more frail and easily satisfied, and that sterling merit will at last succeed without jockeyship or high colours. But when is this to come? When will the race be over? Where are the conditions for even true glory holding its eminence, when a Wellington has been held up to execration?

It's an Age, then, of uncertain and unsettled Government, and government in all ways-an age when men's thoughts, habits, and feelings, are disturbed, because old rules and discipline are disturbed because they see that things are now bringing to a test and scrutiny which they never could have expected. Fifty years ago the state was a parent-so was the church; then authority was parental, and our families felt its force. Twenty years ago "God save the king" was still echoed, and the dynasty of the Georges nearly worshipped. Ten years ago the Lords and the lawgivers were sacred, and the name of republic was never mentioned. Look at us at present. We doubt every thing. Home, family, kindred, are no longer sacred terms or sacred ties. We doubt our constitution; we think it all wrong. The governors say to the governed, We wish to protect you. The governed say to the governors, Is your protection pressure? What has done all this? We all know it,-new mind, new knowledge, new liberties. What is the result? A new power comes in; it calls itself the people. The people don't understand it. Demagogues tell them they must; and people soon learn their lessons when their passions are appealed to. This is the plain state of the question -there is no use in disguising it. Let us look at it, not as politicians, but as philosophers, or men that wish social improvement and the happiness of our country. Let us see that it was not merely this set of ministry or that set of measures that may have produced such. Let us admit that all is the result of that great revolutionary stream which new mind has thrown in upon us, and which, for want of being properly directed, has hurled us into new positions that we never could have expected. If such is not the case, where else are we to look for it? If such is the case, what is the remedy? Revolutions call themselves

revivers; but they are also revengers. What else was our Bill of Reform? It sought long-lost ground. The rush was equal to the resistance; and it now seems overrunning our institutions, and may upset them unless directed into proper channels.

But it is an Age of ultra Party Spirit, —an age of bitter, blind, uncompromising party spirit-an age when "the madness of many for the gain of the few" still distracts us--and where even these few are contended with by contentions in their own set. Party spirit sees clearly in one way, but only one. It is not the great "Monstrum horrendum ingens cui lumen ademptum,"

but the great Cyclop foaming round his cave, and threatening all. That there must be great parties in great states like ours we all know-that upon the cessation of foreign wars, and being forced to examine more closely our position, we should have been divided in opinion, and that the increasing wants of our country should all have brought those divisions into a closer and more active scrutiny, all this we know--all this was natural to expect. But still we never thought that when those wars were over so great a change would come. We never thought that, when public spirit began to ebb, party spirit would so flow. We never thought that, instead of looking at the essential good or evil of things, we would look at the mere externals. And yet this we have seen-and yet this we now see-and yet a great circle lies open to us in which extremes meet. Do we not see this every day? Do we not see the Ultra-Tory and UltraRadical shaking hands? and the Carlist and the Republican meeting at the extreme gauche? Do we not see the fanatic and the infidel uniting, and the indifferents holding midway between, or joining both? And why is this the case? Is it from any love they bear each other? Is it from any single point of attraction between them? Is it not that party spirit blinds with its excess, and that extremes, when so extended, must meet in such a circle of exasperation? Yes; these are everyday scenes. We are not surprised. It is an age when nothing is wondered at, and wonders are nothing.

And yet it's an Age of Philanthropy, at least calls itself so; because a liberal on a large scale; because a latitudinarian of wide and easy dimensions; because patriotism has lost its exclusiveness. Of old we were patriots from necessity we could not help it; we made virtues of our necessities, and we did right because we knew no better: this is gone; we are mingled abroad; we now think that national virtues depend on national circumstances, and that each nation sticks up for its own. We now, in fact, think patriotism a vulgar virtue, fit only for savages or slaves; we hate vulgarity of all kinds, and therefore we throw aside the old shabby mantle that once covered us, and take up the larger one of philanthropy. This looks well outside, full of grace, folds, and ornaments; but being so large and loose, we can scarcely get warm, and therefore only wear it under that of self. Self is love's last shift, "La dernier chemise de l'amour," as a French writer accurately expresses it; and therefore we wear it pro tempore, though we never mention why. If the age is a philanthropist, it is because philanthropy is so easy. Philanthropy is a noble profession; but, as the age is one of profession, we have reason to doubt it. Philanthropy is a noble virtue, but it has no right to deaden patriotism. Are we patriots now? Of what colour is it? Is it any longer in the list of our cardinal virtues? Do we not call it illegitimate? Do we not say that she is the bastard of pride and prejudice, that were bastards before her? What were these old prejudices but old pets; and what harm can pets do (at least to others) if kept private? This, however, will not do nowadays; every thing must be free and open; nobody must quarrel about national standards; nobody must dislike the French, merely because French; or at all events if we do, we must be sufficiently liberal to admit that they may dislike us for the same reason: so far, therefore, the age is a philanthropist. We must mingle with the nations; we must have our treaties, protocols, and parchments, to shew that we are all on a level; we must be all such perfect liberals, that one cannot take liberties with the other; no matter how our relations may have hitherto

been-no matter how the net-work of diplomacy has become so entangled, and that in every mesh there may be caught what we once thought a direct violation of rights, still we must be united, we must have peace, we must have good-will, and mix and meet together. There must be something palpable, something directly offensive to find fault with; and, as all this may arise from difference of taste, feeling, or understanding, we leave it to the old rule, de gustibus, and there the matter ends.

It is a Levelling Age thereforeevery thing shews it. Character, constitutions, colours, classes, down even to costume; a broad, wide stream comes upon us; we mingle and rush together, like fluids seeking their level. Why is this the case? Not from unanimity of feeling,-not from any thing indicating repose or stagnation (because the levelling principle in the mass is the striving principle in the individual), but simply because the ups and downs of society lessen according to the ups and downs of knowledge, &c.; simply because the spirit of revolutions is nothing more than the rushes of this great stream tending to unite us. In this, therefore, we are all pushed on; the ground seems moving under us; talent does not descend from its eminences, but other talent ascends to meet it. Some rise, some fall, all seek a medium, yet each is aspiring; this must go on, but how is it to be directed? How is the rush to be regularised? We all know that perfect equality in society is a perfect chimera; we all know that the simple principle of aristocracy is not much more than the simple principle of ambition; and that if we deprive man of such, we reduce him to a dead level; but still we admit that in some ages the social summits look sharper, and that such principle is far from simple. We admit that titles and distinction, factitious and illegitimate, are gained; and that these titles, of course, become more tenacious in proportion as they are inquired into and disputed by a new power. Such we admit was the age gone by, such we now see this new power rejects; but are we to go into opposite extremes? Is it by passive submission to, rather than active control of, this power that we are to gain benefits from it? We

all know what this new power is: we have mentioned it. It is mindit is intellect it is opinion—it is the voice of the great torrent, the great demos, pouring itself out. We may call it by a hundred names, it comes in a hundred ways, and it will still come levelling, but it will level the good with the bad. Of what use, then, in stopping the stream unless by the means which it presents itself? If we thought of breaking the fall of Niagara, we would not throw in additional rocks below, but to try and divert it above. If we think of keeping on our old forms of society, or any thing like them, we must take a higher hold of that new power which now has fallen into so many hands- this power is knowledge. Knowledge is a conservative, but often looks a destructive; knowledge has brought about revolutions, revolutions call themselves reforms. In all there is a rush, if not properly directed, in all we now hear the torrent deep and loud passing before us; for if the vox populi be not the lex suprema, at least the vox nobilis seems drowned in the murmur.

Now that the vox populi should be the lex suprema, is a question which depends on the manner in which this voice is heard; and not only does it depend on this, but it depends on the definition which we give the term populus. It is very easy to laud the purity of ancient republics, and the purity of modern ones, but not so easy to apply those purities to England. Where aristocracy has been the very principle of our elevation-and not only of our elevation, but our advance-if the levelling tendency of the age contented itself with merely levelling the pretensions of our modern aristocracy, if the foolish tickets and titles which our modern state of society too often generated were only to be swept away-then we might call it a good sign; but as this is far from the case, and often made but the pretext, we should mark its approach in every way; we should ask what the term People means; and, in marking its approach, should look both to prevention and remedy. This is not difficult when we have the means in our hands. The knowledge of a disease is half its cure; and, though the other half is not so easy, still if we know the first well, it is sure to

lead to the other. Now we all know that we cannot resist the tendencies of the age, but by that which the age supplies in itself. For all know it cannot be done by obsolete remedies, but that we must move on; for the age, with all its errors, is full of light, and this light is every where, and we need not think of stopping the broken panes with stuffed rags, but open out our windows to the new dawn. Knowledge was always power, even with the monks; but the monks knew not always how to handle it, or keep it to themselves. In their days its power consisted in its massiveness, in our days it consists in its mobility. In our days it is a new power altogether, because so new, modified, and diffused; or, in other words, because we have a new people. For what does it tell us? It tells us of our old errors and mistakes; it tells us we have lost ground; it tells us that all the iron shot and shells expended in our wars went for nothing, and should have been expended in railroads; it tells us that fame, name, rank, titles, &c., should all descend into the arena of public opinion, and there be tried by another tribunal. Yes, this great power is every where; it comes o'er the lands; it thunders at the gates and barriers that attempt to confine it; it comes like the Catapulta of the old Romans; it tells us all to unite; it says to the nations that they must meet and mix.

It's an Age of Travel then-the levelling and locomotive principles combine. If the press works the steam-engine, the steam-engine works the press; and we all think the more we shall hear and understand each other, the more likely we are to find out error: the age of travel, then, calls itself the age of truth. But this is as great an error as any of the rest; truth lies more in solitude than society; but truth lies every where, if we only seek it; the leaves of the forest unfold it—the stars of the sky give it out-the waves of the sea purify each other as they run over the clear, cold sands. Yes, there is truth every where; and there is truth in man, though man is a mystery; and there is enough of truth for us every where, and enough for our happiness, though not our knowledge. But we must travel-we must roam every where

we are

restless, over-fatigued, over-excited we hate simplicity-we are like those tossing on their beds after the night's fever, and seeking fresh excitements in proportion to our debility and our debauch. Well, these we get in travel-we pretend to benefit by itwe see nature in her largest scale, and we think on nature lies truth. So it does, but how do we get at it? How does all this operate? How is the age affected? For this, after all, is the question. Take fifteen out of twenty travellers that we meet every day, and ask them, are they happier, or wiser, or more virtuous for their travels? Who goes abroad for such old-fashioned purposes? Who brings with him from the old bright lands the old bright lessons they inculcate? Ask him who has trodden the snows of Zembla or sands of Senegal,-ask him who has traced the Caucasus or tracked the Pyramids, how far has he turned to good account all his wanderings; how far has he imbibed that healthful, moral feeling, which the spirit of right travel imparts, and which, in enabling us to compare other countries, shews the blessings of our own? But no matter, we must all be travellers. We all know its best, but not its worst; we all know that in losing the rough things of home, we lose many annoyances; but we never think that in losing the principle of the one, we lose the interest of the other. Look at the cosmopolite. Where are his ties, his feelings, his freshness? He runs over the world like a ball on its billiardtable, hard in proportion to his polish, and polished in proportion to its friction. Is he happier than the man of home, because his philosophy is tearless? Is he wiser? Yes, if he turns to good account what he has seen, but not otherwise. The beauty of travel is, that it binds up in closer editions all our experience; and that by rolling over a given space in a given time, we identify both. But does time always tell truth? Do time, truth, and travel, always labour at the same task? Time and truth generally flow in the same running stream, but still it is not always transparent; for whilst the mud is dispelled at bottom, weeds may collect at top, and thus we may still carry prejudices about us, though calling them by another name. If the mass of our

national wisdom in England were estimated by that of our travellers, or vice versa, we might suppose that we had got all the world's wisdom to ourselves; but as foreigners are not so ready to grant us this as we are ourselves, we at least should ask ourselves how we might improve. Still we must go on, we must follow up our new experiments, we must mix with our neighbours; it puts us on better terms, we can turn up each other on all sides, and are therefore sure of finding the right one; it takes away conceit, it opens new games between us, for we are tired of the old; it rubs down fame, the little great men of one town are lessened by those of another; it rubs down friendship, and diminishes that expense which the cultivation of hot-house plants costs; for we now meet in the open air, and we make friends of acquaintances on piers and steampackets, and no introduction is necessary, because perhaps we shall never meet again. Such is travel; we must take it as it is; it brings us all together; it narrows the world's space; it brings masses of humanity together in such new proportions, and throws towns, countries, and people, so fast into each other's laps, that we have neither time to wonder nor regret, nor rejoice at what's going on.

It's the Age of Railroads thenthe age of iron as well as steam,-the age when the levelling and locomotive systems are clamped and riveted in one school, and yet where each seems determined to get on by itself. Here railroads are both the supplement and complement of our progress; it is a necessary consequence of our new philosophy, and it is the last in the list of the mighty changes which such philosophy has produced. We must take it as such therefore; we must avail ourselves of what they can do for us in our new race-ground; but in admitting their importance, must distinguish between their use and abuse. It is a common opinion with foreigners, and now seems common with ourselves, that when a good thing in England is started, it is soon strained: we need not bring forward examples of this, or need we allude to the causes it proceeds from. Railroads are the greatest of all levellers, whether we look at them materially or morally. They all tend to that

great end to which our country seems anxious to hasten; and which, by making the principle of commerce to be that of communication, makes the whole complete between means and end. Now as this principle in theory says aloud, " Live and let live" - that is, the principle of commerce and as it of course indicates the diffusion of wealth, knowledge, &c. it of course lessens the distinction between extreme rich and poor, or what some would call the treaders and trodden on, we of course say, let commerce advance; but how do railroads affect these objects in practice? Look at them every way they are pure practitioners-they are both ministers and members of our new democracy-Radicals of the first order, because tearing up the old roots both of our soil and our society. But how do these Radicals produce such level? Are they such philosophers as we want? Has philosophy with them its broad, plain lessonthat of correcting passions? Examine a group of their living types-examine their doctrines. Is it not by treading that they mount, and by lowering that they level? This, perhaps, is human nature; it is, perhaps, the history of that species who have liberty in their mouths, but often tyranny in their hearts; but assuredly it is the history of demagogues, when once got into power.

But put this aside-take railroads as mere material agents-agents of new wealth, because agents of its new diffusion. Is this really the case? How does it appear? If railroads open new fields of enterprise, competition makes furrows in the fields alongside. Where, then, is the great level in wealth to be found? By capitalists. What is the result? The most suffocating aristocracy of all. Will the millionnaire of Manchester become less the millionnaire because his bales of cotton can be turned to money in half the time? If true, so can those of competitors; but will all this racing, and puffing, and blowing, produce the calm level it pretends to by giving a little to each? No! It seems very easy to get on in the world nowadays in one way, but just as hard in another. If we race thirty miles an hour, we run each other down at the same pace; and if we are

new

that of iron, we must move on even quicker. The point then is, to know what is to come next. What new machinery, or apparatus, or roads, are we to employ? At present we are only shovelled, by and by we shall be shot out; but whether shovelling or shooting, the rubbish and smoke must still blind us. Of old alchymists sought the yellow heaps at once, and the old East had them in still older times. But how did they manage this? They had no idea of our improvements, and yet the old metal shone out every where. In those days commerce, agriculture, and manufacture, had their own ways and means, and seldom interfered with each other; people then moved slowly, they all contrived to live, and ships, caravans, and camels, were quite sufficient. Now we do not pretend to say that their gold and silver was better than our coal and iron, or deny that even our penny magazines are better than their missals or gilt tracts; but we deny those charms now assigned to railroads; we deny that they will produce those effects which their eulogists assign them. If this old East, to which we so often turnif those monuments of civilisation which we there gaze on with such veneration are worth any thing, it is to shew us how the term civilisation has its times, seasons, and places, and how its sun now turns round to us in the west, and shews such a new face. We must therefore go on, we must pursue this new civilisation, but we must mark its course. Railroads are excellent things; but, like other excellent things, may go too far; and if we go too far forward, we are sure to go backward. If this new civilisation now offers us such new ways and means, if the great feature of modern history is the great force of moral power, and that this power so brings nations together, how can we expect to reap its advantages, unless by marking its stages and states? When mind and matter act and react on each other by new laws and processes, they of course become mixed; and becoming more mixed, they become more moving; whereas of old both were merely massive. So far, of

course, we admit the theory, and so far railroads shew the practice; but if mind and matter thus connected