ong his best, have
obtained a world-wide popularity. His "Good Time Coming," and his
"Cheer, Boys, Cheer," have been ground to death by barrel-organs, but
only to experience a resurrection to immortality. On the wide sea, amid
the desert, across the prairies, in burning India, in far Australia, and
along the frozen steppes of Russia are floating those imperishable airs
suggested by the "Lyrics" whose names they bear. The soldier and the
sailor, conscious of impending danger, think of beloved ones at home;
unconsciously they hum a melody, and comfort is restored. The emigrant,
forced by various circumstances to leave his native land, where, instead
of inheriting food and raiment, he had experienced hunger, nakedness,
and cold, endeavours to express his feelings, and is discovered crooning
over the tune that correctly interprets his emotions, and thrills his
heart with gladness. The poet's song has become incorporated with the
poor man's nature. You may see that it fills his eyes with tears; but
they are not of sorrow. His cheek is flushed with hope, and a radiant
expectation, founded on experience, which seems to illuminate and gild
his future destiny. Marvellous, indeed, are the influences of a true
song; and while they are rare, they are by fashion rarely appreciated.
In it are embodied the best thoughts in the best language. By it the
best of every class in every clime are swayed. In it they find
expression for sensations, which, but for the poet, might have slumbered
unexpressed till the day of doom.

Whether we think of Charles Mackay as a journalist, as a novelist, as a
poet, or as a musician, he wins our admiration in all. Possessing, as he
does in a high degree, a fine imagination, allied to the kindliest
feelings springing from a sensitive and considerate heart, he is beloved
by his friends, and cares little for the vulgar admiration of the
crowd. The pomp, and circumstance, and self-exaltation, so current
now-a-days, he utterly despises. But the kindliness, the glowing
sympathies of a few kindred spirits gladden him and make him happy.
Though modest and retiring in his disposition, he has no shamefacedness.
His conversation is like his verse; there is neither tinsel nor glitter,
but genuine, solid stuff. Something that bears examination; something
you can take up and handle; something to brood over and reflect upon;
something that wins its way by its truthfulness, and compels you to
accept it as a principle; so