264 Right Rev. W. Boyd Carpenter [March 15, 



meant that the taste of one age is bad and that of another is good. 

 This may be true ; but if the poet has a message for the men of his 

 time he must deUver it in a language understanded of the people. 

 That which is good may not be fit. Some few years ago, a preacher 

 of well-known elocutionary power made the experiment of reading in 

 his church the famous sermons of famous divines. The experiment 

 was a failure ; but nobody therefore will argue that Latimer's ser- 

 mons at St. Paul's Cross, or Jeremy Taylor's sermon on the "Wedding 

 Ring," were not great sermons. They were good, but they did not 

 appeal to the men of our own day whose fashion of thought was not 

 that of the 16th and 17th Centuries. Thus it was with AVordsworth ; 

 he did not appeal to the men of 1810-12, but he had won his way 

 to the hearts of the Englishmen of a later decade in the century. 

 He won his way, not by changing them, but because his was the 

 harbinger voice of a great change which had passed over them. 



Here we touch the contrast between the 18th and the 19th Century. 



"\Ye have heard much said against the 18th Century. I do not 

 know any century for which I have more sincere pity did I not know 

 very well that the century stands in no need of pity. There have, 

 however, been those who could see no good in it. It is the dead 

 century. It had not intelligent politics, noble art or living religion. 

 I deprecate such language. It is neither true nor useful. One 

 thought may assure us of this. Some one said that the first duty of 

 a book was to be interesting. If it had every virtue and lacked 

 interest it must be described a failure. Xow the 18th Century may 

 be supposed to lack every virtue in art, politics or faith ; but it 

 retains the virtue of being pre-eminently interesting. 



In truth, in spite of such disparagement, the men of the 18th 

 Century interest us far more than the men of the 19th ; and there 

 are few of us who would not prefer to join a Reunion at Leicester 

 S(juare with Joshua Reynolds, where we should be sure to meet as 

 fellow-guests Dr. Johnson with his trenchant thunder ; Boswell, alert, 

 observant and obsequious ; Garrick, with his provoking attractiveness ; 

 and last, but not least, the two immortal Irishmen — Edmund Burke, 

 with his vigorous mind, his copious eloquence, and his incorruptiljle 

 principle ; and the sweet, rare, pathetic genius of his age, OHver 

 Goldsmith — than have been present at one of Roger's parties or joined 

 the wits at Holland House, even though Macaulay or Sydney Smith 

 might be there. 



It was an interesting century. It gave us a galaxy of great men 

 who are not yet dead, and who can never die, because a fairy had 

 kissed them at their birth. 



I do not mean merely that their works are on our shelves, and 

 that they belong to the class which are needful in every gentleman's 

 library. I mean that there were men in the 18th Century whom we 

 recognise as magnificent personalities to-day. And what statesman 

 to-day is not happy when he can shelter himself under the asgis of 



