of the poor; but when we look at the case in all its bearings, we shall see that that is rank nonsense.  And on the other hand, it is unquestionable that the rich are bound to do something.  But what?  I should feel deeply indebted to any one who would write out, in a few short and intelligible sentences, the practical results that are aimed at in the “Song of the Shirt.”  The misery and evil are manifest:  but tell us whom to hang; tell us what to do!

One heavy burden with which many men are weighted for the race of life is depression of spirits.  I wonder whether this used to be as common in former days as it is now.  There was, indeed, the man in Homer who walked by the seashore in a very gloomy mood; but his case seems to have been thought remarkable.  What is it in our modern mode of life and our infinity of cares, what little thing is it about the matter of the brain or the flow of the blood, that makes the difference between buoyant cheerfulness and deep depression?  I begin to think that almost all educated people, and especially all whose work is mental rather than physical, suffer more or less from this indescribable gloom.  And although a certain amount of sentimental sadness may possibly help the poet, or the imaginative writer, to produce material which may be very attractive to the young and inexperienced, I suppose it will be admitted by all that cheerfulness and hopefulness are noble and healthful stimulants to worthy effort, and that depression of spirits does (so to speak) cut the sinews with which the average man must do the work of life.  You know how lightly the buoyant heart carries people through entanglements and labors under which the desponding would break down, or which they never would face.  Yet, in thinking of the commonness of depressed spirits, even where the mind is otherwise very free from anything morbid, we should remember that there is a strong temptation to believe that this depression is more common and more prevalent than it truly is.  Sometimes there is a gloom which overcasts all life, like that in which James Watt lived and worked, and served his race so nobly,—­like that from which the gentle, amiable poet, James Montgomery, suffered through his whole career.  But in ordinary cases the gloom is temporary and transient.  Even the most depressed are not always so.  Like, we know, suggests like powerfully.  If you are placed in some peculiar conjuncture of circumstances, or if you pass through some remarkable scene, the present scene or conjuncture will call up before you, in a way that startles you, something like itself which you had long forgotten, and which you would never have remembered but for this touch of some mysterious spring.  And accordingly, a man depressed in spirits thinks that he is always so, or at least fancies that such depression has given the color to his life in a very much greater degree than it actually has done so.  For this dark season wakens up the remembrance of many similar dark seasons