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We laugh at the middle ages for their trials by ordeal, their jousts,
their tournaments, their fat monasteries, and their meagre people; but
I am strongly disposed to think, that before a century pass over,
posterity will give us as broad a grin for our learned societies. Of all
the features that characterise the age, I know of none so pre-eminently
ridiculous, as nine-tenths of these associations would prove; supported
by great names, aided by large title, with a fine house, a library and
a librarian, they do the honours of science pretty much as the yeomen
of the guard do those of a court on a levee day, and they bear about the
same relation to literature and art, that do the excellent functionaries
I have mentioned, to the proceedings around the throne.
An old gentleman, hipped by celibacy, and too sour for society, has
contracted a habit of looking out of his window every morning, to
observe the weather: he sees a cloud very like a whale, or he fancies
that when the wind blows in a particular direction, and it happens to
rain at the same time, that the drops fall in a peculiarly slanting
manner. He notes down the facts for a month or two, and then establishes
a meteorological society, of which he is the perpetual president, with
a grant from Parliament to extend its utility. Another takes to old
volumes on a book-stall; and becoming, as most men are who have little
knowledge of life, fascinated with his own discoveries, thinks he has
ascertained some curious details of ancient history, and communicating
his results to others as stupid and old as himself, they dub themselves
antiquarians, or archaeologists, and obtain a grant also.
Now, one half of these societies are neither more nor less than most
impertinent sarcasms on the land we live id. The man who sets himself
down deliberately to chronicle the clouds in our atmosphere, and jot
down the rainy days in our calendar, is, to my thinking, performing
about as grateful a task, as though he were to count the carbuncles on
his friend's nose. We have, it is true, a most abominable climate: the
sun rarely shows himself, and, when he does, it is through a tattered
garment of clouds, dim and disagreeable; but why throw it in our teeth?
and, still more, why pay a body of men to publish the slander? Then
again, as to history, all the world knows that since the Flood the Irish
have never done any thing else than make love, illicit whiskey, and beat
each other. What nonsense, then, to talk about the ancient cultivation
of the land, of its high rank in literature, and its excellence in
art. A stone bishop, with a nose like a negro, and a crosier like
a garden-rake, are the only evidences of our ancestors' taste in
sculpture; and some doggrel verses in Irish, explaining how King Phelim
O'Toole cheated a brother monarch out of his smallclothes, are about the
extent of our historic treasures. But, for argument's sake, suppose it
otherwise; imagine for a moment that our ancestors were all that Sir
William Betham and Mr. Petrie would make them--I do not know how other
people may feel, but I myself deem it no pleasant reflection to think of
_their_ times and look at _our own_. What if we were poets and painters,
architects, historians, and musicians! What have we now among us to
represent these great and mighty gifts? I am afraid, except our
Big Beggarman, we have not a single living celebrity; and is this
a comfortable reflection, is this a pleasing thought, that while,
fourteen hundred years ago, some Irish Raphael and some Galway Grisi
were the delight of our illustrious ancestors--that while the splendour
of King Malachi, with his collar of gold, astonished the ladies in the
neighbourhood of Trim--we have nothing to boast of, save Dan for Lord
Mayor, and Burton Bindon's oysters? Once more, I say, if what these
people tell us be facts, they are the most unpalatable facts could be
told to a nation; and I see no manner of propriety or good-breeding in
replying to a gipsy who begs for a penny, by the information, that “his
ancestors built the Pyramids.”
Again, if our days are dark, our nights are worse; and what, in Heaven's
name, have we to do with an observatory and a telescope as long as the
_Great Western?_ The planets are the most expensive vagabonds to the
Budget, and the fixed stars are a fixed imposition. Were I Chancellor
of the Exchequer, I'd pension the Moon, and give the Great Bear a sum of
money as compensation. Do not tell me of the distresses of the people,
arising from cotton, or corn, China, or Chartists--it is our scientific
institutions are eating into the national resources. There is not an
egg-saucepan of antiquity that does not cost the country a plum, and
every wag of a comet's tail may be set down at half-a-million. I warrant
me the people in the Moon take us a deuced deal more easily, and give
themselves very little trouble to make out the size of Ireland's eye or
the height of Croaghpatrick. No, no; let the Chancellor of the Exchequer
come down with a slapping measure of retrenchment, and make a clear
stage of all of them. Every man with money to buy a cotton umbrella
is his own meteorologist; and a pocket telescope, price
eight-and-fourpence, is long enough, in all conscience, for any man in
a climate like ours; or, if such a course seem too peremptory, call
on these people for their bill, and let there be a stated sum for each
item. At Dolly's chop-house, you know to the exact farthing how much
your beefsteak and glass of ale will cost you; and if you wish, in
addition, a slice of Stilton with your XX, you consult your pocket
before you speak. Let not the nation be treated worse than the
individual: let as first look about us, and see if a year of prosperity
and cheap potatoes will permit us the indulgence of obtaining a new
luminary or an old chronicle; then, when we know the cost, we may
calculate with safety. Suppose a fixed star, for instance, be set down
at ten pounds; a planet at five; Saturn has so many belts, I would not
give more than half-a-crown for a new one; and, as for an eclipse of the
sun, I had rather propose a reward for the man who could tell us when we
could see him palpably.
For the present I merely throw out these suggestions in a brief,
incomplete manner, intending, however, to return to the subject on
another occasion.
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