garnering of the poetical fruit that has blossomed and ripened upon his tree of life. He has told us that when an office-boy he scribbled verses in his spare moments. In late years the enfranchised pen, which in the day had recorded sales of grey cloth, would in the evening be pleasantly employed in the production of sonnets. There is about our poet's verse a sweet pensive reflectiveness born within him upon such occasions as when he composes a hymn for a church festival, or renders musical some pious thought of Thomas a' Kempis; as he stoops over a daffodil and listens to the song of a thrush in the twilight of a March evening, or stands meditatively in the shadow of "The Grey Tower of Dalmeny." Endowed with such literary gifts and graces, it is no wonder that our President found his way to a Club which had the cultivation of literature as its object. It was in the year 1872 that he first became a member, and let me say in passing that it is to me a personal pleasure to find our names occurring together in the chronological list of members. I remember his advent well, and how he came to us, bringing with him, like a trailing glory, a literary reputation already earned at St. Paul's. He made an impression at once. As Lowell .says: 'Tis delightful to see when a man comes along This was the case when George Milner came to stay. We admired him then, and one can say truthfully after all the years that Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. The President in those days was Joseph Chattwood-grand old Chattwood we used to call him, though he was not in reality old-the man of many arbitrations, tall and massive, who wore a broadbrimmed hat and looked like a bishop-indeed, he was not infrequently mistaken for one; a logically-minded man, precise and oracular in speech, jealous, and rightly so, of the dignity and importance of his office, but eminently warm-hearted and friendly. His throne was at the Mitre, just on the verge of the ecclesiastical precincts of the Cathedral, the music of whose bells is still associated with memories of the literary talks of that time, with which they often mingled. Chattwood presided over an assembly which had in it a not unpleasant flavour of Bohemianism, though the literary spirit was decidedly present; it was exercised, perhaps, more in the form of social relaxation than in the production of serious work. Chattwood retired, and was succeeded by John Howard Nodal, the editor of the Manchester City News, who brought new and vigorous influences to bear upon our proceedings. He it was who converted the careless-ordered pasture into a fruitful field of literary production, and who sowed the seeds of serious purpose, the fruits of which are still in evidence. Under his direction we first began to print our Transactions, of which there is now such a goodly array of volumes on our library shelves. They exist there as material justifications of our existence. We are not vain enough, I take it, to liken them to the precious life-blood of master spirits, but they are honest and worthy within their limits, and have in them, we trust, the elements of enduring life. When Mr. Nodal resigned in 1879, he, with far-sighted wisdom, nominated his successor, and George Milner took his place to pursue in the same spirit, and carry forward the good work and purposes of ! his predecessor, with such results as we are here to-night to celebrate. And here one may say that during the consulship of Mr. Nodal, an effort was made to produce "a glossary of the Lancashire Dialect." This took shape under the joint editorship of Mr. Nodal and Mr. Milner, and so it has come about that in the substantial volume which was the result of their labours, the two Presidents will go down to posterity linked arm in arm. For more than twenty years-that is, more than half the time of its existence our President has watched over the destinies of this Club with such devotion that he has never been absent when we have been in session, except by some entirely unavoidable cause. Never by choice has he absented himself for a single night. When we come to think of this lengthened service and the arduousness of it, one is not only filled with admiration, but with wonder. Think of the patient endurance of it, the sitting night after night listening to papers, some of them, it must be confessed, deadly dull, and being compelled to listen. The ordinary member, free and independent, when he gets bored may withdraw himself, may come and go, returning like the pewit, "but the President is obliged to keep his place. And how well he has kept it, showing no sign of weariness through all the lengthened hours of all that long array of nights, always listening, always alert! One has heard of a Speaker in the House of Commons falling asleep during a debate, but our speaker has never been known to nod. When I consider these things, this patient endurance, this long suffering, I am inclined to think that it is not merely a wreath that has been earned, but rather a martyr's crown. Then with what wisdom, power, and grace he has adorned his office. He has been our moderator, keeping us in peaceful equipoise. This is no easy matter in a literary club any more than in a Presbyterian assembly. Even here there are conflicting elements, though we are all supposed to have literary proclivities, the expression varies. We are made up of poets, prose writers, and critics. The poets, of course, are always original; the prose writers not always so; and as for the critics-well, as you know, Nature fits all her children with something to do; He who would write and can't may surely review. Now it happens, as you are aware, that the literary creator, in poetry or prose, is apt to look down with condescension upon the merely critical creature, and so offences come. At such times our Club might cease to be a cave of harmony or a choir angelical. As Edwin Waugh says, “It is a hard job to keep th' bant i' th' nick wi' a rook o' musicianers; they cap o' th' world for being diversome. Th' singers fo' out wi' th' players, and th' players fo' out wi’ th' singers they mostly dun do." But when our President is there, peace is made to prevail within our walls. His power of conciliation is simply irresistible. I need not remind you of the excellent work done during the twenty years of his office by the Club. Under his influence it has become an illuminating power, of which he has been the central point. But it would be an omission if I did not take note of the fact that he was practically the founder of the Club journal, The Manchester Quarterly, which has existed for thirteen years, and is still alive and vigorous. I need scarcely remind you either of our President's wonderful versatility and readiness of resource. Whether the subject of discussion be dialect or dialectics, poetry, philosophy, or philology, he is always equal to the occasion. His literary judg ments, delivered with a fine oratorical grace, are invariably levelheaded and sound. How often, after the reading of a paper which has kindled him to enthusiasm, we have seen The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form and glow. Very much to be regretted it is that these valuable pronouncements are only for the memory, and have found no fitting and permanent record in our archives. And now let me say that, in commemorating his length of service, we take note also of the fact that our President has completed his three score years and ten. I am sure that we all hope there may be many happy years in store for him, and that these may be filled with the mellow radiance of a peaceful autumn afternoon. Happily, as far as our Club is concerned, this is not a valedictory function; we rejoice that he is still with us, and, like Ulysses, fresh in spirit and still adventurous. At the outset I said that in one sense we are here to-night to weave a chaplet for the brow of the man we honour, and I would say in conclusion that whether we place it there or not, he has worthily won that circlet which Mr. Ruskin says is the worthiest a man may attain, that " crown of wild olive, the type of grey honour and sweet rest." Mr. MILNER, in his response, said among other interesting and touching observations that: He could only try in the future to make himself worthy of all the things which had been said of him that night. When a man had passed his seventieth year there was not much danger of arousing his vanity. Such expressions as had been used would have driven him mad when he was a young man. But when a man was over seventy it made all the difference. In early life, when they looked forward to the things which they hoped to do, things they intended to do, and even things they had done, they loomed large and extravagant. But when they had passed all and came to later years and turned their faces backward and saw the things left undone, then they dwarfed themselves in a way that was most wonderful and dreadful. The Chairman had spoken of his many-sidedness of character. Well, that was a thing he was rather afraid of. Allusion had been made to his connection with a certain pillar on the Exchange. He chose that pillar when the new Exchange was built. He was not one of those who ran up and down after customers, for customers came to him. Therefore, he always remained at the pillar. There were not a few men who came to him who had literary proclivities. One old friend never asked for quotations, but always gave him a quotation from Robert Burns. Sometimes he found himself surrounded by men desiring quotations for madapollams, while he himself was receiving quotations from sonneteers. When Mr. Mortimer referred to his manysidedness he hit a rather sore point. Most people, he thought, were of opinion that he had allowed his influence to be squandered over too large a field. If he had spread himself over too large a surface it had always been done upon a carefully-prepared plan. He laid out his life upon certain lines, and he had followed no others. He determined that he would devote himself in the first place to educa tion of the most elementary character, and wherever he found such education needed among the young men and poor working men of the city he gave it to them. For years and years when he might have been writing sonnets-heaven help him!-he was teaching the art of English grammar. The next thing he determined to devote himself to was education and culture of the higher kind, and especially all such as led in the direction of their own noble English literature. When he first came to the Literary Club he found there was an opening for work in that particular direction. The third thing he thought he ought to do something in was what was called by a name he did not care for philanthropy. He also desired to do something for what he called the higher religion. According to his lights he had done what he could for such things as these, and he had gone no further. He might have gone into politics, into Parliament-he was invited to do so-but he declined to have anything to do either with politics or Parliament, or even municipal matters. Constitutionally, he had a great dislike for party spirit and party politics, and he had a horror of party manœuvres of all kinds. He did not blame those who entered upon these regions and provinces of public work, for it had to be done. Only, as to himself, it was not in his nature to have anything to do with that kind of work. His recreation had consisted almost entirely in the study of nature and in the attempt to describe it with a loving hand so far as the power had been given to him. If he were asked what were the greatest blessings of life, he would say, not fame, not honour, rut wealth, not social position, but friends, friends, friends. It was twenty-eight years since he joined the Literary Club. When he looked back upon all that time, what he valued most was not the wonderful speeches they had had made to them, though they had been wonderful, nor the eloquence and learning shown, but the friends he had gained, and the loyalty and courtesy, and consideration they had always shown to him. There was a prevailing opinion that he was not severe enough and critical. Well, he could not help it. He had tried to make the Club a common ground where men of various opinions both in literature and other things might meet together. With the exception of brief addresses by Sir W. H. BAILEY and Mr. J. H. NODAL, the remainder of the evening was devoted to music and the reading or singing of verses which had been specially written for the occasion. These latter included contributions by the Rev. Arthur W. Fox, and Messrs. Harrison Hill, Tinsley Pratt, and B. A. Redfern. Songs and recitations were given by Messrs. Ryder Boys, Walter Butterworth, Thomas Derby, N. Dumville, Harrison Hill, and J. Wilcock. Five other songs were rendered from the book of poems by Mr. Milner, one, "Wanderlied," set to music by Mr. Chris. E. Rowley, and the other four by Mr. Nicolai P. Thamsen. The programme was made a pleasing and interesting memento of the occasion by the inclusion in each copy of an excellent portrait of Mr. Milner, prefaced by the following sonnet, written by the Rev. A. W. Fox : TO GEORGE MILNER. Three score years and ten-a life to most, To thee perennial youth through flying hours; For years a score the chieftain of our host. By upland steeps, by shady greenwood bowers, Love's glowing roses, twined with steadfast truth. Like full-toned lyre; the silver-crusted sheath The Rev. A. W. Fox also contributed the following lines: THE CLUB. By silv'ry Irwell's sylvan brink there stands a goodly city; Within that city stands an inn, more grandly called hotel, Assemble to discuss night-soil, or anything they please. But best of all, each Monday night, there meets a mighty Club, We've men so sound, their merry laugh would charm sad Heraclitus We're sages of all ages, and of many climes beside, But poet's rhymes flowed on to put that conflagration out, We've criticism, tco, whereby the slain once more are slain, |