the dullest man; but for one who has proved
by his very failures that he is not devoid of intellect or energy, it
is a monstrous perversion of mental gifts, even if they are small.

A portion of the fiery heat of his nature may be traced, perhaps, to the
fact that he was born at Madras; but as on the mother's side he is
descended from the poet Tickell, the friend of Addison, it would not be
altogether unreasonable to have expected in him some few of the
amenities of the _literae humaniores_. He soon, however, exchanged the
torrid scenes of Oriental life for the snows of Canada, where he
received his education; and when we remember what the bizarre oddities
of his subsequent career have been, it might be interesting, if we had
the materials for the purpose, to inquire what that education was. The
British Provinces, however, were not deemed a sufficiently ample theatre
of action for the energy of the capacious soul that dwelt in that not
over-capacious body; and so, at the age of twenty-three, he repaired to
England and commenced his studies for the profession of the law.

He was called to the bar in 1832. He had, however, by no means paid an
exclusive attention to the study of the law, or his success in his
profession might have been greater, and the world might have had a good
lawyer instead of a bad politician. The period of his Inner-Temple
student-life was a very stirring time in England. Old principles were
dying out, and wrestling in death-struggle with newer and wider theories
of human liberty and human progress. The young East-Indian Canadian
rushed with natural impetuosity into the arena, and was one of the most
reckless and noisy debating-club spouters of the day. In speaking of the
Reform Bill at a meeting at a tavern in London, he said, that, if the
bill did not pass, he for one should like to "wade the streets of the
capital knee-deep in blood." It was consoling to reflect, even at the
time, that the atrocious aspiration was mitigated by the reflection that
it would not require a deluge of gore to reach the knees of such a
Zacchaeus as Roebuck. "Pretty wicious that for a child of six!" said the
amiable Mr. Squeers on one occasion; and pretty sanguinary that, say we,
for a rising little demagogue of thirty.

As England was at that time in a seething ferment of excitement, men who
were unscrupulous in their language were at a premium in the political
market, and the respectable constituency of the pleasant wa