be, why often, even here, the
very highest faculties "rot in cold obstruction." But in all the
ordinary affairs of life, have not the best the best chance to win the
day? Who, in general, achieve competence, wealth, splendour,
magnificence, in their condition as citizens? The feeble, the ignorant,
and the base, or the strong, the instructed, and the bold? Would you, at
the offstart, back mediocrity with alien influence, against high talent
with none but its own--the native "might that slumbers in a peasant's
arm," or, nobler far, that which neither sleeps nor slumbers in a
peasant's heart? There is something abhorrent from every sentiment in
man's breast to see, as we too often do, imbecility advanced to high
places by the mere accident of high birth. But how our hearts warm
within us to behold the base born, if in Britain we may use the word, by
virtue of their own irresistible energies, taking precedence, rightful
and gladly-granted, of the blood of kings! Yet we have heard it
whispered, insinuated, surmised, spoken, vociferated, howled, and roared
in a voice of small-beer-souring thunder, that Church and State, Army
and Navy, are all officered by the influence of the Back-stairs--that
few or none but blockheads, by means of brass only, mount from the Bar
which they have disturbed to that Bench which they disgrace; and that
mankind intrust the cure of all diseases their flesh is heir to, to the
exclusive care of every here and there a handful of old women.

Whether overstocked or not, 'twould be hard to say, but all professions
are full--from that of Peer to that of Beggar. To live is the most many
of us can do. Why then complain? Men should not complain when it is
their duty as men to work. Silence need not be sullen--but better
sullenness than all this outrageous outcry, as if words the winds
scatter, were to drop into the soil and grow up grain. Processions! is
this a time for full-grown men in holiday shows to play the part of
children? If they desire advancement, let them, like their betters, turn
to and work. All men worth mentioning in this country belong to the
working classes. What seated Thurlow, and Wedderburne, and Scott, and
Erskine, and Copley, and Brougham on the woolsack? Work. What made
Wellington? For seven years war all over Spain, and finally at
Waterloo--work--bloody and glorious work.

Yet still the patriot cry is of sinecures. Let the few sluggards that
possess but cannot enjoy them, doze away