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opposed to all innovative propositions. It is pleasant to hear him talk on such matters. He smashes them in the most unpitying manner, either by ponderous argument, or by ridicule which is still more ponderous than the argument. Usually, too, he is not confused by any knowledge of the subject which he condemns, and as most of the auditors are generally as ignorant, and as inimical as himself, he makes out the case most triumphantly to his own and their satisfaction. Sometimes, however, he commits the mistake of inquiring into the subject before he opposes it; but as he always does so with a prudent determination beforehand not to be convinced, the study seldom does him any harm. A pompous sort of mock candour is, indeed, very often a part of his character. He is "open to conviction," he declares, and is "unwilling to condemn unheard" any new doctrine, however startling. But he labours under the undoubting persuasion that all believers in such doctrines should consider his listening to their arguments as a great favour; and so perhaps it is-for after all they can say, he never has "heard anything to alter his opinion, already expressed." It is a settled thing with him, that whoever pretends to teach him intends to insult him; and he resents the attempt accordingly. The idea of gratitude to those who enlighten the world by the dissemination of new ideas would certainly be to him one of the newest and most curious ideas conceivable. The clerk of Oxford, in the "Canterbury Tales," was evidently a gentleman and a philosopher, for Chaucer tells us that "gladly would he learn, and gladly teach;" but the "man of good sound sense can understand only the teaching side of such a character, and that but dimly.

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He can cant the usual praise, however, of those who have long ago firmly fixed their discoveries in the public mind, or rendered their theories generally acceptable, notwithstanding the opposition and apathy of former "men of good sound sense. He will talk of Luther, and Galileo, and Locke, and Watt, and Harvey, as if he would not have done his little utmost, had he been contemporary with them, to destroy them by silence, or to crush them by abuse, ridicule, and bad argument.

To prove this, there is no occasion when he shines more than when he has a fair opportunity of exhibiting his disdain for all who, in his own day, make any objects but wealth and worldly advancement the business of their lives. For poets, in particular, he has the most unmitigated contempt, mingled with a degree of

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secret hatred for presenting as they do, in their works, so strong a contrast to his own grovelling sentiments. If one of them die, and leave a wife and family destitute, the event affords him much quiet chuckling enjoyment, and he expresses his feelings in the exclamation," Poor devil!" coupled with some politico-economical remarks about the "value" of poems "in the market." "If men must be authors," he says, why can't they write in the newspapers?" Artists he looks upon as silly, idle fellowsthough he is inclined to except portrait-painters, who show knowledge of the world, and a laudable wish to butter their bread on the every-day principles of trade. Musicians he usually speaks of as 66 fiddlers," and their art as "crotchets and quavers." He would have viewed Beethoven, and the man who played the long drum in one of his symphonies, as of just about the same class, and would probably have asked how much each was in the habit of "making" a week. Architects, he thinks, may do something in these times, especially if they turn their chief attention to ornamental shop-fronts. Mere investigating men of science he considers idiots, who sacrifice themselves for the benefit of the community-though a chemist who invents a new dye, "warranted fast," he is not hard upon. An engineer he always speaks of with respect.

But all men have their weakness, and the "man of good sound sense " is no exception. However much money he may possess, he has a constant longing to get more. Hence projected railroads, new steam-boat companies, wonderful speculations of all sorts, are dangerous temptations to him, and, if he lose, his "good sound sense is sorely taxed to account for his having been deceived. Under such trials he becomes meek and dismal, as he is quite conscious that his character depends on his worldly success. Should he, however, live safely amidst these perils, and prosper in his gambling investments, he assumes, and has granted to him, more consideration than ever. He is elevated as an idol of "respectable" worship; public dinners are given to him; his choice raises the price of stock; he buys land, and flutters hopefully up towards the peerage.

Every stage of the earth's progress no doubt produces creatures proper to that stage; but as reptiles have been succeeded by men, let us hope that "men of good sound sense may be succeeded by men with a loving reverence for truth, goodness, and beauty. ARTHUR WALLBRIDGE.

THE HEDGEHOG LETTERS.

CONTAINING THE OPINIONS AND ADVENTURES OF JUNIPER HEDGEHOG, CABMAN, LONDON; AND WRITTEN ΤΟ HIS RELATIVES AND ACQUAINTANCE,

VARIOUS PARTS OF THE WORLD.

IN

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LETTER XXVIII.—TO JOHN ROBINSON, PRIVATE OF THE 91st Foot, INDIA. DEAR JOHN,-When this letter may find it isn't for me to say; but wherever you are, it will no doubt find you upon a bed of laurels; though, for my own part, I do think a bed of good honest goose feathers the more comfortable lying. Mind, I don't for a moment want to think light of what you 've done and what you 've suffered. Not a bit of it. Terrible work it must be ; and a bold heart a man must needs have to go through it: you've earned your share of glory-(though what may be your share as a full private I can't say)-and I should think have got your bellyful of it for life. It's my hope, however, that you 'll never get any more. No, having cleaned the blood from your bayonet, and once more polished up your firelock, it 's my hope that they'll never know service again. I do hope, whatever you may think, that you 've had enough of the sport; now sticking cold iron into the bowels of a screeching man, and now knocking in his skull as though it was no more than a pumpkin. When the guns are firing, and the blood 's up, of course you think nothing of the work, going at it as though you were an engine of brass made to shoot and stab. But, I should say, it can't be pleasant to think of when it's over. That field of glory, as it's called, must go nigh to make a man heart-sick; must make him a little out of sorts with himself: 'tis so different a field to a field of cut corn. For my part, John, I would much sooner cultivate turnips than laurels. A turnip 's a nice thing for men and cattle, and so easily grown. Now, laureleven a sprig of it, must be raised in the devil's hothouse, and be manured with human blood. Still, according to some folks, there's some human blood that Providence thinks no more of than ditchwater. Of course, there's been a pretty hurrah here in England about your putting down the Sikhs. One quiet gentleman with a goose

quill is very pious indeed upon the matter; and thinks that the war was expressly ordered to destroy "the scum of Asia," Providence having employed the British army for no other purpose than to sweep from the earth so much of its own offal. It's droll to think of your pious Christian in his easy chair, with his foot on a soft stool, his rent and taxes paid, and his pew at the parish church newly cushioned-it's something more than droll, isn't it, to think of him lifting his pious eyes to his ceiling, and talking of some twenty thousand slaughtered men as the " scum," the refuse of creatures; as animals just a little above apes, of no account at all to the God who made 'em. He-good John!-thinks of 'em as no more than the vermin that once or twice a-year is cleaned out of his bedsteads, that decent respectable people may take their rest all the cosier for the cleaning. Easy Christianity, isn't it?

And then the demand there's been for religion in this matter. A score of pious people-all hot from their Bibles-day after day write to the papers to know when they were to be comforted, by being authorized by Her Majesty, to return thanks for the slaughter. "Are we to shut up in our own breasts"-writes one very much afraid of bursting" the grateful emotion?" Was there to be no safety-valve, as I believe they call it-ordered by the Government? "Are we even to content ourselves with talking to one another, as individuals, of this our great deliverance!" This Christian writes from Brighton, and with, no doubt, tears as big as marbles in his eyes, wants to know when he is according to a Government order, as if he couldn't offer up a private prayer on his own account -when he is to be allowed to return thanks to "HIM, who is the God of Battles. Perhaps I am very wicked, but for my part I never can bring myself to think of HIM as the God of Battles. The God of Love the God of Mercy-the God of Goodness-but I cannot say the God of Fire-the God of Blood -the God of every Horror, committed upon man, woman, and child, in the madness of fight. Looking at a field of clover, I could thankfully say the field of God; but the words stick in my throat when I think of a field of glory; a field soaked with blood, a field with thousands of dead and dying creatures on it, sent into the world by God. But, then, I'm only an ignorant cabman.

However, some folks are as glad that the Sikhs are slaughtered as though they'd been no more than so many locusts. It's a great day for Christianity, they cry; never forgetting gunpowder in their religion. One gentleman-I think he's an India Director

sees a good deal of likeness between the dispatches of your general and the Bible. The Sikhs are the worshippers of Moloch, he says,-and like them have been destroyed by the true believers. Indeed, I've no doubt that these very religious folks would go from Genesis to Malachi, and find a resemblance in every chapter to every fight and movement in a whole campaign. And I dare say then they 're quite sincere and honest in what they mean, -but then why don't they go on to the New Testament? Why do they stop short at that? And if they do stop short, and take all their examples of bloodshed from the Bible-and none of their teaching from the Sermon on the Mount, why-I must ask it, though I know I'm nothing but a foolish cabman-why don't they, so to speak, undo their Christianity? Why don't they turn Jews at once; and return thanks, not according to the Testament in a Christian Church, but as the Bible directs, in a synagogue?

Nevertheless, John Robinson, we have returned thanks that all of you, with your muskets, and your shells, and your bayonets and cannon, have killed thousands of the Sikhs. To be sure, they struck the first blow-that I can't deny. For all that, I do think that in the prayer that was made by the Archbishop, we did crow over 'em a little too much. For my part, I should have liked it better if the prayer had said something, regretting like, the causes of the dreadful slaughter. Whereas, it accounted no more of the Sikhs-poor things!-is it their fault if they're not believers in Scripture?-than if they'd been so many mad dogs, knocked on the head, for peace and safety.

It was quite a holiday in our parish; and I do assure you many of the people looked as they went to and from the church, quite as proud as if they'd handled sword and musket on their own account, and were returning thanks for their own courage. There was Snaps, the shoemaker and churchwarden. He had, I know, all the battle at his fingers' ends,—and looked as if he felt himself quite a soldier all the service. And his wife had a bran-new gown for the ceremony, and his daughters new bonnets. Indeed, I could run over fifty people who went to church that day, as if they were going to parade; and after they'd heard the Archbishop's prayer, they looked about 'em quite proud and satisfied, as much as to say" See what we can do in the defence of our country!" For myself (but then I'm only a cabman) I must say it-I did

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