times, to be most beneficial. But Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay is a quack and a pseudo-philosopher, and accordingly, no two of his opinions or actions will be found to tally or coincide. But why should he have singled out Mr. Southey for his fierce and foul vituperation? No one can impugn the harmless tenure of Mr. Southey's life, or his retiring nature (particularly since he refused a seat in that very sapient assembly, of which Mr. Macaulay is so bright and particular a star), or the sincerity of his faith, or his earnest wish to further improvement of his fellowcreatures, or the soundness of his scholarship. Now, for any, or all these reasons, however Mr. Macaulay may differ from the Laureate, surely the latter, if the Cantab be a saint, or even a Christian, deserves respectful consideration and fair usage, to say nothing of love, charity, mercy, and forbearance-qualities which, by their beauty of conduct on all occasions, the saints have identified with themselves. But his false reasonings and low abuse of the Laureate prove Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay to be no whit better than the general run of his sinful fellow-creatures. The Laureate has made for himself a fair reputation-the Cantab has made for himself no reputation at all for any thing fair or manly—the moral beggar, therefore, hates his richer neighbor, and that hatred is manifested in the exquisite piece of criticism, the beauties of which we have done all that in us lay to show forth to the admiration of an enraptured world.-Well hast thou spoken, O son of Laius !— Ω πλουτε, και τυραννι, και τεχνη τέχνης όσος παρ ὑμιν ὁ φθυνος φυλασσεται PHILOSOPHY OF LAUGHTER. If we may express our opinion, we think that the great use and object of laughing is that we may enjoy ourselves, and communicate enjoyment to others. Laughter is a healthy exercise. It shakes the system, disperses the morbid humors, extinguishes envy, annihilates the spleen, puts the blue devils to flight, and spreads summer and sunshine, and cordiality, wherever it appears. To "laugh and grow wise," to "laugh and grow fat," are little more than synonymes. To all, therefore, who do not wish to remain in ignorance-to all who do not wish they were "a little thinner," we recommend a loud, a hearty, a continuous roar. Democritus, the laughing philosopher (yɛλaoivoç), was one of the wisest of men. He lived laughing for a hundred years, and then died unlamenting. What misanthrope or Megrim of modern times can do as much? Are all the grim affectations of Childe Harold worth an ounce of laughter? Not a grain! They do good to no one. They are entertainment" neither "for man nor beast." They make us lean, stupid, ungrateful. Shakespeare was the merriest of men; and he was the wisest. He laughed when he held the gallant's horses at the playhouse door, and saw them so "trimly dressed," and "perfumed like milliners." He laughed with Falstaff, ("old Jack Falstaff!") with Mercutio, with Biron, with Beatrice, with Rosalind, with Benedict. He laughed at Pistol's swaggering, at the red nose of Bardolph, at the gabble of Justice Shallow, at Slender, and Glendower, and Malvolio; at Froth, and Francis, and Bottom, and Wart, and Mouldy, and a hundred others. Nay, doubtless, he laughed also when he had finished Lear-(that mighty tragedy, to which alone there is no rival in letters,) and thought—and knew that he had achieved a 66 thing, of which past ages could afford no parallel, and which future times must struggle in vain to excel. Great men and wise men have loved laughter. The vain, the ignorant, and the uncivilized alone have dreaded or despised it. Let us imitate the wise where we may. Let our Christmas laugh echo till Valentine's day; our laugh of St. Valentine till the first of April; our April humor till May day, and our May merriment till Midsummer. And so let us go on, from holiday to holiday, philosophers in laughter at least, till, at the expiration of our century, we die the death of old Democritus, cheerful, hopeful, and contented: surrounded by many a friend, but without an enemy; and remembered principally because we have never, either in life or death, given pain for a moment to any one that lived! THE POLITICS OF 1831. * BY W. HOLMES, ESQ. M. P. FOR HASLEMERE.* "And HOLMES whose name shall live in epic song, "HOLMES, the Achates of the GENERAL'S fight, DRYDEN, Annus Mirabilis. clxxij. cixxiij. AT the Union the other night, OLD CATO† lamented as follows : "As for this country, there is no use in saying anything more about it, because it is scudding to the infernal regions with a fair gale of wind to its tail. To men who know the world, nothing can be more preposterous than what I see going on all around me. "There was Lord Liverpool—no more sense than a turnip— God rest his soul! as the Papists say. There was he, and he kept the country together. What I mean by the country are the people who are paid by the country, for as to the rest who cares a brass farthing about them? I know I never did. There we were, snug and oily, all together, safe from the wind. Now and then old Burdett would get up a cross, to amuse the plebeians and secure him his election, and give us the opportunity of floor * This apparently careless, rambling, whiskey-and-water paper contains so correct a resumé of British politics during the four years between Lord Liverpool's ministry and the Whig rule of 1831 (the time of the Reform bill excitement) that I am tempted to include it in this collection. Though affiliated on Holmes, the Tory whipper-in, it smacks strongly of Maginn's own afterdinner talk.-M. † A name taken from the Annus Mirabilis. ing him as per previous agreement; or Hume might fight about threepence halfpenny matters, in which, if he made a blunder the size of a half-farthing, we had our jokers ready to cut him up. Diauol! how droll we used to be at reading all the funny things that were put into print against Joe! And there was old Tierney-honest old Tierney!—a man who knew what was what. He opposed in a tender and nice manner, because being a sensible and well-trained old veteran as he was, he had always his eye cocked upon getting into place, and would have scorned to do the dirty thing of cutting down the emoluments. "To be sure, we had Brougham, every now and then-the Lord Brougham and Vaux, as they call the fellow now-a-daysas bitter as soot, and especially angry and cantankerous when he saw no chance of his getting a silk gown.* Do him justice, he basted us now and then in a pretty way enough-but Lord help the man! what was the consequence? who cared a tenpenny about it? We were sure of the King, George the Fourth-an honest, well-meaning, fat old gentleman as ever was. Lord Eldon had the Lords tight under his claw. In those days, the Bishops dared not budge, not they- -the beautiful bench that they are— - and we had Canning in the Commons, who kept Brougham at bay. So he might twist his nose into as many shapes as Matthews twists his mouth-and we did not mind. He made his speech-I whipped in the animals-and there was an end of the business. He was always dead beat. As for Lord Althorp, who is now Chancellor of the Exchequer, (and a neat hand he makes of it,) why in those times nobody ever heard of his name. Johnny Russell, the Paymaster of the Forces, and the Grand Master of Reform was no great shakes among us. Jemmy Graham, who made the seasonable explanation to O'Gorman Mahon, was a schoolboy-and Husky,† my old friend, to do you justice, though an unfortunate accident took you off at the most particular of minutes, you settled the political *In the English and Irish courts (but not in Scotland) the more eminent lawyers are made Queen's Counsel, the official badge of which dignity is a silk gown, all other barristers wearing stuff.-M. † William Huskisson, killed at the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railroad, in the autumn of 1830.-M. |