The Sun.
London, England, 1855-04-07 00:00:00

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tained that she has foundered. The accident, as frix-rilasil be learned, seems to have happened through no "look-out"
being kept in the merchantman, and the man who was
steering her did no see his danger until he was close to the
Duke, whose helm was hard to port, steering south, to get
out of his way. The vessels would have passed each other,
had he not, in his hurry and consternation, put his helm
hard a-starboard and run, of course, right into the fore-
chains of the Duke. .No blame is to be attached to the
officer of the watch, who seems to have done all that was
proper to avert the accident, which will detain the ship at
slehaeestrinOesoarflor2rdepayaisrs, and. she will most likely have to go to
On the forenoon of the sth her Majesty's:shipTrafalgar,
120, Captain Greville, was observed at anchor off the Swallow Bank. Having exchanged salutes with the flag-
shiP of Rear-Admiral Dundas, she got under way, and was
taken in tow by the paddle-steamer Magicienne. The
Trafalgar has been 84 days on her homeward voyage, and
on arrival at Sheerness will be paid off.— nni,e4.

DEATE OF OU.R.REB BELL.

"Currer Bell "is dead ! The early death of the large
family of whom she was the sole survivor prepared all
who knew the circumstances to expect the loss of this
gifted creature at any time : but not the less deep will be
the grief of society that her genius will yield us nothing
more. We have three works from her which will hold
their place in the literature of our century; and, but for
her frail health, there might have been three times three
for she was under forty—and her genius was not of a*
exhaustible kind. If it bad been exhaustible, it would
have been exhausted some time since. She had every
inducement that could have availed with one less high-
minded
übpyo nv
earl
yl sheeg
hdt i de
x; e
rat and
u
minded to publish two or three novels a year. Fame
s:hebumtighhert
steady
enoroinchvedio.
tion was that the publication of a book is a solemn act
of conscience—in the case of a novel as much as any othe -
feareofhurting
kind of book. She was not fond of speaking of herself and
nei t
.ae nature;
conscience; but she now and then uttered to her very
fw friends
thingswhichh'erse map,
aatluasre!
;btehtionlgclenwohwi,ohwoitulagohutt
to be told in her honour. Among these sayings was one
which explains the long interval between her works. She
said that she thought every serious delineation of life
ought to be the product of personal experience and obser-
vation ; experience naturally occurring, and observation
of a normal, and not of a forced or special kind. "I
have not accumulated, since I published ' Shirley,'" she
said, "what makes it needful for me to speak again;
and, till I do, may God give me grace to-be dumb 1"
She bad a conscientiousness which could not be relaxed
by praise or even sympathy—dear as sympathy was to
her sensitive nature. She had no vanity which praise
could aggravate' or censure mortify. She calmly read
all adverse reviews of her books, for the sake of instruc-
tion ; and when she could not recognise the aptness of
criticism, she was more puzzled than hurt or angry.
The common flatteries which wait upon literary success
she quizzed with a charming grace ; and any occasional
severity, such as literary women are favoured with at the
beginning of their course, she accepted with a humility
which was full of dignity and charm. From her feeble
constitution of body, her sufferings by the death of her
whole family, and the secluded and monotonous life she
led, she became morbidly sensitive in some respects ;
but in her high vocation, she had, in addition to the
deep intuitions of a gifted woman, the strength of a
man, the patience of a hero, and the conscientious.
ness of a saint. In the points in which women are
usually most weak—in regard to opinion, to appre-
ciation, to applause— her moral strength fell not a whit
behind the intellectual force manifested in her works.
Though passion occupies too prominent a place in her
pictures of life, though women have to complain that
she represents love as the whole agd sole concern of their
lives, and though governesses especially have reason to
remonstrate, and do remonstrate, that their share of
human conflict is laid open somewhat rudely and in-
considerately and very sweepingly to social observation,
it is a tree social blessing that we have had a female
writer who has discountenanced sentimentalism and feeble
egotism with such practical force as is apparent in the
works of Currer Bell. Her heroines love too readily,
too vehemently, and sometimes after a fashion which
their female readers may resent ; but they do their duty
through everything, and are healthy in action, how.
ever morbid in passion.
How admirable this strength is—how wonderful this
force of integrity—can hardly be understood by any but
the few who know the. story of this remarkable woman s
life. The account of the school in " Jane Eyre" is only
too true. The " Helen" of that tale is—not precisely
the eldest sister, who died there—but more like
her than any other person. She is that sister,
" with a difference." Another sister died at home
soon after leaving the school, and in consequence
of its hardships ; and " Currer Bell" (Charlotte
BrontI) was never free while there (for a year and a half)
from the gnawing sensation or consequent feebleness of
downright hunger ; and she never grew an inch from that
time. She was the smallest of women ; and it was that
school which stunted her growth. As she tells us in
"Jane Eyre," the visitation of an epidemic caused a
total change and radical reform in the establishment,
which was even removed ti another site. But the re-
form came too late to reverse the destiny of the doomed
family of the Brontls.

These wonderful girls were the daughters of a clergy-
man who, now very aged and infirm, survives his wife
and all him many ohiltli cu. The I, etrno Bronti: (an abbre-
viation of Bronterre) •is Irish, and very ancient. The
mother died many years ago, and several of her children.
When the reading world began to have an interest in
their existence, there were three sisters and a brother
living with their father at Haworth, near Keighley, in
Yorkshire. The girls had been out as governesses---
Charlotte, at Brussels, as is no secret to the readers
of " Villette." They rejoiced to meet again at home
—Charlotte, Emily, and Anh (" Currer" "Ellis"
sistersand A,,cctonn. rre") In he
e,
revealsr
somobituaryethf n notice
g o f
their o her
processtw o
at
emnrdirdi
hs
tit
eh eoi7rotn
ohexperiencedomestic
r oefxfprfailuree
aa
nnoadf
sioinffeeewesasauthorship,
iHow
h the
indulgence afforded them by their studious father,
may be seen by the fearful representations of masculine
nature and character found in the novels and tales of
Emily and Ann. They considered it their duty, they
told us, to present life as they knew it ; and they gave
us " Wuthering Heights," and "The Tenant of Wildfell
Hall." Such an experience as this indicates is really per-
plexirg to English people in general ; and all that we
have t 3 do with it is to bear it in mind when disposed to
pass criticism on -the coarseness which, to a certain
degree, pervades the works of all the sisters, and the
repulsiveness which makes the tales by Emily and Ann
really horrible to people who have not iron nerves.
"Jane Eyre" was naturally and universally supposed
to be Charlotte herself; but she always denied it, calmly,
cheerfully, and with the obvious sincerity which cha-
racterised all she said. She declared that there was no
more ground for-the assertion than this. She ones told
I her sisters that they ware wrong —even morally wrong
—in making their. heroines beautiful, as a matter of
course. They replied that it was impossible to make
a heroine interesting on other terms. Her answer
wa., " I will prove to you that you are wrong. I will
show you a heroine as small and as plain as myself who
shall be as . interesting as any of yours." " Hence,
`Jane Eyre,' " said she, in telling the anecdote: "but she

is not myself, any fuhher than that." As the work
went on the interest deepened to the writer. When
she came to " Thornfield" she could not stop. Being
shot t-sighted to excess, she wrote in little square paper
books, (held close to her eyes, and (the first copy) in
pencil. On she went, writing incessantly for three
weeks ; by which time she had carried her heroine
as ay from Thornfield, and was herself in a lever,
which compelled her to pause. The- rest was written
with less vehemence, and with more anxious care. The
world adds, with less vigour and interest. She could
gratify her singular reserve in regard to the publication
of this remarkable book. We all remember how long
it was before we could learn who wrote it, and any par-
ticulars of the writer, when the name was revealed.
She was living among the wild Yorkshire bills, with a

father who was too much absorbed in his studies to
notice her occupations, in a place where newspapers
were never seen (or where she never Amy any), and in a
house where the servant:, knew nothing about books,
manuscript, proofs, or the post. When she told her
secret to her father, she carried her book in one hand,
and an adverse review in the other, to save his simple
and unworldly mind from rash expectations of a fame
and fortune which she was determined should never be
the aims of her life. That we have had only two novels
since shows how deeply grounded was this resolve.
affecting in
"Shirley" was conceived and wrought out in the
midst of fearful domestic griefs. Her,coanrlyuph,rowt:sao
young man of once splendid promise which v!.-a? early
blighted, and both her remaining sisters, died in one
ytheeara.speTchteorfe
tui;aesfirsaoimlleitthtliengereianteuxrE:re,sslibli
who had done such
,dre„ (neat as a quaker's), with
wonderful things, and who was a,bio t
smooth brown, her fine eyes
bright an eye and so composed a countenance, under
such a weight of sorrow, and such a prospect of solitude.
Anal her sensible face indicating
In her deep mourning
if not of silence, she seemed a
her beautiful hair,
perfect household image—irresistibly recalling Words•
ablhazaibnigt owlitshelfil!
worth's description of that domestic treasure. And
she was thie• She was as able at the "needle as the
The household knew the excellence of her
peil. beforecookery they heard of that of her books.
In so utter a seclusion as she lived in in those
dreary wilds, where she was not strong enough to
roam over the hills ; in that retreat where her stu-
ceoauntrinfl;
dious father rarely broke the silence and 'there
was no one else to do it ; in that forlorn house, planted
or the very clay of the churchyard, where the graves
of her sisters were before her window ; in such a living
sepulchre her mind could not but prey upon itself ;
and how it did suffer, we see in the more painful
portions of her last novel—" Villette." She said, with
a change in her steady countenance, that she should
feel very lonely when her aged father died. But she
formed new ties after that. She married ; and it is
the old father who survives to mourn her. He knows,
to bis comfort, that it. is not for long. Others now
mourn her, in a domestic sense ; and, as for the
public, there can be no doubt that a pang will be felt
in the midst of the strongest interests of the day,
through the length and breadth of the land, and in
the very heart of Germany (where her works are sin-
gularly appreciated), France, and America, that the
" Currer Bell," Who so lately stole as a shadow into
the field of contemporary literature has already be-
come a shadow again—vanishing from our view, and
henceforth haunting only the memory of the multi-
tude whose expectation was fixed upon her.—Morning
paper.

SAMBRE AND MEIIBE RAlLWAY.—Tyaffic for week
ending March,3l, 1855, 1,1191. Bg. 7d. Corresponding
week, 1854, 6181. 12s. 9d. Miles open, 1855, 68 ;
1854, 36.

MR. LAYARD'S INSTALLATION AT

ABERDEEN.

ABERDEEN, THURSDAY AFTERNOON.
Mr. Layard, Lord Rector of Marischal College and
ITU ersity, was installed this afternoon, in the presence
of
oneiv of the most distinguished assemblages evergathered
within the magnificent public hall of the new buildings.
At 12 o'clock, the Lord Provost, magistrates and coun•
cif of the city were conducted to the platform, followed
by the Principal of the College, accompanied by Mr.
Layard in his robe of office, and attended by Sir Andrew
Hay, Sir John Ogilvie, assessors, and all the professors
of the University, in procession. Mr. Layard was re-
ceived with great applause on entering the ball, and
hailed by the students with enthusiasm.
The Very Rev. Principal DEWAR constituted the meet-
ing by prayer, and Dr. CRUICKSHANK, Secretary to the
of .
College and University, administered the oath
the
audi-
Mr. LAYARD then stood forward to address
ence, and was received with prolonged
ed with the highest dignity which it was
ill heir power to
bestow, honoured with their confidence, and welcomed
1 st
with a generous sympathy that almost overpowered him,
he sense of the
he was more than at aloes to exp.
resable
obligation under which he had
Rector of that ancient and
been laid by his election
to the high office of Lord
of them he was personally
unknown ; for the first time honourable university-
Torn all e
he had that day visited
their renowned city—yeas he might almost say for the
d their borders. He must owe
first time he had crossed
than personal reasons,
he held to other person
the proud position
and he would faint. hope, and indeed did believe, that it was
faith in his honesty and integrity of pur-
pose—because they had al
use they would mark their approval of the
pose--beca
l which, as a public man, he had pursued, and
course
would encourage him to persevere in it, and because they
were of opinion that his labours in another and scarcely
arduous field had not been attended witt unsuccess-
lfeusg
results, that they had been led to confer upon him
the distinguished honour be enjoyed that day.
(UT' •
lause ) He did feel most deeply grateful for this
honour. They little knew how much a public man, situ-
ated as he was, stood in need of such proofs of approba.
tion and encouragement—how grateful they were to him,
and for how many painful struggles and bitter hours
they afforded a more than entire compensation. (Cheers.)
These honours, too, were valuable, because they made
many a man feel that, whatever his abilities might be, if
he pursued with honesty and straightforwardness the
path of duty, without turning to the right or the left—
neither intimidated by menace nor seduced by bribes—
his countrymen were ready to cheer him onwards in his
arduous and too often painful task. (Cheer 4 ) He could
not help remarking that these were no ordinary times
when they bad done him the great honour to select him
to fill the important office he then held. He could not
but look upon his election at such a crisis as that in which
the country was placed as more than commonly signifi-
cant. He could not otherwise reconcile himself to the fact
of his name having been brought forward in opposition
to that of a gentleman of such high standing and such
remarkable acquiremen
• ts as their late Lord Rector, to
whose courtesy and kindly feeling to himself during the
late contest he could most cheerfully bear testimony ;
and therefore he felt that he must look forward to duties
and responsibilities as likely to devolve upon him, re-
garding the great interests of the country as well as the
local interests of the college, which it would be his aim
faithfully to discharge. (Cheers.) After referring in
very eloquent terms to the talents and acquirements of
his more immediate predecessors, Mr. Layard proceeded
to say that education—practical education—was the
great question of the day. "This subject," he said,
"I firmly believe to be one of the utmost importance at
this moment—one well deserving the thoughtful and
earnest consideration of every one truly anxious for
the welfare of his country, jealous of her renown, and
trembling lest, unhappily, she should fall from her an-
cient greatness. It is only when great emergenciesarise
that nations, as well as individuals, know what is re-
quired of them, and what they are capable of effecting.
Such an emergency—one almost unparalleled in the his-
t •ry of our country—has arisen. We are engaged in a
great war, after a long peace. It is, perhaps; well for
U 3 that the emergency has occurred before it is too late
to meet it. No impartial man will venture to assert
that we have not been found wanting. The reputation
of this great empire has, to a certain extent, been tar-
nished ' • and its high estate among the nations of the
earth has been shaken. In a moment of, national diffi-
culty and danger we have been found unequal to the
duties which are imposed upon us, To account for so
great a calamity—for calamity it undoubtedly is—we '
must seek for the evil at home. While we have undoubt-
edly to deplore as the cause of enormous evils the
reckless manner in which merit is overlooked in public
employments, and is passed over to satisfy private and
party interests and influences--a subject upon which
I do not wish to dwell —I believe that among
the most prominent and immediate causes of our misfor-
tune, will be found the defective condition of our system
of national or State education. It may seem t
a range
that I should venture to make such an assertion in tke
middle of the 19th century, when I may be reminded
that at no period of our history has education been more
general, or been brought more within the reach of all
classes. But a vicious application of the very best prin-
ciple may be the cause of as much evil as its right ap-
plication would be of good. After all, the test of na-
tional education must be its result upon the national
character and upon the condition of the people. Unless
that result be to raise us as a nation—to make us more
wise, more honest, more capably of filling that station
which Providence assigns to a truly civilised and edu-
cated people—national education is of little comparative
value. •If our educational system should tend rather to
enervate than to strengthen the mind—if we should find
that the intellectual powers with which God has endowed
us are rather paralysed than brought into full vigour—
if it should appear that it rather favours error than en-
courages truth—surely we may well infer that there is
something essentially wrong in that system. I fear there
is too much reason to suspect that the evils to which I
have alluded have already, to a certain extent, ensued,
and that they may extend still further. I believe that '
our present system of education is rather directed to
the overcharging of the memory than to the true culti-
vation of the intellect and strengthening and discipline
of the mind—that it is leading us to treat men as
mere machines, rather than as reflective responsible
beings. Now, there never had been a stronger desire
to promote education everywhere than at present, and
much, very much, had been done to promote it both in
England and Scotland of late years, but though it had
been shown that the number of youths under education
had increased, there was reason to fear that the quality
had not kept pace with the quantity enjoyed. If they
did too much to educate the memory and too little to
educate the judgment, they would cramp the mind ; and
if the mind were to be cramped by the mere acquisition
of isolated facts it would be as effectually injured as by
ignorance. He had seen in public examinations of
schools in England much readiness displayed by children,
which, on closer examination, turned out to be mere
feats of memory, mere tricks, enabling the children to
answer difficult question., but which, unconnected with
any logical process of the reason, when once forgotten,
left them in their original state of ignorance. The end,
therefore, of education had not in these cases been at-
tained. Against this hewarned them. He did not say it
was generally characteristic of our system of public edu-
cation, but he feared it was too commonly so, and where
it did prevail he felt that even self instruction was on
many accounts to be preferred to it. They generally
found that great writers, great inventors, great thinkers,
and great public benefactors had been men who had
struggled against overwhelming difficulties, and had
to rely entirely on themselves to form their own
characters and to educate their own minds ; and it was
such a system of education as would stimulate those
qualities of the mind which led to self-reliance which
be desiderated as the great want of the present age.
This was the great defect of modern education, and had
perhaps more than anythiug else led to that system of
" red-tapism" and " routine'—that blind and unreason.
ing adherence to mere form and rule—through which
men had
become as it were parts of a machine, instead
of free, intelligent, reasoning, and practical beings. If
this system wan carried out to the extent which some
seemed to desire, there was no despotism the world
ever saw could be so terrible in its consequences upon
the human mind and upon the character of a nation.
(Cheers.) The
best and most general system of educa-
tion
would be of no avail against it. A man might have
he could not do the work
the powers of a giant, white
of a dwarf." (Cheers.)
The hon. gentleman contenued
"We have received a terrible warning. Let it not be
thrown away upon us. Day
after day have I of late
listened, as a member of the committee appointed to
inquire into the condition i
of our army in the Crimea,
to the most sickening and heartrending tale that human
sufferingever furnished—one too much calculated to
I-
'er„us, not only in our own estimation, but in that of
the
-or"1- Icannot allude to it without a wof in-
o
di "an 4 a blush of shame. To
gnati 1
what are we to attri-
bute the Englishmen lose"
which it discloses ? Are
nglishmen lve° misfortunes
less generous, less
le tekligent, lestrfh"est, less humane,
?
than they once were .
Surely not;
we
trultful in resources
or
-in the relation, ce: AO Proof of it in private enterprise,
b en
plunged into thial"-gte lite' How, then, have we been
with our immense tinetional disgrace ? Why,
have our stores toTsercan means and experience,
countrymen been allocatrited Virhy levee our brave
for ? Why have our wed
"Le unatte dand uncared
iron want and by thegallant soldiers ne
perish
cautions? Why have litZserd' in
defaul been left to
great country been age forth common pre-
cause men who engage in theahn°st vain resources
of
this
taught to look upon the service
of the It is be-
rather as forming
parts inselves as naer " State are '
of a mach,„ e machine
true sense of individual r do 8' or
esponsibilitot feel
system enables them to shelter th because
a
forms—because they can shift from emselves behind
a burden which, it would appeartetheir 0„ coracieneeetys
tolerable to a sensitive and right.fe,it, it would be in-
unless he could persuade himself that hit!ovsmnan to
free bear,
and independence were completely controlled.-rel action
be not the reasons, why have a few generous andf ls thee° hearted men—and wemen, too—who have faced daoble.
dared disease, taken upon themselves responsiblateieri;
relied upon their own exertions, not upon rules—nes;
have they, I ask, with slender means, despite frequently
of discouragement and opposition, and entirely without
Government support, alleviated the sufferings and saved
the lives of thousands of our unhappy countrymen ?" I
have said that the true object of history is to teach na-
tions their responsibilities, and to be a warning to such
as would forget those great principles which must guide
communities as well as individuals. This is equally the
main object of all those studies and pursuits which are
connected with history, other wise they would be, to a
great extent, idle and profitless. The antiquary, who
toils to trace the relics of a past civilisation, and to in-
vestigate ancient manners, or who digs into the bosom
of the earth to seek the remains of long-lost empires, and
the numikmat who collects and decyphers the coins of
extinct dynasties, are little better than the school-boy

who spends his summer holiday iii
or- in picking up the many-coloured a
chapter of the history
brook, unless their labour furnish ill robb
robbing
pebblesth e
in bird'sth e
of man, and afford us
salu-
tary warning.lin ti
ne ne tv
et o,
to u n
;To
avteic rf y t
eh
ne
me no instruction—had
rise to no earnest
they
proved
crumbling monuments buried
useful lesson, or some
fburied been"
usefulness to this country than to satisfy a
of no further tidhleeywgihvimen—had they afforded
reflection—had
vulgar curiosity—l should, indeed,
an assembly as this.
have been ashamed.
I trust to allude to their discovery in suchust that even in the discharge of public duty, and in
endeavouring to form my character as a public man,
they will prove to me a continual warning, that the fate
which befell Nineveh and Babylon may befall the
mightiest of nations, when public virtue is no longer held
in honour, when great principles no longer guide its
councils, and when the public weal is sacrificed and
made subservient to private interests. It is thus that
archology, when studied in a proper spirit, blends with
history, and offers even a more instructive and solemn
lesson than the most eloquent of writings. I speak
from experience, as well as from deep conviction.
Few men have had more occasion than I have had,
to reflects upon the fall of nations, to seek for the
causes of their decay, and to muse over the worthless-
ness of riches, and the hollowness of wordly pomp. The
plains of Babylonia, fretted with their numberless canals
now choked with sand, and no longer nourishing the
thirsty soil; the vast monuments of Assyria, now buried
deep in earth ; the palaces of the king of kings, now
marked by a few solitary columns, and the resting-places
of wandering tribes ; the graceful temples of the Greeks,
now hid by the rank grass ; the colonial greatness of
Imperial Rome, its forums and theatres still standing
majestically, but now silent, in a desert. What has
brought about these mighty changes—to what are we
to attribute this havoc ? Sure these are no vain ques-
tions at such a crisis as the present in our country's his-
tory. For what good endhas Providence permitted these
solemn relics of fallen greatness to struggle with decay
—for what good purpose has he permitted us in these
days to recover from their long-forgotten graves the
skeletons of great empires ? Is it not that we should in
solemn
emtke warning by their
naiessensheforena,wfaetael, and
ionld steh,
ekattohaavvirg ho
oid tthossee
Wvicheesoalnds c
ec,o ra
as
nlp thi oanv se
owfhich led
late
seen,
Ministersth ei r overthrow?in Parliament seeking to justify disasters, and to exten-
uate fatal errors, disgraceful to us as a natii in, and fraught
with the greatest peril, by referring to calamities and
events which occurred half a century ago, I naturally
a.k myself, why was history nritten ? Is it to afford us
a justification or a warning. ? Are we to appeal to it,
after national dishonour and ruin, or before they over-
take us, that we may be saved fr tm them ? If to justify
our national vices and misconduct is the only object of
history, then I care not if every history that has ever
been written be consigned to the flames. Of what use,
then, the eloquent pages of Thucydides, the glowing epi-
sodes of Livy, the varied learning of Gibbon, the philo-
sophical disquisitions of your own Robertson and Eume?
If they be treasured but for the mere gratification of the
fancy, or to excite the imagination, the romanceand the
Arabian tale would suit as well. No ! History has a
higher and a nobler aim— he has recorded on her impe-
rishable tablets the deeds of the great, the excellence of
national virtue, and the rewards of patriotism, that she
might furnish the model and be an encouragement t 'great,
virtuous, and patriotic men. She has described in burn-
ing words successful struggles for liberty, and the happi-
ness and prosperity of free nations, that nations yet un-
born might strive to be free. She has traced with un-
willing pen the decay of public virtue, the dishonesty
of statesmen, and the loathsome details of corruption,
hurrying States to utter ruin, that nations yet to come
might honour public virtue, be jealous of the character
of these who guide their counsels,and abominate corrup-
tion. She has pointed with melancholy earnestness to the
tomb of fallen greatness, as a warning for all time that
the immutable laws of God, which govern both the moral
and physical world, cannot be outraged with impunity.
Such are the objects and ends of history. It is because
they are such, that her votaries have been ranked amongst
the instructors and benefactors of mankind. As I have
already remarked, these are not idle reflections at such
a moment as this. I fear that we have too evident proof
of the necessity of bearing them constantly in our mind
—or bringing them daily before us. On such an occasion
as the present, it would be indecorous in me to touch
upon subjects which are, by common consent, placed
within the domain of politics. But still I cannot refrain
from some allusion to events which have occurred within
the last few months, and now belong to history—eveets
which we have witnessed, and to which, therefore, we
may not attach their full importance, although they will
ever fill one of the most prominent planes in the eventful
history of this mighty empire. No man, however proud
of his country, can deny that we have partly fallen from
our high estate. We may gloss over failures—we may
dwell upon heroic deeds—deeds unequalled in the records
of the most heroic nations, to make us forget for a mo-
ment national humiliation ; but the broad and naked
f Acts will remain, and no self-blindness of our own, no spe-
cious reasoning, will remove them from history, or give
them any other colour than that which they deserve.
With the truthfulness of the sun-picture they are already
imprinted upon the scroll of time. And to what, then,
are we not boundto ask, areto he attributed these results I
Is it ant to a violation of those great principles which can
alone give true strength and prosperity to a State I Is it
not to a sacrifice of great public interests to unworthy
influences 1 There as no man bold enough to say that
such is not the case. To you, therefore, most appropriately
these rPmarkca ho 5ac10....0.1_ I am op...king to young mon
who are aboutto engage in the battle of life. It is almost
enough to know that you are Scotcbmen, to feel that
there are few of you who will not, by patient industry, per-
severance, and self-denial secure success, and attain to
eminence in the career on which you may enter, This is
almost a characteristic of your nation, and you may well
be proud of it. Whether it be in public life, in com-
merce, in divinity, in medicine, in the law—your cha-
I
1
racter, your future position, and your usefulness must I
be more or less infim:nced by the course of study you
pursue, and the mental training you receive within
these walls. Your education will bear its fruits. If you
aim at a public career, with an earnest desire to serve
your country, and to deserve her gratitude, apply to your
owe condu, t those gre it lesions of .ncient acid modern
wisdom which history teaches us. Learn, by her warn-
ing voice, to avoid those errors which have led to the
downfall of communities, and to seek in public virtue,
and in an adherence to great principles, the only true
means of successfully governing men. If, on the other
hand, you follow the liberal professions, or engage in the
pursuits of commerce, history will teach you that, as
citizens of a free State, some public duties are impused
upon you.—that you are bound to keep a check upon
those to whom you have confided the task of governing
you, to encourage public rectitude, and to punish those
who may dare to outrage it. What I have said of his-
tory applies equally, though, perhaps, in a less degree, to
the study of the classics in general. Whilst the cor-
rectness and elegance of diction of the great writers of
antiquity have an influence upon your speech and upon
your pen, let their lofty maxims, their ardent love of
great deeds, and their ex thed patriotism, have an equal
effect upon your character and conduct. Unless you
real them in this spirit, and with this end, they, too, are
comparatively valueless. It is because they chasten and
enlarge the mind, and incite to noble actions, that their
study is still considered, by all enlightened men, as an
et
os us ecnhtei da 1,
pi
na rtt o h
too general
te education
terms,
uponof a gentleman.a
olt have
sub-
jects which I have brought to your notice, to enter into
details with regard to many other branches' of study, to
a certain extent depending upon them. Many which, a
few years ago, were based but on hasty speculations and
ill-digested theories, are now almost reduced to the cer-
tainty of a science. I may instance philology, which,
studied in an enlarged and spirit,philosopahoictnat illustrates
and migration
the origin, history,
as the
y,pfroorgrtehses
doeftetrhmeinlaiutmionanofmtihned
tculaoennds;rplanoslniitwpicleealall
of which the world is so deeply indebted to youtr'coun-
utrsy
to
on adnia, whenaenerdnwahnidcbe,mpl
oy studiedthe wants
a nin t
saosfi mil
mankind,ar spirit,to
sgte:avcaehnredos
a community with a just regard to the real inter happiness of all its members, and to administer with true
ecot o:ny the affairs of a State ; but which, if not pursued
in a broad and enlightened spirit, is too apt to cramp
the mind, to harden the feelings, and to check those
lofty aspirations and gecerous sentiments which are the
noblest attributes of a thiuking and intelligent being.
With regard to all such studies, I would again
entreat
you to remember that the use they may.prave to you, and the influence they may exercise upon your character,
and your consequent success in life, will depend upon the spirit in which you engage in them, and that it rests
with you how far they may render you.good citizens, or
ornaments to your country, should you enter her service.
As the study of history and the classics should form your
character and influence, and your conduct as members
of the commonwealth, so the study of those sciences
whi..h have made such vast progress within this century
—astronomy, geology, chemistry, and others—should
puri'y and elevate the m nd, and imbue it with true re-
ligion. Much of their value will be lost unless they teach
us the inexhaustible goodness of the Creator, and fill us
with a deep and earnest reverence for His wisdom and
power. Gentlemen, I fear that I have detained you at
too great The vast importance of the subjects
I Length.
to which haveventured to call your attention must be

my apology and excuse. The words which may- Le
spoken here to-day, and the way in which you have re-
ceived them, may have more than an ordinary impor-
tance, More than us ;:a1 weight will attach to the opinions
of an assembly such as this, representing the MI lence,
intelligence, and youth of Scotland to the north of the
Tay. If yeti approt eof the sentiments to which I have
ventured to give utterance, let me entreat you to be
serious and earnest in carrying them out. Of all the
nations, the Scotch have been most distinguished for
their deep earnestness and truth of purpose. The history
of Sour own city would furnish not a few illmtrious ex-
amples. Oh ! that England had now a few of those
tortnint and true-hearted men, whose memories are dear
ear Gonli.
upon the, d t.ry, to guide her councils— men who looked
al discharge of life as a great reality, and upon their
t'eir example as a solemn responsibility to God ! Let
bow those bray
guide in life. Picture to yourself
tyrde aad unconci,eatjlst ancestors of yours—whose
`'nti and death—rartah'-'47,B,pirit led them to endure mar-
promise solemn
the altered
air.o convi,gan to suffer dishonour or coin-
the altered
above raV'''eeB 117-,-would have acted under
.ou ma; save
day. Be true to your-
-0 go through,
'ZI many bitter struggles
weak and timid Haan
braight
rewarded by the , tit r,„4 earten and defeat a
os,foluovincodnsycoteunewe,ilal
and
by the ultirnateappariraolvall "ere'
a
above all, let that
9.4er o.9o4untry. And,
religion and religious reeesp "pad
a peculiar feature in ourP°nnaatio-inlilTetraevian4.ll Senseerbeeonf
you through life ; in it
encouragement that tbe applause
you will find
a accompany
ry Of 11,,r
bring. (The hon. gentlemand n, 0f
ve
eloquen and learned address mim
the deli eart 411Lan
wuasrifnrequently interruptea 1