sorrows, their resource and pleasure in their patient literary pursuits.

The fact that, almost without exception, those who have espoused the literary profession, whether poor or wealthy, have done so irrespective alike of either condition, seems to attest their governing impulse to have been that of an ardent love for the ennobling pursuit itself. The smiles as well as the frowns of fortune have ever been equally abortive in their influence over mind once devoted to the pleasures of literature and science: abundant evidence of this being afforded by the history of many whose works have been bequeathed to us as the legacy of all time.

Many of our great men are parvenus. Our poets, our sculptors, our painters, our authors, are mostly men who have risen from the ranks. From Shakspeare to Burns they sprung from the people. They are the sons of barkers, woolcombers, ploughmen, masons, sweeps, pitmen, laborers, shopkeepers, or merchants. Were their great thoughts the less valued on that account? Was their title to true fame less deserved? Bruyere has finely said of the great thinkers: "These men have neither ancestors nor posterity; they alone compose the whole race."

The temper of the present age permits it not to enjoy all those refined and entrancing pleasures which pure literature is capable of affording. The popular pulse throbs with each varying stimulant of the moment. There is little contemplativeness in modern literature: instead of the "Faërie Queene," we consult the matter-of-fact Dictionaries of McCulloch; the knight

hood of genius yields to the aristocracy of commerce. The age of intellectual chivalry is over and gone: but its exploits remain forever speaking to those who, with a gentle and reverent spirit, pause to listen and to love. If we turn to books of elegant criticism, we find the like indifference in the popular taste. In an atmosphere so heavy and lowering, we ought not to be astonished that

แ

'Fancy's gilded clouds decay,

And all her varying rainbows die away."

Notable as was that epoch,

"The great men

cannot fail to be

of the Elizabethan age said many witty things and many wise ones, but we struck with the singular contrast between the robustness of their intellects, and the poor facetic to which they sometimes stooped. With the fools, who entertained the guests of kings and nobles, and who bore some resemblance to the laughter-maker of the ancients, we are familiar through the plays of Shakspeare. Their sallies were characterized as much by impertinence as by wit. Indeed, the impertinence was often itself the joke. To put one person out of countenance afforded mirth to the rest. The womanly vanity and queenly pride of Elizabeth shrunk from these rude rebukes. She would not allow her fool, Pace, because of his caustic vein, to enter her presence; but once being persuaded to have him in, 'Come on, Pace,' said she, now we shall hear of our faults.' 'I do not,' he replied, use to talk of that which all the town talks

on.'

She never probably ventured to repeat the expe

riment, and in this case no one can do otherwise than sympathize with the sensitiveness of Elizabeth, and wonder at the taste of our ancestors, who could suffer their conversation to be broken in upon by the sorry jests and coarse personalities of a licensed buffoon. From Shakspeare we learn equally how the paltriest puns in that day were received for wit; and Lord Bacon's Apothegms, the best repository of the smart sayings of the ancients which was ever made, bears testimony no less to the fact that an indifferent play on words was held in estimation by sages like himself." * The biographies of eminent men furnish occasional glimpses of their domestic habits and characteristic pursuits; such details acquire peculiar interest when they pertain to authorship. We delight to treasure up every incident that contributes to make up the psychological sketch. It is the penetralia of their homes, their private habits of life, and the minutiae of their domestic history that we most desire to know, and this is usually the unwritten history which is left to our conjecture. Even their very foibles and follies are invested with an importance and interest unknown to the ordinary walks of life. It is by the little trivial incidents of life that we are enabled to decipher the character of a man, more than by his greatest actions. It is thus collating the details of his daily life, his familiar deportment and opinions, his private conversation and temper, that we can sketch his real portraiture. These elements, although often seemingly very unimportant, are yet the most characteristic and

*Quarterly Review.

genuine things in a man's memoir. It is the small talk and gossip of "Boswell's Johnson," that constitutes it such a universal favorite. Boswell has so industriously collected the foolish, as well as the wise observations of the great lexicographer, portrayed his asperities as well as his amenities, his eccentricities as well as excellences, so faithfully, that we are at no loss to estimate his character. Let who will question the accuracy of taste discovered in such minute disclosures, it cannot be denied that they are the very details essential to a true portrait. A cabinet series of such portraits of eminent men, it would be no easy task to produce; all that has been now attempted is to group together a few fugitive facts, which, although thrown together in a desultory manner, can hardly be deemed devoid of interest. Who would not willingly make a pilgrimage to catch a glimpse of an author in his literary laboratory-his workshop? For example, of Richardson, in his back-shop, writing "Pamela ;" of Cowper and his tame hares; of Byron and Newstead Abbey; of Burns, in his humble cottage home; of Voltaire, in his retreat of Ferney by the shores of Lake Leman; of Sir Walter Scott, in his study at Abbotsford: of Dr. Johnson, in his retreat in Bolt Court; of Shakspeare, and the woods of Charlecote; of Pope, and his house at Twickenham; of Swift, and his living at Laracor. We are never tired of reading of such things, identified as they are with genius, and consecrated by their association with the names of great men.

We take an interest in even smaller things. Every

body remembers Goldsmith's bloom-colored coat; George Fox's "leathern hull;" Milton's garb of coarse grey; Magliabecchi's great brown vest down to his knees, his broad-brimmed hat and patched black mantle, and his cravat full of snuff-droppings; Pope's velvet cap, tye-wig, and sword; and Buffon, with his hair in curl papers while sitting at his desk; Scott's limp; Byron's club foot; Pope's little crooked figure, like a note of interrogation; Johnson's rotundity and rheum; Charles Lamb's spindle-shanks in gaiters; and all manner of personal peculiarities of distinguished

men.

Voltaire was fond of magnificent attire, and usually dressed in an absurd manner. Diderot once travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris in his morning-gown and nightcap; and in this guise promenaded the streets and public places of the towns on his route. He was often taken for a madman. While composing his works, he used to walk about at a rapid pace, making huge strides, and sometimes throwing his wig in the air when he struck out a happy idea. One day, a friend found him in tears. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter?" "I am weeping," answered Diderot, "at a story that I have just composed!"

Wordsworth was deemed a madman by some of the villagers, by others a criminal in the disguise of an idler. They affirmed that he had been often seen to wander about at night and "look rather strangely at the moon," and that sometimes "he would roam over the hills like a partridge."