self, the last of his race, was left a friendless and penniless orphan. "The daily sight of the lands which his ancestors had possessed," says Macaulay, "and which had passed into the hands of strangers, filled his young brain with fancies and projects. He loved to hear stories of the wealth and greatness of his progenitorsof their splendid housekeeping, their loyalty, and their On one bright summer day, the boy, then just seven years of age, lay on the bank of the rivulet which flows through the old domain of his house to join the Isis. There, as three-score and ten years later he told the tale, rose in his mind a scheme which, through all the turns of his eventful career, he never abandoned. He would recover the estates which belonged to his fathers. He would be Hastings of Daylesford. This purpose, formed in infancy and poverty, grew stronger as his intellect expanded and as his fortune rose. He pursued his plan with that calm but indomitable force of will which was the most striking peculiarity of his character. When, under a tropical sun, he ruled fifty millions of Asiatics, his hopes, amid all the cares of war, finance, and legislation, still pointed to Daylesford; and when his long public life, so singularly checkered with good and evil, with glory and obloquy, had at length closed forever, it was to Daylesford he retired to die." Hastings, after recovering his ancestral estates, devoted himself to their improvement, lived the life of an active country gentleman, amused himself with art, literature, and agriculture, and enjoyed all the blessings of a green old age. Had it not been for the jealousy and consequent treachery of Pitt, he would perhaps have entered the House of Lords and the Ministry, and become as famous in European politics as he had been in those of India.

You will find that most men of eminence have ridden some hobby by way of relaxation. Sir Cornewall Lewis was in the habit of turning to some pet theory in life, government, or education, which he endeavored to establish in an essay or address. On one occasion he asked a certain tradesman for his vote, and on being refused, he turned to the astonished elector and inquired if he "knew of any remarkable case of longevity in the neighborhood." He was at that time endeavoring to prove one of his pet theories on this subject. Professor Wilson used to go off on some wild, wandering highland tour, in which he spoke to nearly everybody he met, and returned refreshed and strengthened for the serious work of life. Voltaire, who used to say that "a sure means of not yielding to the desire to kill one's self is to have always something to do," devoted himself with immense zeal and success to farming and business speculations. Macaulay took to novel-reading and after-dinner talking; Buckle to chess-playing and club conversations; Gladstone to wood-chopping and the study of the Greek classics; and Cavour to agriculture and reviewing books on government and political economy.

Many a man, by giving free play to his inclination in some well-chosen hobby, has discovered where his talent lay, and, dropping the mere bread-winning occupation, found pleasure and profit in that which he loved for its own sake. John Hill Burton was a lawyer, whose hobby was writing essays for the magazines, and he presently found he could make more money by following his hobby than his profession. When he first received a considerable sum of money for a work which, in the composing, had given him nothing but

pleasure, he felt as much surprise and joy as if it were an unexpected legacy. Such has been the experience of many a man who attained eminence in an employment which he first pursued as a hobby. Geology, in which Hugh Miller made such a mark, was his hobby. Astronomy, in which Herschel so greatly distinguished himself, was his hobby. Poetry, in which Halleck earned never-dying fame, was his hobby. And so with many others.

I should like, in conclusion, to warn my young readers against expensive hobbies. Beware of hobbies that take you away from home, that cost much money, and that cause you to neglect your business. Such hobbies, instead of being recreative and refreshing, are wasteful and dangerous. Everything that can be carried on at home or near home-music, drawing, painting, reading, writing, chess, gardening; the study of any art or science; the collection of coins, curiosities, plants, minerals-all these may be profitably pursued as hobbies. But beware of those hobbies which consist in games of chance, in betting on the exploits of men or horses, and such dangerous things. I have a horror, too, of those cruel hobbies that consist in catching and impaling insects for ornamental purposes, or in setting up poor innocent doves to be shot at. This last is simply barbarous. Poor, poor dumb creatures! if they could only speak, what a tale they would tell! They, doubtless, look upon the remorseless wretches that torture and shoot them as we look upon the monsters that crucified Christ.*

*I am indebted to an article in the New York Tribune for one or two points in this chapter.

CHAPTER XXXI.

M

HOW A WORK OF GENIUS ORIGINATES.

OST men find a fascination in the lives and works

of men of genius. Everything pertaining to them, their homes, their habits, their amusements, is read with avidity; and when any trait specially characteristic, any clew to the manner in which they work their wonders, is reported, a feeling of satisfaction, of pleased surprise, is produced, and the mind is relieved from that overstrained feeling of deference with which they are generally regarded. What, for instance, is more interesting than the fact that Dickens wrote his first work, the Pickwick Papers, in response to the request of a publisher who had some comic pictures on hand, which he wished to utilize? or that he drew his own father and mother in Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, and himself in David Copperfield?

We delight to hear anything that brings us nearer to a poet or a painter, a statesman or an orator, just as we delight to get a front seat in the theatre or a good viewing-place in the procession. The mass of the common people will go miles and miles to see a king, a queen, or a president. These are to them the embodiment of greatness and power, and to see them is the event of

their lives. The man of intelligence transfers this feeling to the real kings and queens of society, those who mould the minds, purify the hearts, and delight the souls of mankind.

With this word genius there has ever been associated something approaching the supernatural, the divine. The traditions of every country have thrown a mysterious halo around it, and men have regarded those possessing it as persons set apart, entirely different from other people, and living in a higher and purer atmosphere than the rest of mankind. Perhaps nothing can illustrate this feeling better than the story of the Frenchman who, in an ecstasy of admiration for Sir Isaac Newton, inquired "if he ate and drank like other men!" And I have no doubt he was pleased on learning that he not only ate and drank like other men, but loved the society of little children and of animals, and made the most comical mistakes in the affairs of every-day life. "Men who are above others by their talents," says Voltaire, "always come near them by their weaknesses; for why should talents put us above humanity?"

A recent critic, in commenting on Mr. Cross's "Life of George Eliot," declares that the reader of this work will search in vain for any indication of the secret of her inspiration; that nowhere will he find a hint of the manner in which she came to form her masterly creations, or whence she derived her marvellous power of dramatic presentation. This may, in this particular instance, be true, though I doubt it; for everything depends upon the eye that examines the work. But if it is, it simply amounts to an isolated fact; for I think that, from the general mass of biographic details, we may clearly see how a man of genius works his won