rightly thinks, was all of a piece--simple in his manners, simple in his
style, simple in his thoughts. No waters in _him_ turbid with new
crystalizations; everywhere the eye can see to the bottom. No music in
_him_ dark with Cassandra meanings. Fox, indeed, disturb decent gentlemen
by 'allusions to all the sciences, from the integral calculus and
metaphysics to navigation!' Fox would have seen you hanged first. Burke,
on the other hand, did all that, and other wickedness besides, which fills
an 8vo page in Schlosser; and Schlosser crowns his enormities by charging
him, the said Burke (p. 99), with '_wearisome tediousness_.' Among my own
acquaintances are several old women, who think on this point precisely as
Schlosser thinks; and they go further, for they even charge Burke with
'tedious wearisomeness.' Oh, sorrowful woe, and also woeful sorrow, when
an Edmund Burke arises, like a _cheeta_ or hunting leopard coupled in a
tiger-chase with a German poodle. To think, in a merciful spirit, of the
jungle--barely to contemplate, in a temper of humanity, the
incomprehensible cane-thickets, dark and bristly, into which that bloody
_cheeta_ will drag that unoffending poodle!

But surely the least philosophic of readers, who hates philosophy 'as toad
or asp,' must yet be aware, that, where new growths are not germinating,
it is no sort of praise to be free from the throes of growth. Where
expansion is hopeless, it is little glory to have escaped distortion. Nor
is it any blame that the rich fermentation of grapes should disturb the
transparency of their golden fluids. Fox had nothing new to tell us, nor
did he hold a position amongst men that required or would even have
allowed him to tell anything new. He was helmsman to a party; what he had
to do, though seeming to _give_ orders, was simply to repeat _their_
orders--'Port your helm,' said the party; 'Port it is,' replied the
helmsman.--But Burke was no steersman; he was the Orpheus that sailed with
the Argonauts; he was their _seer_, seeing more in his visions than he