Chapter 13

"I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starredWith the beauty that dwelt in thy soul;Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,Nor thy heart be flung back from its gaol:I know thou hast drank of the Lethe that flowsThrough a land where they do not forget;That sheds over memory only repose;And takes from it only regret."And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb,I am wrapt in a mantle of care;Yet the grief of my bosom—oh! call it not gloom—Is not the black grief of despair.By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,Far off thy bright vision appears;And hope like the rainbow, a creature of light,Is born like the rainbow—in tears."J. K. Hervey.

"And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb,I am wrapt in a mantle of care;Yet the grief of my bosom—oh! call it not gloom—Is not the black grief of despair.By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,Far off thy bright vision appears;And hope like the rainbow, a creature of light,Is born like the rainbow—in tears."

J. K. Hervey.

The Duncan family to which Mary Lundie, by her marriage with one of the sons, belonged, is one of the most interesting in Scotland. All of its members seem possessed of fine talents, devoted piety, and generous affections. Two of the sons, with the father, were ministers of the established church of Scotland at the time of the secession of the Free Church from that body, and made a sacrifice, for conscience' sake, of agreeable situations and handsome incomes. Without the slightest hesitation, and without a murmur even, they abandoned their beautiful manses, their churches and people, and threw themselves, with their brethren of the Free Church, upon the providence of God, not knowing what might be the issues of that sublime movement. "The Philosophy of the Seasons,"[179]though written mainly by the father, the Rev. Dr. Duncan of Ruthwell, received contributions from all the members of the family,and remains a splendid monument of their talents, piety and mutual affection. It is fast becoming a classic. Filled with information, and imbued with a spirit of fervid piety, and, moreover, written in a lucid, flowing style, it is well fitted at once to instruct and please.

As Dr. Duncan has recently deceased, a brief sketch of his life may not be uninteresting in this connection.

Dr. Henry Duncan was "a son of the Manse." He was born in 1774, at Lochrutton, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, of which his father and his grandfather were ministers successively, during a period of eighty years, a striking instance of pastoral permanence. If wealth consists "in the number of things we love," then those good men must have been rich beyond the common lot of ministers; and young Henry must have received from them a rich heritage of blessings. He was educated at the Universities of St. Andrews, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. While attending the latter he was a member of the "Speculative Society," to which many of the most distinguished literary characters belonged, and associated freely with Lord Brougham, the Marquis of Landsdowne, Dr. Andrew Thomson and others. He became the pastor of the Established church in Ruthwell, Dumfriesshire, where he labored with great success for many years. He died in the forty-seventh year of his ministry.

Dr. Duncan was imbued with a spirit of enlarged Christian benevolence, and felt a peculiar interestin the amelioration of the condition of the poorer classes. Hence he formed the scheme of the "Cheap Repository Tracts," addressed to the working classes, and designed to enforce the most useful lessons suited to their condition. It was in this collection that his "Cottage Fireside" was first published, a production which became exceedingly popular, and passed through many editions. The book abounds in happy delineations of Scottish manners, fine strokes of humor, and admirable lessons of practical wisdom. "The South Country Weaver," possesses the same qualities and aims; and, in a time of excessive political excitement, did much to allay the discontent and revolutionary tendency of the people. He is also said to be the author of another work of a higher grade, written in the same style of fictitious narrative, and intended to vindicate the principles and proceedings of the Scottish Covenanters, from the aspersions cast upon them by the author of Waverley. This production has been highly esteemed by good judges of literary merit, but it never became popular.

It may well be supposed that Dr. Duncan felt a peculiar interest, not only in the spiritual but also in the temporal condition of his own parish, and hence he was ever devising plans for its benefit. In this respect he much resembled the benevolent Oberlin, whose well directed schemes turned the barren parish of Waldbach into a little paradise. Entering upon the duties of his charge at a time of national scarcity and distress, he imported from Liverpool, at considerable expense, and with greatpersonal inconvenience, large quantities of food which he distributed among his poor parishioners He also devised new modes and sources of employment, and cheered them amid their privations by his counsel and sympathy. He instituted among them two admirable "Friendly Societies," one for males and another for females, the advantages of which are enjoyed to this day. But perhaps his highest claim to distinction as a philanthropist was the establishment of "The Ruthwell Parish Bank," the first "Savings Bank" in Europe, which, it is said, was suggested to him partly by the beneficial results and partly by the admitted defects of the Friendly Societies. His undoubted title to be regarded as the originator of "Savings Banks," has been acknowledged by the highest authorities; but it is not so generally known at what an immense expenditure of time, talent, energy and pecuniary means he succeeded in accomplishing this good object.

Dr. Duncan's learning and talents were of a high order, and these were devoted exclusively to the benefit of his fellow men. His principal literary work, "The Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons," was planned and written in a single year, an astonishing instance of mental energy, industry and talent. "Never were the different kingdoms and varying aspects of nature, the characteristics of the seasons, and all the grand and beautiful phenomena of the year, more philosophically and more eloquently described than in this charming book. The comprehensive views of the philosopher, thepoetic feeling of the lover of nature, and the pious reflection of the Christian divine, are all combined in its pages, and win at once the admiration and affection of the reader." Here genius and piety, the love of nature and the love of God spread their sunlight over the face of creation, and make visible to all reverent and thoughtful minds

"The Gospel of the stars—great Nature's Holy Writ."

As a preacher Dr. Duncan was interesting and instructive, but not particularly striking and popular. In 1839 he was elected Moderator of the General Assembly, the highest honor the church could confer. Warmly attached to evangelical religion, and deeply interested in the purity and progress of the church of Christ throughout the world, he earnestly promoted the cause of Christian missions, and kindred schemes of benevolence. He was intimately associated with Dr. Chalmers and others, in sustaining the great principles of vital Christianity, the supremacy of Christ in his own church, and particularly the freedom and independence of his ministers. "True, therefore, to the principles he had espoused, and ever warmly defended—true to what he considered the genuine constitution of the Scottish church, this venerable and amiable father left, in the ever memorable year 1843, that manse, which he had inhabited for four and forty long and happy years, and which his own fine taste had so greatly beautified and adorned—that hallowed home in which his dutiful and attached children had been reared—in which hisfirst beloved wife had died, and which was associated with many delightful recollections of joy and kindness, and prayer, indelibly engraven on many hearts—fortherewas many a young idea fostered, and many a guest and many a stranger hospitably entertained. But with a cloud of many eminent witnesses, whose names will be embalmed in the records of their country, Dr. Duncan lifted up his testimony for the glorious prerogative of Zion's King, and counted the reproach of Christ greater riches than all the treasures of earth. And actuated by the same spirit of faith as the martyrs and confessors of other days—the men of whom the world was not worthy—he abandoned, at an advanced age, all the comforts of his lovely and endeared home, and all the emoluments and delights connected with it, and meekly took up his lowly dwelling in an humble cottage by the way-side, willingly enduring hardship, and submitting to ingratitude from man, that he might honor his God and hold fast his integrity, dearer to him than life. He was one of seven moderators of the old General Assembly, men like himself of high name and holy deeds, who sacrificed all their honors and emoluments, and cast in their lot with the Free Church of Scotland, that they might display a banner for the truth, and who, when driven by a cruel and miserable policy from those altars which they sanctified, went forth, a veteran band of Christian heroes, and preached the Gospel of peace and salvation under the broad canopy of heaven, with gray hairs streaming in the breeze."

During the summer of 1843 Dr. Duncan preached in the open air, but finally succeeded by great efforts, in securing a site, and erecting upon it a church and a manse, a school and a schoolmaster's house. A suitable successor was appointed to this charge, and Dr. Duncan removed his residence to the city of Edinburgh. But his affections lingered around his beloved Ruthwell, and he undertook a journey to England to secure funds to pay off the debt upon the new buildings and bring them to a state of completion. Having accomplished his object, he returned to Scotland in excellent spirits, and reached Comlogan Castle, the residence of his brother-in-law. On that and the succeeding day he occupied himself in laying out the grounds about the manse and giving directions respecting the buildings. On the following Sabbath he preached to an overflowing audience. Monday and Tuesday were devoted to visiting his old parishioners. He was invited to address a prayer meeting at the house of an elder of the Established church, and it was while engaged in the performance of that duty that the messenger of Death met him. He had not spoken ten minutes, when his voice trembled, his body shuddered, and it was evident to all that he was struck with a sudden paralysis. He was immediately conveyed to Comlogan Castle. "On his way, though his speech was much affected, his consciousness was entire, and he repeatedly lifted up his hand, in devout admiration of God's beautiful works, for the moon, surrounded by thousands of stars, was shedding its calm and chastened lustreover the face of Nature, and presented a meet emblem of the inward peace of the dying saint, whose characteristic taste and love of Nature's beauties were still manifested even in this trying hour."[180]After two days, in which he suffered little pain, he gently "fell asleep in Jesus," on Thursday evening, 12th of February, 1846.

Behold the western evening light,It melts in deepening gloom;So calmly Christians sink away,Descending to the tomb.The winds breathe low; the yellow leafScarce whispers from the tree;So gently flows the parting breath,When good men cease to be.How beautiful on all the hills,The crimson light is shed!'Tis like the peace the Christian givesTo mourners round his bed.How mildly on the wandering cloudThe sunset beam is cast!So sweet the memory left behind,Where loved ones breathe their lastAnd lo! above the dews of nightThe vesper star appears;So faith lights up the mourner's heart,Whose eyes are dim with tears.Night falls, but soon the morning lightIts glories shall restore;And thus the eyes that sleep in deathShall wake to close no more.Peabody.

Behold the western evening light,It melts in deepening gloom;So calmly Christians sink away,Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the yellow leafScarce whispers from the tree;So gently flows the parting breath,When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills,The crimson light is shed!'Tis like the peace the Christian givesTo mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloudThe sunset beam is cast!So sweet the memory left behind,Where loved ones breathe their last

And lo! above the dews of nightThe vesper star appears;So faith lights up the mourner's heart,Whose eyes are dim with tears.

Night falls, but soon the morning lightIts glories shall restore;And thus the eyes that sleep in deathShall wake to close no more.

Peabody.

Daylight is on the hills, and we are off once more down the Tweed, which gathers volume by accessions from tributary streams, and mirrors in its clear bosom many a happy home, nestling among the trees on its banks. We pass Coldstream, on the north bank of the Tweed, from its proximity to England a sort of Gretna Green in former times, where Lord Brougham was married at one of the hotels; whence we journey to Tillmouth; at which place the Till, a narrow, deep, sullen stream, flows into the Tweed. Beneath Twisel Castle, which stands upon its banks, you see the ancient bridge by which the English crossed the Till before the battle of Flodden.

—"They cross'dThe Till, by Twisel Bridge.High sight it is, and haughty, whileThey drew into the deep defile;Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,Beneath the castle's airy wall.By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,Troop after troop are disappearing;Troop after troop their banners rearing,Upon the eastern bank you see,Still pouring down the rocky denWhere flows the sullen Till,And rising from the dim wood glenStandards on standards, men on menIn slow succession still,And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,And passing on, in ceaseless marchTo gain the opposing hill."Marmion.

Marmion.

Flodden Field, on which the "flowers of the forest," were cut down so mercilessly, is not far fromhere, and the whole region seems invested with an air of "dule and wae."

"Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!The English, for once by guile won the day;The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost.The prime o' our land are cauld in the clay."We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,Women and bairns are heartless and wae;Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."[181]

"Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!The English, for once by guile won the day;The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost.The prime o' our land are cauld in the clay.

"We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,Women and bairns are heartless and wae;Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."[181]

Pursuing our way, we come to Norham Castle, so magnificently described in Marmion.

"Day set on Norham's castle steep,And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,And Cheviot's mountains lone;The battled towers, the donjon keep,The loop-hole grates where captives weep,The flanking walls that round it sweep,In yellow lustre shone."

Nine miles further on, we arrive at "Berwick upon Tweed," where the river falls into the German Ocean, and where our wanderings in Scotland cease,—the scene of fierce struggles between the Scots and English. North Berwick was sometimes in the hands of the one, sometimes in the hands of the other. Its streets often ran blood; its walls echoed the tramp of armies, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying. Its old ramparts are yet standing; but all is quiet andpassionless now. A sort of stillness pervades the place, in striking contrast with the havoc and turmoil of the ancient Border wars. The environs are full of historic recollections, which have been well illustrated in the "Border Tales," by John Mackie Wilson, who was a native of Berwick, and resided here till his death. This event took place, suddenly and unexpectedly, on the 2d of September, 1835, when he was only thirty-one years of age. His early days were spent, in peace and happiness, under the parental roof. At school he was distinguished for his love of knowledge, and the rapidity with which he executed all his tasks. At a suitable age he was apprenticed to a printer, and found the employment congenial, as it brought him into contact with books. Eagerly thirsting for knowledge, he soon exhausted his scanty means of gratifying his taste in Berwick on Tweed, and leaving the place of his nativity, repaired to London, where he encountered the greatest difficulties and hardships. It is said that some of the most touching descriptions of the sufferings endured by the aspirant for fame were actually endured by himself, and "that the sobs and tears which involuntarily burst from the family circle when these tales were read, were poured forth for him whose pen had described them." Often amid the splendor of London, did he wander "homeless and friendless." But nothing could repress the native ardor and buoyancy of his mind. And amid all the darkness of the night which enveloped his pathway, hewas ever looking for sunrise. Despair and poverty, however, drove him from the British metropolis, and he was forced to seek in the provinces what he could not find in London, nor did he seek in vain. He reaped "a golden harvest of opinions;" but poverty continued to be his companion for years. During a sojourn in the city of Edinburgh, he published several dramas and other poems, which had a share of success. He wrote a series of "Lectures and Biographical Sketches," which he delivered with considerable eclat in different towns of Scotland and England. Three years before his death "he rested from his wanderings," in his native village, among his friends and early associates, having been invited to become editor of "The Berwick Advertiser," which he conducted with great spirit. Amid his labors as an editor, he found time to indulge his taste for literature, and the matter of his journal was often enlivened by his own literary and poetical effusions. But it was "The Border Tales," which made him a decided favorite with the public, and gave him a warm place in the Scottish heart. They were published in a fugitive form, and commanded a circulation far beyond the author's most sanguine hopes. It was from these that he and his friends saw a prospect of reward for his toils. But the scene which was thus opening upon him was blighted,—and from the high place which he had gained in the estimation of his townsmen, from the caresses of his friends, and from the reproaches of his foes, he now lies "wherethe wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."

We do not admire Wilson's poetry as a whole; and yet some beautiful strains might be culled from it. He wrote rapidly and diffusely; throwing off everything at a first draft, without much correction or polish. His "Border Tales" are quite miscellaneous in their character, and contain much that he would doubtless have thrown out, had he lived to place them in a permanent form. They are written diffusely and carelessly. But with all their faults, they give indications of genius, humor and pathos, a keen insight into character, great descriptive powers, and a fine conception of the beautiful and true. Some of them are told with great pith and raciness; and though inferior in some respects, to Professor Wilson's "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," are more natural and easy, more characteristic and amusing. Upon the whole, they give a better idea of the Scottish character than the Professor's splendid, but exaggerated pictures. James Mackay Wilson died too young for his fame; but his simple tales will be read, for many a day, in the homes of "bonny Scotland." Among other things, they give a just representation of the religious character of the Scottish peasantry. While their faults and foibles are depicted with graphic power, their solemn faith, their profound enthusiasm, and their leal-hearted piety are exhibited in beautiful relief. Justice is done to the old Covenanters, whose rough patriotism and burning zealwere the salvation of their native land. Long may their martyr spirit, softened by charity, prevail in Scotland; and generations yet unborn shall "rise up and call her blessed."

In this series of sketches, now brought to a close, it has been the author's aim to make a contribution to literature, which, while it might prove attractive, would yet exert a pure moral influence. Such an excursion beyond the peculiar limits of his profession, he thinks, was permitted him, and may tend in some slight degree to promote the great object for which he desires to live. At all events, if he has accomplished nothing more, he has yet succeeded in calling up "a gentle vision" of "Auld Lang Syne," by which his own heart has been solaced and cheered.

"Lang Syne! how doth the word come back,With magic meaning to the heart,As memory roams the sunny track,From which hope's dreams were loath to part!No joy like by-past joy appears;For what is gone we fret and pine;Were life spun out a thousand years,It could not match Lang Syne!"Lang Syne!—ah, where are they who sharedWith us its pleasures bright and blithe?Kindly with some hath fortune fared;And some have bowed beneath the scytheOf death; while others scattered farO'er foreign lands, at fate repine,Oft wandering forth 'neath twilight's star,To muse on dear Lang Syne!"Lang Syne!—the heart can never beAgain so full of guileless truth;Lang Syne!—the eyes no more shall seeAh, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.Lang Syne!—with thee resides a spellTo raise the spirit, and refine.Farewell!—there can be no farewellTo thee, loved, lost Lang Syne!"Dr. Moir.

"Lang Syne!—ah, where are they who sharedWith us its pleasures bright and blithe?Kindly with some hath fortune fared;And some have bowed beneath the scytheOf death; while others scattered farO'er foreign lands, at fate repine,Oft wandering forth 'neath twilight's star,To muse on dear Lang Syne!

"Lang Syne!—the heart can never beAgain so full of guileless truth;Lang Syne!—the eyes no more shall seeAh, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.Lang Syne!—with thee resides a spellTo raise the spirit, and refine.Farewell!—there can be no farewellTo thee, loved, lost Lang Syne!"

Dr. Moir.

[1]The following eloquent passage from an address by the Honorable Edward Everett, before the "Scots' Charitable Society," Boston, well illustrates the fact referred to."Not to speak of the worthies of ages long passed; of the Knoxes, the Buchanans, and the early minstrelsy of the border; the land of your fathers, sir, since it ceased to be a separate kingdom, has, through the intellect of her gifted sons, acquired a supremacy over the minds of men more extensive and more enduring, than that of Alexander or Augustus. It would be impossible to enumerate them all,—the Blairs of the last generation, the Chalmerses of this; the Robertsons, and Humes; the Smiths, the Reids, the Stuarts, the Browns; the Homes, the Mackenzies; the Mackintoshes, the Broughams, the Jeffreys, with their distinguished compeers, both on physical and moral science. The Marys and the Elizabeths, the Jameses and the Charleses will be forgotten, before these names will perish from the memory of men. And when I add to them those other illustrious names—Burns, Campbell, Byron, and Scott, may I not truly say, sir, that the throne and the sceptre of England will crumble into dust like those of Scotland: and Windsor Castle and Westminster Abbey will lie in ruins as poor and desolate as those of Scone and Iona, before the lords of Scottish song shall cease to reign in the hearts of men.For myself, sir, I confess that I love Scotland. I have reason to do so. I have trod the soil of theLand of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood,I have looked up to the cloud-capt summit of Ben Lomond; have glided among the fairy islets of Loch Katrine; and from the battlements of Stirling Castle, have beheld the links of Forth sparkling in the morning sun. I have done more, sir; I have tasted that generous hospitality of Scotland, which her Majesty's Consul has so justly commemorated; I have held converse with her most eminent sons; I have made my pilgrimage to Melrose Abbey, in company with that modern magician, who, mightier than the magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel, has hung the garlands of immortal poesy upon its shattered arches, and made its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the muse from the remotest corners of the earth, to the end of time. Yes, sir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepulchre of the wizard, once pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the archangel:—standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the friendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while every nerve within me thrilled with excitement, my fancy kindled with the inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so magnificently described by the minstrel,—the light, which, as the tomb was opened,broke forth so gloriously,Streamed upward to the chancel roof,And through the galleries far aloof:But I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter light, which had broken forth from the master mind; which had streamed from his illumined page all-gloriously upward, above the pinnacles of worldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams, with that of the brightest constellations, in the intellectual firmament of England."

[1]The following eloquent passage from an address by the Honorable Edward Everett, before the "Scots' Charitable Society," Boston, well illustrates the fact referred to.

"Not to speak of the worthies of ages long passed; of the Knoxes, the Buchanans, and the early minstrelsy of the border; the land of your fathers, sir, since it ceased to be a separate kingdom, has, through the intellect of her gifted sons, acquired a supremacy over the minds of men more extensive and more enduring, than that of Alexander or Augustus. It would be impossible to enumerate them all,—the Blairs of the last generation, the Chalmerses of this; the Robertsons, and Humes; the Smiths, the Reids, the Stuarts, the Browns; the Homes, the Mackenzies; the Mackintoshes, the Broughams, the Jeffreys, with their distinguished compeers, both on physical and moral science. The Marys and the Elizabeths, the Jameses and the Charleses will be forgotten, before these names will perish from the memory of men. And when I add to them those other illustrious names—Burns, Campbell, Byron, and Scott, may I not truly say, sir, that the throne and the sceptre of England will crumble into dust like those of Scotland: and Windsor Castle and Westminster Abbey will lie in ruins as poor and desolate as those of Scone and Iona, before the lords of Scottish song shall cease to reign in the hearts of men.

For myself, sir, I confess that I love Scotland. I have reason to do so. I have trod the soil of the

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood,

I have looked up to the cloud-capt summit of Ben Lomond; have glided among the fairy islets of Loch Katrine; and from the battlements of Stirling Castle, have beheld the links of Forth sparkling in the morning sun. I have done more, sir; I have tasted that generous hospitality of Scotland, which her Majesty's Consul has so justly commemorated; I have held converse with her most eminent sons; I have made my pilgrimage to Melrose Abbey, in company with that modern magician, who, mightier than the magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel, has hung the garlands of immortal poesy upon its shattered arches, and made its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the muse from the remotest corners of the earth, to the end of time. Yes, sir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepulchre of the wizard, once pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the archangel:—standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the friendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while every nerve within me thrilled with excitement, my fancy kindled with the inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so magnificently described by the minstrel,—the light, which, as the tomb was opened,

broke forth so gloriously,Streamed upward to the chancel roof,And through the galleries far aloof:

But I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter light, which had broken forth from the master mind; which had streamed from his illumined page all-gloriously upward, above the pinnacles of worldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams, with that of the brightest constellations, in the intellectual firmament of England."

[2]This is spoken, of course, of the great body of the people.

[3]Letter to Robert Burns, by Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, a native of Scotland.

[4]Withered cheeks.

[5]Supposed to be Dr. Moir.

[6]Tannahill was a weaver in Paisley. He excelled in song writing. Under the pressure of poverty and deep depression of spirits he committed suicide.

[7]The reference here is to the residence, or rather imprisonment of Mary in Lochleven Castle.

[8]Roslin Castle, on the banks of the Esk, about seven miles from Edinburgh.

[9]Brow, in Scotland, is often pronounced as if speltbrue.

[10]Ewes, pronounced as if it wereyowes.

[11]We give the version of Leitch Ritchie, who has thrown the facts into the form of a dialogue, and given a false name to the hero; otherwise the narration is entirely authentic.

[12]At present it is used as a barracks for soldiers and a magazine of arms.

[13]Carlyle—"Hero Worship," p. 174.

[14]"Of Reformation in England." By John Milton.

[15]The writer describes not an imaginary, but an actual lecture of Professor Wilson's, which he heard some years ago.We have honestly given our own impressions relative to Wilson's metaphysical powers, and stated simply what we heard and saw while attending his Lectures in Edinburgh University. Others however may have different impressions; and we cheerfully append the following fromGilfillanas an offset to our strictures:"It is probable that the very variety and versatility of Wilson's powers have done him an injury in the estimation of many. They can hardly believe that an actor, who can play so many parts, is perfect in all. Because he is, confessedly, one of the most eloquent of men, it is doubted whether he can be profound: because he is a fine poet, he must be a shallow metaphysician;—because he is the Editor ofBlackwood, he must be an inefficient professor. There is such a thing on this round earth, as diffusion along with depth, as the versatile and vigorous mind of a man of genius mastering a multitude of topics, while others are blunderingly acquiring one, or as a man 'multiplying himself among mankind, the Proteus of their talents,' and proving that the Voltairian activity of brain has been severed, in one splendid instance, at least, from the Voltairian sneer and the Voltairian shallowness. Such an instance as that of our illustrious Professor, who is ready for every tack,—who can, at one time, scorch a poetaster to a cinder, at another cast illumination into the 'dark deep holds' of a moral question, by a glance of his genius; at one time dash off the picture of a Highland glen, with the force of a Salvator, at another, lay bare the anatomy of a passion with the precision and force of an Angelo,—write, now, the sweetest verse, and now the most energetic prose,—now let slip, from his spirit, a single star, like the 'evening cloud,' and now unfurl aNoctesupon the wondering world,—now paint Avarice till his audience are dying with laughter, and now Emulation and Sympathy till they are choked with tears,—write now 'the Elder's Deathbed,' and now the 'Address to a Wild Deer,'—be equally at home in describing the Sufferings of an Orphan girl, and the undressing of a dead Quaker, by a congregation of ravens, under the brow of Helvellyn."—Literary Portraits, p. 209.

[15]The writer describes not an imaginary, but an actual lecture of Professor Wilson's, which he heard some years ago.

We have honestly given our own impressions relative to Wilson's metaphysical powers, and stated simply what we heard and saw while attending his Lectures in Edinburgh University. Others however may have different impressions; and we cheerfully append the following fromGilfillanas an offset to our strictures:

"It is probable that the very variety and versatility of Wilson's powers have done him an injury in the estimation of many. They can hardly believe that an actor, who can play so many parts, is perfect in all. Because he is, confessedly, one of the most eloquent of men, it is doubted whether he can be profound: because he is a fine poet, he must be a shallow metaphysician;—because he is the Editor ofBlackwood, he must be an inefficient professor. There is such a thing on this round earth, as diffusion along with depth, as the versatile and vigorous mind of a man of genius mastering a multitude of topics, while others are blunderingly acquiring one, or as a man 'multiplying himself among mankind, the Proteus of their talents,' and proving that the Voltairian activity of brain has been severed, in one splendid instance, at least, from the Voltairian sneer and the Voltairian shallowness. Such an instance as that of our illustrious Professor, who is ready for every tack,—who can, at one time, scorch a poetaster to a cinder, at another cast illumination into the 'dark deep holds' of a moral question, by a glance of his genius; at one time dash off the picture of a Highland glen, with the force of a Salvator, at another, lay bare the anatomy of a passion with the precision and force of an Angelo,—write, now, the sweetest verse, and now the most energetic prose,—now let slip, from his spirit, a single star, like the 'evening cloud,' and now unfurl aNoctesupon the wondering world,—now paint Avarice till his audience are dying with laughter, and now Emulation and Sympathy till they are choked with tears,—write now 'the Elder's Deathbed,' and now the 'Address to a Wild Deer,'—be equally at home in describing the Sufferings of an Orphan girl, and the undressing of a dead Quaker, by a congregation of ravens, under the brow of Helvellyn."—Literary Portraits, p. 209.

[16]The following graphic description of the residence, personal appearance and conversation of Carlyle is from the pen of Elizur Wright, Junr. "Passing the long lines of new buildings which have stretched from Westminster up the Thames, and engulphed the old village of Chelsea, in omnivorous London, you recognize at last the old Chelsea Hospital, one of the world-famous clusters of low brick palaces, where Britain nurses her fighting men when they can fight no more. A little past this and an old ivy-clad church, with its buried generations lying around it, you come to an antique street running at right angles with the Thames, and a few steps from the river, you find Carlyle's name on the door. A Scotch lass ushers you into the second story front chamber, which is the spacious workshop of the world-maker. Here are lots of books—ponderous tomes in Latin, Greek, and black letter English,—some are on shelves occupying nearly all the walls, and some are piled on tables and a reading rack as having just been read. The furniture speaks of Scotch economy, and the whole face of things of more than common Scotch tidiness. In fact, a superbly wrought bell-rope indicates that the wife is a true hero worshipper. Carlyle is a mere man, ordinary size, lofty and jutting brow, keen—exceedingly keen eye, and modest unassuming manners. His voice is melodious, and with its rich Scotch cadence, and rapid flow, reminds you of Thalberg's music in some strange out of the way key. Just set him agoing, and he runs without stopping, giving you whole masses of history, painting and poetry, and a great mass of the boundless system of Carlyleism. There is nothing which he does not touch; and figures of speech come tumbling in from all corners, top and bottom of the universe, as the merest matter of course. Doubt, hesitation or qualification have no place among his opinions, he having kicked them all out of doors when he began his philosophy."Many inquiries have been made respecting Carlyle's religious opinions; but it is difficult to say anything very decisive in reply. That he has a deep reverence for the Christian faith,—that he strongly inclines to a sort of transcendental orthodoxy,—that he loves, moreover, true-hearted piety, and is himself a model of integrity and affection cannot be doubted. He often speaks of Jesus as divine,—as the most perfect of all heroes—as the God man—as the Divine man. He possesses a profound sympathy for the higher and more beautiful forms of Christian virtue, and describes the lives and characters of good men with the liveliest relish. We incline therefore to believe, that notwithstanding his transcendental speculations, and philosophical doubts, he has a true (though not thoroughly defined) heart faith in the essential doctrines of the Christian system. Clouds and darkness hang upon the horizon of his spiritual vision, but gloriously irradiated with light from heaven, and here and there opening into vistas of serene and ineffable beauty. Many of his followers, we think, do not understand him, and we fear, will never reach his purity and elevation of mind. They are more likely to be led astray, by the magnificent illusions of his gifted but somewhat erring fancy. Instead of resting in the simple-hearted and heroic faith which he loves so much to describe, they may plunge into the abysses of doubt and despair.

Many inquiries have been made respecting Carlyle's religious opinions; but it is difficult to say anything very decisive in reply. That he has a deep reverence for the Christian faith,—that he strongly inclines to a sort of transcendental orthodoxy,—that he loves, moreover, true-hearted piety, and is himself a model of integrity and affection cannot be doubted. He often speaks of Jesus as divine,—as the most perfect of all heroes—as the God man—as the Divine man. He possesses a profound sympathy for the higher and more beautiful forms of Christian virtue, and describes the lives and characters of good men with the liveliest relish. We incline therefore to believe, that notwithstanding his transcendental speculations, and philosophical doubts, he has a true (though not thoroughly defined) heart faith in the essential doctrines of the Christian system. Clouds and darkness hang upon the horizon of his spiritual vision, but gloriously irradiated with light from heaven, and here and there opening into vistas of serene and ineffable beauty. Many of his followers, we think, do not understand him, and we fear, will never reach his purity and elevation of mind. They are more likely to be led astray, by the magnificent illusions of his gifted but somewhat erring fancy. Instead of resting in the simple-hearted and heroic faith which he loves so much to describe, they may plunge into the abysses of doubt and despair.

[17]In looking over the Doctor's printed works, we have found this discourse in a somewhat different garb from that in which we have presented it. We were not at first aware of this, or we might have selected some other discourse; for it was our good fortune to hear the Doctor frequently. This and other delineations, however, are taken from personal observation.

[18]All these, with the addition of four volumes of Sermons, forming the Theological Works of Dr. Chalmers, have been republished, in handsome form, by Mr. Carter of New York.

[19]In the introduction to "Vinet's Vital Christianity," I have given a more elaborate estimate of the mental peculiarities of Dr. Chalmers, in connection with those of Vinet, "the Chalmers of Switzerland."Since the above sketch was written Dr. Chalmers has gone to his rest. He died suddenly and unexpectedly on the 31st of May, 1847.

Since the above sketch was written Dr. Chalmers has gone to his rest. He died suddenly and unexpectedly on the 31st of May, 1847.

[20]Singing noise.

[21]Alone.

[22]Old woman.

[23]Thatch.

[24]Pools.

[25]Barn for the cows.

[26]Turf.

[27]Wayward.

[28]Belabored.

[29]Place or socket.

[30]Powerless.

[31]Examine it.

[32]A fire of peats.

[33]In Scotland the old peasant houses have the fire in their centre.

[34]Cups of beech wood.

[35]Shelves opposite the door.

[36]Brown ale.

[37]Fortune-tellers.

[38]Bashful.

[39]Your health.

[40]If.

[41]Makes.

[42]Good befall.

[43]A glass of beer.

[44]Mottled.

[45]Smoke.

[46]Clear up, unravel.

[47]Birchor strap.

[48]Ghost.

[49]Covered.

[50]Two years.

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