iginal Theory of the Heavens, almost
anything noteworthy may be accomplished while old Father Scythe is
taking a trot round a courtyard; and those reservations should allow the
splendid conception to pass for the performance, when we bring to mind
that the conception is the essential part of it, as a bard poorly known
to fame was constantly urging. Captain Con had blown his Epic bubbles,
not to speak of his projected tuneful narrative of the adventures of the
great Cuchullin, and his Preaching of St. Patrick, and other national
triumphs. He could own, however, that the world had a right to the
inspection of the Epic books before it awarded him his crown. The
celestial Theory likewise would have to be worked out to the last figure
by the illustrious astronomers to whom he modestly ranked himself second
as a benefactor of his kind, revering him. So that, whatever we may
think in our own hearts, Epic and Theory have to remain the exception.
Battles indeed have been fought, but when you survey the field
in preparation for them you are summoned to observe the preluding
courtesies of civilised warfare in a manner becoming a chivalrous
gentleman. It never was the merely flinging of your leg across a
frontier, not even with the abrupt Napoleon. You have besides to drill
your men; and you have often to rouse your foe with a ringing slap, if
he's a sleepy one or shamming sleepiness. As here, for example: and that
of itself devours more minutes than ten. Rockney and Mattock could be
roused; but these English, slow to kindle, can't subside in a twinkling;
they are for preaching on when they have once begun; betray the past
engagement, and the ladies are chilled, and your wife puts you the
pungent question: 'Did you avoid politics, Con?' in the awful solitude
of domestic life after a party. Now, if only there had been freedom
of discourse during the dinner hour, the ten disembarrassed minutes
allotted to close it would have afforded time sufficient for hearty
finishing blows and a soothing word or so to dear old innocent Mr.
Rumford, and perhaps a kindly clap of the shoulder to John Mattock,
no bad fellow at bottom. Rockney too was no bad fellow in his way. He
wanted no more than a beating and a thrashing. He was a journalist, a
hard-headed rascal, none of your good old-fashioned order of regimental
scribes who take their cue from their colonel, and march this way and
that, right about face, with as little impediment of principles to