in life becomes firmer, our survey more comprehensive. I have more than once been struck with the changed view I seemed to get of my own life-circumstances when travelling many miles from home: I could get a sight that was like overlooking the affairs of another. Sometimes this or that inconsistency would shew itself, or comforts stand out more boldly, or difficulties resolve themselves into plain duty: all under the influence of an altered point of view. It would seem as though the novelty of fresh scenes sharpened the mind for clearer visions of the old. Beauty of natural scenery has much power this way: the awakening of slumbering faculties for enjoyment bringing out clearer discernment of all things.

I said just now that a person is apt to become imbued with the spirit of his surroundings. This is often shewn in a marked manner when we regard working men. I fancy I see I fancy I see three "butty-colliers," clad in claycoloured flannel and brimless basin caps, elbowing one another in that swinging gait peculiar to the bowlegged collier, as they seem to walk also with their shoulders, while wending their homeward way from the pit. If you pass them, a peculiar earthy odour crosses your nostrils, at once revealing their connection with the mine; no less so than the claycoloured brownish hue prevailing from head to foot. Their tones of voice are mostly harsh, loud, and gruff: the result of working down in the dusty coal-pit, and often bawling out to each other along gangways, heightened, most likely, by coarse songs over the bottle above ground. For the typical collier is very partial to a clay-coloured earthen bottle, embrowned towards the top-capacity, anything above two quarts; and during play-Monday, in summer, he may be seen lying under a hedge, if any is at hand, with boisterous booncompanions, tossing off many a "tottle" of "drink" as the cup

goes round. Speaking of this, I call to mind that a great coal-master and and nobleman, on a certain occasion, visited the mines on one part of his estate, and, after coming out of the pit, a company of colliers begged some "drink;" whereupon, he good-humouredly sat and drank with them. "Gie his lordship another tottle," said one of the group. "Nae," replied the bottle-holder, "let him wat till his toorn comes !" This I had from a man on the spot where it occurred. Unfortunately, the collier likes often more beer than is good for him, and the mischief is terribly increased by the abundance of taverns and pothouses, sadly too numerous in the mining districts. There these men are wont to congregate, especially on "reckoning Mondays," that is, the Mondays following pay, and spend long hours in besotted revelry, often ending in a fight. The young lads think it a fine thing to go there to drink and smoke with the men: evil influence of externals too frequently setting in early to deaden moral sensibility, and to crush down. in the mind of the youthful collier any aspirations after better satisfactions. Sadly too commonly do such youths develope into rough brutal men, delighting in cruel pastimes, addicted to regular hard drinking, given to swearing and gross language, copied from elders. Not, of course, always so; for kindly feelings and generous impulses are found largely among these colliers, at times of accident especially, when relief is needed for a suffering brother. Only, as a class, they are riotous above-ground, and too often lawless, abounding in coarse language; seldom shewing any symptoms of delight in beauty, any love of flowers, any regard for clouds, tree-form, or field loveliness, even where a neighbouring clean country borders the black fringe of smoke enveloping their mining districts.

Contrast with this instance a

shepherd on Ben Nevis, o'er-canopied with sky, swathed often in mist, footing the free ways of rock and heather, accustomed to every change among the mountains, with a clear eye watchful for the signs of earth and sky, and a face whose rugged lines are like the scars and rifts on the mountain side. Brawny of limb, strong-chested, little recks he of the passing spates of rain and angry gusts of wind, or even the snowdrifts with which he is familiar for so many months of the year; flinging his plaid about him, he defies the storm. Mostly is he grave, silent, fenced about with the solitudes and wild spaces of his own mountains; given, moreover, to superstition and strange fancies, but mostly solemn, watchful, rugged and lonely, like his own Highland mountains, influenced largely by the long hours of perfect isolation and silence, with what communion of nature he may hold up on the fenceless heather. Gifted with the long sight, he can scent afar the coming of the storm, like the red deer the approach of man. Many a man so lives and dies, knowing naught of cities or human throngs, deeming his glorious array of summits, touched by sunset a common sight for the eyes of men, and bearing in his every gesture, language, dress, and feature, the influence of old Scotland, with her legends, superstitions, and natural ruggedness of surface. What has such a man externally in common with the collier just alluded to? Every mode and feature of life are unlike, even to the food he takes, the dress, the language, and turns of thought. Each has become moulded by the externals surrounding the core of the man; so that, beyond the broad resemblance of humanity, they have little externally in common. The manners and habits of each are largely influenced by things nearest; that rude and narrow mental capacity in the collier resembles the cramping corners of the coal-pit,

where legs are tucked-up like a trussed bird. The broad, receptive mind of our shepherd has been expanded by long converse with secret glories of the hills under wide heaven, just as his limbs are more knotted with muscle from daily miles of rough walking, and his whole frame (unlike the collier's bow-legs) is straight and firm. Place these two men together, and, even were their language the same, they would not understand each other; each topic being strange to the other, since nearly all they deal with is to the other as foreign as a whaling harpoon to a tallow-chandler. Mind, in each case, of necessity, dwells much on the objects and subjects. of their respective callings; and these differ as widely as the profession of an artist from the trade of a money-lending Jew.

Sometimes we are startled into reflection by the contrasts of men. We pass suddenly from the society of a genial, well-tempered, well-cultured soul, to the time-serving, liquorish devilry of some fawning villain; or enjoy easy converse with well-informed and well - moulded people, only to open remarks with some churl, whose very ideas we may not understand, perhaps not even his words. Only the other day, I enjoyed the society of a gentleman staying for fishing purposes at an hotel in Wales. There was about him an easy air of good breeding, a quiet assumption of equality in conversation, a free interchange of ideas, and altogether a marked finish about the man, only to be had from long usage to good society, and, still more, to self-culture and natural nobility. I remember, at breakfast one morning, how easily and agreeably conversation trotted along; my friend being a good listener, whose eye would not wander, but whose lips could wait; and, yet further, a good talker, under spell of whose easy converse time passed most pleasantly on. Across that

66

breakfast-table I felt I held a friend. Our conversation fell naturally on fly-fishing; on the Usk, the Dee, Bala, Dolgelly, Cader Idris, Snowdon; rare ferns, and the saxifrages found on Brecon Beacons ; on the Lake District of England; on the fearful struggle at Paris, then going on; the wonders of telegraphydirect communication between London and Bombay having then just been, for the first time, made; and upon several other interesting topics; so that, for my part, I was sorry when the trout were all consumed, and breakfast came to an end. Only a few hours after this I had a marked contrast of company, in the presence of some drovers in the train,-men whose talk was mainly of beeast" and "five -pun- ten a-piece;" of "lombs," and the scarcity of "keep" of "what a price sid taters bin;" of how "Jim Price's dog pinned Tom's sow by the left ear;" of sundry prize-fights, and so on, with much earnestness and volubility; but ever of matters most material-or, rather, what some I would consider most immaterial-to call forth such discussion. Now, I wonder to what degree the archdrovier of that loud-talking and riotous company would have developed into my quiet, gentlemanly, friend of the breakfast-table under similar influence. The power of education-that is, in largest meaning of the term (as expressing repression of whatever is vile, or gross, or inelegant, no less than fostering goodness, delicacy, and grace), is undoubtedly large, when we consider the results of good or ill-training upon two individuals alike gifted in early youth in the one case, truth, goodness, fand grace, receive every encouragement to their establishment in the character; in the other, vice, and falsehood, and coarseness, are not only left to run riot in the life, but too often positively taught in plain lessons. Thankful during their whole life should all

be who have been blessed with leal and true-hearted, and kindly parents, and influenced by their bright example when young: thankful also for all good influences-as those of orderly home-life, of good books, of trim gardens, and all the elegancies of a comfortable dwelling. What know we but that, under their influences, we should have developed into the coarse pot-house waif, the sneaking pickpocket, or the wily turf blackleg?

Few sights in life are more sad or depressing than that of a young girl reared in haunts of vice: by that very delicacy of nature and longing for support, by her trustfulness and need of protection, becoming an easier prey to base influences around. We tremble sometimes, when in the whirl of busy London we pause a second or two to regard the looks and dress of some poor match-girl, come up out of dark, noisome, rag-fluttering alleys, to earn a few honest coppers in the thronged thoroughfare. The good in that child has scanty chance for opening-is as a fair rose-bud infested with gnawing insects; not like to bloom in the life; while all evil passions, and that infusion of evil common to humanity, are left externally very greatly unchecked, and terribly likely to run riot through the life. What are the chances for that young spirit keeping itself clear and bright amid the dirt, and grit, and foul example of its wretched earthly home? God is good, and may lead that young girl by strange pathways to Himself; but to us how dreadful seems the danger! She there, that feeble child, cast among godless men and profane women, accustomed from first years, when she might have gathered primroses at a farm, to sights of infamy and sounds of blasphemy, wherein no kindly hand-at least, no kindly human hand-is stretched forth to lead her into sober duties, and patient waiting, and a divine hope.

And such young lives are so terribly plentiful in great London. Often you may see such a young girl but a few arms-lengths from a nobleman's daughter passing by in her carriage. This daughter of good influences very likely has that expression of innocent knowledge, that clear, open brow, that quiet eye and gentle manners, we have cause to pride ourselves in as Englishmen, contrasted with the expression and manners of young ladies across the sea. Our clean, fresh, frank, hearty girls are a national feature, indigenous to the soil. Such a girl, in clean and light morning dress, with her atmosphere of comparative purity and airiness, her easy, agreeable chat, her ringing laugh, as she runs in from the garden with some favourite flower on her bosom, has much in harmony with the dew-drops, and is a sight good for sore eyes. Contrasted with that poor child of evil influences and unwholesome dwelling, many such girls are surrounded, fenced about with bands that unite to what is good, and lovely, and free. From first years she is taught to be orderly; taught to discriminate between right and wrong, between mine and thine; taught gradually to recognise and believe the mysteries of revelation; which things yonder other girl is not so taught, or most sparingly. The gradual power of home culture, the abundant comforts of modern wealthy life, with all its appliances-its warm rooms and soft carpets, its tasteful paintings, its forms of good music, its abundant books, its croquet, its carriage exercise, its social company,-all tend to mould the young girl into the virtuous, well-read, elegant, and agreeable woman, whose presence is an ornament to any society, and whose influence on those about her, that fragrance of a sweet life, is wide, and manifold, and enduring. The influence of externals has done much for this graceful girl, under the aid

of a kind Providence. Her very hand is an index of the power of home-culture, a sort of clue to her early training: especially joined on to her mode of handling anything. It takes years of culture and a natural grace to bring about a delicate way of handling almost any article soever. But this is never perfect, or even marked by much grace, without inherent delicacy, and a finish not so much acquired as received with life itself. The influence of externals has great power in modifying the hand: you may form some idea of a person's training, work, habits, and even phase of mind, from the hand. That poor matchgirl's hand has nothing attractive in it, being probably (though not of necessity) dumpy, ill-grained, rough, and dirty, with nails not to be mentioned: whereas our young lady's hand is probably clean, smooth, fine-grained, with delicate, pleasing nails. I know one such hand that is an object of beauty in itself: long, and of supreme delicacy, smooth, and tapered gradually with lines that flow into each other easily and naturally, with no enlarged portions to catch the eye unduly, and ending in long oval nails of lines the eye follows with pleasure; but distinguished most of all by its grace of motion, and falling most naturally into curves that make with each other soft gradations; moreover, touching most things as if it loved them. Such a hand bespeaks two conditions-native grace in its possessor, and long culture in walks of literature, art, and kindly home offices. Such a hand well befits an artist: is fitted, moreover, for rendering with smooth finish the best music of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Mozart, or Spohr.

It forms a curious speculation, or rather field of observation, the changes wrought upon character by various callings of life. The stronger the native power and individuality, the more resistance is offered to this power of externals. Ordinary men

Work

and women yield largely and imperceptibly to their influence; and it is sometimes sad to see the cramping and warping of the spirit by narrow ties or uncongenial details of worldly work. Weak characters become almost altogether swayed by their particular forms of occupation, and the modes of life around them. of certain kinds may cause callosity of spirit, or blunt the intellect, like the hard knots of a workman's hand. I fancy I see now before me a certain sexton of a church not a hundred miles from here, dressed in earthy garb, coloured by the graveyard; his face a study: all over the hollow cheeks, and across the forehead, are interlacing lines, converging at the the eye-corners and about the drawndown mouth; his eye has a somewhat startled look, but otherwise his whole face wears an expression of grim obduracy, stern and unflinching, as though long familiarity with pick-axe and spade, and all the details of the last offices for the dead, had drawn over his spirit a certain callosity, from long steeling himself to his stern duty, and from daily pictures of the grave. Underneath such a hard expression may lie some hidden tenderness, and even æsthetical views of death; but the countenance gives no sign thereof, only a definite hardness, and that startled expression about the eyes. So much for the influence of externals about that dire necessity for frequent opening of graves.

Now, I wonder how far such a man would have approached towards the open, frank expression, the genial smile, the kindly tone, the large sympathy, the broad way of looking at things, the extraction of beauty of common objects, which characterise the successful artist, had accident of birth (which means the will of God) placed him on the way to art, instead of in the ways of the churchyard. Possibly the same cunning by which he now, with a certain grim expression, cuts a clean

grave, might have enabled him to handle the brush in such a way that many men down the centuries would have looked with pleasure on his paintings. The same faculty for drawing even lines about a grave might have been developed into forming the contour of sweet or solemn faces, the free outlines of mountain forms, or the grace of woodland ways and leaping waters. From disposing of the last earthly chambers of humanity, who knows but there lay in the man the ability to place before us stately vessels exulting over the waves, or to paint for all time the unearthly splendours of passing sunsets: thus fixing the perishable by a happy staying. One thing is quite certain condition of calling and details of worldly work often, perhaps generally, call not into action the finer powers of mind, or give play to the highest creative qualities of the soul. In this lifemany of us are one-sided to the grave. Often, as I deem, the subtle delicacy of the spirit finds no scope for action among coarse details of work; and none can see, or but very furtively, the play of light and shade, the tender colouring, that are passing across the spirit like wind-ripples and sky-reflections across an even lake. It frequently happens that all the duties of a man's daily work are done with only the commonest qualities he possesses: the rarest and best lying dormant through a lifetime. Probably, under God's providence, success in life much depends upon a man's work lying more than usual in the line of his power; so he brings to bear upon daily transactions an amount of energy and facility of action not so much greater than those of other men, but more accessible by congeniality of work.. He is therefore to be envied whose daily work lies in the same groove with his natural tastes: throughout life such a man has much of the satisfaction which other men seek in retirement at the close of an active