Philos

political systems; you will find them wherever you turn. ophy has altered the directions it favored in the last century-it enters less into metaphysical inquiry; it questions less the relationships between man and his Maker; it assumes its practical character as the investigator of external nature, and seeks to adapt agencies before partially concealed to the positive uses of man. Here I leave you to your own bold researches; you cannot be much misled if you remember the maxim to observe with vigilance and inquire with conscientious care. Nor is it necessary that I should admonish the sons of religious Scotland that the most daring speculations as to nature may be accompanied with the humblest faith in those sublime doctrines that open heaven alike to the wisest philosopher and the simplest peasant. I do not presume to arrogate the office of a preacher; but, believe me, as a man of books and a man of the world, that you inherit a religion which, in its mest familiar form, in the lowly prayer that you have learned from your mother's lips, will save you from the temptations to which life is exposed more surely than all which the pride of philosophy can teach. Nor can I believe that the man will ever go very far or very obstinately wrong who, by the mere habit of thanksgiving and prayer, will be forced to examine his conscience even but once a day and remember that the eye of the Almighty is upon him.

One word further. Nothing to my mind preserves a brave people true and firm to its hereditary virtues more than a devout though liberal spir. of nationality. And it is not because Scotland is united with England that the Scotchman should forget the glories of his annals, the tombs of his ancestors, or relax one jot of his love for his native soil. I say not this to flatter you, I say it not for Scotland alone. I say it for the sake of the empire. For sure I am that, if ever the step of the invader should land upon these kindred shores-there, wherever the national spirit is the most strongly felt there, where the local affections most animate the breast-there will our defenders be the bravest. It would ill become me to enter into the special grounds of debate now at issue, but permit me to remind you that, while pressing with your accustomed spirit for whatever you may deem to be equal rights, you would be unjust to your own fame if you did not feel that the true majesty of Scotland needs neither the pomp of courts nor the blazonry of heralds. What though Holyrood be desolate - what though no king holds

revels in its halls? - the empire of Scotland has but extended its range, and, blended with England, under the daughter of your ancient kings, peoples the Australian wilds that lay beyond the chart of Columbus and rules over the Indian realms that eluded

the grasp of Alexander. That empire does not suffice for you. It may decay-it may perish. More grand is the domain you have won over human thought, and identified with the eternal progress of intellect and freedom. From the charter of that domain no ceremonial can displace the impression of your seal. In the van of that progress no blazon can flaunt before that old Lion of Scotland [pointing to the flag suspended opposite]. This is the empire that you will adorn in peace; this is the empire that, if need be, you will defend in war. It is not here that I would provoke one difference in political opinion,- but surely you, the sons of Scotland, who hold both fame and power upon the same tenure as that which secures civilization from lawless force, surely you are not the men who could contemplate with folded arms the return of the Dark Ages and quietly render up the haven that commands Asia on the one side and threatens Europe on the other, to the barbaric ambition of some Alaric of the North. But, whether in reluctant war or in happier peace, I can but bid you to be mindful of your fathers! Learn from them how duties fulfilled in the world become honors after death; and in your various callings continue to maintain for Scotland her sublime alliance with every power of mind that can defend or instruct, soothe or exalt humanity.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY

(BARON MACAULAY)

(1800-1859)

T WAS said of Macaulay's conversation that those who heard him never had the need—and seldom had the time-to

think twice in order to understand him.

That he deserved this compliment — one of the highest which could be paid him as a writer- he shows alike in his essays, his history, his speeches, and his poems. Since the time of Cicero, he is the greatest master of lucid and exhaustive statement. Indeed, it may be said of him without great risk of exaggeration, that in the artistic handling of cumulative clauses he is one of Cicero's greatest pupils, frequently equaling Cicero at his best, and sometimes surpassing him. Generous in his sympathies, liberal in his ideas, learned as few men of his own time or any other have been, having a memory retentive almost beyond belief, and an almost unequaled facility of expression, he became easily one of the ablest men of the nineteenth century, lacking nothing of greatness that the cultivation of the intellect could give him. What he did lack Emerson tells us plainly and comprehensively. "The brilliant Macaulay," he says, "who expresses the tone of the English governing classes of his day, explicitly teaches. that 'good' means 'good to eat,' 'good to wear a material commodity."

Undoubtedly Macaulay believed in comfort. He has been called a very happy man, and he was certainly a very comfortable one. Never married, knowing nothing of the education of the deepest emotions which come from life in the family; admired as no other English essayist and historian had ever been; commanding unprecedented prices for his work; listened to with respect in the Cabinet and with rapt attention in Parliament; surrounded at home by well-loved books, whose contents he assimilated seemingly without effort; devoted to his work in literature; full of the broad sympathies with progress which made his public life a blessing to himself and to the world, he lacked only the contradiction, the disturbance, the difficulty which Mr. Gladstone calls "the rude and rocking cradle of every kind of excellence" to make him a greater orator than Burke, a greater statesman than Chatham. But, taking his life for what it

was and his work for what it is, there is room in reason and in gratitude for nothing but thanks and praise. As an orator he illustrates the same perfection of lucid style which immortalizes his Essays. This is shown in his address, The Literature of England,' as it is in the abler address, 'Popular Education.' It must not be forgotten in considering the latter address, that however commonplace the great ideas it expresses may now seem to be, his genius in giving them expression so fit and memorable could not have failed to do much to give them that currency and vogue which finally achieve their triumph in becoming the commonplace.

Macaulay was born October 25th, 1800, and educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He entered public life as a Member of Parliament in 1830 and divided his time between public affairs and literature until his death, December 28th, 1859. He was a member of the Supreme Council of India, and, after his return to England, served twice in the Cabinet. In 1857 he was raised to the peerage as "Baron Macaulay of Rothley." With Brougham he forms the connecting link between the great English Whig orators of the American Revolutionary period and the "Gladstone Liberals" of the second half of the nineteenth century. W. V. B.

I

THE LITERATURE OF ENGLAND

(Delivered at the opening of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution, on November 4th, 1846)

THANK you, gentlemen, for this cordial reception. I have thought it right to steal a short time from duties not unimportant for the purpose of lending my aid to an undertaking calculated, as I think, to raise the credit and to promote the best interests of the city, which has so many claims on my gratitude.

The Directors of our Institution have requested me to propose to you as a toast The Literature of Britain.' They could not have assigned to me a more agreeable duty. The chief object of this Institution is, I conceive, to impart knowledge through the medium of our own language. Edinburgh is already rich in libraries worthy of her fame as a seat of literature and a seat of jurisprudence. A man of letters can here, without difficulty, obtain access to repositories filled with the wisdom of many ages and of many nations. But something was still wanting. We still wanted a library open to that large, that important, that respectable class which, though by no means destitute of liberal

curiosity or of sensibility to literary pleasures, is yet forced to be content with what is written in our own tongue. For that class especially, I do not say exclusively, this library is intended. Our directors, I hope, will not be satisfied—I as a member shall certainly not be satisfied - till we possess a noble and complete collection of English books,- till it is impossible to seek in vain on our shelves for a single English book which is valuable either on account of matter or on account of manner; which throws any light on our civil, ecclesiastical, intellectual, or social history: which, in short, can afford either useful instruction or harmless amusement.

From such a collection, placed within the reach of that large and valuable class which I have mentioned, I am disposed to expect great good. And when I say this, I do not take into the account those rare cases to which my valued friend, the Lord Provost, so happily alluded. It is, indeed, not impossible that some man of genius who may enrich our literature with imperishable eloquence and song, or who may extend the empire of our race over matter, may feel in our reading room, for the first time, the consciousness of powers yet undeveloped. It is not impossible that our volumes may suggest the first thought of something great to some future Burns, or Watt, or Arkwright. But I do not speak of these extraordinary cases. What I confidently anticipate is that, through the whole of that class whose benefit we have peculiarly in view, there will be a moral and intellectual improvement; that many hours, which might otherwise be wasted in folly or in vice, will be employed in pursuits which, while they afford the highest and most lasting pleasure, are not only harmless, but purifying and elevating. My own experience, my own observation, justifies me in entertaining this hope. I have had opportunities, both in this and in other countries, of forming some estimate of the effect which is likely to be produced by a good collection of books on a society of young men. There is, I will venture to say, no judicious commanding officer of a regiment who will not tell you that the vicinity of a valuable library will improve perceptibly the whole character of a mess. I well knew one eminent military servant of the East India Company, a man of great and various accomplishments, a man honorably distinguished both in war and in diplomacy, a man who enjoyed the confidence of some of the greatest generals and statesmen of our time. When I asked him how, having