a half-hundred-weight attached to it. He valued
himself, however, on other accomplishments;
for he was acquainted with music, and his
biographer heard him sing a solo to the organ of
St. Wedburgh church, Derby. He adds, that
"his voice, more terrible than sweet, seemed
scarce human;" and also, that "the ostler of the
Virgin's Inn having given him some cause of
displeasure, he took one of the kitchen spits and
bent it round his neck like a handkerchief." It
is also recorded of him that one night, perceiving
a watchman asleep in his box, he raised both
from the ground, and dropped them over the
wall of Bunhill-fields burying-ground. He kept
once a public-house in Islington, and, being
visited by two quarrelsome men who wished to
fight him, he seized both by the neck, and
knocked their heads together until they asked
pardon. But his strength was no more security
to him than it was to the heroic Hebrew who
was betrayed by Delilah. Topham had an
unfaithful wife, whom he stabbed in a fit of
jealousy, and then slew himself.

In the Bone or Flint Age, that, rather than
the silvern or the golden, really preceded the
Iron, Topham would have been esteemed a
great man, on account of his personal strength,
though he would scarcely have been reckoned a
giant. Nevertheless, there has been much
exaggeration in relation to the giants of old.
Those of the Highlands were not so big but
that their conquerors wore their clothes; nor
were they so strong that men could not beat
them, even by wrestling. Topham himself was
once beaten in a trial of strength and skill to
which he was unaccustomed. At a public-house
frequented by the Finsbury archers, Topham
ventured to give his opinion that the long bow
was a plaything fit only for a child. One of the
archers laid a wager with him that he would
not draw the arrow two-thirds of its length.
Of course, he readily accepted the bet, assured
that he should win; but, drawing the bow
towards his breast instead of his ear, he was
greatly mortified in being obliged to pay the
forfeit, after, it is said, many fruitless efforts.
For the want of knowledge, skill, and
practice in the art, his strength availed him nothing.
Skill places mere strength at a discount; and
the giant, in the long run, proves to be merely
a savage whom the more civilised man is certain
to subdue.

Though we have not learned to dispense with
the sword, yet we do depend more on the
power and influence of that intelligence of which
it was once the instrument, than they who then
wielded it were accustomed to do. The soldier
has been in a great measure supplanted by the
savant. Steam, gas, electricity are his weapons,
and with them he changes the face of the world,
shaping it almost to his own will. The wonders
of the old fairy tales are far surpassed by the
exploits of modern scientific discoverers, and
results once supposed miraculous are now
produced by natural means within the comprehension
of the humblest inquirer, not at wide
intervals of time, but daily. Being no longer
rare, they have ceased to be surprising; and,
viewed in the light of common day, have become
familiar and ordinary. Other wonders have to
be sought for outside the scientific circle, just
like table-rapping and such inexplicable matters,
in which imagination asserts some of its ancient
privileges, and the faith that never dies gives
substance and evidence to things hoped for and
unseen. But the real miracles are still within
the circle, and passing in the public life of the
world, in the progress of society, in the march
of events, and in the improvement of individual
character. The general level is higher than at
any former period, and ages lie buried beneath
the ground on which we travel—faster and
faster every year. The supernatural may have
given way to the natural, but the natural is still
more full of wonders.

The time has been, and not long since, when
all this would have been esteemed "wild talk,"
but "now the time gives it warrant." To keep
our admiration, however, within bounds, the
world has grown critical. We have a critical
philosophy, a critical theology, and a critical
literature, the last in great abundance. With
all this jog-trot, people, who would keep the
even tenor of their way without questioning
or being questioned, are offended. They like
not interference with their creeds, their opinions,
and their tastes; and less like to be called upon
to form new ones. Nevertheless, the force of
this intelligence alone, with nothing but moral
influence for its weapon, is stronger than that
of the Sword or Scimitar, and will, like Truth,
prevail, and finally substitute a better system
of things for that which is passing away. It
would appear, indeed, that the Ages of Silver
and Gold belong rather to the Future than to
the Past; that they have not come, but are
coming. Or if referable to former states of
being, they imply rather the pre-existence of the
philosophers and poets than the earthly paradise
of the cosmogonist, if indeed they have not the
same meaning, which is probable. If this be
true, they still continue to exert a mysterious
energy on the world of progress in which we
live, as eternal impulses perpetually urging on
the mind to novel efforts and greater excellence.
If we had no real reason to dread this civilising
intelligence when aided by carnal weapons, we
have still less to dread it now that it aims at all
manner of reformations without it. It has still
its work to do as a civilising agent. There are
still fairies and giants in popular superstition
quite as bad if not worse than those that the
Sworded civiliser had to contend with. There are
parts of the earth, too, suffering still from the
ancient darkness which has been only partially
dispelled. But we have the experience of the
past to guide us in the present, and from this
we learn that we have only to allow perfect
liberty to the intelligent factors now at work in
every direction to secure for the future that
development of the human in each individual by
which he is made a good and rational member
of society. It is to Education that we must
trust the destinies of peoples and nations; and