fancy' that ever contented itself with the office of only ministering to reason; and from this singular relation of the two grand faculties of man, it has resulted, that his philosophy, though illustrated still more than adorned by the utmost splendour of imagery, continues still subject to the undivided supremacy of intellect. In the midst of all the prodigality of an imagination, which, had it been independent, would have been poetical, his opinions remained severely rational.

It is not so easy to conceive, or at least to describe, other equally essential elements of his greatness, and conditions of his success. His is probably a single instance of a mind, which, in philosophising, always reaches the point of elevation whence the whole prospect is commanded, without ever rising to such a distance as to lose a distinct perception of every part of it. It is perhaps not less singular, that his philosophy should be founded at once on disregard for the authority of men, and on reverence for the boundaries prescribed by nature to human inquiry; that he who thought so little of what man had done, hoped so highly of what he could do; that so daring an innovation in science should be so wholly exempt from the love of singularity or paradox; and that the same man who renounced imaginary provinces in the empire of science, and withdrew his landmarks within the limits of experience, should also exhort posterity to push their conquests to its utmost verge, with a boldness which will be fully justified only by the discoveries of ages from which we are yet far distant.

2. SIR THOMAS MORE'S CHARACTER.2

(FROM "LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE," PUBLISHED IN 1844.) Of all men nearly perfect, Sir Thomas More had, perhaps, the clearest marks of individual character. His peculiarities, though distinguishing him from all others, were yet withheld from growing into moral faults. It is not enough to say of

(1) Those who think with Coleridge, that the imagination is the true representative faculty of man, comprehending, not excluding, what is usually called reason, will not be so much struck, as Mackintosh appears to have been, with their combination in Bacon.

(2) This passage, in many respects very interesting, strikingly exhibits Mackintosh's lack of imagination. A little colour would have wonderfully brought out the features, which, by one touch after another, he at length places before us. Macaulay, working on the same picture, would have filled it with animation and

him that he was unaffected, that he was natural, that he was simple; so the larger part of truly great men have been. But there is something homespun in More which is common to him with scarcely any other, and which gives to all his faculties and qualities the appearance of being the native growth of the soil. The homeliness of his pleasantry purifies it from show. He walks on the scaffold, clad only in his household goodness. The unrefined benignity with which he ruled his patriarchal dwelling at Chelsea, enabled him to look on the axe without being disturbed by feeling hatred for the tyrant. This quality bound together his genius and learning, his eloquence and fame, with his homely and daily duties, bestowing a genuineness on all his good qualities, a dignity in the most ordinary offices of life, and an accessible familiarity in the virtues of a hero and a martyr, which silences every suspicion that his excellencies were magnified. He thus simply performed great acts, and uttered great thoughts, because they were familiar to his great soul. The charm of this inborn and homebred character seems as if it would have been taken off by polish. It is this household character which relieves our notion of him from vagueness, and divests perfection of that generality and coldness to which the attempt to paint a perfect man is liable.

WILLIAM COBBETT.1

THE VALLEY OF THE AVON, WILTSHIRE,
(FROM "RURAL RIDES," PUBLISHED ABOUT 1830.)

August 28th, 1826.

I CAME off this morning on the Marlborough-road about two miles, or three, and then turned off over the downs, in a northlife; but, on the other hand, would not have so patiently and accurately developed its lineaments as Mackintosh has done. The interesting picture of Sir Thomas More and his family, lately exhibited at Kensington (in 1866), is a striking commentary on the household character he above so much insists on.

(1) Cobbett, as is well known, wrote on the politics of the day, and in a style, some idea of which may be gained from the imitation of it in "Rejected Addresses." This was his daily business; but he employed some of his holiday time in writing letters on agricultural and country matters generally. His manner of handling his subject is very agreeable-his style free, easy, clear, natural, and forcible. The words and clauses in his sentences take their places with perfect propriety, and seem almost always exactly what and where they ought to be.

westerly direction, in search of the source of the Avon river, which goes down to Salisbury. I had once been at Netheravon, a village in this valley; but I had often heard this valley described as one of the finest pieces of land in all England; I knew there were about thirty parish churches, standing in a length of about thirty miles, and in an average width of hardly a mile; and I was resolved to see a little into the reasons that could have induced our fathers to build all these churches, especially if, as the Scotch would have us believe, there were but a mere handful of people in England until of late years.

In steering across the down, I came to a large farm, which a shepherd told me was Milton Hill Farm. This was upon the high land, and before I came to the edge of this Valley of Avon, which was my land of promise; or, at least, of great expectation; for I could not imagine that thirty churches had been built for nothing by the side of a brook (for it is no more during a greater part of the way) thirty miles long. The shepherd showed me the way towards Milton; and at the end of about a mile from the top of a very high part of the down, with a steep slope towards the valley, I first saw this Valley of Avon. And a most beautiful sight it was! villages, hamlets, large farms, towers, steeples, fields, meadows, orchards, and very fine timber-trees, scattered all over the valley. The shape of the thing is this: on each side are downs very lofty and steep in some places, and sloping miles back in other places; but each outside of the valley are downs. From the edge of the downs begin capital arable fields, generally of very great dimensions, and in some places running a mile or two back into little cross valleys, formed by hills of downs. After the cornfields come meadows on each side down to the brook or river. The farm-houses, mansions, villages, and hamlets, are generally situated in that part of the arable land which comes nearest the meadows.

Great as my expectation had been, they were more than fulfilled. I delight in this sort of country; and I had frequently seen the vale of the Itchen, that of the Bourne, and also that of the Teste, in Hampshire; 1 had seen the vales amongst the South Downs; but I never before saw anything to please me like this Valley of the Avon. I sat upon my horse and looked over Milton, and Easton, and Pewsy, for half an hour, though I had not breakfasted. The hill was very steep. A road going slanting down it was still so steep, and washed so very deep by the rains of ages, that I did not attempt to ride down it, and I did not like to lead my horse, the path was so

narrow. So seeing a boy with a drove of pigs going out to the stubbles, I beckoned him to come up to me, and he came and led my horse down for me. Endless is the variety in the shape of the high lands which form this valley. Sometimes the slope is very gentle, and the arable lands go back very far. At others, the downs come out into the valley, almost like piers into the sea, being very steep in their sides, as well as their ends towards the valley. They have no slope at their other ends: indeed they have no back ends, but run into the main high land. There is also great variety in the width of the valley; great variety in the width of the meadows; but the land appears all to be of the very best; and it must be so, for the farmers confess it.

Having gotten to the bottom of the hill, I proceeded on to the village of Milton. After riding up to the church, as being the centre of the village, I went on towards the house of my friend, which lay on my road down the valley. I have many, many times witnessed agreeable surprise; but I do not know that I ever, in the whole course of my life, saw people so much surprised and pleased as this farmer and his family were at seeing me. People often tell you that they are glad to see you, and in general they speak truth. I take pretty good care not to approach any house with the smallest appearance of a design to eat or drink in it, unless I be quite sure of a cordial reception; but my friend at Fifield (it is in Milton parish), and all his family, really seemed to be delighted beyond all expression.

When I set out this morning I intended to go all the way down to the city of Salisbury to-day, but I soon found that to refuse to sleep at Fifield would cost me a great deal more trouble than a day was worth; so that I made my mind up to stay in this farm-house, which has one of the nicest gardens, and contains some of the finest flowers that I ever saw, and all is disposed with as much good taste as I have ever witnessed. Here I am then, just going to bed, after having spent as pleasant a day as I ever spent in my life.

SIR CHARLES LYELL.

THE PROBLEM OF GEOLOGY.1

(FROM "PRINCIPLES OF GEOLOGY," PUBLISHED IN 1830.)

THE earlier geologists had not only a scanty acquaintance with existing changes, but were singularly unconscious of the amount of their ignorance. With the presumption naturally inspired by this unconsciousness, they had no hesitation in deciding at once that time could never enable the existing powers of nature to work out changes of great magnitude, still less such important revolutions as those which are brought to light by geology. They therefore felt themselves at liberty to indulge their imaginations in guessing at what might be, rather than inquiring what is; in other words, they employed themselves in conjecturing what might have been the course of nature at a remote period, rather than in the investigation of what was the course of nature in their own times.

Never was there a dogma more calculated to foster indolence, and to blunt the keen edge of curiosity, than this assumption of the discordance between the ancient and existing causes of change. It produced a state of mind unfavourable in the highest degree to the candid reception of the evidence of those minute, but incessant, alterations which every part of the earth's surface is undergoing, and by which the condition of its living inhabitants is continually made to vary. The student, instead of being encouraged with the hope of interpreting the enigmas presented to him in the earth's structure-instead of being prompted to undertake laborious inquiries into the natural history of the organic world, and the complicated effects of the igneous and aqueous causes now in operation, was taught to despond from the first. Geology, it was affirmed, could never rise to the rank of an exact science, the greater number of phenomena must for ever remain inexplicable, or only be partially elucidated by ingenious conjectures. Even the mystery

(1) This passage illustrates a remark made in a subsequent note, regarding the importance of style in scientific as well as literary writers. The above is an admirable specimen of the abstract scientific style, as Mrs. Somerville's is of the concrete. No two things can well be more unlike; but then the writers have different objects in view. Each succeeds admirably in securing his own.

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