The curious contrast of character presented by these two eminent men, and the very different course of their lives, conveys a striking lesson to all those superficial thinkers and unthinking talkers who make sweeping generalizations concerning human character; who assume as a matter of course that any man who writes poetry must be merely a dreamer of day-dreams, incapable of transacting any practical daily business, and not at all reliable in money matters; whose eyes are always “in a fine frenzy rolling”; that he is, in short, a sort of amiable, harmless lunatic. All actors, according to such people, are dissipated spendthrifts; and if Sims Reeves, or any other public performer, is prevented by delicate larynx or other indisposition from appearing, they look knowing, shrug their shoulders, wink wisely, and assume, without the faintest shadow of evidence, that he is drunk. In like manner they set up a typical philosopher of their own manufacture, and attribute his imaginary character to all who devote themselves to science. Their philosopher is a musty, dried-up, absent-minded pedant, whose ordinary conversation is conducted in words of seven syllables, who is always lost in profound abstractions; takes no interest in common things; regards music, dancing, play-acting, poetry, and every cheerful pursuit as frivolous and contemptible—a creature who never makes a joke, seldom laughs, and who in matters of business is even more incapable than the poet. The singular contrast of character presented by Babbage and Murchison affords at once a most complete refutation of such generalizations. Here were two men, both philosophers, one the very type of amiability, suavity, and all conceivable polish, the very perfection of a courtier, but differing from the vulgar courtier of the Court in this respect, that his high-toned courtesy was not bestowed upon kings only, but also upon all his human brethren, and with especial gracefulness upon those whose rank was below his own. I doubt whether there is any man now living, or has lived during this generation, that could equal Sir Roderick Murchison in the art of distributing showers of compliments upon a large number of different people in succession, and making each recipient delightfully satisfied with himself. In his position as Chairman to the Geological Section of the British Association, he did this with marvelous tact, without the least fulsomeness or repetition, or any display of patronizing. Every man who read a paper before that section was better than ever satisfied with the great merits and vast importance of his communication, after hearing the Chairman’s comments upon it. None but a most detestably strong-minded and logical brute could resist the insinuating flattery of Sir Roderick.