ers, his comrades. Did that condemn him? No! He
knew no other public opinion till he came to be hanged, and caught the
loathing eyes, and heard the hissing execrations of the crowd below his
gibbet.) So, also, the public opinion of the great is the opinion of
their equals,--of those whom birth and accident cast for ever in their
way. This distinction is full of important practical deductions; it
is one which, more than most maxims, should never be forgotten by a
politician who desires to be profound. It is, then, an ordeal terrible
to pass--which few plebeians ever pass, which it is therefore unjust to
expect patricians to cross unfaulteringly--the ordeal of opposing the
public opinion which exists for them. They cannot help doubting their
own judgment,--they cannot help thinking the voice of wisdom or of
virtue speaks in those sounds which have been deemed oracles from
their cradle. In the tribunal of Sectarian Prejudice they imagine
they recognise the court of the Universal Conscience. Another powerful
antidote to the activity of a patrician so placed, is in the certainty
that to the last the motives of such activity will be alike misconstrued
by the aristocracy he deserts and the people he joins. It seems so
unnatural in a man to fly in the face of his own order, that the world
is willing to suppose any clue to the mystery save that of honest
conviction or lofty patriotism. "Ambition!" says one. "Disappointment!"
cries another. "Some private grudge!" hints a third. "Mob-courting
vanity!" sneers a fourth. The people admire at first, but suspect
afterwards. The moment he thwarts a popular wish, there is no redemption
for him: he is accused of having acted the hypocrite,--of having worn
the sheep's fleece: and now, say they,--"See! the wolf's teeth
peep out!" Is he familiar with the people?--it is cajolery! Is he
distant?--it is pride! What, then, sustains a man in such a situation,
following his own conscience, with his eyes opened to all the perils
of the path? Away with the cant of public opinion,--away with the poor
delusion of posthumous justice; he will offend the first, he will never
obtain the last. What sustains him? HIS OWN SOUL! A man thoroughly great
has a certain contempt for his kind while he aids them: their weal or
woe are all; their applause--their blame--are nothing to him. He walks
forth from the circle of birth and habit; he is deaf to the little
motives of little men. High, through the widest space hi