honoured! Oh, ye kings of the Highland wilderness! ye old grandeurs of God! crowned now with the spectral coronets of the mist, now with the red glory of the dying day, and now with the momentary semicircles of the lightning, must ye-ye perpetual hills-bow and be abashed at the presence of a sceptred girl? No; ye own submission only to Him who sits above the thunder-who gave, and who only can take away your stiller, as beneficent, and more majestic sovereignty.

To Coventry succeeded Rugby station, whence we looked out, but in vain, for a sight of Rugby school. Nevertheless, we passed not unblessed the genius of the place;' we forgot not-how could we?-that here the hero Arnold had wrestled and died. In him was lost the Hannibal of history. Careful, inquisitive, stern, he is at the same time bold, picturesque, and enthusiastic. Next to the high moral purpose of his historical works, that clear course, with which, like an Abdiel, he cleaves his solitary way, 'faithful found, among the faithless faithful only he,' we like the descriptions of natural objects which he interposes amid the disquisitions and narratives of his books. He breathes more freely, he sets up his 'rest and be thankful,' when he comes to the glens and uplands of the Samnite country, and his hero scarce exulted more when he reached the summit of the Alps, than does his historian. He describes scenes which war is soon to blacken and devastate in colours so lovely, that you are reminded of the ancient victim adorned with its sacrificial glories, and are almost tempted to cry out-Spare, oh, spare it!' The green of nature thus perpetually presented, adds often inexpressible softness and shading to the bustle and blood all around. How I thirst for Zama,' says he in one of his letters. There spoke the genuine historian. He panted to be present at that decisive field, as if he had some deep personal interest pending there. It is thus only that great histories can be written-in the spirit in which great historical deeds are done. He who would adequately write the as yet unwritten story of the wars of Napoleon, must in like manner go to the task, thirsting for Lodi, for Austerlitz, and for Waterloo. Poor Arnold! he never gained the object of his thirst-he did not reach the field of Zama. He reached first the last of his own fields; he had wound up his labours for the season; he had on the verge of what was to him a long vacation returned to rest; he awoke with the death-pang in his vitals, and in a few hours was no more. From that house, finely called by Carlyle a temple of industrious peace; from that school, where he had moulded, and was moulding, the minds of England's children; from the circle of a beloved family, and from an unfinished series of noble literary, moral, and theological works, he passed-shall we say, he was not-for God took him. It was somehow severely fitting that a death so sharp and sudden should befal the most Roman of moderns and one of the most Christian of men.

Arnold and Foster in many points bear a striking resemblance to each other, though the differences are as palpable as the points of agreement. Both were unhappy; but the misery of Arnold was of a milder and more hopeful cast than that of Foster, whose melancholy sometimes approached the brink of despair; the one was a beaten man, the other victorious-but victorious in the arms of death. Both were Christians, and Christians after a fashion of their own; but Arnold's religion was incomparably more enlightened and practical than Foster's. Foster lay groaning like a maimed lion in a cave; Arnold wished down into Oxford, that he might fight the Judaisers as in a saw-pit.' Both were discontented with the creed to which they had avowed obedience; but while Foster confined the expression of his discontent to his private letters and conversation, Arnold exposes himself to obloquy by his frank and fearless avowals. Foster was indolent-he lay like a lazy Titan upon the mountain-top, now enjoying the prospect, now frowning contemptuously at the little things and little men beneath, and now playing on his panpipe snatches of a power ul but plaintive melody; Arnold came down to the valley, mingled with the crowd, and stripped himself to the most arduous toils. In originality, force,

richness, and native splendour of mind, Foster was superior; but in research, learning, caution, completeness, and profound worship and love for truth, Arnold had as decidedly the advantage, not only over him, but over most men of his time. In reading his life we are awestruck, as in a temple-we tread on holy ground, and feel what poor things literature and scholarship are, when compared with the elevations of moral excellence, the dignities of highminded honesty, the beauties of holiness.

Between Rugby and London there was but one other spot which awakened retrospective interest-it was Harrow on the Hill. This village, with its school and church, stands on the highest hill (!) in the county of Middlesex, about ten miles from London, and commands one of the finest prospects of the city. At this school Dr Parr imbibed the first elements of his vast scholarship. Here Sir William Jones was educated; here, as everywhere, Sheridan approved himself a brilliant trifler; here Sir Robert Peel led, as he has almost invariably done since; here Sir George Sinclair first discovered his huge capacity for the husks of learning, sitting at the head of the form of which Byron was booby; and here that lion passed his cubdom, and gave, as a scholar, sad presage of the qualities which were to distinguish him as a man-wilfulness, eccentricity, furious passions, and contempt for general opinion. The sun was setting as we passed Harrow, and the spire of the church shone in its light like a finger of flame; but the true lustre of the spot came to us from the unsetting genius of Childe Harold.

And now we began, for the first time, fully to realise to ourselves the fact and feeling that we were approaching London. How thrilling the thought-next stage, next stoppage, will be at the capital of the world! We felt ourselves as would, were it conscious, a ship feel on the verge of the Mahlstrom-as a spirit would feel within the strong suction and strange air of eternity. It was an emotion composed of curiosity, eager desire, wonder, and something very like terror. In twenty-ten-five-two minutes shall we see that awful face which a million of houses present to heaven, and hear that strange song which for a thousand years has never, day or night, been entirely silent. The sensation was so new, so strong, and, on the whole, so delicious, that we were disposed to protract it as long as we could-to weigh it out, and sip it up in drops. At length we could protract it no further, for the carriage paused, and we found ourselves in-London.

In rapidly hurrying through the streets to our place of abode we were alive to little save the bustle and thriceconfounded confusion which appeared to prevail. A new feeling awaited us as we lay down at night in this great city of strangers. Never are we so aware as in such circumstances of our own littleness, loneliness, and helpless insignificance; never does the idea of life the pilgrimage' flash so forcibly upon our minds. What are we among so many? What is our lying down, while two millions are in the same hour sinking to repose? What place or name have our dreams amid the phantasmata which haunt two million pillows? Of what importance our rising up amid the morning resurrection of myriads of men? And what were our death, did we sleep the final sleep this night? A mere momentary ripple on this mighty ocean! Thus pondering we dropped asleep; and when we awoke, it was a fresh and fine sensation to feel that it was the light of London that was shining in through the lattice.

In our next paper, we propose to state the impressions made on our minds by some of the sights of London.

THREE PERIODS IN THE LIFE OF
CLAUDIUS JACQUARD.

IT is beautiful, Claudius, truly beautiful!' exclaimed the wife of a mechanic in Lyons, as she held a piece of silk of her husband's manufacturing towards the light, and gazed with delight upon the bright flowers that were wrought into its fabric. Ah! the great men at Paris did not know what you could do, or they would not have allowed you to come home so poor and so friendless.'

The workman looked from a pattern which he had been examining towards his wife, and there was a smile of pride beaming in his truly noble and intellectual face as he exclaimed, They shall yet hear of me, Louise, and they shall perhaps regret that they treated me with so little consideration.'

Ah! Claudius,' said Louise, with a sigh, as she laid her hand on her husband's shoulder, I think that honour and distinction are but foolishly and partially divided. There is Jean Bouroisan, who was so idle that he would not work, and so heartless that he broke his mother's heart, has come home with a pension, and a cross of the legion of honour, merely because he was at Austerlitz and Marengo, while you, who have always been so good, and so industrious, and so ingenious,' continued Louise, looking at Claudius proudly, are unknown and neglected.'

Ah! you must know that I have only invented a loom,' replied the artisan, while Jean has been a hero.'

Such a hero!' cried Louise, in scorn; a hero who would rather live on alms than work, and whose proudest boast is that he killed a man. No, no, Claudius; I do not give in to Jean Bouroisan being a hero, unless you call every profligate a hero, who, after giving pain to his parents and relatives, joins the army to escape the consequences of his vices. Ah! many was the long night that you spent upon your model until you brought it to this, and who knows what France will be indebted to you yet, although she offers you neither star nor ribbon.'

Ah, my France, my country!' exclaimed the weaver, his fine features lighting with enthusiasm; I care not although I am neglected if I can make thee in the least illustrious. Louise,' said he, mildly, turning to his wife, and clasping her soft hand, I have all the world in having thee, but for France, above all the world, do I live.'

And thou art more than France to me, Claudius,' said Louise, with a gentle smile.

Blanchari and Riquoet have adopted my loom,' said the weaver, after a pause; it shall work its way yet, and I shall be remembered as having added fame to the manufactures of my country.'

They might have tried thy loom in Paris-it would have at least shown that the great men had some sense,' said Louise, quietly; if it had been an improved guillotine, I am sure you would have been rewarded.'

'Well, well,' said Claudius, shrugging his shoulders, 'posterity will perhaps do me justice.'

He had just spoken when a faint sound was heard approaching the quarter of Lyons where the humble mechanic dwelt, and then it became louder and more tumultuous, until the hoarse murmurs and discordant yells of an infuriated mob broke upon his ears and those of his wife. 'Bring him forth,' cried the crowd, as they gathered round the house in which Claudius lived, and threw missiles at the window where Louise and he sat; 'bring him forth,' they shouted, he would ruin us, and starve our children with his inventions.' 'Break and burn his looms!' shouted one or two more ready than the others, and their screams were heard above the roars of those by whom they were surrounded. Yes, yes; burn them!' yelled the women and children in shrill chorus. To the river with him, Claudius a l'eau; duck him!' cried a group to the left. Yes, yes; drown him!' was echoed from the right. He would bring misery upon our families and ourselves! he would make beggars of us all!' and the crowd continued to launch forth sundry other ejaculations, which had the effect of increasing the vehemence of their hatred toward the newly invented loom and the bewildered inventor, and of rendering them less scrupulous every moment in their ideas concerning life and property.

What would you with me, my brethren?' said the artisan, as he approached his little window, and looked upon the mob, with his wife clinging fearfully to him; but a storm of yells and missiles was his only response. What seek you here?' he exclaimed, turning round in amazement, as several men dashed into his little room, and Louise clung to his neck, screaming wildly, in her fear for his life.

'We seek the model of the machine by which you would supersede the labour of all the weavers in Lyons,' cried the rioters, as they turned over and broke everything that | lay in their way to the hated model. Hurra! here it is!' they cried, as they held some of the beams of the loom from

the window towards the crowd.

I appeal to you as men, if this is fair!' exclaimed Claudius to the persons who had seized his property, and were holding it forth to excite farther the already infuri ated mob. Ye seem men of respectability and of enlightenment, now tell me if this is manly or just ? '

To the Place des Terreaux with the looms; and their inventor shall apply the burning brand to them!' cried the yelling mass of ignorant deluded men, women, and children, as they carried the machines to the place already named, and piled those of Blanchari and Riquoet upon the same heap with the model.

Apply the brand! apply the brand!' they shouted in threatening tones, as they swung their clubs over the head of the poor trembling machine-maker, who was pleading to escape from the humiliating trial of destroying the labours of his many long and studious years; but his tormentors were inexorable, and Claudius Jacquard was constrained to apply the flames to the fragmentary pile which had been the product of his mechanical genius, and to stand and look on with a crushed heart and tearful eve as the greedy fire consumed the wood and calcined the iron of his cherished invention.

Farewell, thou ingrate city! farewell, ye deluded workmen! farewell, ye interested loom-burners!' said Claudius Jacquard, somewhat bitterly, as he turned his back upon Lyons, and with his wife retired alike from the world's notice and its trials.

In the year 1816, Jacquard, now aged sixty-four, was still living in his little retired residence, a few leagues distant from Lyons. He was unnoticed, and he believed almost unknown. His inventions had brought him neither fame nor wealth; he was poor, and he was neglected, still Louise was with him, as proud of him as if learned academies had showered honours and kings wealth upon him, and more devotedly attached to him than on the day she had plighted her faith at the altar. The aged couple were seated at their door one fine summer evening of the above year, enjoying the prospect of the setting sun and the fragrance of the flowers which mingled with the fresh breeze, when a chaise drew up close beside them, and a stranger, with a strong British accent, inquired for M. Jacquard, as he alighted from the carriage.

'I am he,' said Claudius, rising and bowing to the stranger, with that politeness for which his nation is remarkable, while at the same time an expression of gentleness and unaffected kindliness shone in his face, which ne art could have taught him to assume.

'Sir,' said his visiter, 'I am happy and proud to find myself in your company, and it would delight me extremely to discover that I am not entirely unknown to you; my name is James Watt.'

What, the inventor of the steam-engine!' exclaimed Jacquard, with pleasure beaming in his eyes. Let me embrace you. In my estimation you are the greatest of living men.'

James Watt smiled, and, grasping the hand of Jacquard, he shook it warmly, and at the same time seated himself by his side. Perhaps you will do me the honour of allowing me to sup with you to-night,' said the great Scottish mechanician.

་

Ay, surely, surely!' cried Jacquard, as if glad that his guest had made the proposal; but I fear that you will make but a poor meal after all. Yet,' he continued, smiling, 'the cheerful looks of my Louise, and contentment, would make a poorer meal agreeable. Come, mon ami, let monsieur see how good a cook you are.'

And Louise did bustle about as never clean tidy little Frenchwoman bustled before, and she produced her finest cookery, and her finest crockery, and felt proud indeed that she had at her table another man almost as great as her own Claudius. The cheerful looks of the wife, and the

cheerful conversation of the husband, could not, however, entirely distract the attention of the visiter from the simplicity if not poverty of the furniture that surrounded him, and he casually remarked to Jacquard, That it was wonderful that France had not rewarded him, as he deserved, for an invention that was destined to effect so great a revolution in French manufactures.'

The old man smiled, with a look of benign resignation that well became his noble although rustic countenance.

Ah, monsieur,' said Jacquard, with a melancholy shake of the head, 'I have no desire to leave the obscurity in which you now behold me;' and an expression of grief and pain passed over his speaking countenance as the recollection of that evening's horrors in Lyons came back upon his memory. Monsieur,' he continued, in a low impressive voice, if you had heard the wild shouts of an infuriated populace consigning me to the river, and if you had seen the burning looms to which they had forced me to set fire, you would have believed that I have no cause to desire public notice any more. I hear, however, that they are now taking advantage of my invention, and that they have designated the machines Jacquard looms; but I do not wish to inquire whether it is so or not; they were ungrate ful to me, and I shall trouble them no more.'

Ah, M. Jacquard,' said Watt, with emotion, 'there is yet a country which is grateful to its benefactors-accompany me to England, and fame and fortune await you.' Jacquard smiled faintly as he quietly shook his head and replied, I have heard that the poor man who invented your spinning-jenny died in penury and want, while the children of him who robbed him of his labours fill the high places in your country's wealth and honour. I am satisfied, monsieur; if France will not accept my services, I will offer them to no other nation in the world. I may be wrong,' he continued, but I and all that can emanate from me belong to France.'

'Genius, whether mechanical or otherwise, is not local,' said James Watt, seriously; it belongs to the world and all posterity; it is a sacred gift which visits the earth only once, perhaps, through a long lapse of centuries, and forms an epoch in its history. It is like the sun,' he continued, waxing warm, and grasping the hand of the quiet Jacquard, 'it rises over one spot in the morning, and when the evening comes, it has shed its beams over all the world. Come with me, Jacquard, that futurity may bless your name.' 'I may be wrong,' said the old man, doubtingly, but my head is white, and my prejudices have become indurated into my constitution. I love my country, and my love has become more and more individual with my age. To France I have dedicated all the talents which God has given me, and to no other nation shall I offer the fruits of them; especially would I shrink from placing them at the disposal of my country's enemies.'

There is no enmity in labours like yours and mine,' said the high-souled Briton, calmly; we work to make all men friends and brothers-we pave the way for a peaceful future to the world by multiplying the agencies of labour and extending the sphere of commerce.'

Jacquard mused for a few moments in silence, but he shook his head as he exclaimed, 'It is too late, monsieur; if you had spoken to me thus some years ago, who knows what I might have done? But my ambition is dead-I find that now I am too old.'

The Scotchman looked at the old man, whose face was, in its honest simplicity, vividly indicative of his sincerity, and he sighed as he shook Jacquard's hand again and said, 'Well, my dear friend, I see it is in vain to urge you farther, but I shall make France blush for her ingratitude to her most ingenious as well as her most devoted son. I shall accuse her of neglect before the face of Europe,' he continued, indignantly; the press of England shall echo the tale, and I myself shall speak of it to your king.'

Ah, monsieur, that will be well,' exclaimed Louise with a smile; Claudius, you see, is quite a child when it comes to asking anybody to talk about his machines. You should have some of the nonchalance of the old soldier, mon ami,' she continued, turning affectionately to her husband; and

then, looking at her guest, she continued, 'How they do beg and boast!'

For eight days these two gifted men enjoyed each other's company and grateful conversation; and when the great Scottish inventor bade farewell to the great Frenchman, he did not know whether most to admire the original genius, the resigned simplicity, or the modest glowing kindliness of the gifted Jacquard.

In a fortnight after this visit, a gend'arme presented M. Jacquard with a packet from the Minister of Interior, which had passed through Lyons to the village where he resided. He broke the seal with a trembling hand, and opened the packet, and then a tear stole over his cheek as he cried to Louise, Ah! my country has remembered me at last. I am no longer regarded as an enemy to my own dear France, but as a benefactor. See, here it is written down on the broad parchment, Pour avoir bien merite de sa patrie;' and there it is,' he continued, holding up the grand cross of the legion of honour, of which he had been constituted chevalier. Ah, how happy I am at last!' and he mingled his tears with those of his equally joyous wife.

But a cloud suddenly passed over his beaming eyes, and his face became even more sorrowful in expression than it had ever hitherto beer, as he muttered, But it is not to the spontaneous offering of France that I owe this. It is not to the generous gratitude of my native land, but to the appeal of a stranger. Oh, how happy I should have been had it been otherwise!'

Madame Jacquard, however, was too much taken up with the cross to think of how it came; and she soon had it suspended at her husband's breast, and was walking along, hanging on his arm, while she curtseyed with a swelling heart and pleased smile as every sentinel they passed recognised the badge of honour and presented arms to her husband. Alas! poor Jacquard was struggling with different emotions; For,' said he, it is not to my country that I owe this; it was necessary that a stranger should stand up and say to France, Claudius Jacquard deserves thy thanks and the cross of honour."'

Poor Jacquard, still poor, still neglected, saw his looms not only occupy every workshop in Lyons, but come into extensive use all over France; and by and by it began to be understood that to simplify the means of labour is to add to the wealth-producing power of the world, and that Jacquard had not been a meditator of evil after all. It was not long till 30,000 of these machines were wrought in Lyons alone; and they were applied not only to the manufacture of silk, but to the working of woollen and cotton also; and to such an extent of perfection has the powers of this wonderful machine been brought, that we have seen a beautiful portrait that was woven by its means in the texture of a piece of cloth, which, at a little distance, was not distinguishable from the finest line engraving. But did Jacquard, the father of all the wealth which it produced, become rich? Ah, no; he lived as meanly and as obscurely to the end as he had hitherto done. He invented other machines, and thus passed his hours in the employment which was his chief delight; but the dread of popular fury confined them to the obscurity of their producer; and, while fortunes were being made by those who took advantage of his loom, he died in his silent little re

treat.

On the 7th day of August, 1834, a company of twenty persons followed the mortal remains of Claudius Jacquard to the cemetery of Oullins; and then, when he had passed away, the millionaires of Lyons-the very men who had sanctioned the burning of his looms-began to recollect that it was to him that their city owed its present prosperity and manufacturing greatness, and they opened their purse-strings and began a subscription for his family, which amounted to the magnificent sum-hush! France will blush if we speak it out-of £375 sterling!! Magnificent reward of genius-proud tribute to the comfort-producing, world-sustaining principle of labour! Ye who would win distinctions, and wealth, and worldly applause, go, wear a helmet and wield a destroying sword!