No. 1.

THOUGHTS AT STARTING.

Ir has been smartly said by one of the ablest of our moralists, that men seldom talk about themselves with success; for, when they blame themselves, far more is believed than is expressed, and when they praise themselves, much less. There are comparatively few who do not need to ponder this remark frequently, and who would not make themselves greatly more agreeable to those around them by acting on the advice it suggests. We shall try to profit by the moralist's shrewd hint, and make as sparing a use as possible of the first personal pronoun in conducting the periodical which we now send into the world, with warm hopes that it shall soon occupy a high place in public esteem, and which we beg, very humbly, and very affectionately, to dedicate to all good people everywhere. We shall endeavour not to forget the advice to talk little about ourselves; and so cordially do we approve of it, that, even on this, our introductory page, we shall refrain from violating it. It is right, however, that we speak definitely as to the motives which have induced us to come into the field-the richly clad field, we are happy to think, of cheap weekly literature; and as to our plans, principles, and prospects.

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allusion to the Christian religion. We could name many able treatises on physical science, for example, many exquisite poems, many charming romances, which we reckon among the choicest of our intellectual treasures; and yet no reader could infer from these that any revelation from heaven had ever been imparted to man. There are numberless works, worth far more than their weight in gold, on whose pages you will look in vain for any recognition of that system of truth to which we are indebted for our richest comforts and dearest hopes.

There is a place as well as a time for every thing. And we would not have a word to say to any literary or scientific journalist-far less would we cherish a hard thought respecting him-although, in discussing a great many topics, there should not be even the most distant allusion to Christianity-its great motives, its pure precepts, its sublime discoveries. There are some departments, however, from which it cannot, without infinite hazard, be shut out. There are certain provinces from which it will not do to banish sacred truth. There are themes, in unfolding which, if you be studiously silent about the light from on high, you virtually scorn it. The reader will get at our meaning best, should we advert

for a moment to the tactics of the class of writers we have

We do not hesitate, then, to say, that HoGG'S WEEKLY INSTRUCTOR Originated in a motive purer and better than a thirst for distinction, or a desire to make money. None of these things ought to be despised; no right-thinking person will despise them; still, nameless contributions in a cheap weekly miscellany are not likely to gain for any one that name which makes an epitaph; and as for the more marketable commodity, we quite assent to the well-proof of its peculiar truths having been uttered in their known adage of Sir Walter Scott, that literature, though hearing. They descant on this and that scheme for reit may be a good staff, is a bad crutch. The INSTRUCTOR, generating our world, dispelling its ignorance, curing its though not strictly religious in its character, had its vices, diminishing its wretchedness, but not a whisper origin, we are not ashamed to confess, in religious feel- all the while about that gospel which has done and is ings and motives. It can scarcely have escaped the no- still doing so much to elevate and bless mankind. They tice of any discerning person, that a very large propor- delineate characters of exquisite virtue; they describe tion of the periodical literature of the day is character- them in circumstances the most affecting and trying-in ized, if not by a decided enmity to the Christian faith, sorrow, in sickness, and even in the prospect of quitting at least by a cold and obstinate silence respecting it,-a the present scene-as acting with purity, dignity, and silence which, when maintained in contributions upon a grace-and all this without the slightest advertence to certain class of subjects, we cannot but regard as indicat- that faith which Christianity enjoins, and those hopes it ing a suspicion of the divinity of its claims-may we inspires. They do not rudely inveigh against the truths not say, a sullen contempt for them? We are anxious of Scripture; they quietly leave you to infer that they not to be misunderstood. We would fain give no uncer- are altogether unnecessary-that society and individuals tain sound. We wish to speak guardedly but firmly. may safely dispense with them. This is the scepticism It would say little for our candour, not to mention our-negative, it will be perceived, rather than positive taste, did we read without relish a discourse on a purely in its character-which, we apprehend, is doing sad literary or scientific subject, or call its writer an unbe- damage among us. It has not a few of the charms liever, merely because it should happen to contain no of literature, philosophy, and poetry, about it; and

now in view, and who, we are willing to believe, are not fully aware of the amount of mischief they are doing. They do not assail Christianity; they say nothing against its Author, and that remedial scheme he came to our world to execute. But search page after page of their writings, even when religion, as they employ that term, happens to be their theme, and you will fail to discover

we dread it, we own, far more than the subtle sophistries of Hume, or the bold thrusts of Voltaire. It is all very well to talk of the 'cross' as now redeemed from reproach, as the ensign the nations love, as adorning the neck of beauty, emblazoned on the banners of battle, and stuck on the sceptres and crowns of royalty; with these outward tokens of respect and veneration there is still such a thing as being ashamed of it. And we deem it no violation of charity to say, that those writers are guilty in this respect, who, in discussing topics such as we have alluded to, treat Christianity as if it had yet to begin its career of triumphs in our world. The parties who are to take charge of the INSTRUCTOR wish it then to be distinctly understood, that they have no sympathy with those who thus keep the Christian revelation studiously in the back ground, or rather coldly beckon it to the door. They feel that its claims to the respect and gratitude of mankind are too strong, that its influence is too great, and its sacred character too well attested, to admit of its being treated as a nonentity. They believe it propounds obligations to virtuous conduct, higher and more lasting than mere temporal convenience or worldly respectability; and to these they shall never be ashamed to appeal. In a word, without encroaching upon the ground already occupied by strictly religious publications, and making theirs a vehicle for theological discussion—a thing never contemplated— | they intend that there shall be such a recognition of Christianity-its precepts, its hopes, its motives, and discoveries—as will show that they regard it as the only safe and perfect rule of belief and action. This deference to the true Light,' they venture to predict, will not make their pages, in any respect whatever, less attractive.

ning's fiery wing.' There is Physiology, unfolding to us the structure of the inferior tribes, and the mechanism of our own frame, so fearfully and wonderfully made.' There is Metaphysics, with its keen and searching glance into the laws that regulate our thoughts and affections. There are these and kindred themes, whose tendency is to refine the taste, exalt the imagination, and, by presenting us with proofs of the wisdom and love of the Creator, deepen the piety of the spirit. To whatever extent these shall be discussed in our pages, we trust we shall not forget that humility which so well becomes man when investigating the works of his Maker, which Newton so beautifully displayed when he compared himself to a boy picking up shells by the great ocean Truth;' or when-more touching still perhaps—speaking of a gifted cotemporary, who had gone to an early grave, he remarked: If that young man had lived we should have known something.'

Literature has charms more inviting to many minds than science. It is wrong to exalt the former at the expense of the latter. We concur in the observation of a great poet, lately gone to his rest, that none but maniacs would propose to tear down any of the branches of the tree of knowledge, though they may not bear fruit to their taste or garlands to their honour. 'Scaliger,' he adds, ‘has incurred only the contempt of posterity by his absurd diatribe against the usefulness of mathematics; and neither Swift nor Johnson have much raised themselves in the estimation of wise men by having undervalued the natural sciences. For it is clear that those men were misled by overweening vanity in their own pursuits, and by shallowness in those pursuits which they decried, Having spoken thus freely, and we hope intelligibly, thus bringing into monstrous conjunction the pride of respecting the principles upon which this new candidate learning with the envy of ignorance.' We sincerely refor public favour is to be conducted, we may, in a few | spect both tastes-that for physical science and that for sentences, indicate the general character of its contents. | literature also: we would earnestly persuade our readIt were easy to draw up a showy bill of fare, and to pro-ers to cultivate both; we shall do what we can to gratify mise a great variety of sumptuous dishes, even though the means of producing them should not be at hand; but we will not mock our friends in this way. We shall take care not to promise more than we think we shall be able to perform, but shall endeavour rather to let our deeds surpass our words.

both. In attempting this, attention will be paid to ancient as well as modern literature; to the productions of the most eminent authors in other lands as well as to those of our own countrymen. Their peculiarities of thought and style; the influence their writings have exerted, especially in retarding or accelerating the improvement of mankind; their tendency, whether vicious or virtuous; these and similar topics will pass in review before us, and prove, we hope, both agreeable and instructive to our readers. It may be proper to add, that we contemplate a series of sketches, of some extent, resembling that of Thomas Babington Macaulay in the present number. That series shall embrace exclusively those whose writings have influenced to a considerable degree the sentiments and tastes either of their cotemporaries or of posterity. We are not unaware of the difficulty of this undertaking; of the fact that there is scarcely anything in the wide range of literature harder to execute, at least in a style that will please the intelligent and tasteful. May we venture to hope that in this matter we have counted the cost, and that to our Portrait Gallery, as picture after picture is pro

As may be inferred from the nature of the work, we do not intend to treat our readers to lengthened and elaborate dissertations on scientific subjects. We would fain have our papers of such length, and of such a character, that while the busy shall find sufficient time to read them, the idle may muster patience. Extended treatises upon any topic, but especially one demanding severe thought and patient inquiry, would, it is obvious, frustrate this design completely. Still, a short chapter will be devoted now and then to some particular branch of science-some of its interesting facts or latest discoveries, which our readers, we are sure, will find not only instructive but entertaining. Here, we need scarcely tell them, the field is both beautiful and boundless. There is Astronomy, with its far off worlds. There is Geology, every day bringing up fresh wonders from the depths of the mine or the caves of the deep. There is Chemistry, acquaint-duced, our kind friends will eagerly repair, in the confiing us with the various elements and properties of ma- dence of finding something fresh and graphic? We terial bodies. There is Botany, with its wild flowers and flatter ourselves there are among our enlisted contriits gardens of beauty and bloom. There is Electricity, butors some one or two who can handle the brush in this showing us how, with Franklin, we may 'grasp the light-line with no ordinary power; whose pictures have already

met the public eye, and gained no small share of applause. But we must beware of hallooing ere we are out of the wood.

with them on terms of intimacy. Here we are in our own quiet parlour, or by our own kitchen-hearth, book in hand, and what striking scenes are passing before our mind's eye! There is old Cromwell, severe, yea stormy in his mien, with his three hundred soldiers at his back, dismissing the Long Parliament, pointing to the mace lying on the table, and ordering an attendant to 'take away the bauble! There sits, in the porch of his humble cottage, the venerable Milton, musing on the evil days and evil tongues' whereon he had fallen, and rolling off line after line of his great epic! There is Newton under the apple-tree, seizing the law that keeps the sun in his sphere and the planets in their orbits! There is Galileo, his eye fixed on the swinging chandelier; meanwhile— happy moment for the world!-his spirit darts on his famous theory for measuring the flight of time! There is Johnson, the scowl of disdain on his brow, writing to my Lord Chesterfield, to assure him how little value he set on his patronage, when proffered after it was no longer

ford, and Tasso in his at Ferrara-mighty dreamers both! We see Tell informing Gessler why that other arrow was stuck in his belt; and Chatham all but expiring on the floor of the House of Commons; and Blake and Wellington bearing themselves proudly amidst the perils of flood and field! But we ask our readers' pardon. We are not writing a dissertation on biography, but are anxious that they should sympathize with us in the interest we feel about this department of our undertaking.

Of the Poetry that shall appear in our pages we have only to say, that, whether original or selected, it shall be sparingly given, and always in remembrance of the classic rule, that, in this art, there is no such thing as mediocrity.

Biographical sketches of celebrated persons will appear in our columns as often as a due regard to other topics will permit. This department of our work we shall strive to render alike pleasing and profitable. Talent, worth, well-earned fame, belong to no one country and to no one class of men. We shall choose, therefore, the subjects of these sketches without regard either to profession, rank, or nation. Illustrious statesmen, heroes, philosophers, poets, painters, physicians, christian ministers, &c., will supply themes varying in interest-all of them, however, replete with valuable in struction. With the principal facts in the lives of the individuals whose histories may be given, there will also, in most instances, be something like an analysis furnished of the more prominent features of their intellectual and moral character. To the biographical section of our labours, we look forward with a lively interest—an in-needed by him! There is Bunyan in his dungeon at Bedterest sharpened by the conviction that there is no kind of reading more extensively useful, or better adapted to persons of all grades of intellect. Dr Johnson somewhere observes, that there has perhaps rarely passed a life, of which a judicious and faithful narrative would not be useful; and a still higher authority has a remark to this effect—that the moral history of a beggar, fully and honestly given, might greatly enlarge and enlighten the views of a philosopher. Understood in a qualified sense, there is truth in Pope's line, which has almost become a proverb- The proper study of mankind is man.' Now, biography supplies us with materials for this study. It introduces us to the best and most illustrious of our race. It makes us the companions of the wise, the gifted, and the good. It shows us how they wrestled with difficulties and vanquished them, how they encountered temptations and were not scathed by them. It points out to us the path by which some men rose to a noble elevation, and that by which others sank into disgrace. It warns as well as encourages us. It allures to a course of virtue; it cautions us against the gilded snares of vice. It gives us strength, in a word, for our own battles with the evils of the present scene. And, irrespective of these advantages, as a means of gratifying a lawful curiosity about the illustrious portion of mankind, what shall we compare with it? or rather, what substitute shall we find for it? We all experience this curiosity; philosophers themselves are not exempted from it. Dr Adam Smith, the famous political economist, used to declare, that he felt thankful for the information that the author of Paradise Lost wore latchets in his shoes instead of buckles; and we have all heard a remark to the same effect about the wry neck of Catiline, the conspirator against the liberties of Rome. A mysterious interest, in fact, which we cannot bid away, attaches to everything about great men. We are eager to know all about them we can; we feel we have a right to get this information, regarding the lions of our race as a kind of common property. Biography, then, meets this desire. Through this medium we hear them converse, see them act, learn what their peculiar tastes were, what their daily habits; in what style they lived, and what kind of persons they chose for their companions. We may thus really know more about them than had we been their cotemporaries, and lived

Our Tales will be varied in character-such only being excluded as would impede the growth of our best affections. For this department, it may be right to add, we have secured the services of several of the best storytellers of the day. Besides original tales, others will occasionally be given, translated from the French, Italian, German, and Swedish languages.

When to the above we have added our notices of new and useful publications—intelligence respecting any fresh discoveries in science, or recent improvements in artan essay now and then, about the virtues of social life, or those evils that disturb its peace-some useful hints to our fair friends, whose good graces we shall endeavour by all means to win-and an occasional chapter that shall prove especially interesting to those of both sexes who are yet in the spring-time of their days-our readers will have a tolerably accurate idea of the weekly meal we mean to present to them.

We have only to add, that all politics shall be kept in abeyance. There may surely be some quiet spots in the region of periodical literature which the storms of faction shall not disturb, and where men of common candour and charity may meet without the asperities of party feeling. As proof of our wish to adhere strictly to this pledge, it may be enough to mention the fact, that among those who feel interested in the prosperity of the INSTRuctor, and who have had a hand in its projection, there are individuals whose opinions on political questions widely differ. They are quite at one, however, as respects the object it is meant to promote-the increase of knowledge, virtue, and happiness.

pose, you will perhaps think) the blessedness of our acres of Middlesex.' No; to the man who cannot get a castle on the ground, or who cannot get one that will keep out the weather, far be it from us to speak slightingly, if he should build a few in the air; and our hearty encouragements to him, if he shall try to raise one on some purer planet than our own. But the best sort of biography, or memoir, or notice of a man is to make him speak for himself (it is thus we may observe the power and spirit of the man), and not merely exhibit him with the impertinence of showmen.

The following sketch of a great poet, now in his grave, or rather of the elements which shaped his character and destiny, is in Mr Macaulay's happiest vein. We are not aware that the character of Byron has, by any writer, been more powerfully analyzed or more vividly drawn, than in the essay from which we quote, though many and able hands have tried it. The influence of Byron's poetry on modern society has been extensive-would we could add happy!—and there are few who do not feel an interest, strong and intense still, in this gifted son of song, though it is now more than a score of years since the grave closed over him. We give the following extract, though somewhat lengthy, as a specimen of Mr Macaulay's graphic power. Speaking of Byron, he says:

with which Mr Macaulay describes the influence his personal habits and poetry produced on a certain class of persons tempts us to indulge in another extract. Well do we remember the sickly sentimentalism, the burning brows, the maddening brains, the sighings for an early grave, the bitter denunciations of mankind, the countless gloomy personages, in the style of the Giaour and the Corsair, with which the productions of a host of poetasters were stocked, both before and after their great model went to his account. We could scarcely tolerate many of those things in Byron himself; and, in his puny imitators, they were nauseating in the extreme. There was copying, even in the article of dress; so much so, that we cannot doubt that most of the poet's imitators in this point must have had repeated attacks of quinsey, as the result of their servile imitation. Would that the poetry and character of Byron had produced no more hurtful influence, however! But we shall let Mr Macaulay speak what we mean :

'Among that large class of young persons whose reading is almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popularity of Lord Byron was unbounded. They bought pictures of him; they treasured up the smallest relics of him; they learned his poems by heart; and did their best to write like him, and to look like him. Many The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans of them practised at the glass, in the hope of catching illustrated the character of her son the Regent, might, the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, with little change, be applied to Byron. All the fairies, which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded save one, had been bidden to his cradle. All the gossips their neckcloths, in imitation of their great leader. For had been profuse of their gifts; one had bestowed no- some years, the Minerva press sent forth no novel, withbility, another genius, a third beauty. The malignant out a mysterious, unhappy, Lara-like peer. The number elf who had been uninvited came last; and, unable to of hopeful under-graduates and medical students who reverse what her sisters had done for their favourite, became things of dark imaginings, on whom the freshhad mixed up a curse with every blessing. In the rank ness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose passions of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom the rehis very person, there was a strange union of opposite lief of tears was denied, passes all calculation. This was extremes. He was born to all that men covet and ad- not the worst. There was created in the minds of many mire. But in every one of those eminent advantages of these enthusiasts a pernicious and absurd association which he possessed over others was mingled something between intellectual power and moral depravity. From of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, ancient indeed and noble, but degraded and impoverished compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness—a sysby a series of crimes and follies, which had attained a tem in which the two great commandments were, to hate scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he succeeded your neighbour, and to love your neighbour's wife. This had died poor, and, but for merciful judges, would have affectation has passed away; and a few more years will died upon the gallows. The young peer had great in- destroy whatever yet remains of that magical potency tellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part in his which once belonged to the name of Byron. To us he is mind. He had naturally a generous and feeling heart; still a man, young, noble, and unhappy. To our chilbut his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a dren he will be merely a writer; and their impartial head which statuaries loved to copy; and a foot, the de- judgment will appoint his place among writers, without formity of which the beggars in the streets mimicked. regard to his rank, or to his private history. That his Distinguished at once by the strength and by the weak-poetry will undergo a severe sifting-that much of what ness of his intellect-affectionate yet perverse-a poor lord and a handsome cripple-he required, if ever man required, the firmest and the most judicious training. But, capriciously as nature had dealt with him, the parent to whom the office of forming his character was intrusted was more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of rage to paroxysms of tenderness. At one time she stifled him with caresses; at another she insalted his deformity. He came into the world, and the world treated him as his mother had treated him-sometimes with fondness, sometimes with cruelty, never with justice; it indulged him without discrimination, and punished him without discrimination. He was truly a spoiled child-not merely the spoiled child of his parent, but the spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of fortime, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society. His first poems were received with a contempt which, feeble as they were, they did not absolutely deserve. The poem which he published on his return from his travels, was, on the other hand, extolled far above its merit. At twenty-four he found himself on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, with Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and a crowd of other distinguished writers beneath his feet. There is scarcely an instance in history of so sudden a rise to so dizzy an eminence.'

So much for the character of Byron. The correctness

has been admired by his cotemporaries will be rejected as worthless, we have little doubt. But we have as little doubt, that, after the closest scrutiny, there will still remain much that can only perish with the English language.'

Mr Macaulay's personal appearance is prepossessing. He is about the middle size, and well formed. His eyes are of a deep blue, and have a very intelligent expression; his complexion is dark; his face is rather inclined to the oval form; and his features are small and regular. He does not speak often in the House of Commons, but always to the purpose, and with effect-handling some great principle of the British constitution or of public expediency and justice. Hence, unlike those of many others, his speeches read well, and will stand a grave perusal long after the events that gave them birth have been well nigh forgotten. His utterance is natural, rapid, and tumultuous-indicative of the flood of sentiment, and passion, and information, that runs below. Long may he live to adorn the world of letters! and, in his capacity as a legislator, may he not fail to profit by those lessons-so familiar to his mind-which the past teaches! Byron, we think, said of George Canning, that he was a universal genius-an orator, a poet, a wit, and a statesman. The same may be said, with some slight modification, of Thomas Babington Macaulay!