after they became men, return to the schoolboy spot that they might heartily shake their preceptor
of other years, or even kick him!




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.',57
If there be a thing to be wondered at, it is that the
human race is not much worse than it is.  It has not a
fair chance.  I am not thinking now of an original defect in the material provided: I am thinking only of' the
kind of handling it gets.  I am thinking of the amount
of judgment which may be found in most parents and in
most teachers, and of the degree of honesty which may
be found in many.  I suppose there is no doubt that the
accursed system of the cheap Yorkshire schools was by
no means caricatured by Mr. Dickens in " Nicholas
Nickleby."  I believe that starvation and brutality were
the rule at these institutions.  And I do not think it says
much for the manliness of Yorkshire men and of Yorkshire
clergymen, that these foul dens of misery and wickedness
were suffered to exist so long without a voice raised to let
the world know of them.  I venture to think, that, if Dr.
Guthrie of Edinburgh had lived anywhere near Greta
Bridge, Mr. Squeers and his compeers would have attained
a notoriety that would have stopped their trade. I cannot imagine how any one, with the spirit of a man in him,
could sleep and wake within sight of one of these schools
without lifting a hand or a voice to stop what was goinge
on there. But without supposing these extreme cases, I
can remember what I have myself seen of the incompetence and injustice of teachers. I burn with indignation yet, as I think of a malignant blockhead who once
taught me for a few months.  I have been at various
schools; and I spent six years at one venerable university (where my instructors were wise and worthy); and
I am now so old, that I may say, without any great exhibition of vanity, that I have always kept well up among
my school and college companions: but that blockhead
kept me steadily at the bottom  of my class, and kept a
17




258  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
fiightful dunce at the top of it, by his peculiar system.
I have observed (let me say) that masters and professors
who are stupid themselves have a great preference for
stupid fellows, and like to keep down clever ones.  A
professor who was himself a dunce at college, and who
has been jobbed into his chair, being quite unfit for it,
has a fellow-feeling for other dunces.  He is at home
with them, you see, and is not afraid that they see
through him  and despise him.  The injustice of the
malignant blockhead who was my early instructor, and
who succeeded in making several months of my boyhood
unhappy enough, was taken up and imitated by several
lesser blockheads among the boys. I remember particularly one sneaking wretch who was occasionally set to
mark down on a slate the names of such boys as talked in
school; such boys being punished by being turned to the
bottom of their class.  I remember how that sneaking
wretch used always to mark my name down, though I
kept perfectly silent: and how he put my name last on
the list, that I might have to begin the lesson the very
lowest in my form.  The sneaking wretch was bigger
than I, so I could not thrash him; and any representation I made to the malignant blockhead of a schoolmaster
was entirely disregarded. I cannot think but with considerable ferocity, that probably there are many schools
to-day in Britain containing a master who has taken an
unreasonable dislike to some poor boy, and who lays
lhimself out to make that poor boy unhappy.  And I
know that such may be the case where the boy is neither
bad nor stupid. And if the school be one attended by a
good many boys of the lower grade, there are sure to be
several sneaky boys among them who will devote themselves to tormenting the one whom the master hates and
torments.




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 259
It cannot be denied that there is a generous and magnanimous tone about the boys of a school attended exclusively by the children of the better classes, which is
unknown among the children of uncultivated boors. I
have observed, that, if you offer a prize to the cleverest
and most industrious boy of a certain form in a school
of the upper class, and propose to let the prize be decided by the votes of the boys themselves, you will almost invariably find it fairly given: that is, given to the
boy who deserves it best.  If you explain, in a frank,
manly way, to the little fellows, that, in asking each for
whom  he votes, you are asking each to say upon his
honor whom he thinks the cleverest and most diligent
boy in the form, nineteen boys out of twenty will answer honestly.  But I have witnessed the signal failure
of such an appeal to the honor of the bumpkins of a
country-school. I was once present at the examination
of such a school, and remarked carefully how the boys
acquitted themselves. After the examination was over,
the master proposed, very absurdly, to let the boys of
each class vote the prize for that particular class.  The
voting began. A class of about twenty was called up:
I explained to the boys what they were to do. I told
them they were not to vote for the boy they liked best,
but were to tell me faithfully who had done best in the
class-lessons.  I then asked the first boy in the line for
whom he gave his vote.  To my mortification, instead
of voting for a little fellow who had done incomparably
best at the examination, he gave his vote for a big sullen-looking blockhead who had done conspicuously ill.
I asked the next boy, and received the same answer.
So all round the class: all voted for the big sullenlooking blockhead.  One or two did not give  their




260  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
votes quite promptly; and I could discern a threatening glance cast "at them by the big sullen-looking blockhead, and an ominous clinching of the blockhead's right
fist. I went round the class without remark; and the
blockhead made sure of the prize. Of course this would
not do. The blockhead could not be suffered to get the
prize; and it was expedient that he should be made to
remember the occasion on which he had sought to tamper with justice and right. Addressing the blockhead,
amid the dead silence of the school, I said: "You shall
not get the prize, because I can judge for myself that
you don't deserve it. I can see that you are the stupidest boy in the class; and I have seen reason, during this
voting, to believe that you are the worst. You have
tried to bully these boys into voting for you.  Their
votes go for nothing; for their voting for you proves
either that they are so stupid as to think you deserve the
prize, or so dishonest as to say they think so when they
don't think so." Then I inducted the blockhead into a
seat where I could see him well, and proceeded to take
the votes over again.  I explained to the boys once more
what they had to do; and explained that any boy would
be telling a lie who voted the prize unfairly.  I also
told them that I knew who deserved the prize, and that
they knew it too, and that they had better vote fairly.
Then, instead of saying to each boy, "For whom  do
you vote?" I said to each, "Tell me who did best
in the class during these months past."  Each boy in
reply named the boy who really deserved the prize:
and the little fellow got it. I need not record the means
I adopted to prevent the sullen-looking blockhead from
carrying out his purpose of thrashing the little fellow.
It may suffice to say that the means were thoroughly




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CIILD)HOOD.  261
effectual; and that the blockhead was very meek and
tractable for about six weeks after that memorable day.
But, after all, the great cause of the sorrows of childhood is unquestionably the mismanagement of parents.
You hear a great deal about parents who spoil their
children by excessive kindness; but I venture to think
that a greater number of children are spoiled by stupidity and cruelty on the part of their parents. You may
find parents who, having started from a humble origin,
have attained to wealth, and who, instead of being glad
to think that their children are better off than they themselves were, exhibit a diabolical jealousy of their children. You will find such wretched beings insisting that
their children shall go through needless trials and mortifications, because they themselves went through the
like.  Why, I do not hesitate to say that one of the
thoughts which would most powerfully lead a worthy
man to value material prosperity would be the thought
that his boys would have a fairer and happier start in
life than he had, and would be saved the many difficulties on which he still looks back with pain.  You will
find parents, especially parents of the pharisaical and
wrong-headedly religious class, who seem to hold it a
sacred duty to make the little things unhappy; who
systematically endeavor to render life as bare, ugly, and
wretched a thing as possible; who never praise their
children when they do right, but punish them with great
severity when they do wrong; who seem  to hate to see
their children lively or cheerful in their presence; who
thoroughly repel all sympathy or confidence on the part
of their children, and then mention as a proof that their
children are possessed by the Devil, that their children




262  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
always like to get away from them; who rejoice to cut
oif any little enjoyment, -rigidly carrying  out into
practice the fundamental principle of their creed, which
undoubtedly is, that "nobody should ever please himself, neither should anybody ever please anybody else,
because in either case he is sure to displease God."
No doubt, Mr. Buckle, in his second volume, caricatured
and misrepresented the religion &f Scotland as a country; but he did not in the least degree caricature or
misrepresent the religion of some people in Scotland.
The great doctrine underlying all other doctrines, in the
creed of a few unfortunate beings, is, that God is spitefully angry to see his creatures happy; and of course
the practical lesson follows, that they are following the
best example, when they are spitefully angry to see
their children happy.
Then a great trouble, always pressing heavily on
many a little mind, is that it is overtasked with lessons.
You still see here and there idiotic parents striving to
make infant phenomena of their children, and recording
with much pride how  their children could read and
write at an unnaturally early age. Such parents are
fools: not necessarily malicious fools, but fools beyond
question. The great use to which the first six or seven
years of life should be given is the laying the foundation
of a healthful constitution in body and mind; and the
instilling of those first principles of duty and religion
which do not need to be taught out of any books. Even
if you do not permanently injure the young brain and
mind by prematurely overtasking them, - even if you
do not permanently blight the bodily health and break
the mind's cheerful spring, you gain nothing. Your
child at fourteen years old is not a bit farther advanced




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 268
in his education than a child who began his years after
him; and the entire result of your stupid driving has
been to evercloud some days which should have been
among the happiest of his life.  It is a woful sight to
me to see the little forehead corrogated with mental
effort, though the effort be to do no more than master
the multiplication table: it was a sad story I lately heard
of a little boy repeating his Latin lesson over and over
again in the delirium of the fever of which he died, and
saying piteously that indeed he could not do it better.
I don't like to see a little face looking unnaturally anxious and earnest about a horrible task of spelling; and
even when children pass that stage, and grow up into
school-boys who can read Thucydides and write Greek
iambics, it is not wise in parents to stimulate a clever
boy's anxiety to hold the first place in his class. That
anxiety is strong enough already; it needs rather to be
repressed.  It is bad enough even at college to work on
late into the night; but at school it ought not to be suffered for one moment.  If a lad takes his place in his
class every day in a state of nervous tremor, he may be
in the way to get his gold medal, indeed; but he is in
the way to shatter his constitution for life.
We all know, of course, that children are subjected to
worse things than these.  I think of little things early
set to hard work, to add a little to their parent's scanty
store. Yet, if it be only work, they bear it cheerfully.
This afternoon, I was walking through a certain quiet
street, when I saw a little child standing with a basket at
a door.  The little man looked at various passers-by;
and I am happy to say, that, when he saw me, he asked
me to ring the door-bell for him: for, though he had
been sent with that basket, which was not a light one, he




264  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
could not reach up to the bell.  I asked him how old he
was.  " Five years past," said the child, quite cheerfully
and independently.  " God help you, poor little man!"
I thought; "the doom of toil has fallen early upon you! "
If you visit much among the poor, few things will touch
ycu more than the unnatural sagacity and trustworthiness
of children who are little more than babies. You will
fin:l these little things left in a bare room by themselves,
-  the eldest six years old, - while the poor mother is
out at her work.  And the eldest will reply to your questions in a way that will astonish you, till you get accustomed to such things.  I think that almost as heart-rending a sight as you will readily see is tlhe misery of a little
thing who has spilt in the street the milk she was sent to
fetch, or broken a jug, and who is sitting in despair beside
the spilt milk or the broken fragments.  Good Samaritan,
never pass by such a sight; bring out your twopence;
set things completely right: a small matter and a kind
word will cheer and comfort an overwhelmed heart. -That
child has a truculent step-mother, or (alas!) mother, at
home, who would punish that mishap as nothing should be
punished but the gravest moral delinquency. And lower
down the scale than this, it is awful to see want, cold,
hunger, rags, in a little child. I have seen the wee thing
shuffling along the pavement in great men's shoes, holdirg up its sorry tatters with its hands, and casting on the
passengers a look so eager, yet so hopeless, as went to
one's heart.  Let us thank God that there is one large
city in the empire where you need never see such a sight,
and where, if you do, you know how to relieve it effectually; and let us bless the name and the labors and the
genius of Thomas Guthrie! It is a sad thing to see the
toys of such little children as I can think of.  What




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 265
curious things they are able to seek amusement in! I
have known a brass button at the end of a string a much
prized possession. I have seen a grave little boy standing by a broken chair in a bare garret, solemnly arranging and rearranging two pins upon the broken chair. A
machine much employed by poor children in countryplaces is a slate tied to a bit of string: this, being drawn
along the road, constitutes a cart; and you may find it
attended by the admiration of the entire young population of three or four cottages standing in the moorland
miles from any neighbor.
You will not unfrequently find parents who, if they
cannot keep back their children from some little treat,
will try to infuse a sting into it, so as to prevent the children from enjoying it.  They will impress on their children that they must be very wicked to care so much
about going out to some children's party; or they will
insist that their children should return home at some preposterously early hour, so as to lose the best part of the
fun, and so as to appear ridiculous in the eyes of their
young companions.  You will find this amiable tendency
in people intrusted with the care of older children.  I
have heard of a man whose nephew lived with him, and
lived a very cheerless life.  When the season came round
at which the lad hoped to be allowed to go and visit his
parents, he ventured, after much hesitation, to hint this
to his uncle.  Of course the uncle felt that it was quite
right the lad should go, but he grudged him the chance
of the little enjoyment, and the happy thought struck him
that he might let the lad go, and at the same time make
the poor fellow uncomfortable in going. Accordingly he
conveyed his permission to the lad to go by roaring out




266  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
in a savage manner, "Begone!"  This made the poor
lad feel as if it were his duty to stay, and as if it were
very wicked in him to wish to go; and though he ultimately went, he enjoyed his visit with only half a heart.
There are parents and guardians who take great pains
to make their children think themselves very bad, - to
make the little things grow up in the endurance of the
pangs of a bad conscience.  For conscience, in children,
is a quite artificial thing: you may dictate to it what it is
to say.  And parents, often injudicious, sometimes malignant, not seldom  apply hard names to their children,
which sink down into the little heart and memory far
more deeply than they think. If a child cannot eat fat,
you may instil into him that it is because he is so wicked;
and he will believe you for a while.  A favorite weapon
in the hands of some parents, who have devoted themselves diligently to making their children miserable, is to
frequently predict to the children the remorse which they
(the children) will feel after they (the parents) are dead.
In such cases, it would be difficult to specify the precise
things which the children are to feel rerorsefhl about.
It must just be, generally, because they were so wicked,
and because they did not sufficiently believe the infallibility and impeccability of their ancestors.  I am  reminded of the woman mentioned by Sam Weller, whose
husband disappeared.  The woman had been a fearful
termagant; the husband, a very inoffensive man.  After
his disappearance, the woman issued an advertisement,
assuring him, that, if he returned, he would be fully forgiven; which, as Mr. Weller justly remarked, was very
generous, seeing he had never done anything at all.
Yes,. the conscience of children is an artificial and a
sensitive thing.  The other day, a friend of mine, who is




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHIDHOO D. 267
one of the kindest of parents and the most amiable of
men, told me what happened in his house on a certain
Fast-day.  A  Scotch Fast-day, you may remember, is
the institution which so completely puzzled Mr. Buckle.
That historian fancied that to fast means in Scotland to
abstain from  food. Had Mr. Buckle known anything
whatever about Scotland, he would have known that a
Scotch Fast-day means a week-day on which people go
to church, but on which (especially in the dwellings of
the clergy) there is a better dinner than usual. I never
knew man or woman in all my life who on a Fast-day
refrained from eating. And quite right, too. The growth
of common sense has gradually abolished literal fasting.
In a warm Oriental climate, abstinence from food may
give the mind the preeminence over the body, and so
leave the mind better fitted for religious duties. In our
country, literal fasting would have just the contrary effect: it would give the body the mastery over the soul;
it would make a man so physically uncomfortable that he
could not attend with profit to his religious duties at all.
I am aware, Anglican reader, of the defects of my countrymen; but commend me to the average Scotchman for
sound practical sense. But to return. These Fast-days
are by many people observed as rigorously as the Scotch
Sunday. On the forenoon of such a day, my friend's
little child, three years old, came to him in much distress.
She said, as one who had a fearful sin to confess, " I have
been playing with my toys this morning;" and then began to cry as if her little heart would break. I know
some stupid parents who would have strongly encouraged this needless sensitiveness; and who would thus
have made their child unhappy at the time, and prepared
the way for an indignant bursting of these artificial tram



268  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
mels when the child had grown up to maturity.  But my
friend was not of that stamp.  He comforted the little
thing, and told her, that, though it might be as well not
to play with her toys on a Fast-day, what she had done
was nothing to cry about. I think, my reader, that, even
if you were a Scotch minister, you would appear with
considerable confidence before your Judge, if you had
never done worse than failed to observe a Scotch Fastday with the Covenanting austerity.
But when one looks back and looks round and tries to
reckon up the sorrows of childhood arising from parental
folly, one feels that the task is endless. There are parents
who will not suffer their children to go to the little feasts
which children occasionally have, either on that wicked
principle that all enjoyment is sinful, or because the children have recently committed some small offence, which is
to be thus punished.  There are parents who take pleasure in informing strangers, in their children's presence,
about their children's faults, to the extreme bitterness of
the children's hearts.  There are parents who will not
allow their children to be taught dancing, regarding dancing as sinful. The result is, that the children are awkward
and unlike other children; and when they are suffered to
spend an evening among a number of companions who
have all learned dancing, they suffer a keen mortification
which older people ought to be able to understand. Then
you will find parents, possessing ample means, who will
not dress their children like others, but send them  out in
very shabby garments. Few things cause a more painful
sense of humiliation to a child. It is a sad sight to see a
little fellow hiding round the corner when some one passes
who is likely to recognize him, afraid to go through the




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 269
decent streets, and creeping out of sight by back-ways.
We have all seen that. We have all sympathized heartily
with the reduced widow who has it not in her power to
dress her boy better; and we have all felt lively indignation at the parents who had the power to attire their children becomingly, but whose heartless parsimony made the
little things go about under a constant sense of painfill
degradation.
An extremely wicked way of punishing children is by
shutting them up in a dark place.  Darkness is naturally
fearful to human beings, and the stupid ghost-stories of
many nurses make it especially fearful to a child.  It is
a stupid and wicked thing to send a child on an errand in
a dark night.  I do not remember passing through a
greater trial in my youth than once walking three miles
alone (it was not going on an errand) in the dark, along
a road thickly shaded with trees.  I was a little fellow;
but I got over the distance in half an hour.  Part of the
way was along the wall of a church-yard, one of those
ghastly, weedy, neglected, accursed-looking spots where
stupidity has done what it can to add circumstances of
disgust and horror to the Christian's long sleep. Nobody
ever supposed that this walk was a trial to a boy of twelve
years old: so little are the thoughts of children understood. And children are reticent: I am telling now about
that dismal walk for the very first time. And in the illnesses of childhood, children sometimes get very close
and real views of death.  I remember, when I was nine
years old, how every evening, when I lay down to sleep,
I used for about a year to picture myself lying dead, till
I felt as though the coffin were closing round me. I used
to read at that period, with a curious feeling of fascination, Blair's poem, "'The Grave."  But I never dreamed




270  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
of telling anybody about these thoughts.  I believe that
thoughtful children keep most of their thoughts to themselves, and in respect of the things of which they think
most are as profoundly alone as the Ancient Mariner in
the Pacific. I have heard of a parent, an important member of a very strait sect of the Pharisees, whose child,
when dying, begged to be buried not in a certain foul old
hideous church-yard, but in a certain cheerful cemetery.
This request the poor little creature made with all the
energy of terror and despair.  But the strait Pharisee
refused the dying request, and pointed out, with polemical bitterness, to the child, that he must be very wicked
indeed to care at such a time where he was to be buried,
or what might be done with his body after death.  How
I should enjoy the spectacle of that unnatural, heartless,
stupid wretch tarred and feathered!  The dying child
was caring for a thing about which Shakespeare cared;
and it was not in mere human weakness, but " by faith,"
that " Joseph, when he was a-dying, gave commandment
concerning his bones."
I believe that real depression of spirits, usually the sad
heritage of after-years, is often felt in very early youth.
It sometimes comes of the child's belief that he must be
very bad, because he is so frequently told that he is so.
It sometimes comes of the child's fears, early felt, as to
what is to become of him.  His parents, possibly, with
the good sense and kind feeling which distinguish various
parents, have taken pains to drive it into the child, that,
if his father should die, he will certainly starve, and may
very probably have to become a wandering beggar. And
these sayings have sunk deep into the little heart. I remember how a fiiend told me that his constant wonder,
when he was twelve or thirteen years old, was this: If




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD. 271
life was such a burden already, and so miserable to look
back upon, how could he ever bear it when he had grown
older?
But now, my reader, I am going to stop.  I have a
great deal more marked down to say, but the subject is
growing so thoroughly distressing to me, as I go on, that
I shall go on no farther.  It would make me sour and
wretched for the next week, if I were to state and illustrate the varied sorrows of childhood of which I intended
yet to speak: and if I were to talk out my heart to you
about the people who cause these, I fear my character for
good-nature would be gone with you for ever.  " This
genial writer," as the newspapers call me, would show but
little geniality: I am aware, indeed, that I have already
been writing in a style which, to say the least, is snappish. So I shall say nothing of the first death that comes
in the family in our childish days, - its hurry, its confusion, its awe-struck mystery, its wonderfully vivid recalling of the words and looks of the dead; nor of the terrible trial to a little child of being sent away from home to
school, -the heart-sickness and the weary counting of
the weeks and days before the time of returning home
again. But let me say to every reader who has it in his
power directly or indirectly to do so, Oh, do what you can
to make children happy! oh, seek to give that great enduring blessing of a happy youth! Whatever after-life
may prove, let there be something bright to look back
upon in the horizon of their early time!  You may sour
the human spirit forever, by cruelty and injustice in youths
There is a past suffering which exalts and purifies; but
this leaves only an evil result: it darkens all the world,
and all our views of it. Let us try to make every little




272  CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.
child happy. The most selfish parent might try to please
a little child, if it were only to see the fresh expression
of unblunted feeling, and a liveliness of pleasurable emotion which in after-years we shall never know. I do not
believe a great English barrister is so happy when he has
the Great Seal committed to him as two little and rather
ragged urchins whom I saw this very afternoon.  I was
walking along a country-road, and overtook them.  They
were about five years old.  I walked slower, and talked
to them for a few minutes, and found that they were good
boys, and went to school every day.  Then I produced
two coins of the copper coinage of Britain: one a large
penny of ancient days, another a small penny of tie present age.  "There is a penny for each of you," I said,
with some solemnity: "one is large, you see, and the
other small; but they are each worth exactly the same.
Go and get something good." I wish you had seen them
go off!  It is a cheap and easy thing to make a little
heart happy. May this hand never write another essay
if it ever wilfully miss the chance of doing so! It is all
quite right in after-years to be careworn and sad.  We
understand these matters ourselves. Let others bear the
burden which we ourselves bear, and which is doubtless
good for us. But the poor little things! I can enter into the feeling of a kind-hearted man who told me that
he never could look at a number of little children but the
tears came into his eyes.  How much these young creaures have to bear yet! I think you can, as you look at
them, in some degree understand and sympathize with
the Redeemer, who, when he "saw  a great multitude,
was moved with compassion toward them!"  Ah, you
smooth  little face, (you may  think,) I know  what
years will make of you, if they find you in this world!




CONCERNING THE SORROWS OF CHILDHOOD.  273
And you, light little heart, will know your weight of
care!
And I remember, as I write these concluding lines,
who they were that the Best and Kindest this world ever
saw liked to have near Him; and what the reason was
He gave why He felt most in His element when they
were by His side.  He wished to have little children
round Him, and would not have them  chidden away;
and this because there was something about them that
reminded Him of the Place from which He came. He
liked the little faces and the little voices, -  He to whom
the wisest are in understanding as children. And oftentimes, I believe, these little ones still do His work.
Oftentimes, I believe, when the worn man is led to Him
in childlike confidence, it is by the hand of a little child.
18




CHAPTER X.
THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.1
]iEPUBLICANS are born, not made," says?1^^     4  the lively author of Kaloolah; and so, we.! j' 1have long held, are  true-blue Presbyterians.   A   certain  preponderance  of the
sterner elements, a certain lack of capacity of emotion,
and disregard of the influence of associations, - in brief,
a certain  hardness of character to  be found  only  in
Scotland, is needed to make your out-and-out follower
of John Knox.  The great mass of the educated members of the Church of Scotland have no pretension to
the name of true-blue Presbyterians: Balfour of Burley would have scouted  them; under the insidious influence of greater enlightenment and more rapid communication, they have  in many respects approximated
sadly to "black prelacy."  Dr. Candlish's book reminds
us that out-and-out Presbyterians are still to be found
in the northern  part of this island.  In arguing with
such, we feel a peculiar difficulty.  We have no ground
in  common.   Things which  appear to us as self-evident axioms, they flatly deny.  For instance, it appears
I The Organ Question: Statements by Dr. Ritchie and Dr. Portecus
for and againstthe use of the Organ in Public Worship, in the Proceedings of the Presbytery of Glasgow, 1807-8. With an introductory Notice, by Robert S. Candlish, D.D. Edinburgh. 1856.




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    275
to us just as plain as that two and two make four, that a
ahurch should be something essentially different in appearance from an ordinary dwelling; that there is a peculiar sanctity about the house of God; that if it be fit to
pay some respect to the birthday of the Queen, it cannot
be wrong to -pay a greater to the birthday of the Redeemer; that the worship of God should be made as
solemn in itself as possible, and as likely as possible to
impress the hearts of the worshippers; that if music is
employed in the worship of God, it should be the best
music to be had; and that if there be a noble instrument
especially adapted to the performance of sacred music,
with something in its very tones that awes the heart and
wakens devotional feeling, that is beyond all question
the instrument to have in our churches.  Now all this the
true-blue Presbyterian at once denies.  He holds that all
that is required of a church is protection fiom the weather,
with seat-room, and, perhaps, ventilation; he denies that
any solemnized feeling is produced by noble architecture,
or that the Gothic vault is fitter for a church than for a
factory; he walks into church with his hat on to show he
does not care for bricks and mortar; he taboos Christmas-day, with all its gentle and gracious remembrances;
he maintains that the barest of all worship is likeliest to
be true spiritual service; he holds that there is something essentially evil and sinful in the use of an organ in
church; that the organ is " a portion of the trumpery which
ignorance and superstition had foisted into the house of
God;" that to introduce one is to " convert a church into
a concert-room," and "to return back to Judaism;" and
that "the use of instrumental music in the worship of
God is neither lawful, nor expedient, nor edifying." 1
1 The Organ Question, pp. 108, 125, 128, &c.




27 G    THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
We confess that we do not know how to argue with
men who honestly hold these views. The things which
they deny appear to us so perfectly plain already, that no
argument can make them plainer.  If any man say to us,
"I don't feel in the least solemnized by the noble cathedral and the pealing anthem," all we can reply is simply,
"Then you are different from human beings in general;"
but it is useless to argue wit} him. If you argue a thesis
at all, you can argue it only from things less liable to dispute than itself; and in the case of all these matters
attached to Presbytery, though not forming part of its
essence, this is impossible.  Whenever we have had an
argument with an old impracticable Presbyterian, we
have left off with the feeling that some people are born
Presbyterians; and if so, there is no use in talking to
them.
But all these notions to which allusion has been made,
are attached to Presbytery by vulgar prejudice; they
form no part of its essence, and enlightened Presbyterians now-a-days are perfectly aware of the fact.  There
is no earthly connection in the nature of things between
Presbyterian Church-government and flat-roofed meetinghouses, the abolition of the seasons of the Christian year,
a bare and bald ritual, a vile " precentor " howling out of
all tune, and a congregation joinins as musically as the
frogs in Aristophanes.  The educated classes in Scotland
have for the most part come to see this, and in Edinburgh
and Glasgow, even among the Dissenters, we find churchlike places of worship, decent singing, and the entire service conducted with propriety.  And one of the marked
signs of vanishing prejudice is, that a general wish is
springing up for the introduction of that noble instrument, so adapted to church-music, the organ.  Things




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    277
have even gone so far that the principal ecclesiastical
court of a considerable Scotch dissenting denomination,
has left it to be decided by each congregation for itself,
whether it will have an organ or not. And several dissenting ministers of respectable standing and undoubted
Presbyterianism, are pushing the matter strongly.
We should have fancied that men of sense in North
Britain would have been pleased to find that there is a
prospect of the organ being generally introduced: and
this upon the broad ground that church-music would thus
be made more solemn, more worthy of God's worship,
more likely to awaken devotional feeling.  We should
have fancied that there was no need for special pleading
on the part of the advocates of the organ, and assuredly
no room for lengthened argument on the part of its opponents.  The entire argument, we think, may be summed
up thus:  Whatever makes church-music more solemn
and solemnizing is good; the organ does this: therefore,
let us have the organ. If a man denies our first proposition, he is a person who cannot be reasoned with.  If he
denies the second, he has no musical taste.  If he admits
both, yet denies the conclusion, then he is either prejudiced or yielding to prejudice.  And so the discussion
ends.  And though we do not by any means hold that the
majority is necessarily right, still in this world we have,
after all, no further appeal than to the mass of educated
men, and they have decided " the organ question."  We
believe that the Scotch Church and its offshoots are the
only Christian sects that taboo the organ.
We should not have been surprised to find opposition
to the organ on the part of the unreasoning crowd, who
regard it as a rag of Popery, and whose hatred of everything prelatical is quite wonderful. But it startles us to




278     THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
find reasonable and educated Scotchmen maintaining that
an organ is an idol, and that its use is not only inexpedient, but absolutely sinful and forbidden. We have read
with considerable interest, and with great surprise, Dr.
Candlish's publication on The Organ  Question, elicited
by " the alarm  he feels at certain recent movements on
behalf of instrumental music in Presbyterian worship."
(p. 5.)  His part in it is confined to an introductory essay,
reflecting little credit upon either his logic or his taste:
and instead of arguing the matter for himself, he prefers
to reproduce what he regards as a complete discussion of
the subject, in two documents, written nearly half a century since.  The circumstances under which these were
written are as follows: 
In the centre of a considerable square, opening out of
the Salt Market of Glasgow (indissolubly associated with
the memory of Bailie Nicol Jarvie and Rob Roy), there
stands the elegant church of St. Andrew.  It is afacsimile, on a much reduced scale, of St. Martin's-in-the-fields,
at Charing Cross.  Fifty years since, Dr. Ritchie, the incumbent of that church, in accordance with the wish of
his entire congregation, one of the most intelligent in
Scotland, introduced an organ.  On Sunday, the 23d of
August, 1807, the sole organ which has been used since
the Reformation in any Scotch church in Scotland,' was
used for the first and last time.  Extreme horror was
excited among the ultra-Presbyterians.  Dr. Ritchie was
forthwith pulled up by the Presbytery of Glasgow, and
1 Organs are not unfiequently found in Scotch churches out of Scotland. The Scotch churches maintained by the East India Company at
Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay, are provided with organs, which are
regularly used.  The case is the same with several of the Scotch
churches in the West Indies, and with one long established at Amsterdam.




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    27C
getting fiightened at his own audacity, he declared at
its meeting "that he would not again use an organ in
the public worship of God without the authority of the
Church."  Upon this the Presbytery passed a resolution
to the effect "That the Presbytery are of opinion that
the use of the organ in the public worship of God, is
contrary to the law of the land, and to the law and constitution of our Established Church, and therefore prohibit it in all the churches and chapels within their
bounds; and with respect to Dr. Ritchie's conduct in this
matter, they are satisfied with his declaration."  Dr.
Ritchie gave in a paper containing his reasons of dissent;
and a committee of the Presbytery prepared a reply to
it.  These two papers form the substance of the book now
sent forth with Dr. Candlish's name.
The commotion excited in Scotland by the introduction
of the organ was indescribable. Dr. Ritchie was accused
of " the monstrous crime of worshipping God by images,
of violating the articles of the Union, of demolishing the
barriers for the security of our religion, of committing a
deed of perjury to ordination vows." (p. 61.) A howl of
execration was directed against the man who had exhibited the flagrant insolence of introducing what John Knox
had tastefully described as a " kist fu' o' whistles." Pamphlets and caricatures were numerous.  Dr. Candlish thinks
it worth while to preserve the remembrance of a picture
" which represents Dr. Ritchie, who was about the time
of these proceedings translated to Edinburgh, travelling
as a street musician, with a barrel organ strapped across
his shoulder, and solacing himself with the good old tune,
"I'll gang nae mair to yon toun." (p. 28.)  Wit and intelligence appear to have been tolerably equal in Scotland
in those days.




280      THE ORGAN QUESTION  IN  SCOTLAND.
Dr. Candlish's own  sentiments  are plainly  enoughl
expressed.  He thinks that " cogent arguments can be
urged, both from  reason and'Scripture, against the practice of using the organ." (p. 14.)  He hopes that his present publication " will make many who have been almost
led away by the plausibilities that are so easily got up on
the side of organs, pause before they lend themselves to
what may cause a most perilous agitation." (p. 31). This
is fair enough, because there may be prejudices in the
mass of the Scotch  people  so strong  that it would be
inexpedient to shock them  by introducing instrumental
music.  But Dr. Candlish goes on, in words which bewilder us, to give his opinion on the essential merits of
the question:It is not that I am afraid of a controversy on this subject, or of its
issue, so far as the merits of the question are concerned. I believe it is
a question which touches some of the highest and deepest points of
Christian theology. Is the temple destroyed, is the temple worship
wholly superseded?  Have we, or have we not, priests and sacrifices
among us now? Does the Old Testament itself point to anything but
the " fruit of the lips," as the peace-offering or thank-offering of
gospel times? Is there a trace in the New Testament of any other
mode of praise?  For my mpart, I am persuaded that if the organ be admitted, there is no barrier, in principle, against the sacerdotal system in
all its fulness, - against the substitution again, in our whole religion, of
the formal for the spiritual, the symbolical for the real!
And then, remembering that this may offend Episcopalians, Dr. Candlish goes on offensively to say that the
Church of England never attained light enough to reject
the organ, and may therefore be permitted the use of a
carnal contrivance which the more enlightened Presbyterians would be retrograding in taking up.  A position at
which the organ is retained, is wonderfully well for Southrons; but would be a wretched falling off in the followers
of Cameron and Renwick.




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    281
Dr. Ritchie appears from  his "Statement" to have
been an enlightened and educated  man, somewhat in
advance of his age, and who had miscalculated the consequences of setting up the organ.  The pear was not
ripe; it is hardly so yet, after the lapse of fifty years.
He adduces just such arguments in favor of instrumental music, as would present themselves to any English
mind, modified somewhat by his knowledge of the prejudices of the tribunal lie addressed.  His statement is
written with elegance, and temperately expressed.  IIe
sets out by stating that the use of instrumental music
in worship has its foundation in the best feelings of
human nature, prompting  men to employ with reverence, according to the means they possess, all their powers in expressing gratitude to their Creator.  This use
cannot be traced in sacred history fiom  the time of
Moses down to that of David: but David not only employed instrumental music himself, but calls "on all nations, all the earth, to praise the Lord as he did, with
psaltery, with harp, with organ, with the voice of a
psalm."   His psalms are constantly sung in Christian
worship; " and can it be a sin to sing them, as was done
by the original composer, with the accompaniment of an
organ? "   Christ never found fault with instrumental
music, neither did Paul or John; the latter indeed tells
us that he beheld in heaven " Harpers harping with their
harps."   During the earlier centuries, the persecutions
to which Christians were exposed probably suffered no
thought about a matter not essential: but the use of organs became general in the time of dawning light. At
the Reformation it was felt that their use was no essential part of Popery; and thus it was retained by all the
reformed churches, those of Luther and Calvin alike, ex



282      THE ORGAN  QUESTION  IN  SCOTLAND.
cept the Church of Scotland.  Organs did not find favor
in Scotland, because religious persecution had excited in
that country a great horror of whatever had been used in
popish or prelatical worship, as altars, crosses, organs.
But although the organ was associated with Episcopacy,
there is no necessary connection:And in the use of an organ in church during public praise, I cannot,
fIr my life, after long and serious attention to the subject, discover
even an approach to any violation either of the purity or uniformity
of our worship. For who will or can allege that an organ is an innovation upon the great object of worship? - we all, I trust, worship the
one God, through the one Mediator. Or upon the subject of praise? -
for we all sing the same psalms and paraphrases in the same language,
all giving thanks for the same mercies. Or upon the posture of the
worshippers? - for we all sit, as becomes Presbyterians. Or upon the
tunes sung?- for we sing only such as are in general use. Or upon
the office of the precentor? - for he still holds his rank, and employs
the commanding tones of the organ for guiding the voices of the people.
What, then, is it? It is a help, a support given to the precentor's voice,
for enabling him more steadily, and with more dignity, to guide the
voice of the congregation, and thus to preserve not only uniformity,
but that unity of voice which is so becoming in the public service, which
so pleasingly heightens devout feelings, and prevents that discord which
so easily distracts the attention of the worshippers.
Such is an outline of Dr. Ritchie's argument.  Our
readers will, we doubt not, be curious to know what considerations, partaking of the nature of argument, can be
adduced against the use of organs in church.  Most people, we should think, would be more curious to know this,
than to have arguments in favor of an usage for which
common  sense is authority  sufficient.   Now, had  the
committee  of the Glasgow  Presbytery  assigned  their
true reason for rejecting the organ, it might have been
very briefly set out: it was simply to be different from
the Prelatists. A true-blue Presbyterian does not think
of discussing the fitness of any observance on the ground




TIlE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    283
of its own merits. He brings the matter to a shorter issue
-viz.: Is it used in the Episcopal Church or is it not?
If he goes beyond that, his final question would be, What
did John Knox say about it?  His infallibility is held in
Scotland much more strongly and practically than the
Pope's is in Italy.  If any man in a Scotch Church
Court should venture to impugn anything that ever was
said by the Reformer, he would draw a perfect storm of
indignation upon his own head.  We repeat, there is no
doctrine more decidedly held in Scotland than that of the
infallibility of John Knox.  Perhaps that of the impeccability of Calvin should be regarded as a companion
doctrine.  His vagaries as to the Sabbath preclude his
reception as infallible.  We have seen a paper by an
eminent minister of a Scotch dissenting "body," whose
purpose was to prove that Calvin was right in burning
Servetus.  The argument, so far as we could make it
out, appeared to be that Calvin's doing so was right,
because Calvin did it.  Of course, had Servetus burned
Calvin, it would have been quite a different thing.
As for the reply to Dr. Ritchie's Statement (which was
drawn up by a certain Dr. Porteous), we shall at once
say of it that it appears to us characterized by ignorance,
stupidity, and vulgarity, in the very highest degree.  Dr.
Ritchie's paper dealt with broad principles: this is mainly
employed in paltry personalities and misrepresentations.
Its style bristles with such descriptions of instrumental
music as ".will-worship," "superstitious rites," " converting a church into a concert-room," " an organ tickling the
ear of the audience" (the italics are the writer's own),
"the puerile amusement of' pipes and organs," &c.  We
shall endeavor to pick out from this very tedious lucubration whatever it contains in the nature of argument; and




284    THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
we believe that our readers will agree with us that the
mere statement of the following objections to the organ
is sufficient refutation of them.  We give our references, lest we should be suspected of caricaturing Dr.
Porteous's argument: —
1. Instrumental music in the worship of God is as
nuch part of the Jewish system as circumcision: therefore, if circumcision be abolished, so is the organ. (pp.
86-7.)  Instrumental music was essentially connected
with sacrifice; and as sacrifice was abolished by Christ's
death, so was instrumental music abolished. (pp. 87-8.)
The New Testament, by prescribing a new way of worshipping God, - to wit, by singing psalms, hymns, and
spiritual songs, -  is to be understood as abolishing the
old way, by instrumental niusic.  (p. 91.)   St. Paul,
far from  commending instrumental music, speaks of it
with contempt -  If I " have not charity, I am  become
as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal."  (p. 96.)  True,
harps are spoken of by St. John as in heaven; but St.
John was drawing on his recollection of the Temple
service, and is not to be literally understood. (pp. 97-8.)
So much for the argument from Scripture.
2. The Christians of the early centuries would have
had organs, had it been right to have them.  As they
had them not, " it is evident that they considered it unlawful to employ instrumental music in the worship of
God.  Both Arians and orthodox would have regarded
themselves as returning back to Judaism, if they had
permitted it in their public worship." (p. 108.) We are
surprised to find the Fathers quoted by a Presbyterian
clergyman, but in this case they make in favor of his
views.  Justin Martyr says, " Plain singing is not childish, but only the singing with lifeless organs: whence




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    285
the use of such instruments, and other things fit for children, is laid aside."  (pp. 109-10.)  Basil speaks of organs as " the inventions of Jubal, of the race of Cain."
(p. 111.)   Chrysostom  says that instrumental music
" was only permitted to the Jews for the imbecility and
grossness of their souls: but now, instead of organs,
Christians nmust use the body to praise God." (p. 112.)
Jerome and Augustine speak in a similar strain. Thomas
Aquinas, in the Schoolman age, says, " In the old law,
God was praised both with musical instruments and
human voices.  But the Church does not use musical
instruments to praise God, lest she should seem to judaize."  (p. 115).  And we are told, on the authority of
Eckhard, that Luther (among other foolish tiings which
he said) said that "organs were among the ensigns of
Baal!" (p. 119.)  There is no doubt that Calvin declared that " Instrumental music is not fitter to be adopted into the public worship of the Christian Church than
the incense, the candlesticks, and the other shadows of
the Mosaic law."  (p. 121.)  Our reply to all this is, that
the Fathers, Schoolmen, and Reformers, might fall into
error: if the question is to be decided by authority, we
could adduce a thousand authorities in favor of the organ
for every one against it; these eminent men had no other
grounds for forming their opinion than are patent to us,
and it seems manifest to common sense that neither in
reason nor Scripture are there any grounds to support
the opinions they express.  We appeal to the common
sense of mankind, even from the judgment of Chrysostom, Aquinas, Luther, and Calvin.
3. Dr. Porteous's next argument against the organ is,
that the Fathers of the Scotch Church " regarded instrumental music as the offspring of Judaism, and abhorred




286    rTHE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
it as a relic of Popery, and too intimately connected with
that prelatic form which our forefathers never could endure." (p. 132.)   It has been allowed by authors, foreign and domestic, that the genius of the Scotch people
is much more musical than that either of the English,
the Dutch, or the French.  But the people of Scotland
abhor the blending of the inventions of man with the
worship of God. They conceive instrumental music inconsistent with the purity of a New Testament Church."
(p. 134.)  Then 6 Knox and Melville, Rutherford and
Henderson, offer not one word in behalf of the organ.
They allow it to perish unnoticed, as a portion of that
trumpery which ignorance and superstition had foisted
into the house of God." (p. 140.) "The fixed, determined
opposition to instrumental music " among the Scotch Reformers " ariseth from  legal, political, moral, and Scriptural grounds." (p. 140.)  We admit at once that the
founders of the Scotch Church had an inveterate dislike
for the organ; but as they give us no reason for their
dislike, except the fact that the organ had been employed
in prelatic worship, and the utterly groundless assertion
that instrumental music was a purely Jewish observance,
we cannot regard their dislike otherwise than as an irrational prejudice.  The argument from Knox's opinion
may be a very good one where men believe the infallibility of Knox, but with us it has no weight whatever.
We regard ourselves quite as competent to form  an
opinion in this matter as Knox; and the argument
from  mere authority will not do in a case where the
authorities quoted have no special weight, and are in
a minority of one to a hundred.
4. The next argument is addressed exclusive to persons belonging to the Church of Scotland. At the Re



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN  SCOTLAND.               287
volution, " Prelacy was for ever abolished in Scotland; "
and the organ is part of Prelacy. (pp. 144-5.)  The
people, at all events, regarded it as such. (p. 145.)
And when it was stipulated  at the union of the two
kingdoms, that the established worship should continue,
it was understood on all hands that this stipulation excluded instrumental music. (pp. 150-161.)  Every clergyman at his ordination subscribes a formula, in which
he " sincerely owns the purity of worship presently au.
thorized and practised in this Church, and that he will
constantly adhere to the same; and that he will neither
directly nor indirectly endeavor the prejudice and subversion thereof." (p. 162.)  But this purity of worship
is destroyed by introducing an organ; for " by blending
instrumental music with  the human  voice, the simple
melody of our forefathers becomes immediately changed
into a medley, composed of animate and inanimate objects." (p. 165.)
We do not think any comment is needful upon all this.
We give another passage, which we presume is intended
for. an argument:Man being a reasonable creature, and a reasonable service being demanded from him by God, that reasonable service cannot so properly
be performed by man as when he useth his voice alone. This is the
vehicle which God hath given him to convey to his Maker the emotions of his soul. Musical instruments may indeed tickle the ear and
please the fancy of fallen man. But is God to be likened to fallen
man?  Organs are the mere invention of man, played often by hirelings, who, while they modulate certain sounds, may possess a heart
cold and hard as the nether mill-stone. You may, if you please, style
such music the will-worship of the organist; but you surely canrot, in
common sense, denominate it the praise of devout worshippers, singing
with grace, and making melody to the Lord in the heart.
The only passage in Dr. Porteous's argument which
appears to us to partake of the nature of discussion




288      THE ORGAN  QUESTION  IN  SCOTLAND.
on  the merits of  the  question, is  the  following  vulgarity: 
Your committee have heard your amateurs and dilettanti assert that
their nerves have been completely overcome with the powerful tones
of the organ, and the sublime crash of instrumental music in the oratorios of Handel. Your committee are willing to allow this musical
effect; but they believe, at the same time, that all the musical instruments that ever were used can never produce upon the devout and
contemplative mind that sublime and pathetic effect which the well
regulated voice of 8000 children produced, when singing the praises
of God in the cathedral of St. Paul's, upon the recovery of our good
old religious king. Away, then, with the cant of an organ's being so
wonderfully calculated to increase the devotion of Christians! Your
committee have sometimes had an opportunity of listening to instrumental music, in what is styled cathedral worship. It might for a
little time please and surprise by its novelty; the effect, however, was
very transitory, and sometimes produced ideas in the mind very different from devotion. Your committee believe that when the praises
of God are sung by every individual, even of an unlettered country
congregation, the effect is much more noble, and much nore salutary
to the mind of a Christian audience, than all the lofty artificial strains
of an organ, extracted by a hired organist, and accompanied by a confused noise of many voices, taught at great expense to chant over what
their hearts neither feel, nor their heads understand.
Now, as it appears to us, this passage is the only one
in Dr. Porteous's long treatise which touches the merits
of "the organ question."   Here he fairly joins issue with
the supporters of the organ on the question whether the
use of that instrument does or does not render God's
praise more solemn  and  affecting.  He maintains that
it does not.  On the strongest of all evidence, our own
experience, we maintain that it does. And we have no
higher court to appeal to.  We are just brought back to
the principle with which we set out -  the existence of
two  sorts or species of human  constitution  essentially
different by  nature.  Dr. Porteous was a born  Presbyterian.  We are not.  And we can but comfort our



THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    289
selves with the belief that were the educated population
of Christendom polled, we should be in a majority of ten
thousand to one. We make bold to say, that were you
to poll the educated people of Scotland, we should have
a hundred to one in our favor.
It will amuse our readers to know that this enlightened
clergyman, in closing his argument, bestows a parting kick
upon the idolatrous organ, by reminding us that we read
in the Book of Job, that the wicked of those days " took
the timbrel and the harp, and rejoiced at the sound of the
organ." (Job, ch. xxi. v. 14, 15, p. 188.)  And when
Nebuchadnezzar erected his golden image, the signal for
its worship was " the sound of the cornet, flute, harp,
sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music."
(Daniel, ch. iiio v. 3, p. 189.)  What on earth can we
say to the man who could seriously write this?
We have thus set forth Dr. Porteous's argument against
the organ, an argument which Dr. Candlish tells us,
"impressed him, when he first studied it, with the sort
of sense of completeness which a satisfactory demonstration gives; and a recent perusal has not lowered his
opinion of it." (p. 30.)  For ourselves, it has impressed
us with absolute wonder to think that any reasonable
man could have written a treatise so filled with bigotry
and absurdity.  We could not think of setting ourselves
to answer arguments whose folly is apparent on the first
glance at them; indeed, our fear is, that our readers may
fancy we have intentionally caricatured them, and we beg
to tender the assurance that we have set them out with
scrupulous fairness. We lament to see that minds naturally powerful and candid can be cramped and cribbed
by gloomy prejudices to the extent exemplified in Drs.
Porteous and Candlish, and we confidently make our ap19




290    THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
peal from them  to the common sense of the people of
Scotland. The great mass of educated Scotch people is
fast becoming extricated from the vulgar prejudice against
the organ. In every circle of polished society, the wish
may be heard for its introduction, on the broad ground
that it would be a great improvement, and that there is
no reason whatever against it, except the prejudice of
the first Scotch reformers against everything which had
been used in popish or prelatic worship. The feeling
is gaining ground in Scotland that this spirit of mere
contrariety was allowed to go to a most unreasonable
length.  The spirit of the Covenanters was, "Never
mind if kneeling be the natural posture of prayer, and
the one we ourselves always adopt in private; the Prelatists kneel in church, and therefore we shall stand.
Never mind if the very necessity of using the lungs
points to standing as the attitude for singing God's
praise' the Prelatists stand, so we shall sit."  And
there can be no question that the educated classes in
Scotland, in laying aside the spirit of pure contrariety
to Episcopacy, and looking at observances and estimating
them  by their own merits, are in so far departing from
the true Presbyterian principle; if we are to understand
by that the principle of the gloomy fanatics who signed
the Solemn League and Covenant, and thereby undertook to "endeavor the extirpation of Popery, Prelacy,
superstition, heresy, schism, and  profaneness." 1  No
doubt the " Cameronians" and " Original Seceders"
of Scotland at the present day, are a great deal more
like the Covenanters. than is the Church of Scotland.
Holding that for many reasons Presbytery is the best
form of church-government for Scotland, the great ma1 Solemn League and Covenant, Section II.




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    291
jority of the clergy of the Scotch Church are equally
persuaded that Episcopacy is the best form of churchgovernment for England.  And very many of the most
influential among the elders of the Church of Scotland,
say at once that they are Presbyterians in Scotland
and Episcopalians in England.  It would indeed be a
wretched thing, if in days not over-friendly to ecclesiastical establishments, the Churches of England and
Scotland, maintaining precisely the same doctrines, and
differing solely in the non-essential of church-government, should ever cherish other than a spirit of mutual
kindness and mutual support.
At the same time, it will take another century of railway communication and intercourse with England to rub
off the horror of Prelacy and all its belongings which
exists among the humble classes - at least, in countryplaces.  A  cross over the gable of a church, or a window of stained glass, must still be introduced, in countryparishes, with great caution.  We observe from a Scotch
newspaper, that a country clergyman, within the last
six months, introduced a choir of trained singers into
his church, in the hope of improving the psalmody.
Whenever the choir began the psalm, most of the congregation closed their books, and refused to join in the
singing, and many rose and left the church.  A choir
was introduced in the parish church of a considerable
town in the north of Scotland.  Some of the people listened in wonder to its first notes, and then hurried out
to escape the profanation, exclaiming, "They'll be bringing o'er the Pope next! "  If a country minister wishes
his precentor or clerk to appear in a gown and a white
aeckcloth, instead of entering the desk in a sky-blue coat
and scarlet waistcoat, some of his parishioners are sure




292    THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
to trace in the arrangement an undue leaning towards
Episcopacy.  The minister of a remote parish was presented with a pulpit gown by his people.  The people
naturally expected to see it next Sunday, and a larger
congregation came to see the gown than would have
assembled to hear the sermon.  The minister, however,
wore no gown.  Some of the chief contributors to its
expense called at the manse, to express the hope of the
parish that the gown might be worn.' I cannot wear it, said the minister;  it is too large
for me."
"Too large! " was the reply; "it fits elegantly."
Upon which the enlightened and cultivated gentleman
answered 
"No, it is far too large: the tail of it reaches a' the
way to Rome  "
No doubt this man would have judged an organ a
blasphemous, Satanic, Jewish, Popish, and Prelatic device.  But we do not believe that at the present day
such a person could be found among the clergy of the
farthest presbytery of the Hebrides.
We do not think that the time has come for the general introduction of the organ in Scotland. There is no
use in running in the face of the prejudices of a whole
people; and while the opponents of the organ regard
the question as one of principle, its supporters cannot
regard the organ as more than a luxury.  It is a step
in advance that there should be in Scotland such a
thing as " The Organ Question."  The matter is now in
debate: at one time the Presbyterian who raised it
would have been knocked on the head.  With the increasing enlightenment of the age, and the rapid communication that now  exists between this country and




THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.    293
Scotland, it is a mere matter of time till the organ
shall be employed wherever its expense can be afforded.
It would be highly inexpedient to press it upon the people now. It would retard the period of its general reception. All that can be looked for at present is, that
permission should be granted to each congregation to act
upon its own judgment in the matter of the organ. It
will be introduced first in the churches in the fashionable parts of Edinburgh and Glasgow, next in country
parishes where the squire has been educated at Oxford,
and ultimately, we doubt not, it will excite as little
wonder in Scotland as it does in England now. The
tide is flowing surely.  But we shall not live to see
that time.
Half-material beings as we are, and often the worse
for the material things which surround us - which by
their very solidity make spiritual things seem shadowy
and unreal in the comparison - it is well when we can
make (so to speak) a reprisal on tie hostile territory,
and get a material thing to conduce to our spiritual advantage. We cannot but think that in all the reasonings of ultra-Presbyterians on the immorality of organs,
there is woven a thread of the old Gnostic heresy of the
essential evil of matter; as though the same God who
made our spirits capable of being impressed, had not
made the material sights and sounds which are capable
of impressing them.  We are not afraid to argue " The
Organ Question" with Dr. Candlish on the highest and
farthest-reaching grounds, though we think it quite sufficiently decided by the ready appeal to common sense.
But what greater harm  is there in using the organ's
notes to waken pious thought and feeling, than in learning a lesson of our decay from the material emblem of




294     THE ORGAN QUESTION IN SCOTLAND.
the fading leaf, or from the lapse of the passing river?
If it be not wrong to avail ourselves of the natural pensiveness of the departing light, and to go forth like Isaac
in the eventide to meditate upon our most solemn concerns, -  why is it sinful or degrading to turn to use the
native power which the Creator has set in the organ's
tones to stir tender and holy emotion?  When we can
get the Material to yield  us any impulse upward, in
God's name let us take its aid and be thankful!  And
as Dr. Candlish likes authorities, we shall conclude with
a better authority than that of Dr. Porteous.  Ie tells
us that the organ may " tickle the ear," but denies its
power to touch the heart.  Milton thought otherwise:
and we believe that his words describe the normal influence of the organ on the healthy human mind:- 
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale;
And love the high embowered roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.




CHAPTER XI.'THORNDALE; OR, THE CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.i
9t';'il     UTHORS, moral and political, have of late
)'ib^^    years been recognizing the fact, that abstract
truths become much more generally attrac^i> l   (tive when something of human interest is
added to them. Most people feel as if thoughts and
opinions gain a more substantial being, and lose their
ghost-like intangibility, when we know something of the
character and history of the man who entertained them,
and something of the outward scenery amid which he
entertained them. Very many persons feel as if, in passing from fact, or what purports to be fact, to principle,
they were exchanging the firm footing of solid land for
the yielding and impalpable air; and a framework of
scenes and persons is like a wing to buoy them  up in
traversing that unaccustomed medium.  And there are
few indeed to whom  a peculiar interest does not result
when views and opinions, instead of standing nakedly on
the printed page, are stated and discussed in friendly
council by individual men, seated upon a real grassy
slope, canopied by substantial trees, and commanding a
prospect of real hills, and streams, and valleys.  It is not
entirely true that argument has its weight and force in
1 Thorndale; or, the Conflict of Opinions. By William Smith. Edinburgh: Blackwoods. 1857.




296             THORNDALE; OR, THE
itself, quite apart from its author.  In the matter of practical effect, on actual human beings, a good deal depends
on the lips it comes from.
The author of "Thordale " has recognized and acted
upon this principle.  Mr. William Smith is a philosopher
and a poet, as the readers of his tragedy, "Athelwold,"
are already aware; and whoever sits down to read his
new book as an ordinary work of fiction to be hurried
through for its plot-interest, will probably not turn many
pages before closing the volume.  The great purpose of
the work is to set out a variety of opinions upon several
matters which concern the highest interests of the individual man and of the human race; but instead of presenting them  in naked abstractness, Mr. Smith has set them
in a slight story, and given them as the tenets or the fancies of different men, whose characters are so drawn that
these tenets and fancies appear to be just their natural
culmination and result. If we were disposed to be hypercritical, we might say that the different characters sketched
by Mr. Smith are too plainly built up to serve as the substrata of the opinions which they express.  There is
hardly allowance enough made for the waywardness and
inconsistency of human conclusion and action.  Given
any one of Mr. Smith's men in certain circumstances,
and we are only too sure of what he will do or say. The
Utopian is always hopeful; the desponding philosopher
is never brightened up by a ray of hope. But this, it is
obvious, is a result arrived at upon system; for we shall
find abundant proof in the volume that Mr. Smith has
read deeply and accurately into human nature, in all its
weaknesses, fancies, hopes, and fears. It is long since
we have met with a more remarkable or worthy book.
Mr. Smith is always thoughtful and suggestive: he has




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.               297
been entirely successful in carrying out his wish to produce a volume in reading which a thoughtful man will
often pause with his finger between the leaves, and muse
upon what he has read.  We judge that the book must
have been written slowly, and at intervals, from its affluence of beautiful thought.  No mind could have tirned
off such material with the equable flow of a stream.  We
know few works in which there may be found so many
fine thoughts, light-bringing illustrations, and happy turns
of expression, to invite the reader's pencil. A delicate
refinement, a simple and pathetic eloquence, a kindly
sympathy with all sentient things, are everywhere apparent: but the construction of the book, in which the most
opposite opinions are expressed by the different characters without the least editorial comment, approval or disapproval, renders it difficult to judge what are truly the
opinions of the author himself.  Mr. Smith's English
style is of classic beauty: nothing can surpass the delicate grace and finish of many passages of description and
reflection; and although it was of course impossible, and
indeed not desirable, that equal pains should be bestowed
upon the melody of all the pages of the book, still the
language is never slovenly; the hand of the tasteful
scholar is everywhere.  Nor should we fail to remark
the author's versatility of power. Everything he does is
done with equal ease and felicity: -description of external nature, analysis of feeling and motive, close logic
large views of men and things. There is not the gentle
and graceful humor of Mr. Helps: the book is serious
throughout, with no infusion of playfulness. The author
evidently thinks that in this world there is not much to
smile at,- unless it be at everything.  Let us remark,
that in this volume the characters come and go as in real




298             THORNDALE; OR, TIlE
life. There is nothing of the novel's artificial working
up of interest, deepening to the close. Mr. Smith may
say of his book, as Mr. Bailey of his grand but unequal
poem:"It has a plan, but no plot: -Life has none."
But Mr. Smith's men, after all, are not such as one
commonly meets.  They are all greatly occupied, and
for the most part perplexed and distressed about speculative and social difficulties. Now in ordinary life such
distresses are little felt. Are we wrong in saying that
they are never felt at all, except in idleness; —or by
minds far above the average of the race?  HIow little
are the perplexities of speculation to the busy man, anxious and toiling to find the means of maintaining his wife
and children, of paying his Christmas bills, and generally
of making the ends meet at the close of the year! That,
whether we admit the fact or deny it, is, with the great
majority even of cultivated men, the practical problem
of life. And indeed it is sad to think how, long before
middle age, in many a man who started with higher aspirations, that becomes the great end of labor and of thought.
But it seems to be a law of mind, that as the grosser and
more material wants are supplied, other wants of a more
ethereal and fanciful nature come to be felt. And thus
perhaps many a man, whom  circumstances now compel
to bestow all his energies on the quest of the supply of
the day that is passing over him and his, is by those very
circumstances saved from feeling wants more crushing,
and from  grappling with riddles and mysteries that sit
with a heavy perplexity upon the heart. Let us be
thankful if we are not too independent of work: let us
be thankful that we are not too thoughtful and able.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                     299
Mr. Smith's book sets out with a charming description
of a secluded  dwelling  to which  a  young philosophic
thinker, smitten by consumption, had retired to die.  On
a little terrace, near the summit of Mount Posilipo, there
stands a retired villa, looking from  that height over the
Bay of Naples.   Overlookec  by  none, it commands a
wide extent of view.  Myrtle and roses have overgrown
its pillared front.  The rock  descends sheer down fiom
the terrace.  Charles Thorndale, the hero of the book,
had been charmed by the Villa Scarpa in the course of
a continental tour, made while still in health; and when
stricken with the disease of which he died, and when
the physicians spoke of the climate of Italy, he chose
this fbr his last retreat. It would not be long he would
be there, he knew; and in its quiet he had much  to
think of:
It is a spot, one would say, in which it would be very hard to part
with this divine faculty of thought. It seems made for the very spirit
of meditation. The little platform on which the villa stands is so situated, that, while it commands the most extensive prospect imaginable,
it is itself entirely sheltered fiom observation. No house of any kind
overlooks it; from no road is it visible; not a sound fiom the neighboring city ascends to it. From one part of the parapet that bounds the
terrace you may sometimes catch sight of a swarthy, bare-legged fisherian, sauntering on the beach, or lying at full length in the sun. It
is the only specimen of humanity you are likely to behold: you live
solely in the eye of nature. It is with difficulty you can believe that
within the space of an hour you may, if you choose it, be elbowing
your way, jostled and stunned, amongst the swarming population of
Naples - surely the noisest hive of human beings anywhere to be
found on the face of the earth. Here, on these heights, is perfect stillness, with perfect beauty. What voices come to you from the upper
air-the winds and the melody of birds; and not unfrequently the
graceful sea-gull utters its short, plaintive cry, as it wheels round and
aack to its own ocean-fields. And then that glorious silent picture fox
ever open to the eye! Picture! you hastily retract the word.  It is
no dead picture; it is the living spirit of the universe manifesting itself,
in glorious vision, to the eye and the soul of man.




300              THORNDALE; OR, THE
Thorndale was a studious man, but had not been at.
tracted by either of the learned professions.  His modest
competency relieved him from  the necessity of choosing
a decided path in life. Like many meditative idlers, he
intended, vaguely, to write a book; and, indeed, he did
finish a philosophical treatise more than once; but he
always became dissatisfied with it and destroyed it.  But
in his retirement at Villa Scarpa, a large manuscript voltime lay on his table, in which, "the habit of the pen"
clinging to him  to the last, he was accustomed to write
down his thoughts upon whatever topic interested him for
the time.  This book was autobiography,  essay, diary,
record of former conversations with fiiends, as the humor
of the moment prompted; and we are invited to believe
that this book, having fallen into the hands of Mr. Smith,
is now given to the world:- 
It is precisely this manuscript volume, note-book, memoir, diary,
whatever it should be called, which we have to present to the reader.
In it, Thorndale, though apparently with little of set purpose or design, gives us a description of himself and of several friends, or rather
sketches out their opinions and modes of thinking. Amongst these two
may be at once particularly mentioned: Clarence, who might be called
a representative of the philosophy of hope; and SeckendoSf, his complete contrast, and who, especially on the subject of human progress,
takes the side of denial or of cavil.
The author, or editor, sets before us the character of
his hero, less by one complete description, than by many
touches, given here and there, as he exhibits Thorndale to
us in various combinations of circumstances, and at several critical points in his life. Our impression of Thorndale is being retouched, modified, lightened, and shadowed,
on to the close of the book.  He was a meditative and
melancholy man, of little pith or active energy: he was
shy and retiring; overshadowed by a settled despond



CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                301
ency; but always kind and gentle, with no trace of fret
fulness or irritability.  Although his character is an interesting and truthful one, it is essentially morbid; and
we may be glad that men like him  must always be
few.  We should have no railroads, no Great Easterns,
no ocean telegraphs, in a world peopled by Thorndales.
The weakly physical constitution which he bore from
birth, had much to do with the tone of his thought and
feeling.  The remark  is in the main just and sound,
though it was made by Boswell:The truth is, that we judge of the happiness and misery of life differently at different times, according to the state of our changeable
frame. I always remember a renPark made to me by a Turkish lady
educated in France: Mafoi, raonsieur, notre bonheur depend de lafafon
qtue notre sang circzle.
Nor ought we to forget that deeply philosophic remark
of Sydney Smith, that little stoppages in the bodily circulation are the things which, above all others, darken
our views of life and of man.  A friend, said the genial
physiologist, comes to him in a most depressed condition.
He declares that his affairs are getting embarrassed; that
he must retrench his establishment and retire to the country; that his daughter's cough has settled upon the lungs;
that his wife is breaking up, and his son going to the mischief.  But Sydney only asks on what he supped the
evening before; and finds that he then partook of lobster to an undue degree.  "All this," he says, " all these
gloomy views are the lobster."  Instead of seeking directly to minister to a mind diseased, he does so indirectly, but not the less effectually. He suggests medicine,
not philosophy.  And next day the world is a capital
world, after all; the income is ample, the cough is gone,
the wife is in rude health, and the son all that a father's




302              THORNDALE; OR, THE
heart could wish.  Now in the case of Thorndale, there
was an entire deficiency of healthy animalism; and if,
as a Scotch divine lately declared in a sermon published
by royal command, it is easier for a camel to go through
the eye of a needle than for a dyspeptic man to be kind,
gentle, and long-suffering; not less true is it that a wellknit, vigorous, sinewy mind, is oftentimes trammelled and
hampered all through life, by being linked to a weakly,
puny, jaded body.  How much of Sydney Smith's wit,
how much of Christopher North's reckless abandonment
of glee, was the result of physical organization! How
incomprehensible to many men must such despondency
as Thorndale's seem!  No worldly wants or anxieties,
no burden of remorse, kind friends around him, what
right had he to be unhappy?l  Thorndale, in short, is a
less energetic and passionate form of the nameless hero
of Maud.  Shall we confess that a less happy association
at certain points in his history suggested itself to our
mind?  We thought of Mr. Augustus Moddle, of whom
his historian records as follows:He often informed Mrs. Todgers that the sun had set upon him; that
the billows had rolled over him; that the car of Juggernaut had crushed
him; and also that the deadly upas tree of Java had blighted him.2
Young men, who at five-and-twenty profess that they
have lost all interest in life, and that they have done with
time, are by no means uncommon.  But Byron's influ1 We remember a review of Mlaud which we read in a certain provincial journal. The writer evidently thought the gloomy hero an
ungrateful and querulous fellow for making such a moan. "Why,"
said the reviewer, "the man was in very comfortable circumstances:
he was able to have two servants ('I keep but a man and a maid'):
and what earthly right had he to be always grumbling?  If a man
has two servants, ought he not to be content?"
2 Dickens's Miartin Chuzzlewit.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                  303
ence is wearing  out;  and  they are pretty generally
laughed at.  Yet where a lad at college can say sincerely, as Thorndale said -
For me, there was more excitement to be got out of any dingy book,
thumbed over by a solitary rushlight, than from fifty ball-rooms -
his mind is taking a morbid growth, which bodes no good
to himself; nor are things better when he goes on a tour
to the Cumberland lakes, and instead of cheerfully enjoying the scenes around him, goes on as follows:Forgetful of lake and mountain, my eyes fixed perhaps on the topmost bar of some roadside gate which I had intended to open, or pausing stock-still before some hedgerow in the solitary lane, apparently
intent upon the buds of the hawthorn, as if I were penetrating into the
very secrets of vegetable life, I have stood for hours musing on the
intricate problems which our social condition presents to us.
We- need not say that such a man is out of his place
in England in the nineteenth century.  In this age we
want, not visionaries, but actors; healthy, robust men,
like Arnold, who can think and reason, and who can
likewise walk five miles in the hour. Perhaps, indeed,
the cry for "muscular Christianity " is passing into cant;
and we know of noble minds which, notwithstanding the
clog of physical debility and suffering, bear a kindly sympathy towards all mankind, and make the race their
debtors for the gift of elevating thoughts.  But as for
Thorndale -  sensitive as the mimosa, ever watching with
introverted eye the lights and shadows of his own mind
-  how could he be happy?  A certain amount of insensibility is in this world needful to that.  We must not
bear a nervous system so delicately appreciative of external influences as to keep us ever on the flutter or on
the rack.   Above all, let us have the equable mind,
though it should live in a light which is uniformly sub



304              THORNDALE; OR, THE
dued, rather than that which is ever alternating between
April sunshine and April gloom.  Justly and thoughtfully did Wordsworth make this equanimity a marked
characteristic of the happiness of a higher life:He spake of love, such love as spirits feel,
In worlds whose course is equable and pure:
No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,
The past unsighed for, and the future sure:
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued.l
We may have faults to find with the character of
Thorndale, regarded as that of a representative man:
but we feel at once with what delicate accuracy the
author maintains its keeping,  From  first to last, he
never speaks or acts otherwise than he ought, under
the given  conditions.   The malady that killed  him
had marked him  from  his birth; and he is always the
same  kindly, tender-hearted, meditative, unenergetic,
spiritless being.  Mr. Smith shows us the whole man
by one happy touch. Thorndale had chosen the shores
of Loch Lomond as his autumn retreat one year.  He
had been there only a day, when he suddenly resolved
that he would return and seek the hand of a gentle
cousin whom  he loved, and who appears not to have
been indifferent to him. He had hitherto kept silence,
because her worldly position was higher than his own.
He left Loch Lomond on the instant; he travelled on day
and night; he seemed never to have drawn breath till
he stood at the gate of the shrubbery that surrounded
Sutton Manor, her home and his:Then indeed I paused. Leaning on the half-opened gate, I saw
again my own position in its true and natural light. Was it not al.
1 Laodamia.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                305
ways known and understood that such a thing was not to be?  One
after the other, all my fallacious reasonings deserted me. What madness could have brought me there?  I hoped no one had seen me.
Slowly and softly the half-opened gate was closed again. I walked
away, retracing my steps as unobserved as possible through the village.
Here was Thorndale himself.  Like most thoughtful
men, he had much of the irresolution of Hamlet, -  the
irresolution that comes of thinking too much.  There can
be no doubt that in order to act slap-dash, with promptness and decision, it is best not to see a case in all
its bearings.  It is best to see one side clearly and
strongly: —  and then no lurking irresolution will retard
the arm  in its descent.  Here was the secret of poor
Thorndale's creeping away, with a sinking heart, from
the only presence he cared for in this world. There is
not invariable truth in the lines of Montrose,He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert is small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
And win or lose it all.
We need not relate how the author explains his chancing upon Villa Scarpa in wandering about Naples. The
villa was then deserted; all was over.  We have no
particulars recorded of Thorndale's death.  We confess
we feel in this omission something of cruelty on the
author's part towards his hero.  There is something
pitiful in the story of the neglected manuscript-volume,
found after the poor visionary was gone, hidden away in
the roof of the abandoned  house; and in the picture
which rises before us of the tender-hearted youth, lying
down to die alone.  He had a kind servant, indeed; and
an old friend, with his little adopted daughter, who reappeared as evening was darkening down, may be sup20




306              THORNDALE; OR, THE
posed to have tended and soothed the last agony.  But
Mr. Smith, in his careful avoidance of whatever might
seem a clap-trap expedient to excite interest and feeling,
is entirely silent as to the close. However, he chanced
on the deserted Villa Scarpa: he found a despatch-box,
bearing the name of Charles Thorndale, whom  he had
known, though not intimately.  This despatch-box contlined the manuscript volume already mentioned, which
Thorndale seemed to have bequeathed to the first finder
and the good-natured Italian to whom the villa belonged,
willingly gave up box and manuscript to one who said
he had been Thorndale's friend. We quote a single sentence, for its graceful beauty, from the picture of Thorndale called up to the mind's eye of his editor, on thus
chancing on his last retreat: —
His eye was not that of which it is so often said that it looks through
you, for it rather seemed to be looking out beyond you. The object
at which it gazed became the half-forgotten centre round which the
eddying stream of thought was flowing; and you stood there, like
some islet in a river which is encircled on all sides by the swift and
silent flood.
The manuscript volume now published has been divided by its editor into five books, and each of these
into several chapters. Book I. is called " The Last Retreat:" it is given to many reflections, mostly thrown out
with little arrangement, upon the Sentiment of' Beauty,
and upon the two Futurities, the one on this side and the
other beyond the grave.  In Book II., which is called
The Retrospect," the current of thought has set away
into the past; and we have an autobiographical sketch.
Book III., called "'Cyril, or the Modern  Cistercian,"
gives an account of the conflict of thought by which a
companion  passed from  an Evangelical Anglican to a




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.               307
Roman Catholic monk.  Book IV., " Seckendorf, or the
Spirit of Denial," sketches the character and views of
a friend who cavilled at the possibility of all human
progress.  In Book V., " Clarence, or the Utopian," we
first read how, as strength and life had well-nigh ebbed
away, Thorndale met once more with an old friend of
hopeful views, who seems to have stayed by him  to
the last: and when Thorndale's weak hand had laid
down the pen for the last time, Clarence wrote out, in
the last two hundred pages of the volume, his Confessio
Fidei; -a connected view of his theory of man, the
growth of the individual consciousness, and the development of the human race.
The earlier part of the book is very desultory; and
the book as a whole appeals to a limited class of readers.
There will never be a rush for it to the book-club in the
county town.  Young-lady readers will for the most part
vote it a bore; and solid old gentlemen of bread-andbutter intellect will judge Thorndale and his friends a
crew of morbid dreamers, - though the book, amid sublimer speculations, sets out here and there much common
sense on the affairs of practical life. But we trust that
Mr. Smith may find an audience fit, and not so few.  It
elevates and refines the mind to hold converse with an
author of his stamp.  And how much the world must
have gone through before such a character as Thorndale's became possible 1 No appliance of modern luxury, no contrivance of modern science, says so much as
the conception of such a character for the civilization
and artificiality of our modern life. Although the book
is mainly dissertational, the reader will find in it much exquisite narrative, and much skilful delineation of character, in the history of the hero and his friends, their views




308             THORNDALE; OR, THE
and fates. Yet, while we cordially acknowledge in Mr.
Smith a man of refined and pathetic genius, we should
not be doing justice to ourselves if we did not say, that
in all the views of life and society, whether hopeful or
desponding, which are set out in the book, we have felt
strongly a great blank and void. We believe, and we
humbly hope we shall never cease believing, that Christianity shows us the true stand-point from which to look
at man, and the true lever by which to elevate him.
We believe that the same influence which has raised our
hopes to "life and immortality," must and will elevate
and purify this mortal life. We believe that it is false
philosophy to ignore the existence, power, and teaching
of the Christian faith; and to take pains, before looking
into the framework and the prospects of society, to exclude the only light which can search out the dark recesses, and dissipate the gloom that hangs before. Why
should a man persist in wading through Chat Moss on a
drenching December day, when the means are provided
of flitting over it, light and warm and dry? Why should
we go up to Box-hill, and declare we shall dig our way
through it with our own nails and fingers (being in
haste); when we know that it has been nobly tunnelled
for us already?
The first book, entitled " The Last Retreat," consists
of disjointed fragments of thought, cast upon the page
with little effort at arrangement.  All these fragments
are well worthy of preservation: many of them are of
striking originality and force.  The dying man becomes
aware that a peculiar beauty has been added to the beautiful scenes around him  by the close approach of death.
He says, -




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                     309
I owe to death half the beauty of this scene, and altogether owe to
him the constant serenity with which I gaze upon it.... Strange!
how the beauty and mystery of all nature is heightened by the near
prospect of that coming darkness which will sweep it all away! -that
night which will have no star in it! These heavens, with all their
glories, will soon be blotted out for me. The eye, and that which is
behind the eye will soon close, soon rest, and there will be no more
beauty, no more mystery for me...    What an air of freshness, of
novelty, and surprise, does each old and familiar object assume to me
when I think of parting with it for ever!
There is no more of ennui now. Time is too short, and this world
too wonderful. Everything I behold is new and strange. If a dog
looks up at me in the face, I startle at his intelligence. "I am in a
foreign land," you say. True, all the world has become foreign land
to me. I am perpetually on a voyage of discovery.
Very true, very real, is this feeling, drawn from  the
much-suggesting    Nvd yap EpxETra!    Ve really do enjoy
things intensely, because we know we are not to have
them  long.  And how well does experience certify that
the most familiar scene grows new  and  strange to us
when we are forthwith to leave it.  The room  in which
we have sat day by day for years, -  rise to quit it fbr
the last time, and we shall see something about its proportions, its aspect, that we never saw before.  The little
walk we have paced hundreds of times, - how different
every evergreen  beside it will seem, when we pace it
silently, knowing that we shall do so no more!
H-ere is an apt and happy comparison:When the lofty and barren mountain, says a legend I have somewhere read, was first upheaved into the sky, and fiom its elevation
looked down on the plains below, and saw the valley and the less
elevated hills covered with verdure and fruitful trees, it sent up to
Brahma something like a murmur of complaint, " Why thus barren?
Why these scarred and naked sides exposed to the eye of man?"
And Brahma answered, "T The very light shall clothe thee, and the
ghadow of the passing cloud shall be as a royal mantle. More verdure would be less light. Thou shalt share in the azure of heaven,




810               THORNDALE; OR, THE
and the youngest and whitest cloud of a summer day shall nestle in
thy bosom. Thou belongest half to us."
So was the mountain dowered. And so too have the loftiest minds
of men been in all ages dowered.  To lower elevations have been
given the pleasant verdure, the vine, and the olive. Light, light
alone, and the deep shadow of the passing cloud, - these are the gifts
of the prophets of the race.
Thorndale felt strongly what every reflective man must
feel, that the ordinary arguments for the immortality of
the soul, drawn from the light of nature, are quite insufficient and unsatisfactory.  It is upon entirely different
grounds, and these grounds partaking often but little of
the nature of argument, that the belief in the doctrine
really rests.   Still the argument fills the page; and is
appended to the doctrine much as in cheap Gothic buildings a buttress is added to a wall which does not need its
support, because it at least looks as if it supported the
wall.  Thorndale's illustration is this:In old wood-cuts one sometimes sees a vessel in full sail upon the
ocean, and perched aloft upon the clouds are a number of infant
cherubs, with puffed-out cheeks, blowing at the sails. The swelling
canvas is evidently filled by a stronger wind than these infant cherubs,
sitting in the clouds, could supply. They do not fill the sail; but they
were thought to fill up the picture prettily enough.
In truth, the usual arguments for immortality are quite
futile: none more so than that founded upon the immateriality of the soul. The soul's immateriality is assumed
to be proved by a manifest petitio principii, to use the
logician's phrase.  The soul is immaterial, we are told,
because it thinks and feels; and matter cannot think and
feel.  But if the soul be material, why then matter can
think and feel.  Thorndale indicates as follows the foundation of his own belief: —
I think the contemplation of God brings with it the faith in immor.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                     811
tality. The mere imperfections of our happiness here, our blundering
lives and inequitable societies, our unrewarded virtues and unavenged
crimes, our present need of the great threat of future punishments, -
these do not, in my estimation, form safe grounds to proceed upon.
They enter largely as grounds of a popular faith; but it would be unwise to build upon them: because to rest on such arguments would
lead us to the conclusion, that in proportion as society advances to
perfection, and men are more wise and just, in tie same proportion
V ill they have less presumption for the hope of immortality.
We confess that we stand in no great fear of this last
suggestion. There is little prospect, as yet, of this world
becoming too good to need another.  We need now, and
we shall need for many a year, all the comfort and help
we can draw from  "the world that sets this right."
Our readers will thank us for extracting the following
passage: 
A fond mother loses her infant. What more tender than the hope
she has to meet it again in heaven? Does she really, then, expect to
find a little child in heaven? some angel-nursling, that she may eternally take to her bosom, fondle, feed, and caress?  Oh, do not ask
her!  I would not have her -ask herself.  The consolatory vision
springs spontaneously from the mother's grief.  It is nature's own
remedy. She gave that surpassing love, and a grief as poignant must
follow. She cannot take away the grief: she half transforms it to a
hope.
It is indeed quite true, that in the attempt to define
with precision the consolations and hopes which Christianity affords us with respect to our departed friends, we
sometimes only destroy what we desired to grasp. And
it would be hard for us to say exactly how and in what
form  we hope to meet again  the dear ones who have
gone before us.  Perhaps Archbishop Whately is right,
when he suggests as one possible reason why revelation
leaves the details so little filled in of the picture of immortality which it draws, that some margin may be left




312              THORNDALE; OR, THE
for the weakness of human thought and wish; and that
in matters beside the great essential centre4ruth, each
may believe or may hope that which he would love the
best. And in the matter of a little child's loss, we know
that two quite opposite beliefs have been cherished.  For
ourselves, it seems more natural to think of the little
thing as it left us; we believe that, in the case of most
of us, the little brother or sister that died long ago, remains in remembrance the same young thing forever.
Many years are passed, and we have grown older and
more careworn since our last sister died; but she never
grows older with the passing years; and if God spares
us to fourscore, we never shall think of her as other than
the youthful creature she fladed.  Still there is pathos
and nature in Dickens's description, how the father and
mother who lost in early childhood one of two twin sisters, always pictured to themselves, year after year, the
dead child growing in the world beyond the grave, in
equal progress as the living child grew on earth.  And
Longfellow, in his touching poem  of Resignation, suggests a like idea:Day after day, we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air:
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when, with raptures wild,
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                 313
It is worthy of notice, how the death of little children
has formed the subject of several of the most touching
poems in the language.  Only those could have written
them who have children of their own; and few but parents can fully enter into their pathos. We may remind
our readers of Mr. Moultrie's best poem, " The Three
Sons;" of Mrs. Southey's (Caroline Bowles) beautiful
picture of an infant's death-bed; and in a volume lately
published by Gerald Massey, natural feeling has kept
affectation from  spoiling a most touching piece, called
"The Mother's Idol Broken."  And no one needs to be
reminded of what it is that has afforded scope for the
most pathetic touches of Dickens and Mrs. Beecher
Stowe.
Thorndale puts a somewhat startling question as to the
extent of the gift of immortality.
Why must I except the alternative -all or none? Why every Hun
and Scythian, or else no Socrates or Plato? Why must every corrupt
thing be brought again to life, or else all hope be denied to the good
and the great, the loving and the pious? Why must I measure my
hopes by the hopes I would assign to the most weak or wicked of the
race? Let the poor idiot, let the vile Tiberius, be extinct forever:
must I too, and all these thoughts that stir in me, perish?
Probably Thorndale was not aware that this notion,
which he throws out on merely philosophical grounds, is
one which, in a modified form, has been suggested, if not
maintained, upon theological principles, by the most inde.
pendent and original theologian of the age-  we mean
the Archbishop of Dublin.  Dr. Whately has proposed
it as a subject for inquiry, whether those passages of
Scripture which describe the everlasting destruction of
the finally impenitent, may not be justly interpreted as
signifying their total annihilation; and thus, whether evil




314             THORNDALE; OR, THE
and suffering may not entirely cease to be in God's uni.
verse, not by an universal restoration of all things to the
good and right, but by the total disappearance of that
which has been marred past the mending?  No doubt,
there is something unutterably appalling in the thought
of a soul in everlasting woe; no doubt, to our finite
minds, it appears the most consistent with the divine
glory and happiness, that a time should come when there
should be no more pain, sin, and death, anywhere; but
the Christian dares not add to or take from that which is
written; and few, we think, can read the words even of
the Saviour himself as bearing any other meaning than
one. And as for the difficulty suggested by Thorndale,
we confess we can discern in it very little force.  It is a
humble thing, always and everywhere, to be a man:
whether the man be Plato or the Hun.  We do not look
for immortality on the ground that we deserve it, or that
we are fit for it. And although there may be truth in
Judge Haliburton's bitter remark, that there is a greater
difference between some men and some other men, than
there is between these other men and some monkeys;
still, in looking down from the divine elevation, we believe t    the di     s a tn  the distances parting the lowest and highest,
the worst and best, must seem very small. Look down
from the top of Ben Nevis, and the tuft of heather which
is a dozen inches higher than the heather round it, differs
not appreciably from the general level. Nor should it be
forgotten, that in the lowest and the worst, there is a
potentiality of becoming good and noble under a certain
influence which philosophy does not know of, but whose
reality and power we are content to test by the logic of
induction. The coarse lump of ironstone is in its essence
the self-same thing as the hair-spring of a watch.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                    815
We pass to the second part of Thorndale's manuscript,
the Retrospect, which will be much more interesting to
ordinary readers than the first book. And here we find
a graceful and beautiful sketch of the history of his life,
from the dawn of consciousness down to the time when
he came to Villa Scarpa to die.  He was the happy child
of a gentle and loving mother, over whom early widowhood had cast a shade of melancholy.  His father he never
knew.  A  poor lieutenant in the navy, he died of fever
caught as his ship lay rotting off the coast of Africa
The mother's piety was deep, and her faith undoubting;
she knew  nothing of the world beyond her own little
daisied lawn.  And the remembrance of the prayer she
early taught her child to utter, has inspired one of the
most beautiful passages in English literature:Very singular and very pleasing to me is the remembrance of that
simple piety of childhood; of that prayer which was said so punctually night and morning, kneeling by the bedside. What did I think
of, guiltless then of metaphysics, - what image did I bring before my
mind as I repeated my learnt petition with scrupulous fidelity? Did
I see some venerable Form bending down to listen? Did He cease to
look and listen when I had said it all? Half prayer, half lesson, how
difficult it is now to summon it back again! But this I know, that the
bedside where I knelt to this morning and evening devotion became
sacred to me as an altar. I smile as I recall the innocent superstition
which grew up in me, that the prayer must be said kneeling just there.
If, some cold winters night, I had crept into bed, thinking to repeat
the petition from the warm nest itself, it would not do! - it was felt in
this court of conscience to be' an insufficient performance:' there was
no sleep to be had till I had risen, and, bedgowned as I was, knelt at
the accustomed place, and said it all over again from the beginning to
the end. To this day, I never see the little clean white bed in which
a child is to sleep, but I see also the figure of a child kneeling in prayer
at its side. And I, for the moment, am that child. No high altar in
the most sumptuous church in Christendom could prompt my knee to
bend like that snow-white coverlet tucked in for a child's slumber.
The mother early died; and her brother, a baronet,




B16             THORNDALE; OR, THE
who dwelt in a noble house standing in a fine old English
park, adopted the desolate child as his own. Grand were
the trees and fair the shrubberies of Sutton Manor; but
its great attraction to Thorndale was his little cousin
Winifred.  He loved her, he tells us, before he knew
what love was, and long before he knew the vast worldly
distance that parted even such near relations.  Lady
Moberly, Winifred's mother, was a lady at once ultrafashionable and ultra-evangelical. She was one of those
of whom the sarcastic Saturday Review declared that the
names of their great men must be written alike in the
Peerage and in the Book of Life. Thorndale was shortly
placed under the charge of a country clergyman, to be
prepared for Oxford.  Here he had one fellow-pupil,
Luxmore, a youth passionately devoted to poetry.  And
his tutor's library furnished an endless store of poetry,
theology, and philosophy, which were all devoured with
equal avidity.  When the vacation approached, Thorndale was somewhat surprised by receiving from  Lady
Moberly a formal invitation to Sutton Manor.  He had
counted, as a matter of course, upon spending the vacation there. But her ladyship was cautious; and her letter
contained a postscript, cautioning Thorndale to beware
of a certain fairy who haunted the shrubbery in which
he was accustomed to walk.  He learned the meaning
of the postscript too soon. His cousin was more charming than ever; but his love, hopeless, yet unconquerable,
was on his part "a mere worship, where even the prayer
was not to be spoken."  And this passion served to extinguish all ambition.  He entered the cloisters of Magdalen, he tells us,as indifferent to the world as any monk of the fourteenth century
could have been. Academical honors, or the greater distinctions in




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                   317
life to which they prepare the way, had no sort of charm for me. The' daily bread' was secured; and neither law, physic, nor divinity could
have given me my Winifred.
A life of mere reflection, then, was to be his portion.
His over-sensitive mind never recovered the frost of that
early disappointment. Is it too much to say that it results from the morbid body, from the weakness of physical
nature, when trouble and sorrow, no matter how heavy,
borne in early youth, cast their shadow  over all afteryears? What a vast deal a healthy man can "get over!"
True, as beautiful, are the words of Philip van Artevelde,
in Mr. Taylor's noble play: -
Well, well, - she's gone,
And I have tamed my sorrow. Pain and grief
Are transitory things, no less than joy,
And though they leave us not the men we were,
Yet they do leave us. You behold me here,
A man bereaved, with something of a blight
Upon the early blossoms of his life,
And its first verdure, - having not the less
A living root, and drawing from the earth
Its vital juices, from the air its powers:
And surely as man's health and strength are whole,
His appetites re-germinate, his heart
Re-opens, and his objects and desires
Shoot up renewed. 1
How  many twice-married men and women can testify
to the truth  of Artevelde's philosophy!  Out of a romance, it takes very much to kill a man,   unless, indeed, consumption has marked him  from  his birth, and
his physical constitution lacks the reacting spring.  But
Mr. Smith has made his hero feel and act just as it was
fit under the conditions given.  He became a solitary
dreamer; and though feeling the attraction which draws
1 Taylor's Philip van Artevelde, Second Part, Act iii., Scene ii.




318               THORNDALE; OR, THE
the moth to the flame, yet at vacation times, instead of
going to Sutton Manor, he betook himself to Wales or
Cumberland, to " read."  There he read, thought, wrote,
destroyed.  He mused deeply on the constitution of society: he longed for a time when manual labor should not
be deemed inconsistent with refinement and intelligence.
But he found his theory crumble at the touch of fact.
As I marched triumphantly along, I came to a field where men were
plloughing. I had often watched the ploughman as he steps on steadily,
holding the share down in its place in the soil, and felt curious to try
the experiment myself. This time, as the countryman who approached
me had a good-natured aspect, I asked him to let me take his place
within the stilts. He did so. I did not give him quite the occasion for
merriment which I saw he anticipated; I held down the share, and
kept it in its due position. But I had no conception of the effort it required - which, at least, it cost me. When I resigned my place, my
arms trembled, my hands burned, my brain throbbed; the whole frame
was shaken. And something, too, was shaken in the fiamework of my
speculations. The feasibility of uniting with labors such as these much
of the culture we call intellectual, was not so clear to me as it was an
hour ago. I walked along less triumphantly, maintaining a sort of
prudent silence with myself.
Thorndale all over! Easily driven by some little jar,
even from a cherished purpose or belief. All physical
constitution again. In the days when manual labor and
mental cultivation are combined, men like Thorndale
must be  watchmakers and  printers: men with  more
bone and sinew  must go  to field-work.  But who does
not remember the diary of Elihu Burritt, when teaching
himself half a dozen languages, with its constantly recurring  entries of "Forged  twelve  hours to-day""Forged fourteen  hours to-day" —the brawny  blacksmith, with  his fore-hammer and  his Hebrew  lexicon
side by side?
Very frankly and without reserve, Thorndale shows




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                319
us how his opinions on society swayed to and fro. He
went to see Manchester. and mourned to think how,
" for leave to live in habitations, where air and light,
beauty and fragrance, are shut out for ever, men and
women are toiling as no other animal on the face of the
earth toils." And, caring little for conventional proprieties, he sits down in London on the steps of a church
-it was in Regent-street —amid the offscourings of
the population, and contemplated society from this new
point of view. It looked very different! He heard the
stifled mutterings of the deadly hate which the very lowest class bear to those above them. The ground underneath us, in truth is mined: the mine is charged.  Is
not the hatred natural?  We do not ask whether it is
right.
Without a doubt, we of the pavement, if we had our will, would stop
those smooth-rolling chariots, with their liveried attendants (how we
hate those clean and well-fed lackeys!), would open the carriage-door,
and bid the riders come down to us! - come down to share —good
heaven! what?-our ruffianage, our garbage, the general scramble,
the general filth.
Walking another day down Regent-street, he passes
an open carriage standing at a shop-door. Seated alone
in it is -Winifred!  He avoids recognition, and hurries away.  Soon he slackens his speed -  stops - turns,
walks back, slowly, rapidly, breathlessly! The carriage
was gone.  True to the life!
He left Oxford at last, and returned to Sutton Manor.
"It was the old story of the moth and the flame." lie
resolved that for a month his heart should have its way;
and rowing with Winifred on the river, wandering with
her in the shrubbery, watching the sun go down, he had
his " month of elysium."  All his philosophy was in




320             THORNDALE; OR, THE
those days full of hope. He wondered at the greatness
of the human capacity for happiness.  At length he
broke hurriedly away, and hastened to Loch Lomond.
We have already seen how he returned, and with what
result.
Then he became a wanderer.  He tells us he never
ceased to think, but " a despondency crept from his life
into his philosophy."  He went to Germany, Switzerland, Italy —the accustomed route -  and learned to
appreciate the diversity there is in human life. On the
banks of the lake of Lucerne he met his Utopian friend,
Clarence, whom he had known at Oxford; and they spent
long days in varied talk together. Clarence dwelt much
upon the misery of the better or the middle classes. He
thought it exceeds that of the poor wretches on the Regent-street steps. What ceaseless and life-wearing anxiety and care there are in the hearts of most educated
men! Clarence did not wonder that men go mad. As
life goes against them, as the income proves insufficient,
as the expenses increase, as impending calamity ever jars
miserably upon the shaken nerves, and as the mind is
day by day racked by ceaseless fears, the only wonder
is that Reason does not oftener forsake her seat, totter,
and fall!
On some futile pretence of seeing his friend, Luxmore,
the poet, Thorndale returned to England. Luxmore had
published, and failed.  Thorndale found him in a Special Pleader's office, studying for the bar. Luxmore held
steadily to his books of Practice, till, in an evil hour (he
had parted with all his poets), he bought at a stall a
cheap edition of Shelley.  It wakened the old spirit.
He would emigrate.  He would clear the forest and the
jungle.  He would grow corn by the Mississippi. But




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.               321
he must see the South American mountains first; and
so he sailed for Rio Janeiro. Thorndale greatly doubted
to the last whether he had ever " worked his way round"
to the farm he had talked of. Luxmore's character and
career are ably and skilfully sketched; but we cannot
say that we are especially struck by the specimens given
of his poetry.
In the great steamer, as it lay off Southampton,
Thorndale bade his friend farewell. He had loved him
he tells us, as a brother, and an elder brother. Thorndale's pliant nature was plastic in those robust hands.
Sadly depressed, he betook himself to a little cottage at
Shanklin, once more alone but for the old companion —
the box of books. It was Thorndale's especial misfortune that, with a native craving for some attached companion to dwell under the same roof, he was by circumstances always doomed to days of solitude.  But a new
interest now arose.  Symptoms of disease, disregarded
in the excitement of the last days with Luxmore, now
forced themselves on his attention. Some business matter compelled him to write to his uncle, thus informing
his relations at Sutton Manor, for the first time, that he
had returned to England.  Kind messages and regrets
came in reply: Winifred especially chiding him for his
unsocial habits. It seemed " a wild strain of irony."
Yet the few lines she wrote wakened old feelings, never
quite asleep.  Surely she would come and see the poor
invalid? So strong did the impression grow, that, catching sight one day of a female figure in the garden, bending over the flowers, he felt sure it must be Winifred;
and watched breathlessly, with violently-beating heart,
till she turned her face, and the delusion was dispelled.
Still, for days he cherished the vain expectation that she
21




822                THORNDALE; OR, THE
would come, and restore him, by her very presence, to
life, and hope, and faith. Thlat was all he needed.
If I could see thee,'twould be well with me!
Now there came consultations with this and that great
physician: and soon  the death-warrant decidedly  expressed.  Then was a first moment of confusion and
agony; and  then  followed an indescribable calm.  It
was now all smooth water before him.  He betook himself to his last retreat at Villa Scarpa; but he did not
see Winifred before he left England for ever.  Kind
letters followed him  from  her mother.  Lady Moberly
would come over to take care of him, with a doctor in
either hand.  Of course she never came.  And now the
last days are gliding over swiftly: —
The day is never long. I have, indeed, ceased to take note of the
measurement of time. One hour is more genial than another; thought
fows more rapidly, or these damaged lungs breathe somewhat more
freely at one time than another: but where the present hour stands in
the series which makes up day and night, what the clock reports of
the progress of time, I have ceased to ask myself. There is but one
hour that the bell has to strike for me.
Yet life is not quite over, even after Thorndale has
found his last harbor of refuge. Present incident proves
the completion of past remembrance.  The Third Book
of the manuscript volume is entitled " Cyril, or the Modern Cistercian."
In watching a little point of beach which was visible
from his terrace, Thorndale had often been struck by the
figure of a youthful monk, wearing the white habit of the
Cistercian order, who passed slowly by the sea-margin,
and sometimes paused in thought.  Thorndale had constructed a whole theory of his thinking and history, and
began to feel towards him as towards a friend. At length,




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.              323
in his ride, Thorndale passed two monks, one of whom
had sunk exhausted by the wayside.  He conveyed the
monk to the monastery in his carriage, and recognized
in him the Cistercian so often watched.  A further surprise awaited him.  On entering the Cistercian's cell, he
recognized in him an old acquaintance -  Cyril. Cyril
had entered the Roman Catholic Church, through the
gate of the monastery. He had sought a peaceful, pious,
and harmonious life within those walls; and he assured
Thorndale that he had found all he sought. His history
had been a tragical one. Brought up in a pious family,
he had been assailed by sceptical doubts.  His father
was an enthusiast for reformatory punishment.  The
house was full of books on the subject.  And fiom these
Cyril imbibed the notion that one grand end of all punishment should be the reformation of the criminal himself.  To punish for mere revenge was unchristian and
irrational.  How, then, of God's punishments inflicted in
a future life?  The pious father appeared to claim for
the human legislator principles more noble and enlightened than those he attributed to the Divine. Eternal
punishment aims not at the reformation of the guilty.
Cyril was plunged into all the miseries of doubt. And
brought up in the conviction that unbelief was the extremest sin, his anguish was indescribable.  He became
restless, gloomy, morose. And so, leaving Oxford, Thorndale left him.
Thorndale was at Dolgelly, in Wales, when he learned
that Cyril was at Barmouth, and rode over to see him.
He met him, just come off the water.  Cyril's joy at the
meeting was extreme.  They sat cheerfully down to supper.  Cyril never had been so gay.  At length, absently,
he drew from the pocket of his rough greatcoat a large




324             THORNDALE; OR, THE
mass of iron, the fluke of an old anchor.  At the sight of
it, suddenly recollecting himself, he burst into a violent
flood of tears.  He confessed to his friend that an accident only had prevented him from  throwing himself into
the sea, during the sail from which he had just returned.
He had gone out with that purpose, driven to it by his
agony of doubt, and (strange as it may seem) by the fear
of death.  His fear of death was such, that he longed to
make a plunge and have it over.  And amid all the misery of his scepticism, he says, surely with sad truth: —
I am quoted by my family and my friends as a monster of impiety
and guilt. I am frowned upon, avoided, expostulated with, —and
pious ministers reprove me -for intellectual pride!
We can well believe that a pious father or mother,
deeply loving their son, would yet rather see him  laid
in his coffin than see him turn doubtful of their own
simple faith.  What malady makes a breach so total -
what leads to a doom so fearful -  as unbelief?  But let
it be remembered that in many cases it is a malady, a
disease for which a man is no more guilty than for consumption or for typhus.  No doubt there is a wilful
blindness, a preference of falsehood to truth, a flippant,
hateful self-sufficiency, in the case of some: and let
these be held responsible.  But surely there are earnest
spirits, battling for the truth - shedding tears of blood
because they cannot believe, though they long to do-'so.
Let us be thankful that in almost every such case the
disease is a temporary one.  It will wear away.  "Unto
the upright there ariseth light in darkness."  Unbelief
is a crisis which must be passed through by the thinking human mind, as certainly as measles and whoopingcough by the human body.  Of course a blockhead, who
never thinks at all, will not be troubled by it. The




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.             325
humble and earnest man comes out of it, with a faith
grounded so deeply that it can never be shaken more.
Let us pity, then, the young doubter: let us aid him by
God's blessing: let us not accuse him, and so perhaps
drive him to despair. The guilty unbelief is that of the
manr who knows in his conscience that he would rather
not believe. There is another kind of want of faith
which the Almighty will not condemn. It is that which
utters the creed and the prayer together: "Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief."
The next morning Thorndale and Cyril were to have
breakfasted together.  But when Thorndale went to his
lodgings, he was gone, without a word; and they met no
more till they met in the Cistercian monastery.
After this meeting, Cyril sometimes visited Thorndale
at the Villa Scarpa. Thorndale did not seek any account of the process by which the youth who could believe
nothing, had passed into the monk who believed everything. No doubt it would have been the usual story of
reaction commenced, and then a positive appetite for
belief growing upon the man. In any case, belief had
brought Cyril peace and rest. And the doctrine of purgatory had been to him a favorable distinction of the
Church of Rome.  It represented a reformatory nature
even in punishment beyond the grave; and the young
enthusiast fancied that a special revelation had been
vouchsafed to him by the Saviour, that every soul that
God has made should in some way be saved at last. And
coming not fiequently, stealing quietly up to the terrace
with his pax vobiscum, Cyril visited Thorndale to the
last. But Thorndale saw the Cistercian on the strip of
beach no more.
Cyril had felt the difficulty which most thoughtful men




326              THORNDALE; OR, THE
must feel, as to what conception should be formed of
God: -
How personify the Infinite? I said to myself. Does not the notion
of personality itself imply contrast, limitation, and must not a Person
be therefore Finite? or how personify at all, but by borrowing from
the creature, and framing an ideal out of human qualities?
At one moment my conception of God seemed grand and distinct,
and my whole soul was filled and satisfied with it. Suddenly I was
startled and abashed when I traced in it too plainly the features of
humanity. These I hastened to obliterate; and the whole image was
then fading into terrible obscurity. I remember one day our common
friend Luxmore saying, in his wild poetic manner, that the ordinary
imagination of God was but the shadow of a man thrown upwards, -
the image of our best and greatest, seen larger on the concave of the
sky.
We remark upon this, that Luxmore, after all, was
only stating in a poetical and  somewhat exaggerated
form, a great and fundamental religious truth.  We are
" created in the image of God: " and it is only because
there is something in us which resembles God, that we
are able to form any conception of Him and his character.  But for this, we could no more conceive of God's
attributes than a blind man, who never saw, can conceive of color. We, of course, are fallen creatures; and
our blurred and blotted qualities bear only the faintest
and farthest likeness to that Divine Image in which we
were made.  And further, it is true enough that when
we kneel down  to pray, we should only distract and
dishearten ourselves by trying to form a conception of
a Being in whose nature there are such elements as
eternity, omnipresence, omnipotence, invisibility; and by
trying to feel that we are addressing Him.  But was
Luxmore entirely wrong when he said that the Hearer
of prayer, to our weak minds, draws personality from a
sublimed humanity?  It is not a fable, that we know the




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.              327
picture of a man's character and life set out in a certain
simple story, Glad Tidings to all to whom it comes:-as
man towards whom  we can feel kindly sympathy and
warm affection: a human being like ourselves: and we
are told that He is " the image of the invisible God:"
that when we picture Him to our hearts, we picture God
- softened, but not degraded.  We can see "the glory
of God in the face of Jesus Christ:" and in praying to
God, we can feel as though the kind face were bent over
us as we pray, - as though we were telling of our wants
and sorrows to that kind and gentle heart.  Do we desire to think clearly to whom we speak when we pray?
We are chilled and overwhelmed when we think of infinite space and infinite time: it is not to an aggregate of
such qualities as these that we can address heartfelt
pleading.  Let us think we are speaking to a sympathizing Man; and child-like, we can bend down our head
upon the knee of Jesus of Nazareth, and breathe into His
ear the story of our wants and woes.  We have all that
the grossest idolatry ever gave of clear conception; and
yet our worship is not degraded, but sublimed.
Not so pleasing is the Fourth Book of Thorndale's
manuscript, entitled " Seckendorf, or the Spirit of Denial."  Long ago, in Switzerland, Thorndale found Seckendorf in the studio of Clarence, the Utopian artist. Seckendorf was a tall man, with gray hair and keen gray eyes,
and advanced in years. He was by birth a German
baron; but he was known in England as Doctor Seckendorf, an eminent physician and physiologist. In philosophy, he was just the opposite of Clarence: sceptical,
sarcastic, hoping nothing. His philosophy was "firm as a
rock, and as hard and barren."  He held that what is excellent never can be common, because " higher excellence




328                 THORNDALE; OR, THE
is greater complication, and its manifestation must be
more restricted, because a larger number of antecedent
conditions are necessary for that manifestation."   The
Utopian's " good  time  coming," of universal goodness
and happiness, could  therefore never be.  And Thorndale thought out a sad induction of facts in corroboration
of the thing:There is more sea than land; three fourths of the globe are covered
with salt water.
There is more barren land than fertile; much is sheer desert, or hopeless swamp; great part wild arid steppes, or land that can only be held
in cultivation by incessant toil.
Where nature is most prolific, there is more weed and jungle than
fruit and flower.
Of the animal creation, the lowest orders are by far the most numerous. The izfusolria, and other creatures that seem to enjoy no other
sensations than what are immediately connected with food and movement ( if even these), far surpass all others in this respect. The tribes
of insects are innumerable; the mammalia comparatively few.
Of the human inhabitants of the earth, the ethnologist tells us that
the Mongolian race is the most numerous, which is not certainly the
race in which the noblest forms of civilization have appeared. As in
the tree there is more leaf than fruit, so in the most advanced nation of
Europe there are more poor than rich, more ignorant than wise, more
automatic laborers, the mere creatures of habit, than reasoning and
reflective men.
We do not know  whether the celebrated  anonymous
work, entitled The Plurality of Worlds, was published before Thorndale's death. If he had read it, he might have
gathered from its eloquent and startling pages one instance more for his induction.   He might have stated
that there seems strong reason to believe that of all the
orbs which have (if we may say so) blossomed in immensity, only one has arrived at fruit: that this earth
is the only inhabited world in all the universe.   The
Creator works with a lavish hand.   But as his works




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.                 329
grow nobler, they grow fewer. Scarcity, we all know,
makes a thing more valuable: the converse holds as
truly, that value makes a thing scarce.
The second chapter in this Fourth Book treats ingeniously and strikingly of the power of money; and also
furnishes proof that Thorndale, like many men of his
make, was not minutely accurate. The chapter is called
"The Silver Shilling; " and over and over again we have
the silver shilling repeated, as the type of money.  Seckendorf tells us where he got the name: it was from " a
poem  by one Phillips,' On the Silver Shilling.'"   We
know, of course, what Seckendorf is referring to; but
there is no such poem  as that he quotes.  Most men
who are tolerably well read in the poetry of the seventeenth century, have at least heard of John Phillips's
poem, The Splendid Shilling, an amusing parody of the
style of Milton: it sets out thus: 
Happy the man, who. void of care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse, retains
A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain,
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale.
Our shortening space forbids our offering our readers
any account of Seckendorfs career, which Mr. Smith
sketches with great liveliness and interest; or our noticing the topics which were discussed in council by Thorndale, Clarence, and Seckendorf.   Seckendorf thought
there is a general movement in England towards the
Roman Catholic Church; and that it is not unlikely
that the ragged  urchin who is chalking up " No Popery" on the walls of London, may live to see High
Mass performed in St. Paul's Cathedral.   He maintained that fear is the root of all religion; the unseen
root, even in the happiest Christians: — that "the pil



330              THORNDALE; OR THE
lars of heaven are sunk in hell." We differ from him.
We think that love and hope, rather than fear, are the
guiding influences in the Christian life.  We believe that
though a great fear may be the thing that wakens a man
up from total unconcern about religion, yet that the race
once entered on, he treads "the way to Zion with iis
face thitherward;"-looking towards the home he seeks;
and drawn by the hope before, rather than driven by the
fear behind him.
Thorndale's Fifth Book is called " Clarence, or the
Utopian."  As the invalid was wearing down from day
to day, one morning he was sitting in the gardens of the
Villa Reale.   There a group drew  his attention, -a
father, and, as it seemed, his little daughter. The father
was evidently an Englishman: the little girl, with fair
complexion and light hair, had the dark eye of the Italian.  Thorndale recognized his old friend Clarence; but
with characteristic reserve, he shrunk from  making himself known.  But he looked with kind feeling upon the
little child; and mused, as Dr. Arnold had done before
him, on a child's power to reawaken a parent's flagging
interest in life. The beaten track is no longer monotonous: the circle of the year looks new.  Thorndale thus
mused: 
What beautiful things there are in life! joys that have come down
to us pure and unstained from the times of the patriarchs. It is to me
an eternal miracle to see the same roses year after year bloom as freshly as they did in Paradise. Plant this wedded happiness, plant these
roses, in every rood of ground, ye who would improve the aspect of
this world! but do not think you can change a single leaf of the plant
itself.
Thorndale's idea had been anticipated.  James Hedderwick thus excuses a new poem on the old theme of
Love: -




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.               331
The theme is old, - even as the flowers are old,
That sweetly showed
Their silver bosses and bright-budding gold
Through Eden's sod; —
And still peep forth through grass and garden mould,
As fresh from God!
Happily Thorndale and Clarence met at last.  The
little girl, compassionating the wan look of the consumptive, offered him  another day some flowers.   Clarence
followed her; and suddenly recognizing his old companion, " burst into tears like a woman."  He and his
little Julia were afterwards constant visitors at the Villa
Scarpa; and all the beauty of the scene, which had been
paling to the dying man's languid eye, suddenly revived.
Morning after morning Clarence spent, painting the view
from Thorndale's terrace. Julia was not his daughter:
she was his adopted child.  She was the daughter of
an exiled Italian patriot who had come to England, married an English woman, settled down quietly in a little
cottage on the borders of the New Forest, and supported
himself as a sculptor. We trust that all our readers will
make a point of perusing the chapter called " Julia Montini," in which the story of the exile, his wife and child,
is related with exquisite grace and pathos. Very beautifully did the simple and untaught English girl tell Clarence how, as there gradually grew upon her the sense of
the genius and refinement of the man she had married,
she feared that he would cease to love her, so much
above her as he was.  She read and studied, hoping to
make herself more worthy of him: but her fear proved
idle; he never loved her less. It is indeed something
of a disappointment for a husband to feel there are
realms of thought to which he has access, but into which
a gentle and loving wife cannot enter with him: but




332              THORNDALE; OR, THE
solitude is the penalty which attaches of necessity to
elevated thought.  The man who climbs too high, leaves
common sympathy behind him.  Our readers may remember how  beautifully the author of In Memoriam
has anticipated  the  poor  young  wife's thoughts and
fears: 
He thrids the labyrinth of the mind,
He reads the secret of the star:
He seems so near and yet so far:
He looks so cold: she thinks him kind.
For him she plays, to him she sings,
Of early faith and plighted vows;
She knows but matters of the house,
And he, he knows a thousand things.
Her faith is fixt and cannot move,
She darkly feels him dark and wise:
She dwells on him with faithful eyes,
"I cannot understand: I love."
Suddenly the sculptor and his wife died of fever; and
Clarence found the little child all alone in the deserted
cottage. The quiet home, that had looked so happy, was
obliterated at a stroke. Is it a morbid thing, if we find
it for ourselves impossible to look at any happy home,
without picturing to our mind a day sure to come? We
look at the cottage in the sunshine, amid its clustering
roses, and with  children's voices by.  Ah, some day
there will be an unwonted bustle, —  straw flying about
the neat walks — empty, echoing rooms -  the children
gone-and the peaceful home broken up for ever.  It
is well for those who can feel themselves secure even if
they be not safe.
And now Clarence and Julia soothe the dying man's
solitude.  Thorndale lies on his sofa under the acacia.




CONFLICT OF OPINIONS.               333
tree; Clarence stands near, painting; Julia is busy gardening. And as Thorndale's hand turns too feeble to
hold the pen, Clarence takes up his abandoned manuscript volume, and fills the remaining leaves with his
own confession of faith. To notice that at all adequately
would demand an article of itself; and we shall not attempt to do so. But we see our last of Thorndale as we
have just described him. We leave him, now with very
little to come of life, under the acacia-tree.  There is
now only the stillness of expectation upon that terrace
that looks down upon the bay.
We should have been happier, we confess, had we left
him  with something better to support him  at the last
than philosophy, whether cynical or Utopian.  Surely he
had within himself, too sacred for common talk, a hope
and a belief not to be paraded for Seckendorf's sarcasm!
Surely, when, in the last hours, the pictures of childhood
came back, the perplexed and tempest-driven man was
again the child that prayed by the little white bedside.
We do not care if our readers should complain that the
sermon peeps through the article - that the disguise of
the reviewer does not quite conceal the gown and band.
Let it he so: but in treating of such grave matters as
those which this book suggests, we could not have forgiven ourselves had we failed to notice the book's essential defect.  Holding the belief which we hold, we could
not have written of the mystery of life, without reference to that which alone can read it.




CHAPTER XII.
CONCERNING  A GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.1
2   W   S R. CAIRD'S name is already known to the.  English public as that of the author of a
~,g^'  sermon on Religion in Common Life, which
11 I> sJ was published two or three years ago by
her Majesty's command.  Every Sunday during her
autumn sojourn at Balmoral, the Queen and court worship at the little parish church of Crathie; and at various times several of the most popular preachers of the
Church of Scotland have there preached in the presence
of royalty.  Dr. Norman McLeod of Glasgow, Dr. Cumi
ming, Mr. Stuart, of St. Andrew's, Edinburgh, and other
eminent Scotch clergymen, have officiated at Crathie
Church, and in more than one instance with so favorable an impression, that the manuscripts of the discourses have been required for the "Queen's private
perusal.  But Mr. Caird was the first Scotch minister
who received a royal command to give his sermon to the
public; and indeed, with the exception of the Bishop of
Oxford, the first preacher who had been so distinguished
during her Majesty's reign.  Many circumstances, apart
fiom the merit of the discourse, contributed to secure for
it a very large circulation in England as well as in Scot1 Sermons. By the Rev. John Caird, M. A., Minister of the Park
Church, Glasgow, Author of Religion in Common Life. Edinburgh
and London: Blackwoods. 1858.




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 335
land; and we have been informed that no single sermon
published in modern times has been so extensively read.
Somewhere about a hundred thousand copies of it were
exhausted in Britain: a still greater number were required for the United States, where our friends were
eager to know what sort of religious instruction was approved by a queen; and the sermon being translated
into the German tongue, was republished in Germany
with a recommendatory preface by the Chevalier Bunsen. At that period it became known for the first time
to the English public that there had arisen in Scotland a
new luminary; a great pulpit orator who was held by
uany to be equal to any who had preceded him, Clhalmers and Guthrie not being excepted.  And the published sermon seemed almost to justify the enthusiasm of
Mr. Caird's warmest admirers.  We believe that among
intelligent readers there was but one opinion of it, as an
ingenious, eloquent, sensible, and interesting exposition
of an important practical subject. Still, we have been
told that some readers thought Mr. Caird's theology very
defective; and it is not long since we read a letter in a
newspaper which is the organ of a small religious sect,
in which Mr. Caird was sadly torn to pieces as lacking
all spiritual insight and knowledge of the gospel doctrines.  And the ingenious writer of that letter stated
that nothing could be more mistaken than the popular
belief that the Queen, in commanding the publication of
Mr. Caird's sermon, intended to express her approval of
it.  On the contrary, her Majesty's purpose was (so the
writer of the letter assures us) to make an appeal to the
sympathies of the religious public, and to say, - " Pity
me, my subjects; here is a specimen of the kind of
thing that I have to listen to in Scotland in autumn  "




336  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
Mr. Caird made his reputation as a preacher while
minister of a church in Edinburgh, but about ten years
since he retired from the bustle of a city clergyman's life
to the, country parish of Errol, in Perthshire.  From his
seclusion there he occasionally emerged to preach in the
large towns of Scotland, and far from being forgotten or
lost sight of in his country retirement, his popularity appeared ever on the increase. Whenever he preached in
Edinburgh or Glasgow, the crowds that followed him had
hardly been equalled since the great days of Dr. Chalmers; and the fame to which Religion in Common Life
attained did not surpass the expectations of his Scotch
admirers. A few months since Mr. Caird, now a clergyman of thirteen years' experience, was transferred from
his country parish to the beautiful church recently erected
in the West-end Park at Glasgow, to which we are sorry
to see its builders were too Protestant to give a saint's
name.  There, with undiminished fire, and unslackening
popularity, Mr. Caird  preaches twice every  Sunday.
The stranger in Glasgow, if he wanders on Sunday afternoon in the direction of the Park, will see a well-dressed
eager crowd hurrying towards the Park Church; and we
understand that so overcrowded was the building at Mr.
Caird's first coming, that it has been found necessary to
furnish the congregation with tickets, no one being admitted without producing one.  Mr. Caird, we believe,
is of opinion that in order to produce its full impression,
a sermon ought not to be read, but to be delivered as if
given extempore; but as the labor of committing a discourse to memory is great, he reads his forenoon discourse,
and delivers without any manuscript that which he preaches
in the afternoon.  The afternoon appearance is thus the
great one, and it is to that service that strangers who wish




CON'CERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.  337
to hear the eminent preacher generally go. And although
it is in the nature of things impossible that a great orator
should be always at his best, we believe that hardly any
one who goes to hear Mr. Caird of an afternoon, however high his expectations may have been, returns disappointed.
Let us suppose that by the kindness of some Glasgow
acquaintance we have succeeded in procuring tickets of
admission to the Park Church.  In the midst of a throng
which has converged firom many points to the steep ascent
which leads up to it, we approach the stately Gothic
building, with its massive tower, which, standing on an
elevated ridge of ground, looks on either hand over the
distant din of thronging streets beneath to the quiet country hills far away.  We find our way into the church,
and we have time to look around us, for there is still half
an hour before service begins.  Is this really a Presbyterian church? What would John Knox say to it? For
all the light within is the "dim religious light " of the
cathedral, mellowed in its passage through the windows
of stained glass: there is the lofty vaulted roof of richly
carved oak, and the double line of shafts parting the
side aisles: far up, the amber-tinted clerestory windows
throw shafts of sunset color upon the oaken beams; and
in the distance -fbr the church is a very long onethere is nothing less than a spacious chancel, parted from
the church by a lofty pointed arch, partly filled up by a
traceried screen of stone. And at the extremity of the
chancel, but (something lacking still) at the west end of
the church, there is an altar-window, whose fair proportions
and rich tracery might have been designed by Pugin.
No galleries cut these graceful shafts, and the seats are
not pews, but open benches of oak.  There is no organ,
22




338  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
and no altar; but directly in front of the chancel a plain
pulpit of oak.
It is just two o'clock. Every seat is crowded, and the
passages have gradually filled with people who are content to stand. And as the last tones of the bell have
died away Mr. Caird ascends the pulpit, wearing, as
Scotch ministers do, the black silk preaching-gown and
cassock. His appearance is natural and unaffected.  Of
the middle size, with dark complexion and long black hair,
good but not remarkable forehead, a somewhat careworn
and anxious expression, and looking like a retiring and
hard-wrought student of eight-and-thirty - there we have
Mr. Caird.  He begins the service by reading the psalm
which is to be sung, and we are struck at once by the
solemnity and depth of his voice, and we feel already
something of the indescribable charm there is about the
whole man. The psalm is sung by a choir so efficient
that the lack of the organ is hardly felt. Then the minister rises, and, the whole congregation standing, offers a
prayer.  The Church of Scotland has no liturgy, and
every clergyman has to prepare his own prayers. These
are commonly understood to be given extemporaneously,
and generally they are extemporaneous; but as we listen
to those sentences, uttered with so much feeling, solemnity, quietude, and fluency, we soon know that the prayers,
filled with happy turns of expression, containing many
phrases and sentences borrowed from the Liturgy, and
some (or we are much mistaken) translated from  the
Missal, and all conceived and expressed in the simple,
beautiful liturgical spirit, have been, if not written, at
least most carefully thought over at home. At one time
Mr. Caird's prayers were ambitious and oratorical; but
now their perfect simplicity tells of more mature judg



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 338
merit and taste.  We cannot say whether the congregation has so far mastered the essential difficulty of unliturgical common prayer as to be properly joining in those
petitions; but the perfect stillness, the silence and stirlessness that prevail in church, testify that the congregation
is at all events intently listening. The prayer is over -
only a quarter of an hour.  Then a lesson from Scripture is read, chosen at the discretion of the clergyman;
then a psalm  is sung; then comes the sermon.  You
cannot doubt, as you see the people arranging themselves
for fixed attention, what portion of the worship of God
is thought in Scotland the most important. The service
in that country is essentially one of instruction rather
than one of devotion.  The text is read; it is generally
such as we feel at once to be a suggestive one; it is sometimes striking, but never odd or strange.  Then Mr.
Caird begins his sermon.  He has no manuscript before
him, not a shred of what the humbler Scotch call paper,
and abhor as they abhor a vestige of Rome; but who
could for a moment be misled  into imagining those
felicitous sentences extemporaneous, or that masterly
symmetrical discussion of the subject, so ingenious, so
thoughtful, so rich in fine illustration, rising several
times in the course of the sermon into a fervid rush
of eloquence that you hold your breath to listen tothe excogitation of the moment?  In hearing Mr. Caird
you have nothing to get over. There is nothing that detracts from the general effect; none of those disagreeable
peculiarities and awkwardnesses in utterance, in gesture,
in appearance, in mode of thought, which grievously
detract from the pleasure with which we listen to many
distinguished speakers till we get accustomed to them,
and learn to forget their defects in their merits and




340  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
beauties. He begins quietly, but in a manner which is
full of earnestness and feeling; every word is touched
with just the right kind and degree of emphasis; many
single words, and many little sentences which when you
recall them  do not seem very remarkable, are given in
tones which make them  absolutely thrill through you:
you feel that the preacher has in him the elements of a
tragic actor who would rival Kean. The attention of the
congregation is riveted; the silence is breathless; and as
the speaker'goes on gathering warmth till he becomes
impassioned and impetuous, the tension of the nerves of
the hearer becomes almost painful.  There is abundant
ornament in style -if you were cooler you might probably think some of it carried to the verge of good taste;
there is a great amount and variety of the most expressive, apt, and seemingly unstudied gesticulation: it is rather as though you were listening to the impulsive Italian
speaking fiom head to foot, than to the cool and unexcitable Scot. After two or three such climaxes, with pauses
between, after the manner of Dr. Chalmers, the preacher
gathers himself up for his peroration, which, with the
tact of the orator, he has made more striking, more
touching, more impressive than any preceding portion
of his discourse. He is wound up often to an excitement
which is painful to see. The full deep voice, so beautifully expressive, already taxed to its utmost extent, breaks
into something which is almost a shriek; the gesticulation
becomes wild; the preacher, who has hitherto held himself
to some degree in check, seems to abandon himself to the
full tide of his emotion: you feel that not even his eloquent lips can do justice to the rush of thought and feeling within.  Two or three minutes in this impassioned
strain and the sermon is done.  A few moments of start



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 341
ling silence; you look round the church; every one is
bending forward with eyes intent upon the pulpit; then
there is a general breath and stir.' You think the sermon has lasted about ten minutes; you consult your
watch -it has lasted three quarters of an hour.  If you
are an enthusiastic Anglican you say to yourself, " Well,
that comes to the mark of Melvill or Bishop Wilberforce."
If an enthusiastic Scotch churchman, you say to yourself,
" Well, I suppose Chalmers was better; but 1 never heard
preaching like it, save from Guthrie or Norman McLeod."
Then follow a brief collect, a hymn, and the benediction; and you come away, having heard the great Scotch
preacher.  We may very fitly call him so; for except
Dr. Guthrie and Dr. McLeod, there is no one whom the
popular judgment of Scotland in general places near Mr.
Caird.  And though every district of Scotland and every
town has its popular preacher - and though many congregations have each their own favorite clergyman whom
they prefer to all others -still the very best that the
warmest admirers of other Scotch ministers can find to
say of them  is, that they are better than Mr. Caird.
He is the Scotch Themistocles.  Even those who would
place another preacher first, place Mr. Caird second.
It is rarely indeed that we find such a remarkable
combination in one individual of the qualities which go
to make an effective pulpit orator.  Mr. Caird's mind
has the knack of producing the precise kind of thought
which shall be at once worthy of the attention of the
best educated and most refined, and effective when addressed to a mixed congregation.  And that is the practical talent for the preacher, after all. No depth, originality, or power of thought will make up in a sermon for
the absence of general interest. No thought or style is




342  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
good in the pulpit, which is tiresome.  There is an insufferable but lofty order of thought, which you listen to
with an effort, feel to be extremely fine, and cease listening to as soon as possible. John Foster, who scattered
congregations, was beyond doubt an abler preacher than
Mr. Caird; but he did scatter congregations, and therefore he was not a good preacher, finely as his published
discourses read. There are other preachers who attract
crowds by preaching sermons which revolt every one
who possesses good sense or good taste; but in distinction alike from the good unpopular preacher and the bad
popular preacher, Mr. Caird has the talent to produce
at will an order of thought elevated enough to please
the most cultivated, and interesting enough to attract
the masses.  He has a good foundation of metaphysical
acumen and power; strong practical sense; then great
powers in the way of happy and striking illustration; indeed, he traces analogies between the material and the
spiritual with a felicity which reminds us of Archbishop
Whately.  Mr. Caird has also that invaluable gift of the
orator    a capacity of intense feeling; he can throw his
whole soul into what he says, with an emotion which is
contagious.  Further, he has a remarkably telling and
expressive voice, and a highly effective dramatic manner.
Add to all these qualifications that, from  natural bent,
fostered and encouraged by unequalled success from his
first entering the church, he has devoted himself steadfastly to the single end of becoming a great and distinguished preacher.  That end he has completely attained.
For at least ten years he has held in Scotland the position which he now holds; and the fortunate incident of
his preaching at Crathie extended his reputation beyond
the limits of Scotland.  Mr. Caird is certainly the most




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 343
generally popular preacher in the Scotch Church, and he
deserves his popularity.  We cannot, of course, go into
the question of mute inglorious Miltons, and of flowers born to blush unseen.  It is possible enough that
among the Cumberland hills, or in curacies like Sydney
Smith's on Salisbury Plain, or wandering sadly by the
shore of Shetland fiords, there may be men who have in
them the makings of better preachers than Bishop Wilberforce, Mr. Melvill, Dr. McLeod, or Mr. Caird.  Of
course there may be Folletts that never held a brief,
Angelos that never built St. Peter's, and Vandycks who
never got beyond their sixpence a day. There may be,
of course, and there may not be; and what is known
must for practical purposes be taken for what is.
It may readily be supposed that the announcement of
a forthcoming volume of sermons by so distinguished a
preacher did not fail to excite much interest in the district where he is best known.  Little Tom Eaves, who
at different times has given Mr. Thackery so much valuable information, assured us, on his return from a recent
visit to Edinburgh, that the eminent publishers who have
sent forth this volume, were content to give for its copyright a sum which, for a volume of sermons, was quite
extraordinary - as much, in fact, as Sir Walter Scott
received for Mffarmion. Mr. Caird's book is sure to have
many readers.  Many educated people in England will
feel curious to know what sort of preaching is at a premium in the Scotch Church, where many things are so
different from what they are among us. And we think
we have been able to trace one or two indications in the
volume, that Mr. Caird had an English audience in view.
On at least two occasions we find the word Sunday (" a
Sunday meditation,"'"Sunday-school teachers,") where




344  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
we are mistaken if most Scotch preachers would not
have employed the word Sabbath, which is in almost
universal use north of the Tweed.  But in Scotland, no
doubt, Mr. Caird will find the great majority of his readers. Numbers of people who have listened to the fiery
orator will be anxious to find whether the discourses
which struck them so much when aided by the accessories of a wonderfully telling manner, will stand the
severer test of a quiet perusal at home. So here is Mr.
Caird's volume.
Here, then,'we have the spent thunderbolts, motionless and cold.  Here we have the locomotive engine,
which tore along at sixty miles an hour, with the fire
raked out and the steam  gone down.  Here, in short, we
have the sermons of the great Scotch pulpit orator, stripped of the fire, the energy,-the eloquent voice, the abundant gesticulation, which did so much to give them their
charm  when delivered and heard.  There is but one
story told as to the share which manner has always had
in producing the practical effect which has been felt in
listening to all great orators, from  Demosthenes to Chalmers.  Manner has always been the first, second, and
third thing; and Mr. Caird could not publish his manner.
We can examine his sermons calmly, and make up our
mind about their merits deliberately, now. To do so was
quite impossible while we were hurried away by the
"ushing eloquence of the living voice.
No doubt, then, this volume will disappoint the less intelligent class of Mr. Caird's admirers, who expect to be
as deeply impressed in reading these discourses as they
were in hearing them.  No words standing quietly on
the printed page can possibly have the effect of the same
words spoken by the human voice, with immense feeling,




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 345
and with all the arts of oratory.  To expect that they
should have an equal effect is to expect that the sword
laid upon the table should cut as deeply as it did when
grasped in a strong and skilful swordsman's hand.  Mr.
Caird's manner we know is a remarkably effective one;
and of course the better the speaker's manner, the more
his speech loses by being dissociated from it.
Still, after making every deduction, they are noble sermons; and we are not sure but that, with the cultivated
reader, they will gain rather than lose by being read, not
heard.  There is a thoughtfulness and depth about them
which can hardly be appreciated, unless when they are
studied at leisure; and there are many sentences so felicitously expressed that we should grudge being hurried
away from them by a rapid speaker, without being allowed
to enjoy them a second time. And Mr. Caird, we feel as
we read his pages, has succeeded in attaining a great end:
he has shown that it is possible to produce sermons which
shall be immensely popular, and popular with all classes
of people: while yet all shall be so chaste and correct
that the most fastidious taste could hardly take exception
to a single word or phrase. In Mr. Caird's sermons there
is nothing extravagant or eccentric either in thought or
style. There is nothing unworthy of the clergyman and
the scholar. There are no claptrap expedients to excite
attention; nothing merely designed to make an audience
gape; nothing that could possibly produce a titter. The
solemnity of the house of God is never forgotten.  Mr.
Caird has no peculiar views, no special system of theology: he preaches the moderate and chastened Calvinism
of the Church of Scotland,- precisely the doctrine of
the Thirty-Nine Articles.  He does not tell his hearers
that the world is coming to an end; he finds nothing about




346  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
Louis Napoleon in the Book of Revelation; he does not
select queer texts, or out of the way topics for discussion.
It is no small matter to have proved in this age of pulpit
drowsiness on the one hand, and pulpit extravagance on
the other, that sound and temperate doctrine, logical
accuracy, and classical language are quite compatible
with great popularity. It is pleasant to find that discourses which are thoroughly manly and fiee from sentimentalism or cant prove attractive to a class which is too
ready to run after such preachers as Mr. Charles Honeyman; and that sensible and judicious views, set forth in a
style which is always scholarly and correct, and enforced
by a manner in which there is no acting, howling, ventriloquizing, or gymnastic posturing, can hold vast crowds
in a rapt attention, which would please even that slashing
critic of the pulpit, Habitans in Sicco. Wide as the poles
apart is such popularity as that of Mr. Caird from such
popularity as that of Mr. Spurgeon and his class. It is
very often with contempt and indignation that people
of sense and taste listen to "popular preachers."  No
doubt such preachers may be well fitted to please and
even to profit the great multitude who have little sense
and no taste at all; but it is a fiesh and agreeable sensation to the reviewer when he discovers a man whose eminence as a preacher is the sequel to a brilliant career at
the University; whose sermons indicate a mind stored
with the fruits of extensive reading and study; who
shrinks instinctively fiom whatever is coarse or grotesque;
who abhors all claptrap; who is perfectly simple and sincere without a trace of self-consciousness; in whose composition there is nothing spasmodic, nothing aiming to be
subtle and succeeding in being unintelligible; and who
seems, so far as it is possible to judge, to be actuated by




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 347
an earnest desire to impress religious truth upon the
minds of his hearers. And, indeed, when we think what
is the great end of the preacher's endeavors, we feel that
all mere literary qualities and graces are of no account
whatever when compared with the presence of that efficacious element in the sermon which makes it such as
that it shall be the means of saving souls. For ourselves,
we should prefer a thousand times the magic spell which
Miss Marsh (all honor to the name) exercised at Sydenham  over English Hearts, to the church-crowding eloquence of Chalmers.  And in that solemn sense, perhaps
the greatest of all English preachers is the homely, pithy,
earnest Mr. Ryle.
We confess that we do not think sermons, generally
speaking, by any means attractive reading; and we have
not read a sufficient number of them to be able to institute a comparison between the printed sermons of Mr.
Caird and those of other distinguished preachers.  Still,
we may say that we do not find in Mr. Caird the originality of Mr. Melvill, or the talent of that eminent divine
for eliciting fiom his text a great amount of striking and
unexpected instruction.  There is nothing of the daring
ingenuity and the novel interpretations of Archbishop
Whately.  Mr. Caird will never found a school of disciples, like Dr. Arnold; nor startle steady-going old clergymen, like Mr. Robertson of Brighton.  He is so clear
and comprehensible that he will not, like Mr. Maulice,
make many readers feel or fancy the presence of something very fine, if they could only be sure what the
preacher would be at.  He hardly sets a scene before us
in such life-like reality as does Dr. Guthrie.  And although people may go to hear him for the intellectual
treat, they will never go to be amused, as by Mr. Spur



348 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
geon.  He will never point a sentence at the expense of
due solemnity, like a great Scotch preacher who contrasted men's profession and their practice by saying,
" Profession says,'On this hang the law and the prophets;' Practice says,' Hang the law and the prophets! "
He will not, like Mr. Cecil, arrest attention by beginning
his sermon, " A  man was hanged this morning at Tyburn; " nor like Rowland Hill, by exclaiming " Matches!
matches! matches! "   nor like somebody or other by
saying as he wiped his face, " It's damned hot! "-  nor
like Whitefield, by vociferating "Fire! fire -  in hell!"
lHe will not imitate Sterne, who read out as his text, " It
is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the
house of feasting;" and then exclaimed, as the first words
of' his discourse, "That I deny I "-  making it appear in
a little while that such was not the preacher's own sentiment, but what might be supposed to be the reflection of
an irreligious man.  He will never introduce into his
discourses long dialogues and arguments between God
and Satan, in which the latter is made to exhibit a
deficiency in logical power which is, to say the least,
remarkable in one who is believed not to lack intellect.
He will not appear in the pulpit with his shirt-sleeves
turned back over his cassock, in ball-room fashion; and
after giving out his text, astonish the congregation by
bellowing, "Now, you young men there, listen to my sermon, and don't stare at my wrists!"  All such arts for
attracting or compelling interest and attention Mr. Caird
eschews.
And when we read his sermons, though we feel their
interest, we find it hard to say in what it lies. They are
admirable sermons: but we should scarcely, a priori,
have ventured to predict their vast popular effect. The




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 349
finely-linked thought, the completeness and symmetry of
the discussion, the beautifully appropriate illustrations,
none stuck in for ornament, but all bond fide illustrating
the subject; the general sobriety and good sense: - these
are literary characteristics which we should say would
prove hardly discernible, and certainly not appreciable,
save by people of considerable cultivation.  Must we,
then, fall back upon Manner, and suppose that the charm
which gives these sermons their popular effect lies in a
great measure in the touching and thrilling tones, the
tears in the voice, the enchaining earnestness, with which
they are poured forth by an orator who, like Whitefield,
could almost melt an audience to tears by saying Mesopotamia?  Or may we not rather ask whether Mr. Caird,
in his elaborate and fastidious preparation of these discourses for the press, has not cut out, or smoothed down,
much which was most striking when the sermons were
preached, but which might have appeared of doubtful
taste when they were carefully and critically read over?
Perhaps these sermons, while gaining in finish and perfection of literary construction, have lost some of the
salient points, the roughness and raciness, which added
to their piquancy when delivered.  We have heard Mr.
Caird preach two of those now published; and we find
he has drawn his pen through several of those phrases
which had stuck longest and most vividly in our memory.
We think he has erred here. He has been over-cautious,
over-fastidious. It is on the very borderland of good
taste that the deepest popular impression is made: and
there was no fear of Mr. Caird's crossing the border.
And we believe that upon ordinary Sundays, by discourses of much less elaborate preparation, he produces
even a greater effect upon his congregation than could be




350  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
produced by any sermon in this volume, were it preached
exactly as it is printed.
The published discourses are certainly very ambitious
in thought and style. There is a want of repose in them;
and when two or three are read successively, the effect
upon the mind is a little wearisome. But no doubt they
were written to be preached; and when they are listened
to one at a time, and at intervals of a week, this result
will not follow.  It is well to have the attention riveted
and the nerves tightened for half an hour in the week:
but the process becomes painful when it lasts too long.
We remark a little mannerism  here and there.  An extraordinary number of paragraphs begin with the word
Now: and the term yearning is, we think, of much too
frequent occurrence. The result of the abundant use of
this word, and of the occasional heaping up of adjectives
unconnected by any copulative, and of nearly the same
meaning, is to leave an occasional impression of an excess of the gushing element. There is the least shade
here and there of the cant of the present day about " the
response of our deepest nature," -its "instinctive throb,"
and its " instinctive yearnings," - phrases which to plain
folk mean just nothing at all. We confess that we do not
like the word fair several times applied to the Almighty
-" the alone Infinitely True and Holy and Fair."  The
word suggests ideas which are not in harmony with so
solemn an application of it.  And as we are fault-finding
at any rate, we may here state that in all the volume
there is but a single passage which appears to us to be in
glaringly and painfully bad taste: so much and so disagreeably so that we wonder that Mr. Caird should have
published it.  It is that passage in which heaven is described as a place



CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.  351
where, heart to Jheart with God, happy souls revel unsated, undazzled, in
the Essential Element of Love.
The description appears to us most irreverent, and its
entire strain most unbecoming.  Mr. Spurgeon could
hardly have said anything  worse.  We have drawn
the pen through it in our copy, that our pleasure in
reading the volume may not be interrupted by its jarring and irritating effect; and we trust that in the future
editions which are sure to be wanted, Mr. Caird will
strike the entire passage out.  It is most unworthy of
him.
We do not know whether Mr. Caird was accustomed
to preach such sermons as those now published to his
country congregation.  There are many phrases and
sentences in them  which to rustics would be quite unintelligible. What could a ploughman make of the following question:What elements must we eliminate from suffering caused by sin in
forming our ideal of suffering purity? - (p. 171.)
But as we know that Madame Rachel, by her wonderfully expressive gesticulation, succeeded, while in Russia,
in making her meaning intelligible to people who did not
understand the language which she spoke, so Mr. Caird
may have been able to get country folk to understand
the general drift of sentences containing many words
whose sense they did not know.  And indeed the late
Hugh  Miller maintains that sermons which are in a
considerable degree over the heads of a rural congregation, are the most likely both to interest and improvc
them.
By this time, we doubt not, our readers are impatient
of our remarks, and would like to hear Mr. Caird speak
for himself.  We proceed to give a more specific account
of the contents of the volume.




352  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
It contains eleven sermons, the fourth being divided
into two parts, intended, we presume, to be preached at
different times; and a glance at the Table of Contents
at once makes us suspect that the sermons have, with a
view to publication, been materially changed from what
they were when they were preached.  Sermons in Scotland, as in England, have a sort of average length, from
which they do not deviate materially except on extraordinary occasions. But while Mr. Caird's first sermon
occupies forty pages, the second occupies only twenty-five,
the fourth twenty, and the fifth thirteen.  The first sermon is thus three times as long as the fifth, and twice
as long as the fourth.  So if the fifth sermon be of the
standard Scotch length of three quarters of an hour,
the first would occupy in the delivery two hours and a
quarter.  Or if the first sermon is to be taken as the
standard, the fifth would  crumple up into the "just
fifteen minutes."
The subject of the first sermon is The Self-evidencing
Nature of Divine Truth; its text is, " By manifestation
of the truth commending ourselves to every man's conscience in the sight of God."  (2 Cor. iv. 2.)  It is a
scholarly and  masterly production; but the thought
which forms its staple is more severe than is usual in
Mr. Caird's discourses. It is, in short, a view set out
with consummate tact and ingenuity, of the internal evidence of the truth of the Christian religion. We should
ask our university men and our clergy to read this sermon the first. They will find in it a strict and unerring
logic, great skill in simplifying and illustrating abstract
ideas, and a style which could scarcely be improved.
But when we pass to the discourse which stands next in
order we find much clearer indications of the power of
the popular orator.




CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.  353
It is on Self-Ignorance; the text, "Who can understand his errors."  (Psalm  xix. 1.2.)  We almost wonder
in reading the former sermon how Mr. Caird can be so
popular; but when we read this, more especially if we
have  heard  Mr. Caird  preach, and  can,imagine  the
fashion in  which he would deliver many  passages, we
have less difficulty in understanding the matter. Here
is the  introduction, which  would  arrest  attention  at
once: 
Of all kinds of ignorance, that which is the most strange, and, in so
far as it is voluntary, the most culpable, is our ignorance of self. For
not only is the subject in this case that which might be expected to
possess for us the greatest interest, but it is the one concerning which
we have amplest facilities and opportunities of information.  Who of us
would not think it a strange and unaccountable story, could it be told
of any man now present, that for years he had harbored under his roof
a guest whose face he had never seen -a constant inmate of his home,
who was yet to him altogether unknown?  It is no supposition however, but an unquestionable fact, that to not a few of us, from the first
moment of existence there has been present, not beneath the roof, but
within the breast, a mysterious resident, an inseparable companion,
nearer to us than friend or brother, yet of whom after all we know
little or nothing. What man of intelligence amongst us would not be
ashamed to have had in his possession for years some rare or universally admired volume with its leaves uncut? or to be the proprietor of
a repository filled with the most exquisite productions of genius, and
the rarest specimens in science and art, which yet he himself never
thought of entering?  Yet surely no book so worthy of perusal, no
chamber containing objects of study so curious, so replete with interest
for us, as that which seldom or never attracts our observation - the
book, the chamber of our own hearts. We sometimes reproach with
folly those persons who have travelled far and seen much of distant
countries, and yet have been content to remain comparatively unacquainted with their own. But how venial such folly compared with
that of ranging over all other departments of knowledge, going abroad
with perpetual inquisitiveness over earth and sea and sly, whilst there
is a little world within the breast which is still to us an unexplored region. Other scenes and objects we can study only at intervals: they
are not always accessible, or can be reached only by long and laborious
23




354 CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
journeys; but the bridge of consciousness is soon crossed - we have
but to close the eye and withdraw the thoughts fiom the world without
in order at any moment to wander through the scenes and explore the
phenomena of the still more wondrous world within. To examine
other objects delicate and elaborate instruments are often necessary:
the researches of the astronomer, the botanist, the chemist, can be prosecuted only by means of rare and costly apparatus; but the power of
reflection, that faculty more wondrous than any mechanism which art
has ever fashioned, is an instrument possessed by all - the poorest and
most illiterate alike with the most cultured and refined have at their
command an apparatus by which to sweep the inner firmament of the
soul, and bring into view its manifold phenomena of thought and feel
ing and motive. And yet-with all the unequalled facilities for acquiring this sort of knowledge, can it be questioned that it is the one sort of
knowledge that is most commonly neglected, and that, even amongst
those who would disdain the imputation of ignorance in history or
science or literature, there are multitudes who have never acquired the
merest rudiments of the knowledge of self?
By no means a far-fetched or difficult idea, the reader
must see; and turned in many lights and brought out by
a throng of illustrations; but a good and natural introduction to a sermon on self-ignorance, and quite sure, if
given with a sort of extempore air, as if each successive
comparison struck the speaker just at the moment, to get
the people to listen with great stillness.
Then, restricting his view to the matter of a man's
moral defects, Mr. Caird  goes on  to point out several
reasons why the  sinful man  does not "understand his
errors."   The first is, that sin  can be truly measured
only when  it is resisted.   This principle indeed holds
good of all forces:The rapid stream flows smooth and silent when there are no obstacles to stay its progress; but hurl a rock into its bed, and the roar and
surge of the arrested current will instantly reveal its force. You cannot estimate the wind's strength when it rushes over the open plain;
but when it reaches and wrestles with the trees of the forest, or lashes
the sea into fury, then, resisted, you perceive its power. Or if, amid
the ice-bound regions of the north, an altogether unbroken continuous




CONCERNING  A  GREAT SCOTCH  PREACHER.  355
winter prevailed, comparatively unnoticed would be its stern dominion; but it is the coming round of a more genial season, when the
counteracting agency of the sun begins to prevail, that reveals, by the
rending of the solid masses of ice, and by the universal stir and crash,
the intensity of the bygone winter's cold.
The second  reason  is, that sin often  makes a man
afraid to know  himself.   The third, that sinful habits
steal on men slowly and gradually.  The fourth, that as
character gradually deteriorates, there is a parallel deterioration of the standard by which we judge it.  Such
are the " heads " of the sermon, as they are called in
Scotland.  They are all very clearly brought out and
abundantly illustrated, and the sermon ends with a stirring " practical application."
It is possible now to seek the peace of self-forgetfulness,- to refuse
to be disturbed, -to sink for a little longer into our dream of selfsatisfaction; but it is a peace as transient as it is unreal. Soon, at the
latest, and all the more terrible for the delay, the awakening must
come. There are sometimes sad awakenings fiom sleep in this world.
It is very sad to dream by night of vanished joys, - to revisit old
scenes, and dwell once more among the unforgotten forms of our loved
and lost, - to see in the dreamland the old familiar look, and hear the
well-renembered tones of a voice long hushed and still, and then to
wake with the morning light to the aching sense of our loneliness
again. It were very sad for the poor criminal to wake from sweet
dreams of other and happier days, - days of innocence, and hope,
and peace, when kind friends, and a happy home, and an honored or
unstained name were his, -to wake in his cell on the morning of his
execution to the horrible recollection that all this is gone for ever, and
that to-day he must die a felon's death.  But inconceivably more
awful than any awakening which earthly daybreak has ever brought,
shall be the awakening of the self-deluded soul when it is roused in
horror and surprise from the dream of life - to meet Almighty God
in judgment!
Of course all this has been very often said  before;
but probably those who heard Mr. Caird declaim  these
sentences, thought that it had never before been said so
forcibly.




356   CONCERNING  A  GREAT SCOTCH  PREACHER.
The  third  sermon  is upon Spiritual Influence.  Its
text is that passage in the Saviour's speech to Nicodemus, " The wind bloweth where it listeth," &c. (S. John
iii. 7, 8.)   Here the preacher argues in defence of the
Christian  doctrine  of Regeneration, maintaining  that
whatever difficulties surround  that doctrine have  their
parallel in Nature.  The " heads " here are three.  The
analogy between Nature and Revelation is traced.n re.
gard to Supernaturalness, Sovereignty, or apparent Arbk
trariness, and Secrecy.  The gist of the first head is giver
in a sentence towards its close: -
If not the slightest movement of matter can take place without tb.J
immediate agency of God, shall we wonder that His agency is needed
in the higher and more subtle processes of mind?
The burden of the second head is given thus:Marvel not nor be disquieted at your inability to explain the laws
that regulate the operations of an infinite agent; for in a province
much more within the range of human observation there are familiar
agents at work, the operations of which are equally inscrutable, arbitrary, incalculable. Think it not strange that the ways of the Spirit
of God are unaccountable to a mind by which even the common phenomena of the wind are irreducible to law.
Then, under the third  division of the discourse, Mr.
Caird shows that the fact that the  Holy Spirit works
unseen  is no reason  for doubting that he does really
act: -
As you have surveyed the face of nature in some tranquil season, --
the unbreathing summer noon or the hushed twilight hour, - every
feature of the landscape has seemed suffused with calmness, every tree
hung its motionless head, every unrippled brook crept on with almost
inaudible murmuring, every plant, and flower, and leaf seemed as if
bathed in repose. But anon you perhaps perceived a change passing
over the scene, as if at the bidding of some invisible power; -a rushing sound, as of music evoked by invisible fingers from the harp of
nature, began to fill your ear; the leaves began to quiver and rustle,




CONCERNING A  GREAT SCOTCH  PREACHER.  357
the trees to bend and shake, the stream to dash onward with ruffled
breast and brawling sound, and from every wood, and glade, and glen,
there came forth the intimation that a new and most potent agent was
abroad and working around you. And yet while you marked the
change on the face of nature, did you pelceive the agent that effected
it? Did the wind of heaven take visible form and appear as a winged
messenger of God's will, hurrying hither and thither from object to
object? Do you know and can you describe the way in which he
worked, -how his touch fell upon the flowret and bade it wave, or
his grasp seized the sturdy oak and strove with it till it quivered and
bent? No, you cannot. You have not penetrated so far into the secrets of nature. You have seen only the effects, but not the agent or
the process of his working. You have seen the wind's influences, but
not itself. But do you therefore marvel, or hesitate to believe, that it
has indeed been abroad and working over the face of the earth? or do
vou ever doubt whether there be any such agent as the wind at all?
No; you have heard the sound thereof, you have witnessed the stir
and commotion of nature that told of its presence, and so you believe
in its existence, though you " cannot tell whence it cometh or whither
it goeth."
The three " heads " having been illustrated, the sermon is wound up by various practical inferences, given
at considerable length.
The fourth sermon is from  the text, " No man hath
seen  God  at any  time; the only-begotten  Son, which
is in the bosom  of the Father, He hath declared him."
(S. John i. 18.)  It is divided into two parts, the subject
of the former being ThYe Invisible God, and  that of the
latter  The  Manifestction  of the  Invisible  God.   The
preacher, having  dwelt upon  the  fact that God is invisible to human eyes, and shown that not without destroying the character of our present state of being as a
state of' trial and training  could the case be otherwise;
goes on  to show  that the  Saviour, by his  person, his
life and character, his sufferings and death, is a visible
manifestation of the invisible God.
We believe that this sermon, when  preached, was a




858  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
very effective one; and probably the view which it sets
out struck many ordinary hearers as novel and original.
It is not, however, necessary to tell the well-informed
reader that Mr. Caird has here done nothing more than
present, in a somewhat more popular and rhetorical
form, the substance of a sermon upon the same text by
Archbishop Whately, which, being detached from its text,
is now published in the first series of the Archbishop's
Essays.'  The reader will find it interesting to do what
we have done since writing the last sentence, -to peruse
the two sermons together, and compare them.  The
Archbishop's sermon was addressed to a learned audience: it was preached before the University of Oxford;
and accordingly it is the more critical and philosophical.
Mr. Caird intended his sermon to be preached to ordinary congregations, and accordingly he quotes no Greek,
and lengthens out his remarks upon those parts of his
subject which most admit of popular illustration.  Some
observations early in the discourse, on the Invisibility of
the Almighty, appear to have been suggested by Letter
VI. in Foster's Essay, On a Man writing Memoirs of
Himself, in which that topic is discussed with a power
unparalleled  in  theological literature.   And whoever
wishes to find The Manifestation of the Invisible God
through the personal Redeemer set out in a very interesting fashion, may find it in the first two chapters
of a book of so popular a character as Jacob Abbott's
Corner-Stone.  The view taken by Abbott is precisely
that of Archbishop Whately, as may be inferred from the
motto prefixed to the first chapter, which is, " The glory
1 Essays on some of the Peculiarities of the Christian Religion. Essay II. " On the Declaration of God in His Son," pp. 98-118. Edition
of 1856.




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 859
of God in the face of Jesus Christ." It does not appears
however, that Abbott was acquainted with the Archbishop's discourse.
Although we cannot give Mr. Caird the credit of having thought out the idea which is pressed in this sermon,
still he is entitled to the praise of having grasped it with
great force, and of having  set it forth in a discourse
which would produce a strong popular effect.  It must
be said, however, that the style of this sermon is ambilious to a somewhat extravagant degree; in taste and
accuracy it is very inferior to several of the other sermons in the volume.  We should judge it to have been
a comparatively juvenile  production, which' its author
has got so fond of that he cannot now try it by the same
severe standard as his recent compositions. And we are
not sure if the phrase, a woe that Deity could feel, contains very sound theology.  Deity can feel nothing like
woe.
The sermon which comes next is, we think, one of the
most eloquent in the book: it contains, perhaps, finer
passages than any  other.  And although  it is highly
wrought up in several parts, there is not a word in it to
which the severest critic could take exception.  It is on
The Solitariness of Christ's Sufferings: the text, " I have
trodden the wine-press alone."  It sets out with the following beautiful and natural introduction:There is always a certain degree of solitude about a great mind.
Even a mere human being cannot rise preeminently above the level of
his fellow-men without becoming conscious of a certain solitariness of
spirit gathering round him. The loftiest intellectual elevation, indeed,
is nowise inconsistent with a genial openness and simplicity of nature,
nor is there anything impossible or unexampled in the combination of
a grasp of intellect that could cope with the loftiest abstractions of philosophy, and a playfulness that could condescend to sport with a child.
Yet whilst it is thus true that the possessor of a great mind may be




360    CONCER-NING  A  GRE'AT  SCOTCH-  PREACHER.
capable of sympathizing with, of entering kindly into the views and
feelings, the joys and sorrows of inferior minds, it must at the same
time be admitted that there is ever a range of thought and feeling into
which they cannot enter with him. They may accompany him, so to
speak, a certain height up the mountain, but there is a point at which
their feebler powers become exhausted, and if he ascend beyond that,
his path must be a solitary one.
What is thus true of all great minds must have been, beyond all
others, characteristic of the mind of Him who, with all his real and
very humanity, could " think it no robbery to be equal with God.'
Jesus was indeed a lonely being in the world. With all the exquisite
tenderness of his human sympathies, - touched with the feeling of our
every sinless infirmity,,-with a heart that could feel for a peasant's
sorrow, and an eye that could beam with tenderness on an infant's face,
- he was yet one who, wherever he went, and by whomsoever surrounded, was, in the secrecy of his inner being, profoundly alone. You
who are parents have, I dare say, often felt struck by the reflection,
what a world of thoughts, and cares, and anxieties are constantly
present to your minds into which your children cannot enter. You
may be continually amongst them, holding familiar intercourse with
them, condescending to all their childish thoughts and feelings, entering into all their childish ways, -yet every day there are a thousand
things passing through your mind, with respect, for instance, to your
business or profession, your schemes and projects, your troubles, fears,
hopes and ambitions in life, your social connections, the incidents and
events that are going on ini the world around you, - there are a thousand reflections and feelings on such matters passing daily through
your mind, of which your children know nothing. You never dream
of talking to them on such subjects, and they could not understand or
sympathize with you if you did. There is a little world in which the
play of their passions is strong and vivid, but beyond that their sympathies entirely fail. And perhaps there is no spectacle so exquisitely
touching as that which one sometimes witnesses in a house of mourning -the elder members of the family bowed down to the dust by
some heavy sorrow, whilst the little children sport around in unconscious playfulness.
The bearing of this illustration is obvious. What children are to tht.
mature-minded man, the rest of mankind were to Jesus.
The preacher goes on to say that he intends to follow
out the  thought of Christ's  solitariness with  particular
reference to his sorrows.  And he does so with eloquence




CONCERNING A  GREAT SCOTCH  PREACHER.   361
so impressive that we regret we can find room  for no further specimens of it.
We have not space to do more than mention the subjects of the remaining sermons which make up the volume.  The sermon which follows that on The Solitariness
of Christ's Sufferings, is a sort of companion piece, on
the text " Rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of the
sufferings of Christ."  (1 Peter iv. 13.)  There is a discourse on Spiritual Rest which we think less happy; a
very able one on  the text, "I wish  that thou  mayest
prosper and be in health even as thy soul prospereth,"
(3 John  2); another admirable sermon on " All things
are yours," which Mr. Caird preached before the Queen
last autumn.   There is a temperate and judicious sermon on The Simpl[icity of Christian Ritual, in which the
author cautions us against attaching too much consequence
to such things as church architecture and stately church
services.  At the same time Mr. Caird describes these
perilous delights with such manifest gusto, that it is quite
obvious he would have no serious objections to the cathedral worship and to York Minster.  It is indeed quite
true that 
There is a semi-sensuous delight in religious worship imposingly conducted, which may be felt by the least conscientious even more than by
the sincerely devout. The soul that is devoid of true reverence towards God may be rapt into'a spurious elation while in rich and solemn
tones the loud-voiced organ peals forth his praise. The heart that never
felt one throb of love to Christ may thrill with an ecstasy of sentimental
tenderness while soft voices, now blending, now dividing, in combined
or responsive strains, celebrate the glories of redeeming love. And not
seldom the most sensual and profligate of men have owned to that
strange, undefined, yet delicious feeling of awe and elevation that steals
over the spirit in some fair adorned temple on which all the resources
of art have been lavished, where soft light floods the air and mystic
shadows play over pillar and arch and vaulted roof, and the hushed
and solemn stillness is broken only by the voice of prayer or praise.




362   CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
All quite true; but though no doubt such feeling as
Mr. Caird describes is not religion, it may prepare the
way for receiving impressions which are properly religious. Nor can we evade the grand principle, that we
ought to consecrate to the Almighty our very best in
architecture and in melody as in everything else, by the
reflection that such things, like all others in this world,
may be abused.  And, by the way, Mr. Caird appears
to have forgotten to tell his hearers that if worshippers
in the south may mistake their aesthetic enjoyment of
beautiful church-worship for true devotion, there is at
least as much risk that worshippers farther north may
confuse their enjoyment of the intellectual treat of listening to impassioned and brilliant pulpit-oratory with a real
reception of the great truths which are in such oratory
set forth.  If Anglicans must smash their stained-glass,
board over their vaulted roofs, and turn off their cathedral choristers, then ought Mr. Caird to cut out his
imagery, to destroy the rhythm of the last sentences of
his paragraphs, and to cultivate a chronic sore-throat.
If it be right for a clergyman to labor day and night to
make his sermon beautiful, why not his church as well?
And if the church must be only moderately beautiful,
then the preaching must not be obtrusively so.  Does
Mr. Caird mean to insinuate a covert assurance, that
however pleasing and admirable his discourses may be,
he could, were it not for fear of exciting aesthetic emotion, make them  a great deal better?
The last sermon in the volume is on The Comparative
Influence of Character and Doctrine.  The text is " Take
heed unto thyself, and unto the doctrine." (I Tim. iv. 16.)
And Mr. Caird, not perhaps with very critical accuracy,
maintains that St. Paul, in writing that text, placed the




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.  368
two matters to be attended to in the order of their importance: thus signifying that the life was of more moment
than the instruction; that it was the preacher's duty to
take heed, first to himself, and secondly to his doctrine.
Whether the general principle be implied in the text or
not, there is no doubt it is a sound one; and the sermon
enforces the old story, that example is better than precept,
with extraordinary ability and eloquence.
Thus have we endeavored, as regards these discourses of
Mr. Caird, to do what we used to do every Sunday evening when we were children at home: to wit, to " give an
account of the sermons." It was rather wearisome work
then, we remember; we trust our readers have not found
it so now. Let us add, that fine as are these published
sermons, we are not sure that they are Mr. Caird's best.
Authors are proverbially bad judges of their own productions, and preachers are no exceptions to the rule.
And we have heard from some of the author's warm admirers fond recollections of sermons on the texts, Every
man shall bear his own burden, Surely I come quickly,
There shall be no more pain, All things are become new,
They have Moses and the prophets, let them hear them, --
which are said to contain passages which for telling effect
upon a congregation are not equalled by anything in the
printed volume.  Perhaps the great preacher thought it
as well not to give his followers the opportunity of examining the red-hot shot after it had grown cold.
An amusing proof of Mr. Caird's great popularity is
afforded by the number of young preachers who try to
imitate him.  And indeed it cannot be denied that several have succeeded in brushing their hair very like him.
Others can walk up the pulpit-stair very much as Mr.




364  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
Caird does. Several have a happy knack of wiping
their face like him at the close of each "head," and more
have successfully imitated some tones of his voice, and
the manner in which he pronounces certain words which
he pronounces ill.  The general impression left on the
mind by any imitator of Mr. Caird, is that of a very fat
goose attempting to fly like an eagle.  It may be supposed that only the weakest of the aspirants to the clerical office will join the class of direct imitators.  But Mr.
Caird's success has had a powerful influence upon young
men of a higher stamp, in leading them  to cultivate a
highly animated and impassioned kind of pulpit oratory.
The calm unexciting elegance of a former age is at a discount in the North.  Dr. Blair would preach to empty
benches now.  And it must be admitted that the standard
of Scotch preaching is at this time a very high one. The
sermon is so completely the great thing in the Scotch
service, that extraordinary labor is often spent upon it.
It would be easy to mention the names of a score of
preachers who, if they were to sink as far as the Surrey
Music Hall, could, without claptrap or buffoonery, com-.
pletely eclipse Mr. Spurgeon in the arts of popular oratory.  Poor as is the worldly remuneration of the Scotch
clergy, it is wonderful how the most able and accomplished students in the Universities of Scotland are found to
devote themselves to that ill-paid ministry. A, who was
first all through the classes, goes into the church, fills several important charges with great ability, and dies at the
age of fifty, worn down by labor and excitement, an
Edinburgh minister with six hundred a year.  B, whom
he easily beat in every competition, goes to the Scotch
bar, does pretty fairly, is made (by the Whigs) a judge,
draws his three or four thousand per annum, and by




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.  365
judiciously husbanding his bodily and mental energies, is
able to adorn that high station to the age of eighty-six.
In six months after A dies, the crowds he thrilled by his
eloquence have entirely forgotten him.  Yet possibly the
work he did is remembered somewhere: and crowds of
clever young lads in the academic shades of Edinburgh
and Glasgow aim rather to be A than B.
A great deal has of late been said and written about
preaching.  It seems to be agreed on all hands that it
will no longer do to have sermons such that people cannot
listen to them.  Assuming sound instruction as present in
all sermons, the highest of all remaining qualities of the
sermon  is interest.   Whatever literary characteristics
tend to make a sermon interesting, are good; and the
very highest, if they make it uninteresting, are bad.  Yet
how great a proportion of the sermons one hears, - however deserving in other respects, - are utterly devoid of
the grand quality, interest. The sermons are able, wellthought, and well-written compositions, but they are very
dry.  Yet Sydney Smith's saying of literature in general
holds especially good of pulpit literature, that every style
is good, except the tiresome.  We believe that church is
the only place where people do not listen to what is said
to them.  " I like so much," said the laboring man in
Southey's Doctor, "to go to church on Sunday: when
the sermon begins I lean back in the corner, and lay up
my legs, and think of nothing." We sympathize with that
poor man.  It is the clergyman's business to make his
sermon such that while it is going on no one shall be able
to "think of nothing."
There are two things which from  our earliest youth
have in our mind stood out together as equally desirable,




366  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
and in the nature of things equally impossible. The one
is, to bring matters to such a point that it shall be possible to get out of our snug warm bed on a cold winter
morning without a very great effort; the other is, that
the service of the Church should be made such that it
shall not be tiresome to be present at it.  We believe
that in the case of men in general the most insufferably
tedious and wearisome hours they have ever spent, have
been many of those which they have spent at church.
As to the prayers of the Anglican ritual, no doubt they
are very beautiful, though with a calm scholarly beauty
which makes no impression upon children or uneducated
people.  There are likewise by far too many of them;
and we are persuaded that if the truth were told, most of
our readers have experienced that sense of relief we used
-to feel in our youth, when our worthy pastor and master
of those days reached that prayer of St. Chrysostom
which signified that the long service was nearly over.
We are not going to say anything of the devotional part
of the Church service; because we fear that no beauty
and no brevity will ever make that portion of it interesting except to the sincerely devout; and there we must
leave the matter.  But there is another part of the usual
public worship which we really think need not be so horribly tedious as it is in most cases, -  we mean the sermon.  When Edward Irving published a volume of
discourses, instead of" designating them  by the usual
name of sermons, he preferred to describe them on his
title-page as Orations; mentioning as his reason the wellascertained fact, that there is something in the very name
of sermon that makes people grow sleepy, and that suggests dulness, yawning, and tediousness to the last degree.
We quite believe that in the nature of things it is




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 367
properly impossible to render serious instruction as interesting as light amusement. Disguise it as we can, work
will never be made so attractive as play. Boys are instantly aware when it is intended to benefit them under
the pretext of amusing them; and the revulsion is instant
and complete.  When Dr. Chalmers said that the thing
which above all others has tended to make Robinson
Crusoe such a favorite book with boys is, that no book
combines to such a degree instruction with amusement,
he made a statement just as absurd and false as if he had
said that black was white.  But while we admit all this,
we believe that the pill may be gilded so far, and that
sermons need not be nauseous as medicines are, and never
to be listened to but by a conscious effort and as an irksome task.
He would be a benefactor of his race who should succeed in laying down a code of rules, by obeying which
men of ordinary ability might succeed in preparing and
preaching sermons, which should be interesting to an
ordinary congregation, and at the same time characterized by good sense and good taste.  These two ends
have hardly ever been attained together.  There are
numbers of sensible and correct preachers, whom  no
one can listen to for ten minutes without becoming aware
of that peculiar pricking of the veins, and disposition to
fidget uneasily, which are associated with the last degree
of weariness. There is really such a thing as acute tediousness.  And of the much smaller number of pulpit
orators who succeed systematically in keeping the attention of their congregations thoroughly alive frcm  the
beginning to the end of their discourses, most, if not all,
deal to a great degree in what may be termed claptrap.
Their sermons are often outrageously revolting to men




368  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
of refined taste, or filled with views which are extravagant and absurd.
It is a great end to get an entire congregation to listen
with interested attention from first to last of a sermon;
but this end may be attained at too considerable an expense.  One can easily think of various expedients that
would for a time attract a crowd, and get it to gaze stupidly for an hour.  A  person from  America preached
some time since in some dissenting meeting-house in this
country, arrayed in skins and feathers as an Indian chief.
He was described as a war-chief of the Somethingorotherawaws, and vast crowds, with visions of scalping-knives
and wampum-belts, came to hear him, till it was understood that he was only a porter at a steamboat wharf on
the Mississippi, and that his strange attire would have
excited much more surprise in his native place than it
did at Manchester.  A  small boy of nine or ten years
old was advertised to preach in a large building in Glasgow; and to the disgrace of that town some three or four
thousand people crowded to hear him on more occasions
than one.  An individual calling himself the Angel Gabriel, held large assemblages of the Modern Athenians in
breathless attention by preaching with a trumpet in his
hand, which he sounded at the end of each paragraph of
his sermon.  The usual tedium  of a church would be
dissipated were the officiating clergyman to turn a somersault at intervals. Any wretched mountebank may keep
attention alive by shrieks and yells, rushings about his
platform, imitations of the Yankee snuffle or the gibberish
of Cockayne, - in short, by'degrading the pulpit beneath
the level of the stage of a minor theatre.  But the question is, how may a man, without sinking the clergyman,
the scholar, and the gentleman, - without becoming a




CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER. 369
buffoon or a melodramatic actor, — without eccentricity
in the choice of texts and topics, in illustration or gesture,
- make a sermon as interesting and attractive as in the
nature of things religious instruction can be made.
There is one obvious rule which is very generally violated: a preacher should take some pains to make his
meaning intelligible.  Many a clergyman who would not
think of giving orders to his man-servant in terms which
that person could not by possibility understand, is yet
accustomed every Sunday to address a rustic congregation in discourses which would be just as intelligible to it
if they were preached in Hebrew.  Let a preacher be
direct and straightforward: let him  avoid roundabout
sentences; they are much more puzzling to the dull
brain of a country bumpkin than are mere big words:
let him put his meaning sharply and clearly.  We believe that this is a great secret of interest.  We might
suggest the abundant use of illustration which really
illustrates the subject; but every preacher has not the
faculty which enables him to use this arm.  Comparisons drawn from daily life are a tower of force.  And
we strongly recommend to all young clergymen whose
pulpit manner is not yet hopelessly formed, the reading
of a good deal of light literature.  They should read
that to see what kind of matter interests the majority
of minds.  Most preachers have a thoroughly mistaken
notion on that point.  A man who has brought himself
to feel a deep interest in dry tomes of old Theology, or
even in the more flimsy popular theological literature of
the day, forgets that the human race in general takes no
interest in such things; and fancies that when producing
thought which he knows or thinks would interest himself,
he is all right.  Hie is far mistaken! Who reads Theol24




370  CONCERNING A GREAT SCOTCH PREACHER.
ogy by choice?  Ask the publisher of ordinary sermons.
Let the preacher, then, make himself familiar with the
kind of thought and style which people read because
attracted and interested by it.  We do not say that he
should take that for his model, or imitate it in any way.
But let him  see there what sort of pabulum  suits the
common appetite; and let him aim at making his sermons if possible as easy and pleasant to be listened to
as that is to be read.  We believe that the main cause
why sermons are so dull is that their writers do not seriously set it as a worthy aim to make them interesting.  Most preachers —if we except those whose end
is simply to cover their paper with the least possible
trouble - aim at completeness of treatment, at elegance
of style, at scholarly tone and finish,-all ends quite
apart from  the great end of interest.  If interest were
systematically made the great object of endeavor; if
clergymen remembered that unless they get their congregation to listen to them, they might as well not preach
at all, - we are convinced, with average talent and average industry on the preacher's part, there would be fewer
dry sermons and fewer sleepers in church.




CHAPTER  XII.
OULITA  THE  SERF. 
1 1-) HIS volume has no preface, and no notes!    save two or three of a line's length each.
Its title-page bears nothing beyond the
Cm.l Y       ~words, Oulita the Serf; a Tragedy.  But
the advertisements which foretold its publication, added
a fact which made us open the book with a very different
feeling from that with which we should have taken up an
ordinary anonymous play, -a fact which at once excited
high expectations, —and which, we doubt not, has already introduced Oulita to a wide circle of readers, each
prepared to gauge its merits by a very severe test and a
very high standard.  The forthcoming volume was announced as Oulita the Serf; a Tragedy: by the Author
of " Friends in Council."
The disguise of the author of that work is becoming
ragged. We have found, in more than one library, where
a special glory of binding was bestowed upon the book
and its charming sequel, that though the title-page bore
no name, the volumes were marked with a name which
is well and honorably known.  And indeed there are
few books which are so calculated as Friends in Council
to make the reader wish to know who is their author:
1 Oulita the Serf. A Tragedy. London: John W. Parker ani
Son. 1858.




372              OULITA THE SERF.
and surely the language has none which affords its writer
less reason for seeking any disguise. Yet it is not for us
to add the author's name to a title-page which the author
has chosen to send nameless into the world: though we
may be permitted to say, that in common with an increasing host of readers, we cannot think of him as other than
a kindly and sympathetic friend.
Accordingly, we expected a great deal fiom this new
work.  We were not entirely taken by surprise, indeed,
when we saw it announced; for Ellesmere, in Friends in
Council, makes several quotations from the works of " a
certain obscure dramatist," which are likely to set the
thoughtful reader inquiring.  And whoever shall carefully collate the advertisements of the late Mr. Pickering's publications, will discover that the author of Oulita
published fifteen years ago a historical drama, entitled
King Henry the Second; and a tragedy entitled Catherine Douglas, whose heroine is the strong-hearted Scottish
maiden who thrust her arm into the staple of a door from
which the bolt had been removed, in the desperate hope
of thus retarding for a moment the entrance of the conspirators who murdered James the First.  But these
plays are comparatively unknown; and probably very
many readers who have been delighted by that graceful,
unaffected prose, were quite unaware that its writer was
endowed with the faculty of verse.  We could not fail,
indeed, to discern in his prose works the wide, genial
sympathy, the deep thoughtfulness, the delicate sensitiveness, of the true poet.  And his talent, we could also
discover from  these, is essentially dramatic.  The characters in Friends in Council have each their marked
individuality; while yet that individuality is maintained
and brought out, not by coarse caricature, but by those




OULITA THE SERF.                 373
delicate and natural touches which make us feel that we
are conversing with real human beings, and not with
mere names in a book.  It is an extremely easy thing
to make us recognize a character when he reappears
upon the stage, by making him perpetually repeat some
silly and vulgar phrase.  Smith is the man who never
enters without roaring " It's all serene " Jones is the
individual who always says, "Not to put too fine a point
upon it."  Nor is it difficult for an author to fell us that
his hero is a great man, a philanthropist, a thinker, an
actor: it is quite another matter to make him speak and
act so that we shall find that out for ourselves.  Most
characters in modern works need to be labelled; -  like
the sign-painter's lion, which no one would have guessed
was a lion but for the words This is a lion, written beneath it.
Let us say at once, that this tragedy has surpassed
our expectation. It is a noble and beautiful work. It is
strongly marked with the same characteristics which distinguish its author's former writings.  Its power and excellence are mainly in thoughtfulness, pathos, humor.
There is a certain subtlety of thought,- a capacity
gradually to surround the reader with an entire world
and a complete life: we feel how heartily the writer
has thrown himself into the state of things he describes,
half believing the tale he tells, and using gently and tenderly the characters he draws. We have a most interesting story: we see before us beings of actual flesh and
blood.  We do not know whether the gentle, yet resolute
Oulita,-the Princess Marie, that spoiled child of fortune, now all wild ferocity, and now all soft relenting, -
the Count von Straubenheim, that creature of passion so
deep yet so slow, so calm  upon the surface, yet so im



874               OULITA THE SERF.
petuous in its under-currents, - ever lived save in the
fancy of the poet: but to us they are a reality, - far more
a reality than half the men who have lived and died in
fact, but who live on the page of history the mere bloodless life of a word and an abstraction.  We find in this
tragedy the sharp knowledge of life and human nature
for which we were prepared: a certain tinge of sadness
and resignation which did not surprise us: a kindly yet
sorrowful feeling towards the very worst, which we are
persuaded comes with the longer and fuller experience
of the strange mixture of the lovable and the hateful
which-is woven into the constitution of the race. Here
and there, we find the calm, self-possessed order of thought
with which we have elsewhere grown familiar, gradually
rise into eloquent energy, and vigor of expression which
startles. But the hero is not one who raves and stamps.
And indeed the fastidious taste of the writer, shrinking
instinctively from the least trace of coarseness or extravagance, has perhaps resulted in a little want of the terrible
passion of tragedy: for we can well believe that many
an expression, and many a sentiment, which, heard just
for once from  eloquent lips, would thrill even the most
refined, would be struck out by the remorseless pen, or
at least toned down, when calmly, critically, and repeatedly read over by such an author as ours, when the fever
of creative inspiration was past. We remark, as a characteristic of the plot, and a circumstance vitally affecting
the order of its interest, that the catastrophe is involved
in the characters of the actors. It is not by the arbitrary
appointment of the author, that things run in the course
they do.  There is something of the old Greek sense of
the inevitable.  We feel fiom the beginning that the end
is fixed as fate.  Like Frankenstein, the poet has bodied




OULITA THE SERF.                   375
out beings whom  he has not at his command: and not
without essentially changing their natures, could he materially modify what they say and do, or materially alter the
path along which they advance to the precipice in the
distance.  Given such beings, placed in Russian life and
under Russian government: and not without a jarring
sacrifice of truthfulness could the story advance or end
otherwise than as it does.
The language of the tragedy is such as might have
been expected from  its author.  There is not a phrase,
not a word fiom first to last, to which the most fastidious
taste could take exception.  So much might be anticipated by readers familiar with the author's prose style:
but we felt something of curiosity as to how  it might
adapt itself to the altered conditions of verse.  Even
those readers who were not aware that the author of
Friends in Council had ever before published poetry,
might well judge that surely these lines, so easy, so
flowing, so little labored, so varied in their rhythm, so
uncralnped by metrical requirements, are not the production of an unpractised hand.  Parts of the dialogue
are in prose; the larger portion is in blank verse; and
some graceful lyrics occur here and there.  A  peculiarity of the author's blank verse is, that the lines frequently end in three short syllables.  Our readers are
of course aware that both in rhymed and blank verse,
double endings of lines are very common: in dramatic
blank verse, indeed, we find line after line exhibiting this
formation:  but we are not aware that any author has
1 To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, &c.




376                OULITA THE SERF.
employed the triple ending to the same degree, or indeed
has employed it at all except on very rare occasions. In
the first page, we find it said that the end of government
should be, not to govern overmuch, but
To make men do with the least show of governing.
Other examples are,
In foreign Courts'tis everything, this precedence.
From trappings overgreat for poor humanity.
E'en to yourself must be unknown your benefits.
Alone and undisturbed, upon her loveliness.
And there is one instance of an ending in four short
syllables: -
In evidence against us, marking preparation.
We have been interested by finding here and there,
throughout the tragedy, several thoughts upon matters
more or less important, with which we had become acquainted in the writer's former works.  It is plain that
the writer thinks the discomfort arising from fashions of
dress a not insignificant item in the tale of human suffering: he would agree with Teufelsdrockh himself as to
the  undeserved  neglect in which men have held the
"philosophy of clothes."  We find the men-servants at
a Boyard Prince's chateau busily engaged in trying on
their new liveries, which have been prepared for a grand
occasion. The Prince enters, and finds but little progress
made. He rates his domestics for their slowness; whereupon the " Small Wise Man," a dwarf attached to his establishment, thus excuses his fellows:Oh! the happy peasants are so uncomfortable, my little father, in
their happy new clothes, that they put off the squeezing themselves
into them to the last moment. It's a nice thing a new shoe, now; and
not so very unlike a marriage, my little mother.




OULITA  THE SERF.                       377
The author had thought upon this subject before:My own private opinion is, that the discomfort caused by injudicious
dress, worn entirely in deference to the most foolish of mankind, would
outweigh many an evil that sounds very big. Tested by these perfect
returns, which I imagine might be made by the angelic worcl, if they
regard human affairs, perhaps our every-day shaving, severe shirtcollars, and other ridiculous garments, are equivalent to a great European war once in seven years; and we should find that women's stays
did as much harm, i. e. caused as much suffering, as an occasional pestilence, - say, for instance, the cholera.1
In graver mood, we find something of the philosophy
of worldly  progress and  quietude, in words which  suggest (how  truly) that the man  who would get on in life
had better not think to carve out a way for himself, but
should rather keep to the track which many other feet
have beaten into smoothness and firmness. The hero of
the tragedy says, 
To preserve one's quietude,
It needs that one should travel in the ruts
That form the ordinary road, for else
The wheels stick fast.
The analogy is so apt and true, that it had previously
suggested itself: -
Get, if you can, into one or other of the main grooves of human affairs. It is all the difference of going by railway, and walking over a
ploughed field, whether you adopt common courses, or set one up for
yourself. You will see very inferior persons highly placed in the army,
in the church, in office, at the bar. They have somehow got upon the
line, and have moved on well with very little original motive power
of their own.2
We find that the author, very naturally, makes his hero
express tastes which he himself feels strongly. One of
1 Companions of my Solitude. Chap. III. And see the same subject discussed in the essay on Conformity, in Chap. II. of Friends in
Council.
2 lbid. Chap. IV.




378                  OULITA  THE SERF.
these tastes, which appears repeatedly in his former writings, is for woodland scenery.  " There is scarcely anything in nature," he says, " to be compared with a pinewood."   Once, in approaching a certain continental city,
the author passed through what the guide-books described
as a most insipid country. But the guide-books did not
know  what were his personal likings; leaving his carriage at the little post-house, he walked  on, promising
to be in the way when it should overtake him.
The road led through a wood, chiefly of pines, varied, however,
occasionally by other trees. Into this wood I strayed. There was
that almost indescribably soothing noise (the Romans would have
used the word susurrus), the aggregate of many gentle movements of
gentle creatures. The birds hopped but a few paces off as I approached
them: the brilliant butterflies wavered hither and thither before me:
there was a soft breeze that day, and the tops of the tall trees swayed
to and fro politely to each other. I found many delightful restingplaces. It was not all dense wood; but here and there were glades
(such open spots I mean as would be cut through by the sword for an
army to pass); and here and there stood a clump of trees of different
heights and foliage, as beautifully arranged as if some triumph of the
art of landscape had been intended, though it was only Nature's
way of healing up the gaps in the forest. For her healing is a new
beauty.1
Thus speaks the author in his own person: and his
hero passing alone through a wood, speaks as follows:I ever loved a wood; and here I've mused,
Pressing with lightest footfall the crisp leaves,
In boyhood's days, when life seemed infinite,
And every fitful sound a song of joy.
Great is the sea, but tedious; rich the sun,
But one gets tired of him, too; joyous the wind,
But boisterous and intrusive; - while, the wood
Divides the sun, and air, and sky; and, like
A perfect woman, naught too much revealed,
Nor aught too much concealing.
1 Conpanions of my bSolitude. Chap. VI.




OULITA THE SERF.                    379
We shall be content to quote one other instance of
parallelism, in the notice given to a matter which every
one who lives in a wooded district must often have remarked in his woodland wanderings.  The hero of the
tragedy is asked to tell of what he has been thinking, as
he has been traversing the wood which he enjoys so
much: here is his reply:Mere melancholy thoughts, fit for a servitor:
How this tree here hemmed in its puny neighbor,
Drinking the air and light from it; how that,
The vagrant branches into shapes grotesque
Constrained, insisted yet on being beautiful,
And like a homely girl with one charm only,
Took care to make that charm discernible.
In saying this, the hero of the play is repeating what
had before been said by its author. And it appears to us
an indication of the lifelike reality with which the author
depicted to himself the man whom he drew as he paced
along, looking at the gray stems and the long grass below,
and the green leaves and blue glimpses of sky above: —
Yes, Ellesmere, my love for woods is unabated. There is so much
largeness, life, and variety in them. Even the way in which the trees
interfere with one another, the growth which is hindered, as well as
that which is furthered, appears to me most suggestive of human life;
and I see around me things that remind me of governments, churches,
sects, and colonies.
We should not be doing justice to Outita, if we failed
to remark, as something singular in these days, that it is
a purely and perfectly original work.  Its author has
constructed his own plot, and imagined his own characters   It is very well for writers who have no higher aim
than to supply the immediate exigencies of the stage, to
quarry in the abundant mine of French invention; and
to copy, borrow, or adapt, as the phrase now runs.  But




380               OULITA THE SERF.
we should have been greatly surprised had the author of
Friends in Council resorted to that cheap method of
producing a dramatic work.  It cannot be denied that
several dramatic writers of the day have shown considerable tact in toning French characters and modifying
French plots, till they should hit the English taste, and
not sound absurdly upon English ground. But to do that
is a knack, a sort of intellectual sleight of hand: it argues
no invention, no dramatic genius: it comes rather of much
practical acquaintance with the tricks and effects of the
theatre.  The author of this play has essayed a higher
flight.  He has resolved to give the English stage a
really original work: and holding firmly, as we know
from his former writings, that some kind of amusement
is a pure necessary of life, and that there is in human
nature an instinctive leaning to the dramatic as a source
of amusement, he has sought to show, by example, that
without becoming namby-pamby, -  without making the
well-intentioned degenerate into the twaddling, —  and
without making the great school-boys of mankind scent
the birch-rod and the imposition under the disguise of
cricket-bats and strawberry tarts, - it is possible to make
a play such as that in amusing it shall also instruct, refine, and elevate. It is not by coarsely tacking on a
moral to a tragedy that you will enforce any moral teaching.  You must so wrap up the improving and instructive element in the interesting and attractive, that the
mass of readers or listeners shall never know when they
have overstepped the usually well-marked limit that parts
work and play.  And we think that the author of Oulita
has succeeded in this.  A  refreshing and elevating influence sinks into the mind, like a shower upon a newlymown lawn, as we read his pages.  You feel, but cannot




OULITA THE SERF.                 381
define it.  But many worthy people would cram improvement, a thick porridge, down their humbler neighbors'
throats, -like Mrs. Squeers's treacle and sulphur.
As the reader would expect fiom the title of the book,
the scene of the tragedy is in Russia.  Its time is the
beginning of the present century.  And the author has,
in virtue of his hearty sympathy with humanity under all
conditions, thrown himself completely into Russian life,
and brought his readers into an entire world of scenes,
things, and men and women.  Yet, though the scene be
in Russia, and though we know fiom his other works how
much the author hates slavery, we find proof of the calm
balance of his mind in the fashion in which he represents
serfdom.  His honesty will not permit him  to coarsely
daub his picture for the sake of popular effect, or to represent the " peculiar institution" as more glaringly bad
than he has ground for believing it practically is, in order to render it more abhorrent to our feeling.  Nor do
we find any violent exhibition of despotic sway.  We do
not believe that the author would sympathize in the least
with the childish cry for Imperialism which lately arose
in this country.  We trust the nation has passed through
that crisis, like a child through the cow-pox, and that we
are fairly done with it.  Still, in the play, the Emperor
of Russia is represented in a very favorable light, as kindhearted, accessible, willing to listen to reason, and even
to accusation of himself; and though autocratic, yet enchained by an overmastering and tyrannic sense of what
is right and just, which drags him against his dearest
wishes.  We have said that there is no putting of serfdom in its coarser and more repellent features.  Oulita,
the Serf, is the pride and pet of the old Prince to whom
she belongs; and the chosen companion and friend of




382              OULITA THE SERF.
the Princess his daughter. No cruelties are described
as actually inflicted upon any serf in the course of the
action of the drama: — we can imagine that the sensitive nature of the author would shrink fiom any such
description: yet we feel keenly the hard iron links which
are present beneath the soft velvet surface.  We never
entirely forget the difference that parts the serf, however.indulged, from  the freeman, however degraded.  The
gentle confidante is liable to be handed over, at the capricious word of her spoiled-child mistress, to the executioner's lash. And the naturally noble heart of the Princess
is well-nigh ruined by the long possession of unlimited
power.  We are not sure but that to the thoughtful
reader, serfdom is made as incurably bad in this volume,
as it could have been in the picture of a Legree. The
way to make us feel that a thing is hopelessly bad, is to
show us that it is bad at its very best. If it be a sad
thing to be in bondage to a mild, silly old gentleman who
would not hurt a fly, and to a warm-hearted girl who
kisses more than she scolds, - what'must it be when the
whip is in the hand of a coarse, brutal, swearing, drunken
reprobate!
The first scene of the tragedy shows us Baron Gribner, the Russian Minister of Police, seated at his desk
in his bureau at St. Petersburg.  He is inveighing
against the Count Von Straubenheim, who is on terms
of intimate friendship with the Emperor, and who has
been instilling into the autocrat's mind certain political
doctrines of much too advanced a character for Grirbner's taste. Grirbner is the type of the old Continental
politician: the Count belongs to the school of progress;
and Grubner, fearing lest the Count's influence with the
Emperor should bring to an end the reign of police ad



OULITA THE SEElF                   383
ministration, has organized a system of espionage, in the
hope of detecting the Count in some proceeding which
may lead to his downfall. We feel, at once, that the
ground is mined beneath our feet, and that we are in
a region over which broods the unseen but all-seeing
presence of a secret police. We never escape the feeling on to the end of the play. A spy enters, and informs
Griibner that the Emperor again receives the obnoxious Count that evening. The vulgar spy has his information from a certain baroness, a spy of a higher class.
The spy leaves, and Griibner thus goes on:Far into
The distant future this wise man looked forward,
And saw a time, he told the Emperor,
When half the world would not employ itself
In worrying the other half. Great sage!
He meant that for a sneer at the Police;
And when good honest men would not sit down
At meat with titled spies - that means the Baroness;
Or with the men who pay them - that means me.
Another spy enters, one Ermolai, whom Grirbner has
got into the Count's employ as his secretary, to maintain
a constant watch over his private doings.  Ermolai complains that his post is a sinecure. There is nothing to
report.  The Count spends all his time in reading.  He
reads theology.  That, Griibner thinks, is an important
point. If the Count succeeds in indoctrinating the Emperor with his theories, down goes Gribner, and with him
(of course he is a most disinterested man) Russia. The
Count, GriUbner says, is to be married: so the Emperor
and he have resolved: then he is to go as ambassador to
England, where he will probably make some mistake that
will ruin him, or at least where he will be beyond the
Emperor's reach.  Grubner dismisses Ermolai', ordering




884                   OIULITA  THE  SERF.
him  to maintain a most minute watch, and chuckles at
his own skill in getting the Count to take a police tool
for his secretary.
The second scene carries us to the Count von Straubenheim's library.   He is among his favorite books.  He
lays down his volume, and muses as follows:One reads, and reads, and reads: one seldom gets
Right into the heart of things- there's so much floss
And fluff; and few can tell what they do know.
Long histories: weary biographies:
They only teach us what I partly guessed
Before - that men were most times miserable,
And simple thoroughly, wasting their souls
In plaguing other men, and seldom living
What I call life - an ugly dream it is;
And yet, with all my faculty for sarcasm,
I must confess that men, the worst of men,
This scoundrel horde of conquerors, for instance,
Have something very lovable about them.
The deeper that one goes, the more one's pity
Falls like a gentle snow upon the plain
Flooded with blood, and strewed with cruel carnage
Leaving the outlines beautiful, and just
Concealing what'twere better never had
Been done - concealing only, not erasing:'Tis a mixed brood.
We  speedily find  that the recluse student is not so
simple after all. He knows all about Ermolai being a
spy upon him.  He sends for Ermolaii: says he is about
to marry the beautiful daughter of Prince Lanskof.  Ermolal discourages the marriage, and says, 
I've heard a saying
Of some sagacious world-Versed man, - that marriage
Must be pronounced a thing so hazardous,
The odds so much against one, that it were
As if a man should dip his hand within
A bag of snakes, where one eel lies concealed;
And mostly he draws back his injured hand
Without the innocent eel.




OULITA THE SERF.                    385
The Count is anxious to repudiate any notion save
of a prosaic marriage of convenience; but at the same
time he beautifully depicts what he says he never had
felt: -
I have a distant notion of what love
Mlight be. I know the dreams about the thing.
That there is one whose every look and word
Is fascination, graceful as the clouds,
Bright as the morn, and tender as the eve, -
Whose lightest gesture, as she moves across
The room, seems like a well-known melody, 
And whom you need not talk to much, for that's
The touchstone, - to whom you've nothing to explain,
Because she always thinks too well of you.
In answer to the Count's question where he shall find
such a paragon, the Secretary mentions the name of the
singing-girl at Moscow, Oulita.  The Count remembers
her well.  But he speedily passes to talk of the embassy
to England; and then bids Ermolai prepare a sumptuous
retinue for his visit to the chateau of Prince Lanskof,
the father of his intended bride. Ermolai goes: and then
we learn from a speech of the Count's that he is quite
aware that the marriage and embassy are a design of
Grubner's to compass his ruin. But he will fight Gribner
with his own weapons.  He will pluck from  his bosom
the remembrance of Oulita, wed the Princess, come back
with credit from his embassy, and do good to his country.
If he shall succeed, well. And if not, life is already as
dull as it well can be.
We next find ourselves in the hall of Prince Lanskof's
chateau.  The servants are trying on their new liveries:
the dancing-girls are practising their steps. The " Small
Wise Man," a dwarf belonging to the Prince, a jester of
more than usual jest, and deeper than ordinary wisdom,
25




386                OULITA THE SERF.
makes his first appearance. All is bustle: the Count is
to arrive in three hours. Oulita appears along with the
Princess, the latter promising her that she shall not have
to join in the dances. The Prince drills his domestics
in a manner that reminds us of Mr. Hardcastle in She
Stoops to Conquer.  He is a fussy, silly old gentleman,
proud of his daughter, and picturing the grand figure
she is to make at the English Court as the Russian ambassadress.
Meanwhile Oulita has strayed into a wood near the
chateau; and there the Count, who has chosen to dismiss
his retinue and walk through the wood alone, hears her
well-remembered voice as she sings. The Count accosts
her with some light badinage, of which Oulita has the
best.  Then they talk more gravely.  Mitchka, the executioner at the chateau, watches them  from  behind a
tree. Oulita recognizes in the Count the man who followed her about at Moscow.  He tells her that he came
in the Count's train.
Then we are carried to the hall at the chateau, where
the Small Wise Man is addressing the servants.  He
speaks from  a barrel, on which he is seated: —
The illustrious Count Von Straubenheim, who, with our permission,
is about to marry into our family, intends to give to every member of
the household - something which shall be good for him: great guerdon, liberal largesse.  For you Melchior, Nicholas, and Petrovitch
(pointing out three fat men), he intends to ask for a week's fast, and
three weeks' out-of-door's work in the woods. For you, Theodore, a
sound scourging at the hands of gentle Mitchka, that you may know
how to manage your horses better, and what are the feelings of an
animal when it is whipped. For you, Dimitri, our illustrious son-inlaw has thought deeply, and intends to ask the Prince to have your
wife brought home from his other estate, because you always lived so
happily together.
No wonder that the Small Wise Man held his own in




OULITA THE SERF.                  387
that household. We doubt not the servants feared his
tongue nearly as much as Mitchka's scourge.
The Prince, Princess, and their attendants enter; as
do the Count, Ermolai, and their people.  The Small
Wise Man catechizes the Count in a jocular manner as to
his qualifications for marrying and becoming ambassador;
and when the Count and Prince go together to the banquet, he muses in a very different strain. He is pleased
with the Count's appearance: 
A noble presence and a thoughtful eye,
But sad.
And Oulita entering, he speaks to her wisely and kindly,
in a fashion which reveals strongly to us the grand want
which every thoughtful serf must never cease to feel.
"Study to get free, girl," he says; "free, free, free, free!"
We now  overhear a conversation between the executioner Mitchka, and Vasili Androvitch, Prince Lanskof's
steward; from which we find that the steward has promised to pay Mitchka three thousand roubles if he can
catch Oulita in any fault which may bring her under his
lash. The steward's hope is, that in such a case he may
compel Oulita to become his wife, as the reward of his
procuring her pardon. Vasili is quite aware that Oulita
hates him; but that does not matter, in his estimation.
In the crowd of dancers in the hall, the Count again
meets Oulita: a confidence has grown up fast between
them, and she tells her longing to be free. The Count
declares that she shall be, and gives Oulita his ring as a
pledge.  He has mingled unnoted with the throng in the
hall, and Oulita is still unaware who he is. But she tells
us she feels entranced and bewildered.
Meanwhile the Count seeks Ermolai, and has an ex



388                 OULITA THE SERF.
planation with him. Ermolai is startled to find that the
Count has been quite aware that he was a spy of Gribner's, and is penetrated with remorse at the thought that,
while aware of all this, the Count saved him from drowning in the Neva.  He always loved the Count; and from
this time forward he is his faithful ally and fiiend.  The
Count tells him  he loves Oulita, and is determined to
make her free.  He has thought of several plans.  An
adroit serf, Stepan, disguised as a merchant, will come to
buy her.  That scheme failing, the Count's servants are
to create some great alarm, and bear her off in the tumult.  Meanwhile there is to be a great hunt of several
days' duration. Ermolai is to remain behind: to send for
Stepan, for money, for horses of the Ukraine breed: to
watch Mitchka, to grow familiar with every corner of the
huge chateau. And then the Count, left alone, soliloquizes.
He is determined to go through with his design, but he is
not in the least blinded to the wrong he is doing: -
I am a knave, a double-dealing scoundrel,
To woo one girl the while I love another,
For I do love her -
What should I say of any other man?
But then our own misdeeds are quite peculiar,
White at the edges, shading into darkness,
Not wholly black like other men's enormities.
Theirs are the thunder-clouds; ours but the streaks
Across the setting sun -No, no! I'm not
A fool like that. I know full well'tis base,
Supremely base; natheless it shall be done.
If there were time, some other course we might
Devise; but that's what scoundrels always say —
If there were time, they would replace, repay,
In Virtue's silvery path they would walk leisurely.
I am not duped by that. Seeing it all,
Foreseeing all the misery, the mischief,
I'll do't, I say, and take the guilt upon me.
She shall be free.




OULITA THE SERF.                   389
Thus ends the First Act. It has indeed wrought an
extraordinary change on the Count's feelings and posi.
tion.  The cool, pensive, unenergetic student of theological books, whose great aim was the progress of Russia,
has had the latent fire of his nature touched at last.
In the Second Act we have the working of the Count's
scheme.  The hunt is over: the Prince and Count have
returned to the chateau.  The Small Wise Man has preceded them: cautioned the Princess that a merchant has
arrived to buy Oulita and her fine voice for the Imperial Opera: advised that Oulita should not sing her best
in his presence. Stepan, a shrewd fellow, appears: tells
the Prince he has heard of Oulita, and with many disparaging remarks, desires to hear her sing.  The Count,
consulted by the Prince, speaks slightingly of Oulita, and
artfully suggests that the Prince's hunting-ground was
somewhat hemmed in by an adjoining property, which
might be bought.  Oulita sings: but she has overheard
the Count's remarks: she now knows who he is, and she
wilfully sings to the very best of her power. She sings
two songs: we extract the former as a specimen of the
author's lyric art. It gives us the story of The End of
the Rebel Stenko-Razin's Love: a story which is exactly
true.
The barge was moored on Volga's shore, the stream
Went murmuring sorrowfully past,
The water-lilies played amidst the gleam
Their golden armor, moon-lit, cast.
Mute sat the Persian captive by her mate,
And gazed at her lover askance;
A little of love and something of hate
Were couched in that dubious glance.
"Base that I am," he cried, " dear stream, to thee,
Who, rebel too, with -;illing waves




390                 OULITA  THE SERF.
Hast borne my armies up to victory,
And floated down the gold and slaves."
He mused; he turned; and smiling on her charms,
He met that look of love and hate;
Lightly he took her in his mailed arms,
And casting, left her to her fate.
One lily more went shimmering'midst the gleam
Their golden armor, moon-lit, cast;
That lily slowly sank beneath the stream;
Volga went sadly murmuring past.
" Murmur no more," the chief replied, " no more;
What I loved best to thee I gave."
His fierce men shuddered, but from fear forbore
The Persian lady's life to save.
The songs are received with great applause, and when
silence follows Stepan criticizes in true musical cant:There is a something, and there is not a something. There is a
feeling and there is not a feeling. But there are makings, makings,
makings. The G is better than the Freduccini's G..And after more in the like tone, he offers the Prince
thirty  thousand  roubles.  But the old gentleman is so
vain of Oulita's triumph, that he absolutely refuses to
part with her on any terms: and thus fails the Count's
first idea.
But instant action becomes necessary.  The Princess
upbraids Oulita severely for singing so well, contrary
to her arrangement; and goes on to speak of her meeting the Count in the wood. Oulita replies sharply: the
Princess sentences her to Mitchka's lash in the morning.
The Count upon this determines to rescue her that night.
He is well aware of the risk he runs in the hands of the
old Prince's vassals: but will brave it all.  Oulita comes
to him, and begs his intercession for her. He replies




OULITA  THE SERF.                      391
coldly: but conveys in whispered interjected sentences
his plan for her rescue. A striking scene follows, in which
Vasili, who thinks he has Oulita in his power, tries entreaties and threats with equal unsuccess to gain her consent to be his wife.  The Count and Ermolai deliberate.
They have arranged to fire the chateau in the night, and
carry Oulita away.  Ermolai, with his tastes formed under Gribner, is delighted with the tact exhibited in the
Count's plan: and when he leaves to arrange with the
men, the Count thus speaks:We shall succeed - I will not let a doubt
Intrude upon my mind,- we shall succeed.
This one injustice may be remedied.
But then the things that have been -why they come
Upon me now I wot not: hideous deeds
Long numbered with the past. The Earth may smile,
And deck herself each May, vain thing! with flowers,
And seem forgetful of the cruelties
Enacted on her ever-changing stage,
Till every spot upon the storied surface
Is rank with tragic memories: beauteous slaves,
Like dear Oulita, forced to endure, half-crazed,
Caresses which they loathe - and children slain
Before their mother's eyes - and women murdered
(Happy if murdered soon) in the dear presence
Of those who till that moment ever looked at them
With reverent tenderness, and now dare not look;
Whose corded limbs, straining in agony,
Have lost - the wretch's last resort- the power
To give them death.
The earth may smile, I say,
But like a new-made widow's mirth, it shocks one.
And she, the earth, should never quit her weeds;
And should there come a happier race upon her,
Ever there'll be a sighing of the wind,
A moaning of the sea, to hint to that
More favored race what we poor men have suffered.
There must have been a history, they'll say
To be interpreted by all these sighs
And moans.




392               OULITA THE SERF.
It is indeed a strange inconsistency, between the beauty
and gayety of external nature, and the wickedness and
misery of man. And it has existed ever since the Fall.
The Vale of Siddim was "as the garden of the Lord,"
-fair as another Eden: the black blot there was man.
And the natural beauty and the human wickedness had
to be dashed from Creation together.  "At that one spot,
it is far towards four thousand years, since Nature
bloomed and Man sinned,    for the last time." 1  We
remember, too, what thought it was that came sadly to
the mind of Bishop Heber, as he breathed the spicy air
of Ceylon.  Many a sad heart must have felt the sunshine and the green leaves a dreary mockery of the
gloom within.  And how hard it is to feel, that beyond
that cheerful veil, there is hidden a Being of infinite
power and infinite justice, who looks down quietly on the
scene, and lets the world go on! Well, things will be set
right some day.
His plans being thus arranged, the Count proceeds to
the Hall, where there is a grand banquet.  The Governor of the province proposes the health of the Count
and his affianced bride, in a speech which is a happy
imitation, by no means caricatured, of the speeches common in England after public dinners.  In the middle of
the banquet, somewhat prematurely, the flames break out.
Great confusion follows, amid which Stepan bears off
Oulita.  But he is intercepted and brought back by
Mitchka, who, as well as Vasili, had suspected  the
Count's design.  The Count kills Mitchka: then he and
Stepan bind Vasili, whom the latter must now take with
him, as a refractory serf. Then the Count hurries Oulita off, with the words which close the Second Act.
1 Foster.




OULITA. THE SERF.                393
I said you should be free, and free you are.
Your horses wait; the road is clear to Moscow.
He goes with you (pointing to Stipan), and will insure your safety,
Nearer: a word! I loathe this hateful marriage.'Tis forced upon me by the Czar. Escape
I may, and thenNo! this is not the time -
When you are wholly free, you can reject me.
In the Third Act we are at Moscow.  Gribner has
guessed correctly as to the share the Count had in the
fire at the Prince's chateau, about which the Prince has
been constantly complaining to the police. Neither the
Prince nor Princess has had the slightest suspicion. Oulita has been safely conveyed to Moscow, and is under the
Count's care.  The Count is maintaining appearances
with the Princess; but is afraid of Siberia, to which the
arson and homicide at the chateau would certainly send
him, if brought home to him; and is perplexed how to
deal honorably with the Princess, whose nature, with its
fierce mixture of good and evil, is not one to be trifled
with. Gribner has stated his suspicions to the Princess,
who resolves to have an explanation with the Count.
Accordingly, we have a striking scene, in which the
Princess tells the Count that the police are on Oulita's
track, and threatens fearful vengeance upon her when
taken.  The Count manfully avows what he has done,
and leaves the Princess in a whirl of rage. But she admires and loves the Count still; and it is on Oulita that
she determines her vengeance shall be wreaked.
However, she relents. A little later, while the Count
is with Oulita, the police enter the house and seize her,
to carry her back to Prince Lanskof.  But their plans
are disconcerted by Stepan producing a bill of sale,
signed in due form by the Prince, which shows that Ou



394               OULITA THE SERF.
lita has been fairly sold to Stepan. The Princess, at a
masked ball in the Kremlin, had placed this in the
Count's hand.  The police have to give up their prey.
And when Gribner enters after a while with a file of
soldiers, he finds that he is duped, and that Oulita is beyond his reach.
At the beginning of the Fourth Act, we find that the
Count feels the meshes of the police closing round him.
He is in his house at St. Petersburg, when Stepan enters
to tell him  that spies are now watching his house on
every side.  The Count feels that the odds against him
are too great, and he must be beaten at last. The Czar,
too, is becoming cold.
We next find Oulita in a room at St. Petersburg, working at embroidery.  She is perfectly happy; but change
is near. The Small Wise Man has found out her retreat,
and comes to tell her of the Princess's wrath, and the
storming and vaporing of her father.  And now it breaks
on poor Oulita's mind what peril the Count is incurring
for her sake.  She resolves to leave him, lest she should
bring him to ruin; and as a last resort, asks the Small
Wise Man to give her poison which she might have
within her reach.  Then a most beautiful scene follows
between Oulita and the Count.  Her eyes, now awakened, see the traces of ceaseless anxiety and alarm on
his altered face; and he, wearied out, falls into deep sleep
as he is telling her of his travels in other lands. Halfawaking, he thinks he is speaking to the Czar, and tells
him  that "if he but knew  her, he would pardon all."
He sinks to sleep again; and Oulita, resolute, though
broken-hearted, leaves her farewell written, and hastens
away.




OULITA THE SERF.                     395
She has taken a desperate resolution.  We next find
the Princess in her chamber, brooding upon her wrongs,
and wrought up to a tigress-fury.  Even as she is declaring what fearful vengeance she would take of Oulita,
Oulita enters and kneels at her feet.  The scene which
follows is one of the most striking in the play; and the
more so that our extracts have been only of detached
speeches, we shall quote this dialogue entire.
OULITA.
Madam, an outcast girl implores the pardon
She dares not hope for.
PRINCESS.
Ha! He has left you then:
And you return, in those becoming robes,
To penitence and virtue - rather late,
Methinks.
Speak, girl, unless you wish me to call Mitchka.
Mitchka is dead, you think; there lives another.
Say, has the Count forsaken you?
OULITA (rising).
The Count!
What Count?
PRINCESS.
Why this surpasses patience! What Count, minx, -
That Count who was to be my husband, wretch;
That Count who, to his eminent dishonor,
Stole you away - set fire to his friend's palace -
Slew that friend's servants - decked you out, great lady
In this fine garb  who broke his plighted word
For you, - the Count von Straubenheim.
OULITA.
You know, then?
PRINCESS.
There is no thread of his and your intrigues
Unknown to me. He told me of your love.




396                  OULITA  THE  SERF.
OULITA.
Permit me now to speak. Of a return,
You spoke, to virtue. There is no return.
A woman might have thought more charitably,
Of any sister-woman, though a serf:
Madam, there's no return, I say, to virtue,
And none to penitence, though much to sorrow.
I loved the Count,'tis true, yet not to love
I fled, but to escape a shame one maiden
Should hardly have inflicted on another.
I saw the Count again. I listened - who
Would not? - to his fond words and vows repeated
To make this slave in other climes his wife.
But soon the bloodhounds were upon the track.
I heard, or seemed to hear, the avenger's baying,
Marked the ignoble lines of care - his care
For me - indenting that majestic brow:'Twas then that I divined his danger, sought
To save his life, myself surrendering
To all your sternest cruelty might do.
I am too late, and am prepared to bear
The now most thriftless, useless penalty.
But hear: men are most wayward in their fancies;
He should have worshipped at your shrine, great Princess.
Perhaps it was your very excellence
Made him decline to such a thing as me.
He ever spoke of you with tenderest homage.
PRINCESS.
He did?
OULITA.
He did; and one there was who sat beside him,
Who joyed to hear your praises, for the Count
Said ever you were most magnanimous, -
Great as a foe, and splendid as a friend.
PRINCESS.
And nothing else, the while he played with those
Fair tresses, said the Count, - nothing about
My furious temper, and the difference'twixt
Mine and the soft Oulita's,- nothing, girl?
Sealing his pretty sayings with a kiss -
The false, the perjured man.




OULITA  THE  SERF.                      397
OULITA.
Not false, nor perjured.
PRINCESS.
Ah, now we stir the meek one.
OULITA.
What he said
In rare disparagement of your great charms,
Was such indeed as might make any woman
Desire the more to win the man who said it. 
By that dread suffering image that looks down
On us this moment, I would die to win
His love for you; would worm myself into
His heart, to find an entrance there for you,
And thus insure his safety and your joy:
That safety being - for I'll not deceive you, -
The chiefest aim in life for me. Dear Princess -
[Puts her arm round the PRINCESS.
You used to let me call you dear, -be true
To your great mind. Let's set our women's wits
To work, to make the man love you. There only
His safety lies - and there his happiness.'Tis you alone are worthy of the Count.
With you to aid his plans, to fix his purposes,
Partake success with him, console in failure,
Cheering with your bright wit his melancholy,
He will become the greatest man in Russia.
PRINCESS.
How blind is pride! The Count was right, Oulita,
Were I a man I should have loved you best.
Save him we will, but not for me, Oulita.
I am not worthy of him, nor of you.
Nay, let me kneel to you. Could you but know
What savage thoughts I've had, you ne'er could love me.
Let me but kiss - that shudder was not wickedness,I do not grudge his fondness for that cheek.
I meant that I must love what he had loved,
And I do love it [kisses her]. We'll rest together, dear,
And early morn shall find us planning rescue.
His peril is most urgent. I did not
Betray him; nay, I saved him once. Your Marie




398                 OULITA THE SERF.
Was not in all things bad, - not always wicked.
Ah, could you but have known, that fatal day
My heedless passion threatened you with stripes -
[Puts her hand before her eyes.
I am ashamed to look at you, and say
The base word stripes, - could you have known how tenderly
I felt to you, never so much before,
And how I roamed and roamed about in agony,
Contriving some excuse to make you ask
Your pardon, and none came, you must, you would
Have pitied me.
Down at your feet I could have humbly knelt,
Imploring you to kneel at mine, Oulita;
Indeed I could. But then my odious pride
Stiffened my soul again.
OULITA.
But more, you say,
Than ever, then, you loved your own Oulita.
PRINCESS.
What is the worth of my love that could do
So little battle with my pride?
OULITA.
We poor ones,
Who from our infancy are curbed and bent,
And bounded in, know little of the pangs
The great endure in mastering their pride
Long-seated, deep-engrained.
PRINCESS.
Generous Oulita,
Always some foolish, fond excuse for me,
I almost feel I love the Count the more
For being wise and great enough to love thee,
Discerning thy rare qualities beneath
The sorry mask of serfdom -
The world would scarce believe its mocking eyes
If it could see two women loving madly
One man, and yet the fonder of each other.
Is it not so, Oulita?
OULITA.
Dearest. it is.




OUL1TA  THE SERF.                     399
PRINCESS.
Not dearest, I must tell the Count if you
Say that fond word to any other soul.
[OULITA hides her head on the PRINCEss's breast. They
embrace - they kneel before the image in the corner
of the room.  The curtain falls.
Thus the noble womanhood of the Princess's nature
asserts itself: and thus the Fourth Act ends.
At the beginning of the Fifth Act, the Count, awaking
from  a fearful dream, finds Oulita's letter, telling him
she has fled to save him from ruin, and begging that
he would never let it be'known that he had aided her
in her escape.  Even as he reads it, Gribner and his
men are upon him.  The Count retains his firmness, but
tells Gribner that he is beaten. He is carried away, to
be placed before the Czar.
And now, in Prince  Lanskof's house, Oulita meets
the Small Wise Man, and claims his promise to provide her poison.  He gives her what, rubbed upon the
lips, will in three minutes cause death; but he speaks
as follows: 
Promise me this. Before
You use this fatal gift of mine, bring back -
Bring clearly back - to a calm mind, the days
When first your mother's smile was dear, when first
She trusted to your care your little brother,
And anxiously the little nurse upheld
The child, as you both strayed beside the stream -
I've often wandered there - which marked your garden,
To you a world of waters; then your father,
The ponderous man, laid his large hand upon
Your head, saying you were his wise Oulita -
Then think, was this the end for which they toiled,
And if, on thinking thus, you can resolve
In one rash moment to obliterate
What they so prized - why then God's blessing on you.
I can say nothing more.




400              OULITA THE SERF.
We are next carried to the palace, where we find the
Emperor and Griibner in conversation.  We find that
the Count is already on his way into Siberian exile; but
the Emperor, who loves him, bitterly laments that there
is no loophole for pardoning him. Grtibner goes, and
then a serf almost forces her way into the imperial
presence.  It is Oulita, now resolute in despair.  A
noble scene follows, which we regret we cannot find
space to extract.  She boldly tells the Emperor that
greater men than the Count have loved where they
should not; she justifies the Count against the charge
of arson and murder; says Mitchka fell in fair fight;
and appealing to the Emperor closely, declares that if
the Countess whom  he loved were sentenced to be
scourged, and he burnt down a city to save her, she
would not think less of the Czar.  The Czar thinks
she wishes to follow the Count; but is astonished when
he learns that what she wishes is that he should wed the
Princess.  The Emperor grasps at the idea: says all
might then be hushed; but adds that neither Princess
nor Count would consent.  But the poor Princess, the
gentle woman at last, has come with Oulita in a page's
dress; and when the Emperor asks her if she will marry
the Count, reminding her at the same time of her own
slighted affection and her father's wrongs, she replies
humbly that she will, and not seek his love, nor ask him
to live with her. The Emperor instantly signs a pardon,
and tells them to hasten with it along the road to Siberia.
Still he fears that the Count, however much he loves
liberty, will hardly make a marriage serve as a means
of safety.  But he bids them  God speed, and says at
least they may try.
Then we are at a village on the road to Siberia.




OULITA THE SERF.                  401
We hear in the distance the " Song of the Exiles;"
and a train of exiles enters, among whom is the Count.
Ermolai is there, kindly attending his fallen master; and
the Count eagerly asks him  of Oulita.  There enter
Oulita, the Princess veiled, and the Small Wise Man.
They look anxiously among the prisoners, and at length
recognize the Count. The Count sees Oulita, and bursts
into a joyful speech, assuring her that the evil dreaded
so much dwindles when it haps at last.  She tells the
Count of the conditional pardon she bears, and entreats
him to marry the Princess.  He declares that he is incapable of such baseness.  Oulita then brings the Small
Wise Man, hoping that his reasonings may move the
Count: but the Count states the case to him; and he
declares the Count is right.  The Count then speaks to
Oulita; says he will yet return and claim her:If not, I have a loving memory always by me,
Something to think of when I sit beside
My hut, amidst the unheeded falling snow,
Of evenings, when my sorry work is done.
Better so sit, so thinking, than in palaces -
A thought of inextinguishable baseness
Fast clinging round the soul.
Then he asks Oulita if she had often thought of him -
Once only, Edgar; -
But that thought lasted long.
And still entreating him to wed the Princess, and so
save himself for usefulness and honor, she applies the
poison to her lips, and dies as she joins their hands.
Poor Oulita judged that by thus unselfishly sacrificing
herself, she would make the Count feel himself free.
It was a useless sacrifice.  HIe tells the Princess he
loves her now, for her true love for the dead; but he
26




402               OULITA THE SERF.
has no heart to offer. No word says the Princess, her
haughty spirit quite cowed and broken; Ermolai receives
his master's last request to bury Oulita where she died,
and to mark her grave; and as the sad song of the
exiles is resumed, the Count, seemingly stunned beyond
present sense of his utter desolation, kisses Oulita's face,
and resumes his march towards Siberia. Ah, the agony
and wildness of grief will be upon him to-morrow! And
by the fair serf's corpse, in whose sad lot and noblest
heart we have grown to feel an interest so profound,
there sits, with covered face, the Small Wise Man; -  a
jester to smile at no more, but a figure of overwhelming
pathos.
L'honneur oblige!  How hard some men would find it
to understand the invisible restraints that drove the Count
into exile, while fortune, fame, and power were beckoning
him back if he would but come! And how hard, too, to
understand Oulita's noble self-devotion; and the self-devotion of the Princess, scarcely less complete!
And now, as we draw our notice of the tragedy to a
close, we turn over the pages once more: and, as at
every opening of the volume, our eye falls upon some
beautiful felicity of expression, some lifelike incident
that almost startles by the every-day reality it gives the
story, some thought so deep, gentle, and kind, wherein
the author's own mind speaks to his reader, -we feel
how far such an abstract as our space enables us to give,
falls short of the effect which would be produced by the
perusal of the play itself on the heart of every generous man and gentle woman.  We do not think that our
nerves are shattered into a morbid facility of emotion,
and the hand that writes these lines is not a woman's;




OULITA THE SERF.                403
yet we should hardly like to tell how often the tear has
started as we read this book, - how many hours it kept
sleep away, - or even how often and how long we have
paused and mused with the finger in the half-closed volume.  We do not pretend to much acquaintance with
stage-craft; and it is possible enough that the very
thoughtfulness which makes Oulita so fascinating  to
the solitary scholar, might detract from its power of
popular effect were it represented on the stage. For
ourselves, we do not think it would.  There is incident
rapid and stirring enough to keep attention ever on the
stretch: and the reflections are such that while arresting
the thoughtful reader who can follow the track along
which they point, they will touch the mind and heart
of average humanity.  Of course, if Hamlet were published at the present day, many critics would call it dull
and heavy, and many theatrical managers would not risk
its presentation on their boards.  And the variety of
rhythm  and cadence, the occasional abruptness and deviation fiom  common metrical rules, which render the
versification of a vigorous drama such as some judges
would call unmusical, seem to our mind a beauty and
an excellence in verse which is meant to be spoken
and heard, rather than to be read; which represents real
and passing life; which is put in the mouth of many diverse characters; and which is to be listened to without
intermission for two or three successive hours.  Smoothness, in Pope's use of the word, would pall and disgust
by so long continuance.  And only great variety of metrical character - even the occurrence of occasional discords -can furnish the similitude of life.  When one
goes to the Opera, one must be content to leave common
sense at the door, and to take for granted that all that




404                OULITA THE SERF.
passes shall go on the basis of an extreme conventionality.  But in the case of a tragedy, if the writing and
the presentation be worthy, the spectator should forget
that he is not looking at reality.  The author of Oulita
has kept this in view.  Yet while remembering that unvaried melody of rhythm  would result in satiety and
tediousness, no one knows better how to add the charm
of music to thoughts with which it accords. Very beautifully, in the lines which follow, have we Mr. Thackeray's ever-recurring philosophy of the affections, even in
the trimness of modern life:
So dear that in the memory she remains,
Like an old love, who would, indeed, have been
Our only love, but died; and all the past
Is full of her untried perfections, while
Amidst the unknown recesses of our hearts
Enthroned she sits, in tenderest mist of thought,
Like the soft brilliancy of autumn haze,
Seen at the setting of the sun.




CHAPTER XIV.
SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
BEING AN EPISTLE TO  THE EDITOR OF " FRASER'S
MAGAZINE," FRO3I HIS FRIEND, CHARLES ARDERSIER-MACDONALD, ESQ., OF CRAIG-HOULAKIM, NEAR
WHISTLE-BINKIE, N. B.
HEN  I was a Country Parson, my dear
9M.^,~ f'  ffriend the Editor of a certain eminent magaine came one autumn to pay me a visit.;.1'> ~Among my most valued neighbors was a
certain country squire, whom (for various reasons) I
shall call Mr. Macdonald of Craig-Houlakim.  When
the Editor and Mr. Macdonald met, it appeared that
they were old college fiiends, though they had died out
of acquaintance for some years. The meeting was a
very pleasant one: and the Editor was much amused
by Mr. Macdonald's description of some of our Scotch
institutions. Mr. Macdonald promised to give the Editor
an account in writing of some of these: and thus originated the following letter. I may say, that in the main, I
concur in the views it sets out: though they seem to me
expressed with a little too much vehemence. And let
me add, that Mr. Macdonald did not reside in my
parish: so you will not find in his letter any reference
to me.




406 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
My Dear Editor, — When you paid us a visit last
autumn, and renewed so pleasantly an old college acquaintance which " change of place and change of folk"
had interrupted for eight or ten years, you were wont, in
your usual saturnine vein, to laugh at the completeness
with which I had fallen into Scotch ways of thinking and
acting. I have indeed become so familiar with the usages
of my adopted country, that I see nothing very wonderful
now in things which utterly astonished you, and which
indeed had a similar effect upon myself when I was a
freshly-imported Saxon.  Quantum  mutatus ab illo, I
know you thought, who ten years since walked in your
company the quadrangles of Oxford, bent upon those
classical studies which (owing entirely to the bad arrangements of the University) failed to get me so distinguished a degree as my sisters and my grandmother
thought I deserved, - not a little given to Puseyite notions in church matters, and in a state of total ignorance
as to Scotch affairs. But time (as philosophers have on
several occasions observed) works wonders. It is not yet
ten years since the death of a distant and eccentric relative, whom I had never seen, made me the possessor of
this property, in a district of Scotland which, I think,
yields to none in beauty and interest. It is less than
that time since I resolved to patch up this quaint old
baronial dwelling, and make it my head-quarters for the
greater part of the year. And I dare say you were surprised to find me so completely transformed into the
Scotch country squire, — walking you after breakfast
daily to the stables, and boring you with long stories
about the hocks and pasterns of my horses; not a little
vain of my turnips; quite proud of my shaggy little bullocks (finer animals than deer, I always maintain); and




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 407
full of statistics about the yearly growth of my young
plantations, and the girth of the noble old oaks and
horse-chestnuts on the lawn.  But I am sure you were
much more surprised to find that I had settled down
into a douce elder of the Kirk, - quite au fait in Scotch
ecclesiastical polity, much interested in matters parochial,
and loud in praise of Professor Robertson and the Endowment Scheme; and though still a warmly-attached
member of the Church of England, yet a good Presbyterian when in Scotland, and quite persuaded that in all
essential points the Church of England and the Kirk of
Scotland are thoroughly at one. I have been fortunate
in my parish clergyman, whom you met more than once
while here, and whom you found, I dare say, quite different from the violent, Covenating, true-blue Knoxite
you probably expected.  You found him, I am  sure,
quite of our way of thinking in regard to most things
sacred and civil: quite anxious to have his church as
ecclesiastical in appearance as even AMr. Beckett Denison
would wish; quite friendly to the introduction of an organ; not hostile to the restoration of the Liturgy; and,
indeed, not so much shocked as he ought to have been
when you and I speculated as to the probable time that
must elapse before the peaceable reception of episcopal government.  Let me add to these points of aesthetic
nature that, like most of his brethren, he goes through
all his parochial duties with great assiduity, and conducts
the church-service of each Sunday with a propriety which
would be excellent even on your side of the Tweed.
When you went with me to the parish church, you were
somewhat shocked at seeing the country-people coming
in with their hats on, and rushing out as though the
place were on fire, the instant the last "Amen" was




408 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
spoken;  and I did not expect that you would like the
bare and bald ritual of the Kirk as much as your own
beautiful service. Still, in the carefully-prepared players
you heard, there was nothing of that rambling rigmarole
of extemporaneous extravagance which makes one long
for a Liturgy to keep people to common sense. And as
for the sermon you heard fiom Mr. Smith, I think that,
save for its not being read, and for a shade more warmth
of manner in the delivery of it, it was very much such
as your excellent rector gives you every Sunday morning. And though I am not much delighted with some of
Lord Palmerston's recent ecclesiastical appointments, and
cannot understand why such men as Mr. Melvill and Mr.
Chenevix Trench are not raised to the episcopal bench in
the abundance of recent vacancies, still I have grown so
much of a Presbyterian in feeling, that I am pleased to
find a Scotchman, brought up in the Scotch Kirk, made
your metropolitan bishop.  Dr. Tait has, I believe, two
brothers who are elders of the Kirk; one of them, Sheriff
Tait, being a prominent speaker in the General Assembly.
The, change has come upon me by degrees; and really, till you were here in September, I was hardly aware
how far, by familiarity with Scotch modes of thinking and
acting, I had grown into a development which must seem
strange in an old friend's eyes.  As you know, I go little
to England: my wife and weans (the latter of whom
often loudly express their hope that you will soon come
back again) are a tie to home; and one great pleasure
of a country life is, that every day of the year, winter as
well as summer, brings with it something to interest one.
Horses, cows, pigs, dogs, pheasants, wheat, potatoes,
newly-planted  trees  and  evergreens, are a constant




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 409
source of occupation: there is always a host of little
changes and improvements going on about a countryplace, which there is a pleasure in overseeing.  Yet one
need not grow a mere clod, like some of my thick-headed
neighbors whom you met, who had never heard of Mr.
Thackeray or of Fraser's Magazine, and who thought
that Mr. Ruskin was a slang name for the Emperor of
Russia. My daily hours of work in my library make me
enjoy all the more a scamper on horseback, a stroll to
the home-farm, or a walk through the young plantations.
And notwithstanding your pity for me, cut off, as you
thought, from  the world of intellect, I assure you, my
dear Editor, when you told me of all your toils and
cares, pleasant and elevating as they may be, I thought
it would be well for you, mentally and physically, to
spend six months at Craig-Houlakim, where your pulse
would get to beat more leisurely, where the flame of life
would burn away less fast, and, like wise old Walton,
you might " study to be quiet." And I put it to you, as
an intelligent being, if my own personal appearance did
not, by its healthy animalism, say a great deal for this
calm  mode of life.  I don't think I am  any stupider
than I used to be when we were companions long ago;
but am I not twice as strong, twice as active - ay, and
twice as rosy, though I never drink whiskey-toddy?
There is no doubt of it, my dear fellow, that Scotland
and England are very different countries, after all. I do
not know what may be the particular train of reflection
which is started in the mind of people in general by witnessing the departure of the Scotch mail-train from
Euston-square at nine P. M.; but for myself; the thought
which always impresses me is, what opposite states of
things that train forms a link between.  The carriage




410 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITILS.
which bears the little board on its side, with LONDON
AND EDINBURGH, will in the next few  hours run not
merely out of one country into another, with another
climate and scenery; but also into another race of men,
another religion, another church, another law, another
way of thinking upon all conceivable subjects.  Scotland and England, in short, are quite different countries.
Many things which are quite familiar in each, are unknown in the other.  And though between the educated
classes of the two countries there is now much similarity, still it will be long before electric wires and express
trains shall assimilate Pall-Mall and Prince's-street, St.
Giles's and the Goosedubs.
It has always been an interesting thing to me to witness the departure of the great trains for the North.
My feeling is, that the dignity and poetry of a railway
train are in direct proportion to the distance it has to
run.  Who cares about the departure of a Greenwich
train, that will reach its journey's end in ten minutes?
It is quite different with one that, after quitting the
brightly-lighted and bustling station, is to go on and on,
hour after hour through the long dark night, score after
score of miles through the wide blank country, and between the lights of fifty sleeping towns. By the side of
the broad smooth platform is the long row of low dark
carriages, so snug-looking internally with their warm
lamp-light, their thick blue cushions, their heaps of
wraps of all kinds. There is a crowd of passengers hur
rying to and fro; a rapid whirl of barrows of luggage;
a display of men and women in every variety of dress
which has the association of warmth. -At length we are
all stowed in our places; rugs are folded over knees,
travelling caps are endued, reviews and newspapers are




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 411
cut up; and the train is off, gliding with a fluent motion
through the dark. For an hour or two passengers read,
and even talk a little; then gradually drop off into a
sleep, which is disturbed at intervals through the night
by the glare and thunder of some passing engine, fearfully snorting and panting, or by the chilly rush of raw
air as the guard opens the door to ask a sight of the tickets at some large station on the road. Thus we sweep
through the rich heart of England: along the valley of
the Trent - through Staffordshire - through crowded
Lancashire; and at length waken to full consciousness
among the Cumberland hills, where the passing train
sends the sheep scampering, and startles the hare from
her resting-place. Then comes the comfortable though
hurried breakfast in that most baronial refreshment-room
at Carlisle; a few miles further on we cross the little
river Sark, enter Dumfries-shire, and are in Scotland.
Wild hills yet, which give the new-comer a dreary impression, and a very unfair one, of the country he has
entered; ninety or a hundred miles are rapidly skimmed
over; and at the end of twelve or thirteen hours from
Euston-square, we hear a howling of Embra' or Gleska,
as the case may be, and we emerge from the carriage to
which we had grown quite attached, and find ourselves
in a new world. No educated Englishman needs to be
told nowadays that Scotchmen do not wear tartan,-that
the figures one sees at the doors of tobacco-shops in London have no prototypes in the North, — that a kilt is seen
just as frequently in Regent-street as on the Calton-hill,
and that those persons who describe themselves when in
England as THE MAC TODDY or THE MAC LOSKY,
know rather better than to make fools of themselves by
assuming such designations when at home.  Still we




412 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
have things among us here which you know  nothing
about; and I am going to give you some idea of one or
two of our " peculiar institutions."  I have before my
eyes the recent fate of Mr. Macaulay, when he recorded
certain unpalatable truths in regard to Scotland, his "respected mither."  But what Isay shall be said in all
good-nature; and I do not believe that the sensible portion of my adopted compatriots forms such a genus irritabile as you might fancy from reading about the doings of
the Society for maintaining Scottish Rights.
Do you remember one morning when you were here,
the post-bag yielding a Glasgow newspaper, which having glanced at I pitched with indignation into the fire?
The reason was, that it contained a long report of a proceeding which no acquaintance with it will ever make tolerable to me, or indeed make anything but revolting and
disgusting: I mean what is called a Congregational Soiree in the City Hall at Glasgow.  Such things are very
common among the dissenters; and I am sorry to say
they are not quite unknown in the church.  There are
some congregations consisting exclusively of the lower
orders, whose ministers maintain a certain popularity by
dint of roaring and ranting, and every kind of wretched
claptrap which appeals to the mob.  And these men find
it expedient to have a soiree (pronounced surree, with a
strong accent on the latter syllable) annually. I need
not tell you that the more dignified and respectable
among the clergy utterly abhor such things. I could no
more fancy my excellent friend, Dr. Muir of Edinburgh,
spouting nonsense on a platform  to excite the lauglter
of maid-servants, than I could picture the Archbishop of
Canterbury preaching while standing on his head. But
let me try to give you some idea of what the thing is.




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.  413
I have had occasion once or twice to see the City Hail
at Glasgow.  Whenever the freedom of the city is given
to any eminent man, the ceremony takes place there, the
Lord Provost making a speech on the occasion. It is a
large ugly building, in a street called the Candleriggs,
which runs out of the Trongate, the main artery of
Glasgow traffic. It is very large, holding some three or
four thousand people.  It is simply a huge square room,
with a fiat ceiling. Galleries surround it on three sides:
on the fourth side is a large platform, backed by a fine
organ.  It has a cheerful appearance, being painted
throughout in white and gold. This Hall is used for
all kinds of purposes; the Corporation, very shabbily I
think, making a profit by letting it out to any one who
may want it. There the Wizard of the North was wont
for many a day to perform his tricks: there did Mr. Barnum exhibit Tom Thumb: there have Jenny Lind and
Grisi sung: there does Jullien yearly give a course of
concerts: there has Kossuth spoken, and there Mr.
Macaulay, Lord Elgin, the Duke of Argyle, Mr. Dickens, and a greater man than all, Sir Archibald Alison:
there has Mr. George Thompson howled: there has the
Anti-State-Church Association made itself ridiculous:
there next day have the friends of the Kirk rallied by
thousands; and on the day after, the advocates of the
Democratic and Social Republic: there have been held
cattle-show dinners and Crimean banquets; and there
soirees in honor of all sorts and conditions of men, from
Mrs. Beecher Stowe down to Mr. Stiggins (who became
a dissenting minister in Whistlebinkie after his historic
kicking by the senior Mr. Weller): and after this pleasing variety of engagements during the week, the Hall is'et for divine service on Sunday. There hath the Rev.




414  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
Dr. Bahoo wept, and the Rev. Mr. Spurgeon bellowed:
there hath a young scamp of ten years old preached to
a congregation of thousands; and thence hath the Rev.
Mr. McQuack retired with a collection of ~3 15s. 2'd.
for the mission to send flannel waistcoats and moral
pocket-handkerchiefs to the uninstructed Howowows.
The first announcement of the approaching festival is
an advertisement in the Glasgow newspapers that a Congregational Soiree of St. Gideon's Church will be held
in the City Hall upon a certain evening: The Rev. Dr.
Bahoo, M. A., D. D., LL.D., in the chair. Addresses
will be delivered by the Rev. Melchisedec Howler, the
Rev. Jeremy Diddler (Missionary to Borrioboolagha), the
Rev. Roaring Buckie (of Yellington-cum-Bellow), the
Rev. Soapy Sneaky  (domestic chaplain to the Hon.
Scapegrace Blackleg), and the Rev. Mountybanke. Buffune. By the kind permission of Col. Blazes, the band
of the gallant 969th will attend.  Tickets, including a
paper of sweeties, a cooky, two figs, and five cups of tea,
price, eight pence each.  N. B.   A  collection at the
door, to prevent confusion.
The proceedings begin at six o'clock upon the appointed evening, by which hour the people are seated
at long tables arranged in the Hall, displaying a large
assortment of tea-cups of many varied patterns.  Each
person on entering has received a paper-bag, containing
the promised cooky (you would call it a penny-bun), the
figs, and the sweeties. The platform is covered with men,
the leading individuals of the congregation, and the speakers of the evening. That is Mr. Soapy Sneaky, with the
long lank hair, the blue spectacles, and the diabolical
squint. That fat, round little man is Dr. Bahoo, already
affected to tears by the contemplation of so many tea



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.  415
cups, and by the reflection that they will all be broken
within the next hundred years.  That is Melchisedec
Howler, with tremendously-developed jaws and a bullneck, but hardly any perceptible forehead.  And that
is Mr. Buckie, with the apoplectic face, and corpulent
figure.  First, a Psalm  is sung; then a long prayer is
offered.  The band of the 969th then plays a polka.
Next greasy men go round, and pour tea of uninviting
appearance out of large kettles into the numberless teacups.  The men on the platform  partake of the same
cheering beverage.  A great clatter of crockery is heard:
many of the guests, ere they have finished their fifth
cup (they are breakfast-cups) become visibly distended:
most of the children find it expedient to stand up. Tea
being over, the military band plays the "March of the
Cameron Men," or "Bonnie Dundee," amid great shouting and stamping.  The Rev. Dr. Bahoo, the minister
of the congregation, then gets up and makes a speech in
the nature of a sermon, with a few jokes thrown in. The
reverend gentleman gets much excited.  He fiequently
weeps during his speech, and in a little laughs again. He
tells the people how hawppee he is to see them  awl:
how many additional seats have been let in St. Gideon's
Church during the past year: how  many scores of
Sawba schule teachers and Sawba scholars are connected
with the congregation.  A Psalm  is then sung by the
people: a polka follows: then there is a pause to allow
the figs to be eaten.  Then the Rev. Melchisedec Howler
addresses the meeting.  He shouts and stamps: he bellows out his ungrammatical fustian with perfect confidence.  Happy man, he is so great a fool that he has
not the faintest suspicion that he is a fool at all. Streams
ot perspiration flow down his face. In leaving the Hall,




416  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
you will hear the general remark among the enlightened
audience, " Wasna' yon gran'?"  " Oh, but he swat extraordinar."  The meeting goes on for three or four
hours, with the same strange jumble of prayers and
polkas, religion and buffoonery, tears of penitence and
roars of laughter.  At length, about ten or eleven at
night, after three cheers for the chairman, the benediction is pronounced, and the festival is ended.
Well, my dear Editor, is not that a peculiar institution,
with a vengeance?  I assure you I am not exaggerating
or caricaturing, in my description of the hateful exhibition. Anything more irreverent and revolting than what
I have myself witnessed (for I went out of curiosity to
two or three such scenes) cannot be. I have seen clergymen say and do things at them which were just as degrading as if they had shaved their heads, painted their
faces with ochre, put on a spangled dress, and tumbled
head over heels. I have stated that the more staid and
reputable clergy utterly eschew such meetings: most of
the ministers who appear at them are men prepared to
have recourse to the very lowest and most contemptible
means in order to gain a wretched popularity with the
least intelligent of the community. Don't you feel that
Dr. Bahoo and Mr. Howler would preach standing on
their heads, if that would draw a crowd to the scene of
their buffooneries?  Don't you feel that they would severally sing Hot codlins from the pulpit, rather than see
the boxes deserted and the pit empty? They are simply
tenth-rate melodramatic actors; and I will speak of them
as such.
Now for another Scotch peculiarity.
I remember well your look of amazement when, one




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.  417
day as we drove past a whitewashed barn a few miles off,
I said to you, " That is the parish church of Timmerstane-parva." You thought at first that I wished to practise on your credulity, in return for certain wicked mystifications which you practised upon me in our college
days.  But I spoke in sober sadness.  We have abundance of churches in Scotland which no mortal would ever
guess were churches; buildings without one trace of
Christian character; whitewashed barns externally, with
a belfry at one end; and internally, just four walls and a
flat roof, with a higgledy-piggledy of rickety pews, and
a rude box at one end to serve for a pulpit. Now I have
no doubt that you thought all this was the remaining
leaven of the sour Puritan spirit: and that you supposed
that the mass of the Scotch people really think that God
is most likely to be worshipped in sincerity between walls
green with damp and streaming with moisture, and under
a flat ceiling whence large pieces of plaster are wont to
detach themselves during divine service.  You were
quite mistaken if you took up any such impression.
There are one or two bigoted sects which have inherited
the spirit of the Covenanters, among which a good deal
of stupid prejudice still lingers; and the people of these
sects would very probably prefer Timmerstane Kirk to
York Minster.  But I am sure the well-filled pews you
saw in our parish church testify that Scotch people will
come very willingly to a decent church when they can
find one; and if you knew what frantic efforts the dissenting congregations in large towns make to imitate our
cathedrals in cheap lath-and-plaster Gothic, you would
be convinced that it is no preference for shabbiness and
dirt on the part of the people that keeps numbers of
Scotch kirks the disreputable places they are. No, my
27




418  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
dear Editor; I wish to reveal to you, and through you to
your countless readers, including so great a portion of the
intelligence and refinement of England, what is the real
blight of Scotch church architecture.  It is, in brief; the
abominable, mean, dirty, and contemptible shabbiness and
parsimony of a great many of the heritors of Scotland.
But what are the heritors, you will say, and what have
they to do with the churches? I will tell you all about
it.
The heritors of a parish are the proprietors of land
within it. They are bound by law to build and maintain the church and parsonage.  They likewise pay the
stipend of the clergyman.  Now, of course, when they
or their fathers bought their estates, they got them for so
much less in consideration of these circumstances. The
primary charge upon all the land of Scotland is the
Church Establishment; and in rendering its due to the
church, the heritors are simply fulfilling the condition on
which they hold their property, -  doing what it would
be dishonest not to do; and they are, manifestly, no more
entitled to take credit for maintaining the church and
clergyman, than the farmer is entitled to flap his wings
and cry aloud, "I am a virtuous man; I am a hero in
morality; I actually pay my landlord his rent!"  Now
many heritors forget all this: they fancy that the church
is a burden upon them; and they endeavor by every
shabby dodge to render that burden as light as possible.
You see I don't spare the class to which I myself belong:
as a general rule, in all church matters, we are about as
mean a set as you can find in Europe.  Very many of
us are dipped in debt, and are struggling to maintain an
appearance quite beyond our means.  I have in my
mind's eye at this moment at least a score of men who




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 419
are the very ideal of Mr. Thackeray's Country Snob.
We really have not a sixpence to spare; and we must
save all we can off the Kirk.  And the rascally barns
which in so many places do duty as parish churches, testify to our shabbiness and that of our fathers.  No doubt
there are many noble exceptions to what I have been
saying. Here and there one finds a really beautiful and
ecclesiastical church, testifying to the liberality of Mr.
Stirling of Keir, Mr. Tyndall Bruce of Falkland, or
Colonel Cathcart of Craigengillan.  And the Duke of
Buccleugh, a nobleman in the best sense of the phrase,
is a splendid instance of liberality in all church matters.
A writer in The Times told us lately that we country
gentlemen of Scotland were such a race of snobs, that
if the duke became a Mormon, we should all believe in
Joe Smith too.  I have no doubt a great many of us
would.  But you won't find us imitating that eminent
personage when the act to be imitated consists in putting
our hand in our pocket.  No: we are independent men,
who think for ourselves when it comes to that!  And an
especial evil is, that at a meeting of the heritors of a
parish, each person has an equal voice.  A  man with
ten thousand a year has one vote only, and so has the
proprietor of a pigsty.  Neighboring proprietors don't
like to come to loggerheads, and divisions are avoided at
such meetings.  And so, as the weakest link in a chain
is the limit of its strength, the shabbiest heritor at a
meeting is generally the limit of its liberality.
I have been reading with great interest and pleasure
Mr. Beckett Denison's Lectures on Church-building.  If
that accomplished gentleman would pay me a visit, I
think I could astonish him. I could show him men, passably intelligent on other topics, who in the matter of




420 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
church-building utterly gainsay and deny those elementary principles which appear to Mr. Denison and myself
as indisputable as any axiom  in morals.  I will back a
meeting of Scotch heritors against any collection of men
anywhere in the world, for dense ignorance, dogged obstinacy, and comfortable self-conceit.  I should imagin.
the feelings of a man driving a large flock of refractory
pigs to market, must be much what mine were when
first set to work to persuade my brother heritors of this
parish to build the handsome church you saw here.  I
don't believe that Lord Clarendon needed more diplomatic skill to manage matters at the Paris Congress,
than was requisite to talk over some of the miserable
little scrubs of small proprietors into common sense.
The upshot was, that Sir   -       and I agreed to bear
the entire expense, provided the matter were left to our
own management.  About two thirds of the parish belong
to us; the remainder being parcelled out among some
five-and-forty heritors.  We paid the share of these men
in addition to our own; and though they were not involved in the work to the extent of a sixpence, they still
cast every vexatious annoyance in our way.
Let me try to give you an idea of a meeting of heritors.  It is held in the church.  About ten minutes before the appointed hour, we see three or four blue-nosed
pragmatical-looking old fellows approaching, arrayed in
long brown great-coats of remote antiquity, each man
wearing a shocking bad hat.  These are some of the
smaller heritors, each possessor of a few bare acres of
moor-land in some wild part of the parish.  They are
certainly Dissenters, probably Cameronians; and quite
ready at a word to smite the prophets of Baal, as they
would call your amiable bishop or your good rector.




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 421
They look around in a hostile and perverse manner, and
snuff the air like wild asses' colts. A little after comes a
man with a red pimply face, a hoarse voice, and a bullying manner.  He is the factor of some proprietor who
is ashamed to do dirty work himself, but does not object to having it done for him.  Then comes a little
withered anatomy of a man, a retired Manchester tradesman, who has bought a few fields, planted them  with
hoaks and hashes, and built there an Ouse from his own
design, a great work of hart.  Half-a-dozen more bluenosed small heritors, two or three more factors, and one
or two gentlemen, complete the meeting.  Suppose they
are examining the drawings of the new kirk.  Oh, rare
are their critical remarks.
"Aw doant see ony need for a speere," says one low
fellow. " Whawt's that croass doin' aboove the gabble? "
says another; "we're no gangin' to hawve a rawg o'
papistry in this pawrish."  " If that's the way to build a
church," says a pig-headed blockhead who never saw a
decent church in his life, " I know nothing aboot churchbuilding."  Sober truth the creature utters; but he fancies he is talking sarcastically.  Something is said of an
open roof.  "-Wha ever saw a roof like thawt?" says
one of the blue-nosed men;   thawt'sjist like maw barrrn."
A Cameronian elder says, in a discordant whine, " Goad
is to be wurshupped in spurrit and in trewth: whawt
house will ye big unto him?  Habakkuk thirteenth and
fifth."  " Stained glass," says a pert little shopkeeper
from  Whistlebinkie, "is essentially Popish and Antichrist."  Finally a burst of coarse laughter follows the
witticism, from an individual with a strong smell of whiskey,-  "If Mr. Macdoanald wants the kirk sae fine,
let him  pye for it himself.  Aw  heer he was bred at




422 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
Ooxfurd; maybe he wants us a' to turn prelatists.  He
had better gang awa' bawk to Inglan' wi' his papish
notions."  At this juncture the honorable proprietor's
utterance becomes indistinct, and in a little a loud snoring proclaims that he is asleep. While the discussion is
going on, some of the heritors are spitting emulously at
a pew door about a dozen feet off. They generally hit
it, with a dexterity resulting from long practice.
What wonder if educated men and gentlemen avoid
such meetings?  And thus, unhappily, the management
of matters falls into the hands of some blowsy village
demagogue, whose impertinence has driven the squire
or baronet of the parish away; or of two or three of the
withered old Cameronians with the long brown greatcoats.
The Scotch are not a demonstrative race.  I do not
believe that among our laboring class here in the country, there is any want of real heart and feeling; but
there is a great awkwardness and stiffness in the expression of it. People here do not give utterance to their
emotion like your volatile Frenchman: they have not
words to say what they feel; and they would be ashamed
(blate, in their own phrase) to use these words if they
had them. I have had a touching instance of this within
the last few days.  Do you remember our taking a walk
together one beautiful afternoon to the cottage of one of
my people, a poor fellow who was dying of consumption?
You sat upon a stile, I recollect, and read a proof, while
I went in and sat with him for a few minutes. It seemed
to cheer him a little to have a visit fiom the laird, and I
often went to see him.  After you left us he sank gradually, - it was just the old story of that hopeless malady,




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCI PECULIARITIES. 423
till at last, after a few days in bed, he died. I hate
all cant and false pretence; but there was earnest reality
in the simple faith which made my humble fiiend's last
hours so calm and hopeful.  When he felt himself dying
he sent for me, and I went and stayed beside him for
several hours.  The clergyman's house was some miles
off; and apart from private regard, it was a part of my
duty as an elder of the kirk to go and pray as well as I
could with the poor fellow.  He was only thirty-two, but
he had been married eight or nine years, and he had four
little children.  After lying silent for a while, he said he
would like to see them again; and his wife brought them
to his bedside. I know well that no dying father ever
felt a more hearty affection for the little things he was
leaving behind, or a more sincere desire for their welfare
after he had left them.  He was not so weak but that he
could speak quite distinctly; and I thought that he would
try and say something to them in the way of a parting
advice, were it only to bid them be good children, and be
kind and obedient to their mother. Yet all he did was
just to shake each of the three elder children by the hand,
and to say Gude-day.  As for the youngest, a wee thing
of two years old, he said to it, " Will you gie me a bit
kiss?" and the mother lifted up the wondering child to
do so. " Say Ta-ta to your feyther," she said. " Ta-ta,"
said the poor little boy, in a loud, cheerful voice, and then
ran out of the cottage to play with some companions.
The story, I feel, is nothing to tell; but the little scene
affected me much.  I believe I have told you the exact
words that were said; and then the dying man turned
away his face and closed his eyes, and I saw many tears
running down his thin cheeks. I knew it was the yery
abundance of that poor man's heart that choked his utter



424 SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
ance, and brought down his last farewell to a common.
place greeting like that with which he might have parted
from  a neighbor for a few hours.  Gude-day was his
farewell for ever! He felt that he had so very much to
say, that he did not know where to begin it; and so his
weary heart shrank from the task, and he said almost
nothing.  I thought how your friend Mr. Tennyson could
have interpreted that Gude-day. How much of unutterable affection - how much of good advice and fatherly
warning — how  much of prayer for them  to the great
Father of the orphans - was implied in poor David's
Gude-day!
I read a paragraph in The Times, a few weeks since,
in which it was stated that the late Bishop of London
had informed a certain congregation, which had the choice
of its clergyman, that he would not upon any account permit a succession of candidates for the living to preach in
the parish church. I think the Bishop was right. There
is something most degrading to the clerical character, and
inconsistent with the nature of preaching, in the practice
of persons "holding forth" to a congregation to let the
people see how  well they can do it, the congregation
meanwhile sitting in a critical and judicial capacity. And
I lament to tell you that what is a very rare and exceptional thing in England, is a very common thing in Scotland - the practice of hearing candidates, as it is termed.
You are aware that, at different periods, a great row has
been made in this country about the existence of church
patronage; the people always agitating to get the selection of their ministers put in their own hands. In one
shape or another, this agitation has been the source of all
the secessions from  the Scotch Kirk.  Ever since the




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 425
great secession in 1843, most patrons have been anxious
to make popular appointments, for fear of driving the
people away fiom church to some of the multitudinous
neighboring conventicles; and instead of directly presenting a clergyman to a vacant benefice, they have in some
way consulted the wishes of the parishioners. In the
case of the parish in which I reside, and of which I possess the patronage, I did not take this course.  I took
every pains to find a clergyman who should be a good
preacher, a scholar, and a gentleman; and then I presented him without consulting the people in any way. I
knew thoroughly that, had I given them their choice, I
should simply have been devolving my privilege of appointing a minister upon Smout the baker, Swipes the
publican, and Muttonhead the butcher.  They would, to
a certainty, have directed the judgment of the humbler
parishioners; and I conceived myself to be a more competent judge of clerical qualifications than these gentlemen.  And though the people grumbled a little at first,
their good sense and Mr. Smith's faithfulness triumphed
in the long run, and he is now extremely popular with all
classes.  I did not choose to allow Smout, Swipes, and
Muttonhead to give me for a parish clergyman some bellowing boor, whom I should have been ashamed to ask to
meet my friends at my table.
When a patron is more desirous of immediate popularity than I was, he follows one of two courses: he appoints three or four individuals, each of whom he thinks
suitable for the cure, and allows the people to select one
of these; or he says to the parishioners, " You may nominate three clergymen, and I shall take my choice of
these."  The former course, which is called "giving a'eet," is the more usual, I believe. In either case, a




42  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
preaching-match follows, and the people select by comparative trial.  In the case of some town churches, where
the congregations have the entire matter in their own
hands, with no patron to keep them  within reasonable
limits, forty or fifty candidates have sometimes been
heard.  Then, by a process of elimination, that number
is reduced to two or three; these two or three are asked
to preach a second time; and, finally, the election is completed, amid all the degrading circumstances which attend
most contested elections.  Don't crow over us, my dear
Oliver, for I see that you have lately had in London a
similar discreditable course of procedure.
Each of the competing candidates of course does his
best to make a favorable impression.  With congregations of the lower orders the victory lies with him who
possesses the strongest lungs and the emptiest head.  It
is a great stroke in preaching as a candidate to repeat
the sermon entirely fiom  memory; a successful claptrap
is to shut the Bible with a bang immediately after giving
out the text. It very generally happens that the upshot
is the division of the parishioners into two violently
opposed parties; the educated and respectable people
declaring for some preacher of cultivated mind and gentleman-like manner, and the lower classes for some huge,
raw-boned, yelling, and perspiring animal, with intense
vulgarity in his every tone and gesture, whom they regard as one of themselves. After some weeks of excitement and diplomacy, something like unanimity is generally arrived at; the patron generally holding it?in
terrorem over the people, that if they do not agree within a given time, he will appoint a minister without consulting them.  The hearing-candidate system has a most
degrading effect upon those preachers who seek to get




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES. 427
preferment by it. It tempts directly to every coarse expedient for pulpit effect, and every sneaky means to gain
the private good-will of the rabble.  Still the system
works in practice a shade better than might be anticipated a priori; and though sometimes permanent splits
result, the minority going off to the Dissenting meetinghouse, yet this is far from being the general rule. I
need not tell you that no clergyman of any standing
would " preach as a candidate" for any living.  Candidate preachers are for the most part drawn from  the
class of newly-fledged licentiates; and fiom  that species
of much-perspiring, loud-howling, flabby-faced, and bigjawed preachers, who formed the dunces of the philosophy-classes at college, and who now constitute the parliamentary train of the Kirk.
I have been so little in England of late years, that I
do not know whether the institution which I am about to
describe is a Scotch peculiarity, or whether it exists on
your side of the border: I mean what may be called the
testimonial nuisance.  There is hardly anybody left in
this country who has not had a snuff-box, watch and
chain, purse of sovereigns, tea-kettle, claret-jug, bookcase, gig-whip, saddle and bridle, pony, horse, cow, pig,
dog-cart, set of harness, timepiece, Matthew  Henry's
Commentary on the Scriptures, load of meal, cart of potatoes, pig's face, German-silver pencil-case, everlasting
gold pen, pulpit-gown and cassock, case of mathematical
instruments, tea-tray, set of teacups, dozen of teaspoons,
dozen of shirts, dozen of pocket handkerchiefs, or dozen
of flannel waistcoats, presented to him by a circle of
friends and admirers, and the presentation chronicled at
great length in the local newspaper. Country gentlemen,




428  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
clergymen, railway  guards, drivers of stage-coaches,
gamekeepers, shepherds, local poetasters, farmers, newspaper reporters, keepers of public-houses, schoolmasters,
turnpike-gatekeepers, railway  signal-men, stokers  of
coasting steamers, are among the people most frequently
honored in this way.  When a testimonial is presented
to a man in the humbler walks of life, it is usually followed by a supper, concerning which the Whistlebinkte
Gazette never fails to record that the arrangements refleeted the utmost credit on mine host of the Blue Boar;
the evening was spent most harmoniously, Mr. Ronald
McCracken favoring the company with his favorite song,
"Jenny dang the weaver;" and at a late hour all parties
went home, "happy to meet, sorry to part, and happy to
meet again."  Whenever a new minister comes to any
parish, on the day of his induction he is presented with
a superb pulpit gown (made by Messrs. Roderick, Doo,
and Co., our enterprising fellow-townsmen), and a pulpit
Bible and psalm-book (purchased at the establishment of
Mr. McLamroch, bookseller, 91, High-street).  On going
away, he receives a timepiece or silver salver, (furnished,
we understand, by Messrs. Waxy and Jollikin, Chronometer-makers, Saltergate); and if a poor man, perhaps
a purse of sovereigns (the purse made by the fair fingers of Miss Jemima McCorkle, daughter of the much
esteemed surgeon of that name).  The handsome gift
(we invariably learn) was presented in a few brief but
pithy remarks by Mr. James MeWilliam, farmer in
Cleugh-Lochacher; and the reverend gentleman, who
appeared much overcome by his feelings, made an affecting and suitable reply. Occasionally we find it recorded
that the tenantry on the estate of Netherwoodie and
Clanjamfry proceeded. to the Mansion House, and pre



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.  429
sented Skipness Alexander Skipness, Esq., their esteemed
landlord, with his portrait, drawn in the first style of art
by Cosmo Saunders, Esq., R. S. A. They likewise presented an elegant cairngorm brooch to Mrs. Skipness; a
whip to Master Sholto Skipness Skipness; and a humming top to Master Reginald Comyne Skipness, the latter gentleman aged one year and eight months.  Mr.
Skipness, much affected  (recipients of testimonials in
this country are always much affected), made a suitable
reply.  He felt his merits were greatly over-estimated.
If indeed it were true that he had been the first to introduce into the county an improved breed of pigs, he
had his reward in the whisperings of an approving conscience.  Turnips had for years occupied much of his
attention; nor had cheese passed without many serious
thoughts. Onions and carrots, he might say, had rarely
been absent from his mind. Still, much remained to be
done.  There was no limit to the fat which might be
carried by the Clanjamfry breed of cattle; and whatever
might be the feeling of others, he, for one, would always
connect the gimmers and hogs of this district with the
future prosperity of the country.  The tenantry were
then entertained at the hospitable board of Netherwoodie,
and left at a late hour, having spent an evening which
will long be cherished as a green spot in memory's waste.
Do you remember one morning glancing over the
Whistlebinkie Guardian, and reckoning up thirty-eight
testimonials which had been presented in the preceding
week to different individuals in the county?  I doubt
not that, in your simplicity, you fancied that this district
contained an immense number of deserving characters,
surrounded by a most generous public. Quite a mistake.
Most of the recipients deserved nothing particular: most




430  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
of the subscribers were lugged into giving sorely against
their will. Let me explain to you the philosophy of the
matter. A, let us say, wants a testimonial for himself.
It would not do, however, to endeavor directly to get one
up. A therefore goes to B, and proposes to get up a
testimonial to C.  Now C never did anything remarkable in all his life; and B does not want to give him
anything.  But it would be a most invidious thing to refuse to subscribe: and so, for fear of giving offence, B,
D, E, F, G, and H, severally put down their shilling or
their pound, as the case may be: the present is given;
the supper or dinner comes off; and the Gazette and
Guardian report the proceedings.  In a few months C,
who has been made aware who it was that set his own
testimonial on foot, feels himself called upon to get up
one to A.  Then B gets up one to D; D reciprocates;
and so on all round.  Thus, you see, the balance of
property in the district is not disturbed; for each man
gets as much as he gives. Neither are people's relative
positions and estimations altered; for no man is distinguished above his neighbor.  The secret vanity of each
individual is gratified: a kindly spirit is maintained in
the neighborhood; and in the long run the truth is not
prejudiced, for these testimonials come to be valued at
pretty nearly what they are worth.
The mention of testimonials reminds me of another
Scotch peculiarity, about which I may tell you something. All sorts of people in this country are fond of
making what they call a collection of testimonials or
certificates, setting forth their qualifications and merits.
They apply to any one who may be in a prominent position, whether he knows much of them or not; and receive a sheet of note-paper inscribed with the most out



SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.  431
rageous and exaggerated  compliments.  Each person
who is asked to give a certificate considers what good
qualities the man ought to have in order to be fit for the
place he is aiming at, or what good qualities the man
would like to be thought to possess; and incontinently
sets his signature to a declaration that the man does possess the very highest degree of all these good qualities.
A really profligate disregard of truth prevails in Scotland as to this matter. One constantly finds men, even
of established reputation, asserting in written testimonials
what, if you ask them their real opinion in private, they
will confess to you is absurd and untrue. We all understand that in newspaper reports all sermons are eloquent
and impressive, all landlords are liberal, all county members are unweared in their attention to their duties, all
professors are learned, all divines are pious, all magistrates are worthy, all military men are gallant, all royal
dukes are illustrious.  We all understand what such
statements are worth; nor does any man but the most
verdant care a straw  for the critical notices of the
Whistlebinkie Gazette, which assure us that Mr. Snooks,
the local poet, is a much greater man than Mr. Tennyson; and that Mr. Green, our talented young townsman,
has already surpassed Turner as a landscape-painter.  I
don't suppose that you are much elevated when the
Guardian of our county town declares, at the beginning
of a month, that "Fraser holds on its way with a ringi
and jubilant wildness and manliness of fierceness and terror," - whatever all that may mean, which I confess I
don't know.  But the Scotch system of exaggerated and
(in short) false declarations, made by grave divines and
high-spirited gentlemen, as to the qualifications of Smith,
Jones, and Robinson, ought to be put down. It deceives




432  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
and misleads: it is calculated and, I believe, intended to
deceive and mislead. I feel strongly on the subject, for I
take a warm interest in the schools of this parish; and
when I first came here, I was most thoroughly taken in by
the flaming characters which several teachers brought,
who afterwards proved shamefully incompetent.  A lad
of very deficient intellect and education, and quite devoid
of common sense, applying for a teacher's place, comes
with a long array of testimonials from  clergymen and
professors, which, if true, would prove him a prodigy of
talent, industry, amiability, and all other virtues under
heaven.  An extremely bad  preacher and  wretched
scholar, applying for a living (I had no end of such
applications when this parish was vacant), brings with
him testimonials which tend to show that the human race
cannot be expected to produce many such wonders in a
single century.  The result of all this is, that written
testimonials now mostly go for nothing -  at least, with
people of any experience.  They are sometimes even regarded with suspicion.  If a teacher in a parish school
becomes a candidate for another parish school, and brings
with him  a very high certificate from  the heritors and
clergyman of the parish where he is at present, the fear
is that they have given him this strong recommendation
in order to get rid of him.
A story is told apropos of this. A teacher came to the
parish of X, bringing an immensely strong certificate from
the parish of Y, in which he was at present settled. On
the strength of this certificate, the heritors of X elected
him to their vacant school.  It should be mentioned that
the parishes of X  and Y are many miles apart.  The
teacher began his work at X, and speedily proved worth
nothing-a lazy, stupid, useless incubus on the parish.




SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.  433
One of the heritors of X met a heritor of Y, and inquired,
with some indignation, what on earth the heritors of Y
meant by giving such a flaming certificate to an utterly
incapable teacher?  " Why," said Mr. Y, with great coolness, " We gave that certificate to get you to take him off
our hands; and, let me tell you, you people of X  will
have to give him a far higher character before you will
get rid of him!"
I do not vouch for the story's truth: and I believe that
good-nature, and unwillingness to give pain by a refusal,
are the origin of most of these undeserved panegyrics.
When a poor fellow asks you to give a certificate of fitness for some place for which you know he is not fit, but
which he has yet set his heart on, it is hard to say no.
The temptation is strong to stretch a point in order to say
a good word for him; or at any rate to write a few sentences which, without meaning anything, sound as though
they meant something in his praise.
And now, my dear fellow, I dare say you are wearied
of all this gossip about our Scotch Peculiarities. I have
a vast deal more to say, but I think I had better stop for
the present.  I hope soon to see you here again. It is
curious how arbitrarily the memory singles out little incidents and keeps them vividly alive, when worthier things
have perished.  When I look back upon your late visit
to us, I am ashamed to say that the thing which comes out
in strongest relief is, not any of your wise and witty sayings, not any of your philosophical reflections, not any
of the grand or beautiful scenes on which we looked
together.  None of these: but I see you yet, with a
doubtful expression on your usually serene face, eating
a plate of oatmeal porridge, and assuring my wife that
you liked it.  Well I knew that in your secret soul you
28




434  SOME TALK ABOUT SCOTCH PECULIARITIES.
would rather have read the very dullest article in the
Balaam-box.
Believe me,
Ever your sincere friend,
C. A. M.
Craig-Houlakim,
November 24th, 1856




CONCLUSION.
~j o1  HESE were the kind of thoughts that passed
through my mind in the leisure hours of
various months in town.  The hours, indeed, in which I have been free from the
pressure of duty, were short; and they were not many:
yet, by regular use, one may turn even these to some account. All kinds of hours, morning and evening, of every
day of the week except Saturday and Sunday, have gone
to the production of these pages. I have not an evergreen now, though I have planted so many; nor am I the
possessor of a single tree of any kind. And when I go
and visit the pleasant homes of certain friendly country
parsons, I feel my loss; and I sigh a little for the
days that are gone.  And so these pages have not
been thought out amid the sunshiny and breezy places
where I wrote certain other pages which possibly you
have read. Many of them were thought out by a city
fireside; some of them in solitary half-hour walks on
quiet winter evenings in a certain broad gas-lit street, remarkable for that absence of passers-by which is characteristic of many of the streets of this beautiful city. But
especially I remember many restful hours, happily combining duty with leisure, which are within the reach of
every unambitious Scotch clergyman. I mean the hours




436                 CONCLUSION.
which on one day in each month he may spend in attending the Presbytery to which he belongs.  The Presbytery, possibly you do not know, is a court of the Scotch
Church; consisting of the clergymen of a number of
adjoining parishes, with a lay member from each parish
besides.  This court exercises over a certain district of
country the authority which in England is exercised by
a Bishop.  It is the duty of every member to be present: so that while attending its sittings you have a pleasant sense that you are in the way of your duty. The
business of this Ecclesiastical Court is of deep interest
to those who feel a deep interest in it. And a weighty
responsibility rests with those members of it whose experience and administrative ability are such as entitle
them and fit them to lead their brethren.  But a good
many of the clergy, especially of the younger clergy,
have no vocation that way: and the very eloquent and
remarkably long speeches which are often made, would
be somewhat wearisome if you tried to listen to them.
But if you do not try to listen to them, unless at some
specially interesting juncture, or when some one is speaking whose words carry special weight, you may have
many hours of leisure there; and think of material for
various chapters like those you have been reading.  I
have found my hours at the Presbytery very favorable to
contemplation, as well as a delightful rest to body and
mind.  You are in the path of duty: and yet you feel
that your insignificance makes your responsibility quite
inappreciable. You do your work, we may hope, as a
parish clergyman, diligently and not unsuccessfully. But
as an ecclesiastical lawyer and legislator, in all probability, your influence is very properly at zero. You have
entire confidence that the affairs of the district are being




CONCLUSION.                 437
managed by wise and good men, who are your seniors in
age and your superiors in wisdom. So you may enjoy
a day of rest: and of rest happily combined with duty.
I have a very great veneration and affection for the
Church of England: but I do not think that grand Establishment affords her clergy any season, recurring regularly
and not unfrequently, during which they may feel that
they are attending to their clerical duty, while yet they
are quite free from any sense of responsibility, and from
any feeling that they are doing anything whatever.
And so I commend these chapters to the kindly reader,
hoping that they are not the last.
THE END.
CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED BY H. 0. IIOUGHTON.