You thought to marry me, though it was evident that I had no inclination for you; but I have balked you, and revenged myself the more on you by fleeing with your servant.
This was the first stroke of real adversity that the King had received, and it did him good, as it does most men. He had lost his friend and his mistress at one fell swoop, and, resolving with pride and manliness to overcome his mortification, he applied himself with ardour to state affairs, and found in continued occupation a happiness he had never before felt.
WHAT MAY COME OF THE EXHIBITION, 1862.
Before the opening of the Exhibition of 1851, we were told to expect a prodigious amelioration of the inconveniences of life, domestic and social, from the co-operation of the wits of the world in mechanical matters. There were some considerable results certainly; but, on the whole, the impression seems to be, that the improvements which such an Exhibition can establish are of the minor sort, domestic and mechanical; while the great discoveries and inventions which will constitute epochs in social history take place in the interval between one Exhibition and another, and perhaps in entire independence of the event. Between 1851 and 1862, some vast additions have been made to the machinery of our civilisation,—any one of which fills a larger space in our minds and our lives than any practical result of the Exhibition. All the devices together that have issued from the great glass-house look small beside the phenomenon of our Queen and the American President having spoken to each other by telegraph from their respective seats of government. It is true, this was done only once; and the chorus of rejoicing expired with that piteous last word of the telegraph when, after weeks of silence, it unexpectedly said "Henley," and never spoke again. Still the thing was done. Leaving the whole subject of the new ships and guns till there is more certainty of what may be expected, and what ought to be done, I may point to an improvement which deeply concerns all maritime populations,—the notice given, by means of the telegraph, to everybody round the coast of probable storms or fine weather. We now see an end to that dreary chapter of accidents,—the loss of nearly all the fishermen of a village, or the wreck of half a fleet of colliers, from sudden storms. Never was the weathercock more important than the Admiralty drum now is, wherever it is set up. It will teach with even more precision by-and-by; and seamen will understand better its meaning and its worth: but already it must have saved hundreds of lives in the course of a few months. I need not look further in this direction: for one or two instances are as good as a dozen to show what I mean. We shall all agree that, important as is the application of glass and iron to the construction of edifices, and manifold as are the improvements in the arts of life, in consequence of the Exhibition of 1851, they cannot compare, individually or collectively, with some achievements which would have taken place at all events, simply because the time was ripe.
In this way arises the suggestion whether there are not two methods by which our inconveniences are extinguished, and our convenience promoted; in one of which these great Exhibitions cannot but assist, while they may have no concern with the other.
If there is some action of our daily life which is complicated, laborious, and expensive in time and trouble, it is very probable that some amelioration may arise through the display of inventions in the Exhibition, or the suggestions which ingenious people may derive from what they see there. There will probably be some simplification of old methods, saving time and trouble, without forsaking the old principle.
But the discoverer, who works without any regard to Exhibitions, annihilates the old way by introducing a substitute—a something quite new, and infinitely superior. If there had been such an Exhibition a generation or two earlier, we might have owed to it a great improvement in the construction of street lamps—in the size and form of the wick, the application of the oil, and the construction of the glass case. But it was a higher order of achievement to set us burning gas. Sir Humphry Davy said publicly that when we could bring down the moon to light our streets, we might use gas for the purpose: and while he talked so, our fathers went on adding threads to their wicks, and trying different shapes for lamps: but the whole method was swept away when the gas was got well in hand, and conducted where it was wanted. In the electric light we have again another principle which may do as much good to another generation, as gas-lighting has to ours.
One such case enables us to understand how others may occur. When we find ourselves constantly inconvenienced by some necessary and universal process and method, we call it a barbarism, and confidently reckon on its being first amended, and at length superseded, as society advances. In analogy with our lighting there is our warming. What a cumbrous process it is! There are tens of thousands of men hewing coal down dark pits. Perhaps they should not count, because there must probably be some other mineral supply, for the creation of heat, if we gave up coal. All the rest of the method is mere coarse, barbarous consumption. We simply burn the coal, and have a large proportion of useless and troublesome stuff with it, to convey to our firesides first, and to carry off afterwards. Look at the bulk of shipping and cartage thus required, and at the number of horses and men, from the first cleavage in the mine to the emptying of the sacks into a London cellar! Look at the disfigurement of the coal country, and at the blacks for ever raining upon the garden shrubs, and in at the windows of our manufacturing towns; and at the hue of Saint Paul's, and all the statues, once white, in the squares of London! Look at the furniture and the pictures in town houses, and at the complexion of those who live in them! Look at the cook's stove-box, and say whether it is not as barbarous as the housemaid's candle-box in the old days of moulds and dips! Look at the perils from coals flying out and pinafores flying in; from linen-horses left before the fire; from choked flues,