foundest interest. But to-night we are concerned with only one aspect of each. Mr. Parnell professed a general ignorance, even of a subject that concerned him so nearly as Irish history. And this strange want of the knowledge to be found in books appears all through his life. "I am very ignorant," he once said to his biographer, who smiled incredulously. Yes," he continued, "I mean what I say. I am very ignorant of these things. I have read very little, but I am smart, and can pick up information quickly." On another occasion he had engaged to lecture on Irish history at Cork. Parnell said to a friend, "I really do not know anything about Irish history. Have you got any books I can read?" The day of the lecture came; it was to be delivered at eight o'clock. At a quarter to eight, when dinner was over, Parnell said, "Now I must read up the history," and he asked for some writingpaper and the historical books. He arrived at the hall at 9.15, was received with enthusiasm, and got through his lecture successfully. That anecdote seems to me profoundly interesting for many reasons. many reasons. The nerve, the coolness, the declared ignorance of Irish history, and the enthusiasm of an audience that had been waiting for an hour and a quarter, are all equally remarkable. This carries me far beyond my contention that bookishness and statesmanship are rarely compatible, for it appears to point to a complete immunity from books as the secret of political success. And yet is it so? is it so? Is not Parnell a phenomenon and an exception to all rules? Is not the true life of the politician the balance of action and study-study not merely a preparation for action, but of literature as a recreation? Among the great men of action we recall Frederick's love of letters and Napoleon's travelling library. Among statesmen we think of Pitt's sofa with its shelf of thumbed classics; and of Fox, a far more ardent lover of books, exchanging them and his garden for the House of Commons almost with tears; and of Gladstone's Temple of Peace. And surely, even if it be not the best, it is the happiest way. There is little vestige of happiness in the life of Parnell. There is not perhaps too much happiness in the life of any statesman. But no one who knew him could think Mr. Gladstone otherwise than happy, and one of the main sources of his happiness was his bookishness. We may indeed say more than that. We may say that where, as in his case, the mind absorbs and uses the books, and the books do not cloud and embarrass the mind, the purpose of the statesman and the eloquence of the orator gather colour and force from books as a river takes the hues and gathers up the springs of the regions it traverses. But even here I must guard myself once more: Mr. Gladstone was a prodigy, and no rule deduced from his life can be absolute for others. And so, gentlemen, I leave you to form your judgment for yourselves, by the light of your own reason, by the guidance of your instinct. For, in truth, all ends in that. All the lectures and addresses, inaugural or otherwise, of the Philosophical Institution, or any other institution, athenæum, or college, can only help you to form your own judgment, and to rely on yourselves. Read books like Gladstone, or disdain books like Parnell; as to that you must judge for yourselves. There is no royal road to success in public life; what suits one will not suit another. But of this at least I am sure, that, putting politics and success equally out of the question, if a man wants to develop his faculties to the utmost advantage, and to combine the greatest amount of work with the greatest amount of happiness, he cannot do better than imitate, so far as he is able, the methods of study, the economy of time, and the regularity of life practised by my illustrious predecessor in the Presidency of the Philosophical Institution. |