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, inturned 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 recognize spoke to him; the addition, for it was not a change, of keen specialty to his hearty recognition; the twinkle of his eyes; the immediately saying something very personal to set all to rights, and then the sending you off with some thought, some feeling, some remembrance, making your heart burn within you; his voice indescribable: his eye – that most peculiar feature – not vacant, but asleep– 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!
Of his portraits worth mentioning, there are Watson Gordon’s, Duncan’s – the Calotypes of Mr. Hill – Kenneth M’Leay’s miniatures – 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 τὶ θερμόν, that fiery particle– that inspired look – that “diviner mind” – the poco più, or little more. Watson Gordon’s is too much of the mere clergyman – 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 – 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 – his bulk. M’Leay’s is admirable-spirited – 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 – 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 stand-still – his mind and feelings “pulled up” for the second that it was taken. Steell’s is a noble bust – has a stern heroic expression and pathetic beauty about it, and from wanting color and shadow and the eyes, it relies upon a certain simplicity and grandeur; – in this it completely succeeds – 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.
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 wecht? he has promptitude – has he power? he has power – has he promptitude? and, moreover, has he a discerning spirit?”
These are great practical, universal truths. How few even of our greatest men have had all these three faculties large – 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, – good against vermin – bad to meddle with; – 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 nowadays too many. Men are too much in the way of supposing that doing is being; that theology and excogitation, 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.
“Action is transitory – a step – a blow,
The motion of a muscle – this way or that;
’Tis done – and in the after vacancy,
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed.
Suffering” (obedience, or being as opposed to doing) —
“Suffering is permanent, —
And has the nature of infinity.”
Dr. Chalmers was a man of genius – 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 – Enthusiasm and Simplicity – he had in rare measure.
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 ardor, this superabounding life, this immediateness of thought and action, idea and emotion, setting the whole man a-going at once – 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 —1st, πνεῦμα ζωοποιοῦν, the sensitive soul, that which lies nearest the body – the very blossom and flower of life; 2d, τὸν νοῦν, animam rationis, sparkling and glittering with intellectuals, crowned with light; and 3d, τὸν θυμὸν, impetum animi, motum mentis, the vigor and energy of the soul – its temper – the mover of the other two – the first being, as they said, resident in hepate– the second in cerebro– the third in corde, 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” – the other “gives out.” Now in Dr. Chalmers, the great ingredient was the ὁ θυμὸς as indicating vis animæ et vitæ, – and in close fellowship with it, and ready for its service, was a large, capacious ὁ νοῦς, and an energetic, sensuous, rapid τὸ πνεὺμα. Hence his energy, his contagious enthusiasm – this it was which gave the peculiar character to his religion, to his politics, to his personnel; everything he did was done heartily – if he desired heavenly blessings he “panted” for them – “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 θερμόν τι πρᾶγμα, a certain fiery thing, as Aristotle calls love; it required and it got the very flower and vigor of the spirit – the strength and sinews of the soul – the prime and top of the affections – this is that grace, that panting grace – we know the name of it and that’s all – ’tis called zeal – a flaming edge of the affection – 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, – was his simple animating faith. He had faith in God – faith in human nature – faith, if we may say so, in his own instincts – in his ideas of men and things —in himself; and the result was, that unhesitating bearing up and steering right onward – “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.”
By his simplicity we do not mean the simplicity of the head – of that he had none; he was eminently shrewd and knowing – 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, —
“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 – even as children do.”
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 – an outgoing of the whole nature that we see in children, who are by learned men said to be long ignorant of the Ego – 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 – his personal eminence – his dealings with the world – his large sympathies – his scientific knowledge of mind and matter – his relish for the practical details, and for the spirit of public business – 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: —
“Fénélon,” says D’Alembert, “a caractérisé lui-même en peu de mots cette simplicité qui se rendoit si cher à tous les cœurs, ‘La simplicité est la droiture d’une âme qui s’interdit tout retour sur elle et sur ses actions – cette vertu est différente de la sincérité, et la surpasse. On voit beaucoup de gens qui sont sincères sans être simples – 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.’”
What delicacy and justness of expression! how true and clear! how little we see nowadays, among grown-up men, of this straightness of the soul – 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 – am I right? am I appearing to be what inwardly I am? than the eye asks itself – do I see? or a child says to itself – 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 – that is, look back upon – ourselves, and be respected, if possible; we must, by hook or by crook, be respectable.
Dr. Chalmers would have made 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 sedes 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, – believing, he spoke, and without stint or fear, often apparently contradicting his former self – 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 – both were best.
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 – multiplied his joys, strengthened and sweetened his whole nature, and kept his heart young and tender; 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 – 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 – the other bairns, as he called them – and with no one else of his own growth, took the lead to the nearest hill-top, – how he made each take the biggest and roundest stone he could find, and carry, – how he panted up the hill himself with one of enormous size, – 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, – 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 ἀνήριθμον κυμάτων γέλασμα – the unnumbered laughter of the sea, – how he set off his own huge “fellow,” – 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 – bounding, tearing, αὖτις ἔπειτα πέδονδε κυλίνδετο λᾶας ἀναιδής, vires acquirens eundo; 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, – how he joked philosophy to his wondering and ecstatic crew, when he (the stone) disappeared among some brackens – telling them they had the evidence of their senses that he was in, they might even know he was there by his effects, by the moving brackens, himself unseen; how plain it became that he had gone in, when he actually came out! – how he ran up the opposite side a bit, and then fell back, and lazily expired at the bottom, – how to their astonishment, but not displeasure – for he “set them off so well,” and “was so funny” – 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, unicus omnium, 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.
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 hearts of men before him, radiating his intense fervor 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 – “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?
“Monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres
Quem super uotas aluere ripas,
Fervet, immensusque ruit profundo
Pindarus ore:
– ‘per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.’”
This is to our mind singularly characteristic of our perfervid Scotsman. If we may indulge our conceit we would paraphrase it thus. His eloquence was like a flooded Scottish river, – it had its origin in some exalted region – in some mountain-truth – some high, immutable reality; it did not rise in a plain, and quietly drain its waters to the sea, – it came sheer down from above. He laid hold of some simple truth – the love of God, the Divine method of justification, the unchangeableness of human nature, the supremacy of conscience, the honorableness of all men; and having got this vividly before his mind, on he moved – the river rose at once, drawing everything into its course —
“All thoughts, all passions, all desires, —
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,”
things outward and things inward, interests immediate and remote – God and eternity – men, miserable and immortal – this world and the next – clear light and unsearchable mystery – the word and the works of God – everything contributed to swell the volume and add to the onward and widening flood. His river did not flow like Denham’s Thames, —
“Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull;
Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.”
There was strength, but there was likewise rage; a fine frenzy – 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 a-going, once on his way, there was no pausing to inquire, why or how —fervet—ruit—fertur, he boils – he rushes – he is borne along; and so are all who hear him.
To go on with our figure – 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, – 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 fervor 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.
To play a little more with our conceit – The greatest man is he who is both born and made – who is at once poetical and scientific – who has genius and talent – 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, – travelling more contentedly; now he is navigable, craft of all kinds coming and going upon his surface forever; 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,” – running out fresh, by reason of his power and volume, into the main for many a league.
Your mere genius, who has instincts, and is poetical and not scientific, who grows from within – he is like our mountain river, clear, wilful, odd; running round corners; disappearing it may be under ground, 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.
Your man of talent, of acquirements, of science – who is made, – who is not so much educed as edified; who, instead of acquiring his vires eundo, gets his vires eundi, 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 higher flats; he is never quite clear, never brisk, never dangerous; always from the first useful, and goes pleasantly in harness; turns mills; washes rags – 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.
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; its 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 mêlée 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 in liberâ custodiâ to their objects of verum et bonum, it is free from all engagements – 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 – 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, Shakspeare 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 – a very different thing from personifying a passion – all the difference, as Henry Taylor says, between Byron and Shakspeare.
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.50 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, and imperfect, and incorrect: chiefly owing to his temperament, to his fiery, impatient, swelling spirit, this gave his orations their fine audacity – this brought out hot from the furnace his new words – this made his numbers run wild —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 – 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.
What, for instance, can be finer in expression than this? “It is well to be conversant with great elements – life and death, reason and madness.” “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.” “I find it easier to apprehend the greatness of The Deity than any of his moral perfections, or his sacredness;” and this —
“One cannot but feel an interest in Ishmael, figuring him to be a noble of nature – 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 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 civilization, the immediate effect of religion, in these days, from which men fell away as the world grew older.”
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., – “The people shall hear and be afraid – sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina. Then the dukes of Edom shall be amazed – the mighty men of Moab, trembling shall take hold of them – 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 – like the colors of a butterfly’s wing, or the shapeless glories of evening clouds, to the eye – in reading aloud such passages as these: “Heshbon shall cry and Elealeh – their voice shall be heard to Jabez – for by the way of Luhith with weeping shall they go it up – for in the way of Horonaim they shall raise a cry. God came from Teman, the Holy One from Mount Paran. Is not Calno as Carchemish? is not Hamath as Arpad? is not Samaria as Damascus? He is gone to Aiath, he is passed to Migron; at Michmash he hath laid up his carriages: Ramath 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. Madmenah is removed; the inhabitants of Gebim gather themselves to flee. 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.
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 neighboring 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 field-gates, gossiping and gazing, idle and happy; the moor was stretching away in the pale sunlight – 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 eye of a man of the city, a sort of big Peter Bell —
“He had a hardness in his eye,
He had a hardness in his cheek.”
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; – 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 – 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 – everything added to its power, deep called to deep, imagery and illustration poured in: and every now and then the theme, – 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,” – he suddenly looked beyond us as if into some distant region, and cried out, “Behold a mightier! – 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 – 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,51 and how alone we could escape – we all sunk back into our seats. How beautiful to our eyes did the thunderer look – exhausted – 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.