ho
did not yield to influences of climate himself, he did not mean that his
crops should; and if he had been rich enough, I believe that he would
have covered his farm with a glass roof, rather than yield his
conclusion that Indian-corn could be grown successfully under a British
sky.

A great, impracticable, earnest, headstrong man, the like of whom does
not appear a half-dozen times in a century. Being self-educated, he was
possessed, like nearly all self-educated men, of a complacency and a
self-sufficiency which stood always in his way. Affecting to teach
grammar, he was ignorant of all the etymology of the language; knowing
no word of botany, he classified plants by the "fearings" of his
turnip-field. He was vain to the last degree; he thought his books were
the best books in the world, and that everybody should read them. He was
industrious, restless, captious, and, although humane at heart, was the
most malignant slanderer of his time. He called a political antagonist a
"pimp," and thought a crushing argument lay in the word; he called
parsons scoundrels, and bade his boys be regular at church.

In June, 1835, while the Parliament was in session, he grew ill,--talked
feebly about politics and farming, (to his household,) "wished for 'four
days' rain' for the Cobbett corn," and on Wednesday, (16th June,)
desired to be carried around the farm, and criticized the work that had
been done,--grew feeble as evening drew on, and an hour after midnight
leaned back heavily in his chair, and died.

* * * * *

I must give a paragraph, at least, to the Rev. James Grahame, the good
Scotch parson, were it only because he wrote a poem called "British
Georgics." They are not so good as Virgil's; nor did he ever think it
himself. In fact, he published his best poem anonymously, and so
furtively that even his wife took up an early copy, which she found one
day upon her table, and, charmed with its pleasant description of
Scottish braes and burn-sides, said, "Ah! Jemmy, if ye could only mak' a
book like this!" And I will venture to say that "Jemmy" never had rarer
or pleasanter praise.

Shall we read a little, and test the worth of good Mistress Grahame's
judgment? It is a bit of the parson's walk in "The Sabbath":--

"Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow th