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. 6 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 literary men gone to their account, and, laus Deo, as far as 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. 6 laus Deo, praise God. culable happiness and delight to the world, which thanks them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. It 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: So many joys I writ down for my part, 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; But with my years sorrow did twist and grow, 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 None of my books will show : 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, BEGONE, DULL CARE. BEGONE, dull care! I prythee begone from me: Begone, dull care! thou and I shall never agree. Long time thou hast been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill; But i' faith, dull care, Thou never shalt have thy will. Too much care will make a young man gray; So merrily pass the day; For I hold it is the wisest thing To drive dull care away. IN AN ALBUM. James Russell Lowell. THE misspelt scrawl, upon the wall O Chance and Change! our buzz's range Then let us play at fame to-day, Too pressed to wait, upon her slate THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. Matthew Arnold. COME, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the wild white horses play, This way, this way! |