THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 8ZO.^ 
 
 HZG'Z-f 
 
A 
 
LITERARY AND BIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
Ballantyne ^ Compaity^ Printers^ Edinburgh, 
 

 LECTURES, 
 
 LITERARY AND BIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 BY 
 
 REV. M. HARVEY, 
 
 FREE CHURCH, ST JOHN’s, NEWFOUNDLAND. 
 
 
 >7' 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 
 ANDREW ELLIOT, 15 PRINCES STREET. 
 1864. 
 
g£0,^ ' 
 
 H £ (»£ -5^ 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 V. 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 Of the Lectures contained in this volume I 
 have merely to say, that they were delivered 
 at intervals, during the last few years, on be- 
 half of Literary Institutes, in the town of St 
 John’s, Newfoundland. Composed originally 
 without any view to publication, amid the 
 pressure of professional duties, and intended 
 to meet the tastes of popular audiences, they 
 are now, after a hasty revision, sent to the 
 press. These circumstances may serve to ex- 
 tenuate some of their faults and imperfections ; 
 and, at the same time, will account for the 
 
 \ 
 
 '■X 
 
 ) - 
 
 method adopted in the treatment of the differ- 
 ent subjects. 
 
 M. H. 
 
 St John’s, Newfoundland, 
 Aug2ist%^ 1864 . 
 
 8345 i S 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 LECTURE THE FIRST. page 
 
 EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH — PART FIRST, I 
 
 LECTURE THE SECOND. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH PART SECOND, 37 
 
 LECTURE THE THIRD. 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 79 
 
 LECTURE THE FOURTH. 
 
 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, . . . . I36 
 
 LECTURE THE FIFTH. 
 
 THE POETR.Y OF GEOLOGY, 1 96 
 
 LECTURE THE SIXTH. 
 
 IRELAND — HER HISTORY AND HER PEOPLE, . . 240 
 
 LECTURE THE SEVENTH. 
 
 DR KANE’s arctic EXPLORATIONS, . . , , 286 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LECTURE THE EIGHTH • PAGE 
 
 REV. SYDNEY SMITH— HIS LIFE, WIT, AND WISDOM, , 35 I 
 
 LECTURE THE NINTH. 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE ; OR, THE TIMES WE LIVE IN, . 402 
 
 LECTURE THE TENTH. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 442 
 
 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD — HIS LIFE AND POETRY, . . .470 
 
LECTURE THE EIRST. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Few of the names emblazoned on the rolls of fame 
 have a better title to a high and honourable place 
 than those of the illustrious Irishmen, Edmund Burke 
 and Oliver Goldsmith. These are the names of which 
 old Ireland, the mother of many gifted children, has 
 most reason to be proud. To have given to the cause 
 of humanity these two sons, in whose souls the sacred 
 fire of genius burned so brightly, is enough to console 
 her for centuries of tears. Reading her annals, dark- 
 ened by woes and oppressions, we turn with delight 
 to trace the story of the philosophic statesman and 
 the gentle poet, whose names are for ever inter- 
 twined with the memory of the fair land that gave 
 them birth, and whose laurels shall never wither. 
 Denied political greatness, her nationality merged in 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 that of a more prosperous and powerful neighbour, 
 Ireland has given birth to one of the most able, 
 far-sighted, and profound legislators of modern times ; 
 one who first taught Englishmen to understand, 
 appreciate, and love that constitution which is the 
 fruit of so much toil, struggle, and suffering, and 
 whose great thoughts are still potent in swaying 
 the councils of Britain. Like all great men of the 
 front-rank, Edmund Burke was far in advance of 
 his age. He had climbed the mountain tops, and, 
 with prophetic vision, saw far into the coming ages. 
 His imperial imagination and glowing eloquence 
 robed his great ideas in beauty, and winged them 
 with might, and sent them forth to subdue the world. 
 Condensed into aphorisms, his political wisdom has 
 stamped itself on the memory of men, and become 
 the practical maxims by which measures are tried 
 and men are guided. As years roll on, it becomes 
 more and more clear that Burke was immeasurably 
 the greatest man of his era, and the greatest orator 
 of his own, if not of every other age. Born with that 
 regal presence which stamped him a ruler of men, he 
 could, amid the tumults and convulsions of nations, 
 ride in the whirlwind and direct the storm.” Only 
 partially understood, and imperfectly appreciated 
 when living, his fame has extended over both hemi- 
 spheres, and his works are now the political classic of 
 the English tongue. The statesmen who are most 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 3 
 
 distinguished for liberality and grasp of thought, 
 make his writings and speeches the subject of their 
 deepest and most reverential study ; and in the halls 
 of legislation, where the English language is uttered, 
 no other authority is so often quoted as that of the 
 Irish statesman. In his private life spotless ; in his 
 public life marked by incorruptible integrity, fearless 
 adherence to the right, and hatred of wrong and 
 oppression, his countrymen may proudly assert that 
 there is not a single dishonouring blot on the fair 
 fame of Edmund Burke. 
 
 Our other hero. Goldsmith, was a man of a totally 
 different mould ; a ruler of men’s thoughts and feel- 
 ings too, but in quite another way. We do not look 
 up to him as a great teacher, or profound thinker, but 
 we love the gentle Oliver ; we clasp him to our hearts, 
 with all his errors and failings, as a brother. His fine 
 fancies cheer our lonely hours ; his humour beguiles 
 us out of our sadness, and awakens our .sweetest 
 smiles ; his creations people our world of imagination. 
 Oliver Goldsmith has spoken to the universal human 
 heart ; and hence, in hut and hall, all through civil- 
 ised Europe and America, he has found a kindly 
 welcome. His tender graceful writings have added 
 immensely to the sum of human happiness. Among 
 our bosom-friends, we reckon those charming char- 
 acters to whom his imagination has given a local 
 habitation and a name.” Their visits at our homes 
 
4 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 are welcome as those of angels ; but not short or far 
 between/' They come not as strangers nor unawares. 
 In life’s morning march,” we make their acquaint- 
 ance, and they accompany us to the close. Who has 
 not spent some happy evenings with that most beauti- 
 ful creation of English fiction, the ‘Wicar of Wake- 
 field of which Sir Walter Scott finely said, we 
 read it in youth and in age ; we return to it again 
 and again, and bless the memory of an author who 
 contrives so well to reconcile us to human nature.^” 
 And how striking to find a greater than Scott — one 
 of the kings of modern literature — the great and wise 
 Goethe, sitting as a scholar at the feet of the simple- 
 hearted Irishman, and owning his obligations to this 
 charming tale. Goethe writes thus : — It is not to be 
 described, the effect that Goldsmith’s Wicar’ had 
 upon me just at the critical moment of mental devel- 
 opment. That lofty and benevolent irony, — that fair 
 and indulgent view of all infirmities and faults, — that 
 meekness under all calamities, — that equanimity under 
 all changes and chances, and the whole train of 
 kindred virtues, whatever names they bear, proved 
 my best education ; and in the end, these are the 
 thoughts and feelings which have reclaimed us from 
 all the errors of life.” Nor did Goethe’s estimate of 
 the ^Wicar” alter as years increased. At the age of 
 eighty-one, on the brink of the grave, he told a friend 
 that he had recently, with unabated delight, ^^read 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 5 
 
 the charming book again from beginning to end, not 
 a little affected by the lively recollection of how much 
 he had been indebted to the author, seventy years 
 before/’ Is not this true fame ? Nay, is not this an 
 attribute of genius — the ability to charm alike the 
 simplest and the sagest — the child and the philoso- 
 pher ? For, in truth, while Goldsmith had a word for 
 the learned and wise, he had that deep true love for 
 humankind — that all-embracing benevolence, which 
 made him the people’s poet and teacher, and enabled 
 him to strike those notes that thrill the hearts of all. 
 Even Burns, Beranger, and Elliot, in their most im- 
 passioned songs, have never surpassed these noble 
 lines : — 
 
 “ 111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 
 "Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. 
 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
 
 But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride, 
 
 When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.” 
 
 No two men could be more strongly contrasted 
 than Burke and Goldsmith ; — the former, far-seeing, 
 stately, dignified, self-denying, laborious, proud ; the 
 latter, gay, impulsive, thoughtless, defective in fore- 
 sight and plodding industry. From a situation of 
 obscurity, Burke fought his way to renown, with a 
 decision that never faltered, and a self-reliance that 
 nothing could turn aside ; and, at his death, the son 
 of the Dublin attorney had achieved a proud position 
 
6 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 among the greatest and noblest in the land. Gold- 
 smith, after a terrible struggle with poverty, misery, 
 and neglect, came out at last victorious ; was recog- 
 nised and welcomed by the chosen few as a man of 
 genius ; but, after a brief day of sunshine, the clouds 
 gathered, and in the prime of life, with vast possibili- 
 ties within his reach, he sank under a heavy burden 
 of toil and care. Many were his foibles and failings ; 
 but through all the hard battle he never lost the sim- 
 plicity of his noble nature, and, though fighting at 
 terrible odds with the world’s contumely, malignity, 
 and envy, he preserved his honest boy-heart to the 
 close. In this address I have ventured to link these 
 two men together, though so dissimilar in character, 
 because they were born at the same time and in the 
 same land, — because, in going through life, they were 
 often in contact, — and because they found a sphere 
 of activity in the same metropolis. You will not 
 expect from me, in a brief lecture, anything like a 
 detailed account of their lives or labours. I can only 
 attempt to give you some glimpses of the men and 
 their times, which, however imperfect, may help you 
 to form a correct estimate of our heroes, and induce 
 some of you to make a closer study of the subject. 
 
 The year 1728 ought to be noted by Irishmen as a 
 memorable one. In that year Oliver Goldsmith and 
 Edmund Burke first saw the light. In the county of 
 Longford there is a small village named Pallas, or 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 7 
 
 Pallasmore, still so obscure, that few tourists have ever 
 visited the spot. Here, in the year 1728, lived the 
 Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a Protestant clergyman of 
 the Established Church. Flood wittily defined a 
 curate as one who lived hard by the church.’' The 
 description held good in regard to this worthy man. 
 He was 
 
 “ Passing rich with forty pounds a year.” 
 
 I rather think there was no great rapture in his 
 household, this year, when a child was born ; for the 
 little stranger, who was named Oliver, was the fifth, 
 and when a father, in such circumstances, goes into a 
 committee of ways and means with his wife, and en- 
 deavours to solve the hard problem of sustaining a 
 household of seven on an annual revenue of forty 
 pounds, even the most hopeful might feel anxious as 
 to the possibility of keeping the wolf from the door. 
 Very likely, then, the Rev. Charles had some mis- 
 givings of this kind, when, for the first time, he 
 looked into the very red face of his little boy, as he 
 nestled close to the bountiful fountain kind Nature 
 had provided for him. Little did the father imagine 
 that this small fraction of humanity was to transmit 
 his own name to the love and admiration of coming 
 generations, and that, as the pastor of the Deserted 
 Village,” and the original of the good Vicar of 
 Wakefield,” he should be welcomed with laughter, 
 love, and tears,” by myriads of men. Yet so it 
 
8 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 proved : it was his own kind-hearted father that 
 Oliver painted in these genial, world-renowned char- 
 acters. It was fortunate for this little scion of the 
 Goldsmith stock that, two years after his birth, by a 
 lucky turn in the wheel of fortune, his father was 
 promoted to a better living, and his income of forty 
 raised to two hundred pounds a year. Oliver’s pros- 
 pects, in regard to nourishment for body and mind, 
 were thus much brightened. The family removed 
 from Pallasmore to a respectable house near the 
 pretty village of Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath. 
 An old dame was employed to teach Oliver the first 
 steps of knowledge, but her efforts did not come to 
 much, as may be gathered from the verdict she pro- 
 nounced on her pupil, that he was ‘impenetrably 
 stupid.” Thomas Byrne, an old soldier who kept a 
 school in Lissoy, next tried his hand on the boy ; 
 but, however good at “shouldering a crutch and 
 shewing how fields were won,” I fear he was not very 
 adroit at “teaching the young idea how to shoot.” 
 It was at this period of his life that the first of a long 
 train of misfortunes happened to Oliver. The small- 
 pox seized him, brought him to the brink of the 
 grave, and left his face deeply scarred and seamed 
 for life. This was no light calamity ; it made his 
 features, never very handsome, positively ugly, and 
 rendered a shrinking, sensitive boy, a butt for heart- 
 less ridicule. But, happily, Nature had endowed him 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 9 
 
 with a sweetness of disposition and a cheerfulness of 
 temper that all the world’s scorn and ill usage could 
 never mar. When eight years of age he was sent to 
 a superior school in Roscommon, where he remained 
 till his eleventh year. Here, then, we leave him for 
 the present, to look after our other hero. 
 
 It was on the 12th of January, in the year 1728, 
 that Edmund Burke was born. His birthplace was 
 Arran Quay, in the city of Dublin. His father was 
 an attorney, in good practice and rather prosperous 
 circumstances ; but owing to an irascible temper, 
 his clients gradually got fewer, and his business 
 declined. In fact, the choleric temper of the pa- 
 ternal Burke made him, at times, hard and over- 
 bearing, and his home can hardly be described as 
 genial or happy. Still, as far as money could smooth 
 the rugged path of life, little Ned had a much 
 brighter out-look than his contemporary Oliver. 
 Burke the elder had made some money by his pro- 
 fession, and he resolved that his second son, Ed- 
 mund, should be a lawyer. His family consisted 
 of three sons and one daughter, who were trained 
 with much more worldly wisdom, and a keener eye 
 to success in life, than the children of the easy- 
 tempered, good-natured, unthrifty Charles Gold- 
 smith, whose heart and purse were open to all 
 comers, notwithstanding that his slender and uncer- 
 tain income had now to sustain eight children. 
 
10 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 Several of Burke’s biographers have laboured in- 
 dustriously to find a place for his now famous name 
 in the peerage, vainly hoping to add to his renown 
 by discovering for him a patrician descent. Hence 
 the attempts to connect the plain attorney of Arran 
 Quay with the noble family of the De Burghs of 
 the Pale. The process is very simple : drop the 
 prefix '^De,” and change the two final consonants 
 of Burgh into ke, and De Burgh at once becomes 
 Burke. Had there been any foundation for such a 
 claim, the acute attorney at the head of the family 
 would not have failed to put it forward, for we 
 have all a little weakness — and Irishmen most of 
 all — about '^good blood” and. an illustrious pedigree. 
 It is due to Edmund Burke to state that he never 
 was guilty of the silly folly of trying to connect 
 himself with the patrician De Burghs. He had too 
 much good sense and self-respect to lay claim to a 
 nobler lineage than he was fairly entitled to. Truly 
 has Tennyson sung: — 
 
 “Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us bent, 
 
 The grand old gardener and his wife 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 
 Howe’er it be, it seems to me 
 ’Tis only noble to be good : 
 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets. 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood.” 
 
 Macknight, the latest and best biographer of Burke, 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. II 
 
 renounces the De Burgh theory, and deduces the 
 pedigree from a Burke who had once been mayor of 
 Limerick. However that may be, the father of Ed- 
 mund was a Protestant ; his mother, a woman of some 
 culture and deep sensibility, from whom he seems to 
 have inherited his genius, as he derived his irritability 
 from his father, was a Catholic — a member of the 
 Nagle family, of Castletown Roche, in Cork. Mrs 
 Burke never abandoned the religion of her fathers ; 
 but her distinguished son adhered to his father’s faith, 
 and was, throughout life, a sincere member of the 
 Church of England. Thus he who was afterwards to 
 become one of the wisest of Ireland’s emancipators — 
 one of the most eloquent pleaders for the redress of 
 her grievances — had, on his mother’s side. Catholics 
 for his ancestors ; and was thus bound by the strong 
 ties of kindred to a race then sorely oppressed. Not 
 only so, but some of his early years were passed 
 among his mother’s relatives, the Nagles, who had 
 been for centuries adherents of the ancient faith. In 
 Castletown Roche, he spent five years in the heart 
 t)f the country which Spenser has immortalised in his 
 Faerie Queene.” Whether he actually studied this 
 immortal poem amid the scenes in which it was wriL 
 ten, we cannot tell ; but, at all events, he was here 
 familiarised with the raw material on which the 
 mind of Spenser wrought : he walked by the banks 
 of the Awbeg, the bright Mulla of the Faerie Queene ; 
 
12 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 from the ruins of Kilcolman, once the proud residence 
 of the Desmonds, he gazed on one of the noblest pros- 
 pects in Ireland ; and he stood on the very spots where 
 the great Raleigh and Spenser had so often spent 
 their hours in lofty communings. We cannot doubt 
 that such scenes and associations would enrich his 
 mind with imagery, such as the poet-orator used long 
 after in draping his glowing thoughts. Nor was the 
 society in which he mingled less genial than the 
 scenery. He soon learned to respect and love his 
 maternal relatives for their unostentatious kindness, 
 quick sagacity, and genuine worth ; and, in after- 
 years, when he became famous, he often looked back 
 to the period of his residence here as the happiest of 
 his life. Burke’s early education was rather neglected, 
 owing to the delicacy of his health ; but at the age of 
 thirteen, he had the good fortune to be sent to an 
 excellent school in Ballytore, county Kildare, at the 
 head of which was a Yorkshire Quaker of great worth 
 and ability, named Abraham Shackleton. Here he 
 found a happy home, kind friends, good impulses to- 
 ward self-improvement, and the best instruction. The 
 friendships he formed with the Shackleton family 
 were only severed by death ; and he had reason to 
 regard the day he entered their friendly abode as one 
 of the most fortunate of his life. It was under the 
 fostering care of this teacher that Burke’s rare abilities 
 began to develop themselves. 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 13 
 
 We must now pass over a few years, and change 
 the scene to Trinity College, Dublin. It is the year 
 1746. In one of the top rooms of the college a 
 youth of eighteen is sitting solitary and moody. 
 He is of a low-sized, thick, robust, ungainly figure. 
 On his countenance is the unmistakable handwriting 
 of small-pox. His forehead, bulging so as to defy 
 all the rules of sculpture, exhibits none of the lines 
 of beauty. Yet is the light of the spirit gleaming 
 brightly through those large, eager eyes, that gaze 
 into vacancy. This unprepossessing youth has got 
 hold of a diamond somewhere, and on the window- 
 pane he scratches the name Oliver Goldsmith. I 
 believe it is there to this day, in the window of room 
 No. 35. Our Trinity student, we see at a glance 
 of his coarse, black, sleeveless gown, and servant’s 
 red cap, belongs to the class of sizars, who were 
 poor students, or servitors, whose duty it was to sweep 
 the courts in the mornings, and carry up dishes from 
 the kitchen to the Fellows’ dining-hall. For this ser- 
 vice their fees were greatly reduced. Our poor Oliver 
 has a forlorn look on his pale, pitted face. It is night, 
 and he lounges out through the college gate, down 
 the dimly-lighted street. A ballad-singer, with a loud, 
 cracked voice, surrounded by a crowd, is roaring out 
 a song. Why does our gowned student stop and 
 listen so eagerly to those discordant notes, as though 
 he were enraptured } The truth is, the ballad is one 
 
EDMUND BURKE 
 
 14 
 
 of his own composition, the copyright of which he dis- 
 posed of a few days since for five shillings, glad to get 
 such an addition to his scanty store, and now it is 
 positive happiness to him to watch its reception by a 
 discerning public : to note how some gentle faces 
 soften into smiles, — how the dust-covered artisan, re- 
 turning from his work, stops and listens, and plung- 
 ing his hand into his pocket, eagerly invests a penny 
 in the street-ware, — and how the open-mouthed ragged 
 urchin ventures his little all in the purchase. Sweet 
 music this of the old ballad-singer to the ear of the 
 poor sizar. He is drinking in the first intoxicating 
 draughts of applause. He begins to see that a writer 
 may get a public to buy his productions, and so has 
 a glimpse of possible authorship. He returns home- 
 ward with a lighter heart, thinking that one day his 
 pen will do greater things than these. Courage, brave 
 heart ! a wider and better audience will yet be thine ! 
 He is returning to his dull, bare college-room, when 
 a poor starving woman, with five shivering children, 
 crosses his path. Oliver cannot stand the looks and 
 tones of misery. In a moment he is bounding up 
 stairs to his room ; he seizes the blankets off his bed, 
 and the poor beggar goes away rich and happy, pray- 
 ing fervently that the heavens may be his bed.” Bed- 
 time arrives — Oliver looks dolefully at his blanket- 
 less bed. Shall he shiver in the cold air all night } 
 Not so. His knife is out in a moment ; a slit is made 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 15 
 
 in the ticking large enough to admit his person ; in 
 among the feathers he creeps, where, in a few mo- 
 ments, he is snoring in the sleep of a good man who 
 has done a virtuous action. Morning dawns ; but 
 Oliver struggles in vain to effect his exit from the 
 feathery envelope, till at length, in response to his 
 outcries, a friendly hand helps to extricate him, pre- 
 senting, we can fancy, rather a comical figure. This 
 event in the college life of Oliver is attested by the 
 best authority. In it we see the genuine Irishman, — 
 his kind heart, his uncalculating benevolence, and his 
 comical way of meeting a difficulty. Had an Eng- 
 lishman been in a similar predicament, he would have 
 slept in his clothes, I dare say, and made himself 
 pretty tidy and comfortable by placing the feather- 
 bed above him. A Scotchman, I think, would not 
 have parted with his blankets at all, but would have 
 helped the poor outcast in some more reasonable and 
 prudent fashion. Only an Irishman would bestow 
 his blankets in charity, and then cut a hole in the 
 ticking and creep in among the feathers. 
 
 Goldsmith’s forlorn condition at Trinity College 
 arose from the straitened condition of the home 
 finances. When little over a year at the university, 
 his good father died ; and he became dependent for 
 casual supplies on a kind uncle Contarine, and other 
 relations, who, however willing, had little to spare. 
 No wonder, then, that he was glad to turn an honest 
 
i6 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 penny in writing ballads — as Homer had done before 
 him. The sizar’s life at Trinity was a hard one, — 
 his position menial, — his privations numberless. Of 
 course, the poor students were looked down upon by 
 the wealthier commoners. The unlucky Oliver, too, 
 got for a tutor an unfeeling, brutal-minded wretch, 
 called Wilder, who never ceased insulting and humili- 
 ating him in presence of the class ; for which vile con- 
 duct Nemesis has gibbeted his memory before the 
 gaze of posterity. In working out the everlasting 
 sum of things, substantial justice is done in the long 
 run. On one occasion, when Oliver had won a prize 
 of thirty shillings, and, on the strength of this, invited 
 a few friends to a little supper in his room, (contrary 
 to college rules,) this Wilder broke in upon the party 
 when the fun was getting rather fast and furious,” 
 and knocked down our poor Oliver. But this out- 
 rage on one who was as full of love and gentleness as 
 a child, has been amply avenged. All generations 
 shall agree in calling the man who struck that blow, 
 a brute.” The studies of Trinity were not at all to 
 the mind of Oliver ; and he failed to distinguish him- 
 self in any branch of learning. His reading, we may 
 be sure, was of a very miscellaneous character, with 
 a modicum of classics and mathematics, comprising a 
 good deal of history, poetry, and general literature, 
 which, in due time, would be turned to account. At 
 the age of twenty-one he managed to take his degree 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 17 
 
 of Bachelor of Arts ; and then went home to his 
 widowed mothers house in Ballymahon, where, for 
 three years, he led a happy, easy life, to which, in 
 after-years, he looked back with wistful eyes. 
 
 Two note-worthy students were in attendance at 
 Trinity College at the same time as Oliver. These 
 were Flood, afterwards the famous parliamentary 
 orator, and Edmund Burke. Neither of them had 
 any acquaintance with Goldsmith. They were fellow- 
 commoners; and doubtless passed by the ungainly 
 sizar with a careless glance. Years afterwards, how- 
 ever, when Burke met Goldsmith at the house of Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds, the great painter, in London, the 
 former declared that he perfectly recollected his 
 fellow-student. I dare say, however, it was simply 
 as an uncommonly odd fish that he remembered the 
 poor shabby sizar. Burke, when attending Trinity, 
 walked every morning from his father’s house to the 
 University. Though he had none of the ills of po- 
 verty to contend with, he had other trials. His 
 father’s temper was not improving with years ; and 
 his home was not a happy one. His studies, like 
 those of Oliver, were at this time of a desultory 
 description ; and his scholastic attainments rather 
 slender. He was, however, learning to appreciate 
 Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Milton ; though, 
 strange to say, he never seems to have felt the tran- 
 scendent superiority of Shakespeare as a poet and 
 
 B 
 
i8 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 dramatist. Without winning any laurels, he took his 
 Bachelor’s degree in 1748; and, being destined for 
 the law, his name was entered at the Inner Temple, 
 London. But his powers were rapidly expanding ; 
 and with aspirations above the position of a success- 
 ful barrister, he turned his face toward the great me- 
 tropolis. We must now drop the curtain, and suppose 
 a few years to elapse, before it rises on another scene. 
 
 It is the year 1757. Our heroes are in their 
 twenty-ninth year. Let us first look up Oliver. 
 It is now five years since he turned his back on 
 dear, delightful, lazy Ballymahon, never more to be 
 gladdened by a sight of its green fields and the 
 kindly faces of its inhabitants. He is now a book- 
 sellers’ hack, and in vassalage to a certain London 
 publisher named Griffiths, who boards and lodges 
 him, and allows a trifle for clothing. In return for 
 this liberal allowance, he is bound to write six hours 
 a day for the Monthly Review^ of which Griffiths is 
 editor and proprietor. The dogs of hunger, following 
 hard at his heels, have driven him into this doleful 
 situation. During the last five years he has been a 
 wanderer over Europe. Having spent a short time 
 in Edinburgh, professedly in studying medicine, he 
 has traversed on foot Flanders, Switzerland, Italy, 
 and France. In fact, with the aid of his flute and 
 learning, without any supplies from Ireland, he has 
 made the grand tour. Reaching at length the shores 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 19 
 
 of England, he has wandered — cold, penniless, and 
 friendless — about the lonely, terrible streets of Lon- 
 don. He has tried to practise physic, but failed to 
 get patients or fees. He has been for a time usher in 
 an academy at Peckham, where, it is on record, he 
 was always in advance with his small salary, charac- 
 teristically spending it on the day he received it, in 
 relief to beggars and in sweetmeats for the younger 
 class, till at length the good-natured wife of the mas- 
 ter said, You had better, Mr Goldsmith, let me keep 
 your money for you, as I do for some of the young 
 gentlemen.’' To which he good-humouredly answered. 
 In truth, madam, there is equal need.” But he has 
 been further down in the social scale than this, having 
 been driven for a time to take refuge among the beg- 
 gars of Axe Lane. Now, however, he has risen a little 
 in the world, being lodged in Griffith’s attic ; and his 
 task is, under the supervision of this man and his wife, 
 to review the new works that are issuing from the 
 press. Look at him as he sits in bondage at the 
 desk, painfully absorbing the contents of the volumes 
 sent in for review, — most of them full of literary rub- 
 bish. Suddenly the weary face brightens, and the 
 large eyes are filled with eager interest, as he takes 
 up a thin volume, fresh from the press, entitled, A 
 Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of 
 the Sublime and Beautiful. By Edmund Burke.” 
 This was Burke’s second literary production. He 
 
20 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 had already made a great impression by a previous 
 work, entitled, The Vindication of Natural Society,” 
 and at once established his reputation as an eloquent 
 and philosophical writer. Oliver is soon deep in 
 ''Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful and his criti- 
 cism of the volume in Griffith’s Review is elaborate, 
 honest, well-studied, and such as gave Burke sincere 
 pleasure. As yet the two Irishmen have not met 
 in London. Burke has all but abandoned his law 
 studies, for which he has no taste, and is sailing for 
 wider seas. His father is angry ; considers his allow- 
 ance of £200 a year thrown away ; thinks his Ned is 
 going to turn out a useless member of society ; and 
 resolves to stop the supplies. And so our Edmund 
 is trying to live by literature, and has rather humble 
 lodgings, up two pair of stairs, over a bookseller’s 
 shop, off the Strand. The world is beginning to hear 
 of him. Dr Johnson pronounces his Treatise on the 
 Sublime and Beautiful " a model of philosophic criti- 
 cism and David Hume, writing to Adam Smith, 
 says, " An Irish gentleman wrote lately a very pretty 
 treatise on the sublime.” The theory propounded in 
 this volume has been exploded long since ; but the 
 style, illustrations, and imagery, make the book still 
 worthy of perusal. Soon after its publication, Burke, 
 without profession or prospects, had the courage, like 
 a true Irishman, to marry. The object of his choice 
 was Miss Nugent, daughter of Dr Nugent^ a physi- 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 21 
 
 Clan of some note, practising in Bath. This gentle- 
 man was a Roman Catholic ; but, according to some 
 accounts, his daughter was brought up a Presbyterian 
 by her mother ; and, as far as I can make out, was, 
 with her husband, an adherent of the Church of Eng- 
 land after her marriage. All parties agree in describ- 
 ing her as one of the best of wives. His marriage, 
 which seemed so reckless at the time, was the best 
 step yet taken by Edmund Burke. Macknight, in 
 describing his wife, says, She glides with Quaker 
 calmness, and an almost saint-like beauty, through 
 the agitating scenes of Burke’s daily life, ever- sooth- 
 ing his natural irritability by her natural gentleness, 
 standing by his side in moments of despondency, 
 cheering him in poverty, nursing him in sickness, 
 consoling him in sorrow. Whatever may be his 
 future troubles, it is much to remember that at his 
 fireside there is, and will be, peace.” In after-years 
 Burke was accustomed to say, Every care vanishes 
 the moment I enter under my own roof” 
 
 Meantime things were going hardly with our poor 
 Oliver, who must have been born with a wooden 
 spoon in his mouth. After some months’ labour he 
 broke away from Griffith’s harness. The pay was 
 small, the labour heavy, and the diet light. He made 
 several desperate efforts to escape from Grub Street, 
 but destiny had him in hand. He must grind on in 
 the literary mill, — deliverance for him there is none. 
 
22 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 How to live is the grand consideration with Oliver, 
 who, as he pathetically expressed it, is in a garret, 
 writing for bread, and expecting to be dunned for a 
 milk score/’ In fact, at times, the bread cannot be 
 had, and the milk score cannot be paid. Still, gleams 
 of light are reaching him in his doleful condition. He 
 begins to have more belief in himself The morning 
 will shortly break, and, for a time, the shadows fly 
 ^ away. The tree must be wounded before it will yield 
 i its balm. Through sufferings alone can perfection be 
 reached. Our gentle Oliver bears his trials well ; 
 hope never leaves him, nor does sorrow sour his heart 
 He is the same gentle, kind-hearted being as ever ; 
 never so poor as to be unable to assist some one 
 poorer than himself. 
 
 Let us look in upon him in his poor, comfortless 
 lodgings in Green Arbour Court, one of the poorest 
 quarters in London, which was approached by the 
 appropriate access of Breakneck Steps.” The room 
 is naked, dirty, and unfurnished. There is but one 
 wooden chair and a window-bench. In this miserable 
 home our forlorn adventurer sits all day long, for his 
 clothes have become too ragged to submit to daylight 
 scrutiny, and he can only venture out at night. We 
 look over his shoulder at the manuscript before him, 
 and what do we see ? He is working away at “ An 
 Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning in Europe.” 
 A knock at the door is heard ; a grave, dignified, 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 23 
 
 well-dressed personage enters. Oliver hands him the 
 only chair, and takes the window-bench. His visitor 
 is no other than Thomas Percy, a descendant of the 
 ancient Earls of Northumberland, author of Reliques 
 of Ancient English Poetry,” and afterwards Bishop of 
 Dromore. He has made Goldsmith’s acquaintance a 
 few days before, at a coffee-house ; and, attracted by 
 something uncommon in the man, has hunted him up 
 in Green Arbour Court. They are just warming into 
 some literary talk, when a timid knock is heard at the 
 door; a poor, little, ragged girl enters, and dropping 
 a curtsy to Oliver, says, Mamma sends her compli- 
 ments, and begs the favour of you to lend her a 
 chamber-pot full of coals,” at the same time present- 
 ing this singular coal-scuttle to be filled. I have no 
 doubt the good-natured Oliver paused in his learned 
 discourse with this scion of the Percys and complied 
 with the humble request, even though that potful of 
 coals were his last. The Inquiry into the State of 
 Polite Learning in Europe,” produced amid such 
 unpropitious environments, brought Goldsmith into 
 notice, extended his reputation, and, what was of 
 more consequence, secured him employment on some 
 of the periodicals of the day. 
 
 At this period Edmund Burke was leading a most 
 laborious life in London. By incessant study he was 
 accumulating those vast stores of knowledge with 
 which, in the House of Commons, he was soon to 
 
24 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 astonish his contemporaries. His industry may be 
 judged of from the fact, that soon after the publica- 
 tion of the Treatise already referred to, another work 
 of his in two volumes made its appearance, under the 
 title of “An Account of the European Settlements in 
 America.’' No sooner was this completed than he 
 commenced “ An Abridgment of English History,” 
 which, however, was destined to remain a mere frag- 
 ment, and did not appear till after his death in the 
 quarto edition of his writings. Much more important 
 than either of these were his contributions to the 
 pages of the Annual Register, the historical section 
 of which he wrote during several successive years, — a 
 work which secured him ;^ioo a year. He was all 
 the while assiduously cultivating his powers of oratory, 
 by practice in the debating clubs and regular attend- 
 ance in the gallery of the House of Commons. The 
 athlete was training himself for the arena. Like all 
 great men, he had tremendous powers of industry, 
 and seemed to trust to no mere inspirations of genius, 
 only relying on stern, ceaseless application. This is 
 really the secret of the brilliant triumph with which, a 
 few years after, he startled all England. Truly has ^ 
 it been said, that “ excellence is never granted to man 
 but as the reward of labour.” Burke, however, was 
 no mere bookworm. He plunged fearlessly “in 
 among the throngs of men,” proving himself to be a 
 man of action as well as a student. He found his 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 25 
 
 way to the drawing-room of the brilliant and accom- 
 plished Mrs Montague, one of the most noted patron- 
 esses of men of letters. His good-natured country- 
 woman, Mrs Vesey, one of the leaders of fashionable 
 society, also welcomed him to her assemblies. She 
 is described as having been ‘'as full of Irish frolic 
 and Irish bulls as if she still flourished on the banks 
 of the Lifley.” It was this lady who, when inviting a 
 gentleman to one of her balls, called after him, in an 
 off-hand way, "Don’t mind your dress; come in your 
 blue stockings,” — an expression which was caught 
 up, and in some unaccountable way applied to a class 
 of ladies who affect literature without any serious 
 grounds for such pretensions. 
 
 The most important acquaintance that Burke 
 formed at this period — the one which most influenced 
 his fortunes — was that of William Gerard Hamilton, 
 nick-named " Single-speech,” from the fact of his 
 having made one very brilliant speech in the House 
 of Commons, and, through fear of losing his reputa- 
 tion, never opening his lips for years afterwards. In- 
 dolence, however, had perhaps more to do with this 
 than timidity. Hamilton was the son of the first Scot- 
 tish lawyer who pleaded at the English bar. His 
 mind was highly cultivated, his taste fastidious, his 
 natural abilities very considerable. His moral quali- 
 ties, however, were far below his intellectual. Without 
 positive convictions, he was swayed chiefly by consi- 
 
26 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 derations of expediency or selfishness. Cold-hearted, 
 though brilliant, he could stoop to mean and base ac- 
 tions. Self-seeking and unprincipled, craft and decep- 
 tion were his favourite weapons. He attracted many 
 admirers and flatterers, but no friends. This was the 
 man to whom, strangely and unhappily, Edmund 
 Burke was led to attach his fortunes for some years. 
 Hamilton was acute enough to discover Burke’s great 
 powers, and hoped to turn them to account for his 
 own selfish ends. Accordingly, when the Earl of 
 Halifax was appointed Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland 
 and Hamilton Chief Secretary, the latter managed to 
 engage Burke’s services, and took him to Dublin. 
 This was Edmund’s first step in the political world ; 
 and we can fancy with what pride and pleasure he 
 now returned to the place of his birth, as confidential 
 friend and adviser of the Chief Secretary of Ireland. 
 Though a nondescript, yet was he an effective mem- 
 ber of the administration, and took up his abode in 
 the vice-regal precincts of Dublin Castle. After 
 eleven years of hard struggling, a glimpse of good 
 fortune at length appeared. He was just in time to 
 be reconciled to his father, and to close his eyes in 
 death. No more would the old attorney be exasper- 
 ated by the waywardness and imprudence of his son. 
 Hamilton proved, on the whole, an able Chief Secre- 
 tary. Laying aside his indolence and timidity, he 
 delivered some splendid orations in the Irish House 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 27 
 
 of Commons. As yet Ireland had no orators in her 
 legislative halls ; and it is rather curious that this 
 Scot should have been the first to blow into a flame 
 the brilliant fire of Irish oratory, which afterward 
 flamed so high in Flood, Grattan, and O’Connell. 
 The Parliament of those days, in Ireland, was not the 
 lively, boisterous, rollicking assembly it afterwards 
 became, when it attained legislative independence, — 
 when its debates were marked by that fire, fun, and 
 lightning-wit peculiar to the Green Isle, — when that 
 dear, delightful Sir Boyle Roche awoke such peals of 
 merriment by his charming, immortal blunders. It 
 was he who, on one occasion, in the ardour of his 
 patriotism, exclaimed energetically, Sir, I would 
 give up half, nay, the whole of the constitution, to pre- 
 serve the remainder.” It was he who, in the exuber- 
 ance of his loyalty, described that remarkable per- 
 formance in gymnastics, when he declared that he 
 stood prostrate at the feet of his sovereign.” It was 
 he who stood up for the proper dimensions of the 
 quart bottle, and proposed to Parliament that it 
 should be made compulsory that every quart bottle 
 should contain a quart.” It was Sir Boyle Roche 
 who first introduced to public notice that charming 
 but slightly-confused metaphor when addressing the 
 Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, he ex- 
 claimed, Sir, I smell a rat — I see him floating in the 
 air — but, mark me, I shall yet nip him in’ the bud.” 
 
28 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 Not less remarkable was his reply to a member who 
 had protested against burdening posterity by a loan : 
 
 What, Mr Speaker ! and so we are to beggar our- 
 selves for fear of vexing posterity ! Now, I would 
 ask the honourable gentleman, and this still more 
 honourable House, why we should put ourselves out 
 of the way to do anything for posterity : for what has 
 posterity done for us ?” A roar of laughter following, 
 Sir Boyle, apprehending that he had been misunder- 
 stood, begged leave to explain, that by posterity he 
 did not at all mean our ancestors, but those who were 
 to come immediately after them/’ 
 
 The Irish Parliament, in Burke’s time, was more 
 dignified and stupid than what it became afterwards 
 in the days of Grattan, which Hallam, a most compe- 
 tent judge, describes as a period fruitful of splendid 
 eloquence, and of ardent though always uncompro- 
 mising patriotism.” Burke’s position, behind the 
 scenes, gave him excellent opportunities of observing 
 the real condition of Irish affairs. It was now that 
 he who, years afterwards, was to arraign Warren 
 Hastings for cruelties in India, acquired that horror 
 of the atrocious penal laws that then disgraced the 
 statute-book of Ireland, which rendered him, to the 
 end of his days, the earnest advocate of their repeal, 
 and the champion of his native land. There is little 
 difference of opinion now, among thinking men, re- 
 garding the penal code of those days. The most 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 29 
 
 bigoted and prejudiced shrink from defending it ; the 
 most liberal and enlightened deplore the wrongs and 
 woes that it inflicted, and the widespread ruin that it 
 
 
 
 caused. The real design of those penal enactments, ^ 
 
 4 :, '^¥J, 
 
 n 
 
 
 Lfli, 
 
 4 , 
 
 
 of which we are now so thoroughly ashamed, was not 
 the preservation of the Protestant religion, but the 
 spoliation and abject humiliation of a conquered, 
 hated, dreaded race. No code of laws could be more 
 ingeniously devised, to secure such ends, — to break 
 the national spirit, to destroy energy and self-re- 
 liance, and to accumulate riches and power in the 
 hands of a dominant class. Happily these disgrace- 
 ful laws have long since been swept from the statute- 
 book; and justice and liberality now dictate the 
 administration of Irish affairs. Burke had collected 
 materials for an elaborate work on the penal laws ; 
 but other engagements diverted his mind from the 
 undertaking. An incomplete fragment, which ap- 
 peared as a posthumous tract, is the only result of his 
 labours in this direction. When Hanlilton went out 
 of office, Burke returned with him to London, and 
 finally quarrelled with his patron, threw up a pension 
 of ;^300 per annum he had procured for him ; and, 
 getting some insight regarding the real character of 
 the man, quitted all connexion with Single-speech '' 
 for ever. The conditions he found attached to his 
 pension were degrading ; and the high-minded, hon- 
 ourable man flung it to the winds in scorn, and pre- 
 
30 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 served his independence. An ugly spectre was thus 
 removed from the path of our hero. Hamilton was 
 no more to influence his destiny. 
 
 It is about this time, when Burke and Goldsmith 
 were in their thirty-fifth year, that we find them com- 
 panions in the literary circles of London. Not yet 
 had Burke got solid ground to stand upon. He had 
 returned to the Annual Register^ and was eking out 
 a living by his pen. Goldsmith’s reputation was 
 steadily on the increase ; but, as yet, he was regarded 
 merely as a clever essay-writer. Somewhere or other, 
 probably at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the 
 two Irishmen met ; and speedily recognising, with 
 the freemasonry of genius, the genuine worth of each 
 other, formed a friendship that was only broken by 
 death. Both had a hard battle before them — to win 
 fame and a position, in the teeth of prejudice and 
 dislike, with nothing to rely on but their own stout 
 hearts and clear heads. The Literary Club was now 
 flourishing, with the famous Dr Johnson at its head. 
 Burke and Goldsmith were among the chosen nine 
 who constituted the original membership. Very 
 charming must those ambrosial evenings have been, 
 when the club sat in the Turk’s Head Tavern. Not 
 in the proudest drawing-room in London — not in all 
 broad England, was there such society, or such con- 
 versation, as when Johnson, Garrick, Reynolds, Lang- 
 ton, and our two Irish heroes met around the social 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 31 
 
 board. The talk there was worth listening to. May 
 the turf lie light on the breast of the Scottish Bos- 
 well, who has preserved for us such a vivid picture 
 of the famous men whose wit and wisdom sparkled 
 and flowed at the meetings of the Club! We can 
 still fancy the unwieldy form of Dr Johnson in the 
 chair, rolling his huge head from side to side, as he 
 roared out his opinions, in his rough, dictatorial, bow- 
 wow manner, that drowned all other voices, and 
 made him such a tremendous companion,'^ as one 
 put it who had suffered from his cataracts of talk. 
 We can still enjoy that scene where his hearty con- 
 tempt for Scotland came out so strongly. Some one 
 had remarked that Scotland had, at least, a great 
 many noble wild prospects. ‘Wes,” roared the dic- 
 tator; “Norway, too, has noble wild prospects; and 
 Lapland is remarkable for prodigious noble wild 
 prospects. But, sir, let me tell you, the noblest pros- 
 pect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high road 
 that leads him to England.” We can fancy how 
 heartily Goldsmith and Burke joined in the roar of 
 applause which, Boswell tells us, followed this “ pal- 
 pable hit” against Scotland. No member of the Club 
 was able to cope with Johnson as a talker, except 
 Burke. At times the great doctor was impatient 
 that Burke did not sit quiet, and submit to be 
 pumped into like a bucket, as his own copious talk 
 flowed on like a river, and with as little prospect of 
 
32 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 running dry. But Burke’s rich streams of thought 
 would overflow in eloquent words; and his powerful, 
 sonorous voice was able even to out-roar the great 
 Samuel, hn one endowment, it must be admitted, 
 Johnson surpassed Burke — the possession of a rich 
 and genial humour. Years afterwards Johnson 
 summed up his opinion of Burke’s social and con- 
 versational powers thus : — What I most envy 
 Burke for is his being constantly the same. He is 
 never what we call humdrum ; never unwilling to 
 begin to talk, nor in haste to leave off. Take up 
 whatever topic you please, he is ready to meet you. 
 His stream of mind is perpetual. I cannot say he 
 is good at listening.” (There are limits to human 
 endurance in this exercise, O learned doctor !) ‘'So 
 desirous is he to talk, that if one is speaking at the 
 end of the table, he ’ll speak to somebody at the 
 other end.” (Perhaps to drown thy bow-wow, O 
 Samuel!) “Burke, sir, is such a man, that if you 
 met him for the first time in the street, where you 
 were stopped by a drove of oxen, and you and he 
 stepped aside to take shelter but for five minutes, 
 he’d talk to you in such a manner that, when you 
 parted, you would say, ‘ This is an extraordinary 
 man.’ Now, you may be long enough with me with- 
 out finding anything extraordinary.” (Modestly and 
 generously spoken, doctor!) Goldsmith, who was 
 only great with the pen, said of Burke’s conversation. 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 33 
 
 He winds into a subject like a serpent.’' What 
 fine things Burke could throw out in these flashes 
 of conversation, may be judged of by a specimen. 
 Boswell had remarked of some writer that he had 
 successfully imitated Johnson’s style : No, no,” said 
 Burke, '^it is not a good imitation of Johnson. It 
 has all his pomp without his force ; it has all the 
 nodosities of the oak without its strength.” Then, 
 after a pause, it has all the contortions of the Sibyl 
 without the inspiration.” On another occasion, some 
 one endeavoured to apologise for one of Johnson’s 
 fierce onslaughts by calling it a rebuke of the 
 righteous — an excellent oil which breaks not the 
 head.” Burke drily corrected the speaker, by sug- 
 gesting that, in this instance, it should be called oil 
 of vitriol.” Nothing could surpass this quiet hit 
 against what Miss Anna Seward called the wit and 
 aweless impoliteness of the stupendous creature that 
 bore down every one before it.” Even Johnson’s 
 laugh was of the boisterous, overpowering order, and 
 was compared by some one, who must have had a 
 profound acquaintance with natural history, to the 
 laugh of a rhinoceros. Boswell describes it as re- 
 sounding, in their midnight wanderings, from Temple 
 Bar to Fleet Ditch. But, with all his roughness, 
 Johnson’s friends loved him heartily for his many 
 noble qualities. As he grew older, he became more 
 tolerant and less overbearing. I am more candid,” 
 
 C 
 
34 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 he said at a later period, than when I was younger. 
 As I know more of mankind, I expect less of them, 
 and am ready now to call a man a good man upon 
 easier terms than I was formerly.’^ This reminds us 
 of Burke’s fine saying, that from all the large expe- 
 rience he had had, he had learned to think better of 
 mankind. Goldsmith’s conversational powers were 
 by no means equal to those of Burke or Johnson. 
 He failed often, not from want of power, but from a 
 want of coolness and self-possession, and from a ten- 
 dency to utter thoughtlessly whatever came upper- 
 most in his mind. He disregarded the golden rule, 
 When you have nothing to say, say nothing.” His 
 nature was over-sensitive for the rough wit-combats 
 of those intellectual gladiators. Yet there was no 
 man whose company was mxore relished, or who was 
 more entirely loved by those who knew him inti- 
 mately. And, after all, the fragments of his talk 
 that have floated down to us are far from justifying 
 the satirical remark, that he talked like poor Poll.” 
 Nothing could be happier than his allusion to the 
 pomposity of Johnson’s style, If you were to make 
 little fishes talk, they would talk like whalesR Talk- 
 ing with fluent vivacity on one occasion, he was 
 stopped in the middle of a sentence by his hearer 
 exclaiming, on seeing Johnson roll himself as if about 
 to speak, ^‘Hush ! hush! Dr Johnson is going to say 
 something.” And are you sure you ’ll comprehend 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 35 
 
 what he says?'’ was Goldsmith’s happy retort. Of 
 some one he said, He has only one fault, but that is 
 a thumper.” In fact, it is very evident that Gold- 
 smith’s conversation was very far from being the 
 silly twaddle it is sometimes represented. Doubt- 
 less, from being at times over-ambitious, he fell short 
 of his mark. Not unjustly did Johnson say, ^^Gold- 
 smith should not be for ever attempting to shine in 
 conversation ; he has not temper for it, he is so much 
 mortified when he fails.” But we must leave this 
 pleasant Club. We love the great and good John- 
 son for his own noble qualities. We love him espe- 
 cially for his kindness to the simple-hearted Oliver. 
 Never did our gentle, sensitive poet cast himself in 
 vain on that great, strong heart for sympathy or help. 
 And among the friendly voices that cheered Edmund 
 Burke when entering on his great career, none was 
 more hearty and honest than that of Samuel John- 
 son. They are all gone, — Club and tavern melted 
 into air. As Carlyle puts it, ‘^The becking waiter 
 who, with wreathed smiles, was wont to spread for 
 Samuel and Bozzy their supper of the gods, has long 
 since pocketed his last sixpence, and vanished, six- 
 pences and all, like a ghost at cock-crowing. The 
 bottles they drank out of are all broken, the chairs 
 they sat on all rotted and burnt ; the very knives and 
 forks they ate with have rusted to the heart, and be- 
 come brown oxide of iron, and mingled with the in- 
 
3 ^ EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 discriminate clay. All, all has vanished, in very deed 
 and truth, like the baseless fabric of Prosperous vision.’' 
 Yes, gone ! and yet not wholly gone. For by the ma- 
 gic power of a book we can still summon them before 
 us, and listen to the pompous roll of Johnson’s periods, 
 the eloquent words of Burke, and the spontaneous 
 overflowings of Goldsmith’s well-stored mind. We 
 can enter the club-room once more, and, in imagina- 
 tion, re-people it with the historic forms whose merri- 
 ment made its walls re-echo, and whose shadows seem 
 to linger round the ruins still. Though dead, they still 
 speak to us, and their memory can never pass away. 
 
LECTURE THE SECOND. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 At the time when Goldsmith was attending the 
 weekly meetings of the Club, he was toiling labori- 
 ously with the pen ; and by voluminous contributions 
 to the periodicals of the day he managed to earn a 
 modest competence. His improvident habits often 
 brought him much suffering ; but his difficulties 
 failed to teach him any worldly wisdom. It was 
 under the pressure of one of these pecuniary diffi- 
 culties that he gave to the world his fine tale of 
 The Vicar of Wakefield.’' Every one is familiar 
 with the story, — how a hard-hearted landlady ar- 
 rested him for debt ; how he sent an imploring mes- 
 sage to Johnson, who came at once, and found Gold- 
 smith in a towering passion, his landlady grim and 
 unrelenting, and a professional gentleman in attend- 
 
38 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 ance in the capacity of bailiff ; how poor Oliver, 
 driven to extremities, took out of his desk the manu- 
 script of The Vicar,’’ over which he must have spent 
 many long, happy hours, and handed it to Johnson, 
 who there and then sat down to its perusal, the bailiff 
 looking on the queer scene in a kind of calm astonish- 
 ment ; how the doctor, satisfied regarding the intel- 
 lectual flavour of the article, hurried away to a book- 
 seller, and returned, triumphant and breathless, with 
 sixty pounds, the product of the sale ; and then how 
 Oliver paid his rent, and gave the heartless landlady 
 a tremendous ‘‘blowing up,” and, it is to be hoped, 
 made her heartily ashamed of her conduct. The 
 bookseller who was lucky enough to obtain such a 
 bargain kept the manuscript by him for nearly two 
 whole years before he ventured on publication. But 
 in the same desk from which its author drew out 
 “ The Vicar,” there lay a richer treasure still, a higher 
 and rarer product of genius, — his fine poem, “ The 
 Traveller,” which for years he had been beating out 
 and polishing with anxious care. Soon after, he 
 parted with his interest in it for twenty guineas — 
 such was the wretched remuneration of literary labour 
 in those days. It won him, however, what gold 
 could not buy — the laurel wreath of the true poet. 
 Soon the welcome murmurs of applause gladdened 
 poor Oliver’s heavy heart. Johnson pronounced it 
 “ the finest poem that had appeared since the death 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 39 
 
 of Pope.” When he read it aloud in Reynolds’s 
 drawing-room, the painter’s sister exclaimed, I 
 shall never more think Dr Goldsmith ugly.” No 
 wonder that Charles James Fox, after reading it, 
 declared, It is one of the finest poems in the Eng- 
 lish language;” or that the classic Langton should 
 have said, There is not a bad line in ^The Travel- 
 ler.’ ” The easy flow of the verse, the exquisite finish 
 of the diction, the graceful tenderness and harmony, 
 — above all, the direct, irresistible appeal to the heart, 
 — are the charms that render The Traveller” so uni- 
 versally captivating. How some of the lines linger 
 on the ear and in the memory with a soft, mellow 
 flow ! — 
 
 “And learn the luxury of doing good.” 
 
 “ Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, 
 
 His first, best country ever is at home.” 
 
 “ But winter lingering chills the lap of May.” 
 
 “ The land of scholars and the nurse of arms.” 
 
 “Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.” 
 
 “ Where the broad ocean leans against the land.” 
 
 How fine the picture of the Swiss !” — 
 
 “ Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
 
 Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast. 
 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar. 
 
 But bind him to his native mountains more.” 
 
 '"The Traveller” at once and for ever established 
 Goldsmith’s fame, and made him hundreds of friends. 
 The laurel crown was won. The poor adventurer of 
 
40 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 Ballymahon now found himself welcomed and ap- 
 plauded by the noblest and best. 
 
 Now, too, for Burke the hour of victory had arrived, 
 and thick and fast the honours were showered upon 
 him. By the kindness of a kinsman he was intro- 
 duced to the Marquis of Rockingham, who, speedily 
 recognising his great powers, made him his private 
 secretary. Soon after, he obtained the position of 
 member of Parliament for the borough of Wendover, 
 near the foot of the Chiltern Hills. It was the time of 
 close boroughs, and it was Lord Verney’s influence 
 that obtained him the seat. His great, stormy future 
 was opening. On the 27th of January 1766, Burke 
 rose in the House of Commons to deliver his maiden 
 speech. It was a great and important occasion. The 
 American Colonies had risen in fierce wrath against 
 the Stamp Act, and the first mutterings were heard 
 of a storm that was to end in revolution and final dis- 
 memberment. The Colonies had banded together, 
 and now, for the first time, came before Parliament 
 in a federal capacity. Already their discontents fore- 
 shadowed rebellion. Pitt, in his place in Parliament, 
 had applauded the rising spirit of the colonists, little 
 dreaming where it was to end ; and had uttered 
 the famous words, I rejoice that America has re- 
 sisted” — words which were speedily wafted to every 
 American home, and read with exultation, and wel- 
 comed as an acknowledgment of the justice of their 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 41 
 
 cause, and their right to strike against wrong, by the 
 foremost of British statesmen. Intense was. the in- 
 terest then, when, on the evening of the 27th of 
 January 1766, a petition from, a body calling them- 
 selves the American Congress was presented in the 
 House of Commons. A stirring debate arose ; the 
 courtiers resisted the admission of such a document, 
 as subversive of the authority of the Commons of 
 England. It was known that Burke would address 
 the House for the first time. As his noble, com- 
 manding figure arose, dear friends in the gallery 
 looked down upon him with hearts anxiously throb- 
 bing for his success. Two of his countrymen were 
 there — the keen-eyed Arthur Murphy, and the affec- 
 tionate Oliver Goldsmith ; and Samuel Johnson, in a 
 neighbouring tavern, awaited the result. The success 
 of the new member was complete. The astonished 
 auditory listened to a speech in which weighty argu- 
 ment, and vast and varied information, were clothed 
 in gorgeous and harmonious periods, discovering 
 at once strength of reasoning powers, splendour of 
 imagination, and boundless mastery over language. 
 That great assembly listened at first with bursts of 
 applause, then in rapt attention and admiration ; and 
 when Burke sat down, the aspirations of years of 
 toil were realised ; his reputation as an orator and 
 statesman was established. Pitt rose, and warmly 
 and generously eulogised the speaker, congratulat- 
 
42 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 ing the Ministry on their valuable acquisition. As 
 Burke returned to his home on that January night, 
 he felt, no doubt, the honest exultation of a man 
 who, by patience, fortitude, and dauntless toil, has 
 attained a noble end. Without stumble or failure, 
 he had at once taken a place in the front rank of par- 
 liamentary orators. Sweet are the uses of adversity 
 bracing to the whole man is the ascent of the hill 
 Difficulty but, as Burke himself afterwards declared, 
 there are occasions on which sunshine is one of the 
 most joyous things on earth. Only a week after the 
 delivery of his first speech, he astonished and delighted 
 the House by a second still more brilliant, in which 
 he boldly crossed weapons with the great Pitt him- 
 self, surpassing the popular idol in the highest quali- 
 ties of parliamentary eloquence. We can fancy how 
 rapturously Goldsmith and the other members of the 
 Club received the news of his triumph. The old 
 literary dictator, however, was in no degree astonished. 
 When some one professed to wonder at what had 
 happened, Johnson exclaimed, '^Sir, there is no won- 
 der at all. We who know Mr Burke know that he 
 will be one of the first men in the country.’' Writing 
 to a friend soon after, he said, Burke has gained 
 more reputation than perhaps any man at his first 
 appearance ever gained before. His speeches have 
 filled the town with wonder.” Such, indeed, was the 
 fact. The orator had fairly taken the House by 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 43 
 
 storm. All ranks and ages, able men and less able 
 men, veteran politicians and young members, were 
 alike enraptured with his orations. Far from being 
 intoxicated or rendered indolent by success, Burke 
 regarded his first victory as but a stepping-stone to 
 still greater triumphs. His labours redoubled ; and 
 feeling that now he had entered on his proper voca- 
 tion, he conscientiously set to work, to qualify him- 
 self for the highest duties of statesmanship, by a 
 thorough study of the vast and complicated interests 
 of the British empire and the functions of Govern- 
 ment. He did not aim at being a mere glittering 
 rhetorician, who could dazzle an audience by the 
 brilliancy of his periods, nor a mere keen swordsman 
 in debate, adroit in discovering the weak points of an 
 adversary, and sure and rapid in the home-thrust. 
 He soared higher. He aimed at mastering the pro- 
 found philosophical principles by which government 
 should be guided, as well as the complicated details 
 of administration. All the powers of his great intel- 
 lect were now bent in this direction ; and how com- 
 plete was his acquaintance with the foreign policy, 
 the revenue, the trade and commerce of the empire, 
 his after-career as a statesman furnishes conclusive 
 evidence. In the dispute between England and her 
 American Colonies, which was every day becoming 
 more threatening, he advocated a moderate, concili- 
 atory, but dignified course; and opposed, with all the 
 
44 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 might of his eloquence and energy, that mad policy by 
 which an infatuated monarch and imbecile statesmen 
 drove the colonists into revolt. Had his suggestions 
 been listened to, England might have been spared the 
 shame and humiliation of defeat, and the loss of her 
 fairest possessions. Throughout the whole transac- 
 tions of this stormy period, when the fortunes of Eng- 
 land were often at the lowest ebb, Burke’s course 
 was marked by thorough integrity and enlightened 
 patriotism. Never was he found cringing to men in 
 office, or bartering principle for preferment ; and 
 while true to his party, of which indeed he was the 
 animating spirit, he never sacrificed the honour or 
 interests of his country on the altar of faction. In a 
 corrupt, venal age, amid scenes that lowered and dis- 
 graced the public men of England, Burke was con- 
 spicuous for spotless integrity and unflinching patri- 
 otism. Fearless were his rebukes of wickedness, even 
 when it occupied the highest seats ; scathing his ex- 
 posures of political corruption; in the cause of freedom, 
 truth, and right, he was ever found battling bravely. 
 While mingling in the thick of party conflicts he 
 shared in none of the contamination, profligacy, and 
 falsehood that abounded on all hands ; and preferred 
 exclusion from office and honours to dishonest gains 
 and rapacious servility. 
 
 Goldsmith was at this time basking in a little sun- 
 shine, as well as his illustrious friend. A few days 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 45 
 
 after Burke’s maiden speech had electrified the metro- 
 polis, ^^The Vicar of Wakefield” was published. The 
 Traveller” had reached a fourth edition, and was 
 every day widening the reputation of its author. The 
 Vicar,” on its appearance, did not take the town by 
 storm, — was ushered into existence by no flourish of 
 trumpets. The leading Reviews scorned to notice such 
 a trumpery production. Some of the leaders of taste 
 remarked that it taught nothing, and that they could 
 make nothing of it. Even Johnson thought he had 
 made a good bargain when he sold the copyright for 
 sixty pounds. Burke alone, of all the members of the 
 Club, appreciated its sweetness, simplicity, and pathos; 
 and welcome to the author’s ear must have been his 
 approving verdict. But the response of the public 
 was truer than the voice of the critics. The little tale, 
 which was destined to confer an undying reputation 
 on the writer, slowly made its way ; but every year 
 since its appearance it has been widening the circle of 
 its readers. Even before his death. Goldsmith saw it 
 reach the sixth edition, and heard of its translation 
 into several continental languages. We have seen 
 how German Goethe welcomed it, and how it gave the 
 first decided impulse to the intellect that was to create 
 Faust.” Vast has been the employment supplied by 
 the little tale to the busy fingers of printers, binders, 
 and papermakers since it was first set up in type ; 
 countless the thousands of pounds it has poured into 
 
46 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 the coffers of the booksellers during the last hundred 
 years. Even so, — the starving author may supply 
 multitudes with the means of earning their bread ; 
 may influence not only the thoughts of men, but their 
 commerce, and arts, and manufactures ; and penni- 
 less himself, the productions of his genius may prove 
 an inexhaustible mine of wealth to others. Who 
 could reckon up the editions of The Vicar” which 
 the press has thrown off since the year 1766, or esti- 
 mate the myriads of admiring readers that have 
 laughed and wept over its pages } The foremost of 
 our artists, — our Wilkies, Stothards, Leslies, Maclises, 
 and Mulreadys, — have tasked their genius in embody- 
 ing its creations on their canvas. Far from losing 
 its popularity, as years roll on it comes with a fresh 
 charm to each new generation of readers, and is con- 
 tinually appearing in bright and brighter glories of the 
 printer’s, binder’s, and engraver’s art. But then, who 
 can pretend to calculate its moral results, — the sweet 
 and gentle charities it has breathed into thousands of 
 hearts ; the fretful impatience it has soothed or smiled 
 away ; the sympathies for the fallen, the outcast, the 
 lost it has awakened ; the tolerance of human frailty 
 and the love of humankind it has called forth ; the 
 lonely hours of pain and sadness, of restlessness and 
 depression, it has brightened } We can hardly fancy 
 a bad man reading the sweet story without having 
 his better nature awakened, at least for a moment, in 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 47 
 
 response to such a picture of innocence and purity as 
 the Primrose family group. Who does not know them 
 all round } Who does not love the vicar himself, — 
 so brave, and yet so simple and childlike, — so meek, 
 so true, and good } Who does not sympathise with 
 the good man, who was by nature an admirer of 
 happy faces/^ in his original method of getting rid of 
 a troublesome guest by lending him a riding-coat, or 
 a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value 1 
 ‘^and I always,’' observes the kind man, ^'had the satis- 
 faction of finding that he never came back to return 
 them.” The whole family are our friends and neigh- 
 bours ; — the loyal wife, so proud of her gooseberry 
 wine and her husband ; Moses, the sage simpleton, 
 with his memorable bargain of the green spectacles ; 
 the girls, a glory and a joy;” and Dick and Bill, 
 without whom the charming group would have been 
 incomplete. I cannot help thinking that the period 
 when Goldsmith was engaged in the composition of 
 this tale, when his brain was teeming with these fine 
 creations, and, in fancy, he must have been often re- 
 visiting the parsonage at Lissoy, and wandering among 
 its green fields and by its bright streams, may be 
 reckoned among his happiest hours, notwithstanding 
 his privations. It is a transcript of his own heart and 
 experience, and therefore goes direct to the heart of 
 all. Not only has it immensely added to our stock 
 of good humour, but conferred on its author a kind of 
 
48 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 human immortality on earth. He has spoken to 
 three generations ; and it would be difficult to name 
 any work that is more likely to hold its place in the 
 hearts of men. Who would not say, on closing the 
 book, ^^Oh that Goldsmith had enriched literature 
 with many more such creations V 
 
 Only a few more incidents in the life of Oliver 
 Goldsmith can be glanced at. Though his character 
 as a writer was now established, he had still to carry 
 on his literary toils in the presence of threatening 
 want. No doubt '' it is sweet to win one’s laurels by 
 blood or ink;” but our Oliver’s laurels brought him 
 little pecuniary gain, and an empty stomach is an 
 inexorable creditor. Yet, now that he is no longer 
 troubled with doubts as to his proper vocation, and 
 has his work before him, he struggles on manfully, 
 and never dropped the oar of labour till death struck 
 it from his grasp. Think of me,” he exclaimed 
 pathetically to a friend, that must write a volume 
 every month.” How marvellous that this homeless 
 man, without the assistance of a friendly hand, 
 writing so rapidly to procure the daily bread, should 
 have written so well, and left on all he did the signet 
 mark of genius ! It was at this period that he first 
 thought of writing for the stage — the most remunera- 
 tive description of literary labour. His first venture 
 was the comedy of “ The Good-natured Man,” which 
 met a favourable reception, and brought him in four 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 49 
 
 hundred pounds, the largest sum he had ever been in 
 possession of, and which, to him, must have seemed 
 inexhaustible. He at once proceeded to get rid of it 
 by purchasing and furnishing rooms in the Inner 
 Temple; and from this date commenced a system of 
 waste and debt that involved him in difficulties, from 
 which he was only released by death. He had now 
 another poem on the anvil ; but while he threw off 
 his prose productions rapidly, he bestowed the most 
 elaborate care on his poems, as though he felt that he 
 was writing for immortality. It is known that the 
 writing and revision of this poem — ^‘The Deserted 
 Village — extended over two whole years. With 
 what accuracy, during these months, he must have 
 polished the verses of this precious poetical gem, 
 weighing every word and phrase, pruning all exu- 
 berance, and filling in the minute details of the lovely 
 picture ! Only the pure beaten gold remained, with- 
 out alloy or imperfection. It is a poem of the heart, 
 and the heart guards it alike from criticism and 
 analysis. A loftier niche must be awarded to it than 
 to ‘^The Traveller.” The sympathies it awakens are 
 wider and deeper; its tenderness and pathos reach 
 all hearts ; in profound human interest it is unsur- 
 passed. Like a noble piece of Greek sculpture, in 
 which we can detect nothing superfluous, nothing 
 wanting, — the marble seeming to glow with life, — the 
 
 poem contains nothing but pure poetry ; and though 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 limited in its range, and covering but a few pages, it 
 has on it the stamp of immortality. One oft-quoted 
 passage I cannot but quote once more, — it never palls. 
 It is a picture of the poet’s own longings, amid his 
 sore toils in the din and roar of London, — aspirations, 
 alas ! never to be realised : — 
 
 ‘ ‘ In all my wanderings through this world of care, 
 
 In all my griefs, — and God has given my share, — 
 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 
 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 
 To husband out life’s taper at the close, 
 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 
 Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn’d skill ; 
 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 
 And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
 
 Here to return — and die at home at last.” 
 
 No wonder that Gray, author of ^'The Elegy,” then 
 spending the last summer of his life, should have ex- 
 claimed, on listening to The Deserted Village,” 
 
 This man is a poetT No wonder that Goethe 
 hailed its appearance with rapture, or that Edmund 
 Burke should have declared that its pastoral images 
 surpassed the efforts of Pope and Spenser. 
 
 Four more years of toil, enjoyment, and sorrow yet 
 lay before our Oliver. His second poem at once 
 leaped into popularity. In three months it reached 
 a fifth edition ; but in hard cash it brought its author 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 51 
 
 only a small amount. His brain and pen had no rest. 
 Abridgments of English, Grecian, and Roman His- 
 tories ; toils on '^Animated Nature;” articles for 
 periodicals ; a second comedy, She Stoops to Con- 
 quer,” more successful than the first; drudgery and 
 depression, with occasional relaxations in the country, 
 and happy evenings at the Club, — these filled up the 
 days of the overtasked man. His careless habits, 
 thoughtless liberality, and entire want of economy, 
 plunged him into debt, and drove him to obtain ad- 
 vances from the publishers on works that were not as 
 yet commenced. Could any condition be more piti- 
 able than that of a man pressed by creditors, and 
 having heavy mortgages on the unborn productions 
 of his brain } Staggering under a heavy load of 
 debt,” — in, dread of the bailiff, — pursued by a host of 
 needy dependents, to whom he could not say No,” — 
 oppressed by the prospect of the weary drudgery that 
 lay before him, the heart of our poor author mili- 
 tant” must have been often sad indeed. Still he 
 scorned to complain ; kept his griefs confined to his 
 own bosom ; never spoke of his difficulties to his great 
 friends, who would doubtless have helped him had 
 they known his distress. It was at this period, just 
 when the clouds were gathering that were soon to end 
 in darkness and night, that the following touching 
 incident occurred. At an evening party, amid the 
 din of conversation, music, and gaiety, the trembling, 
 
52 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 cracked voice of a poor woman attempting to sing a 
 ballad in the street, reached the ear of Goldsmith. 
 The notes of woe struck a responsive chord in his own 
 aching heart. He rushed from the room, gave the 
 poor sobbing creature his little all, and went back to 
 the scene of pleasure with a lighter heart. We may- 
 be sure too, that, with the shillings, he gave some 
 kind words of hope and cheer that would brighten 
 the darkness of the outcast for a moment, and double 
 the value of the gift. Speaking of Dean Swift, 
 Thackeray says, I think I would rather have had a 
 potato and a friendly word from Goldsmith, than have 
 been beholden to the Dean for a guinea and a dinner. 
 He insulted a man as he served him, made women 
 cry, guests look foolish, bullied unlucky friends, and 
 flung his benefactions into poor men’s faces. No ; 
 the Dean was no Irishman. No Irishman ever gave 
 but with a kind word and a kind heart.” 
 
 It was just before the closing scene of his life that 
 Goldsmith produced one other poetical gem, — ^^Re- 
 taliation,” — a wonderful proof of the versatility of his 
 powers, and a mournful evidence of the unexplored 
 depths of his genius, when he was lost to the world. 
 One more brilliant flash came, and then the darkness 
 rushed down. His friends had been amusing them- 
 selves, in his absence, at a dinner party, in writing a 
 series of epitaphs on him, in which his country, his 
 brogue, and his person were objects of wit I dare 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 S3 
 
 say they meant no harm ; they did not know how 
 sensitive his heart was at that moment, with a weight 
 of untold woe, or they would have spared their shafts 
 of ridicule. The good-humoured, gentle poet was 
 roused to retaliate, not in bitterness or anger, — ^he had 
 no room for such feelings in his heart, — but in lines 
 which have immortalised their subjects, and proved, 
 in their case, epitaphs more enduring than brass or 
 marble. Wonderful insight into the character of his 
 literary friends, keen satire, marked by good taste 
 and mingled with merited praise, and entire freedom 
 from all malice, are the characteristics of Retalia- 
 tion.” With one epitaph only have we to do — the 
 famous one on Burke : — 
 
 ‘ ‘ Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 
 We scarcely can praise it, or, blame it, too much; 
 
 Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind. 
 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. . . , 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit. . . . 
 
 In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d or in place, sir. 
 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.” 
 
 Of the justice of this delineation I shall have a few 
 words to say at the close. The verses were still un- 
 finished — in fact, one line in the epitaph on Reynolds 
 was half written — when his last illness ^' struck the 
 pen from the poet’s hand for ever.” He was in coun- 
 try lodgings, finishing his Animated Nature,” when 
 seized by a disease which terminated in nervous fever. 
 
54 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 His powers had long been over-tasked, and his bodily 
 strength undermined, so that his illness made rapid 
 progress. The troubles of his mind, too, arising from 
 his heavy liabilities, aided the advances of the de- 
 stroyer. How pathetic that scene, when the poor, 
 lonely man lay tossing, sleepless, night after night, 
 with no mother’s, wife’s, or sister’s soft hand to smooth 
 his pillow, and when the good doctor, finding his pre- 
 scriptions powerless, put the question, '^Your pulse 
 is in greater disorder than it should be, from the 
 degree of fever you have. Is your mind at easeV 
 ^^No, it is not,” was the sad response of the patient; 
 and these were the last words of Oliver Goldsmith. 
 On the morning of the 4th of April 1774, he lay dead, 
 having lived a few months beyond his forty-fifth year. 
 His friends do not seem to have heard of his illness 
 till news of his death reached them. When Burke 
 was told of it he burst into tears.” Reynolds dropped 
 his pencil, stricken by the bitterest grief he had yet 
 known. Johnson mourned his loss with touching ten- 
 derness, till he was summoned from the world. Poor 
 women, to whom he had been kind and charitable, 
 crowded the staircase of his rooms, weeping bitterly 
 over the loss of one to whom they never appealed in 
 vain. Burke and Reynolds directed the arrange- 
 ments for the funeral ; and all that was mortal of 
 Oliver Goldsmith was laid in the burial-ground of the 
 Temple Church. Soon after, a noble monument was 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 55 
 
 erected to his memory, in the Poets^ Corner of West- 
 minster Abbey, bearing a Latin inscription from the 
 pen of Johnson, in which it is recorded that ‘‘he 
 scarcely left any kind of writing untouched, and 
 touched nothing that he did not adorn/’ 
 
 Edmund Burke survived his countryman twenty- 
 three years. At the death of Goldsmith, he had little 
 more than entered on his great career. When Oliver 
 was toiling on his History of Rome,” in 1768, and 
 brooding over ^^The Deserted Village,” in his country 
 lodgings on the Edgeware Road, news reached him 
 that Burke had become a landed proprietor, having 
 purchased an estate named The GregorieSy afterwards 
 Beaconsfieldy in Buckinghamshire, about twenty-four 
 miles from London. This purchase cost him ;£'23,ooo. 
 Whence did Burke obtain this large sum ? By the 
 death of an elder brother, he had inherited property 
 worth £6000 ; from some of his relations he borrowed 
 a further sum ; the remainder was advanced by the 
 Marquis of Rockingham, who never reclaimed the 
 debt, and cancelled it in a codicil of his will. It was 
 intended as a small acknowledgment of the immense 
 services Burke had rendered to him and to his party. 
 By this purchase, Burke became owner of six hundred 
 acres of land, and a beautiful residence. Here he re- 
 sided to the close of his life, going up to London only 
 when called by his parliamentary duties. He de- 
 lighted in a country life; and, by judicious manage- 
 
56 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 merit, he speedily tripled the value of his property, 
 and astonished his neighbours and visitors by his im- 
 provements. The great advocate of financial reform 
 shewed that his talents were of the practical order, 
 by becoming the most prosperous and successful 
 farmer in Buckinghamshire. His kindness and be- 
 nevolence made him a universal favourite with the 
 labouring classes, in whose welfare he took much in- 
 terest, helping them in difficulties, and comforting and 
 doctoring them in sickness. Altogether, his domestic 
 life at Beaconsfield was a beautiful picture of quiet 
 repose, active benevolence, independence, and purity. 
 Gladly did he escape from the smoke of London and 
 the stormy scenes in which he had to mingle, to the 
 pure air and lovely scenery of his beloved Beacons- 
 field. There, during the parliamentary recess, his 
 hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,’' 
 were busily at work pruning trees, or rooting up 
 weeds ; and the mind that could grasp all the multi- 
 plied interests of the empire, was directing the opera- 
 tions of harvest. We can still, in fancy, see the great 
 man walking over his fields, followed by his pet lambs, 
 calmly listening to the homely talk of his labourers, 
 calculating the value of his crops, and always diffus- 
 ing gladness by his presence and cheering words. Old 
 friends and new friends gathered round him in his 
 noble mansion, and were welcomed with the hospi- 
 tality of a true Irishman. Dr Johnson spent some 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 57 
 
 happy days at Beaconsfield in the autumn of the 
 very year in which Goldsmith died. We can fancy 
 their tender talk regarding their departed friend, — all 
 his faults forgotten, and only loving, tearful memories 
 of his goodness and worth, his endearing foibles and 
 wonderful genius, filling their minds. How the strong, 
 rough voice of Johnson would tremble with suppressed 
 emotion, and the eyes of Burke would fill with tears 
 as they spoke together of their gentle Goldy ! ’’ 
 Fascinated by the reception he met, and delighted 
 with the ease, comfort, elegance, and peace of his 
 friend's splendid abode, Johnson took leave at the 
 close of his visit with a Latin quotation, which signi- 
 fied that he did not envy, but admired." What a 
 contrast must have met him when he returned to his 
 own dingy lair in Bolt Court ! Ten years later, news 
 reached Burke that Johnson was dying. He hastened 
 to town, and found that his friend was sinking ra- 
 pidly. Several other friends were present ; and on 
 Burke expressing a fear lest the presence of so many 
 might be oppressive, Johnson answered, ^^No, sir, it 
 is not so ; and I must be ill indeed when your com- 
 pany would not be a delight to me." In tears, and 
 with unspeakably tender emotion, the two friends 
 took solemn leave of each other ; and in a few days 
 one of the greatest and best of Englishmen had left 
 behind the weakness of the flesh, and assumed the 
 garments of immortality. Burke was one of the pall- 
 
58 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 bearers when the mortal remains of Samuel Johnson 
 were committed to the guardianship of the tomb, in 
 England’s Walhalla — Westminster Abbey. He has 
 made a chasm,” exclaimed Burke, in the anguish of 
 his grief, which nothing can fill up.” What depths 
 of tenderness there were in these two great souls ! 
 
 In this brief sketch I do not propose to enter into 
 the parliamentary career of Burke. That belongs to 
 history, and is so inextricably interwoven with the 
 great historical events of his era that it could not be 
 placed in an intelligible light, without entering into 
 details that are quite foreign to a lecture. To be 
 understood, Burke’s public career must be studied in 
 connexion with the history of England. He con- 
 tinued to act, throughout his life, with the Rocking- 
 ham Whigs, of which party he was the commanding 
 genius, and the animating and organising spirit. 
 During the two brief periods when the Whigs were 
 in power, he held office as Paymaster of the Forces ; 
 for, to their shame be it recorded, his party rewarded 
 him with no higher appointment, and uniform exclu- 
 sion from the Cabinet. It Avas a wretched venal time, 
 when genius had but a poor chance against stupidity 
 and broad acres. The narrowness of his fortune,” said 
 Walpole, complacently, kept him down.” Through- 
 out those years when the American war was dragging 
 its length wearily and disgracefully along, — when the 
 throes of that great moral earthquake, the French 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 59 
 
 Revolution, were felt, shaking, in their convulsive 
 upheavings, all the thrones of Europe, Burke, in the 
 House of Commons, was pouring forth those grand 
 orations which have immortalised his name, and will 
 be read as long as the English language lasts. With- 
 out dwelling on his political pamphlets, which made 
 a profound impression on the public mind, — such as 
 those on ^^The Present State of the Nation’' and 
 The Causes of the Present Discontents,” the latter 
 teeming with political wisdom, and still influencing 
 the constitutional policy of England, — we may refer 
 to his speeches on American Taxation ” and 
 American Conciliation,” as noble specimens of his 
 powers. It is in the latter that the splendid vision 
 of the greatness of the British Colonies in America 
 occurs, and that the memorable words, in reference 
 to the ties which should bind the colonies to Britain, 
 are to be found : — My hold of the colonies is in the 
 close affection which grows from common names, 
 from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal 
 protection. These are ties which, though light as 
 air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the colonies 
 always keep the idea of their civil rights associated 
 with your government ; they will cling and grapple 
 to you ; and no force under heaven will be of power 
 to tear them from their allegiance. But let it once 
 be understood, that your government may be one 
 thing, and their privileges another, that these two 
 
6o 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 things may exist without any mutual relation ; the 
 cement is gone, the cohesion is loosened, and every- 
 thing hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as 
 you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority 
 of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred 
 temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever 
 the chosen race and sons of England worship free- 
 dom, they will turn their faces towards you. The 
 more they multiply, the more friends you will have ; 
 the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect 
 will be their obedience.'^ 
 
 Every reader of history knows the effect produced 
 by his speech on Administrative Reform/' delivered 
 in 1780, when his powers had reached their utmost 
 intensity, and his position was most commanding. 
 Most of his admirers point to it as the most finished 
 specimen of his oratory. Its effect, when delivered, 
 was overwhelming. Wit, poetry, imagination lighted 
 up and adorned the most solid reasoning and the 
 profoundest political sagacity ; while vivid appeals to 
 the noblest passions of the soul stirred the hearts of 
 his audience to their very depths. The tumultuous 
 cheers that bore witness to the greatness of this ora- 
 tion were re-echoed throughout the empire, and all 
 Britain resounded with his praise. Even his oppo- 
 nent, Lord North, said that it excelled all that he had 
 ever heard in that House. In grandeur and power, 
 however, even this effort was thrown into the shade 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 6l 
 
 by his speech on the impeachment of Warren Hast- 
 ings. Every historical student is familiar with that 
 grand spectacle in Westminister Hall, in which Burke 
 was the prominent figure, when the Commons of 
 England arraigned Warren Hastings before the 
 Lords, for high crimes and misdemeanours, and the 
 son of the Dublin attorney arose ^^to plead the cause 
 of Asia in the presence of Europe.’’ It was the great 
 act of Burke’s life. Never before, perhaps, had it 
 fallen to the lot of mortal man to address such an 
 audience. That grand historic hall, which had re- 
 sounded with acclamations at the inauguration of 
 thirty kings,” — where Charles I. “ had confronted the 
 High Court of Justiciary with the placid courage 
 which has half redeemed his fame,^’ — was one blaze of 
 scarlet, and was thronged by all that was most illus- 
 trious in the rank and intellect of the British Empire. 
 England’s most distinguished statesmen, warriors, and 
 judges formed the court that was to determine the 
 guilt or innocence of the accused. The impeach- 
 ment was directed against an Englishman of great 
 wealth and uncommon powers, who, as Governor- 
 General of India, was charged with acts of cruelty 
 and injustice towards the people of Hindostan. 
 The conductors of the impeachment — Burke, Sheri- 
 dan, Fox — formed the most illustrious galaxy 
 of orators that England had yet produced. In 
 solemn procession, one hundred and seventy peers, 
 
62 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 and three-fourths of the members of the House of 
 Commons, marched to the scene of trial. The gran- 
 deur and impressiveness of the scene when Burke 
 rose to commence his great task were almost over- 
 whelming. Macaulay, in his brilliant essay on 
 Warren Hastings, has painted it as only that great 
 word-painter can describe such a scene. He has told 
 us how the Lord Chancellor Thurlow sat enthroned 
 under a rich state canopy, the judges of the land in 
 ermine by his side ; how the prelates of the Church 
 in their lawn-sleeves, and the peers in their robes, 
 composed a venerable throng ; how the queen and 
 peeresses in their brilliant dresses, and a bright 
 galaxy of English beauties, thronged the long gal- 
 leries ; how the Queen of Tragedy, Mrs Siddons, 
 was conspicuous, ^Hn the prime of her majestic 
 beauty, looking with emotion on a scene surpassing 
 all the imitations of the stage;’' how Gibbon, the 
 historian of the Roman Empire, and Parr, the great 
 classical scholar, and Reynolds, had left their studies 
 to gaze upon the scene. There, too," he says, 
 were seated around the queen the fair-haired 
 daughters of the House of Brunswick. There the 
 ambassadors of great kings and commonwealths 
 gazed with admiration on a spectacle which no other 
 country in the world could present." Burke’s open- 
 ing oration occupied the sittings of four days ; and, 
 at this distance of time, is still admitted to be one of 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 63 
 
 the greatest efforts of genius on record, and one of 
 the grandest triumphs of eloquence. As he drew 
 towards the close, and, with the documents of im- • 
 peachment in his hands, raised as a testimony 
 towards heaven, he detailed the cruelties of the ac- 
 cused, and, with streaming eyes, told how his agents 
 had inflicted unmentionable tortures on innocent 
 women, and scourged children to death in the pres- 
 ence of their parents, and hammered wedges of iron 
 between the corded fingers of poor Hindoo labourers, 
 the agony of the audience could no longer be en- 
 dured — tears flowed fast — outbursts of sympathetic 
 indignation drowned the voice of the orator — Mrs 
 Sheridan fainted — and the Queen of Tragedy ad- 
 mitted that all stage-effect sank into nothingness in 
 presence of such a scene. Even the accused was 
 seen to turn pale, and Thurlow, for once, shed a tear. 
 
 At length,’’ says Macaulay, the orator concluded. 
 Raising his voice till the old arches of Irish oak re- 
 sounded — ^ Therefore,’ said he, ^ hath it with all con- 
 fidence been ordered, by the Commons of Great 
 Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high 
 crimes and misdemeanours. I impeach him in the 
 name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose 
 trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name 
 of the English nation, whose ancient honour he has 
 sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of 
 India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and 
 
64 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 whose country he has turned into a desert. Lastly, 
 in the name of human nature itself, in the name of 
 both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of 
 every rank, I impeach the common enemy and op- 
 pressor of all.' " The triumph of the orator’s art 
 could go no further. Windham, no mean judge of 
 oratory, pronounced this peroration “ the noblest ever 
 uttered by man.” Byron has celebrated the event in 
 lines worthy of the great occasion : — 
 
 ‘ ‘ When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 
 His was the thunder, his the avenging rod, 
 
 The wrath — the delegated voice of God, 
 
 Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed, 
 
 Till vanquish’d senates trembled as they praised.” 
 
 Regarding the issue of this great trial, I can only 
 mention that, after dragging its slow length through 
 seven years, it ended in the acquittal of Warren Hast- 
 ings. But, though the criminal escaped, such have 
 been the results of that impeachment, that a milder 
 and more righteous policy has been pursued ever 
 since in Britain’s Eastern Empire ; and it has never 
 been necessary to impeach another Governor-General 
 of India. 
 
 The limits of this lecture, now almost reached, 
 prevent me from referring to Burke’s latest works, 
 ^'Reflections on the French Revolution,” and "Letters 
 on a Regicide Peace ; ” and his famous " Letter to a 
 Noble Lord,” published the year before his death. 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 65 
 
 These productions discovered no traces of decay in 
 his vast powers, and exerted an immense influence 
 over the public mind. In the year 1794 he retired * 
 from public life, having served his country as a mem- 
 ber of the House of Commons for twenty-eight years. 
 He was a poor man when he entered on his labours, 
 he was a poor man when he closed them; retiring 
 with clean hands, but unrequited for all his toils by 
 place or pension. His only son, Richard, whom he 
 loved with devoted tenderness, and around whom all 
 his hopes now gathered, succeeded him as member 
 for the borough of Malton, Yorkshire, which Burke 
 had represented for many years. Of the abilities of 
 this young man, the fond father cherished the loftiest 
 opinion. He hoped that, in the House of Commons, 
 Tiis son would not only be his successor, but even 
 eclipse his own great fame ; and now his heart dilated 
 with joy when he saw him a member of Parliament, 
 and about to commence a ministerial career under 
 Lord Fitzwilliam, the heir of his patron. Lord Rock- 
 ingham. But these bright hopes, like all his grand 
 projects, were destined to end in dark disappointment. 
 One month after, Richard Burke, the darling object 
 of his hopes and prayers, was cut off by a rapid con- 
 sumption ; and the worn and weary man found himself 
 childless in his old age. The loss of this son, who 
 appears to have been every way worthy of the love 
 
 his father lavished on him, was a fearful blow to 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 Burke. At first, his grief was wild and terrible. ^‘He 
 burst forth/’ says Macknight, “with loud cries; rushed 
 violently into the room where the corpse was lying, 
 and again and again flung himself upon the bed, in 
 the most heart-rending affliction. His poor wife, too, 
 suffered equally, though her grief was not so demon- 
 strative.” “ For days their dinner hour was unregarded ; 
 life, with the two mourners, seemed suspended; nights 
 and days were spent in unavailing sorrow.” Time 
 mitigated his sorrow ; but from the hour of Richard’s 
 death, he was a heart-broken man. Life had lost all 
 its charms. He suddenly became old and infirm, and 
 spoke of himself as one dead. He compared himself 
 to an old oak prostrated by the hurricane. “I am 
 stripped of all my honours,” he said ; “ I am torn up 
 by the roots.” How pathetic ! From the time of his 
 loss, he never dined from home, avoided all visitors, 
 and wrapped himself in the mantle of his great sorrow. 
 Still, at times, his mind roused itself, and he escaped 
 from his grief for a little, in intellectual labours, or the 
 conversation of old friends. It is pleasant to know 
 that some of the last hours of his life were spent in the 
 perusal of “Wilberforce’s Practical Christianity;” and 
 so impressed was he with the piety and excellence of 
 this admirable work, that he sent a message to its 
 author, thanking him for having sent such a book into 
 the world. On the 9th of July 1797, in the 68th year 
 of his age, he calmly expired. His end was peace — 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 67 
 
 his death that of a Christian ; in implicit trust,” he 
 said, ‘rin that mercy which I have long sought with 
 unfeigned humiliation, and to which I look forward 
 with a trembling hope.” By his own expressed desire, 
 he was laid by the side of his Richard in Beaconsfield 
 church. Years before, he had said in a letter to a 
 friend, I would rather sleep in the corner of a little 
 churchyard than in the tomb of all the Capulets.” 
 He obtained his wish. Fox, in the House of Com- 
 mons, proposed a public funeral, and Westminster 
 Abbey as the resting-place of the great statesman ; 
 but his own injunctions could not be disregarded. 
 
 Permit me now to close with one or two remarks 
 of a general character. Of the two men I have 
 been attempting to delineate, Goldsmith is generally 
 regarded as the most thoroughly Irish. In his 
 thoughtlessness regarding to-morrow, in his inability 
 to take care of money, in dearly earning his wages 
 and spending them recklessly, in his anti-hoarding 
 tendencies, in his easy good-humour, his elasticity of 
 spirits, his unthriftiness and unworldliness, Oliver was 
 undoubtedly an embodiment of the popular type of 
 the Irishman. Though his earnings in the latter 
 years of his life were considerable, he died two thou- 
 sand pounds in debt. Was ever poet so trusted 
 before!” said Samuel Johnson, in generous extenua- 
 tion of his insolvency. Goldsmith was pre-eminently 
 fitted for domestic life ; and if he had met with a good 
 
68 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 woman who could have overlooked his plain face and 
 figure, and loved him for his great endowments and 
 fine qualities of heart, his destiny might have been 
 different. Suppose ^^the Jessamy Bride,’' the lovely 
 Mary Horneck, for whom it is thought Oliver cher- 
 ished an unspoken affection, had consented to become 
 his bride, what a delightful wedding there would have 
 been, with Johnson and Burke as ‘‘best men,” and 
 Boswell to take notes of all the good things uttered ! 
 How well Mrs Goldsmith would have taken care of 
 the money ! what a devoted husband Oliver would 
 have been, and how very fond of the children ! But 
 it was not so to be. In loneliness he had to go 
 through life, and sink uncomforted under a heavy load 
 of trouble. Not that Oliver was on the whole an 
 unhappy man. With almost unbroken health, buoy- 
 ancy of spirits, and a sweetness of temper that no 
 misfortunes could spoil, he could not be habitually 
 unhappy. And if he got but small compensation for 
 all the riches he lavished on the world, he did his 
 work well and cheerfully, and at length the world is 
 repaying its debt of gratitude in such love and admi- 
 ration as seldom gather round any one man. News 
 has just reached us of the inauguration of a noble 
 statue to his memory in front of Trinity College, 
 Dublin, — a tribute of veneration from his countrymen, 
 long deferred, but heartily rendered at last. Surely 
 a similar memorial of Edmund Burke will speedily 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 69 
 
 follow ; so that the statues of the greatest of Irish- 
 men may stand side by side in the capital of their 
 native land. But Goldsmith has had a nobler monu- 
 ment than one of marble erected to his memory some 
 sixteen years ago by a loving hand, — a memorial that 
 ‘^Time's effacing finger’' cannot obliterate. I refer to 
 John Forster’s beautiful biography of our poet. This 
 admirable writer, like another Old Mortality, has, 
 with gentle, skilful touch, cleared away the moss 
 from Oliver’s tomb, restored and deepened the in- 
 scription, and beautified the whole for the loving 
 veneration of posterity. The foul accumulations of 
 envy, malice, and stupidity have been removed from 
 Oliver’s memory; and in this noble ^'Life” we have 
 the living man before us, with his tenderness and 
 love, his sore trials, and wonderful genius. ^‘The 
 great heart of the world is just.” Truly does De 
 Quincey say of the author of this book, ^^By the 
 piety of his service to a man of exquisite genius, so 
 long and so foully misrepresented, Forster has earned 
 a right to interweave for ever his own cipher and cog- 
 nisance, in filial union, with those of Oliver Gold- 
 smith.” 
 
 While it is true that trial and difficulty are good for 
 man, and necessary to his development, as the storm- 
 cradle to the oak sapling, yet sunshine is healthful 
 and needful too. Recognition, and applause, and 
 love, are the best stimulants of genius ; though the 
 
70 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 world is rather sparing in their application, and, as a 
 general rule, prefers first to stone its benefactors, and, 
 after a reasonable interval, to build their sepulchres. 
 To meet genius with scorn and neglect, malignity 
 and cruelty, and send it forth to wander with torn 
 and bleeding breast, till it drops into an untimely 
 grave, is certainly not the way t6 make the most of 
 Heaven’s most precious gift Suppose that, instead 
 of struggling with poverty, and wasting his powers 
 on works that any commonplace man could have 
 done almost as well. Goldsmith had met with a 
 more genial welcome from his generation, had en- 
 joyed a little more leisure, and had had twenty years 
 added to his life, what far higher results his wonder- 
 ful genius might have achieved than even The De- 
 serted Village” and the Vicar of Wakefield !” Rus- 
 kin, in his Modern Painters,” forcibly says : — Love 
 and trust are the only mother’s milk of any man’s 
 soul. So far as he is hated and mistrusted, his 
 powers are destroyed. Do not think that with im- 
 punity you can follow the eyeless fool, and shout 
 with the shouting charlatan, and that the men you 
 thrust aside with gibe and blow are thus sneered and 
 crushed into the best service they can do you. As 
 surely as the fruit-bud falls before the east wind, so 
 fails the power of the kindest human heart if you 
 meet it with poison.” 
 
 On the whole, however, we have reason to be 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 71 
 
 thankful for what Goldsmith has left us. His his- 
 tories have won a permanent place in our literature, 
 by the simplicity and beauty of their style, and the 
 purity, moderation, and wisdom that pervade their 
 pages. His delightful Essays, in which there are in- 
 struction and amusement, but no cynicism, will long 
 command our smiles and our tears ; and will be read 
 when the weightier moralisings of Johnson are con- 
 signed to oblivion. To his honour be it recorded that 
 in a coarse, licentious age, he preserved perfect purity 
 of expression ; and never sullied his genius by 
 thoughts, images, or words that could call up a blush 
 on the cheek of modesty — never pandered, for gain, 
 to vile or unholy passions. We take leave of him 
 in the noble words of Thackeray: — Think of him 
 reckless, thriftless, if you like — but merciful, gentle, 
 generous, full of love and pity. He passes out of our 
 life, and goes to render his account beyond it. Think 
 of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave ; think of 
 the noble spirits that admired and deplored him ; 
 think of the righteous pen that wrote his epitaph, 
 and of the wonderful and unanimous response of 
 affection with which the world has paid back the love 
 he gave it. His humour delights us still; his song 
 fresh and beautiful as when first he charmed with it ; 
 his words in all our mouths ; his very weaknesses be- 
 loved and familiar — his benevolent spirit seems still 
 to smile upon us : to do gentle kindnesses : to succour 
 
72 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 with sweet charity : to soothe, caress, and forgive : to 
 plead with the fortunate for the unhappy and the 
 poor.’’ 
 
 If, then, we are to regard Goldsmith as the imperson- 
 ation of one phase of Irish character, — of its generous 
 warmth, its impulsiveness, its thoughtless benevolence, 
 and its improvidence, — it is but fair to allow Edmund 
 Burke to stand forward as the representative of another 
 aspect of the same character. He is a proof that a man 
 may be an embodiment of the loftier and sterner 
 virtues, — of self-denial, regulated foresight, temper- 
 ance, and austere economy, — and yet be an Irishman; 
 and that the race, known all the world over for that 
 vivacity and buoyancy of nature which no amount of 
 misery can eradicate, can also boast of producing a 
 statesman and a philosopher, who all his life was ani- 
 mated by one lofty purpose, and pursued it, with 
 unflinching perseverance and gigantic industry, to 
 the last. If Burke cannot be quoted as the represent- 
 ative of a numerous class of his countrymen, at least 
 he is an illustrious proof of what great possibilities 
 are in the Irish nature; and a noble example for 
 kindling the heroic virtues in the hearts of each young 
 generation of Irishmen. May many arise to tread in 
 his footsteps, and rival his genius! Yes — Ireland 
 claims as her own this man of imperial intellect, who 
 ranks, in the judgment of such men as Mackintosh and 
 Macaulay, with Bacon and Shakespeare; of whom 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 73 
 
 Lord Jeffrey said, ^^The greatest and most accom- 
 plished intellect that England has produced for cen- 
 turies, and of a noble and lovable nature;’' of whom 
 Robert Hall, in his '^Apology for the Freedom of the 
 Press,” wrote : — His imperial fancy has laid all nature 
 under tribute, and has collected riches from every 
 scene of the creation and every walk of art ” Twelve 
 years ago the Times contained the following noble 
 words : — ‘‘ The intellectual prowess of Edmund Burke 
 is the admiration of the world. Since Bacon quitted 
 life, England had not possessed so marvellous a son. 
 Philosophy dwelt in his soul, and raised him to the 
 dignity of a prophet. Gorgeous eloquence was his 
 natural inheritance, practical wisdom his chief accom- 
 plishment ; while all the intellectual graces were his 
 hourly companions. Politics, when he dealt with 
 them, assumed a grandeur which they had never 
 known before, for he raised them above the exi- 
 gences of his own fleeting day, to apply them to the 
 instruction and the wants of future ages. That which 
 will render Shakespeare familiar to our hearths, while 
 a hearth can be kindled in England, will also secure 
 the immortality of Edmund Burke. There was no- 
 thing local, nothing temporary, nothing circumscribed 
 in his magnificent utterance. His appeals were not 
 to the prejudices of his contemporaries, or to the 
 ever-changing sentiments of the time. He marched 
 with a sublime movement ever in advance of the mul- 
 
74 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 titude. Every generation can point to its popular 
 chief, and there are few epochs which do not boast of 
 their Fox. In what political age shall we look for a 
 statesman in all respects so illustrious as Burke } 
 
 The language of this extract is as true as it is strong 
 and beautiful ; and is another proof that the fame of 
 Burke is extending every day, and that the cobwebs 
 are getting brushed away from his memory. How 
 true the old Greek proverb — The mill of the gods 
 grinds late, but it grinds fine.’' It is true, as the 
 writer in the Times has stated, that Burke was ever 
 in advance of the multitude.” He it was who first 
 enunciated those great measures of reform which, in 
 our own day, are but partially carried out. He it was 
 who first uttered the principles of free trade in the 
 House of Commons, to the horror of the great Pitt, be- 
 fore Adam Smith had written his Wealth of Nations.” 
 He it was who, from the outset of his career, urged 
 the claims of the Irish Catholics to emancipation, and 
 enforced the justice and policy of the measure with 
 his dying breath. He opposed the cruel laws enacted 
 against insolvents, and laboured in mitigating the 
 horrible penal code of that day. He denounced the 
 slave-trade, he laboured at law-reform, and is now 
 admitted to have been the first administrative and 
 financial reformer Britain has produced. In the midst 
 of all his immense labours, he found time to help and 
 cheer struggling genius. It was he who sustained the 
 
AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 75 
 
 heroic Armenian, Emin, when poverty had him by 
 the throat ; it was he who rescued Barry, the great 
 painter, from obscurity, supported him during his 
 studies, and set him on the high road to fortune; and 
 it was he who saved the poet Crabbe, when almost 
 sinking in neglect and starvation. 
 
 What are we to say of Burke’s character as sketched 
 in Retaliation,” by his friend and admirer Goldsmith ? 
 When we take into account that the poem was writ- 
 ten twenty-three years before the death of Burke, 
 when his great powers were only beginning to be felt, 
 it must be admitted that the delineation is a wonder- 
 ful proof of Goldsmith’s insight — a striking instance 
 of the unerring divinations of genius. But then it is 
 quite an exaggeration to assert, as some have done, 
 that it holds literally true in every particular. I 
 think Goldsmith himself never meant it to be con- 
 strued literally. There is evidently only the playful 
 exaggeration of the satirist in the lines — 
 
 “ Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind, 
 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.” 
 
 To say that Burke was wholly uninfluenced by party 
 ties all his life, would be to pronounce him more than 
 mortal ; but when did he ever sacrifice truth or 
 honesty to party considerations } or in what instance 
 did he degrade his fine genius into the mere tool of 
 party } His separation from his party, in consequence 
 of his views regarding the French Revolution, is a 
 
76 
 
 EDMUND BURKE 
 
 noble proof of his independence. Then, again, the 
 statement that he was 
 
 “Too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining,’’ 
 
 must be viewed as partly playful badinage, when we 
 remember the overwhelming effect produced by his 
 orations, and the eager applause with which they 
 were listened to. No doubt, to the many-acred, top- 
 booted gentlemen of the House of Commons, Burke’s 
 flights of imagination were often incomprehensible, 
 and his orations wearisome, especially near dinner- 
 hour ; but surely this is no disparagement of the 
 orator, whatever it may be of some portion of his 
 audience. The remainder of the epitaph, rightly un- 
 derstood, reads as an eulogium on Burke. Goldsmith 
 divined that his countryman never would become a 
 successful statesman, in the worldly sense of the 
 terms ; that being too fond of the right to pursue 
 the expedient,’' his proud genius would never stoop 
 to the mean arts necessary to secure place and pay 
 — would never allow him to wear any man’s harness 
 or toil as another’s drudge ; and that his conscien- 
 tiousness was too keen to permit him to sustain a 
 dishonest cause. If this policy condemned him to 
 eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor,” then 
 poverty in his case was a mark of true nobility. It 
 was from his teachings and writings that Fox con- 
 structed that ‘'short sentence drawn from a long 
 
AND OLIIER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 77 
 
 experience/' which was the grand motto of Burke’s 
 own political life, — What is morally wrong cannot 
 be politically right.” We may call his efforts in con- 
 nexion with the American War, the French Revolu- 
 tion, the impeachment of Hastings, in one sense 
 failures ; but, in the highest and best sense, they were 
 great victories. If his life was a battle and march, 
 it was also a moral triumph. 
 
 How some of his fine sayings linger in the memory ; 
 and, having become so familiar, we have almost for- 
 gotten who first struck them out ! Take a few illus- 
 trations : — ‘‘ Vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all 
 its grossness.” Kings will be tyrants from policy 
 when subjects are rebels from principle.” ‘^What 
 shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue.” 
 
 There is, however, a limit at which forbearance 
 ceases to be a virtue.” When bad men combine, 
 the good must associate ; else they will fall, one by 
 one, an unpitied sacrifice, in a contemptible struggle.” 
 
 The age of chivalry is gone.” Geography, though 
 an earthly subject, is a heavenly study.” 'Ht is the 
 nature of all greatness not to be exact.” Those 
 who are bountiful to crimes will be rigid to merit and 
 penurious to service.” ^^You had that action and 
 counteraction, which in the natural and in the politi- 
 cal world, from the reciprocal struggle of discordant 
 powers, draws out the harmony of the universe.” 
 ^^All government, indeed every human benefit and 
 
78 EDMUND BURKE AND OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 enjoyment, every virtue and every prudent act, is 
 founded on compromise and barter/’ 
 
 Here, then, we must part with Erin’s most illustri- 
 ous son, who, when living, was able 
 
 “ The applause of listening senates to command,” 
 
 and who, with the author of ‘‘ The Deserted Village,” 
 stands for ever crowned with the wreath of the im- 
 mortals. Dear and hallowed be the memory of 
 Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith ! Honour to 
 the fair land that gave them birth ! 
 
 “ When the pure soul of honour shall cease to inspire thee. 
 
 And kind hospitality leave thy gay shore, 
 
 And the nations that know thee shall cease to admire thee. 
 Then, Erin ma vourneen, I ’ll love thee no more. 
 
 “ When the trumpet of fame shall cease to proclaim thee 
 Of heroes the nurse, as in ages of yore. 
 
 And the muse and the records of genius disdain thee. 
 
 Then, Erin ma vourneen, I ’ll love thee no more. 
 
 ‘ ‘ When thy brave sons shall cease to be generous and witty. 
 
 And cease to be loved by the fair they adore. 
 
 And thy daughters shall cease to be virtuous and pretty. 
 
 Then, Erin ma vourneen, I ’ll love thee no more.” 
 
LECTURE THE THIRD. 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 Whatever we may make of it, there is no setting 
 aside the fact, that a perception of the ludicrous, 
 leading to some corresponding outward manifesta- 
 tion, is really an attribute of our common humanity» 
 Throughout this strange, mysterious web of exist- 
 ence there runs the mirthful element. Just as truly 
 as there is in every mind, more or less, the percep- 
 tion of beauty and harmony, is there also the per- 
 ception of the ludicrous ; and just as itruly as the 
 elements of beauty and harmony are around us in 
 nature and in human life, so truly are we encom- 
 passed on all sides with the subtle elements of mirth. 
 I do not mean to say that all minds are equally 
 endowed with a sensibility for the ludicrous. You 
 will meet with men so dull in this respect that, as 
 Sydney Smith said, only a surgical operation could 
 introduce into their dense heads the comprehension 
 of a joke. There are individuals, too, to whom one 
 
8o 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 of Handel’s grand oratorios would be only a noise, 
 more or less agreeable, and the Venus de Medicis 
 only a block of marble. Such instances, however, 
 constitute the rare exceptions, and do not determine 
 the rule; the vast majority of mankind manifesting 
 a keen delight in beauty, harmony, and provocatives 
 of mirth. For good and wise ends, our beneficent 
 Creator has implanted in man the power of viewing 
 things under a ludicrous aspect ; and has spread 
 around us objects and events which directly appeal 
 to this internal sense. Like all our other original 
 endowments, its purpose is clearly beneficent ; and, 
 rightly exercised, it is productive of happiness. This 
 life of ours is serious enough, with present duty press- 
 ing on us, and the inexorable gates of destiny open- 
 ing before us. No doubt it is a solemn thing for a 
 human being to find himself alive, whirled through 
 infinite space, on the surface of this earthly ball — 
 
 “ Stars silent over him, 
 
 Graves silent under him. ” 
 
 Deep and serious views of this mysterious existence 
 must press at times on all true hearts that are in con- 
 tact with fact and reality. This world is no mere 
 play-ground, or ball-room, or exchange ; but a hall 
 of doom” — a training-ground for immortals. Yet 
 while this is true, it is no less true that life has many 
 sides, and presents itself under many aspects, and we 
 are fitted to sympathise with them all ; and to pro- 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 mote our best culture we must do so. It is not good 
 for us to be always in contact with what is stern and 
 solemn. We must at times sojourn in Mesech, and 
 dwell in the tents of Kedar/' but not take up our 
 permanent abode there. To retain its health the 
 mind must have variety. It is therefore good for us 
 to relax, — to unbind the heavy burden of care at 
 times, — to let the genial smile smooth out the wrinkled 
 brow, the hearty laugh shake the sides, and the glow 
 of pure and innocent mirth light up the countenance. 
 Thus are secured to us those blessed pauses in our 
 course, in which we draw a deep breath, and gather 
 strength for the remainder of the journey. One 
 should take care,” says Addison, '^not to grow too 
 wise for so great a pleasure of life as laughter.” The 
 bow, always strung, loses its elasticity ; the mind, 
 always on the stretch of high thought or purpose, will 
 give way. Mercifully and kindly is it appointed that 
 the ludicrous should break in upon us, and lure away 
 the mind from the cares of business, the pursuits of 
 ambition, the fascinations of study, and the corroding 
 anxieties of life. Think of dear, sweet childhood, 
 with its shouts of merriment, its glee unclouded by 
 thoughts of to-morrow ; — (I pity the man whose heart 
 does not throb responsive to the sound) — think of 
 manhood^s and maidenhood’s ringing laughter — of 
 the 
 
 ‘‘ Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 
 
 Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 
 
 F 
 
82 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides ; — ’’ 
 
 think of all this, and say would not this world of 
 ours be a different and sadder place, were man not 
 endowed with a capability of laughter, and sur- 
 rounded with the elements of the ludicrous ? 
 
 Is it not a striking proof of the benevolence of the 
 Creator that man, the creature most sensitive to the 
 miseries of life, should be the only one of the ani- 
 mated series capable of laughing at the woes of his 
 existence ? Beyond all doubt, this endowment helps 
 him to bear misfortunes that would otherwise press 
 with intolerable weight, and blunts the keen edge of 
 calamity. It may be disputed whether some of the 
 lower creation do not possess the rudiments of reason ; 
 but not even Darwin or Huxley pretend to discover 
 any endowment in our poor relations,'' the monkeys, 
 approximating to risibility. Heaven-gazing man alone 
 perceives the ludicrous, and indulges in the pleasant 
 noise called laughter. The brute countenance has no 
 smiles. It would be difficult, perhaps, to name any 
 other faculty that plays a larger or more important 
 part in the economy of human society. Where is 
 the man, with the very longest and gravest face, who 
 does not at times relax, and crack his joke with a 
 friend } Even the most supernaturally solemn man 
 
IVIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 83 
 
 must have crowed” when a baby; and something 
 must have gone wrong with him since if he has aban- 
 doned the practice. Think of the mirth that is con- 
 tinually circulating about our tea-tables and dinner- 
 tables, and of the zest it imparts to social intercourse ! 
 Don’t we all laugh at one another, take each other off 
 behind-backs, and indulge in playful remarks on the 
 little personal peculiarities and slight frailties of our 
 friends t Of course we do ; and it is consolatory to 
 know that the laugher of this circle is the laughed-at 
 of that other ; so that matters are very much equal- 
 ised. Go among the labouring population, and hear 
 how large a share of their conversation is made up of 
 ludicrous remarks on one another, and on their betters 
 too ; and how much this gladsome mirth lightens their 
 toils ! Then, what a literature wit and humour have 
 created ! what a host of witty and humorous writers 
 we can marshal ! and what a powerful influence on 
 human affairs they have wielded, and do wield ! In- 
 deed, no great writer, who aims at presenting a faith- 
 ful picture of human life, neglects the witty and 
 humorous department ; and however much of the 
 grand and heroic may mingle therein, the work is 
 found to be defective, as a mirror of nature, if the 
 ludicrous have no place. Even grave Homer intro- 
 duces his Thersites flinging his gibes at the Grecian 
 heroes. Shakespeare — the all-comprehending — the 
 
84 
 
 Wn AND HUMOUR, 
 
 greatest delineator of human life — has numberless 
 embodiments of wit and humour in their rarest 
 forms, from Jack Falstaff to the grave-digger in 
 Hamlet/' Sir Walter Scott revels in this depart- 
 ment, and has given us his immortal Bailie Nicol 
 Jarvie, Dominie Sampson, Dugald Dalgetty, Peter 
 Peebles, and Andrew Fairservice. In Mrs Stowe's 
 fine tale of Uncle Tom's Cabin," that has stirred so 
 many millions of hearts, who does not like Topsy ? 
 and who does not feel that the story would be de- 
 ficient without that ebony mover of mirth, with her 
 unconscious, immeasurable ignorance, and calm stu- 
 pidity ? Even our sweet poet Cowper, himself one of 
 the saddest of ment has set all the world laughing 
 by his humorous tale of John Gilpin," whose ever- 
 memorable ride, and well-known hat and wig, will 
 continue to shake the sides of unborn generations, 
 young and old. Thus, you see, the ludicrous must 
 have its place ; laughter will break out ; the clown 
 will tumble; Punch and Judy will be called for, 
 in spite of the gravest objections. The man who 
 would ignore this powerful tendency of humanity, or 
 try to frown it down, has made but small progress in 
 the study of life. Considering the wide sway exer- 
 cised by this impulse, and the great and important 
 results flowing from it, I think it is really worth while 
 to inquire into its nature and tendencies, and thus try 
 to get at the philosophy of the matter. 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 85 
 
 Not only has human life its ludicrous element, but 
 even its serious side has its ludicrous points. Mirth 
 seems to be ever lying in wait round the corner, 
 ready to trip us up, even in our serious moods. 
 Through all the woof of life, the fine threads of wit 
 largely penetrate. We are thus constantly on the 
 verge of the ludicrous. A very serious affair has 
 only to be turned a little round, and it becomes 
 laughable; the grand, the heroic, the sublime, tumble 
 into the comic. It was a favourite saying of Napo- 
 leon, — Between the sublime and the ridiculous there 
 is only a step.'’ Suppose a stump-orator, brimful of 
 patriotism and disinterested benevolence, addressing 
 an enraptured audience ; some mischievous rogue 
 comes behind him when in one of his loftiest flights 
 of oratory, and with a smart blow knocks his hat 
 completely over his eyes. No amount of patriotism 
 could preserve gravity of countenance, as he struggles 
 to extricate himself from the ruins of his hat. Even 
 the eloquence of Lord John Russell would be extin- 
 guished by such a mishap. The transition from the 
 grave to the gay is instantaneous. Even the kindly 
 greeting of Auld Lang Syne” has a little of the ludi- 
 crous lurking in it. The affectionate friend, who seems 
 rather disposed to be jolly, meeting his old school- 
 fellow, after years of separatioi^ inquires pathetically, 
 
 “ Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to mind ?” 
 
86 
 
 Wn AND HUMOUR. 
 
 And then he goes on, quite tenderly, almost blubber- 
 ing, to recount how they had, in youth, 
 
 ‘‘ Paidl’t i’ the burn, 
 
 And pu’d^he gowans fine.” 
 
 All this is very beautiful and touching ; but mark how 
 prudence mingles with good fellowship. He adds — 
 
 And surely ye’ll ho, your pint stoup, 
 
 And surely I ’ll be mine. ” 
 
 In the midst of all the outgushings of his affection, he 
 has a wary eye on the reckoning, and is determined 
 not to pay more than a fair share of the bill ; and 
 therefore gently, but effectually, jogs his friend’s 
 memory as to the propriety of ‘^standing treat” in 
 the usual reciprocal method. Only a canny Scotch- 
 man” would have thought of that at such an interest- 
 ing moment. I suppose it is owing to this proximity 
 of the serious and the comic, that we find in many of 
 our fine old cathedrals so many laughing, mirth-pro- 
 voking faces, cut in stone or carved in oak. Here is 
 the noble spire piercing the sky,— the graceful arch 
 losing itself in the vaulted roof, — the long-drawn aisle 
 and splendid window, all suggestive of the loftiest 
 ideas ; but outside are groups of most grotesque faces, 
 singularly provocative of mirth ; and under the seats 
 are fine old oak carvings, highly comical in their sub- 
 jects, as though the erectors had, like school-boys, 
 been drawing laughable caricatures, to relieve the 
 tedium of life, and give vent to the feeling of the 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 87 
 
 ludicrous. It is a picture of human life. Take as 
 another illustration of our position the laying of the 
 Atlantic Telegraph. What could be grander than 
 this achievement ; noble, patient effort triumphing 
 over obstacles ; mind combating matter and gaining 
 the victory ; two worlds brought into contact ! The 
 whole civilise*d world was jubilant over it. The press 
 assured us it was a great event. Even the pulpit 
 admitted the topic into its sacred precincts, and 
 many a preacher waxed eloquent over the sympa- 
 thetic nerve laid down between the Old World and 
 the New. Our American cousins, however, deter- 
 mining to be foremost in the jubilation, managed 
 to take the short step between the sublime and 
 the ridiculous, and set all the world laughing. The 
 extravagant antics gone through, in some of their 
 cities, in this period of excitement, are hardly cred- 
 ible. A western editor capped the climax, when, 
 writing under a tremendous head of steam, he an- 
 nounced the startling event thus : — *^The world is 
 finished, — its spinal cord is laid, and now it begins to 
 think. A living nerve has been unwound from the 
 Anglo-Saxon heart, and tied in a true-love knot 
 between the old world and the new.'^ Even such a 
 grave body as the Corporation of New York lost its 
 balance on this grave occasion ; and, in an address to 
 the Telegraph Company, congratulated them on the 
 fact that the earth was a sphere and not a plane; 
 
88 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 for/’ said they, ‘‘ had it not been so, the operation 
 of sin, working through the passions of nations and 
 individuals, would have driven the weak to the ex- 
 treme brink of humanity, and hurled them over the 
 precipice once for all,” (a fearful fall for the good 
 people, — Never ending, still beginning,” — 
 
 “ Anywhere, anywhere, 
 
 Out of the world.”) 
 
 The twinkling eye of Punch lighted on these pre- 
 cious specimens of ^'buncombe,” and he reproduced 
 them in a slightly altered form, thus : — 
 
 The deed is done. A new heart-string, forgotten 
 at creation, has been inserted into the world, and 
 henceforth its pulses will keep time to the flapping of 
 the wings of our almighty and inextinguishable eagle. 
 May the blood of freedom course along that giant 
 vein, with the rush of Niagara, and sweep away be- 
 fore its mightiness the mouldering cerements of anti- 
 quated hallucination. O noble men, let us liquor.” 
 
 “ Two nations, in two different ages riz. 
 
 Stand prominently out of the abyss : 
 
 One, England, a respectable old boss, 
 
 And one, America, of giant force. 
 
 . The power of Nature could no further go. 
 
 So made C. W. Field to join the two.” 
 
 ^‘The aged and effete island ties herself to the 
 apron-string of vigorous, young America. Among 
 the awful chasms of the roaring ocean, shall fly the 
 teachings of liberty, and Field’s wire, like the spear 
 
WIJ AND HUMOUR, 
 
 89 
 
 of Uranus, shall touch the squat toad of despotism 
 at the ear of Eve, and the fiend, starting up in all its 
 sulphureous ignomity of ugliness, shall be spiked 
 like a bug-beetle, upon the crystal weapon of Colum- 
 bia/’ What a contrast did the imperturbable John 
 Bull present, in the way in which he received the 
 same intelligence. Instead of going into hysterics, 
 he simply sat down and ate a more than usually 
 ^substantial dinner. 
 
 Now, the principle I am endeavouring to establish 
 is, that even great, sublime, and solemn things have 
 their ludicrous points. Noble feeling oversteps its 
 due boundary, and becomes sentimentality ; elo- 
 quence, over-strained, becomes bathos ; and immedi- 
 ately Wit, the moral policeman, pounces upon them, 
 as fair food for mirth. The very best thing to be 
 done is to let the shafts of ridicule rain upon them ; 
 for they have become essential falsities, and should 
 be driven out of society. All extravagance and ex- 
 aggeration provoke, inevitably, the assaults of wit. 
 Crinoline alone seems to be able to defy its utmost 
 efforts, perhaps because the feminine mind is defec- 
 tive in a sense of the ridiculous. In order to preserve 
 our balance, — to prevent indignation becoming too 
 intense, or passion or feeling too violent, or condemna- 
 tion too severe, — it is often desirable to let the ludic- 
 rous aspect of a matter come into view. Did we gaze at 
 human wretchedness, folly, and wickedness, only with 
 
90 
 
 W/T AND HUMOUR, 
 
 the eye of conscience or passion, thought and observa- 
 tion would drive many a good man to the borders of 
 insanity. We should be thrown into utter despair or 
 driven to blind destructive intolerance, and wish the 
 whole social fabric torn to pieces. But to counteract 
 this over-sensitiveness. Nature has kindly provided 
 a feeling of the ludicrous. Mirth appears and takes 
 hold of these dark, exaggerated views of human con- 
 dition, and exhibiting their ludicrous points, saves us 
 from being injured by them. The very faults and 
 follies of our fellows, that threaten to drive us into 
 madness or indignant disgust, when viewed under the 
 kindly influence of humour, lose much of their repul- 
 sive aspect. Hatred is disarmed, passion softened, 
 and humanity preserved. Not that we are led in this 
 way to call evil good, or to shut our eyes against the 
 sight of what is bad ; but a modifying element comes 
 in, and we now see vice and folly to be contemptible 
 and mean, as well as odious. Distorted and exagge- 
 rated views of life are thus corrected. Thus has it 
 been kindly and wisely ordained that the fountains 
 of laughter and of tears should lie close to one 
 another in our composite nature, and that deepest 
 pathos should have mirth for its nearest of kin. 
 Nay, more ; it is found that the intermingling of 
 these two renders the pathos more tender and mov- 
 ing, and the mirth more wholesome. Take, as an 
 illustration of this, a song written by Thomas Noel, 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 91 
 
 entitled, The Pauper's Drive," in which sad truths 
 are pathetically interwoven with a grim and terrible 
 humour, — the humour deepening the hold the sad 
 facts take upon the mind : — 
 
 ‘‘There ’s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot ; 
 
 To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
 
 The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, 
 
 And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : 
 
 Rattle his bones over the stones ; 
 
 He’s only a pauper that nobody owns. 
 
 “ Oh ! where are the mourners? Alas ! there are none. 
 
 He has left not a gap in the world now he ’s gone ; 
 
 Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; — 
 
 To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can. 
 
 Rattle his bones, &c. 
 
 “ What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din ! 
 
 The whip how it cracks, and the wheels how they spin ! 
 
 How the dirt, right and left, o’er the hedges is hurl’d ! 
 
 The pauper at length makes a noise in the world. 
 
 Rattle his bones, &c. 
 
 “ Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
 To gentility, now that he’s stretch’d in a coach ; 
 
 He ’s taking a drive in his carriage at last. 
 
 But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast. 
 
 Rattle his bones, &c. 
 
 “ But a truce to this strain, for my soul it is sad. 
 
 To think that a heart, in humanity clad. 
 
 Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end. 
 
 And depart from the light without leaving a friend. 
 
 Bear softly his b.ones over the stones. 
 
 Though a pauper, he ’s one whom his Maker yet owns.” 
 
 I am aware that some good men, whose views, I 
 take the liberty of saying, are rather contracted, are 
 inclined to condemn all manifestations of mirth, or, 
 
92 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 at least, they are inclined to regard them with great 
 suspicion, and to confine them within very narrow 
 limits. Let me quote for the benefit of such the 
 words of the great and good Dr Chalmers. In his 
 Moral Philosophy’' he says, speaking of our sense 
 of the ludicrous : — It often ministers to the gaiety 
 of man’s heart, even when alone ; and when he con- 
 gregates with his fellows, is ever and anon breaking 
 forth into some humorous conception, that infects 
 alike the fancies of all, and finds vent in one com- 
 mon shout of ecstasy. Mirth begins to tumultuate 
 in the heart of some one ; on the first utterance of 
 which, it passes, with irrepressible sympathy, into the 
 hearts of all around himj whence it obtains discharge 
 in a loud and general effervescence. It is thus that 
 the pleasure connected with our sense of the ludic- 
 rous forms one of the most current gratifications of 
 human life, and has so much of happiness and so 
 
 much of benevolence allied with it And 
 
 when we see so much of human kindness and of 
 human enjoyment associated with that exhilaration 
 of the heart to which this emotion is so constantly 
 giving rise, — ministering with such copiousness both 
 to the smiles of the domestic hearth and the gaieties 
 of festive companionship, — we cannot but regard it 
 as the provision of an indulgent Father, who hath 
 ordained it as a sweetener or an emollient amid the 
 annoyances and ills which flesh is heir to.” He adds. 
 
W/T AND HUMOUR. 
 
 93 
 
 There is unquestionable good done by it when it puts 
 to flight the seriousness of resentment, or the serious- 
 ness of suffering, — softening the malignant asperities 
 of debate, and reconciling us to those misadventures 
 and pettier miseries of life, which, if not so alleviated, 
 would keep us in a state of continual festerment ; and 
 thus it is a palpable testimony to the goodness and 
 wisdom of Him who framed us/' 
 
 In this passage, Chalmers has admirably summed 
 up the benefits that flow from our sense of the 
 ludicrous, and the ends which it subserves in the 
 economy of the universe. It is indeed a palpable 
 testimony to the goodness and wisdom of Him who 
 framed us." An innocent child once said, Mamma, 
 did the cheerful God make all these beautiful 
 flowers.^" Yes; all the flowers that garland the 
 earth are His smiles. And as He who clothed the 
 lily in such beauty, and enriched the human soul with 
 the faculty of enjoying it, has said thereby to man. 
 Adorn, create forms of beauty — paint the canvas 
 and sculpture the marble ; " so, in constituting a dis- 
 tinctive faculty to perceive the endless combinations 
 of the ludicrous and mirthful. He has intimated, as 
 plainly as though it were written in letters of light 
 upon the sky, that we are in due measure to enjoy 
 the ludicrous. There is beauty all around us; beauty 
 in day and the sweet approach of eve and morn ; " 
 beauty in vernal bloom and summer’s rose ; beauty in 
 
94 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 ^^the human face divine;” and man is fitted to revel 
 in all this. Great are our substantial every-day 
 mercies ; but when we see superadded to this great 
 stream of beneficence, the enjoyments flowing from 
 gaiety and mirth, from the sparkling fountains of wit 
 and humour, do we not feel the truth and beauty of 
 the child’s words, that God is indeed the cheerful 
 God,” claiming not only our reverence, but the child- 
 like love and trust of our hearts ? Thus, rightly con- 
 sidered, this faculty has not only its lawful and 
 innocent indulgence, but its very existence is a proof 
 of Divine beneficence — as truly so as the flowers that, 
 like orient pearls, are scattered over the earth ; and 
 from it, too, we learn something of our Creator’s char- 
 acter, as well as from the galaxies that gem the sky. 
 If, then, our wit and humour be pure, and free from 
 malice, hatred, and selfish vanity ; if they be indulged 
 in only under the approbation of conscience, and 
 kept within legitimate bounds, we can regard them 
 as a source of pure and lawful enjoyment. At the 
 proper time, cheerfulness is to be sought and mirth- 
 fulness indulged. We have the highest authority for 
 saying, there is a time to laugh.” Our earth might 
 have been created without the element of beauty; 
 and were it a mere cattle-stall, where we were to eat, 
 and sleep, and grow fat, there would be no need of 
 star-radiance, or cloud-drapery, or flower-decking, or 
 ocean-music. And so, too, we could conceive of a 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 95 
 
 world where there would be nothing to call up a smile 
 or provoke a laugh, — a demure, well-behaved, model 
 world, clad in drab, like a Quaker’s household, no 
 angularities or oddities, no incongruity to awaken 
 mirth, and no talent in the unfortunate inhabitants 
 for enjoying the ludicrous; but if there be such a 
 world, it must be a very dull one ; and we have reason 
 to be thankful it is not our own laughter-loving little 
 planet. Fortunately for us, life has its comedy and 
 broad farce, as well as its tragedy. 
 
 In the extract I have already quoted. Dr Chalmers 
 calls mirth a sweetener or an emollient ” amid life’s 
 annoyances. It lightens the woes and increases the 
 joys of existence ; and thus ministers, like a benefi- 
 cent spirit, to our pure and innocent delights. This, 
 however, applies rather to huifiour than wit — a dis- 
 tinction on which I shall dwell for a little by and by. 
 I believe that a vast amount of gladness, geniality, 
 charity, kindness, and happiness flows over the world 
 from the fountain of humour. Its higher utterances 
 
 ‘‘Fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
 
 And melt in the heart as instantly.” 
 
 The man who creates a thoroughly humorous char- 
 acter, must be regarded as a real benefactor of his 
 species. Such a creation not only amuses and calls 
 forth smiles and laughter, but also promotes sweet- 
 ness of temper, cheerfulness of disposition, plucks the 
 sting out of many of life’s ills, calls forth the tender 
 
96 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 and genial feelings of our heart, and disposes us to 
 love our kind. What a real boon to society, for 
 example, has been such a humorous creation as 
 Shakespeare's fat knight. Sir John Falstafif — the 
 jovial, the unimaginative, the epicurean, the delightful 
 Falstaff, — his qualities, which are all ^^of the earth, 
 earthy," floating in a perfect sea of fun, frolic, and 
 good-humour. The present, the personal, the physical, 
 make up the sum of his existence. For all fanciful 
 and imaginative things he has an unlimited scorn ; or, 
 rather, he has no sense of their existence. To him 
 life presents no perplexing problems, no heart-break- 
 ing contradictions. How boisterously he would have 
 laughed at the idea of storming across the inane," 
 or ‘^standing between two eternities," as a descrip- 
 tion of human life. He never troubles himself with 
 the stars, the music of the spheres, or the shadows of 
 the unseen. He is satisfied with things as they are. 
 Unlike Hamlet, with his passionate questionings of 
 destiny, and vain struggles with insoluble problems, 
 and melancholy musings on this composite existence, 
 Falstaff 's eye goes not beyond the actual, and sees 
 no visions, no spectres. Yet, far from making this 
 fine creation of the fancy dull or shallow, Shakespeare 
 has endowed him with noble mental faculties ; with 
 an intellect possessed of clearness, precision, strength, 
 and subtlety, though directed by no lofty or useful 
 purpose. The wildness and prodigality of his images 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 97 
 
 and illustrations, the inexhaustible freshness of his 
 ideas and phrases, the ease with which he jumbles 
 together things most unlike, all declare a mental 
 nature of rich and rare endowment. But the essential 
 element of his being is humour. To him every indi- 
 vidual, every event, every thought, sentiment, and 
 emotion has a ludicrous tinge. All things and all 
 persons are objects of his mockery. His wit is flash- 
 ing, penetrating, scathing, unrestrained by any moral 
 law. Such is Falstaff — an embodiment of wit un- 
 softened by a loving heart, unguided by morality and 
 religion. Selfish and voluptuous, he may be studied 
 for the wonderful richness of his humour, but is not 
 to be admired or imitated. 
 
 What an inexhaustible fund of merriment, too, has 
 the world found in that most richly humorous of all 
 characters, the immortal Sancho Panza, so shrewd 
 and matter-of-fact, so selfish, fat, and fond of good 
 living ! What a delightful contrast to his chivalrous, 
 lean master, wrapped in splendid illusions and liv- 
 ing outside the real world ! Sancho is sly, good- 
 humoured, sensual ; cares nothing whatever for glory 
 or honour, but a great deal for good feeding, a whole 
 carcase, and a sound sleep ; and when he gets a satis- 
 factory repose he ‘^blesses the man that invented 
 sleep.’’ The contrast and co-operation of these two 
 characters form one of the most exquisite creations of 
 
 the humorous imagination. There they are — an 
 
 G 
 
98 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 inimitable pair — master and man — tossed in a blanket, 
 amid boisterous peals of merriment, from generation 
 to generation. They remind us of another strongly 
 contrasted pair — Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim — 
 who have evoked many smiles, and, let us hope, 
 called forth many deeds of charity. Nor must we 
 forget that fine embodiment of Scottish humour — 
 Bailie Nicol Jarvie — with his quaint oddities, his sly, 
 half-conscious humour, and his captivating weak- 
 nesses that make us all like him immensely. What 
 could be finer than the defence he urged in presence 
 of his brother magistrates, on behalf of his wild free- 
 booter kinsman, Rob Roy 1 I tauld them,'’ said 
 the Bailie, that I would vindicate nae man's faults ; 
 but set apart what Rob had done again the law, and 
 the misfortune o' some folk losing life by him, and he 
 was an honester man than stud on any o' their 
 shanks." How deeply indebted is the world to 
 Charles Dickens — the greatest of living humourists — 
 for that host of laughter-moving creations with which 
 he has brightened so many firesides, cheered so many 
 lonely hours,, and '^peopled our world of thought 
 with forms and faces whose beautiful facetiousness 
 sheds light and warmth over our whole being." The 
 Wellers, senior and junior, lead the van, with Mr 
 Pickwick in his spectacles ; Richard Swiveller, with 
 the Marchioness on his arm ; Mrs Nickleby and the 
 Crumles family 3 the irrepressible Sairey Gamp and 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 99 
 
 her mythical friend Mrs Harris ; the improvident but 
 delightful Micawber, and the immortal Pecksniff. 
 These are now familiar names, — well-known acquaint- 
 ances in thousands of households, all over the civil- 
 ised world ; and these exquisite creations have 
 flooded us with mirth and delight. The world would 
 be a great deal poorer wanting them ; and I think it 
 is unquestionable that, on the whole, they have acted 
 in a wholesome way, — increasing good humour and 
 charity, and thus indirectly benefiting and advancing 
 society. Many a dark hour has been brightened and 
 many a happy home made happier by the visits of 
 such personages. Open the door and let the whole 
 merry crew come trooping in. 
 
 Let us now, for a little, become metaphysical, and 
 inquire in a passing way, in what wit and humour 
 consist, and how they differ from one another. It is 
 no easy matter to define that subtle quality we recog- 
 nise as the ludicrous ; it is almost too evanescent for 
 the intellect to grasp. Like the beauty of a land- 
 scape, or the aroma of the rose, it may be felt but 
 not described, enjoyed but not defined.# We can all 
 laugh ; but try to discover in what the ludicrous con- 
 sists, and the probability is that the effort will make 
 you very serious indeed. This much, however, seems 
 to me discoverable : that in all witty and humorous 
 creations, you will find certain dissimilar ideas or 
 images brought together, and some unexpected simi- 
 
100 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 larity between them expressed or suggested, — the sud- 
 den discovery of unsuspected resemblance giving rise 
 to that pleasurable surprise which expresses itself in 
 smiles or laughter. Or the same effect is produced 
 by bringing together incongruous circumstances, per- 
 sonages, or images, which are. rarely if ever found in 
 juxtaposition, and exhibiting them in such contrast 
 that a perception of the ludicrous follows. The 
 essence in humour is incongruity ; the result in both 
 wit and humour is agreeable surprise. But wit ac- 
 complishes its object by suggesting some resemblance 
 between images and things that are wide apart ; 
 humour, by clashing together incongruities. Thus, 
 for example, a traveller in the United States describes 
 a republican whom he met as so furious against mon- 
 archs, that he would not even wear a crown to his 
 hat. The wit lies in the incongruous combination of 
 the monarch's crown and the crown of the republican's 
 hat, and the unexpected suggestion of a resemblance 
 between them. A witness on a certain trial de- 
 scribed an individual as ‘‘a most respectable man." 
 “What do you mean by being respectable V said the 
 counsel. “ I mean," was the reply, “ that he always 
 kept a gig." Here the ludicrous surprise depends on 
 the incongruous combination of respectability and a 
 gig. The same effect follows the Irish definition of 
 gentility. “He was a dacent, respectable man ; he 
 always kept a pig and the description of the Irish 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 lOI 
 
 echo that, when you called out ^^How do you do?’' 
 answered Quite well, I thank you." Robert Hall’s 
 wit did not desert him, even when insanity had clouded 
 his noble intellect. A stupid individual, visiting the 
 asylum where he was, called out, ''Why, what 
 brought you here, Mr Hall?" "What will never 
 bring you here," tapping his head ; " too much 
 brain!" "I hear you are going to marry Miss 
 Blank," said some one to him. " What ! I marry 
 Miss Blank ! I should as soon marry Beelzebub’s 
 eldest daughter, and go home and live with the old 
 folk 1" "The land tortoise," said Sydney Smith, "has 
 two enemies, — man and the boa-constrictor. Man 
 takes him home and roasts him, and the boa-con- 
 strictor swallows him whole, shell and all, and con- 
 sumes him slowly in the interior, as the Court of Chan- 
 eery does a great estate!' What could be finer than 
 the same writer’s retort on a clerical friend who had 
 written him a note, not dated in the ordinary way, 
 but after a certain ecclesiastical fashion, — " St Blank’s 
 Day — Eve of some other St Blank’s Day." Sydney’s 
 reply was dated, " Washing Day — Eve of Ironing 
 Day." Admirable too was the mixture of wit and 
 humour in his advice to the newly-appointed Bishop 
 of New Zealand, in allusion to the cannibal ten- 
 dencies of his parishioners. He urged him to be 
 attentive to the minor no less than the more import- 
 ant duties of his office — to be given to hospitality ; 
 
102 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 and in order to meet the tastes of his native guests, 
 never to be without a smoked little hoy in the bacon- 
 rack, and a cold clergyman on the side-board ; and 
 as for yourself, my lord,’' he said, I can only say, 
 that when your parishioners eat you, I sincerely hope 
 you will disagree with them.” His description of the 
 tropics is inimitable: — Flies get entry into your 
 mouth, into your eyes, into your nose ; you eat flies, 
 drink flies, and breathe flies. Lizards, cockroaches, 
 and snakes get into the bed ; ants eat up the books; 
 scorpions sting you on the foot. Everything bites, 
 stings, and bruises ; every second of your existence 
 you are wounded by some piece of animal life, that 
 nobody has ever seen before, except Swammerdam 
 and Meriam. An insect with eleven legs is swim- 
 ming in your tea-cup ; a nondescript with nine wings 
 is struggling in the small beer ; or a caterpillar, with 
 several dozen eggs in his belly, is hastening over the 
 bread and butter. All nature is alive, and seems to 
 be gathering all her entomological hosts to eat you 
 up, as you are standing, out of your coat, waistcoat, 
 and breeches. Such are the tropics. All this recon- 
 ciles us to our dews^ vapours, and drizzles, — to our 
 apothecaries rushing about with gargles and tinc- 
 ‘ tures, — to our old British constitutional coughs, sore 
 throats, and swelled faces.” 
 
 Now, in all these instances, the ludicrous surprise is 
 caused by clashing together incongruous things and 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 103 
 
 ideas. The force which calls into play the muscles 
 that are employed in laughter, lies in the rapid sur- 
 prise produced. In the following anecdote, it is the 
 quickness and unexpectedness of the rejoinder that 
 amuse us : — A nobleman and his lady, walking 
 through a magnificent avenue, in one of the finest 
 parts of Ireland, were accosted by a poor woman as 
 follows — ^^The Lord bless your noble lordship, and 
 your gracious ladyship. I dramed a drame about 
 you both last night. I dramed your lordship gave 
 me a pound of tobacco and your ladyship a pound of 
 tay.” Ah ! my good woman,'' says the peer, 
 ^Mreams go by contraries." ^‘To be sure they do," 
 says the woman, ‘^so it will be your lordship that 
 will give me the tay, and her ladyship will give me 
 the tobacco." It is related that Lord Macaulay, on 
 one occasion, in order -to obtain a sample of street 
 literature, made his way to one of the lowest districts 
 of London, and bought of a singing-boy a roll of 
 ballads. Happening to turn round, as he reached 
 home again, he perceived the youth, with a circle of 
 young friends, was keeping close at his heels. 
 
 Have I not given you your price, sir " was the 
 great man's indignant remonstrance. All right, 
 guv'ner," was the response; ^^weWe only waiting till 
 you begin to sing! Here the incongruity of the 
 brilliant historian roaring out a ballad in the street 
 creates the shock of ludicrous surprise. How admir- 
 
104 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 able is the ridicule thrown upon caste-respectability 
 by Douglas Jerrold, in the following passage ! — 
 Wholesales don’t mix with retails. Raw wool does 
 not speak to halfpenny balls of worsted ; tallow in 
 the cask looks down upon sixes in the pound, and 
 pig-iron turns up its nose at tenpenny nails.” Emi- 
 nently witty too was his definition of dogmatism, — 
 “ it is only puppyism come to its full growth.” 
 
 Wit and humour, though they are closely allied, 
 have yet important points of difference, and are 
 clearly distinguishable. Thackeray’s definition of 
 humour is the best with which I have met. He 
 says, ‘‘ Humour is wit and love ; at any rate, I am 
 sure that the best humour is that which contains 
 most humanity, and which is flavoured throughout 
 with tenderness and kindness.” This, I think, seizes 
 on the essence of the matter. Humour has all the 
 peculiar characteristics of wit, including the principles 
 of contrast and assimilation ; but it superadds a qua- 
 lity higher than all — namely, love, springing from sym- 
 pathy and sensibility, and a tender fellow-feeling with 
 humanity, even in its lowest and queerest shapes. It 
 is possible for wit to flow entirely from the head, while 
 the heart remains cold, callous, and scornful, — as in 
 the case of Swift; but humour must have heart as 
 well as head, and cannot dwell in an icy, cynical 
 bosom. Its very essence is deep, genuine sensibility 
 towards all forms of existence. Not hatred, contempt. 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 105 
 
 or scorn produce it, — only love. It elevates its ob- 
 jects, however low, into our sympathies and affections. 
 Both wit and humour produce pleasurable surprise by 
 incongruous collisions ; but while wit deals rather with 
 ideasy humour fixes upon human actions and mannerSy 
 and thus has to do with emotions, sentiments, and, 
 above all, with character. Wit is often caustic, severe, 
 and condemnatory, and looks on human weaknesses 
 and follies with bitter scorn and sneering contempt, 
 lashing them with withering sarcasm or blighting ridi- 
 cule. But genial, kind-hearted humour mingles ten- 
 derness with its condemnation, and paints follies and 
 weaknesses almost lovingly; so that, while we see 
 their absurdity, we sympathise with the subject of 
 them, — we love, not hate. Wit may accompany 
 fierce passions, and give a sting to hatred, or malice, 
 or envy ; humour never does so : it must have kind 
 feeling and fellow-feeling. Thus humour is a higher 
 gift than wit ; it creates, while wit dissects and ana- 
 lyses. In its purest form, humour is one of the rarest 
 and most precious gifts of genius — the bloom of a 
 creative, genial, loving nature. How humane is its 
 influence ! How it softens the rude inequalities of 
 existence, and bridging over the space between the 
 exalted and the lowly, brings them into sympathetic 
 unison ! Thus does it throw a bright sunshine over 
 existence, and helps us to kind, gentle, and tolerant 
 views of life. 
 
io6 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 The distinction between wit and humour will come 
 out clearer, perhaps, from an example or two. Take 
 Pope and Swift, — they are pre-eminently witty 
 writers, dealing in all manner of sarcastic, ironical, and 
 burlesque productions ; but they have almost nothing 
 of the humorous element. Addison, on the other 
 hand, lives and breathes in humour ; and has be- 
 queathed to us that noblest of humorous characters 
 and finest of old English gentlemen. Sir Roger de 
 Coverly. Uncle Toby, Corporal Trim, Parson Adams, 
 The Artful Dodger, Mark Tapley, Joe Willet, Mrs 
 Gamp, Major Pendennis, Mrs Poyser, are all humor- 
 ous creations. Of modern writers,' Jerrold and Thack- 
 eray are most witty; Charles Lamb and Dickens 
 most humorous ; while Sydney Smith presents the 
 happiest combination of both. The author of Rab 
 and His Friends'' — Dr John Brown — may also be 
 named as one of our most genial humourists ; and 
 what quaintness, raciness, and tenderness mingle in 
 his writings, all readers of Horae Subsecivae " well 
 know. Wit and humour, however, being but differ- 
 ent species of the ludicrous, oftenest blend with 
 and overlap one another. We rarely find wit alto- 
 gether untempered by humour, or humour without 
 *a spice of wit. Humour is refined and sharpened 
 by wit, and wit is softened and rendered kindlier 
 by humour. In the writings of Sydney Smith it 
 would be difficult to say whether the wit or humour 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 107 
 
 preponderates ; and hence that genial sharpness 
 which we so much admire in him. In his celebrated 
 letters on American Debts, the sarcasm is keen, but 
 the humour is genial, and we see that it is half in 
 love and half in anger he writes. I never meet a 
 Pennsylvanian,’' he says, at a London dinner, with- 
 out feeling a disposition to seize and divide him, — to 
 allot his beaver to one sufferer and his coat to an- 
 other, — to appropriate his pocket-handkerchief to the 
 orphan, — and to comfort the widow with his silver 
 watch, Broadway rings, and London Guide, which he 
 always carries in his pocket.” Then with what inim- 
 itable humour he exhorts the supposed repudiators 
 of their debts to repentance and reformation : — My 
 dear Jonathan, make a great effort, — book up at once 
 and pay. Bull is naturally disposed to love you ; 
 but he loves nobody that does not pay him. His 
 imaginary paradise is some planet of punctual 
 payment, where ready money prevails and where 
 debt and discount are unknown.” It is not 
 for gin-sling and sherry-cobbler alone that man 
 is to live ; but for those great principles against 
 which no argument can be hstened to, — principles 
 which give to every power a double power above 
 their functions and their offices, — which are the 
 books, the arts, the academies that teach, lift up, 
 and nourish the world ; — principles (I am quite 
 serious in what I say) above cash, superior to cotton, 
 
io8 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 higher than currency, — principles without which it 
 were better to die than live, which every servant of 
 God, over every sea and in all lands, should cherish.” 
 Never was the folly of unreasoning obstinacy, on the 
 part of governments, more happily illustrated than 
 in Sydney’s account of American independence : — 
 ‘‘ There was a period when the slightest concession 
 would have satisfied the Americans ; but all the 
 world was in heroics : one set of gentlemen met at 
 the Lamb and another at the Lion ; blood-and-trea- 
 sure men, breathing war, vengeance, and contempt ; 
 and in eight years afterwards, an awkward-looking 
 gentleman, in plain clothes, walked up to the draw- 
 ing-room of St James’s, in the midst of the gentlemen 
 of the Lion and the Lamb, and was introduced as 
 the ambassador from the United States of America^ 
 In an argument for sustaining the dignity of the 
 clergy becomingly, he says : — A picture is drawn of 
 a clergyman with £1^0 per annum, who combines 
 all moral, physical, and intellectual advantages — a 
 learned man, dedicating himself intently to the care 
 of his parish, — of charming manners and dignified 
 deportment, — six feet two inches high, beautifully 
 proportioned, with a magnificent countenance, ex- 
 , pressive of all the cardinal virtues and the ten com- 
 mandments ; and it is asked with an air of triumph 
 if such a man as this will fall into contempt on 
 account of his poverty ? But substitute for him an 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 109 
 
 average, ordinary, uninteresting minister : obese, 
 dumpy, neither ill - natured nor good - natured, 
 neither learned nor ignorant, striding over the stiles 
 to church with a second-rate wife — dusty and 
 deliquescent — and four parochial children, full of 
 catechism and bread and butter, — among all his 
 pecuniary, saponaceous, oleaginous parishioners. 
 Can any man of common sense say that all these 
 outward circumstances of the ministers of religion 
 have no bearing on religion itself?’’ As another 
 illustration of the happy union of wit and humour, 
 permit me to quote a passage from Browning’s ex- 
 quisitely amusing poem, founded on the legend of 
 ‘‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin:” — 
 
 “ Into the street the piper stept, 
 
 Smiling first a little smile, 
 
 As if he knew what magic slept 
 In his quiet pipe the while ; 
 
 There,' like a musical adept. 
 
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. 
 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled 
 Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
 
 And ere three shrill notes the pipe utter’d. 
 
 You heard as if an army mutter’d ; 
 
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
 
 And the gmmbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; 
 
 And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
 
 Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. 
 
 Grave old plodders, gay young friskers. 
 
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
 
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers. 
 
 Families by tens and dozens. 
 
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
 
1 10 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 Follow’d the piper for their lives. 
 
 From street to street he piped advancing, 
 
 And step for step they follow’d dancing, 
 
 Until they come to river Weser, 
 
 Wherein all plunged and perish’d 
 — Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 
 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 (As he the manuscript he cherish’d) 
 
 To Rat-land home his commentary ; 
 
 Which was — ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. 
 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
 
 Into a cider-press’s gripe ; 
 
 And a moving away of pickle-tub boards. 
 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards. 
 
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks. 
 
 And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 
 
 And it seem’d as if a voice 
 (Sweeter by far than by harp or by psaltery 
 Is breathed) call’d out, “O rats, rejoice ! 
 
 The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 
 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your muncheon. 
 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon !” 
 
 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 
 
 All ready staved, like a great sun, shone 
 Glorious scarce an inch before me. 
 
 Just as methought it said, “Come, bore me !” 
 
 — I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’ ” 
 
 As a general rule, our American cousins are defi- 
 cient in wit and humour ; and hence the prevalence 
 among them of many absurdities which in other 
 countries would be laughed down. Still, America 
 can boast of her great humourists ; — Washington 
 Irving, Hawthorne, Holmes, Lowell, are unsurpassed 
 in their respective walks. Here is a little specimen 
 of American humour, not bad in its way. The 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 III 
 
 author’s name I do not know; the piece itself was 
 read lately before some literary society in Massa- 
 chusetts : — 
 
 ‘ ‘ A certain school, not far away, 
 
 ’Mid Berkshire hills, one winter’s day, 
 
 Was humming with its wonted noise 
 Of threescore mingled girls and boys ; 
 
 Some few upon their task intent. 
 
 But more on furtive mischief bent ; 
 
 The while the master’s downward look 
 Was fasten’d on a copy-book ; 
 
 When suddenly, behind his back, 
 
 Rose, sharp and clear, a rousing smack ! 
 
 As ’twere a battery of bliss 
 Let off in one tremendous kiss ! 
 
 ‘ What ’s that ? ’ the startled master cries ; 
 
 ‘ That, thir,’ a little imp replies, 
 
 ‘ Wath William Willi th, if you pleathe — 
 
 I thaw him kith Thuthanah Peathe ! ’ 
 
 With frown to make a statue thrill. 
 
 The master thunder’d, ‘ Hither, Will ! ’ 
 lake wretch o’ertaken in his track, 
 
 With stolen chattels on his back. 
 
 Will hung his head, in fear and shame, 
 
 And to the awful presence came, — 
 
 A great, green, bashful simpleton, 
 
 The butt of all good-natured fun ; 
 
 With smile suppress’d, and birch upraised, 
 
 The threatener falter’d, ‘ I ’m amazed 
 That you, my biggest pupil, should 
 Be guilty of an act so rude ! 
 
 Before the whole set school to boot ! 
 
 What evil genius put you to ’t ? ’ 
 
 ‘ ’Twas herself, sir,’ sobb’d the lad ; 
 
 ‘ I didn’t mean to be so bad ; 
 
 But when Susannah shook her curls, 
 
 And whisper’d I was ’fraid of girls, 
 
 And dursn’t kiss a baby doll, 
 
 I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all, 
 
II2 
 
 Wn AND HUMOUR. 
 
 But up and kiss’d her on the spot ! 
 
 I know,’ — boo, boo, — ‘ I ought to not. 
 
 But somehow, from her looks,’ — boo, boo, — 
 
 I thought she kind o’ wish’d me to ! ’” 
 
 It is satisfactory to know that the master gave this 
 boy a free pardon ; for evidently, as of old, it was the 
 little Eve who beguiled'^ him. 
 
 Here is another little specimen of American humour, 
 by the grave philosopher, Emerson : — 
 
 “ The Mountain and the Squirrel 
 Had a quarrel ; 
 
 And the Mountain call’d the Squirrel, ‘Little Prig.’ 
 
 Bun replied, 
 
 ‘ You are doubtless very big ; 
 
 But all sorts of things and weathers 
 Must be taken in together 
 To make up a year 
 And a sphere. 
 
 And I think it no disgrace 
 To occupy my place. 
 
 If I ’m not so large as you, 
 
 You are not so small as I, 
 
 And not half so spry. 
 
 I ’ll not deny you make 
 A very pretty squirrel track ; 
 
 Talents differ ; all is wisely put ; 
 
 If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
 
 Neither can you crack a nut.” 
 
 And so little Squirrel walks round and over big, blus- 
 tering Mountain ; and the spry logician at length fairly 
 .doubles up the lumbering old fellow, and scratches his 
 head for him with a grave, satiric grace, that is quite 
 edifying. 
 
 If we take pure wit, unmixed with humour, we 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 II3 
 
 find that in this shape its general tendency is aggres- 
 sive, reformatory, and destructive. As a reformer of 
 morals and manners, we must assign a high place to 
 wit. Rightly employed, it assails and sweeps away 
 the worn out and the thoroughly bad, and thus 
 makes way for something better. Thus, it must be 
 admitted, wit is slightly radical in its tendencies. 
 Recognising no prescriptive right, it strikes right and 
 left at the false and the corrupt ; and taking the 
 most respectable and reverend things by the beard, 
 will cover them with ridicule. And truly, in a world 
 where there is so much vice, folly, hypocrisy, ab- 
 surdity, pretension, and selfish wickedness, — such a 
 rank growth of falsehood, show, gullibility, and 
 general rascality, — where we are all such mummers, 
 walking behind a mask at Vanity Fair, it is a happy 
 arrangement that there is a faculty capable of seeing 
 into all this, and of unmasking the whole, so as to 
 make them seem what they really are. Vanity, pre- 
 tension, pride, hypocrisy, and selfish ambition, have 
 no such dangerous assailant as wit, when rightly 
 directed. It comes behind ; strips off the tawdry 
 ornament that imposed upon the world, and exhibit- 
 ing them, with their real faces, in all their ludicrous 
 absurdity, sets mankind in a roar of laughter at things 
 that seemed lately very venerable and awful. It 
 admits people behind the scenes, and points out all 
 the dirty ropes, and pulleys, and paint-pots, — all the 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 1 14 
 
 tinsel and cheap stage-properties, by which the great 
 shows of the world are got up ; and exhibits, too, the 
 poor actors, in their everyday clothes, without their 
 high-heeled boots and their awful robes and crowns. 
 All this is a positive and incalculable benefit to 
 society. Without such a radical reformer to smite 
 down such things and keep them in order, we should 
 be utterly overrun by them. Nor is there, in such 
 cases, any other weapon so effective as wit. Solemn 
 argument is useless ; the lash of ridicule alone is of 
 service. Have you never met with a stately, pompous 
 individual, solemn in gait, and measured and oracular 
 in speech, uttering the dullest commonplaces with all 
 the gravity of Nestor; able to settle the most difficult 
 questions in a moment, and that incontrovertibly ; 
 who seems to say — 
 
 ‘‘ I am Sir Oracle, 
 
 And when I ope my lips let no dog bark?” 
 
 How utterly he extinguishes all small, humble 
 people ! How the poor, bright man is overawed 
 by his very deportment, by the mere elevation of 
 his eye-brows, and quails into silence ! How inex- 
 pressibly he bores us all, but we dare not yawn or 
 contradict him. If you presume to differ from his 
 opinions he will retire on his moral dignity, and stare 
 at you in solemn silence, which is far more appalling 
 than the strongest arguments. This imposing, official 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 II5 
 
 sort of personage carries all before him ; and yet he 
 succeeds pretty much in virtue of his stage-properties 
 and deportment ; and has only sufficient sense to 
 keep him from being an absolute stupiditarian, and 
 to make him an inhuman bore. Society is greatly 
 afflicted with such stilted characters, who really cause 
 a deal of misery ; and are not only stupid themselves, 
 but the cause of stupidity in others, for they are the 
 death of all geniality within their circle. How are 
 they to be repressed } Why, I think they can only 
 be successfully assailed by wit. They are proper 
 subjects for Momus and his merry crew. Let the 
 shafts of ridicule rain upon their stupid pomposity. 
 Let wit, with its bright glancing rapier, assail them j 
 and just as a great gas-filled balloon collapses when 
 pricked, so will these gaseous individuals come to 
 the ground. In fact, we must hand over all such to 
 the custody of Mr Punch, whose mission as a great 
 moral and social reformer is now so generally ad- 
 mitted. This merry old gentleman, with his hunch- 
 back, hooked nose, and twinkling, mischievous eye, is 
 now a welcome visitor everywhere, and enjoys an 
 immense popularity among old and young. We all 
 feel that he supplies a want of our common nature, 
 and exerts a wholesome influence in society, assault- 
 ing the contemptible, mean, and ridiculous, and 
 exploding the false, the dastardly, and the corrupt. 
 Mr Punch is not immaculate — who of us is so ? — but. 
 
ii6 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 on the whole, his influence is decidedly favourable to 
 good morals. Rarely, if ever, do you find anything 
 really good, pure, or venerable held up to ridicule, 
 scorn, or contempt in the pages of Punch, He is a 
 satirist, but without coarseness or malignity. No dig- 
 nity is too exalted for his pungent ridicule or biting 
 sarcasm. Rome, Oxford, and Exeter Hall alike come 
 in for a knock when they fall into bigotry or absurdity ; 
 and why should they not } All the little foibles 
 of society are pleasantly exposed. Many a piece of 
 wickedness has he laughed to scorn and annihilation. 
 Next to the Times ^ he is now one of the great powers 
 of the empire. Society needs such a gleeful, good- 
 humoured castigator. Wanting him, we should be 
 more liable to be gulled by pretenders and quacks 
 or to do silly, vain, absurd things. A nation, as well 
 as an individual, requires a sense of the ridiculous to 
 keep them from contemptible actions. 
 
 For all absurd popular manias and delusions, by 
 which weak heads are so apt to be turned, nothing is 
 so effectual as ridicule. Did not Cervantes, by his 
 Don Quixote, ^Haugh Spain’s chivalry away,” — or 
 rather Spain’s mawkish, sentimental taste for the 
 absurd romances of chivalry.? When any institution 
 becomes shaky, and gets into its dotage, wit is sure 
 to assail it remorselessly. In all great reforms it is 
 the pioneer — ^^undermining the old, exposing the false, 
 and urging the speedy interment of the dead and 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 I17 
 
 putrescent. So it was in the days of the Reforma- 
 tion, the French Revolution, the Reform Bill, and 
 the Corn-Law agitation. All popular agitators well 
 know the value of wit. Witness the enormous power 
 once wielded over the public mind by Butler in his 
 '' Hudibras,'' by Swift and Churchill, and by Gilray 
 and H. B. as caricaturists. Fox, Sheridan, Pitt, and 
 Canning influenced men’s minds quite as much by 
 their witty productions as by their graver eftbrts, and 
 these are now read when their speeches are hardly 
 glanced at. Wit is strictly of no party, but oftenest 
 on the radical side. A Conservative,” says Douglas 
 Jerrold, ^^is a man who will not look at the new 
 moon, out of respect for that ancient institution, the 
 old one.” But Radicalism does not escape — reform 
 is a very good thing ; but, says quaint old Fuller, 
 many hope that the tree will be felled who hope to 
 gather chips by the fall.” A German prince once 
 gave his subjects a free constitution — what we call 
 ‘^responsible government.” They were greatly dis- 
 satisfied, and complained that “ heretofore they had 
 paid taxes and been saved the trouble of govern- 
 ment ; but now they were not only taxed but had 
 to govern themselves.” “ ‘ God save the king,’ ” says 
 Sydney Smith, “ very often means, save my pension 
 and place, — give my sisters an allowance out of the 
 privy purse, — make me clerk of the irons, — let me 
 survey the meltings, — let me live on the fruit of 
 
ii8 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 other men's industry, and fatten upon the plunder of 
 the public." Thus, right and left, without respect of 
 parties, does wit deal its blows wherever they are 
 deserved. Weak, unthinking benevolence is thus 
 taken to pieces by Sydney Smith : — The English 
 are a calm, reflecting nation ; they will give time and 
 money when they are convinced, but they love dates, 
 names, and certificates. In the midst of the most 
 heart-rending narratives. Bull inquires the day of the 
 month, the year of our Lord, the name of the parish, 
 and the counter-sign of three or four respectable 
 housekeepers. After these affecting circumstances 
 have been given, he can no longer hold out, but gives 
 way to the kindness of his nature — puffs, blubbers, 
 and subscribes." The practice of duelling is thus 
 held up to ridicule in Carlyle’s '^Sartor Resartus:" — 
 Two little visual spectra of men, hovering with in- 
 secure enough cohesion, in the midst of the unfathom- 
 able, and to dissolve therein at any rate very soon, 
 make pause at the distance of twelve paces asunder, 
 whirl round, and simultaneously, by the cunningest 
 mechanism, explode one another into dissolution, 
 and off-hand become air and non-extant. The little 
 spitfires ! Nay, I think the angels must needs laugh 
 outright, could such a thing be, to see our wondrous 
 manikins here below." 
 
 To describe and illustrate the various forms which 
 wit and humour assume would require a volume. 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 II9 
 
 Fantastic and innumerable are their shapes. Simile 
 and metaphor, — odd mixtures of words and ideas, — 
 irony, raillery, sarcasm, satire, — the mock-heroic, the 
 sparkling burlesque, the absurd exaggeration, the 
 broad farce, the titillating drollery, — mockery, ridi- 
 cule, parody, epigrams, puns, — in these and many 
 other forms do wit and humour delight to disport 
 themselves. Very beautifully has Milton depicted 
 the mirthful train in his Allegro” — a portion of 
 
 which I have already quoted : — 
 
 “ But come, thou goddess fair and free. 
 
 In heaven yclep’d Euphrosyne, 
 
 And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ; 
 
 Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 
 
 With two sister Graces more, 
 
 To ivy- crowned Bacchus bore .... 
 
 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
 Jest and youthful Jollity, 
 
 Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 
 
 Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides. 
 
 Come, and trip it, as you go. 
 
 On the light fantastic toe.” 
 
 Leaving to curious and learned investigation the 
 recondite shapes that wit and humour assume, I 
 shall only aim at furnishing a few examples of their 
 more common forms. The simile is one of the most 
 ordinary vehicles for bringing incongruous ideas to- 
 gether. Sydney Smith, in some remarks on the 
 
120 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 habits of the sloth, says — He moves suspended, 
 rests suspended, sleeps suspended, and, in fact, passes 
 his life in suspense, like a young clergyman distantly 
 related to a bishop!' Sheridan makes one of the char- 
 acters in his farce of St Patrick’s Day,” remonstrate 
 thus against the impropriety of her friend marrying a 
 soldier : — ^^To want a husband, that may wed you to- 
 day, and be sent goodness knows where before night ; 
 then, in a twelvemonth perhaps, to come home, like a 
 Colossus y with one leg at New York and the other at 
 Chelsea Hospital.” The same witty writer compares 
 a Jew who had forsworn his faith, and ^^had not had 
 time to get a new one,” to ^^a dead wall standing 
 between church and synagogue, or the blank leaves 
 between the Old and New Testament!' Praed has the 
 following witty simile : — 
 
 ‘ ‘ I think that love is like a play, 
 
 Where tears and smiles are blended ; 
 
 Or like a faithless April day, 
 
 Whose shine with shower is ended ; 
 
 Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough ; 
 
 Like trade, exposed to losses ; 
 
 And like a Highland plaid, all stuff, 
 
 And very full of crosses.” 
 
 The conversation of Robert Hall abounded at 
 times with the keenest sarcasm. Speaking of Dr 
 Ryland, he exclaimed — ^^Why, sir. Dr Ryland’s all 
 piety — all piety together, sir. If there were not 
 room in heaven, God would turn out an archangel 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 I2I 
 
 for him ” Person’s criticism on Gibbon’s Rome is a 
 specimen of the most biting sarcasm : — “ His style is 
 emphatic and expressive ; his periods harmonious. 
 His reflections are often just and profound; he pleads 
 eloquently for the rights of mankind and the duty of 
 toleration; nor does his humanity slumber except 
 ivhen women are ravished and the Chistians perse- 
 cuted, Though his style is in general correct and 
 elegant, he sometimes draws out the thread of his 
 verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. In 
 endeavouring to avoid vulgar terms, he too frequently 
 dignifies trifles, and clothes common thoughts in a 
 dress that would be rich enough for the noblest ideas. 
 In short, we are too often reminded of that great 
 man Mr Puff, the auctioneer, whose manner was so 
 inimitably fine that ^ he had as much to say upon a 
 ribbon as a Raphael.’ ” The description in Hudi- 
 bras,” of certain sour-minded religionists belongs to 
 the same class : — 
 
 “ Compound for sins they are inclined to, 
 
 By damning those they have no mind to ; 
 
 Still so perverse and opposite, 
 
 As if they worshipp’d God for spite.’’ 
 
 There is no species of wit that palls upon us so 
 soon as parody, or which requires less genius ; yet 
 when attempted by a man of true humour, the result 
 is exceedingly amusing. The Rejected Addresses” 
 belong to this class; and every one knows how 
 
122 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 laughter-provoking are those imitations of the re- 
 spective styles of our great poets. Quotations from 
 such well-known productions are needless. Almost 
 every popular poem is sure to be, parodied, no mat- 
 ter how lofty its subject. Longfellow's Hiawatha" 
 seems to have been peculiarly potent in provoking 
 parodies. Here is one, for example, on the adage 
 that Misfortunes never come single:" — 
 
 “ Never jumps a sheep that’s frighten’d, 
 
 Over any fence whatever, 
 
 Over wall, or fence, or timber, 
 
 But a second follows after. 
 
 And a third upon the second. 
 
 And a fourth and fifth, and so on, — 
 
 First a sheep and then a dozen. 
 
 Till they all, in quick succession. 
 
 One by one, have got clear over ; 
 
 So misfortunes, almost always. 
 
 Follow after one another ; 
 
 Seem to watch each other always. 
 
 When they see the tail uplifted. 
 
 In the air the tail uplifted. 
 
 As one sorrow leapeth over, 
 
 So they follow, thicker, faster. 
 
 Till the air of earth seems darken’d.” 
 
 Daniel O’Ccnnell's famous parody on the well- 
 known lines, 
 
 “ Three poets in three different ages born,” &c., &c., 
 
 is admirable of its kind. The three Colonels referred 
 to are Sibthorp, Percival, and Verner: the first noted 
 for his enormous beard, in which the man was almost 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 123 
 
 lost ; the others for their freedom from all hairy ap- 
 pendages : — 
 
 “Three Colonels, in three distant counties born, 
 
 Lincoln, Armagh, and 'Sligo did adorn — 
 
 The first in matchless impudence surpass’d. 
 
 The next in bigotry, — in both the last ; 
 
 The force of nature could no farther go, — 
 
 To beard the third, she shaved the other two.” 
 
 Southey’s Curse of Kehama” is also amusingly 
 parodied in Barham’s Ingoldsby Legends,” in the 
 malediction pronounced by the Cardinal upon the 
 Jackdaw of Rheims, that had stolen his ring: — 
 
 “The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. 
 
 He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book. 
 
 In holy anger and pious grief. 
 
 He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ; 
 
 He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed. 
 
 From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; 
 
 He cursed him in sleeping, that every night 
 He should dream of the devil and wake in a fright ; 
 
 He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, 
 
 He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ; 
 
 He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying. 
 
 He cursed him in walking, in riding, and flying. 
 
 He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying ; — 
 
 Never was heard such a terrible curse ; 
 
 But what gave rise 
 To no little surprise. 
 
 Nobody seem’d one penny the worse.” 
 
 The same author has parodied the “ Burial of Sir 
 John Moore:” — 
 
 “ Not a sous had he got, not a guinea or note. 
 
 And he look’d confoundedly flurried. 
 
 As he bolted away without paying his shot. 
 
 And the landlady after him hurried. 
 
124 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 ‘‘We saw him again at dead of night, 
 
 When home from the club returning ; 
 
 We twigg’d the Doctor beneath the light 
 Of the gas lamps brilliantly burning. 
 
 “ All bare and exposed to the midnight dews, 
 
 Reclined in the gutter we found him ; 
 
 And he lay like a gentleman taking his snooze. 
 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 “ The Doctor ’s as drunk as a piper, we said. 
 
 And we managed a shutter to borrow ; 
 
 We raised him, and sigh’d at the thought that his head 
 Would consumedly ache "on the morrow. 
 
 “We bore him home and put him to bed. 
 
 And we told his wife and daughter 
 To give him next morning a couple of red 
 Herrings and soda water. 
 
 “ Loudly they talk’d of his money that ’s gone. 
 
 And his lady began to upbraid him ; 
 
 But little he reck’d, if they let him snore on, 
 
 ’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. 
 
 “ We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done. 
 
 When, beneath the window calling. 
 
 We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun 
 Of a watchman “ one o’clock” bawling. 
 
 “ Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down 
 
 From his room in the uppermost story ; 
 
 A rushlight we placed on the cold hearthstone. 
 
 And we left him alone in his gloiy. ” 
 
 Puns are now almost universally banished from 
 decent society, and condemned as intolerable nui- 
 sances. Yet how admirably Hood has worked this 
 vein, and by his fine genius made even punning re- 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 125 
 
 spectable ! Witness, for example, his ballad of “ Ben 
 Battle:”— 
 
 “ Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 
 
 And used to war’s alarms ; 
 
 But a cannon ball took off his legs, 
 
 So he laid down his arms. 
 
 “ Now as they bore him off the field. 
 
 Said he, ‘ Let others shoot. 
 
 For here I leave my second leg. 
 
 And the forty-second foot.’ 
 
 “The army surgeons made him limbs, 
 
 Said he, ‘ They ’re only pegs ; 
 
 But they ’re as wooden members quite 
 As represent my legs. ’ 
 
 “Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 
 
 Her name was Nelly Gray; 
 
 So he went to pay her his devoirs 
 When he devour’d his pay. 
 
 “Now when he call’d on Nelly Gray 
 She made him quite a scoff. 
 
 And when she saw his wooden legs 
 Began to take them off. 
 
 “ ‘ O Nelly Gray, O Nelly Gray, 
 
 Is this your love so warm ? 
 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat 
 Should be more uniform.’ 
 
 “ Said she, ‘ I loved a soldier once, 
 
 But he was blithe and brave ; 
 
 But I will never have a man 
 With both legs in the grave. 
 
 “ ‘ Before you had those timber toes 
 Y our love I did allow ; 
 
 But then you know you stand upon 
 A different footing now. ’ 
 
126 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 “ ‘ O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 
 
 For all your jeering speeches, 
 
 At duty’s call I left my legs 
 In Badajoz breaches I ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Why, then,’ said she, ‘you’ve lost the feet 
 Of legs in war’s alarms. 
 
 And now you cannot wear your shoes 
 Upon your feats of arms.’ 
 
 “ ‘ O false and fickle Nelly Gray ! 
 
 I know why you refuse : 
 
 Though I’ve no feet, some other man 
 Is standing in my shoes. 
 
 “ ‘ I wish I ne’er had seen your face ; 
 
 But now a long farewell ! 
 
 For you will be my death — alas ! 
 
 You will not be my Nell ! ’ 
 
 “ Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 
 
 His heart so heavy got. 
 
 And life was such a burden grown. 
 
 It made him take a knot. 
 
 “ So round his melancholy neck 
 A rope he did entwine, 
 
 And for his second time in life 
 Enlisted in the Line. 
 
 “ One end he tied around a beam. 
 
 And then removed his pegs ; 
 
 And as fiis legs were off — of course 
 He soon was off his legs. 
 
 “ And there he hung till he was dead 
 As any nail in town ; 
 
 For though distress had cut him up. 
 
 It could not cut him down. 
 
 “ A dozen men sat on his corpse 
 To find out why he died ; 
 
 And they buried Ben in four cross-roads. 
 With a stake in his inside.” 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 127 
 
 I can quote only one other specimen from the 
 sparkling pages of Hood. It belongs to no parti- 
 cular species of the ludicrous, but is a mixture of the 
 comic, the witty, and the humorous. It is entitled 
 '' The Bachelor’s Dream:” — 
 
 ‘‘ My pipe is lit, my grog is mix’d, 
 
 My curtains drawn, and all is snug ; 
 
 Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, 
 
 And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
 
 Last night I had a curious dream, 
 
 Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg — 
 
 What d’ ye think of that, my cat ? 
 
 What d’ ye think of that, my dog ? 
 
 “ She look’d so fair, she sang so well, 
 
 I could but woo, and she was won ; 
 
 Myself in blue, the bride in white. 
 
 The ring was placed, the deed was done ! 
 
 Away we went in chaise-and-four, 
 
 . As fast as grinning boys could flog — 
 
 What d’ye think, &c. 
 
 “ What loving tete-cb-tites to come ! 
 
 But Ute-a-tetes must still defer ! 
 
 When Susan came to live with me, 
 
 Her mother came to live with her ! 
 
 With sister Belle she could not part ; 
 
 But all my ties had leave to jog — 
 
 What d’ ye think, &c. 
 
 “ The mother bought a pretty Poll — 
 
 A monkey too, what work he made ! 
 
 The sister introduced a beau — 
 
 My Susan brought a favourite maid. 
 
 She had a tabby of her own, 
 
 A snappish mongrel, christen’d Gog — 
 
 What d’ye think, &c. 
 
128 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 “ The monkey bit, the parrot scream’d, 
 
 All day the sister strumm’d and sung ; 
 
 The petted maid was such a scold, 
 
 My Susan learn’d to use her tongue ; 
 
 Her mother had such wretched health. 
 
 She sat and croak’d like any frog — 
 What d’ye think, &c. ; 
 
 “No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, 
 
 I soon came down to simple ‘ M ’ ! 
 
 The very servants cross’d my wish. 
 
 My Susan let me down to them ; 
 
 The poker hardly seem’d my own, 
 
 I might as well have been a log — 
 
 What d’ ye think, &c. 
 
 “ My clothes, they were the queerest shape ! 
 Such coats and hats she never met ! 
 
 My ways they were the oddest ways ! ‘ 
 
 My friends were such a vulgar set ! 
 
 Poor Tomkinson was snubb’d and huff’d. 
 She could not bear that Mister Blogg-^ 
 What d’ ye think, &c. 
 
 “ At times we had a spar, and then 
 Mamma must mingle in the song ; 
 
 The sister took a sister’s part, — 
 
 The maid declared her master wrong ; 
 
 The parrot team’d to call me ‘ Fool ’ ! 
 
 My life was like a London fog — 
 
 What d’ ye think, &c. 
 
 “ My Susan’s taste was superfine. 
 
 As proved by bills that had no end ; 
 
 I never had a decent coat, 
 
 I never had a coin to spend. 
 
 She forced me to resign my club, 
 
 Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog — 
 What d’ye think, &c. 
 
 “ Now, was not that an awful dream 
 For one who single is and snug — 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 129 
 
 With Pussy in the elbow-chair, 
 
 And Tray reposing on the rug? 
 
 If I must totter down the hill, 
 
 ’Tis safest done without a clog — 
 
 What d’ ye think of that, my cat ? 
 
 What d’ ye think of that, my dog ? ” 
 
 In closing this address, I can barely refer to one 
 familiar form of the ludicrous, which has obtained, 
 for some unknown reason, the name of bull,’' and is 
 most frequently met with in Ireland — the land where 
 wit is most sparkling and most relished. The ^^bull” 
 involves a blunder, in which some ludicrous incon- 
 gruity lurks. It has been defined as ^^the exact 
 counterpart of a witticism. Instead of discovering 
 real relations which are not apparent, it admits ap- 
 parent relations which are not real.” I will make 
 her,” says Sir Lucius O’Trigger of his mistress, 
 ‘^Lady O’Trigger, and a good husband into the bar- 
 gain.” A gentleman, in speaking of somebody’s wife, 
 regretted that she had no children. ‘^Ah!” said a 
 medical man present on the occasion, ‘To have no 
 children is a great misfortune, but I have remarked 
 that it is hereditary in some families.” Sir Boyle 
 Roche’s “bulls” will transmit his name and fame to 
 an admiring posterity. “Sir, I would give up half, 
 nay the whole of the constitution, to preserve the 
 remainder.” Hearing that Admiral Howe was in 
 quest of the French, he remarked, somewhat plea- 
 
 I 
 
130 
 
 JV/T AND HUMOUR. 
 
 santly, that the Admiral would sweep the French 
 fleet off* the face of the earth.” Writing to a friend, 
 in troublous times, he said — ‘'You may judge of our 
 state, when I tell you that I write this with a sword 
 in one hand and a pistol in the other.” It was he 
 who denounced, in withering language, the apostate 
 politician, who “turned his back upon himself.” His 
 invitation to the gentleman on his travels was hos- 
 pitable and well meant, but equivocal — “ I hope, my 
 lord, if ever you come within a mile of my house you 
 will stay there all night.” Ludicrously bovine, too, 
 was his rebuke to the shoemaker, when getting shoes 
 for his gouty feet — “ I told you to make one longer 
 than the other, and instead of that you have made 
 one smaller than the other ; the very opposite.” 
 “ Bulls,” however, are not wholly confined to the 
 fertile Hibernian mind ; there is also a small Scottish 
 variety. It is related of Lord Polkemmet that he 
 refused to let the dentist insert his finger in his 
 mouth, saying, “Na, yell bite me.” A bovine ten- 
 dency ran in the noble Lord’s family ; for his grand- 
 son, when canvassing a borough, refused to take 
 luncheon from an elector, on the ground “that it 
 would be treating.” When Miss Edgeworth pub- 
 lished her “ Essay on Irish Bulls,” it is said that an 
 English agricultural society ordered fifty copies, 
 under the impression that it was a treatise on 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 131 
 
 cattle-breeding. Here was a practical English 
 bull." 
 
 On the whole, then, I think we are justified in con- 
 cluding that it is legitimate and desirable, at times, 
 to hold converse with the ludicrous element of exist- 
 ence ; that our tempers and dispositions are thereby 
 sweetened, our charity enlarged, and the heavy pres- 
 sure of life’s cares lightened. In life’s rough journey 
 the ludicrous is a kind of bujfer^ to break the rude 
 shocks we have to encounter, and save us from un- 
 pleasant collision Avith stern realities. Not only so; 
 but it multiplies the sympathetic cords that bind us 
 to our brothers, lifts the lowly into our regards, and 
 leads us to exercise more love and less hatred. Our 
 true humourists must therefore be ranked among our 
 best benefactors ; they not only call forth our smiles, 
 but add to our charity, kindness, and happiness, and 
 shed a light and warmth around our whole being. 
 A really humorous writer must necessarily be a 
 warm-hearted, genial sort of man, tolerant in his 
 ways of looking at men and things, and without 
 bitterness or harshness. Take, for example, that 
 sweetest and most delicate of humourists — Oliver 
 Goldsmith. Could the heart that conceived and the 
 hand that drew the Vicar of Wakefield’^ be other 
 than the gentle, loving hand and heart of a brother } 
 Hence, if you find in a man a large endowment of 
 
132 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 wit and humour, so that he can enjoy the ludicrous ‘ 
 and laugh heartily, you may expect to find him 
 honest, sincere, and free from malignity. On the 
 other hand, if you find a man incapable of perceiving 
 the ridiculous, averse to all mirthfulness, and without 
 heartiness in his laughter, you had better not become 
 too intimate with him. Hear the author of “ Sartor 
 Resartus” on this point: — ^^No one who has once 
 heartily and wholly laughed can be altogether irre 
 claimably bad. How much lies in laughter, the 
 cipher-key wherewith we decipher the whole man ! 
 Some men wear an everlasting barren simper ; in the 
 smile of others lies a cold glitter, as of ice ; the fewest 
 are able to laugh what can be called laughing, but 
 only sniff, and titter, and snigger from the throat out- 
 wards — or at best produce some whiffling, husky 
 cachinnation, as if they were laughing through wool ; 
 of none such comes good. The man who cannot 
 laugh is not only fit for treason's stratagems and 
 spoils, but his whole life is already a treason and a 
 stratagem." 
 
 Let no man fancy, then, that wit and humour are 
 mere contemptible frivolities, to be shunned by all 
 wise and sober men ; on the contrary, they are the 
 very salt of existence. Jeremy Taylor says '^we 
 may well be refreshed by a clean and brisk discourse, 
 as by the air of Campanian wines, and our faces and 
 
IVIT AND HUMOUR. 
 
 133 
 
 our heads may well be anointed and look pleasant 
 with wit, as with the fat of the balsam tree.’^ Let 
 not the pompous, the solemn, or sour-minded turn 
 away from such things, as being vain or contemptible. 
 Be assured that length of face by no means implies 
 longitude of wisdom, and that gravity does not 
 always veil an oracle. Genuine wit implies no small 
 amount of wisdom and culture, and, as Sydney Smith 
 says, ^^is commonly accompanied by many other 
 talents of every description, and ought to be con- 
 sidered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior 
 understanding.” To name the greatest humourists 
 would be to enumerate some of the ablest and wisest 
 men that have ever lived. What great reform has 
 ever yet made way in the world without the aid 
 of wit and humour What countless services they 
 have rendered in putting down impudence and hy- 
 pocrisy, in detecting pretence and pomposity, in 
 collaring solemn imbecility and varnished scoundrel- 
 ism, and hurling them to the dust-bin I How much 
 we owe our great humourists of former times, and 
 of the present day, who have turned their bat- 
 teries against ‘^old opinions, rags, and tatters,” that 
 have had their day; and who have pointed their 
 guns against the vile and the bad — against fal- 
 sity and foolishness in all their forms ! I am quite 
 aware of the abuses into which wit and humour may 
 
134 
 
 Wn AND HUMOUR. 
 
 run. What good thing is there that may not be 
 abused } If they be not mingled with higher quali- 
 ties, and directed by right principles, they will but 
 corrupt head and heart, and cause wide-spread mis- 
 chief. There is no more contemptible character than 
 the professed wit, whose vanity shews itself through 
 his painful efforts to be always funny and amusing ; 
 and the shallowness of whose understanding appears 
 in his uneasy attempts at humour. There is nothing 
 we should more heartily unite in denouncing and re- 
 pelling than witty attacks directed against purity, 
 truth, virtue, or the solemnities of religion. Let us 
 drive away with scorn and contempt the man who 
 assails with the shafts of wit the wise, the good, the 
 holy, and who aims at bringing into contempt what 
 the heart of humanity pronounces sacred. Let us 
 warn the light fool that profanity cannot be per- 
 mitted to tread the solemn aisles of the temple of 
 religion, and that wit employed against the cause of 
 morality and piety is a flagrant abuse of one of God’s 
 kind gifts. But, in the words of Sydney Smith, 
 when wit is combined with sense and information ; 
 when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by 
 strong principle; when it is in the hands of a man 
 who can use it and despise it — who can be witty and 
 something better than witty — who loves honour, 
 justice, decency, religion ten thousand times better 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR, 
 
 135 
 
 than wit, — wit is then a beautiful and delightful part 
 of our nature. Genuine and innocent wit is surely 
 the very flavour of the mind. Man could direct his 
 ways by plain reason, and support his life by taste- 
 less food ; but God has given us wit and flavour, and 
 brightness and laughter, to enliven the days of man's 
 pilgrimage, and ‘ to charm his pained steps over the 
 burning marie.' " 
 
LECTURE THE FOURTH. 
 
 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 Anchored off the coast of Europe, within sight of its 
 shores, is the most famous island on which the sun 
 now looks down. Its name is Great Britain. Be- 
 tween its furthest extremities, it is not more than eight 
 hundred miles in length, and some three hundred in 
 average breadth ; and is thus about equal in area to 
 the States of Georgia and South Carolina — two of 
 those now struggling for independence. The popu- 
 lation, including the six or seven millions of Ireland, 
 is somewhere about twenty-nine millions. On this 
 little sea-girt isle, which is a mere speck on the map 
 of the world, a race has grown up and developed 
 itself during the last thousand years which, in modern 
 times, has proved itself more potent in guiding the 
 current of civilisation, and influencing the world’s des- 
 tinies, than any other now extant. Confessedly, the 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, • 137 
 
 British race lead the van in the onward march of the 
 nations ; and only one other nation — the French — 
 can pretend to share with them in this honour. The 
 northern and southern portions of the island — Scot- 
 land and England — were at first at variance, and 
 wasted each other’s strength in fierce contests ; but 
 they have long since been reconciled, have entered 
 into partnership, and acted together for the common 
 weal. Now, consider what this race has achieved, in 
 a thousand years of working and fighting. An island 
 which, when they entered on possession, was mostly 
 forest and swamp, has been transformed into a garden, 
 incomparably the best cultivated and most productive 
 on the face of the earth. The rich treasures beneath 
 its surface they have explored and dragged up to the 
 sunlight; and, by the aid of these, they have be- 
 come the manufacturers and clothiers of the world. 
 They have built up mighty London, to which, in point 
 of wealth, magnitude, and population, no other capital 
 approaches. They have created Glasgow, Manchester, 
 Birmingham, and other great hives ^of industry, in 
 which the strokes fall so fast and incessant on the 
 anvil of labour. They have won the dominion of the 
 sea ; for centuries their flag has braved the battle 
 and the breeze;” and to-day it is Britannia rules 
 the waves.” Swarm after swarm has left the parent 
 hive, and colonised America and Australia, laying the 
 foundations of new empires in these distant regions. 
 
138 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 and, besides, peopling numberless isles of the sea. A 
 great empire has been conquered in India ; and when 
 recently all but lost, they grasped it more vigorously 
 than ever, and subdued it again. This strong-handed, 
 resolute, toiling race has also proved itself mighty in 
 war ; and, from Cressy to Waterloo and Inkerman, 
 can point to a proud array of victories. In the world 
 of mind, too, great have been their achievements. In 
 science, they boast of the great names of Bacon, New- 
 ton, Herschel ; in the mechanical arts, they name 
 Brindley, Watt, Stephenson; in literature, Shakespeare, 
 Spenser, Milton, Burns, Scott, Wordsworth. With the 
 exception of Germany, there is no other literature so 
 rich as that of England. Look at this side of the At- 
 lantic, where England’s greatest ofif-shoot, the United 
 States, some eighty years ago, was so strong and full- 
 grown that they insisted on setting up in life on their 
 own account ; and how they have thriven, at what 
 an amazing pace they have advanced, we all know. 
 Already, in their towering ambition, they proclaim 
 that the New World is their own. 
 
 Now', the people that have done all this, and left 
 their traces so broadly on the face of the earth, 
 though marked by distinctive peculiarities, are from 
 the same stock, and are virtually the same race. 
 The Scotch are just the English raised,” as the 
 Yankees say, on a poorer soil and in a colder clime 
 than those of England, and subsisting more largely 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 1 39 
 
 on oatmeal and barley bread than their Southern 
 brethren. And though in America the great human 
 sandwich has more variety of mixture, drawn from 
 Ireland, Germany, and other portions of the Old 
 World, yet its spirit and substance, its might and 
 energy, all that make it a nation, are Anglo-Saxon. 
 Now, to sum up, there are at this moment on the 
 earth sixty millions of English descent and language, 
 and they are governing a population of two hundred 
 and forty-five millions of souls. This calculation in- 
 cludes the United States; but, exclusive of these, 
 there are forty millions of pure British stock, and 
 they are ruling two hundred and twenty-two millions, 
 or a fifth of the population of the globe. So predo- 
 minant have this strong-backed, earth-subduing race 
 become. To-day, so far from declining, they are as 
 strong as ever, — forging their Armstrong guns, launch- 
 ing their iron-plated frigates, and bullying the world, 
 as in former times. It is worth considering how this 
 man-conquering race arose, and what were the primi- 
 tive elements out of which it was constructed. 
 
 Geologists inform us that Britain was once joined 
 to the continent of Europe ; and that long before 
 man's day on earth, where at present the submerged 
 wires of the electric telegraph lie, connecting the 
 French and English coasts, a valley extended, covered 
 with willows and palm-trees. Among the branches 
 of these trees extinct owls and other birds roosted ; 
 
140 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 and under their foliage the palaeotherium, mastodon, 
 and forgotten races of elephants found shelter. As 
 other lands arose, the displaced waters of the sea 
 rushed into this valley, and transformed it into St 
 George’s Channel, — making Britain an island, but 
 leaving her admirably placed for communication 
 with east and west — the very centre of the world. 
 The first inhabitants of the island, of whom his- 
 tory makes any record, were the ancient Britons. 
 But there is unquestionable evidence to shew that 
 these ancient Britons were by no means the first 
 inhabitants of the island ; that they had their pre- 
 decessors, and these their predecessors again. His- 
 tory can tell us nothing of the early inhabitants 
 of Britain, from the time when Pharaoh built the 
 first pyramid, or Cecrops founded Athens, or Joshua 
 captured Jericho, till the landing of Julius Caesar 
 at Deal. Yet during this immense period, or at 
 least some portion of it, there were unquestionably 
 inhabitants in England and Scotland ; and though 
 we know not to what race they belonged, yet recently 
 a little light has been thrown on what was utter dark- 
 ness before. A diligent examination of ancient tombs 
 and their contents has made it clear that no less than 
 three different human formations preceded the ancient 
 Britons. At all events, antiquarians have clearly estab- 
 lished that there were three distinct epochs in the life 
 of this pre-historic race — the ages of stone, of bronze. 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 14I 
 
 and of iron. The stone period is so called because 
 the men who then lived were acquainted with no 
 other weapons or utensils save such as were con- 
 structed out of stone. During the bronze age, we 
 have evidence that the inhabitants were acquainted 
 with tin and copper, and constructed vessels and 
 weapons of bronze, a compound of these two metals. 
 The iron age is so called because those who figured 
 in it knew and employed iron. As this period closed, 
 history began to indite her earliest records. The 
 aboriginal Caledonian and Englishman of the stone 
 age must have been an uncouth savage. His dwell- 
 ing was a hole excavated in the ground, and roofed 
 in with stones. Armed with a ball of flint attached 
 to the end of a thong, he lay in wait for his prey, 
 and with this rude weapon struck down deer and 
 other animals. The remains of the stone forma- 
 tion, treasured in the British Museum, shew that 
 the first step he took in an upward direction was 
 in the construction of a hatchet. This weapon was 
 at first a sharp stone fastened to a wooden handle 
 by a leathern thong. But a great invention fol- 
 lowed — a method of piercing the stone, so as to 
 be fastened on the wooden handle. Some primeval 
 genius — some Arkwright or Watt of this era — worked 
 out this idea, and soon the oldest trees in the British 
 forests began to fall under the blows of the stone 
 hatchets. Knife -blades and arrow-heads of flint. 
 
142 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 wedges and scissors, followed ; and the rudiments of 
 civilisation began to appear. However disagreeable, 
 we are compelled to reckon the unkempt savages of 
 this age among our poor relations. They were not, 
 perhaps, very respectable ; but let us not forget that 
 they were the backwoodsmen whose stout arms first 
 cleared the jungles, and felled the forests, and con- 
 quered for us the savage beasts of prey ; and thus laid 
 the foundations of Britain's greatness. Considering 
 their disadvantages, and that they had nothing to 
 provide food with but arrow-heads and stone hatchets, 
 they did great things in smoothing the rough surface 
 of the earth ; and in their poor savage life, they had 
 their human affections, and joys, and sorrows, as we 
 have to-day. They must have belonged to the first 
 wave of human population that overspread the earth, 
 after the dispersion of Babel, and which, after the 
 lapse of ages, at length touched the shores of Britain. 
 Their mouldering remains shew that they were a short, 
 poorly-developed race, with skulls of a low, flat, pyra- 
 midal form, powerful jaws, but small foreheads. Such 
 were the first inhabitants of Britain. Dr Pritchard 
 gives the name of Ugro-Tatars to a group of nations 
 whose principal types are the Mongolian, the Tun- 
 grian, the Tatar, and the Turkish. All indicates that 
 the Ugro-Tatars, with whom are connected certain 
 hyperborean races, — the Samoyedes, the Lapons, and 
 the Esquimaux, — constitute one of the oldest branches 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 143 
 
 of the human race. This primitive race spread over 
 Europe, and formed the first children of the soil in 
 many parts where they settled. It has been inferred 
 from various evidence, chiefly philological, that the 
 aborigines of the United Kingdom belonged to one 
 family of this primeval race, called the Lapons. They 
 formed the primary strata of population in the British 
 Isles, to which has been given the name of the stone 
 formation. 
 
 The first inhabitants were ignorant of the art of 
 manipulating metals. A new epoch dawned when 
 copper and tin were discovered, and bronze, the result 
 of their intermixture, came into use. The first step 
 was the insertion of a spike of this metal in a hilt of 
 split wood; and, after many experiments and long 
 processes, a socket for receiving the handle was mani- 
 pulated. This was the first metal tool — a vast ad- 
 vance in human progress. In the British Museum 
 may now be seen the first stone hammers employed 
 in the old copper mines in breaking the mineral, and 
 the first moulds employed to run the metal and give 
 it shape — objects of profound interest to the philo- 
 sophic mind. What a stretch between these and the 
 Nasmyth hammer and iron foundry of the nineteenth 
 century ! During the bronze period, rude tools were 
 applied to the cultivation of the soil, primeval houses 
 were constructed, and the ladies of those days had 
 their fashions in bronze bracelets, collars, and head 
 
144 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 ornaments. Increased comforts, and improved means 
 of attaining them, secured an advance in the physical 
 development of the race ; and the men of the bronze 
 period, though still marked by a wild animal life, were 
 of a powerful mould, and, doubtless, looked back with 
 contempt on their predecessors of the stone age. 
 The skeleton of one of these bronze men, which has 
 been preserved, shews that the living person must 
 have been at least six feet six inches in height. The 
 teeth are found in excellent preservation yet, shewing 
 that dentists and dyspepsia were unknown in those 
 primitive times. Gradually the bronze age passed 
 into that of iron. Iron superseded all else in the con- 
 struction of instruments of industry and weapons of 
 war. Civilisation rapidly became more complicated 
 and elevated. The horse was tamed; strongholds 
 were built ; the human skull enlarged ; the facial 
 angle increased ; the eyebrows retired, and the fore- 
 head advanced ; and at length the true Celtic head 
 appeared. The close of the iron period brings us up 
 to the age of tradition — the times of Macbeth, St Pat- 
 rick, St Keernan, and the Northmen. Then dawns 
 the historic period — the ancient Britons and the Ro- 
 man invasion. 
 
 It is highly probable that the last of these pre- 
 historic men — our poor relations of the iron times — 
 were overwhelmed by the advance of a new migra- 
 tion. This fresh wave of the great human deluge 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 145 
 
 consisted of the Celts, or Sidonides, who now entered 
 and spread themselves over Britain. The origin of 
 all races is lost in the obscure mists of the past. Of 
 the Celts, we only know that their cradle was the 
 sunny East, and that, like all the other great waves 
 of population, they swept on towards the West. Their 
 language, which contains traces of Sanscrit, indicates 
 their Oriental origin. The race of Japhet sent out two 
 great streams of migration — the Celtic first, then the 
 German. Thus the Celtic is the oldest blood in the 
 world ; so that, as far as age goes, no man need be 
 ashamed of having it in his veins. At an early period 
 the Celts were a wide-spread race, having tribes 
 numerous and powerful in France, Spain, and the 
 middle and south of Europe; while of Britain and 
 Ireland they had exclusive possession. Until the 
 birth of Christ, there was no people north of the 
 Alps who could compare with them in the arts 
 of civilised life. Gradually the whole of the British 
 Isles were occupied by this great race. The Irish 
 Celt, a distinct family, reached Ireland by traversing 
 Spain and crossing the Bay of Biscay. From Ireland, 
 in the third century, they passed into Western Scot- 
 land and the Isle of Man. The Caledonian Celt held 
 the northern portion of Scotland, and the modern 
 Highlanders are his descendants. The British Celt, 
 or ancient Briton, possessed England, and is now 
 
 represented by the Welsh and Cornish. The bulk 
 
 K 
 
146 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 of the population of Ireland, with the exception of 
 the north, are the posterity of the Irish Celt. Thus 
 the modern Welsh, Highlanders, Irish, and Manxmen 
 are all branches of the Celtic stem, and in language, 
 character, and many personal peculiarities have a 
 strong family likeness. There seems to have been 
 a closer affinity between the Caledonian and Irish 
 Celt than either of these and the British Celt; for 
 we find that the Highlander, speaking his Gaelic, is 
 understood by the Irish-speaking Celt ; while the 
 language of a Welshman is wholly unintelligible to 
 both the former. The Gael and the Irishman can 
 also partially understand the Manxman. A brilliant 
 race were the Celts, full of energy and genius, war- 
 like, fond of music, of the song and the dance. They 
 contributed to the literature of the world the songs of 
 Merlin, and the graceful mythology of Arthur and 
 his Table Round. The genius of Tennyson has re- 
 cently, in his Idylls of the King,’' embodied some 
 of their traditions in his melodious verse. They left 
 behind them those funereal monuments called crom- 
 lechs, (vulgarly, Druidic stones,) which were their 
 sepulchres ; and Stonehenge, which is still a puzzle 
 to the antiquarian. How ineffaceable is race ! Can 
 the Ethiopian change his skin ? ” Could you, by any 
 amount of combing, washing, or training, transmute 
 the black man into the white ? The Celtic branch of 
 Japhet’s family, that left the sunny East so many 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 147 
 
 centuries since, retains, in its modern representatives, 
 its distinguishing characteristics in spite of change of 
 clime and altered circumstances. In their warlike 
 tendencies, their dislike to the practical conquests of 
 industry, their attachment to fishing and pastoral 
 pursuits, their mercurial temperament, their joyous, 
 thoughtless disposition, that prefers present enjoy- 
 ment to future good, — in their passion, gaiety, fierce 
 loves and hates, — do we not see traces of their Oriental 
 origin — of the clime of the sun, the cradle of their 
 race ? Compare Ireland, Wales, and the Highlands of 
 Scotland with the north of Ireland, the west and south 
 of Scotland, and England, — the lands of the Saxon, — 
 and what a striking difference you observe in the in- 
 habitants and in the countries themselves ! With all 
 their brilliancy, the modern Celts, it must be admitted, 
 are not thrifty, — do not, as a general rule, get on in 
 the world, — have not the love of hard work and the 
 talent for accumulation possessed by the slower Sax- 
 ons. Like the Easterns, they like to enjoy. Eloquent, 
 brave, sprightly, witty, but not worldly and prosper- 
 ous, they earn and spend, and fail in grappling suc- 
 cessfully with the practical realities of life. Are we 
 to refer their peculiarities to the warm sun of the 
 East, that land where 
 
 The cypress and myrtle 
 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ; 
 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 Now melt into softness, now madden to crime?” 
 
148 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 The stern Roman landed in Britain ; and the Celt, 
 though he fought bravely, went down before the 
 superior military skill and higher civilisation of the 
 Romans. Their defeats were very much owing to 
 an unhappy turn for quarrelling among themselves, 
 for which they have ever been noted ; and not even 
 the presence of imminent danger could keep them 
 united. They could not hold their ground before the 
 iron tread of the Roman legions. It was not, how- 
 ever, the Roman policy to exterminate, but to civil- 
 ise and govern. At length Roman decline set in ; 
 pressing domestic troubles arose ; and the conqueror 
 retired from Britain, leaving the British Celts to 
 themselves. For them, however, there was no peace. 
 Their thievish, marauding neighbours, the Piets and 
 Scots, assailed them fiercely. The Piets were the 
 Celts of the north of Scotland ; the Scots were a 
 tribe of Celts who had emigrated from Ireland, and 
 seized the south and west of Scotland, and who have 
 given their name to the whole land, though hardly 
 a drop of their blood runs in the veins of the 
 Lowland Scotch, their origin being Saxon. Thus the 
 Celts, as usual, got to fighting among themselves, — 
 the two northern tribes, the Piets and Scots, assailing 
 the southern or ancient Britons. The latter, in an 
 evil day for themselves, implored the aid of another 
 race, the Saxons of Germany, who willingly came 
 to their assistance. These were a totally different 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 149 
 
 people from any that had yet touched the shores of 
 Britain. They were of the great Teutonic stock, that 
 had spread over most of Germany, and for two hun- 
 dred and fifty years had fought the Romans, and 
 given them more trouble than any other enemy. A 
 strong -limbed, fierce race were these Saxons, who 
 were destined to form the primary stratum of the 
 present British people. The cradle of this race was 
 Scandinavia — Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Holstein ; 
 from thence they spread along the shores of the Baltic 
 and the banks of the Rhine, and finally pushed their 
 way into Germany, Switzerland, France, Greece, and 
 England. For ages they were the brigands of the 
 sea, pursuing piracy as a profession, and ravaging the 
 shores of Europe. Physically they were, and con- 
 tinue to be, the most powerful race of men in the 
 world. They were distinguished from other races by 
 the fairness of their complexion, their blue eyes, fair 
 hair, large, round heads, lofty stature, and great mus- 
 cular energy. Compared with the Celt, the Saxon 
 had redder hair ; while the colour of that of the Celt 
 was flaxen. The type of the Celtic skull was narrow 
 and elongated ; the Saxon, short and wide. Of ro- 
 bust, compact build, the Saxon excels the Celt in ful- 
 ness of chest, width, of shoulders, and muscularity of 
 arms ; while his framework is not so developed or so 
 well-proportioned as that of the Celt, — his limbs not 
 being in harmony with the upper part of his body. 
 
ISO ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 Tacitus described them so in his day; and the pure 
 Anglo-Saxon has the same characteristics at the 
 present hour. In moral qualities the Saxon differed 
 greatly from the Celt. Slower, less impulsive, and 
 less brilliant than the Celt, the Saxon had an indomi- 
 table pride that rendered him superior to all the freaks 
 of fortune, a self-reliance that made him firm and per- 
 severing in his enterprises, and a self-esteem that gave 
 him a conscious superiority over all others, and for- 
 bade the idea of his ever being enslaved. A late 
 French writer says : If you wish to form an idea of 
 the beauty of the Saxon type, you must look at the 
 female. She is remarkable for light hair, blue eyes, 
 coral lips, cheeks ruddy as the flowers to which they 
 are so frequently compared, a skin as white and trans- 
 parent as alabaster, delicate features, arms admirably 
 modelled, a perfect bust, and an air of flourishing 
 health, yet bearing the stamp of birth. Who cannot 
 recognise a true Saxon woman by her walk ? incessu 
 patuit dea : you distinguish in it the movement of a 
 haughty race, independent mistress of itself, and all it 
 thinks proper to subjugate.” Again: The character 
 of strength and greatness is found in all the chief 
 cities founded by the Saxon race ; it is reflected even 
 on the creations of industry. Ip all its labours the 
 Saxon genius aims at the gigantic ; it likes difficulties 
 to overcome ; it sets its pride on conquering the most 
 rebellious facts.” Such, then, were the great race that 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 151 
 
 were destined to form the stem of the English nation, 
 and to impress on them all their predominant char- 
 acteristics. 
 
 It seems to be a general law of nature, that where 
 two races, unequal in civilisation and force of charac- 
 ter, are brought together on the same territory, they 
 do not amalgamate ; the weaker goes down and dis- 
 appears before the stronger. Instead of blending and 
 forming a compound, the inferior race is either ex- 
 terminated, or slowly retires as the other advances. 
 Such has been the history of the red and white races 
 on the American continent ; such, too, was the pro- 
 cess when Saxon and Celt met on the soil of Britain. 
 The stronger Saxon prevailed. Fighting desperately, 
 l^ut hopelessly, for a hundred and fifty years, the Celt 
 fell back before his conqueror into the fastnesses of 
 Cornwall, behind the mountain ramparts of Wales, 
 and into the glens of the Highlands. The day of the 
 Celt, as a ruling power, was over. Swarm after swarm 
 arrived: the Jutes, from Jutland seized Kent and 
 Hampshire; the Saxons, from North Germany, and 
 the Angles established themselves in the rest of the 
 island ; and the new colonists got the name of Anglo- 
 Saxons. Pushing their way north, they drove before 
 them the Gael, or Caledonian Celt, till he was cooped 
 amid his rocky barriers behind the Grampians, whence, 
 for ages after, he was accustomed to issue forth and 
 make marauding excursions upon his southern op- 
 
152 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 pressors. Thus the Saxon race occupied all the Low- 
 lands of Scotland, and the modern Scotch are conse- 
 quently of the same race as the English. The Scotch 
 tongue is simply a dialect of the Saxon ; and the 
 Scottish people are, with some slight intermixtures, 
 thorough Saxons. When we now wish to find the 
 representatives of the British Celt, we must cross the 
 Grampians or sail for the Hebrides, or we must search 
 amid the recesses of the Welsh mountains. In Ire- 
 land, the best-preserved Celtic types are to be found 
 in Connaught, or among the athletic peasantry of Con- 
 nemara. But even in these retreats the expansive 
 power of the ever-advancing Saxon is felt ; and the 
 silent invasion of Teutonic civilisation is pushing 
 out the Celtic remnant. Hence the great exodus 
 from Ireland to the New World, and the rapid de- 
 population of the Highland glens and the northern 
 isles of Scotland. 
 
 The invasion of England by the Saxons took place 
 in the fifth century. In the tenth century another 
 conquering race arrived in Britain, and the turn of 
 the Saxon came. These were the Danes, as they are 
 commonly called, another Scandinavian tribe, from 
 Norway and Sweden; of the same race, therefore, 
 as the Saxons. They were the Vikings,’' or sea- 
 kings of those days : their ships swept the ocean ; 
 and they were accustomed to pillage, burn, and 
 murder without mercy wherever they came. This 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, I S3 
 
 much can be said in defence of piracy — that it was 
 the originator of navigation and commerce. For ages 
 these Danes were in the habit of ravaging the coasts 
 of Britain, carrying terror and destruction wherever 
 they appeared. No doubt the Saxons fought well 
 against the invaders, and at times got the better of 
 the Vikings, who were occasionally made to stay 
 where they landed, much against their will. There is 
 a story told of some of them being caught, on one 
 occasion, by the Saxons, who insisted strongly on 
 their remaining; and in order to make sure of this, 
 they divested the captured Danes of the one essen- 
 tial and perfectly fitting garment, indispensable in the 
 mildest climates, — the covering which nature, not the 
 tailor, makes up — namely, the skin ; they stripped 
 them of this under-clothing, and nailed it on the 
 church-door, as farmers do a dead crow, in order to 
 be a terror to evil-doers of the Viking brood. In 
 modern days, the churchwardens were repairing and 
 beautifying an old Saxon church in a certain English 
 village; and, among other things, they thought the 
 door badly crusted, and would be all the better for 
 scraping. One man, who had heard the old story, 
 happened to be possessed of a microscope, and had 
 the curiosity to examine the under part of the crust. 
 There was no mistake about it; ^^it was a genuine 
 historical document’' — the skin of the old Scandi- 
 navian Viking, who had unwillingly left this record of 
 
154 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 himself behind. These were doubtless rough times ; 
 yet the foundations of all that is now so fair and plea- 
 sant were laid by these coarse hands. The Danes, it 
 is well known, triumphed for a short time, and some of 
 their kings even occupied the throne of England. Con- 
 siderable numbers of them settled along the eastern 
 and northern coasts, and, intermingling with the 
 Anglo-Saxons, formed no inconsiderable ingredient 
 in the compound British race. The Danes were 
 daring and skilful sailors ; and no doubt it is a dash 
 of their blood that has helped to make modern 
 Britons the great sea-kings, discoverers, and ex- 
 plorers of the nineteenth century. It was reserved 
 for this wave-ruling race to wrench from the Frost- 
 king the secret of the North-west Passage, and to 
 follow the Nile to its mysterious source. In Scot- 
 land, and all along the east coast of England, there 
 was a large admixture of Danish blood ; and to this 
 day, in the manners, appearance, and language of the 
 population, there are unmistakable traces of Scandi- 
 navianism. The family of which Nelson came is said 
 to have had a large share of the Danish element, and 
 Hugh Miller was Scandinavian. 
 
 In reality, however, the Danes, though they sub- 
 jugated and ravaged, were unable to conquer the 
 tough, plucky Saxons, who had far too much bottom 
 in them to be pushed off the soil where they had 
 settled, by the Scandinavian sea-rovers. Altogether, 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 155 
 
 the Danes did not hold their ground above half a 
 century in England. The Saxons watched their op- 
 portunity ; rose, killed a good many of the Vikings, 
 and let the rest remain on the condition that they 
 became Christians and conducted themselves pro- 
 perly. But presently new troubles arose for the 
 Saxons ; a more terrible foe than the Danes assailed 
 them. This great race, with such a destiny before it, 
 must be trained amid toils and troubles — savage 
 enemies without, and turmoils at home. No good 
 comes of a man or people unless he and they have 
 difficulties to overcome, — difficulties that will strain 
 the muscles and tax brain and heart. The best men 
 and the best races have been developed and trained 
 amid hardships and sore toils and struggles. Did the 
 wind always blow gently from the south, what a poor 
 race of sailors we should have ! It needs the howl- 
 ing blasts of the north to breed hard Englishmen ; 
 for — 
 
 ’Tis the black north-easter, 
 Through the snow-storm hurl’d, 
 Drives our English hearts of oak 
 Seaward round the world ! 
 Come as came our fathers. 
 Heralded by thee. 
 
 Conquering from the eastward, 
 Lords by land and sea. 
 
 Come, and strong within us 
 Stir the Viking’s blood. 
 
 Bracing brain and sinew ; 
 
 Blow, thou wind of God !” 
 
156 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 The Saxons had no reason to complain of the want 
 of rough north-easters. They had hardly done with 
 the Danes, when another savage host leaped on their 
 shores. In 1066 the Normans, under William Con- 
 queror, arrived. These Normans came from Nor- 
 mandy, a province in France ; but in reality they, too, 
 were Scandinavian in their origin. One hundred and 
 fifty years before, a host of the Norse pirates made 
 their way to France, burning, slaying, and pillaging as 
 they went. They got hold of Normandy and settled 
 there, adopted the French language, partly aban- 
 doned their wild habits, and became Christians after 
 a fashion ; and in the course of a century and a half 
 got so combed and polished that their barbarian 
 chiefs had become Norman knights and barons. 
 They had intermingled a good deal with the French 
 Celts, so that both Scandinavian and Celtic blood ran 
 in their veins. Some sixty thousand of these Nor- 
 mans, or French Danes, with some Flemings and 
 Walloons, now landed in England. They were far 
 from being a reputable band ; in fact, if the truth 
 must be’ told, they were sadly addicted to robbery 
 and homicide. We all know the result. The battle 
 of Hastings gave the crown of England to Norman 
 William ; the Saxons were vanquished ; and if you 
 wish to know how their conquerors burned, wasted, 
 harried, and murdered the poor Saxons, read 
 Thierry’s History of the Norman Conquest.” In 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 157 
 
 the end, however, Saxon pluck and bottom won the 
 day. The conquerors were conquered, though not 
 exactly in battle. The Normans failed to drive out 
 or improve the Saxons off the face of all creation.” 
 On the contrary, they were absorbed by the van- 
 quished ; compelled to adopt their language, laws, and 
 usages ; and at Runnymede we find Saxons dictating 
 their terms to Norman kings. Gradually the con- 
 quered race came to be on equal terms with the 
 victors, and were able to build up for the preserva- 
 , tion of their liberties the bulwark of the British Consti- 
 tution. Macaulay tells us that early in the fourteenth 
 century the fusion of the two races was complete, the 
 distinction between Norman and Saxon ceased, and 
 the enmity of the two races disappeared for ever. 
 
 Then it was,” says the historian, that the great 
 English people was formed, that the national character 
 began to exhibit those peculiarities which it has ever 
 since retained, and that our fathers became emphati- 
 cally islanders — islanders not merely in geographical 
 position, but in their politics, their feelings, and their 
 manners. Then first appeared, with distinctness, that 
 constitution which has ever since, through all changes, 
 preserved its identity ; that constitution of which all 
 other free constitutions in the world are copies, and 
 which, in spite of some defects, deserves to be re- 
 garded as the best under which any great society has 
 ever existed during many ages.” The eloquent his- 
 
158 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 torian also tells us that now Britannia’s sovereignty 
 of the seas commenced, her common law became a 
 science, and her most ancient colleges were founded. 
 
 We see, then, from all that has been said, that the 
 British nation has been formed by a fusion, a most 
 happy fusion, of races. Saxon strength and indomi- 
 table energy, Norman chivalry and gallantry, Scan- 
 dinavian fierceness and daring, — these are the ele- 
 ments that have entered into the composition ; and, 
 like the ingredients of the witches’ caldron in Mac- 
 beth,” they have made the mixture slab and good.” 
 A thousand years elapsed, after the arrival of the 
 Saxons, before the incoherent mass became tho- 
 roughly fused, so as to be moulded into that national 
 type which now marks the originality of the race, and 
 distinguishes the Englishman from all others in re- 
 gard to external appearance and internal faculties. I 
 know of no grander study than the wonderful methods 
 by which Providence has moulded and developed this 
 race, who were destined to influence so widely the 
 industry, the material progress, the government, the 
 literature, and the religion of mankind. By what a 
 vast chain of events, through what catastrophes, revo- 
 lutions, wars, struggles of races has He, whose hand 
 is discernible in all history, made all things work 
 together ” for • the production of this strong, rich, 
 varied race, who for centuries to come will guide the 
 material and moral progress of humanity! Great has 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 1 59 
 
 been the stroke of work done by this people in the 
 four hundred years that have passed since they at- 
 tained their majority; but if we look at the United 
 States, the British Colonies of North America, Aus- 
 tralia, India, and Britain herself, can we doubt that a 
 great future lies before the Anglo-Saxon race? No 
 doubt, like all their precursors, they will have their 
 day, — their rise, decline, and fall, — and doubtless they 
 are preparing the way for a higher race, who will one 
 day be studying their remains, and tracing the lines 
 of their peculiar type of civilisation. But that day 
 must be far distant. Not yet has the star of Anglo- 
 Saxondomx culminated. 
 
 Before passing on, let us carefully note that the 
 mixture of people which took place on the soil of 
 Britain was not the fusion of dijf event raees of men. 
 Saxon, Dane, Norman, as we have seen, were but 
 branches of one stem— the Teutonic, which was ori- 
 ginally Gothic in its origin. All three, we have 
 learned, came from Scandinavia. She was the true 
 nursing -mother of the English race. When the 
 Saxon from Germany, the Dane from Norway, and 
 the Norman from France, met and mingled on the 
 soil of England, it was in reality a union of three 
 branches of the same family, not a fusion of different 
 races. There were strong family affinities in the 
 blood before ; and hence the easy and happy union 
 that took place under the genial skies of England, as 
 
l6o ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 of kindred long separated. Races that are totally 
 distinct do not easily amalgamate ; and if, by the 
 force of circumstances, such intermixture be accom- 
 plished, the result is not happy, — their progeny is 
 neither an improved nor a permanent variety of the 
 species. The offspring of mixed races are found to 
 degenerate and tend towards extinction. It appears 
 to be the order of Providence that each race should 
 be endowed with peculiar gifts and instincts, and a 
 special type of intellect ; and should thus be fitted to 
 play a certain part in the drama of existence. Each 
 has to work out its destiny apart, — not to lose its 
 individuality in others ; and so accomplish its share 
 in the work of the world. This law, however, does 
 not apply to the crossing of varieties of the same race, 
 as in the case of the English. Provided the original 
 stem be the same, the branches may form a happy 
 and friendly union ; nay, this variety in unity will be 
 a decided improvement, producing various shades of 
 character, and a corresponding ramification in the re- 
 sources of civilisation. Distinct races, on the other 
 hand, do not often freely intermingle. The Celt 
 and the Saxon, for example, have never commingled 
 to any extent. In the north of Ireland they haye 
 lived side by side for centuries, and the intermix- 
 ture is quite inconsiderable ; and their mutual an- 
 tipathies, I am sorry to say, are almost as great 
 as ever. So in regard to Scotland, Wales, and 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. l6l 
 
 America. In none of these countries do the two 
 races intermingle in any appreciable degree. It is 
 true that the distinguished writer, Dr Wilson, has re- 
 cently reported a considerable fusion of the red and 
 white races as going on in the back settlements of 
 America ; but it remains to be seen whether the re- 
 sulting variety will be permanent, or is doomed to a 
 rapid extinction. 
 
 We are now in a position to glance for a little at 
 this Anglo-Saxon race, and mark a few of their 
 peculiarities and national traits. Very early there 
 was a marked distinction between that branch of the 
 Saxons that occupied North Britain, or the Scotch, 
 and the English branch, that possessed the southern 
 portion of the island. With the instinct of their race, 
 which everywhere points toward independence and 
 self-government, the North Britons formed them- 
 selves into a separate kingdom, and, from the days 
 of Bruce, had their own kings and laws. They had 
 their own tongue also, which, says Macaulay, did 
 not differ from the purest English more than the 
 dialects of Somersetshire and Lancashire differed 
 from each other.’' They had hard work, however, to 
 maintain their independence against the English 
 monarchs, who were desirous of attaching Scotland 
 as an appendage to their crown. In all history there 
 is no nobler record than the pages which relate the 
 
 heroic struggle for independence maintained by the 
 
 L 
 
1 62 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 small kingdom of Scotland, with an insignificant 
 population, against a nation far more numerous and 
 powerful. To this day it is the proud boast of the 
 Scot that England was never able to conquer his 
 native land. In vain did English armies sweep over 
 the country, burning and slaying ; the Scot would 
 not yield. He proved that he possessed the Saxon 
 toughness — the iron thews and sinews of the race — 
 by the unflinching obstinacy with which he resisted 
 the invader, and guarded his rights. This conflict 
 created that nationality of which every true-born 
 Scot is so proud to-day. The perils through which 
 they passed, the fierce struggles through which they 
 won the victory, endeared to them the soil on which 
 they trod, and linked them to one another with a 
 fervour which is now proverbial as one of their 
 national traits. Shoulder to shoulder, they will 
 everywhere stand by one another to the last ; and 
 wherever they wander, they never cease to love the 
 land of mountain and of flood.’’ Speaking of the 
 Scotch, Macaulay says, In perseverance, in self- 
 command, in forethought, in all the qualities which 
 conduce to success in life, the Scots have never been 
 surpassed.” Their mental development, at this time 
 when they were fighting for their national existence, 
 may be judged of from the same historian’s state- 
 ment. He says, ^‘Though that kingdom was then 
 the poorest in Christendom, it almost vied in every 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 163 
 
 branch of learning with the most favoured countries. 
 Scotsmen, whose dwellings and whose food were as 
 wretched as the Icelanders' of our time, wrote Latin 
 verses with more than the delicacy of Vida, and 
 made discoveries in science which would have added 
 to the renown of Galileo.” Thus this stout, hard- 
 headed race fought their way, and at length joined 
 England on honourable terms, preserving all their 
 dignity,” as Macaulay puts it, “and giving a king 
 instead of taking one.” But with a poor soil, and 
 continually harassed and plundered by her Southern 
 neighbour, it is not wonderful that the Scotch, till 
 comparatively recent times, were rather a poor 
 people. They had not the rich, fertile plains of 
 England, on which, with little effort, splendid wheat 
 crops can be raised. Struggling for life and national 
 existence, they could create few manufactures, and 
 little trade. Thus, in wealth, in commerce, and 
 manufactures, in modes of life, Scotland was, in 
 those early days, far behind England, and has not 
 yet overtaken her. Many a sneer has been indulged 
 in by English writers at the poverty of Scotland, 
 and at the wistful looks that all Scotchmen were 
 supposed to cast on the road that led to rich Eng- 
 land ; but they have forgotten the immense natural 
 advantages enjoyed by their own people. Besides, 
 in addition to repelling Southern invaders, the Scot- 
 tish Saxon had to deal with the marauding Gael 
 
1 64 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 of the Highlands, and to keep this very trouble- 
 some neighbour in order. How much trouble this 
 job gave may be judged of by the Scottish proverb, 
 '' It s ill getting the breeks afif the Highlandman.’^ 
 In days of old, the Highland clansmen were accus- 
 tomed to make forays on the south, and carry off 
 cattle or any other movables that came in their 
 way, on the principle, I suppose, that 
 
 “ The mountain sheep were sweeter. 
 
 But the valley’s sheep were fatter ; 
 
 And they therefore thought it meeter 
 To carry off the latter.” 
 
 The Southern Scots, finding how vain was the hope 
 of obtaining redress or compensation from those who 
 had nothing, contented themselves with cracking 
 this joke on the breekless condition of the Gael. 
 
 If we may judge by the rapidly-extending manu- 
 factures and commerce of Scotland, and her splendid 
 system of agriculture, in which she has led the way in 
 all modern improvements, and left all competitors 
 behind, it may be safely asserted that she will speedily 
 be able to bear comparison with England in regard 
 to material prosperity, in proportion to her popula- 
 tion. Already she can boast of possessing the second 
 city in the kingdom— Glasgow now ranking next to 
 London in respect to population. We have seen that 
 her people, in the midst of their poverty, were early 
 distinguished for their intellectual prowess and love 
 of learning, no less than for their intolerance of all 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 165 
 
 oppression, and their resolute independence of char- 
 acter. History proves, I think, that in passionate love 
 of freedom, in stern resistance to all wrong and tyr- 
 anny, the Scotch have surpassed their brethren of the 
 South. This may, perhaps, be accounted for by the 
 fact that they have in their veins a larger dash of the 
 Scandinavian blood, derived from the Danes, than 
 the English. Hence, too, they have more fervour 
 and passion ; the perfervidiim ingenitim Scotorum, the 
 fervid energy of the Scotch, had passed into a pro- 
 verb, as early as the fifteenth century, in continental 
 Europe. No doubt, too, the Gael of the north has 
 contributed some of his hot blood to produce the 
 Scottish temperament. The intellectual tendency of 
 the race has produced that shrewdness which has 
 long been a national trait, and is acknowledged in the 
 epithet hard-headed Scotchmen,” or, as they de- 
 scribe themselves, ^'canny Scotch.” The word “canny” 
 is of Scandinavian origin, and the root of it must 
 have been imported in some of the Vikings’ boats. It 
 is derived from the Icelandic — astute and wary. 
 In the Scotch dialect, its primary signification is 
 “cautious, prudent;” but the fact of its being used to 
 signify all sorts of good qualities shews the high value 
 which the Scotch set upon caution and shrewdness — ■ 
 just as the fact that the French extend the use of the 
 word brave to signify a good fellow proves the high 
 value which they set upon that quality. When the 
 
1 66 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 Yorkshire man, who has also a good dash of Scandi- 
 navian blood in him, in reply to an attempt to do him, 
 says, with a knowing wink, I ’se Yorkshire too and 
 the Scotchman, in response to a similar useless effort, 
 remarks, ^^We’re too far north for that;” it is evident 
 that, whatever other people may think of them, they 
 both consider themselves rather more knowing than 
 the rest of the world. But if the Scot is cautious in 
 what he undertakes, he is proverbially persevering in 
 following up his enterprises. I will not say — quoting 
 from Tennyson’s ''Princess” — that 
 
 “Fierce, and false, and fickle is the South; 
 
 And dark, and true, and tender is the North.” 
 
 Without any invidious comparisons, however, we may 
 assert, and all the world will affirm it, that the Scotch 
 are pre-eminently steady, tenacious, and persevering. 
 According to his own proverb, in breasting the hill 
 Difficulty, " he sets a stout heart to a stae brae,” and 
 is sure to win the top. Even in his humour the 
 " canniness ” of the Scot appears. Rich, racy, and in- 
 dividual as is Scottish humour, it is generally sly and 
 dry, " canny,” and rather caustic, preserving a grave 
 exterior, while laughing internally. Dean Ramsay, 
 in his "Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Char- 
 acter,” tells of a Scotchman whose tender toe was 
 trodden on. The offender, whose weight, no doubt, 
 was considerable, said, " I am very sorry, sir — I beg 
 your pardon.” " You have muckle need, sir,” was the 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 167 
 
 rejoinder. An Irish beggar, however, surpassed this. 
 An old, gouty gentleman refused him alms; and the 
 beggar soon after managed to swing his crutch, quite 
 accidentally, upon the tender toes of the rich man, 
 whom his prayers failed to move to charity; and 
 then, by way of soothing Dives, he said, Bless yer 
 honour! if yer heart was as tender as yer toes, it’s a 
 tinpenny you’d have been after givin’ me.” It was 
 the same beggar, I suppose, who, when a newly-mar- 
 ried couple were passing him one day, arm in arm, 
 and very happy-looking, in order to touch heart and 
 pocket at the same time, exclaimed, May the bless- 
 ing of the Lord, that brings love, and joy, and 
 wealth, and a fine thumping family, follow you all 
 the days of your life.” The happy couple passed on 
 without taking the least notice of his supplications, 
 and the beggar added, by way of postscript, and 
 may they never overtake you.” A lady in Scotland, 
 being invited by a friend to dinner, replied that, '' if 
 spared, she would be there at the appointed hour.” 
 '‘Oh!” replied the friend, “ if you’re deid we’ll no 
 expect you.” This was thoroughly Scotch. Thus it 
 is that the genius of a people breaks out in their 
 humour, which is perhaps the most characteristic 
 thing about them — their very life-juice — the flavour of 
 their being. You may judge of a man’s character 
 by what he finds laughable, as truly as by anything 
 else about him. It was a Scotchman who, when his 
 
l68 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 minister, in catechising, asked him how long Adam 
 stcod before he fell, replied, ^'Till he got a wife;” and 
 then added, Can ye tell me, sir, how long he stood 
 after that?” The Scotch canniness and slyness come 
 out sometimes in paying a compliment. Thus, (I 
 quote Dean Ramsay,) when wishing to intimate that 
 the worth of a handsome woman outweighs even 
 her beauty, a Scot will say, She’s better than she’s 
 bonnie.” A Highlander rather ungallantly said of his 
 wife the opposite of this: She’s bonnier than she’s 
 better.” Mrs Poyser, who is a fine embodiment of 
 rich English humour, explained the drawbacks of 
 marrying late in life in her own homely and in- 
 genious way: ‘T ’m no friend to young fellows mar- 
 rying afore they know the difference between a crab 
 and an apple; but they may wait owre long.” ^'To 
 be sure,” said Mrs Poyser, if you go past your 
 dinner-time, there’ll be little relish o’ your meat. 
 You turn it o’er and o’er wi’ your fork, and don’t 
 eat it after all. You find faut wi’ your meat, and 
 the faut’s all i’ your own stomach.” 
 
 A long-drawn controversy has been waged between 
 Scotch and English as to which surpasses in intel- 
 lectual attainments and productions. Each can boast 
 of a list of great men. Ramsay, Burns, and Campbell 
 are set over against Chaucer, Byron, and Shelley ; 
 Watt, with his steam-engine, is a Scottish host in 
 himself, equal to Brindley, Stephenson, and Brunei ; 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 169 
 
 Walter Scott is put into the scale opposite Dickens 
 and Thackeray; while Hume and Macaulay challenge 
 all English competitors in the art of writing history. 
 There is one name, however, that the English are 
 very fond of brandishing ; Scotland, they say, has 
 produced no Shakespeare. I believe it was an Irish- 
 man who said that he did not see what all this fuss 
 about Shakespeare was for;” adding, ^Tf it had not 
 been for his writings the fellow never would have 
 been heard of” It is true there is no Scotchman so 
 intellectually tall as grand, old, kingly Shakespeare, 
 to whom we all reverently doff our hats. The Anglo- 
 Saxon race has produced one, and only one, Shake- 
 speare ; the English have not yet sent forth his com- 
 peer. He is the finest outgrowth of the old Saxon 
 tree — England’s, and yet Scotland’s, and the world’s. 
 It is true Scotland, whose intellectual life began later 
 than that of England, has not yet produced men to 
 take rank with Shakespeare, Bacon, and Milton. 
 These are the great Englishmen who, like stars, dwell 
 apart, in unapproachable spheres of their own. But 
 while Scotland can reckon among her sons Sir Walter 
 Scott, Sir William Hamilton, Edward Irving, Thomas 
 Chalmers, John Wilson, and Hugh Miller, she need 
 experience no jealous or envious feeling towards her 
 Southern neighbour. This much can be said in favour 
 of Scotland, that the masses of her people are better 
 educated and more intelligent than the masses of 
 
I/O ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 Englishmen ; and that if she does not rise so high, 
 neither does she sink so low. If it be true that the 
 range of the English mind is great, and that it has 
 struck the highest notes, let it be remembered that 
 the man who is at this moment wielding the greatest 
 influence in British literature is a North Briton. 
 Thomas Carlyle is a Scotchman of the true Titanic 
 mould. England cannot claim Sir Isaac Newton as 
 exclusively her own — his grandfather was a Scotch- 
 man. My belief is that these two branches of the 
 Anglo-Saxon stock are the complements one of the 
 other; that the one is necessary to supply the defi- 
 ciencies of the other. In all the sterling qualities that 
 have placed the British race so high among the 
 nations, who will undertake to say which is foremost ? 
 In the highest intellectual manifestations, if the 
 English mind be most complete, the Scotch is the 
 more intense and active. It has often been remarked 
 that the Scotch are more abstract in their way of 
 thinking — more inclined to drive down to first prin- 
 ciples, and to follow these out to their logical conse- 
 quences ; the English mind succeeds better in apply- 
 ing principles to the multiform conditions of human 
 existence. Thus Adam Smith, a Scotchman, first 
 enunciated the principles of free-trade ; but it required 
 Sir Robert Peel to apply them. The Scotchman’s 
 political and religious creed is more rounded and logi- 
 cal than that of the Englishman ; but on this account 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I/I 
 
 less fitted for general use and acceptance. Hugh 
 Miller reckoned the Scotch less insular than the 
 English — less inclined to be detached and solitary. 
 The Englishman is more individual, self-sufficing, and 
 self-contained. In The Heart of Midlothian,’’ Mrs 
 Glass says to the Duke of Argyle, Your Grace kens 
 we Scotch are clannish bodies.” So much the better 
 for us,” replies the Duke, and the worse for those 
 who meddle with us.” Stout, surly Samuel Johnson 
 said, One grand element in the success of Scotch- 
 men in London is their nationality. Whatever any 
 one Scotchman does, there are five hundred more pre- 
 pared to applaud.” It was the same observer, whose 
 anti-Scottish prejudices were so strong, who made 
 the rather ill-natured remark, Most Scotchmen 
 love Scotland better than truth, and almost all of 
 them love it better than inquiry.” Most people, I 
 think, who have travelled or lived in both countries 
 will admit that, in the habits and arrangements of 
 social life, in those thousand nameless amenities that 
 brighten and beautify everyday life, the Scotch are, 
 as a whole, decidedly behind the English. A writer 
 in the North British Review (Scottish in its lean- 
 ings) says, In Scotland there is a bareness of all 
 beyond what is dictated by absolute utility, that is 
 not pleasant and perhaps not wise ; and correspond- 
 ing to this, there is a singular hardness and angularity 
 of manner. In their anxiety to leave no mistake 
 
1/2 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 about the fortiter in re, the suaviter in modo is too 
 frequently forgotten.’' In due time, I doubt not, 
 these little angularities will be rubbed off, in the 
 rapidly-increasing intercourse which railways and 
 business transactions have created between the two 
 countries. 
 
 Of the many noble qualities common to both Eng- 
 lish and Scotch I have little time to speak, but shall 
 merely indicate one or two. Take both together, and 
 are they not appropriately called the hands of the 
 human race V — so industriously have they wrought 
 in subduing the earth, and fitting it up as a habita- 
 tion for man. No great talkers — priding themselves 
 on a certain gruff taciturnity — they are born workers, 
 — indomitable, unresting, courageous. All that these 
 Britons have is the purchase of hard toil — of honest 
 industry. From earth and sea Britain has wrung her 
 immense wealth by centuries of labour. The Eng- 
 lish,” says Carlyle, are a dumb people. They can 
 do great acts, but not describe them. Like the old 
 Romans, and some few others, their epic poem is 
 written on the earth’s surface : England, her mark. 
 A terrible worker is Bull ; irresistible against marshes, 
 mountains, impediments, disorder, incivilisation; every- 
 where vanquishing disorder, leaving it behind him as 
 method and order. His epic is a mighty empire, 
 slowly built together — a mighty series of heroic 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 73 
 
 deeds — a mighty conquest over chaos, — which epic 
 the eternal melodies have and must have informed 
 and dwelt in as it sung itself. There is no mistaking 
 that latter epic. Deeds are greater than words.'’ O 
 Mr Bull," he says again, look in that surly face of 
 thine with a mixture of pity and laughter, yet also 
 with wonder and veneration. Unconsciously this 
 great universe is great to thee. Thou art of those 
 great ones whose greatness the small passer-by does 
 not discern. Thy very stupidity is wiser than their 
 wisdom. Nature alone knows thee — acknowledges 
 the bulk and strength of thee ; thy epic, unsung in 
 words, is written in huge characters on the face of 
 this planet — sea-moles, cotton-trades, railways, fleets, 
 and cities, Indian empires, Americas, New Hollands, 
 legible throughout the solar system.." In his Eng- 
 lish Traits," the American Emerson says, Here 
 exists the best stock in the world, — broad-fronted, 
 broad-bottomed, best for depth, range, and equa- 
 bility — men of aplomb and reserves, great range, 
 and many moods, strong instincts, yet apt for cul- 
 ture Their habits and instincts cleave to 
 
 nature. They are full of coarse strength, rude exer- 
 cise, butchers’ meat, and sound sleep Half 
 
 their strength they do not put forth. They are cap- 
 able of a sublime resolution ; and if hereafter the war 
 of races should menace the English civilisation, these 
 
174 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 sea-kings may take once again to their floating castles, 
 and find a new home and a second millennium of power 
 in their colonies.” 
 
 To do the world’s work, these Britons require strong 
 bodies, iron thews and sinews ; and nature has en- 
 dowed them with immense bodily vigour and power 
 of endurance. To sustain such a bodily frame under 
 hard work, they must have generous living ; and good 
 feeding is one of the points on which the Englishman 
 prides himself the world over, very properly glorying 
 in his roast beef and plum-pudding. A stout worker 
 like John could never subsist on gruel or potatoes. 
 With him dinner is an important matter — one of 
 primary consideration ; and woe to the man who ven- 
 tures to interfere with it ! Let him attend to his 
 w^ork, earn his wages, and eat his dinner in peace, 
 and he will never be found engaged in insurrections 
 or revolutions. In a liking for solid and substantial 
 fare the English surpass the Scotch. The realised 
 idea of the one is roast beef and foaming ale ; the 
 other rejoices in haggis, broth, and brose. A Scotch- 
 man was once dining, with great satisfaction, ofif a 
 singed sheep’s-head, and pronounced it a capital dish. 
 
 Dish !” said an Englishman who was present, do 
 you call that a dish V Dish or no,” replied Sandy, 
 there ’s a deal of fine confused feeding in it, I can 
 tell you.” 
 
 A foreigner, landing on the shores of Britain, is at 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 175 
 
 once impressed with the powerful physical develop- 
 ment of the people. Other countrymen/’ says 
 Emerson, look slight and under-sized beside them, 
 and invalids. They are bigger men than the Ameri- 
 cans. I suppose a hundred English, taken at random 
 out of the street, would weigh a fourth more than so 
 many Americans. Yet I am told the skeleton is not 
 larger. They are round, ruddy, and handsome ; at 
 least the whole bust is well-formed, and there is a 
 tendency to stout and powerful frames. I remarked 
 the stoutness on my first landing at Liverpool ; por- 
 ter, drayman, coachman, guard — what substantial, 
 respectable, grandfatherly figures, with costume and 
 manners to suit ! ” The fair Saxon man,” he adds, 
 with open front and honest meaning, domestic, affec- 
 tionate, is not the wood out of which cannibal or in- 
 quisitor is made ; but he is moulded for law, trade, 
 marriage, the nurture of children, for colleges, churches, 
 charities, colonies.” The English are good at storm- 
 ing redoubts, at boarding frigates, at dying in the last 
 ditch, or any desperate service that has daylight and 
 honour in it.” As to the comparative strength of the 
 English and Scotch, Hugh Miller says that it has 
 been determined, by accurate experiment with the 
 dynamometer, that the average strength of the full- 
 grown Scot exceeds that of the full-grown English- 
 man by about one-twentieth. So much for oatmeal 
 against wheaten bread and beer. 
 
176 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 The British people have long been noted for their 
 conservative tendencies, and their dislike of change. 
 For whatever has been established by actual experi- 
 ment, for law and custom, they have a profound 
 reverence ; for mere abstract theory no respect at all. 
 Hence, unlike the French, they grow, retaining a firm 
 hold of the old till the new is formed ; they dislike 
 revolutions, and plant themselves on reforms. Bull 
 is a born conservative,'' says Carlyle ; and for this 
 too I inexpressibly honour him. All great peoples 
 are conservative ; slow to believe in novelties ; patient 
 of much error in actualities ; deeply and for ever cer- 
 tain of the greatness that is iri law, in custom once 
 solemnly established, and now long recognised as 
 just and final." Yet to all this there is a strong 
 counterpoise in that discontent with real or imagin- 
 ary evils which forms the radical side of the British 
 character, and secures progress by an antagonism of 
 forces. The sacred and inalienable right of grum- 
 bling, and of holding public meetings to give expres- 
 sion to discontent with things as they are, is really 
 one of the safeguards of British liberty, and one of 
 the guarantees of improvement. Wanting this, con- 
 servatism would become a stupid, blind obstructive. 
 But liberty is secured by this antagonism of powers, 
 and thus the complicated and majestic mechanism of 
 institutions moves on smoothly, securing individual 
 freedom and national peace. 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 1 7/ 
 
 Above all other people, the British are home-lov- 
 ing and domestic in their habits. Amid life’s storms, 
 the Briton has a haven where he can cast anchor and 
 be in safety, and that is home. The very word is 
 dear to his heart, and calls up all that is truest and 
 tenderest in his nature — all that is hallowed in affec- 
 tion, and sacred in virtue and religion. The strength 
 of the family ties can scarcely be overrated. In the 
 home, the temple of the family, all that purity, affec- 
 tion, gentleness, truthfulness which beautify the char- 
 acter are awakened and developed ; and here, too, 
 the human heart first learns that love which finds its 
 highest repose in God. To the home-life of England 
 I w’ould trace that love of truth which is admitted to 
 be a national characteristic. John Bull is a thorough 
 hater of shams, falsehoods, and deceptions in every 
 form ; shuffling and double-dealing he scorns ; vera- 
 city and sincerity he loves. The Scotch share in this 
 noble trait, as one of their proverbs finely shews : 
 
 Leal heart never lee’d,” — a loyal heart scorns a 
 falsehood. One result of this is a love of fair play, a 
 disposition to hear both sides, and a scorn of taking 
 any unfair advantage. 
 
 It has often been remarked that the English have 
 no very lively sympathies with foreigners ; that they 
 are devoted to England ; insular and narrow in their 
 
 views of the affairs of other countries. This results, 
 
 M 
 
178 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 no doubt, from the pre-occupation of the national 
 feeling with their own country and institutions, which 
 is the moral root of English freedom, and imparts 
 strength to their passionate attachment to everything 
 British. A French writer already quoted, M. Esqui- 
 ros, says, I have seen peoples very punctilious on 
 the point of national honour — the least critical obser- 
 vation vexed them ; but before an Englishman you 
 may indicate the weak signs of British civilisation, 
 and not even irritate him : he is silent, but it is the 
 silence of contempt. In the sight of Englishmen 
 there is no such thing as defeat ; it is an error of for- 
 tune. When they speak of their victories, they do so 
 without boasting : Dame Fortune had done her duty 
 this time — that was all. From this moral disposition 
 springs an unbounded confidence in the imperishable 
 greatness of the nation, even when you pretend to 
 believe in its decadence. ‘England for ever!’ is the 
 war-cry, the voice of the British blood.” 
 
 At the close of a lecture I can do little more 
 than attempt a few remarks on the Americans as a 
 people. I cannot pretend to a right to speak from 
 personal observation regarding the variety of the 
 Anglo-Saxon race now reigning on the Am.erican 
 continent. It is true, I once partook, for a few 
 weeks, of Brother Jonathan’s hospitality. I stood on 
 Bunker’s Hill, and thought of the bloody contest 
 that once raged there, fought out with true Saxon 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 1 79 
 
 pluck and mastiff tenacity on both sides. As I 
 looked on the fine harbour of Boston, I remembered 
 the remarkable infusion of tea once made in its 
 waters — -a historical brew/' that proved very costly 
 to honest, obstinate John Bull. Passing through 
 Cambridge on my way to Mount Auburn, I rever- 
 ently raised my hat opposite the house of Long- 
 fellow, the poet-laureate of the West, and fervently 
 wished that the sweet singer had been at the window 
 to return the salutation. Before the houses of 
 Agassiz, the great naturalist and geologist, who has 
 so eloquently expounded some of the manuscripts 
 of God," and of Russell Lowell, who as a poet ranks 
 next to Longfellow, I performed a similar act of 
 silent reverence, and thought it was something to see 
 even the outside of the habitations that sheltered 
 these world-renowned men. Mount Auburn, the 
 cemetery of Boston, I thought the sweetest of 
 God’s-acres " in which the weary could wish to 
 rest. I stood awe-stricken before the thunders of 
 Niagara — a sight which forms an epoch in one’s 
 existence, and stamps itself on memory’s tablets too 
 deeply ever to be effaced. During a long summer’s 
 day, I sailed down the St Lawrence, revelling in the 
 glorious scenery of The Thousand Islands," shooting 
 the rapids, and gazing on the forests and hills that 
 line the shores of the mighty river. I formed a 
 passing acquaintance with New York and some 
 
l8o ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 others of the great cities of the West, and experi- 
 mented cautiously in those two wonderful drinks 
 that can be had only in America, — mint-julep and 
 sherry-cobbler, — which I am bound to say are '' not 
 that bad,’' and do credit to the inventive genius of 
 Jonathan. But my sojourn was too brief to qualify 
 me for forming an opinion of the people or the 
 country. Still, I suppose, in what I have got to 
 say, some general impressions of both, derived from 
 this hasty visit, will discover themselves. 
 
 It • would ill become any Briton to speak dis- 
 paragingly or unkindly of the Americans. They 
 are our own kindred — bone of our bone, and flesh 
 of our flesh.’^ They have exhibited many of the 
 noblest qualities of the Anglo-Saxon stock — vast 
 energy, indomitable resolution, patience, and en- 
 durance. They have wrestled in grim earnest with 
 the Western wilderness, clearing successfully wide 
 fields, in which the human race may erect new 
 empires, and find sustenance and a home. The 
 amount of genuine work done by them since the Pil- 
 grim Fathers landed on Plymouth Rock is incalcu- 
 lable. With true Saxon vigour they have grappled 
 with difficulties and triumphed over innumerable ob- 
 stacles ; they fought bravely for their independence, 
 and won it ; they framed a political constitution, 
 under which they have become a great and pros- 
 perous nation, and secured liberty at home and re- 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, l8l 
 
 spect abroad. It is needless to speak of their wealth, 
 their world-wide commerce, their literature, their 
 general intelligence. In sopie portions of New Eng- 
 land the masses of the people are more generally 
 educated, up to a certain point, than anywhere else in 
 the world. They have produced literary men — such 
 as Bancroft, Prescott, Washington Irving, Motley, 
 Emerson, Audubon, Agassiz, (Swiss by birth,) Long- 
 fellow, Lowell, Bryant, Hawthorne, Holmes, Mrs 
 Stowe — ^whose place is in the front rank. I regard 
 the eminence in literature attained by the Americans 
 as their most creditable achievement, and that which 
 gives most hope for their future. The general diffu- 
 sion of education among the people of the Northern 
 States is also a most hopeful sign. With genuine 
 Anglo-Saxon industry, they are farming the best por- 
 tion of the Western continent, and helping largely to 
 feed the world. Honour to the brave workers, where- 
 ever they are ! I, for one, believe, too, that the heart 
 of the nation is sound — true Anglo-Saxon still — at 
 bottom full of love and reverence for fatherland. No 
 doubt Jonathan is often found squaring at his vener- 
 able parent ; and numbers of his noisy politicians are 
 continually sputtering with ill-will to England. But 
 much of this is the result of not being certain of his 
 position, and a determination to assert his independ- 
 ence. Before we get angry with some of the more 
 disgusting exhibitions of anti-British feelings, let us 
 
1 82 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 remember how much of the blackguardism and scum 
 of Europe is continually emptied on the shores of 
 America ; and how difficult it must be for the sound 
 Anglo-Saxon element to absorb and transmute the 
 whole into healthy humanity. In their public men, 
 too, as a general rule, we see the worst side of the 
 Americans. Owing to the working of democratic in- 
 stitutions, and the necessity that exists for all public 
 men to pander to the passions of a mob that wields 
 universal suffrage, it is unhappily true that men 
 of intelligence, refinement, culture, and honourable 
 character are driven from the guidance of public 
 affairs, which are now largely in the hands of coarse, 
 unscrupulous demagogues. It is an alarming thing 
 when the best men of a country — the men whose 
 high intellect and moral principles qualify them to 
 be rulers — stand aloof and let the foolish, the corrupt, 
 and selfish guide the vessel of the State. The best 
 well-wishers of America know and lament that such 
 has been for a long time the state of matters there. 
 This is an evil, however, that in due time will cure 
 itself That America contains an immense number 
 of educated, generous, noble, true-hearted people, no 
 one can doubt ; and these will, sooner or later, be 
 compelled to bestir themselves, and arrest the knaves 
 and fools that are now so rampant, otherwise the 
 body politic cannot continue to exist. With pure 
 democracy as a form of government, I confess that. 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 183 
 
 so far as my light goes, I have few sympathies. The 
 events that have occurred in America during the three 
 years of civil war confirm Macaulay’s verdict, that 
 institutions purely democratic must, sooner or later, 
 destroy liberty or civilisation, or both.” Democracy, 
 such as we see it, may fairly be defined, in Carlyle’s 
 phrase, anarchy plus the street constable.” The 
 great danger of all democracies is that of degenerat- 
 ing into a despotism of the mob — the government 
 of the worst — the vilest of all possible govern- 
 ments. The ballot-box rarely, if ever, places the 
 really able man — the true king of men — the born 
 ruler, upon the throne. Its creation is usually some- 
 thing the reverse of kingly. Whatever other method 
 may avail for discovering the able man, it is clear the 
 ballot-box fails. For my part, I believe that the 
 peculiarities of Americans, that offend or repel the 
 English mind, spring from their institutions, far more 
 than from the native character of the people ; but I 
 trust and hope that the soundness and energy of the 
 Anglo-Saxon constitution will ultimately throw off 
 all morbid influences. It is clear that the troubles of 
 America have now fairly set in. A nation hitherto 
 enjoying unbroken prosperity, possessed of boundless 
 resources, now knows that perpetual peace and success 
 are not for mortals or nations ; and that, in common 
 with others, it must pass through the sore agony and 
 the mortal struggle before victory shall arrive. More 
 
1 84 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 than a dozen years since, Carlyle, in his Latter-Day 
 Pamphlets,’’ wrote — America, too, will have to strain 
 its energies in quite other fashion than this ; to crack 
 its sinews, and all but break its heart, as the rest of 
 us have had to do, in thousandfold wrestle with the 
 pythons and mud-demons, before it can become a 
 habitation for the gods. America’s battle is yet to 
 fight ; and we sorrowful, though nothing doubting, 
 will wish her strength for it. New spiritual pythons, 
 plenty of them ; enormous megatherions, as ugly as 
 were ever born of mud, loom, huge and hideous, out 
 of the twilight future on America.” Hitherto she 
 but ploughs and hammers in a very successful man- 
 ner ; hitherto, in spite of her ^ roast goose with apple 
 sauce,’ she is not much. Brag not to me of our 
 American cousins ! Their quantity of cotton, dollars, 
 industry, and resources, I believe to be almost un- 
 speakable ; but I can by no means worship the like 
 of these. What great human soul, what great thought, 
 what great noble thing that one could worship, or 
 loyally admire, has yet been produced there ? None ; 
 the American cousins have yet done none of these 
 things.” The agony, predicted in this remarkable 
 passage, commenced with the first shot fired against 
 Fort Sumter. Whatever way the civil war may end, 
 it is evident that a new order of things, social and 
 political, will arise for Jonathan. May it be happier 
 and better than the past ! 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 185 
 
 Wishing, then, our American relatives happily 
 through their troubles, we may turn and consider 
 for a moment what sort of development the Anglo- 
 Saxon race assumes on this side the Atlantic. Rus- 
 sell Lowell, the well-known American poet, thus 
 characterises the Yankees — that is, the people of 
 the New England States : — Add two hundred 
 years’ influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with 
 its necessary result of idiosyncracies, and we have 
 the present Yankee, — full of expedients; half-master 
 of all trades ; inventive in all but the beautiful ; full of 
 shifts ; not yet capable of comfort ; armed at all points 
 against the old enemy, hunger; longanimous; good at 
 patching; not so careful for what is best, but for what 
 will do ; with a clasp to his purse and a button to his 
 pocket ; not skilled to build against time, as in old 
 countries, but against sore-pressing need ; accustomed 
 to move the world with no other lever than his own 
 long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circum- 
 stances beget here in the New World upon the old 
 Puritan stock ; and the earth never before saw such 
 mystic practicalism, such niggard geniality, such cal- 
 culating fanaticism, such cast-iron enthusiasm, such 
 sour-faced humour, such close-fisted generosity. This 
 new Grcecidtis esuriens will make a living out of any- 
 thing. He will invent new trades, as well as tools. 
 His brain is his capital, and he will gcc education at 
 all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he will 
 
1 86 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterwards.’^ 
 After this half-humorous but accurate fashion does 
 Lowell depict his Yankee compatriots. 
 
 Every one knows that the physical development 
 and external appearance of the American differ from 
 those of the Englishman. Jonathan is thin, tall, an- 
 gular, bony, clipper-built, sharp at the bows, and fast 
 to go. He has not the rotundity and muscular de- 
 velopment of Bull ; he is an Englishman rendered 
 down” — divested of his fat under the fierce summer 
 suns and piercing colds of the New World. In con- 
 sequence, he is far more nervous and quick in his 
 movements than the solid Bull. He cannot be a mo- 
 ment at rest ; when seated, he must have a stick to 
 whittle. He has not the compact frame and robust 
 health of his parent. Hitherto, in the American 
 climate, the Anglo-Saxon stock has clearly degene- 
 rated, in a physical point of view. Their lank, juice- 
 less bodies, pale, care-worn faces, thin, bloodless lips, 
 and tendency to quick development and early decay, 
 are all proofs how much the good old Saxon stock has 
 fallen off. They are nervous, not muscular Christians. 
 Human life is shorter than in the Old World. Men 
 and women live faster. Their offspring are reared 
 with difficulty ; large families are rare ; the mortality 
 among children is startling. These remarks apply to 
 native-born Americans, not fresh arrivals from the old 
 country. Worst of all, the Americans themselves pro- 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 187 
 
 claim that their women are, as a general rule, feeble 
 and unhealthy. I could quote to you page after page 
 of American writers, in which they lament the physi- 
 cal degeneracy of the race, and especially mourn over 
 the increasing delicacy of their women. One of their 
 leading medical writers says, Our dear women of 
 America are the most unhealthy women in the 
 world.’’ Miss Beecher declares that, in all sections 
 of the country, a vigorous and perfectly healthy 
 woman is an exception to the general experience — 
 that not three out of ten can be classed as healthy 
 women. This state of matters must tell fearfully on 
 the physical, and, through it, on the moral condition 
 of coming generations. Dr Knox, in his Races of 
 Men,” has announced the doctrine that the Anglo- 
 Saxon race flourishes only within a certain area of 
 the earth’s surface, and that it degenerates so rapidly 
 in America that if it were not for the fresh blood 
 poured in continually from Europe the race would 
 speedily become extinct. Be this as it may, the un- 
 natural craving for excitement among the Americans, 
 the violence of their political contests, their brag and 
 exaggeration of themselves and their institutions — so 
 unlike silent, self-disparaging John Bull — their indis- 
 position to manly sports and out-door amusements, all 
 indicate that the old stock has undergone a marked 
 change on this side the Atlantic, and certainly not for 
 the better. The intermixture of races, too, which is 
 
1 88 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 taking place on a large scale, is, we have seen, opposed 
 to the production of a robust, permanent variety of 
 the species. Thus, whether we regard the climate or 
 other influences, the greatest danger that seems to 
 menace the race arises from the operation of a grim, 
 inexorable physiological law. No doubt it is possible 
 that, in the course of generations, the climate may be 
 mitigated, as the country is cultivated and drained, 
 and that improved habits and acclimatisation may 
 counteract the present degeneracy ; but at present 
 these are distant and doubtful possibilities. Already, 
 alarmed at the thinning of their blood, and the skele- 
 tonising process that is going on, one extreme party 
 in the Northern States are calling out for a fusion of 
 the white and negro races, as a means of enriching 
 the impoverished frames of the superior race. This 
 notable scheme is called miscegenation; and its advo- 
 cates gravely argue in favour of sinking the Anglo- 
 Saxon in the negro, and transmuting him into a creole. 
 The theory is too absurd for discussion. 
 
 It is well known that one result of the working of 
 democratic institutions in America has been the crea- 
 tion of an mstitMtion named, rather happily, stump- 
 oratory.^’ The necessity of continually appealing to 
 the passions of the mob, in ceaseless electioneering 
 campaigns, has produced the stump-orator, of whose 
 trade the staple is btmcombeS I fear the moral effects 
 of this institution are not favourable. I suspect that 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. iSg 
 
 the stump-orator generates a belief in shams as the 
 best means of attaining an object, and a depraved 
 taste for bluster and brag, and the spread-eagle’^ 
 style of talking and writing. The stump-orator has 
 much to answer for. It would be an improvement if, 
 in Yankee phrase, he were compelled to ^^absquatu- 
 late,” or ^‘skedaddle.” Their own poet Lowell has 
 satirised very happily, in the amusing Biglow Papers, 
 the tendency to which I refer. He makes one of his 
 characters say, — 
 
 “ I du believe in prayer and praise 
 To him that hez the grantin’ 
 
 O’ jobs, — in everything that pays; 
 
 And most of all in cantin’. 
 
 This doth my cup with marcies fill, 
 
 This lays all thought of sin to rest ; 
 
 I don’t believe in principle. 
 
 But I du believe in interest. 
 
 In short, I firmly du believe 
 In Humbug generally; 
 
 For it’s a thing that I perceive 
 To hev a solid vally. 
 
 This heth my faithful shepherd been, 
 
 In pastures sweet heth led me ; 
 
 An’ this ’ll keep the people green 
 To feed as they hev fed me.” 
 
 “ Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies; 
 
 Sez they’re nothing on earth but just fee, fa, fum; 
 And that all this big talk of our destinies 
 Is half on it ignorance, and t’other half rum. 
 
 But John P. 
 
 Robinson he 
 
 Sez it ain’t no sech thing; and of course so must we. 
 
190 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 “ Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
 
 Thet the apostles rigg’d out in their swaller-tail’d coats, 
 An’ march’d round in front of a drum and a fife, 
 
 To git some on ’em office, and some on ’em votes ; 
 
 But John P. 
 
 Robinson he 
 
 Sez they don’t know everything down in Judee.” 
 
 In America the English language has undergone 
 a considerable alteration. New words have been 
 coined — a sign of life at all events — and a peculiar 
 dialect has been created. As illustrations of this, I 
 can only refer to a few instances. The word sir ” 
 becomes siree,” to which the elegant addition of 
 ^^bob” is sometimes made. ^^You appear to me to 
 be drunk/’ said a judge on one occasion, addressing a 
 juror, who was evidently much ^Tnfluenced.” The 
 juror straightened himself up defiantly, and replied, 
 No, siree, bob.” Very well,” said the judge, 1 
 fine you five dollars for the "ree/ and ten for the 
 ^ bob.’ ” Where we would request a person to be 
 off quickly, a Yankee would order him to make 
 tracks,” or to run short metre,” — the latter phrase 
 being derived from psalm or hymn tunes. Anything 
 very shabby or mean of its kind is said to be one- 
 horse.” They talk about a ‘^one-horse bank,” or a 
 one-horse lawyer.” Ladies who get into what we 
 call the '' tantrums ” are said in America to get into 
 conniption fits.” The word fixins ” has a great 
 variety of applications. Gentlemen dress in their 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 191 
 
 Sunday '^fixins/' and eat their mutton with ^'currant- 
 jelly fixins;” and ladies who dress showily are said 
 to have "loud fixins.” Terms derived from the shop 
 and counting-house are common. A person well-in- 
 formed on a subject is said to be "posted up;’' an- 
 other who is troublesome with his talk is requested 
 to "shut up;” and the remainder is "the balance.” 
 General M'Clellan, in returning thanks for the pre- 
 sentation of a sword, said " he hoped to spend the 
 balance of his days in peace among them when the 
 war was concluded.” The word "sat” is usually pro- 
 nounced " sot.” They speak of a piece being " sot to 
 music,” or of being " sharp sot.” A young lady at a 
 ball having been long without a partner, was at length 
 asked to dance. "Yes, siree,” she replied with ani- 
 mation ; "for I Ve sot, and sot, and sot till I ’ve about 
 tuck root.” 
 
 The American dialect varies with the locality. 
 Certain modes of speech are peculiar to the New 
 Englanders; others are heard only among the West- 
 ern men, who " eat wild turkey, and drink of the Mis- 
 sissippi.” The South and the South-west have their 
 peculiar phrases. A Western man says of a story 
 that it " smells rather tall.” " Stranger,” he says, " in 
 bar-hunts I am numerous.” Of a pathetic story he 
 says that " it sank into his feelins like a snagged boat 
 into the Mississippi.” He tells of a person " as cross 
 as a bar with two cubs and a sore tail.” A Southern 
 
192 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 
 
 man is powerful lazy, and powerful slow ; ” but if 
 you visit him, he dl go for you to the hilt against 
 creation, that’s tatur.” When people salute each 
 other on meeting, he says they are howdyin’ and 
 civilisin’ each other.” A man who has undressed has 
 '' shucked himself.” The extreme of facility is not as 
 easy as lying, but as easy as shootin’.” Yankees 
 guess everything — past, present, and future. They 
 are dreadful glad to see you, and powerful sorry you 
 enjoy such bad health. It is the Southerners who 
 '^reckon and calkelate.” The Yankee statement of 
 the positive, comparative, and superlative duties of life 
 is, first, we get on ; then we get honour ; and then 
 we get honest.”* A late American writer. Dr Nichols, 
 says, In no country are the faces of the people fur- 
 rowed with harder lines of care. In no country is 
 there so much hard, toilsome, unremitting labour ; in 
 none so little recreation and enjoyment of life. Work 
 and worry eat out the hearts of the people, and they 
 die before their time. Why the universal and ever- 
 lasting struggle for wealth here } Because it is the 
 one thing needful — the only real distinction. No- 
 where is money sought so eagerly, — nowhere does it 
 bring so little to its possessor. It is an end — not a 
 means.” 
 
 These are the words of a keen observer, an 
 American by birth. They go to prove, at least, 
 
 * Dr Nichols’ ‘‘Forty Years of American Life.” 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. I93 
 
 that America is not yet an earthly paradise. All 
 travellers complain of the extravagant homage ren- 
 dered to the ladies in America — not that chivalrous 
 deference which is accorded to woman in all civilised 
 communities, but such treatment as is given to 
 spoiled children. To such an extent is this foolish 
 social usage carried, that it amounts to a tyranny, 
 against which sensible Americans are ever threat- 
 ening to rebel, and to commence an agitation on 
 behalf of men’s rights,” in opposition to female 
 claims. Its effect on the ladies is the reverse of 
 commendable, rendering them thanklessly exacting, 
 unamiably tyrannical over the weaker vessels,” 
 languid, and often incapable of self-help. Such a 
 delicate and impartial observer as Miss Bremer, in 
 her Homes of the New World,” says, in reference to 
 the modes of life of American ladies, — ^‘No, it is not 
 good ; it has not the freshness of nature, that life 
 which so many ladies lead in this country ; that life 
 of twilight in comfortable rooms, rocking themselves 
 by the fireside from one year’s end to another ; that 
 life of effeminate warmth and inactivity, by which 
 they seclude themselves from the fresh air, from 
 fresh, invigorating life. And the physical weakness 
 of the ladies of this country must in great measure be 
 ascribed to their effeminate education. It is a sort 
 of harem life, although with this difference, that they, 
 
 unlike the Oriental women, are here in this Western 
 
 N 
 
194 ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS. 
 
 country regarded as sultanesses, and the men as their 
 subjects/' The offensive habit of boasting of them- 
 selves and their institutions has laid Americans open 
 to the animadversion of European travellers. They 
 not only feel themselves able to ^‘whip creation," 
 but they must be perpetually bragging of this 
 ability. Warburton, in his Hochelaga," says, ‘‘The 
 want of pride in Americans is made up for by the 
 most astounding conceit ; they perpetually declare 
 to each other their wisdom, virtue — in short, perfec- 
 tion ; and will not allow even a share of this merit to 
 other nations." John Bull is too proud to be vain. 
 
 It is devoutly to be hoped that the day may be 
 very distant when America and England shall again 
 meet in the deadly shock of battle. A war between 
 these two great nations would be a calamity to the 
 whole civilised world. Mr Anthony Trollope, who 
 has recently been among the Americans, gives it as 
 his opinion that there is danger of such a collision, 
 owing partly to the increased soreness and bitter- 
 ness on the part of the Americans towards England, 
 since the civil war broke out, and partly to the prob- 
 ability of a military despotism springing up, when 
 the contest is ended. This writer remarks, that 
 though such a war would be highly injurious to 
 England, it would be doubly disastrous to America. 
 Of one thing I feel certain, — that Britain will only 
 take up arms against America when driven to do so 
 
ENGLISH, SCOTCH, AND AMERICANS, 195 
 
 by dire necessity. And if that stern necessity should 
 arise, it will be seen that Old England has lost none 
 of her ancient valour, and that her sailors and 
 soldiers have not degenerated since the days of 
 Trafalgar and Waterloo. 
 
 There she sits in her island-home, 
 
 Peerless among her peers ! 
 
 And humanity oft to her arms doth come, 
 
 To ease its poor heart of tears. 
 
 Old England still throbs with the muffled fire 
 Of a past she can never forget ; 
 
 And again shall she banner the world up higher, 
 
 F or there ’s life in the old land yet. 
 
 They would mock at her now who of old look’d forth 
 In their fear as they heard her afar ; 
 
 But loud will your wail be, O kings of the earth ! 
 
 When the old land goes down to the war. 
 
 The avalanche trembles, half-launch’d and half-riven. 
 
 Her voice will in motion set ; 
 
 Oh, ring out the tidings, ye winds of heaven ! 
 
 There ’s life in the old land yet. 
 
 ‘‘ The old nursing mother ’s not hoary yet. 
 
 There is sap in her Saxon tree ; 
 
 Lo ! she lifteth a bosom of glory yet. 
 
 Through her mists, to the sun and the sea. 
 
 Fair as the Queen of Love fresh from the foam. 
 
 Or a star in a dark cloud set ; 
 
 Y e may blazon her shame — ye may leap at her name — 
 
 But there ’s life in the old land yet. 
 
 “ Let the storm burst, it will find the old land 
 Ready ripe for a rough red fray ! 
 
 She will fight as she fought when she took her stand 
 For the right in the olden day. 
 
 Ay, rouse the old royal soul, Europe’s best hope 
 Is her sword edge by victory set ! 
 
 She shall dash freedom’s foes adown death’s bloody slope ; 
 For there ’s life in the old land yet.” 
 
LECTURE THE FIFTH. 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 My object in this address is not to attempt an 
 exposition of the principles of geology. A real ac- 
 quaintance with this science can only be attained by 
 a long and patient study of those great writers who 
 are its recognised expounders, and cannot be hoped 
 for by the cheap and easy method of listening to a 
 few popular lectures. All that the lecturer can hope 
 to accomplish is to indicate some of the grand fea- 
 tures of this fascinating science, to make known some 
 of its sublime discoveries, and to shew the practical 
 application of its principles ; and thus to awaken a 
 desire in the minds of his auditors for further informa- 
 tion. The lecture is not the proper medium for im- 
 parting minute instruction in geology, or any other 
 science. The object I have in view in this brief 
 address is very simple and very humble. It is to 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 197 
 
 take some of the established truths of geology — some 
 of those startling discoveries about which there can 
 now be no question — and to endeavour to place these 
 before you, not in the clear, cold light of science, but 
 rather in that of imagination. In other words, I shall 
 endeavour to deal, not with the science^ but the poetry 
 of geology — that is, with those features of it which 
 appeal to the imagination. 
 
 At first sight, it might seem almost hopeless to look 
 for anything of a poetical type in the stony science, 
 dealing as it does with rocks and earth-beds, and 
 going down, as a great resurrectionist, into nature's 
 awful charnel-house, and dragging thence, with pick- 
 axe and hammer, the long-buried remains of extinct 
 generations. One might fancy that the study of this 
 science must be a sort of ‘^meditation among the 
 tombs” — very dismal and repulsive — and that geolo- 
 gists must be about as fascinating characters as grave- 
 diggers. In reality, however, this rugged science is 
 rich in. poetic elements, and furnishes stores of the 
 noblest food for the imagination. From the strong 
 comes forth sweetness. In the coming ages, I doubt 
 not, poets will find, in the magnificent disclosures of 
 geology, some of their finest inspirations ; and will 
 eagerly occupy the vast fields it has laid open to 
 imagination’s soaring wing. We all admit the sub- 
 limity and poetry of astronomy — the “ star-eyed 
 science” — that has thrown out its plumb-line, and 
 
198 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 sounded the mighty depths of space — that has tracked 
 the comet in its fiery career, weighed the suns and 
 planets, measured their distances, and extracted the 
 secret of their movements, and even gauged those 
 nebulous masses that hang, as light clouds, on the 
 outskirts of our sidereal system. But not less sublime 
 is geology in its aims and achievements. It has 
 deciphered much of that wondrous world-story — 
 stranger far than all that fiction has invented — which 
 is written by an almighty hand in the solid rocks — 
 the manuscripts of God '' inscribed on tables of 
 stone. It has read off those mysterious hieroglyph- 
 ics in which the history of our planet was written, 
 during the long ages that preceded man’s entrance 
 on the scene. It has recorded the convulsions and 
 changes through which earth has passed, and told 
 how its huge granite ribs were molten and cast in the 
 primeval fires, — how its rocky sides were formed, and 
 then torn and hurled to the surface, amid convulsive 
 throes, — how its mountain-chains were raised aloft, 
 its sea-beds and river-courses scooped out, and its 
 continents built up. From the primeval granite, 
 hardening over the internal sea of fire, up to the 
 deposition of the vegetable soil in which the modest 
 crimson-tipp’d ” daisy takes root, — through all the 
 growth and decay of world after world, and the rise 
 and fall of empires and dynasties on which no hu- 
 man eye ever gazed, — tracing out their mighty ruins 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 199 
 
 with the clear eye of reason, — geology aims at no- 
 thing less than constructing a biography of our globe. 
 Stranger still, the geologist can trace the march of 
 life over this stage of being. He can tell of what 
 wondrous races, long since passed away, it was the 
 birth-place. He disinters their stony skeletons, and 
 reconstructs their forms, and, to the eye of fancy, 
 makes them live and breathe again. For myriads of 
 years they had lain in their stony shrouds : under the 
 waving of the geologist’s wand, they visit once more 
 the glimpses of the moon and we are lost in won- 
 der at the uncouth, gigantic forms that were once 
 lords of creation — monarchs of all they surveyed. 
 
 Is there no poetry in all this — nothing to stir the 
 imagination 1 Is there no beauty in that mighty 
 plan, reaching from everlasting to everlasting,” by 
 which the Great Architect has been working for 
 countless ages, to awaken our wonder and worship 
 Is there no melody to charm the ear of fancy in those 
 wonderful ^Hhymes of the universe” written on stony 
 tablets } Nay, I think, here is the sublimest poetry 
 — the poetry of truth, not of fiction. Let a geologist 
 tell you the tale of some granite peak that lifts its 
 '' bald, awful ” head amid the clouds, — how it sprang 
 of old from the fiery gulf — how once the sea-weeds 
 were wrapped around its shoulders, and the sea-shells 
 decked its summits as the waves played among its 
 crests — how from the bottom of the sea slowly up- 
 
200 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 heaved, through long ages, it rose to be a heaven- 
 hissing mountain ; or let him sit down by some gray, 
 moss-covered boulder or wave-worn pebble, and nar- 
 rate through what strange wanderings and vicissi- 
 tudes they have passed, and you will listen to a tale 
 more fascinating by far than The Rhyme of the 
 Ancient Mariner,” more wonderful than all that even 
 Milton’s imagination bodied forth. In all things, 
 however poor or commonplace, there is poetry, if we 
 have but the eyes to see it. Then what poetry lies 
 embalmed in that gorgeous science that has the whole 
 past eternity for its empire, that carries the imagina- 
 tion back into the abysses of time, and ^^the long- 
 faded glories they cover,” and restores the creations 
 that bloomed and fell myriads of ages before man 
 stepped on the scene ! What are the ruins of Nine- 
 veh, Egypt, Persepolis, or Rome compared with 
 the ruins of ancient worlds, and the storied urns ” 
 of those mighty dynasties that preceded man on 
 earth ! If the hoary ruin, only a few centuries old, 
 commands our veneration ; if we tread reverently 
 over the buried dust of former generations of men, 
 shall we not feel our awe and wonder stirred as we 
 gaze on relics whose date no human mind can fix, 
 and compared with which the oldest transactions of 
 human history are but as yesterday } And if we are 
 lost in wonder over the excavated slabs that once 
 lined the walls of Nineveh’s proud palaces ; if we pore 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 201 
 
 over the hieroglyphics that tell the tale of Egypt’s 
 early history, should we not, with still deeper rapture, 
 study the structure of our world, with its inscribed 
 characters, and learn through what revolutions it has 
 reached its present condition ? Shakespeare said, 
 long ago, that there were sermons in stones and 
 geology may be regarded as a great homily from a 
 stony text, or as a great prose-poem with the globe 
 as its subject, or as a grand Oratorio of Creation : — ■ 
 
 “ Through the circles, high and holy, 
 
 Of an everlasting change, 
 
 Now more swiftly, now more slowly. 
 
 Form must pass and function range. 
 
 Nothing in the world can perish, 
 
 Death is life and life is death ; 
 
 All we love and all we cherish 
 Dies to breathe a nobler breath. 
 
 “ From the dark and troubled surges 
 Of the roaring sea of time 
 Evermore a world emerges. 
 
 Solemn, beautiful, sublime. 
 
 So of old, from Grecian water, 
 
 ’Mid the music and the balm. 
 
 Rose the dread Olympian’s daughter. 
 
 Floating on the azure calm.” 
 
 There is, then, such a thing as the poetry of 
 geology. Even in the commonest things there is 
 beauty, if we have the seeing eye ; and it is the 
 peculiar function of the poet to discover the beauti- 
 ful, wherever it exists, and to worship at its shrine. 
 Where to the common eye there is only a grim rock 
 
202 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 or a dark earth-bed, a geologist with a poetic eye, 
 like Hugh Miller, sees a world of beauty, and con- 
 nects the shattered fragment or the dingy stratum 
 with the wondrous story of the globe. To him the 
 fossil and the rock are flashing with poetry. They are 
 full of beauty, and call up wondrous associations and 
 strange, rich memories. These are the characters in 
 which are written the chapters of that great world- 
 story whose leaves are the solid rock. 
 
 One of the most startling disclosures of geology has 
 reference to the original condition of our globe. We 
 look abroad now over the surface of the earth, and see 
 mountain ranges, hills and plains, rivers hurrying on 
 towards the ocean, a bright, green carpet covering 
 the soil. The rain and snow descend ; the seasons 
 succeed one another with undeviating regularity ; 
 and we are apt to think that the order of nature 
 has been the same from the beginning. Six thou- 
 sand years ago we fancy the earth sprang into exist- 
 ence, complete from the Creator’s hand ; and man, as 
 lord of creation, we suppose then took his place at the 
 head of the animated series. This is the short and 
 easy method of creation ; but it is far from being the 
 real one. Very different indeed is the tale which geo- 
 logy unfolds. It demonstrates, from an examination 
 of the rocks that compose the crust of the earth, that 
 the globe has slowly and gradually reached its pres- 
 ent condition ; that the great creative and destruc- 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 203 
 
 tive processes, we now see going on around us, were in 
 operation for myriads of ages before man’s day on 
 earth; that races of animals, totally different from 
 those which now walk the surface of the planet, lived, 
 died, and were wrapped in their stony winding-sheets, 
 during periods of the past eternity so vast as to defy 
 the powers of imagination, and in comparison with 
 which six thousand years are as a drop taken from 
 the mighty ocean. During these pre- Adamite ages, 
 whose long, deep swells are marked on the shores of 
 time by the wrecks they have cast up, the earth 
 passed through vast changes : its rocks, thousands of 
 feet in thickness, were gradually accumulated, its 
 strata slowly deposited, and its solid framework built 
 up through myriads of ages, till it became fitted to be 
 a dwelling-place for man. Geology does not pretend 
 to determine what was the original condition of that 
 matter out of which our globe was thus formed. The 
 beginning and the end are to us alike impenetrably 
 dark. Laplace and Herschel have conjectured that 
 originally the assemblage of bodies, that at present 
 form our solar system, were one celestial mass, and 
 consisted of matter in its most attenuated state, float- 
 ing through space, like one of those mysterious patches 
 of light clouds, called nebulae, that we see swimming 
 in the celestial spaces. This gaseous mass, they sup- 
 pose, under the influence of gravitation, of cohesive 
 force, and chemical attraction, became moulded into 
 
204 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 a sphere ; and then, under the influence of the laws 
 impressed on it by the Creator, threw off from its sur- 
 face, masses which became separate spheres, whirling 
 round the central mass ; and thus we have the sun 
 and the planets revolving round it as the central 
 point of attraction. If this theory be correct, then 
 the matter of each world was once a sort of fire-mist, 
 and was afterwards collected into a vast fire-cloud, 
 which in due time was condensed into planet-masses ; 
 and from chaos well-ordered worlds arose. This grand 
 theory — which, whether true or false, could only have 
 originated in a mind of vast capacity — has been thus 
 expressed in the language of poetry : — 
 
 “ But in vain you would aspire, 
 
 Looking left and looking right, 
 
 O’er that mist of golden fire 
 To direct your aching sight. 
 
 Silent is it, burning, breathing, 
 
 Like a sea of crimson cloud. 
 
 Waves on waves are wreath’d and wreathing, 
 A self-convoluted cloud. — 
 
 See it whirling, calm and steady ! 
 
 See it surging to and fro ! 
 
 As the waters gleam and eddy. 
 
 In some whirlpool chafed to snow. 
 
 Cooler, cooler is it glowing. 
 
 Denser here and denser there ; 
 
 Slowly, slowly orbs are growing 
 Out of this gross, fiery air. 
 
 One has, with a sudden motion. 
 
 Left the old, parental fire ; 
 
 Yet around this radiant ocean 
 Is it drav/n with strange desire. 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 205 
 
 Others now, with others, sever — 
 
 The great mist itself is one ! 
 
 You may see them rolling ever. 
 
 The bright children of the sun.” 
 
 Whatever may be thought of this hypothesis, — 
 usually called ‘‘ the nebular,’' — geology furnishes 
 indisputable evidence that when chaos was passing 
 into cosmos, — ^when our world was leaving the rudi- 
 mentary condition and taking definite shape, the 
 materials composing its surface were at such a tem- 
 perature as to be a molten mass, like glass in a 
 furnace. So totally different was its condition at 
 this period from that which it has now assumed, 
 that it requires an effort to believe that the primeval 
 globe and the present are the same. To form some 
 faint idea of its primeval state, we must conceive of 
 the earth as one mass of boiling lava, — the whole 
 planet one vast volcano, hurling aloft molten torrents, 
 amid frightful thunder and terrific explosions. As 
 yet the molten lava, surrounded by watery vapour, 
 air, and carbonic acid gas, was the sole material 
 existence. Out of these primitive elements our 
 beautiful, flower-clad world was at length to be 
 evolved, with all its living occupants. Gradually the 
 lava cooled at the surface, and became solid rock. 
 The grim reign of chaos may now be said to have 
 ended — cosmos commenced — the almighty creative 
 fiat had gone forth — the world began. The liquid 
 
2o6 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 lava had hardened into granite, and formed the mighty 
 ribs of the globe. The central fire, however, was not 
 extinguished, but shut in by the granite ribs, under- 
 neath which it continues to flame on still, finding vent 
 now only through the volcanoes scattered over the 
 globe. Thus, on the surface of this earth-ball, we 
 are whirled through space, while underneath our feet, 
 at the distance only of a few miles, a raging furnace 
 is flaming — heaving its waves of fire fiercely against 
 its granite barriers, at times making the earth tremble 
 with the earthquake’s shock, and still flinging up its 
 molten masses through the throat of the volcano. 
 While the liquid granite was undergoing the cooling 
 process, the expansive force of the internal heat, act- 
 ing from beneath, threw it into a variety of shapes, so 
 that it congealed in waves or jets, which now form 
 many of our hills and mountains. Very wonderful it 
 is to think that such vast chains of mountains as the 
 Andes, the Pyrenees, and the Grampians are just 
 solidified bubbles of the primitive granite, originally 
 hurled up from the seething caldron and congealed 
 into their present form. It is owing to this that 
 nearly all granitic hills and mountains have peaked 
 summits and steep sides. In many cases, however, 
 the granite barely shews itself above the surface of 
 the earth, as in Aberdeenshire, Devonshire, and Gal- 
 way ; in which places it furnishes the most durable of 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 207 
 
 all building materials. In this island"'^ the granitic 
 rocks abound, and rear their heads above the surface 
 in many localities. In the peninsula of Avalon, on 
 which St John’s stands, there is a range of hills 
 twenty miles in length, running from the back of 
 Renews to Holyrood in Conception Bay; while, from 
 the latter place, another range runs along the southern 
 shore of Conception Bay, forming the White Hills 
 and the lofty iron-bound coast from Topsail Head to 
 Cape St Francis. At the Renews and Holyrood 
 extremities of the former ridge stand two hills, each 
 about a thousand feet above the level of the sea, 
 called the Butter-Pots. They are formed of these 
 igneous rocks, of which I have been speaking, that 
 were originally molten in the furnace beneath ; the 
 one being principally porphyry, the other capped by 
 a mass of dark gray trap-rock. That bold cliff named 
 Topsail Head, which most of you have seen, is chiefly 
 a mass of pure white quartz-rock. Cape St Francis^ 
 again, is principally gray quartz-rock and greenstone. 
 All round the head of Conception Bay the igneous 
 rocks prevail. In Trinity Gut, a sloping sheet of the 
 primitive granite is exposed to view; and the Fair 
 Islands, the islands around Greenspond, and the 
 mainland around Cape Freels, are all formed of the 
 same rocks. When that daring traveller, Cormac, 
 
 Newfoundland. 
 
208 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 penetrated the unknown interior of Newfoundland, 
 into which the white man had never ventured before, 
 he tells us that he passed over a long ridge of low 
 granite hills, and that he often ascended the insulated 
 peaks to view the grand undulating forest all around, 
 whose beauty he describes as exquisite. Until he 
 reached Jameson’s Lake, in the very centre of the 
 island, he encountered no other kind of rock than the 
 granite. It was when he reached the summit of this 
 great granite range, which he estimated at from 
 twenty to forty miles in width, that the mysterious 
 interior of Newfoundland (to this day a terra incog- 
 nitd) broke upon his view. On the one hand lay a 
 dense forest, spotted with bright yellow marshes and 
 gleaming lakes ; on the other, stretching away to the 
 westward, were broad savannas, marbled with woods, 
 bright green plains, far as the eye could reach, — a 
 scene of striking beauty, and teeming with life. Can 
 we doubt that one day the tide of population will in- 
 vade these solitudes, and that these lonely plains, as 
 yet explored by but a single traveller, will become 
 the happy homes of men ; and that the soft, sweet 
 voices of children at their sports will yet re-echo 
 through these woods, where now the deer, the fox, 
 and the wolf reign undisturbed } Not always will 
 the energetic inhabitants of this island be content to 
 occupy its shores, gathering the treasures of its sur- 
 rounding seas. The geological survey which is about 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 209 
 
 to be initiated, under the direction of Sir William 
 Logan, will lay open the interior, of which at present 
 we know far less than of the interior of Africa ; and 
 when once its agricultural and mineral resources are 
 made known, we may hope that a new era of pros- 
 perity will begin. Even the slight researches of a 
 few individuals have already proved that its primitive 
 rocks are rich in minerals ; and lead and copper ore, 
 of the most valuable character, are now rewarding 
 the efforts of the miner, in several localities. When 
 the rich alluvial plains of the western portion of the 
 island are explored, the axe of the backwoodsman 
 will speedily be ringing in the dark forest. 
 
 Let us now suppose the granite foundations laid, 
 and the earth so far cooled as to allow the molten 
 surface to become solid ; fancy what an extraor- 
 dinary appearance our world must have presented ! 
 In all probability, the whole surface was covered 
 with bold and rugged ranges of granite mountains, 
 with deep and fearful valleys intervening between 
 them. Volcanoes were numerous and active, still 
 throwing up the molten mass, to be solidified on the 
 surface. Though the fierce spirits of fire were 
 banished far down to the dark caverns of the globe, 
 to rage and roar in angry passion below, the earth 
 was still in sore travail in those early days, her 
 heaving bosom belching forth torrents of fire, a 
 
 thousand volcanoes pouring out blazing streams of 
 
 O 
 
210 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 lava, amid a trembling and thundering that shook 
 the firmament. Thus the solid land first rose out 
 of the abyss, to greet the light that God had created. 
 Seas would be formed in the valleys between the 
 granite peaks ; and as the moisture of the atmo- 
 sphere condensed, vast torrents rushed down the 
 sides of the mountains, and during long ages, aided 
 by the action of the atmosphere, washed down the 
 granite hills to the bottoms of seas, where their 
 disintegrated particles were consolidated under vast 
 pressure, and, being crystallised by heat, formed the 
 next series of rocks, called, in geologic phrase, the 
 metaphoric or transition series, or sometimes the 
 gneiss formation. Thus the primitive granitic moun- 
 tains were slowly worn down, by the same agencies 
 that are still at work levelling the mountains, and 
 were deposited in the waters of the ocean. The ranges 
 that still lift their gray heads aloft are the remains 
 of this primitive race of giants, whose ponderous 
 strength has been able hitherto to resist the attacks 
 of their foes. Down to the bottoms of seas were the 
 granite particles rolled, not by sudden convulsions 
 or rending earthquakes, but by gentle agencies. The 
 water and air drilled and bored countless little holes 
 and channels through the vast body ; the mild rain 
 stole into every cleft and crevice, and oozed from 
 vein to vein, filling the heart of the granite giant with 
 delicate and wondrously ramified little canals. The 
 
THE POETR Y OF GEO LOG Y, 21 1 
 
 cold of winter froze these secret ducts; the veins 
 swelled, loosening the vast fragments with irresistible 
 force, and shattering even the solid granite. Mean- 
 time the oxygen was gnawing at every corner and 
 edge, grinding up the minute particles ; and the 
 thundering torrent at length comes and sweeps 
 away in wild triumph the rifted fragment, or the 
 glacier takes it up in its icy embrace, bears it down 
 the sloping valley to the sea, and the iceberg floats 
 it far away, and drops it in the dark depths of ocean. 
 Thus, in the wondrous circulation of matter, the 
 granite mountain is spread over the floor of ocean. 
 Now geologists have ascertained that it was at the 
 bottom of this ancient ocean that the creation of life 
 first took place. Two varieties of a humble polypus, 
 the oldhamia^ have been found ; and to the eyes of 
 the geologist this little creature is most venerable, 
 as being the first denizen, as far as science has yet 
 made out, of the oceanic chaos of this period. 
 During many thousands of years, the ground-up 
 granite was deposited in sedimentary strata by the 
 waters of the ocean, that held them in solution. 
 Meantime the expansive force of the internal heat 
 was slowly raising the bottoms of these seas, until 
 at length they became dry land, and constituted 
 the great Cambrian and Silurian formations, many 
 thousand yards in thickness, and requiring enor- 
 mous periods for their deposition. On the border of 
 
212 
 
 THE ‘POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 Wales, not far from Shrewsbury, there is a moun- 
 tain called Longmynd, which, with other mountain 
 groups in the same region, constitutes the basis of 
 the Silurian system. These rugged rocks were the 
 first that rose above the surface of the waters when 
 the foundations of what was to become Britain were 
 laid. Against this breakwater the waves dashed, as 
 for the first time they met with any resistance. 
 Here was the beginning of that sea-girt isle the 
 name of which is familiar now in every land. In 
 these Welsh mountains the geologist reads off the 
 annals of this early world, and pores over the 
 mysteries of the primitive creations. The granite 
 world had departed ; its successor, formed out of its 
 ruins, was emerging from the depths of ocean. 
 
 It was a great step in advance when the dry land 
 rose above the waves. Then a higher life than that 
 which could exist at the bottoms of oceans began ; 
 and a more varied climate followed. Geology de- 
 monstrates that at first only a few islands rose above 
 the surface of the waters. Where there are now con- 
 tinents, at the date we speak of there were only scat- 
 tered groups of islands. The outline of England and 
 Scotland was marked by a chain of small islands 
 along what is now the western coast. France was an 
 island — most of Germany an archipelago. The val- 
 ley of the Mississippi formed a small continent by 
 itself. Between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia there 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 213 
 
 was a Mediterranean Sea, bordered on all sides by 
 land, which has disappeared beneath the waves. Most 
 of what now constitutes the western counties of Scot- 
 land, with Cumberland, Westmoreland, nearly the 
 whole of Wales, and the east of Ireland, formed the 
 bed of a vast sea. A new era dawned — that of the 
 old red sandstone. This formation was built out 
 of the crumbled debris of the Silurian world, de- 
 posited at the bottom of the ocean, and coloured by 
 an infusion of oxide of iron. Gradually these beds 
 rose from the depths, towered into mountain ranges, 
 had their river-systems, continents, and vegetable 
 and animal creations. The remains of the old red 
 sandstone world still shew themselves in the loftiest 
 mountains of South Wales, Cornwall, and Devon- 
 shire ; but, above all, in Northern Scotland they are 
 piled in imposing magnificence. Here the old red 
 sandstone forms a huge mantle, that is wrapped 
 around the shoulders of the Grampians — the gray 
 giants of the granite age. In it are embedded the 
 remains of numerous marine plants, and also of land 
 cryptogamic ones. It was, however, emphatically the 
 age of fish. Hugh Miller has made a special study 
 of this great field, and has described, in his own elo- 
 quent words, the strange fantastic creatures that dis- 
 ported themselves in the primeval Caledonian seas, — 
 balls bristling with thorns, living boats with oars and 
 rudder, the pterichtys, that aspired to enter the bird 
 
214 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 family, and the cephalaspis, with its long tail fas- 
 tened to a crescent-shaped head covered with a heavy 
 shield/' The earliest of the great reptile dynasty also 
 shewed themselves toward the close of the old red 
 sandstone era. 
 
 Ages rolled on, new revolutions occurred, — all indi- 
 cating progress, all marking steps in a Divine plan. 
 The carboniferous era, with its enormous vegetation, 
 dawned ; and then gigantic ferns, palm-trees, and 
 coniferous trees grew, and left their accumulated 
 remains to form coal-beds as the fuel of the modern 
 world. The dry land enlarged ; islands were linked 
 together, and formed continents ; everywhere the ter- 
 restrial masses vastly increased in bulk. The remains 
 of this era shew a vast increase in the terrestrial flora, 
 indicating an increment of soil. Immense forests, 
 whose solitudes no mammiferous animal yet dis- 
 turbed, flourished in the warm, damp temperature. 
 The rich coal-fields of England and Scotland are the 
 precious relics they have left. The tree-fern and the 
 great sigillaria were then the monarchs of the woods. 
 The enormous duration of the carboniferous era may 
 be judged of from the calculation of Professor Phillips, 
 that '‘it would require 122,400 years merely to accu- 
 mulate sixty feet of coal." This world, however, at 
 length closed, and the tertiary era dawned. The centre 
 of Europe was now completed ; England still wanted 
 her eastern portion. The site on which Paris and 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 215 
 
 London now stand was as yet a lake, into which the 
 waters of several rivers were discharged, and in due 
 time filled up the basin. The huge reptiles of the 
 preceding era had disappeared, and a higher race of 
 animals walked the earth — the number as well as the 
 variety of living creatures being vaster. The tem- 
 perature of the earth, though still high, was approach- 
 ing its present condition. Decaying vegetable and 
 animal structures, uniting with the crumbling rocks, 
 formed soil. The new red sandstone, the oolite, and 
 the chalk succeeded each other. All things were 
 tending towards one grand result. The granite, the 
 Silurian, the old red sandstone, the carboniferous 
 vegetation were all but means for the formation of 
 that little dark-coloured superficial layer we call the 
 vegetable soil ; and the object of this latest formation 
 was, that rational, immortal man might occupy the 
 scene. And now, when the huge tertiary monsters 
 at length slept their stony sleep, the earth was ready 
 for its lord. Then man, the youngest and fairest of 
 all created things, for whom all these vast prepara- 
 tions had been going on, — on whose account a bene- 
 ficent Creator had fitted up this gorgeous dwelling- 
 place and stored it so munificently, — man, the 
 paragon of animals,” entered and took possession of 
 his fair domains. For him, through countless ages, 
 were these vast beds of crumbled rock and decayed 
 animal and vegetable remains laid down ; for his use 
 
2i6 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 these treasures underneath the surface of the earth 
 had been accumulated — the coal, limestone, and 
 mineral deposits ; and now, as heir of all the ages, 
 he enters on his inheritance. 
 
 Said I not truly that geology has its poetry, and 
 that of the noblest type What a grand subject for 
 an epic poem would be the fortunes and vicissitudes 
 of the pre-Adamite earth, — the rise, decline, and fall 
 of its empires and dynasties ! How the imagination 
 might linger over those strange existences, whose 
 remains are enclosed in their strong sepulchres, and 
 delight in picturing the condition of earth, when 
 these creatures trod its surface, rejoicing in their 
 strength, and drinking in enjoyment from a thousand 
 fountains of happiness, — all proclaiming the benefi- 
 cence and wisdom of the omnipotent Creator ! What 
 high employment the poetic fancy might find in re- 
 constructing those wondrous forms, faintly but accu- 
 rately sketched on the solid rock ; or in shadowing 
 forth the outline of world after world, as it bloomed 
 and decayed, in the great primeval morning of time ! 
 And then, what themes for imagination to work upon 
 in the appearance and disappearance of noble races, 
 each having its appointed day, and, at the close, the 
 tomb and the sleep of death, and as successor a still 
 nobler dynasty — death ever passing into a higher life, 
 and all pointing to the great consummation, the hu- 
 man period ! How vividly the imagination might 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 217 
 
 contrast man’s brief day on earth with the geologic 
 eras of the past ! 
 
 “We who for threescore years and ten 
 Toil downwards from our birth, 
 
 Deem sixty centuries of men 
 A ripe old age for earth. 
 
 “ But all our deeds, though back we look 
 With yearning keen and fond. 
 
 Fill but a page ; the mighty book 
 Lies fathomless beyond. 
 
 “ She is not old, or waxing cold. 
 
 But vigorous as of yore. 
 
 When ’mid her kindred globes she roll’d, 
 
 Exulting evermore. 
 
 “ Six thousand years of human strife 
 Are little in the sum — 
 
 A morning added to her life. 
 
 And noon-day yet to come. 
 
 “ Six thousand years, and what are they ? 
 
 A cycle scarce begun, — 
 
 The fragment of a grander day. 
 
 Unmeasured by the sun.” 
 
 Then, how these geologic studies enlarge our views 
 of the Divine plan of the universe, — how they expand 
 our conceptions of that Being who is from everlast- 
 ing to everlasting ! What miracles of beauty, — what 
 lavish skill and adornment, — what profundity of aim, 
 — what grandeur, bounty, and beneficence may the 
 poetic eye trace in all these relics of the ancient 
 worlds ! On them the sun shone as brightly as on 
 our own world. The waves rolled, and sparkled, and 
 foamed as they are doing to-day ; the forests, and 
 
2i8 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 broad savannas, and prairies were teeming with life ; 
 the lakes and rivers were crowded with living inhabit- 
 ants that have not now a representative on earth. 
 Beauty and Divine skill were as lavishly bestowed on 
 all created things, when there was no rational being 
 to admire or adore, as when man became the high 
 priest of nature, and the student of God’s immeasur- 
 able plans. These are the poetic themes that geo- 
 logy suggests, while it conducts us amid the wonders 
 of God’s creation, and discovers to us the texture of 
 that garment, so complex and beautiful, that has 
 been woven in the roaring loom of time,” and which 
 Deity has wrapped around Him at various creative 
 epochs, and then changed like a vesture,” and 
 folded up, and laid aside in the successive evolutions 
 of His mighty plans : — 
 
 “ In the infinite creation 
 
 Lies no dead unmeaning fact, 
 
 But eternal revelation, 
 
 Deity in endless act, — 
 
 Life that works and pauses never. 
 Death that passes into life, 
 
 Rest that follows motion ever. 
 
 Peace that ever follows strife. 
 Evermore the worlds are fading. 
 Evermore the worlds will bloom. 
 To refute our weak upbraiding. 
 
 To throw brightness on the gloom. 
 Ever the imperfect passes, 
 
 But the perfect ever grows. 
 
 Forests sink to drear morasses. 
 
 Fairer landscapes to disclose.” 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 219 
 
 In truth, these fairy tales of science are far more 
 wonderful than all other tales — more enrapturing 
 than all the stories of genii, enchanted castles, witches, 
 and giants that ever fiction penned. What are the 
 changes produced by Aladdin’s wonder-working 
 lamp, compared with the actual transformations that 
 earth has undergone since her granite floors were 
 laid ! How astonishing the fact that this beautiful, 
 flower-decked world, with all its animal and vegetable 
 growths, has been formed out of the basis of the 
 original granite ! Yet such is literally the fact. Each 
 successive world was formed out of that which pre- 
 ceded it, the ground-up granite furnishing the original 
 materials, and the plant, the animal, the action of 
 heat, water, and air supplying other elements. The 
 particles of the primitive rocks entered into a thou- 
 sand new combinations, and underwent innumerable 
 transformations — now in fresh rock formations, now 
 in vegetable growths, and now in the structures of 
 animals. Man himself, in his mortal part, may be re- 
 garded as an extract from the granite — a fine essence 
 concentrated from the flinty particles of the primitive 
 rocks. The original granite mountain was worn down 
 into minute particles, which were taken up by water 
 and spread over the surface of the earth ; here they 
 entered into the composition of plants whose roots 
 drink, in rain and spring water, large quantities of 
 dissolved flint. The animal devoured the plant, and 
 
220 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 so these particles entered into a higher life. Man, in 
 his turn, eats the animal or the plant, and thus builds 
 up his earthly tabernacle with the original granite 
 particles variously compounded. In fact, in every 
 drop of water we swallow there are some little atoms 
 of flint held in solution ; in the cabbage, beans, and 
 other vegetables that we eat there are quantities of 
 dissolved flint, impalpable to the senses, and which 
 thus go to the construction of our bodily frames. In 
 the course of a lifetime we thus dispose of a con- 
 siderable slice of granite. Curiously enough, what is 
 now part of a man once formed part of a mountain ; 
 and in the ceaseless circulation of matter, the endless 
 renewal by destruction that is going on, the particles 
 composing our bodies may be again employed in the 
 construction of some cloud-capped hill. All flesh 
 is grass and to go a step farther back, all flesh is 
 granite. If it be true that in the midst of life we 
 are in death,'' it is no less true that in the midst of 
 death we are in life. Gigantic mountains, huge con- 
 tinents are swept down to the bottoms of seas — all 
 that lives dies, but life still triumphs. That which 
 seemingly perishes only changes its form, and rises 
 and lives again. Resurrection follows death, and 
 new life springs from the grave. The flinty rock, 
 dissolved, refined, almost spiritualised, rises with the 
 gentle water-drops, into the delicate roots of plants. 
 Wanting this food, no wheat, oats, or barley could 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 221 
 
 grow. Mounting upwards, slily, slowly, these flinty 
 particles form the straw of the rich wheat plant, and 
 the stalk of grass — structures which surpass in beauty 
 and boldness man's proudest temples, so beautiful, 
 yet so airy and solid, that the rain cannot enter, and 
 the wind can bend, but not break the elastic pillar. 
 And thus, through this hollow column, the plant 
 draws up rich food for man, and stores it away in its 
 chambers till the autumn comes, and finds the head 
 bending with golden grain ; and so through vein and 
 artery, the particles of the stone become part and 
 portion of the being into which God himself has 
 breathed the breath of life. These marvels of science 
 may rudely dissolve the wonder-dreams of our child- 
 hood ; but so far from banishing poetry from our 
 minds, they awaken richer trains of poetic thought, and 
 pile wonder on wonder higher far than all the imagina- 
 tion has ever bodied forth in its loftiest flights : — 
 
 “ I grieve not that ripe knowledge takes away 
 The charm that nature to my childhood wore, 
 
 For with the insight cometh day by day 
 A greater bliss than wonder was before. 
 
 To win the secret of a weed’s plain heart 
 Reveals the clue to spiritual things. 
 
 The soul that looks within for truth may guess 
 The presence of some unknown heavenliness.”^ 
 
 One of the most interesting chapters in geology is 
 that which describes the formation of coal. Little do 
 we think, as we gather round the cheerful hearth, 
 * J. Russell Lowell. 
 
222 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 while the winter storm is howling without, and a 
 fierce nor’-easter is hurling the snow-drift against the 
 windows, and as, poker in hand, we proceed to break 
 up a lump of ^‘bright, round coal,” — little do we think 
 what a wonderful history that piece of black mineral 
 has had. Not only does it yield heat and light, but 
 also poetry. That dark mass is a fragment from a tree 
 that grew in the primeval forest countless millenniums 
 before man’s creation. The period during which the 
 earth was taking in her stock of coal for world-con- 
 sumption is called by geologists, as we have seen, the 
 carboniferous era. Her coal-cellars were dug very 
 deep indeed, immediately over the old red sandstone. 
 Fortunately for us, however, these stores have been 
 elevated' in many places near the surface, and so 
 placed within man’s reach. Never before or since 
 was the earth covered with such a rank vegetation 
 as during the period when our coal-beds were depo- 
 sited. The atmosphere was then warm and moist ; 
 and carbonic acid gas, which forms the chief food of 
 plants, was far more abundant then than at present. 
 These conditions favoured the development of a rank 
 vegetation ; and this vast growth served a double 
 purpose — it subtracted fpm the air the excess of 
 noxious gas,'and thus prepared for a higher animal 
 life ; while, at the same time, its remains, deposited 
 in huge basins, underwent a chemical change that 
 transformed them into coal, so essential for civilisa- 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 223 
 
 tion and human comfort. Thus the generator of 
 that mechanical force that was destined to drive our 
 steam-ships, railway trains, power-looms, to work our 
 factories and printing-presses, and do all the world’s 
 drudgery, was, myriads of ages since, formed out of 
 the superabundant carbonic acid gas, the sunbeams, 
 and the mud of low-lying delta lands. In reality, as 
 remarked by George Stephenson, the motive-power 
 that works the steam-engine is light bottled up in 
 the earth for tens of thousands of years, — light ab- 
 sorbed by the plants and vegetables ; and, after being 
 buried in the earth for long ages in fields of coal, that 
 light is again brought forth and liberated, and made 
 to work, as in the locomotive, for great human pur- 
 poses.” Let us try to get an idea of the wonderful 
 process by which this great agent of civilisation was 
 formed. 
 
 The researches of geology shew that during the 
 coal-forming era the chief forms of vegetation were 
 marshy plants, luxuriating in low, muddy delta- 
 lands, like the cypress swamps of the Mississippi, or 
 the Sunderbunds of the Ganges. Favoured by heat 
 and moisture, vast vegetable-growths shot up and 
 decayed, age after age. The lepidode^idra^ seventy 
 feet in height, shot forth their spiky branches ; vast 
 tree-ferns and tall reeds, with stems as massive as 
 those of our forest trees, rose out of the water ; 
 pines, in dark forests, covered the hills. Rivers 
 
224 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 rushed along, loaded with drift-wood, pine trees, and 
 leaves ; and these, collecting in vast rafts, became 
 water-logged, sank to the bottom, and being gradu- 
 ally embedded in sand and mud, became in due 
 time chemically altered into coal. It is now an 
 established doctrine of geology that at least some 
 of the coal-seams originated, in this way, from the 
 deposition of drift-wood in the mud and ooze of the 
 sea-bottoms. Still, by far the greater proportion 
 of these coal-beds arose from the decay and entomb- 
 ment of vegetation on the spot where it grew — the 
 swampy plains of the land. Where these huge 
 growths arose they sank into their tombs, were 
 covered over, and in due time converted into coal. 
 This latter theory of their formation has been gener- 
 ally accepted since Sir William Logan's discovery 
 that each coal-seam, for the most part, rests upon a 
 bed of fire-clay, which, with its embedded roots, 
 marks the site of an ancient soil.. It is not un- 
 common to find erect stems of trees passing down 
 through, the coal-seams, and spreading out their 
 divergent roots in the clay below, exactly as they 
 must have done when they flourished green and 
 luxuriant in the times gf the carboniferous era."* 
 In the coal-fields of Cape Breton, from which we 
 get our supplies, a very remarkable appearance was 
 presented in one locality. Four planes were laid 
 Geikie’s “Story of a Boulder.” 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 225 
 
 bare, placed one over the other, and each supporting 
 its group of erect stems of trees, and exhibiting in 
 all seven ancient soils with their covering of vege- 
 tation. These trees must have grown on the spot 
 where their upright stems are still to be seen ; and 
 consequently the accompanying coal-seams origin- 
 ated, not from vegetation drifted by river-action, 
 but from vegetation that there grew up. Under 
 almost all coal-beds vegetable soil can be traced, 
 thus unmistakably indicating their origin. Thus, 
 where the miner, far down in the bowels of the 
 earth, amid damp and dripping caverns, is exca- 
 vating the coal, richly-clad forests bloomed and 
 decayed, century after century. These vast jungles 
 and forests, invaded by the changing currents of 
 the river, were buried slowly in sediment deposited 
 by its waters ; or the area on which they grew was 
 submerged in the sea, and over this sunk forest mud 
 accumulated for centuries. In due time the muddy 
 bottom of the sea became dry land, and waved with 
 a new forest, which in its turn sunk, to form new 
 coal-beds. The same process was repeated age 
 after age ; forest after forest spread its mantle of 
 green over the low, swampy lands, and each in turn 
 floundered amid the muddy waters, — the whole 
 sunken vegetation forming the vast coal-measures, 
 many thousand feet in thickness. 
 
 Had these treasures been retained where they 
 
 P 
 
226 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 were originally formed, they would have been for 
 ever buried in the earth, far beyond the reach of 
 man. But, by gigantic subterranean forces, the ori- 
 ginal deposits of coal have been broken up, changed 
 in position, brought nearer the surface, and so placed 
 within the reach of man. Geology affords invaluable 
 aid in the discovery of coal, and saves the waste of 
 time and money in searching for it where it cannot 
 possibly be found. The practised eye of the geolo- 
 gist at once detects the formations in which coal may 
 be looked for. For example, he would at once pro- 
 nounce it useless to search for this mineral in the 
 neighbourhood of St John's ; because the whole 
 peninsula of Avalon is composed of the lower slate 
 formation, and contains no rocks of the carbonifer- 
 ous series, in which alone coal-beds occur. New- 
 foundland, however, has its coal regions, — like all its 
 other treasures, yet unexplored. In the neighbour- 
 hood of St George’s Bay, it is well known, there is a 
 tract of country, twenty miles in length and twelve in 
 breadth, in which the coal strata crop out in many 
 places. These beds are a continuation of the great 
 coal-fields of Cape Breton and Nova Scotia, on the 
 opposite side of the gulf. One day, we cannot doubt, 
 the black smoke from the mouth of many a coal-mine 
 will darken the air of this region ; and the heavy sob- 
 bing of the steam-engine, dragging up the precious 
 treasures, will re-echo amid the forest solitudes. Our 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 227 
 
 island has an area not far short of that of England ; 
 and yet it sustains but 120,000 inhabitants, scattered 
 along its coasts, and employed wholly in fishing. The 
 breadth of land under culture is as yet quite insignifi- 
 cant. It is very true that much of the island, especi- 
 ally along its eastern shore, is uninviting to the agri- 
 culturist ; it is true that the ugly coating of bog, that 
 covers so much of the explored portion, acts like a 
 great sponge in retaining the moisture, covering the 
 surface with so many ponds or lakelets, and so pre- 
 venting the formation of large rivers to drain the soil ; 
 it is true that, as far as we are acquainted with its 
 soil, much of the surface is covered with drifted mate- 
 rials, consisting of clay, sand, embedded boulders, and 
 fragments of rocks rafted hither probably by icebergs, 
 when the island lay at the bottom of the sea. I sup- 
 pose it was the desolate aspect thus presented that 
 induced the belief said to be current among the Red 
 Indians who resorted hither, that when the Great 
 Spirit was forming the American continent He flung 
 the chips, broken fragments, and useless materials 
 into a heap, and so formed Newfoundland. The be- 
 lief that our island is only a heap of shot rubbish,’' 
 on which fishermen may dry their fish and nets, 
 though long and widely prevalent, is simply the re- 
 sult of ignorance. If you want to know what industry 
 can accomplish, look at the smiling farms around St 
 John’s^ and remember that the soil here is naturally 
 
228 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 the very worst in the island. The western portion 
 contains many noble tracts of fertile soil, without a 
 single settler ; and the unexplored interior may con- 
 tain many more. In ^'the good time coming” these 
 will be colonised and cultivated ; the rich mineral trea- 
 sures will be worked; and Newfoundland will cease 
 to be renowned only for fogs, cod-fish, and seal-oil. 
 
 Perhaps no revelation of geology stirs the imagi- 
 nation more strongly than that which shews us that, 
 since the earliest ages, the land has been slowly but 
 ceaselessly passing into the sea, and again emerging 
 from it ; so that all existing lands have been again 
 and again sea-bottoms. Even the snow-capped 
 mountain gives unmistakable evidence that it once 
 dwelt at the bottom of the ocean, and the sandstone 
 hill, on which gigantic trees have now rooted them- 
 selves, was once a mass of loose sand down in the 
 fathomless depths of the sea. The organic remains 
 embedded in mountain-chains, table-lands, and plains 
 prove that they were deposited, inch by inch, during 
 vast aeons of the past eternity, at the bottoms of 
 seas, and slowly raised by the upheaving forces into 
 their present positions. The two great processes of 
 creation and destruction are thus in continuous and 
 antagonistic action. The moment the dry land is 
 raised aloft, a host of destructive agents are at work, 
 tooth and nail, to hurl it down again to the bottom 
 of the ocean. The hills, by the action of rain, frost, 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 229 
 
 torrents, and air, are gradually crumbled down into 
 the valleys. The hardest rocks cannot resist the 
 teeth of these untiring agents. The water filters 
 through the rock, parts with its carbonic acid, chemi- 
 cally decomposes the solidest materials, loosening the 
 joints and undermining the strength even of the 
 granite, trap, and sandstone ; and then the frosts 
 expand the water in the crevices, and wrench off 
 enormous fragments. The rivers take up the spoils, 
 grind them into minute particles, carry them off and 
 scatter them over the floor of the ocean, where they 
 are hardened into rock, as solid as that whence they 
 were derived. As ages roll on, these are raised, and 
 once more form portions of the dry land, are clothed 
 with vegetation, and covered with animal races. The 
 sea, moreover, is ceaselessly thundering against the 
 cliffs, battering them down, and encroaching on the 
 low-lying shores. This vast process is going on to- 
 day, just as in the earliest periods, — eating away old 
 lands, and forming new continents and islands at the 
 bottoms of seas. Even the interior of the globe bears 
 its part in the transmutations of matter. The inter- 
 nal furnace fuses and melts the rocks, — passing them 
 through its fiery ovens, and dragging them from 
 their hiding-places in the depths of the earth, and at 
 length, in fierce fury, throws them out of volcanoes 
 as lava streams ; and thus they enter into the com- 
 position of new lands. The glacier, too, is at work 
 
230 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 as a destructive agent, rending fragments from the 
 mountains, carrying them to the sea, and exporting 
 them, packed in the iceberg, to more sunny climes. 
 From the icy regions of the north, the icebergs that 
 are floating past our shores are bearing, as their 
 freight, the rocks and stones of the Arctic mountains, 
 dropping them, as they melt, in the bosom of the 
 Atlantic, on the banks of Newfoundland, or the low 
 shores at the mouth of the St Lawrence; and thus cir- 
 culating matter from the pole towards the equator, and 
 building up new continents at the bottom of the ocean. 
 Rivers are depositing the particles washed down by 
 their waters at their mouths, and thus creating deltas. 
 Lower Egypt has thus been formed by the Nile; the 
 Mississippi and Ganges are bearing down masses of 
 sand, mud, and fertile soil, intermixed with huge 
 vegetable corpses, and building up peninsulas and 
 islands far out into the sea. Thus there is only one 
 doom for all existing lands — they must be ground up 
 and deposited at the bottoms of seas, to rise again in 
 nature’s vast mutations and resurrections. Could we 
 with prophetic eye look into the future, we should 
 see the continents and islands of our globe sinking 
 like mighty wrecks in the abysses of ocean, and in 
 new forms rising, to be again washed back into the 
 calm, impassive ocean. As the lands are thus melted 
 down, some of their vegetable and animal growths 
 are sure to be embedded in the soft mud, where they 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 231 
 
 are gently interred. The mud above them hardens 
 into rock ; they are entombed in its centre, and be- 
 come the organic remains which future geologists 
 shall explore, and by the aid of which they will 
 construct a history of the wrecked continent whose 
 fragments are thus preserved in the archives of nature. 
 The geologist of to-day can point to masses of rock, 
 thousands .of feet in thickness, and covering large 
 areas of the globe, formed out of hardened sediment 
 that had been worn down by rivers, or wasted by the 
 sea. Take, for example, that sandstone eminence called 
 Signal Hill, that guards the entrance of our harbour.^ 
 
 It is a mass of sandstone rising 520 feet above the 
 level of the sea, and sinking below probably to vast 
 depths. Once it was slowly deposited as mud and 
 sand at the bottom of the ocean, and in the course of 
 ages elevated into a hill ; now it is undergoing the 
 grinding process, and you have only to imagine a 
 sufficiently long time, and the sea will again flow 
 over its ruins. Nature delights to bring about | 
 astounding results by slow and almost imperceptible ^ 
 processes. Her forces are unhasting, but unresting. 
 The gentlest of them wear down what we call the 
 everlasting hills — an epithet to which they have no 
 claim. Ocean knows no change, — 
 
 “ Time writes no wrinkle on its azure brow, 
 
 Such as creation’s dawn beheld, it rolleth now.” 
 
 St John’s. 
 
232 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 But the mountains are, like man, subject to decay 
 and death : — 
 
 We sleep, and wake, and sleep, but all things move; 
 
 The sun flies forward to his brother sun ; 
 
 The dark earth follows, wheel’d in her ellipse ; 
 
 And human things returning in themselves. 
 
 Move onward, leading up the golden year.” 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Glance with me once more for a single moment at 
 the tale geology tells about the formation of the 
 limestone beds, and say whether it does not add 
 another province to the poetical domain when read 
 by '^the light that never was on sea or shore.’' Time 
 will barely permit me to mention that these lime- 
 stone rocks were slowly elaborated at the bottoms of 
 estuaries, and consist of the calcareous deposits of 
 minute creatures that propagated by myriads in the 
 water of seas or rivers. Slowly, age by age, these 
 creatures sank to the bottom, and gradually built 
 up limestone beds many hundred feet in thickness. 
 Fancy the enormous periods required for such a pro- 
 cess, when each successive annual layer would hardly 
 settle down more perceptibly or more rapidly than 
 the flickering dust that mottles the floor of some old 
 haunted chamber.” If you carefully examine any 
 limestone rock, you And it abounding in the fossil 
 remains of minute shell-fish. The Nummilitic lime- 
 stone which has furnished the huge blocks for the 
 Pyramids of Egypt is in reality a concretion of small 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 233 
 
 shells chambered with the most perfect symmetry, 
 and deposited in the course of innumerable ages. 
 Let us never fancy, then, that any creature, intro« 
 duced into the range of being by the adorable 
 Creator, ever lives in vain. 
 
 In closing, permit me to refer, very briefly, to a few 
 of the more extraordinary animals with whose re- 
 mains geology makes us acquainted. In this depart- 
 ment of the stony science, also, we find ample sug- 
 gestions addressed to the poetic imagination. On all 
 hands it is admitted that there has been a gradual 
 rise in the type of animated beings, from the earliest 
 period till the present epoch. The facts revealed by 
 geology seem to point t6 a beginning of organised 
 life on the globe, however distant that era may be in 
 the depths of the past. Undoubtedly there has been 
 a progression in creation — the whole animal world, 
 from its lowest to its highest forms, being one vast 
 ascending series of organic structures, gradually in- 
 creasing in complexity of organisation and perfection 
 of development. The patient industry of the geolo- 
 gist, during the last few years, has been rewarded by 
 bringing him, as he believes, within view of the dawn 
 of the animal world — the aboriginal creations — the 
 very beginnings of life. At all events, he has reached 
 that mysterious border land which divides the organic 
 and inorganic world, beyond which all is darkness as 
 to the origin of life. How profoundly interesting to 
 
234 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 look upon the first order of animal existences that 
 were endowed with the mysterious property of life 
 when Nature was yet, as it were, trying ^^her ’prentice 
 hand” on the earliest structures! Yet these primi- 
 tive animals, so simple in structure as to present dur- 
 ing life the appearance of jelly, have left behind 
 them microscopic shells of exquisite beauty and sym- 
 metry ; and in the vast geological strata which they 
 built up, age after age, they have left rocky monu- 
 ments of themselves, in which their remains lie en- 
 tombed. Not in vain have the protozoa lived and 
 died, — they were among the chief architects of the 
 earth’s crust. As world-builders, these tiny creatures 
 were working for us. But though the invertebrate 
 animals led the way, — though the oldest Cambrian 
 rocks contain no traces of a higher life than the little 
 radiated zoophyte named Oldhamia antiqua — and 
 though the vertebrate animals followed, beginning 
 with fishes and ending with mammalia, yet the at- 
 tempts to prove that the higher are a development 
 from the lower have hitherto proved conspicuous 
 failures. 
 
 From the tiny zoophyte to the gigantic Saurian 
 dynasty, that lorded it over creation during the era 
 of the new red sandstone, was an enormous stride. 
 There was a time when the climate of England re- 
 sembled the present climate of Africa ; when a great 
 river swept through the land, on the banks of which 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 235 
 
 bamboos and palms shot up in tropical luxuriance, 
 and in whose deltas the huge reptiles of this era dis- 
 ported. The ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus^ huge 
 oceanic giants, fought and devoured one another — 
 monster forms of prodigious bulk and frightful vor- 
 acity. The pterodactylusy the bat of primeval nights, 
 now roamed about — a flying dragon, having a spread 
 of wings of twenty-seven feet, that enabled it to soar 
 to incredible heights, and fall like lightning on its 
 prey. Hugh Miller describes it as having the jaws 
 and teeth of the crocodile, added to the wings of a 
 bat and the tail of an ordinary mammal. The sweep 
 of its twenty-seven-feet wings, as it opened its croco- 
 dile jaws, armed with sixty teeth, and darted on its 
 prey, must have been truly terrific. Another of this 
 class, rejoicing in the name of cetiosaurusy was about 
 sixty feet in length. Most remarkable of all, how- 
 ever, was the labyrinthodony a gigantic frog, equal in 
 size to a rhinoceros, and not less than thirty feet in 
 length. This huge frog had jaws of immense length, 
 furnished with more than a hundred fangs, the skin 
 scaly and, in some places, protected by bony plates. 
 In the Devonshire quarries a large cemetery of these 
 monsters has been discovered. Lyell holds that if 
 the same climate and conditions of life were brought 
 back in England, these reptiles would again be 
 tyrants of the scene. 
 
 The age of great birds succeeded that of the rep- 
 
236 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 tiles. One of these, called the dinormiSy stood twelve 
 feet high, its bones exceeding those of the largest 
 horse. A still more gigantic bird has left nothing 
 behind it but its foot-marks on the sandstone of 
 Connecticut Valley. Its foot-prints on the sands of 
 time ” are there, but no specimen of the creature has 
 yet been found. The great mammals next trod the 
 scene. The dinotherium, one of the largest quadru- 
 peds that ever lived, carried about with him two 
 immense pickaxes, in the shape of two bent tusks, 
 with which he grubbed up the largest trees and the 
 toughest roots for food. The mastodo7iy of which a 
 complete skeleton is exhibited in the British Museum, 
 was about the height of the largest elephant, but 
 attained the enormous length of twenty-five feet, 
 each of its grinders weighing from seventeen to 
 twenty pounds. 
 
 The limits of a lecture will not permit me to follow 
 these topics farther. I have been able merely to in- 
 dicate a few of the poetical aspects of geology ; but 
 these will readily suggest others, and you will soon 
 discover that the seeing eye and the sympathetic 
 heart will find poetry in every department of the 
 stony science. It is true that 
 
 “ The dull see no divinity in grass, 
 
 Life in dead stone, or spirit in the air ; ” 
 
 but to the understanding heart. Nature, in all its 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 237 
 
 departments, speaks of beauty and divinity, and con- 
 nects itself with the spiritual and the unseen, lifting 
 the soul to the mighty, beneficent Parent of all. All 
 true and lofty poetry must lay hold on the Divine 
 element that mingles in all, and thus conduct to 
 God. This is pre-eminently true of the poetry of ge- 
 ology : it points with reverential hand to Him who 
 is ‘The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever;’^ who 
 has presided over the vast cycles of the past eternity, 
 guiding their changes and convulsions, and working 
 out that Divine plan which we can but dimly divine. 
 Wonderful is that mighty web that has been weaving 
 during the aeons of the past — its threads of granite, 
 its ornaments the porphyry, the precious stones, the 
 veins of gold and silver, the rocks of fairy form, 
 twined and intertwined ; tree, beast, bird, fish, insect 
 all filling in the woof, all weaving for God the im- 
 perial robes that He has wrapt around Him ; but 
 all telling us that He is in all, and yet above and 
 apart from all — the Creative Spirit that moulds the 
 earth and guides the spheres. If, then, geology, in its 
 lofty song, sings of the ages when earth bore series 
 after series of plants and animals, but no rational, 
 immortal intelligence, and tells us that, compared 
 with these periods, measured by hundreds and thou- 
 sands of centuries, man’s day is but a small ripple in 
 the ocean of eternity ; yet does it, too, suggest a 
 
238 
 
 THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY, 
 
 glorious and lengthened future for our globe and for 
 our race, during which vast and inconceivable strides 
 of progress will be taken by man, ere the day shall 
 arrive when he must give place to some nobler exis- 
 tence — when the earth and all that is therein shall 
 be burnt up,” and a new heavens and new earth ” 
 shall emerge from the ruins. And if there is some- 
 thing solemn and saddening in the thought that the 
 reign of death has been universal — that the earth on 
 which we tread is but a huge cemetery, and that all 
 the beauty and splendour of the former worlds lie in- 
 terred beneath our feet, — that man, too, equally with 
 the weakest and strongest, must enter the still abodes, 
 and all that is now so bright and fair, all that is 
 tender in human affection and glorious in human 
 thought, must sleep beside the mastodon and ichthy- 
 osaurus, yet the clear eye of faith, guided by God’s 
 written revelation, looks away from ^^the wreck of 
 matter and the crash of worlds ” to the bright abodes 
 of immortality, and the soul defies all the destructive 
 agencies of earth to shake its trust in God. To the 
 soul, in the noblest sense, death is life — immortal life 
 — and the grave, too, a gift of Infinite Goodness. 
 
 ‘ ‘ With a grand renunciation, 
 
 Let him leave to earth and sun, 
 
 For another generation. 
 
 All the good that he has done. 
 
THE POETRY OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 239 
 
 Knowing that the laws eternal 
 Never, never can deceive ; 
 
 Raised above the sphere diurnal, 
 And too noble far to grieve. 
 
 Glad that he has been the agent 
 Of the Universal Heart; 
 
 That, in life’s majestic pageant. 
 
 He has play’d no worthless part.” 
 
LECTURE THE SIXTH. 
 
 IRELAND— HER HISTORY AND HER PEOPLE. 
 
 With its back to Europe, and its face to the west, — 
 receiving the full shock of the mighty billows of the 
 Atlantic on its northern, western, and southern shores 
 — stands the fair and fertileisland named Ireland. 
 A narrow sea, which at one point is but thirteen miles 
 in width, severs it from the larger island of Great 
 Britain. 
 
 The name Ireland is partly Celtic and partly 
 Saxon in its origin. Its most ancient appellation, 
 and that to which its people still cling with the at- 
 tachment of veneration, was Eri, or Erin, which is de- 
 rived from the Celtic lar or Eir, signifying western. 
 When the Saxons came to know it, they added to 
 the native name lar, their own term 'Gand,’' and 
 called it larland or Ireland. Thus Erin and Ireland 
 are from the same root, and signify the western land. 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 241 
 
 Its greatest length does not exceed three hundred 
 miles ; its breadth is between eighty-five and a hun- 
 dred and ten miles. So admirably has nature adapted 
 it for commerce, by indenting its coasts with harbours, j 
 arms of the sea, and mouths of rivers, that scarcely 1 
 an acre of land in the country is more than fifty miles [ 
 from the sea, or from good navigation. This little 
 isle — a speck of earth — a mere freckle on the surface 
 of the globe — has a history which, though generally 
 dark and sad, stretches away back, amid the waves 
 of time, far beyond the Christian era. A race have 
 trod its soil who have made themselves felt in almost 
 every country of the globe. To civilisation they have 
 communicated some of its most quickening impulses ; 
 to science, poetry, oratory, history, art, they have, 
 given some of their most illustrious names. Heroic 
 souls, whose achievements are conspicuous on the 
 rolls of fame, and whose thoughts have influenced 
 the world’s destinies, claim Ireland as their birth- 
 place. Glory has blended with her dust. It is a 
 land of song — of gorgeous traditions — of heroic me- 
 mories. Its monuments tell, in their gray ruins 
 which have withstood the storms of time, of a great 
 past, to which the hearts of its people fondly and 
 proudly turn. The voice of soldiers, scholars, poets, 
 saints, speaks from that dim past, amid the echoes of 
 the ages as they sweep along 'Hhe corridors of time.” 
 And how rich and plaintive the music that comes 
 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 from this region of song, stirring the pulses of the 
 heart with its notes of sadness, or flushing the cheek 
 with its passion and frenzy ! That music, low and 
 sweet, martial or melancholy, melting into softness, 
 or kindling to heroic ardour, has gone direct to the 
 heart of the world. It tells of woes, wrongs, oppres- 
 sions, as it sobs over the historic past. It seems 
 to be the pathetic utterance of an imaginative, 
 high-souled, proud, and passionate race, who are 
 endeavouring to escape from a dreary present, by 
 taking refuge in the memories of a gorgeous past. 
 Strikingly does it contrast with their wit and humour, 
 gay, glancing, tender, buoyant, as though they were 
 entire strangers to sighs and tears. And when we 
 add to these the fervour and genius of the people — 
 their passionate love of country and kindred — their 
 billiancy and fancy ; and when we remember the 
 lovely land they possess, its fields of emerald green, 
 its '' heaven-kissing’' hills blooming to their summits, 
 its valleys, whose streamlets seem to sing its legends, 
 its ruins in their pale and melancholy splendour, and, 
 around all, ocean narrowing to caress her,” have we 
 not a race and a land worthy our profoundest in- 
 terests — a land of which it is hardly too much to say 
 that 
 
 “ One-half its soil has walk’d the rest 
 In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages?’’ 
 
 Ireland may be described as a great plain inter- 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 243 
 
 spersed with low hills, which around the sea-coasts 
 rise into mountain-ranges. The highest of these 
 mountains, in Kerry, only reaches the height of 
 3400 feet. Nothing can surpass the beauty and 
 magnificence of the coast-scenery ; and while the 
 interior has many a bleak and rugged region, and 
 many a hideous flat and bog, it also contains spots 
 of the rarest loveliness. The Vale of Avoca is 
 famous in song : Killarney vies with the Highland 
 lake-scenery of Scotland, with Windermere, Geneva, 
 and Como ; and Connemara, with its wild grandeur, 
 its balmy air, and the poetry of its immense and 
 lonely sea,” has charms to touch all hearts. The 
 genial influence of the Gulf Stream softens the cli- 
 mate of Ireland, diffuses a mild and moist atmo- 
 sphere, and so tempers the rigours of winter, that a 
 mantle of living green wraps its shores, while in the 
 same latitude, on this side the Atlantic, the coasts 
 of Labrador are fast bound in fetters of ice. The 
 vast volumes of vapour, rising from this great mass 
 of warm water that washes the shores of Ireland, 
 being wafted over the island by westerly winds, 
 clothe its hills and vales in perpetual verdure. To 
 the Gulf Stream it is therefore indebted for that 
 bountiful supply of moisture that makes it the 
 Emerald Isle, and renders its pasture-lands the 
 finest in the world. These rain-clouds from the 
 Atlantic, that drop fertility over the land, are not. 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 244 
 
 however, without their disadvantages and drawbacks. 
 In many districts, the wheat and other cereal crops 
 are harvested with difficulty, excessive rains often 
 blighting the hopes of the farmer. On this account 
 mainly, it cannot, as a wheat-growing country, be 
 compared with England or the Lowlands of Scot- 
 land ; but its grazing and dairy farms are unrivalled. 
 Not without reason has the trefoil or shamrock been 
 chosen as the heraldic emblem of the Green Isle, its 
 rich herbage being, in fact, its inexhaustible mine 
 of gold ; and for this, as we have seen, it is mainly 
 indebted to the Gulf Stream. The fact that at this 
 hour, under an improved system of agriculture, and 
 with new energies infused into the population, there 
 is a steady decline in the productiveness of the 
 principal crops, in consequence of the conversion of 
 tillage into pasture-lands, shews that the country is 
 found to be better adapted for pastoral farming than 
 for the growth of wheat or other cereals, and that 
 the tendency of the agriculture of the island is now 
 in that direction more than formerly. It has been 
 found that it is not the quantity of rain that falls, 
 but the frequency of showers and cloudy weather 
 that causes the humidity of the atmosphere. One 
 consequence of this condition of the atmosphere is 
 that the umbrella is an indispensable life-preserver 
 in Ireland, or, as the Yankees say, ^^an institution 
 as, even in the finest day, it is hard to say how 
 
IRELAND', 
 
 24s 
 
 soon an Atlantic cloud may burst over the devoted 
 head of the traveller. It is very easy to get wet, 
 but without going to the fire it is not easy to get 
 dried, the atmosphere being so frequently charged 
 with moisture. Arthur Young, an English traveller, 
 who visited Ireland about a hundred years ago, was 
 struck with the dampness of the climate, as com- 
 pared with that of his own country ; and remarked 
 that, if you wet a piece of leather, and lay it in a 
 room where there is neither sun nor fire, it will not, 
 in summer even, be dry in a month.’' A more seri- 
 ous drawback is, however, that the dampness of the 
 climate, the source of vegetable wealth and beauty, 
 has a tendency to relax the energies of the people, 
 at least in the earlier stages of their progress, before 
 mind has enabled them to grapple successfully with 
 physical difficulties. Another feature of Ireland, 
 caused also by the humidity of her climate, is the 
 number and extent of her rivers and lakes. These 
 secure a fine internal water-communication ; but the 
 terrible drawback is that, as a consequence of this 
 superabundance, one-seventh of her whole area is 
 covered with bog.” Ireland has the largest lake in 
 the United Kingdom — Neagh, whose shores are low 
 and flat, and its scenery tame and uninteresting. It 
 has also the largest river in the British Isles — ^‘the 
 broad and brimming Shannon,” navigable two hun- 
 dred and forty miles from its mouth, and draining the 
 
246 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 celebrated Bog of Allen. This bog is not, however, 
 as is generally supposed, one huge morass ; on the 
 contrary, the bogs to which the name is applied are 
 distinct from one another, and separated often by 
 ridges of high and dry ground. The Shannon itself 
 — half lake, half river — receives the drainage of these 
 immense morasses ; and, with a slow and almost im- 
 perceptible current, pours its waters into one of the 
 noblest estuaries in the world. The mines of Ire- 
 land, though believed to be rich, will long continue 
 to be of slight importance, unless a much larger capi- 
 tal is available for developing its mineral resources. 
 Once the noblest forests covered almost the whole 
 face of the country; but these have long since dis- 
 appeared, and now the country is rather scantily 
 wooded. A celebrated forest, named Shillelagh,” 
 formerly flourished, from which the toughest and 
 best of oak was obtained. The cunning Saxon, 
 when he came over, soon discovered its superiority 
 to British oak ; and, without permission asked or 
 obtained, cut down and carried off quantities of it; 
 and to this day Westminster Hall is roofed with this 
 abstracted Irish oak. I need scarcely tell you that 
 the wood of Shillelagh has given a name to a weapon 
 which I hope none of our heads will ever encounter ; 
 for a sprig of shillelagh,” wielded by the brawny 
 arm of a Tipperary man, is rather trying to the con- 
 stitution, and only seasoned heads can stand it. 
 
IRELAND, 
 
 247 
 
 Such, then, is the island on which nature has la- 
 vished so many bounties. Its people fondly reckon 
 it 
 
 “ The first flower of the earth, 
 
 And first gem of the sea.” 
 
 But though we may regard this as a little pardonable 
 exaggeration, springing from an affectionate patriot- 
 ism, yet when we consider the fertility of its soil, the 
 beauty of its scenery, the salubrity of its climate, the 
 advantages of its position in regard to commerce, we 
 must admit that few lands have in such profusion the 
 elements of prosperity and greatness; and we need 
 not wonder at the passionate attachment of its chil- 
 dren to their own green isle of the ocean — 
 
 “ The savage loves his native shore, 
 
 Though rude the soil, and chill the air ; 
 
 Then well may Erin’s sons adore 
 Their isle, which nature form’d so fair. 
 
 “ What flood reflects a shore so sweet 
 As Shannon great, or pastoral Bann ? 
 
 Or who a friend or foe can meet 
 So generous as an Irishman?” 
 
 From the country we now turn to the inhabitants 
 — their history and their characteristics. The great 
 bulk of the population are of the pure Celtic race, the 
 exception being the Protestant population of the 
 North, who are Anglo-Saxons — the majority of them 
 being descendants of colonists from the Lowlands of 
 Scotland, or of some of Cromwell’s Puritan Ironsides 
 
248 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 who settled here. Apparently there has been in Ire- 
 land an intermixture of the two races ; but in reality, 
 though for centuries the Celt and Saxon have been 
 living side by side on the same soil, no amalgamation 
 has followed. Differences of races, of language, of 
 religion, together with historical antipathies which are 
 still active, have operated to keep the two races apart 
 so completely that the slight fusion which has occurred 
 is not worth reckoning. This, I think, is not to be 
 regretted ; nature does not pronounce in favour of an 
 amalgamation of two races so wide apart in their in- 
 stincts and habits as the Celtic and Saxon. Of the 
 Anglo-Norman stock there was originally no incon- 
 siderable element ; many of the great landowners 
 — non-resident for the most part — are of this descent, 
 though the Norman blood, from other intermixtures, 
 is now hardly discernible. In Ireland the Celtic race 
 has been preserved in more complete purity than in 
 any other land ; but it would be difficult to conceive 
 of any people being more unfavourably circumstanced 
 in regard to national development. That there is no 
 inherent defect in the old Celtic stock is evident from 
 even a slight examination of their history. Whence 
 this great branch of the human family came ori- 
 ginally, no one can tell. All we know with any cer- 
 tainty is that long before history had indited her first 
 page, this great wave of human population came 
 surging from the East, and spread over all Western 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 249 
 
 Europe. They occupied Gaul, — the country now 
 called France, — North Italy, Spain, Britain, and Ire- 
 land. A most warlike people were the Celts. For 
 four centuries they resisted the iron arm of Rome, 
 and disputed with her the empire of the world. 
 Under Brennus, they sacked Rome ; they vanquished 
 the Romans at Allia, at Thrasymene, at Cannae, re- 
 ducing their enemy to the extremity from which she 
 was saved by the prowess of Marius. They carried 
 their terrible arms into Greece, and sacked the temple 
 of Delphi. They defied Alexander the Great, and 
 overthrew the phalanx in the plains of Macedon.” 
 As mercenaries they fought the battles of Carthage. 
 They defeated Attila. Under Charles Martel they 
 forced the Crescent to retire for ever from the West, 
 and saved Christendom from the Mohammedan yoke. 
 Their most signal defeat was accomplished by the 
 military genius of Julius Caesar, who, after a fierce 
 struggle, conquered Gaul, and formed it into a Roman 
 province. This great conqueror also vanquished the 
 British Celts, and established the supremacy of Rome 
 in Britain. When the Roman legions withdrew from 
 Britain, the more powerful Saxon pushed back the 
 British Celts, who slowly retired, fighting desperately, 
 into the fastnesses of Wales and Cornwall, and be- 
 hind the moutain-ramparts of the Grampians. Ire- 
 land, however, was their great asylum; and here, 
 though pursued by the Anglo-Normans, as we shall 
 
250 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 find, and vanquished, they have held their ground till 
 the present day. The representatives of the great 
 Celtic race now are the brilliant, warlike people of 
 France, the Welsh Cymry, the Scotch Highlanders, 
 and the Irish. It is in France they have reached 
 their highest pitch of civilisation, shewing us- what 
 are the capabilities of the race when placed in favour- 
 able circumstances, and exhibiting a marked contrast 
 to the Irish and British Celts. A race never loses its 
 characteristics. The sunny East was the cradle of 
 this people ; and to this day they display traces of 
 their Oriental origin in their fiery impulsiveness, their 
 fierce loves and hatreds, their indisposition to change, 
 the continuity of their national habits, their tendency 
 to enjoy the present moment and ignore to-morrow, 
 and their indisposition to steady industry. M. Martin, 
 the French historian, as quoted by Professor Goldwin 
 Smith in his admirable little volume, 'Hrish History 
 and Irish Character,” thus characterises his country- 
 men : From the beginning of historic time the soil 
 of France appears peopled by a race lively, witty, 
 imaginative, eloquent, prone at once to faith and to 
 scepticism, to the highest aspirations of the soul and 
 to the attractions of sense ; enthusiastic and yet satiri- 
 cal ; unreflecting and yet logical ; full of sympathy, 
 yet restive under discipline ; endowed with practical 
 good sense, yet inclined to illusions ; more disposed 
 to striking acts of self-devotion than to patient and 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 251 
 
 sustained effort ; fickle as regards particular things or 
 persons ; persevering as regards tendencies and the 
 essential rules of life ; loving action and knowledge, 
 each for its own sake ; loving above all war, less for 
 the sake of conquest than for that of glory and ad- 
 venture, for the attraction of danger and the un- 
 known ; uniting, finally, to an extreme sociability, an 
 indomitable personality, a spirit of independence, 
 which absolutely repels the yoke of the external 
 world, and the face of destiny/' There is, no doubt, 
 as Professor Smith remarks, a touch of French vanity 
 in this picture of the Celts by a Celt. As to the 
 practical good sense ” which the historian attributes 
 to the French, Smith very justly says that ^‘of the 
 highest practical wisdom the political history of France 
 can scarcely be called an example and of their 
 violent oscillations between extremes of all kinds, to 
 which M. Martin points, he says, It may lend an 
 exciting interest to French history, and amuse while 
 it troubles the world ; but the race which is conscious 
 of such tendencies will do well, if it aspires to real 
 greatness, not to boast of them, but to correct them." 
 Let us hear another able writer, of quite a difterent 
 stamp, on the characteristics of the Celtic race. Dr 
 Knox, in his Races of Men," says, War is the 
 game for which the Celt is made. Herein is the forte 
 of his physical and moral character ; in stature and 
 weight, as a race inferior to the Saxon ; limbs muscu- 
 
252 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 lar and vigorous ; torso and arms seldom attaining 
 any very large development — hence the extreme 
 rarity of athletse amongst the race ; hands broad ; 
 fingers squared at the points ; step elastic and 
 springy ; in muscular energy and rapidity of action 
 surpassing all other European races. Cceteris pari- 
 bus — that is, weight for weight, age for age, stature 
 for stature — the strongest of men. Inventive, ima- 
 ginative, he leads the fashions all over the civil- 
 ised world. Most new inventions and discoveries 
 in the arts may be traced to him ; they are then 
 appropriated by the Saxon race, who apply them 
 to useful purposes. In the ordinary affairs of 
 life they despise order, economy, cleanliness ; of 
 to-morrow they take no thought; regular labour 
 — unremitting, steady, uniform, productive labour 
 — they hold in absolute horror and contempt. 
 Irascible, warm-hearted, full of deep sympathies, 
 dreamers on the past, uncertain, treacherous, gallant, 
 and brave. They are not more courageous than 
 other races, but they are more warlike. Notwith- 
 standing their grievous defeat at Waterloo, they are 
 still the dominant race of the earth. Children of 
 the mist, even in the clear and broad sunshine of 
 day, they dream on the past — nature’s antiquaries. 
 As looking on the darkening future, which they 
 cannot try not to scan, by the banks of the noble 
 Shannon, or listening to the wild roar of the ocean 
 
IRELAND, 
 
 253 
 
 surf as it breaks on the Gizna Briggs, washing the 
 Morochmore ; or listlessly wandering by the dark and 
 stormy coast of Dornoch, gaunt famine behind them, 
 no hopes for to-morrow, cast loose from the miserable 
 patch he held from his ancestry, the dreamy Celt, 
 the seer of second sight, still clinging to the past, 
 exclaims, at his parting moment from the horrid 
 land of his birth, ^ We’ll maybe return to Lochabar 
 no more.’” Knox further tells us that the Celt does 
 not make a good colonist or agriculturist, disliking 
 the lonely forest and desert, and clinging to the 
 town and hamlet ; while the Saxon fearlessly 
 plunges into the prairie or forest, loving produc- 
 tive labour, and declining to build his house within 
 sight of his neighbours, if he can avoid doing so. 
 
 An indisposition to continuous, productive labour 
 is by most writers charged against the Celts gener- 
 ally, and the Irish Celts in particular ; and doubtless 
 there must be some truth in the accusation. Still 
 these sweeping charges must be received with caution. 
 Patrick the Celt may not be a good plodder, or a 
 strict economist ; but facts prove that he can and 
 does toil tremendously, when there are sufficient 
 inducements to labour. Here is one little fact that 
 may be set over against the statements of philoso- 
 phers on this point. The Irish emigrants who settled 
 in America are known to have remitted, in the year 
 1847, the sum of £ 200,000 to aid the famishing rela- 
 
254 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 tions they had left behind, to join them in their 
 adopted country. In 1853, their remittances for the 
 same purpose reached the enormous amount of one 
 million and a half. Here then we find this people, 
 on reaching a land where labour is well remunerated, 
 toiling to some purpose, denying themselves, hoard- 
 ing their earnings, that the loved ones in the dark 
 cabins of Connaught and Munster might see happier 
 days in a land of plenty. A noble and honourable 
 deed truly, for which let all due applause be accorded. 
 We must learn to distinguish between the faults and 
 the misfortunes of the Irish. It is very true that 
 they seek for excitement in preference to comfort. 
 There may be some truth in the saying that what 
 an Englishman wants to make him happy is a full 
 belly and a warm back ; what an Irishman wants to 
 make him happy is a glass of whisky and a stick,’' 
 and I suppose, in addition, a friend whom he may 
 knock down for love, when he is blue-mouldin’ for 
 want of batin’.” This is the ludicrous side of the 
 matter, and, as far as the past is concerned, the 
 picture has too much truth in it. With improving 
 circumstances, however, Patrick is leaving all his 
 shillelagh feats and spirituous achievements aside, 
 and getting a due appreciation of Saxon creature- 
 comforts, of a wholesome meal, a warm coat, a snug 
 cabin, and an unbroken head. Speaking of the past, 
 one of them.selves says, ^^We were idle, for we had 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 255 
 
 nothing to do ; we were reckless, for we had no hope ; 
 we were ignorant, for learning was denied us ; we 
 were drunken, for we sought to forget our misery. 
 That time has passed away for ever.’' 
 
 Of the state of Ireland before its conquest by the 
 English, I shall say but a few words. The first 
 arrivals of the Celtic race were probably from the 
 coasts of Spain. Tribe followed tribe, the one sub- 
 duing and exterminating the other. The Irish annals 
 relating to this dark period give suspiciously minute 
 accounts of tribes called the Fomorians, Fir-bolgs, 
 Tuatha-da-Danans, and Milesians, that in succession 
 poured into Ireland ; but they are merely phantom 
 shapes in a shadowy land ; and how much is legend, 
 and how much, if any, is fact, in what is recorded of 
 them, no one can tell. Bards and Sennachies have 
 sung of Ollav-Fola, ITugoney the Great, Conn of the 
 Hundred Battles, Fein M'Cooil or Fingal, Niallofthe 
 Nine Hostages, the Red Branch Knights, and other 
 great kings and warriors. Tremendous stories are 
 told of these, many of which, I am afraid, must be 
 regarded as belonging to the genus bouncers.” 
 Almost every one has heard of Fein M^Cooil, or, as 
 he is commonly called, Finn Macool. He is usually 
 represented in Irish legends as an enormous giant — 
 one of the powerful but very stupid race of which 
 Jack the Giantkiller made such havoc. In reality, 
 however, Finn M'Cooil appears to have been a highly 
 
256 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 respectable personage. Moore, in his History of Ire- 
 land, says he was son-in-law of King Cormac, who 
 lived before the days of St Patrick, and general of 
 the celebrated Fiana Eiriun, or ancient Irish militia. 
 He is reported to have originated this military asso- 
 ciation, into which admission was attainable only by 
 proofs of valour and intelligence; and each newly 
 admitted member came under an express engagement 
 to choose a wife solely for her merits, never to ill 
 treat a woman, and never to turn his back on an 
 enemy. Peace to the ashes of brave Finn M'Cooil, 
 wherever they lie. He must have been considerably 
 in advance of his age; and in bravery and veneration 
 for woman seems to have anticipated chivalry itself 
 The Celtic tribes of ancient Ireland appear to have 
 been neither better nor worse than their contempo- 
 raries in other lands. They were, what we now, in 
 the pride of our civilisation, term barbarians, living 
 by the chase, and continually slaughtering one 
 another, in . savage wars. Their brethren, over the 
 water in England, were quite as bad. Forests, mo- 
 rasses, bogs, covered the greater part of the country. 
 Wild cattle roamed in the forest glades, deer.bounded 
 from the thickets, the wolf disputed for empire with 
 man. If these were the '^good old times,” I think we 
 may be thankful that a considerable interval severs 
 us from them. The grand tale, so often repeated by 
 Irish chroniclers, of a Milesian colony that arrived in 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 257 
 
 Ireland, only nine hundred years before Christ, and 
 introduced arts and a high civilisation, is now ad- 
 mitted to be a pure myth. Thomas Moore, in his 
 History of Ireland, calls it '^a romance and shews 
 that the tribe led by Milesius, arrived about two hun- 
 dred years before the Christian era, were classed under 
 the general name of Scythians, and, except in warlike 
 tendencies, were no better than their predecessors. 
 Their tribal name was Scoti. From the predomin- 
 ance they acquired, the whole inhabitants were long 
 called Scots ; and a branch of them having settled in 
 North Britain, gave to that region the name of Scot- 
 land. The first great moral impulse was given to 
 these rude tribes by St Patrick, who arrived in the 
 year 432, and speedily converted the natives to Chris- 
 tianity. Previously, they had been votaries of Druid- 
 ism. Such was the flame of enthusiasm kindled by 
 this great apostle, that the Irish soon became a mis- 
 sionary church ; not only founding seats of piety and 
 learning at home, but sending out apostles to other 
 lands. In the centuries that followed the mission of 
 St Patrick, the renowned establishments of Iona,' 
 Lindisfarne, and St Gall in Switzerland, were planted 
 by Irish missionaries, and diffused the light of the 
 gospel over many dark regions. During the seventh, 
 eighth, and ninth centuries, Ireland was really the 
 most famous seat of learning, such as it was in those 
 
 days ; and the Saxons owned its mental superiority, 
 
 R 
 
258 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 by sending their youths for instruction to such 
 celebrated schools as Armagh and Clonmacnoise. 
 '' Charlemagne,” says Professor Smith, appreciated 
 in the Irish preachers and scholars, powerful instru- 
 ments of the civilisation which it was his mission to 
 promote. He gave some of them places in his court, 
 and employed them in the instruction of Frankish 
 youth.” The renowned scholar and first heretical 
 teacher of the Middle Ages, John Scotus Erigena, 
 was an Irishman, and a familiar guest of Charles the 
 Bald of France. In connexion with John, a spark of 
 Irish wit has come down to us from those dull old 
 times, shewing that the talent for which Irishmen are 
 still noted — ready wit — had begun to scintillate very 
 early. This Irishman was known as ^^John the 
 Scot and Charles the Bald, sitting opposite to him 
 at table one day, attempted to take him off,” by 
 asking ‘^how far a Scot was removed from a sotS 
 Only by the breadth of the table, your majesty,'’ 
 was the quick reply of John. His majesty, I suppose, 
 was obliged to join in the general laugh that fol- 
 lowed, but with what degree of heartiness, I leave 
 you to judge ; for it was no secret that his majesty 
 of the Bald Head was fond of a glass, or rather of a 
 bottle, so that John’s was a home-thrust. Charles, I 
 am inclined to think, would hardly wish to exchange 
 another pass with John the Scot in wit-combats. 
 
 Early in the ninth century, the terrible Danes 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 259 
 
 commenced their ravages on the coasts of Ireland. 
 These were the fierce Scandinavian Norsemen, or 
 Northmen, the pirates, traders, and colonists of these 
 rude ages. Out of the cold and stormy North 
 this people came at the call of Providence, to pour 
 the kindling energy of a robuster race into the 
 stagnant nations of the Old World. Their influence 
 in shaping the present has been immense. That 
 northern blood, tingling with electric fire, poured 
 into the veins of the solid, plodding Scotch and 
 English Saxon, formed him for future greatness ; 
 made him a sea-king, — a determined, liberty-loving 
 freeman, — the world’s great trader, coloniser, planter, 
 builder, battler. No wonder that these fierce sea- 
 rovers, landing on the shores of Britain only to 
 pillage, burn, and kill, were painted as the bloody 
 Danes.” They were, however, one of the great 
 instruments of Providence. Fortunately, they con- 
 tinued for ages to pour into England and the Low- 
 lands of Scotland ; and though subdued by Alfred, 
 yet a large mass of them remained, and being of 
 the same stock originally as the Saxons, amalga- 
 mated with them in kindly union, giving to the 
 race that passion for the sea, that hunger for ad- 
 venture, that restless tendency to explore and dis- 
 cover new lands, that has carried them to the ends 
 of the earth. But other characteristics, usually reck- 
 oned thoroughly British, are also of Scandinavian 
 
26 o 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 origin. English love of liberty, of free representa- 
 tive institutions, large and clear sincerity of char- 
 acter, frankness, resolute earnestness, power of en- 
 durance, fearlessness, — these come by our Norse 
 fathers. The Normans, who under William the 
 Conqueror subdued England, and finally mingled 
 with the Saxons, were but another branch of the 
 great Norse family that had long been settled in 
 Normandy. Amid much suffering, they introduced 
 into England a higher civilisation and a nobler 
 method of life. It was these Normans, as we shall 
 see, and not the Saxons, who conquered Ireland. 
 But the' great misfortune of Ireland was that it did 
 not receive enough of the Scandinavian element to 
 modify the character of the people. The Irish Celts 
 were able to drive out the Danes almost completely ; 
 but in reality it was a loss to them as a people. At 
 one time the Danes were masters of nearly the whole 
 island ; but the Irish rose against them, under 
 Malichy, and completely vanquished them. It is 
 of this Irish monarch Moore sings : — 
 
 “ Let Erin remember the days of old, 
 
 Ere her faithless sons betray’d her, 
 
 When Malichy wore the collar of gold 
 Which he won from the proud invader. 
 
 When her kings, with standard of green unfurl’d. 
 
 Led the Red Branch Knights to danger. 
 
 Ere the Emerald Gem of the Western world 
 Was set in the crown of a stranger.” 
 
 The indomitable Dane returned^ and once more 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 261 
 
 obtained a footing. The Irish tribes, however, united 
 under the renowned monarch, Brian Boroihme, or 
 Boru ; and in the great battle of Clontarf, within 
 three miles of Dublin, the Irish were victorious, and 
 the Danish power was finally broken. The brave 
 Brian fell in this battle covered with glory; and to 
 this day his memory is affectionately cherished in the 
 hearts of his countrymen, after the lapse of 850 years. 
 He was one of the best of Ireland’s kings, and did 
 much to unite hostile tribes, and introduce law and 
 order among a wild people. So successful was he, 
 that, according to a legend, a beautiful young lady, 
 clad in jewelled robes, and carrying a gold ring of 
 great value on a wand, rode unattended from one end 
 of the kingdom to the other without meeting insult 
 or injury. In the pretty ballad which Moore has 
 written on this incident, he makes the heroine say, in 
 reply to the inquiry of a knight who encountered her, 
 and asked whether, possessed of so much beauty and 
 wealth thus unprotected,” she did not feel nervous 
 when wandering about — 
 
 “ Sir knight, I feel not the least alarm ; 
 
 No son of Erin would offer me harm ; 
 
 P'or though they love women and golden store, 
 
 Sir knight, they love honour and virtue more. 
 
 “ Then on she went, and her maiden smile 
 Lighted her safely round the green isle ; 
 
 And blest for ever was she who relied 
 Upon Erin’s honour and Erin’s pride.” 
 
262 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 The story is so pretty that it would be shameful, 
 as well as ungallant, to doubt it. 
 
 After the death of Brian, — whose descendants, by 
 the way, are called O’Brians till this day, — matters 
 fell into confusion ; the monarchy was broken up ; 
 the independent tribes, called septs, acknowledged 
 no superior but their chiefs, and carried on perpetual 
 and destructive wars. When the eleventh century 
 dawned, Ireland had declined ; cultivation was almost 
 unknown ; barbarous tribes sheltered themselves in 
 rude burrows of turf and mud ; here and there a low- 
 browed church raised its humble head. The land 
 was the common property of the tribe that held it; 
 the chief had the patriarchal power of parcelling it 
 out among the septmen ; but on the death of any of 
 these, his share, instead of passing to his children, 
 reverted to the tribe, and the chief proceeded to make 
 a fresh distribution. The effect of this arrangement 
 was, that the ownership of the soil remained practi- 
 cally in the hands of the chief, though he could not 
 appropriate it for his personal benefit ; the holder had 
 but a life-interest in it, and however frequently parted 
 with, it inevitably returned to the head of the clan. 
 This kind of possession resembled an arrangement 
 which existed in modern times between an Irishman 
 and his pig, who in company made the tour of Eng- 
 land. The pig, as the story goes, was of a peculiar 
 Irish breed ; of great sagacity and boundless buoy- 
 
IRE LA NT?. 
 
 263 
 
 ancy of spirit ; lean, but muscular and springy of 
 step ; with a back curved like the rainbow, and legs 
 long and sinewy : it had all the vigour of a racehorse, 
 and the elasticity of a greyhound. Between it and 
 its master there was the most perfect understanding. 
 As the pair traversed England, the owner sold his pig 
 again and again. But the Saxon enclosure was not 
 built that could confine this enterprising animal. Eng- 
 lish walls and gates it utterly despised ; and however 
 often it was sold, it speedily rejoined its master on 
 the road ; so that they went on lovingly together, 
 parting with the secret assurance that they would 
 soon meet again. So with the land of these tribes — 
 the chieftain, in the exercise of his authority, gave it 
 away to a clansman ; but back it came in the end, 
 either to him or his successor in office. The step 
 between common and separate ownership in land 
 had not yet been taken — the transition, therefore, 
 from the pastoral to the agricultural stage of society 
 had not been accomplished. The unhappy relations 
 existing at this day between the land-owner and the 
 land-occupier in some districts of Ireland, shew that 
 no great improvement has yet been effected on the 
 old sept-system, in regard to security and permanency 
 of tenure, so far as the cultivator of the soil is con- 
 cerned. As long as suicidal rapacity on the side of 
 the proprietor grasped, in the form of rent, the whole 
 produce of the soil except the most wretched pit- 
 
264 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 tance, barely sufficient to sustain the life of the occu- 
 pier of the land, leaving to him to execute all im- 
 provements, but denying him for the most part any 
 security of occupancy, we cannot wonder at the low 
 moral and social state of the people. It is true that 
 the action of the Land Court has introduced of late 
 a better order of things, and gives hope of a fair 
 adjustment between landlord and tenant being yet 
 secured ; but while the wretched con-acre system 
 still prevails widely, and forty thousand holdings still 
 exist of not more than one acre in extent, I fear the 
 good time coming” is only yet in sight. On this 
 point Goldwin Smith says, Have the beneficial 
 effects of separate ownership of land been long ex- 
 perienced by the Irish peasantry } Has property in 
 land, according to the English system, presented 
 itself to him in the course of his history in the form 
 of security, independence, domestic happiness, dig- 
 nity, and hope } Has it not rather presented itself 
 to him in the form of insecurity, degradation, and 
 despair } It would be too much to say that modern 
 Irish agrarianism is the direct offspring of primitive 
 Irish institutions ; but it is not too much to say, that 
 even modern Irish agrarianism is rather the offspring 
 of a barbarism prolonged by unhappy circumstances 
 and bad government, than of anything more deserv- 
 ing of unqualified indignation.” 
 
 To these septs, with their endless quarrels, jeal- 
 
IRELAND, 
 
 265 
 
 ousies, and sometimes bloody conflicts-, we may trace 
 those ''factions'’ which have been such blots on the 
 fair fame of Erin, and of which Carleton has given us 
 such a terribly truthful picture. That the "factions” 
 are not yet extinct, is evident from the fact that, 
 quite recently, a prelate of the Roman Catholic 
 Church had the courage to expose in the public 
 prints the doings of two factions known as the Tv/o- 
 Year-Olds and the Three- Year-Olds, and published 
 a fearful list of maimings and murders they had 
 perpetrated on each other, turning the thunders of 
 his denunciation against them. The original cause 
 of quarrel, it seems, was a difference of opinion about 
 the age of a young bull — one party asserting that 
 it was two and the other three years old. It would 
 seem as if, in some obscure districts, the civilisation 
 which had reached a certain stage eight hundred 
 years ago, had been then arrested and remained 
 stationary ever since. Happily such cases as that 
 referred to are now very rare in Ireland. 
 
 The year 1169 is memorable in the annals of Ire- 
 land. At that date the Anglo-Normans first effected 
 a landing on the shores of Erin ; and that conquest 
 by England was commenced which proved so fruitful 
 of woes to unhappy Ireland, and at length resulted 
 in a harvest of retribution to England, which she is 
 reaping in many a form at the present hour. It is 
 usual with Irishmen to attribute the conquest of 
 
266 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 their country to the Saxons ; and, in consequence, 
 all the bitterness of their wrath has been poured out 
 on this hated name. All their oppression has been 
 traced to the bloody hoof of the Saxon.'' This> 
 however, is pure imagination. It was the Anglo- 
 Normans who were the invaders — the peaceable, 
 home-loving Saxons had nothing to do with the 
 matter. In fact, they were then themselves ground 
 to the dust under the heel of the Norman con- 
 queror ; and there is no evidence that they took part 
 in the invasion of Ireland. These Norman knights, 
 with their retainers, who now burst into Ireland, were, 
 as we have seen, a branch of the Norse family. In 
 fact, it was a return of the old hereditary foe, the 
 Danes, who had been defeated on the plain of Clon- 
 tarf, that now struck down Irish independence. The 
 mailed Normans were the old Scandinavian sea- 
 rovers, in another guise, and more formidable array ; 
 and it is utterly unfair to make the innocent Saxons 
 accountable for their doings. The truth is, when once 
 England had been subdued by these invaders, the 
 conquest of Ireland was but a question of time ; and, 
 considering the inferiority in size of the one country, 
 its proximity to the English coasts, and above all, 
 the disunion that prevailed among its people, its 
 subjugation seemed as inevitable as that of Wales. 
 Indeed, when the Normans first came to Ireland, the 
 condition of the country was not greatly in advance 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 267 
 
 of that of Celtic England when Julius Caesar landed 
 on its shores. A number of independent and gene- 
 rally rival clans were scattered over the land, and it 
 had no unity as a kingdom. An inferior civilisation 
 placed alongside of a superior is sure to disappear 
 before the advance of the latter. 
 
 It is easy to conceive how the Norman conquest 
 might have been a blessing to Ireland, just as ulti- 
 mately it proved in England. There the Normans 
 completed their conquest, fixed their residence, iden- 
 tified their dignity with it ; their children became 
 natives of the soil and proprietors of the land ; they 
 imparted a higher impulse to the Saxon character, 
 and in the end a complete fusion of the two was 
 effected. Had the same thing happened in Ireland, 
 its history, instead of being a tragedy, might have 
 become a glorious epic. But for invaders and in- 
 vaded alike the misfortune was that Ireland was only 
 partially conquered ; and the former were thus driven 
 to sustain a condition of chronic warfare, the latter to 
 prolong the agony, in frantic efforts to throw off the 
 yoke. Thus from 1169 to 1800, the year of the 
 Union, ‘Hhe history of Ireland is that of a half- 
 subdued dependency,’’ carrying on a fierce but hope- 
 less struggle against its conquerors. Had not the 
 energies of the Normans been absorbed by the cru- 
 sades and French wars, there is little doubt they 
 would have completed the conquest of Ireland within 
 
268 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 a brief period ; but, unhappily, their main strength 
 being thus allured to other enterprises, the band of 
 conquerors in Ireland had to stand on the defensive, 
 and for ages held, with much difficulty, a tract of 
 country round Dublin called ^^the Pale,” with some 
 towns on the coast — thus painfully holding their 
 ground, as a garrison in a hostile country, and keep- 
 ing up war, with its attendant horrors, against the 
 natives of the soil. This wretched state of matters 
 continued for two centurieS; and proved fruitful in 
 misery to both parties in the conflict. Here we find 
 the root of those terrible evils that are felt to this day. 
 Instead of blending, the two races converted the 
 island into a battle-ground ; a contest raged for cen- 
 turies, inflamed on both sides by the most rancorous 
 passions. The contest assumed all the ferocity which 
 characterises civil war; hopeless rebellion was fol- 
 lowed by confiscation and penal laws, provoking in 
 turn burning hatred and fierce acts of vengeance. 
 Then, when the Reformation came, to the contest of 
 races was added the contest of hostile religions, thus 
 immeasurably increasing the bitterness of the strife. 
 When, then, we open the history of Ireland, and read 
 there some of the darkest and saddest pages that have 
 ever been written, let us remember the unhappy cir- 
 cumstances in which, from the outset, the conquerors 
 and conquered alike were placed — circumstances quite 
 beyond the control of either party, by which the land 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 269 
 
 was divided into two hostile camps, and the worst 
 passions of the human heart perpetually inflamed ; 
 and this will keep us from judging of the whole in 
 the narrow spirit of a partisan, and will suggest to us 
 that we should extend ^^the charity of history” to both 
 parties who took part in these dark transactions of 
 former ages. The originating cause we can now 
 clearly discern, enveloping alike conquerors and con- 
 quered in a terrible series of crimes and sufferings. 
 '' Thus,” says Goldwin Smith, at the commencement 
 of the connexion between England and Ireland the 
 foundation was inevitably laid for the fatal system 
 of ascendancy ; a system under which the dominant 
 party were paid for their services in keeping down 
 rebels by a monopoly of power and emolument, and 
 thereby strongly tempted to take care that there 
 should always be rebels to keep down.” 
 
 What right had the Normans to invade Ireland } 
 Be it remembered that these were the days of con- 
 quest, when invasion was almost a matter of course, 
 and was far from appearing immoral or wrong in the 
 eyes of men. It was one way in which Eternal Pro- 
 vidence worked out the elevation of the race, and laid 
 the foundations of our modern civilisation. Might 
 was right ;” and in a rough way this held good, the 
 conqueror, as a general rule, being the superior in 
 civilisation, and the promoter of a better order of 
 things. These stout Normans, however, went about 
 
270 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 their conquests after a fashion thoroughly orthodox. 
 William the Conqueror obtained the sanction of 
 Hildebrand, the reigning Pope, for the subjugation 
 of England; and Henry 11. was expressly author- 
 ised by a bull of Adrian, who was then on the 
 papal throne, to conquer Ireland. We, therefore,” 
 said the pontiff, looking on your pious and laudable 
 design with the grace which it deserves, and favour- 
 ably assenting to your petition, do hold it good and 
 acceptable that, for extending the borders of the 
 Church, restraining the progress of vice, the correction 
 of manners, the planting of virtue, and the increase of 
 religion, you enter this island, and execute therein 
 whatever shall pertain to the honour of God and the 
 welfare of the land ; and that the people of this land 
 receive you honourably and reverence you as their 
 lord : the rights of their churches still remaining 
 sacred and inviolate ; and saving to St Peter the an- 
 nual pension of one penny for every house.” Armed 
 thus with the highest religious sanction of the age, 
 the Norman knights leaped fearlessly on the shores 
 of Ireland ; and, no doubt, felt that they were doing 
 a great and good work. Every schoolboy knows 
 the circumstances in which the conquest of Ireland 
 was effected : how a traitorous Irish prince, Dermot 
 M^Murchad, king of Leinster, having been dethroned 
 for certain misdemeanours, applied to the English 
 king, Henry IL, for assistance to recover his princi- 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 271 
 
 pality ; and how Strongbow;, with his knights and 
 retainers, — a mere handful, — landed in Ireland, and 
 gradually beat down all opposition. The undisciplined 
 and poorly-armed Irish had no more chance against 
 the mailed and disciplined Norman ranks, than the 
 Hindoos, when Clive subdued India, against the 
 Anglo-Saxon battalions. Henry himself visited Ire- 
 land, but was prevented by domestic troubles from 
 remaining to complete the conquest of the country. 
 He merely appointed the King of Connaught as 
 king of the whole island, under himself ; a district 
 around Dublin, called ^‘the Pale,’' was placed under 
 feudal law — the rest of the country being left under 
 Brehon, or Irish law. A more tvretched state of mat- 
 ters could hardly be imagined. These rapacious 
 Norman knights, uncontrolled by the royal presence, 
 aimed at winning immense possessions by their 
 sword, and holding them for their private advantage. 
 Engaged in ceaseless continental wars, the English 
 monarchs could give little attention to Irish affairs, 
 and governed the country by deputy. Desolating 
 wars followed between the inhabitants of the Pale 
 and the natives. National animosity, thus perpetu- 
 ated, sustained the spirit of war, and war raged on 
 with a fierceness which time did nothing to mitigate. 
 Covetousness was added to the other baser passions ; 
 and rapacity inflamed the anarchy in which it hoped 
 for gain. Confiscation of land followed unsuccessful 
 
2J2 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 insurrection ; and the victors revelled in the spoils 
 of the wretches whom they slaughtered. Thus the 
 miserable round continued till Elizabeth ascended 
 the throne. Her reign, that brought so much glory 
 and greatness to England, only deepened the dark- 
 ness and misery of unhappy Ireland. In the very 
 era when a new intellectual and moral life was puls- 
 ating among the nations, and beating with peculiar 
 strength in the heart of England, — when Shakespeare 
 was giving to the world those marvellous creations of 
 genius and beauty, that embody the universal life of 
 man, and Bacon was teaching the world philosophy, 
 and Spenser filling the earth with the glorious music 
 of his Faerie Queene,” and Raleigh leading out new 
 colonists, — the fairest isle of Europe lay bathed in 
 blood, like a ghastly ruin in moonlight, devastated by 
 hordes of the basest and most savage of mankind. 
 During the whole of the great queen’s reign, frightful 
 wars raged in Ireland. The oppression which makes 
 wise men mad provoked resistance to the rulers 
 whom she appointed ; and opposition was put down 
 by the most inhuman methods. Crops were de- 
 stroyed, dwelling-houses burned, the people slaugh- 
 tered ; and then famine, on its dark wing, descended 
 to destroy the remnant left by the sword. The poet 
 Spenser, who witnessed the effect of the famine which 
 followed these wars, declares that he saw the poor 
 natives '^creeping out of the woods on their hands, 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 273 
 
 for their legs would not bear them, crying like ghosts 
 from their graves, eating dead carrion, water-cresses, 
 and shamrocks, and at length scraping the very car- 
 cases out of their graves.” Even the heart of Eliza- 
 beth was touched at length. '^Alas! alas!” she 
 cried, fear lest it be objected to us, as it was to 
 Tiberius concerning the Dalmatian commotions — 
 
 ‘ You, you it is who are to blame, who have committed 
 your flock not to shepherds, but to wolves.’” No im- 
 provement however followed — to wolves they were 
 still committed. 
 
 James the First took comprehensive measures for 
 the settlement of Ireland ; and for this purpose intro- 
 duced a large number of colonists from Scotland, and 
 some from England, giving them the lands in Ulster 
 that had been forfeited by rebellion. These Scotch 
 settlers brought with them thrift, industry, and the 
 Saxon aptitude for productive labour ; and, in due 
 time, developed into the vigorous and prosperous 
 community now occupying the greater part of that 
 province, whose capital is the handsome, progressive 
 city of Belfast, — a noted centre of commerce and manu- 
 factures. The arrival of these Scotch colonists could 
 hardly have been a welcome sight to the dispossessed 
 natives ; and, it is to be feared, many a rough en- 
 counter took place between the old possessors and 
 the new claimants, resulting generally in pushing the 
 
 former back into other regions, as the Red Indian 
 
 S 
 
2/4 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 retires before the advancing backwoodsman. Many 
 names of places throughout Ulster terminate in 
 bawn.” Originally these were fortified houses or 
 villages, which the colonists erected during their con- 
 flicts with the native Irish. It is useless, at this day, 
 to go into the justice of these transactions. As in 
 multitudes of instances where the sword has been the 
 arbitrator, we must accept accomplished facts ; and, 
 as a general rule, the less we say about the moral 
 aspect of these affairs, in which our ancestors were 
 involved, the better. 
 
 Darker and more terrible scenes were witnessed in 
 the years that followed. An oppressed and brutalised 
 people rose in savage vengeance in 1641, and deeds 
 were then perpetrated that make the blood run cold. 
 Though massacre was not deliberately planned by 
 the leaders in that rebellion, it is one of the saddest 
 records that history has to make, that brutal, indis- 
 criminate massacres were perpetrated by the natives 
 when their furious passions were roused ; and these 
 were followed by retaliatory measures on the other 
 side, of deplorable atrocity. It was a frightful scene 
 when Protestant and Catholic were butchering one 
 another, their blood swelling the common torrent, 
 and the deadliest passions mingling in the strife. A 
 period of strife and weltering confusion followed ; and 
 it was a relief almost when Cromwell, with his Iron- 
 sides, swooped down on the struggling factions, and. 
 
IRELAND, 
 
 275 
 
 by a few blows from his stern hand, terminated the 
 long agony. Severity in such circumstances was, per- 
 haps, the truest mercy. His measures seem to us 
 merciless; yet they undoubtedly ended speedily a con- 
 flict which would otherwise have been protracted, and 
 thus saved much bloodshed. The memory of Crom- 
 well is green in Ireland still, though by no means 
 revered ; and to this day the very peasantry speak 
 of him in terms which only extreme terror and hate 
 could have inspired. How could we expect the Irish 
 to think of the iron-handed Cromwell with' patience, 
 much less with gratitude "I yet it is a fact that he gave 
 the country what it had not enjoyed for centuries — 
 the blessing of peace. His amiable and estimable 
 son Henry governed Ireland for a short time as it 
 had never been governed before; and had his dy- 
 nasty occupied the throne, Ireland would have been 
 made a part of the empire, not a trampled depend- 
 ency. It is worth remembering, too, in connexion 
 with Cromwell’s Irish rule, that one of Ireland’s most 
 distinguished sons, John Philpot Curran, was a de- 
 scendant, on the paternal side, of one of Cromwell’s 
 Ironsides ; so that the man who so successfully 
 pleaded the cause of Ireland in later days, who 
 stood up for the weak against the strong, who was 
 as magnanimous as he was incorruptible, — the advo- 
 cate who, at his own peril, and with the courage of a 
 hero, defended the sufferers of 1798 under the very 
 
276 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 shadow of the scaffold, — the eloquent, witty Curran, 
 had in his veins the blood of a Cromwellian Puritan 
 soldier. 
 
 The limits of this lecture, now almost reached, pre- 
 vent me from dwelling on the remaining events of 
 Irish history. With that dread fatality that seems 
 ever to have hung over her destiny, Ireland was in- 
 volved in the contest that drove the Stuart family 
 from the British throne ; and, with her usual ill- 
 fortune, she espoused the cause of that unhappy 
 imbecile, James the Second — the weakest, if not the 
 most worthless, of his faithless family. In reality, 
 however, the Catholics of Ireland cared very little 
 for the house of Stuart; but, true to the instincts of 
 their race, they rallied round Tyrconnel, one of their 
 chieftains. Protestant Ireland, with wiser choice, 
 gathered to the standard of William of Orange ; and 
 now, once more, the island became two hostile camps, 
 and its green valleys were sprinkled with the blood 
 of its people. I need not dwell on the well-known 
 issue of that conflict The battle of the Boyne 
 proved to be the Waterloo of Celtic Ireland ; and 
 the capitulation of Limerick closed the contest. This 
 v/as the time when magnanimity and wisdom might 
 have dictated a merciful and conciliatory policy ; and 
 the treaty of Limerick might have marked the close 
 of Ireland’s misery and the commencement of her 
 prosperity. But when all the vile passions of faction. 
 
IRELAND, 
 
 277 
 
 fear, hatred, revenge, blind rage, were dominant, how 
 could generosity or even justice be expected ? The 
 end of this war proved to be the commencement of an- 
 other dreary era of suffering and national degradation 
 for unhappy Ireland, — broken only by the Rebellion 
 of 1798 and its atrocities, which, in some particulars, 
 recall the horrors of 1641 ; and terminating in the awful 
 famine of 1846. This era of woe was ushered in by 
 the enactment of the Penal Laws — the shame and 
 disgrace of Protestantism, for, in persecuting, Pro- 
 testants violate their own fundamental principles. 
 For eighty years Celtic Ireland groaned under this 
 atrocious code. Its memory,” says Goldwin Smith, 
 will still remain a reproach to human nature, and a 
 terrible monument of the vileness into which nations 
 may be led when their religion has been turned into 
 hatred, and they have been taught that the indul- 
 gence of the most malignant passions of man is an 
 acceptable offering to God. For it was a code of 
 degradation and proscription not only religious and 
 political, but social.” We may judge of the whole of 
 
 ments, Roman Catholics were prohibited from edu- 
 cating their children, at home or abroad ; they were 
 disabled from acquiring freehold property ; they were 
 excluded from all the liberal and influential profes- 
 sions ; and deprived of the guardianship of their 
 own children. If any son of a Catholic became a 
 
2/8 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 Protestant, he could dispossess his father of the 
 fee-simple of his estate, which became his at his 
 father’s death, as a reward for his conversion. 
 These are only specimens of this code. In pallia- 
 tion of it, it can only be alleged, that persecu- 
 tion was the vice of the age, from which no party 
 was free ; and that the codes of France, Spain, and 
 Austria contained laws even more sanguinary. It 
 may also be alleged that the Roman Catholics, by 
 their rising under James II., and by the proscription 
 lists which they then drew up, provoked the stern 
 measure of retaliation. One thing is certain, — that 
 only at intervals were its enactments rigorously en- 
 forced. But its effects could not fail to be most dis- 
 astrous. To deprive a people of the rights of citizens, 
 the claims of property, and the means of education 
 for their children and their clergy, was to crush all 
 their energies, and doom them to despair. In the 
 language of Burke, ‘‘to render men patient under 
 deprivation of all the rights of human nature, every- 
 thing which could give them a knowledge or feeling 
 of those rights was rationally forbidden. To render 
 humanity fit to be insulted, it was fit it should be 
 degraded.” The working of this penal code was dis- 
 astrous to the best interests of the Protestant religion 
 which it professed to support. It was disastrous to 
 the interests of England which it promised to main- 
 tain ; for it drove the best of the Irish nation into 
 
/ICELAND. 
 
 279 
 
 exile on the Continent, where they joined England’s 
 enemies, and, as at Fontenoy, turned their swords 
 against Britain with terrible effect. It made Ireland 
 the source of England’s weakness, and ready to con- 
 spire with her enemies when peril arose. Above all, 
 it was fruitful of disaster to the Irish people. Ground 
 to the dust, their spirit broken, toiling without the 
 hope of a future, they became pauperised and de-/ 
 graded ; clung with desperate tenacity to the patch of 
 ground that yielded enough to sustain life, bidding 
 enormous rents in their eager competition for land ; 
 and, as the population became excessive, they 
 snatched at the fatal gift of the potato, which, when 
 it perished, buried millions of them in its grave. 
 Meantime, Irish pauperism overflowed into the cities 
 of England, swamping her labour-market, reducing 
 the wages of her labourers, and pulling down her 
 people to Irish hunger and Irish despair. Thus does 
 retribution follow national as well as individual wrong- 
 doing. The whole social framework of Ireland be- 
 came disorganised. The gentry and landed proprie- 
 tors themselves were involved in the general disaster. 
 Their estates, encumbered by a starving, reckless 
 tenantry, were impoverished. Mortgage was added 
 to mortgage ; debt, ruin, drunkenness followed, and 
 at length the Encumbered Estates Court took them 
 in hand, and made an end of Irish squirearchy. No 
 one mourns their departure. As landlords they were 
 
28 o 
 
 /ICELAND. 
 
 greedy and merciless; as masters, brutal, debauched, 
 cruel, and tyrannical. They and their middlemen 
 ground the unhappy tenantry to the dust, and drove 
 them, maddened and brutalized, into Whiteboyism 
 and agrarian outrage. The horrors of such a state of 
 society can hardly be exaggerated. In 1729, when 
 the population of Ireland was only a million and a 
 half. Swift describes the swarms of beggars of the 
 female sex, followed by ragged children, as crowding 
 the roads and streets; their offspring growing up 
 thieves for want of work. The weary round went on 
 for another century : an alien proprietary, indifferent 
 to the condition of the cultivators of the soil, many 
 of them absentees ; middlemen, rapacious and tyran- 
 nical; no employment other than agriculture for a 
 superabundant population ; a penal code under which 
 I the bulk of the people could neither buy land, nor 
 I take a mortgage, nor even fine down a lease ;” — all 
 / these causes were at work destroying the national 
 life ; and when, in 1834, a commission was appointed 
 by the British Parliament to inquire into the condition 
 of the Irish population, this is the ghastly picture 
 they drew : — A great proportion of them (the agri- 
 cultural labourers, who formed, it was estimated, two- 
 thirds of the whole population) are insufficiently pro- 
 vided at any time with the commonest necessaries 
 of life. Their habitations are wretched hovels ; 
 several of the family sleep together on straw, or on 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 281 
 
 the bare ground, sometimes with a blanket, some- 
 times with not even so much to cover them. Their 
 food commonly consists of dry potatoes, and with 
 these they are at times so scantily supplied as to be 
 obliged to stint themselves to one spare meal in the 
 day. They sometimes get a little herring or a little 
 milk, but they never get meat except at Christmas, 
 Easter, and Shrovetide.’' 
 
 Late repentance is better than perpetual sin ; and 
 though the most penitent remorse will not prevent 
 the seeds of evil from springing up, yet in justice 
 alone is national safety. England has at length 
 been thoroughly .awakened to the wrongs inflicted on 
 Ireland ; and with earnestness and sincerity she has, 
 for some time, been trying to right them. No doubt 
 the process of dealing out justice has been slow, but 
 it has advanced steadily, as the case was better under- 
 stood. The year 1778 saw the worst articles of the 
 penal code abolished. The year 1800 witnessed the 
 consummation of the Union, by which Ireland became 
 an integral part of the British empire; but unhappily 
 Catholic emancipation was withheld ; and, instead of 
 being conceded gracefully, was wrung from Parlia- 
 ment by a fierce political agitation in 1829. A hap- 
 pier era has now commenced ; though the effect of 
 misgovernment extending over centuries cannot be 
 removed in a day. The seaman knows that the bil- 
 lows continue to roll for sometime after the storm 
 
282 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 has spent its fury. Long years will be required to 
 eradicate the evils from the disordered social system, 
 and create a healthy state of public opinion. But 
 now that all serious legislative grievances have been 
 removed, there is a fair field for the operation of 
 moral influences, and we may hope that a brighter 
 day has at length dawned. 
 
 Under the new and improved order of things, 
 Ireland has already made substantial progress. The 
 noble system of national education, conceived in a 
 thorough spirit of justice and instructed wisdom, is 
 gradually working a beneficent change. For a 
 higher culture, the Queen's Colleges secure an ad- 
 mirable provision. The civil service is now open 
 to the youth of Ireland. A poor-law reminds the 
 wealthy of their duties towards poverty. A Board 
 of Works guides and assists industrial enterprise. 
 The Encumbered Estates Court has liberated the enor- 
 mous extent of land that was in pawn, and trans- 
 ferred it to solvent and enterprising hands. Emi- 
 gration on an unprecedented scale is relieving the 
 pressure of a superabundant population. Already, 
 within twenty years, two millions of the Irish popula- 
 tion have found happier homes in other lands ; and, 
 at this moment, the tide of emigration swells as high 
 as ever. The drain may continue with advantage to 
 those that remain, for many a year to come. During 
 the last twenty years, while the population has 
 
IRELAND, 
 
 283 
 
 diminished by two and a half millions of persons, two 
 millions of acres have been added to the arable 
 land of Ireland ; competition for land has sensibly 
 slackened; and wages have increased from 25 to 
 80 per cent Landed estates are getting broken 
 up, and the number of proprietors consequently is 
 increased. Three thousand estates were sold by the 
 Encumbered Estates Court, among eight thousand 
 purchasers, so that each estate was, on an average, 
 divided into nearly three.^ The number of farms 
 above thirty acres in size has considerably increased; 
 those under fifteen acres have greatly diminished in 
 recent years. proprietary of caste, governed 
 
 mainly by political and social views, is being changed 
 for one of capital with whom mercantile ideas are 
 paramount. Cultivation is passing from the hands 
 of a pauper peasantry, without capacity or motive 
 for improvement, into those of capitalist farmers 
 amenable to the influences which usually govern this 
 class of men.”“i- All these changes indicate a better 
 future for Ireland ; and give the prospect of a fair 
 adjustment of the relations of landlord and tenant, 
 founded on a just division of profits, being yet se- 
 cured. Still a vast amount of amelioration remains 
 to be accomplished, when there are 40,000 holdings 
 of less than an acre in extent, 85,469 holdings under 
 five acres each, and 183,931 under fifteen acres each, 
 * Edinburgh Review^ Jan. 1864, t Ibid, 
 
284 
 
 IRELAND, 
 
 and when, over large districts, con-acre prevails, and 
 extravagant rents swallow up all but the smallest 
 margin of profit. Landed proprietors have yet but 
 partially learned that their duties to their tenantry 
 are not summed up in pocketing the rents. 
 
 On the whole, I think a nation that has survived so 
 many misfortunes, and preserved its vitality under 
 such a train of crushing calamities, so that to-day it 
 is sending off swarm after swarm to other, lands, — 
 that has not lost its buoyancy, gaiety, or humour 
 through all its gloomy past, must have a wonderful 
 tenacity of existence, and no small amount of vital 
 energy. A race that has produced, amid all their 
 disadvantages, such men as Burke and Goldsmith, 
 Flood, Grattan, Sheridan, Plunkett, Shiel, and O’Con- 
 nell, — such writers as Moore, Lover, Davis, Maginn, 
 Mangan, and McCarthy, and such patriots as Wolf 
 Tone and Emmet, must have sterling stuff in it, and 
 a great future yet before it. What Ireland now wants 
 are peace, capital, industry ; or, as Sydney Smith puts 
 it, ‘^No more Erin-go-Braghs, but Erin-go bread and 
 cheese, Erin-go cabins that will turn the rain, Erin-go 
 breeks without holes in them.” If Irishmen would 
 allow the past to be past, and cease all thoughts of 
 avenging a cause that has long since passed before a 
 divine tribunal, and for which no living man can be 
 held accountable ; if they would refuse to allow the 
 recollection of these sad events, that once involved 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 285 
 
 all Europe in similar misfortunes, to influence the 
 action of to-day ; if, labouring unitedly for the com- 
 mon good, they would crown Irish brilliancy with 
 Irish thrift and industry, then indeed Erin would 
 become 
 
 ‘‘Great, glorious, and free, 
 
 First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea.” 
 
LECTURE THE SEVENTH. 
 
 DR KANE’S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 In all the records of human doing and daring, there 
 are no nobler memorials of indomitable courage, of 
 stern endurance, and of the might of the human will 
 in conquering physical obstacles, than those furnished 
 in the history of Arctic adventures. In point of in- 
 terest, Dr Kane’s narrative is among the very foremost 
 of such records. It was drawn up by his own hand 
 in 1856 ; and a few months after its completion that 
 hand was still for ever, and that fiery spirit, whose 
 very element was danger and adventure, had gone 
 over to the great majority” — had joined the mighty 
 congregation of the departed. Whether it be that the 
 story is told with such charming clearness and sim- 
 plicity, or that the adventures passed through by Dr 
 Kane and his companions are themselves possessed 
 of such a thrilling character, certain it is that no nar- 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 287 
 
 rative of Arctic exploration we formerly possessed 
 can be compared with this in profound interest and 
 captivating power. Kane proved to be not only one 
 of the most skilful and daring commanders, but also 
 a historian of rare and graphic power ; and hence his 
 narrative is such as touches all hearts, and satisfies 
 all minds. I propose to embody the substance of 
 this narrative in the shape of a lecture, taking up the 
 story from our own doors. 
 
 On the i8th of June 1853, i^iost of those I address 
 will remember that a little brig, bearing the name 
 of the AdvajicCy of one hundred and forty-four tons 
 burden, entered the Narrows, and dropped anchor 
 in our harbour.^ She had sailed from New York; 
 she was bound for the North Pole. It is not safe 
 to judge things merely by externals. I, for one, 
 remember surveying the Advance with much disap- 
 pointment, and something like contempt, when 
 informed that this rather heavy-looking little craft 
 was going in search of Sir John Franklin, and was 
 about to brave the dangers of the Polar Sea. When 
 one thought of the many splendid and powerful 
 vessels that had been equipped and sent out on the 
 same destination, and were at that time battling 
 their way through the ice-fields of the North, and 
 then looked at this insignificant little brig, with a 
 ship’s crew of but eighteen men, you felt inclined 
 
 * St John’s, Newfoundland. 
 
288 DR KANDS ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 
 
 to consider the enterprise sheer folly, and to put it 
 to the account of American recklessness and self- 
 confidence. Yet nothing could be farther from the 
 truth. Braver hearts than those on board that little 
 craft never beat in human bosoms ; more cool and 
 intrepid navigators never dared the treacherous 
 deep. The undertaking originated in no spirit of 
 wild or reckless daring, but had been prompted by 
 the purest philanthropy, and entered on after the 
 coolest scientific calculations. The fate of Sir John 
 Franklin and his one hundred and forty-six com- 
 panions, who seven years before this date had so 
 mysteriously disappeared within the Polar Circle, 
 had awakened the profoundest sympathies through- 
 out the civilised world, and called forth the most 
 strenuous endeavours for their discovery and rescue. 
 Efforts extending over four years had, however, 
 failed to discover a trace of the lost voyagers. 
 Every accessible shore, bay, and inlet where success 
 could be looked for, had been searched without any 
 result. England had sent out, regardless of expense, 
 expedition after expedition, guided by the boldest 
 and most skilful navigators ; and now despair was 
 chilling the hearts of the most hopeful. Dr Kane 
 was one of those who refused to believe that 
 Franklin and his men were beyond the reach of 
 human aid. After careful calculations he arrived 
 at the conclusion that Franklin had made his w^ay 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 289 
 
 into that mysterious region called the Polar Basin — 
 an expanse of open water supposed to extend 
 around the North Pole, and to be bounded on the 
 south by that great belt of ice which girdles the 
 globe around the Arctic Regions, and through which, 
 therefore, a navigator must pass to reach the Polar 
 Water. Here, Kane concluded, the long-sought 
 navigators were shut in by the great ring of ice ; 
 and from the comparatively mild temperature of 
 this unknown region, and the abundance of animal 
 life, he conceived it quite possible that they might 
 be still alive, and anxiously looking for help. 
 Having arrived at this conclusion by careful calcu- 
 lations, the daring man said, I will go after them 
 into the unexplored waste of waters, and, God 
 helping me, I will either restore them to the loving 
 hearts that are pining for their return, or at all 
 events lift the mysterious veil that now enshrouds 
 their fate.’’ Mr Henry Grinnel, one of the generous 
 merchant-princes of America, who had already 
 despatched one expedition in search of Franklin, in 
 which Dr Kane had acted as surgeon and natur- 
 alist, nobly placed the Advance at his disposal for 
 a second search. The Government of the United 
 States and some private individuals aided in pro- 
 curing a proper outfit, and in supplying the instru- 
 ments required for scientific observations. Hence 
 
 it came about that the Adva7tcey Dr Kane com- 
 
 T 
 
290 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 mander, with seventeen volunteers under him, was 
 on the 1 8th of June 1853 lying in our harbour, 
 bound for the Polar Basin. Little did we then 
 fancy that the handful of men on board this little 
 brig were destined to achieve an enterprise that 
 would make the civilised world familiar with their 
 names, and would furnish such examples of cool 
 intrepidity, perseverance, and heroic endurance in 
 the cause of humanity, as would place their names 
 high on the roll of fame, and cover their leader with 
 imperishable renown. 
 
 The stay of the Advance here did not extend be- 
 yond two days ; but it is a matter of honest pride 
 for every Newfoundlander that our city obtains most 
 honourable mention in Dr Kane’s narrative. He 
 says, — ‘^The Governor, Mr Hamilton, a brother of 
 the Secretary of the Admiralty, received us with a 
 hearty English welcome ; and all the officials, indeed 
 all the inhabitants, vied with each other in efforts to 
 advance our views. After two days, we left this thriv- 
 ing and hospitable city; and with a noble team of New- 
 foundland dogs on board, the gift of Governor Hamil- 
 ton, headed our brig to the coast of Greenland.” Thus 
 was Newfoundland destined to take a humble part 
 in this great enterprise, being represented by her 
 world-renowned dogs, — not, however, the aristocratic 
 race that are in such high repute in England, but the 
 hardy, rough, ungainly curs that haul our wood in 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS. 29 1 
 
 winter over the snow, making the night hideous some- 
 times with their bowlings, and performing so much 
 useful work as draught-animals, that they have some 
 title to be ranked among the bone and sinew of the 
 country/' We shall find that these strong-limbed, 
 
 - ravenous brutes proved most serviceable to Kane ; 
 indeed, without them, and some others obtained in 
 Greenland, the expedition would have been a total 
 failure. It was by travelling on sledges, drawn by 
 some of these dogs, that two of Kane’s party suc- 
 ceeded in getting a hasty peep at what they believed 
 to be the open Polar Basin. Only one of our pack, 
 named “ Old Whitey,” survived all the hardships of 
 the expedition, and returned to be affectionately 
 cherished by Kane till the day of his death. 
 
 The members of the Masonic body in St John’s, 
 finding that Dr Kane belonged to the wide-spread 
 brotherhood, resolved on giving him a fraternal wel- 
 come ; and at the entertainment to which they invited 
 him and his officers, they presented him with a com- 
 plimentary address, together with a masonic flag. 
 This little flag he promised to plant on the North 
 Pole, should he ever reach that mysterious locality ; 
 and it is an interesting circumstance that it was car- 
 ried, as their banner of hope and faith, by the dif- 
 ferent excursion parties of the expedition ; and on 
 one occasion, as we shall find, it served to direct 
 Kane to a party of his men who had lost their way, 
 
292 DR HANDS ARCTIC EXFLORA TIONS. 
 
 were covered with snow-wreaths, and all but dead 
 with cold and hunger. Thus the masonic symbol, in 
 this case, as in many another instance, proved the 
 means of preserving from death. In reply to the 
 address of the Freemasons, Dr Kane said, — ^'Tobe 
 thus received by brethren and Englishmen, and thus 
 parted with on leaving this portion of the British ter- 
 ritory, perhaps the last we may touch at on our way, 
 is indeed most cheering to my spirit and encouraging 
 to my hopes ; for the great cause in which I am em- 
 barked is one which involves the feeling of universal 
 brotherhood, bound by no limits, and contracted by 
 no sectarian views or national prejudices, for it springs 
 from a sympathy that embraces the wide family of 
 man, and extends its efforts to relieve, wherever suf- 
 fering, distress, or want mark out a path for it to fol- 
 low. Should it be our lot to pass a period of our 
 time in the long night which in those regions succeeds 
 the day, amid a frozen wilderness, in the deep solitude 
 of darkness, so palpably dense as to be almost tangible, 
 where over the wide waste of desolation unbroken 
 silence reigns — still, even there, despondency will find 
 no resting-place in our bosoms, but the cheering hope 
 will animate them, that when the day shall again 
 dawn upon us, a bright and glorious morrow will 
 break forth, to be rendered brighter and more glo- 
 rious still by the crowning of our hopes, and the 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 293 
 
 reward of all our anxieties and toils, in the recovery 
 and restitution to society of England’s nobly-enter- 
 prising son, your countryman, and mutually our bro- 
 ther.” And so, with these brave w^ords of cheer, 
 ‘^Brother Kane” bade his brethren of the mystic 
 tie” farewell. The incidents on which I have been 
 dwelling are not recorded in Kane’s Narrative ; but 
 the interest which I know attaches to them in the 
 minds of some who hear me, and whose voices were 
 the last to bid him God-speed and farewell, must 
 be my apology for bringing up these reminiscences. 
 Shortly after the departure of Kane, a letter was 
 received by a gentleman of this city from Lady 
 Franklin — that lady whose touching devotedness in 
 the cause of rescuing her husband has won all hearts. 
 In that letter, dated London, July 20, 1854, she said, 
 — It gives me great pleasure to learn that the 
 philanthropic and generous enterprise of these noble 
 Americans is so fully appreciated by my countrymen 
 in Newfoundland, and especially by the members of 
 that worshipful society who have deemed my beloved 
 husband worthy to be considered as a brother. The 
 cause in which these heroic citizens of the United 
 States have embarked is indeed, to use the beautiful 
 language of Dr Kane, ^ one which involves the feeling 
 of universal brotherhood ; ’ and there is, perhaps, no 
 one who can feel the truth of this truly Christian and 
 
294 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 generous sentiment with such profound gratitude as, 
 your obedient and obliged servant, 
 
 ‘'Jane Franklin.’^ 
 
 Mr Grinnel, of New York, wrote to the same 
 gentleman, saying, — " Dr Kane was highly pleased 
 with the unexpected attentions bestowed upon him 
 w^hile at your port. Independent of the search for 
 Sir John Franklin, I think the Doctor has a strong 
 inclination to place his foot on the North Pole.’^ 
 Never, surely, was the well-known hospitality of our 
 city more worthily bestowed than in the present in- 
 stance. Cheered by the reception they met with, the 
 heroic band pointed their vessel’s prow to the north, 
 slowly glided past all the haunts of civilised men, 
 disappeared within the ghastly wilderness of the 
 Arctic Circle, and were heard of no more for two 
 long and dreary years. What happened them in the 
 interval I shall try to tell you. But, first, we must 
 try to comprehend Kane’s plan of operations and 
 proposed method of reaching the Polar Basin. 
 
 He arrived at the conclusion, by reasoning from 
 the analogies of physical geography, that Greenland 
 was a vast peninsula stretching away to the far north, 
 and probably touching the Polar Sea. He therefore 
 determined to make Greenland itself the basis of his 
 operations, — to force his vessel along its shores as far 
 north as the ice would permit, — then, having secured 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 295 
 
 the brig in some creek or inlet, he proposed to send 
 out travelling parties on sledges drawn by dogs, 
 carrying with them light gutta-percha boats, and 
 thus to explore the whole western coast, reach the 
 extreme northern point of Greenland, embark there 
 on the open water which he hoped to find, and so 
 explore the unknown Polar Basin and arrive at the 
 Pole. He promised himself great advantages from 
 adopting this course. Sir Edward Parry had for- 
 merly attempted to reach the Pole by travelling over 
 the ice due north from Spitzbergen ; but after most 
 heroic efforts he was compelled to abandon the at- 
 tempt, in consequence of finding that the ice over 
 which he was travelling was drifting so rapidly 
 toward the south, that it carried him in that direc- 
 tion more quickly than he could advance northward. 
 Kane obviated this difficulty by taking the solid land 
 for his line of advance, which was also the shortest 
 route to the open sea ; and he calculated that the fan- 
 like abutment of land on the north face of Greenland 
 would check the equatorial icedrift. He also hoped 
 to procure in this route a more abundant supply of 
 animal food, and the friendly assistance of the Es- 
 quimaux, whose settlements had been found in a very 
 high latitude. 
 
 On the 2 1st of June 1853, the last farewell was 
 waved, and the Advance left our harbour. We shall 
 make the first stage of the expedition from the time 
 
296 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS, 
 
 of leaving St John’s till the brig was placed in her 
 winter harbour in Smith’s Sound, on the coast of 
 North Greenland, — quarters which she was destined 
 never to leave. On the ist of July, they arrived at 
 Fiskernaes, a Danish settlement, in South Green- 
 land. Here Kane engaged an Esquimaux hunter, 
 named Hans Christian, a youth of nineteen, fat and 
 good-natured, and so expert that he could spear a 
 bird on the wing. He proved a valuable acquisition 
 to the party, and, as we shall find, performed no un- 
 important part in the expedition, catering for the 
 dogs, purveying for the table, and more than once 
 saving their lives by bringing a seasonable supply of 
 fresh meat. This fat youth, stolid and unimpressible 
 though he seemed, had a soft place in his heart ; and 
 when he accompanied Kane he left behind one of 
 the gentler sex to whom his thoughts often turned. 
 Cupid is quite as active apparently amid the snows 
 of the North as the flowers of the South. After 
 surmounting many dangers in company with Kane, 
 and sharing all the hardships of the enterprise, poor 
 Hans became home-sick and love-sick, when Arctic 
 darkness was brooding over the vessel ; and at length, 
 unable any longer to bear up, he took his rifle, bundled 
 up his clothes, and came to say good-bye. The Doc- 
 tor, however, took him in hand ; gave him a smart 
 dose of Epsom salts, followed by other sharp persua- 
 sives of the same character ; and, as soon as he 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 2^7 
 
 became convalescent, promoted him to the high office 
 of dog-harnesser, and made him companion of his ice 
 travels. The treatment was for a time successful; 
 but, as usual, love in the end won the day. If glory 
 and Epsom salts made Hans forget his first love, 
 another came in the way. An Esquimaux tribe 
 visited Kane in his winter-quarters, and a damsel 
 of the party assailed and won the tender heart of 
 Hans. Medical treatment failed in this instance ; 
 in the hour of need Hans deserted the expedition ; 
 and when last seen was mounted on a sledge, with 
 a handsome supply of walrus and seal flesh on one 
 side, and on the other a maiden, fair in his eyes as 
 the opening day, and plump as a seal. Some Arctic 
 Gretna Green was no doubt their destination. 
 
 Passing slowly up the coast, Kane made purchases 
 of dogs at the different settlements, and on the 24th 
 of July arrived at Uppernavick, in North Greenland. 
 After a stay here of two days, he again pushed for- 
 ward, left behind the last human habitation on that 
 dreary coast, and entered Melville Bay, where the real 
 difficulties and dangers of Arctic navigation began. 
 Instead of taking the usual inshore track, Kane 
 boldly determined to double Melville Bay by an 
 outside passage, and accordingly dashed into the 
 midst of the ice-floes and floating bergs, hoping by 
 this course to secure a much quicker though more 
 hazardous passage to the north water. Now began 
 
298 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 perils from ice, storm, and tempest, that might make 
 the boldest quail. They had a slight foretaste of 
 what was awaiting them in the following incident. 
 Finding the ice rapidly closing on the brig, and fear- 
 ing a besetment, they determined to fasten to an 
 iceberg, and, after eight hours heavy labour, suc- 
 ceeded in planting their ice-anchors in its sides, and 
 found themselves beautifully sheltered under its 
 jagged cliffs. A dangerous refuge it proved. Pres- 
 ently a strange, crackling noise was heard ; frag- 
 ments of the mass began to patter on the surface of 
 the water, dotting it like the first drops of a summer 
 shower. The quick eye of the commander saw what 
 was coming ; they had barely time to haul off when 
 the whole face of the enormous mountain of ice was 
 hurled into the sea, making the waves leap into the 
 air, and crashing like the discharge of a park of 
 artillery. A minute later in moving off, and the 
 Advance would have been crushed like a nutshell. 
 These icebergs, however, proved to be true friends, 
 though occasionally rather treacherous. When the 
 huge icefloes began to press upon the brig, and 
 drift her away southward, Kane’s plan was to fasten 
 a line to a moving berg, which acted as a breakwater, 
 and being borne by the wind and the deep-sea cur- 
 rent steadily northward, while the loose icedrifts 
 around were carried by the surface -current in the 
 opposite direction, this curious tug-boat frequently 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 299 
 
 carried him far in the right direction. Battling his way 
 steadily through this huge, drifting pack of ice, boring 
 the floes at times with saw and chisel, beating back- 
 ward and forward like fish seeking an outlet from a 
 glass jar,” Kane at length cleared Melville Bay on 
 the 3d August, and reached the North Water leading 
 into Smith’s Sound, the unknown field of his search, 
 and the scene of his perilous adventures. On the 
 5th of August he passed the Crimson Cliffs,” — so 
 named by Sir John Ross, from the patches of red 
 snow which can be seen at the distance of ten miles, 
 the colour being produced by a small plant of red 
 hue acting on the snow. In a fine run^ through open 
 water, the Advance passed Hakluyt Point, a spire of 
 gneiss shooting up six hundred feet above the water- 
 level ; and on the 6th of August they sighted Capes 
 Alexander and Isabella, the headlands of Smith’s 
 Sound. And now the little brig is sweeping by cliffs 
 fifteen hundred feet in height, some of the precipices 
 being eight hundred feet at a single steep. “ They 
 have been,” says Kane, ‘‘ until now the Arctic Pillars of 
 Hercules ; and they look down on us as if they chal- 
 lenged our right to pass. Even the sailors are im- 
 pressed as we move under their dark shadow.” The 
 Advance was now fairly inside Smith’s Sound, and 
 entering on a region where white man had never be- 
 fore ventured. Captain Inglefield alone had looked 
 into Smith’s Sound, but had not gone far beyond the 
 
300 BR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 
 
 entrance. At Littleton Island, Kane buried a life- 
 boat and a small stock of provisions, as something to 
 fall back upon in case of extremity. Landing for 
 this purpose, they were surprised to find traces of 
 human habitations, and indications shewing that at 
 one time it had been a rude Esquimaux settlement, 
 abandoned perhaps fifty or a hundred years before, 
 but still in excellent preservation. They found, in 
 getting a site for their stores, the mortal remains of 
 the former inhabitants, — a mournful sight, in the 
 midst of the dreariest scene the eye ever rested on. 
 
 The Esquimaux have no mother-earth to receive 
 their dead ; but they seat them in the attitude of 
 repose, the knees drawn close to the body, and en- 
 close them in sacks of skins. The implements of 
 the living man are then grouped around him ; they 
 are covered with a rude dome of stones, and a cairn 
 is piled above. This simple cenotaph will remain in- 
 tact for generation after generation. The Esquimaux 
 never disturb a grave.’' In these tombs the voyagers 
 found some of the rude implements of the inhabitants, 
 and, among the rest, a child’s toy-spear, buried most 
 likely with the little form that in life had played with 
 it. Doubtless this little one had been pressed lovingly 
 to the warm breasts of the poor savage mother, who 
 wept bitter tears as she laid the tiny spear, no longer 
 needed now, by the side of her dead boy ere the cairn 
 was piled over his remains. The little relic told, too, 
 
DR KANDS ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 301 
 
 that here, on this dreary spot, children had been sport- 
 ing ; that even here life vindicated its claim to glad- 
 ness ; and that the savage, in the wildest scenes of 
 desolation, shares in the joys that are common to the 
 human family. Men are allied by far more than they 
 differ. The outward condition may be very unequal, 
 while only a thin partition severs them ; for are not 
 the same joys and sorrows substantially, surging 
 through the breasts of all ? Are not all struggling 
 with the same realities of existence, and looking up 
 into the same dread mysteries ? 
 
 The Advance is now cutting her way up Smith’s 
 Sound, along the Greenland Coast, towards the Polar 
 Sea. Soon the ice is seen moving down, in a fearful 
 pack of the heaviest description, towards the little 
 barque, as if incensed at her intrusion into these for- 
 bidden regions where the Frost King holds his court, 
 and the Ice Giants take their wild revels. Speedily 
 they are in the midst of it. Along the shore is a belt 
 of ice forty yards in width and eighteen feet thick, 
 clinging to precipitous rocks, 1200 feet high. On the 
 other side is the drifting pack utterly impenetrable, 
 with icebergs dashing backward and forward with the 
 tides, and by their tremendous pressure heaping up the 
 icefloes into hills sixty or seventy feet high. There 
 is but one way to advance northward, and the gallant 
 Kane does not hesitate to enter it. By the rise and 
 fall of the tides the ice relaxes at times, so as to leave 
 
302 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 
 
 a narrow, tortuous lane of water along the shore. 
 Into this fearfully hazardous opening the brig is 
 forced, and by main strength warped along its wind- 
 ings from one grounded lump of ice to another. It is 
 the morning of the 20th of August. A breeze 
 springs up from the south, freshens into a gale, and 
 at last rises into a perfect hurricane. The ice drives 
 more madly than any one had seen before. The 
 bergs are careering wildly, dashing against one an- 
 other, grinding the floes, or hurling them together in 
 enormous masses. What will be the fate of our little 
 brig in this wild uproar ? Will the ice-pack, with its 
 heaving masses, seventy feet in thickness, crush her to 
 atoms against the shore, or shall two bergs meeting 
 lock her in their icy embrace ? She is moored by 
 three stout hawsers to a friendly iceberg that is 
 stranded : should they hold, all is well, but if they 
 part. Heaven help her ! The hurricane increases in 
 fury, roaring like a lion as he bounds from his lair. 
 Suddenly a sharp, twanging snap is heard— a six- 
 inch hawser has parted ; and their hope is in the 
 other two. A moment more, and another shrill ring 
 is heard above the shrieking of the storm — a second 
 hawser has gone. But there is hope yet. A noble 
 ten-inch Manilla cable still defies the angry blasts, 
 and gallantly swings the brig in safety. Vain hope ! 
 With a snap that rings out far above the roarings of 
 the blasts, and the meanings of the shrouds, it gives 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 3^3 
 
 way ; and in the smoke that follows the recoil of the 
 cable, the brig is dragged out by the wild ice, and in 
 a moment, is in the midst of a roaring torrent, seem- 
 ingly hurrying to inevitable destruction. Alas for 
 the brave men that are now battling for their lives 
 with mountains of ice ! Still no cheek is blanched 
 with unmanly fear — no exclamation of terror is heard ; 
 calmly the orders are issued and obeyed. Desperate 
 efforts are made to beat back, but all in vain ; and 
 now, with double-reefed top-sail, they are drifting 
 before the gale and rapidly closing with the piled-up 
 masses of ice. One enormous hummock rears itself 
 above the gunwale, smashes the bulwarks, and de- 
 posits half a ton of ice on the decks. The noble little 
 ship trembles but never shrinks, battles with the 
 waves like a mother for her child, and through all 
 the wild adventure seems to have a charmed life. 
 But a new and more terrible enemy comes in sight — 
 a troop of icebergs right in the course of the vessel, 
 that is drifting before the gale without any power to 
 avoid them. Shall the brig get her deathblow here, 
 or will the bergs furnish some providential nook 
 of refuge from the storm ? Courage, brave hearts ! 
 See, an opening between the towering icebergs and 
 the piled-up floes ! Here is a little haven, enter and 
 be safe ! The tempest-tost vessel enters ; the ice- 
 walls shelter her from the blast ; she loses her head- 
 way, and is suddenly at rest. The poor mariners are 
 
304 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 
 
 just beginning to breathe freely when, to their 
 horror, they discover that the treacherous icebergs 
 too are in motion, sweeping down rapidly on the 
 heavy floes, and about to crush the helpless brig 
 between them, as Naysmith’s steam-hammer would 
 smash a walnut. Nearer and nearer the huge jaws of 
 ice are approaching each other : the bravest heart 
 beats quick — the boldest pause. The crisis of their 
 fate has come, when Kane sees a low, water-washed 
 iceberg drifting from the southward, with sufficient 
 momentum to render it independent of the wind. 
 The happy thought strikes him to make use of it to 
 tow his vessel out of the jaws of destruction. As it is 
 sweeping past, an ice-anchor is planted in its sloping 
 side — a line is attached — the Advance is harnessed to 
 this white steed of the waters. Our gallant Kane 
 must tell the rest : — '' It was an anxious moment. 
 Our noble tow-horse, whiter than the pale horse 
 that seemed to be pursuing us, hauled us bravely on 
 — the spray dashing over his windward flanks, and 
 his forehead ploughing up the lesser ice, as if in 
 scorn. The bergs encroached upon us as we ad- 
 vanced ; our channel narrowed to a width of perhaps 
 forty feet ; we braced the yards to clear the impending 
 icewalls. We passed clear, but it was a close shave. 
 Never did heart-tried men acknowledge with more 
 gratitude their merciful deliverance from a wretched 
 death.’' Scarcely had the poor fellows breathed a 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 305 
 
 hurried thanksgiving, when they again found them- 
 selves among the ice; their vessel was repeatedly 
 nipped ; and at last a great ice-table, twenty feet thick, 
 came upon them. No iron or wood could stand 
 this ; but the shoreward face of the berg happened to 
 present an inclined plane descending deep into the 
 water ; and up this the brig was driven, as if some 
 great steam screw-power was forcing her into a dry 
 dock.’' ^^At one time,” says Kane, expected to 
 see her carried bodily up its face, and tumbled over 
 on her side. But one of those mysterious relaxa- 
 tions, which I have elsewhere called the pulses of the 
 ice, lowered us quite gradually down again into the 
 rubbish, and we were forced out of the line of pres- 
 sure towards the shore.” The brig now grounded in 
 a place of safety, and after thirty-six hours of this 
 fearfuf contention for life, the wearied Kane and his 
 companions got repose. 
 
 By yoking the men to the brig, and working like 
 horses in tracking and warping, Kane succeeded in 
 making a little more progress to the northward ; but 
 after heroic efforts, they found it in vain to battle 
 against the ice. It was the 23d of August, and 
 already the winter had set in, the young ice, two 
 inches thick, forming around the brig. They were 
 at this time in latitude 78^ 41' — farther north than 
 any of their predecessors, except Parry on his Spitz- 
 
 bergen foot-tramp towards the Pole. The brig was 
 
 U 
 
3o6 dr kane^s arctic explorations. 
 
 now constantly grounding at low-water, and heeling 
 over in a very unpleasant fashion. Kane resolved 
 upon an expedition to discover a proper wintering 
 spot, from which they could start on their winter 
 travel, and enter on their search for Franklin. Ac- 
 cordingly, with seven of his best hands, he set out 
 on a sledge. Onward they pushed for some time 
 with tolerable success, till their way was blocked up 
 by a glacier, whose steep sides terminated in the sea. 
 With much difficulty they scrambled over this 
 obstacle, and arrived at a large bay of open water, 
 into which a tumultuous river, three quarters of a 
 mile wide at its mouth, discharged its waters. Hav- 
 ing forded this river, they advanced seven miles, 
 and arrived at a cape which they named ‘‘Jefferson.” 
 Sixteen miles farther, they reached a headland which 
 they named after the distinguished author of “The 
 Newcomes,” “Cape William Makepeace Thackeray,” — 
 a graceful tribute to genius, in a high latitude. Why 
 did they not name the next “ Cape Charles Dickens,” 
 instead of “Cape Hawkes .^” Kane mounted this 
 headland, eleven hundred feet high, and had a mag- 
 nificent view of an expanse extending beyond the 
 eightieth parallel of latitude. On one hand was a huge 
 wall of ice, to which he gave the appropriate name 
 of “ The Great Glacier of Humboldt;” and beyond it 
 he named the land “Washington,” the area between 
 being a solid sea of ice. Having found no place so 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXFLORA TIONS. 30 / 
 
 well fitted for a winter harbour as that in which he 
 had left the Advance, Kane now retraced his steps, 
 and placed the brig in Rensellaer harbour, which he 
 says they were fated never to leave together — a 
 long-resting place to her indeed, for the same ice is 
 around her still/' 
 
 It was now the loth September, and no time was 
 to be lost in making preparation for the long Arctic 
 winter night that was rapidly approaching. In an- 
 other month the sun would disappear, and for one 
 hundred and forty days they would not see his face. 
 Think of it ! — twenty sunless weeks, with the moon 
 only at times, and the occasional glimmerings of the 
 aurora-borealis. No white men had ever previously 
 wintered in such a high northern latitude, and careful 
 preparation must be made for encountering an un- 
 known degree of cold, and the long prevalence of 
 darkness. Their first care was to remove the con- 
 tents of the hold of the vessel to a storehouse erected 
 on a small islet. Then a deck-house was constructed 
 of boards — every attention being given to secure ven- 
 tilation, warmth, dryness, room, and comfort. The 
 washing, cooking, ice-melting arrangements were care- 
 fully attended to ; and their domestic system was or- 
 ganised with special reference to cleanliness, cheerful 
 recreation, and especially a fixed routine which was 
 carefully adhered to. The Sabbath was observed 
 with religious exactness. They had in view, how- 
 
308 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS, 
 
 ever, not only to search these shores for traces of 
 the lost expedition, but to advance the interests of 
 science. Accordingly they set to work, dragged 
 blocks of granite over the ice, and built an obser- 
 vatory, their mortar being frozen water and moss. 
 Here they planted their transit instrument and theo- 
 dolite. Magnetic observations in such a latitude be- 
 ing of vast consequence to the interests of science, 
 they constructed another edifice in which no iron was 
 allowed, even the fireplace being of copper ; and here 
 their magnetic implements were placed. In spite of 
 all their attempts* to render it comfortable, it proved 
 to be an icehouse of the coldest description, where a 
 fire, the heaviest buffalo robes, and the warmest furs 
 could barely enable the shivering observer to keep 
 magnetic watch. A third erection was necessary for 
 meteorological observations, where their thermome- 
 ters might be suspended far from all disturbing in- 
 fluences. A dog-house completed their arrangements ; 
 but the poor animals could not be kept away from 
 their masters, and preferred hanging about the brig, 
 and even sleeping on the snow, to being at a distance 
 from them. 
 
 Things were now made pretty snug for winter. The 
 evening shades were prevailing more and more — the 
 gloom of the long, terrible Arctic night was gathering. 
 Ere the sun disappeared, Kane determined to estab- 
 lish a chain of provision-depots along the northern 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 309 
 
 coast, so that when the travelling season arrived, they 
 might be enabled to drive their dogs rapidly over the 
 ice, unencumbered with a heavy load of provisions. 
 Accordingly he despatched a party of seven men, 
 with a considerable load of pemmican on a sledge, 
 which they were to draw themselves, being harnessed 
 to it by ropes and shoulder-belts. As the word pem- 
 mican will frequently be used in this address, it may 
 be as well to explain what kind of food is referred to 
 under this name. Sir John Richardson, in the account 
 of his Arctic Searching Expedition, thus describes the 
 mode of its preparation : — ‘‘ A round of beef of the 
 best quality having been cut into thin steaks, from 
 which the fat and membranous parts are pared away, 
 was dried in a malt-kiln over an oak fire until its 
 moisture was entirely dissipated, and the fibre of the 
 meat became friable. It was then ground in a malt- 
 kiln, when it resembled finely-grated meat. Being 
 next mixed with nearly an equal weight of melted 
 beef-suet or lard, the preparation of plain pemmican 
 was complete ; but to render it more agreeable to the 
 unaccustomed palate, a proportion of the best Zante 
 currants was added to part of it, and part was sweet- 
 ened with sugar. After the ingredients were well incor- 
 porated by stirring, they were transferred to tin canis- 
 ters capable of containing 85 lb. each ; and having been 
 firmly rammed down, and allowed to contract further 
 by cooling, the air was completely expelled and ex- 
 
310 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 eluded by filling the canister to the brim with melted 
 lard through a small hole left in the end, which was 
 then covered with a piece of tin and soldered up.’' 
 Yoked to a sledge loaded with this and other descrip- 
 tions of food, Kane’s men started on the 20th Sep- 
 tember, equipped with a buffalo robe to lie on, a can- 
 vas tent, and blanket bags to creep into at night. 
 Their clothing was furs from head to foot, leaving 
 only a portion of the face exposed. The party, in 
 fact, resembled in appearance a number of bears that 
 had been trained to waddle on their hinder-legs. They 
 had fearful difficulties to encounter in this sledge- 
 journey — at times wading through broken ice, cross- 
 ing fissures, and dragging their heavy load among 
 icebergs and hummocks, sustaining at the same time 
 the fiercest cold, and getting only broken snatches of 
 unrefreshing sleep. With unflinching resolution, how- 
 ever, they executed their commander’s orders to the 
 very letter. Advancing as far as latitude 79° 
 they buried 800 lb. of provisions in a natural exca- 
 vation among the cliffs, piling over them heavy 
 rocks, brought with immense labour. Smaller stones 
 were placed over these, and incorporated into one 
 solid mass by a mixture of sand and water. They 
 hoped by these arrangements to preserve them safe 
 from the claws of the bears, whose powers in break- 
 ing up such provision depots is almost incredible. 
 
 The explorers are now snugly housed in for the 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 3 1 1 
 
 winter. The sun has disappeared ; a faint twilight, 
 for a time, lingers at noonday. In the early part of 
 November they can still read the thermometer at 
 noon without a light ; and the black masses of the 
 hills are plain for about five hours, with their glaring 
 patches of snow ; but all the rest is darkness. Lan- 
 terns are always on the spar-deck, and the lard lamps 
 never extinguished below. The stars of the sixth mag- 
 nitude shine out at noonday.” The empress of the 
 night,” then at her greatest northern declination, per- 
 forms the whole of her stately circuit in the sky, as if 
 to apologise for the absence of her more luminous 
 partner. On the 1 2th December they have a grand 
 incident in the great monotony of their life — an oc- 
 cultation of Orion, of which they obtain a satisfactory 
 observation. On the 15th December, the last ves- 
 tige of mid-day twilight is lost ; they cannot see print ; 
 noonday and midnight are alike, and except a vague 
 glimmer on the sky there is nothing to tell them 
 that the Arctic world around has a sun. Fearfully 
 depressing is this long and intense darkness. Even 
 the dogs cannot stand it ; and when the men stumble 
 upon them in the darkness, they put their cold noses 
 to their hands, and commence the most exuberant 
 antics of satisfaction. They howl at an accidental 
 light as if it reminded them of the moon ; and the 
 poor animals are allowed to see the lanterns fre- 
 quently, as the best way of keeping up their spirits. 
 
312 DR KANES ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS, 
 
 To the great grief of Kane, some of the best of the 
 Newfoundland pack are seized with a strange form of 
 brain disease, which, having at first the symptoms of 
 epilepsy, became soon true lunacy. They bark 
 frenziedly at nothing, walk automatically, howl as if 
 pursued, and at length perish with symptoms of 
 locked-jaw. In order to beguile the weary monoton- 
 ous solitude, the crew try a fancy ball ; but in the ab- 
 sence of ladies, and with the thermometer 25° below 
 zero, it proves rather a cold affair, but still breaks the 
 dulness of the slow hours. An Arctic newspaper, 
 with the appropriate name of The Ice-Blmk was pub- 
 lished on board ; the crew being both contributors 
 and readers. After a time this print became rather 
 dull, owing partly to the non-arrival of the mails, and 
 partly to there being no opposition newspaper — no 
 miserable, venal, lying contemporary to have a 
 good stand-up fight with, and to exhibit as a stupid, 
 irreclaimable scoundrel. There is, however, no idle- 
 ness on board the little brig ; every man has his 
 allotted task ; every hour its duty. One is carpen- 
 tering, another tinkering, some sketching, writing, 
 or projecting maps. Records of the weather, the 
 tides, the thermometers, the ice, are each day care- 
 fully noted down. The most trying thing is to pass 
 the whole twenty-four hours, on certain term-days, at 
 the magnetic observatory, noting the movements of 
 the needle. In the darkness, the observer whose turn 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS. 3 1 3 
 
 has arrived, stumbles to this building, with a lantern 
 in one hand and an ice-pole in the other, sits down 
 and, first of all, kindles his fire ; then, with a chrono- 
 meter in one hand and a pencil in the other, he has 
 to note every six minutes the flutterings of the mag- 
 netometer. As the fire kindles, he finds the part of his 
 body fronting the stove 94° above zero, and the oppo- 
 site portion of his corporation 10° below zero. On the 
 floor the temperature is 75° below freezing point ; on 
 a level with the head of the observer, as the warmth 
 ascends, it is 20° above zero. Thus the unfortunate 
 mortal has to remain on the watch, without winking, 
 his turn of six hours, having all the while his feet at 
 the Pole and his head in the Temperate Zone — his 
 front in an English and his rear in a Spitzbergen 
 climate. Yet no one shirks the duty; four hundred 
 and eighty results are recorded each week. If you 
 ask what is the use of all this martyrdomx in the cause 
 of science, let it be remembered that magnetism and 
 the electric telegraph are intimately connected, and 
 that it is by these painful and laborious efforts on 
 the part of her votaries that science perfects her 
 knowledge of terrestrial magnetism. The cold expe- 
 rienced by our voyagers during this dreary winter is 
 the most intense on record. On the 17th of January 
 the thermometers stand 49° below zero; on the 5th 
 of February from 60° to 75° below zero — the fiercest 
 cold ever experienced I believe. Fancy life going on 
 
3 14 BR KANES ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS, 
 
 in an atmosphere 75® below zero, or 107° below the 
 freezing point of water — enough surely to freeze the 
 very marrow in the bones ! Even after the return of 
 the sun, the mean temperature for the whole of 
 March was 41® below zero. In addition to their other 
 sufferings, fuel began to fail. On the nth March, 
 Kane makes the following entry in his journal: — ^'Our 
 fuel is limited to three bucketfuls of coal a-day, the 
 temperature outside being 46® below zero. London 
 brown stout and somebody's old brown sherry freeze 
 in the cabin lockers. We have not a pound of fresh 
 meat, and only a barrel of potatoes left. Not a man 
 now, except Pierre and Morton, is exempt from 
 scurvy: and as I look round upon the pale faces 
 and haggard looks of my comrades, I feel that we 
 are fighting the battle of life at disadvantage ; and 
 that an Arctic night and an Arctic day age a man 
 more rapidly and harshly than a year anywhere else 
 in all this Aveary world." 
 
 On the 2 1st February the sun made his appear- 
 ance ; and March brought back perpetual day. One 
 can fancy with what feelings the voyagers, after 140 
 sunless days, welcomed back the cheering rays of the 
 sun. Kane tells us, he climbed a crag to feast his 
 eyes on the sight, nestled in the sunshine, and felt it 
 like bathing in perfumed water. We know the value 
 of our every-day mercies when they are withdrawn. 
 The working-day had come; and now the thoughts 
 
DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLANA TIONS, 3 1 5 
 
 of the leader turned anxiously towards the great 
 object of the expedition. Preparations were pushed 
 forward for a thorough exploration of the immense 
 untrodden coast that stretched away to the Polar 
 Basin. Before entering on the track of these daring 
 explorers, let us take a hasty survey of those frozen 
 regions which have been the scenes of so many dar- 
 ing adventures ; and try to understand something of 
 the grand purposes served, in the economy of nature, 
 by the vast icy territories that stretch around the 
 Pole. 
 
 By the North Polar Regions is meant that portion 
 of the globe which lies within the North Polar Circle, 
 comprehending the most northern portions of Europe, 
 Asia, and America ; and by the North Polar Sea, or 
 Arctic Ocean, is meant that expanse of water which 
 divides the northern coasts of Europe and Asia from 
 those of America. This ocean is of enormous extent, 
 the circle which encloses it being no less than 7200 
 miles in circumference. On the Asiatic side of this 
 sea are Nova Zembla and the New Siberian Islands ; 
 on the European and American sides are Spitzbergen 
 and Greenland ; and facing the American coast are 
 Parry and Melville’s Islands, King William’s Island? 
 and a number of others. The North Polar Ocean 
 thus drains the northern slope of three continents, 
 receiving the waters of an area of nearly 4,000,000 
 square miles. Now, this great Polar Sea has but 
 
3 1 6 DR KANES A RCTIC EXFLORA TIONS. 
 
 three avenues for entrance or exit — namely, Behring s 
 Straits, the estuaries of Hudson’s and Baffin’s Bays, 
 and the interval between Greenland and Norway, 
 upon the Atlantic Ocean, known as the Greenland 
 Sea. Thus, on one side this ocean communicates 
 with the Pacific by Behring’s Straits, and on the 
 other side with the Atlantic. To discover a passage 
 through it, from the Pacific to the Atlantic, has been 
 the great problem of centuries ; and, as is known to 
 you all, it was solved a few years ago by the gallant 
 M'Clure, though found to be impracticable for vessels, 
 owing to the ice. Indeed, it is now certain that the 
 lost navigator. Sir John Franklin, discovered another 
 North-west Passage, further south, which at certain 
 seasons may be practicable ; though, as no one of his 
 party survived to bear home the news of his great 
 discovery, we only learn it by inference from the 
 route he is known to have followed. It is estimated 
 that a circle of 2000 miles diameter is occupied by 
 frozen fields, and floes of vast extent. Here giant 
 masses of fantastic form rear their heads, 
 
 “ Whose blocks of sapphire seem to mortal eye 
 Hewn from cerulean quarries in the sky, 
 
 With glacier battlements that crowd the spheres, 
 
 The slow creation of six thousand years. 
 
 Amidst immensity they tower sublime, 
 
 Winter’s eternal palace built by time.” 
 
 We are not to fancy this region to be perpetually 
 locked in the stillness of an icy death. The long 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXP LOR A TIONS. 3 1 7 
 
 Arctic day relaxes the grasp of the frost, and the ice 
 is broken up and floated away southerly to warmer 
 regions. From October till May, these enormous 
 fields of floating ice and the deeply-immersed bergs 
 travel along the coast of Labrador, and approach the 
 shores of Newfoundland, passing on till they are dis- 
 solved in the warm breath of the south. Did not the 
 Arctic ice, in its great southerly march, approach our 
 shores, Newfoundland would have no seal-fishery; so 
 that in this island we are partly dependent on the 
 regions of the Frost King for our bread. Away in 
 his grim domains, the ice-meadows, on which the 
 seals bring forth their young, are manufactured, and 
 then floated down to us, through Baffin’s and Hud- 
 son’s Bay. But by what mysterious influence are 
 they wafted with such regularity through the avenues 
 of the Polar Sea, and borne away to the sunny south 1 
 Steadily these children of the Pole traverse the ocean, 
 independent of wind and tide, seeking, apparently, a 
 change of climate ; but what unseen power propels 
 them along and directs their march t The answer to 
 this involves a reference to one of the most important 
 discoveries of modern times, which has been beauti- 
 fully expounded in Maury’s Physical Geography of 
 the Sea.” From this admirable treatise Ave learn that 
 the ocean has a vast circulating system, governed by 
 fixed laws, and producing most important results. 
 The great Gulf Stream, Maury appropriately names 
 
3 1 8 DR KANBS ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS, 
 
 a river in the ocean ; and he shews that, starting 
 from the Gulf of Mexico, it crosses the Atlantic, 
 washes the shores of Great Britain and Ireland, and 
 raises the temperature of their climate, pursues its 
 course through the North Sea, and finally discharges 
 its warm waters into the Arctic Ocean ; thus elevating 
 the temperature of the colder regions of the earth. 
 But then, parallel with this stream of warm water 
 pouring into the chilly regions of the north, a cold 
 river, equal in extent, rushes from the Arctic Ocean 
 towards the equator, floating on its bosom icefields 
 and icebergs, and carrying them irresistibly to the 
 overheated south, in order to produce there a grate- 
 ful coolness. Thus are accomplished the beneficent 
 designs of the Creator. This cold current from the 
 north rushes along our shores in its southerly course, 
 as we know to our cost. Were it not for this icy 
 stream chilling our atmosphere, Newfoundland, from 
 its latitude, would have a climate as warm as that of 
 France ; or, did the Gulf Stream strike on our shores, 
 we might be growing the vine. This Arctic river 
 brings us, however, riches of another description. On 
 its ice-covered surface, during March and April, our 
 seal-hunters find their game ; and when the summer 
 arrives, its cool waters, laving our shores, are the 
 resort of the cod ; so that it creates for us a mine 
 that can never be exhausted. It is remarkable that 
 wherever this Arctic current touches, the most valu- 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS. 319 
 
 able species of fish are found ; while the fish of warm 
 or tropical seas are comparatively worthless. We 
 thus see that the Creator has arranged these great 
 warming and cooling processes so as to balance one 
 another, and equalise the temperature of the globe. 
 It is also remarkable that, in leaving the Arctic 
 Ocean, the cold stream is a surface-current ; while 
 the warm stream setting in is an under-current, whose 
 waters do not rise to the surface till some distance 
 within the Polar Sea. The warmer climate of the 
 Pole which is inferred to exist may, therefore, be 
 caused by the waters of the Gulf Stream coming in 
 as a deep-sea current, and rising to the top at a tem- 
 perature several degrees above freezing point, and 
 thus mitigating the intense cold of these regions. 
 We shall find that Kane’s observations go to sustain 
 the theory of an open Polar Basin. 
 
 In this address, frequent reference has been made 
 to icebergs ; and the natural history of these wan- 
 derers of the deep is highly interesting. There are 
 two ways in which most icebergs are formed. By 
 the first method the iceberg is a land formation, 
 having its origin far up amid the Arctic mountains, 
 where for ages it is slowly reared, pushed seaward, 
 and, like a ship, at length launched in its destined 
 element. The glacier is, in fact, the parent of the 
 iceberg. But what is a glacier.^ We must try to 
 get some idea of those great ice-growths called 
 
3 20 DR KANES ARCTIC EXFLORA TIONS. 
 
 glaciers, which are to be found in so many different 
 mountain regions, before we can understand the for- 
 mation of an iceberg. In those regions of the earth 
 where, either from a high latitude or mountainous 
 elevation, perpetual winter reigns, the moisture of the 
 atmosphere is deposited only in the form of snow, 
 rain being unknown. When the sun’s rays strike 
 this mass of recently-fallen snow in its feathery 
 state, it undergoes a partial superficial melting, and 
 presents the appearance of partially-boiled sago. 
 It is now said to be in a granulated state. If you 
 were to ascend the Swiss Alps you would find the 
 vast valleys which separate the mountain peaks 
 converted into great plains by this granular snow. 
 But how are the mountains to be relieved of their 
 ever-increasing burdens ? In this way chiefly : 
 these basins between the mountain summits run 
 off into narrow gorges, which pass by a gradual 
 winding descent to the plains at the base of the 
 mountain. These gorges receive the drainage of the 
 snow-field above ; the cold converts it into a solid 
 mass of ice, v/hich is named a glacier. But here is 
 the wonderful thing — these ice-masses, which fill 
 the mountain gorges, are found to be in motion, 
 creeping slowly but surely down to the plain, at a 
 rate varying from one to four feet per day. In fact, 
 the glacier is a river of ice, conveying the moisture 
 in this shape from the mountain-tops to the plains, 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 32 1 
 
 just as an ordinary river drains the surface of a 
 country at a lower temperature. I cannot now 
 pause to explain the cause of the glacier’s motion. 
 Professor Forbes’s theory is that generally received. 
 He regards these formations as viscous or semi-fluid 
 masses, and holds that their motion is owing to the 
 yielding and adjustment of their parts, under the 
 influence of gravity. Whatever be the cause, cer- 
 tain it is that they are travelling downward steadily 
 bearing Avith them rock-masses, often of enormous 
 size, torn from the mountain-sides ; and thus creep- 
 ing along, tearing out the very bowels of the moun- 
 tains and carrying them to the plains below, they 
 deposit these immense fragments, mixed with earth, 
 in the valleys, where the higher temperature melts 
 the ice, and the muddy streams rush downwards, 
 giving origin to rivers. Glaciers are thus gigantic 
 mountain-levellers. In the Alps alone upwards of 
 four hundred are at work, — irresistible navvies, — 
 hurling these giant masses into the plains, where the 
 rivers take up the particles and deposit them at the 
 bottoms of seas, to build up new continents. These 
 glaciers have been at work ever since the earth 
 cooled sufficiently to allow of the formation of ice. 
 The geologist finds traces of them everywhere, and 
 in the formation of the globe they have played no 
 unimportant part. 
 
 In the Arctic regions this great glacier action is 
 
 X 
 
322 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 going on, wherever there is land suited to its operation. 
 But there is this great difference between the Alpine 
 and the Arctic glaciers, — after being pushed down the 
 slope of the Alps, the glacier is melted in the warm 
 valley ; but in the Arctic regions the glacier termi- 
 nates in an ice-covered ocean, so that its masses 
 cannot be thawed. They are accordingly hurled into 
 the sea, and floated off, in the great southern drift, as 
 icebergs. Far up in the icy gorges of those Arctic 
 mountains, hundreds of miles from the coast, where 
 human foot has never trod, the glacier is formed ; 
 slowly it presses, with its giant forces, towards the 
 sea, and lines its margin with an enormous crystal 
 precipice. But the great propelling power behind 
 forces the masses onward into the deep sea; and 
 now, in fearful throes, an iceberg is about to be born. 
 Let us fancy ourselves present at the birth. A great 
 cliff of ice overhangs the waves, whose tides have 
 worn away its base, so that a slight cause will bring 
 it down. Presently a noise louder than thunder is 
 heard. The ice-mountain has snapped asunder — the 
 detached mass comes grinding, crushing down ; the 
 ice-giant leaps into the waves, that start back as if in 
 terror at his approach, fling up clouds of spray, and 
 madly toss themselves, as if in agony, high upon the 
 shore. A ship four miles off feels the shock ; a boat, 
 a mile or two distant, would be swallowed up or 
 hurled ashore. The young ice-monster dives •a.s he 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXFLORA TIONS. 323 
 
 touches the waves — rises slowly, the water streaming 
 from his huge sides — ^he has received his baptism ; he 
 sways to and fro, tumbles repeatedly, but at last 
 secures his balance. His front, ninety or a hundred 
 feet high, rises above the surface of the waves, and to 
 keep him steady there must be eight times as much 
 underneath. He is now fairly launched in life ; and 
 as though disliking the cold region of his birth, he 
 seeks the luxury of a warmer clime ; but, like many a 
 wild youth who turns his back on home, he is rushing 
 on his own destruction. On his broad shoulders he 
 bears over the waves many a huge rock and earth- 
 bed, torn from the Arctic mountains, dropping them 
 as the increasing heat relaxes his grasp, and lighten- 
 ing his burden as he gets further south. He is help- 
 ing to lay, in the bed of the Atlantic, the foun- 
 dations of new continents with rocks from the Pole. 
 If we could examine the bottom of the sea about the 
 banks of Newfoundland, we would find them strewn 
 with mighty rock-fragments borne there by the ice- 
 bergs from Greenland. When another continent or 
 group of islands shall arise there, some future genera- 
 tion will quarry these boulders, employ them in the 
 erection of churches or palaces, or hew them into 
 monuments of the illustrious dead. Is not fact 
 stranger than fiction 1 Do not the fairy tales of 
 science far surpass all that imagination has dreamed 
 of the wonderful } One of Kane’s most interesting 
 
324 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 
 
 discoveries was the Great Glacier of Humboldt, by 
 far the most gigantic specimen known to exist. It 
 extends for sixty miles along the Greenland coast ; 
 presenting a perpendicular front of three hundred feet. 
 How far it stretches into the interior is unknown. 
 There it has been at work for ages, pushing forward 
 its bergs into the sea. Kane, however, considers that 
 for the most part it discharges its bergs slowly and 
 quietly, propelling its masses step by step, year by 
 year, until they reach water deep enough to float 
 them ; and then they quietly rise from the waves, 
 like Venus from the foam of ocean. He considers 
 that the smaller bergs are broken violently off, and 
 hurled into the waves ; but that the grander ones are 
 quietly and gradually produced. The Humboldt 
 Glacier, according to Kane’s account, must be one of 
 the most magnificent sights in the world. He con- 
 siders Greenland, from its great extent, being one 
 thousand two hundred miles in length, entitled to be 
 called a continent ; and he calls this glacier the 
 mighty crystal bridge which connects the two con- 
 tinents of America and Greenland.” Imagine,” he 
 says, the centre of such a continent, occupied 
 through nearly its whole extent by a deep, unbroken 
 sea of ice. Imagine this moving onward, like a great 
 glacial river, seeking outlets at every valley, rolling 
 icy cataracts into the Atlantic and Greenland Seas ; 
 and having at last reached the northern limit of the 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 325 
 
 land that has borne it up, pouring out a mighty frozen 
 torrent into unknown Arctic space.” 
 
 The fact is, however, that the whole of Greenland 
 may be regarded as a huge glacier. It is now in the 
 same condition that the British Isles and parts of 
 Europe were ages ago, during the glacial period. 
 This vast country is swathed in an icy mantle, which 
 is ever receiving fresh accumulations from atmo- 
 spheric precipitations, and is thus continually pressing 
 downward to the sea ; and its seaward edges, broken 
 off, and floated away, form the ice-fields and icebergs 
 that cover the bosom of the North Atlantic in certain 
 latitudes. Thus a huge ice-sheet is grinding down 
 the Greenland continent into the bottom of the 
 ocean. The striated rock-surfaces of Britain shew 
 that, at one time, it was wrapped in a similar sheet 
 of ice, and must have been worn down, by glacier 
 action, just as Greenland is at this moment. 
 
 The portion of an iceberg that rises above the sur- 
 face of the sea is but one-ninth part of its whole mass. 
 It is very common to encounter bergs towering one 
 hundred feet above the waves, so that their lowest peak 
 must be eight hundred feet underneath the surface. 
 But some monsters have been met with rising three 
 hundred feet over the sea ; their entire mass therefore, 
 from base to summit, must be two thousand seven 
 hundred feet. Fancy a mountain like Skiddaw, torn 
 up by the roots and floating in the waters, sailing 
 
326 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 from the gloomy portals of the Arctic Ocean, defying 
 wind and wave as it proudly careers along, the sun’s 
 rays reflected from its crystal battlements and emerald 
 caves. The warm breath of the South loosens its 
 peaks and crags as it advances, and with a sullen 
 plunge they drop into the waves. The submarine por- 
 tion is dissolved, the berg becomes top-heavy, and 
 reels over with an appalling noise. Shrouded in a 
 mist of its own creation, it moves along, rivulets 
 trickling from its sides, and at length disappears, 
 like the baseless fabric of a vision.” Such is a his- 
 tory of the more imposing class of icebergs. But a 
 smaller description are formed by the freezing of the 
 water of the ocean in high northern latitudes. Sheet 
 after sheet of ice is formed in the intense cold of 
 those regions ; immense snowdrifts add to the mass, 
 till it reaches a height of thirty or forty feet. When 
 summer comes, these ice-fields are broken up, and 
 their drifting masses are the low flat icebergs, the 
 terror of navigators. 
 
 It is quite time that we were looking after the for- 
 tunes of Kane and his companions. The Arctic day 
 having dawned, they began preparations for their 
 northern journey. On the 19th March 1854, Kane 
 despatched an advance-party to deposit a relief-cargo 
 of provisions, at the distance of ten days’ journey 
 from the brig. The party, consisting of eight, started 
 in good spirits, with three cheers for their commander. 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 3^7 
 
 I gave them/' says Kane, the whole of my brother’s 
 great wedding-cake, and my last two bottles of port ; 
 and they pulled the sledge they were harnessed to 
 famously.” This proved one of the most disastrous 
 journeys they undertook ; and the account of it is 
 certainly one of the most harrowing tales of human 
 suffering, courage, and endurance on record. Eleven 
 days after their departure, Kane and his companions 
 are cheerily at work in the cabin. Suddenly foot- 
 steps are heard on the deck above ; presently three of 
 the party that had started so hopefully eleven days 
 before, stagger in, swollen, haggard, almost unable to 
 speak, and in the last stage of exhaustion from cold, 
 fatigue, and hunger. With difficulty Kane gathers 
 from them that five of their companions had broken 
 down, and were lying somewhere on the ice, at a great 
 distance, frozen and disabled ; and that, at the risk of 
 their lives, they had come on to bring the news and 
 send back help. They further informed him that, 
 when they parted with them, the snow was drifting 
 heavily around them. Such is their tale ; but the 
 difficulty is where to find the sufferers, for the men 
 who have returned only know that it is a spot to the 
 north and east, within an area of forty miles. But 
 Kane does not hesitate a moment — his poor friends are 
 perishing miserably among the snow-drifts — he will 
 to the rescue. A sledge is quickly prepared — nine of 
 them start and press on, putting their trust in Him who 
 
328 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 has already brought them through so many dangers. 
 The wind rises and impedes their march ; but to halt 
 in such a temperature is certain death. They are 
 parched with thirst, but dare not stop to melt ice ; 
 and the snow, put in the mouth, burns like caustic, 
 and leaves the lips covered with blood. Two men of 
 iron, who had never failed in any march, M'Garry 
 and Bonsall, begin to breathe short, and shake with 
 trembling fits ; and Kane twice faints on the snow. 
 They are now out on this dreary search for eighteen 
 hours without halting, or tasting food or water, and 
 as yet have met no traces of their friends. Hope 
 still flutters faintly ; but they begin to feel that an 
 hour or two longer, and they must drop exhausted. 
 But, hark ! a cry of joy — Hans, the Esquimaux, has 
 discovered the track of a sledge almost obliterated 
 by the drift ! With hearts beating anxiously they 
 follow it up — footprints are discernible ; and at last a 
 little masonic banner — the parting gift of the St 
 John's Brotherhood — is seen fluttering from a tent- 
 pole, hardly above the snow. The little tent itself 
 is all but covered. Kane is requested to enter first 
 alone. The burst of welcome and gladness from the 
 poor sufferers who are still alive — the touching words, 
 ‘'We expected you, we knew you would come," are 
 too much for Kane, and the brave man is almost 
 overcome. Their march has been one of twenty-one 
 hours, without halt or refreshment ; but the most 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 3^9 
 
 appalling prospect is yet before them. The difficulty 
 now is to get back to the brig, exhausted as they are, 
 dragging their helpless, disabled companions, in a 
 temperature of 75° below freezing point. After a 
 few hours given to sleep and refreshment, they wrap 
 their helpless companions carefully and tenderly in 
 buffalo-robes and furs, place them on the sledge, 
 their fingers being fearfully frost-bitten in the ope- 
 ration ; and now, looking up to Heaven, they breathe 
 a prayer for help, and commence their weary march. 
 Slowly the sledge with its heavy burden creeps for- 
 ward, at the rate of a mile an hour. At length they 
 are within nine miles of a tent which they had left 
 standing on their outward-bound march ; but their 
 strength is failing rapidly. The fatal craving for 
 sleep which intense cold produces shews itself; two 
 of the stoutest implore permission to sleep ; Hans, 
 the Esquimaux, too, succumbs, and is found insen- 
 sible under a drift ; another stands bolt upright with 
 his eyes closed, unable to speak ; a fourth flings 
 himself on the snow, and refuses to rise. In vain 
 does Kane argue, reprimand, jeer, and even wrestle 
 and box his men. The tent must be pitched ; their 
 hands are too benumbed to strike a light ; neither 
 food nor fire can be had ; even the whisky is 
 found frozen under the men's furs. The sick and 
 exhausted are crowded into the tent ; M 'Garry is 
 placed in charge, with orders to come on after four 
 
330 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 hours’ rest ; and Kane, with a single companion, starts 
 to reach the half-way tent, where some provisions 
 were, in order, if possible, to have some food thawed 
 on the arrival of the dying men. It is a fearfully 
 perilous walk for Kane : he and his companion stag- 
 ger on, drunk with the cold, in a kind of half-conscious 
 stupor ; manage the nine miles in four hours ; find 
 their tent overturned by a bear ; erect it ; crawl into 
 their reindeer sleeping-bags, and sleep intensely for 
 three hours. Kane awakes, and finds his long beard 
 frozen to his buffalo-robe, and Godfrey has to cut him 
 out with his jack-knife. They manage to get some 
 water and soup ready for their companions, who 
 arrive and enjoy the entertainment as only famished 
 men can ; and now, with fresh courage, they start 
 once more. The most fearful part of the journey is 
 yet before them — a great chain of bergs and hum- 
 mocks, like gigantic tombstones, has to be crossed. 
 Nature can hold out no longer; the men begin to lose 
 their self-control, eat snow, and become speechless. 
 They are all more or less delirious ; take no note of 
 anything around them ; and steer for the brig by pure 
 instinct. Kane is the soundest of the party, and hits 
 on the plan of letting the rest sleep in turn, three 
 minutes at once, on the runners of the sledge, — an 
 arrangement that proved very serviceable. Thus 
 staggering like drunken men, they at length totter to 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS, 3 3 1 
 
 the brig, recognising no one; their persons covered 
 with snow ; their beards a mass of ice ; and in this 
 plight roll into bed and sink into a deathlike slumber. 
 When they awake they are in a raving delirium ; and 
 for two days the ship presents the appearance of a 
 madhouse, where there were only maniacs and frozen 
 cripples, with but one sound man. Dr Hayes, to wait 
 upon them all. The rescue-party had been out 
 seventy-two hours, or three whole days ; had halted 
 but eight hours ; got water but twice ; and dragged 
 a heavily-loaded sledge about ninety miles. One 
 cannot conceive of human courage and endurance 
 going beyond this, when we consider that the mean 
 temperature all the time was 41° below zero. For a 
 week nearly all were confined to sick-beds; some 
 amputations had to be performed ; and several had 
 alarming symptoms of locked-jaw. Ultimately two 
 died from the effects of the exposure ; the others 
 recovered. Very touching is Kane’s account of the 
 burial of Baker, the first who died. ^^We placed 
 him,” he writes, ‘rin his coffin, and forming a rude 
 but heartfelt procession, we bore him to the observa- 
 tory, and deposited his corpse on the pedestals which 
 had served to support our transit instrument and 
 theodolite. We read the service for the burial of the 
 dead, sprinkled over him snow for dust^ and repeated 
 the Lord’s Prayer ; then icing up the opening in the 
 
332 DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 walls we had made to admit the coffin, left him in his 
 narrow house.’' Another corpse was soon after placed 
 in the same lonely resting-place. 
 
 Before the party had quite recovered, Kane was 
 one morning startled with the report, People hal- 
 looing ashore.” Going on deck, he beheld a number 
 of wild, uncouth figures, evidently not bears, standing 
 on the ice-hillocks around the harbour, vociferating 
 and gesticulating violently. They proved to be a 
 tribe of Esquimaux from a settlement further south ; 
 and were quite pacific and inclined to be friendly. 
 Kane treated them with the utmost hospitality ; and 
 in return for cask-staves, beads, and needles, they 
 gave him walrus-meat, and four fine dogs. They had, 
 however, one unpleasant peculiarity — they were incor- 
 rigible thieves ; and, so far from feeling ashamed of 
 stealing, when caught in the act, the rascals burst into 
 a roar of laughter, and treated the whole thing as an 
 exquisite joke. 
 
 Passing over other incidents, we must now come to 
 the final expedition for the exploration of the far 
 North, and the discovery of the open Polar Sea. 
 Kane’s plan was to send out a party of four, (he was 
 himself too weak to attempt the formidable journey,) 
 with orders that two of them were to husband their 
 strength till they arrived at the Humboldt Glacier ; 
 these were then to start on a dog-sledge, and push 
 for the north, leaving the others to return to the brig. 
 
DR KANES ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 333 
 
 On arriving at the farthest of their provision depots, 
 they were mortified to find that the bears had appro- 
 priated the whole, having eaten the very flag that 
 marked the spot. Arriving at the glacier, they tried 
 to scale it, but in vain. Two of the party then re- 
 turned to the brig ; while Morton, with Hans, the 
 Esquimaux, started on the ice parallel to the glacier, 
 and drove away northward. After three days' travel 
 amid the usual obstacles, they found themselves 
 abreast of the termination of the Great Glacier. 
 They then pushed on for an opening seen to the 
 westward of a cape. This opening proved to be a 
 channel. To their surprise, they now found the ice 
 beneath weak and rotten, and so unsafe that the dogs 
 began to tremble and refused to move. They were 
 then compelled to leave the ice and take to the shore. 
 To their unutterable amazement, when they advanced 
 two miles they sighted open water, and observed 
 birds flying about in great numbers. After turning 
 the cape, which Kane named ^^Cape Andrew Jack- 
 son," they travelled fifty miles up this channel of open 
 water, the water being actually black with dove-kies, 
 and the rocks crowded with birds. The wind was 
 blowing strong from the north, yet no ice was borne 
 down. The channel appeared to be about thirty-five 
 miles in width. At length they arrived at a cape 
 where the land-ice, on which they had travelled 
 hitherto, terminated ; and an open sea, with a current 
 
334 dr KANES ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 
 
 running five knots an hour, broke against the clififs. 
 Vainly did they try to pass round this cape : perpen- 
 dicular cliffs, two thousand feet high, prevented them 
 advancing. Morton ascended a knob, five hundred 
 feet high, and saw before him an open iceless sea, 
 as far as the eye could reach. Here, on the highest 
 northern land on the globe, nearer the Pole than any 
 human being is known to have reached before, Mor- 
 ton planted the Grinnel flag, and side by side with 
 it our own Masonic banner. From this elevation 
 Morton observed a peak, apparently about three 
 thousand feet in height, which, being the most re- 
 mote northern land yet known, Kane named after 
 Sir Edward Parry, the great pioneer of Arctic 
 travel. The cape he named Constitution Cape,'’ 
 modestly declining the honour of giving it his own 
 name, as Morton wished. This, then, was the termi- 
 nation of the journey, and of the northern search of 
 the expedition. The country round, Kane named 
 Grinnel Land, in honour of his patron; and the 
 mountains, the Victoria and Albert Range. 
 
 It is impossible to contemplate this grand dis- 
 covery but with the deepest interest. What were 
 these lonely waters on which the eyes of these two 
 daring men alone were destined to gaze.^ Were 
 they a part of the great unexplored Arctic Basin — 
 the long-dreamed-of open Polar Sea } It is difficult 
 to avoid answering this question in the affirmative ; 
 
DR KA NES ARCTIC EXPL ORA TIONS\ 335 
 
 and though the search was not so complete as to 
 furnish absolute certainty, all the probabilities of 
 the case seem to be in favour of such a conclusion. 
 The open sea followed for fifty miles, then viewed 
 from an elevation of five hundred feet, and found 
 perfectly free from ice, vegetation advancing, animal 
 life abundant, — all these indicate not a mere local 
 opening in the ice, but a great iceless sea stretching 
 towards the Pole. Thus theory is borne out by facts ; 
 and these seem to point to the conclusion that at least 
 at certain seasons, if not always, an open iceless sea 
 exists around the Pole. The warm waters of the Gulf 
 Stream discharge themselves into the space around 
 the Pole and elevate the temperature. How deeply 
 we must regret that the explorers had to turn back 
 at Cape Constitution ! On their return to the brig, 
 had Kane been in a condition to send out a thoroughly- 
 equipped party, carrying with them their light india- 
 rubber boats, so that they could have explored this 
 open sea, more important results might have been 
 secured. But, alas ! their strength was unequal to 
 such an undertaking; and their poor stock of supplies 
 was now very low. We can sympathise with Kane 
 when he says, “ There was not a man among us who 
 did not long for the means of embarking on its bright 
 and lonely waters.” Had he been sufficiently stocked 
 with necessaries when starting, or had the bears been 
 less ravenous, the daring little man would doubtless 
 
33 ^ DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 
 
 have reached the Pole. Now that the existence of 
 such a sea is rendered highly probable, the Anglo- 
 Saxon, having already wrung the secret of the North- 
 West Passage from the lips of the Frost King, will 
 never rest till he has planted his foot on the Pole, or 
 found some good reason for leaving that locality un- 
 explored. 
 
 We must now pass over a great deal that is inter- 
 esting in Kane’s narrative. The month of August 
 1854 was now upon them ; the brief Arctic summer 
 was closing. Wearily and anxiously had they 
 watched the eftect of the sun’s rays upon the ice, 
 hoping that their prison-doors would be opened, and 
 that their ship would be released. All in vain ; their 
 grim jailer held them fast. By the 23d August the 
 last faint hope of the ship being released for that year 
 had vanished. The dreary prospect of passing an- 
 other winter in the cold and darkness of an Arctic 
 night, was now before them ; but it was far more 
 appalling than the first. Their resources were utterly 
 inadequate to another encounter with the raging cold, 
 whose fearful power they had already experienced. 
 They were a set of scurvy-stricken, broken-down 
 m.en ; their coal was exhausted, and little wood could 
 be had ; their stock of fresh provisions was gone, and 
 only the chances of the hunt to rely on. Looking 
 these difficulties firmly in the face, Kane and his men 
 set about preparations to brave a second winter. 
 
DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 337 
 
 It was my first definite resolve/’ he says, that come 
 what might, our organisation and its routine of obser- 
 vances should be adhered to strictly. The arrange- 
 ment of hours, the distribution and details of study, 
 the religious exercises, the ceremonials of the table, 
 the fires, the lights, the watch, even the labours of 
 the observatory, and the notations of the tides and 
 sky, nothing should be omitted that had contributed to 
 make up the day.” The resources of the party being 
 very low, especially in regard to fuel, Kane formed 
 another wise resolution — to imitate the dress, diet, and 
 dwellings of the Esquimaux as nearly as civilised man 
 could do so ; for he saw that these men, inured to all the 
 hardships of A rctic life, had instinctively adopted the 
 best mode of combating the difficulties of their situa- 
 tion. Accordingly he fitted up a small apartment on 
 board the brig, measuring twenty-eight feet by eighteen, 
 and a little more than six feet high, on the model of 
 an Esquimaux hut. He surrounded the walls with 
 a casing of moss and turf cut from the frozen cliff ; 
 the deck above was thickly covered with a similar 
 envelope ; and the floor with oakum. This little 
 burrow was to be kitchen, dining-room, and bed-room 
 for the whole party. Heat was to be maintained 
 partly by lamps fed with seal-oil or pork-fat, and 
 partly by a stove sparingly fed with wood obtained 
 by ripping off all the extra planking of the vessel. 
 
 The entrance to this frost-proof cellar was formed on 
 
 Y 
 
33S DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS, 
 
 an Esquimaux model, being a sloping tunnel, twelve 
 feet in length, three feet high, and two and a half feet 
 in breadth, along which they must creep on all fours 
 to pass to and from the deck. 
 
 Having completed their winter abode^ the next 
 care was to secure a stock of fresh provisions before 
 the darkness drew its gloomy mantle around them. 
 They joined the Esquimaux in their hunting parties, 
 and shared in the produce of the chase according to 
 the established law of the savages. A most cordial 
 understanding existed between the pale faces and 
 these children of the snow ; and the Esquimaux soon 
 learned to look on the white men as benefactors, and 
 to respect them as their equals in physical endurance, 
 and their superiors in the resources which civilisation 
 had taught. Under date September i6th Kane 
 wrote, ^'Back last night from a walrus hunt. I 
 brought in the spoil with my dogs. Eive nights 
 camping out in the snow, with hard working days 
 between, made me ache a little in the joints, but, 
 strange to say, I feel better than when I left the 
 vessel. The climate exacts heavy feeding, but it in- 
 vites to muscular energy.” Sunday, Sept. 17th. — 
 All hands rested after a heavy week’s work. Just as 
 we were finishing our chapter this morning in the Book 
 of Ruth, M'Gary and Morton came in triumphantly, 
 pretty well worn down by their fifty miles’ travel, but 
 with good news and a flipper of walrus that must 
 
DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 339 
 
 weigh some forty pounds. Our table-talk at supper 
 was as merry as a marriage bell. One party is just 
 in from a seventy-four miles’ trip with the dogs ; 
 another from a foot journey of one hundred and sixty 
 miles, with five nights on the floe. Each has his 
 story to tell.” Our friends keep a good heart with 
 all their gloomy prospects ; and at times their miser- 
 able burrow rings with the heartiest laughter. Even 
 Hans, the Esquimaux, contributes his share of the 
 fun, and has an eye for the ludicrous. On one occa- 
 sion, after a successful hunt, a party of Esquimaux 
 sat down to dinner, the joint being forty pounds of 
 raw walrus-flesh. Hans, who had been present at 
 the hunt, and shared in the feast, was much struck 
 with their trencher- performances, and described it 
 very graphically to his commander. Why, Cappen 
 Ken, sir, even the children ate all night. You know 
 the little two-year-old, the one that bit you when you 
 tickled it.^” “Yes.” ^^Well, Cappen Ken, sir, that 
 baby cut for herself with a knife made out of an iron 
 hoop, and so heavy that it could hardly lift it, and 
 cut and ate, and ate and cut, so long as I looked at 
 it.” “Well, Hans, try now and think, for I want an 
 accurate answer, — how much as to weight or quantity 
 should you say that two-year-old child ate ? ” Hans 
 is an exact and truthful man. He pondered a little, 
 and said that he could not answer my question. 
 “ But I know this, sir, that it ate a lump as large as 
 
340 DR KANrS ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 its own head ; and three hours afterwards, when I 
 went to bed, she was cutting off another lump, and 
 eating still.” It would appear from this account that 
 Esquimaux children are favoured with exceedingly 
 sharp appetites ; and it must be a serious matter when 
 papa has a number of such mouths to fill. 
 
 Once more, then, the voyagers were plunged in the 
 blackness of an Arctic night. In December scurvy 
 broke out among them with renewed virulence, owing 
 to the want of fresh meat. In their straits for fresh 
 animal food to resist the attacks of the sailor’s dreaded 
 enemy, they had recourse to expedients that would 
 seem very disgusting to our more squeamish stom- 
 achs. Every part of an animal, skin, claws, intes- 
 tines, were turned to account in some shape or other. 
 Finding one day a muscle adhering to an old bear’s 
 head that he was keeping as a specimen, Kane gave 
 a luxurious raw meal from it to one of his scurvy- 
 stricken men. The most adventurous of all, in his 
 plundering for fresh meat, was Kane himself. The 
 brig was swarming with rats, whose impudence was 
 becoming insufferable. Here, thought the com- 
 mander, is fresh beef in abundance. He tells us that 
 he made a capital soup from a number of them ; and 
 when going out to hunt, chopped a few and rolled 
 them - in tallow. His men, however, could not be 
 persuaded to taste this luxury. The whole of them, 
 however, relished intensely raw meat, and found it 
 
DR KANrS ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 341 
 
 much better in this state than when cooked for 
 resisting the scurvy. Raw blubber, used as we do 
 butter, along with walrus beef or liver in alternate 
 layers, was pronounced by all delicious. Kane de- 
 clares that for sustaining the animal heat, and as an 
 antiscorbutic, raw meat has no rival. One of the 
 main uses of food is to sustain the animal heat — food 
 being to the body what fuel is to the fire. We are a 
 kind of portable stoves, and the colder the atmo- 
 sphere in which we are immersed, the greater the 
 demand for food ; or, in other words, for fuel to gene- 
 rate the heat that is rapidly given off. Now, certain 
 kinds of food generate more heat than others. Ani- 
 mal food is much more heat-creating than vegetable ; 
 and the fatter the animal food, the better for warmth. 
 When raw, it seems to be best of all. Hence instinct 
 leads men, when they are fighting with the Arctic 
 cold, to eat seal-fat, bear and walrus flesh, in huge 
 quantities, and to wash down their meals with oil. 
 When the cold is very intense, raw flesh and blubber 
 are indispensable to replace the waste. This is the 
 teaching of nature, and we have no right to permit 
 our miserable squeamishness and drawing-room re- 
 finements to find fault with this. 
 
 The low state to which the inmates of the Advance 
 were now reduced, may be judged of by the fact that 
 only three of them were able to do any work ; and 
 with the utmost economy, they found that their wood 
 
342 JDR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 would only last till the end of January. On the 5th 
 December, Kane mentions that he grated down two 
 potatoes for two of his worst patients, and that he 
 had only twelve left. They were now three years 
 old,’' he adds, poor old frozen memorials of the 
 dear land they grew in. They are worth more than 
 their weight in gold.” Christmas-day was observed 
 with as much festivity as their means would admit. 
 Their sole dish was pork and beans ; but they passed 
 it round merrily, calling it by the endeared names of 
 roast turkey, roast beef, onions and potatoes ; then, 
 by way of desert, they had another allowance of pork 
 and beans browned, and this was transformed into 
 plum-pudding and custard. The health of absent 
 friends was drunk in the eighteenth part of a bottle 
 of wine — all they had left. The Esquimaux had 
 moved further south ; and to get a supply of meat 
 for his perishing men, Kane ventured out in the dark- 
 ness to reach them, the distance being seventy miles. 
 Heroic efforts were in vain ; he was driven back, and 
 so ended the year 1854. 
 
 Drearily the thirty-one days of January crept along, 
 with our poor diseased, hunger-bitten band. The 
 sick grew worse ; the hunt yielded nothing ; for fuel, 
 they were using their tar-laid hawsers. On the 4th 
 of February only Kane and another man were able 
 to move about. The spirit and courage of the com- 
 mander never gave in, while men with far more physical 
 
DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 343 
 
 strength were prostrated. We may learn the value 
 of religion, as a sustaining power in such trying 
 circumstances, by the following extract from Kane’s 
 journal: A trust based on experience as well as 
 on promises, buoyed me up at the worst of times. 
 Call it fatalism, as you ignorantly may, there is that 
 in the story of every eventful life which teaches the 
 inefficiency of human means, and the present control 
 of a Supreme Agency. See how often relief has come 
 at the moment of extremity, in forms strangely un- 
 sought, almost at the time unwelcome ; see, still 
 more, how the back has been strengthened to its 
 increasing burden, and the heart cheered by some 
 conscious influence of an unseen Power!” These were 
 no mere words, but felt realities on the part of Kane, 
 to which his heroic life was a testimony. 
 
 Wearily February drew to a close. So nearly were 
 they perishing, that ^^the sickness of a single addi- 
 tional man would have left them without a fire;” and 
 then it must have been soon all over with them. Early 
 in March, Hans succeeded in reaching the Esquimaux 
 settlement at Etah Bay, which Kane had vainly 
 attempted ; and he returned with a small supply of 
 fresh walrus-meat. From this time their circum- 
 stances began slowly to improve ; the hunt became 
 more productive ; the sun had returned, and the poor 
 waxen-faced invalids crawled up to bask in his rays. 
 Some of them had not been on deck for five months. 
 
344 KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 We must now hurry over the closing scene — the 
 escape of Kane and his companions. Finding that 
 nothing more could be done to secure the great 
 objects for which they had set out, and despairing of 
 a release for the vessel, the commander now formed 
 the resolution of abandoning her, and of attempting 
 to reach the nearest Danish settlement in South 
 Greenland. The undertaking was enough to appal 
 the stoutest heart. Thirteen hundred miles of ice 
 and water lay between them and the nearest settle- 
 ment of civilised man; and of these, eighty miles con- 
 sisted of unbroken ice. They had three small boats 
 so shattered as to be unseaworthy ; a scanty stock of 
 sea-biscuit, pork, and beans ; they numbered seven- 
 teen individuals, of whom four were still invalids un- 
 able to move from their beds; and these must be 
 transported by thirteen broken-down men who had 
 gone through the sickness and hardships of a second 
 Arctic night. The only possible means of escape was 
 by the combined use of sledges and boats. Provisions 
 were stowed away in the most portable form, the 
 three rickety boats were patched up and strengthened 
 in every possible way ; covered with a housing of 
 canvas, and then mounted on sledges. Then these 
 were to be dragged over the ice by the men, with 
 straps which passed over the shoulder and were 
 attached by a long trace to the sledge. 
 
 It was a solemn and touching sight to witness these 
 
DR KANE''S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 345 
 
 brave men taking their last farewell of the brig, with 
 which so many memories were associated. It is the 
 17th May 1855 ; all hands are gathered into the now 
 dismantled winter-chamber. Prayers and a chapter 
 of the Bible are read. In such an hour the bravest 
 heart turns to a Father in Heaven. Kane briefly but 
 touchingly addresses his companions, exhorting them 
 to courage and subordination, and reminding them 
 how often an unseen Power had rescued them from 
 danger, and admonishing them to place reliance on 
 Him who could not change. They take a last look 
 at the brig, yoke themselves to the sledges, and slowly 
 and painfully move off. There are no cheers — their 
 hearts are too full for that. In the march, morning 
 and evening prayers are never omitted. It is a 
 touching sight to behold the forlorn band, at the 
 commencement and close of each day’s toil, gathering 
 round in a circle, and standing with uncovered heads, 
 while with full hearts they offer up a prayer that con- 
 cludes with the words, accept of our gratitude, and 
 restore us to our homes.” 
 
 Very slowly the weary caravan moves over the ice. 
 At the expiration of eight days they have advanced but 
 fifteen miles. Some of them, with scurvy and swollen 
 limbs, can scarcely keep their place at the ropes. But 
 now the genius of the commander shines out more 
 resplendent than ever. He is constantly on the road 
 with his sledge and dogs, bringing up fresh provisions. 
 
346 DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXP LORA TIONS. 
 
 baking batches of loaves in the deserted brig, and 
 driving with them to his fainting men, carrying down 
 the sick, and cheering the hearts of all. Nothing 
 seems to deter or weary him. The kindly Esqui- 
 maux lend their dogs, and send provisions. On the 
 1 6th of June, a month after starting, open water is 
 reached. The weary men, dragging their burden 
 through ice-hummocks and snow-drifts, hail it as the 
 Ten Thousand Greeks greeted the sight of the sea. 
 The whole tribe of the friendly Esquimaux come to 
 say good-bye. Some of them weep at the parting — 
 all are touched. They load the voyagers with fresh 
 provisions in the shape of birds. Nothing is stolen 
 now. “ We are friends, they say — we are not hungry 
 — we will not take — we want to help you.’' Kane 
 gives them all some parting gift. His dogs go to 
 the community; all but faithful old Newfoundland 
 ‘‘ Whitey,” and another that he could not part with. 
 
 And now with three cheers for Henry Grinnel, and 
 homeward bound, the boats are launched. How the 
 memories of home, sweet home,” are thrilling those 
 weary hearts ! Hope burns brighter. Visions of the 
 dear land they left — of the welcome awaiting them — 
 of the bright eyes that will look brighter when they 
 come — float before them. But stern difficulties and 
 frightful dangers yet lie before them. Storms arise — 
 one of the boats is swamped — provisions fail — strength 
 declines — but again and again providential relief 
 
DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 347 
 
 comes. Through twelve hundred miles of broken 
 ice and water they plough their weary way. At 
 length they are all but fainting with hunger, when 
 they sight a seal asleep on a piece of ice. With 
 trembling anxiety the rifle is pointed — the shot tells — 
 the seal relaxes his long length, and with a ravenous 
 yell of delight the men spring forward, crying, laugh- 
 ing, brandishing their knives, and eagerly devour the 
 strips of raw blubber. That night they draw up their 
 boat, and have a rare, savage feast cooked on the ice- 
 floe. This proves the last of their sufferings. Seals 
 become more plentiful. Onward the little boat 
 creeps — they pass Cape Shackleton — they are near- 
 ing the happy homes of civilised men, and gradually 
 realise that they are saved, and will yet grasp the 
 loving hands they had hardly hoped to touch on earth. 
 Presently, as they float onwards, a faint halloo is 
 borne to them over the waves. It is the first Chris- 
 tian voice that greets their return to the world. How 
 eagerly the poor fellows bend to their oars and follow 
 the sound ! The mast of a little shallop shews itself. 
 Petersen, their Danish interpreter, recognises it as the 
 Uppernavick oil-boat ; and overcome by his pent-up 
 feelings, bursts into an incoherent fit of crying, relieved 
 by broken exclamations in English and Danish, gulp- 
 ing down his words and wringing his hands. Plow 
 eagerly they hang on the words of the skipper of the 
 oil-boat, as he doles out the news of the last two 
 
348 DR KANE^S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 years ! Sevastopol ain’t taken yet,” he says ; and 
 now for the first time they learn that England and 
 France have combined against Russia ; that Alma, 
 Balaklava, and Inkerman have been fought, that 
 Czar Nicholas is dead ; and that Sebastopol is sur- 
 rounded by a battling host of a hundred thousand 
 men. They also learn that traces of the lost Sir 
 John Franklin have been found a thousand miles 
 south of the locality they had been searching ; and 
 that an expedition had passed up into the ice to 
 search for themselves. A few hours more and they 
 enter the harbour of Uppernavick, which they had 
 left two years before. They had been eighty-four 
 days in the open air, during their memorable retreat ; 
 and find they cannot remain in a house without a 
 distressing sense of suffocation. On the 6th of Sep- 
 tember they set sail in a Danish vessel ; but just as 
 they are leaving Godhavn the squadron sent in search 
 of them appears, and their countrymen welcome 
 them back with cheers to the social world of love 
 which they represented.” 
 
 Our tale is ended. Considering Kane’s achieve- 
 ment in all its aspects, are we not justified in ranking 
 him among the heroic spirits of our age ? With a 
 high and noble purpose before him, he pursued his 
 object with the unflinching courage and perseverance 
 of a hero, and in the spirit of a Christian — braving 
 difficulties, dangers, sufferings the most appalling. 
 
DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORA TIONS. 349 
 
 Whether we consider the work he did, the inade- 
 quate means at his disposal, or the spirit in which he 
 wrought, we must equally pronounce his achievement 
 glorious. If the truly great man is he who hews his 
 way through obstacles that to other men are insur- 
 mountable, not in a self-seeking, but a self-denying 
 spirit, under the guidance of conscience, sustained by 
 a sense of duty, then must we reckon Kane one of 
 heroic mould. The immediate results, the material 
 benefits of such an enterprise may appear insig- 
 nificant ; but the moral, the spiritual results cannot 
 be reckoned. These self-denying heroic spirits, that 
 from time to time God sends into our world, are the 
 very life of our humanity. They create epochs, break 
 the sluggish sleep of ages, and raise our race to higher 
 moral levels. The noble deed, wherever it is wrought, 
 not only brings an immediate blessing to the doer 
 and to the object of his action, but becomes the seed 
 of other noble deeds to coming generations. Duty 
 bravely done, danger heroically encountered, suffer- 
 ing patiently borne by gallant spirits, ever kindle a 
 sacred enthusiasm in other souls, brace them for simi- 
 lar deeds, and so lift humanity to nobler heights. The 
 story of Kane and his gallant few will fire many a 
 young heart with high resolves ; for it is everlastingly 
 true that — 
 
 “ Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, 
 
 Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, 
 
350 
 
 DR KANE'S ARCTIC EXPLORATIONS. 
 
 Our hearts, in glad surprise, 
 
 To higher levels rise. 
 
 “ The tidal wave of deeper souls 
 Into our inmost being rolls. 
 
 And lifts us unawares 
 Out of all meaner cares. 
 
 “ Honour to those whose words or deeds 
 Thus help us in our daily needs; 
 
 And by their overflow 
 Raise us from what is low.’* 
 
LECTURE THE EIGHTH. 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH— HIS LIFE, WIT, AND 
 WISDOM. 
 
 Previous to the publication of The Life and Cor- 
 respondence of the Rev. Sydney Smith/' by his 
 daughter, Lady Holland, he was widely known as 
 the author of some of the ablest and raciest works in 
 the English language, distinguished at once by sound 
 sense and the richest humour. The appearance of 
 this admirably-written memoir has raised his reputa- 
 tion still higher. Before his life and letters were 
 given to the world, most people thought of Sydney 
 Smith only as a brilliant wit, a fearless and able 
 writer of political and literary articles in the Edin- 
 hiirgh Review, and the most charming of table-com- 
 panions. But those who have read his life know that 
 his wisdom was as striking as his wit ; that his heart 
 was as kind and good as his head was strong and 
 
352 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 clear ; that he was a genial, tender man, a true lover 
 of his kind ; a thorough hater of shams and insinceri- 
 ties, who, all through life, fought bravely on the side 
 of truth and virtue, and did no small stroke of useful 
 work in the world. I shall make use of this memoir, 
 in trying to bring him before you under these aspects, 
 so as to convey some idea of the man himself 
 
 Sydney Smith was born at Woodford, in Essex, in 
 the year 1771. It is of much consequence to us all 
 who our fathers and mothers are ; for upon them we 
 are dependent for most of our internal and external 
 equipments for the battle of life.’' Sydney was 
 fortunate in both his parents. His father, a gentle- 
 man with a moderate independence, was remarkable 
 for his natural gifts, being both clever and odd by 
 nature, and possessed of a very active and saga- 
 cious mind. Like most distinguished men, however, 
 Sydney owed most to his mother. She was the 
 daughter of a French refugee, beautiful, accom- 
 plished, and highly gifted. To this infusion of 
 French blood, bringing with it a dash of Celtic wit, 
 Sydney believed that his constitutional gaiety was 
 owing. In fact, he was a fine representative of the 
 strength, depth, and earnestness of the English 
 character, combined with the vivacity and light- 
 heartedness of the French. He was the second of 
 four brothers, who were all remarkable for their talents 
 and acquirements. His biographer says that ‘Ho a 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 353 
 
 mother’s early care of them, and to the respect with 
 which her virtues and high tone of feeling inspired 
 their young hearts, may be ascribed much that was 
 good and great in their characters.” From Win- 
 chester School, where he rose to be captain, Sydney 
 went to New College, Oxford. Here he was success- 
 ful in obtaining a Fellowship, and from that hour he 
 was cast on his own resources, his father never after 
 being called upon to contribute a farthing to his sup- 
 port. It was most honourable to him that, with the 
 small income of ^lOO a year, the value of his Fellow- 
 ship, he kept within his means, amid all the tempta- 
 tions of Oxford — incurred no debt — and even con- 
 trived to spare £'^o to pay a debt of his younger 
 brother Courtenay, who was going out to India. 
 
 It was in deference to his father’s wishes, rather 
 than from any desires of his own, that he entered the 
 Church. His first curacy was in the midst of Salis- 
 bury plain. It would be difficult to imagine a more 
 dreary outlook than that which presented itself to 
 the young curate at his first start in life — without 
 books, without any congenial society, a solitary waste 
 around, and the village where he resided consisting 
 only of a few scattered cottages. He used to relate 
 that once a week a butcher’s cart passed through the 
 village, when, if in funds, he procured a joint of 
 meat ; but that he often dined on a mess of potatoes 
 
 flavoured with catchup. His own picture of a good 
 
 Z 
 
354 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 curate is very fine, and there can be no doubt that 
 he exhibited at least some of the features he has 
 delineated. curate is the poor working-man of 
 
 God — a learned man in a hovel, good and patient — 
 ^ a comforter and a teacher — the first and purest pauper 
 of the hamlet ; yet shewing that in the midst of 
 worldly misery he has the heart of a gentleman, the 
 spirit of a Christian, and the kindness of a pastor.’' 
 Many a man would have lost heart and hope in such 
 circumstances, and deteriorated in feelings and char- 
 acter. But Sydney had that genuine, manly force of 
 character that rises above outward circumstances ; 
 and by doing cheerfully and thoroughly the duty 
 that lies nearest, however poor or mean that may be, 
 makes the most unpromising things stepping-stones 
 to success. The young curate made such a favour- 
 able impression on the squire of the parish, Mr Beach, 
 that at the end of two years, he requested him to 
 resign his living and become tutor to his eldest son, 
 with a view to accompany him abroad. Their desti- 
 nation was the University of Weimar in Saxony; and 
 had Sydney spent a few years here, in contact with 
 German thought, and received an infusion of German 
 philosophy as a counteractive to his lively tempera- 
 ment, there is no saying what effect this ingredient 
 might have produced. But it was not so to be. War 
 broke out ; Germany was closed ; and the tutor, with 
 his pupil, was sent to Edinburgh, where he resided 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 3 SS 
 
 five years. Here he imbibed Scotch, instead of 
 German philosophy; and residing here so long, at 
 the most critical period of a young man’s life, — from 
 his twenty-fifth to his thirtieth year, — ^we may truly 
 say that Scottish influences largely helped to form 
 the man. Scotland may, therefore, claim him as one 
 of her foster-children. Let us see how Sydney fared 
 in the refined society of Edinburgh. 
 
 It was in the year 1797 that Sydney Smith arrived 
 in the metropolis of the North. Edinburgh then num- 
 bered a population of about 80,000 — half its present 
 amount ; but then, as now, it could boast of possess- 
 ing a highly-cultivated and intellectual society. It 
 would be difficult to find in any period, or in any one 
 place, such an array of intellect — such a cluster of 
 distinguished names as graced the society of the 
 Modern Athens ” at this time. Among those whose 
 locks were whitened by age were Professors Playfair, 
 Dugald Stewart, and Robison ; on the bench. Lords 
 Campbell, Glenlee, Meadowbank, and Cullen ; the 
 witty Harry Erskine at the bar; Dr Inglis and the 
 Rev. Archibald Alison in the pulpit ; Drs Gregory 
 and John Bell in the medical profession. These were 
 among the older or middle-aged worthies. The 
 younger men, among whom Sydney Smith was more 
 thrown, were of even higher mark. Walter Scott was 
 becoming a celebrity; Francis Jeffrey was a young 
 lawyer looking out for briefs ; Brougham, the most 
 
356 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 vehement of orators, and the hottest of reformers, was 
 there, and but twenty-three years had yet passed over 
 his head; the amiable and talented Francis Horner; 
 Henry Cockburn ; James Moncreifif; Thomas Brown, 
 the future metaphysician ; Thomas Campbell, whose 
 '^Pleasures of Hope” had been recently published; 
 Leyden, the poet and linguist ; the philosophic Lord 
 Webb Seymour, and many others, made up such a 
 brilliant intellectual circle as could then be paralleled 
 in no other place. There was more freedom and 
 sociality, and less conventionalism and expensive 
 display, than now prevail ; and, as a consequence, 
 there was much pleasant and genial social inter- 
 course. Sydney was welcomed here with genuine 
 Scotch kindness, and retained ever after a grateful 
 recollection of his reception. Some of his warmest 
 and most lasting friendships were formed here. In 
 his letters, written many years afterwards, he often 
 refers to his residence in Edinburgh as a very happy 
 period of his existence. In one of them he exclaims, 
 ‘^When shall I see Scotland again Never shall I 
 forget the happy days passed there amidst odious 
 smells, barbarous sounds, bad suppers, excellent 
 hearts, and most enlightened and cultivated under- 
 vStandings ! ” Sydney loved Scotland and the Scotch ; 
 but with his vivid perception of the ludicrous, he 
 could not help deriving some amusement from their 
 national peculiarities and foibles ; and he often made 
 
6 ^ YDNE Y SMITH. 
 
 357 
 
 his Scotch friends laugh heartily by telling them how 
 things appeared to his English eye. He seems to 
 have formed an unjust estimate of Scottish humour; 
 for he used to say, It requires a surgical operation 
 to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding.’' If 
 Sydney meant this for anything more than a laugh- 
 ter-provoking exaggeration, then he must have formed 
 his judgment from some exceptional and wooden- 
 headed specimens of Scotchmen ; and he must have 
 ignored Scottish literature, which is rich in the raciest 
 humour. The wit of Burns, Scott, Wilson, and a host 
 of others, has not fallen upon their countrymen with- 
 out due appreciation. In our own day Dean Ram- 
 say has gathered up, in his Reminiscences of Scot- 
 tish Life and Character,” some of the floating witti- 
 cisms and traditionary humours of Scotland ; and 
 after reading these volumes, I think the conclusion of 
 most persons would be that Scottish national humour 
 ip deep and full-bodied ; and I am of opinion that the 
 man who does not relish this book ought to have a 
 surgical operation performed on his ^^dome of thought.” 
 ^‘No nation,” said Sydney, has so large a stock of 
 benevolence of heart. If you meet an accident, half 
 Edinburgh immediately flocks to your door to in- 
 quire after your pidr hand or your puir foot, and with 
 a degree of interest that convinces you their whole 
 hearts are in the inquiry. You find they usually 
 arrange their dishes at dinner by the points of the 
 
358 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 compass. ^ Sandy, put the gigot of mutton to the 
 south, and move the singet sheep’s-head a wee bit to 
 the nor’ -was t’ If you knock at the door, you hear a 
 shrill female voice from the fifth flat shriek out, 'Wha’s 
 chapping at the door?’ which is presently opened 
 by a lassie with short petticoats, bare legs, and thick 
 ankles. My Scotch servants bargained they were 
 not to have salmon more than three times a week, 
 and always pulled off their stockings, in spite of my 
 repeated objurgations, the moment my back was 
 turned.” Their temper stands anything but an 
 attack on their climate : even the enlightened mind 
 of Jeffrey cannot shake off the illusion that myrtles 
 flourish at Craigcrook. In vain I have represented 
 to him that they are of the genus Cardmis^ and pointed 
 out their prickly peculiarities.” A troublesome bore 
 at this time reigned in Edinburgh, who plagued 
 every one with his favourite subject, the North Pole. 
 One day he met Jeffrey in a narrow lane, and com- 
 menced on the usual topic. Losing patience, Jeffrey 
 rushed past him, exclaiming, Confound the North 
 Pole!” Sydney met him soon after, boiling with in- 
 dignation at Jeffrey’s contempt of the North Pole. 
 
 Oh, my dear fellow,” said Sydney, never mind. 
 No one minds what Jeffrey says, you know; he is a 
 privileged person. He respects nothing, absolutely 
 nothing. Why, you will scarcely believe it, but it is 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 359 
 
 not more than a week ago that I heard him speak 
 disrespectfully of the equator/' 
 
 After a residence of two years in Edinburgh, he 
 returned to England to marry Miss Pybus, a young 
 lady to whom he had been engaged for some time. 
 He was so entirely unburdened with worldly goods 
 wherewith to endow her, that his whole contribution 
 to their housekeeping was six small silver teaspoons, 
 the ghosts of their former selves, being skeletonised 
 by long service. Running into the room one day, 
 mad with joy, he flung these into his wife’s lap, say- 
 ing, There, Kate, you lucky girl, I give you all my 
 fortune.” His wife, however, had some fortune, which 
 he at once settled on herself ; and with the proceeds 
 from the sale of a pearl necklace, amounting to ^500, 
 they returned to Edinburgh and commenced house- 
 keeping. His generosity of heart may be judged of 
 from the fact that, when in these straitened circum- 
 stances, he aided a poor lady in Edinburgh, who had 
 fallen into difficulties, with a loan of ^100, and con- 
 tributed ;^40 to help on the education of a clever 
 shepherd -boy in Teviotdale. An interesting event, 
 too, v/as approaching, that might have made him 
 more selfish — he was about to attain the honours of 
 paternity. He expressed a wish that it might be a 
 daughter, and that she might be born with one eye, 
 so that he might never lose her. A daughter it 
 
36 o 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 proved, but with two eyes ; and disdaining to take 
 any of the ordinary hackneyed names, he invented a 
 new one, and called her Saba. 
 
 During his residence in Edinburgh, he was on terms 
 of the closest intimacy with Dugald Stewart, Profes- 
 sor of Moral Philosophy, and a constant attendant 
 upon his lectures ; also with Dr Thomas Brown, his 
 successor. He also studied medicine and anatomy, 
 and in after life turned his medical knowledge to 
 good account among his parishioners. By far the 
 most important event in his Edinburgh life was the 
 origination of the renowned periodical, which, under 
 the title of the Edinburgh Review, flourishes still. 
 This is his account of its origin : — '' Towards the end 
 of my residence in Edinburgh, Brougham, Jeftlrey, 
 and myself happened to meet in the eighth or ninth 
 flat in Buccleuch Place, the then elevated residence 
 of Mr Jeffrey. I proposed that we should set up a 
 review; this was acceded to with acclamation. I 
 was appointed editor, and remained long enough in 
 Edinburgh to edit the first number of the Review, 
 When I left Edinburgh, it fell into the stronger hands 
 of Lords Jeffrey and Brougham, and reached the high- 
 est point of popularity and success.’' This was in 1802 ; 
 and on the loth of October in that year the first num- 
 ber of the Edinburgh Review saw the light. It at once 
 produced a sensation ; and by the talent, originality, 
 and honesty with wdiich it was conducted, created a 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 361 
 
 new era in British literature, and introduced a new 
 order of things in literary criticism. All the great 
 quarterly rivals that have arisen since have imitated 
 its method, and attained influence by following its 
 track. The Edinburgh Review embodied the opinions 
 in politics and literature of the young, ardent, hopeful 
 spirits of the day, who were dissatisfied with things as 
 they were — with time-honoured abuses, ivy-grown re- 
 spectabilities, stupidities, and blunders that were sadly 
 in need of interment. Against these the Review de- 
 clared war, and pursued its attacks with a vigour, 
 courage, and consistency that soon won for it a high 
 place in the esteem of the liberal and enlightened 
 portion of society. Almost every one will now 
 admit that the Edinburgh Review has done noble 
 service in the cause of freedom and wise reform, 
 and has aided most materially in creating a more 
 healthy condition in the general thought and litera- 
 ture of the country. Almost all the reforms for 
 which it fought so bravely and so long, have been 
 gradually yielded. At the beginning of the cen- 
 tury, owing very much to the terror inspired by the 
 principles and course of the French Revolution, a 
 strong tendency was operating in Britain, leading 
 to resistance to all changes and reforms ; and the 
 grossest abuses, corruptions, and outrages against 
 common sense, were defended as parts of that vener- 
 able constitution under which England had risen to 
 
362 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 greatness, and to meddle with which would be sacri- 
 lege. Perfection was believed to be attained ; and 
 any one who talked about the need of reform was 
 regarded as a dangerous character — a cut-throat, or a 
 French revolutionist. So great are the improvements 
 that have taken place during the last half-century, 
 that we can now scarcely credit the terrible abuses 
 that were then not only tolerated, but fiercely de- 
 fended. The Test and Corporation Acts were then 
 in full force ; prisoners tried for their lives could have 
 no counsel ; the law of libel was atrocious ; the Court 
 of Chancery a hundred-fold more oppressive than in 
 these days, when it is tottering to its grave. Had 
 Dickens published Bleak House” in the days of Lord 
 Eldon, he would inevitably have been imprisoned for 
 life. The slave-trade was then most respectable, 
 sustained by Church and State alike. The criminal 
 laws were cruel and bloody ; a petty theft was pun- 
 ished by hanging. The game-laws were a disgrace 
 to any civilised community. The Roman Catholics 
 had no political rights. Political Economy was an 
 unborn science ; and the most melancholy blunders 
 in legislation prevailed. It required no small amount 
 of moral courage to assail this host of venerable 
 abuses ; to dare to belong to a small despised mino- 
 rity ; to incur the displeasure and hatred of men in 
 power, whose interests and prejudices were all bound 
 up with the continuance of things as they were. 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 363 
 
 And it gives us a high opinion of the genuine no- 
 bility of heart and soul possessed by Sydney Smith, 
 to find him clear-sighted enough to see where right 
 and justice lay, and honest enough to follow them 
 for their own sake, amid scorn and detraction. 
 He originated, as we have seen, the Edinburgh 
 RevieWy which, in due time, became a mighty force in 
 political matters ; and for years, in its pages and out- 
 side them, he employed his great talents, his captivat- 
 ing wit, his terrible powers of ridicule, his sturdy 
 logic, and clear, bright understanding, in the advocacy 
 of those wise reforms of which we are to-day reaping 
 the fruits, and the introduction of which has saved 
 England from those revolutionary storms that have 
 swept over other kingdoms. It is unreformed abuses 
 that create revolutions — that make wise men mad — 
 that raise into power, for the time being, as in the 
 French Revolution, the lowest and basest of mankind; 
 and the true friend of his country is he who tries to 
 remedy imperfections, right wrongs, remove corrup- 
 tions, secure enlightened progress, and so make the 
 new spring organically out of the old, instead of being 
 born amid the rude convulsive throes of revolution. 
 It was at no small sacrifice of self-interest that Sydney 
 Smith, and those who thought with him, carried on 
 the war against abuses and corruptions. He says him- 
 self that the penalties exacted for such a course were 
 a long and hopeless career in your profession ; the 
 
364 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 chuckling grin of noodles ; the sarcastic leer of the 
 genuine political rogue ; prebendaries, deans, bishops 
 made over your head. Not only was there no pay, 
 but there were many stripes. Not a murmur against 
 any abuse was permitted ; to say a word against the 
 suitorcide delays of the Court of Chancery, or the 
 cruel punishments of the game-laws, or against any 
 abuse which a rich man inflicted or a poor man 
 suffered, was treason against the plousiocracy, and 
 was bitterly and steadily resented. Lord Grey had 
 not then taken 'the bearing rein off the English 
 people, as Sir Francis Head has done from horses.'’ 
 His daughter truly says of him, during the many 
 years that he was engaged as a public writer, that 
 ‘‘ his pen was never sullied by private passion, or pri- 
 vate interest, never degraded by an impure or un- 
 worthy motive ; and, withal, its unexampled powers 
 of sarcasm, never wounded but for the public good." 
 Lord Monteagle said, Looking at all he did, and the 
 way in which he did it, it must be an inexpressible 
 pleasure to all who knew, valued, and loved him, to 
 observe that there was scarcely one question in which 
 the moral, the intellectual, the social, or even physical 
 wellbeing of his fellow-men were concerned, to the 
 advancement of which he has not endeavoured to 
 contribute." This is noble testimony, and nobly de- 
 served. Throughout his whole life he was the advo- 
 cate of toleration, of educational extension and im- 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 365 
 
 provement, of justice for the colonies, of mercy and 
 kindness for the poor lunatic, of humane treatment 
 and justice for the prisoner, of that splendid reform 
 in our laws, initiated by Romilly and Mackintosh, 
 which has mitigated so many of the most crying evils 
 connected with our civil and criminal code. .If we 
 are now living under happier skies than those who 
 lived half a century ago, let us not forget that Sydney 
 Smith, by his wit and logic, helped largely to abolish 
 many of the foulest cobwebs ; and, with a strong arm 
 and a stout heart, dealt some of the deadliest blows 
 against those corruptions, consecrated shams, and 
 wickedness in high places, that threatened, at one 
 time, to destroy the national life of England, and 
 drive her from her high place among the nations. 
 For the brave and bold stroke of work in this direc- 
 tion, achieved by Sydney Smith, let him have the 
 applause and gratitude of all who love their kind. 
 
 After a residence of between five and six years in 
 Edinburgh, Sydney Smith settled in London. This 
 step proved to be the commencement of a most suc- 
 cessful career. At the outset of his course, when a 
 friend procured for him a lectureship at the Foundling 
 Hospital, worth only £^0 a year, he very gladly 
 accepted it, and discharged its duties well and faith- 
 fully. He was afterwards appointed morning preacher 
 at Berkley Chapel. Here his services were so appre- 
 ciated that in a few weeks the chapel, which had been 
 
366 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 quite deserted before, was crowded to the very doors, 
 and every pew was let. His bold, concise, racy style 
 broke the slumbers of these church-going Londoners ; 
 made them feel that a sermon was not necessarily an 
 opiate ; and that they were listening to a man of 
 sense, earnestness, and intelligence, who had some- 
 thing to say, and who felt what he said. Dugald 
 Stewart said, after hearing him preach, Those ori- 
 ginal and unexpected ideas gave me a thrilling sensa- 
 tion of sublimity never before awakened by any other 
 oratory.’' In fact, he furnished a practical illustration 
 of his own published views in regard to pulpit ora- 
 tory. In i8oi he said, in a preface to one of his 
 works, Preaching has become a by-word for long 
 and dull conversation of any kind ; and whoever 
 wishes to imply, in any piece of writing, the absence 
 of everything agreeable and inviting, calls it a ser- 
 mon.” The English, generally remarkable for doing 
 very good things in a very bad manner, seem to have 
 reserved the maturity and plenitude of their awkward- 
 ness for the pulpit. A clergyman clings to his velvet 
 cushion with either hand, keeps his eye riveted upon 
 his book, speaks of the ecstasies of joy and fear with 
 a voice and a face which indicate neither, and pinions 
 his body and soul into the same attitude of limb 
 and thought^ for fear of being thought theatrical or 
 affected. The most intrepid veteran of us all dares 
 no more than wipe his face with his cambric sttda- 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 367 
 
 rium ; if, by chance, his hand slip from its orthodox 
 gripe of the velvet, he draws it back as from liquid 
 brimstone, or the caustic iron of the law, and atones 
 for this indecorum by fresh inflexibility and more 
 rigorous sameness. Is it wonder, then, that every 
 semi-delirious sectary, who pours forth his animated 
 nonsense with the genuine look and voice of passion, 
 should gesticulate away the congregation of the most 
 profound and learned divine of the Established 
 Church, and in two Sundays preach him bare to the 
 very sexton } Why are we natural everywhere but in 
 the pulpit } No man expresses warm and animated 
 feelings anywhere else, with his mouth alone, but 
 with his whole body ; he articulates with every limb, 
 and talks, from head to foot, with a thousand voices. 
 Why this holoplexia on sacred occasions alone ? 
 Why call in the aid of paralysis to piety ? Is it a 
 rule of oratory to balance the style against the sub- 
 ject, and to handle the most sublime truths in the 
 dullest and the driest manner ? Is sin to be taken from 
 men, as Eve was from Adam, by casting them into a 
 deep slumber ? Or from what possible perversion of 
 common sense are we all to look like field-preachers 
 in Zembla, holy lumps of ice numbed into quiescence 
 and stagnation and mumbling 
 
 During his residence in London, Sydney Smith 
 added immensely to his reputation by delivering a 
 course of lectures on moral philosophy at the Royal 
 
368 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 Institution. Only a man of genius could have treated 
 this dry subject in such a Avay as to draw eager, 
 listening crowds from the most refined and luxurious 
 circles of the great metropolis. Perhaps no other 
 man in London could have achieved such a triumph. 
 His wonderful wit and humour did him good service 
 on this occasion, enabling him to adorn and render 
 attractive the solid information he imparted, and to 
 relieve the attention agreeably by joke, anecdote, or 
 pleasantry. Francis Horner, in his letters, says of 
 these lectures, his success was great beyond all 
 possible conjecture — from six to eight hundred 
 hearers — not a seat to be procured, even if you go 
 there an hour before the time. Nobody else, to be 
 sure, could have executed such an undertaking with 
 the least chance of success. For who could make 
 such a mixture of odd paradox, quaint fun, manly 
 sense, liberal opinions, and striking language He 
 continued these lectures for three successive seasons, 
 with increased success, his audience filling the lobbies 
 and doorways, and their carriages choking up the 
 street. At this time Sydney formed a friendship 
 with the celebrated Lord Holland, which continued 
 unabated till his death. He was thus introduced to 
 Holland House with its brilliant society. To this 
 dazzling centre were attracted all that was notable 
 in the scientific, literary, artistic, or political circles of 
 London, or rather of Europe. The proceeds of his 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 369 
 
 lectures were considerable ; still he was poor ; but 
 it was poverty easily borne. He had the sense and 
 courage to avow his poverty, and to live in accordance 
 with his means : no false shame ; no ruinous attempts 
 at keeping up appearances ; consequently, no debt. 
 He was satisfied with the simple comforts of life, but 
 exercised the most rigid self-denial as to luxuries. 
 His favourite motto throughout life was, Avoid 
 shame ; but do not seek glory — nothing so expensive 
 as glory.” He had within himself a natural source of 
 happiness, which never failed him throughout life — a 
 perpetual flow of spirits — a cheerfulness of disposition, 
 for which he often thanked God, as one of the greatest 
 benefits conferred on him. His daughter says, At 
 this period of his life his spirits were often such that 
 they were more like the joyousness and playfulness 
 of a clever schoolboy than the sobriety and gravity 
 of the father of a family ; and his gaiety was so 
 irresistible and so infectious, that it carried everything 
 before it. Nothing could withstand the contagion of 
 that ringing, joy-inspiring laugh.” 
 
 \ 
 
 Sydney Smith’s London life lasted three years, 
 during which he was lecturing, preaching, and writ- 
 ing for the Edinburgh Review. At the end of this 
 period he obtained, through his friend Lord Holland, 
 the living of Foston-le-Clay, in Yorkshire. It was 
 just before his removal to this new scene of labour 
 
 that he published Letters from Peter Plymley to 
 
 2 A 
 
370 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 his brother Abraham,” on the subject of the Irish 
 Catholics. Never was wit turned to better account 
 than in these celebrated letters ; and never was its 
 value in giving pungency to sound argument better 
 exemplified. Edition after edition was called for, as 
 fast as the press could supply copies. Few works,” 
 says his daughter, ‘‘ ever did more to open men’s 
 minds to the absurdity and danger of the system 
 then pursued by England ; and there are, or rather 
 were, few Catholics who did not venerate the name 
 of Sydney Smith .as one who, though an honest serv- 
 ant of another Church, felt that the strongest tenet of 
 that Church was charity and mercy; and in this feel- 
 ing laboured incessantly to remove the heavy bur- 
 dens and disqualifications imposed on them by the 
 actual state of the laws.” Soon after these letters 
 appeared, Sydney left behind him all the popularity 
 and intoxicating applause of London for the dull 
 routine of a Yorkshire village. The prospects pre- 
 sented in his new situation were anything but cheer- 
 ing, and the difficulties he had to encounter were of 
 a serious character. His living consisted of three hun- 
 dred acres of the stiffest clay, no parsonage, no farm- 
 buildings ; and as there was no tithe, and his income 
 must be derived from land, he was compelled to turn 
 farmer. A recent act of Parliament rendered it im- 
 perative on him to build a parsonage-house out of his 
 private resources, or resign his living. He must also 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 371 
 
 move his family and household furniture from Lon- 
 don to the heart of Yorkshire — an undertaking in the 
 year 1808 as difficult as a journey to the back settle- 
 ments of America now, to a man with small means. 
 Here were difficulties enough ; and then add to these 
 that he was as ignorant of farming as if he had never 
 been beyond the bounds of London. He thus de- 
 scribes his position at this time : — A diner-out, a 
 wit, and a popular preacher, I was suddenly caught 
 up by the Archbishop of York and transported to my 
 living in Yorkshire. Fresh from London, not know- 
 ing a turnip from a carrot, I was compelled to farm 
 three hundred acres, and, without capital, to build a 
 parsonage-house.” He faced his new difficulties, how- 
 ever, with a brave heart and the most indomitable 
 good humour; and by sagacity, energy, and persever- 
 ance overcame them all, shewing true English pluck,” 
 and proving that he was no end of a man.” He went 
 about the business in hand with so much good sense 
 as to gain the respect even of his old clerk, the most 
 important man in the village, who, after holding a 
 long conversation with him, and observing him with 
 all the keen shrewdness of a Yorkshire man, said, 
 '^Muster Smith, it often stroikes my moind that people 
 as comes frae London are such fools ; but you,” said 
 he, nudging him with his stick, I see you are no 
 fool.” Hear how the cheery, joyous man describes 
 his achievement in after years, and observe how the 
 
372 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 wholesome, hearty nature of Sydney Smith could 
 extract food for laughter out of his distresses, and 
 bring music out of the most discordant elements : — 
 I landed my family in my new house, nine months 
 after laying the first stone, on the 20th March ; and 
 performed my promise to the letter to the arch- 
 bishop, by issuing forth at midnight with a lantern to 
 meet the last cart, with the cook and cat, which had 
 stuck in the mud, and fairly established them before 
 twelve o’clock at night in the new parsonage-house, 
 — a feat, taking ignorance, inexperience, and poverty 
 into consideration, requiring, I assure you, no small 
 degree of energy. It made me a poor man for many 
 years ; but I never repented it. I turned schoplmas- 
 ter to educate my son. Mrs Sydney turned school- 
 mistress to educate my girls, as I could not afford a 
 governess. I turned farmer, as I could not let my 
 land. A man-servant was too expensive ; so I caught 
 up a little garden-girl, made like a millstone, christ- 
 ened her Bunch, put a napkin in her hand, and made 
 her my butler. The girls taught her to read, Mrs 
 Sydney to wait, and I undertook her morals. Bunch 
 became the best butler in the country. I had little 
 furniture; so I bought a cart-load of deals, took a 
 carpenter who came to me for parish relief, called 
 Jack Robinson, with a face like a full moon, into my 
 service, established him in a barn, and said, ‘Jack, 
 furnish my house.’ You see the result.” Added to 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 373 
 
 all these domestic cares, I was village parson, village 
 doctor, village comforter, village magistrate, and Edin- 
 burgh Reviewer ; so you see I had not much time on 
 my hands to regret London.” My house was con- 
 sidered the ugliest in the country; but all admitted it 
 was one of the most comfortable.” 
 
 Here is a bright little picture, drawn by his daugh- 
 ter, of their arrival at their new parsonage : — It was 
 a cold, bright March day, with a biting east wind. 
 Waggon after waggon of furniture poured in every 
 minute ; the roads were so cut up that the carriage 
 could not reach the door ; and my mother lost her 
 shoe in the mud, which was ankle-deep, while bring- 
 ing her infant up to the house in her arms. But, oh ! 
 the shout of joy, as we entered and took possession 
 — the first time in our lives we had inhabited a house 
 of our own. How we admired it, ugly as it was ! 
 With what pride my dear father took us from room 
 to room. We thought it a palace; yet the drawing- 
 room had no door ; the bare plaster-walls ran down 
 with wet ; the windows were like ground glass, from 
 the moisture. No carpets — no chairs — nothing un- 
 packed — rough men bringing in rougher packages at 
 every moment. But then was the time to behold my 
 father. Amidst the confusion he thought of every- 
 body — encouraged everybody — kept everybody in 
 good humour. How he exerted himself! — how his 
 rich loud voice might be heard in all directions I 
 
374 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 Each half-hour improved our condition ; fires blazed 
 in every room. At last we sat down to our tea, spread 
 by ourselves on a huge package before the drawing- 
 room fire, sitting on boxes round it, and retired to 
 sleep on beds placed on the floor — the happiest, mer- 
 riest, busiest family in Christendom. In a few days, 
 under my father’s active exertions, everything was 
 arranged with tolerable comfort in the little house- 
 hold.” 
 
 This scene brings out strongly one of the most 
 noticeable features of Sydney’s mind — its thoroughly 
 practical bent. The duty at hand, whatever it is, he 
 does thoroughly, with his whole soul — throwing all 
 his energies into it — doing whatever his hand finds 
 to do with his might.” No man was ever less inclined 
 for abstractions. The world around him — its realities, 
 its duties — for these he has an eye ; cloudland attracts 
 him not. He must live in the tangible and actual. 
 The strong, healthy mind of the man takes in small 
 as well as great matters. He can write an article for 
 the Edinburgh RevieWy and arrange the minutest 
 affair of house-keeping equally well, and with almost 
 equal ardour and enjoyment. One of his favourite 
 mottoes was, Take short views, hope for the best, and 
 trust in God” — a sentence that might be advan- 
 tageously written over every mantel-piece, and on 
 every memory. Again he said, Don’t be too severe 
 upon yourself and your own failings ; keep on ; don’t 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 375 
 
 faint ; be energetic to the last/' Fight against 
 sloth, and do all you can to make friends." ‘^When 
 you meet with neglect, let it rouse you to exertion, 
 instead of mortifying your pride. Set about lessen- 
 ing the defects which expose you to neglect, and im- 
 prove those excellences which command attention 
 and respect." Rise early in the morning, not only 
 to avoid self-reproach, but to make the most of the 
 little life that remains." Reverence and stand in 
 awe of yourself" At times, however, this realistic 
 man has his meditations. How nature delights and 
 amuses, by varying even the character of insects — the 
 ill nature of the wasp, the sluggishness of the drone, 
 the volatility of the butterfly, the slyness of the bug." 
 He had a horse at this time, from whose back he got 
 so many falls that he ceased to consider such adven- 
 tures as at all dangerous ; and he christened the un- 
 lucky quadruped Calamity." He was an unsightly, 
 raw-boned animal, with an exceedingly keen appetite, 
 and withal so sluggish that the whip had no effect. 
 Sydney’s ingenuity, however, was equal to the occa- 
 sion. He invented what he called a '^patent Tantalus," 
 which consisted of a small sieve of corn suspended 
 on a semi-circular bar of iron from the ends of the 
 shafts, just beyond the horse’s nose. The corn rattl- 
 ing as the vehicle proceeded, stimulated Calamity to 
 unwonted exertions ; and, in the hope of overtaking 
 his imaginary feed, he did more work than all the 
 
376 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 previous provender which had been poured down his 
 throat had been able to obtain from him.” Thus he 
 works and laughs on, seeing the ludicrous on every 
 side, and enjoying it. What else was it given for } 
 He corrects his servant Bunch’s faults effectually, but 
 he must do it in a humorous fashion. Come here. 
 Bunch,” he said one day, '' and repeat your faults to 
 Mrs Marcet ; ” and Bunch, a clean, fair, squat, tidy 
 little girl, about ten or twelve years of age, quite as 
 a matter of course, and as grave as a judge, without 
 the least hesitation, and with a loud voice, began to 
 repeat, Plate-snatching — gravy-spilling — door-slam- 
 ming — blue-bottle fly-catching — and courtesy-bob- 
 bing.” Explain to Mrs Marcet what blue-bottle fly- 
 catching is.” Standing with my mouth open, and 
 not attending, sir.” And what is courtesy-bob- 
 bing.^” Courtesying to the centre of the earth, 
 please, sir.” Good girl ; now you may go.” It 
 might be worth while for some mistresses to consider 
 whether a catechism of this kind, daily repeated by 
 their servants, might not be more effectual in curing 
 faults, than the less humorous method of scold- 
 ing which is usually adopted, to the great injury of 
 temper and comfort. 
 
 For ten years he continued to work on cheerily, in 
 this dreary little Yorkshire* parish, — asking no favour 
 — fawning on no patron — stooping to no mean de- 
 grading acts to secure the favour of the great — 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 377 
 
 carving out his own way in the world. He had a 
 proud, sturdy independence, that would not brook 
 any such meanness. He loved to be able to say that 
 he was the fabricator of his own fortune ; and when 
 asked for the Smith arms, his reply was, The Smiths 
 never had any arms, and have invariably sealed their 
 letters with their thumbs.” No man could be more 
 genial in his domestic relations. He was emphatically 
 a good husband, father, and master, anxious for the 
 welfare and happiness of all around him. He had no 
 pleasure apart from his wife and children. Like all 
 kind-hearted men, he was very fond of children, and 
 liked to have them around him. He took a lively 
 interest in all the pursuits and happiness of his own 
 children, and never lost an opportunity of instructing 
 or amusing them. He loved to discuss with them, as 
 they grew older, topics likely to interest and improve 
 them ; and would refute their crude and foolish 
 opinions with the greatest patience. His daughter 
 says, As we grew up we became his companions ; we 
 were called into all family councils ; his letters were 
 common property ; the tenderest mother could not 
 have been more anxious and careful as to the religious 
 tendency of any books we read.” In an evening, 
 often with a child on each knee, he would invent a 
 tale for their amusement, composed of such ludicrous 
 images and combinations as nobody else would have 
 thought of, succeeding each other with the greatest 
 
378 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 rapidity; these were devoured by them, with eyes 
 and ears, in breathless interest ; but, at the most 
 thrilling moment, always terminated with ‘and so 
 they lived very happy ever after’ — a kiss on each fat 
 cheek — ‘and now go to bed.’” Another touching 
 anecdote is related. “ One of his little children, then 
 in delicate health, had for some time been in the 
 habit of waking suddenly every evening, sobbing, 
 anticipating the death of parents, and all the sorrows 
 of life, before life had begun. He could not bear 
 this unnatural union of childhood and sorrow ; and 
 for a long period, I have heard my mother say, each 
 evening found him, at the waking of his child, with a 
 toy, a picture-book, a bunch of grapes, or a joyous 
 tale, mixed with a little strengthening advice, and 
 the tenderest caresses, till the habit was broken, and 
 the child woke to joy and not to sorrow.” 
 
 Among his parishioners he was a most sympa- 
 thising, kind, laborious pastor. He attended to their 
 physical as well as their spiritual condition, setting on 
 foot gardens for the poor, and offering prizes for the 
 best vegetables. He also studied the best and 
 cheapest diet for the poor ; and, says his daughter, 
 “ many a hungry labourer was brought in and stuffed 
 with rice, or broth, or porridge, to test their relative 
 effects on the appetite. In the year i8i6 there was 
 a failure of the harvest, and the sufferings of the poor 
 were excessive. The wheat sprouted generally, and 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 379 
 
 was unfit for bread. Like his poorer neighbours, 
 Sydney and his family lived for a whole year on 
 thin, unleavened, sweet-tasting cakes, like frost-bitten 
 potatoes, baked on tins — the only way of using the 
 damaged flour.” Fever and infectious diseases pre- 
 vailed in his parish during this trying season. His 
 exertions among the poor were indefatigable — going 
 from cottage to cottage, providing them with food 
 and medicine, and seeing that the sick were properly 
 attended to. His medical training stood him in good 
 stead now. When the difficulty of obtaining nurses 
 and burying the dead became great, owing to the 
 terror of the people, he shamed them into better con- 
 duct, by threatening to become nurse and undertaker 
 himself Honour to those who, without hope of fame 
 or reward, for the love of God and of their fellow-men, 
 brave danger and death, to lighten the heavy load of 
 human misery. Let us bear in mind, too, that the 
 man who was here toiling among these Yorkshire 
 peasants was lately the popular preacher and lecturer 
 of London, and an established favourite in the bril- 
 liant set of Holland House. But here, without any 
 ostentation, and in the spirit of a Christian pastor, he 
 is nobly doing his duty — comforting and helping the 
 poor — enlightening the world by the productions of 
 his pen — and, at the same time, diffusing an atmo- 
 sphere of joyousness around him. Of the style of his 
 preaching, I have already spoken. He said to a 
 
38 o 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 friend one day, I can’t bear to be imprisoned, in the 
 true orthodox way, in my pulpit, with my head just 
 peeping above the desk. I like to look down upon 
 my congregation and fire into them. The common 
 people say, I am a boitld preacher, for I like to have 
 my arms free, and to thump the pulpit.” 
 
 The heavy debt he was obliged to incur in building 
 his parsonage-house long hung heavily on his spirits, 
 giving him, as his wife used to tell aftehvards, sleep- 
 less nights of anxiety as to the future provision for 
 his children. It was very fine to see his wife and 
 children, at this crisis of affairs, holding a family 
 council to see if it were not possible to economise in 
 something more, and lessen their daily expenses to 
 assist him.” With such affectionate help he could 
 hardly sink. He had the knack of making the best 
 of circumstances, and the ingenuity that enabled him 
 to combine economy, taste, and comfort. There can 
 be little doubt that he was a very happy man, and 
 had the art of making all around him happy. He 
 said on one occasion, Never give way to melancholy: 
 resist it steadily, for the habit will encroach. I once 
 gave a lady twenty-two recipes against melancholy : 
 one was a bright fire ; another, to remember all the 
 pleasant things said to and of her ; another, to keep 
 a box of sugar plums on the chimney-piece, and a 
 kettle simmering on the hob. I thought this mere 
 trifling at the moment ; but have, in after-life, dis- 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 381 
 
 covered how true it is that these little pleasures often 
 banish melancholy better than higher and more 
 exalted subjects, and that no means ought to be 
 thought too trifling which can oppose it, either in 
 ourselves or others.” In another of his writings, he 
 gives a still better recipe for making everyday happy: 
 
 When you rise in the morning form a resolution to 
 make the day a happy one to a fellow-creature. It 
 is easily done : a left-off garment to the man who 
 needs it ; a kind word to the sorrowful ; an encour- 
 aging expression to the striving; trifles light as air 
 will do it, at least for the twenty-four hours ; and if 
 you are young, depend upon it it will tell when you 
 are old ; and if you are old, rest assured it will send 
 you gently and happily down the stream of human 
 time to eternity.” ^^The haunts of happiness are 
 varied and rather unaccountable ; but I have oftener 
 seen her among little children, home firesides, and 
 country houses, than anywhere else, at least I think 
 so.” The practical skill he acquired in matters of 
 domestic economy may be gathered from the follow- 
 ing anecdote, which is worth the attention of all who 
 have to buy soap. Have you never observed,” he 
 said, ^‘what a dislike servants have to anything 
 cheap } They hate saving their master’s money. I 
 tried the experiment with great success the other day. 
 Finding we consumed a great deal of soap, I sat 
 down in my thinking chair, and took the soap ques- 
 
382 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 tion into consideration, and found reason to sus- 
 pect that we were using a very expensive article, 
 where a much cheaper one would serve the purpose 
 better. I ordered half-a-dozen pounds of both sorts, 
 but took the precaution of changing the papers on 
 which the prices were marked, before giving them 
 into the hands of Betty. ‘ Well, Betty, which soap 
 do you find washes best 't ’ ^ Oh, please, sir, the 
 
 dearest in the blue paper ; it makes a lather as well 
 again as the other.’ ‘Well, Betty, you shall always 
 have it then and thus the unsuspecting Betty saved 
 me some pounds a year, and washed the clothes 
 better.” 
 
 The day of promotion at last arrived. Lord Lynd- 
 hurst, to his honour, though opposed to Sydney Smith 
 in politics, from the respect he had for his talents and 
 character, had the courage to brave the opinions and 
 opppsition of his own party, and to bestow on him a 
 prebendal stall then vacant in Bristol ; and thus, after 
 being shut up in this dreary little corner of Yorkshire 
 for nearly eleven years, he emerged into the sunshine 
 once more as Prebend of Bristol Cathedral. His in- 
 come was not improved by the change ; but it placed 
 him in a much better position, and put him in the 
 way of further promotion, by making his talents 
 known. He considered it a piece of good fortune, 
 and an addition to his happiness. Moralists tell 
 you,” said he, “ of the evils of wealth and of station, 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 383 
 
 and the happiness of poverty. I have been very poor 
 the greater part of my life, and have borne it as well, 
 I believe, as most people ; but I can safely say that I 
 have been happier every guinea I have gained/’ He 
 commenced his labours characteristically and boldly, 
 by preaching, on the 5th November, a sermon in 
 favour of religious toleration, in presence of a num- 
 ber of dignitaries who were expecting to hear some- 
 thing very different, and to whom his sentiments were 
 very distasteful. By his honest boldness, however, he 
 won the respect even of those who differed from him 
 most widely, and speedily became popular in his new 
 sphere. His appointment rendered it necessary that 
 he should resign his Yorkshire living, and settle in 
 Somersetshire ; and, by the kindness of Lord Lynd- 
 hurst, he was enabled to exchange Foston for the 
 much smaller, but more beautifully situated living of 
 Combe Florey, near Taunton. Here, again, he found 
 the parsonage-house in a ruinous condition, and had 
 to spend two thousand pounds in repairing it ; but 
 with his enlarged means and experience, he was able 
 to make it one of the most charming parsonages in 
 England. The first use he made of his increased 
 wealth was to enlarge his library. One of his sorest 
 privations in Yorkshire was his want of books. They 
 were so few in number as to occupy only one end of a 
 little dining-room ; now he filled three sides of a large 
 room with them, and revelled in their society, No 
 
3^4 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 furniture/’ he used to say, so charming as books, 
 even if you never open them or read a single word.” 
 The world was now smiling on Sydney, and the 
 honours came thick and fast. Lord Grey, on his 
 accession to power in 1830, made him Canon of St 
 Paul’s Cathedral, London, — an office which he held 
 up to the close of his life. It would seem, too, that 
 it was in contemplation to raise him to the episcopal 
 bench, though it was not acted on; and Lord Mel- 
 bourne said long afterwards, that ‘There was nothing 
 he more deeply regretted, in looking back on his past 
 career, than the not having made Sydney Smith a 
 bishop.” There can be no doubt that he would have 
 discharged the duties of such an office admirably, had 
 he been called to undertake them. In a posthumous 
 fragment, he describes his views of the duties con- 
 nected with such an exalted station thus : “ I never 
 remember in my time a real bishop — a grave, elderly 
 man, full of Greek, with sound views of the middle 
 voice and preter-pluperfect tense ; gentle and kind to 
 his poor clergy ; of powerful and commanding elo- 
 quence; in Parliament never to be put down when 
 the great interests of mankind were concerned ; lean- 
 ing to the Government when it was right, leaning to 
 the people when they were right; feeling that, if 
 called to that high office, he was called for no mean 
 purpose, but rather that, seeing clearly, acting boldly, 
 and intending purely, he might confer lasting benefit 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 385 
 
 upon mankind.” The celebrated Miss Edgeworth 
 was exceedingly desirous of seeing him made an 
 Irish bishop; and in a letter to one of his daughters 
 she thus happily and humorously describes the bless- 
 ings he would be likely to confer on Ireland in that 
 capacity : One letter from Sydney Smith on the 
 
 affairs of Ireland, with his name to it, and after hav- 
 ing been there, would do more for us than his letters 
 did for America and England. A bold assertion, you 
 will say ; and so it is ; but I calculate that Pat is a far 
 better subject for wit than Jonathan: it only plays 
 round Jonathan’s head, but it goes to Pat’s heart — to 
 the very bottom of his heart, where he loves it ; and 
 he don’t care whether it is for or against him, so that 
 it is real wit and fun. Now, Pat would doat upon 
 your father ; and kiss the rod with all his soul he 
 would — the lash just lifted — when he’d see the laugh 
 on the face, the kind smile, that would tell him it was 
 all for his good. Your father would lead Pat (for 
 he ’d never drive him) to the world’s end, and maybe 
 to common sense at the end ; and might open his 
 eyes to the true state of things and persons.” 
 
 The remaining portion of Sydney Smith’s life was 
 uneventful, and furnishes no incidents worth dwelling 
 on. He was now surrounded by admiring and loving 
 friends, living in the beautiful Combe Florey during 
 the summer, and spending a good deal of his time in 
 
 London, where his society was much courted. By 
 
 2 B 
 
386 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 the sudden death of his younger brother Courtenay, 
 who had gone out to India, and amassed a large for- 
 tune, he became unexpectedly a rich man, and for 
 ever bade farewell to poverty. His former privations 
 had not made him penurious, as is so frequently the 
 case ; and now that he had a fortune, he lived in 
 accordance with his means. He was fond of a change 
 of residence ; and on one occasion paid a visit to his 
 old friend Lord Jeffrey, in Edinburgh, taking all his 
 family with him. A most agreeable visit we had,'' 
 says his daughter ; for in addition to the enjoyment 
 of Lord Jeffrey's society, at every stray moment he 
 could steal from his business, we were received with 
 open arms by all our old Scotch friends ; and when 
 they do open their arms, there are no people so kind 
 and so hospitable as the Scotch." Ten years after 
 leaving Foston, his daughter relates that she went 
 there to see some of their old haunts, and was much 
 gratified at finding her father s memory still fresh 
 in the hearts of the villagers. From almost every 
 cottage some one came out to greet her, and to re- 
 mind her of some saying or some act of kindness, or 
 to shew her his parting gift, or to remember how he 
 doctored them, and lament his loss. Surely there 
 must have been fountains of love and goodness in the 
 heart of the man who could so captivate the affec- 
 tions of others, and leave behind him such happy 
 memories wherever he went. As years rolled on he 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 387 
 
 had the trials incident to advancing age to encounter. 
 His greatest trial was the loss of his eldest son, a 
 most talented and promising young man, at the early 
 age of twenty-four. Old friends, one after the other, 
 were dropping into the grave. Sir James Mdntosh’s 
 death, one of his earliest and most attached friends, 
 affected him much. Of him he wrote, When I 
 turn from living spectacles of stupidity, ignorance, 
 and malice, and wish to think better of the world, I 
 remember my great and benevolent friend M'Intosh.’' 
 His friend and benefactor. Lord Holland, was next 
 removed. Speaking of his death, he said, It is 
 indeed a great loss to me ; but I have learned to live 
 as a soldier does in war, expecting that on any one 
 moment the best and the dearest may be killed before 
 his eyes.’' Age, with its infirmities, was now creep- 
 ing on him ; still his tendency to look at the ludicrous 
 side of things continued as strong as ever. I feel 
 so weak,” he said once, in mind and body, that I 
 verily believe if the knife were put into my hand, I 
 should not have strength or energy enough to stick it 
 into a dissenter r Writing to the Countess of Carlisle 
 regarding the state of his health, he said, If you 
 hear of sixteen or eighteen pounds of human flesh, 
 they belong to me. I look as if a curate had been 
 taken out of me.” When his last illness commenced, 
 from the dread of inflicting pain on those dearest to 
 him, and of seeing sorrowful faces around him, he 
 
388 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 always spoke calmly and cheerfully, and as if un- 
 aware of his danger. Speaking of the extraordinary 
 interest that had been evinced by his friends for his 
 recovery, — for the inquiries at his door were incessant, 
 — he said, It gives me pleasure, I own, as it shews 
 I have not misused the powers intrusted to me.” He 
 died at peace with himself and with all the world, 
 anxious to the last to promote the happiness and 
 comfort of others. He sent messages of kindness and 
 forgiveness to the few he thought had injured him. 
 Almost his last act was bestowing a small living of 
 £\20 per annum on a poor, worthy, and friendless 
 clergyman, who had lived a long life of struggle with 
 poverty, on ;^40 per annum. He died on the 22d 
 February 1845, aged seventy-four years. His son 
 closed his eyes. He was buried, by his own desire, 
 as privately as possible, in the cemetery of Kensal 
 Green, where his wife and son repose by his side. 
 
 And,” says his daughter, if true greatness consists, 
 as my dear and valued friend, Mr Rogers, once 
 quoted from an ancient Greek writer, ‘ in doing what 
 deserves to be written, and writing what deserves to be 
 read, and in making mankind happier and better for 
 your life,’ my father was a truly great and good man.” 
 
 On a survey of the whole career of Sydney Smith, 
 you will agree with me in pronouncing him 
 an honest and good man — one who, on the whole, 
 fought life’s battle well, and lived among his fellows 
 
6 - YDNE V SMITH. 
 
 389 
 
 full of kind thoughts and good deeds ; loving and 
 lovable; just and sincere; walking in no vain show 
 himself ; dreading the very semblance of guile and 
 hypocrisy; hating insincerity of all kinds himself; 
 calling things by their right names ; and fearlessly 
 doing what in him lay to root out wrong and injus- 
 tice. There is that in his career which should rouse 
 us all to the inquiry, whether we are engaged on the 
 right side in the long-drawn battle between good and 
 evil that is raging around us. If any young man is 
 tempted, in this age of doubt and insincerity, to ques- 
 tion whether life has any great purpose — whether, 
 after all, self is not the thing to live for — not truth, 
 or righteousness, or goodness, — if in dark moments 
 he is inclined to question whether a life of purity, 
 honesty, virtue, religion be the main thing he should 
 aim at, let him study the career of such a man 
 as Sydney Smith ; and I think it will help him to 
 reverence the right and the good, to love truth 
 better than self-interest, and to esteem the appro- 
 bation of conscience better than the applause of 
 the multitude, or the wealth of the world. Sydney 
 Smith was a man who dared to think for him- 
 self — to search after truth with a sincere desire to 
 find it ; and having found it, — he cared not whether 
 it was in a minority of one, or a majority of a million, 
 — he fought for it, and, if necessary, suffered for it. 
 Nearly all his life he found himself on the side of the 
 
390 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 minority, and that often a very small one. Those 
 great and beneficent reforms which he spent his un- 
 rivalled powers in advocating, and which all wise men 
 now approve of, were at first almost in a minority of 
 one ; and that had to be worked up to a majority by 
 hard battling before these improvements could be 
 carried out practically. Let us give all due honour 
 to those brave men who bore the burden and heat of 
 the day, and who manfully stood up for the right in 
 spite of scorn and obloquy. It is very easy to shout 
 for the truth when she has the multitude at her back; 
 but to lift up the voice in her behalf when she stands 
 alone, or is hooted by the crowd — to bear contempt 
 for her patiently, — this requires strong convictions 
 and a sincere heart. This was Sydney Smith’s 
 choice. Had he been content to shout with the 
 multitude, or even to hold his tongue instead of 
 exposing corruption and ignorance, he need not have 
 struggled with poverty so long. It is true he dif- 
 fered from most men who are in advance of their age, 
 in living to see the triumph of his principles, and the 
 introduction of those reforms for which he had so 
 long contended almost hopelessly. That, however, 
 was merely incidental, and not what he could have 
 hoped for or foreseen when he chose his course. If 
 his public career was thus honourable, his private life 
 was no less commendable. There is no better mark 
 of a sound, strong mind, than to go through the 
 
SYDNEY SMITH, 
 
 391 
 
 little commonplace duties of life thoroughly, cheer- 
 fully, so as to make all a part of ourselves, and leave 
 our stamp upon them. We have seen how well Syd- 
 ney did this — making excellent jokes, too, over his 
 hard work. There was no meanness or moral care- 
 lessness about him ; in every dealing with his brother- 
 man he was most accurate and just. Good, kind, and 
 thoughtfully affectionate in the bosom of his family, 
 his servants respected him as truly as his noblest 
 friends. The world, judging by his wit, thought him 
 careless or reckless ; but nothing could be further 
 from the truth. His wife, who knew him best, said, 
 People are not aware that Sydney, with all his 
 mirth, is one of the most cautious, prudent men that 
 ever existed ; he is always looking forward and pro- 
 viding against what may happen.” He said himself, 
 I sometimes dine with Mr Blank, and the head 
 of the family sits at the foot of the table, looking so 
 attentive, and bowing so obsequiously; and when I 
 talk humorously, as I am apt to do, I see by his 
 expression that he says to himself, ‘ There is a man I 
 would not lend money to at fifteen per cent; he’s a 
 rash man ; he would buy bad Exchequer bills ; he is 
 not to be trusted.’ He little knows me.” It was the 
 same laughter-loving but acute man who said, If 
 you want to make much of a small income, always 
 ask yourself these two questions : first, ^ Do I really 
 want it } ’ secondly, ^ Can I do without it ? ’ These 
 
392 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 two questions, answered honestly, will double your 
 fortune.’' 
 
 Sydney Smith had no pretensions to rank in the 
 first class as a profound thinker and original genius. 
 He was rather fitted to diffuse and render intelligible 
 and practical the thoughts of others, and, by his wit, 
 logic, and eloquence, to impress these on the general 
 mind. As a thinker, he was most distinguished for 
 the possession of a strong, practical understanding, 
 that grasped, with true Saxon energy, the realities of 
 earth and time. With mere dreams and abstractions 
 he had no patience ; cloudland he left to visionaries. 
 
 Never teach false morality,” he said. How ex- 
 quisitely absurd to tell girls that beauty is of no 
 value — dress of no use! Beauty is of value; her 
 whole prospects and happiness in life may often 
 depend on a new gown or a becoming bonnet ; and 
 if she has five grains of commion sense, she will find 
 this out. The great thing is to teach her their just 
 value, and that there must be something better under 
 the bonnet than a pretty face for real happiness. 
 But never sacrifice truth.” Of a hard-headed utili- 
 tarian he said, '' If you were to bore holes in him with 
 a gimlet, I am convinced sawdust would come out of 
 him.” If everything is to be sacrificed to utility, why 
 do you bury your grandmother at all ; why don’t you 
 cut her up into small pieces at once, and make port- 
 able soup of her V Nothing gave him greater plea- 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 393 
 
 sure, when he met with a specimen of that dull class 
 who are incapable of understanding a joke, than to 
 play on this peculiarity. One of these dull mortals 
 was seated at the same dinner-table with him on one 
 occasion ; Sydney remarked that though he was 
 not generally considered illiberal, yet he must con- 
 fess he had one little weakness, one secret wish — he 
 should like to roast a Quaker.’' Good gracious ! Mr 
 Smith,” said his dull neighbour, full of horror, roast 
 a Quaker!” Yes, sir,” said Sydney, with the greatest 
 gravity, roast a Quaker.” But do you consider, 
 Mr Smith, the torture.^” ‘'Yes, sir,” said Sydney, 
 “ I have considered everything ; it may be wrong, as 
 you say, the Quaker would undoubtedly suffer acutely, 
 but every one has his tastes — mine would be to roast 
 a Quaker ; one would satisfy me — only one ; but it is 
 one of those peculiarities I have striven against in 
 vain, and I hope you will pardon my weakness.” 
 The whole company were in roars of laughter, but so 
 entirely impenetrable to. a joke was this gentleman’s 
 head, that he sat full of horror, and seemed inclined 
 to fly from such a dangerous character. A Mrs 
 Jackson called on him one day. She belonged to 
 the same genus ; and among other things spoke of 
 the oppressive heat of last week. “ Heat, madam,” 
 said Sydney ; “ it was so dreadful here that I found 
 there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh 
 and sit in my bones.” “Take off your flesh and sit 
 
394 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 in your bones, sir! O Mr Smith, how could you 
 do that?’' she exclaimed, with the utmost gravity. 
 ‘‘ Nothing more easy, ma’am ; come and see next 
 time.” “ But,” he said, she ordered her carriage, and 
 evidently thought it a very unorthodox proceeding.” 
 
 What a mixture of wit and good sense there is in 
 the following description of a nice person, which he 
 threw off carelessly on one occasion : — ‘‘ A nice per- 
 son is neither too tall nor too short, looks clean and 
 cheerful, has no prominent feature, makes no difficul- 
 ties, is never misplaced, is never foolishly affronted, 
 and is void of affectations. There is something in 
 the very air of a nice person which inspires you with 
 confidence, makes you talk, and talk without fear of 
 malicious misrepresentations; you feel that you are 
 reposing on a nature which God has made kind, and 
 created for the benefit and happiness of society. It 
 has the effect on the mind which soft air and a fine 
 climate has upon the body. If anybody is wanted 
 for a party, a nice person is the first thought of ; when 
 the child is christened — when the daughter is married 
 — all the joys of life are communicable to nice people. 
 A nice person never knocks over wine or melted 
 butter — does not tread upon the dog’s foot, or molest 
 the family cat — eats soup without noise — laughs in 
 the right place — and has a watchful and attentive 
 eye.” ‘^Ah!” he said, ^^what female heart can 
 withstand a red coat? I think this should be a 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 395 
 
 part of female education ; it is much neglected. As 
 you have a rocking-horse to accustom them to ride, 
 I would have military dolls in the nursery to harden 
 their hearts against officers and red coats.’' Everett, 
 the distinguished American statesman and orator, 
 said, The first remark I made to myself, after listen- 
 ing to Mr Sydney Smith’s conversation, was that if 
 he had not been known as the wittiest man of his 
 day, he would have been accounted one of the wisest.” 
 Then his wit, as some one said, always had the dew 
 upon it,” — it was so fresh and enlivening. It had no 
 coarseness or buffoonery — no venom or cruelty — but 
 was as sunny and tender as the man himself You 
 have been laughing at me constantly, Sydney,” said 
 Lord Dudley, for the last seven years, and yet, in 
 all that time, you never said a single thing to me 
 that I wished unsaid.” It is quite extraordinary,” 
 said one of his friends, how different every word 
 that drops from Sydney’s pen is from anything 
 else in the world. Individuality is stamped on 
 every sentence, and you can hardly read a page 
 without coming to some sentence that no other 
 man could have written. It was the same with 
 his conversation.” Here are a few of his conver- 
 sational flashes : Oh, don’t tell me of facts ; I 
 
 never believe facts. You know Canning said nothing 
 was so fallacious as facts, except figures.” I agree 
 with Sir James Mackintosh, and have found the world 
 
39 ^ 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 more good and more foolish than I thought when 
 young/' Ah, you always detect a little of the Irish 
 fossil, the potato, peeping out in an Irishman.” 
 
 Talking of Mrs , ‘‘She has not very clear ideas 
 
 about the tides. I remember at a large party her 
 insisting that it was always high-tide at London 
 Bridge at twelve o’clock. She referred to me, ‘Now, 
 Mr Smith, is it not so I answered, ‘It used to be 
 so, I believe, formerly, but perhaps the lord mayor 
 
 and aldermen have altered it lately.’” “Mr once 
 
 came to see us in Yorkshire ; and he was so small and 
 so active, he looked exactly like a little spirit run- 
 ning about in a kind of undress, without a body.” 
 “ People complain of their servants ; I never had a 
 bad one ; but then I study their comforts, that is one 
 recipe for securing good servants.” “ O’Connel pre- 
 sented me to the Irish members as the powerful and 
 entertaining advocate of the Irish Catholic claims.” 
 
 “ Oh, the Dean of deserves to be preached to 
 
 death by wild curates.” “Yes; was merry, not 
 
 wise. You know a man of small understanding is 
 merry where he can, not where he should. Light- 
 ning must, I think, be the wit of heaven.” Speaking 
 of a French revolutionist, “ No man, I fear, can 
 effect great benefits for his country without some 
 sacrifice of the minor virtues.” “ If you want to im- 
 prove your understanding drink coffee. Sir James 
 Mackintosh used to say he believed the difference 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 397 
 
 between one man and another was produced by the 
 quantity of coffee he drank.’’ Luttrell used to say, 
 ^ I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind me so of 
 poor relations.’” Oh, they were all so beautiful, 
 that Paris could not have decided between them, but 
 would have cut his apple in slices.” It is a curious 
 fact that the peasantry in England apply the mascu- 
 line and feminine gender to things, like the French. 
 My schoolmistress here, a very respectable young 
 woman, hurt her leg. I inquired how it was the other 
 day. She answered he was very bad, and gave her a 
 deal of trouble at night. I inquired who, in some 
 surprise, and found it was her leg.” Some one men- 
 tioned that a young Scotchman of his acquaintance 
 was going to marry an Irish widow, double his age, 
 and of considerable dimensions. Going to marry 
 her!” he exclaimed, ^Gmpossible! You mean a part 
 of her — he could not marry her all himself. It would 
 be a case, not of bigamy, but of trigamy. There is 
 enough of her to furnish wives for a whole parish. 
 One man marry her! — it is monstrous. You might 
 people a colony with her — or give an assembly with 
 her — or take your morning’s walk round her — or read 
 the riot act and disperse her, or do anything with her 
 but marry her.” I am a great doctor,” he said to a 
 lady on a visit to him, ‘'would you like to hear some 
 of my medicines.^ Well, there is ‘The Gentlejog’ — 
 a pleasure to take it ; ‘ The Bull-dog,’ for more 
 
398 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 serious cases ; ‘ Peter’s Puke’ ; ^ Heart’s Delight,’ the 
 comfort of all the old women in the parish ; ‘ Rub-a- 
 dub,’ a capital embrocation ; ^ Dead-stop ’ settles the 
 matter at once ; ' Up-with-it-then ’ needs no explana- 
 tion ; and so on.” 
 
 The nature of the man led him to view things on 
 the ludicrous side ; and we have no right to quarrel 
 with him for doing so. If he uttered so many good 
 and wise things in a pleasant, humorous way, why get 
 angry because he did not utter them in a dull, un- 
 pleasant way } Many people say a large endowment 
 of the humorous faculty is dangerous, and so it is ; 
 but so is a great intellect, or any other great endow- 
 ment, inasmuch as, if abused, it does more mischief. 
 It is only mediocrity that is safe ; it is only dulness 
 that can be trusted. But are we to vote for igno- 
 rance and stupidity on this account ? A fallen angel 
 becomes a devil ; but is the existence of angels dan- 
 gerous or undesirable on this account.^ No man was 
 ever possessed of great wit who abused it less than 
 Sydney Smith. To have forbidden him to express 
 himself humorously would have been^to clip the wings 
 of the eagle. 
 
 Many good persons are prejudiced against Sydney 
 on account of the course he took in reference to mis- 
 sions to the heathen, when they were first projected. 
 In his earlier years, he wrote against the attempts, 
 then commenced, to Christianise India, in the pages 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 399 
 
 of the Edinburgh Review ; and no doubt his articles 
 contain some harsh, unjust, and bitter statements 
 against the originators and supporters of missions. 
 This has been remembered against him when the 
 many good things he did were forgotten ; and to 
 this day it is frequently brought forward on plat- 
 forms as an accusation against him, — not always, I 
 fear, in the most Christian spirit. I have no desire 
 to palliate or deny the error into which Sydney fell 
 in this respect ; but I ask you to consider calmly the 
 circumstances. Fifty or sixty years ago, modern mis- 
 sions to the heathen originated. Like all other good 
 things, they were at first in a minority of half-a-dozen. 
 The few earnest men who first broached the subject 
 were regarded as madmen, or crack-brained enthusi- 
 asts. Statesmen, Churchmen, Dissenters, Presbyte- 
 rians, all decried the project as wild and visionary. 
 It was supposed that the safety of our Indian empire 
 was imperilled ; that the Hindoos would rise in re- 
 bellion if their religion were interfered with. The 
 press and the pulpit denounced the whole affair as 
 fanaticism. It was when such ideas were current 
 that Sydney Smith wrote the article in the Edin- 
 burgh Review entitled India Missions and un- 
 happily he fell into the popular view, and spoke ill 
 of a noble undertaking. But this only proves that 
 he was human, and shared in the prejudices of his 
 age, which were strongly against any manifestations 
 
4Q0 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 of religious enthusiasm. I think the matter should 
 not be remembered against him now, for he lived to 
 see and admit his error. In Mrs Stowe’s Sunny 
 Memories,” she mentions that, when in conversation 
 with Macaulay, she put forward the staple accusation 
 against Sydney Smith, his friend vindicated him by 
 saying that he lived to change his mind entirely in 
 regard to missions. I find this confirmed by what 
 his daughter says in her Memoir. Some one having 
 in his presence attempted to ridicule missions, he 
 dissented, saying, that though all was not done 
 that was projected, or even boasted of, yet that 
 much good resulted ; and that wherever Christianity 
 was taught, it brought with it the additional good of 
 civilisation in its train, and men became better car- 
 penters, better cultivators, better everything.” I sub- 
 mit that an error that has been confessed and re- 
 nounced should not be made the ground of accusa- 
 tion against a man. No admirer of Sydney Smith 
 would pretend that he was immaculate — that he had 
 not his faults and failings like other men. At times 
 he allowed himself *to treat serious subjects too jo- 
 cosely, though this was rarely the case ; and was in a 
 few instances unjust to some whose religious senti- 
 ments he did not comprehend ; yet rarely did he 
 violate his own excellent principle, that '‘piety and 
 honesty are always venerable, with whatever degree 
 of error they happen to be connected.” But, then. 
 
SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 401 
 
 what is to become of the best of men, if you judge 
 them by their faults and failings ? It is easy enough 
 to discover flaws and imperfections in a man ; but 
 the real question is, What good is in him ? with what 
 amount of “veracity” and honest endeavour is he 
 struggling against the evil, and battling towards the 
 true and good ? what is his life-purpose ? Tried by 
 this rule, the verdict must be entirely favourable to 
 Sydney Smith. And then, in regard to some severe 
 things he has written about certain manifestations of 
 religious zeal, let us remember that we are bound to 
 inquire, in all cases, whether those signs we discover 
 spring from spiritual health or disease ; whether they 
 arise from a disordered body and brain, or from right 
 thinking and feeling in religion ; whether they spring 
 from true piety or superstition. We know well that 
 truly pious and noble souls do fall into these diseased 
 manifestations, and that we must separate these from 
 them, and fling them aside, ere we can discover and 
 reverence the divine heroism of the men. With 
 many of the deeper and more terrible spirit-struggles 
 through which some have to pass, Sydney Smith, 
 from temperament and training, was unable to sym- 
 pathise ; but I believe, whether right or wrong in his 
 conclusions, he only attacked what he believed to 
 be unfavourable to piety, and the offspring of fanati- 
 
 cism. 
 
LECTURE THE NINTH. 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE ; OR, THE TIMES WE 
 LIVE IN. 
 
 Every age has its distinguishing peculiarities, by 
 which it is marked off from all others. The great 
 ideas that move humanity, the thoughts that shake 
 mankind and determine the course of events, the 
 hopes and fears, the wants and aspirations of men, 
 vary from age to age ; and the outward manifesta- 
 tions of these — the institutions, arts, sciences, and 
 religions, embodying and expressing these, present a 
 corresponding variety. Ultimately everything rests 
 on an idea ; thought is the force that really moves 
 humanity, and rules the world. All our laws, political 
 and social institutions, customs, and transactions have 
 originally sprung from thoughts surging in the minds 
 of men, and finally taking these outward forms and 
 embodiments. The seen is but the bodying forth of 
 the unseen. This great universe is a realised thought 
 
O UR MO THER-A GE, 
 
 403 
 
 of the Divine mind. In human affairs, the invisible 
 force of thought, working below the surface, has given 
 birth to all we see around us. As men’s ideas change, 
 so do their habits, institutions, efforts, and environ- 
 ments. Thought, therefore, is the great ruling power 
 of the world. In estimating any age, if we would go 
 below the surface, we must ascertain what are the 
 thoughts, feelings, and wants that sway men’s minds 
 — what are the central ideas that make vital and 
 mould the present time ; for, whatever conflicting in- 
 fluences are at work, these determine the character 
 of any particular age. Now, all history tells us, that 
 though, since man took his place on this planet, there 
 are certain human characteristics common to all ages 
 and races, yet that each age has certain individual 
 features peculiar to itself, and distinguishing it from 
 others. There are thoughts and tendencies common 
 to humanity ; yet no two ages are the same in 
 the real or relative strength of their unseen forces. 
 Change is the great regulating law of God’s universe. 
 Humanity is on the march, pursuing some mighty 
 development, working towards some great end. The 
 present is not a repetition of the past ; but either an 
 advance on it, or something different from it, whether 
 for better or worse. Our age is something individual 
 and original. The nineteenth century is not the 
 ninth. The thoughts that are heaving humanity’s 
 bosom now, and making its great heart throb tumul- 
 
404 
 
 OUR MOTHER- AGE, 
 
 tuously, are not the thoughts of the seventeenth or 
 eighteenth century. It may be profitable, then, to 
 take a brief glance at a few of the more striking 
 tendencies and characteristics of our times — at some 
 of the peculiarities of that evolution of humanity we 
 name Our Mother- Age — the age that has pro- 
 duced us, and in which we live and have our being. 
 
 In judging of our age, we should beware of sepa- 
 rating it from the ages that have gone before. To 
 isolate the present time from the past, would be to 
 misunderstand it. The age we live in is the product 
 of all the centuries that have flitted over the earth 
 since man’s existence commenced. We are truly — 
 
 “ Heirs of all the ages, 
 
 In the foremost files of time.” 
 
 For us all previous generations have been toiling ; 
 they laboured, and we have entered into their labours 
 — their rich bequest of thought, effort, and experience. 
 Not in vain have they lived and died. Their labours 
 produced the present, which is the surface-growth 
 from the whole buried past. The Assyrian, Egyptian, 
 Greek, and Roman, all lie buried in the silence of the 
 tomb ; but whatever of the true and good they 
 achieved has not perished. It is possessed of a 
 charmed life — is perennial, and lives in the present. 
 Many of our laws, institutions, and modes of life, 
 traced to their roots, would be found to have grown 
 up originally on the banks of the Tigris or Nile, in 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 405 
 
 sunny Greece, or under the blue skies of Italy. The 
 buried past, therefore, lives in the present ; and in a 
 thousand unsuspected ways moulds and influences it 
 The present age is a confluence of many rills, having 
 their origin in the distant hill-tops of the past. Our 
 ancestors have been our benefactors, painfully toiling 
 and laying up for their children. Humanity has a 
 life as truly as the individual ; every part is connected 
 with every other, and all form one great whole. We 
 cannot separate ourselves from those who have trod 
 the earth before us. As friends and brothers, they 
 are connected with us by the closest ties. Only a 
 shallow or ignorant mind, therefore, will despise the 
 past. To all true souls it shines in the dim moon- 
 light of memory, “ sad and yet holy.'' Shall we 
 treat contemptuously that which has been bedewed 
 with human tears, fashioned by the sweat of a bro- 
 ther's brow or brain, hallowed by prayers, and conse- 
 crated by the joys and sorrows of our dead kindred ? 
 In the pride of our own achievements, let us never 
 look at the past with other than reverential feelings 
 But at the same time let us never live in slavish sub- 
 jection to the past — never convert it into a supersti- 
 tion, by fancying it something vast and wonderful, 
 that can never be reached or surpassed, by which we 
 are to model ourselves, without the hope of out- 
 stripping its excellence. Whatever the past may 
 have been, we cannot recall it, and we cannot live by 
 
4o6 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 it It has been resolved into its elements, and these 
 have entered into new combinations, and formed the 
 new era. As well might we attempt to recall the 
 tertiary period of the geologist, as the first, or fifteenth, 
 or eighteenth century of the Christian era. It is a 
 puerile absurdity to array ourselves in the cast-off 
 clothes of a former age, and fancy we are living its 
 life over again. Its thoughts, feelings, views, and 
 wants cannot be ours, and we are only masqueraders 
 in wearing its garments. There is evident, in our 
 own day, in certain quarters, an extreme tendency to 
 worship the past, to throw contempt on the present, 
 and to go back to some buried age as an exemplar. 
 But it is all in vain to attempt arraying the nineteenth 
 century in mediaeval garments. They do not fit, and 
 only render the wearers ridiculous. The attempt 
 may appear very reverential, but it is only flying 
 from one extreme to another — from the shallow self- 
 conceit that would glorify the present and regard the 
 past as contemptible, to an abject surrender of our- 
 selves to the past as an authority and infallible guide. 
 It is neither wise nor manlike. We must aim at 
 living our own life and doing our own work bravely 
 and well. Whatever the past may have been, we are 
 to aim at making the present something nobler and 
 better. The riches of the past are ours, not to 
 waste as prodigals, not to gloat over as misers, but to 
 use as invested capital, and transmit to the future as 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 407 
 
 an enlarged sum. The course of humanity is not 
 like that of a pendulum, perpetually traversing the 
 same arc of a circle ; but like that of the inrolling 
 tide — at times apparently receding and beaten back, 
 but really gaining a little with every fresh wave, and 
 finally reaching the highest attainable level. The 
 golden age is before us, not behind us. 
 
 “ Then courage ! let us love the True, 
 
 Accept as God’s best gift the Real, 
 
 Not only should we think, but do ; 
 
 Life blossoms now with the ideal. 
 
 And our Romance shall be the real. 
 
 “ Then, O my brothers, trust and love, 
 
 A golden country lies before us ; 
 
 With man around us, God above. 
 
 And truth and beauty doming o’er us, 
 
 A golden country gleams before us.” 
 
 It is because we have faith in an All-wise plan on 
 which the universe has been constructed — faith in a 
 Divine purpose working towards a glorious end — 
 faith in God and man — that we anticipate a brighter 
 futurity for humanity. Whatever else may desert us, 
 Hope, the charmer, lingers still behind.’’ Gleams of 
 sunshine, too, are not wanting to cheer our path — 
 glimpses of the far-off land of promise towards which 
 humanity is marching. When the lion-hearted Co^ 
 lumbus was sailing towards the West through an un- 
 explored waste of waters, with the black billows threat- 
 ening to engulf him, and cowardly, mutinous seamen 
 ready to rise and fling him overboard, all was dark 
 
4o8 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 around ; but the little star of faith and hope shone 
 brightly in the brave man’s heart. And at length 
 there came floating around his little bark some 
 weeds, leaves, and flowers, telling him that the land 
 he had dreamed of was a reality, and that he was. 
 drawing near to its shores. Ah, how welcome to the 
 drooping heart those little harbingers of victory, — 
 those first-fruits of the land of promise, — floated to 
 him on the dark waves of the Atlantic ! And by and 
 by a flock of strange bright birds fluttered around the 
 lonely vessel and alighted on its mast-heads, like 
 angels of hope beckoning him onward. So with our- 
 selves, in the midst of turmoils, storms, and darkness, 
 there come floating toward^ us intimations of that 
 bright and beautiful land to which Providence is con- 
 ducting our race. 
 
 To begin with the more obvious and striking fea- 
 tures of our age : even the least-informed are aware 
 that it is distinguished from all preceding ages by 
 great scientific discoveries, and, as a consequence, 
 surpasses all others in the application of mechanism 
 to human purposes. The proofs of this meet the eye 
 on every hand ; the benefits are felt by all classes — 
 in palace and hovel alike. We point triumphantly to 
 the modern railroad, gradually covering the civilised 
 world with its iron network, opening up the luxuriant 
 plains of India in the East, and startling the forest 
 solitudes of the “Far West” with the shriek of its 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 409 
 
 rushing locomotive — linking together cities, coun- 
 tries, and nations into one great commonwealth of 
 interests and brotherhood of ideas. We point to the 
 electric telegraph, stretching side by side with the 
 railroad, bearing the thoughts of men on the light- 
 ning’s pinion — flashing them across broad continents, 
 under the bed of mighty rivers, through the dread 
 solitude of ocean’s caves, over hill and plain, with a 
 rapidity that cannot be measured. Or we turn to the 
 steam-driven fleets that cover the ocean, proudly de- 
 fying the storm-king, breasting the adverse billows 
 and dashing them aside as playthings, bridging the 
 ocean and annihilating distance. We point to the 
 great mechanical triumphs of our day — such as the 
 iron tube along which a railway train shoots across 
 the mighty St Lawrence ; or, as in the case of the 
 Menai and Britannia tubular bridges, leaps a broad 
 arm of the sea. We turn to some of the huge manu- 
 factories, where the Nasmyth hammer, wielded by the 
 giant arm of steam, forges the enormous machinery 
 that is to do the work of thousands of hands, or 
 fashions the ponderous anchors that are to enable the 
 leviathans of the deep that guard the coasts of Eng- 
 land to ride out the hurricane. We might easily swell 
 our list of scientific trophies lately won, by enumerat- 
 ing the production of a light from electricity rivalling 
 almost the sun’s brilliancy, and the marvels of the 
 photographic art. These are discoveries and inven- 
 
410 
 
 O UR MO THER-A GE. 
 
 tions that have been made within the memory of liv- 
 ing men, — some of them are but of yesterday, — and 
 they stamp a distinctive character upon our era, and 
 will make it memorable to all coming generations. 
 Ultimately they will revolutionise society, elevate the 
 condition of all races of mankind, and immensely 
 enlarge the physical and intellectual enjoyment of 
 every inhabitant of earth. They can never be lost 
 to our race ; and the vast improvements they are 
 rapidly spreading will stretch away into the coming 
 centuries, and tell beneficially on unborn myriads. 
 
 Looking at these achievements of science, have we 
 not reason to feel proud of our age "t We begin to 
 see what transcendent powers have been intrusted to 
 man, by the Creator, for the benefit of the race. 
 Material nature is becoming obedient to human 
 genius — revealing her secrets — yielding up her forces 
 as man’s servants, and ministering to his happiness 
 and advancement. Can we doubt that all these indi- 
 cate progress, and point to a brighter future for 
 humanity } Take the steam-engine, which we may re- 
 gard as a type of this age of iron, and consider some 
 of its results. In Britain alone it is doing the work of 
 many millions of men ; in the factory, driving myriads 
 of spinning-jennies; clothing a large portion of the 
 human family; dragging up the treasures of the 
 mine ; cutting and rolling huge masses of iron into 
 the required shapes ; boring the Armstrong gun ; 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 41 1 
 
 polishing the delicate hair-spring of a watch with 
 an accuracy unattainable by human manipulation ; 
 working up the beggar’s cast-off rags into the pure 
 sheet of paper ; and by the printing-press stamping 
 on this sheet, with inconceivable rapidity, the thoughts 
 with which the brain is throbbing at this moment, 
 and then scattering them over the earth. This iron 
 missionary” is carrying multitudes in an hour as far 
 as they could have once gone in a day, after terrible 
 toils and sufferings. Everywhere it is lightening 
 man’s toil. The weaver drops his shuttle ; iron 
 fingers ply it with a hundred-fold rapidity. The 
 seaman furls his sail ; a snorting sea-horse does his 
 bidding, and bears him over the waves. Can we 
 doubt that the design of the beneficent Creator, in 
 permitting such inventions, is to free man from 
 grinding and degrading toil, and give him time for 
 the culture of his nobler powers ? While engaged in 
 a struggle for very existence, man’s whole powers 
 are absorbed in providing for his animal wants, and 
 improvement is almost impossible. But our great, 
 patient, broad-shouldered servant, steam, steps in, 
 abridges the hours of human labour, performs all the 
 drudgery, and thus liberates man for higher pursuits 
 in the world of intellect, and gives to the masses the 
 prospect of being able to develop their nobler nature. 
 This seems to be the merciful design of Providence; 
 and, in spite of selfish avarice, the toiling millions 
 
412 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 will yet reap the benefit. And when we see the ex- 
 cursion train carrying by thousands the toilers of the 
 great city far away from the din and smoke, into 
 some of the sweetest and loveliest scenes of rural 
 beauty, that they may there breathe for an hour the 
 free untainted air, thus breaking the dreadful mono- 
 tony of their existence, and affording them a taste of 
 those pure pleasures God has provided for all, we 
 have a foretaste of the benefits that will yet inevitably 
 follow. 
 
 “ Blessings on Science, and her handmaid, Steam, 
 
 They make Utopia only half a dream ; 
 
 And shew the fervour of capacious souls, 
 
 Who watch the ball of progress as it rolls, 
 
 That all as yet completed or begun 
 Is but the dawning that precedes the sun.” 
 
 Nothing shews us more strikingly the importance 
 of these discoveries than the projects for the future 
 they are already giving rise to. In fact, no human 
 mind can predict the result of a great thought, once 
 it is struck out. How little did Columbus anticipate 
 what was to follow, when the shores of the New World 
 first gladdened his eyes ! How little could Faust 
 foresee the results, when the idea of movable types 
 entered his brain ! When Professor Dersted of Copen- 
 hagen first saw the little needle vibrate under the 
 wire of a voltaic battery, and thus was led to the dis- 
 covery of electro-magnetism, could he have looked 
 into the future, he would have seen the instantaneous 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 413 
 
 transmission of thought over the world springing 
 from this apparently insignificant fact. Consider the 
 gigantic projects that are now before the world in 
 connexion with the electric telegraph. Newfound- 
 land was, for a few days, linked to Europe by the 
 electric wire laid along the bed of the Atlantic ; and 
 though the connexion was speedily severed, the year 
 1865 will doubtless witness a more successful experi- 
 ment to bind together the Old World and the New. 
 Already New York is joined by the wire to San 
 Francisco ; and Calcutta will soon be able to whisper 
 to London. Once the Atlantic Telegraph is com- 
 pleted, Bombay can transmit a message, via Eng- 
 land, to San Francisco. It is impossible to predict 
 the results that this seemingly insignificant ligature, 
 the electric wire, is destined to work out. Already, 
 generals are commanding their armies by electricity ; 
 and the result of every charge in the American 
 conflict is flashed over the States before the smoke 
 has cleared away, though it must be admitted the 
 message is not always in accordance with facts, and 
 requires generally subsequent correction. In the 
 pursuits of peace, the electric telegraph is working 
 out beneficial results. Railway travelling is rendered 
 much more secure than formerly ; trains are warned 
 of danger, or speedily assisted in case of need. Hur- 
 ricanes and tornadoes travel more slowly than the 
 electric message along a line of coast ; so that their 
 
414 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 approach is made known before they are felt, and 
 preparation made to resist them ; ships are fore- 
 warned not to put to sea, or trains to start till the 
 tempest has spent its fury. So beneficent are all 
 these discoveries of science. Improvements will 
 follow of which we cannot now form a conception. 
 It is true we cannot have a swifter messenger than 
 electricity ; but facilities for transmitting messages 
 may be vastly multiplied. In the year 1840, with 
 the exception of the old clumsy wooden telegraphs, 
 there was no means of transmitting intelligence 
 swifter than a horse could gallop ; and that could 
 have been done as quickly, or even more so, in the 
 days of Job. In 1850 the lightning was the courier; 
 so that, in ten years, we cleared the vast space be- 
 tween the speed of a horse and the speed of lightning. 
 What may not another century achieve } Thus 
 much we see to be possible — these advantages may 
 be cheapened and brought within the reach of all 
 classes ; so that, in the good time coming,’' friend 
 will be talking to friend, though half the globe sepa- 
 rates them. 
 
 If I should attempt enumerating the other triumphs 
 of science which our age has witnessed, I should weary 
 you. Astronomy has immensely extended her con- 
 quests, and proudly points to that great eye, six feet 
 in diameter, which Lord Rosse has turned to search 
 the depths of space. She points to a still greater 
 
OUR MOTHER- AGE, 
 
 415 
 
 triumph — the discovery of the planet Neptune : not 
 made out like the others by the eye in casually rang- 
 ing the heavens, but demonstrated first by mathe- 
 matical calculations to be in existence, and even its 
 locality ascertained, before the telescope lighted on 
 it Our age has also witnessed the rise and rapid 
 growth of an entirely new science — that of geology, 
 whose revelations exceed in marvellousness all that 
 the wildest imagination had conceived, and cast new 
 light on the history of our earth. The recent dis- 
 covery entitled The Mechanical or Dynamical 
 Theory of Heat,’^ which points to the conclusion 
 that heat, light, electricity, and magnetism are but 
 expressions, in different languages, of one great 
 power, and that they are mutually convertible, so 
 that a certain quantity of one form may be made 
 to produce a given quantity of another form, has 
 quite upset the old doctrine of heat. It is now 
 known that heat is only a peculiar condition of 
 matter, ^^a vibration of its ultimate particles;’' and 
 that the destruction or creation of energy in the 
 world is just as impossible as the creation or de- 
 struction of matter itself Great results will flow 
 from this beautiful disclosure of one of nature’s 
 great truths. Chemistry, too, has its discoveries of 
 incalculable value. It has taught us to multiply the 
 productions of the soil many fold, and is revealing 
 the wondrous laws of the material creation. Physio- 
 
4i6 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 logy is investigating the structure of animated exist- 
 ences — teaching the causes of disease, the means of 
 restoring and preserving health, and thus lengthen- 
 ing human life. We grow weary of wandering as we 
 range over modern scientific discoveries. We are 
 afraid to utter the word impossible,^' and would 
 exclude it from the language. The feat of jumping 
 down our own throats was thought, in times of igno- 
 rance, an impossibility ; but science shews that we are 
 doing it every day. The food we swallow becomes 
 part of our bodies — of bone, nerve, and muscle ; the 
 old substance meantime passing away continually. 
 In this way, in the course of seven years, we swallow 
 the food which makes an entirely new body, and 
 literally jump down our own throats. 
 
 It is perhaps in part owing to these scientific ad- 
 vances and mechanical triumphs, with their conse- 
 quent changes, present and prospective, that an- 
 other notable tendency of our times shews itself so 
 strongly : our age is restless, clamorous for change, 
 impatient of existing evils, and careless regarding 
 the past. It may be our vast scientific progress 
 that has taught us to despise former ages and dis- 
 trust the wisdom of our ancestors." Whatever be 
 the cause, the temper of the age is inclined to look 
 with contempt on the past, to abandon old methods, 
 and strike out new and daring experiments. Hence 
 antiquity now is no passport to favour. However 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 417 
 
 venerable by age, every institution seems doomed to 
 undergo a searching investigation, and, if found want- 
 ing, to be irreverently hurled to the dust. The young 
 spirit of the age professes to be impatient with the 
 thin conventionalities and respectabilities of society, 
 and clamorous for facts and realities, for sunlight and 
 pure air. Hence its tone is somewhat supercilious 
 and cynical, its temper sceptical, and its efforts de- 
 structive. It names its enemies ^^Philistines” — foes 
 of the chosen people, the children of light. Those 
 who are imbued with the modern spirit say, what was 
 good for a past era will not do for the new day that 
 has dawned upon us ; we cannot live at second-hand, 
 cannot get on by tradition ; we, too, have minds and 
 hearts of our own ; heaven is doming over us, the 
 children of the nineteenth century, even as of old, 
 and we must think and act for ourselves ; we must 
 look into the heart of matters, and examine old 
 dogmas, opinions, and systems. The consequence 
 of all this is that, without cherishing many positive 
 convictions on social, political, or moral subjects, 
 the young spirit of the times has strong destructive 
 tendencies. The waster has come ; the work of the 
 pickaxe has begun ; the builder, with trowel and 
 hammer, to erect the new, has yet to appear. 
 
 I do not reckon this by any means the most beau- 
 tiful feature of our times ; still it may be indispens- 
 able as a transitional stage of affairs, and is not 
 
4i8 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 without its hopeful symptoms. The ruins must be 
 pulled down, and the rubbish removed, before the new 
 building can rise. At times, an old, filthy, death- 
 breeding quarter of a town has to be purified by fire ; 
 and though the spectacle is not pleasant, and the 
 danger to what is really good considerable, yet no- 
 thing would be effectual but the fire. So when man- 
 kind have outgrown the old methods, and feel the 
 stirrings of a new spirit within, an age of destruction 
 arrives, when rough democrats, as the demolishers, ' 
 get the upper hand. But let us comfort ourselves 
 with the reflection, that — 
 
 “ ’Tis but the ruin of the bad, 
 
 The wasting of the wrong and ill ; 
 
 Whate’er of good the old time had 
 Is living still.” 
 
 The conflagration will exhaust itself in due time. 
 The dust - cloud around the destructives will roll 
 away. A brighter era will come. Society cannot 
 live by destruction ; when the old is removed, the 
 new will come forth clear and radiant. What an age 
 of corruption and moral death was that when the 
 huge Roman Empire tumbled into pieces! The Goth, 
 Vandal, and Hun, like beasts of prey, scented the 
 carrion from afar, and never was there such a period 
 of utter devastation and ruin. But out of that wel- 
 tering chaos a new cosmos arose, and the present 
 industrial scientific era has been evolved from the 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 419 
 
 wreck. In fact, everything around us seems to get 
 on by a balance of antagonistic forces — by a sort of 
 tacit compromise. The earth keeps its orbit so stead- 
 ily in virtue of two opposing forces — the centrifugal 
 and centripetal — that balance one another, and estab- 
 lish a physical compromise. All our existing conti- 
 nents and islands hold their place under the influence 
 of the upheaving and degrading forces acting in con- 
 trary directions. So, too, society holds together in 
 virtue of the balance between the conservative and 
 radical tendencies of human nature. All ages, past 
 and present, have been, or are, marked by these two 
 antagonistic principles. The conservative takes his 
 stand upon the past, and trusts to the ascertained and 
 realised. ‘‘ This method,” he says, has worked well 
 in times past. Our forefathers found it sufficient ; why 
 should we not go by it in all time to come.^” He 
 shrinks from the untried, and dreads innovation and 
 experiment. He has got hold of a partial truth. 
 The radical, on the other hand, says, Away with 
 the old ; the world has done with it ; we want some- 
 thing better ; we must have progress.” His motto is 
 Go ahead that of the former, Halt and hold.” 
 The one is of the past, the other of the future. Each 
 system is partially true ; between their antagonistic 
 influences society moves on well. Were we to fall 
 under the entire government of the conservative 
 principle, we should become Chinese, and cease to 
 
420 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 improve ; were we wholly moved by the radical 
 principle, we should be mere revolutionists, breaking 
 and burning. Nature is wiser than either — strikes a 
 balance, and society is guided along the safe middle 
 path. 
 
 If, then, our age is tormented with doubts, fretful, 
 restless, questioning all things, grasping at changes, 
 yet without established convictions or a centre of 
 unity ; if democracy is abroad, with noisy demonstra- 
 tions and clamourings for advance, let us understand 
 that change is needed ; and, if rightly understood, 
 there is nothing alarming in this. Fearful wrongs 
 and abuses exist ; is it not hopeful when society 
 awakes and cries for their removal ? These impatient 
 cries give promise of a brighter day ; and assure us 
 that the evil is not irremediable. Tennyson strikes a 
 responsive chord in many a brave young heart, when 
 he sings, — 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons, forward, forward let us range; 
 
 Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 
 
 Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day ; 
 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 
 
 ‘‘ Mother- Age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun : 
 
 Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the 
 sun — 
 
 Oh ! I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set, 
 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet.” 
 
 Beyond all doubt, the promise of our age is bright ; 
 though it is very far indeed from perfection. These 
 very throes and convulsions that startle so many. 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 421 
 
 rightly considered, are hopeful. They indicate the 
 struggle that is going on between new and old ideas — 
 between the moving forces of the strong young era 
 that is, and the worn-out institutions of the past. 
 Deep, earnest thoughts are heaving the great heart 
 of humanity, and they must find expression. The 
 worst features of any age are apathy, contented igno- 
 rance, want of self-reliance, or moral despair. Beyond 
 all question, our age is self-sufficing to an extreme, 
 self-confident in boundless measure ; conscious of 
 great wants and fearful moral diseases, and resolute 
 in seeking a remedy. All these indicate vitality, 
 energy, progress. Of that moral stagnation that 
 indicates death, we see no symptoms. In fact, the 
 banner of our time bears the aspiring device, Excel- 
 sior.'' Whatever be its faults and shortcomings, at 
 all events its spirit is earnest and urgent for action. 
 It cries out for real work — for practical issues. Its 
 ‘‘ Psalm of Life" is — 
 
 “Not enjoyment and not sorrow 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Finds us further than to-day. 
 
 “ Trust no future, howe’er pleasant; 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 
 Act, act in the living Present ! 
 
 Heart within and God o’erhead. 
 
 “ Let us then be up and doing. 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing. 
 
 Learn to labour and to wait.” 
 
422 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 The spirit of the age may, therefore, be fairly 
 described as practical, earnest, hopeful. Sentimental 
 dreams it discards ; present duty it preaches ; hopeful 
 expectation it ceaselessly inculcates. All this seems 
 to clothe the future in promise. We may, without 
 any tinge of Utopianism, expect that the future will 
 see humanity carried to higher levels — will witness 
 many cruel wrongs swept away, and the introduction 
 of sweeter manners, purer laws.’' The real dreamers 
 are those who obstinately cling to the past, and 
 oppose advance. They are vainly opposing them- 
 selves to the laws of the universe ; for the whole 
 history of the past tells of progress. All noble souls, 
 in every age, — prophets, poets, lords of thoughts, — 
 have cherished a belief in human progress as their 
 dearest faith ; and have accepted the onward march 
 of humanity on earth as a pledge and foretaste of 
 endless progress in the skies. That belief, I think, is 
 deeper and stronger now than ever. The hope of 
 a good time coming” is cheering many a weary spirit 
 in the dusty highways of life. The gladdening notes 
 of the song of hope are penetrating dingy workshop 
 and busy factory, lonely cottage and crowded court 
 and lane ; and pale labour lifts its weary head, and a 
 flush of expectation mantles the pale cheek. Is not 
 the night far spent and the day at hand } Are 
 not these the roseate tints of morning in the eastern 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 423 
 
 Darkness wanes, behold the light! 
 
 Waken, brothers, and unite I 
 Waken and behold the dawn ! 
 
 See the eternal morning rise ! 
 
 And beneath the opening skies. 
 
 Waving forest, gleaming lawn, 
 
 Of returning Paradise !” 
 
 Without dwelling on what many would reckon the 
 imaginative aspects of our subject, we might easily 
 convince the most matter-of-fact mortals that our 
 age has great and substantial improvements to ex- 
 hibit; and that as far as comfort, convenience, and 
 the means of smoothing existence go, it is a much 
 pleasanter age to live in than any of those that have 
 preceded it. We are always discontented with the 
 present ; and perhaps it is best so. Discontent is the 
 parent of all improvement. For the privilege of 
 grumbling, a Briton will die as readily as for Magna 
 Charta. But let any subject of Queen Victoria, 
 possessed of a proper British appreciation of the 
 comforts and respectabilities of life, compare the 
 present age with any one of its predecessors, and then 
 say whether he would wish to have been born in an 
 earlier period of the world’s history. Would he, for 
 example, prefer to have seen the light in the ancient 
 city of Nineveh, so as to have had a hand in chiselling 
 those winged bulls, and hauling them to their pedes- 
 tals ? We admire the grand old pyramids of Egypt ; 
 but, at the same time, we may be very well satisfied 
 they were constructed before our day. Or, taking 
 
424 
 
 OUR MOTHER- A GE. 
 
 a great leap over the intervening centuries, need we 
 envy those who had the felicity of living under the 
 sceptre of Queen Anne, when England had no roads, 
 and when Prince George of Denmark, making a visit 
 to the Duke of Somerset, had to employ relays of 
 labourers to lift his coach with poles out of the various 
 ruts and quagmires of the way, and spent six hours 
 in getting over the last nine miles of his journey? In 
 fact, the sentimental talk of many about the ‘‘good 
 old times’" is sheer absurdity. Had they been born 
 in those dear departed times, they would have found 
 them very different from the image which their 
 imagination has constructed. Just think of having 
 been cast upon the world before the days of tea and 
 toast ; before the invention of carpets, umbrellas, 
 clean shirts, braces, and india-rubber coats and shoes ! 
 The last-named articles alone will, when generally 
 used, lengthen human life considerably. Fancy a 
 world without a newspaper or magazine ; without the 
 penny-post, railway, or telegraph ! How did people 
 live before turnips or potatoes were grown; before 
 the non-inebriating stimulants that now make our 
 tables cheerful and fragrant came into use ? Un- 
 happy ancestors, tealess and bathless, with your beer, 
 heavy bread, unbraced breeches, damp feet, and miry 
 roads, we envy you not ! In his “ History of England,” 
 Macaulay says, “ It is now the fashion to place the 
 golden age of England in times when noblemen were 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 425 
 
 destitute of comforts, the want of which would be in- 
 tolerable to a modern footman — when farmers and 
 shopkeepers breakfasted on loaves, the very sight of 
 which would raise a riot in a modern workhouse — 
 when men died faster in the purest country air than 
 they now do in the most pestilential lanes af our towns 
 — and when they died faster in our towns than they 
 now do on the coast of Guinea/' Sydney Smith thus 
 sums up, in his own graphic and humorous manner, 
 the improvements that had taken place in his lifetime ; 
 
 It is of some importance at what period a man is 
 born. A young man, alive at this period, hardly 
 knows to what improvements of human life he has 
 been introduced. I would bring before his notice 
 the following eighteen changes which have taken 
 place in England since I first began to breathe in it 
 the breath of life — a period amounting now to nearly 
 seventy-three years. Gas was unknown. I groped 
 about the streets of London in all but the utter dark- 
 ness of a twinkling oil-lamp, under the protection of 
 watchmen in their grand climacteric, and exposed to 
 every species of depredation and insult. In going 
 from Taunton to Bath, I suffered between ten and 
 twelve thousand severe contusions, before stone-break- 
 ing Macadam was born. I paid ;^I5 in a single year 
 for repairs of carriage-springs broken on the pavement 
 of London ; I now glide, without noise or fracture, on 
 wooden pavements. I can walk, by the assistance of 
 
426 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 the police, from one end of London to the other, with- 
 out molestation; or, if tired, get into a cheap and active 
 cab, instead of those cottages on wheels, which the 
 hackney coaches were at the beginning of my life. 
 I had no umbrella. They were little used, and very 
 dear. There were no water-proof hats ; and my hat 
 has often been reduced by rains into its primitive 
 pulp. I could not keep my small-clothes in their 
 proper place, for braces were unknown. If I had the 
 gout, there was no colchicum. If I were bilious, there 
 was no calomel. If I were attacked by ague, there 
 was no quinine. Quarrels about uncommuted tithes 
 were endless. The corruption of Parliament, before 
 reform, infamous. There were no banks to re- 
 ceive the savings of the poor. The poor-laws were 
 gradually sapping the vitals of the country ; and 
 whatever miseries I suffered, I had no post to whisk 
 my complaints, for a single penny, to the remotest 
 corners of the empire ; — and yet, in spite of all these 
 privations, I lived on quietly, and am now ashamed 
 that I was not more discontented, and utterly sur- 
 prised that all these changes and inventions did not 
 occur two centuries ago. I forgot to add, that as the 
 basket of stage-coaches, in which luggage was then 
 carried, had no springs, your clothes were rubbed to 
 pieces ; and that even in the best society, one-third 
 of the gentlemen, at least, were always drunk.’' 
 
 O n the whole, then, we may fairly conclude that 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 427 
 
 there is a rhythm in human history ; that we are 
 not merely marching and countermarching ; that 
 there is more than mere endless creation and de- 
 struction ; that there is real advance, and a gradual 
 elevation to nobler heights. I have dwelt hitherto 
 on what is bright and hopeful in our age ; but I am 
 not ignorant that the picture has its dark shadows. 
 Our Mother-Age presents many saddening and some 
 threatening symptoms. The millennium — prophecies 
 to the contrary, notwithstanding — must still be a long 
 way off. Terrible evils afflict our modern society. 
 While we have much outward material civilisation, 
 and great advances in science, in art, in the general 
 comforts of life, how slow is our moral progress ! It 
 cannot be denied that great dangers threaten our 
 modern civilisation, or rather semi-civilisation. These 
 dangers do not preach despair, but they emphatically 
 cry, All hands to work !” The men of our age have 
 to confront and solve terrible problems. These are 
 pressing for solution ; and if we cannot solve them, 
 or in selfish apathy refuse to entertain them, like the 
 fabled sphinx when her riddles were unread, they will 
 devour us. Look, for example, at that awful feature 
 of society, on which so many good men gaze sadly 
 and thoughtfully, the state of so many millions of our 
 labouring classes, deep sunk in ignorance, poverty, 
 vice, and irreligion ; and a lower stratum still, appal- 
 ling in its extent, in the lowest depths of degradation 
 
428 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 to which human beings can fall. Consider the posi- 
 tion of woman among these sunken masses ! With 
 wealth accumulated in large hoards, and threatening 
 to accumulate still more, we have hunger-bitten, bare- 
 backed poverty all around — men broken in body and 
 soul by heavy burdens, who by sorest toil can scarcely 
 earn the daily bread. Looking at the toiling, strug- 
 gling millions, whose lives are worn out in joyless 
 wrestling with want, and whose whole existence is 
 swallowed up in one terrible effort to drive back the 
 wolf from the door, we might well cry out, Is this 
 your boasted civilisation of the nineteenth century — 
 ‘ bread so dear, flesh and blood so cheap’ — the bulk 
 of our population scarce able to secure the first con- 
 dition of existence V After a thousand years of 
 human effort, is this the result? To a thoughtful 
 mind there is something very solemn, if not deeply 
 saddening, in the aspect of one of our great cities of 
 the present era, such as London, Paris, or New York. 
 Walk through the main streets, and you see only 
 splendour, luxury, overflowing abundance, magnifi- 
 cent buildings, shops where the richest products of 
 human industry are displayed, and for the supply of 
 which all creation has been ransacked. Every con- 
 ceivable means of ministering to human comfort, 
 taste, luxury, and pride, meet the eye in glittering 
 heaps. And then the gay throngs that roll along 
 these thoroughfares of commerce, how comfortable 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 429 
 
 apparently their existence! — glittering splendour 
 around, industry, science, commerce, laying trophies 
 at their feet! But step aside only a few paces from 
 all this luxury and refinement, and you find yourself 
 in poverty’s squalid abode — in the midst of loath- 
 some wretchedness, and moral degradation of the 
 lowest type. Here the poor outcasts, the wild 
 Arabs of the streets,” and multitudes, too, of the 
 honest, toiling poor, are heaped and huddled to- 
 gether in the filthy lane, the pestiferous court, the 
 dark, fetid alley, breathing a poisonous atmosphere, 
 that reeks with contagion and death. The sweet air 
 of heaven finds no entrance here ; the sun’s rays 
 struggle faintly through the darkened air. Here 
 disease, in its most hideous forms, is unceasingly at 
 work — consumption, cholera, typhus, holding their 
 endless revels. The outward darkness and degrada- 
 tion are only a type of the mental and moral dark- 
 ness of thousands who find no other abode. Passing 
 through these circles of prosperity, and all this mag- 
 nificent girdle of refinement in the great thorough- 
 fares, and these arteries filled with commerce, might 
 we not enter this moral wilderness, these alleys of 
 poverty, and sit down and weep over these victims of 
 destitution and evil passions ? Without hope or pur- 
 pose — with little to gladden existence — and, alas ! 
 little thought of the dawning eternity, their life drags 
 along. Here the fierce gnawings of hunger are felt 
 
430 
 
 0 UR MO THER-A GE. 
 
 seizing the strong man by the throat, and killing the 
 infant in its mother’s arms. Here physical abomina- 
 tions pollute the breath of life, and sap away the 
 strength ; and all the sweet charities, the tender 
 affections, the love that binds parent to child, sicken 
 and die. Vice has no shame and no disguise here ; 
 and stalks about in her most hideous and revolting 
 aspects. The bottle brings the stupor of beastly in- 
 toxication to ease the hearts of the sad, and drown 
 the wretchedness of the present. The prosperous 
 gin-palace and pawn-shop tell a wretched tale. What 
 a training-ground for immortal souls ! Only vice, 
 brute-passion, and nameless abominations can thrive 
 in this hot-bed of all that is vile. In these moral 
 tombs there is no soil for the ideals that glorify our 
 nature to take root. God is but a dark cloud of 
 muttering thunder in the soul ; womanhood is dis- 
 crowned and dishevelled ; and childhood trained in 
 wickedness, and steeped in the evil passions that 
 rages like a hell all around. How dark and inscrut- 
 able human destiny appears, as we look in on these 
 terrible abodes, where immortal spirits are struggling 
 amid such destructive surroundings ! How poor seem 
 all the victories of our gorgeous civilisation, when 
 they leave untouched all this mass of men and 
 women, formed in the image of God ! Here is a sad 
 and humbling off-set to the pomp and glitter of our 
 world-embracing commerce — wealth accumulating. 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 431 
 
 men decaying, perishing! Nay, many of these are 
 the victims of our civilisation ; and the very circum- 
 stances in which they are placed, are the very results 
 and conditions of our boasted progress in things 
 material. Here is a picture of the toiling masses, 
 drawn by Hood, the poet of the poor : — 
 
 “ Who does not see them sally 
 From mill and garret and room, 
 
 In lane and court and alley, 
 
 From homes in poverty’s lowest valley, 
 
 Furnish’d with shuttle and loom, — 
 
 Poor slaves of civilisation’s galley, — 
 
 And in the road and footways rally. 
 
 As if for the day of doom ? 
 
 Some of hardly human form. 
 
 Stunted, crook’d, and crippled by toil ; 
 
 Dingy with smoke and dust and oil. 
 
 And smirch’d besides with vicious soil. 
 
 Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm. 
 
 Father, mother, and careful child. 
 
 Looking as if it had never smiled — 
 
 The seamstress lean, and weary and wan, 
 
 With only the ghosts of garments on — 
 
 The weaver, her sallow neighbour. 
 
 The grim and sooty artisan ; 
 
 Every soul — child, woman, and man — 
 
 Who lives, or dies, by labour. 
 
 Stirr’d by an overwhelming zeal. 
 
 And social impulse, a terrible throng ! 
 
 Leaving shuttle, and needle and wheel. 
 
 Furnace and grindstone, spindle and reel. 
 
 Thread and yarn, and iron and steel — 
 
 Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal — 
 
 Gushing, rushing, crushing along, 
 
 A very torrent of man ! 
 
 Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong. 
 
 Grown at last to a hurricane strong. 
 
 Stop its course who can ! 
 
432 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 Stop who can its onward course ! 
 
 And irresistible moral force — 
 
 Oh, vain and idle dream ! 
 
 For surely as men are all akin, 
 
 Whether of fair or sable skin, 
 
 According to nature’s scheme. 
 
 That human movement contains within 
 A blood-power stronger than steam.” 
 
 Surrounded as we are, served and enriched by the 
 splendid agents of modern civilisation, we are in dan- 
 ger of concluding that the material achievement is 
 the highest achievement ; that the one thing needful 
 is to accumulate capital and secure wealth ; that the 
 problem of life is solved by the application of ma- 
 chinery, and thus of losing sight of the great firma- 
 ment of immortality amid the flash and din of the 
 flying wheels. We need something to remind us that 
 the most genuine progress is not that which gives us 
 a stronger grasp of the material world, but that which 
 lifts us to higher moral levels, enriches the inner life, 
 and enlarges our spiritual being. The lesson we need 
 most of all to learn is, that the railway, the steam- 
 driven ocean-ranger, and power-loom are real triumphs 
 only when moral earnestness and Christian charity 
 work through them all for ends that bring happiness 
 to man and glory to God ; and that if they become 
 merely ministers to human greed, or instruments of 
 cruelty and injustice to our brothers, they will prove 
 not blessings, but curses. We need to be constantly 
 reminded that there is a power higher than that of 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 433 
 
 steam, nobler than mechanic force — the might of 
 Christian love; and that man has that within him 
 which is more precious than all the treasures of earth. 
 Turning from these busy factories and roaring fur- 
 naces, we must fix our eyes more steadily on that 
 humanity that is now suffering and toiling and sin- 
 ning, and feel that here are higher interests than those 
 of capital, and problems waiting for solution more im- 
 portant than any that science or commerce has yet 
 presented. How to elevate, civilise, and save these 
 sunken classes, these savages of civilisation — how to 
 deal with our pauperism and crime, and with the mul- 
 titudes who are now hovering on the verge of both, 
 and painfully, but nobly, struggling to keep out of 
 the devouring whirlpool, — that is the great problem 
 for our age to solve, and one calling for all the intel- 
 lect and virtue of the times. To reclaim these fallen 
 brothers, to humanise these outcasts, to get them out 
 of this living death, and to prevent the vast multi- 
 tudes who are drifting towards this maelstrom from 
 being drawn in, — this is a task for statesmen, philo- 
 sophers, divines, and philanthropists. The problem, 
 too, is pressing for a speedy solution, and cannot be 
 ignored. These dangerous classes ’’ may precipitate 
 themselves on the wealthy governing class, and, in 
 the volcanic throes of a social revolution, modern 
 society may speedily be reduced to chaos. These 
 
 foul plague-spots must be healed, or death will be the 
 
 2 E 
 
434 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 result. One cheering sign is that the disease is known, 
 and the causes of it are getting investigated. It is 
 now seen not to be confined to the great manufactur- 
 ing cities, but that every town, every village, furnishes 
 its cases in greater or less proportions. Even the 
 colonies, as we know here by bitter experience, are 
 getting more deeply tainted. Republican America, 
 with all her unoccupied lands and immense prosper- 
 ity, feels already pauperism and crime gnawing at 
 her vitals : — 
 
 “ Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher.” 
 This is the danger that menaces our civilisation— 
 this hungry, ignorant, hopeless people ; those helpless 
 dumb millions weltering in a gulf that is daily widen- 
 ing, and if not filled up will one day swallow all. 
 
 I think most thoughtful men are getting to see 
 that this terrible disease of modern society will by no 
 means cure itself ; but that if let alone it must get 
 worse and worse. The conviction, too, is making way 
 that the modern poor-law, though a great improve- 
 ment on the old arrangement, is no cure, but only a 
 temporary expedient, necessary for the moment, to 
 save human beings from death by hunger ; but cal- 
 culated, in the end, to perpetuate or increase the evil. 
 It is not a very cheering spectacle when, in the words 
 of Carlyle, British liberty, shuddering to interfere 
 with the rights of capital, takes six or eight millions 
 of money annually to feed the idle labourer whom it 
 
0 UR MO THER-A GE. 
 
 435 
 
 dare not employ.’’ The great doctrine, too, that “ to 
 buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest,” 
 and, for the rest, to rely on unlimited competition,” 
 is getting to be suspected as not embodying the gos- 
 pel by which our era is to work out its deliverance. 
 In fact, wise men see that there can be no one remedy 
 — no panacea for expelling the complicated diseases 
 of society. To reach the seat of the disease, it is now 
 plain the remedy must be mamly moral in its nature ; 
 though, hand in hand with this, physical improvement 
 must be carried on. Ministration to the souls of men 
 must be accompanied by ministration to their bodies. 
 The gospel of pure air, personal cleanliness, and 
 wholesome dwellings, must be preached and practised 
 along with that higher gospel that brings healing and 
 cleansing to the soul. Practical Christianity in the 
 heart, flowing out into action, will proclaim and carry 
 out both. This was the method adopted by the 
 world’s Redeemer — not teaching alone — not help for 
 the sin-sick soul alone, but also for the weakness and 
 wants of the body. The paralytic He healed — the 
 leper He cleansed — the demoniac He delivered — the 
 sick He restored. Thus, too, must we vanquish the 
 world’s evils, soothe humanity’s sorrows, by removing 
 the foul, unwholesome conditions in which our suffer- 
 ing brothers are plunged ; while at the same time we 
 address ourselves to their immortal part. We shall 
 err and fail, if we ignore the fact that man is an incar- 
 
436 
 
 O UR MO THER-A GE. 
 
 nate spirit, and that this spirit can often be approached 
 only through outward and material conditions. The 
 noblest and most hopeful charities now at work 
 among the sunken masses, are those which follow out 
 the Saviour’s plan of comfort and relief for the body, 
 and instruction for the soul ; which teaches the poor 
 how to help themselves, to assert their own manhood, 
 and support themselves by the labour of their own 
 hands. This is what we want — Christianity, in its 
 beauty and power, for the heart ; and education, in 
 the spirit of the gospel, to give light and guidance to 
 these dark bewildered millions. These must be the 
 main appliances ; but with these other remedies will 
 be combined. Labour, surely, might be better orga- 
 nised than at present ; the relation between employer 
 and employed might be made more kindly whole- 
 some and just — might have more confidence on both 
 sides infused into it. Our horrible mammon-worship 
 might be abated ; human energies might be directed 
 to nobler ends by nobler methods. Emigration from 
 old and over-crowded communities, where men are 
 choking one another, as in the Black Hole of Calcutta, 
 might be organised on a grand scale ; and instead of 
 being left, as now, to blind chance, or the prompting 
 of interested knaves and fools, and the feebleness of 
 unguided individual effort, men might be led out, 
 under wise and kind captains of industry,” to culti- 
 vate the unoccupied plains and fertile savannas of 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 437 
 
 the West and East. The future will, doubtless, evolve 
 projects of this nature, for the removal of existing 
 evils. And when education is felt to be the birth- 
 right of every human being ; and when religion be- 
 comes the great working power of human society, 
 animating to duty, and nerving to effort and self- 
 denial, then may the poet’s vision become a reality, — 
 
 “For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 
 
 Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be : 
 
 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. 
 
 Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales, 
 
 Till the war drum throbb’d no longer, and the battle flags were furl’d. 
 In the parliament of man, the federation of the world — 
 
 There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
 And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.” 
 
 I have only a word or two to say, in closing, on the 
 literature of our age. That literature is becoming 
 more and more a mighty power in society, is evident 
 enough ; and this is but the natural result of intellec- 
 tual, social, and moral advance. In fact, the influence 
 that one man of genuine power can now wield by his 
 pen — the omnipotence of thought when directed by 
 genius, are among the most cheering signs of the 
 times, and give most glorious promise for the future. 
 The vast increase in our current literature is proof of 
 a vastly widened circle of readers ; and shews how 
 extensively mind has become awakened among the 
 great masses of our population. Very cheering, too, 
 is the growing tendency to cheapen wholesome litera- 
 ture, so as to bring it within the reach of all classes. 
 
438 
 
 OVR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 This will help to lift the working classes above animal 
 indulgences and brutalising pleasures, elevating them 
 in the scale of being, and helping to give the man a 
 mastery over the animal. The quality of our litera- 
 ture, too, is another proof of progress. Take a peri- 
 odical of the present day and compare it with a 
 similar production of fifty years ago, and what an 
 immense improvement is discernible — what freedom, 
 depth, and power, in handling the subject — what 
 enlarged and enlightened views compared with those 
 that formerly prevailed. Morally, as well as intellec- 
 tually, the productions of literature are of a higher 
 type. Our reviews and magazines number among 
 their contributors some of the ablest writers of the 
 day ; and, for the most part, fairly and honestly 
 instruct the public taste. Our fictitious literature has 
 assumed a high place, and, on the whole, is exerting 
 a healthful influence, making us at once wiser and 
 happier, more charitable, tolerant, and loving. Rarely, 
 if ever, does impurity now sully its pages; for the 
 most part, its influence is entirely on the side of 
 virtue and good morals. And what an immense 
 audience our writers of fiction have now obtained ; 
 what a congregation do these week-day preachers 
 constantly address. With what fine creations they 
 have peopled the fairy realms of fancy! Like friends 
 and brothers, they come to us in our lonely hours, to 
 cheer and brighten our daily life, — 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 439 
 
 “ That the night may be fill’d with music, 
 
 And the cares that infest the day, 
 
 May fold their tents like the Arabs, 
 
 And as silently steal away.” 
 
 Then consider our newspaper press — the greatest 
 educator of the day. What a different thing it is 
 from the days of old, and how mighty its influence! 
 How brilliant the talent it exhibits ! How fearlessly 
 it aims its blows, even against the most exalted per- 
 sonages, when guilty of wrong-doing 1 What a won- 
 derful world-history the daily paper presents, to be 
 enjoyed with the morning meal. In fact, here are the 
 materials out of which future Macaulays will construct 
 history. On the whole, the great stream of news- 
 paper literature is bearing blessings on its bosom : 
 the immoral portion of it is getting weaker and dis- 
 appearing ; the healthful and elevating is commanding 
 a wider influence. The weekly newspaper press has 
 now representatives of th^ highest excellence, and the 
 superior quality of the writing, in the thoughtful and 
 often profound essays on current topics contained in 
 their columns, indicates at once the genuine power 
 and culture of the contributors, and the growing 
 taste for literary excellence among those whom they 
 address. 
 
 The conclusion of the whole matter, then, is — that 
 human progress is a great reality, not a dream of 
 enthusiasm; that nobler manners, purer laws, juster 
 and truer thoughts, are making way; and that, how- 
 
440 
 
 OUR MOTHER-AGE, 
 
 ever slowly, man is really rising to a loftier place in 
 God’s universe — to a nobler life and a higher blessed- 
 ness. We are yet far enough from the best, but we 
 can point to substantial, undeniable gains — to solid 
 improvements. With Bacon, we hold that these are 
 '' the old times for earth and man are older now 
 than they ever were ; and as the vegetable soil is an 
 accumulation from the riches of former creations, so 
 the life of humanity now contains the best life and 
 fruition of the past, along with a fresh vitality of its 
 own. I have boundless faith in our modern progress, 
 because it originated in our Divine Christianity, and 
 is upheld by that faith in God and man, and that 
 charity, kindled by the gospel of Christ, which seek 
 to clasp the wide world in the arms of their mercy. 
 The impulse to which we owe all real progress has 
 been imparted by that religion which recognises the 
 dignity, sanctity, and worth of the human soul, and 
 beholds in every man, how^ever depraved and fallen, 
 a priceless jewel, for the recovery of which angels are 
 solicitous, and for the redemption of which the 
 Saviour died. This is the great truth that gives 
 energy to the beautiful philanthropy that is the glory 
 of our age, and sends it forth on its mission among 
 the guilt and misery, the wrongs and injustice, the 
 darkest depravities of our race, to search out the 
 degraded outcast, the poor struggling victims of 
 poverty and sin, to lift from the dust and restore the 
 
OUR MOTHER-AGE. 
 
 441 
 
 children of our Father in heaven. And have we not 
 reason to rejoice and look to the future with hope, 
 when we see in our great cities the doleful regions of 
 poverty, vice, and crime becoming girdled round by 
 the loveliest Christian charities ; the church, the 
 ragged school, the district mission, the clothing club, 
 the savings-bank, springing up in the very hot-beds 
 of iniquity, that have hitherto been the shame of our 
 civilisation ? Gentle and loving hands are stretched 
 out to help the fallen ; and by wise guidance and 
 attention to the body as well as the soul, to make 
 them self-helpful and self-respecting. Let us hope 
 that these noble efforts, prompted and sustained by 
 Christian motives, will yet make these moral deserts 
 rejoice and blossom like the rose.’' 
 
LECTURE THE TENTH. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 The text of this discourse, I am bound to admit, is 
 distressingly commonplace. For the last two hundred 
 years or more, this phrase, Knowledge is power,’' 
 has been bandied about. Scholars of the highest 
 rank have quoted the famous saying, and placed it 
 as a motto on their title-page ; and philosophers, as 
 they ascended the steeps of science, have inscribed 
 it on their banner. In our own day, however, this 
 highly-respected aphorism has ceased to obtain cur- 
 rency in the higher circles of literature. It has, in 
 fact, to some extent lost caste, and become vulgar- 
 ised. From a great truth it has passed into a truism. 
 The very schoolmaster has got it for a copy-line, and 
 embodied it among the choice moral maxims that his 
 penmanship sets before the eyes of the rising genera- 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 443 
 
 tion. People have become so bored with this stereo- 
 typed phrase, that they are inclined to vote it a nui- 
 sance that must be abolished. Even this is not the 
 worst. Ever since the aphorism has got into circula- 
 tion, it has passed current under the name of Bacon. 
 All the world agreed in attributing the pithy saying 
 to this great philosopher, and no doubt was suggested 
 as to its authorship. Eminent scholars have quoted 
 it with the venerable name of Bacon attached. Sir 
 Archibald Alison, in the new series of his History 
 of Europe,” does so ; and many a better read man 
 has done the same thing before. In Sir E. B. Lyt- 
 ton’s My Novel,” the world is amusingly proved to 
 have been hoaxed in believing the saying to have 
 come from the pen of Bacon. Bulwer makes the 
 sage Ricabocca exclaim indignantly, Bacon make 
 such an aphorism ! The last man in the world to 
 have said anything so pert and so shallow.” Then 
 he proceeds to assail it fiercely ; and having turned 
 it inside out, he shakes it with contempt in the face of 
 the community ; shewing that it must be understood 
 with many limitations, if it has any truth at all ; and 
 that, in its common acceptation, it is worthless. Ring- 
 ing it hard, he finds it to be base coin, falsely bearing 
 the superscription of Bacon, and he deliberately nails 
 it to the counter. Thus, you see, the reputation of 
 my text is not merely cracked, but absolutely rent 
 asunder. It has been legally convicted of obtaining 
 
444 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 respect under false pretences. The words are really 
 not Bacon’s. They occur, I believe, in the index to 
 some early edition of his works ; but, in all prob- 
 ability, the author of them was some unknown editor, 
 or nameless bookseller’s hack, to whom the task of 
 making an index had been consigned. Altogether, 
 the case is a striking illustration how easy it is to im- 
 pose on the world ; but it also reminds us that in the 
 end the impostor is sure to be detected. 
 
 After all, I am inclined to think that there is some 
 genuine worth, and a real body of truth, in a saying 
 that has been current so long, and that has gained 
 and kept the ear of the world for such a length of 
 time. Though Bacon did not write it, still men con- 
 versant with his writings felt that it expressed, forcibly 
 and clearly, the subtance of much that he wrote, and, 
 without examination, let it pass current under his 
 name, as not unworthy the profoundest of modern 
 thinkers. With all proper deference, then, to so great 
 an authority as Bulwer, who has pointed out the mis- 
 take under which the world was labouring, we may 
 venture to say that, though Bacon did not write it, 
 yet he might, could, would, or should” have written 
 it. While we rectify the blunder as to its author- 
 ship, let us not rush to the extreme of discarding 
 it as worthless. The words, I think, embody cor- 
 rectly a great and valuable truth ; and rightly under- 
 stood, with proper reservations, and connected with 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 445 
 
 co-ordinate truths, are still worthy of respect and 
 attention. Let us see in what sense it is everlast- 
 ingly true that knowledge is power.’' 
 
 It frequently saves a world of mistakes and mis- 
 apprehension to define clearly the terms we use. I 
 begin, therefore, by a definition of the word know- 
 ledge.” It is the peculiar distinction and glory of 
 man that he is gifted with reason — that ray from the 
 Divine Intelligence. In the exercise of this power, 
 he can look abroad upon the universe and observe 
 and classify what he perceives around him ; he can 
 mark individual objects and occurrences, and from 
 these deduce general laws, and thus rise to first prin- 
 ciples. He can treasure up his attainments, work 
 them into new combinations, and record his obser- 
 vations. All this he does, in virtue of that intellec- 
 tual power with which the Creator has gifted him. 
 Just in the same way that the eye is fitted to receive 
 the rays of light, and to transmit a picture of external 
 objects to the seat of sensation, so is the mind of man 
 fitted to observe and comprehend the outward uni- 
 verse. It is not more certain that the eye is adapted 
 to light, than that the mind is adapted to the com- 
 prehension of God’s creation. Here, on the one hand, 
 is the glorious universe spread around us ; here^ on 
 the other hand, is the intellect in which it is to be 
 mirrored in its shadows and sunshine. The Creator 
 has thus expressly formed the mind of man for the 
 
446 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 comprehension of His wonderful works — for the ac- 
 quisition of truth — that is, for the perception of facts 
 as they are. The human intellect is the great truth- 
 organ ; realities, as they exist, are the objects of its 
 study; and knowledge is the result of its acquaint- 
 ance with the things to which it is related. You will 
 at once see that knowledge, in this broad and philo- 
 sophic sense, embraces the study of the two worlds 
 of matter and mind. All possible subjects of human 
 thought belong either to the material or spiritual de- 
 partment of existence. A knowledge of matter em- 
 braces an acquaintance with its laws, properties, and 
 relations — with its modes of action and the results of 
 its combinations. This is science in the widest sense 
 of the term, and it has for its object the whole physi- 
 cal creation. The knowledge of mind, again, includes 
 within its wide sweep God, the Supreme Intelligence, 
 the mental and moral faculties of man, his position, 
 destiny, and duties, and his doings during the past, as 
 recorded in the pages of history. These, then, are 
 the objects of knowledge in the most extended sense, 
 and it is obvious that no created intelligence could 
 become perfectly acquainted with the whole. Know- 
 ledge, perfect and unlimited, belongs only to the In- 
 finite Mind, who created the whole, and therefore com- 
 prehends every part and every relation. The know- 
 ledge even of the highest created intelligence must be 
 limited, and admit of continual advancement. The 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 447 
 
 most exalted of the angelic beings, to whose pene- 
 trating, far-glancing intellect many worlds — nay, per- 
 haps, the whole of that strip of creation on which man 
 gazes when he turns the telescope to the heavens — 
 may be matter of intimate knowledge, could never 
 exhaust the works of the Creator, but throughout 
 eternity will find enough to employ all his soaring 
 faculties. It is but the most insignificant fraction of 
 creation that the mightiest mind on earth can know ; 
 and even that little is known but in part. The lof- 
 tiest intellect therefore, well aware how small a pro- 
 portion the known bears to the unknown, will ever be 
 the humblest. At the close of a long life spent in the 
 study of nature’s profoundest mysteries, Newton said, 
 I feel that I am but like a child who has been amus- 
 ing himself by collecting a few bright shells along the 
 sea-shore — the great ocean of truth still lies undis- 
 covered before me.” A memorable utterance — worthy 
 of the profound and reverential intellect that did so 
 much to extend the boundaries of knowledge. But 
 though our knowledge is necessarily limited, here is 
 our encouragement — it progressive. We cannot here 
 know the whole, or even any portion, perfectly ; but 
 we can lay the foundation on which a lofty super- 
 structure can be reared afterwards ; we can become 
 acquainted with some portion of the works of the 
 Infinite Mind ; we can enter on that glorious career 
 of study for which the Creator designed all His intel- 
 
448 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 Hgent creatures — a study of that universe which is a 
 realisation of His own thought. It is this that gives 
 to the acquisition of knowledge all its dignity, gran- 
 deur, and importance ; that it is the employment God 
 designed for man when He gifted him with reason, 
 and made him but a little lower than the angels ; ” 
 that in studying the universe, he is labouring to com- 
 prehend the thoughts and works of the Father of all, 
 from whose creative hand all comes into existence ; 
 and that thus he is fulfilling his destiny, perfecting 
 his nature, and rising in the scale of being nearer and 
 nearer to the soaring cherubim. It is this that throws 
 a halo of glory around man’s path, and gives import- 
 ance to his feeble and imperfect efforts in the acqui- 
 sition of knowledge ; that every step is leading him^ 
 onward and upward in the scale of being, and devel- 
 oping his powers ; and that when he here sits down 
 to acquire the principles of any science, or to engage 
 in any investigation, he is conquering a portion of 
 the limitless kingdom that has been assigned him ; 
 that he is coming nearer to the source of all know- 
 ledge, and entering on the employment of eternity. 
 Viewed in this light, and pursued with such a pur- 
 pose, knowledge is sacred, and the pursuit of it a 
 solemn duty. In the highest and noblest sense, there- 
 fore, knowledge is power, as it raises man in the scale 
 of being, and develops those exalted faculties with 
 which his Creator has endowed him. 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 449 
 
 Let us advance to another view of the matter. If 
 we consider the condition of man, as he has been 
 placed on earth, we see at once that wanting know- 
 ledge, in the sense in which I have defined it, he is 
 weak and helpless ; with knowledge, he becomes 
 powerful and victorious. He finds himself placed in 
 the midst of a vast theatre, with the stupendous 
 powers of nature at work around him. He gazes at 
 first, in stupid astonishment, at the working of these 
 forces, which he can neither arrest nor control. He 
 seems a hapless stranger in a bleak unfriendly world. 
 But that seemingly barren earth has wondrous capa- 
 bilities. Within its bosom are the principles of fer- 
 tility ; and it needs but that man should acquire a 
 knowledge of its capabilities, in order to render the 
 soil productive by his labour, clothe the face of nature 
 in beauty, scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,” and 
 make the desert rejoice and blossom as the rose.” 
 Thus it is that knowledge renders man lord of 
 creation. Ignorant, he is a rude, helpless savage. 
 He cannot, indeed, control the mighty agencies of 
 nature. He cannot arrest the majestic river as it 
 rolls its torrents to the ocean ; but he can make it 
 his servant, to water his fields, to drive his machinery, 
 or float his merchandise. He cannot dry up the 
 ocean, nor check its tides, nor chain its winds ; but 
 he can launch the strong-knit bark, and spread his 
 
 canvas to the breeze ; or calling to his aid the giant 
 
 2 F 
 
450 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 power of steam, he can almost defy the force of wind 
 and wave, in his stately ocean-ranger, that walks the 
 waters like a thing of life.” He began by floating 
 some little lake-canoe constructed of bark, or by 
 scooping out a boat from a tree with his stone 
 hatchet ; and after many centuries of progress, he 
 finds himself lord of the mighty sea.” And see how 
 he has tamed the lower animals, and made them his 
 servants ! Mark how his tool-bearing hand has 
 bridged the river, constructed the road, covered the 
 earth with cities and palaces, and converted the 
 tangled forest and the dismal swamp into the lovely 
 landscape. Leaving earth, he has pierced the depths 
 of the dark-blue heavens, numbered the stars, weighed 
 the planets, tracked the comet’s flaming course, 
 gauged the depths of the milky way, resolved the 
 mysterious nebulae, — the cloud-land of creation, — 
 and read off nature’s mighty laws in the starry 
 scriptures of the skies.” All this, man — the in- 
 tellectual monad — the only atom of organic life 
 on earth that can grapple with the enigma of the 
 universe— has done in virtue of that capability 
 of acquiring knowledge with which his Creator has 
 gifted him. When I look at man’s achievements, I 
 cannot but think with awe of the vast powers with 
 which he has been intrusted — of the glorious nature 
 he possesses. Is there not within him a spark of the 
 Divinity "i Though clay, he is not all clay ; but a 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 45 1 
 
 wondrous union of the material and spiritual — of the 
 mortal and immortal. It is such views of man as 
 these that add force to the voice of that revelation 
 which unveils his immortality. It is the suggestion 
 of a deathless existence, to which this life is but the 
 introduction, that lends solemnity to his studies, and 
 anxiety to his pantings after that knowledge which 
 has a bearing on the seen and the unseen. 
 
 Nothing gives us a more exalted idea of the 
 triumphs over the material world which man has 
 achieved by means of knowledge, than to contrast 
 the present era with some of its predecessors. Let 
 me present you with a single illustration. In the 
 year 1754 the following advertisement appeared in 
 the only newspaper Edinburgh could then boast of, 
 the Courant : — 
 
 “The Edinburgh stage-coach, for the better ac- 
 commodation of passengers, will be altered to a new, 
 genteel, two-end glass coach-machine, hung on steel 
 springs, exceeding light and easy, to go to London 
 in ten days in summer and twelve in winter ; — to set 
 out the first Tuesday in March, and continue it from 
 Hosea Eastgate’s, the Coach and Horses, in Dean 
 Street, Soho, London, and from John Sommerville’s, 
 in the Canongate, Edinburgh, every other Tuesday ; 
 and meet at Burrowbridge on Saturday night, and 
 set out from thence on Monday morning, and get to 
 London and Edinburgh on Friday. Passengers to 
 
452 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 pay as usual. Performed, if God permits, by your 
 dutiful servant, HOSEA Eastgate.’' 
 
 Thus you see, according to this announcement, 
 honest Hosea, a century ago, started his '^two-end 
 glass coach-machine'' on Tuesday morning from 
 Edinburgh, and on the following Friday week, if no 
 break-down took place, or no untoward mishap by 
 highwaymen occurred on the way, his passengers 
 were set down, with many an aching joint, I fear, in 
 Dean Street, Soho, London. Travellers had ample 
 time to look around them in those easy-going times, 
 and enjoy the beauties of the landscape. The 
 express train whirls passengers over the same dis- 
 tance now in ten hours, so that you may breakfast 
 in Edinburgh and be in time for a late dinner in 
 London; and, if so inclined, you may enjoy a com- 
 fortable nap by the way. No suffering from jolts 
 now — no fear of being called upon by a highway- 
 man to stand and deliver." What makes the dif- 
 ference between 1754 and 1864.^ The expansion of 
 that knowledge which is power." 
 
 Let me bring before you another view of the sub- 
 ject. It is quite possible to prove that the greater 
 the amount of human knowledge, the greater becomes 
 man's power of lessening the evils that press upon 
 him, and consequently of adding to his happiness. 
 We have seen that knowledge means an acquaintance 
 with some portions of the worlds of matter and mind. 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 453 
 
 Even a slender amount of knowledge shews us that 
 we are placed under a great system of law — that both 
 the material and moral worlds are regulated by an 
 unvarying code of laws. By attaching a penalty, 
 more or less severe, to the violation of these laws, 
 the Creator has intimated that they are the expres- 
 sion of His will, and that He requires obedience to 
 them on our part. If we transgress them, we are 
 punished ; if we obey, we are rewarded. So that our 
 happiness lies in obedience ; our misery is caused by 
 disobedience to ’moral and material laws. We can- 
 not, however, obey laws of which we are ignorant. 
 Moreover, these laws are written, not in statute-books, 
 but in the majestic volume of nature; and must be 
 studied, often painfully deciphered, and thoroughly 
 understood, by the exercise of our rational powers. 
 Hence, to place ourselves in harmony with the uni- 
 verse, and in intelligent obedience to the requirements 
 of our Creator, we must first understand these laws ; 
 and the more perfectly we comprehend them, the 
 more power we shall possess to avoid misery and 
 secure happiness. Knowledge, therefore, is directly 
 conducive to our wellbeing ; ignorance will lead us 
 to transgress in a thousand instances. Thus, for ex- 
 ample, there are certain laws of our bodily constitu- 
 tion, on the observance of which health depends. If 
 we breathe a polluted atmosphere, if we neglect 
 cleanliness, or fail to secure a due amount of bodily 
 
454 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 exercise, we sow the seeds of disease, and we must 
 suffer. Gluttony and drunkenness are followed by 
 their appointed penalties. If a nation permits a por- 
 tion of its people to sink into a state of savage bru- 
 tality, and to huddle together in dens of filth and 
 wretchedness, in the courts and lanes of great cities,, 
 where the sun never shines, and the sweet breath 
 of heaven never blows — where the dark, polluted 
 dwelling is a type of the darkened, polluted soul, 
 — inevitably the deadly typhus and cholera sweep 
 down, vindicating Heaven’s outraged laws, and for- 
 cibly reminding the rich and educated, by spread- 
 ing these diseases among themselves, from the in- 
 fected districts, that these savages of civilisation are 
 their brothers, and that they have been criminally 
 negligent of their duties towards them. Science 
 steps in, and points to the physical law that has 
 been violated, and demonstrates that the disease is 
 no chance production — no mysterious visitation, and 
 that the abomination must be removed before the 
 punishment will cease. The root of the evil is thus 
 laid bare ; the connexion between the punishment 
 and the transgression is made clear ; and so far know- 
 ledge exerts a beneficent influence. Though it cannot 
 root out human selfishness, yet it can forcibly appeal 
 to self-interest ; and by shewing the true remedy, it 
 can indirectly arouse benevolent effort, and shame 
 men out of their greed and hard-heartedness. Al- 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 455 
 
 ready many a disease that was once considered the 
 mysterious judgment of an angry God, has been 
 removed, when advancing knowledge discovered it 
 to be the result of a flagrant transgression of some 
 physical law. Ignorance of any law is never in the 
 order of nature admitted as a plea or apology for 
 transgression. Our ancestors were, from ignorance, 
 sufferers from frightful diseases that are now entirely 
 unknown. Small-pox was once the scourge of the 
 race, carrying off many thousands of victims annually, 
 and disfiguring for life where it did not kill. Vac- 
 cination has almost delivered us from the plague. 
 Cleanliness and improved modes of life have freed us 
 from many other awful diseases. Sanitary science 
 has shewn what are the producing causes of fever, 
 ague, consumption, cholera ; it has mapped the chosen 
 homes of pestilence in our great cities ; and when the 
 cause is known, benevolence and self-interest will 
 rush to the rescue. Medical science, though it is far 
 enough from perfection, has done much to mitigate 
 human woe. The amputation of a limb was once a 
 fearful operation, the effusion of blood being stopped 
 by searing the raw surface with red-hot irons ; and 
 with the shrieks of the unhappy sufferers, the hissing 
 of human flesh, and the groans of the dying, an 
 hospital was an awful place in the olden time. Now 
 the patient is chloroformed, and after awaking from 
 a gentle slumber, he finds the diseased member gone. 
 
456 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 And, then, what alleviations of suffering does medicine 
 afford — what gentle anodynes of pain and restorers of 
 the exhausted springs of life ! Suppose as great an 
 advance to be made during the next fifty years as 
 during the past half-century in such discoveries, and 
 how many of ‘"the ills that flesh is still heir to” may 
 be swept away ! Consumption may be almost un- 
 known, or as rare as small-pox is now ; typhus anni- 
 hilated ; cholera banished to its native jungle ; and 
 man, living more in accordance with the laws of his 
 physical nature, will rise in the scale of being, as he 
 becomes free from the distressing evils that now press 
 upon him. To understand and obey the material 
 laws, will be an important step towards a recognition 
 of the great moral laws, which are no less real and 
 certain in their operation. 
 
 “So man, by painful ages taught, 
 
 Will build at last on truthful thought, 
 
 And wisdom won from sorrow.” 
 
 The value of knowledge, in adding to human hap- 
 piness and removing human woes, thus becomes more 
 and more evident. No truth can long remain barren 
 or useless ; in some shape it will be found conducive 
 to man’s wellbeing. The results of a new discovery 
 we can never foresee ; they may prove to be world- 
 wide, and lasting as time. The foolish old alchy- 
 mists spent many a long year searching for the 
 philosopher’s stone, that was to transmute all metals 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 457 
 
 into gold. In their visionary search, however, they 
 stumbled on certain great facts that laid the founda- 
 tion of our modern chemistry, from which we are 
 reaping rich fruits to-day. What a revolution for the 
 better, in our arts and manufactures, it has brought 
 about ! What a reduction in the expense of produc- 
 tion, thus bringing comforts and enjoyments within 
 the reach of the million ! Chemistry has turned her 
 keen gaze on the process of vegetation, analysed the 
 composition of soils, and shewn that, by the applica- 
 tion of science to agriculture, the productions of the 
 earth may be increased manifold, and food provided 
 for the multiplying populations of the world. She 
 gathers up the sweepings of flax and cotton mills, and 
 other vile, worthless rags, and surpasses the dreams 
 of the alchymist, by transmuting them into paper, on 
 which men’s thoughts are stamped, and fluttered over 
 the world. More wonderful still — she sets to work on 
 an Irish bog, and applying her magic retort, she ex- 
 tracts from it an inflammable substance known as 
 paraffine; and from the unsightly black bog produces 
 snow-white candles, fit for the halls of nobles. Some 
 centuries ago, a thoughtful Italian philosopher dis- 
 covered that a certain piece of ore, dug out of the 
 bowels of the earth, had the property of pointing out 
 the unseen north, and ever trembled faithful to the 
 Pole. That little piece"of seemingly worthless ore has 
 made the pathless deep a highway for the nations of 
 
458 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 the earth ; in the darkest night it guides the mariner 
 out on ocean’s heaving breast. By its aid the Cape 
 of Storms was doubled, America and Australia dis- 
 covered, the produce of the glowing East and the 
 riches of the West brought to our doors ; and man- 
 kind linked in a great brotherhood of interests. The 
 whole creation is laid under contribution for the sup- 
 ply of our wants. The poorest have now luxuries that 
 once monarchs could not command. On our break- 
 fast-tables we have the tea of China, the coffee of 
 Turkey, the sugar of the East or West Indies. The 
 cotton that clothes us was grown in America or 
 Egypt — the wool perhaps in Australia — the furs that 
 exclude the winter’s cold came from the icy north. 
 The wood of which our household furniture is made, 
 grew where ^The feathery palm-trees rise.” All 
 these advantages and comforts we can trace to the 
 man who first poised the trembling needle on its 
 |)ivot. Then think of the results that are flowing 
 from the application of steam-power to machinery. 
 We can now traverse the land with eagle swiftness ; 
 we can ride the ocean in the teeth of the storm ; we 
 can cross the mighty Atlantic in eight or ten days. 
 India is every year coming nearer to England ; the 
 isthmus of the Americas is pierced by a railroad, and 
 will speedily be the great highway to Australia, Cali- 
 fornia, and the Isles of the Pacific. Our untiring ser- 
 vant, steam, is gradually taking all the heavy toil off 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 459 
 
 our shoulders — carding, spinning, weaving for us — 
 forming our tools and working our mines. So true is 
 it, to whatever department of nature we turn, that 
 knowledge is power. 
 
 But there is a higher inquiry. What are likely to be 
 the moral results of all these physical improvements ? 
 Is the tendency of increasing knowledge favourable to 
 the development of man’s moral and religious nature ? 
 I think it is impossible to doubt that in arranging 
 external nature, so that man’s genius can strike out 
 these great discoveries, the Creator designed to free 
 man from grinding toil — to save him from being de- 
 graded and crushed by heavy labour ; and thus to 
 secure for him leisure to cultivate his intellectual 
 nature in the pursuit of knowledge, and his moral 
 nature in the practice of virtue. We infer, therefore, 
 that the great discoveries of our nineteenth century 
 have a moral purpose. Their ultimate result will be 
 to raise man above the condition of a mere hewer 
 of wood and drawer of water and to secure a clear 
 stage for the development of his higher nature, under 
 the teachings of science and the benign influence of 
 Christianity. I am quite aware that such results 
 are far enough from being yet attained. Among a 
 limited class, no doubt, there has been some abridg- 
 ment of the hours of labour, and there is a prospect 
 of still farther improvement in this direction. But 
 with the masses, in the over-crowded countries of 
 
460 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 Europe, bread is ’’ still dear,’' and flesh and blood 
 very cheap the struggle for life is still sore, and for 
 thought and culture the moments are brief and far 
 between. Hitherto, our great material improvements 
 tend to collect capital in the hands of a few, — to 
 create a plutocracy and millocracy, — and, as a conse- 
 quence, to spread the worship of the golden calf, and 
 to make gold, not intellectual or moral worth, the 
 standard of the man. But are we to believe that the 
 present state of things is final } Is it not more prob- 
 able that we are in a transition state, and that our 
 present industrious, property-gathering' era, which, 
 after all, is better than its predecessors, is but a 
 stepping-stone to something nobler and better } The 
 Great Father, who loves all His children, will not per- 
 mit millions of them to remain ever in darkness and 
 degradation, toiling merely to live, and living only to 
 toil ; and in the wondrous changes we see going on 
 around us, His benign purposes are working out their 
 deliverance. Labour will yet obtain its rights ; the 
 light of knowledge will penetrate ; education will be 
 claimed and allowed as the birthright of all ; true pro- 
 gress will then become possible. Did not these triumphs 
 of mind over matter, and the ten thousand discoveries 
 of science in our nineteenth century, conduce to this 
 result, what would they be worth after all } They give 
 us, let us suppose, more to eat and drink, gayer clothing 
 and more luxurious accommodation. But suppose they 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 461 
 
 do — what then ? Is man, that wondrous piece of 
 workmanship, a mere patent digester,” sent into 
 the world for no higher purpose than to transmute 
 animal and vegetable substances into human nature ; 
 and is it enough for him that his stall be well sup- 
 plied ? Or is he a mere clothes-horse, and the 
 purpose of existence to deck his little person, and 
 strut admiringly before the looking-glass ? If steam 
 and the electric telegraph did nothing more than 
 enable Dives to increase his roll of bank-notes, and 
 add house to house and acre to acre, their results 
 would be poor indeed. Or if they only furnished 
 more amusement, or enlarged the range of our 
 material enjoyments, we need not boast very highly 
 of our attainments. But just because we believe that 
 the spread of knowledge makes men better as well 
 as wiser — because we hold that the intellect is so 
 closely connected with the moral nature, that as you 
 cultivate the one you favourably influence the other 
 — because we see that the reception of knowledge 
 into the mind has a purifying and elevating ten- 
 dency, — we regard knowledge as a moral power. 
 We see that it raises man above the condition of the 
 animal ; gives him tastes for something better than 
 sensual indulgence, and saves him from sinking into 
 the condition of the brute. To impart to a man the 
 mere power of reading, is to give him a source of 
 enjoyment that he had not before; it is to introduce 
 
462 
 
 /KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 him to the pleasures of the mind ; to awaken and stir 
 the intellectual fire of his nature ; so that, at least, he 
 is far less likely to become the slave of appetite and 
 passion, or the victim of depraved and vicious habits. 
 We know, too, that conscience itself requires the aid 
 of an enlightened intellect to preserve it from error. 
 What but the want of knowledge gave rise to that 
 superstition which maintained such a long and 
 dreary reign over the world, and which is yet 
 banished from but a small portion of the earth 1 
 To banish superstition there is but one way — to let 
 in light, and the darkness will disappear. Ignorance 
 is neither the mother of true devotion, nor yet its 
 friend or helper. The religion that shrinks from the 
 light and dreads investigation, and would keep its 
 votaries in ignorance, is unworthy of the name, and 
 must perish as the inevitable tide of knowledge rolls 
 in. Looking at all these considerations, it seems to 
 me little less than a libel on Him from whom all 
 knowledge comes, to deny the moral tendency of 
 knowledge. It is to impeach His infinitely wise 
 arrangements, and to assert that the end for which 
 He has placed man on earth is not conducive to 
 his highest and best interests. Let no man, then, 
 dread the spread of knowledge. Let not the Chris- 
 tian suppose that it can shake the foundations 
 of his faith, or lessen his reverence for religion. 
 Let not the statesman suppose that it can en- 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 463 
 
 danger the stability of government to enlighten the 
 people. In their ignorance alone is real danger to 
 be apprehended. Let not the man of rank sup- 
 pose that the spread of knowledge among the 
 lower orders would unfit them for their station in 
 life or render them less industrious. Let us ever 
 cherish it, as one of our dearest beliefs, that the 
 direct tendency of all true knowledge is to remove 
 the evils that are oppressing man, and to increase and 
 multiply the good that is in the world. And bearing 
 in mind that all these discoveries on which we have 
 been dwelling have a bearing directly or indirectly on 
 man’s intellectual and moral nature, as well as his 
 religious interests, we may welcome them as Heaven- 
 sent gifts — as portions of a Divine plan that is ever 
 unfolding. 
 
 Let me refer you to one other benefit flowing from 
 knowledge — one that is less palpable, and attracts 
 less attention, but is no less real than those I have 
 named. I mean the mental pleasure which it brings. 
 Suppose no 'material benefits reached us by know- 
 ledge, such is the pure, elevating mental enjoyment 
 which ever accompanies the discovery of truth, that 
 this alone would be a sufficient inducement, and an 
 ample reward for the study of nature. Man’s mind 
 is so constituted, that knowledge is its natural and 
 necessary food, which it receives with a keen relish 
 and enjoyment. Every new fact, every fresh dis- 
 
464 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 covery, is thus welcomed for its own sake, indepen- 
 dent altogether of its consequences. The solitary 
 mathematician, in his dreamy abstractions, pursuing, 
 in devious and winding calculations, some great prob- 
 lem, tastes a joy that is almost inexpressible when 
 the long-sought truth brightens on his eager gaze, 
 and he exclaims in rapture, with Archimedes of old, 
 '' Eureka ! eureka ! — I have found it ! I have found it ! 
 
 ‘‘ All the soul in rapt suspension, 
 
 All the quivering, palpitating 
 Chords of life in utmost tension, 
 
 With the fervour of invention. 
 
 With the rapture of creating.” 
 
 It is said that when Sir Isaac Newton approached 
 the grand discovery for which his name is world-re- 
 nowned, — the great secret of the universe, the law of 
 gravitation, — so overpowered was he by his emotions, 
 as he found the proofs becoming clearer, that he was 
 unable to proceed with his calculations, and had to 
 obtain the assistance of a friend to complete them. 
 And just fancy how the eyes of glorious old Galileo 
 must have glistened, how tumultuously his heart 
 must have throbbed with delight, when he first turned 
 his telescope to the heavens, and obtained a glimpse 
 of the mazy dances of the sky, and got the first deci- 
 sive intimation that the planets are whirling round 
 the central luminary ! And when, in our own day, 
 Galileo’s little tube expanded into Rosse’s gigantic 
 telescope, enlarging the material universe visible to 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 465 
 
 man 125,000,000 times beyond what Herschehs in- 
 struments had made known, and bringing into view 
 suns and systems whose existence had been unsus- 
 pected before, could we conceive of the glow of 
 ecstasy with which its constructor first gazed upon the 
 new fields of creation ? When, on pointing it to the 
 dim patch of cloud, called the nebula of the great 
 constellation Orion, on which Herschel and La Place 
 had built in a great measure their nebular theory, he 
 found the filmy masses of light resolved into clusters 
 of stars, shining and rolling orbs, suns and centres of 
 systems, thousands in number, evolved, as it were, 
 from small dusky spots. What a rapturous sight was 
 that ! What an enlargement of our conceptions re- 
 garding the grandeur of God’s creation ! What for- 
 mer astronomers, owing to the weakness of their tele- 
 scopic powers, concluded to be chaotic matter in the 
 process of being condensed into systems of worlds, 
 undergoing a gradual creative formation. Lord Rosse’s 
 telescope has shewn to be blazing luminaries, whose 
 immense distance in the depths of space caused them 
 to appear as hazy films of light until this powerful 
 instrument was brought to bear upon them. Thus a 
 loftier anthem has been added to the swelling music 
 of the spheres. These hazes floating through space 
 are now significant. Each speck becomes a galaxy — 
 a throng of rolling activities. Is there not something 
 
 elevating, enrapturing in such discoveries } And do 
 
 2 G 
 
466 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 we not all sympathise with the feelings of the astro- 
 nomer who a few years ago achieved one of the noblest 
 triumphs of modern science, in pointing out the quar- 
 ter of the heavens where a new planet would be found 
 — beyond Uranus ; and not only so, but actually weigh- 
 ing its mass and describing the dimensions of its orbit 
 correctly, before the searching eye of the astronomer 
 had singled it out. His feelings must have been akin 
 to those of Newton on unfolding the law of gravita- 
 tion, when his calculations were verified by the dis- 
 covery of the planet Neptune in the exact quarter 
 indicated. Nor is it only the original discoverers of 
 great truths who experience such delight, though they 
 must feel it most intently, but all pure minds to 
 which they obtain admittance will experience some 
 degree of the same pleasure. Let any one sit down 
 and master the principles of modern astronomy, and 
 its sublime revelations will bring him a delight un- 
 dreamt of before ; and as he comprehends something 
 of the great system of the universe, and learns that 
 those twinkling stars are suns, with planets rushing 
 round them — that there is no limit to creation, but 
 the more the telescope’s power is increased, the 
 mightier are its revelations — and that our solar 
 system is but a mere atom of creation, — how such 
 discoveries will enlarge his views and elevate his 
 conceptions of the omnipotent Creator ! Or let him 
 turn his gaze upon the earth, and dive into the 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. 
 
 467 
 
 wonders of geology, and read the history of our 
 globe as written in the stony tablets underneath our 
 feet ; let him study the remains of those gigantic, un- 
 couth forms that once trod its surface, before man’s 
 day, and try to imagine the enormous periods of time 
 occupied in the formation of its strata, and how start- 
 ling, as well as enrapturing, will he find such dis- 
 closures. Talk of the pleasures of imagination ! 
 Did this faculty ever tell us anything half so wonder- 
 ful as the revelations of science } Who could sur- 
 mise beforehand that the light which is seen on the 
 back of a cat, when gently rubbed in a frosty even- 
 ing, is the same substance as darts from the thunder- 
 cloud, in the lightning’s lurid glare, irresistible in its 
 might — that it is identical with light, heat, and mag- 
 netism — nay, that in all probability it produces the 
 phenomena of life, circulates the blood, digests the 
 food, and conveys the commands of the will to the 
 muscles ? All this, science shews that electricity 
 accomplishes, besides carrying on colossal changes in 
 our globe. Or, to take another example, did ever 
 Eastern story tell us such a wondrous tale as that we 
 find in the pages of science, regarding the circulation 
 of matter "i Not a particle of matter can ever be lost 
 or destroyed ; it is continually passing into new com- 
 binations, but is indestructible. The atom that this 
 moment is glittering in the rainbow, will the next 
 feed the fainting rose, and form part of its substance ; 
 
468 
 
 KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 and the rose will die, that its particles may live in 
 another form. Nor less fitted to arrest the attention, 
 and gratify curiosity, is the recent discovery of the 
 dynamical theory of heat, which shews that the 
 creation or destruction of energy is just as impossible 
 as the creation or destruction of matter itself 
 
 Permit me now to draw this address to a close, by 
 mentioning one or two limitations with which you 
 should receive these statements in reference to know- 
 ledge. The attainment of knowledge is not the 
 highest purpose of existence. It is but a means, 
 after all, to enable us to reach a higher and nobler 
 end. We are not sent into the world merely to be- 
 come students or scholars, but to be and to act — to 
 do the work appointed us manfully and well. We 
 are to know, in order to be able to act rightly. While 
 ignorant, we neither understand our work, nor how 
 to set about it; we are but blind Cyclops groping 
 round our cave, with huge strength, but no light to 
 guide us. Knowledge is just like the sun in the 
 heavens, inviting us to noble deeds, and lighting our 
 path. Hence knowledge should ever be pursued 
 under a deep religious purpose, and should be re- 
 garded as a sacred trust — a handmaid to religion, 
 which is man's highest attainment and end. The 
 intellect is but a part of man’s nature. He has, be- 
 sides, a conscience, affections, and a capacity for 
 religion ; and intellectual culture alone would leave 
 
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER, 
 
 469 
 
 these higher departments of his being uncared for. 
 To intellectual we must add, therefore, moral and 
 religious training, if we would educate the whole man. 
 I believe Christianity to be the divinely-appointed 
 instrument for the latter purpose. Still religion, if it 
 be not founded on knowledge, and guided by an 
 instructed intellect, will become superstition, as all 
 history tells us. Many a dark dream of superstition 
 has been swept away by knowledge ; and many more 
 will share the same doom. A clearer and healthier 
 day will beam on man, when these fogs from the 
 swamps of superstition are all dispersed. Let science 
 and religion go hand in hand — the one the instru- 
 ment, the other the guiding soul ; and then knowledge 
 will indeed become a power, not sought after for low, 
 selfish, or evil ends, but guided by the inspiration 
 of religion, to work out the highest interests of 
 humanity. 
 
LECTURE THE ELEVENTH. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD— HIS LIFE AND POETRY. 
 
 In this working world, where the ordinance of labour 
 is so stern and imperative, there always have been, 
 and always will be, two orders of workers — those 
 who labour with the hand, and those who labour with 
 the head. Both are needed, and both are to be vene- 
 rated. Great have been the achievements of that 
 wondrous instrument, the human hand. All civilisa- 
 tion and progress are but a testimony to its mighty 
 powers. We may truly regard it as God’s delegated 
 missionary on earth, for without it the world would 
 never have been conquered. Those cunning fingers, 
 which first constructed the rude hut of the savage, in 
 due time built up the Pyramids, the Pantheon, the 
 Colosseum, the Gothic cathedral ; wove an iron path- 
 way over broad rivers ; laid down the railway, along 
 which thunders the modern Titan — the hissing loco- 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 471 
 
 motive. The same instrument struck from the harp 
 its hidden strains of harmony; poised the mariner’s 
 trembling needle upon its axis ; pointed the tubes of 
 Galileo to search the depths of space ; spread the 
 sails of Columbus ; wielded the sword with which 
 freedom won her battles ; spread out the page on 
 which poet and sage were to inscribe their burning 
 thoughts. Honour to the hand-workers — the men of 
 the hammer, axe, and plough — who have smoothed 
 and fertilised the rude earth ! Who shall dare to de- 
 spise the men of the hard hand and iron sinew } 
 
 Not less deserving of honour are the brain-workers 
 — the men of the book and pen — who do the world’s 
 thinkings — who beat out, on the mental anvil, the 
 ideas which move and rule mankind — the inventors, 
 discoverers, lawgivers, philosophers, writers, poets of 
 our race. Without the thinking brain to guide it, 
 what could the hand accomplish } Wanting intel- 
 lectual light to direct them, what useful end could the 
 strokes of labour accomplish } The hand can only 
 achieve anything great by crystallising ideas, by mak- 
 ing the speculations of the mind material. This 
 great universe itself, with its worlds and seas and 
 stars, its pomp and retinue of splendour, its heavens 
 fretted with golden fires,” — all was at first a thought 
 in the Divine Mind, and before it took material shape 
 was fashioned in the shrines of Infinite Wisdom. And 
 so of all human workmanship ; time was when each 
 
472 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 part was shaped in the brain of some shrewd thinker ; 
 then it took form in iron, wood, or stone. Hand and 
 brain are thus fellow-workers. The one cannot say 
 to the other, “ I have no need of you.’' The priest- 
 hood of labour is in alliance with the priesthood of 
 letters. The poet, who weaves our ballads, songs, 
 and poems ; the novelist, who gladdens us with the 
 overflowings of his fancy or humour ; the preacher, 
 the moralist, the editor — nay, the lecturer, who talks 
 away his little hour, are no less needed than he who 
 smites upon the anvil or wields the axe and spade. 
 Let us honour, then, our workers in the world of 
 mind, who give light and guidance to the toiler for 
 the daily bread, who hold up before us those great 
 ideals of beauty and excellence, without which we 
 must sink into mere mechanical drudges ; who keep 
 us in contact with the spiritual realms of thought and 
 imagination, and sweeten the springs of action and 
 emotion ; who come to us, in our lonely hours, when 
 the toils and cares of life are heavy on the heart, and 
 charm us out of our sadness. Above all, let us love 
 our gentle poets, who are like angels on the ladder 
 that reaches from earth to heaven, bringing us mes- 
 sages from the skies, gladdening and brightening 
 and beautifying our poor earthly life, and lifting us 
 to nobler heights, and conveying to us some whisper- 
 ings from the unseen. It is one of this class that I 
 have undertaken to bring before you — one of our 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 473 
 
 poetic benefactors, who has left us, in his works, a 
 legacy which the world is now beginning more fully 
 to appreciate. 
 
 Hardly any of you can be quite strangers to the 
 name of Thomas Hood. That man must be living 
 apart from the world of modern literature whose eyes 
 have never lighted on one of Hood’s tenderly sweet 
 creations, or who has never smoothed the wrinkles 
 from his brow over some of those humorous fancies, 
 those grotesque effusions of his comic genuis, or those 
 wonderful word-twistings, which made punning itself 
 respectable and provocative of smiles. He is now 
 some eighteen years in his grave ; but every day his 
 fame is extending. The genuine worth that was in 
 him, as writer and poet, is now better understood. 
 The world is discovering that beneath that thin dis- 
 guise of mockery and laughter, there was a heart 
 alive to all that was tender and good — a genuine 
 human, loving heart, that throbbed responsive to 
 every woe of humanity, and was keenly alive to the 
 sorrow and mystery of this strange existence. It 
 is now generally admitted that in Hood there was 
 not only the sparkle of wit, but the gold of genius ; 
 and that by the clear glittering stream of his wonder- 
 ful, inexhaustible humour, there lay a fountain of 
 tears that overflowed at the sight of human wretched- 
 ness. He heard not only the gladdening ringing 
 laughter, but also the still sad music of humanity.’' 
 
474 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 In him was that spirit of love and sympathy which 
 evinces the kindred that all men recognise, and recog- 
 nises the truth of nature beneath all changes, customs, 
 and conventionalities. The poetry of Hood must 
 live and continue to charm, just because it is human- 
 universal in its sweep and melody — because it repro- 
 duces all the feelings of our wayward nature — 
 shewing how man was made to be merry, and how he 
 was made to mourn — entering the soul both on 
 its sunny and gloomy side, and at times expand- 
 ing the heart with laughter, or chastening it with 
 melancholy. Two of Hood's children have given 
 to the world Memorials of their father ; and 
 these volumes supply materials from which, it 
 is to be hoped, some duly-qualified writer will 
 construct a life of our poet. It is true no life 
 could be more devoid of stirring incidents. In him 
 there were none of those wild outbursts of passion 
 that lend such an interest to the careers of Byron or 
 Burns. His was a quiet, domestic life, so broken by 
 sickness, that it might be called a long disease. Still, 
 though there is nothing glittering or startling in the 
 life of Hood, there is a deep and touching lesson con- 
 veyed to us in the heroic struggle he maintained with 
 weakness^ poverty, illness, and the rude buffetings of 
 the world. Beneath the quiet exterior, we see a real 
 tragedy enacted ; and in the noble resolution, the 
 cheerful endurance, the gentle acquiescence, we re- 
 
THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 475 
 
 cognise the spirit of the hero, true and brave to the 
 close. All his bodily sufferings, all he endured in 
 the weary years when, with shattered health and 
 death constantly looking him in the face, he had to 
 toil like a galley-slave in his profession, — all the rude 
 buffetings of fortune failed to sour his heart, or infuse 
 one drop of gall into the effusions of his pen. 
 
 It was in London, and in the month of May 1799, 
 that Thomas Hood drew his first breath. His father 
 was a bookseller and publisher, a man of some cul- 
 ture and literary tastes, who was the author of two 
 novels, once rather popular, but now so entirely buried 
 in the literary dust-heap of the past, that their very 
 names are forgotten. His father was a Scotchman ; 
 his mother English. When Thomas was quite young, 
 the father died, leaving a widow and four children 
 but very slenderly provided for. His only brother 
 perished early by consumption, a disease which after- 
 wards carried off his mother and another sister ; so 
 that this deadly malady was an heirloom in the 
 family. It was on the death of this sister that he 
 wrote afterwards the pathetic lines entitled — 
 
 THE DEATHBED. 
 
 “We watch’d her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 “ So silently we seem’d to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 
476 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 “For when the morn came, dim and sad. 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 Another morn than ours.” 
 
 Not wishing to encroach on the family store, our 
 future poet, at the age of fifteen, was apprenticed to 
 an engraver; and so commenced 'Mife in earnest” 
 with the drudgery of this sedentary occupation. At 
 this time he is described by one who knew him as 
 a singular boy, silent and retired, with much quiet 
 humour, and apparently delicate health.” Owing to 
 the state of his health, he was speedily compelled to 
 give up engraving, and was sent on a visit to some of 
 his relatives in Dundee, where he made his first ap- 
 pearance in print in one of the local newspapers, and 
 also in the pages of a magazine. What led to this, 
 unless, as he said himself, he had a dash of ink in 
 his blood,” which broke out in a tendency to author- 
 ship, is not stated in the Memorials. He after- 
 wards described his first literary triumph in the Dun- 
 dee Advertiser and the Dundee Magaziney by saying 
 that the respective editors published his writings 
 without charging anything for insertion!' In Dundee 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 477 
 
 he remained two years, and returned to London, 
 much improved in health, in 1821. An old friend of 
 his father’s was at this time proprietor of a periodical 
 called the London Magazme^ and made Hood an offer 
 of the situation of sub-editor, whose main duties were 
 to correct the press and examine papers sent for in- 
 sertion. Thus was he fairly launched into the world 
 of literature, and took kindly to the vocation nature 
 had marked out for him. Speedily he became a con- 
 tributor of original papers to the London Magazine — 
 his first attempt being some verses on Hope,” the 
 kind genius that was now cheering his solitude and 
 waving him up the steeps of literature. Soon other 
 papers, chiefly in the humorous vein, followed ; and 
 our young hero adopted fairly a laborious and un- 
 certain profession, in which he must earn his bread 
 by sweat and toil of brain. He was now one of the 
 guild of letters, — a brotherhood Avhich he afterwards 
 described as ^^master-minds at journey-work; moral 
 magistrates, greatly under-paid ; immortals, without 
 a living ; menders of the human heart, breaking their 
 own ; mighty intellects, without their mite.” 
 
 We naturally ask how it was that Hood, at the age 
 of twenty-one, found himself qualified to write articles 
 for a magazine that numbered among its contributors 
 such able writers as Charles Lamb, De Quincey, Allan 
 Cunningham, Talfourd, and Hartley Coleridge.^ By 
 what training was he fitted, at such an early age, to 
 
478 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 take his place among these eminent authors — to pro- 
 duce a poem such as ^^Lycus the Centaur/^ or the 
 humorous ‘‘Ode to Dr Kitchener?’* To a great ex- 
 tent Hood was self-taught. He received a fair ele- 
 mentary education, and was a tolerable classical 
 scholar. But, as a literary man, he was self-equipped. 
 In his case, it was fortunate that his training-school 
 was London. Here, “in among the throngs of men,” 
 he was thoroughly at home ; and with the multitudin- 
 ous billows of life heaving around him, and rushing 
 and roaring along the stony arteries, he took his first 
 life-lessons. We naturally fancy that the quiet coun- 
 try, with its green fields and bright skies, must be the 
 “meetest nurse for a poetic child;” but some of our 
 greatest poets have been brought up, and have written 
 amid the din and smoke of the great city. Only sup- 
 pose the poetic faculty to exist, and we can readily 
 see how the sights and sounds of the city should de- 
 velop it. Here life appears in its intensest forms; 
 thought is most active ; intelligence most rapid ; the 
 best equipped intellectual workmen are gathered ; 
 mental food, in books and conversation, most abund- 
 ant. It is in the city that life presents its most ani- 
 mating and its most death-like pictures. Every 
 variety of existence is crowded here; horror and 
 beauty sit side by side ; the devout song and the 
 submissive prayer mingle with the shouts of revelry 
 or the curses of profanity. Here benevolence drops 
 
THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 479 
 
 her tears; and here, too, man preys upon his brother; 
 and helpless, hopeless poverty creeps into its gloomy 
 cell to pine and die. These crowds hurrying cease- 
 lessly along the streets, — each unit a distinct indivi- 
 dual, carrying with him a world of his own, apart from 
 all the others, — what a study they are, — 
 
 “ The mild, the fierce, the stony face.” 
 
 Think of Hood as a delicate, pale-faced boy, roaming 
 through the streets of mighty London, looking with 
 his eager, poetic eyes on its magnificence and misery, 
 its ghastliness and its glory, its wealth and its poverty, 
 its bright Regent Street and its black Newgate, its 
 silks and its jewels jostled by 
 
 “ Poverty, hunger, and dirt.” 
 
 Was it not here, in the London streets, reading the 
 epic and tragedy of life in all their grand or gloomy 
 aspects, that he acquired that deep and sympathetic 
 understanding of the life of the poor who are hope- 
 lessly imprisoned in these lanes and alleys, which at 
 length found voice in the immortal Song of the 
 Shirt,” and ‘^The Bridge of Sighs But in books 
 he had another great teacher. The profession of his 
 father brought him early into contact with these 
 greatest of human instructors, and from his boyhood 
 he had a passionate love for books. In one of his 
 latest productions he thus gratefully recorded his 
 obligations to these early companions: — ‘^To litera- 
 
480 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ture I owe something more than earthly welfare. 
 Adrift early in life upon the great waters, if I did not 
 come to shipwreck, it was that, in default of paternal 
 or fraternal guidance, I was rescued, like the Ancient 
 Mariner, by guardian spirits, ‘ each one a lovely 
 light,’ who stood as beacons to my course. Infirm 
 health and a natural love of reading happily threw 
 me, instead of worse society, into the company of 
 poets, philosophers, and sages — to me good angels 
 and ministers of grace. From these delightful asso- 
 ciates I learned something of the Divine and more 
 of the human religion. They were my interpreters in 
 the House Beautiful of God, and my guides among 
 the Delectable Mountains of Nature. They reformed 
 my prejudices, chastened my passions, tempered my 
 heart, purified my tastes, elevated my mind, and 
 directed my aspirations. These bright intelligences 
 called my mental world out of darkness like a new 
 creation, and gave it ‘ two great lights,’ hope and 
 memory — the past for a moon, and the future for a 
 sun.” 
 
 During Hood’s engagement as sub-editor of the 
 London Magazme, he enjoyed occasional intercourse 
 with the leading contributors — Hazlitt, Allan Cun- 
 ningham, and Charles Lamb. Of Lamb he has given 
 us a pleasant sketch : — With his fine head on a small 
 spare body ; his intellectual face full of wiry lines, and 
 lurking quips and cranks of physiognomy ; brown. 
 
THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 481 
 
 bright eyes, quick in turning as those of birds — look- 
 ing sharp enough to pick up pins and needles ; shy 
 with strangers, but instantly alight with a welcome 
 smile of womanly sweetness for his friends/' At 
 times, too, he listened to the glorious talk of Cole- 
 ridge, and the flowing, sparkling effusions of De 
 Ouincey. Hood speedily discovered that the public 
 are much more willing to pay for being amused than 
 for being instructed, and that his poetry was far 
 from being as profitable as his puns. He was thus 
 led to work two veins — the comic, which produced 
 those laughter-moving whims and oddities,” droll 
 fancies and surprising incongruities, that for years 
 kept thousands in food for mirth ; and the poetic, 
 which brought him no pecuniary returns, but in its 
 riches constituted his higher life. The former yielded 
 him bread, the latter ultimately poetic fame. 
 
 It was at this time, when Hood was in his twenty- 
 fourth year, that he was rash enough to fall in love — 
 a most unjustifiable proceeding, as some would think, 
 on the part of a young man whose purse was in a 
 state of collapse, and whose’ prospects were the re- 
 verse of cheering. I presume 'Hhe necessity of lov- 
 ing ” must have been strong within him ; and, after 
 all, perhaps Douglas Jerrold is right when he ex- 
 claims, What ! live in a palace without a petticoat 
 — 'tis but a place to shiver in. Whereas, take off the 
 
 house-top, break every window, make the doors creak, 
 
 2 H 
 
482 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 the chimneys smoke, give free entry to the sun, wind, 
 and rain — still will a petticoat make the hovel habit- 
 able — nay, bring the little household gods crowding 
 about the fireplace.’' The family of Miss Reynolds, 
 the young lady to whom Hood had formed an attach- 
 ment, were opposed to the union, considering a young 
 man who had only a bottle of ink out of which to sup- 
 ply the wants of a wife and family as anything but an 
 eligible offer. The young lady, however, thought 
 otherwise, and, as usual, opposition made her more 
 determined. Strange,” says Jerrold, is the love of 
 woman — it’s like one’s beard, the closer one cuts it 
 the stronger it grows.” I suppose those fine lines in 
 his poem of Miss Kilmansegg” must have been sug- 
 gested by Hood’s experience in love-making: — 
 
 “ And still when a pair of lovers meet, 
 
 There ’s a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet, 
 
 That savours still of that happy retreat 
 Where Eve by Adam was courted ; 
 
 Whilst the joyous thrush and the gentle dove 
 Woo’d their mates in the boughs above. 
 
 And the serpent as yet only sported. 
 
 “ Who has not felt that breath in the air, 
 
 A perfume and freshness strange and rare, 
 
 A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere. 
 
 When young hearts yearn together ? — 
 
 All sweets below and all sunny above. 
 
 Oh ! there ’s nothing in life like making love. 
 
 Save making hay in fine weather. ” 
 
 Matters speedily came to a crisis ; courtship ended 
 in marriage. Hood and his young wife set up house- 
 
THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 483 
 
 keeping in a quiet, modest way, in London ; and the 
 first years of his married life were undoubtedly the 
 happiest and most unclouded he ever knew. Though 
 not rich in this world’s goods, they had the wealth of 
 affection, and realised his own felicitous description of 
 a happy, though humble home : — 
 
 ‘‘For all is bright and beauteous and clear, 
 
 And the meanest thing most precious and dear, 
 
 When the magic of love is present ; 
 
 Love that lends its sweetness and grace 
 To the humblest spot and the plainest face, 
 
 That turns Wilderness Row to Paradise Place, 
 
 And Garlic Hill to Mount Pleasant. 
 
 “ Love that sweetens sugarless tea, 
 
 And makes contentment and joy agree 
 With the coarsest boarding and bedding ; 
 
 Love that no golden ties can attach. 
 
 But nestles under the humblest thatch, 
 
 And will fly away from an emperor’s match 
 To dance at a penny wedding.” 
 
 Few men have been more fortunate than Hood 
 in the choice of a wife. Seldom, if ever, has there 
 been a truer, gentler, more devoted wife than Mrs 
 Hood. In his long years of sickness and sorrow 
 and toil that lay before him, she was truly his 
 ministering angel,” cheering, soothing, comforting 
 in trial, and brightening his happy hours with the 
 sunshine of her smiles. Some one has said that it 
 is owing to the fact that woman lost us the original 
 Paradise that she often strives so hard to transform 
 earth into Eden, and feels bound to wait on the 
 
484 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 pleasure of man, her serene lord and master, and 
 try to make amends for the original injury. If so, 
 it must be confessed that little account against her 
 is long in getting settled, and that she has sore tug- 
 ging in making up the amount. Hood’s wife was a 
 woman of cultivated mind, literary tastes, and no 
 small share of humour. He had such confidence in 
 her judgment, that he read and re-read with her all 
 he wrote ; and in his references and quotations she 
 was his authority. Hood repaid her affection with 
 the warmest attachment through life ; and towards 
 the close he could hardly bear her out of his sight, 
 or write unless she were with him. A good husband 
 has been defined as one who is as regular at his fire- 
 side as the tea-kettle.” From all that appears. Hood 
 was a model husband in this as well as in other re- 
 spects. After years of wedded life, his letters to her 
 during some brief absences breathe all the affectionate 
 ardour of love-letters. In one of them he said, “ I 
 never was anything, dearest, till I knew you ; and I 
 have been a better, happier, and more prosperous 
 man ever since. Lay by that truth in lavender, 
 sweetest, and remind me of it when I fail.” It was 
 of themselves he wrote these lines : — 
 
 “ There is care that will not leave us, 
 
 And pain that will not flee ; 
 
 But on our hearth, unalter’d, 
 
 Sits love ’tween you and me. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 485 
 
 ‘‘ Our love it ne’er was reckon’d, 
 Y et good it is and true — 
 
 It’s half the world to me, dear ; 
 It’s all the world to you.” 
 
 Dante has immortalised his Beatrice, Petrarch his 
 
 Laura, and Burns his ^'bonnie Jean;’’ and when the 
 
 lives of those women who have ministered to men of 
 
 genius in their sore life-struggles shall be written, 
 
 one of the noblest chapters will be devoted to the 
 
 * 
 
 wife of Thomas Hood. To her unwearied care and 
 watchful tenderness we are largely indebted for those 
 productions of her husband’s pen which have touched 
 the fountains of our tears and smiles. Not only did 
 she nerve him to fresh efforts, by diffusing sunshine 
 within, and inspiring him to face the troubles of the 
 world bravely, but it might be truly said that her de- 
 votedness transfused a part of her life into his. How 
 touchingly her husband acknowledged this in the fol- 
 lowing beautiful lines : — 
 
 “ Those locks are brown to see, love, 
 
 That now are turn’d to gray ; 
 
 But the years were spent with me, love, 
 
 That stole their hue away. 
 
 Thy locks no longer share, love, 
 
 The golden glow of noon ; 
 
 But I ’ve seen the world look fair, my love. 
 
 When silver’d by the moon ! 
 
 “ That brow was smooth and fair, love, 
 
 That looks so shaded now ; 
 
 But for me it bore the care, love, 
 
 That spoil’d a bonny brow ; 
 
486 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 And though no longer there, love, 
 
 The gloss it had of yore. 
 
 Still memory looks and dotes, my love. 
 
 Where hope admired before.” 
 
 Thus it is ever — man toils and conquers ; woman 
 trains and inspires him. Columbus discovers a new 
 world ; but it is an Isabella who pawns her jewels to 
 equip the hero.” 
 
 During the first ten years of his married life, Hood 
 lived in London or its neighbourhood, supporting 
 himself by literature, his reputation as a writer rising 
 every year, and his circumstances being easy. It was 
 during this period that he produced Odes and 
 Addresses;” Whims and Oddities;” National 
 Tales;” ‘‘Tylney Hall,” a novel; ^'The Plea of the 
 Midsummer Fairies,” a poem that was his own 
 favourite, but did not take with the public ; and The 
 Dream of Eugene Aram,” which discovered high 
 poetic power, and is now familiar as a household word 
 with young and old. He also commenced the publi- 
 cation of ‘^The Comic Annual,” which attained a 
 high popularity, was continued for several years, and 
 proved to be the most popular of his literary specula- 
 tions. In many of these productions the element of 
 wit predominated largely ; while in others there were 
 apparent a fine poetical feeling, and a marvellous 
 lyrical power. It appears that Hood made the ac- 
 quaintance of the Duke of Devonshire about this 
 time ; but though he acted in a friendly spirit towards 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 487 
 
 the poet, I am unable to discover that the latter 
 derived any substantial advantage from the man of 
 wealth, beyond the barren honour of being permitted 
 to dedicate to him ^^Tylney Hall,’' and a volume of 
 The Comic Annual.” During all his years of sick- 
 ness and toil, the rich man does not appear to have 
 lent him a helping hand. So fared Robert Burns 
 before him — the great folk lionised him for a time ; 
 and then left him to sink or swim as best he could. 
 To patrons of this class, who are as ready to shake 
 hands with a Bosjesman or a Tom Thumb as with a 
 man of genius, poets and other literary men should 
 say, as Diogenes said to Alexander, Stand out of 
 my sunshine — it is the kindest thing you can do ; I 
 ask no other favour.” 
 
 In the year 1834 the great misfortune of Hood’s 
 life happened — that which threw a cloud over the 
 remainder of his earthly existence. A publishing firm 
 with which he had had considerable business trans- 
 actions failed, and entailed ruin on him, leaving him 
 not only without a shilling, but heavily in debt. 
 Most men, in such circumstances, would have applied 
 the sponge furnished by the Court of Insolvency, 
 and thus at once wiped out the whole liabilities ; but 
 Hood’s delicate sense of honour would not allow him 
 to take this course. What he did was this : he sold 
 all his effects, left every shilling to his creditors, got 
 a small advance from some of the publishers on his 
 
488 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 future labours, and started for Germany, where he 
 hoped to live much more economically than in Eng- 
 land, work hard, and pay off all his liabilities. Bid- 
 ding his native land good night, he left behind a large 
 circle of attached friends, and the metropolis, with all 
 its English comforts and attractions for a literary 
 man, and settled in the stupid little German town of 
 Coblentz, on the Rhine, where he was an utter 
 stranger, and where the climate was entirely unsuited 
 to his constitution. Here, for six years, he was 
 destined to tug at the oar like a galley-slave, and to 
 wear out heart and brain in the attempt at retrieving 
 a misfortune for which he was not accountable. 
 While we lament the sad necessity of all this, we 
 must do reverence to the true nobility of soul that 
 prompted such a course, and to the moral heroism 
 that bore him up through it all, not only uncomplain- 
 ingly, but cheerfully, joyously, making light of it all. 
 Such genuine independence and high-minded integ- 
 rity recalls a similar incident in the career of Sir 
 Walter Scott, when, in advanced life, he deliberately 
 sat down to write himself out of an enormous 
 debt ; and, what is more, almost accomplished it, 
 but broke his heart and brought himself to the 
 grave by the Herculean effort. Alas, that genius, 
 our greatest benefactor, should not only toil for us, 
 but often have to go through life with bleeding breast, 
 and, weary and wounded, find no rest but in the grave ! 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 489 
 
 We must pass hastily over the portion of Hood’s 
 life spent in Germany. Though he had his good 
 wife and children with him, yet he never seems to 
 have felt at home — never took kindly to the country 
 or the pxople, and was ever casting a longing to- 
 wards dear old England, with its kindly faces and 
 cheerful hearths. In his letters from the Rhine, we 
 find his drollery breaking out occasionally in his 
 remarks on the Germans. To one friend he writes, 
 I have been to the hotel of an evening, and got a 
 good notion of German philosophy ; perhaps you are 
 not aware that it is laid on with pipes, like the gas in 
 London. I have tried to draw some of them ; but a 
 real smoker beats the pencil. It is a mistake, by the 
 way, to say he is smoking ; he is not active, but 
 passive — being smoked. How they suck their pipes, 
 like great emblems of second childhood — so placid, 
 so innocent, so unmeaning — ^ mild as the moon- 
 beam !’” Of German cookery he said, '' It is rank — 
 it smells to heaven.” Their beds were so narrow and 
 short, that he described one of them as a coffin for 
 two and wrote to a friend that he would have no 
 difficulty in finding him a spare bed.” The German 
 system of doctoring seems to have astonished him by 
 the strength of their applications. I heard, the 
 other day,” he writes, ‘^of a man having fifty-five 
 leeches on his thigh at once. My wig ! why, they 
 out - Sangrado Sangrado. One of their blisters 
 
490 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 would draw a waggon. If I should be ill again, I 
 shall prescribe for myself” 
 
 The most wearing of all toil is that of the brain. 
 And now, an exile from home, delicate in constitution. 
 Hood has to undergo an amount of mental labour 
 enough to break down the strongest man. But cre- 
 ditors must be paid, bread must be found for the dear 
 ones at home ; and so there must be no pause to the 
 swift - flying pen — no rest for the inventing brain. 
 Like his own needlewoman, in The Song of the 
 Shirt,” it was with himself, 
 
 “ Work, work, work. 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim — 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim.” 
 
 Manfully and cheerfully did the noble worker toil 
 on ; but the perpetual strain on nerve and brain 
 could not go on for ever. Day by day, and often far 
 into the night, the scratch of his pen was heard ; the 
 morning dawning but to witness a renewal of his toil. 
 The inevitable crisis at length arrived. The symp- 
 toms of a deadly malady, nursed by anxiety and 
 unremitting exertion, began to develop themselves. 
 Organic disease of the heart, accompanied with fre- 
 quent attacks of blood - spitting, set in. Still there 
 must be no relaxation of speed ; the steed must 
 gallop on till it drops from sheer exhaustion. The 
 printer is waiting, and copy ” must be had ; the 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 491 
 
 article for the monthly must be ready on the day, or 
 woe betide the unhappy author; the Comic Annual’' 
 must appear at Christmas, brimful of jokes, shaking 
 the sides of thousands with its comicalities ; while the 
 poor worn-out writer, who has spun the whole out of 
 his brain, lies panting and prostrated, the only one, 
 except his anxious wife and children, who cannot 
 laugh at the humours he is scattering over all 
 England. Still it is work, work, work," though the 
 poor palpitating heart wants rest sorely, and every 
 additional effort is hastening the inevitable end ; 
 ‘'work, work, work," though the very life-blood is 
 oozing through the lungs. How profoundly pathetic 
 to think of the poet writing his " Comic Annual," 
 supplying food for mirth in thousands of homes, pour- 
 ing out the strangest, wildest, most laughter-provok- 
 ing conceits, the gayest, most satirical fancies, amidst 
 the fierce attacks of disease, with gloomy prospects 
 around and in the distance, and fears for the dear 
 ones dependent on him heavy at his heart, while 
 before him lay the inevitable goal, the grave, that at 
 any moment might be reached ! What a brave spirit 
 that even all this could not quell — that wrought on 
 cheerfully and hopefully, uttering no foreboding, and 
 burying its sorrows in its own bosom ! Not for 
 wealth, or fame, or ambition was all this endured, but 
 for duty ; and in the pale, worn face of the father 
 toiling for his children's bread, sacrificing self on the 
 
49 ^ 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 altar of affection, we behold a spectacle that pitying 
 angels might gaze upon. So manfully and cheerfully 
 did he bear his trials, that we find him making his 
 worst symptoms, which would have terrified an ordi- 
 nary man, the subject of jokes which move at once 
 our smiles and our tears. Writing to his kind friend. 
 Dr Elliot, in England, after telling him how he had 
 just finished a volume of the Comic Annual,” he 
 says, But who would think of such a creaking, croak- 
 ing, blood-spitting wretch being 'the Comic On 
 another occasion he writes, Your health in a tumbler 
 of vitriolic,” (that being a medicine he was in the 
 habit of using ;) " can my blood-spitting have ceased 
 because I have none left What a subject for a 
 German romance, 'The bloodless man!’ For four 
 months I have never tasted animal food. Zounds, as 
 I used to say on cattle days, one thing would now 
 make my misfortunes complete — to be tossed by an 
 ungrateful beast of a bullock.” He proposed as his 
 own epitaph, " Here lies one who spat more blood and 
 made more puns than any man in England.” To an- 
 other friend he said, " I have to write till I am sick of 
 the sight of pen, ink, and paper. For one half the 
 month I have hardly time to eat, drink, or sleep.” 
 Still nearer the close he wrote to Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 
 ton, I sleep little ; and my head, instead of a shady 
 chamber, is like a hall with a lamp burning in it all 
 night. And so it will be to the end. I must die in 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 493 
 
 harness — like a hero — or a horse.” How pitiable ! 
 The old tale once more — genius flinging itself on the 
 spears, and the world coldly regarding the sacrifice ! 
 Here was one of the finest minds in England com- 
 pelled to toil in chains, and hurry to an early tomb ; 
 and yet no helping hand was held out till it was 
 too late — nothing was done to secure him a little 
 repose to recruit his exhausted energies. 
 
 During his residence in Germany his chief pro- 
 ductions were, Up the Rhine,” ^'Hood’s Own,” a 
 volume a year of The Comic Annual,” — all the 
 drawings being by his own hand ; and numbers of 
 fugitive pieces in prose and verse, which appeared 
 in the pages of various magazines. In 1840, with 
 shattered health, he at length returned to England. 
 With brightening prospects, good medical advice, 
 and a little less worry, he now rallied wonderfully ; 
 and though in a state of constant suffering, he had 
 yet five years of life before him. The feebler the 
 body, the more vigorous seemed the mind to grow ; 
 the more deeply the tree was wounded, the more 
 fragrant and abundant the balm it yielded. It was 
 during these closing years that he produced those 
 poems that will most surely transmit his name to 
 posterity— such as '^The Bridge of Sighs,” ''The 
 Song of the Shirt,” " The Lady’s Dream,” " The 
 Workhouse Clock,” and " Miss Kilmansegg.” A 
 year after his return he became editor of the New 
 
494 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Monthly Magazine^ with a salary of ;^3oo per annum ; 
 and though the labours were great, he was now in 
 comparative independence. After occupying the edi- 
 torial chair for nearly three years, some misunder- 
 standing arose between him and the proprietor ; and 
 he took the bold, and, as it proved, unfortunate step, 
 of starting a magazine of his own. The toil and 
 anxiety of this new undertaking hasted the progress 
 of his disease. The person with whom he entered 
 into partnership turned out to be a penniless specu- 
 lator ; difficulties and disappointments thickened ; 
 Hood's health again gave way ; the shadows 
 grew darker and darker ; and soon he was pro- 
 strated on the sick-bed from which he was to 
 rise no more. Still the brave heart did not yield. 
 Propped up with pillows, he wrote on, pouring out 
 such noble poetry, in the pages of his magazine, as 
 ‘'The Haunted House," “The Lady's Dream," and 
 “The Bridge of Sighs;" the “Song of the Shirt" 
 appeared a short time previously in the Christmas 
 number of Punch for 1843. It was now that 
 the higher nature of the poet shone out most 
 strongly ; as though he felt that his work was near 
 a close, and that ere the pen dropped from his 
 fingers, he must plead the cause of the poor, and 
 startle the selfish rich from their indolent dreams, and 
 rouse them to a sense of their criminal neglect of the 
 needy. It is in these last effusions of the poet that 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 495 
 
 we see what glorious possibilities dwelt in the depths 
 of his genius, had time permitted the fruits to ripen, 
 or had health been given him. The sorrows through 
 which he passed made him more keenly alive to the 
 woes of other breaking hearts, and his ear more sen- 
 sitive to the sighs of the hopeless children of poverty. 
 Friends at length came to his help. Eight months be- 
 fore his death they brought his case under the notice 
 of Sir Robert Peel, with the view of procuring him a 
 pension from the literary fund. That nobleman, with 
 his usual generosity, at once acknowledged the justice 
 of the claim, and procured him a pension of ^loo a 
 year, which was continued after his death to his wife 
 and children. Sir Robert Peel accompanied the in- 
 telligence of this substantial kindness with a letter so 
 generous and friendly that it must have gladdened 
 the last moments of the poet. Among other things, 
 he said, — I assure you that there can be little which 
 you have written and acknowledged which I have not 
 read, and that there are few who can appreciate and 
 admire more than myself the good sense and good 
 feeling which have taught you to infuse so much fun 
 and merriment into writings correcting folly and ex- 
 posing absurdities, and yet never trespassing beyond 
 those limits within which wit and facetiousness are 
 not very often confined.’' This was indeed high 
 praise from the grave statesman, with all the care? 
 of empire on his shoulders, and of whom the Duke 
 
496 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 of Wellington could say, after his death, He never 
 uttered what he did not firmly believe to be fact/' 
 
 But now, alas ! for our poet help came too late ; 
 the rest for the weary was near. Loving friends 
 gathered round with their sympathy and aid. Bul- 
 wer and Dickens sent contributions for his magazine. 
 But the worn and weary man was fast sinking into 
 ‘Hhe sleep that knows not breaking.” '^No words,” 
 says his daughter, can describe his patience and 
 resignation, amidst all the fierce sufferings of the last 
 month or two of his dying, as he said himself, ^ inch 
 by inch.' '' Once he said to his wife and children, '' It 
 is a beautiful world, and since I have been lying here, 
 I have thought of it more and more ; it is not so bad, 
 even humanly speaking, as people would make it. 
 I have had some very happy days since I lived in it, 
 and I could have wished to stay a little longer. But 
 it is all for the best ; and we shall all meet in a better 
 world.” Under all the turmoils and pains of a life- 
 time, his nature has lost none of its sweetness ; and 
 after all his sad experiences he still feels the beauty 
 and beneficence of God's world. One night his wife 
 and children listened with blinding tears to his faint, 
 low voice, amid his mental wanderings, repeating the 
 pathetic lines — 
 
 “I’m fading awa’, Jean, 
 
 Like snow-wreaths in thaw, Jean, 
 
 I ’m fading awa 
 To the land o’ the leal! 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 497 
 
 “ But weep na, my ain Jean, 
 
 The world’s care ’s in vain, Jean, 
 
 We ’ll meet and aye be fain 
 In the land o’ the leal.” 
 
 Old friends came to press his hand for the last time, 
 and speak the last farewell. Gentle, serene, resigned, 
 lay the sufferer, a solemn beapty of repose on his 
 countenance. Tenderly he blessed and took leave 
 of wife and children, and calmly awaited the final 
 moment. Bending over him, as the last hour drew 
 near, his loving wife heard him faintly whisper, O 
 Lord ! say. Arise, take up thy cross, and follow me.’' 
 Gently let us draw the curtains, as he sinks into that 
 repose in which the weary are at rest, and where the 
 hail-storms can reach him no more. His last words 
 were, Dying ! dying!” as if welcoming the solemn 
 transition. 
 
 On Saturday at noon,” says a writer in the Quar- 
 terly Review^ ‘^May 3, 1845, the headache and the 
 heartache were over ; the throbbing brow was quiet 
 for the long rest under the sod of Kensall Green 
 Cemetery. .Thomas Hood, the man of many suffer- 
 ings and most patient spirit, had passed on his way 
 through the valley of the dark shadow, lighted by 
 the sunshine of a heart at peace. His faithful wife, 
 who so clung to him in life, was not long divided 
 from him in death. In the language of an old poet, 
 there were but eighteen months of wooing, and the 
 
 grave became their second marriage-bed : — 
 
 2 I 
 
498 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ‘ Death could not sever man and wife. 
 Because they both lived but one life ; 
 Peace ! good reader, do not weep. 
 Peace ! the lovers are asleep. 
 
 They, sweet spirits, folded lie, 
 
 In the last knot that Love could tie.’ 
 
 After long struggling with the storms, and many 
 tossings amongst the billows of life’s sea, poor Hood 
 went down. Many a wild wave had burst over him 
 and his frail bark ; still they rose and righted from 
 each shock, bearing right gallantly on. And just as 
 he seemed about to touch land mentally, and win a 
 firm foothold whereon to stand and do yet higher 
 work; just when the harbour was in sight, and a 
 multitude of friends stood on shore ready and eager 
 to welcome the brave sailor, down he went in sight 
 of them and home.” The drawback, however, was 
 that ^Hhe multitude of friends who stood on the 
 shore” did not sooner think of sending out a life- 
 boat to his rescue ; and that he was left to buffet 
 with the waves so long that, when at length dragged 
 ashore, life was all but extinct. His own case was 
 another illustration of the truth which he saw so 
 clearly and expressed so well, — 
 
 “ But evil is wrought by want of thought 
 As well as want of heart.” 
 
 Nine years after his death, a splendid monument 
 was erected over his grave in Kensall Green Ceme- 
 tery, by public subscription. It was inaugurated 
 amid a concourse of spectators, that shewed how 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 499 
 
 deeply his poetry had sunk into the hearts of his 
 countrymen, and how fondly his memory was 
 cherished. 
 
 The limits of this lecture will merely permit me 
 to notice briefly a few of the more striking pecu- 
 liarities of Hood’s poetry. Among the world’s 
 humorists Hood is entitled to be placed in the front 
 rank. With Goldsmith, Charles Lamb, and Wash- 
 ington Irving he had much in common — much of the 
 same delicacy, purity, and subtlety in his percep- 
 tions of the ludicrous; while in felicitous mingling 
 of the tender and pathetic with the sportive he 
 stands alone. He was no mere provoker of barren 
 laughter, but a man whose mirth had its roots deep 
 in sentiment and humanity, and who saw the serious 
 side of our strange complex existence as clearly as 
 the ludicrous. No one knew better than Hood that 
 the fountain of our tears lies close to that of mirth, 
 and that to unseal the former you must often touch 
 the latter ; no one more strikingly exemplified the 
 truth that the profoundest feeling will at times 
 robe itself in quaintnesses and oddities, as though 
 it were seeking a disguise, or in quips and 
 cranks and wreathed smiles,” as if to hide from 
 itself. In truth, under a mask of humours, whims, 
 and oddities,” Hood conceals the earnestness and 
 vehement intensity of a reformer — of one into whose 
 soul the iron of the world’s wrongs had entered, and 
 whose heart was burning to right them. Hence often. 
 
500 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 in his gayest lyrics, there is an undertone of sadness ; 
 and in the very extravagance of his humour he is 
 aiming his blows, right and left, at bigotry, intolerance, 
 and selfishness ; and bursting irreverently, with a 
 merry laugh, into the deepest sanctuaries of conven- 
 tionalism. The very fierceness of his sarcasm against 
 oppression and wrong betrays the earnestness of one 
 alive to the true and the good ; and even in his 
 grotesque nonsense we often detect some moral or 
 poetic meaning. But through all a vein of kindliness 
 and sympathy runs ; so that while he laughs at the 
 weaknesses, foibles, and wrong-doings of his fellows, 
 
 ' and playfully holds them before our eyes, it is never 
 in contempt, or wrath, or hatred. We feel that love 
 is at the bottom of it all. Thus, for example, in one 
 of the severest pieces he ever wrote, his Ode to Rae 
 Wilson, Esq.,” prompted by no slight provocation on 
 the part of one of the unco guid,” what fine moral 
 touches are mingled with his sarcasm ; and how 
 admirable what Sydney Smith called his ^‘way of 
 putting a thing,” in remonstrating with bigotry ! — 
 
 ‘ ‘ The humble records of my life to search, 
 
 I have not herded with mere pagan beasts, 
 
 But sometimes I have ‘sat at good men’s feasts,’ 
 
 And I have been where bells have knoll’d to church. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Dear bells ! how sweet the sound of village bells 
 When on the undulating air they swim ! 
 
 Now loud as welcomes ! faint now as farewells ! 
 
 And trembling all about the breezy dells, 
 
 As flutter’d by the wings of cherubim. 
 
 Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn ; 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 501 
 
 And, lost to sight, th’ ecstatic lark above 
 Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, — 
 
 With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon ; — 
 
 0 Pagans, Heathens, Infidels, and Doubters ! 
 
 If such sweet sounds can’t woo you to religion. 
 
 Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters ? 
 
 “ A man may cry. Church ! Church ! at every word. 
 
 With no more piety than other people, — 
 
 A daw ’s not reckon’d a religious bird. 
 
 Because it keeps a-cawing from the steeple. 
 
 The temple is a good, a holy place. 
 
 But quacking only gives it an ill savour ; 
 
 While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, 
 
 And bring religion’s self into disfavour. 
 
 “ Church is ‘ a little heaven below, — 
 
 1 have been there, and still would go ; ’ 
 
 Yet I am none of those who think it odd 
 
 A man may pray unbidden from the cassock. 
 
 And, passing by the customary hassock. 
 
 Kneel down remote upon the simple sod. 
 
 And sue, in forma pauperis^ to God. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan 
 To cure the dark and erring mind ; 
 
 But who would rush at a benighted man. 
 
 And give him two black eyes for being blind ?” 
 
 One of the finest satires ever written on the worship 
 of the golden calf is Hood’s poem of Miss Kilman- 
 segg.” Here is one of the beauties” of this piece, 
 which I think is a very characteristic specimen of 
 Hood’s manner : — 
 
 “ The careful Betty the pillow beats. 
 
 And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets. 
 
 And gives the mattress a shaking ; 
 
 But vainly Betty performs her part 
 If a ruffled head and a rumpled heart, 
 
 As well as the couch, want making. 
 
502 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 “ There’s Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves. 
 Where other people would make preserves. 
 
 He turns his fruits into pickles ; 
 
 Jealous, envious, and fretful by day. 
 
 At night to his own sharp fancy a prey. 
 
 He lies, like a hedgehog roll’d up the wrong way. 
 Tormenting himself with his prickles. 
 
 “ But a child that bids the world good night 
 In downright earnest, and cuts it quite, — 
 
 A cherub no art can copy, — 
 
 ’^Tis a perfect picture to see him lie. 
 
 As if he had supp’d on dormouse pie, — 
 
 An ancient classical dish, by the by, — 
 
 With sauce of syrup of poppy. 
 
 “ O bed, bed, bed ! delicious bed ! 
 
 That heaven upon earth to the weary head. 
 Whether lofty or low its condition ! 
 
 But instead of putting our plagues on shelves. 
 
 In our blankets how often we toss ourselves. 
 
 Or are toss’d by such allegorical elves 
 As Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition ! ” 
 
 Ofte of our wisest and best writers, the late Arch- 
 deacon Hare, says, Nobody who is afraid of laugh- 
 ing, and heartily too, at his friend, can be said to have 
 a true and thorough love for him ; and, on the other 
 hand, it would betray a sorry want of faith to distrust 
 a friend because he laughs at you. Few men, I be- 
 lieve, are much worth loving in whom there is not 
 something well worth laughing at.'* Hood's laughter 
 is of this genial, loving sort, with all the ringing joy- 
 ousness of a happy, merry schoolboy in its tones — 
 all that natural playfulness springing from kindness 
 which marked the greatest and best of men, such as 
 Socrates, Luther, Sir Thomas More, Cervantes, Scott, 
 
THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 503 
 
 and, most of all, our own gentle Shakespeare. There 
 is no coarseness or repulsiveness in his humour. His 
 wit never breaks irreverently into the sanctities of our 
 nature — never lays an impious touch on what is high 
 or holy — never mocks at genuine affection — never 
 grins sardonically over the mishaps, backslidings, 
 humiliating moral diseases of our poor humanity. 
 His own bitter lot in life had awakened no jealousy 
 or envy in his own heart — no hatred of those who 
 were more prosperous or successful — no scoffing cyni- 
 cism, like that which tore the heart of Swift, and em- 
 bittered his existence. He has no bitter scorn to fling 
 at his brothers ; for the right, he has ever a kindly 
 cheering word ; and for all, smiles and utterances of 
 love and innocent mirth, that are felt in the blood and 
 along the heart. We feel that our life is more beau- 
 tiful and happy because he has lived, and that our 
 moments of sorrow and abasement are brightened 
 by his words of cheer. Earnestness and pleasantry, 
 humour and tenderness, fun passing at a bound into 
 pathos, wit that shakes the sides, and the next mo- 
 ment makes the eyes overflow, drollery dancing before 
 our eyes, but also showering upon us the gold of wis- 
 dom and the pearls of genius, — these are found inter- 
 mingled in rich profusion in the writings of Hood. 
 And when we take into account the sad background 
 of his own life of suffering and care, and remember 
 that these sportive effusions have come from the 
 couch of pain — that these jests have been thrown off 
 
504 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 at intervals as bodily anguish relaxed his gripe — that 
 these comicalities were in many cases jotted down by 
 a pale-faced invalid propped with pillows, who could 
 laugh at the gnawings of disease, and make puns on 
 his very troubles — and that all this cheerful battling 
 with misery was that the dear ones might have bread, 
 we wonder and admire the more, and love our bene- 
 factor more profoundly. We understand, too, when 
 we connect his writings with his life, how it is that 
 the undertones of woe so often mingle in his gayest 
 laughter, and that he strikes the chords of sadness 
 even in his wildest outbursts of mirth. These are the 
 sighs, as it were, of his own heart unconsciously escap- 
 ing — the secret sadness which he so carefully con- 
 cealed, but could not wholly repress. 
 
 As a specimen of the way in which his sadness 
 peeps from behind his sportiveness, take a stanza or 
 two from his Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clap- 
 ham Academy — 
 
 “ There was I birch’d ! there was I bred ! 
 
 There, like a little Adam, fed 
 F rom learning’s woful tree ! 
 
 The weary tasks I used to con ! 
 
 The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! 
 
 Most fniitless leaves to me ! 
 
 “ The summon’d class ! — the awful bow ! — 
 
 I wonder who is master now, 
 
 And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
 
 How many ushers now employs, 
 
 How many maids to see the boys 
 Have nothing in their heads ! 
 
 “ Ay, there’s the playground ! there’s the lime 
 Beneath whose shade in summer’s prime 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 505 
 
 So wildly I have read ! 
 
 Who sits there now., and skims the cream 
 Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 
 Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 
 
 ‘ ‘ Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout. 
 
 And leap, and skip, and mob about 
 At play, where we have play’d ! 
 
 Some hop, some run, some fall, some twine 
 Their crony arms ; some in the shine, 
 
 And some are in the shade. 
 
 “ Thy tawes are brave! thy tops are rare ! — 
 
 Our tops are spun with coils of care, 
 
 Our dumps are no delight I — 
 
 The Elgin marbles are but tame, 
 
 And ’tis at best a sorry game 
 To fly the Muse’s kite. 
 
 “ Our hearts are dough, our heals are lead, 
 
 Our topmost joys fall dull and dead, 
 
 Like balls with no rebound ! 
 
 And often wdth a faded eye 
 We look behind, and send a sigh 
 Towards that merry ground. 
 
 “ Then be contented. Thou hast got 
 The most of heaven in thy young lot. 
 
 There ’s sky-blue in thy cup ! 
 
 Thou ’It find thy manhood all too fast, — 
 
 Soon come, soon gone I — and age at last, - - 
 A sorry breaking-up ! ” 
 
 More pathetic still are his longings, when looking 
 back on the happy days of youth, in another of his 
 short poems : — 
 
 “ I remember, I remember, 
 
 The house where I was born , 
 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at mom ; 
 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 
 Nor brought too long a day; 
 
 But now I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away. 
 
$06 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 “ I remember, I remember, 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then. 
 
 That is so heavy now. 
 
 And summer-pools could hardly cool 
 The fever on my brow. 
 
 “ I remember, I remember. 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 Were close against the sky; 
 
 It was a childish ignorance. 
 
 But now ’tis little joy 
 To know I’m farther off from heaven 
 Than when I was a boy.” 
 
 Should any one fancy that a poet like Hood, who 
 revelled in the humorous, could not be earnest, 
 pathetic, or reverential, let him remember how Shake- 
 speare, the greatest of poets, has intermingled the 
 tragic with the comic, in his wondrous dramas — how 
 he employs mirth to relieve and even deepen the 
 effects of the awful and sublime, making the rude 
 gibing and carolling of the grave-digger precede the 
 funeral of the fair Ophelia, and the wild wit of the 
 fool in “ King Lear,’' set the tragic pathos in a more 
 lurid light. To prove that Hood felt in the very 
 depths of his being, and with all a poet’s earnestness, 
 the seriousness, the solemnity, the tragedy of man’s 
 life on earth, we have only to name such poems as 
 Eugene Aram,” ^'The Haunted House,” ''The Ode 
 to Melancholy,” " The Death-Bed,” " The Lay of the 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 507 
 
 Labourer,” The Bridge of Sighs,” and the world- 
 renowned '^Song of the Shirt.” Undoubtedly the 
 man who produced these, with health, leisure, and 
 longer life, might have written tragedies, poems, or 
 songs, that would live in the hearts and memories of 
 men, with those of Shakespeare, Milton, or Burns. 
 But, alas ! he had to get up the most marketable 
 article, in order that there might be bread in the cup- 
 board. He punned to live ; and when he ought to 
 have been writing poems like the Song of the Shirt,” 
 he was manufacturing drolleries and whimsicalities 
 that would exchange for cash and secure the means 
 of existence. Such, unhappily, is the way of the 
 world ; it refuses to recognise genius when living, and 
 employs Robert Burns in gauging beer and whisky 
 barrels, and Thomas Hood in getting up Comic 
 Annuals” to tickle its sides for a moment ; and so must 
 be content with what little of genuine song they can 
 get breathing time to produce. Almost by stealth, 
 and in hurried moments, they do get a little done, 
 and that most imperfectly ; but from that which 
 ought to be their life-work they are virtually cut 
 off. 
 
 “ Chill penury repress’d their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul.” 
 
 We have few poems possessed of more genuine 
 tragic power in condensed form than Hood’s Bridge 
 of Sighs,” or that more effectually touches the foun- 
 tains of our pity and tenderness. Poor womanhood’s 
 
5o8 
 
 THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 wreck, maddened by want, shame, and despair, hurls 
 herself on destiny. 
 
 * ‘ The bleak wind of IVIarch 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver, 
 
 But not the dark arch 
 
 Or the black flowing river ; 
 
 Mad from life’s history, 
 
 Glad to death’s mystery. 
 
 Swift to be hurl’d — 
 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 “ In she plunged boldly, 
 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran, — 
 
 Over the brink of it. 
 
 Picture it, think of it, 
 
 Dissolute man ! 
 
 Lave in it, drink of it. 
 
 Then, if you can !” 
 
 And then, when bending over the dead, dripping form, 
 dragged from the muddy stream, how the genius of 
 the poet wipes away all her stains, leaving only the 
 beautiful, the womanly — deprecating in that solemn 
 moment all human scorn, all scrutiny into past dis- 
 honour, and urging us to think of her mournfully, 
 gently, humanly,'’ as a poor, homeless, friendless 
 daughter of Eve, who had been cut off from all love 
 and sympathy, and madly rushed on destruction : — 
 
 “ Who was her father? 
 
 Who was her mother ? 
 
 Had she a sister ? 
 
 Had she a brother ? 
 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet than all other ? 
 
THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 509 
 
 “ Alas for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 
 Oh, it was pitiful ! 
 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Home she had none. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Perishing gloomily. 
 
 Spurn’d by contumely. 
 
 Cold inhumanity. 
 
 Burning insanity. 
 
 Into her rest. — 
 
 Cross her hands humbly, 
 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 “ Owning her weakness. 
 
 Her evil behaviour. 
 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour.” 
 
 Of the Song of the Shirt/’ the words of which 
 have engraven themselves on all hearts and memo- 
 ries, it is needless to speak. It is one of those lays 
 of the heart that go direct to the heart. One who 
 felt deeply the wrongs that are often inflicted, under 
 the sanction of law, on the helpless toilers for daily 
 bread, uttered those burning words that have touched 
 many a conscience and opened many an eye, and 
 brought help to the sorrow-stricken poor. Sad ex- 
 perience ever reminds that we need such poems to 
 soften hard hearts, and to condense and direct to 
 fitting objects the pity and sympathy that are often 
 floating about as mere hazy sentimentality. Hood’s 
 song, startling as a shriek at midnight, roused many 
 a luxurious dreamer on her silken couch to think of 
 
510 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 the slaves of the needle, whose wasted fingers had 
 wrought the gay robes she wore, and whose tears 
 had fallen, hot and fast, over seam and gusset and 
 band But for this midnight-cry, wealth, in its sel- 
 fish indolence, would never have been made to know 
 
 * ‘ Of the hearts that daily break, 
 
 Of the tears that hourly fall, 
 
 Of the many, many troubles of life 
 That grieve this earthly ball — 
 
 Disease and hunger, and pain and want ; 
 
 But now I dreamt of them all. 
 
 “ Alas ! I have walk’d through life 
 Too heedless where I trod — 
 
 Nay, helping to trample my fellow- worm, 
 
 And fill the burial sod — 
 
 Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
 Not unmark’d of God. 
 
 “ The wounds I might have heal’d ! 
 
 The human sorrow and smart ! 
 
 And yet it never was in my soul 
 To play so ill a part ; 
 
 But evil is wrought by want of thought. 
 
 As well as want of heart ! ” 
 
 Fitly has it been recorded, in few and simple words, 
 on the tomb of Hood, '^He sang the ^Song of the 
 Shirt.'’' No nobler epitaph could be wished for our 
 gentle poet. 
 
 The writer in the Quarterly Review, already quoted, 
 finely closes his estimate of Hood in these words : — 
 ^'When a man like this has lived his life and done 
 his work, and Death has put his ^Finis' to the book, 
 one great question is, ^ What has he laid up for himself 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 511 
 
 out of this life to bear interest in another?^ The 
 question on our side is, ‘ What has he done for the 
 world ? what is the value of his life and writings to 
 us ?’ Hood’s life was a long disease, for which death 
 alone possessed the secret of healing ; a hand-to- 
 hand, foot-to-foot, and face-to-face struggle, day by 
 day, with adverse circumstances, for the means of 
 living. Yet out of all the suffering he secreted a 
 precious pearl of poetry, which will be ‘ a thing of 
 beauty and in spite of poverty and pain, he 
 shed on the world such a smile of fun and fancy, 
 as will be a merry memory for ever. But it is 
 Thomas Hood’s chief glory, that ^he remembered 
 the forgotten.’ His greatest work is that which his 
 poems will do for the poor. The proudest place for 
 his name is on the banner borne at the head of their 
 great army, as it marches on to many a victory over 
 ignorance, crime, and wrong.” ‘‘When we have expa- 
 tiated on the wit of Hood, or shewn his fancy at the 
 daintiest, the highest praise we can award is sym- 
 bolled on his own tombstone — ‘ He sang the “ Song of 
 the Shirt’” — he gave one fitting voice to the dark, 
 dumb world of poverty.” “ He is no cold, polished, 
 statuesque idol of the intellect, but one of the dar- 
 lings of the English heart. We never think of Hood 
 as dead and turned to marble. Statue or bust could 
 never represent him to the imagination. It is always 
 a real human being, a live workfellow or playfellow, 
 that meets you with the quaintest, kindliest smile. 
 
512 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 takes you by the hand, looks into your face, and 
 straightway your heart is touched to open and let him 
 in” ‘‘And whatsoever place his name may win in 
 the Temple of Fame, it is destined to be a household 
 word with all who speak the English language. 
 Though not one of the highest and most majestic 
 amongst immortals, he will always be among those 
 who are near and dear to the English heart, for the 
 sake of his noble pleading of the cause of the poor ; 
 and few names will call forth so tender a familiarity 
 of affection as that of rare ‘Tom Hood.'’' 
 
 I close with the memorial lines of Lowell : — 
 
 “Let laurell’d marbles weigh on other tombs, 
 
 Let anthems peal for other dead, 
 
 Rustling the banner’d depths of minster-glooms 
 With their exulting spread. 
 
 “ His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone. 
 
 No lichen shall its lines efface; 
 
 He needs these few and simple words alone 
 To mark his resting place: — 
 
 “ ‘ Here lies a poet. Stranger, if to thee 
 His claim to memory be obscure. 
 
 If thou wouldst learn how truly great he was. 
 
 Go ask it of the Poor.’ ” 
 
 Ballantyite dr* Company^ Prmters^ Edinburgh, 
 
--'f 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
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