-Ohne Rast, doch ohne Hast.* Do not stop long to settle such points of Logical Grammar as you mention in your letter: when you have enlarged your knowledge in every direction, by the gentle process of time, reflection, and various reading, those difficulties will disappear. I should wish you not to deprive yourself of the relaxation of historical reading. Without an extensive acquaintance with Humanity as it appears in the course of ages, our philosophy must be very imperfect. I also would advise the cultivation of that important faculty called Taste: a quick and deep perception of the Beautiful is of the utmost importance, both for our Virtue and our Happiness. I seldom pass a day without awakening that faculty, either by the reading of some beautiful passage in the Classics, or by refreshing my recollection of some excellent modern poetry. I generally close my day with Shakspeare, in whose works, whatever may be the exhaustion of my spirits, I never fail to find something to cheer me.

I have just learnt the death of a very superior man, Mr. Mill, the father of the Editor of the London and Westminster Review. Though severe and almost stiff in the forms of his mind, he was a man of profound observation, and worthy of the name of a philosopher. He was also a man of great virtue and benevolence, though reverend Gentlemen considered him an Atheist. There is no room for more Old Man's Gossip. With ever growing regard,

My dear Sir,

I am, your affectionate friend,

J. BLANCO WHITE.

To John Stuart Mill, Esq.

Liverpool, June 26th, 1836.

The melancholy intelligence which the Morning Chronicle has this day conveyed to me, does not allow me to delay any longer a letter which, for several weeks, I have been intending to write to you. I know how useless, not to say offensive, is the mere ceremony of condolence on such occa[* Unhasting-unresting.]

sions as the loss of our best friends, but I doubt not that sincere sympathy, accompanied with deep respect for the object of your mourning, must be far from having the appearance of intrusion in your estimation. I was introduced to your father soon after my arrival in England, and might have had the pleasure and advantage of frequent intercourse with him, if the long and anxious pursuit after the important truths which a most tyrannical and absurd education had made of a most difficult access to me, had not driven me into paths which lay far away from the mental point of view which he had deliberately taken. Yet at whatever distance

I

may have been from him, I am happy in the consciousness that my respect for his talents, knowledge, and virtues, was always very great indeed. I need not add, that it has been on the increase for a considerable time; and that I reckon myself among the numbers that at this moment are lamenting his loss.

Long have I been wishing to inquire of yourself concerning your health; but mine has been so wretched, that I hardly had spirits enough to take up the pen. I suppose that the Review will be out in a few days; and, as usual, my curiosity and expectation are excited. In your last letter you mentioned to me Schlosser, a German writer, of whom I knew nothing. I have lately been able to procure his History of the Iconoclast Emperors, which I am reading with interest. I see two other works of his mentioned in -'s Catalogue; but their prices are so extravagant, and they are so frequently unsupplied with the works they announce, that I have not ventured to send for the books in question. I think I might write a readable article on the volume which I already possess, coupling it with Neander's third volume of his Ecclesiastical History, which treats of the same period. But it will take me a long time to arrange the subject, for it is one of research, which must not appear in the shape of erudition, but only give substance to a few pages fit to be read by mere idlers.

It is a subject of unavailing regret to me, that I have opened my eyes upon the wonderful field of fast-growing German Literature, just when I am about to close them to the whole world of sense. I can now, more than ever before, sympathize with Petrarch, who in his old age witnessed the introduction of Greek Literature in the West, foresaw the glorious effects of that rising light, but sunk into the grave without being able to read Homer in the original. Thank Heaven! I myself have already enjoyed in a great degree the compositions of Schiller and Goethe. I am at present occupied with the second part of Faust, a poem of splendid passages, which, in spite of my imperfect knowledge of the language, fill me, at times, with perfect delight.

full

I shall be most happy to hear that you are quite well. Believe me, with true esteem and regard,

Your sincere friend,

J. BLANCO White.

Liverpool, July 11th, 1836.

I have this morning completed my 61st year. I will not say, few and mournful have been the days of my pilgrimage. Considering the state of my health for so many years, it is quite surprising that I am alive, and that my faculties do not appear to be much impaired. But I have this year often wished for the end of my trial in this life. My moral disappointment (as I may call it) has been growing of late. My reason, indeed, tells me, that under the wise government of God, mankind will certainly improve, but the very limited scale of my vision does not allow me to perceive any thing except darkness around me. The general character of this town makes, besides, a

painful impression upon me: I think I see the deep, hideous, marks which the Slave trade, to which it owes its enormous growth, impressed upon its inhabitants. I do not mean that Liverpool is inhabited exclusively by individuals bearing the stamp of selfish worldliness, of that overreaching greediness for wealth, which appears prominent in this town. I myself am acquainted with individuals of the purest and most generous character. But the multitude of equally wretched and daring people which must abound in such a seaport, give it a most repulsive aspect. The violence of party feeling, among the higher ranks, and the large mixture of real, mixed, and pretended enthusiasm, connected with the political Church of this realm, make me shrink more and more from all contact with society. I am, besides, convinced, that nothing I could write could have the least beneficial effect. I feel, therefore, that I have done all that was assigned to me by Providence in the world, and now I must wait for death in this perfect moral solitude-without a single human being near me, to whom I may look up for that help and sympathy which old men that have walked on the beaten paths of life, expect when their dissolution approaches. My only comfort is, that I have been true to my internal light; that I have not betrayed the cause of truth. My works (except the last) do not afford me any satisfaction, for they have been generally written under an imperfect light-a light thickly clouded by the large remnants of the enormous mass of religious

prejudices which my education laid upon me. But I leave the result to Providence; such gropings as mine, upon record, may be profitable to minds destined to shine in future on the way to improvement. One particular feeling has been growing during the last year in my breast-regret, bitter regret, at having, unintentionally, helped the anti-Irish Party. Not a word, indeed, of what I have published about the tendencies of Catholicism could I alter, without offending historical and philosophical truth. But I was not aware of the circumstances of Ireland; I did not know that the established Protestantism is infinitely more injurious to its moral and political interests than the old errors of Popery. I did not know what kind of tyrants I was assisting by my true, but untimely, statements. My eyes have been gradually opened to the bitter wrongs of that country, with which nature and the circumstances of my early years have bound my affections. If the world had less reason to suspect public professions, I would not go to the grave without imploring the forgiveness of Ireland. But I trust there will be some one who will make my sentiments known, when death shall have placed me beyond the reach of malice.

Liverpool, July 12th, 1836.

The subject of Ireland has continued to occupy my mind, and my attention to it has been increased by a correspondence which I have read in the Morning Chronicle this morning. It seems that Mr. O'Sul