THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.
If you want a receipt for that Popular Mystery Known to the world as our own Grand Old Man, Take all the Titans and Crichtons of history, Rolling 'em all into one—if you can. Take Julius Cæsar and Tiglath-Pileser, Brasidas, "Boney," and General Booth, Homer and Horace, and Tupper and Morris, Cicero, Calvin, and Louis Kossuth; Gorgias, Sanchez, Sir Archibald Alison, Plato, Augustine, and W. Stead, With—but mere catalogue moveth man's malison, Be all Biography "taken as read"; Then, if you've lumped the Divine and Philosopher, Sophist, and Casuist clever to gloss over, Orator, Essayist, Scholar and Bard, Best Swordsman or "Pug" who e'er fenced, smote, or sparred, Toppers too many by far to enumerate. Melt them all down to a splendid conglomerate;— Then you will find your ingenious plan Misses nine-tenths of our own Grand Old Man.
Yes! Gilbert's Heavy Dragoon, though a paragon, Was not a patch on our own Grand Old Man. Dulcet as hydromel, tart as fresh Tarragon; Homeric in wrath in the scrimmage's van, Horatian at home and at ease,—merum nectar, (As Scaliger said of that sweet Ode to Pyrrha,) Fierce as Alonzo the Brave's fiery spectre, Or mild as a lute or the lark's tirra-lirra! Male Cleopatra, whom "age cannot wither," Whose wondrous variety custom can't stale, All round the Universe, hither and thither, Rambles his genius, aged but hale. Jam and geology, pious "apology" For tiny flaws in the arms of theology. Anti-Besantine attacks on Theosophy; Obiter dicta on Art and Philosophy; Huxley-defiance on errors of Science, And—— Ah! What is this? Why an optic appliance! Not Milton's great optic tube, nor Lord Rosse's, But—something to peer at a microbe's proboscis. A marvel of high-polished glittering brasses, And soft-winding screws, and adjustable glasses; A small world of wheels as a galaxy shiny, Admitting the gaze to a world yet more tiny Of butterfly down and midge-stomachs and wings!
Well, William, old friend, 'tis the day of small things, Most of the matters on which prints are topical, Strike a large intellect as—Microscopical! Jove—or Achilles—the world now delivers To myrmidons ant-like who swarm, fume and fuss. Parties seem split into sections and slivers, Each of which bellow, "The first place for Us!" Mutually angry and all-round abuse-full. So you may find your new instrument useful, To—shall we say—gauge the New Leaders' authority, Or look at that small, dwindling Liberal majority?