lay, up to the day when the present lines are written (the ninth of January), the reader should not deny himself the pleasure of looking especially at two. It is a good sign of the times when such articles as these (I mean the articles in The Times and Saturday Review) appear in our public prints about our public men. They educate us, as it were, to admire rightly. An uninstructed person in a museum or at a concert may pass by without recognizing a picture or a passage of music, which the connoisseur by his side may show him is a masterpiece of harmony, or a wonder of artistic skill. After reading these papers you like and respect more the person you have admired so much already. And so with regard to Macaulay's style there may be faults of course what critic can't point them out? But for the nonce we are not talking about faults: we want to say nil nisi bonum.1 Well-take at hazard any three pages of the "Essays" or "History"; — and, glimmering below the stream of the narrative, as it were, you, an average reader, see one, two, three, a half-score of allusions to other historic facts, characters, literature, poetry, with which you are acquainted. Why is this epithet used? Whence is that simile drawn? How does he manage, in two or three words, to paint an individual, or to indicate a landscape? Your neighbor, who has his reading, and his little stock of literature stowed away in his mind, shall detect more points, allusions, happy touches, indicating not only the prodigious memory and vast learning of this master, but the wonderful industry, the honest, humble previous toil of this great scholar. He reads twenty books to write a sentence; he travels a hundred miles to make a line of description. Many Londoners — not all — have seen the British Museum Library. I speak à cœur ouvert," and pray the kindly reader 4 nil nisi bonum, nothing but good. 5 à cœur ouvert, with open heart. - to bear with me. I have seen all sorts of domes of Peters and Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon, what not?-and have been struck by none of them so much as by that catholic dome in Bloomsbury, under which our million volumes are housed. What peace, what love, what truth, what beauty, what happiness for all, what generous kindness for you and me, are here spread out! It seems to me one cannot sit down in that place without a heart full of grateful reverence. I own to have said my grace at the table, and to have thanked heaven for this my English birthright, freely to partake of these bountiful books, and to speak the truth I find there. Under the dome which held Macaulay's brain, and from which his solemn eyes looked out on the world but a fortnight since, what a vast, brilliant, and wonderful store of learning was ranged! what strange lore would he not fetch for you at your bidding! A volume of law, or history, a book of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by himself who forgot nothing), a novel ever so old, and he had it at hand. I spoke to him once about "Clarissa." "Not read 'Clarissa'!" he cried out. "If you have once thoroughly entered on 'Clarissa' and are infected by it, you can't leave it. When I was in India I passed one hot season at the hills, and there were the Governor-General, and the Secretary of Government, and the Commander-in-Chief, and their wives. I had 'Clarissa' with me: and, as soon as they began to read, the whole station was in a passion of excitement about Miss Harlowe and her misfortunes, and her scoundrelly Lovelace! The Governor's wife seized the book, and the Secretary waited for it, and the Chief Justice could not read it for tears!" He acted the whole scene: he paced up and down the "Athenæum" library: I dare say he could have spoken pages of the book of that book, and of what countless piles of others! One paper I have read regarding Lord Macaulay says “he had no heart." Why, a man's books may not always speak the truth, but they speak his mind in spite of himself: and it seems to me this man's heart is beating through every page he penned. He is always in a storm of revolt and indignation against wrong, craft, tyranny. How he cheers heroic resistance; how he backs and applauds freedom struggling for its own; how he hates scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful; how he recognizes genius, though selfish villains possess it! The critic who says Macaulay had no heart, might say that Johnson had none: and two men more generous, and more loving, and more hating, and more partial, and more noble, do not live in our history. Those who knew Lord Macaulay knew how admirably tender and generous, and affectionate he was. It was not his business to bring his family before the theatre footlights, and call for bouquets from the gallery as he wept over them. If any young man of letters reads this little sermon — and to him, indeed, it is addressed I would say to him, "Bear Scott's words in your mind, and 'be good, my dear."" Here are two Deo, as far as 6 literary men gone to their account, and, laus we know, it is fair, and open, and clean. Here is no need of apologies for shortcomings, or explanations of vices which would have been virtues but for unavoidable, etc. Here are two examples of men most differently gifted: each pursuing his calling; each speaking his truth as God bade him; each honest in his life; just and irreproachable in his dealings; dear to his friends; honored by his country; beloved at his fireside. It has been the fortunate lot of both to give incal * Since the above was written, I have been informed that it has been found, on examining Lord Macaulay's papers, that he was in the habit of giving away more than a fourth part of his annual income. laus Deo, praise God. It culable happiness and delight to the world, which thanks them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. may not be our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed with such merit, or rewarded with such fame. But the rewards of these men are rewards paid to our service. We may not win the bâton or epaulettes; but God give us strength to guard the honor of the flag! AFFLICTION. George Herbert. WHEN first Thou didst entice to Thee my heart, I thought the service brave: Besides what I might have Out of my stock of natural delights, Augmented with Thy Grace's perquisites. I looked on Thy furniture so fine, And made it fine to me; Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine, And 'tice me unto Thee; Such stars I counted mine: both heaven and earth What pleasures could I want, whose King I served, Thus argued into hopes, my thoughts reserved Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fierceness seek Thy face. At first Thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses, I had my wish and way; My days were straw'd with flow'rs and happinesses; There was no month but May. But with my years sorrow did twist and grow, And made a party unawares for woe. Yet lest perchance I should too happy be In my unhappiness, Turning my purge to food, Thou throwest me Into more sicknesses: Thus doth Thy power cross-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking. Now I am here, what Thou wilt do with me I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree, — To fruit or shade; at least some bird would trust Yet though Thou troublest me, I must be meek; Well, I will change the service, and go seek Ah, my dear God, though I am clean forgot, Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not. |