sat, these ghosts, for seventy years now, looked at and listened to by the passing generations; and there they still sit, the one voice going on!  Smile at Boswell as we may, he was a spiritual phenomenon quite as rare as Johnson.  More than most he deserves our gratitude.  Let us hope that when next Heaven sends England a man like Johnson, a companion and listener like Boswell will be provided.  The Literary Club sits forever.  What if the Mermaid were in like eternal session, with Shakspeare’s laughter ringing through the fire and hail of wit!

By the strangest freak of chance or liking, the next book on my shelf contains the poems of Ebenezer Elliott, the Corn-law Rhymer.  This volume, adorned by a hideous portrait of the author, I can well remember picking up at a bookstall for a few pence many years ago.  It seems curious to me that this man is not in these days better known.  A more singular man has seldom existed,—­seldom a more genuine.  His first business speculation failed, but when about forty he commenced again, and this time fortune made amends for her former ill-treatment.  His warehouse was a small, dingy place, filled with bars of iron, with a bust of Shakspeare looking down on the whole.  His country-house contained busts; of Achilles, Ajax, and Napoleon.  Here is a poet who earned a competence as an iron-merchant; here is a monomaniac on the Corn-laws, who loved nature as intensely as ever did Burns or Wordsworth.  Here is a John Bright uttering himself in fiery and melodious verse,—­Apollo with iron dust on his face, wandering among the Sheffield knife-grinders!  If you wish to form some idea of the fierce discontent which thirty years ago existed amongst the working men of England, you should read the Corn-law Rhymes.  The Corn-laws are to him the twelve plagues of Egypt rolled together.  On account of them he denounces his country as the Hebrew prophets were wont to denounce Tyre and Sidon.  His rage breaks out into curses, which are not forgiveness.  He is maddened by the memory of Peterloo.  Never, perhaps, was a sane human being so tyrannised over by a single idea.  A skeleton was found on one of the Derbyshire hills.  Had the man been crossed in love? had he crept up there to die in the presence of the stars?  “Not at all,” cries Elliott; “he was a victim of the Corn-laws, who preferred dying on the mountain-top to receiving parish pay.”  In his wild poem all the evil kings in Hades descend from their thrones when King George enters.  They only let slip the dogs of war; he taxed the people’s bread.  “Sleep on, proud Britoness!” he exclaims over a woman at rest in the grave she had purchased.  In one of his articles in Tait’s Magazine, he seriously proposed that tragedies should be written showing the evils of the Corn-laws, and that on a given night they should be performed in every theatre of the kingdom, so that the nation might, by the speediest possible process, be converted