worth is their friend; Elliott is their fellow.

Wordsworth pities their sufferings; Elliott feels them. The voice of the one is that of sympathy; the voice of the other is that of experience.

And these three poets do not inaptly symbolize conditions of the individual life. Work we must, pleasure we desire; and after work and pleasure, we long for rest and faith. All of us have material wants, and most of us the necessity of toil; but then, we ask for pleasure. Pleasure, however, is short and changeful. It soon fatigues, and then we mourn and despond. At last we supplicate for peace as the highest boon of existence. But labor has its alleviations, and has its recompense. Upon the path of the most toiling there is many a sweet and quiet resting-place, verdant spots decked with flowers, refreshed with streams, where, if we choose, if our inordinate discontents will let us, we may bask in gladness, and forget our cares. Our being has much of sorrow, but so it has passages of happiness unspeakable; the innocence of childhood, the hopes of youth, the nobility of friendship, the generosity of love, the bliss of virtue. Byron's poetry, it is said, has a tendency to sadden us. If it saddened us in the right way, that were no objection. Sadness is not always evil, and sometimes it is wisdom. But there are things to cheer us, things better than Byron's

poetry, better than any man's poetry. Nature is better than poetry; beauty and goodness, truth, kindness, love to God and man, piety and hope are often, in the tired peasant's heart, a richer music than greatest poets ever sung, a music that awakens the seraph's lyre, though it may be faintly heard upon the chill airs of this dull world. Nature is better than poetry; the images of our goodly universe, that sparkle around us in glorious light; the sounds that fill God's solemn temple with everlasting harmonies; the countless orders that with ourselves are quickened by the Creator's spirit; all this it is given to the simplest to enjoy, it is not given to the most inspired to express. Heaven is yet better than Nature; Heaven, that ideal of perfect aspiration to which the soul looks up in all its best desires, where it longs to find the consummation of its most ardent yearnings. Better still, unutterably better, the Being, infinite and supreme, the source of all thought, the sum of all excellence, the origin of all truth, the author of all beauty, the life of nature, the light of heaven; whom the pure in heart can see, and whom in seeing they are blessed forever.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT, the Corn-law Rhymer, the great poet of English artisans, I take for the subject of the present discourse.

My office here is not that of a political economist, but that of a literary critic. My office is to consider rather the poetic genius of my author, than his commercial philosophy. The poetry of Elliott will remain, when the laws against which he so vehemently inveighed will have passed away into the tranquil records of remoter history, and his manly verses will hold a life which in every age the brave and the struggling will recognize and feel. The legislation of Athenians in relation to Macedon has long been silent, but not so the voice of Demosthenes. That rings upon the air of immortality, and in its solemn tones it sounds along from century to

century. And the poet is not of weaker or shorter life than the orator. He too will be heard, when the things which aroused his soul shall be known no more. Death quickly unnerves the arm of Köerner, but all ages will sing his "Song of the Sword." The character of Napoleon is fast going to the calm meditation of philosophy and history, but it is with the passion of enthusiasm that French patriots will always chant the burning lyrics of Berenger. The Scots have long since ceased to fight with the Saxons, but through all the future it is in sadness they will pour forth "The Lament on Flodden Field," and in ecstasy "The Ode on Bannockburn." Party politics lose their importance, temporary laws become obsolete; yet if they enkindle the heart of a true poet into a burst of noble song, it continues imperishable in its melody and its strength.

Elliott is an English operative, poetically developed. Let me briefly specify what an English operative is, of ordinary development. The English operative embodies a very decisive form of the English character. He is not speculative, but practical. He is not versatile, but skilful. His sphere is not a large one, but within it he is a master. He is attached to order; he is trained to order, both as a workman and a citizen. Even in revolt, he acts according to a law. He is patient, but not servile. He bears inevitable misfor

tunes manfully; in the best condition he is sure to grumble, but in the worst he disdains to whine. He is not without aspiration. He is not insensible to dignity; and by many an effort and many a virtue, he makes good a title to nature's nobility. He has much pride of nation. If he glories in nothing else, he glories in his country. Discontented he may be with his rulers, but he is always proud of England. By a generalization, satisfactory at least to himself, he identifies the greatness of England with the power of his own order. The operative classes, in his view, have rendered her the paragon of nations. By them, the earth and the sea are hers, the riches of the mine, and the treasures of the deep. Through the means, he considers, of the operative classes, England governs widely, and governs afar; gains her victories, and maintains her dominion. The English mechanic, even when wanting school instruction, is not wholly ignorant. Knowledge floats around him, of which he cannot but partake; and despite even of himself, the tendency of events subjects him to a progressive education. Associated as he is with large masses, he has community in their intelligence, as well as in their passions. Interests of immediate pressure, which he cannot discard, crowd about him; want, of which he would seek the cause, or for which he would find a remedy, sharpen his sagacity;