HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. xliii 
tive tone of action seems needed by all classes, and the 
cultivation of suitable out-door sports for the people is a 
subject worthy of the wisdom of a second Washington. 
Herbert had all the self-sustaining hardihood of a 
Dante with the fertile aptitude of a Brougham. But, 
look at the dreadful cost of such efforts. See the morbid 
irritability of Johnson, Pope, or Byron. See the tumble- 
down helplessness of Tom Moore, and even the carefully 
conservative Bob Southey, in their old days. Hark to 
the plaintive cries from Tasso’s cell. Observe the fierce 
insanity of Collins or Swift. What should we say of Poe, 
or Lippard, or North ? What should we say of those who 
are said to “ die young ” in the vain attempt at literary 
glory? Our own Tuckerman has judiciously observed 
that “ God is not less worshipped by select intelligences, 
through fidelity to the natural laws, than by celebrating 
his glory in the triumphs of art.” The sad case of Hugh 
Miller must be fresh in the minds of our readers, as that 
of the great devotional geologist who lately shot himself 
in Scotland, while in his studio, surrounded by fame, easy 
circumstances, and the consolations of religion. And yet, 
so dreadful are the life-exhausting effects of severe study, 
that only the very thoughtless would dare to sit in judg¬ 
ment on its unfortunate victims. 
To the credit of Herbert, “ Our Own Frank Forester,” 
we may say that his field sports did save him from 
dwindling down to a misanthrope. Let us be thankful 
that he did not reach that deplorable degree of mental 
degradation. A lover of Nature cannot harbor a very 
bad heart. Hence we find that Herbert did not leave his 
ever-faithful “ Vixen ” unprovided for; and, so far from 
being any thing like a misanthrope, lie begs and prays 
that he may not be buried “ away from humanity.” 
That Herbert’s intellectual powers had been by no 
means impaired, but were on an increase of ability, can 
