"Where is the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?"

About the middle of his speech the sky became overcast; a black cloud, with rain, hailstones, and a muttering of thunder, came over the assembly, and the thought occurred to us, "What a catastrophe it were, and how the Tories would exult, did an arrow of lightning leap from that darkness, and slay O'Connell, in this the very culmination of his triumph?" But it passed away, and the September sun shone out again gloriously on the stalwart form of the Titan, who closed his speech by depicting the coming of a day when Ireland and Scotland should be reconciled, and when the "Irish mother" would soothe her babe to rest with

"Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled." The effect of this touch at the time was indescribable, although, on reflection, we thought that a war-song, though the finest in the world, would be a strange lullaby for a child. The multitude, as he ended, seemed to heave out their feelings at one loosened heart, and although there were tumultuous cheers, they seemed but a faint echo of the deep emotion. And although the breaking up of a crowd is always intensely interesting, from the various sentiments and opinions expressed by the various groups, the sudden analysis of one immense body into its constituent parts, and the emblem supplied of the last awful separation which is to take place after the general judgment, yet we seldom mingled in any dissolving multitude with such emotion. Every one seemed not only pleased, but moved to the depths of his being, and filled, for the time at least, with a determined purpose to prosecute the cause which the great orator had plead.

The hour for dinner came. It took place in the Canonmills Hall. Good speeches were delivered by Dr. Bowring, James Aytoun, Dr. James Brown, and others. But, compared to O'Connell, they seemed all schoolboys learning to speak in a juvenile debating society. His speech was not, of course, equal to that of the morning. It wanted the accessories. Instead of mountains, he was surrounded by decanters, and had wine-glasses before him, in place of seas! Yet it showed

you again about his style and manner, was its exquisite combination of ease and energy, of passion and self-command. Again, the basis was conversation, and yet, on that basis, how did he contrive to build energetic, although unlogical thought, fierce invective, sarcasm which scorched like grape-shot, and touches of genuine imagination! We noticed the power with which he used the figure of interrogation. His questions seemed hooks, which seized and detained his audience whether they would or no. His first sentence was, "I am not going to make you a speech-I am going to ask you a question-what brought you all here ?" Altogether it was Titanic talk. Its very coarseness was not vulgar, but resembled rather the coarseness of some mighty Tartar prince like Tamerlane. And then his voice! Again that wondrous instrument, which Disraeli admits to have been the finest ever heard in Parliament, rolled its rich thunder, its swelling and sinking waves of sound, its quiet and soft cadences of beauty alternated with bass notes of grandeur, its divinely-managed brogue, over the awed and thrilled multitude, who gave him their applause at times, but far more frequently that "silence which is the best applause." We left with this impression-we have often heard more splendid spouters, more fluent and rapid declaimers, men who coin more cheers, men, too, who have thrilled us with deeper thought and loftier imagery; but here, for the first time, is an orator in the full meaning and amplest verge of that term-totus, teres, et rotundus.

This, indeed, we think was the grand peculiarity of O'Connell. As an orator, he was artistically one. He had all those qualities which go to form a great speaker, united into a harmony, strengthened and softened into an essence, subdued into a whole. He had a presence which, from its breadth, height, and command, might be called majestic. He had a head of ample compass, and an eye of subtlest meaning, with caution, acuteness, cajolery, and craft mingling in its ray. He had the richest and best-managed of voices. He had wit, humor, sarcasm, invective, at will. He had a fine Irish fancy, flushing up at times into imagination. He had fierce and dark passions. He had a lawyer-like acuteness of understanding. He had a

sincere love for his country. He had great readiness, and had also that quality which Demosthenes deemed so essential to an orator-action; not the leapings, and vermicular twistings, and contortions, and ventriloquisms, and ape-like gibberings, by which some men delight the groundlings and grieve the judicious, but manly, natural, and powerful action. And over all these faculties he cast a conversational calm; and this rounded off the unit, and made his varied powers not only complete in number, but harmonious in play. Hence he “moved altogether, when he moved at all." Hence, while others were running, or leaping, or dancing, or flying with broken wing and convulsive effort, O'Connell was content majestically to walk. Hence, while others were screaming, or shouting, or lashing themselves into noisy fury, O'Connell was simply anxious to speak, and to speak with authority. A petitioner is loud and clamorous; a king may be quiet and low in utterance, and yet his very whispers be heard. On this hint O'Connell spake. For, unquestionably, a king he was among a peculiar people. Since Cromwell, or perhaps Burns, no man has been born in Britain whom nature did, by divers infallible marks, more distinctly destine, whether he were ever to be crowned or not, to be a monarch-to rule, whether with a scepter, or a sword, or a tongue, great masses of men-than Daniel O'Connell. The subtlety in his eye was that of a Northern despot. And his high stature, his dignified carriage, and his massive brow, all seemed to bear the inscription-"This man is made to reign."

Morally, we do not rate him high; for he was false, reckless, and a self-seeker. But, as a man of intellect and energy, or, at least, as a powerful popular force, we doubt if Ireland has yet produced his match; and more than any other, is he her representative man. The really great men of that country (we speak not so much of her writers or orators) have been Berkeley, Swift, Burke, and O'Connell. Berkeley, however, although an Irishman by birth, had little relationship with his birthplace in his feelings, predilections, or style of thought; he belonged not to Ireland, but to earth;-rather he was the "Minute Philosopher" of the Universe. Swift obtained vast power in Ireland, through his talents and the terrible energy and des

peration with which he wielded them; but, although in it, he was not of it. He hated his native land with a hatred only inferior to that with which he regarded the men in England who had compelled him to rusticate there; and of the Irishman there was little or nothing in his constitution; at best, he was only a dried specimen of the class-the gigantic fossil of an Irishman. Burke's universal genius carried him up clear and high above his native bogs, and made him free of "Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.' He left Ireland early; his soul, manners, and mental habitudes had left it before, and never returned. But O'Connell, while not to be named with Berkeley in subtle thought; while not to be named with Swift, the Demon of Common-sense, in inventiveness and Satanic power, or with Burke in depth, comprehension, richness, and grandeur, excelled them all in his knowledge of his country, in his sympathy with it, in his determination to link himself with its fortunes, and in power of popular effect, not to speak of his religious creed, and of the influence it gave him over the minds of" seven millions." Just as certainly as Burns or Scott was the Genius of Scotland; the ideal of its powers, tendencies, weaknesses, and passions; the express image of most that was noble, and of much that was ignoble, in its idiosyncrasy—so surely was Daniel O'Connell the express image of an Irishman; the biggest beggarman in a land of beggars; the calmest, yet most powerful orator in a kingdom of eloquence; the craftiest scion of a crafty race; the most self-seeking and the most patriotic of a people who love "the sod" and themselves with an identical affection.

To dwell at length upon the faults of this extraordinary man's eloquence, or of his career, is not necessary. Suffice it to remind our readers, that his language was often blotted by personalities, and his counsels marred by indiscretion; that he griped at the gains of patriotism with an avidity, an earnestness, and a perseverance, which justified the general charges brought against him, and that special nickname in which his image stands up before the view of many as in a niche of shame; and that his last journey, to “hide his head under the petticoats of the Pope from the great Fact of Death which was coming upon

him," as Carlyle said of him, was nearly as foolish, as for millions to confront eternity with bare head, blaspheming lips, and without either fear or hope, belief in the devil or in God, in the antichrist or in the Christ. Nevertheless, nothing discovers to us more the energy of O'Connell's genius than his vituperation. Witness his onset on Disraeli: unjust though that in many points was, yet it was so powerful, so refreshing, and so original, that you fancied the spirit of the author of the "Legion-Club," or of him who wrote the "Irish Avatar," to have entered O'Connell for the nonce. It was a touch of genius worthy of Swift or of Byron, to call Disraeli the "lineal descendant of the impenitent thief." All men, great and small, can call names. But there is the widest difference between the vituperation of a porter, and that of a poet-between a kick given by an ass from below, and the stroke dealt by an angel from above. The one recoils from the object of assault, and impinges upon the stupid assailant; the other rests on the brow, the scar of an irresistible and supernal blow. The one strikes, the other strikes down. The one, to use the words of Christopher North, is "like mud thrown by a brutal boor on the gateway of some glorious edifice;" the other is a flash of lightning from on high, which can neither be repelled nor replied to, but leaves a Cain-mark on the devoted brow, which may be its only passport into future ages.

In 1828, the name O'Connell was a name of reproach. His talents were underrated; he was spoken of as a mere "mob-orator;" his own kind of vitupera- | tion, only destitute of its vital force and burning genius, was applied to him without mercy; every small prophet was predicting, that, as soon as he entered Parliament, he was sure to "find his level." In 1830 he became a senator; in 1831 he was listened to as the first orator in the House of Commons; and in 1835, as he stood on his proud pinnacle on the Calton Hill, he had become (Wellington not even at that time excepted) the most noticeable and powerful man in the country-the most loved by his friends, and the most dreaded by his foes. And had not some selfish elements mingled with his motives, and some imprudences characterized his conduct, he had been as broad a benefactor to his kind, as he was a special deliverer to

his caste. Non omnia possumus omnes. Still, he has left behind him a reputation so wide and wondrous, that we may almost call it fame. He has proved what a single man may, and may not do. He has driven the notion of the capacities of individual power almost to its extreme point. Never, since the days of Oliver Cromwell, was there in Britain a man who exerted more power, who was more of, and who, on the whole, deserved more to be a monarch. The fact that he failed, instead of teaching us the lesson of his weakness, ought to teach us a lesson far more true, wide, and instructive-this, namely, that all merely human power, unless supplemented from above, is utterly incapable to produce any result which shall deliver the world permanently from any one of its primal evils; and that, out of the broken fragments of the statue of an O'Connell, we should proceed, as out of all similar half-finished or totally-wrecked structures, to rear a shapelier fabric, and to inscribe upon it no earthly name, past, present, or to come, but the simple and sublime words-" To the coming One, even Jesus, the Prince of the kings of the earth, who shall come, will come, and will not tarry!"

EARTHQUAKE UNDER THE TROPICS.

HE impression which the first earth

THE

one.

quake makes upon us, even if it is unaccompanied by subterranean noise, is an inexpressibly powerful and quite peculiar What moves us so powerfully is the disappointment of our inherent faith in the repose and immutability of the firm solid earth. A moment destroys the illusions of a life. We are undeceived as to the repose of the earth, and feel transported within the sphere of destroying unknown powers. We scarcely trust the ground on which we stand; the strangeness of the occurrence produces the same anxious uneasiness in animals. Pigs and dogs especially are overpowered by it; the crocodiles of the Orinoco, generally as dumb as our little lizards, leave the agitated bed of the river, and rush howling into the forests. To man, an earthquake appears as something omnipresent, unbounded. We can escape from an active eruption, or from a lava stream flowing toward our dwelling; but during an earthquake wherever one flies seems the hearth of destruction.

to him. He will only stay a few days, and

AUGUST, 1854.

EDITORIAL NOTES AND GLEANINGS. GEOLOGICAL MONSTERS.-One of the most interesting, as well as instructive sections of the new Crystal Palace at Sydenham is that which contains examples of the organic remains of the "Pre-Adamite World," as discovered by geologists-huge, fantastic monsters, of amazing magnitude and shape. We have now in preparation some articles and engravings respecting these marvels which, we doubt not, will interest our readers; meanwhile we learn from the London Athenæum a fact or two about the method of constructing the Crystal-Palace imitations. Restorations, sketch-models to scale, either a sixth or a twelfth of the natural size were first made, and such attitudes were given to them as Mr. Waterhouse Hawkins's long acquaintance with the recent and living forms of the animal kingdom, enabled him to adapt to the extinct species he was endeavoring to restore. Clay models built of the natural size by measurement from the sketch models were then made, and when they approximated the true form, the author in every instance secured the anatomical details and the characteristic features of each specimen. Some of these models contained thirty tons of clay, which had to be supported on four legs, as their natural-history characteristics would not allow of recourse being had to any of the expedients for support allowed to sculptors in ordinary cases. In the instance of the iguanodon, this was no less than building a house upon four columns, as the quantities of material of which the standing iguanodon is composed consists of four iron columns, nine feet long by seven inches diameter, six hundred bricks, six hundred and fifty five-inch half-round drain-tiles, nine hundred plain tiles, thirty-eight casks of cement, ninety casks of broken stone, making a total of six hundred and forty bushels of artificial stone! This, with one hundred feet of iron hooping, and twenty feet of cube inch bar, constituted the bones, sinews, and muscles of this large model, the largest of which there was any record of a casting having been made. What a scene must the earth have presented in the far-off epoch, when this and similar monsters peopled its partially developed regions!

HANS ANDERSEN.-A Dresden correspondent of a London paper writes as follows, respecting this world-renowned "Story-Teller:"-" Yesterday the poet Andersen arrived here, from Copenhagen, on a tour to Italy, accompanied by a young Danish nobleman confided to his care. Andersen was very well-looking, and in good spirits. He went to the house of Frau Von Serre, who had invited his friends to meet him, and among them the poets Gutzkow, Auerbach, Hammer, Otto Roquette, and the well-known traveler, Neigebauer. Andersen is tall and lank; he surpassed in size everybody in the room. He expressed great satisfaction in seeing again so many well-known faces, and put on a great liveliness of manner, not altogether becoming

compelled to hurry, in order to be home again, after a lapse of two months, as his proof-sheets are waiting for him. He speaks German very badly, and by no means fluently; still, when telling one of his charming little fairy-tales, his mistakes are so naïve, and his manner is so well adapted to the thing, that they bear a thousand times' repetition. Singularly enough he has met Dickens here, who was never before in Dresden, we suppose."

WHIPPING THE DEVIL ROUND THE STUMP.President Allen of Girard College addressed a large assembly in Faneuil Hall, at the "Collation" of the Unitarians, during the last Boston Anniversary Week. In the course of his remarks, he presented some interesting explanations of the manner in which religious instruction is given in the college. Girard's will, it will be recollected, puts some very scandalous restrictions on religion in the institution. A clergyman is not allowed to cross the threshold to peep even at the ugly statue of the old sinner which deforms the noble architecture around it. The managers and instructors seem to be able, nevertheless, to give a really Christian character to the institution. Dr. Allen remarked that his reverend and learned friend (Dr. Lathrop) had asked him some questions with regard to the school, and he had that gentleman's permission to answer these questions to the audience. The Girard College for orphans was instituted under peculiar restrictions, which had brought upon it a great degree of odium from large classes of our community. The institution was opened six years ago, with many misgivings; its proceedings had been watched with the deepest interest; it had gone abroad that this was to be an infidel institution, and that the Bible could not be read there-and that there was to be no moral or religious instruction. But though they had "no religion to boast of," yet they tried to give such moral and religious instruction as laymen could give. He would try to explain their system. Girard's will required that the pupils of the institution should be instructed in chemistry and natural philosophy-but it named no text-books in these sciences-and they had assumed that they must use the books recommended by the highest authority in that department of learning. So the same will required that the boys should be instructed in the purest principles of morality; but no text-book was prescribed—and the officers of the college took it for granted that, here also, they were to use the book recognized as of the highest authority by the greatest number-the Bible, and the Bible was read dayly there, without note or comment. The founder also required the teaching of astronomy, and the other high sciences; but this could not be done without a previous instruction in the elementary departments of mathematics necessary to enable a boy to understand astronomy; so they had assumed the right to teach conic sections, in order to teach astronomy. On the same principle, in order to teach morality, we must first teach that without which morality can have no basis or sanction-and therefore we teach religion. This might be termed whip