summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/45929-h/45929-h.htm
blob: 6ab44ee30c43fc0ae0d24d00932b0d700ec8cd25 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>

<!DOCTYPE html
   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >

<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
  <head>
    <title>
      Rab and his Friends And Other Papers, by John Brown, M.d., F.r.s.e.
    </title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">

    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    .indent5   { margin-left: 5%;}
    .indent10  { margin-left: 10%;}
    .indent15  { margin-left: 15%;}
    .indent20  { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 100%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    .side      { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em;
               border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left;
               text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;
               font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;}
    p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0}
    span.dropcap         { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 }
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45929 ***</div>

    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      RAB AND HIS FRIENDS AND OTHER PAPERS
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By John Brown, M.D., F.R.S.E.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h5>
      New York Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers <br /> <br /> 1903
    </h5>
    <p>
      "<i>Ce fagotage de tant si diverses pièces, se fait en cette condition:
      que je n'y mets la main, que lors qu'une trop lasche oysisvetê vie presse</i>&mdash;michel
      de Montaigne.
    </p>
    <p>
      Artist's Edition. With Numerous New Illustrations By Jessie Shepherd And
      William A. Mccullough
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0008m.jpg" alt="0008m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0008.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0009m.jpg" alt="0009m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0009.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      "The treatment of the illustrious dead by the quick, often reminds me of
      the gravedigger in Hamlet, and the skull of poor defunct Yorick."&mdash;w.h.b.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Multi ad sapientiam pervenire potuissent, nisi se jam pervenisse
      putassent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's nothing so amusing as human nature, but then you must have some
      one to laugh with."&mdash;C. S. B.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears."&mdash;Sir P. Sidney.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> RAB AND HIS FRIENDS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> HER LAST HALF-CROWN. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> OUR DOGS </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> TOBY </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> WYLIE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> RAB. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> WASP </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> JOCK </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> DUCHIE </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> DICK </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> QUEEN MARY'S CHILD-GARDEN. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> 'ATXINOIA&mdash;NEARNESS OF THE NOUS&mdash;PRESENCE
      OF MIND. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> LETTER TO JOHN CAIRNS, D.D. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> DR. CHALMERS </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> DR. GEORGE WILSON. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> NOTES ON ART. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> DISTRAINING FOR RENT. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THOMAS DUNCAN. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> PALESTRINA. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> HUNT THE SLIPPER. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THREE LANDSEERS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE RANDOM SHOT. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> NAPOLEON AT FONTAINEBLEAU BEFORE HIS ABDICATION.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> RIZPAH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE GLEN OF THE ENTERKIN. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> DAWN&mdash;LUTHER IN THE CONVENT LIBRARY AT
      ERFURT. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> BEAUTY, ABSOLUTE AND RELATIVE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> "OH, I'M WAT, WAT." </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> EDUCATION THROUGH THE SENSES. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE BLACK DWARF'S BONES. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> HORAE SUBECIVAE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> ARTHUR H. HALLAM. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> HENRY HALLAM. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PREFACE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      "Squeeze out the whey," was the pithy and sharp advice of his crusty,
      acute, faithful, and ill-fated friend, William Taylor of Norwich, author
      of English Synonyms, to Southey, when that complacent and indefatigable
      poet and literary man of all work sent him the MSS. of his huge quartos.
      It would perhaps have been better for his fame had the author of <i>Thalaba,
      Don Roderick, and The Curse of Kehama</i> taken the gruff advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am going to squeeze my two volumes into one, keeping it a profound
      secret as to what I regard as whey and what curd; only I believe the more
      professional papers, as <i>Locke and Sydenham, Dr. Marshall,</i> etc., are
      less readable&mdash;less likely to while away the idle hours of the gentle
      public, than those now given: they are squeezed out not without a grudge.
    </p>
    <p>
      My energetic friend, J. T. Fields, of the well-known Boston firm, has done
      the same act of excision by the two volumes that I now do,&mdash;and has
      done it admirably. Only I could not but smile when I saw <i>Horo Subsecivo</i>
      exchanged for "Spare Hours,"&mdash;a good title, but not mine; and my
      smile broke into laughter when I found myself dedicated "affectionately"
      to an excellent man and poet, whom, to my sorrow, I do not know.
    </p>
    <p>
      While thanking my American friends, and shaking hands with them across the
      great deep, I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of acknowledging the
      following portion of a letter received a day or two ago from an unknown
      friend&mdash;Charles D. Warner, of Hartford, Conn., U.S.:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see you lay some stress upon the fact that your venerated father was
      very tenacious of purpose, and that <i>that</i> is a trait of the Browns.
      The branch of the family in this country also assert the same of
      themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In further reading how your father came, late in life, when it was too
      late, to know that he had neglected his body, I called to mind a remark of
      another Dr. Brown, which I thought you might like to hear, as confirmatory
      of your theory of the <i>unity</i> of the Browns.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dr. John Brown, D.D., was a native of Brooklyn, in this State. He was
      settled at one time in Cazenovia, New York, and finally died at the age of
      fifty, prematurely worn out, at Hadley, Mass. He was a man of great
      tenacity of purpose, strength of intellect, a clear thinker, and generally
      a powerful man. He was also much beloved, for his heart was large and
      warm.
    </p>
    <p>
      "While he was waiting for death to overtake him, being undermined as I
      have said, I have heard my mother say that he once remarked, 'I have worn
      myself out in labour which God never required of me, and for which man
      never will thank me.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Those of my readers who think life in the main more serious than not, will
      forgive this grave and weighty passage. Those who do not think so, will
      not be the worse of asking themselves if they are safe in so doing.
    </p>
    <h3>
      J. B.
    </h3>
    <p>
      23, Rutland Street,
    </p>
    <p>
      15th Feb. 1862.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Human wisdom has reached its furthest point when it gets to say&mdash;I
      do not know&mdash;God knows. In the child's story of "Beauty and the
      Beast" the Beast says to Beauty, "'Doyou not think me very ugly?'" </i>
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, yes," said she, "for I cannot tell a story." You are right," replied
      the 'Beast; "and besides being ugly I am very stupid."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think you cannot be very stupid," said Beauty, "if you yourself know
      this."&mdash;From a thoughtful Discourse on Plato, by, I believe, a
      Liverpool Merchant.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      RAB AND HIS FRIENDS.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>our-and-thirty
      years ago, Bob Ainslie and I were coming up Infirmary Street from the High
      School, our heads together, and our arms intertwisted, as only lovers and
      boys know how, or why.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we got to the top of the street, and turned north, we espied a crowd
      at the Tron Church. "A dog-fight!" shouted Bob, and was off; and so was I,
      both of us all but praying that it might not be over before we got up! And
      is not this boy-nature? and human nature too? and don't we all wish a
      house on fire not to be out before we see it? Dogs like fighting; old
      Isaac says they "delight" in it, and for the best of all reasons; and boys
      are not cruel because they like to see the fight. They see three of the
      great cardinal virtues of dog or man&mdash;courage, endurance, and skill&mdash;in
      intense action. This is very different from a love of making dogs fight,
      and enjoying, and aggravating, and making gain by their pluck. A boy&mdash;be
      he ever so fond himself of fighting, if he be a good boy, hates and
      despises all this, but he would have run off with Bob and me fast enough:
      it is a natural, and a not wicked interest, that all boys and men have in
      witnessing intense energy in action.
    </p>
    <p>
      Does any curious and finely-ignorant woman wish to know how Bob's eye at a
      glance announced a dog-fight to his brain? He did not, he could not see
      the dogs fighting; it was a flash of an inference, a rapid induction. The
      crowd round a couple of dogs fighting, is a crowd masculine mainly, with
      an occasional active, compassionate woman, fluttering wildly round the
      outside, and using her tongue and her hands freely upon the men, as so
      many "brutes;" it is a crowd annular, compact, and mobile; a crowd
      centripetal, having its eyes and its heads all bent downwards and inwards,
      to one common focus.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over: a small thoroughbred,
      white bull-terrier, is busy throttling a large shepherd's dog,
      unaccustomed to war, but not to be trifled with. They are hard at it; the
      scientific little fellow doing his work in great style, his pastoral enemy
      fighting wildly, but with the sharpest of teeth and a great courage.
      Science and breeding, however, soon had their own; the Game Chicken, as
      the premature Bob called him, working his way up, took his final grip of
      poor Yarrow's throat,&mdash;and he lay gasping and done for. His master, a
      brown, handsome, big young shepherd from Tweedsmuir, would have liked to
      have knocked down any man, would "drink up Esil, or eat a crocodile," for
      that part, if he had a chance: it was no use kicking the little dog; that
      would only make him hold the closer. Many were the means shouted out in
      mouthfuls, of the best possible ways of ending it. "Water!" but there was
      none near, and many cried for it who might have got it from the well at
      Black-friar's Wynd. "Bite the tail!" and a large, vague, benevolent,
      middle-aged man, more desirous than wise, with some struggle got the bushy
      end of <i>Yarrow's</i> tail into his ample mouth, and bit it with all his
      might. This was more than enough for the much-enduring, much-perspiring
      shepherd, who, with a gleam of joy over his broad visage, delivered a
      terrific facer upon our large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged friend,&mdash;who
      went down like a shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still the Chicken holds; death not far off. "Snuff! a pinch of snuff!"
      observed a calm, highly-dressed young buck, with an eye-glass in his eye.
      "Snuff, indeed!" growled the angry crowd, affronted and glaring. "Snuff! a
      pinch of snuff!" again observes the buck, but with more urgency; whereon
      were produced several open boxes, and from a mull which may have been at
      Culloden, he took a pinch, knelt down, and presented it to the nose of the
      Chicken. The laws of physiology and of snuff take their course; the
      Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is free!
    </p>
    <p>
      The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow in his arms,&mdash;comforting
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Bull Terrier's blood is up, and his soul unsatisfied; he grips the
      first dog he meets, and discovering she is not a dog, in Homeric phrase,
      he makes a brief sort of <i>amende</i>, and is off. The boys, with Bob and
      me at their head, are after him: down Niddry Street he goes, bent on
      mischief; up the Cowgate like an arrow&mdash;Bob and I, and our small men,
      panting behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      There, under the single arch of the South Bridge, is a huge mastiff,
      sauntering down the middle of the causeway, as if with his hands in his
      pockets: he is old, gray, brindled as big as a little Highland bull, and
      has the Shaksperian dewlaps shaking as he goes.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="figright" style="width:30%;">
      <img src="images/8019m.jpg" alt="8019m " width="100%" /><br /><a
      href="images/8019.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </div>
    <p>
      The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens on his throat. To our
      astonishment, the great creature does nothing but stand still, hold
      himself up, and roar&mdash;yes, roar; a long, serious, remonstrative roar.
    </p>
    <p>
      How is this? Bob and I are up to them. <i>He is muzzled!</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      The bailies had proclaimed a general muzzling, and his master, studying
      strength and economy mainly, had encompassed his huge jaws in a home-made
      apparatus, constructed out of the leather of some ancient <i>breechin</i>.
      His mouth was open as far as it could; his lips curled up in rage&mdash;a
      sort of terrible grin; his teeth gleaming, ready, from out the darkness;
      the strap across his mouth tense as a bowstring; his whole frame stiff
      with indignation and surprise; his roar asking us all round, "Did you ever
      seethe like of this?" He looked a statue of anger and astonishment, done
      in Aberdeen granite.
    </p>
    <p>
      We soon had a crowd: the Chicken held on. "A knife!" cried Bob; and a
      cobbler gave him his knife: you know the kind of knife, worn away
      obliquely to a point, and always keen. I put its edge to the tense
      leather; it ran before it; and then!&mdash;one sudden jerk of that
      enormous head, a sort of dirty mist about his mouth, no noise,&mdash;and
      the bright and fierce little fellow is dropped, limp, and dead. A solemn
      pause: this was more than any of us had bargained for. I turned the little
      fellow over, and saw he was quite dead: the mastiff had taken him by the
      small of the back like a rat, and broken it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked down at his victim appeased, ashamed, and amazed; snuffed him
      all over, stared at him, and taking a sudden thought, turned round and
      trotted off. Bob took the dead dog up, and said, "John, we'll bury him
      after tea."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said I, and was off after the mastiff. He made up the Cowgate at a
      rapid swing; he had forgotten some engagement. He turned up the
      Candlemaker Row, and stopped at the Harrow Inn.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="figleft" style="width:30%;">
      <img src="images/9020m.jpg" alt="9020m " width="100%" />
      <h5>
        <a href="images/9020.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
      </h5>
    </div>
    <p>
      There was a carrier's cart ready to start, and a keen, thin, impatient,
      black-a-vised little man, his hand at his gray horse's head, looking about
      angrily for something. "Rab, ye thief!" said he, aiming a kick at my great
      friend, who drew cringing up, and avoiding the heavy shoe with more
      agility than dignity, and watching his master's eye, slunk dismayed under
      the cart,&mdash;his ears down, and as much as he had of tail down too.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a man this must be&mdash;thought I&mdash;to whom my tremendous hero
      turns tail! The carrier saw the muzzle hanging, cut and useless, from his
      neck, and I eagerly told him the story, which Bob and I always thought,
      and still think, Homer, or King David, or Sir Walter, alone were worthy to
      rehearse. The severe little man was mitigated, and condescended to say,
      "Rab, ma man, puir Rabbie,"&mdash;whereupon the stump of a tail rose up,
      the ears were cocked, the eyes filled, and were comforted; the two friends
      were reconciled. "Hupp!" and a stroke of the whip were given to Jess; and
      off went the three.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night (we had not much of a tea) in
      the back-green of his house, in Melville Street, No. 17, with considerable
      gravity and silence; and being at the time in the Iliad, and, like all
      boys, Trojans, we of course called him Hector.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ix years have
      passed,&mdash;a long time for a boy and a dog: Bob Ainslie is off to the
      wars; I am a medical student, and clerk at Minto House Hospital.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rab I saw almost every week, on the Wednesday; and we had much pleasant
      intimacy. I found the way to his heart by frequent scratching of his huge
      head, and an occasional bone. When I did not notice him he would plant
      himself straight before me, and stand wagging that bud of a tail, and
      looking up, with his head a little to the one side. His master I
      occasionally saw; he used to call me "Maister John," but was laconic as
      any Spartan.
    </p>
    <p>
      One fine October afternoon, I was leaving the hospital, when I saw the
      large gate open, and in walked Rab, with that great and easy saunter of
      his. He looked as if taking general possession of the place; like the Duke
      of Wellington entering a subdued city, satiated with victory and peace.
      After him came Jess, now white from age, with her cart; and in it a woman
      carefully wrapped up,&mdash;the carrier leading the horse anxiously, and
      looking back. When he saw me, James (for his name was James Noble) made a
      curt and grotesque "boo," and said, "Maister John, this is the mistress;
      she's got a trouble in her breest&mdash;some kind o' an income we're
      thinkin'."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time I saw the woman's face; she was sitting on a sack filled with
      straw, with her husband's plaid round her, and his big-coat, with its
      large white metal buttons, over her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      I never saw a more unforgettable face&mdash;pale, serious, <i>lonely</i>,
      * delicate, sweet, without being at all what we call fine. She looked
      sixty, and had on a mutch, white as snow, with its black ribbon; her
      silvery, smooth hair setting off her dark-grey eyes&mdash;eyes such as one
      sees only twice or thrice in a lifetime, full of suffering, full also of
      the overcoming of it: her eyebrows ** black and delicate, and her mouth
      firm, patient, and contented, which few mouths ever are.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I have said, I never saw a more beautiful countenance, or one more
      subdued to settled quiet. "Ailie," said James, "this is Maister John, the
      young doctor; Rab's freend, ye ken. We often speak aboot you, doctor." She
      smiled, and made a movement, but said nothing; and prepared to come down,
      putting her plaid aside and rising. Had Solomon, in all his glory, been
      handing down the Queen of Sheba, at his palace gate, he could not have
      done it more daintily, more tenderly, more like a gentleman, than did
      James the Howgate carrier, when he lifted down Ailie his wife. The
      contrast of his small, swarthy, weather-beaten, keen, worldly face to hers&mdash;pale,
      subdued, and beautiful&mdash;was something wonderful. Rab looked on
      concerned and puzzled, but ready for anything that might turn up,&mdash;were
      it to strangle the nurse, the porter, or even me. Ailie and he seemed
      great friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As I was sayin', she's got a kind o' trouble in her breest, doctor; wull
      ye tak' a look at it?" We walked into the consulting room, all four; Rab
      grim and comic, willing to be happy and confidential if cause could be
      shown, willing also to be the reverse, on the same terms. Ailie sat down,
      undid her open gown and her lawn handkerchief round her neck, and, without
      a word, showed me her right breast. I looked at and examined it carefully,&mdash;she
      and James watching me, and Rab eyeing all three. What could I say? there
      it was, that had once been so soft, so shapely, so white, so gracious and
      bountiful, so "full of all blessed conditions,"&mdash;hard as a stone, a
      centre of horrid pain, making that pale face, with its grey, lucid,
      reasonable eyes, and its sweet resolved mouth, express the full measure of
      suffering overcome.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * It is not easy giving this look by one word; it was
     expressive of her being so much of her life alone.

     **... "Black brows, they say,
     Become some women best, so that there be not
     Too much hair there, but in a semicircle,
     Or a half-moon made with a pen."&mdash;A Winter's Tale.
</pre>
    <p>
      Why was that gentle, modest, sweet woman, clean and loveable, condemned by
      God to bear such a burden?
    </p>
    <p>
      I got her away to bed. "May Rab and me bide?" said James. "<i>You</i> may;
      and Rab, if he will behave himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'se warrant he's do that, doctor," and in slunk the faithful beast. I
      wish you could have seen him. There are no such dogs now. He belonged to a
      lost tribe. As I have said, he was brindled, and grey like Rubislaw
      granite; his hair short, hard, and close, like a lion's; his body
      thickset, like a little bull&mdash;a sort of compressed Hercules of a dog.
      He must have been ninety pounds' weight, at the least; he had a large
      blunt head; his muzzle black as night, his mouth blacker than any night, a
      tooth or two&mdash;being all he had&mdash;gleaming out of his jaws of
      darkness. His head was scarred with the records of old wounds, a sort of
      series of fields of battle all over it; one eye out, one ear cropped as
      close as was Archbishop Leighton's father's; the remaining eye had the
      power of two; and above it, and in constant communication with it, was a
      tattered rag of an ear, which was for ever unfurling itself, like an old
      flag; and then that bud of a tail, about one inch long, if it could in any
      sense be said to be long, being as broad as long&mdash;the mobility, the
      instantaneousness of that bud were very funny and surprising, and its
      expressive twinklings and winkings, the intercommunications between the
      eye, the ear, and it, were of the oddest and swiftest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size; and having fought his
      way all along the road to absolute supremacy, he was as mighty in his own
      line as Julius Cæsar or the Duke of Wellington, and had the gravity * of
      all great fighters.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * A Highland game-keeper, when asked why a certain terrier,
     of singular pluck, was so much more solemn than, the other
     dogs, said, "Oh, Sir, life's full o' sariousness to him&mdash;he
     just never can get eneuch o' fechtin'."
</pre>
    <p>
      You must have often observed the likeness of certain men to certain
      animals, and of certain dogs to men. Now, I never looked at Rab without
      thinking of the great Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller. * The same large,
      heavy, menacing, combative, sombre, honest countenance, the same deep,
      inevitable eye, the same look, as of thunder asleep, but ready,&mdash;neither
      a dog nor a man to be trifled with.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day, my master, the surgeon, examined Ailie. There was no doubt it
      must kill her, and soon. It could be removed&mdash;it might never return&mdash;it
      would give her speedy relief&mdash;she should have it done. She curtsied,
      looked at James, and said, "When?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To-morrow," said the kind surgeon&mdash;a man of few words. She and James
      and Rab and I retired. I noticed that he and she spoke little, but seemed
      to anticipate everything in each other. The following day, at noon, the
      students came in, hurrying up the great stair. At the first landing-place,
      on a small well-known black-board, was a bit of paper fastened by wafers,
      and many remains of old wafers beside it. On the paper were the words,&mdash;"An
      operation to-day.&mdash;J. B. <i>Clerk</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      Up ran the youths, eager to secure good places: in they crowded, full of
      interest and talk. "What's the case?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Which side is it?".
    </p>
    <p>
      Don't think them heartless; they are neither better nor worse than you or
      I: they get over their professional horrors, and into their proper work;
      and in them pity, as an <i>emotion</i>, ending in itself or at best in
      tears and a long-drawn breath, lessens,&mdash;while pity, as a <i>motive</i>,
      is quickened, and gains power and purpose. It is well for poor human
      nature that it is so.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Fuller was, in early life, when a farmer lad at Soham,
     famous as a boxer; not quarrelsome, but not without "the
     stern delight" a man of strength and courage feels in their
     exercise. Dr. Charles Stewart of Dunearn, whose rare gifts
     and graces as a physician, a divine, a scholar, and a
     gentleman, live, only in the memory of those few who knew
     and survive him, liked to tell how Mr. Fuller used to say,
     that when he was in the pulpit, and saw a buirdly man come
     along the passage, he would instinctively draw himself up,
     measure his imaginary antagonist, and forecast how he would
     deal with him, his hands meanwhile condensing into fists,
     and tending to "square." He must have been a hard hitter if
     he boxed as he preached&mdash;what "The Fancy" would call "an
     ugly customer."
</pre>
    <p>
      The operating theatre is crowded; much talk and fun, and all the
      cordiality and stir of youth. The surgeon with his staff of assistants is
      there. In comes Ailie: one look at her quiets and abates the eager
      students. That beautiful old woman is too much for them; they sit down,
      and are dumb, and gaze at her. These rough boys feel the power of her
      presence. She walks in quickly, but without haste; dressed in her mutch,
      her neckerchief, her white dimity short-gown, her black bombazeen
      petticoat, showing her white worsted stockings and her carpet shoes.
      Behind her was James with Rab. James sat down in the distance, and took
      that huge and noble head between his knees. Rab looked perplexed and
      dangerous; for ever cocking his ear and dropping it as fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0025m.jpg" alt="0025m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0025.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Ailie stepped up on a seat, and laid herself on the table, as her friend
      the surgeon told her; arranged herself, gave a rapid look at James, shut
      her eyes, rested herself on me, and took my hand. The operation was at
      once begun; it was necessarily slow; and chloroform&mdash;one of God's
      best gifts to his suffering children&mdash;was then unknown. The surgeon
      did his work. The pale face showed its pain, but was still and silent.
      Rab's soul was working within him; he saw that something strange was going
      on,&mdash;blood flowing from his mistress, and she suffering; his ragged
      ear was up, and importunate; he growled and gave now and then a sharp
      impatient yelp; he would have liked to have done something to that man.
      But James had him firm, and gave him a <i>glower</i> from time to time,
      and an intimation of a possible kick;&mdash;all the better for James, it
      kept his eye and his mind off Ailie.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is over; she is dressed, steps gently and decently down from the table,
      looks for James; then turning to the surgeon and the students, she
      curtsies,&mdash;and in a low, clear voice, begs their pardon if she has
      behaved ill. The students&mdash;all of us&mdash;wept like children; the
      surgeon happed her up carefully,&mdash;and, resting on James and me, Ailie
      went to her room, Rab following. We put her to bed. James took off his
      heavy shoes, crammed with tackets, heel-capt and toe-capt, and put them
      carefully under the table, saying, "Maister John, I'm for nane o' yer
      strynge nurse bodies for Ailie. I'll be her nurse, and I'll gang aboot on
      my stockin' soles as canny as pussy." And so he did; and handy and clever,
      and swift and tender as any woman, was that horny-handed, snell,
      peremptory little man. Everything she got he gave her: he seldom slept;
      and often I saw his small shrewd eyes out of the darkness, fixed on her.
      As before, they spoke little.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us how meek and gentle he could
      be, and occasionally, in his sleep, letting us know that he was
      demolishing some adversary. He took a walk with me every day, generally to
      the Candlemaker Row; but he was sombre and mild; declined doing battle,
      though some fit cases offered, and indeed submitted to sundry indignities;
      and was always very ready to turn, and came faster back, and trotted up
      the stair with much lightness, and went straight to that door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather-worn cart, to Howgate, and
      had doubtless her own dim and placid meditations and confusions, on the
      absence of her master and Rab, and her unnatural freedom from the road and
      her cart.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some days Ailie did well. The wound healed by the first intention for
      as James said, "Oor Ailie's skin's ower clean to beil." The students came
      in quiet and anxious, and surrounded her bed. She said she liked to see
      their young, honest faces. The surgeon dressed her, and spoke to her in
      his own short kind way, pitying her through his eyes, Rab and James
      outside the circle,&mdash;Rab being now reconciled, and even cordial, and
      having made up his mind that as yet nobody required worrying, but, as you
      may suppose, <i>semper paratus</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      So far well: but, four days after the operation, my patient had a sudden
      and long shivering, a "groosin'," as she called it. I saw her soon after;
      her eyes were too bright, her cheek coloured; she was restless, and
      ashamed of being so; the balance was lost; mischief had begun. On looking
      at the wound, a blush of red told the secret; her pulse was rapid, her
      breathing anxious and quick, she wasn't herself, as she said, and was
      vexed at her restlessness. We tried what we could. James did everything,
      was everywhere; never in the way, never out of it; Rab subsided under the
      table into a dark place, and was motionless, all but his eye, which
      followed every one. Ailie got worse; began to wander in her mind, gently;
      was more demonstrative in her ways to James, rapid in her questions, and
      sharp at times. He was vexed, and said, "She was never that way afore, no,
      never." For a time she knew her head was wrong, and was always asking our
      pardon&mdash;the dear gentle old woman: then delirium set in strong,
      without pause. Her brain gave way, and then came that terrible spectacle,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The intellectual power, through words and things,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way;"
    </p>
    <p>
      she sang bits of old songs and Psalms, stopping suddenly, mingling the
      Psalms of David, and the diviner words of his Son and Lord, with homely
      odds and ends and scraps of ballads.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing more touching, or in a sense more strangely beautiful, did I ever
      witness. Her tremulous, rapid, affectionate, eager, Scotch voice,&mdash;the
      swift, aimless, bewildered mind, the baffled utterance, the bright and
      perilous eye; some wild words, some household cares, something for James,
      the names of the dead, Rab called rapidly and in a "fremyt" voice, and he
      starting up, surprised, and slinking off as if he were to blame somehow,
      or had been dreaming he heard. Many eager questions and beseechings which
      James and I could make nothing of, and on which she seemed to set her all,
      and then sink back ununderstood. It was very sad, but better than many
      things that are not called sad. James hovered about, put out and
      miserable, but active and exact as ever; read to her, when there was a
      lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose and metre, chanting the latter in
      his own rude and serious way, showing great knowledge of the fit words,
      bearing up like a man, and doating over her as his "ain Ailie." "Ailie, ma
      woman!" "Ala ain bonnie wee dawtie!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The end was drawing on: the golden bowl was breaking; the silver cord was
      fast being loosed&mdash;that <i>animula blandula, vagula, hospes, comesque</i>,
      was about to flee. The body and the soul&mdash;companions for sixty years&mdash;were
      being sundered, and taking leave. She was walking, alone, through the
      valley of that shadow, into which one day we must all enter,&mdash;and yet
      she was not alone, for we know whose rod and staff were comforting her.
    </p>
    <p>
      One night she had fallen quiet, and as we hoped, asleep; her eyes were
      shut. We put down the gas, and sat watching her. Suddenly she sat up in
      bed, and taking a bed-gown which was lying on it rolled up, she held it
      eagerly to her breast,&mdash;to the right side. We could see her eyes
      bright with a surprising tenderness and joy, bending over this bundle of
      clothes. She held it as a woman holds her sucking child; opening out her
      nightgown impatiently, and holding it close, and brooding over it, and
      murmuring foolish little words, as over one whom his mother comforteth,
      and who sucks and is satisfied. It was pitiful and strange to see her
      wasted dying look, keen and yet vague&mdash;her immense love.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Preserve me!" groaned James, giving way. And then she rocked back and
      forward, as if to make it sleep, hushing it, and wasting on it her
      infinite fondness. "Wae's me, doctor; I declare she's thinkin' it's that
      bairn."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What bairn?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The only bairn we ever had; our wee Mysie, and she's in the Kingdom forty
      years and mair." It was plainly true: the pain in the breast, telling its
      urgent story to a bewildered, ruined brain, was misread and mistaken; it
      suggested to her the uneasiness of a breast full of milk, and then the
      child; and so again once more they were together, and she had her ain wee
      Mysie in her bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the close. She sank rapidly: the delirium left her; but, as she
      whispered, she was "clean silly;" it was the lightening before the final
      darkness. After having for some time lain still&mdash;her eyes shut, she
      said, "James!" He came close to her, and lifting up her calm, clear,
      beautiful eyes, she gave him a long look, turned to me kindly but shortly,
      looked for Rab but could not see him, then turned to her husband again, as
      if she would never leave off looking, shut her eyes and composed herself.
      She lay for some time breathing quick, and passed away so gently, that
      when we thought she was gone, James, in his old-fashioned way, held the
      mirror to her face. After a long pause, one small spot of dimness was
      breathed out; it vanished away, and never returned, leaving the blank
      clear darkness without a stain. "What is our life? it is even a vapour,
      which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0031m.jpg" alt="0031m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0031.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Rab all this time had been full awake and motionless: he came forward
      beside us: Ailie's hand, which James had held, was hanging down; it was
      soaked with his tears; Rab licked it all over carefully, looked at her,
      and returned to his place under the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      James and I sat, I don't know how long, but for some time,&mdash;saying
      nothing; he started up abruptly, and with some noise went to the table,
      and putting his right fore and middle fingers each into a shoe, pulled
      them out, and put them on, breaking one of the leather latchets, and
      muttering in anger, "I never did the like o' that afore!"
    </p>
    <p>
      I believe he never did; nor after either. "Rab!" he said roughly, and
      pointing with his thumb to the bottom of the bed. Rab leapt up, and
      settled himself; his head and eye to the dead face. "Maister John, ye'll
      wait for me," said the carrier; and disappeared in the darkness,
      thundering down stairs in his heavy shoes. I ran to a front window: there
      he was, already round the house, and out at the gate, fleeing like a
      shadow.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was afraid about him, and yet not afraid; so I sat down beside Rab, and
      being wearied, fell asleep. I awoke from a sudden noise outside. It was
      November, and there had been a heavy fall of snow. Rab was <i>in statu quo</i>;
      he heard the noise too, and plainly knew it, but never moved. I looked
      out; and there, at the gate, in the dim morning&mdash;for the sun wras not
      up, was Jess and the cart,&mdash;a cloud of steam rising from the old
      mare. I did not see James; he was already at the door, and came up the
      stairs and met me. It was less than three hours since he left, and he must
      have posted out&mdash;who knows how?&mdash;to Howgate, full nine miles
      off; yoked Jess, and driven her astonished into town. He had an armful of
      blankets, and was streaming with perspiration. He nodded to me, spread out
      on the floor two pairs of clean old blankets having at their corners, "A.
      G., 1794," in large letters in red worsted. These were the initials of
      Alison Græme, and James may have looked in at her from without&mdash;himself
      unseen but not unthought of&mdash;when he was "wat, wat, and weary," and
      after having walked many a mile over the hills, may have seen her sitting,
      while "a' the lave were sleepin'," and by the firelight working her name
      on the blankets, for her ain James's bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He motioned Rab down, and taking his wife in his arms, laid her in the
      blankets, and happed her carefully and firmly up, leaving the face
      uncovered; and then lifting her, he nodded again sharply to me, and with a
      resolved but utterly miserable face, strode along the passage, and down
      stairs, followed by Rab. I followed with a light; but he didn't need it. I
      went out, holding stupidly the candle in my hand in the calm frosty air;
      we were soon at the gate. I could have helped him, but I saw he was not to
      be meddled with, and he was strong, and did not need it. He laid her down
      as tenderly, as safely, as he had lifted her out ten days before&mdash;as
      tenderly as when he had her first in his arms when she was only "A. G."&mdash;sorted
      her, leaving that beautiful sealed face open to the heavens; and then
      taking Jess by the head, he moved away. He did not notice me, neither did
      Rab, who presided behind the cart.
    </p>
    <p>
      I stood till they passed through the long shadow of the College, and
      turned up Nicolson Street. I heard the solitary cart sound through the
      streets, and die away and come again; and I returned, thinking of that
      company going up Libberton Brae, then along Roslin Muir, the morning light
      touching the Pentlands, and making them like on-looking ghosts; then down
      the hill through Auchindinny woods, past "haunted Woodhouselee," and as
      daybreak came sweeping up the bleak Lammermuirs, and fell on his own door,
      the company would stop, and James would take the key, and lift Ailie up
      again, laying her on her own bed, and, having put Jess up, would return
      with Rab and shut the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      James buried his wife, with his neighbours mourning, Rab watching the
      proceedings from a distance. It was snow, and that black ragged hole would
      look strange in the midst of the swelling spotless cushion of white. James
      looked after everything; then rather suddenly fell ill, and took to bed;
      was insensible when the doctor came, and soon died. A sort of low fever
      was prevailing in the village, and his want of sleep, his exhaustion, and
      his misery-made him apt to take it. The grave was not difficult to
      re-open. A fresh fall of snow had again made all things white and smooth;
      Rab once more looked on, and slunk home to the stable.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0035m.jpg" alt="0035m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0035.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      And what of Rab? I asked for him next week at the new carrier who got the
      goodwill of James's business, and was now master of Jess and her cart.
      "How's Rab?" He put me off, and said rather rudely, "What's <i>your</i>
      business wi' the dowg?" I was not to be so put off. "Where's Rab?" He,
      getting confused and red, and intermeddling with his hair, said, "'Deed,
      sir, Rab's deid."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dead! what did he die of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Weel, sir," said he, getting redder, "he didna exactly dee; he was
      killed. I had to brain him wi' a rack-pin; there was nae doin' wi' him. He
      lay in the treviss wi' the mear, and wadna come oot. I tempit him wi' kail
      and meat, but he wad tak naething, and keepit me frae feedin' the beast,
      and he was aye gur gurrin', and grup gruppin' me by the legs. I was laith
      to mak' awa wi' the auld dowg, his like wasna atween this and Thornhill,&mdash;but,'deed,
      sir, I could do naething else." I believed him. Fit end for Rab, quick and
      complete. His teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep the peace,
      and be civil?
    </p>
    <p>
      He was buried in the braeface, near the burn, the children of the village,
      his companions, who used to make very free with him and sit on his ample
      stomach, as he lay half asleep at the door in the sun, watching the
      solemnity.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      HER LAST HALF-CROWN.
    </h2>
    <p class="indent10">
      Once I had friends&mdash;though now by all forsaken;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Once I had parents&mdash;they are now in heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I had a home once&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Worn out with anguish, sin, and cold, and hunger,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Down sunk the outcast, death had seized her senses.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      There did the stranger find her in the morning&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      God had released her.
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      Southey.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ugh Miller, the
      geologist, journalist, and man of genius, was sitting in his newspaper
      office late one dreary winter night. The clerks had all left, and he was
      preparing to go, when a quick rap came to the door. He said "Come in,"
      and, looking towards the entrance, saw a little ragged child all wet with
      sleet. "Are ye Hugh Miller?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mary Duff wants ye."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What does she want?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She's deein'." Some misty recollection of the name made him at once set
      out, and with his well-known plaid and stick, he was soon striding after
      the child, who trotted through the now deserted High Street, into the
      Canongate. By the time he got to the Old Playhouse Close, Hugh had revived
      his memory of Mary Duff; a lively girl who had been bred up beside him in
      Cromarty. The last time he had seen her was at a brother mason's marriage,
      where Mary was "best maid," and he "best man," He seemed still to see her
      bright young careless face, her tidy short gown, and her dark eyes, and to
      hear her bantering, merry tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down the close went the ragged little woman, and up an outside stair, Hugh
      keeping near her with difficulty; in the passage she held out her hand and
      touched him; taking it in his great palm, he felt that she wanted a thumb.
      Finding her way like a cat through the darkness, she opened a door, and
      saying, "That's her!" vanished. By the light of a dying fire he saw lying
      in the corner of the large empty room something like a woman's clothes,
      and on drawing nearer became aware of a thin pale face and two dark eyes
      looking keenly but helplessly up at him. The eyes were plainly Mary
      Duff's, though he could recognise no other feature. She wept silently,
      gazing steadily at him. "Are you Mary Duff?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's a' that's o' me, Hugh." She then tried to speak to him, something
      plainly of great urgency, but she couldn't; and seeing that she was very
      ill, and was making herself worse, he put half-a-crown into her feverish
      hand, and said he would call again in the morning. He could get no
      information about her from the neighbours: they were surly or asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he returned next morning, the little girl met him at the stair-head,
      and said, "She's deid." He went in, and found that it was true; there she
      lay, the fire out, her face placid, and the likeness to her maiden self
      restored. Hugh thought he would have known her now, even with those bright
      black eyes closed as they were, <i>in aeternum.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeking out a neighbour, he said he would like to bury Mary Duff, and
      arranged for the funeral with an undertaker in the close. Little seemed to
      be known of the poor outcast, except that she was a "licht," or, as
      Solomon would have said, a "strange woman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did she drink?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whiles."
    </p>
    <p>
      On the day of the funeral one or two residents in the close accompanied
      him to the Canongate Churchyard. He observed a decent-looking little old
      woman watching them, and following at a distance, though the day was wet
      and bitter. After the grave was filled, and he had taken off his hat, as
      the men finished their business by putting on and slapping the sod, he saw
      this old woman remaining; she came up and, courtesying, said, "Ye wad ken
      that lass, Sir?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes; I knew her when she was young." The woman then burst into tears, and
      told Hugh that she "keepit a bit shop at the close-mooth, and Mary dealt
      wi' me, and aye paid reglar, and I was feared she was dead, for she had
      been a month awin' me half-a-crown:" and then, with a look and voice of
      awe, she told him how on the night he was sent for, and immediately after
      he had left, she had been awakened by some one in her room; and by her
      bright fire&mdash;for she was a <i>bein</i>, well-to-do body&mdash;she had
      seen the wasted dying creature, who came forward and said, "Wasn't it
      half-a-crown?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There it is," and putting it under the bolster, vanished!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0039m.jpg" alt="0039m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0039.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Poor Mary Duff! her life had been a sad one since the day when she had
      stood side by side with Hugh at the wedding of their friends. Her father
      died not long after, and her mother supplanted her in the affections of
      the man to whom she had given her heart. The shock made home intolerable.
      She fled from it blighted and embittered, and after a life of shame and
      misery, crept, into the corner of her room to die alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith
      the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways
      higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      OUR DOGS
    </h2>
    <p>
      "<i>The misery of keeping a dog is his dying so soon; but to be sure, if
      he lived for fifty years, and then died, what would become of me?</i>"&mdash;Sir
      Walter Scott.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>There is in every animal's eye a dim image and gleam of humanity, a
      flash of strange light through which their life looks out and up to our
      great mystery of command over them, and claims the fellowship of the
      creature if not of the soul</i>."&mdash;Ruskin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>They say that Socrates swore by his dog.</i>"&mdash;Montaigne.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>To Sir Walter and Lady Trevelyan's glum and faithful PETER, with much
      regard</i>.
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was bitten
      severely by a little dog when with my mother at Moffat Wells, being then
      three years of age, and I have remained "bitten" ever since in the matter
      of dogs. I remember that little dog, and can at this moment not only recal
      my pain and terror&mdash;I have no doubt I was to blame&mdash;but also her
      face; and were I allowed to search among the shades in the cynic Elysian
      fields, I could pick her out still. All my life I have been familiar with
      these faithful creatures, making friends of them, and speaking to them;
      and the only time I ever addressed the public, about a year after being
      bitten, was at the farm of Kirklaw Hill, near Biggar, when the text, given
      out from an empty cart in which the ploughmen had placed me, was "Jacob's
      dog," and my entire sermon was as follows: "Some say that Jacob had a
      black dog (the o very long), and some say that Jacob had a white dog, but
      I (imagine the presumption of four years!) say Jacob had a brown dog, and
      a brown dog it shall be."
    </p>
    <p>
      I had many intimacies from this time onwards&mdash;Bawtie, of the inn;
      Keeper, the carrier's bull-terrier; Tiger, a huge tawny mastiff from
      Edinburgh, which I think must have been an uncle of Rab's; all the sheep
      dogs at Callands&mdash;Spring, Mavis, Yarrow, Swallow, Cheviot, etc.; but
      it was not till I was at college, and my brother at the High School, that
      we possessed a dog.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      TOBY
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>as the most
      utterly shabby, vulgar, mean-looking cur I ever beheld: in one word, a
      tyke. He had not one good feature except his teeth and eyes, and his bark,
      if that can be called a feature. He was not ugly enough to be interesting;
      his colour black and white, his shape leggy and clumsy; altogether what
      Sydney Smith would have called an extraordinarily ordinary dog: and, as I
      have said, not even greatly ugly, or, as the Aberdonians have it, bonnie
      wi' ill-fauredness. My brother William found him the centre of attraction
      to a multitude of small black-guards who were drowning him slowly in
      Lochend Loch, doing their best to lengthen out the process, and secure the
      greatest amount of fun with the nearest approach to death. Even then Toby
      showed his great intellect by pretending to be dead, and thus gaining time
      and an inspiration. William bought him for twopence, and as he had it not,
      the boys accompanied him to Pilrig Street, when I happened to meet him,
      and giving the twopence to the biggest boy, had the satisfaction of seeing
      a general engagement of much severity, during which the twopence
      disappeared; one penny going off with a very small and swift boy, and the
      other vanishing hopelessly into the grating of a drain.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0043m.jpg" alt="0043m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0043.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Toby was for weeks in the house unbeknown to any one but ourselves two and
      the cook, and from my grandmother's love of tidiness and hatred of dogs
      and of dirt, I believe she would have expelled "him whom we saved from
      drowning," had not he, in his straightforward way, walked into my father's
      bedroom one night when he was bathing' his feet; and introduced himself
      with a wag of his tail, intimating a general willingness to be happy. My
      father laughed most heartily, and at last Toby, having got his way to his
      bare feet, and having begun to lick his soles and between his toes with
      his small rough tongue, my father gave such an unwonted shout of laughter,
      that we&mdash;grandmother, sisters, and all of us&mdash;went in.
      Grandmother might argue with all her energy and skill, but as surely as
      the pressure of Tom Jones' infantile fist upon Mr. Allworthy's forefinger
      undid all the arguments of his sister, so did Toby's tongue and fun prove
      too many for grandmother's eloquence. I somehow think Toby must have been
      up to all this, for I think he had a peculiar love for my father ever
      after, and regarded grandmother from that hour with a careful and cool
      eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toby, when full grown, was a strong coarse dog; coarse in shape, in
      countenance, in hair, and in manner. I used to think that, according to
      the Pythagorean doctrine, he must have been, or been going to be, a
      Gilmerton carter. He was of the bull-terrier variety, coarsened through
      much mongrelism and a dubious and varied ancestry. His teeth were good,
      and he had a large skull, and a rich bark as of a dog three times his
      size, and a tail which I never saw equalled&mdash;indeed it was a tail <i>per
      se</i>; it was of immense girth and not short, equal throughout like a
      policeman's baton; the machinery for working it was of great power, and
      acted in a way, as far as I have been able to discover, quite original. We
      called it his ruler.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he wished to get into the house, he first whined gently, then
      growled, then gave a sharp bark, and then came a resounding, mighty stroke
      which shook the house; this, after much study and watching, we found was
      done by his bringing the entire length of his solid tail flat upon the
      door, with a sudden and vigorous stroke; it was quite a <i>tour de force</i>
      or a <i>coup de queue</i>, and he was perfect in it at once, his first <i>bang</i>
      authoritative, having been as masterly and telling as his last.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all this inbred vulgar air, he was a dog of great moral excellence&mdash;affectionate,
      faithful, honest up to his light, with an odd humor as peculiar and as
      strong as his tail. My father, in his reserved way, was very fond of him,
      and there must have been very funny scenes with them, for we heard bursts
      of laughter issuing from his study when they two were by themselves: there
      was something in him that took that grave, beautiful, melancholy face. One
      can fancy him in the midst of his books, and sacred work and thoughts,
      pausing and looking at the secular Toby, who was looking out for a smile
      to begin his rough fun, and about to end by coursing and <i>gurrin</i>
      round the room, upsetting my father's books, laid out on the floor for
      consultation, and himself nearly at times, as he stood watching him&mdash;and
      off his guard and shaking with laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toby had always a great desire to accompany my father up to town; this my
      father's good taste and sense of dignity, besides his fear of losing his
      friend (a vain fear!), forbade, and as the decision of character of each
      was great and nearly equal, it was often a drawn game. Toby, ultimately,
      by making it his entire object, triumphed. He usually was nowhere to be
      seen on my father leaving; he however saw him, and lay in wait at the head
      of the street, and up Leith Walk he kept him in view from the opposite
      side like a detective, and then, when he knew it was hopeless to hound him
      home, he crossed unblushingly over, and joined company, excessively
      rejoiced of course.
    </p>
    <p>
      One Sunday he had gone with him to church, and left him at the vestry
      door. The second psalm was given out, and my father was sitting back in
      the pulpit, when the door at its back, up which he came from the vestry,
      was seen to move, and gently open, then, after a long pause, a black
      shining snout pushed its way steadily into the congregation, and was
      followed by Toby's entire body. He looked somewhat abashed, but snuffing
      his friend, he advanced as if on thin ice, and not seeing him, put his
      fore-legs on the pulpit, and behold there he was his own familiar chum. I
      watched all this, and anything more beautiful than his look of happiness,
      of comfort, of entire ease when he beheld his friend&mdash;the smoothing
      down of the anxious ears, the swing of gladness of that mighty tail,&mdash;I
      don't expect soon to see. My father quietly opened the door, and Toby was
      at his feet and invisible to all but himself; had he sent old George
      Peaston, the "minister's man," to put him out, Toby would probably have
      shown his teeth, and astonished George. He slunk home as soon as he could,
      and never repeated that exploit.
    </p>
    <p>
      I never saw in any other dog the sudden transition from discretion, not to
      say abject cowardice, to blazing and permanent valour. From his earliest
      years he showed a general meanness of blood, inherited from many
      generations of starved, bekicked, and down-trodden forefathers and
      mothers, resulting in a condition of intense abjectness in all matters of
      personal fear; anybody, even a beggar, by a <i>gowl</i> and a threat of
      eye, could send him off howling by anticipation, with that mighty tail
      between his legs.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0051m.jpg" alt="0051m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0051.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      But it was not always so to be, and I had the privilege of seeing courage,
      reasonable, absolute, and for life, spring up in Toby at once, as did
      Athené from the skull of Jove. It happened thus:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Toby was in the way of hiding his culinary bones in the small gardens
      before his own and the neighbouring doors. Mr. Scrymgeour, two doors off,
      a bulky, choleric, red-haired, red-faced man&mdash;<i>torvo vultu</i>&mdash;was,
      by law of contrast, a great cultivator of flowers, and he had often
      scowled Toby into all but non-existence by a stamp of his foot and a glare
      of his eye. One day his gate being open, in walks Toby with a huge bone,
      and making a hole where Scrymgeour had two minutes before been planting
      some precious slip, the name of which on paper and on a stick Toby made
      very light of, substituted his bone, and was engaged covering it, or
      thinking he was covering it up with his shovelling nose (a very odd relic
      of paradise in the dog), when S. spied him through the inner glass-door,
      and was out upon him like the Assyrian, with a terrific <i>gowl</i>. I
      watched them. Instantly Toby made straight at him with a roar too, and an
      eye more torve than Scrymgeour's, who, retreating without reserve, fell
      prostrate, there is reason to believe, in his own lobby. Toby contented
      himself with proclaiming his victory at the door, and returning finished
      his bone-planting at his leisure; the enemy, who had scuttled behind the
      glass-door, glaring at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0055m.jpg" alt="0055m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0055.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      From this moment Toby was an altered dog. Pluck at first sight was lord of
      all; from that time dated his first tremendous deliverance of tail against
      the door, which we called "come listen to my tail." That very evening he
      paid a visit to Leo, next door's dog, a big, tyrannical bully and coward,
      which its master thought a Newfoundland, but whose pedigree we knew
      better; this brute continued the same system of chronic extermination
      which was interrupted at Lochend,&mdash;having Toby down among his feet,
      and threatening him with instant death two or three times a day. To him
      Toby paid a visit that very evening, down into his den, and walked about,
      as much as to say "Come on, Macduff!" but Macduff did not come on, and
      henceforward there was an armed neutrality, and they merely stiffened up
      and made their backs rigid, pretended each not to see the other, walking
      solemnly round, as is the manner of dogs.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0059m.jpg" alt="0059m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0059.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Toby worked his new-found faculty thoroughly, but with discretion. He
      killed cats, astonished beggars, kept his own in his own garden against
      all comers, and came off victorious in several well-fought battles; but he
      was not quarrelsome or foolhardy. It was very odd how his carriage
      changed, holding his head up, and how much pleasanter he was at home. To
      my father, next to William, who was his Humane Society man, he remained
      stanch. He had a great dislike to all things abnormal, as the phrase now
      is. A young lady of his acquaintance was calling one day, and, relating
      some distressing events, she became hysterical. Of this Toby did not
      approve, and sallying from under my father's chair, attacked his friend,
      barking fiercely, and cut short the hysterics better than any <i>sal
      volatile</i> or valerian. He then made abject apologies to the patient,
      and slunk back to his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      And what of his end? for the misery of dogs is that they die so soon, or,
      as Sir Walter says, it is well they do; for if they lived as long as a
      Christian, and we liked them in proportion, and they then died, he said
      that was a thing he could not stand.
    </p>
    <p>
      His exit was lamentable, and had a strange poetic or tragic relation to
      his entrance. My father was out of town; I was away in England. Whether it
      was that the absence of my father had relaxed his power of moral
      restraint, or whether through neglect of the servant he had been
      desperately hungry, or most likely both being true, Toby was discovered
      with the remains of a cold leg of mutton, on which he had made an ample
      meal; * this he was endeavouring to plant as of old, in the hope of its
      remaining undiscovered till to-morrow's hunger returned, the whole
      shank-bone sticking up unmistakably. This was seen by our excellent and
      Rhadamanthine grandmother, who pronounced sentence on the instant; and
      next day, as William was leaving for the High School, did he in the sour
      morning, through an easterly <i>haur</i>, behold him "whom he saved from
      drowning," and whom, with better results than in the case of Launce and
      Crabb, he had taught, as if one should say "thus would I teach a dog,"&mdash;dangling
      by his own chain from his own lamp-post, one of his hind feet just
      touching the pavement, and his body preternaturally elongated.
    </p>
    <p>
      William found him dead and warm, and falling in with the milk-boy at the
      head of the street, questioned him, and discovered that he was the
      executioner, and had got twopence, he&mdash;Toby's every morning's crony,
      who met him and accompanied him up the street, and licked the outside of
      his can&mdash;had, with an eye to speed and convenience, and a want of
      taste, not to say principle and affection, horrible still to think of,
      suspended Toby's animation beyond all hope. William instantly fell upon
      him, upsetting his milk and cream, and gave him a thorough licking, to his
      own intense relief; and, being late, he got from Pyper, who was a
      martinet, the customary palmies, which he bore with something approaching
      to pleasure. So died Toby; my father said little, but he missed and
      mourned his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is reason to believe that by one of those curious intertwistings of
      existence, the milk-boy was that one of the drowning party who got the
      penny of the twopence.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Toby was in the state of the shepherd boy whom George
     Webster met in Glenshee, and asked, "My man, were you ever
     fou'?"

    "Ay aince"&mdash;speaking slowly, as if remembering&mdash;"Ay, aince."

    "What on?"

    "Cauld mutton!"
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      WYLIE.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ur next friend was
      an exquisite shepherd's dog; fleet, thin-flanked, dainty, and handsome as
      a small greyhound, with all the grace of silky waving black and tan hair.
      We got her thus. Being then young and keen botanists, and full of the
      knowledge and love of Tweedside, having been on every hilltop from Muckle
      Mendie to Hundles-hope and the Lee Pen, and having fished every water from
      Tarth to the Leithen, we discovered early in spring that young Stewart,
      author of an excellent book on natural history, a young man of great
      promise and early death, had found the <i>Buxbaumia aphylla</i>, a
      beautiful and odd-looking moss, west of Newbie heights, in the very month
      we were that moment in. We resolved to start next day. We walked to
      Peebles, and then up Hay-stoun Glen to the cottage of Adam Cairns, the
      aged shepherd of the Newbie hirsel, of whom we knew, and who knew of us
      from his daughter, Nancy Cairns, a servant with Uncle Aitken of Callands.
      We found our way up the burn with difficulty, as the evening was getting
      dark; and on getting near the cottage heard them at worship. We got in,
      and made ourselves known, and got a famous tea, and such cream and oat
      cake!&mdash;old Adam looking on us as "clean dementit" to come out for "a
      bit moss," which, however, he knew, and with some pride said he would take
      us in the morning to the place. As we were going into a box bed for the
      night, two young men came in, and said they were "gaun to burn the water."
      Off we set. It was a clear, dark, starlight frosty night. They had their
      leisters and tar torches, and it was something worth seeing&mdash;the wild
      flame, the young fellows striking the fish coming to the light&mdash;how
      splendid they looked with the light on their scales, coming out of the
      darkness&mdash;the stumblings and quenchings suddenly of the lights, as
      the torch-bearer fell into a deep pool. We got home past midnight, and
      slept as we seldom sleep now. In the morning Adam, who had been long
      risen, and up the <i>Hope</i> with his dog, when he found we had wakened,
      told us there were four inches of snow, and we soon saw it wras too true.
      So we had to go home without our cryptogamie prize.
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t turned out that
      Adam, who was an old man and frail, and had made some money, was going at
      Whitsunday to leave, and live with his son in Glasgow. We had been
      admiring the beauty and gentleness and perfect shape of Wylie, the finest
      collie I ever saw, and said, "What are you going to do with Wylie?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Deed," says he, "I hardly ken. I canna think o' selling her, though
      she's worth four pound, and she'll no like the toun." I said, "Would you
      let me have her?" and Adam, looking at her fondly,&mdash;she came up
      instantly to him, and made of him&mdash;said, "Ay, I wull, if ye'll be
      gude to her;" and it was settled that when Adam left for Glasgow she
      should be sent into Albany Street by the carrier.
    </p>
    <p>
      She came, and was at once taken to all our hearts&mdash;even grandmother
      liked her; and though she was often pensive, as if thinking of her master
      and her work on the hills, she made herself at home, and behaved in all
      respects like a lady. When out with me, if she saw sheep in the streets or
      road, she got quite excited, and helped the work, and was curiously
      useful, the being so making her wonderfully happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0063m.jpg" alt="0063m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0063.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      And so her little life went on, never doing wrong, always blythe and kind
      and beautiful. But some months after she came, there was a mystery about
      her: every Tuesday evening she disappeared: we tried to watch her, but in
      vain, she was always off by nine P.M., and was away all night, coming back
      next day wearied and all over mud, as if she had travelled far. She slept
      all next day. This went on for some months, and we could make nothing of
      it. Poor dear creature, she looked at us wistfully when she came in, as if
      she would have told us if she could, and was especially fond, though
      tired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, one day I was walking across the Grass market, with Wylie at my
      heels, when two shepherds started, and looking at her, one said, "That's
      her; that's the wonder-fu' wee bitch that naebody kens." I asked him what
      he meant, and he told me that for months past she had made her appearance
      by the first daylight at the "buchts" or sheep-pens in the cattle-market,
      and worked incessantly, and to excellent purpose, in helping the shepherds
      to get their sheep and lambs in. The man said with a sort of transport,
      "She's a perfect meeracle; flees about like a speerit, and never gangs
      wrang; wears but never grups, and beats a' oor dowgs. She's a perfect
      meeracle; and as soople as a maukin." Then he related how they all knew
      her, and said, "There's that wee fell yin; we'll get them in noo." They
      tried to coax her to stop and be caught, but no, she was gentle, but off;
      and for many a day "that wee fell yin" was spoken of by these rough
      fellows. She continued this amateur work till she died, which she did in
      peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is very touching the regard the south-country shepherds have to their
      dogs. Professor Syme one day, many years ago, when living in Forres
      Street, was looking out of his window, and he saw a young shepherd
      striding down North Charlotte Street, as if making for his house; it was
      midsummer. The man had his dog with him, and Mr. Syme noticed that he
      followed the dog, and not it him, though he contrived to steer for the
      house. He came, and was ushered into his room; he wished advice about some
      ailment, and Mr. Syme saw that he had a bit of twine round the dog's neck,
      which he let drop out of his hand when he entered the room. He asked him
      the meaning of this, and he explained that the magistrates had issued a
      mad-dog proclamation, commanding all dogs to be muzzled or led on pain of
      death. "And why do you go about as I saw you did before you came in to
      me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh," said he, looking awkward, "I didna want Birkie to ken he was tied."
      Where will you find truer courtesy and finer feeling? He didn't want to
      hurt Birkie's feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Carruthers of Inverness told me a new story of these wise sheep-dogs.
      A butcher from Inverness had purchased some sheep at Dingwall, and giving
      them in charge to his dog, left the road. The dog drove them on, till
      coming to a toll, the toll-wife stood before the drove, demanding her
      dues. The dog looked at her, and, jumping on her back, crossed his
      forelegs over her arms. The sheep passed through, and the dog took his
      place behind them, and went on his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      RAB.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Of Rab I have little to say, indeed have little right to speak of him as
      one of "our dogs" but nobody will be sorry to hear anything of that noble
      fellow. Ailie, the day or two after the operation, when she was well and
      cheery, spoke about him, and said she would tell me fine stories when I
      came out, as I promised to do, to see her at Howgate. I asked her how
      James came to get him. She told me that one day she saw James coming down
      from Leadburn with the cart; he had been away west, getting eggs and
      butter, cheese and hens, for Edinburgh. She saw he was in some trouble,
      and on looking, there was what she thought a young calf being dragged, or,
      as she called it, 'haurled,' at the back of the cart. James was in front,
      and when he came up, very warm and very angry, she saw that there was a
      huge young dog tied to the cart, struggling and pulling back with all his
      might, and as she said, "lookin' fearsome." James, who was out of breath
      and temper, being past his time, explained to Ailie, that this "muckle
      brute o' a whalp" had been worrying sheep, and terrifying everybody up at
      Sir George Montgomery's at Macbie Hill, and that Sir George had ordered
      him to be hanged, which, however, was sooner said than done, as "the
      thief" showed his intentions of dying hard. James came up just as Sir
      George had sent for his gun; and as the dog had more than once shown a
      liking for him, he said he "wad gie him a chance;" and so he tied him to
      his cart. Young Rab, fearing some mischief, had been entering a series of
      protests all the way, and nearly strangling himself to spite James and
      Jess, besides giving Jess more than usual to do. "I wish I had let Sir
      George pit that charge into him, the thrawn brute," said James. But Ailie
      had seen that in his fore-leg there was a splinter of wood, which he had
      likely got when objecting to be hanged, and that he was miserably lame. So
      she got James to leave him with her, and go straight into Edinburgh. She
      gave him water, and by her woman's wit got his lame paw under a door, so
      that he couldn't suddenly get at her, then with a quick firm hand she
      plucked out the splinter, and put in an ample meal. She went in some time
      after, taking no notice of him, and he came limping up, and laid his great
      jaws in her lap: from that moment they were "chief," as she said, James
      finding him mansuete and civil when he returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      She said it was Rab's habit to make his appearance exactly half an hour
      before his master, trotting in full of importance, as if to say, "He's all
      right, he'll be here." One morning James came without him. He had left
      Edinburgh very early, and in coming near Auchindinny, at a lonely part of
      the road, a man sprang out on him, and demanded his money. James, who was
      a cool hand, said, "Weel-a-weel, let me get it," and stepping back he said
      to Rab, "Speak till him, my man." In an instant Rab was standing over him,
      threatening strangulation if he stirred. James pushed on, leaving Rab in
      charge; he looked back, and saw that every attempt to rise was summarily
      put down. As he was telling Ailie the story, up came Rab with that great
      swing of his. It turned out that the robber was a Howgate lad, the
      worthless son of a neighbour, and Rab knowing him had let him cheaply off;
      the only thing, which was seen by a man from a field, was, that before
      letting him rise, he quenched (<i>pro tempore</i>) the fire of the eyes of
      the ruffian, by a familiar Gulliverian application of Hydraulics, which I
      need not further particularize. James, who did not know the way to tell an
      untruth, or embellish anything, told me this as what he called "a fact <i>positeevely</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      WASP
    </h2>
    <p>
      Was a dark brindled bull-terrier, as pure in blood as Cruiser or Wild
      Dayrell. She was brought by my brother from Otley, in the West Riding. She
      was very handsome, fierce, and gentle, with a small, compact,
      finely-shaped head, and a pair of wonderful eyes&mdash;as full of fire and
      of softness as Grisi's; indeed she had to my eye a curious look of that
      wonderful genius&mdash;at once wild and fond. It was a fine sight to see
      her on the prowl across Bowden Moor, now cantering with her nose down, now
      gathered up on the top of a dyke, and with erect ears, looking across the
      wild like a moss-trooper out on business, keen and fell. She could do
      everything it became a dog to do, from killing an otter or a pole-cat, to
      watching and playing with a baby, and was as docile to her master as she
      was surly to all else. She was not quarrelsome, but "being in," she would
      have pleased Polonius as much, as in being "ware of entrance." She was
      never beaten, and she killed on the spot several of the country bullies
      who came out upon her when following her master in his rounds. She
      generally sent them off howling with one snap, but if this was not enough,
      she made an end of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was as a mother that she shone; and to see the gipsy, Hagar-like
      creature nursing her occasional Ishmael&mdash;playing with him, and
      fondling him all over, teaching his teeth to war, and with her eye and the
      curl of her lip daring any one but her master to touch him, was like
      seeing Grisi watching her darling "<i>Gennaro</i>" who so little knew why
      and how much she loved him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once when she had three pups, one of them died. For two days and nights
      she gave herself up to trying to bring it to life&mdash;licking it, and
      turning it over and over, growling over it, and all but worrying it to
      awake it. She paid no attention to the living two, gave them no milk,
      flung them awray with her teeth, and would have killed them, had they been
      allowed to remain with her. She was as one possessed, and neither ate, nor
      drank, nor slept, was heavy and miserable with her milk, and in such a
      state of excitement that no one could remove the dead pup.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0067m.jpg" alt="0067m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0067.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Early on the third day she was seen to take the pup in her mouth, and
      start across the fields towards the Tweed, striding like a race-horse&mdash;she
      plunged in, holding up her burden, and at the middle of the stream dropped
      it, and swam swiftly ashore: then she stood and watched the little dark
      lump floating away, bobbing up and down with the current, and losing it at
      last far down, she made her way home, sought out the living two, devoured
      them with her love, carried them one by one to her lair, and gave herself
      up wholly to nurse them; you can fancy her mental and bodily happiness and
      relief when they were pulling away&mdash;and theirs.
    </p>
    <p>
      On one occasion my brother had lent her to a woman who lived in a lonely
      house, and whose husband was away for a time. She was a capital watch. One
      day an Italian with his organ came&mdash;first begging, then demanding
      money&mdash;showing that he knew she was alone, and that he meant to help
      himself, if she didn't. She threatened to "lowse the dowg", but as this
      was Greek to him, he pushed on. She had just time to set Wasp at him. It
      was very short work. She had him by the throat, pulled him and his organ
      down with a heavy crash, the organ giving a ludicrous sort of cry of
      musical pain. Wasp, thinking this was from some creature within, possibly
      a <i>whittret</i>, left the ruffian, and set to work tooth and nail on the
      box. Its master slunk off, and with mingled fury and thankfulness, watched
      her disembowelling his only means of an honest living. The woman
      good-naturedly took her off, and signed to the miscreant to make himself
      and his remains scarce. This he did with a scowl; and was found in the
      evening in the village, telling a series of lies to the watchmaker, and
      bribing him with a shilling to mend his pipes&mdash;"his kist o'whussels."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      JOCK
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>as insane from his
      birth; at first an <i>amabilis insania</i>, but ending in mischief and
      sudden death. He was an English terrier, fawn-coloured; his mother's name
      Vamp (Vampire), and his father's Demon. He was more properly <i>daft</i>
      than mad; his courage, muscularity, and prodigious animal spirits making
      him insufferable, and never allowing one sane feature of himself any
      chance. No sooner was the street-door open, than he was throttling the
      first dog passing, bringing upon himself and me endless grief. Cats he
      tossed up into the air, and crushed their spines as they fell. Old ladies
      he upset by jumping over their heads; old gentlemen by running between
      their legs. At home, he would think nothing of leaping through the tea
      things, upsetting the urn, cream, etc., and at dinner the same sort of
      thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0071m.jpg" alt="0071m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0071.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      I believe if I could have found time to thrash him sufficiently, and let
      him be a year older, we might have kept him; but having upset an Earl when
      the streets were muddy, I had to part with him. He was sent to a clergyman
      in the island of Westray, one of the Orkneys; and though he had a wretched
      voyage, and was as sick as any dog, he signalized the first moment of his
      arrival at the manse, by strangling an ancient monkey, or "puggy," the pet
      of the minister,&mdash;who was a bachelor, &mdash;and the wonder of the
      island. Jock henceforward took to evil courses, extracting the kidneys of
      the best young rams, driving whole hirsels down steep places into the sea,
      till at last all the guns of Westray were pointed at him, as he stood at
      bay under a huge rock on the shore, and blew him into space. I always
      regret his end, and blame myself for sparing the rod. Of
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DUCHIE
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have already
      spoken; her oddities were endless. We had and still have a dear friend,&mdash;"Cousin
      Susan" she is called by many who are not her cousins&mdash;a perfect lady,
      and, though hopelessly deaf, as gentle and contented as ever Griselda with
      the full use of her ears; quite as great a pet, in a word, of us all as
      Duchie was of ours. One day we found her mourning the death of a cat, a
      great playfellow of the Sputchard's, and her small Grace was with us when
      we were condoling with her, and we saw that she looked very wistfully at
      Duchie. I wrote on the slate, "Would you like her?'" and she through her
      tears said, "You know that would never do." But it did do. We left Duchie
      that very night, and though she paid us frequent visits, she was Cousin
      Susan's for life. I fear indulgence dulled her moral sense. She was an
      immense happiness to her mistress, whose silent and lonely days she made
      glad with her oddity and mirth. And yet the small creature, old,
      toothless, and blind, domineered over her gentle friend&mdash;threatening
      her sometimes if she presumed to remove the small Fury from the inside of
      her own bed, into which it pleased her to creep.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0017" id="linkimage-0017"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0075m.jpg" alt="0075m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0075.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Indeed, I believe it is too true, though it was inferred only, that her
      mistress and friend spent a great part of a winter night in trying to coax
      her dear little ruffian out of the centre of the bed. One day the cook
      asked what she would have for dinner: "I would like a muttonchop, but
      then, you know, Duchie likes minced veal better!" The faithful and happy
      little creature died at a great age, of natural decay.
    </p>
    <p>
      But time would fail me, and I fear patience would fail you, my reader,
      were I to tell you of Crab, of John Pym, of Puck, and of the rest. Crab,
      the Mugger's dog, grave, with deep-set, melancholy eyes, as of a nobleman
      (says the Master of Ravenswood) in disguise, large vis-aged, shaggy,
      indomitable, come of the pure Piper Allan's breed. This Piper Allan, you
      must know, lived some two hundred years ago in Cocquet Water, piping like
      Homer, from place to place, and famous not less for his dog than for his
      music, his news, and his songs. The earl of Northumberland, of his day,
      offered the piper a small farm for his dog, but after deliberating for a
      day, Allan said, "Na, na, ma Lord, keep yir ferum; what wud a piper do wi'
      a ferum?" * From this dog descended Davidson (the original Dandie Dinmont)
      of Hyndlee's breed, and Crab could count his kin up to him. He had a great
      look of the Right Honourable Edward Ellice, and had much of his energy and
      <i>wecht</i>; had there been a dog House of Commons, Crab would have
      spoken as seldom, and been as great a power in the house, as the
      formidable and faithful time-out-of-mind member for Coventry.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * I have to thank cordially the writer of the following
     letters. They are from the pen of Mr. Robert White,
     Newcastle-on-Tyne, author of the History of the Battle of
     Otterburn, and one of the last of the noble band of literary
     and local antiquarians of which "Muncaster" has so long been
     the seat, up to all traditional lore and story of the stout-
     hearted Border.

     "In the second series of your Horo Subsecivæ. p. 162, you
     allude to the dog Crab being come of the pure 'Piper Allan's
     breed, and say that the said 'Piper Allan lived some two
     hundred years ago in Cocquet (Coquet) Water.'

     "In Northumberland and over the Borders, James Allan is
     generally known as Piper Allan. He was born about 1733, and
     after leading a strange life, towards his seventieth year he
     stole a horse at Gateshead in the county of Durham, and took
     it to Lilliesleaf in Roxburghshire, where he was apprehended
     and sent to Durham jail. He was found guilty, and received
     sentence of death, but was reprieved, and afterwards had his
     punishment mitigated to perpetual imprisonment. After being
     confined for nearly seven years, his health failed, and he
     was removed to the House of Correction, where he lived about
     five months, and died at Durham, November 13th, 1810, aged
     about 77 years.

     "Some time ago in Willis's Current Notes, which are now
     discontinued, an original letter of Sir Walter Scott was
     printed, in which is the following paragraph:&mdash;

     "'I should be glad to see a copy of the Alnwick work upon
     Allan, whom I have often seen and heard, particularly at the
     Kelso Races. He was an admirable piper, yet a desperate
     reprobate. The last time I saw him he was in absolute
     beggary, and had behaved himself so ill at my uncle's
     (Thomas Scott of Monklaw) house, that the old gentleman,
     himself a most admirable piper, would not on any account
     give him quarters, though I interceded earnestly for him,
     "the knave," as Davie tells Justice Shallow, "being my very
     good friend." He was then quite like a pauper, with his
     wife, and an ass, in the true gipsy fashion. When I first
     saw him at Kelso Races, he wore the Northumberland livery, a
     blue coat, with a silver crescent on his arm.' (Allan was
     piper to Her Grace the Duchess of Northumberland.)

     "The father of Jamie Allan was named Willie, and he also was
     a good piper, besides being an excellent fisher and a keen
     otter-hunter. He had two favourite dogs for the latter
     sport,&mdash;Charley and Phoebe,&mdash;and such was the wisdom of the
     former that he used to say,  If Charley could speak he would
     sell the otter's skin.' Probably Crab may have been of this
     kind.

     "James Davidson of Hindlee was a great fox hunter, and his
     breed of terriers&mdash;the pepper-and-mustard class&mdash;were the
     best over all the country. I have seen the genuine breed
     long ago at Ned Dunn's of the Whitelee at the head of
     Redesdale. Among common dogs they were something like the
     Black Dwarf among men, long-bodied animals with strong short
     legs, wiry haired, and at the first look not unlike a low
     four-footed stool, such as I have seen in houses in the
     south of Scotland forty years ago. They were sent in to the
     fox when he was earthed, and fought him there. They seemed
     at first when out of doors to be shy, timid things, and
     would have slunk away from a fierce collie dog, but if he
     seized one of them, and the blood of the little creature got
     up, it just took a hold of him in a biting place, and held
     on, never quitting till he found to his cost he had caught a
     tartar."

     "I am now convinced, from what I have gleaned of the life
     of James Allan, and a notice in Mackenzie's History of
     Northumberland, that your Piper Allan was William, the
     father of James. He was born at Bellingham in 1704. He was
     nearly six feet high, of a ruddy complexion, and had much
     shrewdness, wit, and independence of mind. In early life he
     became a good player on the bagpipes. He mended pots and
     pans, made spoons, baskets, and besoms, ana was a keen and
     excellent fisher. In the Valley of Coquet he married a gipsy
     girl, named Betty, who bore him six children, and James was
     the youngest save one; but she died in the prime of life. He
     was married a second time to an unfortunate daughter of a
     Presbyterian minister.

     "Among his other pursuits, he excelled especially in the
     hunting of otters, and kept eight or ten dogs for that
     particular sport. Please turn to my previous letter, and in
     the passage, 'if Charley could speak,' etc., dele Charley
     and insert Peachem. This dog was Will's chief favourite, and
     such confidence had he in the animal, that when hunting he
     would at times observe, 'When my Peachem gi'es mouth, I
     durst always sell the otter's skin.' Charley was also an
     excellent dog. Lord Ravensworth once employed Willie to kill
     the otters that infested his pond at Eslington Hall, which
     he soon accomplished; and on going away, the steward, Mr.
     Bell, offered, in his Lordship's name, to buy Charley at the
     Piper's own price. Will turned round very haughtily, and
     exclaimed, 'By the wuns, his hale estate canna buy Charley!

     "He was a capital piper, and composed two popular tunes, 1
     We'll a' to the Coquet and Woo,' and 'Salmon Tails up the
     Water.' These I never heard, and probably they may be lost.
     When his end drew near, he was something like Rob Roy in his
     neglect of religious impressions. When reminded that he was
     dying, he exclaimed, 'By Jing, I'll get foul play, then, to
     dee before my billie, wha's ten years aulder!' When still
     closer pressed to ponder on his condition, he said, 'Gi'e me
     my pipes, and I'll play ye "Dorrington Lads" yet.' Thus he
     exhausted his last breath in playing his favourite strain.
     He died 18th February 1779, aged seventy-five years, and was
     buried in Rothbury Churchyard. His son James was born at
     Hepple, in Coquetdale, March 1734.

     "The following verses on old Will are in the 'Lay of the
     Reedwater Minstrel:'&mdash;
</pre>
    <p class="indent10">
      "A stalwart Tinkler wight was he,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And weel could mend a pot or pan;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      And deftly 'ull could thraw a flee,
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      An' neatly weave the willow-wan'.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "An' sweetly wild were Allan's strains,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' mony a jig an' reel he blew;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      Wi' merry lilts he charm'd the swains,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Wi' barbed spear the otter slew.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      'Nae mair he'll scan, wi' anxious eye,
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      The sandy shores of winding Reed;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Nae mair he'll tempt the finny fry,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      The king O' Tinklers, Allan's dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "Nae mair at Mell or Merry Night
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The cheering bagpipes Wull shall blaw;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      Nae mair the village throng delight,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Grim death has laid the minstrel law.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "Now trouts, exulting, cut the wave;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Triumphant see the otter glide,
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      Their deadly foe lies in his grave.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Charley and Phcebe by his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I add another bit from Mr. White, too characteristic of that
     mixture of kindness and cruelty, of tenderness and pluck,&mdash;
     Dandie Dinmont,&mdash;and of the exercise, called one-sidedly
     "sport." It ends happily, which is more than the bigstore-
     farmer wished:&mdash;

     "The mother of the far-famed Peppers and Mustards was a
     dark-coloured, rough-haired bitch of the name of Tar.
     Davidson wanted a cat from some of the cottages at a
     distance from Hindlee, that he might have the young dogs
     tried upon it. One of his shepherds chanced to call at
     Andrew Telfer's house (the grandfather, I believe, of my
     late friend), where he saw baudrons sitting on the end of
     adresser near the door; and the house being low and dark, he
     swept her into his plaid-neuk on going out, and carried her
     home. Next morning she was introduced to a covered drain,
     which ran across the road, the said drain being closed up at
     one end, whereby she was compelled to give battle to her
     foes. A young terrier was the first to oppose her, and paid
     for its rashness by retreating from the drain with the skin
     almost torn from its nose. Another of the same age met with
     the same punishment, and Davidson, considerably irritated,
     brought forward Tar, the old dame, who, by her age and
     experience, he considered, would be more than a match for
     the cat. There was sore fighting for a time, till again Puss
     was victorious, and Tar withdrew from the conflict in such a
     condition that her master exclaimed, 'Confoond the cat,
     she's tumblt an e'e oot o' the bitch!' which indeed was the
     case. 'Tak awathe stanes frae the tapo' the cundy,' said
     Davidson, 'and we'll ha'e her worried at ance.' The stones
     were removed, and out leapt the cat in the middle of her
     enemies. Fortunately for her, however, it happened that a
     stone wall was continued up the side of the road, which she
     instantly mounted, and, running along the top thereof, with
     the dogs in full cry after her she speedily reached a
     plantation, and eluded all pursuit. No trace of her could be
     discovered; and the next time the shepherd called at Andrew
     Telfer's house, my lady was seated on the dresser, as demure
     as if nothing in her whole life had ever disturbed her
     tranquillity."
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0018" id="linkimage-0018"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0079m.jpg" alt="0079m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0079.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>ohn Pym was a
      smaller dog than Crab, of more fashionable blood, being a son of Mr.
      Somner's famous Shem, whose father and brother are said to have been found
      dead in a drain into which the hounds had run a fox. It had three
      entrances; the father was put in at one hole, the son at another, and
      speedily the fox bolted out at the third, but no appearance of the little
      terriers, and, on digging, they were found dead, locked in each other's
      jaws; they had met, and it being dark, and there being no time for
      explanations, they had throttled each other. John was made of the same
      sort of stuff, and was as combative and victorious as his great namesake,
      and not unlike him in some of his not so creditable qualities. He must, I
      think, have been related to a certain dog to whom "life was full o'
      sairiousness," but in John's case the same cause produced an opposite
      effect. John was gay and light-hearted, even when there was not "enuff o'
      fechtin," which, however, seldom happened, there being a market every week
      in Melrose, and John appearing most punctually at the cross to challenge
      all comers, and being short-legged, he inveigled every dog into an
      engagement by first attacking him, and then falling down on his back, in
      which posture he latterly fought and won all his battles.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0019" id="linkimage-0019"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0083m.jpg" alt="0083m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0083.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      What can I say of <i>PUCK</i> *&mdash;the thoroughbred&mdash;the
      simple-hearted&mdash;the purloiner of eggs warm from the hen&mdash;the
      flutterer of all manner of Volscians&mdash;the bandy-legged, dear, old,
      dilapidated buffer? I got him from my brother, and only parted with him
      because William's stock was gone. He had to the end of life a simplicity
      which was quite touching. One summer day&mdash;a dog-day&mdash;when all
      dogs found straying were hauled away to the police-office, and killed off
      in twenties with strychnine, I met Puck trotting along Princes Street with
      a policeman, a rope round his neck, he looking up in the fatal, official,
      but kindly countenance in the most artless and cheerful manner, wagging
      his tail and trotting along. In ten minutes he would have been in the next
      world; for I am one of those who believe dogs <i>have</i> a next world,
      and why not? Puck ended his days as the best dog in Roxburghshire. <i>Placide
      quiescas!</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DICK
    </h2>
    <p>
      Still lives, and long may he live! As he was never born, possibly he may
      never die; be it so, he will miss us when we are gone. I could say much of
      him, but agree with the lively and admirable Dr. Jortin, when, in his
      dedication of his <i>Remarks on Ecclesiastical History</i> to the then
      (1752) Archbishop of Canterbury, he excuses himself for not following the
      modern custom of praising his Patron, by reminding his Grace "that it was
      a custom amongst the ancients, <i>not to sacrifice to heroes till after
      sunset</i>." I defer my sacrifice till Dick's sun is set.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * In The Dog, by Stonehenge, an excellent book, there is a
     woodcut of Puck, and "Dr. Wm. Brown's celebrated dog John
     Pym" is mentioned Their pedigrees are given&mdash;here is Puck's,
     which shows his "strain" is of the pure azure blood&mdash;"Got by
     John Pym, out of Tib; bred by Purves of Leaderfoot; sire.
     Old Dandie, the famous dog of old John Stoddart of Selkirk&mdash;
     dam Whin." How Homeric all this sounds! I cannot help
     quoting what follows&mdash;"Sometime a Dandie pup of a good
     strain may appear not to be game at an early age; but he
     should not be parted with on this account, because many of
     them do not show their courage till nearly two years old,
     and then nothing can beat them; this apparent softness
     arising, as I suspect, from kindness of heart"&mdash;a suspicion,
     my dear "Stonehenge," which is true and shows your own
     "kindness of heart," as well as sense.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0020" id="linkimage-0020"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0087m.jpg" alt="0087m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0087.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      I think every family should have a dog; it is like having a perpetual
      baby; it is the plaything and crony of the whole house. It keeps them all
      young. All unite upon Dick. And then he tells no tales, betrays no
      secrets, never sulks, asks no troublesome questions, never gets into debt,
      never coming down late for breakfast, or coming in by his Chubb <i>too
      early</i> to bed&mdash;is always ready for a bit of fun, lies in wait for
      it, and you may, if choleric, to your relief, kick him instead of some one
      else, who would not take it so meekly, and, moreover, would certainly not,
      as he does, ask your pardon for being kicked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never put a collar on your dog&mdash;it only gets him stolen; give him
      only one meal a day, and let that, as Dame Dorothy, Sir Thomas Browne's
      wife, would say, be "rayther under." Wash him once a week, and always wash
      the soap out; and let him be carefully combed and brushed twice a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the bye, I was wrong in saying that it was Burns who said Man is the
      god of the Dog&mdash;he got it from Bacon's <i>Essay on Atheism</i>, or
      perhaps more truly&mdash;Bacon had it first.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      QUEEN MARY'S CHILD-GARDEN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      If any one wants a pleasure that is sure to please, one over which he
      needn't growl the sardonic beatitude of the great Dean, let him, when the
      Mercury is at "Fair," take the nine A.M. train to the North, and a return
      ticket for Callander, and when he arrives at Stirling, let him ask the
      most obliging and knowing of station-masters to telegraph to "the
      Dreadnought" for a carriage to be in waiting. When passing Dunblane
      Cathedral, let him resolve to write to the <i>Scotsman</i>, advising the
      removal of a couple of shabby trees which obstruct the view of that
      beautiful triple end-window which Mr. Ruskin and everybody else admires,
      and by the time he has written this letter in his mind, and turned the
      sentences to it, he will find himself at Callander and the carriage all
      ready. Giving the order for the <i>Port of Monteith</i>, he will rattle
      through this hard-featured, and to our eye comfortless village, lying ugly
      amid so much grandeur and beauty, and let him stop on the crown of the
      bridge, and fill his eyes with the perfection of the view up the Pass of
      Leny&mdash;the Teith lying diffuse and asleep, as if its heart were in the
      Highlands and it were loath to go, the noble Ben Ledi imaged in its broad
      stream. Then let him make his way across a bit of pleasant moorland&mdash;flushed
      with maiden-hair and white with cotton-grass; and fragrant with the <i>Orchis
      conopsia</i>, well deserving its epithet <i>odoratissima</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      He will see from the turn of the hillside the Blair of Drummond waving
      with corn and shadowed with rich woods, where eighty years ago there was a
      black peatmoss; and far off, on the horizon, Damyat and the Touch Fells;
      and at his side the little loch of Ruskie, in which he may see five
      Highland cattle, three tawny brown and two brindled, standing in the still
      water&mdash;themselves as still, all except their switching tails and
      winking ears&mdash;the perfect images of quiet enjoyment. By this time he
      will have come in sight of the Lake of Monteith, set in its woods, with
      its magical shadows and soft gleams. There is a loveliness, a gentleness
      and peace about it more like "lone St. Mary's Lake," or Derwent Water,
      than of any of its sister lochs. It is lovely rather than beautiful, and
      is a sort of gentle prelude, in the <i>minor</i> key, to the coming
      glories and intenser charms of Loch Ard and the true Highlands beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      You are now at the Port, and have passed the secluded and cheerful manse,
      and the parish kirk with its graves, close to the lake, and the proud
      aisle of the Grahams of Gartmore washed by its waves. Across the road is
      the modest little inn, a Fisher's Tryst. On the unruffled water lie
      several islets, plump with rich foliage, brooding like great birds of
      calm. You somehow think of them as on, not in the lake, or like clouds
      lying in a nether sky&mdash;"like ships waiting for the wind." You get a
      coble, and <i>yould</i> old Celt, its master, and are rowed across to <i>Inch-mahome,
      the Isle of Rest</i>. Here you find on landing huge Spanish chestnuts, one
      lying dead, others standing stark and peeled, like gigantic antlers, and
      others flourishing in their <i>viridis senectus</i>, and in a thicket of
      wood you see the remains of a monastery of great beauty, the design and
      workmanship exquisite. You wander through the ruins, overgrown with ferns
      and Spanish filberts, and old fruit-trees, and at the corner of the old
      monkish garden you come upon one of the strangest and most touching sights
      you ever saw&mdash;an oval space of about eighteen feet by twelve, with
      the remains of a double row of boxwood all round, the plants of box being
      about fourteen feet high, and eight or nine inches in diameter, healthy,
      but plainly of great age.
    </p>
    <p>
      What is this? it is called in the guide-books Queen Mary's Bower; but
      besides its being plainly not in the least a bower, what could the little
      Queen, then five years old, and "fancy free," do with a bower? It is
      plainly, as was, we believe, first suggested by our keen-sighted and
      diagnostic Professor of Clinical Surgery, * <i>the Child-Queen's Garden</i>,
      with her little walk, and its rows of boxwood, left to themselves for
      three hundred years.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * The same seeing eye and understanding mind, when they were
     eighteen years of age discovered and published the Solvent
     of Caoutchouc, for which patent was taken out afterwards by
     the famous Mackintosh. If the young discoverer had secured
     the patent, he might have made a fortune as large as his
     present reputation&mdash;I don't suppose he much regrets that he
     didn't.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0021" id="linkimage-0021"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0091m.jpg" alt="0091m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0091.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Yes, without doubt, "here is that first garden of her simpleness." Fancy
      the little, lovely royal child, with her four Marys, her playfellows, her
      child maids of honour, with their little hands and feet, and their
      innocent and happy eyes, pattering about that garden all that time ago,
      laughing, and running, and gardening as only children do and can. As is
      well known, Mary was placed by her mother in this Isle of Rest before
      sailing from the Clyde for France. There is something "that tirls the
      heartstrings a' to the life" in standing and looking on this unmistakable
      living relic of that strange and pathetic old time. Were we Mr. Tennyson,
      we would write an Idyll of that child Queen, in that garden of hers,
      eating her bread and honey&mdash;getting her teaching from the holy men,
      the monks of old, and running off in wild mirth to her garden and her
      flowers, all unconscious of the black, lowering thunder-cloud on Ben
      Lomond's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Oh, blessed vision! happy child!
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Thou art so exquisitely wild:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I think of thee with many fears
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Of what may be thy lot in future years.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Lord of thy house and hospitality,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But when she sat within the touch of thee.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      What hast thou to do with sorrow,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or the injuries of to-morrow?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      You have ample time to linger there amid
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "The gleams, the shadows, and the peace profound,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      and get your mind informed with quietness and beauty, and fed with
      thoughts of other years, and of her whose story, like Helen of Troy's,
      will continue to move the hearts of men as long as the grey hills stand
      round about that gentle lake, and are mirrored at evening in its depths.
      You may do and enjoy all this, and be in Princes Street by nine P.M.; and
      we wish we were as sure of many things as of your saying, "Yes, this <i>is</i>
      a pleasure that has pleased, and will please again; this was something
      expected which did not disappoint."
    </p>
    <p>
      There is another garden of Queen Mary's, which may still be seen, and
      which has been left to itself like that in the Isle of Rest. It is in the
      grounds at Chatsworth, and is moated, walled round, and raised about
      fifteen feet above the park. Here the Queen, when a prisoner under the
      charge of "Old Bess of Hardwake," was allowed to walk without any guard.
      How different the two! and how different she who took her pleasure in
      them!
    </p>
    <p>
      Lines written on the steps of a small moated garden at Chatsworth, called
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Queen Mary's Bower.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The moated bower is wild and drear,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And sad the dark yew's shade;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The flowers which bloom in silence here,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      In silence also fade.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The woodbine and the light wild rose
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Float o'er the broken wall;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And here the mournful nightshade blows,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To note the garden's fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Where once a princess wept her woes,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The bird of night complains;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And sighing trees the tale disclose
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      They learnt from Mary's strains.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      "A. H."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      'ATXINOIA&mdash;NEARNESS OF THE NOUS&mdash;PRESENCE OF MIND.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      'ERTOXIA: HAPPY GUESSING.
    </h3>
    <p>
      "<i>Depend upon it, a lucky guess is never merely luck&mdash;there is
      always some Talent in it."&mdash;Miss Austen, in "Emma</i>."
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>r. Chalmers used
      to say that in the dynamics of human affairs, two qualities were essential
      to greatness&mdash;Power and Promptitude. One man might have both, another
      power without promptitude, another promptitude without power. We must all
      feel the common sense of this, and can readily see how it applies to a
      general in the field, to a pilot in a storm, to a sportsman, to a fencer,
      to a debater. It is the same with an operating surgeon at all times, and
      may be at any time with the practitioner of the art of healing. He must be
      ready for what are called emergencies&mdash;cases which rise up at your
      feet, and must be dealt with on the instant,&mdash;he must have power and
      promptitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is a curious condition of mind that this requires: it is like sleeping
      with your pistol under your pillow, and it on full cock; a moment lost and
      all may be lost. There is the very nick of time. This is what we mean by
      presence of mind; by a man having such a subject at his finger-ends; that
      part of the mind lying nearest the outer world, and having to act on it
      through the bodily organs, through the will&mdash;the outposts must be
      always awake. It is of course, so to speak, only a portion of the mind
      that is thus needed and thus available; if the whole mind were for ever at
      the advanced post, it would soon lose itself in this endeavour to keep it.
      Now, though the thing needed to be done maybe simple enough, what goes to
      the doing of it, and to the being at once ready and able to do it,
      involves much; the wedge would not be a wedge, or do a wedge's work,
      without the width behind as well as the edge in front. Your men of
      promptitude without genius or power, including knowledge and will, are
      those who present the wedge the wrong way. Thus your extremely prompt
      people are often doing the wrong thing, which is almost always worse than
      nothing. Our vague friend who bit "Yarrow's" tail instead of "the
      Chicken's" was full of promptitude; as was also that other man, probably a
      relative, who barred the door with a boiled carrot: each knew what was
      needed&mdash;the biting the tail, the barring the door; both erred as to
      the means&mdash;the one by want of presence of mind, the other by lack of
      mind itself. We must have just enough of the right knowledge and no more;
      we must have the habit of using this; we must have self-reliance, and the
      consentaneousness of the entire mind; and whatsoever our hand finds to do,
      we must do it with our might. Therefore it is that this master act of the
      man, under some sudden and great unexpected crisis, is in a great measure
      performed unconsciously as to its mental means. The man is so <i>totus in
      illo</i>, that there is no bit of the mind left to watch and record the
      acts of the rest; therefore men, when they have done some signal feat of
      presence of mind, if asked how they did it, generally don't very well know&mdash;they
      just did it: it was, in fact, done and then thought of, not thought of and
      then done, in which case it would likely never have been done. Not that
      the act was uncaused by mind; it is one of the highest powers of mind thus
      to act; but it is done, if I may use the phrase, by an acquired instinct.
      You will find all this in that wonderful old Greek who was Alexander the
      Great's and the old world's schoolmaster, and ours if we were wise,&mdash;whose
      truthfulness and clear insight one wonders at the longer he lives. He
      seems to have seen the human mind as a bird or an engineer does the earth&mdash;he
      knew the plan of it. We now-a-days see it as one sees a country, athwart
      and in perspective, and from the side; he saw it from above and from
      below. There are therefore no shadows, no fore-shortenings, no
      clear-obscure, indeed no disturbing-medium; it is as if he examined
      everything <i>in vacuo</i>. I refer my readers to what he says on [Greek]
      *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * [&mdash;&mdash;As I am now, to my sorrow and shame, too much of a
     mediate Grecian, I give a Balliol friend's note on these two
     words:&mdash;"What you have called 'presence of mind' and 'happy
     guessing' may, I think, be identified respectively with
     Aristotle's [Greek] and evaroxia&mdash;The latter of these,
     [Greek], Aristotle mentions incidentally when treating of
     [Greek], or good deliberation. Eth. Nic. bk. vi. ch. 9.
     Good deliberation, he says, is not eûotoxîa, for the former
     is a slow process, whereas the latter is not guided by
     reason, and is rapid. In the same passage he tells us that
     [Greek] is a sort of [Greek]. But he speaks of [Greek]
     more fully in Ana. Post. 1. 34:&mdash;[Greek] is a sort of
     happy guessing at the intermediate, when there is not time
     for consideration: as when a man, seeing that the bright
     side of the moon is always turned towards the sun,
     comprehends that her light is borrowed from the sun; or
     concludes, from seeing one conversing with a capitalist that
     he wants to borrow money; or infers that people are friends
     from the fact of their having common enemies.' And then he
     goes on to make these simple observations confused and
     perplexing by reducing them to his logical formula.

     "The derivation of the words will confirm this view.
     Evoroxia is a hitting the mark successfully, a reaching to
     the end, the rapid, and, as it were, intuitive perception of
     the truth. This is what Whewell means by saying, 'all
     induction is a happy conjecture.' But when Aristotle says
     that this faculty is not guided by reason [Greek],
     he does not mean to imply that it grows up
     altogether independent of reason, any more than Whewell
     means to say that all the discoveries in the inductive
     sciences have been made by men taking 'shots' at them, as
     boys at school do at hard passages in their Latin lessons.
     On the contrary, no faculty is so absolutely the child of
     reason as this faculty of happy guessing. It only attains to
     perfection after the reason has been long and painfully
     trained in the sphere in which the guesses are to be made.
     What Aristotle does mean is, that when it has attained
     perfection, we are not conscious of the share which reason
     has in its operation&mdash;it is so rapid that by 110 analysis
     can we detect the presence of reason in its action. Sir
     Isaac Newton seeing the apple fall, and thence 'guessing' at
     the law of gravitation, is a good instance of evaroxia.

     "[Greek], on the other hand, is a nearness of mind; not a
     reaching to the end, but an apprehension of the best means;
     not a perception of the truth, but a perception of how the
     truth is to be supported. It is sometimes translated
     'sagacity,' but readiness or presence of mind is better, as
     sagacity rather involves the idea of consideration. In
     matters purely intellectual it is ready wit. It is a sort of
     shorter or more limited eùcrroxîa. It is more of a natural
     gift than [Greek], because the latter is a far higher and
     nobler faculty, and therefore more dependent for its
     perfection 011 cultivation, as all our highest faculties
     are. [Greek] akin to genius, [Greek] to practical
     common sense."&mdash;-]
</pre>
    <p>
      My object in what I have now written and am going to write, is to impress
      upon medical students the value of power and promptitude in combination,
      for their professional purposes; the uses to them of nearness of the <i>Nous</i>,
      and of happy guessing; and how you may see the sense, and neatness, and
      pith of that excellent thinker, as well as best of all story-tellers, Miss
      Austen, when she {096} says in <i>Emma</i>, "Depend upon it, a lucky guess
      is never merely luck, there is always some talent in it,"&mdash;talent
      here denoting intelligence and will in action. In all sciences except
      those called exact, this happy guessing plays a large part, and in none
      more than in medicine, which is truly a tentative art, founded upon
      likelihood, and is therefore what we call contingent. Instead of this view
      of the healing art discouraging us from making our ultimate principles as
      precise as we should make our observations, it should urge us the more to
      this; for, depend upon it, that guess as we may often have to do, he will
      guess best, most happily for himself and his patient, who has the greatest
      amount of true knowledge, and the most serviceable amount of what we may
      call mental cash, ready money, and ready weapons.
    </p>
    <p>
      We must not only have wisdom, which is knowledge assimilated and made our
      own, but we must, as the Lancashire men say and do, <i>have wit to use it</i>.
      We may carry a nugget of gold in our pocket, or a 100L bank-note, but
      unless we can get it <i>changed</i> it is of little use, and we must
      moreover have the coin of the country we are in. This want of presence of
      mind&mdash;of having his wits about him, is as fatal to a surgeon as to a
      general.
    </p>
    <p>
      That wise little man, Dr. Henry Marshall, little in body but not little in
      mind, in brain, and in worth, used to give an instance of this. A young,
      well-educated surgeon, attached to a regiment quartered at Musselburgh,
      went out professionally with two officers who were in search of
      "satisfaction." One fell shot in the thigh, and in half-an-hour after he
      was found dead, the surgeon kneeling pale and grim over him, with his two
      thumbs sunk in his thigh <i>below</i> the wound, the grass steeped in
      blood. If he had put them two inches higher, or extemporized a tourniquet
      with his sash and the pistol's ramrod and a stone, he might have saved his
      friend's life and his own&mdash;for he shot himself that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is another. Robbie Watson, whom I now see walking mildly about the
      streets&mdash;having taken to coal&mdash;was driver of the Dumfries coach
      by Biggar. One day he had changed horses, and was starting down a steep
      hill, with an acute turn at the foot, when he found his wheelers, two new
      horses, utterly ignorant of backing. They got furious, and we outside got
      alarmed. Robbie made an attempt to pull up, and then with an odd smile
      took his whip, gathered up his reins, and lashed the entire four into a
      gallop. If we had not seen his face we would have thought him a maniac; he
      kept them well together and shot down like an arrow, as far as we could
      see to certain destruction. Right in front at the turn was a stout gate
      into a field, shut; he drove them straight at that, and through we went,
      the gate broken into shivers, and we finding ourselves safe, and the very
      horses enjoying the joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0022" id="linkimage-0022"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0099m.jpg" alt="0099m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0099.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      I remember we emptied our pockets into Robbie's hat, which he had
      taken-off to wipe his head. Now, in a few seconds all this must have
      passed through his head&mdash;"that horse is not a wheeler, nor that one
      either; we'll come to mischief; there's the gate; yes, I'll do it." And he
      did it; but then he had to do it with his might; he had to make it
      impossible for his four horses to do anything but toss the gate before
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is another case. Dr. Reid of Peebles, long famous in the end of last
      and beginning of this century, as the Doctor of Tweeddale; a man of great
      force of character, and a true Philip, a lover of horses, saw one Fair day
      a black horse, entire, thoroughbred. The groom asked a low price, and
      would answer no questions. At the close of the fair the doctor bought him,
      amid the derision of his friends. Next morning he rode him up Tweed, came
      home after a long round, and had never been better carried. This went on
      for some weeks; the fine creature was without a fault. One Sunday morning,
      he was posting up by Neidpath at a great pace, the country people trooping
      into the town to church. Opposite the fine old castle, the thoroughbred
      stood stock still, and it needed all the doctor's horsemanship to
      counteract the law of projectiles; he did, and sat still, and not only
      gave no sign of urging the horse, but rather intimated that it was his
      particular desire that he should stop. He sat there a full hour, his
      friends making an excellent joke of it, and he declining, of course, all
      interference. At the end of the hour, the Black Duke, as he was called,
      turned one ear forward, then another, looked aside, shook himself, and
      moved on, his master intimating that this was exactly what he wished; and
      from that day till his death, some fifteen years after, never did these
      two friends allude to this little circumstance, and it was never repeated;
      though it turned out that he had killed his two men previously. The doctor
      must have, when he got him, said to himself, "If he is not stolen there is
      a reason for his paltry price," and he would go over all the
      possibilities. So that when he stood still, he would say, "Ah, this is
      it;" but then he saw this at once, and lost no time, and did nothing. Had
      he given the horse one dig with his spurs, or one cut with his whip, or an
      impatient jerk with his bit, the case would have failed. When a colt, it
      had been brutally used, and being nervous, it lost its judgment, poor
      thing, and lost its presence of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      One more instance of nearness of the <i>Nous</i>. A lady was in front of
      her lawn with her children, when a mad dog made his appearance, pursued by
      the peasants. What did she do? What would you have done? Shut your eyes
      and think. She went straight to the dog, received its head in her thick
      stuff gown, between her knees, and muffling it up, held it with all her
      might till the men came up. No one was hurt. Of course, she fainted after
      it was all right.
    </p>
    <p>
      We all know (but why should we not know again?) the story of the Grecian
      mother who saw her child sporting on the edge of the bridge. She knew that
      a cry would startle it over into the raging stream&mdash;she came gently
      near, and opening her bosom allured the little scapegrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      I once saw a great surgeon, after settling a particular procedure as to a
      life-and-death operation, as a general settles his order of battle. He
      began his work, and at the second cut altered the entire conduct of the
      operation. No one not in the secret could have told this: not a moment's
      pause, not a quiver of the face, not a look of doubt. This is the same
      master power in man, which makes the difference between Sir John Moore and
      Sir John Cope.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Major Robertson, a woman of slight make, great beauty, and remarkable
      energy, courage, and sense (she told me the story herself), on going up to
      her bedroom at night&mdash;there being no one in the house but a
      servant-girl, in the ground floor&mdash;saw a portion of a man's foot
      projecting from under the bed. She gave no cry of alarm, but shut the door
      as usual, set down her candle, and began as if to undress, when she said
      aloud to herself, with an impatient tone and gesture, "I've forgotten that
      key again, I declare;" and leaving the candle burning, and the door open,
      she went down stairs, got the watchman, and secured the proprietor of the
      foot, which had not moved an inch. How many women or men could have done,
      or rather have been all this!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      LETTER TO JOHN CAIRNS, D.D.
    </h2>
    <p>
      "<i>I praised the dead which are already dead, more than the living which
      are yet alive." </i>
    </p>
    <p>
      "As he was of the Pauline type of mind, his Christianity ran into the same
      mould. A strong, intense, and vehement nature, with masculine intellect
      and unyielding will, he accepted the Bible in its literal simplicity as an
      absolute revelation, and then showed the strength of his character in
      subjugating his whole being to this decisive influence, and in projecting
      the same convictions into other minds. He was a believer in the sense of
      the old Puritans, and, amid the doubt and scepticism of the nineteenth
      century, held as firmly as any of them by the doctrines of atonement and
      grace. He had most of the idiosyncrasy of Baxter, though not without the
      contemplation of Howe. The doctrines of Calvinism, mitigated but not
      renounced, and received simply as dictates of Heaven, without any effort
      or hope to bridge over their inscrutable depths by philosophical theories,
      he translated into a fervent, humble, and resolutely active life.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There was a fountain of tenderness in his nature as well as a Conep of
      impetuous indignation; and the one drawn out, and the other controlled by
      his Christian faith, made him at once a philanthropist and a reformer, and
      both in the highest departments of human interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The union of these ardent elements, and of a highly devotional
      tenperament, not untouched with melancholy, with the patience of the
      scholar, and the sobriety of the critic, formed the singularity and almost
      the anomaly of his personal character. These contrasts were tempered by
      the discipline of experience; and his life, both as a man and a Christian,
      seemed to become more rich, genial, and harmonious as it approached its
      close&mdash;Dr. Cairns.
    </p>
    <p>
      23 RUTLAND STREET, 15<i>th August 1860</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      My dear Friend,&mdash;When, at the urgent request of his trustees and
      family, and in accordance with what I believe was his own wish, you
      undertook my father's Memoir, it was in a measure on the understanding
      that I would furnish you with some domestic and personal details. This I
      hoped to have done, but was unable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though convinced more than ever how little my hand is needed, I will now
      endeavour to fulfil my promise. Before doing so, however, you must permit
      me to express our deep gratitude to you for this crowning proof of your
      regard for him
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Without whose life we had not been
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      to whom for many years you habitually wrote as "My father," and one of
      whose best blessings, when he was "such an one as Paul the aged," was to
      know that you were to him "mine own son in the gospel."
    </p>
    <p>
      With regard to the manner in which you have done this last kindness to the
      dead, I can say nothing more expressive of our feelings, and, I am sure,
      nothing more gratifying to you, than that the record you have given of my
      father's life, and of the series of great public questions in which he
      took part, is done in the way which would have been most pleasing to
      himself&mdash;that which, with his passionate love of truth and liberty,
      his relish for concentrated, just thought and expression, and his love of
      being loved, he would have most desired, in any one speaking of him, after
      he was gone. He would, I doubt not, say, as one said to a great painter,
      on looking at his portrait, "It is certainly like, but it is much
      better-looking;" and you might well reply, as did the painter, "It is the
      truth, told lovingly"&mdash;and all the more true that it is so told. You
      have, indeed, been enabled to speak the truth, or as the Greek has it,
      [Greek] &mdash;to truth it in love.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have over and over again sat down to try and do what I promised and
      wished&mdash;to give some faint expression of my father's life; not of
      what he did or said or wrote&mdash;not even of what he was as a man of God
      and a public teacher; but what he was in his essential nature&mdash;what
      he would have been had he been anything else than what he was, or had
      lived a thousand years ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes I have this so vividly in my mind that I think I have only to
      sit down and write it off, and do it to the quick. "The idea of his life,"
      what he was as a whole, what was his self, all his days, would,&mdash;to
      go on with words which not time or custom can ever wither or make stale,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Sweetly creep
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Into my study of imagination;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And every lovely organ of his life
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Would come apparelled in more precious habit&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      More moving delicate, and full of life,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Into the eye and prospect of my soul,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Than when he lived indeed;"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      as if the sacredness of death and the bloom of eternity were on it; or as
      you may have seen in an untroubled lake, the heaven reflected with its
      clouds, brighter, purer, more exquisite than itself; but when you try to
      put this into words, to detain yourself over it, it is by this very act
      disturbed, broken and bedimmed, and soon vanishes away, as would the
      imaged heavens in the lake, if a pebble were cast into it, or a breath of
      wind stirred its face. The very anxiety to transfer it, as it looked out
      of the clear darkness of the past, makes the image grow dim and disappear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one whose thoughts are not seldom with the dead, must have felt both
      these conditions; how, in certain passive, tranquil states, there comes up
      into the darkened chamber of the mind, its "chamber of imagery"&mdash;uncalled,
      as if it blossomed out of space, exact, absolute, consummate, vivid,
      speaking, not darkly as in a glass, but face to face, and "moving
      delicate"&mdash;this idea of his life and then how an effort to prolong
      and perpetuate and record all this, troubles the vision and kills it! It
      is as if one should try to paint in a mirror the reflection of a dear and
      unseen face; the coarse, uncertain passionate handling and colour,
      ineffectual and hopeless, shut out the very thing itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will therefore give this up as in vain, and try by some fragmentary
      sketches, scenes, and anecdotes, to let you know in some measure what
      manner of man my father was. Anecdotes, if true and alive, are always
      valuable; the man in the concrete, the <i>totus quis</i> comes out in
      them; and I know you too well to think that you will consider as trivial
      or out of place anything in which his real nature displayed itself, and
      your own sense of humour as a master and central power of the human soul,
      playing about the very essence of the man, will do more than forgive
      anything of this kind which may crop out here and there, like the smile of
      wild-flowers in grass, or by the wayside.
    </p>
    <p>
      My first recollection of my father, my first impression, not only of his
      character, but of his eyes and face and presence, strange as it may seem,
      dates from my fifth year. Doubtless I had looked at him often enough
      before that, and had my own childish thoughts about him; but this was the
      time when I got my fixed, compact idea of him, and the first look of him
      which I felt could never be forgotten. I saw him, as it were, by a flash
      of lightning, sudden and complete. A child begins by seeing bits of
      everything; it knows in part&mdash;here a little, there a little; it makes
      up its wholes out of its own littles, and is long of reaching the fulness
      of a whole; and in this we are children all our lives in much. Children
      are long of seeing, or at least of looking at what is above them; they
      like the ground, and its flowers and stones, its "red sod-gers" and
      lady-birds, and all its queer things; their world is about three feet
      high, and they are more often stooping than gazing up. I know I was past
      ten before I saw, or cared to see, the ceilings of the rooms in the manse
      at Biggar.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the morning of the 28th May 1816, my eldest sister Janet and I were
      sleeping in the kitchen-bed with Tibbie Meek, * our only servant.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * A year ago, I found an elderly countrywoman, a widow,
     waiting for me. Rising up, she said, "D'ye mind me?" I
     looked at her, and could get nothing from her face; but the
     voice remained in my ear, as if coming from the "fields of
     sleep," and I said by a sort of instinct, "Tibbie Meek!" I
     had not seen her or heard her voice for more than forty
     years. She had come to get some medical advice. Voices are
     often like the smells of flowers and leaves, the tastes of
     wild fruits&mdash;they touch and awaken the memory in a strange
     way. "Tibbie" is now living at Thankerton.
</pre>
    <p>
      We were all three awakened by a cry of pain&mdash;sharp, insufferable, as
      if one were stung. Years after we two confided to each other, sitting by
      the burnside, that we thought that "great cry" which arose at midnight in
      Egypt must have been like it. We all knew whose voice it was, and, in our
      night-clothes, we ran into the passage, and into the little parlour to the
      left hand, in which was a closet-bed. We found my father standing before
      us, erect, his hands clenched in his black hair, his eyes full of misery
      and amazement, his face white as that of the dead. He frightened us. He
      saw this, or else his intense will had mastered his agony, for, taking his
      hands from his head, he said, slowly and gently, "Let us give thanks," and
      turned to a little sofa in the room; there lay our mother, dead. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This sofa, which was henceforward sacred in the house, he
     had always beside him. He used to tell us he set her down
     upon it when he brought her home to the manse.
</pre>
    <p>
      She had long been ailing. I remember her sitting in a shawl,&mdash;an
      Indian one with little dark green spots on a light ground,&mdash;and
      watching her growing pale with what I afterwards knew must have been
      strong pain. She had, being feverish, slipped out of bed, and
      "grand-mother," her mother, seeing her "change come," had called my
      father, and they two saw her open her blue, kind, and true eyes,
      "comfortable" to us all "as the day"&mdash;I remember them better than
      those of any one I saw yesterday&mdash;and, with one faint look of
      recognition to him, close them till the time of the restitution of all
      things.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "She had another morn than ours."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Then were seen in full action his keen, passionate nature, his sense of
      mental pain, and his supreme will, instant and unsparing, making himself
      and his terrified household give thanks in the midst of such a desolation,&mdash;and
      for it. Her warfare was accomplished, her iniquities were pardoned; she
      had already received from her Lord's hand double for all her sins: this
      was his supreme and over-mastering thought, and he gave it utterance.
    </p>
    <p>
      No man was happier in his wives. My mother was modest, calm, thrifty,
      reasonable, tender, happy-hearted. She was his student-love, and is even
      now remembered in that pastoral region for "her sweet gentleness and
      wife-like government." Her death, and his sorrow and loss, settled down
      deep into the heart of the countryside. He was so young and bright, so
      full of fire, so unlike any one else, so devoted to his work, so
      chivalrous in his look and manner, so fearless, and yet so sensitive and
      self-contained. She was so wise, good and gentle, gracious and frank.
    </p>
    <p>
      His subtlety of affection, and his almost cruel self-command, were shown
      on the day of the funeral. It was to Symington, four miles off,&mdash;a
      quiet little churchyard, lying in the shadow of Tinto; a place where she
      herself had wished to be laid. The funeral was chiefly on horseback. We,
      the family, were in coaches. I had been since the death in a sort of
      stupid musing and wonder, not making out what it all meant. I knew my
      mother was said to be dead. I saw she was still, and laid out, and then
      shut up, and didn't move; but I did not know that when she was carried out
      in that long black box, and we all went with her, she alone was never to
      return.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we got to the village all the people were at their doors. One woman,
      the blacksmith Thomas Spence's wife, had a nursing baby in her arms, and
      he leapt up and crowed with joy at the strange sight, the crowding
      horsemen, the coaches, and the nodding plumes of the hearse. This was my
      brother William, then nine years old, and Margaret Spence was his
      foster-mother. Those with me were overcome at this sight; he of all the
      world whose, in some ways, was the greatest loss, the least conscious,
      turning it to his own childish glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      We got to the churchyard and stood round the open grave. My dear old
      grandfather was asked by my father to pray; he did. I don't remember his
      words; I believe he, through his tears and sobs, repeated the Divine
      words, "All flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of the
      grass; the grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away, but the
      word of the Lord endureth for ever;" adding, in his homely and pathetic
      way, that the flower would again bloom, never again to fade; that what was
      now sown in dishonour and weakness, would be raised in glory and power,
      like unto His own glorious body. Then to my surprise and alarm, the
      coffin, resting on its bearers, was placed over that dark hole, and I
      watched with curious eye the unrolling of those neat black bunches of
      cords, which I have often enough seen since. My father took the one at the
      head, and also another much smaller springing from the same point as his,
      which he had caused to be put there, and unrolling it, put it into my
      hand. I twisted it firmly round my fingers, and awaited the result; the
      burial men with their real ropes lowered the coffin, and when it rested at
      the bottom, it was too far down for me to see it&mdash;the grave was made
      very deep, as he used afterwards to tell us, that it might hold us all&mdash;my
      father first and abruptly let his cord drop, followed by the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was too much. I now saw what was meant, and held on and fixed my fist
      and feet, and I believe my father had some difficulty in forcing open my
      small fingers; he let the little black cord drop, and I remember, in my
      misery and anger, seeing its open end disappearing in the gloom.
    </p>
    <p>
      My mother's death was the second epoch in my father's life; it marked a
      change at once and for life; and for a man so self-reliant, so poised upon
      a centre of his own, it is wonderful the extent of change it made. He went
      home, preached her funeral sermon, every one in the church in tears,
      himself outwardly unmoved. * But from that time dates an entire, though
      always deepening, alteration in his manner of preaching, because an entire
      change in his way of dealing with God's Word. Not that his abiding
      religious views and convictions were then originated or even altered&mdash;I
      doubt not that from a child he not only knew the Holy Scriptures, but was
      "wise unto salvation"&mdash;but it strengthened and clarified, quickened
      and gave permanent direction to, his sense of God as revealed in His Word.
      He took as it were to subsoil ploughing; he got a new and adamantine point
      to the instrument with which he bored, and with a fresh power&mdash;with
      his whole might, he sunk it right down into the living rock, to the virgin
      gold. His entire nature had got a shock, and his blood was drawn inwards,
      his surface was chilled; but fuel was heaped all the more on the inner
      fires, and his zeal, that [Greek] burned with a new ardour; indeed had he
      not found an outlet for his pent-up energy, his brain must have given way,
      and his faculties have either consumed themselves in wild, wasteful
      splendour and combustion, or dwindled into lethargy. **
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * I have been told that once in the course of the sermon his
     voice trembled, and many feared he was about to break down.

     ** There is a story illustrative of this altered manner and
     matter of preaching. He had been preaching when very young,
     at Galashiels, and one wife said to her "neebor,"

     "Jean, what think ye o' the lad?"

     "It's maist o't tinsel wark," said Jean, neither relishing
     nor appreciating his fine sentiments and figures. After my
     mother's death, he preached in the same place, and Jean,
     running to her friend, took the first word, "It's a' gowd
     noo."
</pre>
    <p>
      The manse became silent; we lived and slept and played under the shadow of
      that death, and we saw, or rather felt, that he was another father than
      before. No more happy laughter from the two in the parlour, as he was
      reading Larry the Irish postboy's letter in Miss Edgeworth's tale, or the
      last Waverley novel; no more visitings in a cart with her, he riding
      beside us on his white thorough-bred pony, to Kilbucho, or Rachan Mill, or
      Kirklawhill. He went among his people as usual when they were ill; he
      preached better than ever&mdash;they were sometimes frightened to think
      how wonderfully he preached; but the sunshine was over&mdash;the glad and
      careless look, the joy of young life and mutual love. He was little with
      us, and, as I said, the house was still, except when he was <i>mandating</i>
      his sermons for Sabbath. This he always did, not only <i>vivâ voce</i>,
      but with as much energy and loudness as in the pulpit; we felt his voice
      was sharper, and rang keen through the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      What we lost, the congregation and the world gained. He gave himself
      wholly to his work. As you have yourself said, he changed his entire
      system and fashion of preaching; from being elegant, rhetorical, and
      ambitious, he became concentrated, urgent, moving (being himself moved),
      keen, searching, unswerving, authoritative to fierceness, full of the
      terrors of the Lord, if he could but persuade men. The truth of the words
      of God had shone out upon him with an immediateness and infinity of
      meaning and power, which made them, though the same words he had looked on
      from childhood, other and greater and deeper words. He then left the
      ordinary commentators, and men who write about meanings and flutter around
      the circumference and corners; he was bent on the centre, on touching with
      his own fingers, on seeing with his own eyes, the pearl of great price.
      Then it was that he began to dig into the depths, into the primary and
      auriferous rock of Scripture, and take nothing at another's hand: then he
      took up with the word "apprehend;" he had laid hold of the truth,&mdash;there
      it was, with its evidence, in his hand; and everyone who knew him must
      remember well how, in speaking with earnestness of the meaning of a
      passage, he, in his ardent, hesitating way, looked into the palm of his
      hand as if he actually saw there the truth he was going to utter. This
      word <i>apprehend</i> played a large part in his lectures, as the thing
      itself did in his processes of investigation, or, if I might make a word,
      <i>indigation</i>. Comprehension, he said, was for few; apprehension was
      for every man who had hands and a head to rule them, and an eye to direct
      them. Out of this arose one of his deficiencies. He <i>could</i> go
      largely into the generalities of a subject, and relished greatly others
      doing it, so that they did do it really and well; but he was averse to
      abstract and wide reasonings. Principles he rejoiced in: he worked with
      them as with his choicest weapons; they were the polished stones for his
      sling, against the Goliaths of presumption, error, and tyranny in thought
      or in polity, civil or ecclesiastical; but he somehow divined a principle,
      or got at it naked and alone, rather than deduced it and brought it to a
      point from an immensity of particulars, and then rendered it back so as to
      blind them into one <i>cosmos</i>. One of my young friends, who afterwards
      went to India, and now dead, used to come and hear him in Broughton Place
      with me, and this word <i>apprehend</i> caught him, and as he had a great
      love for my father, in writing home to me, he never forgot to ask how
      "grand old Apprehend" was.
    </p>
    <p>
      From this time dates my father's possession and use of the German
      Exegetics. After my mother's death I slept with him; his bed was in his
      study, a small room, * with a very small grate; and I remember well his
      getting those fat, shapeless, spongy German books, as if one would sink in
      them, and be bogged in their bibulous, unsized paper; and watching him as
      he impatiently cut them up, and dived into them in his rapid, eclectic
      way, tasting them, and dropping for my play such a lot of soft, large,
      curled bits from the paper-cutter, leaving the edges all shaggy. He never
      came to bed when I was awake, which was not to be wondered at; but I can
      remember often awaking far on in the night or morning, and seeing that
      keen, beautiful, intense face bending over these Rosenmullers, and
      Ernestis, and Storrs, and Kuinoels&mdash;the fire out, and the grey dawn
      peering through the window; and when he heard me move, he would speak to
      me in the foolish words of endearment my mother was wont to use, and come
      to bed, and take me, warm as I was, into his cold bosom.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * On a low chest of drawers in this room there lay for many
     years my mother's parasol, by his orders&mdash;I daresay, for
     long, the only one in Biggar.
</pre>
    <p>
      <i>Vitringa in Jesaiam</i> I especially remember, a noble folio. Even
      then, with that eagerness to communicate what he had himself found, of
      which you must often have been made the subject, he went and told it. He
      would try to make me, small man as I was, "apprehend" what he and Vitringa
      between them had made out of the fifty-third chapter of his favourite
      prophet, the princely Isaiah. * Even then, so far as I can recal, he never
      took notes of what he read. He did not need this, his intellectual force
      and clearness were so great; he was so <i>totus in illo</i>, whatever it
      was, that he recorded, by a secret of its own, his mind's results and
      victories and <i>memoranda</i>, as he went on; he did not even mark his
      books, at least very seldom; he marked his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was thus every year preaching with more and more power, because with
      more and more knowledge and "pureness;" and, as you say, there were
      probably nowhere in Britain such lectures delivered at that time to such
      an audience, consisting of country people, sound, devout, well-read in
      their Bibles and in the native divinity, but quite unused to persistent,
      deep, critical thought.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * His reading aloud of everything from John Gilpin to John
     Howe was a fine and high art, or rather gift. Henderson
     could not have given
</pre>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The dinner waits, and we are tired
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Says Gilpin, "So am I,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      better; and to hear him sounding the depths and cadences of the Living
      Temple, "bearing on its front this doleful inscription, 'Here God once
      dwelt,'" was like listening to the recitative of Handel. But Isaiah was
      his masterpiece; and I remember quite well his startling us all when
      reading at family worship, "His name shall be called Wonderful,
      Counsellor, the mighty God," by a peremptory, explosive sharpness, as of
      thunder overhead, at the words, "the mighty God,"' similar to the
      rendering now given to Handel's music, and doubtless so meant by him; and
      then closing with "the Prince of Peace," soft and low. No man who wishes
      to feel Isaiah, as well as understand him, should be ignorant of Handel's
      "Messiah." His prelude to "Comfort ye"&mdash;its simple theme, cheerful
      and infinite as the ripple of the unsearchable sea&mdash;gives a deeper
      meaning to the words. One of my father's great delights in his dying
      months was reading the lives of Handel and Michael Angelo, then newly out.
      He felt that the author of "He was despised," and "He shall feed his
      flock," and those other wonderful airs, was a man of profound religious
      feeling, of which they were the utterance: and he rejoiced over the
      warlike airs and choruses of "Judas Maccabæus.' You have recorded his
      estimate of the religious nature of him of the <i>terribile via</i>: he
      said it was a relief to his mind to know that such a mighty genius walked
      humbly with his God.
    </p>
    <p>
      Much of this&mdash;most of it&mdash;was entirely his own, self-originated
      and self-sustained, and done for its own sake,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "All too happy in the pleasure
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Of his own exceeding treasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      But he often said, with deep feeling, that one thing put him always on his
      mettle, the knowledge that "yonder in that corner, under the gallery, sat,
      Sabbath after Sabbath, a man who knew his Greek Testament better than I
      did."
    </p>
    <p>
      This was his brother-in-law, and one of his elders, Mr. Robert Johnston,
      married to his sister Violet, a merchant and portioner in Biggar, a
      remarkable man, of whom it is difficult to say to strangers what is true,
      without being accused of exaggeration. A shopkeeper in that remote little
      town, he not only intermeddled fearlessly with all knowledge, but mastered
      more than many practised and University men do in their own lines.
      Mathematics, astronomy, and especially what may be called <i>selenology</i>,
      or the doctrine of the moon, and the higher geometry and physics; Hebrew,
      Sanscrit, Greek, and Latin, to the veriest rigours of prosody and metre;
      Spanish and Italian, German, French, and any odd language that came in his
      way; all these he knew more or less thoroughly, and acquired them in the
      most leisurely, easy, cool sort of a way, as if he grazed and browsed
      perpetually in the field of letters, rather than made formal meals, or
      gathered for any ulterior purpose, his fruits, his roots, and his nuts&mdash;he
      especially liked mental nuts&mdash;much less bought them from any one.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all this, his knowledge of human, and especially of Biggar human
      nature, the ins and outs of its little secret ongoings, the entire gossip
      of the place, was like a woman's; moreover, every personage great or
      small, heroic or comic, in Homer&mdash;whose poems he made it a matter of
      conscience to read once every four years&mdash;Plautus, Suetonius,
      Plutarch, Tacitus, and Lucian, down through Boccaccio and Don Quixote,
      which he knew by heart and from the living Spanish, to Joseph Andrews, the
      Spectator, Goldsmith and Swift, Miss Austen, Miss Edgeworth, and Miss
      Ferrier, Galt and Sir Walter&mdash;he was as familiar with as with David
      Crockat the nailer, or the parish minister, the town-drummer, the
      mole-catcher, or the poaching weaver, who had the night before leistered a
      prime kipper at Rachan Mill, by the flare of a tarry wisp, or brought home
      his surreptitious grey hen or <i>maukin</i> from the wilds of Dunsyre or
      the dreary Lang Whang. *
    </p>
    <p>
      This singular man came to the manse every Friday evening for many years,
      and he and my father discussed everything and everybody;&mdash;beginning
      with tough, strong head work&mdash;a bout at wrestling, be it Caesar's
      Bridge, the Epistles of Phalaris, the import of [Greek], the Catholic
      question, or the great roots of Christian faith; ending with the latest
      joke in the town or the <i>West Raw</i>, the last effusion by Affleck,
      tailor and poet, the last blunder of Æsop the apothecary, and the last
      repartee of the village fool, with the week's Edinburgh and Glasgow news
      by their respective carriers; the whole little life, sad and humorous&mdash;who
      had been born, and who was dying or dead, married or about to be, for the
      past eight days. **
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * With the practices of this last worthy, when carried on
     moderately, and for the sport's sake, he had a special
     sympathy.

     ** I believe this was the true though secret source of much
     of my father's knowledge of the minute personal history of
     every one in his region, which&mdash;to his people, knowing his
     reserved manner and his devotion to his studies, and his so
     rarely meeting them or speaking to them, except from the
     pulpit, or at a diet of visitation&mdash;was a perpetual wonder,
     and of which he made great use in his dealings with his
     afflicted or erring members."
</pre>
    <p>
      This amused, and, in the true sense, diverted my father, and gratified his
      curiosity, which was great, and his love of men as well as for man. He was
      shy, and unwilling to ask what he longed to know, liking better to have it
      given him without the asking; and no one could do this better than "Uncle
      Johnston."
    </p>
    <p>
      You may readily understand what a thorough exercise and diversion of an
      intellectual and social kind this was, for they were neither of them men
      to shirk from close gripes, or trifle and flourish with their weapons;
      they laid on and spared not. And then my uncle had generally some special
      nut of his own to crack, some thesis to fling down and offer battle on,
      some "particle" to energize upon; for though quiet and calm, he was
      thoroughly combative, and enjoyed seeing his friend's blood up, and
      hearing his emphatic and bright speech, and watching his flashing eye.
      Then he never spared him; criticised and sometimes quizzed&mdash;for he
      had great humour&mdash;his style, as well as debated and weighed his
      apprehendings and exegeses, shaking them heartily to test their strength.
      He was so thoroughly independent of all authority, except that of reason
      and truth, and his own humour; so ready to detect what was weak,
      extravagant, or unfair; so full of relish for intellectual power and
      accuracy, and so attached to and proud of my father, and bent on his
      making the best of himself, that this trial was never relaxed. His firm
      and close-grained mind was a sort of whetstone on which my father
      sharpened his wits at this weekly "setting."
    </p>
    <p>
      The very difference of their mental tempers and complexions drew them
      together&mdash;the one impatient, nervous, earnest, instant, swift,
      vehement, regardless of exertion, bent on his goal, like a thorough-bred
      racer, pressing to the mark; the other leisurely to slowness and
      provokingness, with a constitution which could stand a great deal of ease,
      unimpassioned, still, clear, untroubled by likings or dislikings, dwelling
      and working in thought and speculation and observation as ends in
      themselves, and as their own rewards: * the one hunting for a principle or
      a "divine method;" the other sapping or shelling from a distance, and for
      his pleasure, a position, or gaining a point, or settling a rule, or
      verifying a problem, or getting axiomatic and proverbial.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * He was curiously destitute of all literary ambition or
     show; like the cactus in the desert, always plump, always
     taking in the dew of heaven, and caring little to give it
     out. He wrote many papers in the Repository and Monitor, an
     acute and clever tract on the Voluntary controversy,
     entitled Calm Answers to Angry Questions, and was the author
     of a capital bit of literary banter&mdash;a Congratulatory Letter
     to the Minister of Liber-ton, who had come down upon my
     father in a pamphlet, for his sermon on "There remaineth
     much land to be possessed." It is a mixture of Swift and
     Arbuthnot. I remember one of the flowers he culls from him
     he is congratulating, in which my father is characterized as
     one of those "shallow, sallow souls that would swallow the
     bait "without perceiving the cloven foot!" But a man like
     this never is best in a book; he is always greater than his
     work.
</pre>
    <p>
      In appearance they were as curiously unlike; my uncle short and round to
      rotundity, homely and florid in feature. I used to think Socrates must
      have been like him in visage as well as in much of his mind. He was
      careless in his dress, his hands in his pockets as a rule, and strenuous
      only in smoking or in sleep: with a large, full skull, a humorous twinkle
      in his cold, blue eye, a soft, low voice, expressing every kind of thought
      in the same, sometimes plaguily <i>douce</i> tone; a great power of quiet
      and telling sarcasm, large capacity of listening to and of enjoying other
      men's talk, however small.
    </p>
    <p>
      My father&mdash;tall, slim, agile, quick in his movements, graceful, neat
      to nicety in his dress, with much in his air of what is called style, with
      a face almost too beautiful for a man's, had not his eyes commanded it and
      all who looked at it, and his close, firm mouth been ready to say what the
      fiery spirit might bid; his eyes, when at rest, expressing&mdash;more than
      almost any other I ever saw&mdash;sorrow and tender love, a desire to give
      and to get sympathy, and a sort of gentle, deep sadness, as if that was
      their permanent state, and gladness their momentary act; but when
      awakened, full of fire, peremptory, and not to be trifled with; and his
      smile, and flash of gaiety and fun, something no one could forget; his
      hair in early life a dead black; his eyebrows of exquisite curve, narrow
      and intense; his voice deep when unmoved and calm; keen and sharp to
      piercing fierceness when vehement and roused&mdash;in the pulpit, at times
      a shout, at times a pathetic wail; his utterance hesitating, emphatic,
      explosive, powerful,&mdash;each sentence shot straight and home; his
      hesitation arising from his crowd of impatient ideas, and his resolute
      will that they should come in their order, and some of them not come at
      all, only the best, and his settled determination that each thought should
      be dressed in the very and only word which he stammered on till it came,&mdash;it
      was generally worth his pains and ours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Johnston, again, flowed on like Cæsar's <i>Arar, incredibili
      lenitate</i>, or like linseed out of a poke. You can easily fancy the
      spiritual and bodily contrast of these men, and can fancy too, the kind of
      engagements they would have with their own proper weapons on these Friday
      evenings, in the old manse dining-room, my father showing uncle out into
      the darkness of the back-road, and uncle, doubtless, lighting his black
      and ruminative pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      If my uncle brought up nuts to crack, my father was sure to have some
      difficulties to consult about, or some passages to read, something that
      made him put his whole energy forth; and when he did so, I never heard
      such reading. To hear him read the story of Joseph, or passages in David's
      history, and Psalms 6th, 11th, and 15th, or the 53d, 53d, 54th, 55th, 63d,
      64th, and 40th chapters of Isaiah, or the Sermon on the Mount, or the
      Journey to Emmaus, or our Saviour's prayer in John, or Paul's speech on
      Mars Hill, or the first three chapters of Hebrews and the latter part of
      the nth, or Job, or the Apocalypse; or to pass from those divine themes&mdash;Jeremy
      Taylor, or George Herbert, Sir Walter Raleigh, or Milton's prose, such as
      the passage beginning, "Come forth out of thy royal chambers, O thou
      Prince of all the kings of the earth!" and "Truth, indeed, came once into
      the world with her divine Master," or Charles Wesley's Hymns, or, most
      loved of all, Cowper, from the rapt "Come thou, and, added to thy many
      crowns," or "O that those lips had language!" to the Jackdaw, and his
      incomparable Letters; or Gray's Poems, Burns's "Tam O'Shanter," or Sir
      Walter's "Eve of St. John," * and "The Grey Brother."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Well do I remember when driving him from Melrose to Kelso,
     long ago, we came near Sandyknowe, that grim tower of
     Smailholm, standing erect like a warrior turned to stone,
     defying time and change, his bursting into that noble
     ballad&mdash;
</pre>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      He spurr'd his courser on,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That leads to Brotherstone
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      and pointing out the "Watchfold height," "the eiry Beacon Hill," and
      "Brotherstone."
    </p>
    <p>
      But I beg your pardon: Time has run back with me, and fetched that blessed
      past, and awakened its echoes. I hear his voice; I feel his eye; I see his
      whole nature given up to wrhat he is reading, and making its very soul
      speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a man then as I have sketched, or washed faintly in, as the painters
      say, was that person who sat in the corner under the gallery every
      Sabbath-day, and who knew his Greek Testament better than his minister. He
      is dead, too, a few months ago, dying surrounded with his cherished hoard
      of books of all sizes, times, and tongues&mdash;tatterdemalion many; all
      however drawn up in an order of his own; all thoroughly mastered and
      known; among them David Hume's copy of Shaftesbury's <i>Characteristics</i>,
      with his autograph, which he had picked up at some stall.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said that my mother's death was the second epoch in my father's
      life. I should perhaps have said the third; the first being his mother's
      long illness and death, and the second his going to Elie, and beginning
      the battle of life at fifteen. There must have been something very
      delicate and close and exquisite in the relation between the ailing,
      silent, beautiful and pensive mother, and that dark-eyed, dark-haired,
      bright and silent son; a sort of communion it is not easy to express. You
      can think of him at eleven slowly writing out that small book of promises
      in a distinct and minute hand, quite as like his mature hand, as the shy,
      lustrous-eyed boy was to his after self in his manly years, and sitting by
      the bedside while the rest were out and shouting, playing at hide-and-seek
      round the little church, with the winds from Benlomond or the wild uplands
      of Ayrshire blowing through their hair. He played seldom, but when he did
      run out, he jumped higher and farther, and ran faster than any of them.
      His peculiar beauty must have come from his mother. He used at rare times,
      and with a sort of shudder, to tell of her when a lovely girl of fifteen,
      having been seen by a gentleman of rank, in Cheap-side, hand in hand with
      an evil woman, who was decoying her to ruin, on pretence of showing her
      the way home; and how he stopped his carriage, and taking in the
      unconscious girl, drove her to her uncle's door. But you have said all
      this better than I can.
    </p>
    <p>
      His time with his mother, and the necessary confinement and bodily
      depression caused by it, I doubt not deepened his native thoughtful turn,
      and his tendency to meditative melancholy, as a condition under which he
      viewed all things, and quickened and intensified his sense of the
      suffering of this world, and of the profound seriousness and mystery in
      the midst of which we live and die.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second epoch was that of his leaving home with his guinea, the last he
      ever got from any one but himself; and his going among utter strangers to
      be master of a school one half of the scholars of which were bigger and
      older than himself, and all rough colts&mdash;wilful and unbroken. This
      was his first fronting of the world. Besides supporting himself, this knit
      the sinews of his mind, and made him rely on himself in action as well as
      in thought. He sometimes, but not often, spoke of this, never lightly,
      though he laughed at some of his predicaments. He could not forget the
      rude shock. Generally those familiar revelations were at supper, on the
      Sabbath evening, when, his work over, he enjoyed and lingered over his
      meal.
    </p>
    <p>
      From his young and slight, almost girlish look, and his refined, quiet
      manners, the boys of the school were inclined to annoy and bully him. He
      saw this, and felt it was now or never,&mdash;nothing between. So he took
      his line. The biggest boy, much older and stronger, was the rudest, and
      infected the rest. The "<i>wee maister</i>" ordered him, in that
      peremptory voice we all remember, to stand up and hold out his hand, being
      not at all sure but the big fellow might knock him down on the word. To
      the astonishment of the school, and to the big rebel's too, he obeyed and
      was punished on the instant, and to the full; out went the hand, down came
      the "<i>taws</i>" and bit like fire. From that moment he ruled them by his
      eye, the <i>taws</i> vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an incident at this time of his life which I should perhaps not
      tell, and yet I don't know why I shouldn't, it so perfectly illustrates
      his character in many ways. He had come home during the vacation of his
      school to Langrig, and was about to go back; he had been renewing his
      intercourse with his old teacher and friend whom you mention, from whom he
      used to say he learned to like Shakspere, and who seems to have been a man
      of genuine literary tastes. He went down to bid him good-bye, and
      doubtless they got on their old book loves, and would be spouting their
      pet pieces. The old dominie said, "John, my man, if you are walking into
      Edinburgh, I'll convoy you a bit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "John" was too happy, so next morning they set off, keeping up a constant
      fire of quotation and eager talk. They got past Mid-Calder to near East,
      when my father insisted on his friend returning, and also on going back a
      bit with him; on looking at the old man, he thought he was tired, so on
      reaching the well-known "Kippen's Inn," he stopped and insisted on giving
      him some refreshment. Instead of ordering bread and cheese and a bottle of
      ale, he, doubtless full of Shakspere, and great upon sack and canary,
      ordered <i>a bottle of wine!</i> Of this, you may be sure, the dominie, as
      he most needed it, had the greater share, and doubtless it warmed the
      cockles of his old heart. "John" making him finish the bottle, and drink
      the health of "Gentle Will," saw him off, and went in to pay the
      reckoning. What did he know of the price of wine! It took exactly every
      penny he had; I doubt not, most boys, knowing that the landlord knew them,
      would have either paid a part, or asked him to score it up. This was not
      his way; he was too proud and shy and honest for such an expedient. By
      this time, what with discussing Shakspere, and witnessing his master's
      leisurely emptying of that bottle, and releasing the
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Dear prisoned spirits of the impassioned grape,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      he found he must run for it to Edinburgh, or rather Leith, fourteen miles;
      this he did, and was at the pier just in time to jump into the Elie
      pinnace, which was already off. He often wondered what he would have done
      if he had been that one moment late. You can easily pick out the qualities
      this story unfolds.
    </p>
    <p>
      His nature, capable as it was of great, persistent, and indeed dogged
      labour, was, from the predominance of the nervous system in his
      organization, excitable, and therefore needed and relished excitement&mdash;the
      more intense the better. He found this in his keen political tastes, in
      imaginative literature, and in fiction. In the highest kind of poetry he
      enjoyed the sweet pain of tears; and he all his life had a steady liking,
      even a hunger, for a good novel. This refreshed, lightened, and diverted
      his mind from the strain of his incessant exegesis. He used always to say
      that Sir Walter and Goldsmith, and even Fielding.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Edgeworth, Miss Austen, and Miss Ferrier, were true benefactors to
      the race, by giving such genuine, such secure and innocent pleasure: and
      he often repeated with admiration Lord Jeffrey's words on Scott, inscribed
      on his monument. He had no turn for gardening or for fishing or any field
      sports or games; his sensitive nature recoiled from the idea of pain, and
      above all, needless pain. He used to say the lower creation had groans
      enough, and needed no more burdens; indeed, he was fierce to some measure
      of unfairness against such of his brethren&mdash;Dr. Wardlaw, for instance
      *&mdash;as resembled the apostles in fishing for other things besides men.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * After a tight discussion between these two attached
     friends, Dr. Wardlaw said, "Well, I can't answer you, but
     fish I must and shall."
</pre>
    <p>
      But the exercise and the excitement he most of all others delighted in,
      was riding; and had he been a country gentleman and not a clergyman, I
      don't think he could have resisted fox-hunting. With the exception of that
      great genius in more than horsemanship, Andrew Ducrow, I never saw a man
      sit a horse as he did. He seemed inspired, gay, erect, full of the joy of
      life, fearless and secure. I have heard a farmer friend say if he had not
      been a preacher of the gospel he would have been a cavalry officer, and
      would have fought as he preached.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was known all over the Upper Ward and down Tweeddale for his riding.
      "There goes the minister," as he rode past at a swift canter. He had
      generally well-bred horses, or as I would now call them, ponies; if he had
      not, his sufferings from a dull, hardmouthed, heavy-hearted and footed
      plebeian horse were almost comic. On his grey mare, or his little blood
      bay horse, to see him setting off and indulging it and himself in some
      alarming gambols, and in the midst of his difficulties, partly of his own
      making, taking off his hat or kissing his hand to a lady, made one think
      of "young Harry with his beaver up." He used to tell with much relish,
      how, one fine summer Sabbath evening, after preaching in the open air for
      a collection, in some village near, and having put the money, chiefly
      halfpence, into his handkerchief, and that into his hat, he was taking a
      smart gallop home across the moor, happy and relieved, when three ladies&mdash;I
      think, the Miss Bertrams of Kersewell&mdash;came suddenly upon him; off
      went the hat, down bent the head, and over him streamed the cherished
      collection, the ladies busy among the wild grass and heather picking it
      up, and he full of droll confusion and laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The grey mare he had for many years. I can remember her small head and
      large eyes; her neat, compact body, round as a barrel; her finely
      fleabitten skin, and her thoroughbred legs. I have no doubt she had
      Arabian blood. My father's pride in her was quite curious. Many a wild
      ride to and from the Presbytery at Lanark, and across flooded and shifting
      fords, he had on her. She was as sweet-tempered and enduring, as she was
      swift and sure; and her powers of running were appreciated and applied in
      a way which he was both angry and amused to discover. You know what riding
      the <i>bruse</i> means. At a country wedding the young men have a race to
      the bridegroom's home, and he who wins, brings out a bottle and glass and
      drinks the young wife's health. I wish Burns had described a <i>bruse</i>;
      all sorts of steeds, wild, unkempt lads as well as colts, old broken-down
      thoroughbreds that did wonders when <i>soopled</i>, huge, grave
      cart-horses devouring the road with their shaggy hoofs, wilful ponies,
      etc. You can imagine the wild hurry-skurry and fun, the comic situations
      and upsets over a rough road, up and down places one would be giddy to
      look at.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0023" id="linkimage-0023"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0123m.jpg" alt="0123m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0123.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Well, the young farmers were in the habit of coming to my father, and
      asking the loan of the mare to go and see a friend, etc., etc., praising
      knowingly the fine points and virtues of his darling. Having through life,
      with all his firmness of nature, an abhorrence of saying "No" to any one,
      the interview generally ended with, "Well, Robert, you may have her, but
      take care of her, and don't ride her fast." In an hour or two Robert was
      riding the <i>bruse</i>, and flying away from the crowd, grey first, and
      the rest nowhere, and might be seen turning the corner of the farm-house
      with the victorious bottle in his uplifted hand, the motley pack panting
      vainly up the hill. This went on for long, and the grey was famous, almost
      notorious, all over the Upper Ward; sometimes if she appeared, no one
      would start, and she trotted the course. Partly from his own personal
      abstraction from outward country life, and partly from Uncle Johnston's
      sense of waggery keeping him from telling his friend of the grey's last
      exploit at Hartree Mill, or her leaping over the "best man" at Thriepland,
      my father was the last to hear of this equivocal glory of "the minister's
      <i>meer</i>." Indeed, it was whispered she had once won a whip at Lanark
      races. They still tell of his feats on this fine creature, one of which he
      himself never alluded to without a feeling of shame. He had an engagement
      to preach somewhere beyond the Clyde on a Sabbath evening, and his
      excellent and attached friend and elder, Mr. Kello of Lindsaylands,
      accompanied him on his big plough horse. It was to be in the open air, on
      the riverside. When they got to the Clyde they found it in full flood,
      heavy and sudden rains at the head of the water having brought it down in
      a wild <i>spate</i>. On the opposite side were the gathered people and the
      tent. Before Mr. Kello knew where he was, there was his minister on the
      mare swimming across, and carried down in a long diagonal, the people
      looking on in terror. He landed, shook himself, and preached with his
      usual fervour. As I have said, he never liked to speak of this bit of
      hardihood, and he never repeated it; but it was like the man&mdash;there
      were the people, that was what he would be at, and though timid for
      anticipated danger as any woman, <i>in</i> it he was without fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      One more of his character in connexion with his riding. On coming to
      Edinburgh he gave up this kind of exercise; he had no occasion for it, and
      he had enough and more than enough of excitement in the public questions
      in which he found himself involved, and in the miscellaneous activities of
      a popular town minister. I was then a young doctor&mdash;it must have been
      about 1840&mdash;and had a patient, Mrs. James Robertson, eldest daughter
      of Mr. Pirie, the predecessor of Dr. Dick in what was then Shuttle Street
      congregation, Glasgow. She was one of my father's earliest and dearest
      friends,&mdash;a mother in the Burgher Israel, she and her cordial husband
      "given to hospitality," especially to "the Prophets." She was hopelessly
      ill at Juniper Green, near Edinburgh. Mr. George Stone, then living at
      Muirhouse, one of my father's congregation in Broughton Place, a man of
      equal originality and worth, and devoted to his minister, knowing my love
      of riding, offered me his blood-chestnut to ride out and make my visit. My
      father said, "John, if you are going, I would like to ride out with you he
      wished to see his dying friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You ride!" said Mr. Stone, who was a very York-shireman in the matter of
      horses. "Let him try," said I. The upshot was, that Mr. Stone sent the
      chestnut for me, and a sedate pony&mdash;called, if I forget not, Goliath&mdash;for
      his minister, with all sorts of injunctions to me to keep him off the
      thoroughbred, and on Goliath.
    </p>
    <p>
      My father had not been on a horse for nearly twenty years. He mounted and
      rode off. He soon got teased with the short, pattering steps of Goliath,
      and looked wistfully up at me, and longingly to the tall chestnut,
      stepping once for Goliath's twice, like the Don striding beside Sancho. I
      saw what he was after, and when past the toll he said in a mild sort of
      way, "John, did you promise <i>absolutely</i> I was not to ride your
      horse?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, father, certainly not. Mr. Stone, I daresay, wished me to do so, but
      I didn't."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, I think we'll change; this beast shakes me." So we changed. I
      remember how noble he looked; how at home: his white hair and his dark
      eyes, his erect, easy, accustomed seat. He soon let his eager horse slip
      gently away. It was first <i>evasit</i>, he was off, Goliath and I jogging
      on behind; then <i>erupit</i>, and in a twinkling&mdash;<i>evanuit</i>. I
      saw them last flashing through the arch under the Canal, his white hair
      flying. I was uneasy, though from his riding I knew he was as yet in
      command, so I put Goliath to his best, and having passed through
      Slateford, I asked a stonebreaker if he saw a gentleman on a chestnut
      horse. "Has he white hair?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And een like a gled's?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Weel, then, he's fleein' up the road like the wund; he'll be at Little
      Vantage" (about nine miles off) "in nae time if he haud on." I never once
      sighted him, but on coming into Juniper Green there was his steaming
      chestnut at the gate, neighing cheerily to Goliath. I went in, he was at
      the bedside of his friend, and in the midst of prayer; his words as I
      entered were, "When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee,
      and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee;" and he was not the
      less instant in prayer that his blood was up with his ride. He never again
      saw Mrs. Robertson, or as she was called when they were young, Sibbie
      (Sibella) Pirie. On coming out he said nothing, but took the chestnut,
      mounted her, and we came home quietly. His heart was opened; he spoke of
      old times and old friends; he stopped at the exquisite view at Hailes into
      the valley, and up the Pentlands beyond, the smoke of Kate's Mill rising
      in the still and shadowy air, and broke out into Cowper's words: Yes,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "He sets the bright procession on its way,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And marshals all the order of the year;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And ere one flowery season fades and dies,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Designs the blooming wonders of the next."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Then as we came slowly in, the moon shone behind Craiglockhart hill among
      the old Scotch firs; he pulled up again, and gave me Collins' Ode to
      Evening, beginning&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Thy springs, and dying gales
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      repeating over and over some of the lines, as
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Thy modest ear,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Thy springs, and dying gales."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "&mdash;And marks o'er all
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Thy dewy fingers draw
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The gradual dusky veil."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      And when she looked out on us clear and full, "Yes&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And nightly to the listening earth
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Repeats the story of her birth."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As we passed through Slateford, he spoke of Dr. Belfrage, his
      great-hearted friend, of his obligations to him, and of his son, my
      friend, both lying together in Colinton churchyard; and of Dr. Dick, who
      was minister before him, of the Coventrys, and of Stitchel and Sprouston,
      of his mother, and of himself,&mdash;his doubts of his own sincerity in
      religion, his sense of sin, of God&mdash;reverting often to his dying
      friend. Such a thing only occurred to me with him once or twice all my
      life; and then when we were home, he was silent, shut up, self-contained
      as before. He was himself conscious of this habit of reticence, and what
      may be called <i>selfism</i> to us, his children, and lamented it. I
      remember his saying in a sort of mournful joke, "I have a well of love; I
      know it; but it is a <i>well</i>, and a <i>draw</i>-well, to your sorrow
      and mine, and it seldom overflows, but," looking with that strange power
      of tenderness as if he put his voice and his heart into his eyes, "you may
      always come hither to draw;" he used to say he might take to himself
      Wordsworth's lines&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "I am not one who much or oft delights
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To season my fireside with personal talk."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      And changing "though" into "if:"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "A well of love it may be deep,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I trust it is, and never dry;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      What matter, though its waters sleep
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      In silence and obscurity?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The expression of his affection was more like the shock of a Leyden jar,
      than the continuous current of a galvanic circle.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, as I have said, a permanent chill given by my mother's death,
      to what may be called the outer surface of his nature, and we at home felt
      it much. The blood was thrown in upon the centre, and went forth in
      energetic and victorious work, in searching the Scriptures and saving
      souls; but his social faculty never recovered that shock! it was blighted;
      he was always desiring to be alone and at his work. A stranger who saw him
      for a short time, bright, animated, full of earnest and cordial talk,
      pleasing and being pleased, the life of the company, was apt to think how
      delightful he must always be,&mdash;and so he was; but these times of
      bright talk were like angels' visits; and he smiled with peculiar
      benignity on his retiring guest, as if blessing him not the less for
      leaving him to himself. I question if there ever lived a man so much in
      the midst of men, and in the midst of his own children, * in whom the
      silences, as Mr. Carlyle would say, were so predominant. Every Sabbath he
      spoke out of the abundance of his heart, his whole mind; he was then
      communicative and frank enough: all the week, before and after, he would
      not unwillingly have never opened his mouth. Of many people we may say
      that their mouth is always open except when it is shut; of him that his
      mouth was always shut except when it was opened. Every one must have been
      struck with the seeming inconsistency of his occasional brilliant, happy,
      energetic talk, and his habitual silentness&mdash;his difficulty in
      getting anything to say. But, as I have already said, what we lost, the
      world and the church gained.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * He gave us all the education we got at Biggar.
</pre>
    <p>
      When travelling he was always in high spirits and full of anecdote and
      fun. Indeed I knew more of his inner history in this <i>one</i> way, than
      during years of living with him. I recollect his taking me with him to
      Glasgow when I must have been about fourteen; we breakfasted in <i>The
      Rain's Horn Tavern</i>, and I felt a new respect for him at his commanding
      the waiters. He talked a great deal during our short tour, and often have
      I desired to recal the many things he told me of his early life, and of
      his own religious crises, my mother's death, his fear of his own death,
      and all this intermingled with the drollest stories of his boy and student
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      We went to Paisley and dined, I well remember, we two alone, and, as I
      thought, magnificently, in a great apartment in <i>The Saracen's Head</i>,
      at the end of which was the county ball-room. We had come across from
      Dunoon and landed in a small boat at the <i>Water Neb</i> along with Mrs.
      Dr. Hall, a character Sir Walter or Galt would have made immortal. My
      father with characteristic ardour took an oar, for the first time in his
      life, and I believe for the last, to help the old boatman on the Cart, and
      wishing to do something decided, missed the water, and went back head over
      heels to the immense enjoyment of Mrs. Hall, who said, "Less pith, and
      mair to the purpose, my man." She didn't let the joke die out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another time&mdash;it was when his second marriage was fixed on, to our
      great happiness and his&mdash;I had just taken my degree of M. D., and he
      took Isabella, William, and myself to Moffat. By a curious felicity we got
      into Miss Gedde's lodgings, where the village circulating library was
      kept, the whole of which we aver he read in ten days. I never saw him so
      happy, so open and full of mirth, reading to us, and reciting the poetry
      of his youth. On these rare but delightful occasions he was fond of
      exhibiting, when asked, his powers of rapid speaking, in which he might
      have rivalled old Matthews or his son. His favourite feat was repeating,
      "Says I to my Lord, quo' I&mdash;what for will ye no grund ma barleymeal
      mouterfree, says I to my Lord, quo' I, says I, I says." He was brilliant
      upon the final "I says." Another <i>chef-d'oeuvre</i> was, "On Tintock tap
      there is a mist, and in the mist there is a kist (a chest), and in the
      kist there is a cap (a wooden bowl), and in the cap there is a drap, tak'
      up the cap, and sup the drap, and set the cap on Tintock tap." This he
      could say, if I mistake not, five times without drawing breath. It was a
      favourite passage this, and he often threatened to treat it exegetically;
      laughing heartily when I said, in that case, he would not have great
      trouble with the <i>context</i>, which in others cost him a good deal.
    </p>
    <p>
      His manners to ladies, and indeed to all women, were those of a courtly
      gentleman; they could be romantic in their <i>empressement</i> and
      devotion, and I used to think Sir Philip Sydney, or Ariosto's knights and
      the Paladins of old, must have looked and moved as he did. He had great
      pleasure in the company of high-bred, refined, thoughtful women; and he
      had a peculiar sympathy with the sufferings, the necessary mournfulness of
      women, and with all in their lot connected with the fruit of that
      forbidden tree&mdash;their loneliness, the sorrows of their time, and
      their pangs in travail, their peculiar relation to their children. I think
      I hear him reading the words, "Can a woman forget her sucking child, that
      she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea" (as if it was
      the next thing to impossible), "she may forget, yet will not I forget
      thee." Indeed, to a man who saw so little of, and said so little to his
      own children, perhaps it may be <i>because</i> of all this, his sympathy
      for mothers under loss of children, his real suffering for their
      suffering, not only endeared him to them as their minister, their
      consoler, and gave him opportunities of dropping in divine and saving
      truth and comfort, when the heart was full and soft, tender, and at his
      mercy, but it brought out in his only loss of this kind, the mingled
      depth, tenderness, and also the peremptoriness of his nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the case of the death of little Maggie&mdash;a child the very image of
      himself in face, lovely and pensive, and yet ready for any fun, with a
      keenness of affection that perilled everything on being loved, who must
      cling to some one and be clasped, made for a garden, for the first garden,
      not for the rough world, the child of his old age&mdash;this peculiar
      meeting of opposites was very marked. She was stricken with sudden
      illness, malignant sore throat; her mother was gone, and so she was to my
      father as a flower he had the sole keeping of; and his joy in her wild
      mirth, his watching her childish moods of sadness, as if a shadow came
      over her young heaven, were themselves something to watch. Her delicate
      life made no struggle with disease; it as it were declined to stay on such
      conditions. She therefore sunk at once and without much pain, her soul
      quick and unclouded, and her little forefinger playing to the last with my
      father's silvery curls, her eyes trying in vain to brighten his:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Thou wert a dew-drop which the morn brings forth,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Not fitted to be trailed along the soiling earth;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But at the touch of wrong, without a strife,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Slips in a moment out of life."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      His distress, his anguish at this stroke, was not only intense, it was in
      its essence permanent; he went mourning and looking for her all his days;
      but after she was dead, that resolved will compacted him in an instant. It
      was on a Sabbath morning she died, and he was all day at church, not many
      yards from where lay her little corpse alone in the house. His colleague
      preached in the forenoon, and in the afternoon he took his turn, saying
      before beginning his discourse:&mdash;"It has pleased the Father of Lights
      to darken one of the lights of my dwelling&mdash;had the child lived I
      would have remained with her, but now I have thought it right to arise and
      come into the house of the Lord to worship." Such violence to one part of
      his nature by that in it which was supreme, injured him: it was like
      pulling up on the instant an express train; the whole inner organization
      is minutely, though it maybe invisibly hurt; its molecular constitution
      damaged by the cruel stress and strain. Such things are not right; they
      are a cruelty and injustice and injury from the soul to the body, its
      faithful slave, and they bring down, as in his case they too truly did,
      their own certain and specific retribution. A man who did not feel keenly
      might have preached; a man whose whole nature was torn, shattered, and
      astonished as his was, had in a high sense <i>no right</i> so to use
      himself; and when too late he opened his eyes to this. It was part of our
      old Scottish severe unsparing character&mdash;calm to coldness outside,
      burning to fierceness, tender to agony within.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was saying how much my father enjoyed women's company. He liked to look
      on them, and watch them, listening * to their keen, unconnected, and
      unreasoning, but not unreasonable talk. Men's argument, or rather arguing,
      and above all debating, he disliked. He had no turn for it. He was not
      combative, much less contentious. He was, however, warlike. Anything that
      he could destroy, any falsehood or injustice, he made for, not to discuss,
      but to expose and kill. He could not fence with his mind much less with
      his tongue, and had no love for the exploits of a nimble dialectic. He had
      no readiness either in thought or word for this; his way was slowly to <i>think
      out</i> a subject, to get it well "bottomed," as Locke would say; he was
      not careful as to recording the steps he took in their order, but the
      spirit of his mind was logical, as must be that of all minds who seek and
      find truth, for logic is nothing else than the arithmetic of thought;
      having therefore <i>thought it out</i>, he proceeded to put it into formal
      expression. This he did so as never again to undo it. His mind seemed to
      want the wheels by which this is done, <i>vestigia nulla retrorsum</i>,
      and having stereotyped it, he was never weary of it; it never lost its
      life and freshness to him, and he delivered it as emphatically thirty
      years after it had been cast, as the first hour of its existence.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * One day my mother, and her only sister, Agnes&mdash;married to
     James Aitken of Callands, a man before his class and his
     time, for long the only Whig and Seceder laird in
     Peeblesshire, and with whom my father shared the Edinburgh
     Review from its beginning&mdash;the two sisters who were, the one
     to the other, as Martha was to Mary, sat talking of their
     household doings; my aunt was great upon some things she
     could do; my father looked up from his book, and said,
     "There is one thing, Mrs. Aitken, you cannot do&mdash;you cannot
     turn the heel of a stocking," and he was right, he had noticed
     her make over this "kittle" turn to her mother.
</pre>
    <p>
      I have said he was no swordsman, but he was a heavy shot; he fired off his
      ball, compact, weighty, the <i>maximum</i> of substance in the <i>minimum</i>
      of bulk; he put in double charge, pointed the muzzle, and fired, with what
      force and sharpness we all remember. If it hit, good; if not, all he could
      do was to load again, with the same ball, and in the same direction. You
      must come to him to be shot, at least you must stand still, for he had a
      want of mobility of mind in great questions. He could not stalk about the
      field like a sharp-shooter; his was a great sixty-eight pounder, and it
      was not much of a swivel. Thus it was that he rather dropped into the
      minds of others his authoritative assertions, and left them to breed
      conviction. If they gave them entrance and cherished them, they would soon
      find how full of primary truth they were, and how well they would serve
      them, as they had served him. With all this heavy artillery, somewhat slow
      and cumbrous, on great questions, he had no want, when he was speaking
      off-hand, of quick <i>snell</i> remark, often witty and full of spirit,
      and often too unexpected, like lightning&mdash;flashing, smiting and gone.
      In Church Courts this was very marked. On small ordinary matters, a word
      from him would settle a long discussion. He would, after lively, easy talk
      with his next neighbour, set <i>him</i> up to make a speech, which was
      conclusive. But on great questions he must move forward his great gun with
      much solemnity and effort, partly from his desire to say as much of the
      truth at once as he could, partly from the natural concentration and
      rapidity of his mind in action, as distinguished from his slowness when <i>incubating</i>,
      or in the process of thought,&mdash;and partly from a sort of
      self-consciousness&mdash;I might almost call it a compound of pride and
      nervous diffidence&mdash;which seldom left him. He desired to say it so
      that it might never need to be said again or otherwise by himself, or any
      one else.
    </p>
    <p>
      This strong personality, along with a prevailing love to be alone, and
      dwell with thoughts rather than with thinkers, pervaded his entire
      character. His religion was deeply personal, * not only as affecting
      himself, but as due to a personal God, and presented through the sacrifice
      and intercession of the God-man; and it was perhaps owing to his
      "conversation" being so habitually in heaven&mdash;his social and
      affectionate desires filling themselves continually from "all the fulness
      of God," through living faith and love&mdash;that he the less felt the
      need of giving and receiving human affection. I never knew any man who
      lived more truly under the power, and sometimes under the shadow of the
      world to come. This world had to him little reality except as leading to
      the next; little interest, except as the time of probation and sentence. A
      child brought to him to be baptized was in his mind, and in his words, "a
      young immortal to be educated for eternity;" a birth was the beginning of
      what was never to end; sin&mdash;his own and that of the race&mdash;was to
      him, as it must be to all men who can think, the great mystery, as it is
      the main curse of time. The idea of it&mdash;of its exceeding sinfulness&mdash;haunted
      and oppressed him. He used to say of John Foster, that this deep and
      intense, but sometimes narrow and grim thinker, had, in his study of the
      disease of the race, been, as it were, fascinated by its awful spell, so
      as almost to forget the remedy. This was not the case with himself. As you
      know, no man held more firmly to the objective reality of his religion&mdash;that
      it was founded upon fact. It was not the polestar he lost sight of, or the
      compass he mistrusted; it was the sea-worthiness of the vessel. His
      constitutional deficiency of hope, his sensibility to sin, made him not
      unfrequently stand in doubt of himself, of his sincerity and safety before
      God, and sometimes made existence&mdash;the being obliged to continue to
      be&mdash;a doubtful privilege.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * In his own words, "A personal Deity is the soul of Natural
     Religion; a personal Saviour&mdash;the real living Christ&mdash;is the
     soul of Revealed Religion."
</pre>
    <p>
      When oppressed with this feeling,&mdash;"the burden and the mystery of all
      this unintelligible world," the hurry of mankind out of this brief world
      into the unchangeable and endless next,&mdash;I have heard him, with deep
      feeling, repeat Andrew Marvel's strong lines:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "But at my back I always hear
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Time's winged chariots hurrying near;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And yonder all before me lie
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Deserts of vast eternity."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      His living so much on books, and his strong personal attachment to men, as
      distinct from his adhesion to their principles and views, made him, as it
      were, live and commune with the dead&mdash;made him intimate, not merely
      with their thoughts, and the public events of their lives, but with
      themselves&mdash;Augustine, Milton, Luther, Melanchthon, George Herbert,
      Baxter, Howe, Owen, Leighton, Barrow, Bunyan, Philip and Matthew Henry,
      Doddridge, Defoe, Marvel, Locke, Berkeley, Halliburton, Cowper, Gray,
      Johnson, Gibbon, and David Hume, * Jortin, Boston, Bengel, Neander, etc.,
      not to speak of the apostles, and above all, his chief friend the author
      of the Epistle to the Romans, whom he looked on as the greatest of men,&mdash;with
      all these he had personal relations as men, he cordialized with them. He
      had thought much more about them&mdash;would have had more to say to them
      had they met, than about or to any but a very few living men. **
    </p>
    <p>
      * David Hume's Treatise on Human Nature he knew thoroughly, and read it
      carefully during his last illness. He used to say it not only was a
      miracle of intellectual and literary power for a man of twenty-eight, but
      contained the essence of all that was best on the philosophy of mind;
      "It's all there, if you will think it out."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ** This tendency was curiously seen in his love of
     portraits, especially of men whose works he had and liked.
     He often put portraits into his books, and he seemed to
     enjoy this way of realizing their authors; and in
     exhibitions of pictures he was more taken up with what is
     usually and justly the most tiresome department, the
     portraits, than with all else. He was not learned in
     engravings, and made no attempt at collecting them, so that
     the following list of portraits in his rooms shows his
     liking for the men much more than for the art which
     delineated them. Of course they by no means include all his
     friends, ancient and modern, but they all were his friends:&mdash;

     Robert Hill&mdash;Dr. Carey&mdash;Melanchthon&mdash;Calvin&mdash;Pollok&mdash;Erasmus
    &mdash;(very like "Uncle Ebenezer")&mdash;John Knox&mdash;Dr. Waugh&mdash;John
     Milton (three, all framed)&mdash;Dr. Dick&mdash;Dr. Hall&mdash;Luther
     (two)&mdash;Dr. Heugh&mdash;Dr. Mitchell&mdash;Dr. Balmer&mdash;Dr. Henderson&mdash;
     Dr. Wardlaw&mdash;Shakspere (a small oil painting which he had
     since ever I remember)&mdash;Dugald Stewart&mdash;Dr. Innes&mdash;Dr.
     Smith, Biggar&mdash;the two Erskines and Mr. Fisher&mdash;Dr. John
     Taylor of Toronto&mdash;Dr. Chalmers&mdash;Mr. William Ellis, Rev.
     James Elies&mdash;J. B. Patterson&mdash;Vinet&mdash;Archibald M'Lean&mdash;Dr.
     John Erskine&mdash;Tholuck&mdash;John Pym&mdash;Gesenius&mdash;Professor
     Finlayson&mdash;Richard Baxter&mdash;Dr. Lawson&mdash;Dr. Peddie (two, and
     a copy of Joseph's noble bust); and they were thus all about
     him for no other reason than that he liked to look at and
     think of them through their countenances.
</pre>
    <p>
      He delighted to possess books which any of them might have held in their
      hands, on which they had written their names. He had a number of these,
      some very curious; among others, that wild soldier, man of fashion and wit
      among the reformers, Ulric von Hutten's autograph on Erasmus' beautiful
      folio Greek Testament, and John Howe's (spelt How) on the first edition of
      Milton's Speech on Unlicensed Printing. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * In a copy of Baxter's Life and Times, which he picked up
     at Maurice Ogle's shop in Glasgow, which had belonged to
     Anna, Countess of Argyll, besides her autograph, there is a
     most affecting and interesting note in that venerable lady's
     handwriting. It occurs on the page where Baxter brings a
     charge of want of veracity against her eldest and name-
     daughter who was perverted to Popery. They are in a hand
     tremulous with age and feeling:&mdash;"I can say with truth I
     never in all my lyff did hear trewly, and what she said, if
     it was not trew, it was by others sugested to hir, as yt she
     wold embak on Wedensday. She belived she wold, bot thy took
     hir, allés! from me who never did sie her mor. The minester
     of Cuper, Mr. John Magill, did sie hir at Paris in the
     convent. Said she was a knowing and vertuous person, and hed
     retined the living principels of our relidgon, which made
     him say it was good to grund young persons weel in ther
     relidgion, as she was one it appired weel grunded."

     The following is Lord Lindsay's letter, on seeing this
     remarkable marginal note:&mdash;

     Edinburgh, Douglas' Hotel,

     26th December 1856.

     My dear Sir,&mdash;I owe you my sincerest thanks for your
     kindness in favouring me with a sight of the volume of
     Baxter's Life, which formerly belonged to my ancestrix,
     Anna, Countess of Argyll. The ms. note inserted by her in it
     respecting her daughter is extremely interesting. I had
     always been under the impression that the daughter had died
     very shortly after her removal to France, but the contrary
     appears from Lady Argyll's memorandum. That memorandum
     throws also a pleasing light on the later life of Lady Anna,
     and forcibly illustrates the undying love and tenderness of
     the aged mother, who must have been very old when she penned
     it, the book having been printed as late as 1696.

     I am extremely obliged to you for communicating to me this
     new and very interesting information.&mdash;Believe me, my dear
     Sir, your much obliged and faithful servant,

     Lindsay,

     John Brown, Esq., M.D.
</pre>
    <p>
      He began collecting books when he was twelve, and he was collecting up to
      his last hours. He cared least for merely fine books, though he enjoyed,
      no one more so, fine type, good binding, and all the niceties of the
      book-fancier. What he liked were such books as were directly useful in his
      work, and such as he liked to live in the midst of; such, also, as
      illustrated any great philosophical, historical, or ecclesiastical epoch.
      His collection of Greek Testaments was, considering his means, of great
      extent and value, and he had a quite singular series of books, pamphlets,
      and documents, referring not merely to his own body&mdash;the Secession,
      with all its subdivisions and reunions&mdash;but to Nonconformity and
      Dissent everywhere, and, indeed, to human liberty, civil and religious, in
      every form,&mdash;for this, after the great truths, duties, and
      expectations of his faith, was the one master passion of his life&mdash;liberty
      in its greatest sense, the largest extent of individual and public
      spontaneity consistent with virtue and safety. He was in this as intense,
      persistent in his devotion, as Sydney, Locke, or old Hollis. For instance,
      his admiration of Lord Macaulay as a writer and a man of letters, an
      orator and a statesman, great as it was, was as nothing to his gratitude
      to him for having placed permanently on record, beyond all risk of
      obscuration or doubt, the doctrine of 1688&mdash;the right and power of
      the English people to be their own lawgivers, and to appoint their own
      magistrates, of whom the sovereign is the chief.
    </p>
    <p>
      His conviction of the sole right of God to be Lord of the conscience, and
      his sense of his own absolute religious independence of every one but his
      Maker, were the two elements in building up his beliefs on all church
      matters; they were twin beliefs. Hence the simplicity and thoroughness of
      his principles. Sitting in the centre, he commanded the circumference. But
      I am straying out of my parish into yours. I only add to what you have
      said, that the longer he lived, the more did he insist upon it being not
      less true and not less important, that the Church must not intermeddle
      with the State, than that the State must not intermeddle with the Church.
      He used to say, "Go down into the world, with all its complications and
      confusions, with this double-edged weapon, and you can cut all the
      composite knots of Church and State." The element of God and of eternity
      predominates in the religious more than in the civil affairs of men, and
      thus far transcends them; but the principle of mutual independence is
      equally applicable to each. All that statesmen, as such, have to do with
      religion, is to be themselves under its power; all that Christians, as
      such, have to do with the State, is to be good citizens.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fourth epoch of his personal life I would date from his second
      marriage. As I said before, no man was ever happier in his wives. They had
      much alike in nature,&mdash;only one could see the Divine wisdom of his
      first wife being his first, and his second his second; each did best in
      her own place and time. His marriage with Miss Crum was a source of great
      happiness and good not only to himself, but to us his first children. She
      had been intimately known to us for many years, and was endeared to us
      long before we saw her, by her having been, as a child and girl, a great
      favourite of our own mother. The families of my grandfather Nimmo, and of
      the Crums, Ewings, and Maclaes, were very intimate, I have heard my father
      tell, that being out at Thornliebank with my mother, he asked her to take
      a walk with him to the Rouken, a romantic waterfall and glen up the burn.
      My mother thought they might take "Miss Margaret" with them, and so save
      appearances, and with Miss Crum, then a child of ten, holding my father's
      hand, away the three went!
    </p>
    <p>
      So you may see that no one could be nearer to being our mother; and she
      was curiously ingenious, and completely successful in gaining our
      affection and regard. I have, as a boy, a peculiarly pleasant remembrance
      of her, having been at Thornliebank when about fourteen, and getting that
      impression of her gentle, kind, wise, calm, and happy nature&mdash;her
      entire loveableness&mdash;which it was our privilege to see ministering so
      much to my father's comfort. That fortnight in 1824 or 1825 is still to me
      like the memory of some happy dream; the old library, the big chair in
      which I huddled myself up for hours with the New Arabian Nights, and all
      the old-fashioned and unforgotten books I found there, the ample old
      garden, the wonders of machinery and skill going on in "the works," the
      large water-wheel going its stately rounds in the midst of its own
      darkness, the petrifactions I excavated in the bed of the burn, <i>ammonites</i>,
      etc., and brought home to my museum (!); the hospitable lady of the house,
      my hereditary friend, dignified, anxious and kind; and above all, her only
      daughter who made me a sort of pet, and was always contriving some
      unexpected pleasure,&mdash;all this feels to me even now like something
      out of a book.
    </p>
    <p>
      My father's union with Miss Crum was not only one of the best blessings of
      his life,&mdash;it made him more of a blessing to others, than it is
      likely he would otherwise have been. By her cheerful, gracious ways, her
      love for society as distinguished from company, her gift of making every
      one happy and at ease when with her, and her tender compassion for all
      suffering, she in a measure won my father from himself and his books, to
      his own great good, and to the delight and benefit of us all. It was like
      sunshine and a glad sound in the house. She succeeded in what is called
      "drawing out" the inveterate solitary. Moreover, she encouraged and
      enabled him to give up a moiety of his ministerial labours, and thus to
      devote himself to the great work of his later years, the preparing for and
      giving to the press the results of his life's study of God's Word. We owe
      entirely to her that immense <i>armamentarium libertatis</i>, the third
      edition of his treatise on Civil Obedience.
    </p>
    <p>
      One other source of great happiness to my father by this marriage was the
      intercourse he had with the family at Thornliebank, deepened and endeared
      as this was by her unexpected and irreparable loss. But on this I must not
      enlarge, nor on that death itself, the last thing in the world he ever
      feared&mdash;leaving him once more, after a brief happiness, and when he
      had still more reason to hope that he would have "grown old with her,
      leaning on her faithful bosom." The urn was again empty&mdash;and the only
      word was <i>vale!</i> he was once more <i>viduus</i>, bereft.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "God gives us love; something to love
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      He lends us; but, v/hen love is grown
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To ripeness, that on which it throve
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Falls off, and love is left alone.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      This is the curse of time."&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      But still
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "'Tis better to have loved and lost,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Than never to have loved at all."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was no easy matter to get him from home and away from his books. But
      once off, he always enjoyed himself,&mdash;especially in his visits to
      Thornliebank, Busby, Crofthead, Biggar, and Melrose. He was very fond of
      preaching on these occasions, and his services were always peculiarly
      impressive. He spoke more slowly and with less vehemence than in his own
      pulpit, and, as I often told him, with all the more effect. When driving
      about Biggar, or in the neighbourhood of Langrig, he was full of the past,
      showing how keenly, with all his outward reserve, he had observed and
      felt. He had a quite peculiar interest in his three flocks, keeping his
      eye on all their members, through long years of absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      His love for his people and for his "body" was a special love; and his
      knowledge of the Secession, through all its many divisions and unions,&mdash;his
      knowledge, not only of its public history, with its immense controversial
      and occasional literature, but of the lives and peculiarities of its
      ministers,&mdash;was of the most minute and curious kind. He loved all
      mankind, and especially such as were of "the household of faith," and he
      longed for the time when, as there was one Shepherd, there would be but
      one sheepfold; but he gloried in being not only a Seceder, but a Burgher;
      and he often said, that take them all in all, he knew no body of
      professing Christians in any country or in any time, worthier of all
      honour than that which was founded by the Four Brethren, not only as
      Godfearing, God-serving men, but as members of civil society; men who on
      every occasion were found on the side of liberty and order, truth and
      justice. He used to say he believed there was hardly a Tory in the Synod,
      and that no one but He whose service is perfect freedom, knew the public
      good done, and the public evil averted, by the lives and the principles,
      and when need was, by the votes of such men, all of whom were in the
      working-classes, or in the lower ha'f of the middle. The great Whig
      leaders knew this, and could always depend on the Seceders.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no worthy portrait of my father in his prime. I believe no man
      was ever more victimized in the way of being asked to "sit:" indeed, it
      was probably from so many of them being of this kind that the opportunity
      of securing a really good one was lost. The best&mdash;the one portrait of
      his habitual expression&mdash;is Mr. Harvey's, done for Mr. Crum of Busby:
      it was taken when he was failing, but it is an excellent likeness as well
      as a noble picture; such a picture as one would buy without knowing
      anything of the subject. So true it is, that imaginative painters, men
      gifted and accustomed to render their own ideal conceptions in form and
      colour, grasp and impress on their canvas the features of real men more to
      the quick, more faithfully as to the central qualities of the man, than
      professed portrait painters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Steell's bust is beautiful, but it is wanting in expression. Slater's,
      though rude, is better. Angus Fletcher's has much of his air, but is too
      much like a Grecian god. There is a miniature by Mrs. Robertson of London,
      belonging to my sister, Mrs. Young, which I always liked, though more like
      a gay, brilliant French Abbé, than the Seceder minister of Rose Street, as
      he then was. It gives, however, more of his exquisite brightness and
      spirit, the dancing light in his dark eyes, and his smile, when pleased
      and desiring to please, than any other. I have a drawing by Mr. Harvey,
      done from my father for his picture of the Minister's Visit, which I value
      very much, as giving the force and depth, the <i>momentum</i>, so to
      speak, of his serious look. He is sitting in a cottar's house, reading the
      Bible to an old bed-ridden woman, the farm servants gathered round to get
      his word.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mungo Burton painted a good portrait which my brother William has; from
      his being drawn in a black neckcloth, and standing, he looks as he
      sometimes did, more like a member of Parliament than a clergyman. The
      print from this is good and very scarce. Of Photographs, I like D. O.
      Hill's best, in which he is represented as shaking hands with the
      (invisible) Free Church&mdash;it is full of his earnest, cordial power;
      that by Tunny, from which the beautiful engraving by Lumb Stocks in this
      Memoir was taken, is very like what he was about a year and a half before
      his death. All the other portraits, as far as I can remember, are
      worthless and worse, missing entirely the true expression. He was very
      difficult to take, partly because he was so full of what may be called
      spiritual beauty, evanescent, ever changing, and requiring the highest
      kind of genius to fix it; and partly from his own fault, for he thought it
      was necessary to be lively, or rather to try to be so to his volunteering
      artist, and the consequence was, his giving them, as his habitual
      expression, one which was rare, and in this particular case more made than
      born.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time when I would have liked his look to have been perpetuated, was
      that of all others the least likely, or indeed possible;&mdash;it was,
      when after administering the Sacrament to his people, and having
      solemnized every one, and been himself profoundly moved by that Divine,
      everlasting memorial, he left the elders' seat and returned to the pulpit,
      and after giving out the psalm, sat down wearied and satisfied, filled
      with devout gratitude to his Master&mdash;his face pale, and his dark eyes
      looking out upon us all, his whole countenance radiant and subdued. Any
      likeness of him in this state, more like that of the protomartyr, when his
      face was as that of an angel, than anything I ever beheld, would have made
      one feel what it is so impossible otherwise to convey,&mdash;the mingled
      sweetness, dignity, and beauty of his face. When it was winter, and the
      church darkening, and the lights at the pulpit were lighted so as to fall
      upon his face and throw the rest of the vast assemblage into deeper
      shadow, the effect of his countenance was something never to forget.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was more a man of power than of genius in the ordinary sense. His
      imagination was not a primary power; it was not originative, though in a
      quite uncommon degree receptive, having the capacity of realizing the
      imaginations of others, and through them bodying forth the unseen. When
      exalted and urged by the understanding, and heated by the affections, it
      burst out with great force, but always as servant, not master. But if he
      had no one faculty that might be, to use the loose words of common speech,
      original, he was so as a whole,&mdash;such a man as stood alone. No one
      ever mistook his look, or would, had they been blind, have mistaken his
      voice or words, or those of any one else, or any one else's for his.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mental characteristics, if I may venture on such ground, were
      clearness and vigour, intensity, fervour, * concentration, penetration,
      and perseverance,&mdash;more of depth than width. ** The moral conditions
      under which he lived were the love, the pursuit, and the practice of truth
      in everything; strength and depth, rather than external warmth of
      affection; fidelity to principles and to friends. He used often to speak
      of the moral obligation laid upon every man to <i>think truly</i>, as well
      as to speak and act truly, and said that much intellectual demoralization
      and ruin resulted from neglecting this. He was absolutely tolerant of all
      difference of opinion, so that it was sincere; and this was all the more
      remarkable from his being the opposite of an indifferentist, being very
      strong in his own convictions, holding them keenly, even passionately,
      while, from the structure of his mind, he was somehow deficient in
      comprehending, much less of sympathizing with the opinions of men who
      greatly differed from him. This made his homage to entire freedom of
      thought all the more genuine and rare. In the region of theological
      thought he was scientific, systematic, and authoritative, rather than
      philosophical and speculative. He held so strongly that the Christian
      religion was mainly a religion of facts, that he perhaps allowed too
      little to its also being a philosophy that was ready to meet, out of its
      own essence and its ever unfolding powers, any new form of unbelief,
      disbelief, or misbelief, and must front itself to them as they moved up.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This earnestness of nature pervaded all his exercises. A
     man of great capacity and culture, with a head like Benjamin
     Franklin's, an avowed unbeliever in Christianity, came every
     Sunday afternoon, for many years, to hear him. I remember
     his look well, as if interested, but not impressed. He was
     often asked by his friends why he went when he didn't
     believe one word of what he heard. "Neither I do, but I like
     to hear and to see a man earnest once a week, about
     anything." It is related of David Hume, that having heard my
     great-grandfather preach, he said, "That's the man for me,
     he means what he says; he speaks as if Jesus Christ was at
     his elbow."

     ** The following note from the pen to which we owe "St.
     Paul's Thorn in the Flesh" is admirable, both for its
     reference to my father, and its own beauty and truth.
</pre>
    <p>
      "One instance of his imperfect discernment of associations of thought that
      were not of a purely logical character was afforded, we used to think, by
      the decided and almost contemptuous manner in which he always rejected the
      theory of what is called the double interpretation of prophecy. This, of
      course, is not the place to discuss whether he was absolutely right or
      wrong in his opinion. The subject, however, is one of somewhat curious
      interest, and it has also a strictly literary as well as a theological
      aspect, and what we have to say about it shall relate exclusively to the
      former. When Dr. Brown then said, as he was accustomed in his strong way
      to do, that 'if prophecy was capable of two senses, it was impossible it
      could have any sense at all,' it is plain, we think, that he forgot the
      specific character of prophetic literature, viz., its being in the highest
      degree poetic. Now everyone knows that poetry of a very elevated cast
      almost invariably possesses great breadth, variety, we may say
      multiplicity of meaning. Its very excellence consists in its being capable
      of two, three, or many meanings and applications. Take, for example, these
      familiar lines in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream:'&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Could ever hear by tale or history,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The course of true love never did run smooth:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But either it was different in blood,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or else misgraffed in respect of years,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or if there were a sympathy in choice,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Making it momentary as a sound,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The jaws of darkness do devour it up;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      So quick bright things come to confusion."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We remember once quoting these lines to a lady, and being rather taken
      aback by her remark, 'They are very beautiful, but I don't think they are
      true.' We really had forgot for the moment the straightforward,
      matter-of-fact sense of which they are capable, and were not adverting to
      the possibility of their being understood to mean that&mdash;nothing but
      love-crosses are going, and that no tolerable amount of comfort or
      happinesses to be found in the life matrimonial, or in any of the
      approaches towards it. Every intelligent student of Shakespere, however,
      will at once feel that the poet's mind speedily passes away from the idea
      with which he starts, and becomes merged in a far wider theme, viz., in
      the disenchantment to which all lofty imaginations are liable, the
      disappointment, to which all extravagant earthly hopes and wishes are
      doomed. This, in fact, is distinctly expressed in the last line, and in
      this sense alone can the words be regarded as at all touching or
      impressive. Sudden expansions and transitions of thought, then, are
      nothing more than what is common to all poetry; and when we find the
      Hebrew bards, in their prophetic songs, mingling in the closest
      conjunction the anticipations of the glories of Solomon's reign, or the
      happy prospects of a return from Babylon, with the higher glory and
      happiness of Messiah's advent, such transitions of thought are in perfect
      accordance with the ordinary laws of poetry, and ought not to perplex even
      the most unimaginative student of the Bible.
    </p>
    <p>
      With devotional feeling&mdash;with everything that showed reverence and
      godly fear&mdash;he cordialized wherever and in whomsoever it was found,&mdash;Pagan
      or Christian, Romanist or Protestant, bond or free; and while he disliked,
      and had indeed a positive antipathy to intellectual mysticism, he had a
      great knowledge of and relish for such writers as Dr. Henry More,
      Culverwel, Scougall, Madame Guyon, whom (besides their other qualities) I
      may perhaps be allowed to call affectionate mystics, and for such poets as
      Herbert and Vaughan, whose poetry was pious, and their piety poetic. As I
      have said, he was perhaps too impatient of all obscure thinking, from not
      considering that on certain subjects, necessarily in their substance, and
      on the skirts of all subjects, obscurity and vagueness, difficulty and
      uncertainty, are inherent, and must therefore appear in their treatment.
      Men who rejoiced in making clear things obscure, and plain things the
      reverse, he could not abide, and spoke with some contempt of those who
      were original merely from their standing on their heads, and tall from
      walking upon stilts. As you have truly said, his character mellowed and
      toned down in his later years, without in any way losing its own
      individuality, and its clear, vigorous, unflinching perception of and
      addiction to principles.
    </p>
    <p>
      His affectionate ways with his students were often very curious: he
      contrived to get at their hearts, and find out all their family and local
      specialities, in a sort of short-hand way, and he never forgot them in
      after life; and watching him with them at tea, speaking his mind freely
      and often jocularly upon all sorts of subjects, one got a glimpse of that
      union of opposites which made him so much what he was&mdash;he gave out
      far more liberally to them the riches of his learning and the deep
      thoughts of his heart, than he ever did among his full-grown brethren. It
      was like the flush of an Arctic summer, blossoming all over, out of and
      into the stillness, the loneliness, and the chill rigour of winter. Though
      authoritative in his class without any effort, he was indulgent to
      everything but conceit, slovenliness of mind and body, irreverence, and
      above all handling the Word of God deceitfully. On one occasion a student
      having delivered in the Hall a discourse tinged with Arminianism, he said,
      "That may be the gospel according to Dr. Macknight, or the gospel
      according to Dr. Taylor of Norwich, but it is not the gospel according to
      the Apostle Paul; and if I thought the sentiments expressed were his own,
      if I had not thought he has taken his thoughts from commentators without
      carefully considering them, I would think it my duty to him and to the
      church to make him no longer a student of divinity here." He was often
      unconsciously severe, from his saying exactly what he felt. On a student's
      ending his discourse, his only criticism was, "the strongest
      characteristic of this discourse is weakness," and feeling that this was
      really all he had to say, he ended. A young gentleman on very good terms
      with himself, stood up to pray with his hands in his pockets, and among
      other things he put up a petition that he might "be delivered from the
      fear of man, which bringeth a snare," my father's only remark was, that
      there was part of his prayer which seemed to be granted before it was
      asked. But he was always unwilling to criticise prayer, feeling it to be
      too sacred, and as it were beyond his province, except to deliver the true
      principles of all prayer, which he used to say were admirably given in the
      <i>Shorter Catechism</i>&mdash;"Prayer is an offering up of the desires of
      the heart to God, for things agreeable to his will, in the name of Christ;
      with confession of our sins, and thankful acknowledgment of his mercies."
    </p>
    <p>
      For the "heroic" old man of Haddington my father had a peculiar reverence,
      as indeed we all have&mdash;as well we may. He was our king, the founder
      of our dynasty; we dated from him, and he was "hedged" accordingly by a
      certain sacredness or "divinity." I well remember with what surprise and
      pride I found myself asked by a blacksmith's wife in a remote hamlet among
      the hop gardens of Kent, if I was "the son of the Self-interpreting
      Bible." I possess, as an heirloom, the New Testament which my father
      fondly regarded as the one his grandfather, when a herd-laddie, got from
      the Professor who heard him ask for it, and promised him it if he could
      read a verse; and he has in his beautiful small hand written in it what
      follows:&mdash;"He (John Brown of Haddington) had now acquired so much of
      Greek as encouraged him to hope that he might at length be prepared to
      reap the richest of all rewards which classical learning could confer on
      him, the capacity of reading in the original tongue the blessed New
      Testament of our Lord and Saviour. Full of this hope, he became anxious to
      possess a copy of the invaluable volume. One night, having committed the
      charge of his sheep to a companion, he set out on a midnight journey to
      St. Andrew's, a distance of twenty-four miles. He reached his destination
      in the morning, and went to the bookseller's shop, asking for a copy of
      the Greek New Testament. The master of the shop, surprised at such a
      request from a shepherd boy, was disposed to make game of him. Some of the
      professors coming into the shop, questioned the lad about his employment
      and studies. After hearing his tale, one of them desired the bookseller to
      bring the volume. He did so, and drawing it down, said, 'Boy, read this,
      and you shall have it for nothing.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0024" id="linkimage-0024"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0147m.jpg" alt="0147m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0147.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The boy did so, acquitted himself to the admiration of his judges, and
      carried off his Testament, and when the evening arrived, was studying it
      in the midst of his flock on the braes of Abernethy."&mdash;<i>Memoir of
      Rev. John Brown of Haddington</i>, by Rev. J. B. Patterson.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is reason to believe <i>this</i> is the New Testament referred to.
      The name on the opposite page was written on the fly-leaf. It is obviously
      the writing of a boy, and bears a resemblance to Mr. Brown's handwriting
      in mature life. It is imperfect, wanting a great part of the Gospel of
      Matthew. The autograph at the end is that of his son, Thomas, when a youth
      at college, afterwards Rev. Dr. Thomas Brown of Dalkeith.&mdash;J. B."
    </p>
    <p>
      I doubt not my father regarded this little worn old book, the sword of the
      Spirit which his ancestor so nobly won, and wore, and warred with, with
      not less honest veneration and pride than does his dear friend James
      Douglas of Cavers the Percy pennon borne away at Otterbourne. When I read,
      in Uncle William's admirable Life of his father, his own simple story of
      his early life&mdash;his loss of father and mother before he was eleven,
      his discovering (as true a <i>discovery</i> as Dr. Young's of the
      characters of the Rosetta stone, or Rawlinson's of the cuneiform letters)
      the Greek characters, his defence of himself against the astonishing and
      base charge of getting his learning from the devil (that shrewd personage
      would not have employed him on the Greek Testament), his eager,
      indomitable study, his running miles to and back again to hear a sermon
      after folding his sheep at noon, his keeping his family creditably on
      never more than L50, and for long on L40 a year, giving largely in
      charity, and never wanting, as he said, "lying money"&mdash;when I think
      of all this, I feel what a strong, independent, manly nature he must have
      had. We all know his saintly character, his devotion to learning, and to
      the work of preaching and teaching; but he seems to have been, like most
      complete men, full of humour and keen wit. Some of his <i>snell</i>
      sayings are still remembered. A lad of an excitable temperament waited on
      him, and informed him he wished to be a preacher of the gospel. My
      great-grandfather, finding him as weak in intellect as he was strong in
      conceit, advised him to continue in his present vocation. The young man
      said, "But I wish to preach and glorify God."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My young friend, a man may glorify God making broom besoms; stick to your
      trade, and glorify God by your walk and conversation."
    </p>
    <p>
      The late Dr. Husband of Dunfermline called on him when he was preparing to
      set out for Gifford, and was beginning to ask him some questions as to the
      place grace held in the Divine economy. "Come away wi' me, and I'll
      expound that; but when I'm speaking, look you after my feet." They got
      upon a rough bit of common, and the eager and full-minded old man was in
      the midst of his unfolding the Divine scheme, and his student was drinking
      in his words, and forgetting <i>his</i> part of the bargain. His master
      stumbled and fell, and getting up, somewhat sharply said, "James, the
      grace o' God can do much, but it canna gi'e a man common sense which is as
      good theology as sense."
    </p>
    <p>
      A scoffing blacksmith seeing him jogging up to a house near the smithy on
      his pony, which was halting, said to him, "Mr. Brown, ye're in the
      Scripture line the day&mdash;'the legs o' the lame are not equal.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "So is a parable in the mouth of a fool."
    </p>
    <p>
      On his coming to Haddington, there was one man who held out against his
      "call." Mr. Brown meeting him when they could not avoid each other, the
      non-content said, "Ye see, sir, I canna say what I dinna think, and I
      think ye're ower young and inexperienced for this charge."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I think too, David, <i>but it would never do for you and me to gang in
      the face o' the hale congregation!</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      The following is a singular illustration of the prevailing dark and severe
      tone of the religious teaching of that time, and also of its strength:&mdash;A
      poor old woman, of great worth and excellent understanding, in whose
      conversation Mr. Brown took much pleasure, was on her death-bed. Wishing
      to try her faith, he said to her, "Janet, what would you say if, after all
      He has done for you, God should let you drop into hell?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "E'en's (even as) he likes; if he does, <i>He'll lose mair than I'll do</i>."
      There is something not less than sublime in this reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Than my grandfather and "Uncle Ebenezer," no two brothers could be more
      different in nature or more united in affection. My grandfather was a man
      of great natural good sense, well read and well knowledged, easy but not
      indolent, never overflowing but never empty, homely but dignified, and
      fuller of love to all sentient creatures than any other human being I ever
      knew. I had, when a boy of ten, two rabbits, Oscar and Livia; why so named
      is a secret I have lost; perhaps it was an Ossianic union of the Roman
      with the Gael. Oscar was a broad-nosed, manly, rather <i>brusque</i>
      husband, who used to snort when angry, and bite too; Livia was a
      thin-faced, meek, and, I fear, deceitfullish wife, who could smile, and
      then bite. One evening I had lifted both these worthies, by the ears of
      course, and was taking them from their clover to their beds, when my
      grandfather, who had been walking out in the cool of the evening, met me.
      I had just kissed the two creatures, out of mingled love to them, and
      pleasure at having caught them without much trouble. He took me by the
      chin, and kissed me, and then <i>Oscar and Livia!</i> Wonderful man, I
      thought, and still think! doubtless he had seen me in my private fondness,
      and wished to please me.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was for ever doing good in his quiet yet earnest way. Not only on
      Sunday when he preached solid gospel sermons, full of quaint and familiar
      expressions, such as I fear few of my readers could take up, full of
      solemn, affectionate appeals, full of his own simplicity and love, the
      Monday also found him ready with his everyday gospel. If he met a drover
      from Lochaber who had crossed the Campsie Hills, and was making across
      Carnwath Moor to the Calstane Slap, and thence into England by the
      drove-road, he accosted him with a friendly smile,&mdash;gave him a
      reasonable tract, and dropped into him some words of Divine truth. He was
      thus <i>continually</i> doing good. Go where he might, he had his message
      to every one; to a servant lass, to a poor wanderer on the bleak streets,
      to gentle and simple&mdash;he flowed for <i>ex plena rivo</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Ebenezer, on the other hand, flowed <i>per saltum</i>; he was always
      good and saintly, but he was great once a week; six days he brooded over
      his message, was silent, withdrawn, self-involved; on the Sabbath, that
      downcast, almost timid man, who shunned men, the instant he was in the
      pulpit, stood up a son of thunder. Such a voice! such a piercing eye! such
      an inevitable forefinger, held out trembling with the terrors of the Lord;
      such a power of asking questions and letting them fall deep into the
      hearts of his hearers, and then answering them himself, with an "ah,
      sirs!" that thrilled and quivered from him to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remember his astonishing us all with a sudden burst. It was a sermon
      upon the apparent <i>plus</i> of evil in this world, and he had driven
      himself and us all to despair&mdash;so much sin, so much misery&mdash;when,
      taking advantage of the chapter he had read, the account of the uproar at
      Ephesus in the Theatre, he said, "Ah, sirs! what if some of the men who,
      for 'about the space of two hours,' cried out, 'Great is Diana of the
      Ephesians,' have for the space of eighteen hundred years and more been
      crying day and night, 'Great and marvellous are thy works, Lord God
      Almighty; just and true are all thy ways, thou King of saints; who shall
      not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name? for thou only art holy.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      You have doubtless heard of the story of Lord Brougham going to hear him.
      It is very characteristic, and as I had it from Mrs. Cuninghame, who was
      present, I may be allowed to tell it. Brougham and Denman were on a visit
      to James Stuart of Dunearn, about the time of the Queen's trial. They had
      asked Stuart where they should go to church; he said he would take them to
      a Seceder minister at Inverkeithing, They went, and as Air. Stuart had
      described the saintly old man, Brougham said he would like to be
      introduced to him, and arriving before service time, Mr. Stuart called,
      and left a message that some gentlemen wished to see him. The answer was
      that "Maister" Brown saw nobody before divine worship. He then sent in
      Brougham and Denman's names. "Mr. Brown's compliments to Mr. Stuart, and
      he sees nobody before sermon," and in a few minutes out came the stooping
      shy old man, and passed them, unconscious of their presence. They sat in
      the front gallery, and he preached a faithful sermon, full of fire and of
      native force. They came away greatly moved, and each wrote to Lord Jeffrey
      to lose not a week in coming to hear the greatest natural orator they had
      ever heard. Jeffrey came next Sunday, and often after declared he never
      heard such words, such a sacred, untaught gift of speech. Nothing was more
      beautiful than my father's admiration and emotion when listening to his
      uncle's rapt passages, or than his childlike faith in my father's
      exegetical prowess. He used to have a list of difficult passages ready for
      "my nephew," and the moment the oracle gave a decision, the old man asked
      him to repeat it, and then took a permanent note of it, and would
      assuredly preach it some day with his own proper unction and power. One
      story of him I must give; my father, who heard it not long before his own
      death, was delighted with it, and for some days repeated it to every one.
      Uncle Ebenezer, with all his mildness and general complaisance, was, like
      most of the Browns, <i>tenax propositi</i>, firm to obstinacy. He had
      established a week-day sermon at the North Ferry, about two miles from his
      own town, Inverkeithing. It was, I think, on the Tuesdays. It was winter,
      and a wild, drifting, and dangerous day; his daughters&mdash;his wife was
      dead&mdash;besought him not to go; he smiled vaguely, but continued
      getting into his big-coat. Nothing would stay him, and away he and the
      pony stumbled through the dumb and blinding snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0025" id="linkimage-0025"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0153m.jpg" alt="0153m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0153.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      He was half-way on his journey, and had got into the sermon he was going
      to preach, and was utterly insensible to the outward storm: his pony
      getting its feet <i>balled</i>, staggered about, and at last upset his
      master and himself into the ditch at the roadside. The feeble, heedless,
      rapt old man might have perished there, had not some carters, bringing up
      whisky casks from the Ferry, seen the catastrophe, and rushed up, raising
      him, and <i>ditchin'</i> him, with much commiseration and blunt speech&mdash;"Puir
      auld man, what brocht ye here in sic a day?" There they were, a rough
      crew, surrounding the saintly man, some putting on his hat, sorting and
      cheering him, and others knocking the balls off the pony's feet, and
      stuffing them with grease. He was most polite and grateful, and one of
      these cordial ruffians having pierced a cask, brought him a horn of
      whisky, and said "Tak that, it'll hearten ye." He took the horn, and
      bowing to them, said, "Sirs, let us give thanks!" and there, by the
      road-side, in the drift and storm, with these wild fellows, he asked a
      blessing on it, and for his kind deliverers, and took a tasting of the
      horn. The men cried like children. They lifted him on his pony, one going
      with him, and when the rest arrived in Inverkeithing, they repeated the
      story to everybody, and broke down in tears whenever they came to the
      blessing. "And to think o' askin' a blessin' on a tass o' whisky!" Next
      Presbytery day, after the ordinary business was over, he rose up&mdash;he
      seldom spoke&mdash;and said, "Moderator, I have something personal to
      myself to say. I have often said, that real kindness belongs only to true
      Christians, but"&mdash;and then he told the story of these men; "but more
      true kindness I never experienced than from these lads. They may have had
      the grace of God, I don't know; but I never mean again to be so <i>positive</i>
      in speaking of this matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      When he was on a missionary tour in the north, he one morning met a band
      of Highland shearers on their way to the harvest; he asked them to stop
      and hear the word of God. They said they could not, as they had their
      wages to work for. He offered them what they said they would lose; to this
      they agreed, and he paid them, and closing his eyes engaged in prayer;
      when he had ended, he looked up, and his congregation had vanished! His
      shrewd brother Thomas, to whom he complained of this faithlessness, said,
      "Eben, the next time ye pay folk to hear you preach, keep your eyes open,
      and pay them when you are done." I remember on another occasion, in Bristo
      Church, with an immense audience, he had been going over the Scripture
      accounts of great sinners repenting and turning to God: repeating their
      names, from Manasseh onwards. He seemed to have closed the record, when,
      fixing his eyes on the end of the central passage, he called out abruptly,
      "I see a man!" Every one looked to that point&mdash;"I see a man of
      Tarsus; and he says, Make mention of me!" It must not be supposed that the
      discourses of "Uncle Ebenezer," with these abrupt appeals and sudden
      starts, were unwritten or extempore; they were carefully composed and
      written out,&mdash;only these flashes of thought and passion came on him
      suddenly when writing, and were therefore quite natural when delivered&mdash;they
      came on him again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Rev. John Belfrage, M.D., had more power over my father's actions and
      his relations to the world, than any other of his friends: over his
      thoughts and convictions proper, not much&mdash;few living men had, and
      even among the mighty dead, he called no man master. He used to say that
      the three master intellects devoted to the study of divine truth since the
      apostles, were Augustine, Calvin, and Jonathan Edwards, but that even they
      were only <i>primi inter pares</i>,&mdash;this by the bye.
    </p>
    <p>
      On all that concerned his outward life as a public teacher, as a father,
      and as a member of society, he consulted Dr. Belfrage, and was swayed
      greatly by his judgment, as, for instance, the choice of a profession for
      myself, his second marriage, etc. He knew him to be his true friend, and
      not only wise and honest, but preeminently a man of affairs, <i>capax
      rerum</i>. Dr. Belfrage was a great man <i>in posse</i>, if ever I saw
      one,&mdash;"a village Hampden." Greatness was of his essence; nothing
      paltry, nothing secondary, nothing untrue. Large in body, large and
      handsome in face, lofty in manner to his equals or superiors, * homely,
      familiar, cordial, with the young and the poor,&mdash;I never met with a
      more truly royal nature&mdash;more native and endued to rule, guide, and
      benefit mankind. He was for ever scheming for the good of others, and
      chiefly in the way of helping them to help themselves.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * On one occasion, Mr. Hall of Kelso, an excellent but very
     odd man, in whom the <i>ego</i> was very strong, and who, if he
     had been a Spaniard, would, to adopt Coleridge's story, have
     taken off or touched his hat whenever he spoke of himself,
     met Dr. Belfrage in the lobby of the Synod, and drawing
     himself up as he passed, he muttered, "high and michty!'
     "There's a pair of us, Mr. Hall."
</pre>
    <p>
      From a curious want of ambition&mdash;his desire for advancement was for
      that of his friends, not for his own, and here he was ambitious and
      zealous enough,&mdash;from non-concentration of his faculties in early
      life, and from an affection of the heart which ultimately killed him&mdash;it
      was too big for his body, and, under the relentless hydrostatic law, at
      last shattered the tabernacle it moved, like a steam-engine too powerful
      for the vessel it finds itself in,&mdash;his mental heart also was too big
      for his happiness,&mdash;from these causes, along with a love for
      gardening, which was a passion, and an inherited competency, which took
      away what John Hunter calls "the stimulus of necessity," you may
      understand how this remarkable man, instead of being a Prime Minister, a
      Lord Chancellor, or a Dr. Gregory, a George Stephenson, or likeliest of
      all, a John Howard, without some of his weaknesses, lived and died
      minister of the small congregation of Slateford, near Edinburgh. It is
      also true that he was a physician, and an energetic and successful one,
      and got rid of some of his love of doing good to and managing human beings
      in this way; he was also an oracle in his district, to whom many had the
      wisdom to go to take as well as ask advice, and who was never weary of
      entering into the most minute details, and taking endless pains, being
      like Dr. Chalmers a strong believer in "the power of littles." It would be
      out of place, though it would be not uninteresting, to tell how this great
      resident power&mdash;this strong will and authority, this capacious,
      clear, and beneficent intellect&mdash;dwelt in its petty sphere, like an
      oak in a flower-pot; but I cannot help recalling that signal act of
      friendship and of power in the matter of my father's translation from Rose
      Street to Broughton Place, to which you have referred.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one of the turning-points of my father's history. Dr. Belfrage,
      though seldom a speaker in the public courts of his Church, was always
      watchful of the interests of the people and of his friends. On the Rose
      Street question he had from the beginning formed a strong opinion. My
      father had made his statement, indicating his leaning, but leaving himself
      absolutely in the hands of the Synod. There were some speaking, all on one
      side, and for a time the Synod seemed to incline to be absolute, and
      refuse the call of Broughton Place. The house was everywhere crowded, and
      breathless with interest, my father sitting motionless, anxious, and pale,
      prepared to submit without a word, but retaining his own mind; everything
      looked like a unanimous decision for Rose Street, when Dr. Belfrage rose
      up and came forward into the "passage," and with his first sentence and
      look, took possession of the house. He stated, with clear and simple
      argument, the truth and reason of the case; and then having fixed himself
      there, he took up the personal interests and feelings of his friend, and
      putting before them what they were about to do in sending back my father,
      closed with a burst of indignant appeal&mdash;"I ask you now, not as
      Christians, I ask you as gentlemen, are you prepared to do this?" Every
      one felt it was settled, and so it was. My father never forgot this great
      act of his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      This remarkable man, inferior to my father in learning, in intensity, in
      compactness and in power of&mdash;so to speak&mdash;-focussing himself,&mdash;admiring
      his keen eloquence, his devotedness to his sacred art, rejoicing in his
      fame, jealous of his honour&mdash;was, by reason of his own massive
      understanding, his warm and great heart, and his instinctive knowledge of
      men, my father's most valued friend, for he knew best and most of what my
      father knew least; and on his death, my father said he felt himself thus
      far unprotected and unsafe. He died at Rothesay of hypertrophy of the
      heart. I had the sad privilege of being with him to the last; and any
      nobler spectacle of tender, generous affection, high courage, child-like
      submission to the Supreme Will, and of magnanimity in its true sense, I do
      not again expect to see. On the morning of his death he said to me, "John,
      come and tell me honestly how this is to end; tell me the last symptoms in
      their sequence." I knew the man, and was honest, and told him all I knew.
      "Is there any chance of stupor or delirium?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think not. Death (to take Bichat's division) will begin at the heart
      itself, and you will die conscious."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am glad of that. It was Samuel Johnson, wasn't it, who wished not to
      die unconscious, that he might enter the eternal world with his mind
      unclouded; but you know, John, that was physiological nonsense. We leave
      the brain, and all this ruined body, behind; but I would like to be in my
      senses when I take my last look of this wonderful world," looking across
      the still sea towards the Argyleshire hills, lying in the light of
      sunrise, "and of my friends&mdash;of you," fixing his eyes on a faithful
      friend and myself. And it was so; in less than an hour he was dead,
      sitting erect in his chair&mdash;his disease had for weeks prevented him
      from lying down,&mdash;all the dignity, simplicity, and benignity of its
      master resting upon, and, as it were, supporting that "ruin," which he had
      left.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot end this tribute to my father's friend and mine, and my own dear
      and earliest friend's father, without recording one of the most
      extraordinary instances of the power of will, under the pressure of
      affection, I ever witnessed or heard of. Dr. Belfrage was twice married.
      His second wife was a woman of great sweetness and delicacy, not only of
      mind, but, to his sorrow, of constitution. She died, after less than a
      year of singular and unbroken happiness. There was no portrait of her. He
      resolved there should be one; and though utterly ignorant of drawing, he
      determined to do it himself. No one else could have such a perfect image
      of her in his mind, and he resolved to realize this image. He got the
      materials for miniature painting, and, I think, eight prepared ivory
      plates. He then shut himself up from every one, and from everything, for
      fourteen days, and came out of his room, wasted and feeble, with one of
      the plates (the others he had used and burnt), on which was a portrait,
      full of subtle likeness, and drawn and coloured in a way no one could have
      dreamt of having had such an artist. I have seen it; and though I never
      saw the original, I felt that it must be like, as indeed every one who
      knew her said it was. I do not, as I said before, know anything more
      remarkable in the history of human sorrow and resolve.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remember well that Dr. Belfrage was the first man I ever heard speak of
      Free-trade in religion and in education. It was during the first election
      after the Reform Bill, when Sir John Dalrymple, afterwards Lord Stair, was
      canvassing the county of Mid-Lothian. They were walking in the doctor's
      garden, Sir John anxious, and gracious. Dr. Belfrage, like, I believe,
      every other minister in his body, was a thoroughgoing Liberal, what was
      then called a Whig; but partly from his natural sense of humour and relish
      of power, and partly, I believe, for my benefit, he was putting the
      Baronet through his facings with some strictness, opening upon him
      startling views, and ending by asking him, "Are you, Sir John, for
      free-trade in corn, free-trade in education, free-trade in religion? I
      am." Sir John said, "Well, doctor, I have heard of free-trade in corn, but
      never in the other two."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You'll hear of them before ten years are gone, Sir John, or I'm
      mistaken."
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said thus much of this to me memorable man, not only because he was
      my father's closest and most powerful personal friend, but because by his
      word he probably changed the whole future course of his life. Devotion to
      his friends was one of the chief ends of his life, not caring much for,
      and having in the affection of his heart a warning against the perils and
      excitement of distinction and energetic public work, he set himself far
      more strenuously than for any selfish object, to promote the triumphs of
      those whom his acquired instinct&mdash;for he knew a man as a shepherd
      knows a sheep, or "<i>Caveat Emptor</i>" a horse&mdash;picked out as
      deserving them. He rests in Colinton churchyard,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Where all that mighty heart is lying still,"&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      his only child William Henry buried beside him. I the more readily pay
      this tribute to Dr. Belfrage, that I owe to him the best blessing of my
      professional and one of the best of my personal life&mdash;the being
      apprenticed to Mr. Syme. This was his doing. With that sense of the
      capacities and capabilities of other men, which was one of his gifts, he
      predicted the career of this remarkable man. He used to say, "Give him
      life, let him live, and I know what and where he will be thirty years
      hence and this long before our greatest clinical teacher and wisest
      surgeon, had made the public and the profession feel and acknowledge the
      full weight of his worth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another life-long and ever-strengthening friendship was that with James
      Henderson, D.D., Galashiels, who survived my father only a few days. This
      remarkable man, and exquisite preacher, whose intellect and worth had for
      nearly fifty years glowed with a pure, steady, and ever-growing warmth and
      lustre in his own region, died during the night, and probably asleep,
      when, like Moses, no one but his Maker was with him. He had for years
      laboured under that form of disease of the heart called <i>angina pectoris</i>
      (Dr. Arnold's disease), and for more than twenty years lived as it were on
      the edge of instant death; but during his later years his health had
      improved, though he had always to "walk softly," like one whose next step
      might be into eternity. This bodily sense of peril gave to his noble and
      leonine face a look of suffering and of seriousness, and of what, in his
      case, we may truly call godly fear, which all must remember. He used to
      say he carried his grave beside him. He came in to my father's funeral,
      and took part in the services. He was much affected, and we fear the long
      walk through the city to the burial-place was too much for him; he
      returned home, preached a sermon on his old and dear friend's death of
      surpassing beauty. The text was, "For me to live is Christ, and to die is
      gain." It was, as it were, his own funeral sermon too, and there was,
      besides its fervour, depth, and heavenly-minded-ness, a something in it
      that made his old hearers afraid &mdash;as if it were to be the last crush
      of the grapes. In a letter to me soon after the funeral, he said:&mdash;"His
      removal is another <i>memento</i> to me that my own course is drawing near
      to its end. Nearly all of my contemporaries and of the friends of my youth
      are now gone before me. Well! I may say, in the words of your friend
      Vaughan&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "They are all gone to that world of light,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And I alone sit lingering here;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Their very memory's calm and bright,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And my sad thoughts doth cheer."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening before his death he was slightly unwell, and next morning, not
      coming down as usual, was called, but did not answer; and on going in, was
      found in the posture of sleep, quite dead: at some unknown hour of the
      night <i>abiit ad plures</i>&mdash;he had gone over to the majority, and
      joined the famous nations of the dead. <i>Tu vero felix non vito tantum
      claritate, sed etiam opportunitate mortis!</i> dying with his lamp
      burning, his passport made out for his journey; death an instant act, not
      a prolonged process of months, as with his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have called Dr. Henderson a remarkable man, and an exquisite preacher;
      he was both, in the strict senses of the words. He had the largest brain I
      ever saw or measured. His hat had to be made for him; and his head was
      great in the nobler regions; the anterior and upper were full, indeed
      immense. If the base of his brain and his physical organization,
      especially his circulating system, had been in proportion, he would have
      been a man of formidable power, but his defective throb of the heart, and
      a certain lentitude of temperament, made this impossible; and his enormous
      organ of thought and feeling, being thus shut from the outlet of active
      energy, became intensely <i>meditative</i>, more this than even
      reflective. The consequence was, in all his thoughts an exquisiteness and
      finish, a crystalline lustre, purity, and concentration; but it was the
      exquisiteness of a great nature. If the first edge was fine, it was the
      sharp end of a wedge, the broad end of which you never reached, but might
      infer. This gave <i>momentum</i> to everything he said. He was in the true
      sense what Chalmers used to call "a man of <i>wecht</i>." His mind acted
      by its sheer absolute power; it seldom made an effort; it was the
      hydraulic pressure, harmless, manageable, but irresistible; not the
      perilous compression of steam. Therefore it was that he was untroubled and
      calm, though rich; clear, though deep; though gentle, never dull; "strong
      without rage, without o'erflowing full." Indeed this element of water
      furnishes the best figure of his mind and its expression. His language was
      like the stream of his own Tweed; it was a translucent medium, only it
      brightened everything seen through it, as wetting a pebble brings out its
      lines and colour. That lovely, and by him much-loved river, was curiously
      like him, or he like it, gentle, great, strong, with a prevailing mild
      seriousness all along its course, but clear and quiet; sometimes, as at
      old Melrose, turning upon itself, reflecting, losing itself in beauty, and
      careless to go, deep and inscrutable, but stealing away cheerily down to
      Lessud-den, all the clearer of its rest; and then again at the Trows,
      showing unmistakably its power in removing obstructions and taking its own
      way, and chafing nobly with the rocks, sometimes, too, like him, its
      silver stream rising into sudden flood, and rolling irresistibly on its
      way. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Such an occasional paroxysm of eloquence is thus described
     by Dr. Cairns:&mdash;"At certain irregular intervals, when the
     loftier themes of the gospel ministry were to be handled,
     his manner underwent a transformation which was startling,
     and even electrical. He became rapt and excited as with new
     inspiration; his utterance grew thick and rapid; his voice
     trembled and faltered with emotion; his eye gleamed with a
     wild unearthly lustre, in which his countenance shared; and
     his whole frame heaved to and fro, as if each glowing
     thought and vivid figure that followed in quick succession
     were only a fragment of some greater revelation which he
     panted to overtake. The writer of this notice has witnessed
     nothing similar in any preacher, and numbers the effects of
     a passage which he once heard upon the scenes and exercises
     of the heavenly world among his most thrilling recollections
     of sacred oratory."&mdash;<i>Memoir prefixed to posthumous volume
     of Discourses</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      We question if as many carefully thought and worded, and rapidly and by no
      means laboriously written sermons, were composed anywhere else in Britain
      during his fifty years&mdash;every Sunday two new ones; the composition
      faultless&mdash;such as Cicero or Addison would have made them, had they
      been U.P. ministers; only there was always in them more soul than body,
      more of the spirit than of the letter. What a contrast to the much turbid,
      hot, hasty, perilous stuff of our day and preachers! The original power
      and <i>size</i> of Dr. Henderson's mind, his roominess for all thoughts,
      and his still reserve, his leni-tude, made, as we have said, his
      expressions clear and quiet, to a degree that a coarse and careless man,
      spoiled by the violence and noise of other pulpit men, might think
      insipid. But let him go over the words slowly, and he would not say this
      again; and let him see and feel the solemnizing, commanding power of that
      large, square, leonine countenance, the broad massive frame, as of a
      compressed Hercules, and the living, pure, melodious voice, powerful, but
      not by reason of loudness, dropping out from his compressed lips the words
      of truth, and he would not say this again. His voice had a singular pathos
      in it; and those who remember his often-called-for sermon on the "Bright
      and the Morning Star," can reproduce in their mind its tones and refrain.
      The thoughts of such men&mdash;so rare, so apt to be unvisited and
      unvalued&mdash;often bring into my mind a spring of pure water I once saw
      near the top of Cairngorm; always the same, cool in summer, keeping its
      few plants alive and happy with its warm breath in winter, floods and
      droughts never making its pulse change; and all this because it came from
      the interior heights, and was distilled by nature's own cunning, and had
      taken its time&mdash;was indeed a well of living water. And with Dr.
      Henderson this of the mountain holds curiously; he was retired, but not
      concealed; and he was of the primary formation, he had no <i>organic
      remains</i> of other men in him; he liked and fed on all manner of
      literature; knew poetry well; but it was all outside of him; his thoughts
      were essentially his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was peculiarly a preacher for preachers, as Spenser is a poet for
      poets. They felt he was a master. He published, after the entreaties of
      years, a volume of sermons which has long been out of print, and which he
      would never prepare for a second edition; he had much too little of the
      love of fame, and though not destitute of self-reliance and self-value,
      and resolved and unchangeable to obstinacy, he was not in the least degree
      vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      But you will think I am writing more about my father's friends and myself
      than about him. In a certain sense we may know a man by his friends; a man
      chooses his friends from harmony, not from sameness, just as we would
      rather sing in parts than all sing the air. One man fits into the mind of
      another not by meeting his points, but by dovetailing; each finds in the
      other what he in a double sense wants. This was true of my father's
      friends. Dr. Balmer was like him in much more than perhaps any,&mdash;in
      love of books and lonely study, in his general views of divine truth, and
      in their metaphysical and literary likings, but they differed deeply. Dr.
      Balmer was serene and just rather than subtle and profound; his was the
      still, translucent stream,&mdash;my father's the rapid, and it might be
      deep; on the one you could safely sail, the other hurried you on, and yet
      never were two men, during a long life of intimate intercourse, more
      cordial.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must close the list; one only and the best&mdash;the most endeared of
      them all&mdash;Dr. Heugh. He was, in mental constitution and temper,
      perhaps more unlike my father than any of the others I have mentioned. His
      was essentially a practical understanding; he was a man of action, a man
      for men more than for man, the curious reverse in this of my father. He
      delighted in public life, had a native turn for affairs, for all that
      society needs and demands,&mdash;clear-headed, ready, intrepid, adroit;
      with a fine temper, but keen and honest, with an argument and a question
      and a joke for every one; not disputatious, but delighting in a brisk
      argument, fonder of wrestling than of fencing, but ready for action, not
      much of a long shot, always keeping his eye on the immediate, the
      possible, the attainable, but in all this guided by genuine principle, and
      the finest honour and exactest truth. He excelled in the conduct of public
      business, saw his way clear, made other men see theirs, was for ever
      getting the Synod out of difficulties and confusions, by some clear, tidy,
      conclusive "motion and then his speaking, so easy and bright and pithy,
      manly and gentlemanly, grave when it should be, never when it should not&mdash;mobile,
      fearless, rapid, brilliant as Saladin&mdash;his silent, pensive,
      impassioned and emphatic friend was more like the lion-hearted Richard,
      with his heavy mace; he might miss, but let him hit, and there needed no
      repetition. Each admired the other; indeed Dr. Heugh's love of my father
      was quite romantic; and though they were opposed on several great public
      questions, such as the Apocrypha controversy, the atonement question at
      its commencement; and though they were both of them too keen and too
      honest to mince matters or be mealy-mouthed, they never misunderstood each
      other, never had a shadow of estrangement, so that our Paul and Barnabas,
      though their contentions were sometimes sharp enough, never "departed
      asunder," indeed they loved each other the longer the more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Take him all in all, as a friend, as a gentleman, as a Christian, as a
      citizen, I never knew a man so thoroughly delightful as Dr. Heugh. Others
      had more of this or more of that, but there was a symmetry, a compactness,
      a sweetness, a true <i>delightfulness</i> about him I can remember in no
      one else. No man with so much temptation to be heady and high-minded,
      sarcastic, and managing, from his overflowing wit and talent, was ever
      more natural, more honest, or more considerate, indeed tenderhearted. He
      was full of animal spirits and of fun, and one of the best wits and jokers
      I ever knew; and such an asker of questions, of posers! We children had a
      pleasing dread of that nimble, sharp, exact man, who made us explain and
      name everything. Of Scotch stories he had as many original ones as would
      make a second volume for Dean Ramsay. How well I remember the very corner
      of the room in Biggar manse, forty years ago, when from him I got the
      first shock and relish of humour; became conscious of mental tickling; of
      a word being made to carry double and being all the lighter of it. It is
      an old story now, but it was new then: a big, perspiring countryman rushed
      into the Black Bull coach-office, and holding the door, shouted, "Are yir
      insides a' oot?" This was my first tasting of the flavour of a joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had Dr. Heugh, instead of being the admirable clergyman he was devoted
      himself to public civil life, and gone into Parliament, he would have
      taken a high place as a debater, a practical statesman and patriot. He had
      many of the best qualities of Canning, and our own Premier, with purer and
      higher qualities than either. There is no one our church should be more
      proud of than of this beloved and excellent man, the holiness and
      humility, the jealous, godly fear in whose nature was not known fully even
      to his friends, till he was gone, when his private daily self-searchings
      and prostrations before his Master and judge were for the first time made
      known.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are few characters, <i>both sides</i> of which are so unsullied, so
      pure, and without reproach. I am back at Biggar at the old sacramental
      times; I see and hear my grandfather, or Mr. Horne of Braehead, Mr. Leckie
      of Peebles, Mr. Harper of Lanark, as inveterate in argument as he was warm
      in heart, Mr. Comrie of Penicuik, with his keen, Voltaire-like face, and
      much of that unhappy and unique man's wit, and sense, and perfection of
      expression, without his darker and baser qualities. I can hear their
      hearty talk, can see them coming and going between the meeting-house and
      the <i>Tent</i> on the side of the burn, and then the Monday dinner, and
      the cheerful talk, and the many clerical stories and pleasantries, and
      their going home on their hardy little horses, Mr. Comrie leaving his
      curl-papers till the next solemnity, and leaving also some joke of his
      own, clear and compact as a diamond, and as cutting.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am in Rose Street on the monthly lecture, the church crammed, passages
      and pulpit stairs. Exact to a minute, James Chalmers&mdash;the old soldier
      and beadle, slim, meek, but incorruptible by proffered half-crowns from
      ladies who thus tried to get in before the doors opened&mdash;appears, and
      all the people in that long pew rise up, and he, followed by his minister,
      erect and engrossed, walks in along the seat, and they struggle up to the
      pulpit. We all know what he is to speak of; he looks troubled even to
      distress;&mdash;it is the matter of Uriah the Hittite. He gives out the
      opening verses of the 51st Psalm, and offering up a short and abrupt
      prayer, which every one takes to himself, announces his miserable and
      dreadful subject, <i>fencing</i> it, as it were, in a low penetrating
      voice, daring any one of us to think an evil thought; there was little
      need at that time of the warning,&mdash;he infused his own intense, pure
      spirit, into us all.
    </p>
    <p>
      He then told the story without note or comment, only personating each
      actor in the tragedy with extraordinary effect, above all, the manly,
      loyal, simple-hearted soldier. I can recall the shudder of that multitude
      as of one man when he read, "And it came to pass in the morning, that
      David wrote a letter to Joab, and sent it by the hand of Uriah. And he
      wrote in the letter, saying, Set ye Uriah in the forefront of the hottest
      battle, and retire ye from him, that he may be smitten and die." And then,
      after a long and utter silence, his exclaiming, "Is this the man according
      to God's own heart? Yes, it is; we must believe that both are true." Then
      came Nathan. "There were two men in one city; the one rich, and the other
      poor. The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds; but the poor man
      had nothing, save one little ewe lamb"&mdash;and all that exquisite, that
      divine fable&mdash;ending, like a thunderclap, with, "Thou art the man!"
      Then came the retribution, so awfully exact and thorough,&mdash;the misery
      of the child's death; that brief tragedy of the brother and sister, more
      terrible than anything in Æschylus, in Dante, or in Ford; then the
      rebellion of Absalom, with its hideous dishonour, and his death, and the
      king covering his face, and crying in a loud voice, "O my son Absalom! O
      Absalom! my son! my son!"&mdash;and David's psalm, "Have mercy upon me, O
      God, according to thy loving-kindness; according unto the multitude of thy
      tender mercies blot out my transgressions,"&mdash;then closing with, "Yes;
      'when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is
      finished, bringeth forth death. Do not err,' do not stray, do not
      transgress [Greek],* 'my beloved brethren,' it is first 'earthly, then
      sensual, then devilish;'" he shut the book, and sent us all away
      terrified, shaken, and humbled, like himself.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * James i. 15, 16. It is plain that "do not err" should have
     been in verse 15th.
</pre>
    <p>
      I would fain say a few words on my father's last illness, or rather on
      what led to it, and I wish you and others in the ministry would take to
      heart, as matter of immediate religious duty, much of what I am going to
      say. My father was a seven months' child, and lay, I believe, for a
      fortnight in black wool, undressed, doing little but breathe and sleep,
      not capable of being fed. He continued all his life slight in make, and
      not robust in health, though lively, and capable of great single efforts.
      His attendance upon his mother must have saddened his body as well as his
      mind, and made him willing and able to endure, in spite of his keen and
      ardent spirit, the sedentary life he in the main led. He was always a very
      small eater, and nice in his tastes, easily put off from his food by any
      notion. He therefore started on the full work of life with a finer and
      more delicate mechanism than a man's ought to be, indeed, in these
      respects he was much liker a woman; and being very soon "placed," he had
      little travelling, and little of that tossing about the world, which, in
      the transition from youth to manhood, hardens the frame as well as supples
      it. Though delicate, he was almost never ill. I do not remember, till near
      the close of his life, his ever being in bed a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      From his nervous system, and his brain predominating steadily over the
      rest of his body, he was habitually excessive in his professional work. As
      to quantity, as to quality, as to manner and expression, he flung away his
      life without stint every Sabbath day, his sermons being laboriously
      prepared, loudly mandated, and at great expense of body and mind, and then
      delivered with the utmost vehemence and rapidity. He was quite unconscious
      of the state he worked himself into, and of the loud, piercing voice in
      which he often spoke. This I frequently warned him about, as being, I
      knew, injurious to himself, and often painful to his hearers, and his
      answer always was, that he was utterly unaware of it; and thus it
      continued to the close, and very sad it was to me who knew the peril, and
      saw the coming end, to listen to his noble, rich, persuasive, imperative
      appeals, and to know that the surplus of power, if retained, would, by
      God's blessing, retain him, while the effect on his people would, I am
      sure, not have lost, but in some respects have gained, for much of the
      discourse which was shouted and sometimes screamed at the full pitch of
      his keen voice, was of a kind to be better rendered in his deep, quiet,
      settled tones. This, and the great length of his public services, I knew
      he himself felt, when too late, had injured him, and many a smile he had
      at my proposal to have a secret sub-congregational string from him to me
      in the back seat, to be authoritatively twitched when I knew he had done
      enough; but this string was never pulled, even in his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went on in his expensive life, sleeping very little, and always
      lightly, eating little, never walking except of necessity; little in
      company, when he would have eaten more, and been, by the power of social
      relish, made likelier to get the full good out of his food; never
      diverting his mind by any change but that of one book or subject for
      another; and every time that any strong affliction came on him, as when
      made twice a widower, or at his daughter's death, or from such an outrage
      upon his entire nature and feelings as the Libel, then his delicate
      machinery was shaken and damaged, not merely by the first shock, but even
      more by that unrelenting self-command by which he terrified his body into
      instant submission. Thus it was, and thus it ever must be, if the laws of
      our bodily constitution, laid down by Him who knows our frame, and from
      whom our substance is not hid, are set at nought, knowingly or not&mdash;if
      knowingly, the act is so much the more spiritually bad&mdash;but if not,
      it is still punished with the same unerring nicety, the same commensurate
      meting out of the penalty, and paying "in full tale," as makes the sun to
      know his time, and splits an erring planet into fragments, driving it into
      space "with hideous ruin and combustion." It is a pitiful and a sad thing
      to say, but if my father had not been a prodigal in a true but very
      different meaning, if he had not spent his substance, the portion of goods
      that fell to him, the capital of life given him by God, in what we must
      believe to have been needless and therefore preventable excess of effort,
      we might have had him still with us, shining more and more, and he and
      they who were with him would have been spared those two years of the
      valley of the shadow, with its sharp and steady pain, its fallings away of
      life, its longing for the grave, its sleepless nights and days of
      weariness and languor, the full expression of which you will find nowhere
      but in the Psalms and in Job.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said that though delicate he was never ill: this was all the worse
      for him, for, odd as it may seem, many a man's life is lengthened by a
      sharp illness; and this in several ways. In the first place, he is laid
      up, out of the reach of all external mischief and exertion, he is like a
      ship put in dock for repairs; time is gained. A brisk fever clarifies the
      entire man, if it is beaten and does not beat; it is like cleaning a
      chimney by setting it on fire; it is perilous but thorough. Then the
      effort to throw off the disease often quickens and purifies and
      corroborates the central powers of life; the flame burns more clearly;
      there is a cleanness, so to speak, about all the wheels of life. Moreover,
      it is a warning, and makes a man meditate on his bed, and resolve to pull
      up; and it warns his friends, and likewise, if he is a clergyman, his
      people, who if their minister is always with them, never once think he can
      be ever anything but as able as he is.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a pause, such a breathing-time my father never got during that part
      of his life and labours when it would have availed most, and he was an old
      man in years, before he was a regular patient of any doctor. He was during
      life subject to sudden headaches, affecting his memory and eyesight, and
      even his speech; these attacks were, according to the thoughtless phrase
      of the day, called bilious; that is, he was sick, and was relieved by a
      blue pill and smart medicine. Their true seat was in the brain; the liver
      suffered because the brain was ill, and sent no nervous energy to it, or
      poisoned what it did send. The sharp racking pain in the forehead was the
      cry of suffering from the anterior lobes, driven by their master to
      distraction, and turning on him wild with weakness and fear and anger. It
      was well they did cry out; in some brains (large ones) they would have
      gone on dumb to sudden and utter ruin, as in apoplexy or palsy; but he did
      not know, and no one told him their true meaning, and he set about seeking
      for the outward cause in some article of food, in some recent and quite
      inadequate cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      He used, with a sort of odd shame and distress, to ask me why it was that
      he was subjected to so much suffering from what he called the lower and
      ignoble regions of his body; and I used to explain to him that he had made
      them suffer by long years of neglect, and that they were now having their
      revenge, and in their own way. I have often found, that the more the
      nervous centres are employed in those offices of thought and feeling the
      most removed from material objects,&mdash;the more the nervous energy of
      the entire nature is concentrated, engrossed, and used up in such offices,&mdash;so
      much the more, and therefore, are those organs of the body which preside
      over that organic life, common to ourselves and the lowest worm, defrauded
      of their necessary nervous food,&mdash;and being in the organic and not in
      the animal department, and having no voice to tell their wants or wrongs,
      till they wake up and annoy their neighbours who have a voice, that is,
      who are sensitive to pain, they may have been long ill before they come
      into the sphere of consciousness. This is the true reason&mdash;along with
      want of purity and change of air, want of exercise, * want of shifting the
      work of the body&mdash;why clergymen, men of letters, and all men of
      intense mental application, are so liable to be affected with indigestion,
      constipation, lumbago, and lowness of spirits, <i>melancholia</i>&mdash;black
      bile. The brain may not give way for long, because for a time the law of
      exercise strengthens it; it is fed high, gets the best of everything, of
      blood and nervous pabulum, and then men have a joy in the victorious work
      of their brain, and it has a joy of its own, too, which deludes and
      misleads.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * "The youth Story was in all respects healthy, and even
     robust; he died of overwork, or rather, as I understand, of
     a two years' almost total want of exercise, which it was
     impossible to induce him to take."&mdash;Arnold's Report to the
     Committee of Council on Education, 1860.
</pre>
    <p>
      All this happened to my father. He had no formal disease when he died&mdash;no
      structural change; his sleep and his digestion would have been quite
      sufficient for life even up to the last; the mechanism was entire, but the
      motive power was gone&mdash;it was expended. The silver cord was not so
      much loosed as relaxed. The golden bowl, the pitcher at the fountain, the
      wheel at the cistern, were not so much broken as emptied and stayed. The
      clock had run down before its time, and there was no one but He who first
      wound it up and set it who could wind it up again; and this He does not
      do, because it is His law&mdash;an express injunction from Him&mdash;that,
      having measured out to His creatures each his measure of life, and left
      him to the freedom of his own will and the regulation of his reason, He
      also leaves him to reap as he sows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it was that my father's illness was not so much a disease as a long
      death; life ebbing away, consciousness left entire, the certain issue
      never out of sight. This, to a man of my father's organization&mdash;with
      a keen relish for life, and its highest pleasures and energies, sensitive
      to impatience, and then over-sensitive of his own impatience; cut to the
      heart with the long watching and suffering of those he loved, who, after
      all, could do so little for him; with a nervous system easily sunk, and by
      its strong play upon his mind darkening and saddening his most central
      beliefs, shaking his most solid principles, tearing and terrifying his
      tenderest affections; his mind free and clear, ready for action if it had
      the power, eager to be in its place in the work of the world and of its
      Master, to have to spend two long years in this ever-descending road&mdash;here
      was a combination of positive and negative suffering not to be thought of
      even now, when it is all sunk under that "far more exceeding and eternal
      weight of glory."
    </p>
    <p>
      He often spoke to me freely about his health, went into it with the
      fearlessness, exactness, and persistency of his nature; and I never
      witnessed, or hope to witness, anything more affecting than when, after it
      had been dawning upon him, he apprehended the true secret of his death. He
      was deeply humbled, felt that he had done wrong to himself, to his people,
      to us all, to his faithful and long-suffering Master; and he often said,
      with a dying energy lighting up his eye, and nerving his voice and
      gesture, that if it pleased God to let him again speak in his old place,
      he would not only proclaim again, and, he hoped, more simply and more
      fully, the everlasting gospel to lost man, but proclaim also the gospel of
      God to the body, the religious and Christian duty and privilege of living
      in obedience to the divine laws of health. He was delighted when I read to
      him, and turned to this purpose that wonderful passage of St. Paul&mdash;"For
      the body is not one member, but many. If the whole body were an eye, where
      were the hearing? if the whole were hearing, where were the smelling? But
      now hath God set the members every one of them in the body, as it hath
      pleased him. And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee;
      nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you. Nay, much more
      those members of the body which seem to be more feeble, are necessary
      summing it all up in words with life and death in them&mdash;"That there
      should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same
      care one for another. And whether one member suffer, all the members
      suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The lesson from all this is, Attend to your bodies, study their structure,
      functions, and laws. This does not at all mean that you need be an
      anatomist, or go deep into physiology, or the doctrines of prevention and
      cure. Not only has each organism a resident doctor, placed there by Him
      who can thus heal all our diseases; but this doctor, if watched and waited
      on, informs any man or woman of ordinary sense what things to do, and what
      things not to do. And I would have you, who, I fear, not unfrequently sin
      in the same way, and all our ardent, self-sacrificing young ministers, to
      reflect whether, after destroying themselves and dying young, they have
      lost or gained. It is said that God raises up others in our place. God
      gives you no title to say this. Men&mdash;such men as I have in my mind&mdash;are
      valuable to God in proportion to the time they are here. They are the
      older, the better, the riper and richer, and more enriching. Nothing will
      make up for this absolute loss of life. For there is something which every
      man wrho is a good workman is gaining every year just because he is older,
      and this nothing can replace. Let a man remain on his ground, say a
      country parish, during half a century or more&mdash;let him be every year
      getting fuller and sweeter in the knowledge of God and man, in utterance
      and in power&mdash;can the power of that man for good over all his time,
      and especially towards its close, be equalled by that of three or four
      young, and, it maybe admirable men, who have been succeeding each other's
      untimely death, during the same space of time? It is against all
      spiritual, as well as all simple arithmetic, to say so.
    </p>
    <p>
      You have spoken of my father's prayers. They were of two kinds: the one,
      formal, careful, systematic, and almost stereotyped, remarkable for
      fulness and compression of thought: sometimes too manifestly the result of
      study, and sometimes not purely prayer, but more of the nature of a
      devotional and even argumentative address; the other, as in the family,
      short, simple, and varied. He used to tell of his master, Dr. Lawson,
      reproving him, in his honest but fatherly way, as they were walking home
      from the Hall. My father had in his prayers the words, "that through death
      he might destroy him that had the power of death, that is, the devil." The
      old man, leaning on his favourite pupil, said, "John, my man, you need not
      have said '<i>that is, the devil</i>;' you might have been sure that <i>He</i>
      knew whom you meant." My father, in theory, held that a mixture of formal,
      fixed prayer, in fact, a liturgy, along with extempore prayer, was the
      right thing. As you observe, many of his passages in prayer, all who were
      in the habit of hearing him could anticipate, such as "the enlightening,
      enlivening, sanctifying, and comforting influences of the good Spirit,"
      and many others. One in especial you must remember; it was only used on
      very solemn occasions, and curiously unfolds his mental peculiarities; it
      closed his prayer&mdash;"And now, unto Thee, O Father, Son, and Holy
      Ghost, the one Jehovah and our God, we would&mdash;as is most meet&mdash;with
      the church on earth and the church in heaven, ascribe all honour and
      glory, dominion and majesty, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever
      shall be, world without end. Amen." Nothing could be liker him than the
      interjection, "as is most meet." Sometimes his abrupt, short statements in
      the Synod were very striking. On one occasion, Mr. James Morison, having
      stated his views as to prayer very strongly, denying that a sinner <i>can</i>
      pray, my father, turning to the moderator, said&mdash;"Sir, let a man feel
      himself to be a sinner, and, for anything the universe of creatures can do
      for him, hopelessly lost,&mdash;let him feel this, sir, and let him get a
      glimpse of the Saviour, and all the eloquence and argument of Mr. Morison
      will not keep that man from crying out, 'God be merciful to me a sinner.'
      That, sir, is prayer&mdash;that is acceptable prayer." There must be, I
      fear, now and then an apparent discrepancy between you and me, especially
      as to the degree of mental depression which at times overshadowed my
      father's nature. <i>You</i> will understand this, and I hope our readers
      will make allowance for it. Some of it is owing to my constitutional
      tendency to overstate, and much of it to my having had perhaps more
      frequent, and even more private, insights into this part of his life. But
      such inconsistency as that I speak of&mdash;the co-existence of a clear,
      firm faith, a habitual sense of God and of his infinite mercy, the living
      a life of faith, as if it was in his organic and inner life, more than in
      his sensational and outward&mdash;is quite compatible with that tendency
      to distrust himself, that bodily darkness and mournfulness, which at times
      came over him. Any one who knows "what a piece of work is man;" how
      composite, how varying, how inconsistent human nature is, that each of us
      is
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Some twenty several men, all in an hour,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;will not need to be told to expect, or how to harmonize, these
      differences of mood. You see this in that wonderful man, the apostle Paul,
      the true typical fulness, the <i>humanness</i>, so to speak, of whose
      nature comes out in such expressions of opposites as these&mdash;"By
      honour and dishonour, by evil report and good report: as deceivers and yet
      true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold we live; as
      chastened, and not killed; as sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing; as poor, yet
      making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things."
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot, and after your impressive and exact history of his last days, I
      need not say anything of the close of those long years of suffering,
      active and passive, and that slow ebbing of life; the body, without help
      or hope, feeling its doom steadily though slowly drawing on; the mind
      mourning for its suffering friend, companion, and servant, mourning also,
      sometimes, that it must be "unclothed," and take its flight all alone into
      the infinite unknown; dying daily, not in the heat of fever, or in the
      insensibility or lethargy of paralytic disease, but having the mind calm
      and clear, and the body conscious of its own decay,&mdash;dying, as it
      were, in cold blood. One thing I must add. That morning when you were
      obliged to leave, and when "cold obstruction's apathy" had already begun
      its reign&mdash;when he knew us, and that was all, and when he followed us
      with his dying and loving eyes, but could not speak&mdash;the end came;
      and then, as through life, his will asserted itself supreme in death. With
      that love of order and decency which was a law of his life, he
      deliberately composed himself, placing his body at rest, as if setting his
      house in order before leaving it, and then closed his eyes and mouth, so
      that his last look&mdash;the look his body carried to the grave and faced
      dissolution in&mdash;was that of sweet, dignified self-possession.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have made this letter much too long, and have said many things in it I
      never intended saying, and omitted much I had hoped to be able to say. But
      I must end.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Yours ever affectionately,
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      J. Brown.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DR. CHALMERS
    </h2>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Fervet immensasque ruit&mdash;Hor.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "His memory long will live alone
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      In all our hearts, as mournful light
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That broods above the fallen sun,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And dwells in heaven half the night"
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      Tennyson.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "He was net one man, he was a thousand men."&mdash;Sydney Smith.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When, towards the close of some long summer day, we come suddenly, and, as
      we think, before his time, upon the broad sun, "sinking down in his
      tranquillity" into the unclouded west; we cannot keep our eyes from the
      great spectacle;&mdash;and when he is gone, the shadow of him haunts our
      sight with the spectre of his brightness, which is dark when our eyes are
      open; luminous when they are shut: we see everywhere,&mdash;upon the
      spotless heaven, upon the distant mountains, upon the fields, and upon the
      road at our feet,&mdash;that dim, strange, changeful image; and if our
      eyes shut, to recover themselves, we still find in them, like a dying
      flame, or like a gleam in a dark place, the unmistakable phantom of the
      mighty orb that has set,&mdash;and were we to sit down, as we have often
      done, and try to record by pencil or by pen, our impression of that
      supreme hour, still would IT be there. We must have patience with our eye,
      it will not let the impression go,&mdash;that spot on which the radiant
      disc was impressed, is insensible to all other outward things, for a time:
      its best relief is, to let the eye wander vaguely over earth and sky, and
      repose itself on the mild shadowy distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      So it is when a great and good and beloved man departs, sets&mdash;it may
      be suddenly&mdash;and to us who know not the times and the seasons, <i>too
      soon</i>. We gaze eagerly at his last hours, and when he is gone, never to
      rise again on our sight, we see his image wherever we go, and in
      whatsoever we are engaged, and if we try to record by words our wonder,
      our sorrow, and our affection, we cannot see to do it, for the "idea of
      his life" is for ever coming into our "study of imagination"&mdash;-into
      all our thoughts, and we can do little else than let our mind, in a wise
      passiveness, hush itself to rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun returns&mdash;he knows his rising&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "To-morrow he repairs his drooping head,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Flames in the forehead of the morning sky
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      but man lieth down, and riseth not again till the heavens are no more.
      Never again will he whose "Meditations" are now before us, lift up the
      light of his countenance upon us.
    </p>
    <p>
      We need not say we look upon him as a great man, as a good man, as a
      beloved man&mdash;<i>quis desiderio sit pudor tarn cari capitis?</i> We
      cannot now go very curiously to work, to scrutinize the composition of his
      character,&mdash;we cannot take that large, free, genial nature to pieces,
      and weigh this and measure that, and sum up and pronounce; we are too near
      as yet to him, and to his loss, he is too dear to us to be so handled.
      "His death," to use the pathetic words of Hartley Coleridge, "is a recent
      sorrow; his image still lives in eyes that weep for him." The prevailing
      feeling is,&mdash;He is gone&mdash;"<i>abiit adplures</i>&mdash;he has
      gone over to the majority, he has joined the famous nations of the dead."
    </p>
    <p>
      It is no small loss to the world, when one of its master spirits&mdash;one
      of its great lights&mdash;a king among the nations&mdash;leaves it. A sun
      is extinguished; a great attractive, regulating power is withdrawn. For
      though it be a common, it is also a natural thought, to compare a great
      man to the sun; it is in many respects significant. Like the sun, he rules
      his day, and he is "for a sign and for seasons," and for days and for
      years he enlightens, quickens, attracts, and leads after him his host&mdash;his
      generation.
    </p>
    <p>
      To pursue our image. When the sun sets to us, he rises elsewhere&mdash;he
      goes on rejoicing, like a strong man, running his race. So does a great
      man: when he leaves us and our concerns&mdash;he rises elsewhere; and we
      may reasonably suppose that one who has in this world played a great part
      in its greatest histories&mdash;who has through a long life been
      pre-eminent for promoting the good of men and the glory of God&mdash;will
      be looked upon with keen interest, when he joins the company of the
      immortals. They must have heard of his fame; they may in their ways have
      seen and helped him already.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one must have trembled when reading that passage in Isaiah, in which
      Hell is described as moved to meet Lucifer at his coming: there is not in
      human language anything more sublime of conception, more exquisite in
      expression; it has on it the light of the terrible crystal. But may we not
      reverse the scene? May we not imagine, when a great and good man&mdash;a
      son of the morning&mdash;enters on his rest, that Heaven would move itself
      to meet him at his coming? that it would stir up its dead, even all the
      chief ones of the earth, and that the kings of the nations would arise
      each one from his throne to welcome their brother? that those who saw him
      would "narrowly consider him," and say, "Is this he who moved nations,
      enlightened and bettered his fellows, and whom the great Taskmaster
      welcomes with 'Well done!'"
    </p>
    <p>
      We cannot help following him, whose loss we now mourn, into that region,
      and figuring to ourselves his great, childlike spirit, when that
      unspeakable scene bursts upon his view, when, as by some inward, instant
      sense, he is conscious of God&mdash;of the immediate presence of the
      All-seeing Unseen; when he beholds "His honourable, true, and only Son,"
      face to face, enshrined in that "glorious form, that light unsufferable,
      and that far-beaming blaze of Majesty," that brightness of His glory, that
      express image of His person; when he is admitted into the goodly
      fellowship of the apostles&mdash;the glorious company of the prophets&mdash;the
      noble army of martyrs&mdash;the general assembly of just men&mdash;and
      beholds with his loving eyes the myriads of "little ones," outnumbering
      their elders as the dust of the stars with which the galaxy is filled
      exceeds in multitude the hosts of heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a change! death the gate of life&mdash;a second birth, in the
      twinkling of an eye: this moment, weak, fearful, in the amazement of
      death; the next, strong, joyful,&mdash;at rest,&mdash;all things new! To
      adopt his own words: all his life, up to the last, "knocking at a door not
      yet opened, with an earnest indefinite longing,&mdash;his very soul
      breaking for the longing,&mdash;drinking of water and thirsting again"&mdash;and
      then&mdash;suddenly and at once&mdash;a door opened into heaven, and the
      Master heard saying, "Come in, and come up hither!" drinking of the river
      of life, clear as crystal, of which if a man drink he will never thirst,&mdash;being
      tilled with all the fulness of God!
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Chalmers was a ruler among men: this we know historically; this every
      man who came within his range felt at once. He was like Agamemnon, a
      native [Greek], and with all his homeliness of feature and deportment, and
      his perfect simplicity of expression, there was about him "that divinity
      that doth hedge a king." You felt a power, in him, and going from him,
      drawing you to him in spite of yourself. He was in this respect a <i>solar</i>
      man, he drew after him his own firmament of planets. They, like all free
      agents, had their centrifugal forces acting ever towards an independent,
      solitary course, but the centripetal also was there, and they moved with
      and around their imperial sun,&mdash;gracefully or not, willingly or not,
      as the case might be, but there was no breaking loose: they again, in
      their own spheres of power, might have their attendant moons, but all were
      bound to the great massive luminary in the midst.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is to us a continual mystery in this power of one man over another.
      We find it acting everywhere, with the simplicity, the ceaselessness, the
      energy of gravitation; and we may be permitted to speak of this influence
      as obeying similar conditions; it is proportioned to bulk&mdash;for we
      hold to the notion of a bigness in souls as well as bodies&mdash;one soul
      differing from another in quantity and momentum as well as in quality and
      force, and its intensity increases by nearness. There is much in what
      Jonathan Edwards says of one spiritual essence having more of being than
      another, and in Dr. Chalmers's question, "Is he a man of <i>wecht?</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      But when we meet a <i>solar</i> man, of ample nature&mdash;soul, body, and
      spirit; when we find him from his earliest years moving among his fellows
      like a king, moving them whether they will or not&mdash;this feeling of
      mystery is deepened; and though we would not, like some men (who should
      know better), worship the creature and convert a hero into a god, we do
      feel more than in other cases the truth, that it is the inspiration of the
      Almighty which has given to that man understanding, and that all power,
      all energy, all light, come to him, from the First and the Last&mdash;the
      Living One. God comes to be regarded by us, in this instance, as He ought
      always to be, "the final centre of repose"&mdash;the source of all being,
      of all life&mdash;the <i>Terminus ad quem</i> and the <i>Terminus a quo</i>.
      And assuredly, as in the firmament that simple law of gravitation reigns
      supreme&mdash;making it indeed a <i>kosmos</i>&mdash;majestic, orderly,
      comely in its going&mdash;ruling, and binding not the less the fiery and
      nomadic comets, than the gentle, punctual moons&mdash;so certainly, and to
      us moral creatures to a degree transcendently more important, does the
      whole intelligent universe move around and move towards and in the Father
      of Lights.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be well if the world would, among the many other uses it makes of
      its great men, make more of this,&mdash;that they are manifestors of God&mdash;revealers
      of His will&mdash;vessels of His omnipotence&mdash;and are among the very
      chiefest of His ways and works.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we have before said, there is a perpetual wonder in this power of one
      man over his fellows, especially when we meet with it in a great man. You
      see its operations constantly in history, and through it the Great Ruler
      has worked out many of His greatest and strangest acts. But however we may
      understand the accessory conditions by which the one man rules the many,
      and controls and fashions them to his purposes, and transforms them into
      his likeness&mdash;multiplying as it were himself&mdash;there remains at
      the bottom of it all a mystery&mdash;a reaction between body and soul that
      we cannot explain. Generally, however, we find accompanying its
      manifestation, a capacious understanding&mdash;a strong will&mdash;an
      emotional nature, quick, powerful, urgent, undeniable, in perpetual
      communication with the energetic will and the large resolute intellect&mdash;and
      a strong, hearty, capable body; a countenance and person expressive of
      this combination&mdash;the mind finding its way at once and in full force
      to the face, to the gesture, to every act of the body. He must have what
      is called a "presence," not that he must be great in size, beautiful, or
      strong; but he must be expressive and impressive&mdash;his outward man
      must communicate to the beholder at once and without fail, something of
      indwelling power, and he must be and act as one. You may in your mind
      analyse him into his several parts; but practically he acts in everything
      with his whole soul and his whole self; whatsoever his hand finds to do,
      he does it with his might. Luther, Moses, David, Mahomet, Cromwell&mdash;all
      verified these conditions.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so did Dr. Chalmers. There was something about his whole air and
      manner, that disposed you at the very first to make way where he went&mdash;he
      held you before you were aware. That this depended fully as much upon the
      activity and the quantity&mdash;if we may so express ourselves&mdash;of
      his affections, upon that combined action of mind and body which we call
      temperament, and upon a straightforward, urgent will, as upon what is
      called the pure intellect, will be generally allowed; but with all this,
      he could not have been and done, what he was and did, had he not had an
      understanding, in vigour and in capacity, worthy of its great and ardent
      companions. It was large and free, mobile, and intense, rather than
      penetrative, judicial, clear, or fine,&mdash;so that in one sense he was
      more a man to make others act than think; but his own actings had always
      their origin in some fixed, central, inevitable proposition, as he would
      call it, and he began his onset with stating plainly, and with lucid
      calmness, what he held to be a great seminal truth; from this he passed at
      once, not into exposition, but into illustration and enforcement&mdash;into,
      if we may make a word overwhelming insistance. Something was to be done,'
      rather than explained.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no separating his thoughts and expressions from his person, and
      looks, and voice. How perfectly we can at this moment recall him!
      Thundering, flaming, lightening in the pulpit; teaching, indoctrinating,
      drawing after him his students in his lecture-room; sitting among other
      public men, the most unconscious, the most king-like of them all, with
      that broad leonine countenance, that beaming, liberal smile; or on the way
      out to his home, in his old-fashioned great-coat, with his throat muffled
      up, his big walking-stick moved outwards in an arc, its point fixed, its
      head circumferential, a sort of companion and playmate, with which,
      doubtless, he demolished legions of imaginary foes, errors, and
      stupidities in men and things, in Church and State. His great look, large
      chest, large head, his amplitude every way; his broad, simple, childlike,
      in-turned feet; his short, hurried, impatient step; his erect, royal air;
      his look of general good-will; his kindling up into a warm but vague
      benignity when one he did not recognise spoke to him; the addition, for it
      was not a change, of keen speciality to his hearty recognition; the
      twinkle of his eyes; the immediately saying something very personal to set
      all to rights, and then sending you off with some thought, some feeling,
      some remembrance, making your heart burn within you; his voice
      indescribable; his eye&mdash;that most peculiar feature&mdash;not vacant,
      but asleep&mdash;innocent, mild, and large; and his soul, its great
      inhabitant, not always at his window; but then, when he did awake, how
      close to you was that burning vehement soul! how it penetrated and
      overcame you! how mild, and affectionate, and genial its expression at his
      own fireside!
    </p>
    <p>
      Of his portraits worth mentioning, there are Watson Gordon's, Ducan's&mdash;the
      Calotypes of Mr. Hill&mdash;Kenneth M'Leay's miniatures&mdash;the
      Daguerreotype, and Steell's bust. These are all good, and all give bits of
      him, some nearly the whole, but not one of them that [Greek], that fiery
      particle&mdash;that inspired look&mdash;that "diviner mind"&mdash;<i>poco
      piu</i>, or little more. Watson Gordon's is too much of the mere clergyman&mdash;is
      a pleasant likeness, and has the shape of his mouth, and the setting of
      his feet very good. Duncan's is a work of genius, and is the giant looking
      up, awakening, but not awakened&mdash;it is a very fine picture, Mr.
      Hill's Calotypes we like better than all the rest; because what in them is
      true, is absolutely so, and they have some delicate renderings which are
      all but beyond the power of any human artist; for though man's art is
      mighty, nature's is mightier. The one of the Doctor sitting with his
      grandson "Tommy" is to us the best; we have the true grandeur of his form&mdash;his
      bulk. M'Leay's is admirable&mdash;spirited&mdash;and has that look of
      shrewdness and vivacity and immediateness which he had when he was
      observing and speaking keenly; it is, moreover, a fine, manly bit of art.
      M'Leay is the Raeburn of miniature painters&mdash;he does a great deal
      with little. The Daguerreotype is, in its own way, excellent; it gives the
      externality of the man to perfection, but it is Dr. Chalmers at a
      standstill&mdash;his mind and feelings "pulled up" for the second that it
      was taken. Steell's is a noble bust&mdash;has a stern heroic expression
      and pathetic beauty about it, and from wanting colour and shadow and the
      eyes, it relies upon a certain simplicity and grandeur;&mdash;in this it
      completely succeeds&mdash;the mouth is handled with extraordinary subtlety
      and sweetness, and the hair hangs over that huge brow like a glorious
      cloud. We think this head of Dr. Chalmers the artist's greatest bust.
    </p>
    <p>
      In reference to the assertion we have made as to bulk forming one primary
      element of a powerful mind, Dr. Chalmers used to say, when a man of
      activity and public mark was mentioned, "Has he <i>wecht?</i> he has
      promptitude&mdash;has he power? he has power&mdash;has he promptitude?
      and, moreover, has he a discerning spirit?"
    </p>
    <p>
      These are great practical, universal truths. How few even of our greatest
      men have had all these three faculties large&mdash;fine, sound, and in
      "perfect diapason." Your men of promptitude, without power or judgment,
      are common and are useful. But they are apt to run wild, to get needlessly
      brisk, unpleasantly incessant. A weasel is good or bad as the case may be,&mdash;good
      against vermin&mdash;bad to meddle with;&mdash;but inspired weasels,
      weasels on a mission, are terrible indeed, mischievous and fell, and
      swiftness making up for want of momentum by inveteracy; "fierce as wild
      bulls, untamable as flies." Of such men we have now-a-days too many. Men
      are too much in the way of supposing that doing is being; that theology
      and excogiration, and fierce dogmatic assertion of what they consider
      truth, is godliness; that obedience is merely an occasional great act, and
      not a series of acts, issuing from a state, like the stream of water from
      its well.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Action is transitory&mdash;a step&mdash;a blow,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The motion of a muscle&mdash;this way or that;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      'Tis done&mdash;and in the after vacancy,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Suffering" (obedience, or being as opposed to doing)&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Suffering is permanent,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And has the nature of infinity."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Chalmers was a man of genius&mdash;he had his own way of thinking, and
      saying, and doing, and looking everything. Men have vexed themselves in
      vain to define what genius is; like every ultimate term we may describe it
      by giving its effects, we can hardly succeed in reaching its essence.
      Fortunately, though we know not what are its elements, we know it when we
      meet it; and in him, in every movement of his mind, in every gesture, we
      had its unmistakable tokens. Two of the ordinary accompaniments of genius&mdash;Enthusiasm
      and Simplicity&mdash;he had in rare measure.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was an enthusiast in its true and good sense; he was "entheat," as if
      full of God, as the old poets called it. It was this ardour, this
      superabounding life, this immediateness of thought and action, idea and
      emotion, setting the whole man agoing at once&mdash;that gave a power and
      a charm to everything he did. To adopt the old division of the Hebrew
      Doctors, as given by Nathanael Culverwel, in his "Light of Nature:" In man
      we have&mdash;1st, [Greek], the sensitive soul, that which lies nearest
      the body&mdash;the very blossom and flower of life; 2d, [Greek], <i>animam
      rationis</i>, sparkling and glittering with intellectuals, crowned with
      light; and 3d, [Greek], __impetum animi, motum mentis, the vigour and
      energy of the soul&mdash;its temper&mdash;the mover of the other two&mdash;the
      first being, as they said, resident <i>in hepate</i>&mdash;the second <i>in
      cere-bro</i>&mdash;the third <i>in corde</i>, where it presides over the
      issues of life, commands the circulation, and animates and sets the blood
      a-moving. The first and second are informative, explicative, they "take in
      and do"&mdash;the other "gives out." Now in Dr. Chalmers, the great
      ingredient was the [Greek] as indicating <i>vis animo et vitae</i>,&mdash;and
      in close fellowship with it, and ready for its service, was a large,
      capacious [Greek], and an energetic, sensuous, rapid [Greek]. Hence his
      energy, his contagious enthusiasm&mdash;this it was which gave the
      peculiar character to his religion, to his politics, to his personnel;
      everything he did was done heartily&mdash;if he desired heavenly
      blessings, he "panted" for them&mdash;"his soul broke for the longing." To
      give again the words of the spiritual and subtle Culverwel, "Religion (and
      indeed everything else) was no matter of indifferency to him. It was
      [Greek], a certain fiery thing, as Aristotle calls love; it required and
      it got, the very flower and vigour of the spirit&mdash;the strength and
      sinews of the soul&mdash;the prime and top of the affections&mdash;this is
      that grace, that panting grace&mdash;we know the name of it and that's all&mdash;'tis
      called zeal&mdash;a flaming edge of the affection&mdash;the ruddy
      complexion of the soul." Closely connected with this temperament, and with
      a certain keen sensation of truth, rather than a perception of it, if we
      may so express ourselves, an intense consciousness of objective reality,&mdash;was
      his simple animating faith. He had faith in God&mdash;faith in human
      nature&mdash;faith, if we may say so, in his own instincts&mdash;in his
      ideas of men and things&mdash;in himself; and the result was, that
      unhesitating bearing up and steering right onward&mdash;"never bating one
      jot of heart or hope" so characteristic of him. He had "the substance of
      things hoped for." He had "the evidence of things not seen."
    </p>
    <p>
      By his simplicity we do not mean the simplicity of the head&mdash;of that
      he had none; he was eminently shrewd and knowing&mdash;more so than many
      thought; but we refer to that quality of the heart and of the life,
      expressed by the words, "in simplicity a child." In his own words, from
      his Daily Readings,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "When a child is filled with any strong emotion by a surprising event or
      intelligence, it runs to discharge it on others, impatient of their
      sympathy; and it marks, I fancy, the simplicity and greater naturalness of
      this period (Jacob's), that the grown up men and women ran to meet each
      other, giving way to their first impulses&mdash;even as children do."
    </p>
    <p>
      His emotions were as lively as a child's, and he ran to discharge them.
      There was in all his ways a certain beautiful unconsciousness of self&mdash;an
      outgoing of the whole nature that we see in children, who are by learned
      men said to be long ignorant of the Ego&mdash;blessed in many respects in
      their ignorance! This same Ego, as it now exists, being perhaps part of
      "the fruit of that forbidden tree," that mere knowledge of good as well as
      of evil, which our great mother bought for us at such a price. In this
      meaning of the word, Dr. Chalmers, considering the size of his
      understanding&mdash;his personal eminence&mdash;his dealings with the
      world&mdash;his large sympathies&mdash;his scientific knowledge of mind
      and matter&mdash;his relish for the practical details, and for the spirit
      of public business&mdash;was quite singular for his simplicity; and taking
      this view of it, there was much that was plain and natural in his manner
      of thinking and acting, which otherwise was obscure and liable to be
      misunderstood. We cannot better explain what we mean than by giving a
      passage from Fénélon, which D'Alembert, in his Eloge, quotes as
      characteristic of that "sweet-souled" prelate. We give the passage entire,
      as it seems to us to contain a very beautiful, and by no means commonplace
      truth:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fénélon," says D'Alembert, "a caractérisé lui-même en peu de mots cette
      simplicité qui le rendoit si cher à tous les cours. La simplicité est la
      droiture d'une ame qui s'interdit tout retour sur elle et sur ses actions&mdash;cette
      vertu est différente de la sincérité, et la surpasse. On voit beaucoup de
      gens qui sont sincères sans être simples&mdash;Ils ne veulent passer que
      pour ce qu'ils sont, mais ils craignent sans cesse de passer pour ce
      qu'ils ne sont pas. L'homme simple n'affecte ni la vertu, ni la vérité
      même; il n'est jamais occupé de lui, il semble d'avoir perdu ce moi dont
      on est si jaloux.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      What delicacy and justness of expression! how true and clear! how little
      we see now-a-days, among grownup men, of this straightness of the soul&mdash;of
      this losing or never finding "ce moi!" There is more than is perhaps
      generally thought in this. Man in a state of perfection, would no sooner
      think of asking himself&mdash;am I right? am I appearing to be what
      inwardly I am? than the eye asks itself&mdash;do I see? or a child says to
      itself&mdash;do I love my mother? We have lost this instinctive sense; we
      have set one portion of ourselves aside to watch the rest; we must keep up
      appearances and our consistency; we must respect&mdash;that is, look back
      upon&mdash;ourselves, and be respected, if possible; we must, by hook or
      by crook, be respectable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Chalmers would have been a sorry Balaam; he was made of different
      stuff and for other purposes. Your "respectable" men are ever doing their
      best to keep their status, to maintain their position. He never troubled
      himself about his status; indeed, we would say status was not the word for
      him. He had a <i>sedes</i> on which he sat, and from which he spoke; he
      had an imperium, to and fro which he roamed as he listed: but a status was
      as little in his way as in that of a Mauritanian lion. Your merely
      "sincere" men are always thinking of what they said yesterday, and what
      they may say to-morrow, at the very moment when they should be putting
      their whole self into to-day. Full of his idea, possessed by it, moved
      altogether by its power,&mdash;believing, he spoke, and without stint or
      fear, often apparently contradicting his former self&mdash;careless about
      everything, but speaking fully his mind. One other reason for his apparent
      inconsistencies was, if one may so express it, the spaciousness of his
      nature. He had room in that capacious head, and affection in that great,
      hospitable heart, for relishing and taking in the whole range of human
      thought and feeling. He was several men in one. Multitudinous but not
      multiplex, in him odd and apparently incongruous notions dwelt peaceably
      together. The lion lay down with the lamb. Voluntaryism and an endowment&mdash;both
      were best.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was childlike in his simplicity: though in understanding a man, he was
      himself in many things a child. Coleridge says, every man should include
      all his former selves in his present, as a tree has its former years'
      growths inside its last; so Dr. Chalmers bore along with him his
      childhood, his youth, his early and full manhood into his mature old age.
      This gave himself, we doubt not, infinite delight&mdash;multiplied his
      joys, strengthened and sweetened his whole nature, and kept his heart
      young and tender,&mdash;it enabled him to sympathize, to have a fellow-
      feeling with all, of whatever age. Those who best knew him, who were most
      habitually with him, know how beautifully this point of his character
      shone out in daily, hourly life. We well remember long ago loving him
      before we had seen him&mdash;from our having been told, that being out one
      Saturday at a friend's house near the Pentlands, he collected all the
      children and small people&mdash;the other bairns, as he called them&mdash;
      and with no one else of his own growth, took the lead to the nearest
      hill-top,&mdash;how he made each take the biggest and roundest stone he
      could find, and carry,&mdash;how he panted up the hill himself with one of
      enormous size,&mdash;how he kept up their hearts, and made them shout with
      glee, with the light of his countenance, and with all his pleasant and
      strange ways and words,&mdash;how having got the breathless little men and
      women to the top of the hill, he, hot and scant of breath, looked round on
      the world and upon them with his broad benignant smile like the [Greek]&mdash;the
      unnumbered laughter of the sea,&mdash;how he set off his own huge
      "fellow,"&mdash; how he watched him setting out on his race, slowly,
      stupidly, vaguely at first, almost as if he might die before he began to
      live, then suddenly giving a spring and off like a shot&mdash;bounding,
      tearing, [Greek] ; how the great and good man was totus in illo; how he
      spoke to, upbraided him, cheered him, gloried in him, all but prayed for
      him,&mdash;how he joked philosophy to his wondering and ecstatic crew,
      when he (the stone) disappeared among some brackens&mdash;telling them
      they had the evidence of their senses that he was in, they might even know
      he wras there by his effects, by the moving brackens, himself unseen; how
      plain it became that he had gone in, when he actually came out!&mdash;how
      he ran up the opposite side a bit, and then fell back, and lazily expired
      at the bottom,&mdash;how to their astonishment, but not displeasure&mdash;for
      he "set them off so well," and "was so funny"&mdash;he took from each his
      cherished stone, and set it off himself! showing them how they all ran
      alike, yet differently; how he went on, "making," as he said, "an
      induction of particulars," till he came to the Benjamin of the flock, a
      wee wee man, who had brought up a stone bigger than his own big head; then
      how he let him, <i>unicus omnium</i>, set off his own, and how wonderfully
      it ran! what miraculous leaps: what escapes from impossible places: and
      how it ran up the other side farther than any, and by some felicity
      remained there.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0026" id="linkimage-0026"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0191m.jpg" alt="0191m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0191.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      He was an orator in its specific and highest sense. We need not prove this
      to those who have heard him; we cannot to those who have not. It was a
      living man sending living, burning words into the minds and heart of men
      before him, radiating his intense fervour upon them all; but there was no
      reproducing the entire effect when alone and cool; some one of the
      elements was gone. We say nothing of this part of his character, because
      upon this all are agreed. His eloquence rose like a tide, a sea, setting
      in, bearing down upon you, lifting up all its waves&mdash;"deep calling
      unto deep there was no doing anything but giving yourself up for the time
      to its will. Do our readers remember Horace's description of Pindar?
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Quern super notas aluere ripas,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Fervet immensusque ruit profundo
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Pindarus ore:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      &mdash;"per audaces nova dithyrambos
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Verba devolvit, mimerisque fertur
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Lege solutis."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This is to our mind singularly characteristic of our per-fervid Scotsman.
      If we may indulge our conceit, we would paraphrase it thus. His eloquence
      was like a flooded Scottish river,&mdash;it had its origin in some exalted
      region&mdash;in some mountain-truth&mdash;some high, immutable reality; it
      did not rise in a plain, and quietly drain its waters to the sea,&mdash;it
      came sheer down from above. He laid hold of some simple truth&mdash;the
      love of God, the Divine method of justification, the unchangeableness of
      human nature, the supremacy of conscience, the honourableness of all men;
      and having got this vividly before his mind, on he moved&mdash;the river
      rose at once, drawing everything into its course&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "All thoughts, all passions, all delights,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Whatever stirs this mortal frame,'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      things outward and things inward, interests immediate and remote&mdash;God
      and eternity&mdash;men, miserable and immortal&mdash;this world and the
      next&mdash;clear light and unsearchable mystery&mdash;the word and the
      works of God&mdash;everything contributed to swell the volume and add to
      the onward and widening flood. His river did not flow like Denham's
      Thames,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      There was strength, but there was likewise rage; a fine frenzy&mdash;not
      unoften due mainly to its rapidity and to its being raised suddenly by his
      affections; there was some confusion in the stream of his thoughts, some
      overflowing of the banks, some turbulence, and a certain noble immensity;
      but its origin was clear and calm, above the region of clouds and storms.
      If you saw it; if you took up and admitted his proposition, his starting
      idea, then all else moved on; but once set agoing, once on his way, there
      was no pausing to inquire, why or how&mdash;-fervet&mdash;ruit&mdash;;
      fertur, he boils&mdash;he rushes&mdash;he is borne along; and so are all
      who hear him.
    </p>
    <p>
      To go on with our figure&mdash;There was no possibility of sailing up his
      stream. You must go with him, or you must go ashore. This was a great
      peculiarity with him, and puzzled many people. You could argue with him,
      and get him to entertain your ideas on any purely abstract or simple
      proposition,&mdash;at least for a time; but once let him get down among
      practicals, among applications of principles, into the regions of the
      affections and active powers, and such was the fervour and impetuosity of
      his nature, that he could not stay leisurely to discuss, he could not then
      entertain the opposite; it was hurried off, and made light of, and
      disregarded, like a floating thing before a cataract.
    </p>
    <p>
      To play a little more with our conceit&mdash;The greatest man is he who is
      both born and made&mdash;who is at once poetical and scientific&mdash;who
      has genius and talent&mdash;each supporting the other. So with rivers.
      Your mighty world's river rises in high and lonely places, among the
      everlasting hills; amidst clouds, or inaccessible clearness. On he moves,
      gathering to himself all waters; refreshing, cheering all lands. Here a
      cataract, there a rapid; now lingering in some corner of beauty, as if
      loath to go. Now shallow and wide, rippling and laughing in his glee; now
      deep, silent, and slow; now narrow and rapid and deep, and not to be
      meddled with. Now in the open country; not so clear, for other waters have
      come in upon him, and he is becoming useful, no longer turbulent,&mdash;travelling
      more contentedly; now he is navigable, craft of all kinds coming and going
      upon his surface for ever; and then, as if by some gentle and great
      necessity, "deep and smooth, passing with a still foot and a sober face,"
      he pays his last tribute to "the Fiscus, the great Exchequer, the sea"&mdash;running
      out fresh, by reason of his power and volume, into the main for many a
      league.
    </p>
    <p>
      Your mere genius, who has instincts, and is poetical and not scientific,
      who grows from within&mdash;he is like our mountain river, clear, wilful,
      odd; running round corners; disappearing it may be underground, coming up
      again quite unexpectedly and strong, as if fed from some unseen spring,
      deep down in darkness; rising in flood without warning, and coming down
      like a lion; often all but dry; never to be trusted to for driving mills;
      must at least be tamed and led off to the mill; and going down full pace,
      and without stop or stay, into the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      Your man of talent, of acquirements, of science&mdash;who is made,&mdash;who
      is not so much educed as edified; who, instead of acquiring his <i>vires
      eundo</i>, gets his <i>vires eundi</i>, from acquirement, and grows from
      without; who serves his brethren and is useful; he rises often no one
      knows where or cares; has perhaps no proper fountain at all, but is the
      result of the gathered rain-water in the nigher flats; he is never quite
      clear, never brisk, never dangerous; always from the first useful, and
      goes pleasantly in harness; turns mills; washes rags&mdash;makes them into
      paper; carries down all manner of dye-stuffs and feculence; and turns a
      bread-mill to as good purpose as any clearer stream; is docile, and has,
      as he reaches the sea, in his dealings with the world, a river trust, who
      look after his and their own interests, and dredge him, and deepen him,
      and manage him, and turn him off into docks, and he is in the sea before
      he or you know it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though we do not reckon the imagination of Dr. Chalmers among his master
      faculties, it was powerful, effective, magnificent. It did not move him,
      he took it up as he went along; it was not that imperial, penetrating,
      transmuting function that we find it in Dante, in Jeremy Taylor, in
      Milton, or in Burke; he used it to emblazon his great central truths, to
      hang clouds of glory on the skirts of his illustration; but it was too
      passionate, too material, too encumbered with images, too involved in the
      general <i>mêlée</i> of the soul, to do its work as a master. It was not
      in him, as Thomas Fuller calls it, "that inward sense of the soul, its
      most boundless and restless faculty; for while the understanding and the
      will are kept, as it were, liberâ custodiâ to their objects of venm et
      bonum, it is free from all engagements&mdash;digs without spade, flies
      without wings, builds without charges, in a moment striding from the
      centre to the circumference of the world by a kind of omnipotency,
      creating and annihilating things in an instant&mdash;restless, ever
      working, never wearied." We may say, indeed, that men of his temperament
      are not generally endowed with this power in largest measure; in one sense
      they can do without it, in another they want the conditions on which its
      highest exercise depends. Plato and Milton, Shakspere and Dante and
      Wordsworth, had imaginations tranquil, sedate, cool, originative,
      penetrative, intense, which dwelt in the "highest heaven of invention."
      Hence it was that Chalmers could personify or paint a passion; he could
      give it in one of its actions; he could not, or rather he never did
      impassionate, create, and vivify a person&mdash;a very different thing
      from personifying a passion&mdash;all the difference, as Henry Taylor
      says, between Byron and Shakspere.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his impetuosity, we find the rationale of much that is peculiar in the
      style of Dr. Chalmers. As a spoken style it was thoroughly effective. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * We have not noticed his iterativeness, his
     reiterativeness, because it flowed naturally from his
     primary qualities. In speaking it was effective, and to us
     pleasing, because there was some new modulation, some
     addition in the manner, just as the sea never sets up one
     wave exactly like the last or the next. But in his books it
     did somewhere encumber his thoughts, and the reader's
     progress and profit. It did not arise, as in many lesser
     men, from his having said his say&mdash;from his having no more
     in him; much less did it arise from conceit, either of his
     idea or of his way of stating it; but from the intensity
     with which the sensation of the idea-if we may use the
     expression&mdash;made its first mark on his mind. Truth to him
     never seemed to lose its first freshness, its edge, its
     flavour; and Divine truth, we know, had come to him so
     suddenly, so fully, at mid-day, when he was in the very
     prime of his knowledge and his power and quickness&mdash;had so
     possessed his entire nature, as if, like him who was
     journeying to Damascus, a Great Light had shone round about
     him&mdash;that whenever he reproduced that condition, he began
     afresh, and with his whole utterance, to proclaim it. He
     could not but speak the things he had seen and felt, and
     heard and believed; and he did it much in the same way, and
     in the same words, for the thoughts and affections and
     posture of his soul were the same. Like all men of vivid
     perception and keen sensibility, his mind and his body
     continued under impressions, both material and spiritual,
     after the objects were gone. A curious instance of this
     occurs to us. Some years ago, he roamed up and down through
     the woods near Auchindinny, with two boys as companions. It
     was the first bur&amp; of summer, and the trees were mere than
     usually enriched with leaves. He wandered about delighted,
     silent, looking at the leaves, "thick and numberless." As
     the three went on, they came suddenly upon a high brick
     wall, newly built, for peach trees, not yet planted. Dr.
     Chalmers halted, and looking steadfastly at the wall,
     exclaimed most earnestly, "What foliage! what foliage!" The
     boys looked at one another, and said nothing, but on getting
     home, expressed their astonishment at this very puzzling
     phenomenon. What a difference! leaves and parallelograms; a
     forest and a brick wall!
</pre>
    <p>
      He seized the nearest weapons, and smote down whatever he hit. But from
      this very vehemence, this haste, there was in his general style a want of
      correctness, of selectness, of nicety, of that curious felicity which
      makes thought immortal, and enshrines it in imperishable crystal. In the
      language of the affections he was singularly happy; but in a formal
      statement, rapid argumentation and analysis, he was often as we might
      think, uncouth, imperfect, and incorrect: chiefly owing to his
      temperament, to his fiery, impatient, swelling spirit, this gave his
      orations their fine audacity&mdash;this brought out hot from the furnace,
      his new words&mdash;this made his numbers run wild&mdash;lege solutis. We
      are sure this view will be found confirmed by these "Daily Readings," when
      he wrote little, and had not time to get heated, and when the nature of
      the work, the hour at which it was done, and his solitariness, made his
      thoughts flow at their "own sweet will," they are often quite as classical
      in expression, as they are deep and lucid in thought&mdash;reflecting
      heaven with its clouds and stars, and letting us see deep down into its
      own secret depths: this is to us one great charm of these volumes. Here he
      is broad and calm; in his great public performances by mouth and pen, he
      soon passed from the lucid into the luminous.
    </p>
    <p>
      What, for instance, can be finer in expression than this? "It is well to
      be conversant with great elements&mdash;life and death, reason and
      madness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God forgets not his own purposes, though he executes them in his own way,
      and maintains his own pace, which he hastens not and shortens not to meet
      our impatience."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I find it easier to apprehend the greatness of the Deity than any of his
      moral perfections, or his sacredness;" and this&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "One cannot but feel an interest in Ishmael&mdash;figuring him to be a
      noble of nature&mdash;one of those heroes of the wilderness who lived on
      the produce of his bow, and whose spirit was nursed and exercised among
      the wild adventures of the life that he led. And it does soften our
      conception of him whose hand was against every man, and every man's hand
      against him, when we read of his mother's influence over him, in the
      deference of Ishmael to whom we read another example of the respect
      yielded to females even in that so-called barbarous period of the world.
      There was a civilisation, the immediate effect of religion in these days,
      from which men fell away as the world grew older."
    </p>
    <p>
      That he had a keen relish for material and moral beauty and grandeur we
      all know; what follows shows that he had also the true ear for beautiful
      words, as at once pleasant to the ear and suggestive of some higher
      feelings: "I have often felt, in reading Milton and Thomson, a strong
      poetical effect in the bare enumeration of different countries, and this
      strongly enhanced by the statement of some common and prevailing emotion,
      which passed from one to another." This is set forth with great beauty and
      power in verses 14th and 15th of Exodus xv.,&mdash;"The people shall hear
      and be afraid&mdash;sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of
      Palestina. Then the dukes of Edom shall be amazed&mdash;the mighty men of
      Moab, trembling shall take hold of them&mdash;the inhabitants of Canaan
      shall melt away." Any one who has a tolerable ear and any sensibility,
      must remember the sensation of delight in the mere sound&mdash;like the
      colours of a butterfly's wing, or the shapeless glories of evening clouds,
      to the eye&mdash;in reading aloud such passages as these: "Heshbon shall
      cry and Elealeh: their voice shall be heard to Jahaz: for by the way of
      Luhith with weeping shall they go it up; for in the way of Horonaim they
      shall raise a cry.&mdash;God came from Teman, the Holy One from Mount
      Paran.&mdash;Is not Calno as Carchemish? is not Hamath as Arpad? is not
      Samaria as Damascus?&mdash;He is come to Aiath, he is passed to Migron; at
      Michmash he hath laid up his carriages: Ramah is afraid; Gibeah of Saul is
      fled. Lift up thy voice, O daughter of Gallim: cause it to be heard unto
      Laish, O poor Anathoth! Mad-menah is removed; the inhabitants of Gebim
      gather themselves to flee.&mdash;The fields of Heshbon languish, the vine
      of Sibmah; I will water thee with my tears, O Heshbon and Elealeh." Any
      one may prove to himself that much of the effect and beauty of these
      passages depends on these names; put others in their room, and try them.
    </p>
    <p>
      We remember well our first hearing Dr. Chalmers. We were in a moorland
      district in Tweeddale, rejoicing in the country, after nine months of the
      High School. We heard that the famous preacher was to be at a neighbouring
      parish church, and off we set, a cartful of irrepressible youngsters.
      "Calm was all nature as a resting wheel." The crows, instead of making
      wing, were impudent and sat still; the cart-horses were standing, knowing
      the day, at the fieklgates, gossiping and gazing, idle and happy; the moor
      was stretching away in the pale sunlight&mdash;vast, dim, melancholy, like
      a sea; everywhere were to be seen the gathering people, "sprinklings of
      blithe company the country-side seemed moving to one centre. As we entered
      the kirk we saw a notorious character, a drover, who had much of the
      brutal look of what he worked in, with the knowing eve of a man of the
      city, a sort of big Peter Bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "He had a hardness in his eye,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      He had a hardness in his cheek."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He was our terror, and we not only wondered, but were afraid when we saw
      him going in. The kirk was full as it could hold. How different in looks
      to a brisk town congregation! There was a fine leisureliness and vague
      stare; all the dignity and vacancy of animals; eyebrows raised and mouths
      open, as is the habit with those who speak little and look much, and at
      far-off objects. The minister comes in, homely in his dress and gait, but
      having a great look about him, like a mountain among hills. The High
      School boys thought him like a "big one of ourselves," he looks vaguely
      round upon his audience, as if he saw in it one great object, not many. We
      shall never forget his smile! its general benignity;&mdash;how he let the
      light of his countenance fall on us! He read a few verses quietly; then
      prayed briefly, solemnly, with his eyes wide open all the time, but not
      seeing. Then he gave out his text; we forget it, but its subject was,
      "Death reigns." He stated slowly, calmly, the simple meaning of the words;
      what death was, and how and why it reigned; then suddenly he started, and
      looked like a man who had seen some great sight, and was breathless to
      declare it; he told us how death reigned&mdash;everywhere, at all times,
      in all places, how we all knew it, how we would yet know more of it. The
      drover, who had sat down in the table-seat opposite, was gazing up in a
      state of stupid excitement; he seemed restless, but never kept his eye
      from the speaker. The tide set in&mdash;everything added to its power,
      deep called to deep, imagery and illustration poured in; and every now and
      then the theme,&mdash;the simple, terrible statement, was repeated in some
      lucid interval. After overwhelming us with proofs of the reign of Death,
      and transferring to us his intense urgency and emotion; and after
      shrieking, as if in despair, these words, "Death is a tremendous
      necessity,"&mdash;he suddenly looked beyond us as if into some distant
      region, and cried out, "Behold a mightier!&mdash;who is this? He cometh
      from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah, glorious in his apparel,
      speaking in righteousness, travelling in the greatness of his strength,
      mighty to save." Then, in a few plain sentences, he stated the truth as to
      sin entering, and death by sin, and death passing upon all. Then he took
      fire once more, and enforced, with redoubled energy and richness, the
      freeness, the simplicity, the security, the sufficiency of the great
      method of justification. How astonished and impressed we all were! He was
      at the full thunder of his power; the whole man was in an agony of
      earnestness. The drover was weeping like a child, the tears running down
      his ruddy, coarse cheeks&mdash;his face opened out and smoothed like an
      infant's; his whole body stirred with emotion. We all had insensibly been
      drawn out of our seats, and were converging towards the wonderful speaker.
      And when he sat down, after warning each one of us to remember who it was,
      and what it was, that followed death on his pale horse, * and how alone we
      could escape&mdash;we all sunk back into our seats. How beautiful to our
      eyes did the thunderer look&mdash;exhausted&mdash;but sweet and pure! How
      he poured out his soul before his God in giving thanks for sending the
      Abolisher of Death! Then a short psalm, and all was ended.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * "And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that
     sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."&mdash;Rev. vi,
     8,
</pre>
    <p>
      We went home quieter than we came; we did not recount the foals with their
      long legs, and roguish eyes, and their sedate mothers; we did not
      speculate whose dog that was, and whether that was a crow or a man in the
      dim moor,&mdash;we thought of other things. That voice, that face; those
      great, simple, living thoughts; those floods of resistless eloquence; that
      piercing, shattering voice,&mdash;that "tremendous necessity."
    </p>
    <p>
      Were we desirous of giving to one who had never seen or heard Dr. Chalmers
      an idea of what manner of man he was&mdash;what he was as a whole, in the
      full round of his notions, tastes, affections, and powers, we would put
      this book into their hands, and ask them to read it slowly, bit by bit, as
      he wrote it. In it he puts down simply, and at once, what passes through
      his mind as he reads; there is no making of himself feel and think&mdash;no
      getting into a frame of mind; he was not given to frames of mind; he
      preferred states to forms&mdash;substances to circumstances. There is
      something of everything in it&mdash;his relish for abstract thought&mdash;his
      love of taking soundings in deep places and finding no bottom&mdash;his
      knack of starting subtle questions, which he did not care to run to earth&mdash;his
      penetrating, regulating godliness&mdash;his delight in nature&mdash;his
      turn for politics, general, economical, and ecclesiastical&mdash;his
      picturesque eye&mdash;his humanity&mdash;his courtesy&mdash;his
      warm-heartedness&mdash;his impetuosity&mdash;his sympathy&mdash;with all
      the wants, pleasures, and sorrows of his kind&mdash;his delight in the law
      of God, and his simple, devout, manly treatment of it&mdash;his
      acknowledgment of difficulties&mdash;his turn for the sciences of quantity
      and number, and indeed for natural science and art generally&mdash;his
      shrewdness&mdash;his worldly wisdom&mdash;his genius; all these come out&mdash;you
      gather them like fruit, here a little, and there a little. He goes over
      the Bible, not as a philosopher, or a theologian, or a historian, or a
      geologist, or a jurist, or a naturalist, or a statist, or a politician&mdash;picking
      out all that he wants, and a great deal more than he has any business
      with, and leaving everything else as barren to his reader as it has been
      to himself; but he looks abroad upon his Father's word&mdash;as he used so
      pleasantly to do on his world&mdash;as a man, and as a Christian; he
      submits himself to its influences, and lets his mind go out fully and
      naturally in its utterances. It is this which gives to this work all the
      charm of multitude in unity, of variety in harmony; and that sort of
      unexpectedness and ease of movement which we see everywhere in nature and
      in natural men.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our readers will find in these delightful Bible Readings not a museum of
      antiquities, and curiosities, and laborious trifles; nor of scientific
      specimens, analysed to the last degree, all standing in order, labelled
      and useless. They will not find in it an armoury of weapons for fighting
      with and destroying their neighbours. They will get less of the physic of
      controversy than of the diet of holy living. They will find much of what
      Lord Bacon desired, when he said, "We want short, sound, and judicious
      notes upon Scripture, without running into commonplaces, pursuing
      controversies, or reducing those notes to artificial method, but leaving
      them quite loose and native. For certainly, as those wines which flow from
      the first treading of the grape are sweeter and better than those forced
      out by the press, which gives them the roughness of the husk and the
      stone, so are those doctrines best and sweetest which flow from a gentle
      crush of the Scriptures, and are not rung into controversies and
      commonplaces." They will find it as a large pleasant garden; no great
      system; not trim, but beautiful, and in which there are things pleasant to
      the eye as well as good for food&mdash;flowers and fruits, and a few good
      esculent, wholesome roots. There are Honesty, Thrift, Eye-bright (Euphrasy
      that cleanses the sight) Heart's-ease. The good seed in abundance, and the
      strange mystical Passion-flower; and in the midst, and seen everywhere, if
      we but look for it, the Tree of Life, with its twelve manner of fruits&mdash;the
      very leaves of which are for the healing of the nations. And perchance,
      when they take their walk through it at evening-time, or at "the sweet
      hour of prime," they may see a happy, wise, beaming old man at his work
      there&mdash;they may hear his well-known voice; and if they have their
      spiritual senses exercised as they ought, they will not fail to see by his
      side "one like unto the Son of Man."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DR. GEORGE WILSON.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>mong the many
      students at our University who some two-and-twenty years ago started on
      the great race, in the full flush of youth and health, and with that
      strong hunger for knowledge which only the young, or those who keep
      themselves so, ever know, there were three lads&mdash;Edward Forbes,
      Samuel Brown, and George Wilson&mdash;who soon moved on to the front and
      took the lead. They are now all three in their graves.
    </p>
    <p>
      No three minds could well have been more diverse in constitution or bias;
      each was typical of a generic difference from the others. What they
      cordially agreed in, was their hunting in the same field and for the same
      game. The truth about this visible world, and all that it contains, was
      their quarry. This one thing they set themselves to do, but each had his
      own special gift, and took his own road&mdash;each had his own special
      choice of instruments and means. Any one man combining their essential
      powers, would have been the epitome of a natural philosopher, in the wide
      sense of the man who would master the philosophy of nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edward Forbes, who bulks largest at present, and deservedly, for largeness
      was of his essence, was the observer proper. He saw everything under the
      broad and searching light of day, white and uncoloured, and with an
      unimpassioned eye. What he was after were the real appearances of things;
      phenomena as such; all that seems to be. His was the search after what is,
      over the great field of the world. He was in the best sense a natural
      historian, an observer and recorder of what is seen and of what goes on,
      and not less of what has been seen and what has gone on, in this wonderful
      historic earth of ours, with all its fulness. He was keen, exact,
      capacious,&mdash;tranquil and steady in his gaze as nature herself. He
      was, thus far, kindred to Aristotle, to Pliny, Linnaeus, Cuvier, and
      Humboldt, though the great German, and the greater Stagirite, had higher
      and deeper spiritual insights than Edward Forbes ever gave signs of. It is
      worth remembering that Dr. George Wilson was up to his death engaged in
      preparing his Memoir and Remains for the press. Who will now take up the
      tale?
    </p>
    <p>
      Samuel Brown was, so to speak, at the opposite pole&mdash;rapid,
      impatient, fearless, full of passion and imaginative power&mdash;desiring
      to divine the essences rather than the appearances of things&mdash;in
      search of the what chiefly in order to question it, make it give up at
      whatever cost the secret of its why; his fiery, projective, subtle spirit,
      could not linger in the outer fields of mere observation, though he had a
      quite rare faculty for seeing as well as for looking, which latter act,
      however, he greatly preferred; but he pushed into the heart and inner life
      of every question, eager to evoke from it the very secret of itself.
      Forbes, as we have said, wandered at will, and with a settled purpose and
      a fine hunting scent, at his leisure, and free and almost indifferent,
      over the ample fields&mdash;happy and joyous and full of work&mdash;unencumbered
      with theory 01* with wings, for he cared not to fly. Samuel Brown, whose
      wings were perhaps sometimes too much for him, more ambitious, more of a
      solitary turn, was for ever climbing the Mount Sinais and Pisgahs of
      science, to speak of Him whose haunt they were,&mdash;climbing there all
      alone and in the dark, and with much peril, if haply he might descry the
      break of day and the promised land; or, to vary the figure, diving into
      deep and not undangerous wells, that he might the better see the stars at
      noon, and possibly find Her who is said to lurk there. He had more of
      Plato, though he wanted the symmetry and persistent grandeur of the son of
      Ariston. He was perhaps liker his own favourite Kepler; such a man in a
      word as we have not seen since Sir Humphry Davy, whom in many things he
      curiously resembled, and not the least in this that the prose of each was
      more poetical than the verse.
    </p>
    <p>
      His fate has been a mournful and a strange one, but he knew it, and
      encountered it with a full knowledge of what it entailed. He perilled
      everything on his theory; and if this hypothesis&mdash;it may be somewhat
      prematurely uttered to the world, and the full working out of which, by
      rigid scientific realization, was denied him by years of intense and
      incapacitating suffering, ending only in death, but the "relevancy" of
      which, to use the happy expression of Dr. Chalmers, we hold him to have
      proved, and in giving a glimpse of which, he showed, we firmly believe,
      what has been called that "instinctive grasp which the healthy imagination
      takes of possible truth,"&mdash;if his theory of the unity of matter, and
      the consequent transmutability of the now called elementary bodies, were
      substantiated in the lower but essential platform of actual experiment,
      this, along with his original doctrine of atoms and their forces, would
      change the entire face of chemistry, and make a Cosmos where now there is
      endless agglomeration and confusion,&mdash;would, in a word, do for the
      science of the molecular constitution of matter and its laws of action and
      reaction at insensible distances, what Newton's doctrine of gravitation
      has done for the celestial dynamics. For, let it be remembered, that the
      highest speculation and proof in this department&mdash;by such men as
      Dumas, Faraday, and William Thomson, and others&mdash;points in this
      direction; it does no more as yet perhaps than point, but some of us may
      live to see "<i>resurgam</i>" inscribed over Samuel Brown's untimely
      grave, and applied with gratitude and honour to him whose eyes closed in
      darkness on the one great object of his life, and the hopes of whose
      "unaccomplished years" lie buried with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Very different from either, though worthy of and capable of relishing much
      that was greatest and best in both, was he whom we all loved and mourn,
      and who, this day week,* was carried by such a multitude of mourners to
      that grave, which to his eye had been open and ready for years.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Monday, 28th November 1859.
</pre>
    <p>
      George Wilson was born in Edinburgh in 1818. His father, Mr. Archibald
      Wilson, was a wine merchant, and died sixteen years ago; his mother, Janet
      Aitken, still lives to mourn and to remember him, and she will agree with
      us that it is sweeter to remember him than to have converse with the rest.
      Any one who has had the privilege to know him, and to enjoy his bright and
      rich and beautiful mind, will not need to go far to learn where it was
      that her son George got all of that genius and worth and delightfulness
      which is transmissible. She verifies what is so often and so truly said of
      the mothers of remarkable men. She was his first and best <i>Alma Mater</i>,
      and in many senses his last, for her influence over him continued through
      life. George had a twin brother, who died in early life; and we cannot
      help referring to his being one of twins, something of that wonderful
      faculty of attracting and being personally loved by those about him, which
      was one of his strongest as it was one of his most winning powers. He was
      always fond of books, and of fun, the play of the mind. He left the High
      School at fifteen and took to medicine; but he soon singled out chemistry,
      and, under the late Kenneth Kemp, and our own distinguished Professor of
      <i>Materia Medica</i>, himself a first-class chemist, he acquired such
      knowledge as to become assistant in the laboratory of Dr. Thomas Graham,
      then Professor of Chemistry in University College, and now Master of the
      Mint. So he came out of a thorough and good school, and had the best of
      masters.
    </p>
    <p>
      He then took the degree of M.D., and became a Lecturer on Chemistry, in
      what is now called the extra-academical school of medicine, but which in
      our day was satisfied with the title of private lecturers. He became at
      once a great favourite, and, had his health and strength enabled him, he
      would have been long a most successful and popular teacher; but general
      feeble health, and a disease in the ankle-joint requiring partial
      amputation of the foot, and recurrent attacks of a serious kind in his
      lungs, made his life of public teaching one long and sad trial. How nobly,
      how sweetly, how cheerily he bore all these long baffling years; how his
      bright, active, ardent, unsparing soul lorded it over his frail but
      willing body, making it do more than seemed possible, and as it were by
      sheer force of will ordering it to live longer than was in it to do, those
      who lived with him and witnessed this triumph of spirit over matter, will
      not soon forget. It was a lesson to every one of what true goodness of
      nature, elevated and cheered by the highest and happiest of all motives,
      can make a man endure, achieve, and enjoy.
    </p>
    <p>
      As is well known, Dr. Wilson was appointed in 1855 to the
      newly-constituted Professorship of Technology, and to the Curatorship of
      the Industrial Museum. The expenditure of thought, of ingenuity, of
      research and management&mdash;the expenditure, in a word, of himself&mdash;involved
      in originating and giving form and purpose to a scheme so new and so
      undefined, and, in our view, so undefinable, must, we fear, have shortened
      his life, and withdrawn his precious and quite singular powers of
      illustrating and adorning, and, in the highest sense, sanctifying and
      blessing science, from this which seemed always to us his proper sphere.
      Indeed, in the opinion of some good judges, the institution of such a
      chair at all, and especially in connexion with a University such as ours,
      and the attaching to it the conduct of a great Museum of the Industrial
      Arts, was somewhat hastily gone into, and might have with advantage waited
      for and obtained a little more consideration and forethought. Be this as
      it may, Dr. Wilson did his duty with his whole heart and soul&mdash;making
      a class, which was always increasing, and which was at its largest at his
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have left ourselves no space to speak of Dr. Wilson as an author, as an
      academic and popular lecturer, as a member of learned societies, as a man
      of exquisite literary powers and fancy, and as a citizen of remarkable
      public acceptation. This must come from some more careful, and fuller, and
      more leisurely record of his genius and worth. What he was as a friend it
      is not for us to say; we only know that when we leave this world we would
      desire no better memorial than to be remembered by many as George Wilson
      now is, and always will be. His <i>Life of Cavendish</i> is admirable as a
      biography, full of life, of picturesque touches, and of realization of the
      man and of his times, and is, moreover, thoroughly scientific, containing,
      among other discussions, by far the best account of the great water
      controversy from the Cavendish point of view. His <i>Life of John Reid</i>
      is a vivid and memorable presentation to the world of the true lineaments,
      manner of life, and inmost thought and heroic sufferings, as well as of
      the noble scientific achievements of that strong, truthful, courageous,
      and altogether admirable man, and true discoverer&mdash;a genuine follower
      of John Hunter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Five Gateways of Knowledge</i> is a prose poem, a hymn of the
      finest utterance and fancy&mdash;the white light of science diffracted
      through the crystalline prism of his mind into the coloured glories of the
      spectrum; truth dressed in the iridescent hues of the rainbow, and not the
      less but all the more true. His other papers in the British Quarterly, the
      North British Review, and his last gem on "Paper, Pens, and Ink," in his
      valued and generous friend Macmillan's first number of his Magazine, are
      all astonishing proofs of the brightness, accuracy, vivacity,
      unweariedness of his mind, and the endless sympathy and affectionate play
      of his affections with the full round of scientific truth. His essay on
      "Colour Blindness" is, we believe, as perfect a monogram as exists, and
      will remain likely untouched and unadded to, factum ad unguem. As may be
      seen from these remarks, we regard him not so much as, like Edward Forbes,
      a great observer and quiet generalizer, or, like Samuel Brown, a
      discoverer and philosopher properly so called&mdash;though, as we have
      said, he had enough of these two men's prime qualities to understand and
      relish and admire them. His great quality lay in making men love
      ascertained and recorded truth, scientific truth especially; he made his
      reader and hearer enjoy facts. He illuminated the Book of Nature as they
      did the missals of old. His nature was so thoroughly composite, so in full
      harmony with itself, that no one faculty could or cared to act without
      calling in all the others to join in full chorus. To take an illustration
      from his own science, his faculties interpenetrated and interfused
      themselves into each other, as the gases do, by a law of their nature.
      Thus it was that everybody understood and liked and was impressed by him;
      he touched them at every point. Knowledge was to him no barren, cold
      essence: it was alive and flushed with the colours of the earth and sky,
      and all over with light and stars. His flowers&mdash;and his mind was full
      of flowers&mdash;were from seeds, and were sown by himself. They were
      neither taken from other gardens and stuck in rootless, as children do,
      much less were they of the nature of gum-flowers, made with hands,
      wretched and dry and scentless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Truth of science was to him a body, full of loveliness, perfection, and
      strength, in which dwelt the unspeakable Eternal. This, which was the
      dominant idea of his mind&mdash;the goodliness, and not less the godliness
      of all science&mdash;made his whole life, his every action, every letter
      he wrote, every lecture he delivered, his last expiring breath, instinct
      with the one constant idea that all truth, all goodness, all science, all
      beauty, all gladness, are but the expression of the mind and will and
      heart of the Great Supreme. And this, in his case, was not mysticism,
      neither was it merely a belief in revealed religion, though no man
      cherished and believed in his Bible more firmly and cordially than he; it
      was the assured belief, on purely scientific grounds, that God is indeed
      and in very truth all in all; that, to use the sublime adaptation by poor
      crazy Smart, the whole creation, visible and invisible, spiritual and
      material, everything that has being, is&mdash;to those who have ears to
      hear&mdash;for ever declaring "Thou Art," before the throne of the Great I
      AM.
    </p>
    <p>
      To George Wilson, to all such men&mdash;and this is the great lesson of
      his life&mdash;the heavens are for ever telling His glory, the firmanent
      is for ever showing forth His handiwork; day unto day, every day, is for
      ever uttering speech, and night unto night is showing knowledge concerning
      Him. When he considered these heavens, as he lay awake, weary, and in
      pain, they were to him the work of His fingers. The moon, walking in
      brightness, and lying in white glory on his bed&mdash;the stars&mdash;were
      by Him ordained. He was a singularly happy, and happy-making man. No one
      since his boyhood could have suffered more from pain, and languor, and the
      misery of an unable body. Yet he was not only cheerful, he was gay, full
      of all sorts of fun&mdash;genuine fun&mdash;and his jokes and queer turns
      of thought and word were often worthy of Cowper or Charles Lamb. We wish
      we had them collected. Being, from his state of health and his knowledge
      in medicine, necessarily "mindful of death," having the possibility of his
      dying any day or any hour, always before him, and that "undiscovered
      country," lying full in his view, he must, taking, as he did, the right
      notion of the nature of things&mdash;have had a peculiar intensity of
      pleasure in the every-day beauties of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The common sun, the air, the skies,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To him were opening Paradise."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They were to him all the more exquisite, all the more altogether lovely,
      these Pentlands and the Braid Hills, and all his accustomed drives and
      places; these rural solitudes and pleasant villages and farms, and the
      countenances of his friends, and the clear, pure, radiant face of science
      and of nature, were to him all the more to be desired and blessed and
      thankful for, that he knew the pallid king at any time might give that not
      unexpected knock, and summon him away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      NOTES ON ART.
    </h2>
    <p>
      "<i>The use of this feigned history" (the Ideal Arts of Poesy, Painting,
      Music, &amp;c.) "hath been to give some shadow of satisfaction to the MIND
      OF MAN IN THESE POINTS WHEREIN THE NATURE OF THINGS DOTH deny IT, the
      world being in proportion inferior to the soul; by reason whereof there
      is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a more ample greatness, a more exact
      goodness, and absolute variety, than can be found in the nature of things.
      So it appeareth that Poesy' (and the others) "serveth and conferreth to
      magnanimity, morality, and to delectation." And therefore it was ever
      thought to have some participation of divineness because it doth raise and
      erect the mind, by submitting the shews of things to the desires of the
      mind; whereas reason" (science,philosophy) "doth buckle and bozy the mind
      to the nature of things."&mdash;Of the Proficience and Advancement of
      Learning. </i>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "To look on noble forms
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Makes noble through the sensuous organism
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That which is higher."&mdash;The Princess.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "The statue" of the Duke Lorenzo by Michael Angelo "is larger than life,
      but not so large as to shock belief. It is the most real and unreal thing
      that ever came from the chisel."&mdash;Note in Rogers's "Italy." These two
      words, "real and unreal," comprehend the philosophy of art; which proposes
      to itself the idealizing of the real, and the realizing of the ideal.
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne evening in the
      spring of 1846, as my wife and I were sitting at tea, <i>Parvula</i> in
      bed, and the Sputchard reposing, as was her wont, with her rugged little
      brown forepaws over the edge of the fender, her eyes shut, toasting, and
      all but roasting herself at the fire,&mdash;a note was brought in, which,
      from its fat, soft look, by a hopeful and not unskilled palpitation I
      diagnosed as that form of lucre which in Scotland may well be called
      filthy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0027" id="linkimage-0027"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0213m.jpg" alt="0213m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0213.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      I gave it across to Madam, who, opening it, discovered four five-pound
      notes, and a letter addressed to me. She gave it me. It was from Hugh
      Miller, editor of the <i>Witness</i> newspaper, asking me to give him a
      notice of the Exhibition of the Scottish Academy then open, in words I now
      forget, but which were those of a thorough gentleman, and enclosing the
      aforesaid fee. I can still remember, or indeed feel the kind of shiver,
      half of fear and pleasure, on encountering this temptation; but I soon
      said, "You know I can't take this; I can't write; I never wrote a word for
      the press." She, with "wifelike government," kept the money, and heartened
      me to write, and write I did, but with awful sufferings and difficulty,
      and much destruction of sleep. I think the only person who suffered still
      more must have been the compositor. Had this packet not come in, and come
      in when it did, and had the Sine Quâ Non not been retentive and
      peremptory, there are many chances to one I might never have plagued any
      printer with my bad hand and my endless corrections, and my general
      incoherency as to proofs, <i>teste Jacobo Grey</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      I tell this small story, partly for my own pleasure, and as a tribute to
      that remarkable man, who stands alongside of Burns and Scott, Chalmers and
      Carlyle, the foremost Scotsmen of their time&mdash;a rough, almost rugged
      nature, shaggy with strength, clad with zeal as with a cloak, in some
      things sensitive and shamefaced as a girl; moody and self-involved, but
      never selfish; full of courage, and of keen insight into nature and men,
      and the principles of both, but simple as a child in the ways of the
      world; self-taught and self-directed, argumentative and scientific, as few
      men of culture have ever been, and yet with more imagination than either
      logic or knowledge; to the last as shy and <i>blate</i> as when working in
      the quarries at Cromarty. In his life a noble example of what our breed
      can produce, of what energy, honesty, intensity, and genius can achieve;
      and in his death a terrible example of that revenge which the body takes
      upon the soul when brought to bay by its inexorable taskmaster. I need say
      no more. His story is more tragic than any tragedy. Would to God it may
      warn those who come after to be wise in time, to take the same&mdash;I ask
      no more&mdash;care of their body, which is their servant, their beast of
      burden, as they would of their horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Few men are endowed with such a brain as Hugh Miller&mdash;huge, active,
      concentrated, keen to fierceness; and therefore few men need fear, even if
      they misuse and overtask theirs as he did, that it will turn, as it did
      with him, and rend its master. But as assuredly as there is a certain
      weight which a bar of iron will bear and no more, so is there a certain
      weight of work which the organ by which we act, by which we think, and
      feel, and will&mdash;cannot sustain, blazing up into brief and ruinous
      madness, or sinking into idiocy. At the time he wrote to me, Mr. Miller
      and I were strangers, and I don't think I ever spoke to him; but his
      manner of doing the above act made me feel, that in that formidable and
      unkempt nature there lay the delicacy, the generosity, the noble
      trustfulness of a gentleman born&mdash;not made. But my chief reason for
      what I have written is to make a sort of excuse for reprinting portions of
      these papers, and of some others which have appeared from time to time in
      the <i>Scotsman</i>. I reprint them mainly, it must be confessed, to fill
      up the volume, having failed to do what I had purposed in the way of new
      matter, from want of leisure; and I suspect also from want of material. I
      therefore must be understood as making much the same sort of apology as a
      housewife makes for a cold dinner,&mdash;a want of time, and, it may be, a
      want of beef.
    </p>
    <p>
      Most men have, and almost every man should have, a hobby: it is exercise
      in a mild way, and does not take him away from home; it diverts him; and
      by having a double line of rails, he can manage to keep the permanent way
      in good condition. A man who has only one object in life, only one line of
      rails, who exercises only one set of faculties, and these only in one way,
      will wear himself out much sooner than a man who shunts himself every now
      and then, and who has trains coming as well as going; who takes in as well
      as gives out.
    </p>
    <p>
      My hobby has always been pictures, and all we call Art. I have fortunately
      never been a practitioner, though I think I could have made a tolerable
      hand; but unless a man is a thoroughly good artist, he injures his
      enjoyment, generally speaking, of the art of others. I am convinced,
      however, that to enjoy art thoroughly, every man must have in him the
      possibility of doing it as well as liking it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He must feel it in his fingers, as well as in his head and at his eyes;
      and it must find its way from all the three to his heart, and be emotive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Much has been said of the power of Art to refine men, to soften their
      manners, and make them less of wild beasts. Some have thought it
      omnipotent for this; others have given it as a sign of the decline and
      fall of the nobler part of us. Neither is and both are true. Art does, as
      our Laureate says, make nobler in us what is higher than the senses
      through which it passes; but it can only make nobler what is already
      noble; it cannot regenerate, neither can it of itself debase and
      emasculate and bedevil mankind; but it is a symptom, and a fatal one, when
      Art ministers to a nation's vice, and glorifies its naughtiness &mdash;as
      in old Rome, as in Oude&mdash;as also too much in places nearer in time
      and place than the one and the other. The truth is, Art, unless quickened
      from above and from within, has in it nothing beyond itself, which is
      visible beauty&mdash;the ministration to the lust, the desire of the eye.
      But apart from direct spiritual worship, and self-dedication to the
      Supreme, I do not know any form of ideal thought and feeling which may be
      made more truly to subserve, not only magnanimity, but the purest devotion
      and godly fear; by fear, meaning that mixture of love and awe, which is
      specific of the realization of our relation to God. I am not so silly as
      to seek painters to paint religious pictures in the usual sense: for the
      most part, I know nothing so profoundly profane and godless as our sacred
      pictures; and I can't say I like our religious beliefs to be symbolized,
      even as Mr. Hunt has so grandly done in his picture of the Light of the
      World. But if a painter is himself religious; if he feels God in what he
      is looking at, and in what he is rendering back on his canvas: if he is
      impressed with the truly divine beauty, infinity, perfection, and meaning
      of unspoiled material nature&mdash;the earth and the fulness thereof, the
      heaven and all its hosts, the strength of the hills, the sea and all that
      is therein; if he is himself impressed with the divine origin and divine
      end of all visible things,&mdash;then will he paint religious pictures and
      impress men religiously, and thus make good men better, and possibly make
      bad men less bad. Take the landscapes of our own Harvey. He is my dear old
      friend of thirty years, and his power as a painter is only less than his
      fidelity and ardour as a friend, and that than his simple, deep-hearted
      piety; I never see one of his transcripts of nature, be they solemn and
      full of gloom, with a look "that threatens the profane or laughing all
      over with sunshine and gladness, but I feel something beyond, something
      greater and more beautiful than their greatness and their beauty&mdash;the
      idea of God, of the beginning and the ending, the first and the last, the
      living One; of whom, and through whom, and to whom are all things; who is
      indeed God over all, blessed for ever; and whom I would desire, in all
      humbleness of mind, to sanctify in my heart, and to make my fear and my
      dread. This is the true moral use of Art, to quicken and deepen and
      enlarge our sense of God. I don't mean so much our belief in certain
      articulate doctrines, though I am old-fashioned enough to think that we
      must know what as well as in whom we believe&mdash;that our religion, like
      everything else, must have its seat in reason, and be judicious I refer
      rather to that temper of the soul, that mood of the mind in which we feel
      the unseen and eternal, and bend under the power of the world to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      In my views as to the office of the State I hold with John Locke and
      Coventry Dick,* that its primary, and probably its only function is to
      protect us from our enemies and from ourselves: that to it is intrusted by
      the people "the regulation of physical force and that is indeed little
      more than a transcendental policeman.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * In the thin octavo, The Office of the State, and in its
     twin volume on Church Polity there will be found in clear,
     strong, and singularly candid language, the first lines of
     the sciences of Church and State politics. It does not say
     much for the sense and perspicuity of the public mind, if
     two such books are allowed to fall aside, and such a farrago
     of energetic nonsense and error as Mr. Buckle's first, and
     we trust last, volume on Civilisation, is read, and admired,
     and bought, with its bad logic, its bad facts, and its bad
     conclusions. In bulk and in value his volume stands in the
     same relation to Mr. Dick's, as a handful, I may say a
     gowpett of chaff does to a grain of wheat, or a bushel of
     sawdust to an ounce of meal.
</pre>
    <p>
      This is its true sphere, and here lies its true honour and glory. When it
      intermeddles with other things,&mdash;from your Religion, Education, and
      Art, down to the number, and size, and metal of your buttons, it goes out
      of its line and fails; and I am convinced that with some benefits,
      specious and partial, our Government interference has, in the main and in
      the long run, done harm to the real interests of Art. Spontaneity, the law
      of free choice, is as much the life of Art as it is of marriage, and it is
      not less beyond the power of the State to choose the nation's pictures
      than to choose its wives. Indeed there is a great deal on the
      physiological side to be said for law interfering in the matter of
      matrimony. I would certainly make it against law, as it plainly is against
      nature, for cousins-german to marry; and if we could pair ourselves as we
      pair our live stock, and give ear to the teaching of an enlightened
      zoonomy, we might soon drive many of our feîlest diseases out of our
      breed; but the law of personality, of ultroneousness, of free will, that
      which in a great measure makes us what we are, steps in and forbids
      anything but the convincement and force of reason. Much in the same way,
      though it be a more trivial matter, pleasure, in order to please, must be
      that which you yourself choose. You cannot make an Esquimaux forswear
      train oil, and take to tea and toast like ourselves, still less to boiled
      rice like a Hindoo; neither can you all at once make a Gilmerton carter
      prefer Raphael and claret to a glass of raw whisky and the Terrific
      Register. Leviathan is not so tamed or taught. And our Chadwicks and Kay.e
      Shuttleworths and Coles&mdash;kings though they may be&mdash;enlightened,
      energetic, earnest, and as full of will as an egg is full of meat, cannot
      in a generation make the people of England as intelligent as themselves,
      or as fond and appreciative of the best Art as Mr. Ruskin. Hence all their
      plans are failing and must fail; and I cannot help thinking that in the
      case of Art the continuance of the Cole dynasty is not to be prayed for
      very much. As far as I can judge, it has done infinitely more harm than
      good. These men think they are doing a great work, and, worse still, the
      country thinks so too, and helps them, whereas I believe they are
      retarding the only wholesome, though slow growth of knowledge and taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      Take the Kensington Museum: the only thing there (I speak in all
      seriousness) worth any man spending an hour or a shilling upon, are the
      Sheepshank and Turner galleries; all those costly, tawdry, prodigious, and
      petty displays of arts and manufactures, I look upon as mere delusions and
      child's play. Take any one of them, say the series illustrating the cotton
      fabrics: you see the whole course of cotton from its Alpha to its Omega,
      in the neatest and prettiest way. What does that teach? what impression
      does that make upon any young mind? Little beyond mere vapid wonder. The
      eye is opened, but not tilled; it is a stare, not a look.
    </p>
    <p>
      If you want to move, and permanently rivet, a young mind with what is
      worth the knowing, with what is to deepen his sense of the powers of the
      human mind, and the resources of nature, and the grandeur of his country,
      take him to a cotton-mill. Let him hear and come under the power of that
      wonderful sound pervading the whole vast house, and filling the air with
      that diapason of regulated, harmonious energy. Let him enter it, and go
      round with a skilled workman, and then follow the Alpha through all its
      marvellous transformations to the Omega; do this, and you bring him out
      into the fresh air not only more knowing, but more wise. He has got a
      lesson. He has been impressed. The same with calico-printing, and pottery,
      and iron-founding, and, indeed, the whole round of that industry, which is
      our glory. Do you think a boy will get half the good from the fine series
      of ores and specimens of pig-iron, and all the steels he may see in
      cold-blood, and with his grandmother or his sweetheart beside him at
      Kensington, that he will from going into Dixon's foundry at Govan, and
      seeing the half-naked men toiling in that place of flame and energy and
      din&mdash;watching the mighty shears and the Nasmyth-hammers, and the
      molten iron kneaded like dough, and planed and shaved like wood: he gets
      the dead and dissected body in the one case; he sees and feels the living
      spirit and body working as one, in the other. And upon all this child's
      play, this mere make-believe, our good-natured nation is proud of spending
      some half-million of money. Then there is that impertinent, useless, and
      unjust system of establishing Government Schools of Design in so many of
      our towns, avowedly, and, I believe (though it is amazing that clever men
      should do such a foolish thing) honestly, for the good of the working
      classes, but actually and lamentably, and in every way harmfully, for the
      amusement and benefit of the wealthy classes, and to the ruin of the
      hardworking and legitimate local teachers.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have not time or space, but if I had I could prove this, and show the
      curiously deep injuries this system is inflicting on true Art, and upon
      the freedom of industry.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the same line, and to the same effect, are our Art-Unions and
      Associations for "the encouragement" of Art; some less bad than others,
      but all bad, because founded upon a wrong principle, and working to a
      wrong end. No man can choose a picture for another, any more than a wife
      or a waistcoat. It is part of our essential nature to choose these things
      for ourselves, and paradoxical as it may seem, the wife and the waistcoat
      and the work of Art our departmental wiseacres may least approve of, if
      chosen <i>suâ sponte</i> by Giles or Roger, will not only give them more
      delectation, but do them more good, than one chosen by somebody else for
      him upon the finest of all possible principles. Besides this radical vice,
      these Art-Unions have the effect of encouraging, and actually bringing
      into professional existence, men who had much better be left to die out,
      or never be born; and it, as I well know, discourages, depreciates, and
      dishonours the best men, besides keeping the public, which is the only
      true and worthy patron, from doing its duty, and getting its due. Just
      take our Edinburgh Association, in many respects one of the best, having
      admirable and devoted men as its managers,&mdash;what is the chance that
      any of the thousand members, when he draws a prize, gets a picture he
      cares one straw for, or which will do his nature one particle of good? Why
      should we be treated in this matter as we are treated in no way else? Who
      thinks of telling us, or founding a Royal Association with all its
      officers, to tell us what novels or what poetry to read, or what music to
      listen to? Think of a Union for the encouragement of Poetry, where Mr.
      Tennyson would be obliged to put in his <i>In Memoriam</i>, or his <i>Idylls
      of the King</i>, along with the Lyrics and the Sonnets of we don't way
      who, into a common lottery, and be drawn for at an annual speechifying!
      All such associations go to encourage quantity rather than quality. Now,
      in the ideal and pleasurable arts quality is nearly everything. One Turner
      not only transcends ten thousand Claudes and Vanderveldes; he is in
      another sphere. You could not thus sum up his worth.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most flagrant infractions of the primary laws of political
      economy, and one of the most curious illustrations of the fashionable
      fallacies as to Government encouragement to Art, is to be found in the
      revelations in the Report of the Select Committee on the South Kensington
      Museum. Mr. Lowe, and the majority of the Committee, gave it as their
      opinion, that Government should deal in photographs, and <i>undersell</i>
      them (thereby ruining the regular trade), and all for the encouragement of
      Art, and the enlightenment of the public! Can there be anything more
      absurd than this, and at this time of day? and not only absurd and
      expensive, but mischievous. All this, you see, would be avoided, and
      society left to provide its own Art, as it provides its own beef and
      trowsers for itself; if men would hold with John Locke and Coventry Dick,
      and <i>Egomet</i>, that Government, the State, has simply nothing to do
      with these things, that hey are <i>ultra vires</i> not less than religion,
      and, I am bold to add, education.
    </p>
    <p>
      One other drawback to Art taking its place alongside its sisters&mdash;Poetry
      and Music&mdash;is the annual Exhibitions. Nothing more thoroughly
      barbarous and childish could be devised than this concentrating the mental
      activity of the nation in regard to the Art of the year upon one month.
      Fancy our being obliged to read all our novels, and all our poetry, and
      hear all our music in a segment of our year! Then there is the mixing up
      of all sorts of pictures&mdash;sacred and profane, gay and sombre, etc.&mdash;all
      huddled together, and the eye flitting from one to the other. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * In our excellent National Gallery (Edinburgh), a copy of
     Titian's Ariadne in Naxos is hung immediately above Wilkie's
     sacred sketch of John Knox administering the Sacrament in
     Calder House!
</pre>
    <p>
      Hence the temptation to paint down to the gaudiest pictures, instead of up
      or into the pure intensity of nature. Why should there not be some large
      public hall to which artists may send their pictures at any time when they
      are perfected? but, better still, let purchasers frequent the studios, as
      they did of old, full of love and knowledge. Why will we insist in
      pressing our Art and our taste, as we did long ago our religion and our
      God, upon our neighbours? Why not trust to time, and to cultivating our
      own tastes earnestly, thoroughly, humbly, and for ourselves, filling our
      houses with the best of everything, and making all welcome to see them,
      and believing that the grandchildren of those who come to see our Turners
      and Wilkies and Hogarths will be wiser and more refined than we? It is
      most lamentable to witness the loss of money, of energy, and in a measure
      of skill, and, above all, of time, on those engravings, which no one but a
      lodging-keeper frames, and those Parian statuettes and Etruscan pitchers
      and tazzas of all sorts, which no one thinks half so much of, or gets half
      so much real pleasure and good from, as from one of John Leech's woodcuts.
      One true way to encourage Art is to buy and enjoy Punch. There is more
      fun, more good drawing, more good sense, more beauty in John Leech's Punch
      pictures, than in all the Art-Union illustrations, engraving, statuettes,
      etc. etc., put together. Could that mighty Potentate have been got up,
      think you, by a committee of gentlemen, and those drawings educed by
      proffered prizes? No; they came out, and have flourished according to a
      law as natural and as effective as the law of seed-time and harvest; and
      Art, as a power to do good, will never reach its full perfection till it
      is allowed to walk at liberty, and follow the course of all other
      productions, that of supply and demand, individual demand and voluntary
      supply. It is not easy to tell how far back these well-meaning, zealous,
      deluded men who have managed these "encouragements," have put the progress
      of the nation in its power of knowing and feeling true Art.
    </p>
    <p>
      One other heresy I must vent, and that is to protest against the doctrine
      that scientific knowledge is of much direct avail to the artist; it may
      enlarge his mind as a man, and sharpen and strengthen his nature, but the
      knowledge of anatomy is, I believe, more a snare than anything else to an
      artist as such. Art is the <i>tertium quid</i> resulting from observation
      and imagination, with skill and love and downrightness as their executors;
      anything that interferes with the action of any of these, is killing to
      the soul of Art. Now, painting has to do simply and absolutely with the
      surfaces, with the appearances of things; it knows and cares nothing for
      what is beneath and beyond, though if it does its own part aright it
      indicates them. Phidias and the early Greeks, there is no reason to
      believe, ever dissected even a monkey, much less a man, and yet where is
      there such skin, and muscle, and substance, and breath of life? When Art
      became scientific, as among the Romans, and lost its heart in filling its
      head, see what became of it: anatomy offensively thrust in your face, and
      often bad anatomy; men skinned and galvanized, not men alive and in
      action. In the same way in landscape, do you think Turner would have
      painted the strata in an old quarry, or done Ben Cruachan more to the
      quick, had he known all about geology, gneiss, and greywacke, and the
      Silurian system? Turner might have been what is called a better-informed
      man, but we question if he would have been so good, not to say a better
      representer of the wonderful works of God, which were painted on his
      retina, and in his inner chamber&mdash;the true <i>Camera lucida</i>, the
      chamber of imagery leading from the other,&mdash;and felt to his
      finger-tips. No; science and poetry are to a nicety diametrically opposed,
      and he must be a Shakspere and a Newton, a Turner and a Faraday all in
      one, who can consort much with both without injury to each. It is not what
      a man has learned from others, not even what he thinks, but what he sees
      and feels, which makes him a painter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moral from all this is, love Art, and if you choose, practise Art.
      Purchase Art for itself alone, and in the main for yourself alone. If you
      so do, you will encourage Art to more purpose than if you spent thousands
      a year in Art-Unions, and in presenting the public with what pleased you;
      just as a man does most good by being good. Goldsmith puts it in his
      inimitable way&mdash;"I was ever of opinion that the honest man, who
      married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who
      continued single, and only talked of population."
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said those things strongly, abruptly, and perhaps rudely; but my
      heart is in the matter. Art is part of my daily food, like the laughter of
      children, and the common air, the earth, the sky; it is an affection, not
      a passion to come and go like the gusty wind, nor a principle cold and
      dead; it penetrates my entire life, it is one of the surest and deepest
      pleasures, one of the refuges from "the nature of things," as Bacon would
      say, into that enchanted region, that "ampler æther," that "diviner air,"
      where we get a glimpse not only of a Paradise that is past, but of a
      Paradise that is to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is one man amongst us who has done more to breathe the breath of
      life into the literature and the philosophy of Art, who has "encouraged"
      it ten thousand times more effectually than all our industrious Coles and
      anxious Art-Unions, and that is the author of Modern Painters. I do not
      know that there is anything in our literature, or in any literature, to
      compare with the effect of this one man's writings. He has by his sheer
      force of mind, and fervour of nature, the depth and exactness of his
      knowledge, and his amazing beauty and power of language, raised the
      subject of Art from being subordinate and technical, to the same level
      with Poetry and Philosophy. He has lived to see an entire change in the
      public mind and eye, and, what is better, in the public heart, on all that
      pertains to the literature and philosophy of representative genius. He
      combines its body, and its soul. Many before him wrote about its body, and
      some well; a few, as Charles Lamb and our great "Titmarsh," touched its
      soul: it was left to John Ruskin to do both. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This great writer was first acknowledged as such by our
     big quarterlies, in the North British Review, fourteen years
     ago, as follows:&mdash;

     "This is a very extraordinary and a very delightful book,
     full of truth and goodness, of power and beauty. If genius
     may be considered (and it is as serviceable a definition as
     is current) that power by which one man produces for the use
     or the pleasure of his fellow-men, something at once new and
     true, then have we here its unmistakable and inestimable
     handiwork. Let our readers take our word for it, and read
     these volumes thoroughly, giving themselves up to the
     guidance of this most original thinker, and most attractive
     writer, and they will find not only that they are richer in
     true knowledge, and quickened in pure and heavenly
     affections, but they will open their eyes upon a new world&mdash;
     walk under an ampler heaven, and breathe a diviner air.
     There are few things more delightful or more rare, than to
     feel such a kindling up of the whole faculties as is
     produced by such a work as this."
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DISTRAINING FOR RENT.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Of this picture it is not easy to speak. We do not at first care to say
      much about feelings such as it produces. It is, to our liking, Wilkie's
      most perfect picture. If they were all to be destroyed but one, we would
      keep this. His "Blind Man's Buff," his "Penny Wedding," his "Village
      Politicians," and many others, have more humour,&mdash;his "John Knox
      preaching," more energy,&mdash;his "John Knox at the Sacrament," more of
      heaven and victorious faith; but there is more of human nature, more of
      the human heart, in this, than in any of the others. It is full of
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "The still, sad music of humanity
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      still and sad, but yet musical, by reason of its true ideality, the
      painter acting his part as reconciler of men to their circumstances. This
      is one great end of poetry and painting. Even when painful and terrible in
      their subjects, "they are of power, by raising pity and fear or terror, to
      purge the mind of suchlike passions,&mdash;that is, to temper and reduce
      them to just measure with a kind of delight or, in the words of Charles
      Lamb, "they dispose the mind to a meditative tenderness."
    </p>
    <p>
      But to return to this most touching and impressive picture. What an
      immediate hold it took of us! How that sad family was in our mind for days
      after, and how we found ourselves wondering if nothing could be done for
      them! It is just about as difficult to bring the mind to criticise it, as
      it would be to occupy ourselves in thinking why and how we were affected,
      if we were ourselves to witness the scene in actual life. We would be
      otherwise occupied. Our eyes first fell on what is the immediate occasion
      of it all, the paper warrant; you feel its sharp parallelogram cutting
      your retina, it is the whitest, and therefore the first thing you see; and
      then on the husband. What utter sadness,&mdash;what a sober certainty of
      misery,&mdash;how uncomplaining, as if he could not speak, his firm mouth
      keeping it to himself! His eyes are all but shut,&mdash;how their
      expression is given, seems to us quite marvellous; and his attitude cast
      down, but not abject&mdash;bearing it like a man. How his fingers are
      painted, and his careless, miserable limbs, his thin cheek, with that
      small hungry hollow mark in its centre! What a dignity and beauty in his
      face! This is to us a finer head than the wonderful one in Retzsch's "Man
      playing at Chess with the Devil for his Soul," and this is not saying
      little. Reason and steady purpose are still uppermost.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so with his poor wife: her heart is fast failing; she is silent too;
      but she is fainting, and just about to slip off her chair in utter
      unconsciousness; her eyes are blind; the bitterness of death is gathering
      on her soul. She is forgetting her sucking child, as she is all outward
      things; it is rolling off her knee, and is caught by her motherly
      daughter; while her younger brother, whose expressive back is only seen,
      is pulling his father's coat, as if to say, "Look at mother!" Behind are
      two neighbours come in, and sympathizing both, but differently; the meek
      look of the one farthest away, what can be finer than that! The paleness
      of the fainting mother is rendered with perfect truth. What an eye the
      painter must have had!&mdash;how rapid, how true, how retentive of every
      impression! Behind these silent sufferers goes on the action of the story.
      The brother, a young, good-looking, fearless fellow, is shaking his fist
      and fixing his angry eyes on the constable, who returns the look as
      resolutely, but without anger. This figure of the constable is in many
      respects as astonishing as anything in the picture. He is "a man with a
      presence"&mdash;inexorable, prompt, not to be trifled with; but he is not,
      as many other artists would have made him, and wished us to call him, "the
      brutal Bailiff." He is doing his duty, as he is plainly saying, pointing
      to his warrant, and nothing more: he cannot help it, and the law must have
      its course. What a fine figure he is, the only one standing erect, and
      what rich colour in his waistcoat! Seated on the bed is the smart,
      indifferent clerk, with his pale, smug countenance. A man of business, and
      of nothing else, he seems to be running up the value of these bedclothes,&mdash;that
      bed, with its sad-coloured curtains, and all its memories of births and
      deaths. Behind is a man whose face we don't exactly make out: he has a
      sleepy, tipsy, altogether unknowable sort of expression. We don't think
      this a defect in the painter: it is the most likely thing in the world
      that such a person would be there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then comes the cobbler, straight from his stall, where, as from a throne,
      he dispenses his "think,"&mdash;and a strong think it is,&mdash;to all
      comers, upon all subjects. He has opinions of his own about most things,
      but chiefly upon civil, ecclesiastical, and marital jurisdiction, "with a
      power of law" in him. He is enjoining submission and composure upon all
      onlookers. His hands, how they speak! the one to the bailiff, deferential,
      confidential, gently deprecatory; the other, to the company in general,
      imperative, final, minatory. He is vindicating the law, and laying it down
      somewhat unseasonably, and is even hinting that they should rejoice at its
      arrangements. That brave old woman, inspired by anger, is bearing down
      upon both cobbler and bailiff, with occasional darts of her furious eye at
      the unconscious clerk. This woman's face is expressive beyond all
      description. Look at her fore-finger, as straight, as well-aimed, as
      unmistakably deadly in intention, as a sword, or rather pistol; and, could
      intensity of will have made a fire, we may reckon on its shot having been
      soon into the stately bailiff. But she has a sword in her tongue: how it
      is plying its work from behind these old straggling teeth!&mdash;no man
      can tame it; and her cruel, furious eyes, aiming every word, sending it
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      How well Shakspere describes this brilliant old lady!&mdash;"She is
      misusing him past the endurance of a block: an oak with but one green leaf
      would have answered her. She huddles jest upon jest, with such impossible
      conveyance, that he stands like a man at a mark, with a whole army
      shooting at him!"
    </p>
    <p>
      What a contrast to her, the woman behind, "her face foul with weeping,"
      crying her very eyes and soul out, like a child!
    </p>
    <p>
      What a picture! so simple, so great, so full (to use a word of Wilkie's
      own) of intellectuality&mdash;and the result, though sad, salutary. How
      strange! We never saw these poor sufferers, and we know they have no
      actual existence; and yet our hearts go out to them,&mdash;we are moved by
      their simple sorrows. We shall never forget that enduring man and that
      fainting mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is another personage yet to speak of. Some of our readers may never
      have seen him: we can assure them he has seen them. This is the dog,&mdash;the
      family dog,&mdash;the friend of them all, from baby upwards. We find him
      just where he should be, and at his own proper work. He is under his
      master's chair, and at his feet, looking out from between his legs. His
      master, as Burns has with wonderful meaning expressed it, is his god. "Man
      is the god of the dog." * How much may we learn from this!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     *I am wrong in this. Bacon first uses this thought in his
     Essay on Atheism. Burns improves it.
</pre>
    <p>
      With that fine instinct, compounded of curiosity, experience, and
      affection, he has made his observations on the state of things! All is not
      right, he sees,&mdash;something very far wrong. He never before saw her
      look in that way, or him so quiet and strange. Accordingly, as he is
      eminently practical, and holds with Hume and many great men, that all we
      know of causation is one thing following upon another (being a dog, and
      not a philosopher, he pays no attention to the qualification
      "invariably"), and, putting two things together, he finds this dismal,
      unintelligible state of matters following upon the entrance of these three
      strange men. He has been doing diligence, and serving and executing
      warrants, in his own wild and vigorous way, upon their six legs&mdash;specially,
      we doubt not, upon the tight pantaloons of that cold-blooded clerk. They
      are so tempting! Having been well kicked by all for his pains, he has
      slunk into his den, where he sits biding his time. What a pair of wide
      awake, dangerous eyes! No "speculation" in them&mdash; no looking before
      or after; but looking into the present&mdash;the immediate. Poor fellow,
      his spare diet for some time back&mdash;his half-filled bicker&mdash;have
      not lessened his natural acuteness, his sharpness of teeth and temper. Our
      readers will, we fear, be tired of all this about a dog, and "such a
      vulgar little dog." We happen to hold high views on the moral and social
      bearings of dogs, especially of terriers, those affectionate and
      great-hearted little ruffians; but as our friends consider us not sane on
      this point, and as we (as is common in such cases) think quite the
      reverse, we shall not now dispute the matter. One thing wre may say, that
      we are sure Wilkie would have taken our side. He has a dog, and often
      more, in almost everyone of his pictures; and such dogs! not wee men in
      hairy skins, pretending to be dogs. His dogs are dogs in expression, as
      well as in body. Look, in his engravings, at the dog in the "Rent Day," in
      "Blind Man's Buff," that incomparable one, especially, who is flattened
      hopelessly and ludicrously under the weight of a chair and a man&mdash;how
      utterly quenched, and yet how he is giving a surly grin at his own misery;
      and the dog in the Gentle Shepherd, as gentle as his master; and that
      great-headed mastiff under the gun-carriage&mdash;a very "dog of war"&mdash;in
      "The Maid of Saragossa"&mdash;to us the hero of the picture; and, above
      all, the little pet dog in the "Only Daughter"&mdash;its speaking,
      imploring ways, as it looks to its dying mistress. What a wonderful art!
      We cannot leave this inestimable picture, without expressing our personal
      gratitude to our public-spirited Academy for furnishing us every year with
      some of this great master's works. We trust we shall have one of his, and
      one of Turner's every year. They elevate public feeling-; they tend, like
      all productions of high and pure genius, to the glory of God, and the good
      of mankind; they are a part of the common wealth. We end our notice of
      this picture by bidding our readers return to it, and read it over and
      over, through and through. Let them observe its moral effect&mdash;not to
      make the law and its execution hateful or unsightly, or vice or
      improvidence interesting or picturesque. Wilkie takes no side but that of
      our common nature, and does justice to the bailiff as well as to the
      distressed family. We have here no hysterical passions&mdash;no shaking of
      fists against the heavens, and sending up thither mingled blasphemy and
      prayer, as some melodramatic genius might have done. Let them remark the
      stillness of the great sufferers, and how you know what they have come
      through&mdash;the consummate art in arranging the parts of the subject&mdash;its
      simplicity at first&mdash;its fulness afterwards when looked into&mdash;more
      in it than meets the eye. Mind must be exercised upon it to bring out its
      mind. The white table-cloth, leading the eye at once to the heart of the
      picture; the table dividing the two groups, and preventing its being a
      crowd; the figure of the father given entire, indicating his total
      dejection from head to foot,&mdash;his hands, his finger-nails,&mdash;the
      dignity and self-containment of his sorrow: all the hands are wonderful,
      and above all, as we have noticed, the cobbler's;&mdash;the general air of
      the house not squalid&mdash;no beggarly elements&mdash;no horrors of
      actual starvation&mdash;all respectable, and poverty-stricken and scrimp;&mdash;the
      bone lying on the floor, on which our small four-footed Spartan may have
      been rehearsing his "'Pleasures of Memory," and whiling and whittling away
      his idle hours, and cheating his angry hunger:&mdash;the bed&mdash;its
      upright posts&mdash;the stately Bailiff alone as erect and firm;&mdash;the
      colour of the curtains&mdash;their very texture displayed; the colouring
      sober, powerful, not loud (to borrow from the ear);&mdash;the absence of
      all effort, or mere cleverness, or pretension; no trace of handicraft; you
      know it to be painted&mdash;you do not feel it; the composition as fine,
      as musical, as Raphael's;&mdash;the satisfying result; your whole nature,
      moral and affectionate&mdash;your inward and outward eye&mdash;fed with
      food convenient for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      It has long been a question in the ethics of fiction, whether sympathy
      with ideal sorrows be beneficial or mischievous. That it is pleasurable we
      all know. And a distinction has been made between pity as an emotion
      ending with its own gratification, and pity as a motive, a moving power,
      passing, by a necessity of its nature, into action and practical
      performance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, without going into the subject, we may give, as a good practical
      rule, let your moral sense be so clear and healthy as to discern at once
      the genuine objects of pity; and then, let them be fictitious or real, you
      may pity them safely with all your might. In either case you will get
      good, and the good will not end with yourself, even in the first case.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story of Joseph, for instance, is to us fictitious, or rather, it is
      ideal; and in weeping over him, or over his heart-broken father, we know
      we can do them no good, or give them no sympathy; but where will you find
      a merely human story more salutary, more delightful, more appropriate, to
      every one of our intellectual, moral, and, let us add, our imaginative and
      æsthetical faculties?
    </p>
    <p>
      We are inclined to rank Hogarth and Wilkie as the most thoughtful of
      British painters, and two of the greatest of all painters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some people, even now, speak of Hogarth as being at best a sort of
      miraculous caricaturist, and a shockingly faithful delineator of low vice,
      and misery, and mirth, but deficient in knowledge of the human figure, and
      in academical skill, and as having fallen short of the requirements of
      "high art."
    </p>
    <p>
      We thought Charles Lamb had disposed of this untruth long ago; and so he
      did. But some folks don't know Charles Lamb, and we shall, for their
      sakes, give them a practical illustration of his meaning, and of ours. If
      Hogarth did not know the naked human figure (and we deny that he did not),
      he knew the human face and the naked human heart&mdash;he knew what of
      infinite good and evil, joy and sorrow, life and death, proceeded out of
      it. Look at the second last of the series of "Mariage à la Mode."
    </p>
    <p>
      If you would see what are the wages of sin, and how, after being earned,
      they are beginning to be paid, look on that dying man,&mdash;his body
      dissolving, falling not like his sword, firm and entire, but as nothing
      but a dying thing could fall, his eyes dim with the shadow of death, in
      his ears the waters of that tremendous river, all its billows going over
      him, the life of his comely body flowing out like water, the life of his
      soul!&mdash;who knows what it is doing? Fleeing through the open window,
      undressed, see the murderer and adulterer vanish into the outer darkness
      of night, anywhere, rather than remain; and that guilty, beautiful,
      utterly miserable creature on her knee, her whole soul, her whole life, in
      her eyes, fixed on her dying husband, dying for and by her! What is in
      that poor desperate brain, who can tell! Mad desires for life, for death,&mdash;prayers,
      affections, infinite tears,&mdash;the past, the future,&mdash;her maiden
      innocence, her marriage, his love, her guilt,&mdash;the grim end of it
      all,&mdash;the night-watch with their professional faces,&mdash;the weary
      wind blowing Through the room, the prelude, as it were, of that whirlwind
      in which that lost soul is soon to pass away. The man who could paint so
      as to suggest all this, is a great man and a great painter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wilkie has, in like manner, been often misunderstood and misplaced. He is
      not of the Dutch school,&mdash;he is not a mere joker upon canvas,&mdash;he
      can move other things besides laughter; and he rises with the unconscious
      ease of greatness to what ever height he chooses. Look at John Knox's head
      in "The Administering the Sacrament in Calder House." Was the eye of faith
      ever so expressed, the seeing things that are invisible?
    </p>
    <p>
      Hogarth was more akin to Michael Angelo: they both sounded the same
      depths, and walked the same terrible road. Wilkie has more of Raphael,&mdash;his
      affectionate sweetness, his pleasantness, his grouping, his love of the
      beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THOMAS DUNCAN.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>uncan possessed
      certain primary qualities of mind, without which no man, however gifted,
      can win and keep true fame. He had a vigorous and quick understanding,
      invincible diligence, a firm will, and that combination, in action, of our
      intellectual, moral, and physical natures, which all acknowledge, but
      cannot easily define, manliness.
    </p>
    <p>
      As an artist, he had true genius, that incommunicable gift, which is born
      and dies with its possessor, never again to reappear with the same image
      and superscription. The direction of this faculty in him was towards
      beauty of colour and form,&mdash;its tendency was objective rather than
      subjective; the outward world came to him, and he noted with singular
      vigilance and truth all its phenomena. His perception of them was
      immediate, intense, and exact, and he could reproduce them on his canvas
      with astonishing dexterity and faithfulness. This made his sketches from
      nature quite startling, from their direct truth. There are two of them in
      Mr. Hay's gallery,&mdash;one, a girl with her bonnet on, sitting knitting
      at a Highland fireside; the other, a quaint old vacant room in George
      Heriot's Hospital.
    </p>
    <p>
      But his glory, his peculiar excellence, was his colouring; there was a
      charm about it, a thing that could not be understood, but was felt. How
      transparent its depth,&mdash;how fresh,&mdash;how rich to gorgeousness,&mdash;how
      luminous, as from within!
    </p>
    <p>
      His power over expression was inferior to his colouring. Not that he can
      be justly said to have failed in his exercise of this faculty; he rather
      did not attempt its highest range. His mind lingered delighted, at his
      eye; and if his mind did proceed inwards, it soon returned, and contented
      itself with that form of expression which, if we may so speak, lies in
      closest contact with material beauty. Therefore it is that he often
      brought out, with great felicity and force, some simple feeling, some
      fixed type of character common to a class, but did not care to ascend to
      the highest heaven of invention, or stir the depths of imagination and
      passion. Nature was perceived by him, rather than imagined; and he
      transferred rather than transfigured her likeness. As a consequence, his
      works delight more than move, interest more than arrest. In a remarkable
      sketch left behind him of an intended picture of Wishart administering the
      Sacrament before his execution, there is one truly ideal head,&mdash;a
      monk, who is overlooking the touching solemnity, and in whose pinched,
      withered face are concentrated the uttermost bigotry, malice, and vileness
      of nature, his cruel small eyes gleaming as if "set on fire of hell."
      Duncan's mind was romantic, rather than historical. We see this in his
      fine picture of "Prince Charles's Entry into Edinburgh." He brings that
      great pageant out of its own time into ours, rather than sends us back to
      it. This arose, as we have said, from the objective turn of his mind; and
      would have rendered him unsurpassed in the representation of
      contemporaneous events. What a picture, had he lived, would he have made
      of the Queen at Taymouth! the masterly, the inimitable sketch of which is
      now in the Exhibition. We have an ancient love of one of his early
      pictures,&mdash;"Cuddy Headrig and Jenny Dennistoun." Cuddy has just
      climbed up with infinite toil; and, breathless with it and love, he is
      resting on the window-sill on the tips of his toes and fingers, in an
      attitude of exquisite awkwardness, staring, with open mouth and eyes, and
      perfect blessedness, on his buxom, saucy Jenny. Duncan's fame will, we are
      sure, rest chiefly on his portraits. They are unmatched in modern times,
      except by one or two of Wilkie's, and that most noticeable "Head of a
      Lady," by Harvey, in the inner octagon. Duncan's portraits are liker than
      their originals. He puts an epitome of a man's character into one look.
      The likeness of Dr. Chalmers has something of everything in him,&mdash;the
      unconsciousness of childhood,&mdash;the fervour of victorious manhood,&mdash;the
      wise contemplativeness of old age,&mdash;the dreamy inexpressive eye of
      genius, in which his soul lies, "like music slumbering on its instrument,"
      ready to awake when called&mdash;the entire loveableness of the man&mdash;the
      light of his countenance,&mdash;his heavenly smile,&mdash;are all there,
      and will carry to after times the express image of his person. How
      exquisite the head of D. O. Hill's daughter! so full of love and
      simpleness, the very realization of Wordsworth's lines:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Loving she is, and tractable, though wild,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And innocence hath privilege in her
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And feats of cunning."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something mournful and touching in the nature and progress of
      the last illness of this great artist. His unresting energy, his manly
      diligence, urged him beyond his powers; his brain gave way, and blindness
      crept slowly on him. It was a sort of melancholy consolation that, as the
      disease advanced, his intense susceptibility and activity were subdued,
      when their exercise must have only produced misery and regret. What is now
      infinitely more important is, that those who knew him best have little
      doubt, that while the outward world, with its cares, its honours, its
      wondrous beauty, its vain shows, was growing dim, and fast vanishing away,
      the eyes of his understanding became more and more enlightened, and that
      he died in the faith of the truth. If so, he is, we may rest assured, in a
      region where his intense perception of beauty, his delight in all lovely
      forms, and in the goodliness of all visible things, will have full
      exercise and satisfaction, and where that gift which he carries with him
      as a part of himself will be dedicated to the glory of its Giver,&mdash;the
      Father of Lights.
    </p>
    <p>
      We believe it to be more than a pleasant dream, that in the regions of the
      blessed each man shall retain for ever his innate gifts, and shall receive
      and give delight by their specific exercise. Such a thought gives, as it
      ought, to this life an awful, but not undelightful significance. He who,
      in his soul, and by a necessity of his nature, is a poet or a painter,
      will, in a spiritual sense, remain so for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PALESTRINA.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e miss Turner's
      great landscape, "Palestrina," with its airy fulness and freedom,&mdash;its
      heaven and earth making one imagery,&mdash;its daylight, its sunlight, its
      magical shadows,&mdash;that city set upon a hill, each house clinging to
      the rocks like swallows' nests,&mdash;its waters murmuring on for ever,
      and sending up their faint steam into the fragrant air, that oblique
      bridge, so matchlessly drawn,&mdash;those goats browsing heedless of us,&mdash;in
      one word, its reality, and its something more!
    </p>
    <p>
      One day last year, while waiting for a friend, we sat down in the rooms,
      and were thinking of absent things; some movement made us raise our eyes,
      and for that instant we were in Italy. We were in the act of wondering
      what we should see, when we reached the other end of that cool and silent
      avenue; and if one of these goats had looked up and stared at us, we
      should have hardly been surprised. It had, while it lasted, "the freshness
      and the glory of a dream."
    </p>
    <p>
      We shall never forget this picture. It gave us a new sensation, a new and
      a higher notion of what the mind of man can put into, and bring out of,
      landscape painting; how its representative and suggestive truthfulness may
      be perfect, forming the material elements,&mdash;the body, as it were, of
      the picture,&mdash;while, at the same time, there may be superadded that
      fine sense of the indefinable relation of the visible world to mental
      emotion, which is its essence and vivifying soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      How original, how simple, its composition! That tall tree, so inveterately
      twisted on itself, dividing the scene into two subjects, each contrasting
      with and relieving the other; the open country lying under the full power
      of the flaming mid-day sun; and that long alley, with its witchery of
      gleam and shadow, its cool air, a twilight of its own, at noon!
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing is more wonderful about Turner than the resolute way in which he
      avoids all imitation, even when the objects are in the foreground and
      clearly defined. He gives you an oak, or a beech, or an elm, so as to be
      unmistakable, and yet he never thinks of giving their leaves botanically,
      so as that we might know the tree from a leaf. He gives us it not as we
      know it, but as we should see it from that distance; and he gives us all
      its characteristics that would carry that length, and no more. He is
      determined to give an idea, not a copy, of an oak. This is beautifully
      seen in his "Ivy Bridge,"&mdash;a picture, the magical simplicity of which
      grows upon every look. There is a birch there, the lady of the wood, which
      any nurseryman would tell you was a birch; and yet look into it, and what
      do you see? Turner sets down results of sight, not the causes of these
      results. His way is the true æsthetic,&mdash;the other is the scientific.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      HUNT THE SLIPPER.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e plead guilty to
      an inveterate, and, it may be, not altogether rational, antipathy to Mr.
      Maclise's pictures. As vinegar to the teeth, as smoke to the eyes, or as
      the setting of a saw to the ears, so are any productions of his pencil we
      have met with to our æsthetic senses. We get no pleasure from them except
      that of hearty anger and strong contrast. Their hot, raw, garish colour&mdash;the
      chalky dry skin of his women&mdash;the grinning leathern faces of his men&mdash;and
      the entire absence of toning&mdash;are as offensive to our eyesight as the
      heartlessness, the grimace, the want of all naturalness in expression or
      feeling, in his human beings, are to our moral taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is, no doubt, wonderful cleverness and facility in drawing legs and
      arms in all conceivable positions, considerable dramatic power in placing
      his figures, and a sort of striking stage effect, that makes altogether a
      smart, effective scene; and if he had been able to colour like Wilkie,
      there would have been a certain charm about them. But you don't care&mdash;at
      least we don't care&mdash;to look at them again; they in no degree move us
      out of ourselves into the scene. They are so many automata, and no more.
      To express shortly, and by example, what we feel about his picture of
      "Hunt the Slipper," we would say it is in all points the reverse of
      Wilkie's picture opposite, "The Distraining for Rent," in colour,
      conception, treatment, bodily expression, spiritual meaning, moral effect.
      Mr. Maclise's women are pretty, not beautiful; prim, not simple: their
      coyness, as old Fuller would say, is as different from true modesty as
      hemlock is from parsley&mdash;there is a meretriciousness about them all,
      which, as it is entirely gratuitous, is very disagreeable. The vicar is
      not Oliver Goldsmith's Dr. Primrose.
    </p>
    <p>
      The best thing in the picture is the mantelpiece, with its odds and ends:
      the china cups and saucers, and that Hindu god, sitting in dropsical
      dignity&mdash;these are imitated marvellously, as also is the old trunk in
      the right corner. As far as we have seen, Mr. Maclise's gift lies in this
      small fancy line. We remember some game and a cabinet in his "Robin Hood,"
      that would have made Horace Walpole or our own Kirkpatrick Sharpe's mouth
      water; the nosegays of the two London ladies are also cleverly painted,
      but too much of mere fac-similes. Nothing can be worse in colour or in
      aerial perspective than the quaint old shrubbery seen through the window;
      it feels nearer our eye than the figures. As to the figures, perhaps the
      most life-like in feature and movement are the two bad women, Miss
      Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs and Lady Blarney.
    </p>
    <p>
      The introduction of them into the story is almost the only blemish of that
      exquisite piece, and we have still less pleasure in seeing their
      portraits. How different from Hogarth's terrible pictures of the same
      miserable class! There you see the truth; you can imagine the past and the
      future, as well as perceive the present. Beauty, grace, often tenderness,
      sinking into ruin under the steady influence of a life of sin, make them
      objects at once of our profoundest compassion&mdash;and of our instant
      reprobation. But we must stay our quarrel with Mr. Maclise. We have
      perhaps been unlucky in the specimens of his genius that we have seen&mdash;the
      only other two being the "Bohemians" and "Robin Hood the first a picture
      of great but disagreeable power&mdash;a sort of imbroglio of everything
      sensual and devilish&mdash;the very superfluity of naughtiness &mdash;as
      bad, and not so good as the scene in the Brocken in Goethe's Faust. Mr.
      Maclise may find a list of subjects more grateful to the moral sense, more
      for his own good and that of his spectators, and certainly not less fitted
      to bring into full play all the best powers of his mind, and all the craft
      of his hand, in Phil. iv. 8.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Robin Hood" was rather better, because there were fewer women in it; but
      we could never get beyond that universal grin which it seemed the main
      function of Robin and his "merrie men" to sustain. Of the landscape we may
      say, as we did of his figures and Wilkie's, that it was in every respect
      the reverse of Turner's.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have been assured by those whose taste we know in other matters to be
      excellent, that Mr. Maclise is a great genius, a man of true imagination;
      and that his "Sleeping Beauty," his scene from Macbeth, and some others,
      are the proofs of this. We shall wait till we see them, and hope to be
      converted when we do; but, meanwhile, we suspect that his Imagination may
      turn out to be mere Fancy, which are as different, the one from the other,
      as word-wit is from deep humour, or as Queen Mab (a purely fanciful
      description) is from Miranda or Ariel. Fancy is aggregative and
      associative,&mdash;Imagination is creative, motive. As Wordsworth in one
      of his prefaces beautifully says,&mdash;"The law under which the processes
      of Fancy are carried on is as capricious as the accidents of things, and
      the effects are surprising, playful, ludicrous, or pathetic, as the
      objects happen to be appositely produced or fortunately combined. Fancy
      depends upon the rapidity and profusion with which she scatters her
      thoughts and images, trusting that their numbers, and the felicity with
      which they are linked together, will make amends for the want of
      individual value; or she prides herself upon the curious subtlety, and the
      successful elaboration, with which she can detect their lurking
      affinities. If she can win you over to her purpose, she cares not how
      unstable or transitory maybe her influence, knowing that it will not be
      out of her power to resume it on apt occasion. But Imagination is
      conscious of an indestructible dominion,&mdash;the soul may fall away from
      it, not being able to sustain its grandeur; but if once felt and
      acknowledged, by no other faculty of the mind can it be relaxed, impaired,
      or diminished. <i>Fancy is given to quicken and beguile the temporal parts
      of our nature,&mdash;Imagination to awaken and to support the eternal</i>."
      The one is the plaything, the other the food, the elixir of the soul. All
      great poets, as Homer, Shakspere, Milton, and Burns, have both faculties,
      and find fit work for each; and so have the great painters, Titian,
      Veronese, Albert Durer, Hogarth, Wilkie. We suspect Mr. Maclise has little
      else than fancy, and makes it do the work of both. There must be something
      radically defective in the higher qualities of poetic sensibility and
      ideality in any man who could, as he has done in the lately published
      edition of Moore's Melodies, execute some hundreds of illustrations,
      without above three or four of them being such as you would ever care to
      see again, or, indeed, would recognise as having ever seen before.
    </p>
    <p>
      We would not give such sweet humour, such maidenly simpleness, such
      exquisite mirth, such "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles," as we can get
      in most of the current numbers of "Punch," from the hand of young Richard
      Doyle (1846), with drawing quite as astonishing, and far more expression,&mdash;for
      this sumptuous three-guinea quarto. Have our readers six-and-sixpence to
      spare?&mdash;then let them furnish wholesome fun and "un-reprovèd
      pleasure" for the eyes and the minds of the small men and women in the
      nursery, by buying "The Fairy Ring," illustrated by him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THREE LANDSEERS.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t would not be
      easy to say which of these three delightful pictures gives the most
      delight; only, if we were forced to name which we should best like to
      possess, we would say, "Uncle Tom and his Wife for Sale,"&mdash;one of the
      most wonderful bits of genius and its handiwork we ever had the pleasure
      of enjoying and being the better of.
    </p>
    <p>
      The others are "The Maid and the Magpie," and "The Pen, the Brush, and the
      Chisel,"&mdash;the latter presented by Lady Chantrey to Her Majesty, and
      having for its subjects Chantrey's well-known bust of Sir Walter in the
      clay, with the sculptor's tools lying beside it, and his finger prints,
      fresh and soft, full of thought and will, giving a fine realization of
      work going on. The expression of the then Great Unknown is very noble&mdash;he
      looks like a mighty shade; beside the bust is a terrier, such as only Sir
      Edwin can give, with a keen look, as if he too smelt some one. Two
      woodcocks are resting in front in a fold of the table-cloth; doubtless the
      two famous birds which Sir Francis brought down at one shot, and
      immortalized in marble. At the corner of the picture, and stealthily
      peering from behind the table-cloth, is a cat's head, not yet seeing the
      game, but nosing it. You can easily imagine the lively scrimmage when puss
      makes herself and her ends known, and when the unsuspected "Dandie" comes
      down upon her. The feeling and workmanship of this beautiful conceit is
      such as no one else could originate and express.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Maid and the Magpie" is a rustic tragedy told at a glance. It is
      milking-time, in a dreamy summer-day. Phillis,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "So buxom, blithe, and debonair,"
    </p>
    <p>
      is filling her pail, her meek-eyed, lady-like cow&mdash;she is a high-bred
      Alderney&mdash;enjoying herself as cows know why during this process of
      evacuation and relief. Her glum, unsatisfied calf, who has been all the
      morning protesting and taking instruments, and craving extracts, and in
      vain, is looking and listening, hungry and sulky; he never can understand
      why he gets none of his mother's, of his own milk;&mdash;the leather
      muzzle, all bristling with sharp rusty nails, tells his miseries and his
      mother's too. Thestylis is leaning forward, awkward and eager, at the
      door, making love to Phillis in his own clumsy and effective way,
      whittling all the while destructively at the door-post with his knife. It
      is the old, old story. She has her back turned to him, and is pretending
      to be very deep in the milking, while her eye&mdash;which you see, and he
      doesn't&mdash;says something quite else. In the right corner are two
      goats, one a magnificent rugged billy. On the green beyond, in the
      sunshine, may be seen the geese making off on feet and wings to the
      well-known "henwife," who is at the wicket with her punctual mess. Among
      the trees, and up in the cloudless, sunny air, is the village spire, whose
      bells Thestylis doubtless hopes some day soon to set a ringing. All very
      pretty and innocent and gay. But look in the left corner,&mdash;as if he
      had this moment come in, he is just hopping into their paradise,&mdash;is
      that miscreant magpie, wrho, we all know, was a pilferer from the
      beginning, and who next moment, you know, will have noiselessly grabbed
      that fatal silver spoon in the posset-cup,&mdash;which Phillis can't see,
      for her heart is in her eye,&mdash;this same spoon, as we all know,
      bringing by and by death into that little world, and all their woe. We
      never remember the <i>amari aliquid</i> coming upon us so unawares, ugly
      and fell, like that old Toad squat at the ear of Eve. The drawing, the
      expression, the whole management of this little story, is exquisite.
      Perhaps there is a little overcrowding and huddling together in the byre;
      but it is a delicious picture, as wholesome and sweet as a cow's breath.
      You hear the music of the milk playing in the pail; you feel the gentle,
      rural naturalness of the whole scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of "Uncle Tom and his Wife for Sale," it is not easy to speak in
      moderation, as assuredly it is impossible to look at it, and keep from
      bursting into tears and laughter all at once. Anything more saturated,
      more insufferably overflowing with the best fun and misery, with the
      oddest, homeliest humour and despair, we never before encountered.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Uncle Tom" is a small, old, dusky bull-dog, with bandy legs and broad
      chest, and an amazing look of a nigger. His eyes are crunched up in an
      ecstasy of woe, the crystal tears hailing down his dark and knobby cheeks,
      "which witness huge affliction;" his mouth is open to the full, and one
      black stump is all we see of teeth; his tongue, out to the utmost,
      quivering with agitation and panting,&mdash;a tongue, the delicate, moist
      pink of which, like the petal of some tropical flower, is in wonderful
      contrast to the cavern&mdash;the jaws of darkness&mdash;out of which it is
      flung. And what is all this for? Is he in pain? No. Is he afraid? Not he;
      that is a sensation unknown to Tom. He is plainly as full of pluck, as
      "game" as was ever Crib or Molyneux. He is in this state of utter woe,
      because he is about to be sold, and his wife, "Aunt Chloe," the desire of
      his old eyes, may be taken from him, the mere idea of which has put him
      into this transport, so that he is written all over with lamentation,
      utterly <i>begrutten</i>, and done for. It is this touching combination of
      immense affection and ugliness, which brings out the pathetic-comic effect
      instantly, and to the uttermost. We never saw anything like it except Mr.
      Robson's <i>Medea</i>. Why is it that we cannot but laugh at this? It is
      no laughing matter with the honest and ugly and faithful old beast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chloe, who is chained to Tom, is, with the trick of her sex, sinking her
      own grief in sorrow for his. She is leaning fondly towards him, and
      looking up to him with a wonderful eye, anxious to comfort him, if she
      knew how. Examine the painting of that congested, affectionate organ, and
      you will see what true work is. And not less so the bricks which form the
      background; all represented with the utmost modesty and truth, not only of
      form and colour, but of texture.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE RANDOM SHOT.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f any one wishes
      to know how finely, and to what fine issues, the painter's spirit and his
      own may be touched, how much of gentleness may be in power, how much of
      power in gentleness, let him peruse the "Random Shot" by Landseer.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the summit of some far remote Highland mountain, on the untrodden and
      azure-tinted snow, lies a dead or dying hind, its large brown velvety ears
      set off against the pure, pearly, infinite sky, into whose cloudless
      depths the darkness of night is already being poured. The deep, unequal
      footsteps of the miserable mother are faintly traced in blood, her calf is
      stooping down, and searching for its comfortable and ever-ready drink, but
      finding none. Anything more exquisite than this long-legged, bewildered
      creature, standing there all forlorn, stupid and wild&mdash;hunger and
      weariness, fear and amazement, busy at its poor silly heart&mdash;we have
      never seen in painting. By the long shadows on the snow, the delicate
      green tint of the sky, the cold splendour on the mountain tops, and the-
      gloom in the corries, we know that day is fast going, and night with all
      her fears drawing on, and what is to become of that young desolate thing?
    </p>
    <p>
      This is not a picture to be much spoken about; it is too quick with
      tenderness, and reaches too nicely that point which just stops short of
      sadness; words would only mar its pathetic touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here is another by the same painter, which, though inferior and very
      different in subject, is not less admirable in treatment. It consists of
      the portraits of three sporting dogs. A retriever, with its <i>sonsy</i>
      and affectionate visage, holding gingerly in its mouth a living woodcock,
      whose bright and terror-stricken eye is painted to the life. In the centre
      is a keen thoroughgoing pointer, who has just found the scent among the
      turnips. This is perhaps the most masterly among the three, for colour and
      for expression. The last is a liver-coloured spaniel, panting over a plump
      pheasant, and looking to its invisible master for applause. The touch of
      genius is over them all, everywhere, from the rich eye of the retriever to
      the wasted turnip-leaves. Yet there is no mere cleverness, no traces of
      handiwork; you are not made to think of work at all, till you have got
      your fill of pleasure and surprise, and then you wonder what cunning
      brain, and eye, and finger could have got so much out of so little, and so
      common.
    </p>
    <p>
      We often hear of the decline of the Fine Arts in our time and country, but
      any age or nation might well be proud of having produced within fifty
      years, four such men as Wilkie, Turner, Etty, and Landseer.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here is an
      immediateness and calm intensity, a certain simplicity and tragic
      tenderness, in this exquisite picture, which no one but Paul Delaroche has
      in our days reached. You cannot escape its power, you cannot fail to be
      moved; it remains in your mind as a thing for ever. It is the last scene
      of that story we all have by heart, of
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Her most gentle, most unfortunate."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      That beautiful, simple English girl, the young wife, who has just seen the
      headless body of her noble young husband carried past, is drawing to the
      close of her little life of love and study, of misery and wrong. She is
      partially undressed, her women having disrobed her. She is blindfolded,
      and is groping almost eagerly for the block; groping as it were into
      eternity; her mouth slightly open, her face "steady and serene." Sir John
      Gage, the Constable of the Tower, is gently leading her by the left hand
      to the block, and gazing on her with a surprising compassion and regard&mdash;a
      very noble head. Her women, their work over, are aside; one fallen
      half-dead on the floor; the other turning her back, her hands uplifted and
      wildly grasping the stone pillar, in utter astonishment and anguish. You
      cannot conceive what that concealed face must be like. We don't remember
      anything more terrible or more intense than this figure. In the other
      corner stands the headsman, with his axe ready, still, but not unmoved;
      behind him is the coffin; but the eye gazes first and remains last on that
      pale, doomed face, beautiful and innocent, bewildered and calm. Let our
      readers take down Hume, and read the story. The cold and impassive
      philosopher writes as if his heart were full. Her husband, Lord Guildford,
      asked to see her before their deaths. She answered, No; that the
      tenderness of the parting would overcome the fortitude of both; besides,
      she said, their separation would be but for a moment. It had been intended
      to execute the Lady Jane and Lord Guildford together on the same scaffold
      on Tower Hill; but the Council, dreading the compassion of the people for
      their youth, beauty, innocence, and high birth, caused her to be beheaded
      within the verge of the Tower, after she had seen him from the window, and
      given him a token as he was led to execution. The conclusion by Hume is
      thus:&mdash;"After uttering these words, she caused herself to be disrobed
      by her women, and with a steady, serene countenance submitted herself to
      the executioners." The engraving, which may be seen at Mr. Hill's, is
      worthy of the picture and the subject. It is a marvel of delicate power,
      and is one of the very few modern engravings we would desire our friends
      to buy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      NAPOLEON AT FONTAINEBLEAU BEFORE HIS ABDICATION.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his is the first
      painting by Delaroche we have seen, though we have long been familiar with
      his works through their engravings. He is every inch a master. You get
      from his work that strange and delightful shock which asserts at once his
      genius and power. You are not struck, but you get a shock of surprise, of
      awe, and of pleasure, which no man who once gets ever mistakes for
      anything else. This picture, of
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Him&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Who in our wonder and astonishment
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Has built himself a livelong monument,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      has this charm and power. You never before saw anything like it, you will
      never see anything like it again, and you will never forget it. It is no
      easy matter to describe what passes through one's mind on looking at such
      a bit of intense and deep genius. One feels more inclined in such a case
      to look, and recollect, to feel, and be grateful, than to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      Napoleon is represented as alone&mdash;seated hurriedly and sideways upon
      a chair&mdash;one leg of which has trod upon a magnificent curtain, and is
      trailing it down to ruin. He is dressed in his immortal grey coat, his
      leather breeches, and his big riding boots, soiled with travel; the
      shapely little feet, of which he was so proud, are drawn comfortlessly in;
      his hat is thrown on the ground. His attitude is that of the deepest
      dejection and abstraction; his body is sunk, and his head seems to bear it
      down, with its burden of trouble. This is finely indicated by the deep
      transverse fold of his waistcoat; one arm is across the back of the chair,
      the other on his knee, his plump hands lying idle; his hair, that thin,
      black straight hair, looks wet, and lies wildly across his immense
      forehead. But the face is where the artist has set his highest impress,
      and the eyes are the wonder of his face. The mouth is firm as ever&mdash;beautiful
      and unimpassioned as an infant's; the cheeks plump, the features
      expressive of weariness, but not distressed; the brow looming out from the
      dark hair, like something oppressively and supernaturally capacious; and
      then the eyes! his whole mind looking through them, &mdash;bodily
      distress, want of sleep, fear, doubt, shame, astonishment, anger,
      speculation, seeking rest but as yet finding it not; going overall
      possibilities, calm, confounded, but not confused. There is all this in
      the grey, serious, perplexed eyes; we don't know that we ever saw
      anything, at once so subtle, awful, and touching, as their dreary look.
      Your eyes begin soon to move your heart; you pity and sympathize with him,
      and yet you know all he has done, the havoc he has made of everything man
      holds sacred, or God holds just; you know how merciless he was and will
      be, how eaten up with ambition, how mischievous; you know that after
      setting at defiance all mankind, and running riot in victory, he had two
      years before this set his face against the heavens, and, defying the
      elements, had found to his own, and to his country's tremendous cost, that
      none can "stand before <i>His</i> cold." We know that he is fresh from the
      terrible three days at Leipsic, where he never was so amazing in his
      resources, and all that constitutes military genius; we know that he has
      been driven from his place by the might and the wrath of the great German
      nation, and that he is as faithless and dangerous as ever; but we still
      feel for him. Our soul is "purged by terror and pity," which is the end of
      tragic art as well as of tragic writing, and will be found like it one of
      the "gravest, moralest, and most profitable" of all human works. This is
      the touch "that makes the whole world kin."
    </p>
    <p>
      This trouble in the eye&mdash;this looking into vacancy, and yet not being
      vacant&mdash;this irresolute and helpless look in one so resolute, so
      self-sustained, is to us one of the very highest results of that art which
      affects the mind through the eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      The picture, as a work of art, is remarkable for its simplicity of idea
      and treatment, the severity of its manner, and the gloomy awfulness
      everywhere breathing from it. It seems to gather darkness as you gaze at
      it; the imperial eagles emblazoned on the wall are struggling through a
      sort of ruddy darkness produced by the deep shadow on the rich-coloured
      curtain. His sword is lying on a table, its hilt towards us.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what impressed us most, and what still impresses us is, that we have
      seen the man as he then was, as he then was looking, and thinking,
      feeling, and suffering. We started at first as if we were before him,
      rather than he before us, and that we would not like to have that
      beautiful but dread countenance, and those unsearchable, penetrating cold
      eyes lifted up upon us.
    </p>
    <p>
      No man need ask himself after this, if Delaroche is a great artist; but
      some of his other works display, if not more intensity, more variety of
      idea and expression. Their prevailing spirit is that of severe
      truthfulness, simplicity, and a kind of gloomy power&mdash;a certain
      awfulness, in its strict sense, not going up to sublimity perhaps, or
      forward into beauty, but lingering near them both. They are full of
      humanity, in its true sense; what he feels he feels deeply, and it asserts
      its energy in every bit of his handiwork.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is remarkable how many of his best pictures are from English history,
      and how many are possessed by Englishmen. The following short sketch of
      his chief pictures may be interesting. His earliest works were on
      religious subjects; they are now forgotten. The first which attracted
      attention was the picture of Joan of Arc in prison, examined by Cardinal
      Winchester; this has been engraved, and is very great&mdash;full of his
      peculiar gloom. Then followed Flora Macdonald succouring the Pretender;
      the death of Queen Elizabeth, almost too intense and painful for
      pleasurable regard; a scene at the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; Death of
      the English Princes in the Tower; Richelieu on the Rhone, with Cinq Mars
      and De Thou as prisoners; Death of Cardinal Mazarin; Cromwell regarding
      the dead body of Charles I. This last is a truly great and impressive
      picture&mdash;we hardly know one more so, or more exactly suited for Art.
      The great Protector, with his well-known face, in which ugliness and
      affection and power kept such strange company, is by himself in a dark
      room. And yet not by himself. The coffin in which Charles, his king, is
      lying at rest, having ceased from troubling, is before him, and he has
      lifted up the lid and is gazing on the dead king&mdash;calm, with the
      paleness and dignity of death&mdash;of such a death, upon that fine face.
      You look into the face of the living man; you know what he is thinking of.
      Awe, regret, resolution. He knows the full extent of what has been done&mdash;of
      what he has done. He thinks, if the dead had not been false, anything else
      might have been forgiven; if he had but done this, and not done that; and
      his great human affections take their course, and he may wish it had been
      otherwise. But you know that having taken this gaze, and having let his
      mind go forth in its large issues, as was his way, he would again shut
      that lid, and shut his mind, and go away certain that it was right, that
      it was the only thing, and that he will abide by it to the end. It is no
      mean art that can put this into a few square inches of paper, or that can
      raise this out of any ordinary looker-on's brain. What a contrast to
      Napoleon's smooth, placid face and cold eyes, that rough visage, furrowed
      with sorrow and internal convulsions, and yet how much better, greater,
      worthier, the one than the other! We have often wondered, if they had met
      a Lutzen, or at some of the wild work of that time, what they would have
      made of each other. We would lay the odds upon the Brewer's Son. The
      intellect might not be so immense, the self-possession not so absolute,
      but the nature, the whole man, would be more powerful, because more in the
      right and more in sympathy with mankind. He would never try an impossible
      thing; he would seldom do a wrong thing, an outrage to human nature or its
      Author; and for all that makes true greatness and true courage, we would
      not compare the one with the other. But to return to our artist. There is
      St. Amelia praying, very beautiful; Death of Duke of Guise at Blois;
      Charles I. in the Guard-room, mocked by the soldiers; Lord Strafford going
      to execution, kneeling as he passes under the window of Laud's cell, whose
      outstretched hands bless him. This is a great picture; nothing is seen of
      Laud but the thin, passionate, imploring hands, and yet you know what they
      express, you know what sort of a face there will be in the darkness
      within. Strafford is very fine.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a charming portrait of his wife as the angel Gabriel; a St.
      Cecilia playing; and a beautiful Holy Family, the Virgin, a portrait of
      his wife, and the child, a beautiful rosy creature, full of favour, with
      those deep, unfathomable, clear eyes, filled with infinity, such as you
      see in Raphael's Sistine Jesus.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ast year at this
      time we were all impressed, as we seldom are by anything of this sort, by
      Delaroche's picture of Napoleon at Fontainebleau. We are none of us likely
      to forget the feeling then experienced of being admitted into that dread
      presence, and looking, not only at the bodily form, but into the very soul
      of that great and miserable man. We may now get a different and yet a
      similar impression, from what we cannot but regard as a nobler and more
      touching work&mdash;something deeper and finer still. Those who knew what
      we thought of the first, will understand how much praise of the second is
      involved in our saying this. Last year we saw before us the spectacle of
      power, perhaps the most intense and enormous ever committed by the Divine
      Disposer to one of his creatures, in ruins, having all but played the game
      out. It was the setting sun of a day of astonishment, brightness, and
      tempest, lightning and thunder; but the great orb was sinking in
      disastrous storm and gloom&mdash;going down never to rise again. In this
      new picture, we have the rising sun climbing up its young morning sky; the
      hours of glory, of havoc, and of shame, are before him, and us. The
      innocent brightness of his new-born day is not yet gone; it will soon go.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing can be simpler, or more everyday-like, than the body of the
      picture. A steady, painstaking mule, with his shoulder to the steep, his
      head well down, his nostrils dilated, his eye full of stress and courage,
      his last hind leg straining forward himself and his burden, his shaggy
      legs clotted with the sweat-ice-drops, the weatherworn harness painted as
      like as it can look, his ruffled and heated hide, the leash of thongs,
      which, dangling, has often amused and tickled his old and hungry sides,
      swinging forward in the gusty wind&mdash;his whole heart and soul in his
      work; he is led by his old master, with his homely, hardy, and honest
      face, his sinewy alpenstock in his hand. Far back on the mule sits
      Napoleon, consulting his own ease alone, not sparing man or beast&mdash;he
      was not given to spare man or beast&mdash;his muscles relaxed, his lean
      shapely leg instinctively gripping the saddle, his small handsome foot
      resting idly in the stirrup, the old useless knotted bridle lying on the
      mule's neck, his grey coat buttoned high up, and blown forward by the
      wind, his right hand in his inner coat, his slight graceful chest well up,
      and, above it, his face! and, above it, that well-known hat, firmly held
      by the prodigious head within, the powdery snow grizzling its rim. Ay,
      that face! look at it; let its vague, proud, melancholy gaze, not at you,
      or at anything, but into the immense future, take possession of your mind.
      He is turning the north side of the Alps; he is about descending into
      Italy; and what of that?&mdash;we all know now what of that, and do not
      know yet all of it. We were then, such of us as may have been born, as
      unconscious of what was before us and him, as that patient mule or his
      simple master. Look at the face narrowly: it is thin; the cheeks sunken;
      the chin exquisite, with its sweet dimple; the mouth gentle, and firm, and
      sensitive, but still as death, not thinking of words or speech, but merely
      letting the difficult air of that Alpine region in and out. That same
      mouth which was to ignore the word impossible and call it a beast, and to
      know it, and be beaten by it in the end; that thin, delicate, straight
      nose leading you to the eyes, with their pencilled and well-pronounced
      brows; there is the shadow of youth, and of indifferent health, under and
      around these eyes, giving to their power and meaning a singular charm&mdash;they
      are the wonder of the picture. He is looking seriously, but blankly, far
      on and up, seeing nothing outwardly, the mind's eye seeing&mdash;who can
      tell what? His cheek is pale with the longing of greatness. The young and
      mighty spirit within is awakening, and hardly knows itself and its
      visions, but it looks out clearly and firmly, though with a sort of vague
      sadness, into its appointed field.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one must be struck with this look of sorrow; a certain startled air
      of surprise, of hope, and of fear; his mind plays deeply with the future
      that is far off,&mdash;besides doing anything but play with his work
      to-morrow, that, as we shall soon hear, was earnest enough, as Marengo can
      tell. Such is the natural impression, such the feelings, this picture made
      and awakened in our minds through our eyes. It has a certain plain truth
      and immediateness of its own, which leads to the idea of all that
      followed; and, lest this effect be said to be ours, not the picture's, we
      would ask any man to try and bring such an idea, or indeed any idea, into
      the head of any one looking at David's absurd piece of horsemanship,
      called Crossing the Alps. And what is that idea? Everything ripening for
      that harvest, he is putting his sickle forth to reap. France, terrified
      and bleeding, and half free, getting sight of its future king&mdash;rousing
      itself and gathering itself up to act. Italy, Austria, and the drowsy,
      rotten, bewildered kingdoms, turning uneasily in their sleep, and
      awakening, some of them never again to rest; even the utmost north to bear
      witness of him, and take terrible vengeance for his wrongs. Egypt has
      already been filled with the glory, the execration, and disgrace of his
      name; and that Holy Land, the theatre of the unspeakable wonders and
      goodness of the Prince of Peace, that too has seen him, and has cast him
      out, by the hearty courage and hatred of an English captain and his
      sailors. England also is to play a part; to annihilate his fleets, beat
      him and his best marshals wherever she meets them, and finish him utterly
      at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      And what changes&mdash;as strange, though more hidden&mdash;in character,
      in affection, in moral worth, are to take place in that beautiful and
      spiritual countenance, in that soul of which it is the image; infinite
      pride, and glory, and guilt, working their fell will upon him&mdash;his
      being (that most dreadful of all calamities to a creature like man) left
      altogether to himself. How the wild, fierce courage of Lodi and Arcole is
      to waste away into the amazing meanness of "<i>Sauve gui peut</i>"&mdash;the
      Regent's letter, and the pitiful bullying on board the Bellerophon. Before
      him lis his victories, his mighty civil plans, his code of laws, his
      endless activity, his prodigious aims, even his medals so beautiful, so
      ridiculous, so full of lies&mdash;one of them telling its own shame,
      having on one side Hercules strangling the monster of the sea (England),
      and on the other the words "Struck at London!!" his perfidy and cruelty;
      the murdered young D'Enghien; the poisoned soldiers at Jaffa. The red
      field of Leipsic rises stark on our sight, where the great German people,
      that honest and right-hearted but slow race, fell and rose again, never
      again to fall so low, and, by and by, through the same vital energy, it
      may be soon, to rise higher than many think, when, rousing themselves like
      a strong man after sleep, they shall drive their enemies, be they kings or
      priests, as old Hermann and his Teuts chased the Roman Eagles across the
      Rhine, and returning, lift up like them their beer horns in peace; this
      has always seemed to us the great moral lesson to the world of Napoleon's
      career. But our readers are impatient; they have, perhaps, parted company
      with us long ago. One thing they will agree with us in, that this picture
      raises up the mind of the looker; fills his memory with living forms;
      breathes the breath of life and of human nature into the eventful past,
      and projects the mind forward upon the still greater future; deepens
      impressions, and writes "Vanity of vanity, all is vanity," on such mad
      ambition&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The glories of our earthly state,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Are shadows, not substantial things."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      But to return to our picture. Behind Napoleon is another guide, leading
      the horse of a soldier, muffled up, and battling with the keen mountain
      wind. This closes the scene; around and above are the everlasting Alps,
      looking as they did when Hannibal passed nearly 3000 years before, and as
      they will do thousands of years hence. They bear down upon the eye in a
      formidable way, as if frowning at the intruder on their snows and silence,
      and as if crowding down to withstand his steps. Under is the spotless
      snow, with some bits of ice, troubling the hoofs of the mule. This
      completes the picture, which, as we have already said, is homely and
      simple in its body, in all that first meets the eye, though informed
      throughout with the finest phantasy when the mind rests upon it and
      reaches its soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one must be struck with the personal beauty of Napoleon as
      represented here. He was in his 31st year; had been four years married to
      Josephine&mdash;the happiest years of his life; he had just come from
      Egypt, having been hunted across the Mediterranean by Nelson. His peasant
      guide, who succeeded to the old man, and who brought him within sight of
      Italy, described him as "a very dark man, and with an eye which, though
      affable, he did not like to encounter." We can believe him; a single look
      of that eye, or a word from that mouth, cheered and set in motion the
      wearied army as they toiled up "the Valley of Desolation;" and if they
      stuck fast in despair, the Consul had the drums beat, and trumpets
      sounded, as for the charge. This never failed. He knew his men.
    </p>
    <p>
      This picture was conceived by Delaroche last year, on the spot where the
      scene is laid, and painted very soon after. He was at Nice for his health,
      and had for his guide up the St. Bernard, the son of the man leading the
      mule, who told him many things about Napoleon, and how he looked. As
      regards colour, it is the best of Dela-roche's pictures we have seen; it
      is a curious study to mark how little, and how much, the young, thin,
      spiritual face differs from that of last year's picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is something to our minds, not unseasonable in directing our
      thoughts to such a spectacle of mere human greatness, at this (Christmas)
      sacred time. So much mischief, crime, and misery, and yet so much power,
      intelligence, progress, and a certain dreadful usefulness in the career of
      such a man. What a contrast to His life, who entered our world 1850 years
      ago, and whose birth was heralded by the angel song, "Glory to God in the
      highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men;" whose religion and
      example, and continual living influence, has kept this strange world of
      ours from being tenfold more wicked and miserable than it is. We would
      conclude with the words of the poet of <i>In Memoriam</i>&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Ring out the old, ring in the new,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Ring happy bells across the snow,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The year is going, let him go;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Ring out the false, ring in the true.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Ring out a slowly dying cause,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And ancient forms of party strife;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Ring in the nobler forms of life,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      With sweeter manners, purer laws.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Ring out false pride in place and blood,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The civic slander and the spite;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Ring in the love of truth and right,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Ring in the common love of good.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Ring out the thousand wars of old,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Ring in the thousand years of peace."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f this picture in
      any degree fulfil its object, if we are impressed and moved by it, then it
      is not matter for words, it partakes of the unspeakableness of its
      subject. If it fall short of this, it fails utterly, and is not worth any
      words but those of displeasure, for nothing is more worthless, nothing is
      more truly profane, and few things are more common, than the attempt to
      represent sacred ideas by a man who is himself profane, and incapable of
      impressing others. For it is as unseemly, and in the true sense as
      profane, for a painter to paint such subjects if he do not feel them, as
      it is for a man to preach the great truths of our most holy faith, being
      himself an unbeliever, or at the best a Gallio, in both cases working
      merely for effect, or to bring in wages.
    </p>
    <p>
      This picture is not liable to any such rebuke. Whatever may be thought of
      its central idea and of its expression, no one can doubt&mdash;no one can
      escape coming-under&mdash;its power, its true sacredness. Watch the people
      studying it; listen, not to their words, but to their silence; they are
      all as if performing an act of worship, or at least of devout reverence.
      The meaning of the picture reaches you at once: that lonely, serious,
      sorrowful, majestic countenance and form; those wonderful listening eyes,
      so full of concern, of compassion&mdash;"acquainted with grief;" the
      attitude of anxious hearkening, as if "waiting to be gracious." This idea
      rules the whole. We all feel who He is, and what He is desiring; and we
      feel, perhaps it may be in a way never felt before, the divine depth of
      the words, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man open unto
      me, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me;" and we see
      that though He is a king, and is "travelling in the greatness of his
      strength, mighty to save," He cannot open the door&mdash;it must open from
      within&mdash;He can only stand and knock.
    </p>
    <p>
      We confess that, with this thought filling our mind, we care little for
      the beautiful and ingenious symbols with which the painter has enriched
      his work; that garden run wild, that Paradise Lost, with the cold
      starlight indicating and concealing its ruin&mdash;all things waste, the
      light from the lantern falling on the apple (a wonderful bit of painting)&mdash;the
      fruit of that forbidden tree the darnel or tares choking up the door, and
      the gentle but inveterate ivy grasping it to the lintel; the Jewish and
      the Gentile emblems clasped together across his breast; the crown, at once
      royal and of thorns set with blood-red carbuncles; and many other emblems
      full of subtle spiritual meaning. We confess to rather wishing the first
      impression had been left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The faults of the picture as a work of art are, like its virtues, those of
      its school&mdash;imitation is sometimes mistaken for representation. There
      is a want of the unity, breadth, and spaciousness of nature about the
      landscape, as if the painter had looked with one eye shut, and thus lost
      the stereoscopic effect of reality&mdash;the solidarity of binocular
      vision; this gives a displeasing flatness. It is too full of astonishing
      bits, as if it had been looked at, as well as painted, piece-meal. With
      regard to the face of our Saviour, this is hardly a subject for criticism,&mdash;as
      we have said, it is full of majesty and tenderness and meaning; but we
      have never yet seen any image of that face so expressive as not to make us
      wish that it had been left alone to the heart and imagination of each for
      himself. In the "Entombment," by Titian, one of the three or four greatest
      pictures in the world, the face of the dead Saviour is in shadow, as if
      the painter preferred leaving it thus, to making it more definite; as if
      he relied on the idea&mdash;on the spiritual image&mdash;rising up of
      itself; as if he dared not be definite; thus showing at once his greatness
      and modesty by acknowledging that there is "that within which passeth
      show."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      RIZPAH.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>ake one of
      Turner's sketches in his <i>Liber Studiorum</i>, a book which, for truth
      and power, and the very highest imaginative <i>vis</i>, must be compared,
      not with any other book of prints, but with such word-pictures as you find
      in Dante, in Cowper, in Wordsworth, or in Milton. It is a dark foreground
      filled with gloom, savage and wild in its structure; a few grim heavy
      trees deepen the gloom: in the centre, and going out into the illimitable
      sky, is a brief, irregular bit of the purest radiance, luminous, but far
      off. There is a strange meaning about the place; it is "not uninformed
      with phantasy, and looks that threaten the profane." You look more keenly
      into it. In the centre of the foreground sits a woman, her face hidden,
      her whole form settled down as by some deep sorrow; she holds up, but with
      her face averted, a flaming torch; behind, and around her, lie stretched
      out seven bodies as of men, half-naked, and dimly indicating far-gone
      decay; at their feet are what seem like crowns. There is a lion seen with
      extended tail slinking off, and a bittern has just sprung up in the corner
      from a reedy pool. The waning moon is lying as if fainting in the grey
      heavens. The harvest sheaves stand near at hand, against the sky. The
      picture deepens in its gloom. The torch gives more of its fitful light as
      you steadily gaze. What is all this? These are two sons and five grandsons
      of Saul, who "fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days
      of harvest, in the beginning of barley harvest." And she who sits there
      solitary is "Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, who took sackcloth, and spread
      it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water
      dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air
      to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night." For five
      months did this desolate mother watch by the bodies of her sons! She is at
      her ceaseless work, morn, noon, and night incessantly. How your heart now
      fills, as well as your eyes! How you realize the idea! What a sacred
      significance it gives to the place, and receives from it! What thoughts it
      awakens! Saul and his miserable story, David and his lamentation, the
      mountains of Gil-boa, the streets of Askelon. The king of beasts slinking
      off once more, hungry, angry, and afraid&mdash;finding her still there.
      The barley sheaves, indicating by a touch of wonderful genius, that it is
      nearer the beginning than the end of her time, so that we project our
      sympathy forward upon the future months. No one but a great artist would
      have thought of this. And that unfailing, forlorn woman, what love! That
      only love which He whose name and nature it has honoured by admitting to
      be nearest, though at an infinite distance from His own. "Can a woman
      forget?&mdash;Yea, she may forget." Here we have a scene in itself
      impressive, and truthfully rendered, enriched, and sanctified by a subject
      of the highest dignity, and deepest tenderness, and in perfect harmony
      with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many may say we bring out much that is not in it. This maybe partly true,
      and is rather to that extent an enhancement of its worth. But the real
      truth is, that there is all this in it, if it be but sought for and
      received in simplicity and reverence. The materials for imagination are
      there; let the spectator apprehend them in the like spirit, and he will
      feel all, and more than we have described. Let a man try to bring anything
      out of some of the many landscapes we see in our Exhibitions, and he may
      be strong and willing, but it will prove too hard for him; it is true here
      as everywhere else&mdash;<i>ex nihilo nihil Jit&mdash;ex parvo, parvum&mdash;ex
      falso, falsum&mdash;ex magno, magnum&mdash;ex Deo, Optimo, Maximo,
      maximum, optimum, divinum.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE GLEN OF THE ENTERKIN.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his is a
      representation by Mr. Harvey of a deep, upland valley; its truthfulness is
      so absolute, that the geologist could tell from it what formation was
      under that grass. The store-farmer could say how many sheep it could feed,
      and what breed those are which are busy nibbling on that sunny slope. The
      botanist could tell not only that that is a fern, but that it is the <i>Aspidium
      filix-mas</i>; and the naturalist knows that that water-wagtail on that
      stone is the <i>Motacilla Yarrelli</i>. To all this, the painter has added
      his own thoughts and feelings when he saw and when he painted this
      consummate picture. It is his idea of the place, and, like all realized
      ideals, it has first crept into his study of imagination, before it comes
      into the eye and prospect of his soul or of ours. We feel the spirit of
      the place, its gentleness, its unspeakable seclusion. The one shepherd
      with his dog far up on the hillside, grey and steadfast as any stone,
      adding the element of human solitude, which intensifies the rest. It were
      worth one's while to go alone to that glen to feel its beauty, and to know
      something of what is meant by the "sleep that is among the lonely hills,"
      and to feel, moreover, how much more beautiful, how much more full of life
      the picture is than the reality, unless indeed we have the seeing eye, the
      understanding heart, and then we may make a picture to ourselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      DAWN&mdash;LUTHER IN THE CONVENT LIBRARY AT ERFURT.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his is, we think,
      Mr. Paton's best work. We do not say his greatest, for that may be held to
      include quantity of genius as well as quality. He has done other things as
      full of imagination, and more full of fancy; but there is a seriousness
      and depth, a moral and spiritual meaning and worth about this which he has
      never before shown, and which fully deserve the word best.
    </p>
    <p>
      The picture requires no explanation. It is Luther, the young monk of
      four-and-twenty, in the Library of the Convent of Erfurt. He is at his
      desk, leaning almost wildly forward, one knee on the seat&mdash;its foot
      has dropped the rude and worn sandal&mdash;the other foot on the floor, as
      it were pressing him forward. He is gazing into the open pages of a huge
      Vulgate&mdash;we see it is the early chapters of the Romans. A bit of
      broken chain indicates that the Bible was once chained&mdash;to be read,
      but not possessed&mdash;it is now free, and his own. His right hand is
      eagerly, passionately drawing the volume close to him. His face is
      emaciated to painfulness; you see the traces of a sleepless night&mdash;the
      mind sleepless, and worse, seeking rest, and as yet finding none, but
      about to find it&mdash;and this takes away from what might otherwise be a
      <i>plus</i> of pain. Next moment he will come upon&mdash;or it on him&mdash;the
      light from heaven, shining out from the words, "Therefore being justified
      by faith we have peace with God and in intimation of this, His dawn, the
      sweet, pearly light of morning, shining in at the now open lattice, is
      reflected from the page upon his keen anxious face&mdash;faint yet
      pursuing." If you look steadily into that face, you will see that the
      bones of the mighty Reformer's face, so well known to us, are all there,
      and need but good food and sleep, and the open air, and peace of mind, and
      the joy of victorious faith and work, to fill it up and make it plump,
      giving it that look of energy in repose, of enough and to spare, of
      masculine power, which that broad, massive, but soft and kindly visage,
      wears written all over it; and the slightly upturned head, the clear,
      open, deep eyes, and that rich chin and neck, "dewlapped like a Thessalian
      bull."
    </p>
    <p>
      And we know that all this misery, and examination, and wasting are true.
      We know that when his friend Alexis was struck down dead by lightning at
      his side as they walked together, he also was struck down in his mind; and
      in the words of Principal Tulloch in his admirable sketch, he carried out
      his resolve in a way curiously and entirely his own&mdash;"One evening he
      invites some of his fellow-students to supper, gives them of his best
      cheer, music and jest enliven the company, and the entertainment closes
      with a burst of merriment. The same night there is a solitary knock at the
      door of the Augustinian Convent, and two volumes alone of all his books in
      his hand&mdash;Plautus and Virgil&mdash;Luther passes under its portal."
      Three long, dreary years he has been there; doing all sorts of servile
      work&mdash;sweeping the floors, begging in the streets with his wallet&mdash;"<i>Saccum
      per nackum</i>"&mdash;for food and dainties to his lazy brethren.
      Sometimes four days without meat or drink&mdash;hiding himself for a week
      with his books in his cell, where, when broken in upon, he is found lying
      cold and senseless on the floor; and all this bodily wretchedness,
      struggle, and unrest but a material type of the mental agony within trying
      to work out his own salvation with all sorts of "fear and trembling." And
      now the natural dawn has found him still at his book, and is pouring its
      "innocent brightness" everywhere, and its fresh airs are stirring the
      white blossoms of the convolvulus outside, and making them flutter and
      look in like doves&mdash;the dew of their youth and of the morning
      glistering, if looked for. And this time it has found him with his morn
      beginning too&mdash;the clear shining after the rain, the night far past,
      the day at hand; he has "cast off the works of darkness, and put on the
      armour of light." The Sun of Righteousness is about to arise upon him.
      Henceforth you know well what he is to become and do&mdash;a child of the
      light, he walks abroad like one, and at liberty he goes forth upon his
      work, rejoicing like a strong man to run his race. That great human spirit
      finds rest and a resting-place&mdash;has got that fulcrum on which, with
      his strong heart and his lever, he is to move a world. That warm, urgent,
      tender, impetuous human heart is to be satisfied with the fellowship of
      his kind, and with the love of his Catherine&mdash;"his heart-loved
      housewife and sow-marketress, and whatever more she may be"&mdash;and to
      run over in babble (as who ever else did?) to his "Johnny," his "Philip
      and his Joe," or overflow with tears as he looks on his "darling Lena" in
      her coffin, saving, "How strange it is to know so surely that she is at
      peace and happy, and yet for me to be so sad."
    </p>
    <p>
      And now that this dominant, central idea&mdash;which is the heart and
      soul, the motive power of the piece&mdash;is taken in and moves you,
      examine the rest&mdash;the great Vulgate and St. Augustine De Civitate
      Dei, and Thomas Aquinas, and the other old fellows, old and strong, lying
      all about, as if taken up and thrown down in restless search, how
      wonderfully they are painted! or rather, how wonderfully you never think
      of them as painted! and yet they are not merely imitated&mdash;you don't
      mistake them for actual books, they are the realized ideas of books. And
      that sacred, unspeakable scene, dim, yet unmistakable, looking out upon
      you from the back of his desk&mdash;the Agony of the Garden&mdash;carved
      and partly coloured and gilt; look at it&mdash;that is religious painting.
      Our Saviour on his knees "praying more earnestly"&mdash;the sleepers lying
      around&mdash;the mystic, heavy, sombre olive-trees, shutting out the light
      of heaven, and letting the lanterns of those "with swords and staves"
      gleam among their stems; him who was a thief, crouching, stealing on with
      his bag and his crew, and the curse heavy upon him&mdash;all this is in
      it, and all subordinate, and yet done to the quick, as if a young Albert
      Durer or Van Eyck had had his knife in the wood, and his soul at his
      knife. Then, on the plastered wall behind the young monk is an oval
      portrait of Alexander the Sixth, the tremendous Borgia, that prodigy of
      crime and power&mdash;his face, what a contrast to the wasted boy's
      beneath! he is fat and flourishing, rosy and full of blood and of the
      pride of life, insolent and at his ease; Luther like a young branch all
      but withered in the leaves of his spring&mdash;the Vicar of God spreading
      like a green bay tree. He is holding up his two first fingers in the
      Apostolic benediction, with a something between a scowl and a leer&mdash;all
      this rendered, and yet nothing overdone. This portrait hangs on a rude
      drawing of the Crucifixion, as if by a young and adoring hand, full of
      feeling and with a touching uncertainty in the lines, as if the hand that
      traced it was unaccustomed and trembling; it conceals our Saviour's face.
      As we have said, the lattice has been opened, and the breath of the
      morning is flowing into the dark, stifling room. The night lamp has gone
      out, paling its ineffectual fires, and its reek is curling up and down,
      and away. This, as a piece of handiwork, is wonderful. When you look
      narrowly into the picture, you see a chrysalis in the gloom, just opening
      its case, ready when struck by the light and heat to expand and fly. The
      sunlight throws across towards Borgia the rich blooms of the stained
      glass, the light made gloriously false in passing through its disturbing
      medium; while the pure, white light of heaven passes straight down upon
      the Word of God, and shines up into the face of the young reader.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such is a mere notion of this excellent picture; it is painted throughout
      with amazing precision, delicacy, sweetness, and strength, in perfect
      diapason from first to last, everything subordinate to the one master
      note. Every one will be surprised, and some may be shocked, at the face,
      and hands, and look of Luther, but let them remember where he is, and what
      he has been and is doing and suffering. This amount of pain gives a
      strange and true relish, if it is taken up and overpowered and
      transfigured into its opposite by our knowledge that it was to be "but for
      a moment," and then the "fat-more exceeding" victory and joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BEAUTY, ABSOLUTE AND RELATIVE.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e are not now
      going to try our 'prentice hand upon a new theory of Beauty, after so many
      masters have failed; but we cannot help thinking that the dispute would be
      at an end if it were but allowed at once, that there are two kinds of
      beauty, that there is a material and necessary element of beauty, and
      another which is contingent and relative&mdash;a natural and a spiritual
      delightfulness to and through the eye; and that sometimes we see both
      together, as in the face and eyes of a beautiful and beloved woman; and
      moreover, that there is no more reason for denying either the sense or the
      emotion of beauty, because everybody does not agree about the kind or
      measure of either of these qualities in all objects, than there is for
      affirming that there is no such thing as veracity or natural affection,
      because the Spartans commended lying, and the Cretians practised it, or
      the New Zealanders the eating of one's grandmother. Why should the eye,
      the noblest, the amplest, the most informing of all our senses, be
      deprived of its own special delight? The light is sweet, and it is a
      pleasant thing for the eye to behold the sun; and why, when the ear has
      sound for informing, and music for delight&mdash;when there is smell and
      odour, taste and flavour, and even the touch has its sense of pleasant
      smoothness and softness&mdash;why should there not be in the eye a
      pleasure born and dying with the sights it sees? it is like the infinite
      loving-kindness of Him who made the trees of the garden pleasant to the
      eye as well as good for food. We say nothing here of Relative or
      Associative Beauty,&mdash;this has never been doubted either in its
      essence or its value. It is as much larger in its range, as much nobler in
      its meaning and uses, as the heavens are higher than the earth, or as the
      soul transcends the body. This, too, gives back to material beauty more
      than it received: it was after man was made, that God saw, and, behold,
      everything was very good.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our readers may perhaps think we make too much of imagination as an
      essential element&mdash;as the essential element&mdash;in Art. With our
      views of its function and its pervading influence in all the ideal arts,
      we can give it no other place. A man can no more be a poet or painter in
      the spiritual and only true sense without imagination, than an animal can
      be a bird without wings; and as, other things being equal, that bird can
      be longest on the wing and has the greatest range of flight which has the
      strongest pinions, so that painter is likely to have the farthest and
      keenest vision of all that is within the scope of his art, and the surest
      and most ample faculty of making known to others what he himself has seen,
      whose imagination is at once the most strong and quick. At the same time,
      if it be true that the body without the spirit is dead, so it is equally
      true that the spirit without the body is vain, ineffectual, fruitless.
      Imagination alone can no more make a painter or a poet than wings can
      constitute a bird. Each must have a body. Unfortunately, in painting we
      have more than enough of body without spirit. Correct drawing, wonderful
      imitative powers, cleverness, adaptiveness, great facility and dexterity
      of hand, much largeness of quotation, and many material and mechanical
      qualities, all go to form an amusing, and, it may be, useful spectacle,
      but not a true picture. We have also, but not so often, the reverse of all
      this,&mdash;the vision without the faculty, the soul without the body,
      great thoughts without the power to embody them in intelligible forms. He,
      and he alone, is a great painter, and an heir of time, who combines both.
      He must have observation,&mdash;humble, loving, unerring, unwearied; this
      is the material out of which a painter, like a poet, feeds his genius, and
      "makes grow his wings." There must be perception and conception, both
      vigorous, quick, and true: you must have these two primary qualities, the
      one first, the other last, in every great painter. Give him good sense and
      a good memory, it will be all the better for him and for us. As for
      principles of drawing and perspective, they are not essential. A man who
      paints according to a principle is sure to paint ill; he may apply his
      principles after his work is done, if he has a philosophic as well as an
      ideal turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      "OH, I'M WAT, WAT."
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he father of the
      Rev. Mr. Steven of Largs, was the son of a farmer, who lived next farm to
      Mossgiel. When a boy of eight, he found "Robbie," who was a great friend
      of his, and of all the children, engaged digging a large trench in a
      field, Gilbert, his brother, with him. The boy pausing on the edge of the
      trench, and looking down upon Burns, said, "Robbie, what's that ye' re
      doin'?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How kin' a muckle hole, Tammie."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What for?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To bury the Deil in, Tammie!" (one can fancy how those eyes would glow.)
      "Ay but, Robbie," said the logical Tammie, "hoo' re ye to gel him in?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said Burns, "that's it, hoo are we to get him in!" and went off into
      shouts of laughter; and every now and then during that summer day shouts
      would come from that hole, as the idea came over him. If one could only
      have daguerreotyped his day's fancies!
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is love, Mary?" said Seventeen to Thirteen, who was busy with her
      English lessons.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Love! what do you mean, John?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I mean, what's love?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Love's just love, I suppose."
    </p>
    <p>
      (Yes, Mary, you are right to keep the concrete; analysis kills love as
      well as other things. I once asked a useful-information young lady what
      her mother was. "Oh, mamma's a <i>biped!</i>" I turned in dismay to her
      younger sister, and said, "What do you say?" "Oh, my mother's just my
      mother.")
    </p>
    <p>
      "But what part of speech is it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's a substantive or a verb." (Young Horne Tooke didn't ask her if it
      was an active or passive, an irregular or defective verb; an inceptive, as
      <i>calesco</i>, I grow warm, or <i>dulcesco</i>, I grow sweet; a
      frequentative or a desiderative, as <i>nupturio</i>, I desire to marry.)
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think it is a verb," said John, who was deep in other diversions
      besides those of Burley; "and I think it must have been originally <i>the
      Perfect of Live</i>, like thrive, throve, strive, strove."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Capital, John!" suddenly growled Uncle Oldbuck, who was supposed to be
      asleep in his arm-chair by the fireside, and who snubbed and supported the
      entire household. "It was that originally, and it will be our own faults,
      children, if it is not that at last, as well as, ay, and more than at
      first. What does Richardson say, John? read him out." John reads&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * They are strange beings, these lexicographers. Richardson,
     for instance, under the word snail, gives this quotation
     from Beaumont and Fletcher's Wit at Several Weapons,

     "Oh, Master Pompey! how is't, man?

     Clown&mdash;Snails, I'm almost starved with love and cold, and
     one thing or other."

     Any one else knows of course that it is 11's nails"&mdash;the
     contraction of the old oath or interjection&mdash;God's nails.
</pre>
    <p>
      After this, Uncle sent the cousins to their beds. John's mother was in
      hers, never to rise from it again. She was a widow, and Mary was her
      husband's niece. The house quiet, Uncle sat down in his chair, put his
      feet on the fender, and watched the dying fire; it had a rich central
      glow, but no flame, and no smoke, it was flashing up fitfully, and bit by
      bit falling in. He fell asleep watching it, and when he slept, he dreamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0029" id="linkimage-0029"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0269m.jpg" alt="0269m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0269.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      He was young; he was seventeen, he was prowling about the head of North
      St. David Street, keeping his eye on a certain door,&mdash;we call them
      common stairs in Scotland. He was waiting for Mr. White's famous English
      class for girls coming out. Presently out rushed four or five girls, wild
      and laughing; then came one, bounding like a roe!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Such eyes were in her head,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And so much grace and power!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      She was surrounded by the rest, and away they went laughing, she making
      them always laugh the more. Seventeen followed at a safe distance,
      studying her small, firm, downright heel. The girls dropped off one by
      one, and she was away home by herself, swift and reserved. He, impostor as
      he was, disappeared through Jamaica Street, to reappear and meet her,
      walking as if on urgent business, and getting a cordial and careless nod.
      This beautiful girl of thirteen was afterwards the mother of our Mary, and
      died in giving her birth. She was Uncle Old-buck's first and only
      sweetheart; and here was he, the only help our young Horne Tooke, and his
      mother and Mary had. Uncle awoke, the fire dead, and the room cold. He
      found himself repeating Lady John Scott's lines&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "When thou art near me,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sorrow seems to fly,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And then I think, as well I may,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That on this earth there is no one
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      More blest than I.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But when thou leav'st me,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Doubts and fears arise, \
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And darkness reigns,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Where all before was light.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The sunshine of my soul
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Is in those eyes,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And when they leave me
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      All the world is night.
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      But when thou art near me,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sorrow seems to fly,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And then I feel, as well I may,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That on this earth there dwells not one
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      So blest as I." *
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Can the gifted author of these lines and of their music
     not be prevailed on to give them and others to the world, as
     well as to her friends?
</pre>
    <p>
      Then taking down <i>Chambers's Scottish Songs</i>, he read aloud:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "O, I'm wat, wat,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      O, I'm wat and weary;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Yet fain wad I rise and rin,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      If I thocht I would meet my dearie.
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Aye wankin', O!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wankin' aye, and weary;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sleep I can get nane
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      For thinkin' o' my dearie.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Simmer's a pleasant time,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Flowers o' every colour;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The wafer rins ower the heugh,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And I long for my true lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      When I sleep I dream,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      When I wauk I'm eerie,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Sleep I can get nane,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      For thinkin' o' my dearie.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Lanely nicht comes on,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      A' the lave are sleepin';
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I think on my true love,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And blear my een wi' greetin'.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Feather beds are saft&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Pentit rooms are bonnie;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But ae kiss o' my dear love
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Better's far than ony.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      O for Friday nicht!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Friday at the gloamin';
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      O for Friday nicht&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Friday's lang o' cornin'!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This love-song, which Mr. Chambers gives from recitation, is, thinks Uncle
      to himself, all but perfect; Burns, who in almost every instance, not only
      adorned, but transformed and purified whatever of the old he touched,
      breathing into it his own tenderness and strength, fails here, as may be
      seen in reading his version:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Oh, spring's a pleasant time
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Flowers o' every colour&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      <i>The sweet bird builds her nest</i>,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And I lang for my lover.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Aye wakin', oh!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wakin' aye and <i>wearie</i>:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Sleep I can get nane,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      For thinkin' o' my dearie!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      When I sleep I dream,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      When I wauk I'm eerie,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Rest I canna get,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      For thinkin' o' my dearie.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Aye wakin', oh!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wakin' aye and weary,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      <i>Come, come, blissful dream,</i>
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Bring me to my dearie.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      <i>Darksome</i> nicht comes doun&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      A the lave are sleepin';
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I think on my kind lad.
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And blin' my een wi' greetin'.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Aye wakin', oh!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wakin' aye and weary;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      <i>Hope is sweet,</i> but ne'er
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sae sweet as my dearie!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      How weak these italics! No one can doubt which of these is the better. The
      old song is perfect in the procession, and in the simple beauty of its
      thoughts and words. A ploughman or shepherd&mdash;for I hold that it is a
      man's song&mdash;comes in "wat, wat" after a hard day's work among the
      furrows or on the hill. The wat ness of wat, wat, is as much wetter than
      wet as a Scotch mist is more of a mist than an English one; and he is not
      only wat, wat, but "weary," longing for a dry skin and a warm bed and
      rest; but no sooner said and felt, than, by the law of contrast, he thinks
      on "Mysie" or "Ailie," his Genevieve; and then "all thoughts, all
      passions, all delights" begin to stir him, and "fain wad I rise and rin"
      (what a swiftness beyond run is "rin"!) Love now makes him a poet; the
      true imaginative power enters and takes possession of him. By this time
      his clothes are off, and he is snug in bed; not a wink can he sleep; that
      "fain" is domineering over him,&mdash;and he breaks out into what is as
      genuine passion and poetry, as anything from Sappho to Tennyson&mdash;abrupt,
      vivid, heedless of syntax. "Simmer's a pleasant time." Would any of our
      greatest geniuses, being limited to one word, have done better than take
      "pleasant"? and then the fine vagueness of "time"! "Flowers o' every
      colour;" he gets a glimpse of "herself a fairer flower," and is off in
      pursuit. "The water rins ower the heugh" (a steep precipice); flinging
      itself wildly, passionately over, and so do I long for my true lover.
      Nothing can be simpler and finer than
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "When I sleep, I dream;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      When I wauk, I'm eerie."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lanely nicht;" how much richer and more touching than "darksome."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Feather beds are saft;" "pentit rooms are bonnie;" I would infer from
      this, that his "dearie," his "true love," was a lass up at "the big house"&mdash;a
      dapper Abigail possibly&mdash;at Sir William's at the Castle, and then we
      have the final paroxysm upon Friday nicht&mdash;Friday at the gloamin'! O
      for Friday nicht!&mdash;Friday's lang o' cornin'!&mdash;it being very
      likely Thursday before day-break when this affectionate <i>ululatus</i>
      ended in repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, is not this rude ditty, made very likely by some clumsy, big-headed
      Galloway herd, full of the real stuff of love? He does not go off upon her
      eye-brows, or even her eyes; he does not sit down, and in a genteel way
      announce that "love in thine eyes for ever sits," etc. etc., or that her
      feet look out from under her petticoats like little mice: he is far past
      that; he is not making love, he is in it. This is one and a chief charm of
      Burns' love-songs, which are certainly of all love-songs except those wild
      snatches left to us by her who flung herself from the Leucadian rock, the
      most in earnest, the tenderest, the "most moving delicate and full of
      life." Burns makes you feel the reality and the depth, the truth of his
      passion: it is not her eyelashes, or her nose, or her dimple, or even
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I' the bottom of a cowslip,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      that are "winging the fervour of his love;" not even her soul; it is
      herself. This concentration and earnestness, this <i>perfervor</i> of our
      Scottish love poetry, seems to me to contrast curiously with the light,
      trifling, philandering of the English; indeed, as far as I remember, we
      have almost no love-songs in English, of the same class as this one, or
      those of Burns. They are mostly either of the genteel, or of the nautical
      (some of these capital), or of the comic school. Do you know the most
      perfect, the finest love-song in our or in any language; the love being
      affectionate more than passionate, love in possession not in pursuit?
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      My plaidie to the angry airt,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Thy bield should be my bosom,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      To share it a', to share it a'.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Or were I in the wildest waste,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The desert were a paradise,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or were I monarch o' the globe,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The brightest jewel in my crown
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The following is Mr. Chambers's account of the origin of this song:&mdash;-Jessy
      Lewars had a call one morning from Burns. He offered, if she would play
      him any tune of which she was fond, and for which she desired new verses,
      that he would do his best to gratify her wish. She sat down at the piano,
      and played over and over the air of an old song, beginning with the words&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The robin cam' to the wren's nest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And keekit in, and keekit in:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      'O wae's me on your auld pow!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Ye'se ne'er get leave to lie without.
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And I within, and I within,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      As lang's I hae an auld clout,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      To row ye in, to row ye in.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0030" id="linkimage-0030"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0275m.jpg" alt="0275m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0275.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Uncle now took his candle, and slunk off to bed, slipping up noiselessly
      that he might not disturb the thin sleep of the sufferer, saying in to
      himself&mdash;"I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee "If thou wert there, if
      thou wert there and though the morning was at the window, he was up by
      eight, making breakfast for John and Mary.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      EDUCATION THROUGH THE SENSES.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      (reprinted from "the museum.")
    </h3>
    <p>
      "<i>Now, in matter of the knowledge of the works of nature, I would have
      you to study that exactly; that so there be no sea, river, nor fountain,
      of which thou dost not know the fishes; all the fowls of the air; all the
      several kinds of shrubs and trees, whether in forest or orchard; all the
      sorts of herbs and flowers that grow upon the ground; all the various
      metals that are hid within the bowels of the earth. Let nothing of all
      these be hidden from thee.... But because, as the wise man Solomon saith,
      wisdom entereth not into a malicious mind, and that knowledge without
      conscience is but the ruin of the soul; it behoveth thee to serve, to
      love, to fear God, and on him to cast all thy thoughts and all thy hope,
      and, by faith fortivied in love to cleave unto him, so that thou mayest
      never be separated from him by thy sins</i>."&mdash;Letter from Garagantua
      to his son Pantagruel.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Qui curiosuspostulat totum suce
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Paterementi, ferre qui non stifficit
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Mediocritatis conscientiam suce,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Judex iniquus, cestimator est malus
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Suique naturæque; nam rerumparens,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Libanda tantum quæ venit mortaliôus,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nos scire patica, multa mirari jubet."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "&mdash;Quiescet animus, errabit minus
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Cotitentus eruditione parabili,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nec quorct illam, siqua quorentem fugit.
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nescire qucedam magna pars sapientio est."
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Grotius.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      [Greek]
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne of the chief
      sins of our time is hurry: it is helter-skelter, and devil take the
      hindmost. Off we go all too swift at starting, and we neither run so fast
      nor so far as we would have done, had we taken it <i>cannily</i> at first.
      This is true of a boy as well as of a blood colt. Not only are boys and
      colts made to do the work and the running of fullgrown men and horses, but
      they are hurried out of themselves and their <i>now</i>, and pushed into
      the middle of next week where nobody is wanting them, and beyond which
      they frequently never get.
    </p>
    <p>
      The main duty of those who care for the young is to secure their
      wholesome, their entire growth, for health is just the development of the
      whole nature in its due sequences and proportions: first the blade&mdash;then
      the ear&mdash;then, and not till then, the full corn in the ear; and thus,
      as Dr. Temple wisely says, "not to forget wisdom in teaching knowledge."
      If the blade be forced, and usurp the capital it inherits; if it be robbed
      by you its guardian of its birthright, or squandered like a spendthrift,
      then there is not any ear, much less any corn; if the blade be blasted or
      dwarfed in our haste and greed for the full shock and its price, we spoil
      all three. It is not easy to keep this always before one's mind, that the
      young "idea" is in a young body, and that healthy growth and harmless
      passing of the time are more to be cared for than wrhat is vainly called
      accomplishment. We are preparing him to run his race, and accomplish that
      which is one of his chief ends; but we are too apt to start him off at his
      full speed, and be either bolts or breaks down&mdash;the worst thing for
      him generally being to win. In this wray a child or boy should be regarded
      much more as a mean than as an end, and his cultivation should have
      reference to this; his mind, as old Montaigne said, should be forged, as
      well as&mdash;indeed, I would say, rather than&mdash;furnished, fed rather
      than filled,&mdash;two not always coincident conditions. Now exercise&mdash;the
      joy of interest, of origination, of activity, of excitement&mdash;the play
      of the faculties,&mdash;this is the true life of a boy, not the
      accumulation of mere words. Words&mdash;the coin of thought&mdash;unless
      as the means of buying something else, are just as useless as other coin
      when it is hoarded; and it is as silly, and in the true sense as much the
      part and lot of a miser to amass words for their own sakes, as to keep all
      your guineas in a stocking and never spend them, but be satisfied with
      every now and then looking greedily at them and making them chink.
      Therefore it is that I dislike&mdash;as indeed who doesn't?&mdash;the
      cramming system. The great thing with knowledge and the young is to secure
      that it shall be their own&mdash;that it be not merely external to their
      inner and real self, but shall go <i>in succum et sanguinem</i>; and
      therefore it is, that the self-teaching that a baby and a child give
      themselves remains with them for ever&mdash;it is of their essence,
      whereas what is given them <i>ab extra</i>, especially if it be received
      mechanically, without relish, and without any energizing of the entire
      nature, remains pitifully useless and <i>wersh</i>. Try, therefore, always
      to get the resident teacher <i>inside the skin</i>, and who is for ever
      giving his lessons, to help you and be on your side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now in children, as we all know, he works chiefly through the senses. The
      quantity of accurate observation&mdash;of induction, and of deduction too
      (both of a much better quality than most of Mr. Buckle's); of reasoning
      from the known to the unknown; of inferring; the nicety of appreciation of
      the like and the unlike, the common and the rare, the odd and the even;
      the skill of the rough and the smooth&mdash;of form, of appearance, of
      texture, of weight, of all the minute and deep philosophies of the touch
      and of the other senses,&mdash;the amount of this sort of objective
      knowledge which every child of eight years has acquired&mdash;especially
      if he can play in the lap of nature and out of doors&mdash;and acquired
      for life, is, if we could only think of it, marvellous beyond any of our
      mightiest marches of intellect. Now, could we only get the knowledge of
      the school to go as sweetly and deeply and clearly into the vitals of the
      mind as this self-teaching has done, and this is the paradisiac way of it,
      we should make the young mind grow as well as learn, and be in
      understanding a man as well as in simplicity a child; we should get rid of
      much of that dreary, sheer endurance of their school-hours&mdash;that
      stolid lending of ears that do not hear&mdash;that objectless looking
      without ever once seeing, and straining their minds without an aim;
      alternating, it may be, with some feats of dexterity and effort, like a
      man trying to lift himself in his own arms, or take his head in his teeth,
      exploits as dangerous, as ungraceful, and as useless, except to glorify
      the showman and bring wages in, as the feats of an acrobat.
    </p>
    <p>
      But you will ask, how is all this to be avoided if everybody must know how
      far the sun is from <i>Georgium Sidus</i>, and how much of phosphorus is
      in our bones, and of ptyalin and flint in human spittle&mdash;besides some
      10,000 times 10,000 other things which we must be told and try to
      remember, and which we cannot prove not to be true, but which I decline to
      say we know.
    </p>
    <p>
      But <i>is</i> it necessary that everybody should know everything? Is it
      not much more to the purpose for every man, when his turn comes, to be
      able to <i>do</i> something; and I say, that other things being equal, a
      boy who goes bird-nesting, and makes a collection of eggs, and knows all
      their colours and spots, going through the excitements and glories of
      getting them, and observing everything with a keenness, an intensity, an
      exactness, and a permanency, which only youth and a quick pulse, and fresh
      blood and spirits combined, can achieve,&mdash;a boy who teaches himself
      natural history in this way, is not only a healthier and happier boy, but
      is abler in mind and body for entering upon the great game of life, than
      the pale, nervous, bright-eyed, feverish, "interesting" boy, with a big
      head and a small bottom and thin legs, who is the "captain," the miracle
      of the school; dux for his brief year or two of glory, and, if he live,
      booby for life. I am, of course, not going in for a complete curriculum of
      general ignorance; but I am for calling the attention of teachers to
      drawing out the minds, the energies, the hearts of their pupils through
      their senses, as well as pouring in through these same apertures the
      general knowledge of mankind, the capital of the race, into this one small
      being, who it is to be hoped will contrive to forget much of the mere
      words he has unhappily learned.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0031" id="linkimage-0031"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0281m.jpg" alt="0281m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0281.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      For we may say of our time in all seriousness, what Sydney Smith said in
      the fulness of his wisdom and his fun of the pantologic master of Trinity&mdash;Science
      is our <i>forte</i>, omniscience is our <i>foible</i>. There is the seed
      of a whole treatise, a whole organon in this joke; think over it, and let
      it simmer in your mind, and you will feel its significance and its power.
      Now, what is <i>science</i> so called to every 999 men in 1000, but
      something that the one man tells them he has been told by some one else&mdash;who
      may be one among say 50,000&mdash;is true, but of the truth of which these
      999 men (and probably even the teaching thousandth man) can have no direct
      test, and, accordingly, for the truth or falsehood of which they, by a law
      of their nature, which rejects what has no savour and is superfluous,
      don't care one fig. How much better, how much dearer, and more precious in
      a double sense, because it has been bought by themselves,&mdash;how much
      nobler is the knowledge which our little friend, young Edward Forbes,
      "that marvellous boy," for instance&mdash;and what an instance!&mdash;is
      picking up, as he looks into everything he sees, and takes photographs
      upon his retina?&mdash;the <i>camera lucida</i> of his mind&mdash;which
      never fade, of every midge that washes its face as a cat does, and preens
      its wings, every lady-bird that alights on his knee, and folds and unfolds
      her gauzy pinions under their spotted and glorious lids. How more real is
      not only this knowledge, but this little knowledger in his entire nature,
      than the poor being who can maunder amazingly the entire circle of human
      science at second, or it may be, twentieth hand!
    </p>
    <p>
      There are some admirable, though cursory remarks on "Ornithology as a
      Branch of Liberal Education," by the late Dr. Adams of Banchory, the great
      Greek scholar, in a pamphlet bearing this title, which he read as a paper
      before the last meeting of the British Association in Aberdeen. It is not
      only interesting as a piece of natural history, and a touching
      co-operation of father and son in the same field&mdash;the one on the
      banks of his own beautiful Dee and among the wilds of the Grampians, the
      other among the Himalayas and the forests of Cashmere; the son having been
      enabled, by the knowledge of his native birds got under his father's eye,
      when placed in an unknown country to recognise his old feathered friends,
      and to make new ones and tell their story; it is also valuable as coming
      from a man of enormous scholarship and knowledge&mdash;the most learned
      physician of his time&mdash;who knew Aristotle and Plato, and all those
      old fellows, as we know Maunder or Lardner&mdash;a hardworking country
      surgeon, who was ready to run at any one's call&mdash;but who did not
      despise the modern enlightenments of his profession, because they were not
      in Paulus Agineta; though, at the same time, he did not despise the
      admirable and industrious Paul because he was not up to the last doctrine
      of the nucleated cell, or did not read his Hippocrates by the blaze of
      paraffine; a man greedy of all knowledge, and welcoming it from all
      comers, but who, at the end of a long life of toil and thought, gave it as
      his conviction that one of the best helps to true education, one of the
      best counteractives to the necessary mischiefs of mere scientific teaching
      and information, was to be found in getting the young to teach themselves
      some one of the natural sciences, and singling out ornithology as one of
      the readiest and most delightful for such a life as his.
    </p>
    <p>
      I end these intentionally irregular remarks by a story. Some years ago I
      was in one of the wildest recesses of the Perthshire Highlands. It was in
      autumn, and the little school, supported mainly by the Chief, who dwelt
      all the year round in the midst of his own people, was to be examined by
      the minister, whose native tongue, like that of his flock, was Gaelic, and
      who was as awkward and ineffectual, and sometimes as unconsciously
      indecorous, in his English, as a Cockney is in his kilt. It was a great
      occasion: the keen-eyed, firm-limbed, brown-cheeked little fellows were
      all in a buzz of excitement as we came in, and before the examination
      began every eye was looking at us strangers as a dog looks at his game, or
      when seeking it; they knew everything we had on, everything that could be
      known through their senses. I never felt myself so studied and scrutinized
      before. If any one could have examined them upon what they thus mastered,
      Sir Charles Trevelyan and John Mill would have come away, astonished, and,
      I trust, humbled. Well, then, the work of the day began; the mill was set
      a-going, and what a change! In an instant their eyes were like the windows
      of a house with the blinds down; no one was looking out; everything blank;
      their very features changed&mdash;their jaws fell, their cheeks flattened,
      they drooped and looked ill at ease&mdash;stupid, drowsy, sulky&mdash;and
      getting them to speak or think, or in any way to energize was like trying
      to get any one to come to the window at three of a summer morning, when,
      if they do come, they are half awake, rubbing their eyes and growling. So
      with my little Celts. They were like an idle and half asleep collie by the
      fireside, as contrasted with the collie on the hill and in the joy of
      work; the form of dog and boy are there&mdash;he, the self of each, was
      elsewhere (for I differ from Professor Ferrier in thinking that the dog <i>has</i>
      the reflex ego, and is a very knowing being). I noticed that anything they
      really knew roused them somewhat; what they had merely to transmit or pass
      along, as if they were a tube through which the master blew the pea of
      knowledge into our faces, was performed as stolidly as if they were
      nothing but a tube.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the teacher asked where Sheffield was, and was answered; it was
      then pointed to by the dux, as a dot on a skeleton map. And now came a
      flourish. "What is Sheffield famous for?" Blank stupor, hopeless vacuity,
      till he came to a sort of sprouting "Dougal Cratur"&mdash;almost as wee,
      and as gleg, and as tousy about the head, as my own Kintail terrier, whom
      I saw at that moment through the open door careering after a hopeless
      rabbit, with much benefit to his muscles and his wind&mdash;who was
      trembling with keenness. He shouted out something which was liker
      "cutlery" than anything else, and was received as such amid our rapturous
      applause. I then ventured to ask the master to ask small and red Dougal
      what cutlery was; but from the sudden erubescence of his pallid, ill-fed
      cheek, and the alarming brightness of his eyes, I twigged at once that he
      didn't himself know what it meant. So I put the question myself, and was
      not surprised to find that not one of them, from Dougal up to a young
      strapping shepherd of eighteen, knew what it was!
    </p>
    <p>
      I told them that Sheffield was famous for making knives and scissors, and
      razors, and that cutlery meant the manufacture of anything that cuts.
      Presto! and the blinds were all up, and eagerness, and <i>nous</i>, and
      brains at the window. I happened to have a Wharncliffe, with "Rodgers and
      Sons, Sheffield," on the blade. I sent it round, and finally presented it
      to the enraptured Dougal. Would not each one of those boys, the very
      boobiest there, know that knife again when they saw it, and be able to
      pass a creditable competitive examination on all its ins and outs? and
      wouldn't they remember "cutlery" for a day or two? Well, the examination
      over, the minister performed an oration of much ambition and difficulty to
      himself and to us, upon the general question, and a great many other
      questions, into which his Gaelic subtlety fitted like the mists into the
      hollows of Ben-a-Houlich, with, it must be allowed, a somewhat similar
      tendency to confuse and conceal what was beneath; and he concluded with
      thanking the Chief, as he well might, for his generous support of "this
      aixlent CEMETERY of ædication." Cemetery indeed! The blind leading the
      blind, with the ancient result; the dead burying their dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, not greater is the change we made from that low, small, stifling,
      gloomy, mephitic room, into the glorious open air, the loch lying asleep
      in the sun, and telling over again on its placid face, as in a dream,
      every hill and cloud, and birch and pine, and passing bird and cradled
      boat; the Black Wood of Rannoch standing "in the midst of its own
      darkness," frowning out upon us like the Past disturbed, and far off in
      the clear ether, as in another and a better world, the dim shepherds of
      Etive pointing, like ghosts at noonday, to the weird shadows of Glencoe;&mdash;not
      greater was this change, than is that from the dingy, oppressive, weary
      "cemetery" of mere word-knowledge to the open air, the light and liberty,
      the divine infinity and richness of nature and her teaching.
    </p>
    <p>
      We cannot change our time, nor would we if we could. It is God's time as
      well as ours. And our time is emphatically that for achieving and
      recording and teaching man's dominion over and insight into matter and its
      forces&mdash;his subduing the earth; but let us turn now and then from our
      necessary and honest toil in this neo-Platonic cavern where we win gold
      and renown, and where we often are obliged to stand in our own light, and
      watch our own shadows as they glide, huge and misshapen, across the inner
      gloom; let us come out betimes with our gold, that we may spend it and get
      "goods" for it, and when we can look forth on that ample world of daylight
      which we can never hope to overrun, and into that overarching heaven
      where, amid clouds and storms, lightning and sudden tempest, there are
      revealed to those who look for them, lucid openings into the pure, deep
      empyrean, "as it were the very body of heaven in its clearness;" and when,
      best of all, we may remember Who it is who stretched out these heavens as
      a tent to dwell in, and on whose footstool we may kneel, and out of the
      depths of our heart cry aloud,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Te Deum veneramur,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Te Sancte Pater!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      we shall return into our cave, and to our work, all the better of such a
      lesson, and of such a reasonable service, and dig none the worse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Science which ends in itself, or still worse, returns upon its maker, and
      gets him to worship himself, is worse than none; it is only when it makes
      it more clear than before who is the Maker and Governor, not only of the
      objects, but of the subjects of itself, that knowledge is the mother of
      virtue. But this is an endless theme. My only aim in these desultory hints
      is to impress parents and teachers with the benefits of the study, the
      personal engagement&mdash;with their own hands and eyes, and legs and ears&mdash;in
      some form or another of natural history, by their children and pupils and
      themselves, as counteracting evil, and doing immediate and actual good.
      Even the immense activity in the Post-Office-stamp line of business among
      our youngsters has been of immense use in many ways, besides being a
      diversion and an interest. I myself came to the knowledge of Queensland,
      and a great deal more, through its blue twopenny.
    </p>
    <p>
      If any one wishes to know how far wise and clever and patriotic men may
      occasionally go in the way of giving "your son" a stone for bread, and a
      serpent for a fish,&mdash;may get the nation's money for that which is not
      bread, and give their own labour for that which satisfies no one;
      industriously making sawdust into the shapes of bread, and chaff into the
      appearance of meal, and contriving, at wonderful expense of money and
      brains, to show what can be done in the way of feeding upon wind,&mdash;let
      him take a turn through certain galleries of the Kensington Museum.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yesterday forenoon," writes a friend, "I went to South Kensington Museum.
      It is really an absurd collection. A great deal of valuable material and a
      great deal of perfect rubbish. The analyses are even worse than I was led
      to suppose. There is an analysis OF A MAN. First, a man contains so much
      water, and there you have the amount of water in a bottle; so much
      albumen, and there is the albumen; so much phosphate of lime, fat,
      hæmatin, fibrine, salt, etc. etc. Then in the next case so much carbon; so
      much phosphorus&mdash;a bottle with sticks of phosphorus; so much
      potassium, and there is a bottle with potassium; calcium, etc. They have
      not bottles of oxygen, hydrogen, chlorine, etc., but they have cubical
      pieces of wood on which is written 'the quantity of oxygen in the human
      body would occupy the space of 170 (e.g.) cubes of the size of this,' etc.
      etc." And so with analysis of bread, etc. etc. What earthly good can this
      do any one?
    </p>
    <p>
      No wonder that the bewildered beings whom I have seen wandering through
      these rooms, yawned more frequently and more desperately than I ever
      observed even in church.
    </p>
    <p>
      So then, cultivate observation, energy, handicraft, ingenuity, outness in
      boys, so as to give them a pursuit as well as a study. Look after the
      blade, and don't coax or crush the ear out too soon, and remember that the
      full corn in the ear is not due till the harvest, when the great School
      breaks up, and we must all dismiss and go our several ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE BLACK DWARF'S BONES.
    </h2>
    <p class="indent30">
      "If thou wert grim,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Lame, ugly, crooked, swart, prodigious."
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      KING JOHN.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HESE gnarled,
      stunted, useless old bones, were all that David Ritchie, the original of
      the Black Dwarf, had for left femur and tibia, and we have merely to look
      at them, and add poverty, to know the misery summed up in their
      possession. They seem to have been blighted and rickety. The thigh-bone is
      very short and slight, and singularly loose in texture; the leg-bone is
      dwarfed, but dense and stout. They were given to me many years ago by the
      late Andrew Ballantyne, Esq., of Woodhouse (the Wudess, as they call it on
      Tweedside), and their genuineness is unquestionable.
    </p>
    <p>
      As anything must be interesting about one once so forlorn and miserable,
      and whom our great wizard has made immortal, I make no apology for
      printing the following letters from my old friend, Mr. Craig, long surgeon
      in Peebles, and who is now spending his evening, after a long, hard, and
      useful day's work, in the quiet vale of Manor, within a mile or two of
      "Cannie Elshie's" cottage. The picture he gives is very affecting, and
      should make us all thankful that we are "wiselike." There is much that is
      additional to Sir Walter's account, in his "Author's Edition" of the
      Waverley Novels.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hall Manor, Thursday, May 20, 1858.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dear Sir,&mdash;David Ritchie, <i>alias</i> Bowed Davie, was born at
      Easter Happrew, in the parish of Stobo, in the year 1741. He was brought
      to Woodhouse, in the parish of Manor, when very young. His father was a
      labourer, and occupied a cottage on that farm; his mother, Anabel Niven,
      was a delicate woman, severely afflicted with rheumatism, and could not
      take care of him when an infant. To this cause he attributed his
      deformity, and this, if added to imperfect clothing, and bad food, and
      poverty, will account for the grotesque figure which he became. He never
      was at school, but he could read tolerably; had many books; was fond of
      poetry, especially Allan Ramsay; he hated Burns. His father and mother
      both died early, and poor Davie became a homeless wanderer; he was two
      years at Broughton Mill, employed in stirring the husks of oats, which
      were used for drying the corn on the kiln, and required to be kept
      constantly in motion; he boasted, with a sort of rapture, of his doings
      there. From thence he went to Lyne's Mill, near his birthplace, where he
      continued one year at the same employment, and from thence he was sent to
      Edinburgh to learn brush-making, but made no progress in his education
      there; was annoyed by the wicked boys, or <i>keelies</i>, as he called
      them, and found his way back to Manor and Woodhouse. The farm now
      possessed by Mr. Ballantyne was then occupied by four tenants, among whom
      he lived; but his house was at Old Woodhouse, where the late Sir James
      Nasmyth built him a house with two apartments, and separate outer doors,
      one for himself exactly his own height when standing upright in it; and
      this stands as it was built, exactly four feet. A Mr. Ritchie, the father
      of the late minister of Athelstane-ford, was then tenant; his wife and
      Davie could not agree, and she repeatedly asked her husband to put him
      away, by making the highest stone of his house the lowest. Ritchie left,
      his house was pulled down, and Davie triumphed in having the stones of his
      chimney-top made a step to his door, when this new house was built. He was
      not a little vindictive at times, when irritated, especially when any
      allusion was made to his deformity. On one occasion, he and some other
      boys were stealing pease in Mr. Gibson's field, who then occupied
      Woodhouse; all the others took <i>leg-bail</i>, but Davie's locomotion
      being tardy, he was caught, shaken, and scolded by Gibson for all the
      rest. This he never forgot, and vowed to be avenged on the 'auld sinner
      and deevil and one day when Gibson was working about his own door, Davie
      crept up to the top of the house, which was low, and threw a large stone
      down on his head, which brought the old man to the ground. Davie crept
      down the other side of the house, got into bed beside his mother, and it
      was never known where the stone came from, till he boasted of it long
      afterwards. He only prayed that it might sink down through his '<i>harn-pan</i>'
      (his skull). His personal appearance seems to have been almost
      indescribable, not bearing any likeness to anything in this upper world.
      But as near as I can learn, his forehead was very narrow and low, sloping
      upwards and backwards, something of the hatchet shape; his eyes deep-set,
      small, and piercing; his nose straight, thin as the end of a cut of
      cheese, sharp at the point, nearly touching his fearfully projecting chin;
      and his mouth formed nearly a straight line; his shoulders rather high,
      but his body otherwise the size of ordinary men; his arms were remarkably
      strong. With very little aid he built a high garden wall, which still
      stands, many of the stones of huge size; these the shepherds laid to his
      directions. His legs beat all power of description; they were bent in
      every direction, so that Mungo Park, then a surgeon at Peebles, who was
      called to operate on him for strangulated hernia, said he could compare
      them to nothing but a pair of cork-screws; but the principal turn they
      took was from the knee outwards, so that he rested on his inner ankles,
      and the lower part of his tibias. The position of the bones in the woodcut
      gives some, but a very imperfect idea of this; the <i>thrawn</i> twisted
      limbs must have crossed each other at the knees, and looked more like
      roots than legs,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      'An' his knotted knees play'd aye knoit between.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "He had never a shoe on his feet; the parts on which he walked were rolled
      in rags, old stockings, etc., but the toes always bare, even in the most
      severe weather. His mode of progressing was as extraordinary as his shape.
      He carried a long pole, or 'kent,' like the alpenstock, tolerably
      polished, with a turned top on it, on which he rested, placed it before
      him, he then lifted one leg, something in the manner that the oar of a
      boat is worked, and then the other, next advanced his staff, and repeated
      the operation, by diligently doing which he was able to make not very slow
      progress.&mdash;He frequently walked to Peebles, four miles, and back
      again, in one day. His arms had no motion at the elbow-joints, but were
      active enough otherwise. He was not generally ill-tempered, but furious
      when roused.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Robert Craig."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hall Manor, June 15, 1858.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My DEAR Sir,&mdash;I have delayed till now to finish Bowed Davie, in the
      hope of getting more information, and to very little purpose. His
      contemporaries are now so few, old, and widely scattered, that they are
      difficult to be got at, and when come at, their memories are failed like
      their bodies. I have forgotten at what stage of his history I left off;
      but if I repeat you can omit the repetitions. Sir James Nasmyth, late of
      Posso, took compassion on the houseless, homeless lusus naturo, and had a
      house built for him to his own directions; the door, window, and
      everything to suit his diminished, grotesque form; the door four feet
      high, the window twelve by eighteen inches, without glass, closed by a
      wooden board, hung on leathern hinges, which he used to keep shut. Through
      it he reconnoitred all visitors, and only admitted ladies and particular
      favourites; he was very superstitious; ghosts, fairies, and robbers he
      dreaded most. I have forgotten if I mentioned how he contrived to be fed
      and warmed. He had a small allowance from the parish poor-box, about fifty
      shillings; this was eked out by an annual peregrination through the
      parish, when some gave him food, others money, wool, etc., which he
      hoarded most miserly. How he cooked his food I have not been able to
      learn, for his sister, who lived in the same cottage with him, was
      separated by a stone-and-lime wall, and had a separate door of the usual
      size, and window to match, and was never allowed to enter his dwelling;
      but he brought home such loads, that the shepherds had to be on the
      look-out for him, when on his annual eleemosynary expeditions, to carry
      home part of his spoil. On one occasion a servant was ordered to give him
      some salt, for containing which he carried a long stocking; he thought the
      damsel had scrimped him in quantity, and he sat and distended the stocking
      till it appeared less than half full, by pressing down the salt, and then
      called for the gudewife, showed it her, and asked if she had ordered Jenny
      only to give him that wee pickle saut; the maid was scolded, and the
      stocking filled. He spent all his evenings at the back of the Woodhouse
      kitchen fire, and got at least one meal every day, where he used to make
      the rustics gape and stare at the many ghost, fairy, or robber stories
      which he had either heard of or invented, and poured out with unceasing
      volubility, and so often, that he believed them all true. But the
      Ballantyne family had no great faith in his veracity, when it suited his
      convenience to fib, exaggerate, or prevaricate, particularly when excited
      by his own lucubrations, or the waggery of his more intellectual
      neighbours and companions. He had a seat in the centre, which he always
      occupied, and a stool for his deformed feet and legs; they all rose at
      times, asking Davie to do likewise, and when he got upon his pins, he was
      shorter than when sitting, his body being of the ordinary length, and the
      deficiency all in his legs. On one occasion, a wag named Elder put up a
      log of wood opposite his loophole, made a noise, and told Davie that the
      robbers he dreaded so much were now at his house, and would not go away:
      he peeped out, saw the log, and exclaimed, 'So he is, by the Lord God and
      my soul; Willie Elder, gi'e me the gun, and see that she is weel charged.'
      Elder put in a very large supply of powder without shot, rammed it hard,
      got a stool, which Davie mounted, Elder handing him the gun, charging him
      to take time, and aim fair, for if he missed him, he would be mad at being
      shot at, be sure to come in, take everything in the house, cut their
      throats, and burn the house after. Davie tremblingly obeyed, presented the
      gun slowly and cautiously, drew the trigger; off went the shot, the musket
      rebounded, and back went Davie with a rattle on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0032" id="linkimage-0032"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0295m.jpg" alt="0295m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0295.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Some accomplice tumbled the log; Davie at length was encouraged to look
      out, and actually believed that he had shot the robber; said he had done
      for him now, 'that ane wad plague him nae mair at ony rate.' He took it
      into his head at one time that he ought to be married, and having got the
      consent of a haverel wench to yoke with him in the silken bonds of
      matrimony, went to the minister several times, and asked him to perform
      the ceremony. At length the minister sent him away, saying that he could
      not and would not accommodate him in the matter. Davie swung himself out
      at the door on his kent, much crest-fallen, and in great wrath, shutting
      the door with a bang behind him; but opening it again, he shook his
      clenched fist in the parson's face, and said, 'Weel, weel, ye'll no let
      decent, honest folk marry; but,'od, lad, I'se plenish your parish wi'
      bastards, to see what ye'll mak' o' that,' and away he went. He read
      Hooke's <i>Pantheon</i>, and made great use of the heathen deities. He
      railed sadly at the taxes; some one observed that he need not grumble at
      them as he had none to pay. 'Hae I no'?' he replied; 'I can neither get a
      pickle snuff to my neb, nor a pickle tea to my mouth, but they maun
      tax't.' His sister and he were on very unfriendly terms. She was ill on
      one occasion; Miss Ballantyne asked how she was to-day. He replied, 'I
      dinna ken, I ha na been in, for I hate folk that are aye gaun to dee and
      never do't.' In 1811 he was seized with obstruction of the bowels and
      consequent inflammation; blisters and various remedies were applied for
      three days without effect. Some one came to Mrs. Ballantyne and said that
      it was 'just about a' owre wi' Davie noo.' She went, and he breathed his
      last almost immediately. His sister, without any delay, got his keys, and
      went to his secret repository, Mrs. Ballantyne thought to get
      dead-clothes, but instead, to her amazement, she threw three money-bags,
      one after another, into Mrs. Ballantyne's lap, telling her to count that,
      and that, and that. Mrs. B. was annoyed and astonished at the multitude of
      half-crowns and shillings, all arranged according to value. He hated
      sixpences, and had none, but the third contained four guineas in gold.
      Mrs. B. was disgusted with the woman's greed, and put them all up, saying,
      what would anybody think if they came in and found them counting the man's
      money and his breath scarcely out,&mdash;took it all home to her husband,
      who made out £4, 2s. in gold, £10 in a bank receipt, and £7, 18s. in
      shillings and half-crowns, in all £22. How did he get this? He had many
      visitors, the better class of whom gave him half-crowns, others shillings
      and sixpences; the latter he never kept, but converted them into shillings
      and half-crowns whenever he got an opportunity. I asked the wright how he
      got him a coffin. He replied, 'Easily; they made it deeper than ordinary,
      and wider, so as to let in his distorted legs, as it was impossible to
      streek him like others.' He often expressed a resolve to be buried on the
      Woodhill top, three miles up the water from the churchyard, as he could
      never lie 'amang the common trash:' however, this was not accomplished, as
      his friend, Sir James Nasmyth, who had promised to carry this wish into
      effect, was on the Continent at the time. When Sir James returned he spoke
      of having his remains lifted and buried where he had wished; but this was
      never done, and the expense of a railing and plantation of rowan-trees
      (mountain ash), his favourite prophylactic against the spells of witches
      and fairies, was abandoned. The Woodhill is a romantic, green little
      mount, situated at the west side of the Manor, which washes its base on
      the east, and separates it from Langhaugh heights, part of a lofty, rocky,
      and heathery mountain range, and on the west is the ruin of the ancient
      peel-house of old Posso, long the residence of the Nasmyth family. And now
      that we have the Dwarf dead and buried, comes the history of his
      resurrection in 1821. His sister died exactly ten years after him. A
      report had been spread that he had been lifted and taken to
      dissecting-rooms in Glasgow, which at that period was the fate of many a
      more seemly corpse than Davie's; and the young men&mdash;for Manor had no
      sexton&mdash;who dug the sister's grave in the vicinity of her brother's,
      stimulated by curiosity to see if his body had really been carried off,
      and if still there what his bones were like, lifted them up, and carried
      them to Woodhouse, where they lay a considerable time, till they were sent
      to Mr. Ballantyne, then in Glasgow. Miss Ballantyne thinks the skull was
      taken away with the other bones, but put back again. I have thus given you
      all the information I can gather about the Black Dwarf, that I think worth
      narrating. It is reported that he sometimes sold a gill, but if this is
      true the Ballan-tynes never knew it. Miss Ballantyne says that he was not
      ill-tempered, but on the contrary, kind, especially to children. She and
      her brother were very young when she went to Woodhouse, and her father
      objected to re-setting the farm from Sir James, on account of the fearful
      accounts of his horrid temper and barbarous deeds, and Sir James said if
      he ever troubled them that he would immediately put him away; but he was
      very fond of the younger ones, played with them and amused them, though
      when roused and provoked by grown-up people, he raged, stormed, swore
      terrifically, and struck with anything that was near him, in short, he had
      an irritable but not a sulky, sour, misanthropic temper. The Messrs.
      Chambers wrote a book about him and his doings at a very early period of
      their literary history. Did I tell you of a female relative, Niven (whom
      he would never see), saying that she would come and streek him after he
      died? He sent word, 'that if she offered to touch his corpse he would rive
      the thrapple oot o' her&mdash;he would rather be streekit by Auld
      Clootie's ain red-het hands.'&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Yours, truly obliged,
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      R. C."
    </p>
    <p>
      This poor, vindictive, solitary, and powerful creature, was a philocalist:
      he had a singular love of flowers and of beautiful women. He was a sort of
      Paris, to whom the blushing Aphrodites of the Glen used to come, and his
      judgment is said to have been as good, as the world generally thinks that
      of Ginone's handsome and faithless mate. His garden was full of the finest
      flowers, and it was his pleasure, when the young beauties
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Who bore the blue sky intermixed with flame
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      In their fair eyes,"
    </p>
    <p>
      came to him for their competitive examination, to scan them well, and
      then, without one word, present each with a flower, which was of a certain
      fixed and well-known value in Davie's standard calimeter.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have heard that there was one kind of rose, his [Greek], which he was
      known to have given only to three, and I remember seeing one of the three,
      when she was past seventy. Margaret Murray, or Morra, was her maiden name,
      and this fine old lady, whom an Oxonian would call a Double First, grave
      and silent, and bent with "the pains," when asked by us children, would,
      with some reluctance, and a curious grave smile, produce out of her Bible,
      Bowed Davie's withered and flattened rose: and from her looks, even then,
      I was inclined to affirm the decision of the connoisseur of Manor Water.
      One can fancy the scene in that sweet solitary valley, informed like its
      sister Yarrow with pastoral melancholy, with a young May, bashful and
      eager, presenting herself for honours, encountering from under that
      penthouse of eyebrows the steady gaze of the strange eldritch creature;
      and then his making up his mind, and proceeding to pluck his award and
      present it to her, herself a fairer flower and then turning with a scowl,
      crossed with a look of tenderness, crawl into his den. Poor "gloomy Dis,"
      slinking in alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      They say, that when the candidate came, he surveyed her from his window,
      his eyes gleaming out of the darkness, and if he liked her not, he
      disappeared; if he would entertain her, he beckoned her into the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have often thought that the Brownie, of whom the south country legends
      are so full, must have been some such misshapen creature, strong, willing,
      and forlorn, conscious of his hideous forbidding looks, and ready to
      purchase affection at any cost of labour, with a kindly heart, and a
      longing for human sympathy and intercourse. Such a being looks like the
      prototype of the Aiken-Drum of our infancy, and of that "drudging goblin,"
      of whom we all know how he
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      ".... Sweat
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To earn his cream-bowl daily set,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That ten day.lab'rers could not end;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Then lies him down, the lubber * fiend,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And cropful out of doors he flings,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Ere the first cock his matin rings."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Lob-lye-by-the-fire.
</pre>
    <p>
      My readers will, I am sure, more than pardon me for giving them the
      following poem on Aiken-Drum, for the pleasure of first reading which,
      many years ago, I am indebted to Mr. R. Chambers's <i>Popular Rhymes of
      Scotland,</i> where its "extraordinary merit" is generously acknowledged.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      THE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCH.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      There cam' a strange wicht to our town-en',
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' the fient a body did him ken;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      He tirl'd na lang, but he glided ben
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wi' a dreary, dreary hum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      His face did glow like the glow o' the west,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      When the drumlie cloud has it half o'ercast;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or the struggling moon when she's sair distrest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      O Sirs!'twas Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I trow the bauldest stood aback,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Wi' a gape an' a glow'r till their lugs did crack,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      As the shapeless phantom mum'ling spak,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      O! had ye seen the bairns's fricht,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      As they stared at this wild and unyirthy wicht,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      As they skulkit in'tween the dark an' the licht,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      An' graned out, Aiken-drum!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Sauf us!" quoth Jock, "d'ye see sick een?"
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Cries Kate, "There's a hole where a nose should ha' been;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' the mouth's like a gash that a horn had ri'en;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wow! keep's frae Aiken-drum!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The black dog growlin' cow'red his tail,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The lassie swart'd, loot fa' the pail;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Rob's lingle brack as he mendit the flail,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      At the sicht o' Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      His matted head on his breast did rest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      A lang blue beard wan'ered down like a vest;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But the glare o' his e'e hath nae bard exprest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nor the skimes o' Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But a philabeg o' the rashes green,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' his knotted knees played aye knoit between;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      What a sicht was Aiken-drum!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      On his wauchie arms three claws did meet,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      As they trail'd on the grun' by his taeless feet;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Even the auld gudeman himsel' did sweat,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      To look at Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But he drew a score, himsel' did sain,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The auld wife tried, but her tongue was gane;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      While the young ane closer clespit her wean,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And turn'd frae Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But the canty auld wife cam till her braith.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And she thocht the Bible might ward aff skaith;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Be it benshee, bogle, ghaist, or wraith&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      But it fear'd na' Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "His presence protect us!" quoth the auld gudeman;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "What wad ye, where won ye,&mdash;by sea or by Ian'?
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I conjure ye&mdash;speak&mdash;by the Beuk in my han'!"
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      What a grane gae Aiken-drum!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "I lived in a Ian' whar we saw nae sky,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I dwalt in a spot whar a burn rins na by;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But I'se dwall noo wi' you if ye like to try&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune, *
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I'll berry your crap by the licht o' the moon,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' ba the bairns wi' an unkenn'd tune,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      If ye'll keep poor Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I'll kirn the kirn, and I'll turn the bread;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' the wildest fillie that e'er can rede
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      I'se tame't," quoth Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Towear the tod frae the flock on the fell&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To gather the dew frae the heather-bell&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' to look at my face in your clear crystal well,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Micht gie pleasure to Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "I'e seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I use nae beddin', shoon, nor sark;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      But a cogfu' o' brose'tween the licht an' the dark,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Is the wage o' Aiken-drum."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Quoth the wylie auld wife, "The thing speaks weel;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Our workers are scant&mdash;we hae routh o' meal;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Gif he'll do as he says&mdash;be he man, be he de'il,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wow! we'll try this Aiken-drum."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But the wenchcs skirl'd, "He's no' be here!
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      H is eldritch look gars us swarf wi1 fear;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' the fient a ane will the house come near,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      If they think but o' Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "For a foul and a stalwart ghaist is he,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Despair sits broodin' aboon hise'e-bree,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And unchancie to light o' a maiden's e'e,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Is the glower o' Aiken-drum."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * On one occasion, Brownie had undertaken to gather the
     sheep into the bught by an early hour, and so zealously did
     he perform his task, that not only was there not one sheep
     left on the hill, but he had also collected a number of
     hares, which were found fairly penned along with them. Upon
     being congratulated on his extraordinary success, Brownie
     exclaimed, "Confound thae wee gray anes! they cost me mair
     trouble than a' the lave o' them."
</pre>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Puir clipmalabors! ye hae little wit:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Is t na hallowmas noo, an' the crap out yet?"
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Sae she scelenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sit-yer-wa's-doun, Aiken-drum."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Roun a' that side what wark was dune,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the moon.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      A word, or a wish&mdash;an' the Brownie cam sune,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sae helpfu was Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But he slade aye awa or the sun was up,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      He ne'er could look straught on Macmillan's cup:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      They watch'd&mdash;but nane saw him his brose ever sup,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nor a spune sought Aiken-drum.= -
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      For mony a day a toil'd wicht was he;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And the bairns they play'd harmless roun' his knee,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sae social was Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But a new-made wife, fu' o' rippish freaks,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Fond o' a'things feat for the five first weeks,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      By the brose o' Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Let the learn'd decide when they convene,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      What spell was him an' the breeks between
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      An sair miss'd was Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Crying,: "Land, lang now may I greet an' grieve;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      For alas! I hae gotten baith lee an' leave,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      O luckless Aiken-drum!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Awa! ye wrangling sceptic tribe,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Wi your pro's an' your con's wad ye decide
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Gainst the 'sponsible voice o' a hale country-side
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum?
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Tho' the "Brownie o' Blednoch" lang be gane,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The mark o his feet 's left on mony a stane;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An mony a wife an' mony a wean
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      E en now, licht loons that gibe an' sneer
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      At spiritual guests an' a' sic gear,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      At the Glasnock mill hae swat wi' fear,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      An' look'd roun' for Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      An' guidly folks hae gotten a fricht,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      When the moon was set, an' the stars gied nae licht,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      At the roaring linn in the howe o' the nicht,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We would rather have written these lines than any amount of Aurora Leighs,
      Festuses, or such like, with all their mighty "somethingness," as Mr.
      Bailey would say. For they, are they not the "native wood-notes wild" of
      one of nature's darlings? Here is the indescribable, inestimable,
      unmistakable impress of genius. Chaucer, had he been a Galloway man, might
      have written it, only he would have been more garrulous, and less compact
      and stern. It is like Tam o' Shanter, in its living union of the comic,
      the pathetic, and the terrible. Shrewdness, tenderness, imagination,
      fancy, humour, word-music, dramatic power, even wit&mdash;all are here. I
      have often read it aloud to children, and it is worth any one's while to
      do it. You will find them repeating all over the house for days such lines
      as take their heart and tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      The author of this noble ballad was William Nicholson, the Galloway poet,
      as he was, and is still called in his own district. He was born at
      Tanimaus, in the parish of Borgue, in August 1783; he died circa 1848,
      unseen, like a bird. Being extremely short-sighted, he was unfitted for
      being a shepherd or ploughman, and began life as a packman, like the hero
      of "the Excursion," and is still remembered in that region for his humour,
      his music, his verse, and his ginghams; and also, alas! for his misery and
      his sin. After travelling the country for thirty years, he became a
      packless pedlar, and fell into "a way of drinking;" this led from bad to
      worse, and the grave closed in gloom over the ruins of a man of true
      genius. Mr. M'Diarmid of Dumfries prefixed a memoir of him to the Second
      Edition of his <i>Talcs in Verse and Miscellaneous Poems</i>. These are
      scarcely known out of Galloway, but they are worth the knowing: none of
      them have the concentration and nerve of the Brownie, but they are from
      the same brain and heart. "The Country Lass," a long poem, is excellent;
      with much of Crabbe's power and compression. This, and the greater part of
      the volume, is in the Scottish dialect, but there is a Fable&mdash;the
      Butterfly and Bee&mdash;the English and sense, the fine, delicate humour
      and turn of which might have been Cow-per's; and there is a bit of rugged
      sarcasm called "Siller," which Burns need not have been ashamed of. Poor
      Nicholson, besides his turn for verse, was an exquisite musician, and sang
      with a powerful and sweet voice. One may imagine the delight of a lonely
      town-end, when Willie the packman and the piper made his appearance, with
      his stories, and jokes, and ballads, his songs, and reels, and "wanton
      wiles."
    </p>
    <p>
      There is one story about him which has always appeared to me quite
      perfect. A farmer in a remote part of Galloway, one June morning before
      sunrise, was awakened by music; he had been dreaming of heaven, and when
      he found himself awake, he still heard the strains. He looked out, and saw
      no one, but at the corner of a grass field he saw his cattle, and young
      colts and fillies, huddled together, and looking intently down into what
      he knew was an old quarry. He put on his clothes, and walked across the
      field, everything but that strange wild melody, still and silent in this
      "the sweet hour of prime." As he got nearer the "beasts," the sound was
      louder, the colts with their long manes, and the nowt with their wondering
      stare, took no notice of him, straining their necks forward entranced.
      There, in the old quarry, the young sun "glintin'" on his face, and
      resting on his pack, which had been his pillow, was our Wandering Willie,
      playing and singing like an angel&mdash;"an Orpheus; an Orpheus."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>

    <p>
      <a name="linkimage-0033" id="linkimage-0033"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0307m.jpg" alt="0307m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0307.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      What a picture! When reproved for wasting his health and time by the
      prosaic farmer, the poor fellow said: "Me and this quarry are lang
      acquant, and I've mair pleasure in pipin' to thae daft cowts, than if the
      best leddies in the land were figurin' away afore me."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      HORAE SUBECIVAE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      "With BRAINS, Sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Multi multa sciunt, pauci multum."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is one thing to wish to have truth on our side, and another thing to
      wish to be on the side of truth."&mdash;Whately.
    </p>
    <p>
      [Greek]&mdash;Thucydides.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The most perfect philosophy of the natural kind, only staves off our
      ignorance a little longer; as, perhaps, the most perfect philosophy of the
      moral or metaphysical kind, serves only to discover larger portions of
      it."&mdash;David Hume.
    </p>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ray, Mr. Opie, may
      I ask what you mix your colours with?" said a brisk dilettante student to
      the great painter. "With <i>Brains</i>, Sir," was the gruff reply&mdash;and
      the right one. It did not give much of what we call information; it did
      not expound the principles and rules of the art; but, if the inquirer had
      the commodity referred to, it would awaken him; it would set him a-going,
      a-thinking, and a-painting to good purpose. If he had not the wherewithal,
      as was likely enough, the less he had to do with colours and their mixture
      the better. Many other artists, when asked such a question, would have
      either set about detailing the mechanical composition of such and such
      colours, in such and such proportions, rubbed up so and so; or perhaps
      they would (and so much the better, but not the best) have shown him how
      they laid them on; but even this would leave him at the critical point.
      Opie preferred going to the quick and the heart of the matter: "With <i>Brains</i>,
      Sir."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Joshua Reynolds was taken by a friend to see a picture. He was anxious
      to admire it, and he looked it over with a keen and careful but favourable
      eye. "Capital composition; correct drawing; the colour, tone, chiaroscuro
      excellent; but&mdash;but&mdash;it wants, hang it, it wants&mdash;<i>That!</i>"
      snapping his fingers; and wanting "that," though it had everything else,
      it was worth nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, Etty was appointed teacher of the students of the Royal Academy,
      having been preceded by a clever, talkative, scientific expounder of
      æsthetics, who delighted to tell the young men <i>how</i> everything was
      done, how to copy this and how to express that. A student came up to the
      new master, "How should I do this, Sir?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suppose you try." Another, "What does this mean, Mr. Etty?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suppose you look."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I have looked."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suppose you look again." And they did try, and they did look, and looked
      again; and they saw and achieved what they never could have done, had the
      how or the what (supposing this possible, which it is not in its full and
      highest meaning) been told them, or done for them; in the one case, sight
      and action were immediate, exact, intense, and secure; in the other,
      mediate, feeble, and lost as soon as gained. But what are "<i>Brains?</i>"
      what did Opie mean? and what is Sir Joshua's "<i>That?</i>" What is
      included in it? and what is the use, or the need of trying and trying, of
      missing often before you hit, when you can be told at once and be done
      with it; or of looking when you may be shown? Everything in medicine and
      in painting&mdash;practical arts&mdash;as means to ends, let their
      scientific enlargement be ever so rapid and immense, depends upon the
      right answers to these questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      First of all, "brains," in the painter, are not diligence, knowledge,
      skill, sensibility, a strong will, or a high aim,&mdash;he may have all
      these, and never paint anything so truly good and effective as the rugged
      woodcut we must all remember, of Apollyon bestriding the whole breadth of
      the way, and Christian girding at him like a man, in the old sixpenny <i>Pilgrim's
      Progress</i>; and a young medical student may have zeal, knowledge,
      ingenuity, attention, a good eye and a steady hand&mdash;he may be an
      accomplished anatomist, stethoscopist, histologist, and analyst; and yet,
      with all this, and all the lectures, and all the books, and all the
      sayings, and all the preparations, drawings, tables, and other helps of
      his teachers, crowded into his memory or his notebooks, he may be beaten
      at treating a whitlow or a colic, by the nurse in the wards where he was
      clerk, or by the old country doctor who brought him into the world, and
      who listens with such humble wonder to his young friend's account, on his
      coming home after each session, of all he had seen and done,&mdash;of all
      the last astonishing discoveries and operations of the day. What the
      painter wants, in addition to, and as the complement of, the other
      elements, is <i>genius and sense</i>; what the doctor needs to crown and
      give worth and safety to his accomplishments, is <i>sense and genius</i>:
      in the first case, more of this, than of that; in the second, more of
      that, than of this. These are the "Brains" and the "That."
    </p>
    <p>
      And what is genius? and what is sense? Genius is a peculiar native
      aptitude, or tendency, to any one calling or pursuit over all others. A
      man may have a genius for governing, for killing, or for curing the
      greatest number of men, and in the best possible manner: a man may have a
      genius for the fiddle, or his mission may be for the tight-rope, or the
      Jew's harp; or it may be a natural turn for seeking, and finding, and
      teaching truth, and for doing the greatest possible good to mankind; or it
      may be a turn equally natural for seeking, and finding, and teaching a
      lie, and doing the maximum of mischief. It was as natural, as inevitable,
      for Wilkie to develop himself into a painter, and such a painter as we
      know him to have been, as it is for an acorn when planted to grow up into
      an oak, a specific <i>Quercus robur</i>. But <i>genius</i>, and nothing
      else, is not enough, even for a painter: he must likewise have <i>sense</i>;
      and what is sense? <i>Sense</i> drives, or ought to drive, the coach;
      sense regulates, combines, restrains, commands, all the rest&mdash;even
      the genius; and sense implies exactness and soundness, power and
      promptitude of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then for the young doctor, he must have as his main, his master faculty,
      SENSE&mdash;Brains&mdash;[Greek], justness of mind, because his
      subject-matter is one in which principle works, rather than impulse, as in
      painting; the understanding has first to do with it, however much it is
      worthy of the full exercise of the feelings and the affections. But all
      will not do, if GENIUS is not there,&mdash;a real turn for the profession.
      It may not be a liking for it&mdash;some of the best of its practitioners
      never really liked it, at least liked other things better; but there must
      be a fitness of faculty of body and mind for its full, constant, exact
      pursuit. This sense and this genius, such a special therapeutic gift, had
      Hippocrates, Sydenham, Pott, Pinel, John Hunter, Delpech, Dupuytren,
      Kellie, Cheyne, Baillie, and Abercrombie. We might, to pursue the subject,
      pick out painters who had much genius and little or no sense, and <i>vice
      versâ</i>; and physicians and surgeons, who had sense without genius, and
      genius without sense, and some perhaps who had neither, and yet were
      noticeable, and, in their own side-ways, useful men.
    </p>
    <p>
      But our great object will be gained if we have given our young readers
      (and these remarks are addressed exclusively to students) any idea of what
      we mean, if we have made them think, and look inwards. The noble and
      sacred science you have entered on is large, difficult, and deep, beyond
      most others; it is every day becoming larger, deeper, and in many senses
      more difficult, more complicated and involved. It requires <i>more than
      the average</i> intellect, energy, attention, patience, and courage, and
      that singular but imperial quality, at once a gift and an acquirement, <i>presence
      of mind</i>&mdash;[Greek], or nearness of the [Greek], as the subtle
      Greeks called it&mdash;than almost any other department of human thought
      and action, except perhaps that of ruling men. Therefore it is, that we
      hold it to be of paramount importance that the parents, teachers, and
      friends of youths intended for medicine, and above all, that those who
      examine them on their entering on their studies, should at least (we might
      safely go much further) satisfy themselves as far as they can, that they
      are not below <i>par</i> in intelligence; they may be deficient and unapt
      <i>qua medici</i>, and yet, if taken in time, may make excellent men in
      other useful and honourable callings.
    </p>
    <p>
      But suppose we have got the requisite amount and specific kind of
      capacity, how are we to fill it with its means; how are we to make it
      effectual for its end? On this point we say nothing, except that the fear
      now-a-days, is rather that the mind gets too much of too many things, than
      too little or too few. But this means of turning knowledge to action,
      making it what Bacon meant when he said it was power, invigorating the
      thinking substance&mdash;giving tone, and you may call it muscle and
      nerve, blood and bone, to the mind&mdash;a firm gripe, and a keen and sure
      eye: <i>that</i>, we think, is far too little considered or cared for at
      present, as if the mere act of filling in everything for ever into a poor
      lad's brain, would give him the ability to make anything of it, and above
      all, the power to appropriate the small portions of true nutriment, and
      reject the dregs.
    </p>
    <p>
      One comfort we have, that in the main, and in the last resort, there is
      really very little that <i>can</i> be done for any man by another. Begin
      with the sense and the genius&mdash;the keen appetite and the good
      digestion&mdash;and, amid all obstacles and hardships, the work goes on
      merrily and well; without these, we all know what a laborious affair, and
      a dismal, it is to make an incapable youth apply. Did any of you ever set
      yourselves to keep up artificial respiration, or to trudge about for a
      whole night with a narcotized victim of opium, or transfused blood (your
      own, perhaps) into a poor, fainting, exanimate wretch? If so, you will
      have some idea of the heartless attempt, and its generally vain and
      miserable result, to make a dull student apprehend, a debauched,
      interested, knowing, or active in anything beyond the base of his brain&mdash;a
      weak, etiolated intellect hearty, and worth anything; and yet how many
      such are dragged through their dreary <i>curricula</i>, and by some
      miraculous process of cramming, and equally miraculous power of turning
      their insides out, get through their examinations: and then&mdash;what
      then? providentially, in most cases, they find their level; the broad
      daylight of the world&mdash;its shrewd and keen eye, its strong instinct
      of what can, and what cannot serve its purpose&mdash;puts all, except the
      poor object himself, to rights; happy is it for him if he turns to some
      new and more congenial pursuit in time.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it may be asked, how are the brains to be strengthened, the sense
      quickened, the genius awakened, the affections raised&mdash;the whole man
      turned to the best account for the cure of his fellow-men? How are you,
      when physics and physiology are increasing so marvellously, and when the
      burden of knowledge, the quantity of transferable information, of
      registered facts, of current names&mdash;and such names!&mdash;is so
      infinite: how are you to enable a student to take all in, bear up under
      all, and use it as not abusing it, or being abused by it? You must
      invigorate the containing and sustaining mind, you must strengthen him
      from within, as well as fill him from without; you must discipline,
      nourish, edify, relieve, and refresh his entire nature; and how? We have
      no time to go at large into this, but we will indicate what we mean:&mdash;encourage
      languages, especially French and German, at the early part of their
      studies; encourage not merely the book knowledge, but the personal pursuit
      of natural history, of field botany, of geology, of zoology; give the
      young, fresh, unforgetting eye, exercise and free scope upon the infinite
      diversity and combination of natural colours, forms, substances, surfaces,
      weights, and sizes&mdash;everything, in a word, that will educate their
      eye or ear, their touch, taste, and smell, their sense of muscular
      resistance; encourage them by prizes, to make skeletons, preparations, and
      collections of any natural objects; and, above all, try and get hold of
      their affections, and make them put their hearts into their work. Let
      them, if possible, have the advantage of a regulated <i>tutorial</i>, as
      well as the ordinary professorial system. Let there be no excess in the
      number of classes and frequency of lectures. Let them be drilled in
      composition; by this we mean the writing and spelling of correct plain
      English (a matter not of every-day occurrence, and not on the increase)&mdash;let
      them be directed to the best books of the old masters in medicine, and <i>examined
      in them</i>,&mdash;let them be encouraged in the use of a wholesome and
      manly literature. We do not mean popular or even modern literature&mdash;such
      as Emerson, Bulwer, or Alison, or the trash of inferior periodicals or
      novels&mdash;fashion, vanity, and the spirit of the age, will attract them
      readily enough to all these; we refer to the treasures of our elder and
      better authors. If our young medical student would take our advice, and
      for an hour or two twice a week take up a volume of Shakspere, Cervantes,
      Milton, Dryden, Pope, Cowper, Montaigne, Addison, Defoe, Goldsmith,
      Fielding, Scott, Charles Lamb, Macaulay, Jeffrey, Sydney Smith, Helps,
      Thackeray, etc., not to mention authors on deeper and more sacred subjects&mdash;they
      would have happier and healthier minds, and make none the worse doctors.
      If they, by good fortune&mdash;for the tide has set in strong against the
      <i>literae humaniores</i>&mdash;have come off with some Greek or Latin, we
      would supplicate for an ode of Horace, a couple of pages of Cicero or of
      Pliny once a month, and a page of Xenophon. French and German should be
      mastered either before or during the first years of study. They will never
      afterwards be acquired so easily or so thoroughly, and the want of them
      may be bitterly felt when too late.
    </p>
    <p>
      But one main help, we are persuaded, is to be found in studying&mdash;and
      by this we do not mean the mere reading, but the digging into and through,
      the energizing upon, and mastering&mdash;such books as we have mentioned
      at the close of this paper. These are not, of course, the only works we
      would recommend to those who wish to understand thoroughly, and to make up
      their minds, on these great subjects as wholes; but we all know too well
      that our Art is long, broad, and deep,&mdash;and Time, opportunity, and
      our little hour, brief and uncertain, therefore, we would recommend those
      books as a sort of game of the mind, a mental exercise&mdash;like cricket,
      a gymnastic, a clearing of the eyes of their mind as with euphrasy, a
      strengthening their power over particulars, a getting fresh, strong views
      of worn out, old things, and, above all, a learning the right use of their
      reason, and by knowing their own ignorance and weakness, finding true
      knowledge and strength. Taking up a book like Arnauld, and reading a
      chapter of his lively, manly sense, is like throwing your manuals, and
      scalpels, and microscopes, and natural (most unnatural) orders out of your
      hand and head, and taking a game with the Grange Club, or a run to the top
      of Arthur Seat. Exertion quickens your pulse, expands your lungs, makes
      your blood warmer and redder, fills your mouth with the pure waters of
      relish, strengthens and supples your legs; and though on your way to the
      top you may encounter rocks, and baffling <i>dêbris</i> and gusts of
      fierce winds rushing out upon you from behind corners, just as you will
      find in Arnauld, and all truly serious and honest books of the kind,
      difficulties and puzzles, winds of doctrine, and deceitful mists; still
      you are rewarded at the top by the wide view. You see, as from a tower,
      the end of all. You look into the perfections and relations of things. You
      see the clouds, the bright lights, and the everlasting hills on the far
      horizon. You come down the hill a happier, a better, and a hungrier man,
      and of a better mind. But, as we said, you must eat the book, you must
      crush it, and cut it with your teeth and swallow it; just as you must walk
      up, and not be carried up the hill, much less imagine you are there, or
      look upon a picture of what you would see were you up, however accurately
      or artistically done; no&mdash;you yourself must do both.
    </p>
    <p>
      Philosophy&mdash;the love and the possession of wisdom&mdash;is divided
      into two things, science or knowledge; and a habit, or power of mind. He
      who has got the first is not truly wise unless his mind has reduced and
      assimilated it, as Dr. Prout would have said, unless he appropriates and
      can use it for his need.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prime qualifications of a physician may be summed up in the words <i>Capax,
      Perspicax, Sagax, Efficax, Capax</i>&mdash;there must be room to receive,
      and arrange, and keep knowledge; <i>Perspicax</i>&mdash;senses and
      perceptions, keen, accurate, and immediate, to bring in materials from all
      sensible things; <i>Sagax</i>&mdash;a central power of knowing what is
      what, and what it is worth, of choosing and rejecting, of judging; and
      finally, <i>Efficax</i>&mdash;the will and the way&mdash;the power to turn
      all the other three&mdash;capacity, perspicacity, sagacity, to account, in
      the performance of the outer world, in a new and useful form, what you had
      received from it. These are the intellectual qualities which make up the
      physician, without any one of which he would be <i>mancus</i>, and would
      not deserve the name of a complete artsman, any more than proteine would
      be itself if any one of its four elements were amissing.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have left ourselves no room to speak of the books we have named at the
      end of this paper. We recommend them all to our young readers, Arnauld's
      excellent and entertaining <i>Art of Thinking</i>&mdash;the once famous
      Port-Royal Logic&mdash;is, if only one be taken, probably the best.
      Thomson's little book is admirable, and is specially suited for a medical
      student, as its illustrations are drawn with great intelligence and
      exactness from chemistry and physiology. We know nothing more perfect than
      the analysis, at page 348, of Sir H. Davy's beautiful experiments to
      account for the traces of an alkali, found when decomposing water by
      galvanism. It is quite exquisite, the hunt after and the unearthing of "<i>the
      residual cause</i>." This book has the great advantage of a clear, lively,
      and strong style. We can only give some short extracts.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We may define the inductive method as the process of discovering laws and
      rules from facts, and causes from effects: and the deductive, as the
      method of deriving facts from laws, and effects from their causes."
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a valuable paragraph on anticipation and its uses&mdash;there is
      a power and desire of the mind to project itself from the known into the
      unknown, in the expectation of finding what it is in search of.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This power of divination, this sagacity, which is the mother of all
      science, we may call anticipation. The intellect, with a dog-like
      instinct, will not hunt until it has found the scent. It must have some
      presage of the result before it will turn its energies to its attainment.
      The system of anatomy which has immortalized the name of Oken, is the
      consequence of a <i>flash of anticipation</i>, which glanced through his
      mind when he picked up, in a chance walk, the skull of a deer, bleached by
      the weather, and exclaimed&mdash;'<i>It is a vertebral column!</i>'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The man of science possesses principles&mdash;the man of art, not the
      less nobly gifted, is possessed and carried away by them. The principles
      which art <i>involves</i>, science <i>evolves</i>. The truths on which the
      sucess of art depends lurk in the artist's mind in an undeveloped state,
      guiding his hand, stimulating his invention, balancing his judgment, but
      not appearing in regular propositions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "An art (that of medicine for instance) will of course admit into its
      limits, everything (<i>and nothing) else</i> which can conduce to the
      performance of <i>its own proper work</i>; it recognises no other
      principles of selection."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He who reads a book on logic, probably thinks no better when he rises up
      than when he sat down, but if any of the principles there unfolded cleave
      to his memory, and he afterwards, perhaps unconsciously, shapes and
      corrects his thoughts by them, no doubt the whole powers of his reasoning
      receive benefit. In a word, every art, from reasoning to riding and
      rowing, is learned by assiduous practice, and if principles do any good,
      it is proportioned to the readiness with which they can be converted into
      rules, and the patient constancy with which they are applied in all our
      attempts at excellence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>A man can teach names to another man, but he cannot plant in another's
      mind that far higher gift&mdash;the power of naming." </i>
    </p>
    <p>
      "Language is not only the vehicle of thought, it is a great and efficient
      instrument in thinking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The whole of science may be made the subject of teaching. Not so with <i>art</i>;
      much of it is not teachable."
    </p>
    <p>
      Coleridge's profound and brilliant, but unequal, and often somewhat
      nebulous <i>Essay on Method</i>, is worth reading over, were it only as an
      exercitation, and to impress on the mind the meaning and value of <i>method</i>.
      Method is the road by which you reach, or hope to reach, a certain end; it
      is a process. It is the best direction for the search after truth. System,
      again, which is often confounded with it, is a mapping out, a
      circumscription of knowledge, either already gained, or theoretically laid
      down as probable. Aristotle had a system which did much good, but also
      much mischief. Bacon was chiefly occupied in preparing and pointing out
      the way&mdash;the only way&mdash;of procuring knowledge. He left to others
      to systematize the knowledge after it was got; but the pride and indolence
      of the human spirit lead it constantly to build systems on imperfect
      knowledge. It has the trick of filling up out of its own fancy what it has
      not the diligence, the humility, and the honesty, to seek in nature; whose
      servant, and articulate voice, it ought to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Descartes' little tract on Method is, like everything the lively and
      deep-souled Breton did, full of original and bright thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir John Herschel's volume needs no praise. We know no work of the sort,
      fuller of the best moral worth, as well as the highest philosophy. We fear
      it is more talked of than read.
    </p>
    <p>
      We would recommend the article in the <i>Quarterly Review</i> as
      first-rate, and written with great eloquence and grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Smith's <i>Sketches of Lectures on Moral Philosophy</i>. Second
      Edition.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sedgwick's <i>Discourse on the Studies at Cambridge, with a Preface and
      Appendix</i>. Sixth Edition.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have put these two worthies here, not because we had forgotten them,&mdash;much
      less because we think less of them than the others, especially Sydney; but
      because we bring them in at the end of our small entertainment, as we hand
      round a liqueur&mdash;be it Curaçoa, Kimmel, or old Glenlivet&mdash;after
      dinner, and end with the heterogeneous plum-pudding, that most English of
      realized ideas. Sydney Smith's book is one of rare excellence, and well
      worthy of the study of men and women, though perhaps not transcendental
      enough for our modern philosophers, male and female. It is really
      astonishing how much of the best of everything, from patriotism to
      nonsense, is to be found in this volume of sketches. You may read it
      through, if your sides can bear such an accumulation of laughter, with
      great benefit; and if you open it anywhere, you can't read three sentences
      without coming across some, it may be common thought, and often original
      enough, better expressed and <i>put</i> than you ever before saw it. The
      lectures on the Affections, the Passions and Desires, and on Study, we
      would have everybody to read and enjoy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sedgwick is a different, and, as a whole, an inferior man; but a <i>man</i>
      every inch of him, and an Englishman too, in his thoughts, and in his fine
      mother wit and tongue. He has, in the midst of all his confusion and
      passionateness, the true instinct of philosophy&mdash;the true venatic
      sense of objective truth. We know nothing better in the main, than his
      demolition of what is untrue, and his reduction of what is absurd, and his
      taking the wind out of what is tympanitic, in the notorious <i>Vestiges</i>;
      we don't say he always does justice to what is really good in it; his
      mission is to execute justice <i>upon it</i>, and that he does. His
      remarks on Oken and Owen, and his quotations from Dr. Clarke's admirable
      paper on the <i>Development of the Foetus</i>, in the <i>Cambridge
      Philosophical Transactions</i>, we would recommend to our medical friends.
      The very confusion of Sedgwick is the free outcome of a deep and racy
      nature; it puts us in mind of what happened, when an Englishman was
      looking with astonishment and disgust at a Scotchman eating a singed
      sheep's head, and was asked by the eater what he thought of that dish? "<i>Dish</i>,
      Sir, do you call that a dish?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dish or no dish," rejoined the Caledonian, "there's a deal o'fine
      confused feedin' aboot it, let me tell you."
    </p>
    <p>
      We conclude these rambling remarks with a quotation from Arnauld, the
      friend of Pascal, and the intrepid antagonist of the Vatican and the Grand
      Monarque; one of the noblest, freest, most untiring and honest intellects
      our world has ever seen. "Why don't you rest sometimes?" said his friend
      Nicole to him. "Rest! why should I rest here? haven't I an eternity to
      rest in?" The following sentence from his Port-Royal Logic, so well
      introduced and translated by Mr. Baynes, contains the gist of all we have
      been trying to say. It should be engraven on the tablets of every young
      student's heart&mdash;for the heart has to do with study as well as the
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is nothing more desirable than good sense and justness of mind,&mdash;all
      other qualities of mind are of limited use, but exactness of judgment is
      of general utility in every part and in all employments of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>We are too apt to employ reason merely as an instrument for acquiring
      the sciences, whereas we ought to avail ourselves of the sciences, as an
      instrument for perfecting our reason</i>; justness of mind being
      infinitely more important than all the speculative knowledge which we can
      obtain by means of sciences the most solid. This ought to lead wise men to
      make their sciences <i>the exercise and not the occupation of their mental
      powers</i>. Men are not born to employ all their time in measuring lines,
      in considering the various movements of matter: their minds are too great,
      and their lives too short, their time too precious, to be so engrossed;
      but they are born to be just, equitable, and prudent, in all their
      thoughts, their actions, their business; to these things they ought
      especially to train and discipline themselves."
    </p>
    <p>
      So, young friends, bring <i>Brains</i> to your work, and mix everything
      with them, and them with everything. <i>Arma virumque</i>, tools and a man
      to use them. Stir up, direct, and give free scope to Sir Joshua's "that,"
      and try again, and again; and look, <i>oculo intento, acie acerrima</i>..
      Looking is a voluntary act,&mdash;it is the man within coming to the
      window; seeing is a state,&mdash;passive and receptive, and, at the best,
      little more than registrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since writing the above, we have read with great satisfaction Dr. Forbes's
      Lecture delivered before the Chichester Literary Society and Mechanics'
      Institute, and published at their request. Its subject is, Happiness in
      its relation to Work and Knowledge. It is worthy of its author, and is, we
      think, more largely and finely embued with his personal character, than
      any one other of his works that we have met with. We could not wish a
      fitter present for a young man starting on the game of life. It is a wise,
      cheerful, manly, and warm-hearted discourse on the words of Bacon,&mdash;"He
      that is wise, let him pursue some desire or other; for he that doth not
      affect some one thing in chief, unto him all things are distasteful and
      tedious." We will not spoil this little volume by giving any account of
      it. Let our readers get it, and read it. The extracts from his Thesis, <i>De
      Mentis Exercitatione et Felicitate exinde derivandâ</i>, are very curious&mdash;showing
      the native vigour and bent of his mind, and indicating also, at once the
      identity and the growth of his thoughts during the lapse of thirty-three
      years.
    </p>
    <p>
      We give the last paragraph, the sense and the filial affection of which
      are alike admirable. Having mentioned to his hearers that they saw in
      himself a living illustration of the truth of his position&mdash;that
      happiness is a necessary result of knowledge and work, he thus concludes:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you would further desire to know to what besides I am chiefly indebted
      for so enviable a lot, I would say 1st, Because I had the good fortune to
      come into the world with a healthful frame, and with a sanguine
      temperament. 2d, Because I had no patrimony, and was therefore obliged to
      trust to my own exertions for a livelihood. 3d, Because I was born in a
      land where instruction is greatly prized and readily accessible. 4th,
      Because I was brought up to a profession which not only compelled mental
      exercise, but supplied for its use materials of the most delightful and
      varied kind. <i>And lastly and principally, because the good man to whom I
      owe my existence, had the foresight to know what would be best for his
      children. He had the wisdom, and the courage, and the exceeding love, to
      bestow all that could be spared of his worldly means, to purchase for his
      sons that which is beyond price</i>, EDUCATION; well judging that the
      means so expended, if hoarded for future use, would be, if not valueless,
      certainly evanescent, while the precious treasure for which they were
      exchanged, a cultivated and instructed mind, would not only last through
      life, but might be the fruitful source of treasures far more precious than
      itself. So equipped he sent them forth into the world to fight Life's
      battle, leaving the issue in the hand of God; confident, however, that
      though they might fail to achieve renown or to conquer Fortune, they
      possessed that which, if rightly used, could win for them the yet higher
      prize of HAPPINESS."
    </p>
    <p>
      Since this was written, many good books have appeared, but we would select
      three, which all young men should read, and get&mdash;Hartley Coleridge's
      <i>Lives of Northern Worthies</i>, Thackeray's <i>Letters of Brown the
      Elder</i>, and <i>Tom Brown's Schooldays</i>&mdash;in spirit and
      expression, we don't know any better models for manly courage, good sense,
      and feeling, and they are as well written as they are thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are the works of another man, one of the greatest, not only of our,
      but of any time, to which we cannot too earnestly draw our young readers.
      We mean the philosophical writings of Sir William Hamilton. We know no
      more invigorating, quickening, rectifying kind of exercise, than reading
      with a will, anything he has written upon permanently important subjects.
      There is a greatness and simplicity, a closeness of thought, a glance keen
      and wide, a play of the entire nature, and a truthfulness and
      downrightness, with an amount, and accuracy, and vivification of learning,
      such as we know of in no one other writer, ancient or modern&mdash;not
      even Leibnitz; and we know no writings which so wholesomely at once exalt
      and humble the reader, make him feel what is in him, and what he can and
      may, as well as what he cannot, and need never hope to know. In this
      respect, Hamilton is as grand as Pascal, and more simple; he exemplifies
      everywhere his own sublime adaptation of Scripture&mdash; unless a man
      become a little child, he cannot enter into the kingdom; he enters the
      temple stooping, but he presses on, intrepid and alone, to the inmost <i>adytum</i>,
      worshipping the more the nearer he gets to the inaccessible shrine, whose
      vail no mortal hand has ever rent in twain. And we name after him, the
      thoughtful, candid, impressive little volume of his pupil, and his
      successor, Professor Fraser.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following passage from Sir William Hamilton's <i>Dissertations</i>,
      besides its wise thought, sounds in the ear like the pathetic and majestic
      sadness of a symphony by Beethoven:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "There are two sorts of ignorance: we philosophize to escape ignorance,
      and the consummation of our philosophy is ignorance; we start from the
      one, we repose in the other; they are the goals from which, and to which,
      we tend; and the pursuit of knowledge is but a course between two
      ignorances as human life is itself only a travelling from grave to grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      [Greek]
    </p>
    <p>
      The highest reach of human science is the scientific recognition of human
      ignorance; 'Qui nescit ignorare, ignorât scire.' This 'learned ignorance'
      is the rational conviction by the human mind of its inability to transcend
      certain limits; it is the knowledge of ourselves,&mdash;the science of
      man. This is accomplished by a demonstration of the disproportion between
      what is to be known, and our faculties of knowing,&mdash;the
      disproportion, to wit, between the infinite and the finite. In fact, the
      recognition of human ignorance is not only the one highest, but the one
      true, knowledge; and its first-fruit, as has been said, is humility.
      Simple nescience is not proud; consummated science is positively humble.
      For this knowledge it is not, which 'puffeth up;' but its opposite, the
      conceit of false knowledge,&mdash;the conceit, in truth, as the apostle
      notices, of an ignorance of the very nature of knowledge:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      'Nam nesciens quid scire sit,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Te scire cuncta jactitas.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "But as our knowledge stands to Ignorance, so stands it also to Doubt.
      Doubt is the beginning and the end of our efforts to know; for as it is
      true,&mdash;'Alte dubitat qui altius credit,' so it is likewise true,&mdash;'Quo
      magisquærimus magis dubitamus.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The grand result of human wisdom is thus only a consciousness that what
      we know is as nothing to what we know not, ('Quantum est quod nescimus!')&mdash;an
      articulate confession, in fact, by our natural reason, of the truth
      declared in revelation, that 'now we see through a glass darkly.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      His pupil writes in the same spirit and to the same end:&mdash;"A
      discovery, by means of reflection and mental experiment, of the <i>limits</i>
      of knowledge, is the highest and most universally applicable discovery of
      all; it is the one through which our intellectual life most strikingly
      blends with the moral and practical part of human nature. Progress in
      knowledge is often paradoxically indicated by a diminution in the <i>apparent
      bulk</i> of what we know'. Whatever helps to work off the dregs of false
      opinion, and to purify the intellectual mass&mdash;whatever deepens our
      conviction of our infinite ignorance&mdash;really adds to, although it
      sometimes seems to diminish, the rational possessions of man. This is the
      highest kind of merit that is claimed for Philosophy by its earliest as
      well as by its latest representatives. It is by this standard that
      Socrates and Kant measure the chief results of their toil."
    </p>
    <h3>
      BOOKS REFERRED TO.
    </h3>
    <p>
      1. Arnauld's Port-Royal Logic; translated by T. S. Baynes.&mdash;2.
      Thomson's Outlines of the Necessary Laws of Thought.&mdash;3. Descartes on
      the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason, and Seeking Truth in the
      Sciences.&mdash;4. Coleridge's Essay on Method.&mdash;5. Whately's Logic
      and Rhetoric; new and cheap edition.&mdash;6. Mill's Logic; new and cheap
      edition.&mdash;7. Dugald Stewart's Outlines.&mdash;8. Sir John Herschel's
      Preliminary Dissertation.&mdash;9. Quarterly Review, vol. lxviii.; Article
      upon Whewell's Philosophy of Inductive Sciences.&mdash;10. Isaac Taylor's
      Elements of Thought.&mdash;11. Sir William Hamilton's edition of Reid;
      Dissertations; and Lectures.&mdash;12. Professor Fraser's Rational
      Philosophy.&mdash;13. Locke on the Conduct of the Understanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      ARTHUR H. HALLAM.
    </h2>
    <p class="indent10">
      "The idea of thy life shall sweetly creep
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Into my study of imagination;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And every lovely organ of thy life
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Shall come apparelled in more precious habit&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      More moving delicately and full of life,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Into the eye and prospect of my soul,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Than when thou livedst indeed."
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Much Ado about Nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In the chancel of Clevedon Church, Somersetshire, rest the mortal remains
      of Arthur Henry Hallam, eldest son of our great philosophic historian and
      critic,&mdash;and the friend to whom <i>In Memoriam</i> is sacred. This
      place was selected by his father, not only from the connexion of kindred,
      being the burial-place of his maternal grandfather, Sir Abraham Elton, but
      likewise "on account of its still and sequestered situation, on a lone
      hill that overhangs the Bristol Channel." That lone hill, with its humble
      old church, its outlook over the waste of waters, where "the stately ships
      go on," was, we doubt not, in Tennyson's mind, when the poem, "Break,
      break, break," which contains the burden of that volume in which are
      enshrined so much of the deepest affection, poetry, philosophy, and
      godliness, rose into his "study of imagination"&mdash;"into the eye and
      prospect of his soul."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Break, break, break,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      On thy cold grey stones, O sea!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The passage from Shakspere prefixed to this paper, contains probably as
      much as can be said of the mental, not less than the affectionate
      conditions, under which such a record as In Memoriain is produced, and may
      give us more insight into the imaginative faculty's mode of working, than
      all our philosophizing and analysis. It seems to let out with the fulness,
      simplicity, and unconsciousness of a child&mdash;"Fancy's Child"&mdash;the
      secret mechanism or procession of the greatest creative mind our race has
      produced. In itself, it has no recondite meaning, it answers fully its own
      sweet purpose. We are not believers, like some folks, in the omniscience
      of even Shakspere. But, like many things that he and other wise men and
      many simple children say, it has a germ of universal meaning, which it is
      quite lawful to bring out of it, and which may be enjoyed to the full
      without any wrong to its own original beauty and fitness. A dew-drop is
      not the less beautiful that it illustrates in its structure the law of
      gravitation which holds the world together, and by which "the most ancient
      heavens are fresh and strong." This is the passage. The Friar speaking of
      Claudio, hearing that Hero "died upon his words," says&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Into his study of imagination;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And every lovely organ of her life
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Shall come apparelled in more precious habit&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      More moving delicate, and full of life,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Than when she lived indeed."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We have here expressed in plain language the imaginative memory of the
      beloved dead, rising upon the past, like moonlight upon midnight,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      "The gleam, the shadow, and the peace supreme."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This is its simple meaning&mdash;the statement of a truth, the utterance
      of personal feeling. But observe its hidden abstract significance&mdash;it
      is the revelation of what goes on in the depths of the soul, when the dead
      elements of what once was, are laid before the imagination, and so
      breathed upon as to be quickened into a new and higher life. We have first
      the Idea of her Life&mdash;all he remembered and felt of her, gathered
      into one vague shadowy image, not any one look, or action, or time,&mdash;then
      the idea of her life creeps&mdash;is in before he is aware, and sweetly
      creeps&mdash;it might have been softly or gently, but it is the addition
      of affection to all this, and bringing in another sense,&mdash;and now it
      is in his study of imagination&mdash;what a place! fit for such a visitor.
      Then out comes the Idea, more particular, more questionable, but still
      ideal, spiritual&mdash;every lovely organ of her life&mdash;then the
      clothing upon, the mortal putting on its immortal, spiritual body&mdash;shall
      come apparelled in more precious habit, more moving delicate&mdash;this is
      the transfiguring, the putting on strength, the poco&mdash;the little more
      which makes immortal,&mdash;more full of life and all this submitted to&mdash;the
      eye and prospect of the soul.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And I would that my tongue could utter
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The thoughts that arise in me.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "O well for the fisherman's boy,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      That he shouts with his sister at play!
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      O well for the sailor lad
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      That he sings in his boat on the bay!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "And the stately ships go on
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      To their haven under the hill!
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And the sound of a voice that is still!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Break, break, break,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But the tender grace of a day that is dead
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Will never come back to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of these few simple words, deep and melancholy, and sounding as the
      sea, as out of a well of the living waters of love, flows forth all <i>In
      Memoriam</i>, as a stream flows out of its spring&mdash;all is here. "I
      would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me,"&mdash;"the
      touch of the vanished hand&mdash;the sound of the voice that is still,"&mdash;the
      body and soul of his friend. Rising as it were out of the midst of the
      gloom of the valley of the shadow of death,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The mountain infant to the sun comes forth
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Like human life from darkness;"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      and how its waters flow on! carrying life, beauty, magnificence,&mdash;shadows
      and happy lights, depths of blackness, depths clear as the very body of
      heaven. How it deepens as it goes, involving larger interests, wider
      views, "thoughts that wander through eternity," greater affections, but
      still retaining its pure living waters, its unforgotten burden of love and
      sorrow. How it visits every region! "the long unlovely street," pleasant
      villages and farms, "the placid ocean-plains," waste howling wildernesses,
      grim woods, <i>nemorumque noctem,</i> informed with spiritual fears, where
      may be seen, if shapes they may be called&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Fear and trembling Hope,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And Time the Shadow
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      now within hearing of the Minster clock, now of the College bells, and the
      vague hum of the mighty city. And over head through all its course the
      heaven with its clouds, its sun, moon, and stars; but always, and in all
      places, declaring its source; and even when laying its burden of manifold
      and faithful affection at the feet of the Almighty Father, still
      remembering whence it came,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "That friend of mine who lives in God,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That God which ever lives and loves;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      One God, one law, one element,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And one far-off divine event,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To which the whole creation moves."
    </p>
    <p>
      It is to that chancel, and to the day, 3d January 1834, that he refers in
      poem xviii. of <i>In Memoriam</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "'Tis well,'tis something, we may stand
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Where he in English earth is laid,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And from his ashes may be made
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The violet of his native land.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "'Tis little; but it looks in truth
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      As if the quiet bones were blest
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Among familiar names to rest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And in the places of his youth."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      And again in XIX.:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The Danube to the Severn gave
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The darken'd heart that beat no more;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      They laid him by the pleasant shore,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And in the hearing of the wave.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "There twice a day the Severn fills,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The salt sea-water passes by,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And hushes half the babbling Wye,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And makes a silence in the hills."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, too, it is, lxvi.:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "When on my bed the moonlight falls,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      I know that in thy place of rest,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      By that broad water of the west;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      There comes a glory on the walls:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Thy marble bright in dark appears,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      As slowly steals a silver flame
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Along the letters of thy name,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And o'er the number of thy years."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This young man, whose memory his friend has consecrated in the hearts of
      all who can be touched by such love and beauty, was in nowise unworthy of
      all this. It is not for us to say, for it was not given to us the sad
      privilege to know, all that a father's heart buried with his son in that
      grave, all "the hopes of unaccomplished years nor can we feel in its
      fulness all that is meant by
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent30">
      "....Such
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      A friendship as had mastered Time;
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      Which masters Time indeed, and is
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Eternal, separate from fears.
    </p>
    <p class="indent10">
      The all-assuming months and years
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Can take no part away from this."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'But this we may say, we know of nothing in all literature to compare with
      the volume from which these lines are taken, since David lamented with
      this lamentation: "The beauty of Israel is slain. Ye mountains of Gilboa,
      let there be no dew, neither rain upon you. I am distressed for thee, my
      brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me; thy love for me
      was wonderful." We cannot, as some have done, compare it with Shakspere's
      sonnets, or with <i>Lycidas</i>. In spite of the amazing genius and
      tenderness, the never-wearying, all-involving reiteration of passionate
      attachment, the idolatry of admiring love, the rapturous devotedness,
      displayed in these sonnets, we cannot but agree with Mr. Hallam in
      thinking "that there is a tendency now, especially among young men of
      poetical tempers, to exaggerate the beauties of these remarkable
      productions and though we would hardly say with him, "that it is
      impossible not to wish that Shakspere had never written them," giving us,
      as they do, and as perhaps nothing else could do, such proof of a power of
      loving, of an amount of attendrissement, which is not less wonderful than
      the bodying forth of that myriad-mind which gave us Hamlet, and Lear,
      Cordelia, and Puck, and all the rest, and indeed explaining to us how he
      could give us all these;&mdash;while we hardly go so far, we agree with
      his other wise words:&mdash;"There is a weakness and folly in all
      misplaced and excessive affection which in Shakspere's case is the more
      distressing, when we consider that "Mr. W. H., the only begetter of these
      ensuing sonnets," was, in all likelihood, William Herbert, Earl of
      Pembroke, a man of noble and gallant character, but always of licentious
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for <i>Lycidas</i>, we must confess that the poetry&mdash;and we all
      know how consummate it is&mdash;and not the affection, seems uppermost in
      Milton's mind, as it is in ours. The other element, though quick and true,
      has no glory through reason of the excellency of that which invests it.
      But there is no such drawback in <i>In Memoriam</i>. The purity, the
      temperate but fervent goodness, the firmness and depth of nature, the
      impassioned logic, the large, sensitive, and liberal heart, the reverence
      and godly fear, of
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "That friend of mine who lives in God,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      which from these Remains we know to have dwelt in that young soul, give to
      <i>In Mentoriam</i> the character of exact-est portraiture. There is no
      excessive or misplaced affection here; it is all founded in fact: while
      everywhere and throughout it all, affection&mdash;a love that is wonderful&mdash;meets
      us first and leaves us last, giving form and substance and grace, and the
      breath of life and love, to everything that the poet's thick-coming
      fancies so exquisitely frame. We can recall few poems approaching to it in
      this quality of sustained affection. The only English poems we can think
      of as of the same order, are Cowper's lines on seeing his mother's
      portrait:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "O that these lips had language!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Burns to "Mary in Heaven and two pieces of Vaughan&mdash;one beginning
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "O thou who know'st for whom I mourn;"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      and the other&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "They are all gone into the world of light."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      But our object now is, not so much to illustrate Mr. Tennyson's verses, as
      to introduce to our readers, what we ourselves have got so much delight,
      and, we trust, profit from&mdash;<i>The Remains in Verse and Prose, of
      Arthur Henry Hallam</i>, 1834; privately printed. We had for many years
      been searching for this volume, but in vain; a sentence quoted by Henry
      Taylor struck us, and our desire was quickened by reading <i>In Memoriam</i>.
      We do not remember when we have been more impressed than by these Remains
      of this young man, especially when taken along with his friend's Memorial;
      and instead of trying to tell our readers what this impression is, we have
      preferred giving them as copious extracts as our space allows, that they
      may judge and enjoy for themselves. The italics are our own. We can
      promise them few finer, deeper, and better pleasures than reading, and
      detaining their minds over these two books together, filling their hearts
      with the fulness of their truth and tenderness. They will see how accurate
      as well as how affectionate and "of imagination all compact" Tennyson is,
      and how worthy of all that he has said of him, that friend was. The
      likeness is drawn <i>ad vivum</i>,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "When to the sessions of sweet silent t ought
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      He summons up remembrance of things past."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "The idea of his Life" has been sown a natural body, and has been raised a
      spiritual body, but the identity is unhurt; the countenance shines and the
      raiment is white and glistering, but it is the same face and form.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Memoir is by Mr. Hallam. We give it entire, not knowing anywhere a
      nobler or more touching record of a father's love and sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Arthur Henry Hallam was born in Bedford Place, * London, on the 1st of
      February 1811. Very few years had elapsed before his parents observed
      strong indications of his future character, in a peculiar clearness of
      perception, a facility of acquiring knowledge, and, above all, in an
      undeviating sweetness of disposition, and adherence to his sense of what
      was right and becoming. As he advanced to another stage of childhood, it
      was rendered still more manifest that he would be distinguished from
      ordinary persons, by an increasing thoughtfulness, and a fondness for a
      class of books, which in general are so little intelligible to boys of his
      age, that they excite in them no kind of interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the summer of 1818 he spent some months with his parents in Germany
      and Switzerland, and became familiar with the French language, which he
      had already learned to read with facility. He had gone through the
      elements of Latin before this time; but that language having been laid
      aside during his tour, it was found upon his return that, a variety of new
      scenes having effaced it from his memory, it was necessary to begin again
      with the first rudiments. He was nearly eight years old at this time; and
      in little more than twelve months he could read Latin with tolerable
      facility. *
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Dark house, by which once more I stand
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Here in the long unlovely street;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Doors, where my heart was wont to beat
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      So quickly, waiting for a hand."
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      In Memoriam.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     This is a mistake, as his friend Dr. A. P. Stanley thus
     corrects:&mdash;"'The long unlovely street' was Wimpole Street,
     No. 67, where the Hallams lived; and Arthur used to say to
     his friends, 'You know you will always find us at sixes and
     sevens.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      In this period his mind was developing itself more rapidly than before; he
      now felt a keen relish for dramatic poetry, and wrote several tragedies,
      if we may so call them, either in prose or verse, with a more precocious
      display of talents than the Editor remembers to have met with in any other
      individual. The natural pride, however, of his parents, did not blind them
      to the uncertainty that belongs to all premature efforts of the mind; and
      they so carefully avoided everything like a boastful display of blossoms
      which, in many cases, have withered away in barren luxuriance, that the
      circumstance of these compositions was hardly ever mentioned out of their
      own family.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the spring of 1820, Arthur was placed under the Rev. W. Carmalt, at
      Putney, where he remained nearly two years. After leaving this school, he
      went abroad again for some months; and, in October 1822, became the pupil
      of the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey, an Assistant Master of Eton College. At Eton he
      continued till the summer of 1827. He was now become a good though not
      perhaps a first-rate scholar in the Latin and Greek languages. The loss of
      time, relatively to this object, in travelling, but far more his
      increasing avidity for a different kind of knowledge, and the strong bent
      of his mind to subjects which exercise other faculties than such as the
      acquirement of languages calls into play, will sufficiently account for
      what might seem a comparative deficiency in classical learning. It can
      only, however, be reckoned one, comparatively to his other attainments,
      and to his remarkable facility in mastering the modern languages. The
      Editor has thought it not improper to print in the following pages an Eton
      exercise, which, as written before the age of fourteen, though not free
      from metrical and other errors, appears, perhaps to a partial judgment,
      far above the level of such compositions. It is remarkable that he should
      have selected the story of Ugolino, from a poet with whom, and with whose
      language, he was then but very slightly acquainted, but who was afterwards
      to become, more perhaps than any other, the master-mover of his spirit. It
      may be added, that great judgment and taste are perceptible in this
      translation, which is by no means a literal one; and in which the
      phraseology of Sophocles is not ill substituted, in some passages, for
      that of Dante.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Latin poetry of an Etonian is generally reckoned at that School the
      chief test of his literary talent. That of Arthur was good without being
      excellent; he never wanted depth of thought, or truth of feeling; but it
      is only in a few rare instances, if altogether in any, that an original
      mind has been known to utter itself freely and vigorously, without
      sacrifice of purity, in a language the capacities of which are so
      imperfectly understood; and in his productions there was not the thorough
      conformity to an ancient model which is required for perfect elegance in
      Latin verse. He took no great pleasure in this sort of composition; and
      perhaps never returned to it of his own accord.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the latter part of his residence at Eton, he was led away more and
      more by the predominant bias of his mind, from the exclusive study of
      ancient literature. The poets of England, especially the older dramatists,
      came with greater attraction over his spirit. He loved Fletcher, and some
      of Fletcher's contemporaries, for their energy of language and intenseness
      of feeling; but it was in Shakspere alone that he found the fulness of
      soul which seemed to slake the thirst of his own rapidly expanding genius
      for an inexhaustible fountain of thought and emotion. He knew Shakspere
      thoroughly; and indeed his acquaintance with the earlier poetry of this
      country was very extensive. Among the modern poets, Byron was at this
      time, far above the rest, and almost exclusively, his favorite; a
      preference which, in later years, he transferred altogether to Wordsworth
      and Shelley.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He became, when about fifteen years old, a member of the debating society
      established among the elder boys, in which he took great interest; and
      this served to confirm the bias of his intellect towards the moral and
      political philosophy of modern times. It was probably, however, of
      important utility in giving him that command of his own language which he
      possessed, as the following Essays will show, in a very superior degree,
      and in exercising those powers of argumentative discussion, which now
      displayed themselves as eminently characteristic of his mind. It was a
      necessary consequence that he declined still more from the usual paths of
      study, and abated perhaps somewhat of his regard for the writers of
      antiquity. It must not be understood, nevertheless, as most of those who
      read these pages will be aware, that he ever lost his sensibility to those
      ever-living effusions of genius which the ancient languages preserve. He
      loved Æschylus and Sophocles (to Euripides he hardly did justice),
      Lucretius and Virgil; if he did not seem so much drawn towards Homer as
      might at first be expected, this may probably be accounted for by his
      increasing taste for philosophical poetry.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the early part of 1827, Arthur took a part in the Eton Miscellany, a
      periodical publication, in which some of his friends in the debating
      society were concerned. He wrote in this, besides a few papers in prose, a
      little poem on a story connected with the Lake of Killarney. It has not
      been thought by the Editor advisable, upon the whole, to reprint these
      lines; though in his opinion, they bear very striking marks of superior
      powers. This was almost the first poetry that Arthur had written, except
      the childish tragedies above mentioned. No one was ever less inclined to
      the trick of versifying. Poetry with him was not an amusement, but the
      natural and almost necessary language of genuine emotion; and it was not
      till the discipline of serious reflection, and the approach of manhood,
      gave a reality and intenseness to such emotions, that he learned the
      capacities of his own genius. That he was a poet by nature, these Remains
      will sufficiently prove; but certainly he was far removed from being a
      versifier by nature; nor was he probably able to perform, what he scarce
      ever attempted, to write easily and elegantly on an ordinary subject. The
      lines on the story of Pygmalion are so far an exception, that they arose
      out of a momentary amusement of society; but he could not avoid, even in
      these, his own grave tone of poetry.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon leaving Eton in the summer of 1827, he accompanied his parents to
      the Continent, and passed eight months in Italy. This introduction to new
      scenes of nature and art, and to new sources of intellectual delight, at
      the very period of transition from boyhood to youth, sealed no doubt the
      peculiar character of his mind, and taught him, too soon for his peace, to
      sound those depths of thought and feeling, from which, after this time,
      all that he wrote was derived. He had, when he passed the Alps, only a
      moderate acquaintance with the Italian language; but during his residence
      in the country he came to speak it with perfect fluency, and with a pure
      Sienese pronunciation. In its study he was much assisted by his friend and
      instructor, the Abbate Pifferi, who encouraged him to his first attempts
      at versification. The few sonnets, which are now printed, were, it is to
      be remembered, written by a foreigner, hardly seventeen years old, and
      after a very short stay in Italy. The Editor might not, probably, have
      suffered them to appear even in this private manner, upon his own
      judgment. But he knew that the greatest living writer of Italy, to whom
      they were shown some time since at Milan, by the author's excellent
      friend, Mr. Richard Milnes, has expressed himself in terms of high
      approbation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The growing intimacy of Arthur with Italian poetry led him naturally to
      that of Dante. No poet was so congenial to the character of his own
      reflective mind; in none other could he so abundantly find that disdain of
      flowery redundance, that perpetual preference of the sensible to the
      ideal, that aspiration for somewhat better and less fleeting than earthly
      things, to which his inmost soul responded. Like all genuine worshippers
      of the great Florentine poet, he rated the <i>Inferno</i> below the two
      latter portions of the <i>Divina Commedia</i>; there was nothing even to
      revolt his taste, but rather much to attract it, in the scholastic
      theology and mystic visions of the <i>Paradiso</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Petrarch he greatly admired, though with less idolatry than Dante; and
      the sonnets here printed will show to all competent judges how fully he
      had imbibed the spirit, without servile centonism, of the best writers in
      that style of composition who flourished in the sixteenth century.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But poetry was not an absorbing passion at this time in his mind. His
      eyes were fixed on the best pictures with silent intense delight. He had a
      deep and just perception of what was beautiful in this art, at least in
      its higher schools; for he did not pay much regard, or perhaps quite do
      justice, to the masters of the seventeenth century. To technical criticism
      he made no sort of pretension; painting was to him but the visible
      language of emotion; and where it did not aim at exciting it, or employed
      inadequate means, his admiration would be withheld. Hence he highly prized
      the ancient paintings, both Italian and German, of the age which preceded
      the full development of art. But he was almost as enthusiastic an admirer
      of the Venetian, as of the Tuscan and Roman schools; considering these
      masters as reaching the same end by the different agencies of form and
      colour. This predilection for the sensitive beauties of painting is
      somewhat analogous to his fondness for harmony of verse, on which he laid
      more stress than poets so thoughtful are apt to do. In one of the last
      days of his life, he lingered long among the fine Venetian pictures of the
      Imperial Gallery at Vienna.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He returned to England in June 1828; and, in the following October, went
      down to reside at Cambridge; having been entered on the boards of Trinity
      College before his departure to the Continent. He was a pupil of the Rev.
      William Whewell. In some respects, as soon became manifest, he was not
      formed to obtain great academical reputation. An acquaintance with the
      learned languages, considerable at the school where he was educated, but
      not improved, to say the least, by the intermission of a year, during
      which his mind had been so occupied by other pursuits, that he had thought
      little of antiquity even in Rome itself, though abundantly sufficient for
      the gratification of taste and the acquisition of knowledge, was sure to
      prove inadequate to the searching scrutiny of modern examinations. He
      soon, therefore, saw reason to renounce all competition of this kind; nor
      did he ever so much as attempt any Greek or Latin composition during his
      stay at Cambridge. In truth he was very indifferent to success of this
      kind; and conscious as he must have been of a high reputation among his
      contemporaries, he could not think that he stood in need of any University
      distinctions. The Editor became by degrees almost equally indifferent to
      what he perceived to be so uncongenial to Arthur's mind. It was however to
      be regretted, that he never paid the least attention to mathematical
      studies. That he should not prosecute them with the diligence usual at
      Cambridge, was of course to be expected, yet his clearness and acumen
      would certainly have enabled him to master the principles of geometrical
      reasoning; nor, in fact, did he so much find a difficulty in apprehending
      demonstrations, as a want of interest, and a consequent inability to
      retain them in his memory. A little more practice in the strict logic of
      geometry', a little more familiarity with the physical laws of the
      universe, and the phenomena to which they relate, would possibly have
      repressed the tendency to vague and mystical speculations which he was too
      fond of indulging. In the philosophy of the human mind, he was in no
      danger of the materializing theories of some ancient and modern schools;
      but in shunning this extreme, he might sometimes forget that, in the
      honest pursuit of truth, we can shut our eyes to no real phenomena, and
      that the physiology of man must always enter into any valid scheme of his
      psychology.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The comparative inferiority which he might show in the usual trials of
      knowledge, sprung in a great measure from the want of a prompt and
      accurate memory. It was the faculty wherein he shone the least, according
      to ordinary observation; though his very extensive reach of literature,
      and his rapidity in acquiring languages, sufficed to prove that it was
      capable of being largely exercised. He could remember anything, as a
      friend observed to the Editor, that was associated with an idea. But he
      seemed, at least after he reached manhood, to want almost wholly the
      power, so common with inferior understandings, of retaining with
      regularity and exactness, a number of unimportant uninteresting
      particulars. It would have been nearly impossible to make him recollect
      for three days the date of the battle of Marathon, or the names in order
      of the Athenian months. Nor could he repeat poetry, much as he loved it,
      with the correctness often found in young men. It is not improbable, that
      a more steady discipline in early life would have strengthened this
      faculty, or that he might have supplied its deficiency by some technical
      devices; but where the higher powers of intellect were so extraordinarily
      manifested, it would have been preposterous to complain of what may
      perhaps have been a necessary consequence of their amplitude, or at least
      a natural result of their exercise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But another reason may be given for his deficiency in those unremitting
      labours which the course of academical education, in the present times, is
      supposed to exact from those who aspire to its distinctions. In the first
      year of his residence at Cambridge, symptoms of disordered health,
      especially in the circulatory system, began to show themselves; and it is
      by no means improbable, that these were indications of a tendency to
      derangement of the vital functions, which became ultimately fatal. A too
      rapid determination of blood toward the brain, with its concomitant uneasy
      sensations, rendered him frequently incapable of mental fatigue. He had
      indeed once before, at Florence, been affected by symptoms not unlike
      these. His intensity of reflection and feeling also brought on
      occasionally a considerable depression of spirits, which had been
      painfully observed at times by those who watched him most, from the time
      of his leaving Eton, and even before. It was not till after several months
      that he regained a less morbid condition of mind and body. This same
      irregularity of circulation returned in the next spring, but was of less
      duration. During the third year of his Cambridge life, he appeared in much
      better health.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this year (1831) he obtained the first college prize for an English
      declamation. The subject chosen by him was the conduct of the Independent
      party during the civil war. This exercise was greatly admired at the time,
      but was never printed. In consequence of this success, it became incumbent
      on him, according to the custom of the college, to deliver an oration in
      the chapel immediately before the Christmas vacation of the same year. On
      this occasion he selected a subject very congenial to his own turn of
      thought and favourite study, the influence of Italian upon English
      literature. He had previously gained another prize for an English essay on
      the philosophical writings of Cicero. This essay is perhaps too excursive
      from the prescribed subject; but his mind was so deeply imbued with the
      higher philosophy, especially that of Plato, with which he was very
      conversant, that he could not be expected to dwell much on the praises of
      Cicero in that respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Though the bent of Arthur's mind by no means inclined him to strict
      research into facts, he was full as much conversant with the great
      features of ancient and modern history, as from the course of his other
      studies and the habits of his life it was possible to expect. He reckoned
      them, as great minds always do, the groundworks of moral and political
      philosophy, and took no pains to acquire any knowledge of this sort from
      which a principle could not be derived or illustrated. To some parts of
      English history, and to that of the French Revolution, he had paid
      considerable attention. He had not read nearly so much of the Greek and
      Latin historians as of the philosophers and poets. In the history of
      literary, and especially of philosophical and religious opinions, he was
      deeply versed, as much so as it is possible to apply that term at his age.
      The following pages exhibit proofs of an acquaintance, not crude or
      superficial, with that important branch of literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      "His political judgments were invariably prompted by his strong sense of
      right and justice. These, in so young a person, were naturally rather
      fluctuating, and subject to the correction of advancing knowledge and
      experience. Ardent in the cause of those he deemed to be oppressed, of
      which, in one instance he was led to give a proof with more of energy and
      enthusiasm than discretion, he was deeply attached to the ancient
      institutions of his country.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He spoke French readily, though with less elegance than Italian, till
      from disuse he lost much of his fluency in the latter. In his last fatal
      tour in Germany, he was rapidly acquiring a readiness in the language of
      that country'. The whole range of French literature was almost as familiar
      to him as that of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The society in which Arthur lived most intimately, at Eton and at the
      University, was formed of young men, eminent for natural ability, and for
      delight in what he sought above all things, the knowledge of truth, and
      the perception of beauty. They who loved and admired him living, and who
      now revere his sacred memory, as of one to whom, in the fondness of
      regret, they admit of no rival, know best what he was in the daily
      commerce of life; and his eulogy should, on every account, better come
      from hearts, which, if partial, have been rendered so by the experience of
      friendship, not by the affection of nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Arthur left Cambridge on taking his degree in January 1832. He resided
      from that time with the Editor in London, having been entered on the
      boards of the Inner Temple. It was greatly the desire of the Editor that
      he should engage himself in the study of the law; not merely with
      professional views, but as a useful discipline for a mind too much
      occupied with habits of thought, which, ennobling and important as they
      were, could not but separate him from the everyday business of life, and
      might, by their excess, in his susceptible temperament, be productive of
      considerable mischief. He had, during the previous long vacation, read
      with the Editor the Institutes of Justinian, and the two works of
      Heineccius which illustrate them; and he now went through Blackstone's
      Commentaries, with as much of other law-books as, in the Editor's
      judgment, was required for a similar purpose. It was satisfactory at that
      time to perceive that, far from showing any of that distaste to legal
      studies which might have been anticipated from some parts of his
      intellectual character, he entered upon them not only with great
      acuteness, but considerable interest. In the month of October 1832, he
      began to see the practical application of legal knowledge in the office of
      an eminent conveyancer, Mr. Walters of Lincoln's Inn Fields, with whom he
      continued till his departure from England in the following summer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was not, however, to be expected, or even desired by any one who knew
      how to value him, that he should at once abandon those habits of study
      which had fertilized and invigorated his mind. But he now, from some
      change or other in his course of thinking, ceased in a great measure to
      write poetry, and expressed to more than one friend an intention to give
      it up. The instances after his leaving Cambridge were few. The dramatic
      scene between Raffaelle and Fiammetta was written in 1832; and about the
      same time he had a design to translate the <i>Vita Nuova</i> of his
      favourite Dante; a work which he justly prized, as the development of that
      immense genius, in a kind of autobiography, which best prepares us for a
      real insight into the <i>Divine Comedy</i>. He rendered accordingly into
      verse most of the sonnets which the <i>Vita Nuova</i> contains; but the
      Editor does not believe that he made any progress in the prose
      translation. These sonnets appearing rather too literal, and consequently
      harsh, it has not been thought worth while to print.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the summer of 1832, the appearance of Professor Rosetti's <i>Disquisizioni
      sullo spirito Antipapale</i>, in which the writings of Arthur's beloved
      masters Dante and Petrarch, as well as most of the mediæval literature of
      Italy, were treated as a series of enigmas, to be understood only by a key
      that discloses a latent Carbonarism, a secret conspiracy against the
      religion of their age, excited him to publish his own Remarks in reply. It
      seemed to him the worst of poetical heresies to desert the Absolute, the
      Universal, the Eternal, the Beautiful and True, which the Platonic spirit
      of his literary creed taught him to seek in all the higher works of
      genius, in quest of some temporary historical allusion, which could be of
      no interest with posterity. Nothing however could be more alien from his
      courteous disposition than to abuse the license of controversy, or to
      treat with intentional disrespect a very ingenious person, who had been
      led on too far in pursuing a course of interpretation, which, within
      certain much narrower limits, it is impossible for any one conversant with
      history not to admit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A very few other anonymous writings occupied his leisure about this time.
      Among these were slight memoirs of Petrarch, Voltaire, and Burke, for the
      Gallery of Portraits, published by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful
      Knowledge. *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * We had read these lives, and had remarked them, before we
     knew whose they were, as being of rare merit. No one could
     suppose they were written by one so young. We give his
     estimate of the character of Burke. "The mind of this great
     man may perhaps be taken as a representation of the general
     characteristics of the English intellect. Its groundwork,
     was solid, practical, and conversant with the details of
     business; but upon this, arose a superstructure of
     imagination and moral sentiment. He saw little, because it
     was painful to him to see anything, beyond the limits of the
     national character. In all things, while he deeply
     reverenced principles, he chose to deal with the concrete
     rather than with abstractions. He studied men rather than
     man." The words in italics imply an insight into the deepest
     springs of human action, the conjunct causes of what we call
     character, such as few men of large experience can attain.
</pre>
    <p>
      His time was however devoted, when not engaged at his office, to
      metaphysical researches, and to the history of philosophical opinions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "From the latter part of his residence at Cambridge, a gradual but very
      perceptible improvement in the cheerfulness of his spirits gladdened his
      family and his friends; intervals there doubtless were, when the continual
      seriousness of his habits of thought, or the force of circumstances, threw
      something more of gravity into his demeanour; but in general he was
      animated and even gay, renewing or preserving his intercourse with some of
      those he had most valued at Eton and Cambridge. The symptoms of deranged
      circulation which had manifested themselves before, ceased to appear, or
      at least so as to excite his own attention; and though it struck those who
      were most anxious in watching him, that his power of enduring fatigue was
      not quite so great as from his frame of body and apparent robustness might
      have been anticipated, nothing gave the least indication of danger either
      to their eyes, or to those of the medical practitioners who were in the
      habit of observing him. An attack of intermittent fever, during the
      prevalent influenza of the spring of 1833, may perhaps have disposed his
      constitution to the last fatal blow."
    </p>
    <p>
      To anyone who has watched the history of the disease by which "so quick
      this bright thing came to confusion," and who knows how near its subject
      must often, perhaps all his life, have been to that eternity which
      occupied so much of his thoughts and desires, and the secrets of which
      were so soon to open on his young eyes, there is something very touching
      in this account. Such a state of health would enhance, and tend to
      produce, by the sensations proper to such a condition, that habitual
      seriousness of thought, that sober judgment, and that tendency to look at
      the true life of things&mdash;that deep but gentle and calm sadness, and
      that occasional sinking of the heart, which make his noble and strong
      inner nature, his resolved mind so much more impressive and endearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      This feeling of personal insecurity&mdash;of life being ready to slip away&mdash;the
      sensation that this world and its ongoings, its mighty interests, and
      delicate joys, is ready to be shut up in a moment&mdash;this instinctive
      apprehension of the peril of vehement bodily enjoyment&mdash;all this
      would tend to make him "walk softly," and to keep him from much of the
      evil that is in the world, and would help him to live soberly,
      righteously, and godly, even in the bright and rich years of his youth.
      His power of giving himself up to the search after absolute truth, and the
      contemplation of Supreme goodness, must have been increased by this same
      organization. But all this delicate feeling, this fineness of sense, did
      rather quicken the energy and fervour of the indwelling soul&mdash;the
      [Greek] that burned within. In the quaint words of Vaughan, it was
      "manhood with a female eye." These two conditions must, as we have said,
      have made him dear indeed. And by a beautiful law of life, having that
      organ out of which are the issues of life, under a sort of perpetual
      nearness to suffering, and so liable to pain, he would be more easily
      moved for others&mdash;more alive to their pain&mdash;more filled with
      fellow-feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Editor cannot dwell on anything later. Arthur accompanied him to
      Germany in the beginning of August. In returning to Vienna from Pesth, a
      wet day probably gave rise to an intermittent fever, with very slight
      symptoms, and apparently subsiding, when a sudden rush of blood to the
      head put an instantaneous end to his life on the 15th of September 1833.
      The mysteriousness of such a dreadful termination to a disorder generally
      of so little importance, and in this instance of the slightest kind, has
      been diminished by an examination which showed a weakness of the cerebral
      vessels, and a want of sufficient energy in the heart. Those whose eyes
      must long be dim with tears, and whose hopes on this side the tomb are
      broken down for ever, may cling, as well as they can, to the poor
      consolation of believing that a few more years would, in the usual chances
      of humanity, have severed the frail union of his graceful and manly form
      with the pure spirit that it enshrined.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The remains of Arthur were brought to England, and interred on the 3d of
      January 1834, in the chancel of Clevedon Church, in Somersetshire,
      belonging to his maternal grandfather, Sir Abraham Elton, a place selected
      by the Editor, not only from the connexion of kindred, but on account of
      its still and sequestered situation, on a lone hill that overhangs the
      Bristol Channel.
    </p>
    <p>
      "More ought perhaps to be said&mdash;but it is very difficult to proceed.
      From the earliest years of this extraordinary young man, his premature
      abilities were not more conspicuous than an almost faultless disposition,
      sustained by a more calm self-command than has often been witnessed in
      that season of life. The sweetness of temper which distinguished his
      childhood, became with the advance of manhood a habitual benevolence, and
      ultimately ripened into that exalted principle of love towards God and
      man, which animated and almost absorbed his soul during the latter period
      of his life, and to which most of the following compositions bear such
      emphatic testimony. He seemed to tread the earth as a spirit from some
      better world; and in bowing to the mysterious will which has in mercy
      removed him, perfected by so short a trial, and passing over the bridge
      which separates the seen from the unseen life, in a moment, and, as we may
      believe, without a moment's pang, we must feel not only the bereavement of
      those to whom he was dear, but the loss which mankind have sustained by
      the withdrawing of such a light.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A considerable portion of the poetry contained in this volume was printed
      in the year 1830, and was intended by the author to be published together
      with the poems of his intimate friend, Mr. Alfred Tennyson. They were
      however withheld from publication at the request of the Editor. The poem
      of Timbuctoo was written for the University prize in 1829, which it did
      not obtain, Notwithstanding its too great obscurity, the subject itself
      being hardly indicated, and the extremely hyperbolical importance which
      the author's brilliant fancy has attached to a nest of barbarians, no one
      can avoid admiring the grandeur of his conceptions, and the deep
      philosophy upon which he has built the scheme of his poem. This is however
      by no means the most pleasing of his compositions. It is in the profound
      reflection, the melancholy tenderness, and the religious sanctity of other
      effusions that a lasting charm will be found. A commonplace subject, such
      as those announced for academical prizes generally are, was incapable of
      exciting a mind which, beyond almost every other, went straight to the
      furthest depths that the human intellect can fathom, or from which human
      feelings can be drawn. Many short poems, of equal beauty with those here
      printed, have been deemed unfit even for the limited circulation they
      might obtain, on account of their unveiling more of emotion than,
      consistently with what is due to him and to others, could be exposed to
      view.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The two succeeding essays have never been printed; but were read, it is
      believed, in a literary society at Trinity College, or in one to which he
      afterwards belonged in London. That entitled <i>Theodicoea Novissima,</i>
      is printed at the desire of some of his intimate friends. A few
      expressions in it want his usual precision; and there are ideas which he
      might have seen cause, in the lapse of time, to modify, independently of
      what his very acute mind would probably have perceived, that his
      hypothesis, like that of Leibnitz, on the origin of evil, resolves itself
      at last into an unproved assumption of its necessity. It has however some
      advantages, which need not be mentioned, over that of Leibnitz; and it is
      here printed, not as a solution of the greatest mystery of the universe,
      but as most characteristic of the author's mind, original and sublime,
      uniting, what is very rare except in early youth, a fearless and
      unblenching spirit of inquiry into the highest objects of speculation,
      with the most humble and reverential piety. It is probable that in many of
      his views on such topics he was influenced by the writings of Jonathan
      Edwards, with whose opinions on metaphysical and moral subjects, he seems
      generally to have concurred.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The extract from a review of Tennyson's poems in a publication now
      extinct, the <i>Englishman's Magazine</i>, is also printed at the
      suggestion of a friend. The pieces that follow are reprints, and have been
      already mentioned in this Memoir."
    </p>
    <p>
      We have given this Memoir almost entire, for the sake both of its subjects
      and its manner&mdash;for what in it is the father's as well as for what is
      the son's. There is something very touching in the paternal composure, the
      judiciousness, the truthfulness, where truth is so difficult to reach
      through tears; the calm estimate and the subdued tenderness, the
      ever-rising but ever-restrained emotion; the father's heart throbs
      throughout.
    </p>
    <p>
      We wish we could have given in full the letters from Arthur's friends,
      which his father has incorporated in the Memoir. They all bring out in
      different but harmonious ways, his extraordinary moral and intellectual
      worth, his rare beauty of character, and their deep affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following extract from one seems to us very interesting:&mdash;"Outwardly
      I do not think there was anything remarkable in his habits, except <i>an
      irregularity with regard to times and places of study</i>, which may seem
      surprising in one whose progress in so many directions was so eminently
      great and rapid. <i>He was commonly to be found in some friend's room,
      reading or canvassing</i>. I dare say he lost something by this
      irregularity, <i>but less than perhaps one would at first imagine</i>. I
      never saw him idle. He might seem to be lounging, or only amusing himself,
      but his mind was always active, and active for good. In fact, his energy
      and quickness of apprehension did not stand in need of outward aid." There
      is much in this worthy of more extended notice. Such minds as his probably
      grow best in this way, are best left to themselves, to glide on at their
      own sweet wills; the stream was too deep and clear, and perhaps too
      entirely bent on its own errand, to be dealt with or regulated by any art
      or device. The same friend sums up his character thus:&mdash;"I have met
      with no man his superior in metaphysical subtlety; no man his equal as a
      philosophical critic on works of taste; no man whose views on all subjects
      connected with the duties and dignities of humanity were more large and
      generous, and enlightened." And all this said of a youth of twenty&mdash;heu
      nimimn brevis ovi decus et desiderium!
    </p>
    <p>
      We have given little of his verse; and what we do give is taken at random.
      We agree entirely in his father's estimate of his poetical gift and art,
      but his mind was too serious, too thoughtful, too intensely dedicated to
      truth and the God of truth, to linger long in the pursuit of beauty; he
      was on his way to God, and could rest in nothing short of Him, otherwise
      he might have been a poet of genuine excellence.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Dark, dark, yea, 'irrecoverably dark,'
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Is the soul's eye; yet how it strives and battles
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Thorough th' impenetrable gloom to fix
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That master light, the secret truth of things,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Which is the body of the infinite God!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Sure, we are leaves of one harmonious bower,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Fed by a sap that never will be scant,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      All-permeating, all-producing mind;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And in our several parcellings of doom
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      We but fulfil the beauty of the whole,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Oh, madness! if a leaf should dare complain
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Of its dark verdure, and aspire to be
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The gayer, brighter thing that wantons near."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Oh, blessing and delight of my young heart,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Maiden, who wast so lovely, and so pure,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I know not in what region now thou art,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Not the old hills on which we gazed together,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Not the old faces which we both did love,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Not the old books, whence knowledge we did gather,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Not these, but others now thy fancies move.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      I would I knew thy present hopes and fears,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      All thy companions with their pleasant talk,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears:
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      So, though in body absent, I might walk
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      With thee in thought and feeling, till thy mood
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Did sanctify mine own to peerless good."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Alfred, I would that you beheld me now,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Sitting beneath a mossy ivied wall
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      On a quaint bench, which to that structure old
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Winds an accordant curve. Above my head
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Seeming received into the blue expanse
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That vaults this summer noon."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Still here&mdash;thou hast not faded from my sight,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nor all the music round thee from mine ear;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Still grace flows from thee to the brightening year,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And all the birds laugh out in wealthier light.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Still am I free to close my happy eyes,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And paint upon the gloom thy mimic form,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      That soft white neck, that cheek in beauty warm,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And brow half hidden where yon ringlet lies:
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      With, oh! the blissful knowledge all the while
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      That I can lift at will each curvèd lid,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And my fair dream most highly realize.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The time will come,'tis ushered by my sighs,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      When I may shape the dark, but vainly bid
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      True light restore that form, those looks, that smile."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "The garden trees are busy with the shower
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      That fell ere sunset: now methinks they talk,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Lowly and sweetly as befits the hour,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      One to another down the grassy walk.
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Hark the laburnum from his opening flower,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      This cheery creeper greets in whisper light,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Hoarse mutters to the murmuring sycamore,*
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      What shall I deem their converse? would they hail
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The wild grey light that fronts yon massive cloud,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or the half bow, rising like pillar d fire?
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Or are they fighting faintly for desire
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      That with May dawn their leaves may be o'erflowed,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And dews about their feet may never fail?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This will remind the reader of a fine passage in <i>Edwin
     the Fair</i>, on the specific differences in the sounds made by
     the ash, the elm, the fir, etc., when moved by the wind; and
     of some lines by Landor on flowers speaking to each other;
     and of something more exquisite than either, in <i>Consuelo</i>&mdash;
     the description of the flowers in the old monastic garden,
     at the "sweet hour of prime."
</pre>
    <p>
      In the Essay, entitled <i>Theodiccea Novissima</i>, from which the
      following passages are taken, to the great injury in its general effect,
      he sets himself to the task of doing his utmost to clear up the mystery of
      the existence of such things as sin and suffering in the universe of a
      being like God. He does it fearlessly, but like a child. It is in the
      spirit of his friend's words,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "An infant crying in the night,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      An infant crying for the light,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And with no language but a cry."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "Then was I as a child that cries,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      But, crying, knows his father near."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not a mere exercitation of the intellect, it is an endeavour to get
      nearer God&mdash;to assert his eternal Providence, and vindicate his ways
      to men. We know no performance more wonderful for such a boy. Pascal might
      have written it. As was to be expected, the tremendous subject remains
      where he found it&mdash;his glowing love and genius cast a gleam here and
      there across its gloom; but it is brief as the lightning in the collied
      night&mdash;the jaws of darkness do devour it up&mdash;this secret belongs
      to God. Across its deep and dazzling darkness, and from out its abyss of
      thick cloud, "all dark, dark, irrecoverably dark," no steady ray has ever,
      or will ever, come&mdash;over its face its own darkness must brood, till
      He to whom alone the darkness and the light are both alike, to whom the
      night shineth as the day, says, "Let there be light!" There is, we all
      know, a certain awful attraction, a nameless charm for all thoughtful
      spirits, in this mystery, "the greatest in the universe," as Mr. Hallam
      truly says; and it is well for us at times, so that we have pure eyes and
      a clean heart, to turn aside and look into its gloom; but it is not good
      to busy ourselves in clever speculations about it, or briskly to criticise
      the speculations of others&mdash;it is a wise and pious saying of
      Augustine, <i>Verius cogitatur Dens, quam dicitur; et verius est quam
      cogitatur</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish to be understood as considering Christianity in the present Essay
      rather in its relation to the intellect, as constituting the higher
      philosophy, than in its far more important bearing upon the hearts and
      destinies of us all. I shall propose the question in this form, 'Is there
      ground for believing that the existence of moral evil is absolutely
      necessary to the fulfilment of God's essential love for Christ?' (i. e.,
      of the Father for Christ, or of [Greek]).
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Can man by searching find out God?' I believe not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe that the unassisted efforts of man's reason have not
      established the existence and attributes of Deity on so sure a basis as
      the Deist imagines. However sublime may be the notion of a supreme
      original mind, and however naturally human feelings adhered to it, the
      reasons by which it was justified were not, in my opinion, sufficient to
      clear it from considerable doubt and confusion.... I hesitate not to say
      that I derive from Revelation a conviction of Theism, which, without that
      assistance, would have been but a dark and ambiguous hope. <i>I see that
      the Bible fits into every fold of the human heart. I am a man, and I
      believe it to be God's book because it is man'</i>s book. It is true that
      the Bible affords me no additional means of demonstrating the falsity of
      Atheism; <i>if mind had nothing to do with the formation of the Universe,
      doubtless whatever had was competent also to make the Bible</i>; but I
      have gained this advantage, that my feelings and thoughts can no longer
      refuse their assent to <i>what is evidently framed to engage that assent;
      and what is it to me that I cannot disprove the bare logical possibility
      of my whole nature being fallacious? To seek for a certainty above
      certainty, an evidence beyond necessary belief, is the very lunacy of
      scepticism</i>: we must trust our own faculties, or we can put no trust in
      anything, save that moment we call the present, which escapes us while we
      articulate its name. <i>I am determined therefore to receive the Bible as
      Divinely authorized, and the scheme of human and Divine things which it
      contains, as essentially true</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I may further observe, that however much we should rejoice to discover
      that the eternal scheme of God&mdash;the necessary completion, let us
      remember, of his Almighty Nature&mdash;did not require the absolute
      perdition of any spirit called by Him into existence, we are certainly not
      entitled to consider the perpetual misery of many individuals as
      incompatible with sovereign love."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the Supreme Nature those two capacities of Perfect Love and Perfect
      Joy are indivisible. Holiness and Happiness, says an old divine, are two
      several notions of one thing. Equally inseparable are the notions of
      Opposition to Love and Opposition to Bliss. <i>Unless therefore the heart
      of a created being is at one with the heart of God, it cannot but be
      miserable</i>. Moreover, there is no possibility of continuing for ever
      partly with God and partly against him: we must either be capable by our
      nature of entire accordance with His will, or we must be incapable of
      anything but misery, further than He may for awhile 'not impute our
      trespasses to us,' that is, He may interpose some temporary barrier
      between sin and its attendant pain. <i>For in the Eternal Idea of God a
      created spirit is perhaps not seen, as a series of successive states</i>,
      of which some that are evil might be compensated by others that are good,
      <i>but as one indivisible object of these almost infinitely divisible
      modes</i>, and that either in accordance with His own nature, or in
      opposition to it....
    </p>
    <p>
      "Before the gospel was preached to man, how could a human soul have this
      love, and this consequent life? I see no way; but now that Christ has
      excited our love for him by showing unutterable love for us; now that we
      know him as an Elder Brother, a being of like thoughts, feelings,
      sensations, sufferings, with ourselves, it has become possible to love as
      God loves, that is, to love Christ, and thus to become united in heart to
      God. Besides, Christ is the express image of God's person: in loving him
      we are sure we are in a state of readiness to love the Father, whom we
      see, he tells us, when we see him. Nor is this all: the tendency of love
      is towards a union so intimate as virtually to amount to identification;
      when then by affection towards Christ we have become blended with his
      being, the beams of eternal love, falling, as ever, on the one beloved
      object, will include us in him, and their returning flashes of love out of
      his personality will carry along with them some from our own, since ours
      has become confused with his, and so shall we be one with Christ, and
      through Christ with God. Thus then we see the great effect of the
      Incarnation, as far as our nature is concerned, was to render human love
      for the Most High a possible thing. The law had said, 'Thou shalt love the
      Lord thy God with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy
      strength;' and could men have lived by law, 'which is the strength of
      sin,' verily righteousness and life would have been by that law. But it
      was not possible, and all were concluded under sin, that in Christ might
      be the deliverance of all. I believe that Redemption" (i. e., what Christ
      has done and suffered for mankind) "is universal, in so far as it left no
      obstacle between man and God, but man's own will; that indeed is in the
      power of God's election, with whom alone rest the abysmal secrets of
      personality; but as far as Christ is concerned, his death was for all,
      since his intentions and affections were equally directed to all, and
      'none who come to him will be in any wise cast out.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I deprecate any hasty rejection of these thoughts as novelties.
      Christianity is indeed, as St. Augustin says, 'pulchritudo tarn antiqua;'
      but he adds, 'tarn nova,' for it is capable of presenting to every mind a
      new face of truth. The great doctrine which in my judgment these
      observations tend to strengthen and illumine, <i>the doctrine of personal
      love for a personal God</i>, is assuredly no novelty, but has in all times
      been the vital principle of the Church. Many are the forms of
      antichristian heresy, which for a season have depressed and obscured that
      principle of life, but its nature is conflictive and resurgent; and
      neither the Papal Hierarchy with its pomp of systematized errors, nor the
      worst apostasy of latitudinarian Protestantism, have ever so far
      prevailed, but that many from age to age have proclaimed and vindicated
      the eternal gospel of love, believing, as I also firmly believe, that any
      opinion which tends to keep out of sight the living and loving God,
      whether it substitute for Him an idol, an occult agency, or a formal
      creed, can be nothing better than a vain and portentous shadow projected
      from the selfish darkness of unregenerate man."
    </p>
    <p>
      The following is from the Review of Tennyson's Poems; we do not know that
      during the lapse of eighteen years anything better has been said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Undoubtedly the true poet addresses himself, in all his conceptions, to
      the common nature of us all. Art is a lofty tree, and may shoot up far
      beyond our grasp, but its roots are in daily life and experience. Every
      bosom contains the elements of those complex emotions which the artist
      feels, and every head can, to a certain extent, go over in itself the
      process of their combination, so as to understand his expressions and
      sympathize with his state. But this requires exertion; more or less,
      indeed, according to the difference of occasion, but always some degree of
      exertion. For since the emotions of the poet during composition follow a
      regular law of association, it follows that to accompany their progress up
      to the harmonious prospect of the whole, and to perceive the proper
      dependence of every step on that which preceded, it is absolutely
      necessary to start from the same point, i.e, clearly to apprehend that
      leading sentiment of the poet's mind, by their conformity to which the
      host of suggestions are arranged. Now this requisite exertion is not
      willingly made by the large majority of readers. It is so easy to judge
      capriciously, and according to indolent impulse!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Those different powers of poetic disposition, the energies of Sensitive,
      of Reflective, or Passionate emotion, which' in former times were
      intermingled, and derived from mutual support an extensive empire over the
      feelings of men, were now restrained within separate spheres of agency.
      The whole system no longer worked harmoniously, and by intrinsic harmony
      acquired external freedom; but there arose a violent and unusual action in
      the several component functions, each for itself, all striving to
      reproduce the regular power which the whole had once enjoyed. Hence the
      melancholy which so evidently characterizes the spirit of modern poetry;
      hence that return of the mind upon itself, and the habit of seeking relief
      in idiosyncrasies rather than community of interest. In the old times the
      poetic impulse went along with the general impulse of the nation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of the faithful Islam, a poet in the truest and highest sense, we are
      anxious to present to our readers.... He sees all the forms of Nature with
      the '<i>eruditus oculus</i>,' and his ear has a fairy fineness. There is
      <i>a strange earnestness in his worship of beauty</i>, which throws a
      charm over his impassioned song, more easily felt than described, and not
      to be escaped by those who have once felt it. We think that he has more
      definiteness and roundness of general conception than the late Mr. Keats,
      and is much more free from blemishes of diction and hasty capriccios of
      fancy.... The author imitates nobody; we recognise the spirit of his age,
      but not the individual form of this or that writer. His thoughts bear no
      more resemblance to Byron or Scott, Shelley or Coleridge, than to Homer or
      Calderon, Ferdusi or Calidasa. We have remarked five distinctive
      excellencies of his own manner. First, his luxuriance of imagination, and
      at the same time his control over it. Secondly, his power of embodying
      himself in ideal characters, or rather modes of character, with such
      extreme accuracy of adjustment, that the circumstances of the narration
      seem to have a natural correspondence with the predominant feeling, and,
      as it were, to be evolved from it by assimilative force. Thirdly, his
      vivid, picturesque delineation of objects, and the peculiar skill with
      which he holds all of them fitsedy, to borrow a metaphor from science, in
      a medium of strong emotion. Fourthly, the variety of his lyrical measures,
      and exquisite modulation of harmonious words and cadences to the swell and
      fall of the feelings expressed. Fifthly, the elevated habits of thought,
      implied in these compositions, and imparting a mellow soberness of tone,
      more impressive, to our mind, than if the author had drawn up a set of
      opinions in verse, and sought to instruct the understanding, rather than
      to communicate the love of beauty to the heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      What follows is justly thought and well said.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And is it not a noble thing, that the English tongue is, as it were, the
      common focus and point of union to which opposite beauties converge? Is it
      a trifle that wre temper energy with softness, strength with flexibility,
      capaciousness of sound with pliancy of idiom? Some, I know, insensible to
      these virtues, and ambitious of I know not what unattainable
      decomposition, prefer to utter funereal praises over the grave of departed
      Anglo Saxon, or, starting with convulsive shudder, are ready to leap from
      surrounding Latinisms into the kindred, sympathetic arms of modern German.
      For myself, I neither share their regret, nor their terror. Willing at all
      times to pay filial homage to the shades of Hengist and Horsa, and to
      admit they have laid the base of our compound language; or, if you will,
      have prepared the soil from which the chief nutriment of the goodly tree,
      our British oak, must be derived, I am yet proud to confess that I look
      with sentiments more exulting and more reverential to the bonds by which
      the law of the universe has fastened me to my distant brethren of the same
      Caucasian race; to the privileges which I, an inhabitant of the gloomy
      North, share in common with climates imparadised in perpetual summer, to
      the universality and efficacy resulting from blended intelligence, which,
      while it endears in our eyes the land of our fathers as a seat of peculiar
      blessing, tends to elevate and expand our thoughts into communion with
      humanity at large; and, in the 'sublimer spirit' of the poet, to make us
      feel
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      'That God is everywhere&mdash;the God who framed
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Mankind to be one mighty family,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Himself our Father, and the world our home.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      What nice shading of thought do his remarks on Petrarch discover!
    </p>
    <p>
      "But it is not so much to his direct adoptions that I refer, as to the
      general modulation of thought, that clear softness of his images, that
      energetic self-possession of his conceptions, and that melodious repose in
      which are held together all the emotions he delineates."
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one who knows anything of himself, and of his fellow-men, will
      acknowledge the wisdom of what follows. It displays an intimate knowledge
      both of the constitution and history of man, and there is much in it
      suited to our present need:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not hesitate to express my conviction, that the spirit of the
      critical philosophy, as seen by its fruits in all the ramifications of
      art, literature, and morality, is as much more dangerous than the spirit
      of mechanical philosophy, as it is fairer in appearance, and more capable
      of alliance with our natural feelings of enthusiasm and delight. Its
      dangerous tendency is this, that it perverts those very minds, whose
      office it was to resist the perverse impulses of society, and to proclaim
      truth under the dominion of falsehood. However precipitate may be at any
      time the current of public opinion, bearing along the mass of men to the
      grosser agitations of life, and to such schemes of belief as make these
      the prominent objects, there will always be in reserve a force of
      antagonistic opinion, strengthened by opposition, and attesting the
      sanctity of those higher principles which are despised or forgotten by the
      majority. These men are secured by natural temperament and peculiar
      circumstances from participating in the common delusion: but if some other
      and deeper fallacy be invented; if some more subtle beast of the field
      should speak to them in wicked flattery; if a digest of intellectual
      aphorisms can be substituted in their minds for a code of living truths,
      and the lovely semblances of beauty, truth, affection, can be made first
      to obscure the presence, and then to conceal the loss, of that religious
      humility, without which, as their central life, all these are but dreadful
      shadows; if so fatal a stratagem can be successfully practised, I see not
      what hope remains for a people against whom the gates of hell have so
      prevailed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the number of pure artists is small: few souls are so finely tempered
      as to preserve the delicacy of meditative feeling, untainted by the
      allurements of accidental suggestion. The voice of the critical conscience
      is still and small, like that of the moral: it cannot entirely be stifled
      where it has been heard, but it may be disobeyed. Temptations are never
      wanting; some immediate and temporary effect can be produced at less
      expense of inward exertion than the high and more ideal effect which art
      demands: it is much easier to pander to the ordinary and often recurring
      wish for excitement, than to promote the rare and difficult intuition of
      beauty. To raise the many to his own real point of view, the artist must
      employ his energies, and create energy in others: to descend to their
      position is less noble, but practicable with ease. If I may be allowed the
      metaphor, one partakes of the nature of redemptive power; the other of
      that self-abased and degenerate will, which 'flung from his splendours'
      the fairest star in heaven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Revelation is a voluntary approximation of the Infinite Being to the ways
      and thoughts of finite humanity. But until this step has been taken by
      Almighty Grace, how should man have a warrant for loving with all his
      heart and mind and strength?.... Without the gospel, nature exhibits a
      want of harmony between our intrinsic constitution and the system in which
      it is placed. But Christianity has made up the difference. It is possible
      and natural to love the Father, who has made us his children by the spirit
      of adoption: it is possible and natural to love the Elder Brother, who
      was, in all things, like as we are, except sin, and can succour those in
      temptation, having been himself tempted. Thus the Christian faith is the
      necessary complement of a sound ethical system There is something to us
      very striking in the words "Revelation is a voluntary approximation of the
      Infinite Being." This states the case with an accuracy and a distinctness
      not at all common among either the opponents or the apologists of revealed
      religion in the ordinary sense of the expression. In one sense God is for
      ever revealing himself. His heavens are for ever telling his glory, and
      the firmament showing his handiwork; day unto day is uttering speech, and
      night unto night is showing knowledge concerning him. But in the word of
      the truth of the gospel, God draws near to his creatures; he bows his
      heavens, and comes down:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      he lays aside. The Word dwelt with men. "Come then, let us reason together&mdash;"Waiting
      to be gracious&mdash;"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man
      open to me, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me." It
      is the father seeing his son while yet a great way off, and having
      compassion, and running to him and falling on his neck and kissing him;
      for "it was meet for us to rejoice, for this my son was dead and is alive
      again, he was lost, and is found." Let no man confound the voice of God in
      his Works with the voice of God in his Word; they are utterances of the
      same infinite heart and will, they are in absolute harmony; together they
      make up "that undisturbed song of pure concent one "perfect diapason but
      they are distinct; they are meant to be so. A poor traveller "weary and
      waysore," is stumbling in unknown places through the darkness of a night
      of fear, with no light near him, the everlasting stars twinkling far off
      in their depths, and yet unrisen sun, or the waning moon, sending up their
      pale beams into the upper heavens, but all this is distant and bewildering
      for his feet, doubtless better much than outer darkness, beautiful and
      full of God, if he could have the heart to look up, and the eyes to make
      use of its vague light; but he is miserable, and afraid, his next step is
      what he is thinking of; a lamp secured against all winds of doctrine is
      put into his hands, it may in some respects widen the circle of darkness,
      but it will cheer his feet, it will tell them what to do next. What a
      silly fool he would be to throwaway that lantern, or draw down the
      shutters, and make it dark to him, while it sits "i' the centre and enjoys
      bright day," and all upon the philosophical ground that its light was of
      the same kind as the stars', and that it was beneath the dignity of human
      nature to do anything but struggle on and be lost in the attempt to get
      through the wilderness and the night by the guidance of those "natural"
      lights, which, though they are from heaven, have so often led the wanderer
      astray. The dignity of human nature indeed! Let him keep his lantern till
      the glad sun is up, with healing under his wings. Let him take good heed
      to the "sure" [Greek] while in this [Greek]&mdash;this dark, damp,
      unwholesome place, "till the day dawn and [Greek] the day-star&mdash;arise."
      Nature and the Bible, the Works and the Word of God, are two distinct
      things. In the mind of their Supreme Author they dwell in perfect peace,
      in that unspeakable unity which is of his essence; and to us his children,
      every day their harmony, their mutual relations, are discovering
      themselves; but let us beware of saying all nature is a revelation as the
      Bible is, and all the Bible is natural as nature is: there is a perilous
      juggle here.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following passage develops Arthur Hallam's views on religious feeling;
      this was the master idea of his mind, and it would not be easy to overrate
      its importance. "My son, give me thine heart;"&mdash;"Thou shalt love the
      Lord thy God&mdash;"The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God." He
      expresses the same general idea in these words, remarkable in themselves,
      still more so as being the thought of one so young. "The work of intellect
      is posterior to the work of feeling. The latter lies at the foundation of
      the man; it is his proper self&mdash;the peculiar thing that characterizes
      him as an individual. No two men are alike in feeling; but conceptions of
      the understanding, when distinct, are precisely similar in all&mdash;the
      ascertained relations of truths are the common property of the race."
    </p>
    <p>
      Tennyson, we have no doubt, had this thought of his friend in his mind, in
      the following lines; it is an answer to the question, Can man by searching
      find out God?&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "I found Him not in world or sun,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nor thro' the questions men may try,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      The petty cobwebs we have spun:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "If e'er when faith had fallen asleep,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      I heard a voice 'believe no more,'
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And heard an ever-breaking shore
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That tumbled in the godless deep;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "A warmth within the breast would, melt
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      The freezing reason's colder part,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And like a man in wrath, the heart
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Stood up and answer'd, 'I have felt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "No, like a child in doubt and fear:
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      But that blind clamour made me wise;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Then was I as a child that cries,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      But, crying, knows his father near;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "And what I seem beheld again
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      What is, and no man understands:
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And out of darkness came the hands
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      That reach thro' nature, moulding men."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This is a subject of the deepest personal as well as speculative interest.
      In the works of Augustin, of Baxter, Howe, and Jonathan Edwards, and of
      Alexander Knox, our readers will find how large a place the religious
      affections held in their view of Divine truths as well as of human duty.
      The last-mentioned writer expresses himself thus:&mdash;"Our sentimental
      faculties are far stronger than our cogitative; and the best impressions
      on the latter will be but the moonshine of the mind, if they are alone.
      Feeling will be best excited by sympathy; rather, it cannot be excited in
      any other way. Heart must act upon heart&mdash;the idea of a living person
      being essential to all intercourse of heart. You cannot by any possibility
      <i>corddialise</i> with a mere <i>ens rationis</i>. 'The Word was made
      flesh, and dwelt among us,' otherwise we could not have 'beheld his
      glory,' much less 'received of his fulness.'" *
    </p>
    <p>
      Our young author thus goes on:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "This opens upon us an ampler view in which the subject deserves to be
      considered, and a relation still more direct and close between the
      Christian religion and the passion of love. What is the distinguishing
      character of Hebrew literature, which separates it by so broad a line of
      demarcation from that of every ancient people? Undoubtedly the sentiment
      of <i>erotic devotion</i> which pervades it. Their poets never represent
      the Deity as an impassive principle, a mere organizing intellect, removed
      at infinite distance from human hopes and fears. He is for them a being of
      like passions with themselves, ** requiring heart for heart, and capable
      of inspiring affection because capable of feeling and returning it.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Remains, vol. iii. p. 105.

     ** "An unfortunate reference (Acts xiv. 15), for the
     apostle's declaration is, that he and his brethren were of
     'like passions' (James v. 17);&mdash;? liable to the same
     imperfections and mutations of thought and feeling as other
     men, and as the Lystrans supposed their gods to be; while
     the God proclaimed by him to them is not so. And that God is
     the God of the Jews as well as of the Christians; for there
     is but one God. Hallam's thought is an important and just
     one, but not developed with his usual nice accuracy."

     For this note, as for much else, I am indebted to my father,
     whose powers of compressed thought I wish I had inherited.
</pre>
    <p>
      Awful indeed are the thunders of his utterance and the clouds that
      surround his dwelling-place; very terrible is the vengeance he executes on
      the nations that forget him: but to his chosen people, and especially to
      the men 'after his own heart,' whom he anoints from the midst of them, his
      still, small voice' speaks in sympathy and loving-kindness. Every Hebrew,
      while his breast glowed with patriotic enthusiasm at those promises, which
      he shared as one of the favoured race, had a yet deeper source of emotion,
      from which gushed perpetually the aspirations of prayer and thanksgiving.
      He might consider himself alone in the presence of his God; the single
      being to whom a great revelation had been made, and over whose head an
      'exceeding weight of glory' was suspended. For him the rocks of Horeb had
      trembled, and the waters of the Red Sea were parted in their course. The
      word given on Sinai with such solemn pomp of ministration was given to his
      own individual soul, and brought him into immediate communion with his
      Creator. That awful Being could never be put away from him. He was about
      his path, and about his bed, and knew all his thoughts long before. Yet
      this tremendous, enclosing presence was a presence of love. It was a
      manifold, everlasting manifestation of one deep feeling&mdash;a desire for
      human affection.* Such a belief, while it enlisted even pride and
      self-interest on the side of piety, had a direct tendency to excite the
      best passions of our nature. Love is not long asked in vain from generous
      dispositions. A Being, never absent, but standing beside the life of each
      man with ever-watchful tenderness, and recognised, though invisible, in
      every blessing that befel them from youth to age, became naturally the
      object of their warmest affections. Their belief in him could not exist
      without producing, as a necessary effect, that profound impression of
      passionate individual attachment which in the Hebrew authors always
      mingles with and vivifies their faith in the Invisible. All the books of
      the Old Testament are breathed upon by this breath of life. Especially is
      it to be found in that beautiful collection, entitled the Psalms of David,
      which remains, after some thousand years, perhaps the most perfect form in
      which the religious sentiment of man has been embodied.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Abraham was called the friend of God "with him (Moses)
     will I (Jehovah) speak mouth to mouth, even apparently,"&mdash;
     as a man to his friend David was "a man after mine own
     heart."
</pre>
    <p>
      "But what is true of Judaism is yet more true of Christianity: 'matre pule
      â filia pulchrior.' In addition to all the characters of Hebrew
      Monotheism, there exists in the doctrine of the Cross a peculiar and
      inexhaustible treasure for the affectionate feelings. The idea of the
      [Greek], the God whose goings forth have been from everlasting, yet
      visible to men for their redemption as an earthly, temporal creature,
      living, acting, and suffering among themselves, then (which is yet more
      important) transferring to the unseen place of his spiritual agency the
      same humanity he wore on earth, so that the lapse of generations can in no
      way affect the conception of his identity; this is the most powerful
      thought that ever addressed itself to a human imagination. It is the
      [Greek], which alone was wanted to move the world. Here was solved at once
      the great problem which so long had distressed the teachers of mankind,
      how to make virtue the object of passion, and to secure at once the
      warmest enthusiasm in the heart with the clearest perception of right and
      wrong* in the understanding. The character of the blessed Founder of our
      faith became an abstract of morality to determine the judgment, while at
      the same time it remained personal, and liable to love. The written word
      and established church prevented a degeneration into ungoverned mysticism,
      but the predominant principle of vital religion always remained that of
      self-sacrifice to the Saviour. Not only the higher divisions of moral
      duties, but the simple, primary impulses of benevolence, were subordinated
      to this new absorbing passion. The world was loved 'in Christ alone.' The
      brethren were members of his mystical body. All the other bonds that had
      fastened down the spirit of the universe to our narrow round of earth were
      as nothing in comparison to this golden chain of suffering and
      self-sacrifice, which at once riveted the heart of man to one who, like
      himself, was acquainted with grief. Pain is the deepest thing we have in
      our nature, and union through pain has always seemed more real and more
      holy than any other." *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This is the passage referred to in Henry Taylor's
     delightful Notes from Life ("Essay on Wisdom"):&mdash;

     "Fear, indeed, is the mother of foresight: spiritual fear,
     of a foresight that reaches beyond the grave; temporal fear,
     of a foresight that falls short; but without fear there is
     neither the one foresight nor the other; and as pain has
     been truly said to be 'the deepest thing in our nature,' so
     is it fear that will bring the depths of our nature within
     our knowledge. A great capacity of suffering belongs to
     genius; and it has been observed that an alternation of
     joyfulness and dejection is quite as characteristic of the
     man of genius as intensity in either kind." In his Notes
     from Books, p. 216, he recurs to it:&mdash;"'Pain,'says a writer
     whose early death will not prevent his being long
     remembered, 'pain is the deepest thing that we have in our
     nature, and union through pain has always seemed more real
     and more holy than any other.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      There is a sad pleasure,&mdash;<i>non ingrata amaritudo</i>, and a sort of
      meditative tenderness in contemplating the little life of this "dear
      youth," and in letting the mind rest upon these his earnest thoughts; to
      watch his keen and fearless, but childlike spirit, moving itself aright&mdash;going
      straight onward along "the lines of limitless desires"&mdash;throwing
      himself into the very deepest of the ways of God, and striking out as a
      strong swimmer striketh out his hands to swim; to see him "mewing his
      mighty youth, and kindling his undazzled eye at the fountain itself of
      heavenly radiance:"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Light intellectual, and full of love,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Love of true beauty, therefore full of joy,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Joy, every other sweetness far above."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It is good for every one to look upon such a sight, and as we look, to
      love. We should all be the better for it; and should desire to be thankful
      for, and to use aright a gift so good and perfect, coming down as it does
      from above, from the Father of lights, in whom alone there is no
      variableness, neither shadow of turning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it is, that to each one of us the death of Arthur Hallam&mdash;his
      thoughts and affections&mdash;his views of God, of our relations to Him,
      of duty, of the meaning and worth of this world and the next,&mdash;where
      he now is, have an individual significance. He is bound up in our bundle
      of life; we must be the better or the worse of having known what manner of
      man he was; and in a sense less peculiar, but not less true, each of us
      may say,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      &mdash;"The tender grace of a day that is dead
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Will never come back to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;"O for the touch of a vanished hand,
    </p>
    <p>
      And the sound of a voice that is still!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "God gives us love! Something to love
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      He lends us; but when love is grown
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      To ripeness, that on which it throve
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Falls off, and love is left alone:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "This is the curse of time. Alas!
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      In grief we are not all unlearned;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Once, through our own doors Death did pass;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      One went, who never hath returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      "This star
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Rose with us, through a little arc
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Of heaven, nor having wandered far,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Shot on the sudden into dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      While the stars burn, the moons increase,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      And the great ages onward roll.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Nothing comes to thee new or strange,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Sleep, full of rest from head to feet;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Lie still, dry dust, secure of change."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Vattene in pace, alma beata e bella</i>.&mdash;Go in peace, soul
      beautiful and blessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "O man greatly beloved, go thou thy way till the end, for thou shalt rest,
      and stand in thy lot at the end of the days."&mdash;Daniel.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lord, I have viewed this world over, in which thou hast set me; I have
      tried how this and that thing will tit my spirit, and the design of my
      creation, and can find nothing on which to rest, for nothing here doth
      itself rest, but such things as please me for a while, in some degree,
      vanish and flee as shadows from before me. Lo! I come to Thee&mdash;the
      Eternal Being&mdash;the Spring of Life&mdash;the Centre of rest&mdash;the
      Stay of the Creation&mdash;the Fulness of all things. I join myself to
      Thee; with Thee I will lead my life, and spend my days, with whom I aim to
      dwell for ever, expecting, when my little time is over, to be taken up ere
      long into thy eternity."&mdash;John Howe, <i>The Vanity of Man as Mortal</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Necesse est tanquam immaturam mortem ejus deflcam: si tamen fas est aut
      flere, aut omnino mortem vocare, quâ tanti juvenis mort alitas magis fin
      it a quamvita est. </i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Vivit enim, vivetque semper, atque etiam latius in me-moria hominum et
      sermone versabittir, postquam ab oc-ulis recessit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The above notice was published in 1851. On sending to Mr. Hallam a copy of
      the Review in which it appeared, I expressed my hope that he would not be
      displeased by what I had done. I received the following kind and beautiful
      reply:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wilton Crescent, Feb. 1, 1851.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dear Sir,&mdash;It would be ungrateful in me to feel any displeasure at
      so glowing an eulogy on my dear eldest son Arthur, though after such a
      length of time, so Unusual, as you have written in the <i>North British
      Review</i>. I thank you, on the contrary, for the strong language of
      admiration you have employed, though it may expose me to applications for
      copies of the Remains, which I have it not in my power to comply with. I
      was very desirous to have lent you a copy, at your request, but you have
      succeeded elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are probably aware that I was prevented from doing this by a great
      calamity, very similar in its circumstances to that I had to deplore in
      1833&mdash;the loss of another son, equal in virtues, hardly inferior in
      abilities, to him whom you have commemorated. This has been an unspeakable
      affliction to me, and at my advanced age, seventy-three years, I can have
      no resource but the hope, in God's mercy, of a reunion with them both. The
      resemblance in their characters was striking, and I had often reflected
      how wonderfully my first loss had been repaired by the substitution, as it
      might be called, of one so closely representing his brother. I send you a
      brief Memoir, drawn up by two friends, with very little alteration of my
      own.&mdash;I am, Dear Sir, faithfully yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      HENRY HALLAM.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      "Dr. Brown, Edinburgh."
    </h3>
    <p>
      The following extracts, from the Memoir of Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam
      mentioned above, which has been appended to a reprint of his brother's
      Remains (for private circulation), form a fitting close to this memorial
      of these two brothers, who were "lovely and pleasant in their lives," and
      are now by their deaths not divided:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "But few months have elapsed since the pages of <i>In Memoriam</i>
      recalled to the minds of many, and impressed on the hearts of all who
      perused them, the melancholy circumstances attending the sudden and early
      death of Arthur Henry Hallam, Esq. Not many weeks ago the public journals
      contained a short paragraph announcing the decease, under circumstances
      equally distressing, and in some points remarkably similar, of Henry
      Fitzmaurice, Mr. Hallam's younger and only remaining son. No one of the
      very many who appreciate the sterling value of Mr. Hallam's literary
      labours, and who feel a consequent interest in the character of those who
      would have sustained the eminence of an honourable name; no one who was
      affected by the striking and tragic fatality of two such successive
      bereavements, will deem an apology needed for this short and imperfect
      Memoir.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam, the younger son of Henry Hallam, Esq., was born
      on the 31st of August, 1824; he took his second name from his godfather,
      the Marquis of Lansdowne.... A habit of reserve, which characterized him
      at all periods of life, but which was compensated in the eyes of even his
      first companions by a singular sweetness of temper, was produced and
      fostered by the serious thoughtfulness ensuing upon early familiarity with
      domestic sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "'He was gentle,' writes one of his earliest and closest school-friends,
      'retiring, thoughtful to pensiveness, affectionate, without envy or
      jealousy, almost without emulation, impressible, but not wanting in moral
      firmness. No one was ever more formed for friendship. In all his words and
      acts he was simple, straightforward, true. He was very religious. Religion
      had a real effect upon his character, and made him tranquil about great
      things, though he was so nervous about little things.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was called to the bar in Trinity Term, 1850, and became a member of
      the Midland Circuit in the summer. Immediately afterwards he joined his
      family in a tour on the Continent. They had spent the early part of the
      autumn at Rome, and were returning northwards, when he was attacked by a
      sudden and severe illness, affecting the vital powers, and accompanied by
      enfeebled circulation and general prostration of strength. He was able,
      with difficulty, to reach Sienna, where he sank rapidly through
      exhaustion, and expired on Friday, October 25. It is to be hoped that he
      did not experience any great or active suffering. He was conscious nearly
      to the last, and met his early death (of which his presentiments, for
      several years, had been frequent and very singular) with calmness and
      fortitude. There is reason to apprehend, from medical examination, that
      his life would not have been of very long duration, even had this unhappy
      illness not occurred. But for some years past his health had been
      apparently much improved; and, secured as it seemed to be by his
      unintermitted temperance, and by a carefulness in regimen which his early
      feebleness of constitution had rendered habitual, those to whom he was
      nearest and dearest had, in great measure, ceased to regard him with
      anxiety. His remains were brought to England, and he was interred, on
      December 23d, in Clevedon Church, Somersetshire, by the side of his
      brother, his sister, and his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For continuous and sustained thought he had an extraordinary capacity,
      the bias of his mind being decidedly towards analytical processes; a
      characteristic which was illustrated at Cambridge by his uniform
      partiality for analysis, and comparative distaste for the geometrical
      method, in his mathematical studies. His early proneness to dwell upon the
      more recondite departments of each science and branch of inquiry has been
      alluded to above. It is not to be inferred that, as a consequence of this
      tendency, he blinded himself, at any period of his life, to the necessity
      and the duty of practical exertion. He was always eager to act as well as
      speculate; and, in this respect, his character preserved an unbroken
      consistency and harmony from the epoch when, on commencing his residence
      at Cambridge, he voluntarily became a teacher in a parish Sunday-school,
      for the sake of applying his theories of religious education, to the time
      when, on the point of setting forth on his last fatal journey, he framed a
      plan of obtaining access, in the ensuing winter, to a large commercial
      establishment, in the view of familiarizing himself with the actual course
      and minute detail of mercantile transactions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Insensibly and unconsciously he had made himself a large number of
      friends in the last few years of his life: the painful impression created
      by his death in the circle in which he habitually moved, and even beyond
      it, was exceedingly remarkable, both for its depth and extent. For those
      united with him in a companionship more than ordinarily close, his
      friendship had taken such a character as to have almost become a necessity
      of existence. But it was upon his family that he lavished all the wealth
      of his disposition&mdash;affection without stint, gentleness never once at
      fault, considerateness reaching to self-sacrifice:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      "Di ciô si biasmi il debolo intelletto
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      E'l parlar nostro, che non ha vulore
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Di ritrar tutto ciô che dice amore.
    </p>
    <h5>
      "H. S. M. <br /> <br /> "F. L."
    </h5>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45929 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-02-06 18:06:33 +0000