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Memoir of Norman MacLeod, D.D
Last Years at Dalkeith. - 1848 - 1851

AS this chapter must embrace the close of his ministry in Dalkeith, it affords a fitting occasion for forming an estimate of the influences which then affected his views and character. It was a time of mental growth more than of literary or public work. He had more leisure for study than he ever afterwards possessed. His travels in America and on the Continent, and his intercourse with representatives of almost every variety of Church, had enlarged his sympathies, and given him a living grasp of the questions at that time affecting Christendom. His spiritual life also, chiefly from the care with which he cultivated devout habits, became higher and more even in tone.

The two men who had most influence on his opinions were Thomas Arnold, and his own relative, John Macleod Campbell. Arnold's Life had just been published, and the manliness, the healthy common sense, the unswerving truthfulness and Christian faithfulness of the great Head Master of Rugby, touched him profoundly; while the struggle which the book recounted against the sacerdotal pretensions of the "Young Oxford" school, on the one hand, and against the narrower section of the "Evangelicals," on the other, had more than a historical interest for him; for these two extremes, under different outward forms, were equally loud-voiced in Scotland, and in Arnold's writings he found a copious armoury for the defence of his own position at home.

John Macleod Campbell was in many respects a contrast to Arnold. If the latter was clear and trenchant, the former was meditative, abstract, profound, almost to obscurity. Even when Norman was a student, Campbell used to have long and earnest conversations with him in his lodgings. He was then minister of Row, and involved in those controversies which issued in his lamented deposition—an act almost barbarous in its intolerance, and by which the Church deprived herself one of the greatest theological minds, as well as one of the holiest characters she ever possessed. The intimacy between the two cousins had of late years become closer, and it continued to deepen to the last hour of their lives. Campbell had a greater influence on Norman's views than any other theologian living or dead, and was reverenced by him as being the most heavenly-minded man he ever knew. There was no one at whose feet he was more willing to sit and learn. Campbell's influence was not, however, so positive and direct then as it afterwards became. His great work on the Atonement was not yet published. A little book, called " Fragments of Exposition," written partly by him and partly by his friend, the late thoughtful and accomplished Professor Scott of Manchester, was the chief contribution Campbell had as yet made to the theology of the day. But his conversation was rich in suggestive ideas, which had a great effect in determining the tendency of Norman's theology.

There was one style of teaching which was especially characteristic of his later ministry in Dalkeith, and of his earlier time in the Barony. He felt that the metaphysical and doctrinal preaching which was still prevalent in Scotland, had led men to deal with abstractions, ideas, names, rather than with the living God; and so he tried to produce a greater sense of the personal relationship of the Father, Son, and Spirit. The dealings of an earthly father with his child were continually used to illustrate what the Heavenly Father must, in a far higher sense, feel and do; and he evermore pressed his hearers to entertain the same trust and confidence towards Christ, as would have been proper and natural had He been present in the flesh. Such tender thoughts of the Father and the Son found fullest expression in his prayers, which, while most reverent, were so real that they sounded as if spoken to One visibly present. Their perfect simplicity never degenerated into familiarity. Their dignity was as remarkable as their directness. These views had also a marked influence on his character. What the Personal Christ must love or hate became the one rule of life. This divine love inspired a deep "enthusiasm of humanity." He seemed to yearn over men in the very spirit of Christ—so patient, considerate, and earnest, was he, in seeking their good.

His sermons at this time conveyed the impression of greater elaboration than those of his later years. One remarkable characteristic was the restraint he put on the descriptive faculty with which he was so richly endowed. He could very easily have produced great popular effect by indulging in pictorial illustration, but he held this in strict subordination to the one purpose of impressing the conscience , and even then, the touches of imagination or of pathos, which so often thrilled his audience, were commonly limited to a sentence, or a phrase.

There were other men, besides Arnold and Campbell, who more or less influenced his views at this time. There was Struthers, the author of "The Sabbath"—a rare specimen of the old Scotch Covenanter, stern but tender, of keen intellect and unbending principle, and full of contempt for the nineteenth century. Norman took great delight in exciting Struthers to talk on some congenial home, to describe, with shrill voice and pithy Scotch, the good delt days, to denounce with indignation the degeneracies and backslidings of modern times, to anathematize Voluntaryism as practical Atheism, and declare Sabbath schools " the greatest curse the Almighty ever pent to this covenanted land—undermining family life and destroying the parental tie." If there was exaggeration, there was also good sense in many of Struthers' reflections, especially as to the past and present of the working classes. He had been himself an operative for many years, and his remarks on questions affecting the working classes were' not lost on his hearer. In contrast to Struthers there was John Campbell Shairp, now the well-known Principal of St. Andrew's, who, recently returned from Oxford, and full of enthusiastic memories of the men and the opinions then influencing the finer minds of the University, made Norman feel as if he had personally known Newman, Stanley,. Jowett, and Clough. Shairp, with his keen sympathetic temperament,. was, moreover, so saturated with many of the new views, and so earnest in his search after truth, that he stimulated his friend to study many subjects in which he would otherwise have taken little interest. John Mackintosh, also, his deep-souled and dearest friend, then preparing, after his Cambridge career, for the ministry of the Free Church, was a frequent visitor at the Manse, and by his conversation, as well as by his letters when travelling in Italy and Germany, inspired the very atmosphere of poetry and literature which he was himself breathing.

To this list the name of another must be added, who touched more closely on his life as a minister of the Church of Scotland. Ever since the Disruption Norman had mourned the deadness of the Church, and deplored the lack of men fit to guide its councils or quicken its life; but in Professor James Robertson he found one who had both head and heart to be a Church leader. With a keen intellect, great power as a debater, and a singular grasp of principles —an enthusiast in philosophy as in theology—he was, withal, simple as a child towards God, true and loving towards man, and heroic in self-sacrificing devotion with which he laboured for the Christian welfare of his country. He was a patriot more than a Churchman ; and, in supporting him, Norman felt he was following no narrow ecclesiastic, but one who had regard to the good of the nation as the grand aim of a National Church, and whose warm heart beat with a courageous and generous faith. Robertson was just beginning his appeal to the Church and country for the endowment of 150 parishes. His aim seemed Utopian to the timid minds of many, who could not believe that the Church, so recently shattered, could be roused to the accomplishment of such a work; but to others, the boldness of the proposal was one of its chief recommendations. Norman and he became attached friends. Long were the hours of friendly discussion they enjoyed, lasting far into night, when the conversation would range from criticism of Fichte, of whose philosophy Robertson was an enthusiastic admirer, to questions of expediency touching some "overture" to the Assembly. Robertson was the only man Norman ever regarded as his ecclesiastical leader.

From his Journal:-

"What precise relation does revelation without bear to revelation within— the book to the conscience?

"Is anything a revelation to me which is not actually a revealing—a making known to me, or, in other words, which is not recognized as true by me?

"Do I believe any spiritual truth in the Book, except in so far as I see it to be true in conscience and reason? Is my faith in the outward revelation not in exact proportion to my inward perception of the truth uttered in the letter?

"Wherein lies the difference between assenting to the Principia of Newton, because written by a great mathematician and not because I see them to be true, and my assenting to the Bible, because written by inspired men and not because I see how truly they spoke?

"Whether do I honour Newton more by examining, sifting, and seeing for myself the truth of his propositions, or by merely taking them on his word?

"Can any revelation coming from without, be so strong as a revelation from spirit to spirit? Could any amount of outward authority be morally sufficient to make me hate a friend, or do any action I felt to be morally wrong while apprehending it to be wrong ? It might correct me as to facts which depend entirely upon testimony and not upon spiritual truth.

"... I have just received some merry thoughts from a blue-bell, which out of gratitude I record.

"How long has that bell been ringing its fragrant music, and swinging forth its unheard melodies among brackens and briars, and primroses and woodroof, and that world of poetic wild scents and forms—so many—so beautiful—which a tangled bank over a trotting burn among the leafy woods discloses? Spirits more beautiful than fairies behold those scenes, or they would be waste. That bell was ringing merrily in the breeze when Adam and Eve were married. It chimed its dirge over Abel, and has died and sprung up again while Nineveh and Babylon have come and gone, and empires have lived and died forever ! Solomon, in all his glory, was not like thee.

"What an evidence have I in this blue drooping flower, of the regularity and endurance of God's will since creation's dawn ! Amidst all revolutions •of heaven and earth ; hurricanes and earthquakes; floods and fires; invasions and dispersions; signs in the sun, moon, and stars; perplexity and distress of nations; nothing has happened to injure this fragile blue-bell. It has been preserved throughout all generations. The forces of this stormy and troubled earth, which have rent rocks, have been so beautifully adjusted from age to age, that this head, though drooping, has not been broken, and this stalk, though frail, still stands erect. This is ' central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation.'

"The blue-bell swung in breezes tempered to its strength centuries before the children of Japheth spied the chalky cliffs of Dover. It has been called by many a name from the days of the painted warrior to the days of Burns; but it has ever been the same. It will sing on with its own woodland music to all who can hear its spirit-song, until time shall be no more. The blue-bell may sing the funeral knell of the human race.

"If there be no enduring spirit in man, no flowers of immortality more lasting than the flowers of earth, verily all flesh is more worthless than grass.

'April—It is curious to compare old and new maps, and to mark the progress of discovery. The blank space of ocean is followed by a faint outline of a few miles of coast, marking the termination of an intrepid voyager. Then further portions of the same coast are laid down at intervals as supposed islands. Then, by-and-by, those portions are connected, and the outline of a great continent begins to be developed. The 'undiscovered' passes to the region of the known and familiar. Then follow the exploring of bays, the tracing of rivers, and the inland discoveries of mountain, plain, wood, and pasturage, until at last we have an Australia mapped into settlements, dotted with towns and villages, divided into bishoprics and parishes, inhabited by old friends as prosperous emigrants, issuing its newspapers, and becoming an important member of the great family of man. Thus is it with the Bible. What progress is being made in the discovery of its meaning! How much better acquainted is the Church of Christ now with its spirit, its allusions, its inner and outer history, than the same Church during any former period ! What far more true and just idea of the mind of Christ, as manifested in and by the Apostolic Church, have we now than the Church of the fourth and fifth centuries possessed? Distance has increased the magnitude, extent, the totality and grandeur in the heaven-kissing mountain range. Individually, I find in daily study of the Bible, a daily discovery. What was formerly unknown becomes known, and what seemed a solitary coast becomes part of a great whole, and what seemed wild, and strange, and lonely, becomes to me green pasture and refreshing water—the abode of my fireside affections. And surely I shall read the Bible as an alphabet in Heaven. It was my first school-book here, and I hope it will be my first there. What! shall I never know the Spirit which moves the wheels, whose rims are so high that they are dreadful?

"The only true theory of development is the development of the spiritual eye for the reception of that light which ever shineth."

"Craufurd Priory, May 11th.—I leant against a great tall pine to-day. The trunk moved as the top waved in the wind. The many-branched top with its leaves, useless, albeit, was dependent on the rooted stem; it 'moved all together, if it moved at all.' But was not the stem dependent on the top also? Had the top been cut off, how long would the stem have been of becoming rotten? Let the people beware how they brag about the roots, and the dependence of the uppermost branches upon them. All is a goodly tree. May it only be the planting of the Lord! That so being it may bring forth the fruits of righteousness.

"..... Christ's love is not His life, death, resurrection, ascension, proses. It is that in which they all live, move, and have their being; and my faith in His love is a higher thing than faith in anything whereby He manifests it. It is faith in Himself—in what He is, and not merely in what tie does."

The political disturbances on the Continent during 1848 had, of course, great interest for him; but he was struck still more by the outburst of discontent at home, as revealing a condition of society for which the Church of Christ was in a great measure responsible. His impressions on this subject were deepened by what he saw when he was in Glasgow during a serious riot. Suddenly the leading thoroughfares were swept by a torrent of men and women of a type utterly different from the ordinary poor. Haggard, abandoned, ferocious, they issued from the neglected' haunts of misery and crime, drove the police into their headquarters, and, for a while took possession of the streets. In this spectacle Norman recognized the sin of the Churches which had permitted the growth of such an ignorant, wretched, and dangerous population. There was no horror perpetrated during the first French Revolution that be did not believe might have been repeated by the mob he saw in Glasgow; and although the Chartist movement was connected with a very different class of the community, it also suggested serious thoughts as to the future of the country, and the duty incumbent on the Church.

"April, 1848.

"The Chartists are put down. Good! Good for jewellers' shops and 'Special' heads; good, as giving peace and security. Each one on Kennington Common might have spoken Bottom's intended prologue for Snug in his character of Lion. 'Ladies, or fair ladies, I would wish you, or entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble : my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing. I am a man as other men are;—and there, indeed (quoth Bottom), let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug, the joiner.' But this same Snug, the joiner, though no lion, is still a man as other men are—and; so is each of the 10,000 or 20,000, or, according to common computation, 200,000, Snugs on Kennington Common—each a man like other men, each having a body finely fashioned and tempered, which in rags shivers in the cold, while the ' Special' goes to his fireside, with triumph draws in his chair, saying, 'the scoundrels are put down;'—a body that can gnaw from hunger, and has not perhaps tasted food for twenty-four hours, while my respected and rather corpulent friend, the good 'Special,' growls that he will be kept from dinner, and can only take a hurried lunch in the club, John taking charge of his baton. Nay, honest Snug has a heart, his friend Nick Bottom, the weaver, has his This be at home, whom he loves, and though he is an ass, his wife loves him as much as Titania ever did his namesake. Does the 'Special' love Mrs. Smith, and the young Smiths, more than those do Mrs. Snug and Mrs. Bottom, and the young Snugs and the young; Bottoms? The Nell of the one and the Joan of the other think more of these same scoundrel Chartists than of all the world beside. Each dot in that huge mass on Kennington Common is the centre, the only one, perhaps, of household admiration. Daddy Special, thou art a good, kind soul of a father and a husband—thou wouldst not crush the cat's paw with thy baton —didst thou know poor Snug and Bottom, thou wouldst not show thy family the way to break their heads. These are men like thyself, not lions. They are men, and so responsible and immortal beings. It is this which makes the heart bleed, and which makes us hear with anxious spirit the news of all that these men wish, say, try, and accomplish, and all that is done to put them down.

"We demand from them patience while starving—do we meet their demands for bread? We demand from them obedience to law—do we teach them what they are to obey ? We demand from them love of man— have we taught them the love of God? What is the nation to do for these men who made the nation anxious, and the Exchange of the world oscillate and the hero of a hundred fights put on his armour? Here in the midst of us is a mighty power, felt, acknowledged—-what is doing to make it a power for good? Put down ! It is the putting down of a maniac, not his cure; and what if the maniacs increase and obtain a majority, and put down the keepers! Special! what hast thou ever done for thy brother? Ay—don't stare at me or at thy baton—thy brother, I say! Now don't get sulky; I am not ungrateful to thee, nor am I disposed to fraternize with Duffy and O'Connor, though I call Snug and Bottom brothers. But, I ask, hast thou ever concerned thyself about thy poor brother—how he was to be fed and clothed—or if neither, how he was to endure 1 How he was to be taught his duties to God and man—and, if not, how he was to be a loyal subject to Queen Victoria, and a supporter of the Bench of Bishops? Honestly, friend—hast thou ever taken as much thought about him as thou hast taken in thy kindness about thyself and myself, in defending us on the 10th? Hast thou ever troubled thyself about healing his broken heart as thou has about giving him a broken head ? And yet thou art not a bad man, but a good, kind soul. But, friend, we are all forgetful, and all selfish!

"Selfish! This lies at the root of the whole evil, as it lies at the root, indeed, of all evil. That a great evil exists in the present state of our country is certain. Where shall we see such poverty and ignorance, with their results of misery and discontent and readiness to attempt anything to get quit of both, as in our free and Christian country? Everywhere the same—every town, every village, has its ignorant and wretched men. The bees who fly about the hive, and buzz and sting, and die in the snow in winter, during some momentary sunshine, are few in comparison with those who remain torpid and dying from cold and exhaustion in the unknown and unseen cells. The ignorance of masses of our people is unknown to all but those who, like myself, come into contact with them. I can, at this moment, mention four parents who came to me for baptism, who were as ignorant as heathen, never having heard of Jesus Christ, and knowing nothing of God or immortality. Everywhere pest and canker—spreading, deepening, increasing—and, unless cured in God's way, punishing—terribly and righteously punishing—in God's way. Principle and self-interest prompt the same question—what shall we do?—where is the cure?

"Is the cure less taxation? How this, when thousands of your most dangerous men tax themselves 70 per cent. for drink! Is the cure high Wages? Ask the manufacturer if his safe men and true men are generally among those who have high wages. Is the cure school instruction? But what security of any good have we in mere intellect without God? More churches? Get your men first who will enter them. More ministers? Neither can cure poverty, and ministers must be good and wise. Suffrage? Humbug.

"Not one of these is itself sufficient, but all are good when taken together. We must have schools, and any schools better than none, any education better, infinitely better, than none. But not to dwell upon what all admit and feel, yet I would ask, why is not each factory compelled to have its large school and its large church? Both to be for the workmen. Let the church be threefold—Popish, Episcopalian, and Presbyterian, and let there be no fixed minister, but let the clergy in the town take time about in the evenings, too, and none admitted but in working clothes.

"Yet there is to me a more excellent way, and that is love ! The true and only cure seems to me to lie in the personal and regular communion of the better with the worse—man with man—until each Christian, like his Saviour, becomes one with those who are to be saved; until he can be bone of their bone, sympathize, teach, weep, rejoice, eat and drink with them as one with them in the flesh. The world will not believe because it cannot see that Christianity is true, by seeing its reality in the marvellous oneness of Christ and people.

"The world, if ever it is to be reformed by men and through men, can only be so by the personal intercourse of living men—living epistles, not dead ones. Love, meekness and kindness, forbearance, unselfishness, manifested in human souls, uttering themselves by word, look and deed, and not by mere descriptions of these sentiments or essays upon them, can alone regenerate man. The living Church is more than the dead Bible, for it is the Bible and something more. It is the Bible alive. It is its effect, its evidence, its embodiment. God has always dealt through living men with men, and He Himself deals with them through a Personal Spirit. When Christ left the world He did so that He might forever dwell in it in His people.

"Neither money nor schools nor tracts nor churches can ever be substituted for living men. It is this we want. It is this the lanes and closes want. Not ministers merely going their rounds like policemen with black clothes and white neckcloths; nor elders taking statistics, nor deacons giving alms, or ladies tracts—all good (what should we have been without these, the only salt hitherto!); but we want Christians, whether they be smiths or shoemakers, or tailors or grocers, or coach-drivers or advocates, to remember their own responsibilities, their immense influence for good, and to be personal ministers for good. The separation outwardly of society is terrible. Only see the old and new Town of Edinburgh! What a type of British society! It used not to be so. In the old town and in olden times families of different grades used to live in the same tenement, and poor and rich were thus mingled together in their habitation and in their joys. So is it now in many villages, and in many parts of the country. But generally there is a wide separation, bridged over by tracts, or societies, or money (sparingly); but not by the living Church of Christ. The full heart and the full mind do not meet to empty themselves (thereby becoming fuller) into the void heart and the void mind. We have words on the philosophy of life, instead of life itself. We are selfish, I say, and willing to pay for it rather than to part from it. We subscribe for volumes of music instead of breathing forth, in the habitations of sad and bad men, 'the still music of humanity.' When shall we learn to imitate, or rather to share, the love of Him who was love itself, who, 'knowing that all things were given Him of the Father, that He came from God and went to God,'—what then?—Oh marvellous condescension, because marvellous love,—'girded Himself with a towel and washed the disciples' feet!'

"The question in regard to elevating man is not so much what is good for him, as how the good is to be given to him. What he should have must correspond to what he needs. As an animal and in the body he needs food and clothing, air and light, and water and exercise ; as a social being he needs society; as a sentient being he needs things pleasing to the senses; as an active being he needs something to occupy him; as a moral being ho needs God over all and in all, blissful and blessing. Let all man's wants be met. But the link between the supply and the demand (or the soul which should demand), is the man who has already found the supply. If the question ever arises between the animal and the immortal, the first must yield. I hate giving in to the principle that hunger entitles a man, not to our sympathy and our charity, as men and Christians; but entitles him to be anything or nothing, a thief or seditious. ' A man's life is more than meat.'"

To J. C. Shairp, Esq., Rugby, who had sent a Review of "Struthers' Autobiography":

"May 12th, 1848.

"As to Struthers, I fear you have missed the man. He is so completely a formation in an old structure of society, or rather an old organism in one, so thoroughly Scotch, so thoroughly antique, that unless you had been familiar with the genus, you could not classify him. I rejoice in his erudities about kirks. The very oddity of the garments which encase his Old Mortality soul delights me. The feature which I wished you to delineate was that manly independence, that godly simplicity of the peasant saint, which is so beautiful. Just read again his early days as a herd, his first day of married life, his first entrance into Glasgow, and then remember how true the man is. He is a genuine man, and as perfect a specimen of a class of Scotchmen passing away (and soon to be driven off the road like the old coaches by steam) as the pibroch is a specimen of old music, or the small bog myrtle of a Highland scene."

To the Same:—
"Craufurd Priory, May 11th.

"I have not written to your friend, Mr. Temple, because I found I could not receive him at my house with any comfort or satisfaction. I came here for change of air, and propose returning home the end of the week, in order to attempt a little Sabbath duty before going off to 'summer high,' upon the Western Hills for a few weeks. I have run away from the General Assembly to which I was elected a member, preferring to drink in the spirit of solitude, and to feast my inward ear upon ' unheard melodies,' rather than to sit, 'dusty and deliquescent,' listening to the debates of my most worthy and orthodox, but still prosy and cock-sure-of-everything, brethren. All this lengthy explanation is to account for my apparent heathenish want of Temple service and unkindness toward your friend.

I have found it very good to have been withdrawn for some time from outward work. What I have lost in body doing, I have gained in soul being. I have felt how considerate and loving it was in Christ to have asked His disciples to go with Him and 'rest awhile,' because so many were coming and going that they had not time even to eat. In this struggle between the unseen and seen—God, and things apart from or out of God—it is good to be outwardly separated from the seen and temporal, as a means of being brought more into contact with the unseen and eternal. I have not had such enjoyable Sabbaths for a long time. Such peace and repose was unearthly. We ministers in Scotland cannot always enjoy our Sabbaths. We have too much giving and too little receiving. The only way to get good for ourselves is to preach peacefully, without attempt at fine things, and in the sight of God and for His glory. Two books I read during my sickness—your friend Stanley's ' Apostolic Age,' and the last edition of Hare's 'Guesses at Truth.' This last rather disappointed me. It did not, as a whole, send me far on, nor did it come up to my idea of what the Hares could have done under the cover of a title which left such a mighty field for vigorous speculation. I was delighted with Stanley. The style perhaps is rather too intensely artistic. But it is a well put together, manly, fresh, truthful book. I have no doubt of his success in seizing the features of the old giants. I was charmed with his idea of each apostle becoming a guiding star to different times, or different ages finding their wants supplied by one more than the rest. I am satisfied, and have been for some time, that this is the age of St. John. Unless the Church gets wholesome spiritual food given to it, its next development will be mysticism. Nothing outward in government, creed, or mode of worship can satisfy the increasing hunger in the Church ; all are seeking something which they find not, yet know not hardly what they seek. I think that something is unity. But of what kind? Nothing can satisfy but one;—unity of mind with Christ, and so with one another. I hope the breakings up in Protestantism may lead to it. The breaking up of fleshly unity (i.e. anything apart from God) often leads to spiritual unity. Each part, being driven to God (in its conscious weakness) for that strength, and good, and peace, and joy, earth has failed to give, becomes thereby more united spiritually to every other part so doing.

"I dare say you do not understand me, for really I have no brain, and no patience either to think or write. I ought not to attempt it. I only wish you were beside me, that I might splutter out my thoughts about the reaction which the outwardness of our orthodoxy is producing, and which the worst kind of Germanism, and the pantheism of Emerson, are meeting and dissecting, but which St. John's Gospels and Epistles can alone so meet, as to sanctify and save. But my brain, John, my brain!

"I am wearied, I can write no more. The day is lovely. John Mackintosh is here enjoying himself much. We are with my brother John, in Crauford Priory. The trees are scattering their blossoms in the breeze ; the leaves are transparent; the bees and birds alone disturb the silence of the woods. I have had a short enjoyable lounge on mossy sward. I seldom think when walking. I am, as Emerson says, 'a transparent eyeball.'

"A great study of mine during my sickness has been that mighty deep— Christ's temptation—taken in connection with the history of the first temptation, the history of the Isrelites, Christ's own history, and the history of the Church—and of each Christian."

An illness, brought on by overwork, compelled him to give up preaching for a time. He went for change of air to his father's house at Shandon, on the picturesque banks of the Gareloch, and there, in his rambles by burn and brae, thought out those views of the temptations of Christ which were afterwards published.

From his Journal:—

"Shandon, May.—How beautiful is everything here! It is a very world of music and painting. In the melody of the birds, in the forms and beauty of the landscape, in the colouring of the flowers and dressing of the trees, there seems a vindication of the pursuit of the fine arts. They are God-like; but how demon-like when the artist recognises nature no longer as the 'Art of God,' but as the art of Satan for satisfying the soul without God; then Eden is Eden no longer—we are banished from its tree of life.

"How many things are in the world yet not of it! The material world itself, with all its scenes of grandeur and beauty, with all its gay adornments of tree and flower, and light and shade—with all its accompanying glory of blue sky and fleecy cloud, or midnight splendour of moon and stars—all are of the Father. And so, too, is all that inner world, when, like the outer, it moves according to His will—of loyal friendships, loving brotherhood— and the heavenly and blessed charities of home, and all the real light and joy that dwell, as a very symbol of His own presence, in the Holy of Holies of a renewed spirit. In one word, all that is true and lovely and of good report—all that is one with His will, is of the Father, and not of the world. Let the world, then, pass away with the lust thereof! It is passing away of death and darkness—of all that is at enmity to God and man. All that is of the Father shall remain for ever."

To his Sister Jane:—

"Shandon, May, 1848.

' I have been yearning here for quiet and retirement. I got it yesterday. I set off upon a steeple-chase, scenting like a wild ass the water from afar. But heather, birch, and the like, were my water in the desert. I found all. I passed through the upper park and entered a birch wood. I traced an old path, half trodden—whether by men or hares I could not tell. It lead me to a wee burn. In a moment I found myself in the midst of a poem; one of those woodland lyrics which have a melody heard and unheard, which enters by the eye and ear, goes down to the heart, and steeps it in light, pours on it the oil of joy, and gives it 'beauty for ashes.' This same mountain spirit of a burn comes from the heather, from the lonely home of sheep, kites, and 'peasweeps.' It enters a birch wood, and flows over cleanest slate. When I met it, it was falling with a chuckling, gurgling laugh, into a small pool, clear as liquid diamond. The rock shelved over it and sheltered it. In the crevices of the rock were arranged, as tasteful nature alone can do, bunches of primroses, sprouting green ferns, and innumerable rock plants, while the sunlight gleaming from the water danced and played upon the shelving rock, as if to the laughing tune of the brook, and overhead weeping birches and hazels, and beside me green grass and wood hyacinths and primroses. All around the birds were singing with 'full-throated ease,' and up above, a deep blue sky with a few island clouds, and now and then, far up, a solitary crow winging across the blue and silence. Now this I call rest and peace. It is such an hour of rest amidst toil as does my soul good, lasts and will come back with a soothing peacefulness amidst hard labour.

"I felt so thankful for my creation, my profession, my country, my all, all, all I only desired something better in the spirit.

"Pray don't smile at my burn; but when I feel in love, I delight to expatiate upon my beloved; and I am mad about my burn."

To the Same:—

"Shandon, May 23, 1848.

"To-day I set off on a cruise to discover a glen about which there were vague traditions at Shandon. It was called Glen Fruin, which, in ancient Celtic, I understand, was the Glen of Weeping. Dr. Macleod, Gaelic authority who is with us (a great friend, by-the-bye of my mother's), says that the bodies of the dead used to be carried through the said glen, from some place to some other place—hence weeping. Well, I set off. Behold me, stiff in the limbs, my feet as if they were 'clay and iron'—hard, unbending, yet weak; but the head of gold, pure, pure gold; though now, like Bardolph's, unfortunately uncoinable. Behold me puffing, blowing, passing through the upper park. Bathed ere I reached the birch wood, and soon reclined near my burn, with Shakespeare as my only companion. But even he began to be too stiff and prosy. The ferns, and water, and cuckoo beat him hollow; so I cast him aside, and began creeping up the burn, seeking for deeper solitude, like a wild beast. I was otter-like, indeed, in everything save my size, shape, and clothes, and having Shakespeare in my pocket. Then I began to gather ferns, and found beautiful specimens. Then I studied the beautiful little scene around me, and was so glad that I dreamt, on and on, listening to that sweet inland murmur.

"The power of the hills is over me! Away for Glen Fruin, two miles uphill! Hard work! Alas, alas! that I should come to this! Try it! Be off! So off I went—and on and on. Green braes—there march dykes —there withered heather—there mossy. Very near the first ridge which bounds the horizon. Puff, puff—on, on ! 'Am I a bullet?' On—at last —I must lie down!

"This will never do! Go ahead, Norman! Get up—get on! I do think that, on principle, I should stop! Go ahead. What's that? 'Cock, cock, cock, whiz-z-z-z'—Grouse! That's cheering. What's that? 'Whead-leoo, wheadleoo'—a curlew? Hurrah, we are going ahead! Another pull! The loch out of sight. Something looming in the far distance. Arran Hills. So, ahead, my boy—limbs better—steam up—the spirit of the hills getting strong—the ghosts of my fathers and mothers beckoning me onwards. The moor getting boggy—soft—more hags—first rate ! Ladies don't walk here. This is unknown to dandies. Another hill. And then—up I am! Now, is not this glorious? Before me, pure Loch Gare—and beyond the most sublime view I almost ever saw. Terraces apparently of sea and land—the sea a mirror. Vessels everywhere—the setting sun tinging the high peaks of Arran, kissing them and the hills of Thibet with the same, glow, laying the one asleep with a parting kiss, and with another waking up her eastern children. There's poetry for you!

"The great hills of Arran, 'like great men,' as Jean Paul says, 'the first to catch, the last to lose the light.' Was not all this glorious ? not to speak of the sea, and ships, and solitude. Do you know I never think at such times. I am in a state of unconscious reception, and of conscious deep joy. No more.

"Glen Fruin lay at my feet, with sloping green hills like the Yarrow ' bare hills,' as Billy says; but like all such hills, most poetical and full of ' pastoral melancholy.' Well, I shall only state that I came down, in case you imagine that I am there still. And when I came down, what then? Most amiably and most literary—crammed a listening audience with Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Shakespeare.

"Now have I not much cause to thank God for all His mercies? and, dear, I have done so. I have been truly happy. My study has been the Temptation, still so full of wonders. I have not been in the least troubled about the Assembly, except so far as to make me remember it in my prayers —yes, both Assemblies, I am glad to say. These glorious scenes are in harmony only with a spirit of love. God's reign over all men, throughout all ages, and God's reign of love in our hearts, when believed, gives peace.

"I wish to be back in time to prepare for the Communion. The scenes of beauty and the time of retirement which I have had are in perfect keeping with again hearing 'the still sad music of humanity,' in oar miserable closes and vile abodes. The Lord left His glory and rest to dwell with men; and by the cross He entered into more glorious rest, were that possible."

To John C. SHAIRP, Esq., Rugby:—

"Shandon, May 25.

"In the midst of sovereign hills silence is most becoming, and then I never can think at such times. I grow as unconsciously as plants do beneath the sun and shower. But oh ! the life and joy! The man who begins to doubt anything on a mountain top except his own powers, who begins to question instead of contentedly receiving, who speaks of the authority of books and professors, who, in short, does not love and rejoice, should be pitched over the first rock, or have such a hiding given him with weeping birch as will send him howling to Glen Fruin ('the Glen of Weeping')! I am every day getting better. I suffered from an affection of the membrane which covers stomach, chest, and brain, and practically all creation when it (the membrane) is out of order! I am certain Hamlet's liver or membrane was affected!

From his Journal:—

"Shandon, June 3.

"Was there ever a period in which it was more necessary for men who love the good of our National Zion to meet together in prayer and sober, earnest thoughtfulness, to consider the state of our country and the present state of the Church, our dangers, difficulties, weaknesses, duties, comforts?

"Might not such questions be considered as bearing upon that mighty one of education: the training up of an efficient ministry; an efficient system of Sabbath schools; the infusing a healthier life and love into our clergy; the development of Congregational, Presbyterial, Synodical, and Assembly life; the bringing forward of the intelligent laity; the best mode of dealing with the poor Highlands; with the masses in towns; what is needed in our theology in our times with reference to Germany and England; what are our duties to Dissenters, to the Church of England, to the Continent. If we only could get men to think, and think earnestly, in this terrible crisis, I should be at ease."

To his Sister Jane:—


"I feel terribly my loneliness, especially as preventing me from enjoying literary society. I began pondering in my mind whether there was any one in the town who could share my pleasure in reading ' The Prelude,' and 'In Memoriam,' or have a talk with me about the tendencies of the age. Of all my acquaintances, I thought Mrs. Huggins probably the most spirituelle, and off I went with 'The Prelude.' I found her in her usual seat by the fireside, her face calm and meditative, her thumbs still pursuing their endless chase after each other, as if each had vowed an eternal revenge of his brother. There was an air of placid repose in her time-worn features, combined with an intellectual grandeur, caught from her long residence with the late illustrious Mr. Huggins, and also a nervous twitching of the features, with an occasional lightning flash about the eye, which I have do doubt was occasioned by living near the powder-mills for thirty years. I was disappointed with her views of poetry. I read the Introduction, and the following conversation ensued:—

"'I.—We have here, I think, a fine combination of the poet with the poetic artist.'

"'H.—I wadna doot. How's yer sister?'

"'I.—Well, I thank you. She has been a long time cultivating the ideal under me; but her talent is small, her genius nothing."

"'H.—Is her coch (cough) better?

"'I.—Rather, Mrs. Huggins. But, pray, how do you like Wordsworth?'

"'II.—I dinna ken him. Whar does he leeve? In Pettigrew's Close? Is he the sticket ministe?' "

To his Brother George (advising him on the choice of a profession):—

"Dalkeith, November 6, 1848.

"We must assume then, that, whatever we eat or drink, or whatever we do, it must be for God's glory; or, to make this plainer, I' assume that Christ has for every man 'his work'—a something in His kingdom to do which is better suited to him, and he to it, than any other. Happy is the man who finds what his work is and does it! To find it is to find our profession, and to do it is to find our highest good and peace.

"My faith is, that there is a far greater amount of revelation given to guide each man by the principles laid down in the Bible, by conscience, and by Providence, than most men are aware of. It is not the light which is defective, it is an eye to see it.

"For instance: Christ calls us outwardly and inwardly to our profession, and those two calls, when they coincide (when, like two lions, they meet at one point), determine a profession to any man who will be at all determined by the will of the Redeemer. The outward call is made up of all those outward circumstances which render the profession at all possible for us, and which render any one profession more possible than another. With this principle you are at no difficulty, of course, in determining a. thousand professions or positions in society which are not possible for you, and to which, consequently, you are not called. I need not illustrate this, it is self-evident. But as in your case two or three professions may present themselves to you which appear all possible—nay, at first sight, all equallv possible—in such a predicament you would require carefully to apply the above rule, in order calmly to consider which is most possible, on the whole, for you. Among the outward circumstances which, as I have said, combine to make up this outward call, may be mentioned bodily health, the likings of friends, interest of the family, means of usefulness, &c.

"But there is also the inward call to be considered. By this I mean a man's internal fitness for the profession; and this of course makes the problem a little more complex, yet not impossible of solution. A man might put such questions as those:—

"Which profession gives the greatest scope for the development of my whole being, morally, intellectually, socially, actively? Again; am I fitted for this as to talent, principle, education? In which could I best and with the greatest advantage use all the talents Christ has given me, and for which He will make me responsible, so that not one talent shall be laid up in a napkin or buried, but that all may be so employed that He can say to me, 'Well done, good and faithful servant? This is the way of looking at the question; and I do not think it difficult to apply it practically with the assistance of God's good spirit. I tell you candidly, that, as far as I see, you have to decide between the ministry and the medical profession.

"I need not tell you which I love most. I would not exchange my profession for any on earth. All I have seen of the world in courts and camps, at home and abroad, in Europe and America, all, all makes me cling to it and love it the more. My love to it is daily increasing. I bless and praise God that He has called me to it. Would only I were worthier of the glory and dignity which belong to it! I find in it work most congenial to my whole being. It at once nourishes and gives full scope to my spirit. It affords hourly opportunities for the gratification of my keenest sympathies and warmest affections. It engages my intellect with the loftiest investigations which can demand its exercise. It presents a field for constant activity in circumstances which are ever varying, yet always interesting, and never too burdensome to be borne. It enables me to bring to bear all I know, all I acquire, all I love, upon the temporal and eternal well-being of my fellow-men, and to influence their peace and good for ever. It brings me into contact with high and low, rich and poor, in the most endearing and interesting relationships in which man can stand to man: a sharer of their joys and sorrows, a teacher, a comforter, a guide. Do you wonder that with all my care and anxiety (which are burdens worthy of man) I should be happy all the day long? I envy no man on earth, except a better Christian. A minister of the gospel! Kings and princes may veil their faces before such a profession. It is to have the profession of angels, and to be a fellow-worker with Christ. Excuse me, if forgetting you for a moment, I have expressed the deep convictions of my soul as to what I feel this profession to be. I do not mean to say that I have no wish to influence you; I have. For I would sooner see you an officer in Christ's army—a plain Scotch minister though he be—than any other thing on earth which I can suppose it possible for you to have.

"Add to all this, the loud call for such men as you to join the Church ! Oh, George, if you knew how I have looked forward to your being with me! How I have rejoiced in the prospect of seeing us three brothers carry the Banner of the Cross together in our poor but beloved country! I somehow cannot give up the hope yet. Better days are coming. They would come soon, had we more such men as you.''

From his Journal:—

"November 6.—Twenty-six cases, and eighteen deaths, (no recoveries) from cholera at Loanhead. The Cholera Hospital preparing here.

"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose soul is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.' Amen.

"December 21.—I hear two cases have occurred here last night.

"Lord give me grace to do that which is right. My trust is in Thee. Thou art my refuge, and my fortress, my God, and having Thee as my sure and unchanging good, I am not afraid of the 'pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor of the destruction which wasteth at noonday.' Lord, direct my steps! Preserve me from the vanity and vainglory which might wickedly lead me to expose myself to danger, and from the selfish fear which would drive me from my duty. 'Lead me in truth, teach me,' and may I, at this trying time, be and do that which is right as Thy son and ministering servant, and whether by life or death may I glorify Thee—for living or dying I am Thine, through Jesus Christ! Amen.
"December 31, Sabbath night.—I am here all alone upon the last Sabbath, almost the last hour, of 1848.
" What a year of world-wonders this has been, with political revolutions in every part of Europe ! In Britain, famine, pestilence, riots, and rebellion. " It has been an all-important year to me ! During the year I can say, that as far as I know, I have not for a day or at any time consciously resisted what I knew to be right, setting my heart upon evil. I do not say that I have done any one thing perfectly. Every day has disclosed manifold imperfections,—sloth, pride, vanity, ambition, shortcomings in all things—but I have been alive. To what is this owing? I rejoice to write it —let it be seen by angels and devils—to the free and boundless and omnipotent grace and infinite love of God.

"I have been reading those old diaries. May I not try (in much ignorance) to sum up some practical lessons from dear-bought experience!'

1. I had inadequate views of Christ's cross. I saw a work done for me—a ground for pardon—an objective reality; but I did not see so clearly the eternal necessity of the cross in me, of sharing Christ's life as mine, of glorying in the cross as reflected in the inward power it gives to ' be crucified to the world, and the world to me.'

2. I was dealing too little with a Personal Saviour—had too little (or no) confidence in His love to me individually, and in His will and power to free from sin by making me like Himself.

"Light dawns, life comes! I have faith in the love of God to me, that I—even I, shall be 'perfect' as my Father in Heaven is perfect.

"What have I lost by my wilful and rebellious sin ! I have during these years come in contact with many thousand in different parts of the world, in the most interesting circumstances, in domestic and in public life, in sickness, family distress, and on death-beds. How much good has been lost and evil done, by the absence of that real earnestness of word, look, temper, teaching,—that all, which can only come from a soul in a right state with God, and which never can be imitated, or would be so only by hypocrisy. What good, and peace, and happiness have I lost to myself!

"There is another thing presses itself upon me. I know as surely as I know anything, that all my sin has emanated from myself, and yet I do believe God has brought more good to me in the latter end by this very life than could perhaps have been brought in any other way. I would shudder in writing this if it appeared to be the slightest excuse for my iniquities. These, I repeat it, were mine. But I think I have a glimpse of that marvel of Providence by which evil—while it is nothing but evil—is yet by infinite wisdom and love made, like a wild stream, an instrument of God.

"Let me not forget to mention three men from whom I have received unspeakable good—Thomas Arnold, Alexander Scott, and dear John Campbell.

"I go to Glasgow to-morrow. Cholera rages, but I join my family, casting my care on God. Lord Jesus, my ever-present and ever-loving Saviour, I desire to abide in Thee, to trust in Thy life, Thy grace, Thy character,' Thy ways.

"Lord I am thine ! for time and eternity. Amen and Amen."

The condition of the Church still weighed heavily on him. Church questions were in his eyes secondary to the grand end for which all Churches exist, the raising up of living Christians; and so day and night he pondered over the best methods for stimulating a healthy zeal. There were many clergymen in his own neighbourhood and elsewhere, who sympathized with him in his anxieties, and with whom he frequently exchanged ideas on this subject. But as there was no organ through which the Church might address her members on questions of Christian life and work, it was resolved that a magazine should be started, containing papers for Sabbath reading, and to be sold at the lowest possible price. He thus became editor of the Edinburgh Christian Magazine, a monthly periodical published by Messrs. Paton and Richie, in Edinburgh. Short sermons, papers on social and scientific subjects, biographies, missionary intelligence, articles upon parochial and church organization, and notices of books, formed the contents.
The Christian Magazine never attained a very large circulation; but the editor was well satisfied in having an audience of 5,000 families to which he could address himself, and there can be no doubt that the appeals made in its pages on behalf of missionary enterprise, and organized parochial work, did much to quicken a religious life which was broad and tolerant as well as earnest.

Many of the articles and stories which he afterwards wrote for Good Words, appeared in an embryo form in the "Blue" Magazine, as I was popularly called; but the greater portion of his contributions consisted of short, practical papers intended for the firesides of Church-pen. During the first year of the magazine (1849-50), he wrote more than twenty articles, and among these a useful series on Family Education, which afterwards expanded into a volume. ["The Home School."]

A series of papers on Drunkenness, which he contributed during 1850-5 1, was reprinted under another title. ["A Pray for Temprance."] He was a member of the General Assembly of 1849, and spoke at considerable length on Education, the Continental Churches, India Mission, and Endowment. In his speech on the last named subject he expressed, with great energy, his favourite idea of the Christian congregation being a society charged with the blessed mission of meeting the manifold evils of society, physical and social as well as spiritual, and urged the necessity of bringing living Christian men into personal contact with the poor, the ignorant, and the ungodly. His reflections during the disturbances of 1848, and the deep impression made on him by the Glasgow mob, found a voice for themselves on this occasion.

"The question appeared to him to lie between the needy masses upon the one hand, and those who were able to help them upon the other—between those who were poor temporally and spiritually, and those upon whom God had bestowed temporal and spiritual blessings. The object of endowed territorial work was to bring them in contact upon the fields of the Christian Church. They wished the poor to meet the rich there, that the rich might assist them; they wished the ignorant to meet the well informed there, that they might receive of their knowledge. They wished the suffering, the destitute, and the afflicted, to meet the kind, and sympathizing, and Christian-hearted there, and from the union of fulness and emptiness, to enable those who have, to give to those who stand in need. Every man in that vast mass of humanity had immense influence, and if he could not be made great for good he might be made great for evil. The hand that could use the hammer, could seize the firebrand; the tongue that could sing praises to God, might become voluble in blasphemy and sedition. The man with a strong head and heart, but uninformed, might gather his fellow-workmen around him in hundreds and thousands—he might speak to them of the separation between man and man, with an eloquence that rung in every man's heart, because they felt it to be true, he might speak of those who were in comfort, but who did not care for those in misery, he might speak of those who were educated, but who cared not for those in ignorance, and that mass might become like a mighty avalanche set loose from its cold solitude, and descending into their valleys, crush the commercial prosperity and institutions of the country; and all the while they would feel it to be a righteous punishment, on the part of a righteous God, for their selfishness and apathy."

From his Journal:—

"I call individualism the embodiment of all those theories which would throw man back upon himself, make himself the centre, and referring all things to that centre, measure all things from it. It sees no law, no rule, no end, no will beyond self. The grand text of Emerson, 'I am a man,' is (in his sense of the phrase) its expression. What is society to me? What is Luther? What is the Church, or the Bible, or Christ, or God? 'I am a man.' This is Selbststandigkeit with a vengeance ! A man refuses to recognise or worship the personal God, and ends by worshipping himself.

"Self-destruction is the opposite of this, and expresses the essence of those systems by which the individual is annihilated. Popery is its ecclesiastical ideal, and despotism its civil. The Jesuit maxim, ' be in all things a dead man,' is the opposite pole from Emerson. If the one system deifies man, the other annihilates him, though it must in justice be added, as a professed means of ultimately deifying him. Socialism seems to me to be the Devil's tertium quid. It would seek to fill up the longings in man after union in something higher or something beyond himself, and at the same time afford him the fullest out-going for his individualism. It is society sacrificed to the individual. Romanism would have the individual sacrificed to the society called the Church. These two poles are always producing each other. It is no wonder that the ecclesiastical and civil systems which would destroy the individual should produce the re-action of pantheism and republicanism, which would embody man's individualism religiously and civilly.

"What is the Christian tertium quid?

"1. Unity with a personal God revealed in a personal Saviour. This destroys individualism in so far as it establishes personal responsibility, and places the man as a part of a system, in which not he, but a personal God, is the centre, a God whom we ought to love and serve. Individualism cannot co-exist with the ideas of ought to love and serve. These destroy Selbststandigkeit. To recognize the existence of light, is at once to give up the notion that the eye exists for itself, and by itself, as a self-sustaining and self-satisfying organ.

"2, Union with man through God. I say through God, because we can only find our true relationship to any point within the circle by seeing our mutual relationship to the centre, God our Creator, as the bond which unites us to man. God our Father is the bond which unites us to all His true children. The family, the neighbourhood, the citizenship, the state, are the outlets of our social tendencies to men, in God our Creator.

"The Church is specially the outlet of our social tendencies to God our Redeemer. There is here a healthy union of our individualism with socialism. The individual is preserved. His personality is not destroyed—it is developed. Free-will, responsibility, the necessity of seeing and knowing for himself are recognized. In Heaven he can say, 'I am a man.' His union with God is essential to the development of his individuality, just as light is essential to the health of the eye. The social life is also preserved. The attraction of God renders the attraction of man necessary. The family relation appointed by God, is the school in which men are trained for the family of man. The child, in spite of himself, finds himself a brother, or son, and enters life a part of a system, to whose well-being he must contribute his portion by the sacrifice of self, and in this very sacrifice find himself enriched. The necessity of labour is another bond, and so is the necessity of living. The man must remain poor in head unless he receives knowledge, and poor in pocket unless he receives work, and poor in heart unless he receives love. And all this receiving implies giving, whether it faith, or work, or love, in return: and thus bond alter bond draws man out of himself to man.

"No wonder Pantheists and Socialists hate the personal God, the family, the Word, the Church."

To Mr. JAMES M'Pherson (an Elder in Loudoun):—

"Dalkeith, February 17, 1849.

"I need hardly tell you that I very sincerely sympathize with you, and with all my dear old friends who are now in the midst of such sore and solemn trials. I fancy myself among you, going from house to house. I see your faces, and know how you will all think and feel. I wish you would let me know who have been carried off. From my parish visitation book, I can recall the face and character of every one I knew in the parish, as well as I could the day I left it, and I feel anxious to know who have been removed.

"How soothing to feel that we are not lost in the big crowd, that our case is not overlooked by Him who is guiding the stars—but that His eye of love rests upon us, and that He is attending to each of us as really and truly as He did to Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus, whom He lovedI"

To John Mackintosh (in Rome):—

"Dalkeith, December 25, 1849.

"Your letter inflamed my blood and fired my brain, and unless I knew from experience that ' we may not hope from outward forms to live the (what?) passion and the joy (life?) whose fountains are within,' I should certainly have been unhappy. Dear John, all our happiness flows from our blessed Redeemer. He divideth to each, gifts, talents, place, work, circumstances, as seemeth good to himself. Blessed is the man who can trust Him, and take what He gives, using it for the end for which it is given. So, dear John, I will not envy thee ! Thine is Rome, mine is home. Thine the glories of the past, mine labour for the glories of the future without the past. Thine the eternal city with all—all—art, music, ruins, visions, ideal day dreams, choking unutterable reminiscences; a spiritual present, impalpable, fascinating;—all—all that would make me laugh, weep, scream, sing—all, and more are thine. So be it. Mine is a different lot, but both are given us by Him, to be used for His kingdom and glory;—and darling, thou wilt so use them, I am sure! The spirit of the greatest man Rome ever held within her walls, even that old tent-maker, he who after his wintry cruise came weary and careworn up the Appian way—his humble and heroic spirit will be thine! and His, too, by whom he lived! For this day ('tis past 12 a.m.!) reminds me Christ is born, and the world of Cicero and Cæsar is not ours, but a world unseen by the eye, unheard by the ear; a world whose glories are in dim wynd and dusky tenement as much as in Rome. So, dear John, I will do His will here, and thou there, and if we be faithful, we shall have a glorious life of it together somewhere else and for ever! Yet, would I were with thee! It is my weakness; I can guide it only, change it I cannot.

"Everything in our land is flat, stale, and unprofitable. Don't believe me. I presume it is the best land on earth; but I have not moved for months from home.

"What of the Jews in Rome? Let us labour for them, but confess that their day is not yet come, nor, I think, dawned. This is my latest conclusion. Keep thy heart, dearest. Were I in your place, I believe I should be ruined; thus I see Christ's love in keeping me at home. Popery ! 'The Bible without the spirit is a sundial by moonlight.' Well done, old Coleridge! I have long believed that Popery will be the pantheistic re-action of the latter days. Presbyterianism in our country is a poor affair. If there is to be a Church for man to embrace taste, intellect, genius, and inspire love, veneration, awe, and if that Church is to be a visible one, our Free and Bond won't be among the number. We are sermonising snobs. But I rave and run on. Don't believe me. Short of heaven there is no ideal Church. I am sure of this, that I am right in loving Christ, and in loving Christians, and the souls of men for His sake. Beyond this twilight, farther on darkness ! What are you doing now 1 Gazing on the moon, feasting on Christmas rites, seeing, hearing. Ah, me!"

From his Father:—

"Moffat, 1849.

"It would truly give me real delight if you could go to London and act as my substitute, and in such a good cause. The poor Highlands and Isles are as worthy of your efforts as Germans or Jews or Indians, and they require it just as much. The only legacy I can leave you is an interest, a heartfelt interest in that poor people whose blood flows in your veins. Do, my dear fellow, think of it."

From his Note-Book:—

"A Work for 1850.—January 18. It is now being impressed upon minds, slow to learn from anything but facts, that the Church of Scotland is daily going down hill. We are weak, weak politically, weak in the hearty attachment of any class—upper, middle, or lower, learned, earnest, or pious—to us, as a Church;—there is no State party who care one farthing for us on great, national, and righteous principles. Yet all this would not necessarily be evil if we were strong Godward. Nay, it might prove a blessing, the blessing which often springs from a sore chastisement. But I cannot conceal from myself that we have reached the depth immediately below which is destruction, of being weak towards God in faith, love, hope, devotedness, and in simple-mindedness for His glory. I cannot say what amount of good may exist in the Church. God knoweth how many hidden ones it may contain! and He may see many tears shed in secret, and may hear many groans for the sins of Jerusalem, and many prayers may enter His ears for her peace and prosperity. But sin can be seen. The evil is manifest, and what is bad is visible. There is sloth and an easy indifference as to the state of the Church. No searching, as far as man knows, to find out our sins. No plans, no strivings to meet difficulties and evils, to do our work as we should do. Everywhere disunion, separation, men flying from social questions which affect the body, and even the good men seeking relief in the spiritual selfishness of personal and parish work, as if terrified to look at things within and around.

"In these circumstances the work I would propose would be a convocation a number (however small) to inquire into the state of Zion; to seek out and apply a remedy; above all, to do the work of works, of lying prostrate before God, and asking in earnest prayer, 'Lord, what wilt thou have us to do?'"

To Mrs. Dennistoun:—

"Dalkeith, Sept. 4th, 1850.

"I am here all alone—Skye [A favourite terrier.] my only companion—if I except my constant friends on the book-shelves, who chat with me day and night. I am very jolly, because very busy; not that I by any means advocate this bachelor life, for unless I looked forward to my sister's return, I would instantly advertise, my parochial visitations preventing me for some time from personally attending to this duty; I often think Falstaff's resolution was not a bad one, 'I'll turn a weaver and sing psalms! Before I lead this life longer, I'll sew nether socks, and foot them too!'

"The only defect in Skye is, that I never can get him to laugh. He is painfully grave. He seems sometimes to make an effort, but it passes off like electricity by his tail, which becomes tremulous with emotion."

The following bit of nonsense was sent as a quiz on some members of the home household, who were fascinated by the description of primitive life and domestic happiness in the Landes of France as communicated by a French friend.

"August, 1850.

"It requires no small effort in me to write to you. It disturbs my deep repose; it ruffles my 'calm,' 'so very calm from day to day.' It causes movement of my hand and thought in my brain which are habitual to neither; but as you kindly wish me to write to you, and flatter me with the assurance that my beloved parents will not consider an epistle from me an irreverent intrusion upon their time, I shall forthwith give you a simple account of my daily habits. I go to bed about ten or half past; it depends on circumstances. I awake about eight, and lie thinking till about nine or ten.' This morning I fancied that I became a poor man, and sold my books and took a little cottage somewhere, with small rooms and nice roses, and one cow and some hens; and then I just thought how sweet it would be to have mamma and papa, and all my brothers and sisters, and nephews and nieces, and uncles and aunts, all to live together for a long, long time, and to lie on the grass and to feed the pigs and the little hens, and dig the garden, and make our own clothes and shoes. My uncle would make the shoes and the clothes, and all my sisters and aunts would spin, and darling George and Donald would write poetry and work in the garden and sing, and dear papa and mamma would sit in large arm chairs and give us their blessing every morning and evening, and tell us nice stories about the Highlands, and I would keep accounts and everything in order! Everything would be within ourselves. And then we should see all our friends and relations, quietly, comfortably, and there would be no bustle, no dirty railroads or towns—all grass and vegetables and plenty. My blessing upon such peaceful domestie happiness! I know my venerated father will rejoice at my picture I never meddle with politics or church affairs. It does no one good I think. 'Bless me,' says I to Elizabeth Story, 'what is life worth if we cannot have peace? What is the good of all this rant and bustle?' It rises my nerves,' says she. ' And mine, too,' says I. 'It's no wonder,' says she. 'Deed it is not,' says I. 'It would be a wonder if it didn't,' says she. ' ouldn't it?' says I. 'In course it would,' says she. 'I would think so,' gays I. 'And no one would differ from you, sir,' says she. 'I believe not,' says I. 'I would at least think so,' says she. 'I am certain of it,' says I. 'I make no doubt myself at all of it,' says she. 'Nor anybody else,' says I, and thus we spent a quiet, peaceful, calm half-hour."

The beginning of this year, 1851, was marked by two events which had an important influence on his future life. On the 23rd of January he heard, with great pain, of the death of his valued friend, Dr. Black, minister of the Barony, Glasgow, and in a few weeks afterwards he learned that the congregation were anxious that he should be presented to the vacant parish. Dr. Black had on his death-bed expressed the desire that Norman Macleod should succeed him, and the people were now unanimous in petitioning Government to that effect.

To his Father:—

"January 31st, 1851.

"I mean strictly to avoid all movement on my own part in regard to the Barony; nor do I wish you to move in it. The session and people know me. They are acquainted with my preaching and public character. If the parish is offered to me in such an unanimous way as will satisfy my mind that I am the choice of the parties most interested in obtaining a minister, I shall feel it my duty to accept it. If there is a canvass dividing the congregation, I shall forbid my name to be mentioned. I am willing to go or stay, as God shall see it best for my own good, and the good of souls."

To his Mother:—


'Believe me I am disciplined to be a far more peaceful man than I was. My ambition has been sobered by experience. I know what I am not and what I am. I am not a man of genius, or of power, or of learning, and can do nothing great in the world's sense; but by the grace of God I can be kind and good, and earnest and useful; and can bring the souls of dying men to their Saviour for rest and peace. If God gives me the ten talents of the Barony, I shall not receive them with fear as if He were a hard master, but with solemn thankfulness and humble praise, hoping by His grace to make them ten talents more. So, dear, your prayers have been heard."

In the following month, and while the question of the Barony was still in suspense, the unexpected tidings reached him that John Mackintosh was dying at Tubingen. There was no man on earth whom Norman loved more tenderly, and the news overwhelmed him. All other engagements were at once thrown aside, and on the 11th of February he started for the Continent. It had been deemed advisable to remove Mackintosh from Tubingen to the picturesque little town of Cairnstadt, in the neighbourhood of Stuttgart, and Norman remained there until the 7th of March, when he went for a brief visit to Dr. Earth, the famous missionary, at Calw. On the 10th he returned to Cannstadt, and bade farewell to Mackintosh on the morning of the 11th. That very evening, with a swiftness that was quite unexpected the end came, and while Norman, in ignorance of the event, was prosecuting his journey homewards, his dearest brother had entered into rest.

From his Journal:—

"February 7.—This has beer a day of heavy affliction, for I heard of the death-sickness of my darling John Mackintosh—my more than friend—a part of my own soul.

"This day also brought intelligence of what I was led to expect; that there is such perfect unanimity among the Barony people as will insure me the parish. But to enter it over the body of my dear friend Dr. Black, and John dying! Oh, my Father ! teach me!

"My dear friend! Never, never have I known his equal, never! So-pure, so true and genuine, so heavenly-minded and serene, so young and joyous, yet so old and sober; so loving and utterly unselfish, a beautiful, beautiful character; the modesty and tenderness of a gentle girl, with the manly courage of a matured Christian; knowing the world, yet not of it; mingling in it with a great broad-heartedness, yet unstained by a single spot; warm and refreshing and life-giving as the sun, yet uncontaminated by all it shone on. But I cannot utter my reverential and loving feelings towards my dearest and best; and can it be that he, he is dying ! I feel the whole earth slipping away from me and only Jesus remaining.

"Tuesday, February 11.—This day I intend going to Tubingen to see my dear John. I am not conscious of any selfish motive, unless the craving desire to see, help, and comfort, and, it may be, bid farewell to my dearest friend be selfishness.

"What shall be the end thereof?"

To John Mackintosh, at Cannstadt (written after leaving him on the Friday, March 7th, to return on the Monday morning to spend his last day with him):—

"Calw, half-past five p.m., Friday, March 11th, 1851.

"Well, darling John! More for my own comfort than yours, yet also to cheer you up a bit, I embrace the first moment given me to tell you my news. Like the woman who shows Roslin Chapel, I must begin at the beginning—i.e., from Stuttgart.

"I found myself at half-past nine in an Eilwagen with two horses, and no passenger but myself. Opposite me was an old conductor who had grown grey in the service of that mysterious Prince of Thurn und Taxis, whose dominions seem to be Eilwageas and extra posts, and his subjects Schwagers and conductors. My companion was most agreeable; blessed me when 1 sneezed, offered me Schnapps from his flask, and gladly took the half of my dinner from me, by way of showing his love to me. He was a thorough Swabian, and therefore I did not always understand him, but I managed by a series of nods, intimating, 'I wouldn't wonder,' 'I suppose so,' to impresa him profoundly with my intelligence.

"The road was uphill, the day cold, and very snowy. The scenery consisted of bare white fields, with cloaks and hats of fir plantations, here and there a steeple. I passed through sundry villages, but I hardly know yet where I am. Calw is in some valley beside some river, having streets, (Jasthemser, and magistrates; and, it is said, four thousand inhabitants. The whole city is for the present concentrated in clear Dr. Barth. He received me with open arms, hugged me, kissed me, and did my heart a power of good in five minutes. He had an excellent dinner waiting and two friends to meet me.

"For the last hour I have been enjoying the dear man's society and examining his house, and I assure you it is worth a visit. He has a suite of five rooms, entering one into the other. The first is a bedroom; the second a sitting-room; the third his study; the fourth a nice bedroom; the fifth a missionary museum. A more jolly ideal housey you never were in! Everything about it enlarges the mind, and drives one's thoughts to every part of the globe. The pictures of missionaries and mission scenes that cover the walls of the rooms, the maps, plans, books, all are enlarging to the spirit. The very clock which is now ticking beside me is itself a poem. It has in its dial one large watch surrounded by four small ones. The middle one counts German time. The others the time at Pekin, Otaheite, New York, and Jerusalem! At this moment it is a quarter to six here; five minutes to one a.m. in Pekin (the emperor snores!); half-past seven p.m. in Jerusalem (the sun is shining softly on Olivet); a quarter-past six in Otaheite; ten minutes past mid-day in money-making New York. (Wall Street is full of business!)

"The missionary museum is exceedingly interesting. It would take days to examine it fully. The fruits, dresses, minerals, idols, &c, are from mission stations. One little trifle struck me. It was a bit of pure white marble from the basement stone of Solomon's temple. It shows, I think, that the whole temple must have been of white marble (which I never knew before); and if so, how pure, how glorious in the sun's rays—what a beautiful type of Christ's Church!

"Dr. Barth received a letter at dinner-time from the Bishop of Jerusalem. He keeps up a correspondence with missionaries in all parts of the world, and knows more of the men and their missions than any other man living.

"Nine p.m.—We have had much delightful conversation regarding missions and missionaries. Our very supper tasted of the work, for it consisted of reindeer tongue sent by the Labrador missionaries!

"And now, darling, I must stop. You know how much my thoughts, my prayers, my heart and spirit, all are with you. Every hour the parting becomes more real, more solemn. Nothing keeps up my heart but that which keeps up your own—'It is God's will—His sweet will!'

' How glorious, how intensely blessed, to feel that we are in Christ, all of us! Oh, those blessed days I have passed with you!—Heaven, in spite of all darkness. Is it memory already? It is not. I am with you, beside you, among you all. Oh, my clearest of brothers, may Jesus shine on you day and night, and may you shine through His indwelling. God bless you, dearest. Farewell."

To the Same:—

"Caelsruhe, Saturday Evening, half-past six, March 8th, 1851. "Dearest and best of earthly Brothers '

"I left dear old Barth this morning at ten. I do think that he and his house are the most perfect ideals of what missionary archbishops should be and should have. Only picture the old fellow resting his feet on a stuffed tiger from Abyssinia, giving me at breakfast honey from Jerusalem, and a parting glass of wine from Lebanon! Is it not perfect] And then his apostolic look and conversation! What a busy man he is! Besides superintending the books published by the Calmer Verein (most of which he has written himself), he edits five journals monthly—one for the young, of eighty pages; and four missionary journals making fifty six pages, in all, one hundred and thirty-six pages every month! His books have been translated into seventeen different languages. It is really most ennobling and elevating to one's spirit to see that old man, so plain and simple, yet, there in his humble house, corresponding with every part of the globe, watching day by day the spread of Christ's kingdom, visiting with his spirit and heart every scene of missionary labour, and thoroughly acquainted with them all. This is being a king indeed. Surely we can make our lives sublime' by doing the work Christ has given us. I think Barth is more of a prince, a governor, a general, than any of the reigning monarchs of Europe. He has made me feel more how grand and glorious a position in the universe a true-hearted minister may occupy. May God make me such, and 'I shall pity Cæsar.'

"Well, dear, after embracing and re-embracing, I parted very thankful. He loves you very much, and it was such a comfort to have one with me who did so, and who, with me, would thank our most gracious Lord in your behalf.

"I got into a half-open cab at ten. It was snowing and very cold, and we contemplated taking a sledge. But the Schwager promised he would convey me safely. The road was execrable. Nothing out of the backwoods worse. We took three and a half hours to drive twelve miles. It lay at first along a valley which must be exquisite in summer, and then passed up and over a high hill, thick with tress, which showered the snow upon U3 as their branches swept over the cab. Once or twice I made up my mind for a jolly good upset, but the Schwager, by hanging on occasionally on the up-side, preserved the equilibrium."

"Off Maintz, ten o'clock, Wednesday, March 12th, 1851.

"How my spirit lingers in that lonely room where I was last with him before five yesterday morning? It was very solemn and very memorable. The candle was in the other room, and I asked him in the dark how he was. He had passed another night of weary tossings to and fro. Yet to hear him say in the darkness, 'I wish I could sing ! I should give glory to Cod!' I feel that we have taken in but very partially the heaven-sent lesson taught us in that beautiful character. But such a lesson can only be truly learned by a patient and cheerful following of Christ, seeing what He would have us outwardly do and inwardly be. To see, to do, to be, requires that right state of spirit which is maintained by a daily waiting on Christ and a strengthening of our faith in Him, as our only sure and our best guide in all things, as giving us in everything the best things for us, and in His own way. It is not necessary for us to impose burdens on ourselves, to whip ourselves with cords, or to cast ourselves on a funeral pile. God is rich in mercy, and He may sanctify us by what He gives as well as by what He takes away ; nor is it necessary for us to pain our hearts by determining what we shall do in such and such circumstances. The Lord shuts us up to one thing: 'Do what is right; if you wish it, I will teach thee.' Each day has its own duties, and trials, and difficulties. God does not tell us to take care of the week, month, or year, but of the day or hour ; not of the next possible mile of the journey, but of the certain step which must be taken for the present. We require grace to receive His mercies as much as to receive His chastisements ; in neither case to doubt His love, never to think He gives the former grudgingly, or the other severely.

"I had a superb sleep last night; but, what was very odd, I started up and lit my candle the very minute (twenty minutes to five) at which John's bell had rung on Tuesday morning."

To the Same:—

"Passing the Sicbcn-Gebirgc.

"I have really had a happy day toddling down this glorious stream. The sun was bright, and things looked tolerable. I cannot say that any poetic feeling was stirred up. The castles in spite of me suggested vulgar impressions of immense barons, all boots and beards, rioting and drinking, and thinking only how Baron A. could be swindled or Baron D. murdered; what Tochter la Baronne E. had, and whether she could be purchased for the hopeful, turnip-faced, blustering young Baron Swillingbeer. Then those vineyards are indissolubly interwoven in the fancy with tables-d'hote. The imagination pictures myriads of drinkers in all hinds longing to suck their juices. The whole land seems to be robbed from poetry and the Middle Ages, and consigned for ever to barrels and wine-bibbers. There was not an Englishman on board, and that relieved the prose a little.

"I met two girls who were emigrating to America. How happy they were, poor things, when I told them that I had been in the town to which they were going, and that it was so handsome, and that they would go across the ocean as easy as to Stuttgart, for thence they came, and my heart was stirred for them; and then (good creatures) they asked me if I had met their Schwager. I told them, possibly. They at once treated me as a brother, and showed me their letters. I really made them very happy by my pictures of the calm ocean and glorious America.

"I had a long talk with an old sailor on board, quite a character. I opened his heart with cigars, and he was very communicative. He spoke in broken sentences, each delivered in an under voice very confidentially to me, while he always turned up his eyes to heaven, kept his elbows by his side, and wriggled his wrists as if a thousand mysteries lay far beyond his brief communications. 'An old cloister that—hate the priests—ceremonies (many wriggles)—the best cloister is the heart (great confidence). Stop her! (to the engineer). Democrats! (fearful wriggles)—the Jesuits did the whole. In old times they forgave the sins of thieves and murderers,' and he ran off, looking over his shoulders, winking hard, and his two hands in perpetual motion. Soon I felt a tap on my back—' The Protestant ministers not much better—too learned—don't care for the people—they give words —words—but what do they? (wrists, eyes, all going, and immense confidence.') 'The people are best. Ach, Herr, we must make the heart our church—minister—all—and love God and man.' He darted off to take soundings. I left him, but we are yet to smoke together. Oh, this great heart of humanity ! How grand it ever is when it is real! What a magnificent study is man, and how elevating at all times to realise one's brotherhood, to rise like a hill above the earth's surface, and to converse with other hills, and to feel that both are rooted in the common earth, and are beneath the same sun, and are refreshed with the same dew!

"While I thus write, partly to relieve my own heart and partly to take your thoughts for five minutes from your present sorrows, I am dragged back to the clear group at Cannstadt.

"Perhaps this may find you in the midst of more than ordinary sorrow, when amusing words will sicken you. But it may be quite otherwise. Oh ! trust, trust. Dearer, infinitely dearer, is he to his own Lord and brother than he can be to us."

"Surely 'tis all a dream! Is this the Rhine? Is this majestic pile of ruin old St. Goar? That far-off rush of water Lurlei's roar? Oh, what a joyous life of lives was mine, When those dear castled hills of clustering vine First flashed upon me in the days of yore ! Such glorious visions I can see no more ! For though within a holier light doth shine, Yet this deep sorrow veils it as a cloud, Casting from shore to shore a sombre shroud, That scarce a trace of the old life is found. Into one wish my thoughts and feelings blend, To be with those dear mourners who surround The dying-bed of my best earthly friend."

From his Journal:—

"Dalkeith, April 11.

"My memory can never require to be refreshed by a record of those memorable days of intense life, when days were years, and hours months. For ever shall I vividly remember the rushing journey, the burning fever of morbid anxiety as I hurried on and on from this to the Rhine—along that river darkened by mist—from the Rhine to Stuttgart, and then by moonlight, which seemed to light me to my grave, to Tubingen, until after midnight I stood outside his door and had some rest, when I felt he was there. Shall I ever forget the meeting 1 the horror of darkness followed by prayer, by hopes, by heavenly gleams from unexpected sources, by fears and sore stragglings. And then his room, and our daily on-goings, the screen, the big chair, the table with its books, watch, thermometer, the stove, himself seated on the bed, the brown plaid, the shut eyes, the head inclined to one side, the peaceful smile, the resigned and meek look, the 'dearie' kiss, the whispered holy things, the drawing-room too, and the piano, the life in death, the sunshine 'that never was on sea or land.' Then came Tuesday, the 11th, and at early dawn the last farewell, while at evening thou wast with thy Father !"

To------- :—

"Dalkeith, Sunday.

"All hail! The Lord is risen. The world is redeemed, and that coffin shall be broken, and that darling body be glorified, and we shall be with him and all in Christ forever. And, oh, the calm joy of assurance, deep as in the existence of God, that on this lovely spring Sabbath, when flowers are bursting forth, and birds are singing, and the sun is shining, in this world of sin and death, he, our beloved darling, is really in life and strength and intelligence and unutterable joy, remembering us all, and waiting for us! Will he not feel so at home? Is he not breathing his own delicious air? I see him now with a sunny look of joy, gazing on his Lord, praising Him, meeting every moment some new acquaintance—new, yet old. Oh! this is not death; it is life! 'life abundantly.' "

To the Same:—

"Tuesday, 17th March.—-What can man say or do? Leaving Cann-stadt, leaving it in such silent company ' My spirit is with you all day, often, often in the watches of the night. At four this morning I was praying for you."

To the Same:—

"Wednesday Afternoon.—I have been thinking much of that luggage and those things of his. It is strange, inexpressibly strange to see dead things only, and not to see the living one. Yet was it not so when Christ rose? The linen clothes and the napkin, left in order behind, and He gone! But our dear one lives! and I can so well fancy him smiling at those poor remembrances of sin and sorrow, which are nevertheless to us signs of faith triumphant in death. I am sure when our day of death comes, if we have time to think, the room at Cannstadt will be strength to us."

From his Journal:—

"April 11th.—We buried him on Wednesday last, the 9th. The day was calm and beautiful. The sky was blue, with a few fleecy clouds. The birds were singing : everything seemed so holy and peaceful. His coffin was accompanied by those who loved him. As I paced beside him to his last resting place, I felt a holy joy as if marching beside a noble warrior receiving his final honours. Oh, how harmonious seemed his life and death!I felt as if he was still alive, as if he still whispered in my ear, and all he said—for he seemed only to repeat his favourite sayings—was in beautiful keeping with this last stage of his journey :—' It is His own sweet will;' 'Dearie, we must be as little children;' 'We must follow Christ,' and so he seemed to resign himself meekly to be borne to his grave, to smile upon us all in love as he was lowered down, and as the earth covered him from our sight, it was as if he said, 'Father! Thou hast appointed all men once to die. Thy sweet will be done! I yield to Thine appointment! My Saviour has gone before me ; as a little child I follow!' And there wo laid him and rolled the sod over him. Yet the birds continued to sing, and the sun to shine, and the hills to look down on us. But long after earth's melodies have ceased, and the mountains departed, and the sun vanished, that body shall live in glory, and that beautiful spirit be— "'A Memnon singing in the great God light.'

"O, sir, the good die first; And those whose hearts are dry as summer's dust Burn to the socket!'

"O God of infinite grace, help me—help us, weak, trembling, infirm,, ignorant, to cleave fast to Thee in all Thy ways—to be led by Thy Spirit in whatever way He teaches us; and to glorify Thee in body and soul, by life or by death. Amen."

"July.—This is my last Sabbath in Dalkeith, and this Sabbath ends another great era in my life.

"The last six months have been to me concentrated life. I have lived intensely. I have lived ages—all ending with my bidding farewell this day to a devoted and loving people ! When I glance over the last twenty years I think I have some idea of life in its most striking, wild, and out-of-the-Avay phases. I fancy I have seen it in its strangest hues, and into its depths more than most people; often too much so for my own happiness.''

Letters to-----:—

"It is often as difficult for me to think of making happiness without 'conditions' as it is for you, perhaps much more so; but we know that if we really yield ourselves to God's teaching within and without—in our hearts and in our circumstances—and know that it is His will, and not ours merely, i.e., that it must be, or ought to be, (for with Christians must and ought are one) then we shall have peace, for we shall have fellowship with the will of God. You cannot feel yourself more an infant than I do.

"... What is devotedness? It is not a giving up, but a full and complete receiving in the best possible way (i.e., in God's way) of the riches of His bounty. It is being first in sympathy with God, judging and choosing,, rejoicing with Him; and then consequently resting satisfied with all He wills us to be, to do, to receive, give up, suffer or enjoy "

To the Same:—

"Sunday Night

"Duties are the education for eternity, which is endless duty.

"Our pleasures are in exact proportion to our duties.

"All religion is summed up in one little word, Love. God asks this, we cannot give more, He cannot take less.

"I have been reading Luther's 'Haus-Postille,' and have been much amused by his hits against false monkish humility.

"It is not humility to ignore whatever good God gives us or makes of us; but to receive all from Him, thank Him for all, and use all according to His permission or command.

"So let that keep us up, and guide us."

To the Same:—

"May 29.

".... Oh for the clear eye to discern those eras in life, those turning points, and to hear the voice of love and wisdom and holiness, (by hints, unmistakable by the pure mind), saying, ' this is the way, walk in it!' Oh for the humble heart to fall into God's plan, whatever it be, be it life or death!

"..... It will soon be all over with me—at most twenty or thirty years. Let me bravely do my duty, and then, Hurrah!

"After leaving you I went to the Assembly, and then went in search of my poor invalid. Got the house with some trouble ; and then where next? To his grave. And there, with many tears and many prayers, I did get much peace. The sunlight from that holy spot comes over me. I heard him speak to me—' Be as a little child ! Follow—do not lead. Live in the Spirit !' Yes,' I said, ' yes, darling, thou wouldst say the same things now, and maybe thou art near me.' And I blessed God for his words— earnestly prayed that they might be realized; and they shall be. We shall follow his faith. If we liked to please him on earth—much more now. But we have a better Brother—our own Lord—with us. To please Him in all things is Heaven , to displease Him, Hell!"

To the Same, after preaching his "trial" sermon in the Barony:—

"Glasgow, May 18, 1851. Sunday Evening.

"Another milestone in this awful journey is over—another bend in the great stream has swept me nearer the unfathomable gulf.

"I had such a crowd—passages, stairs, up to the roof ! That is but a means, not an end. Yes! I had one of those high days which sometimes are granted to me; when I feel the grandeur of my calling and forget man, except as an immortal and accountable being; when the heart is subdued, awed, blessed! I believe souls were stirred up to seek God. I was dreadfully wearied—done up—but I cared not. I felt, 'the night cometh— work !' Is it not strange—and yet it is not—that, as usual, the moment I entered the pulpit and saw that breathless crowd, Cannstadt arose before me, and remained there all the day ! He was a vision haunting me, yet sobering me, elevating me; pointing always upward, so purifying, so solemnising and sanctifying; and I felt dear friends with me, bidding me be good and holy; and when the great song of praise arose, my heart rose with it, and I felt all that is good will live, and shall have a great, an endless, and blessed day in Heaven. On earth I know not what may be. God's will be done !

* * * * *

"As to distraction in prayer, how I know this, and have to struggle against it! but it is not good, and dare not be allowed, but must be conquered.

"To do this, (1) Have a fixed time for prayer; (2) Pray earnestly at commencement against it, (3) Divide the prayer, so as to have confession for a few minutes, then thanksgiving, &c. This gives relief to the strain on the mind. I speak as a man who looks back with horror at my carelessness in secret prayer. Backsliding begins in the closet, and ends—where!"

To the Same:—

"Dalkeith, Saturday Morning.

"I think that Baxter's seventh chapter in the 'Saints' Rest' is something far, far beyond even himself. One should get it by heart; it is such a chapter as that—so earnest, so searching, so awfully solemn and true— which humbles, and stirs up, and makes one feel intensely 'I have not yet attained,' and resolve more firmly to do this 'one thing,'—press on, and on! Why, what do we expect? To be glorified with Christ! equal with St. John and St. Paul—this or devils! To press on is to realise more blessedness and glory, more joy and perfect peace! Oh, how weak I am—a very, very babe ! But it required Omnipotence to make me a babe."

To the same:—

"Dalkeith, Sunday Evening.

"What a day of hail and snow! I was so struck at one time to-day. The heavens were dark; the hail came booming down, and rushed along the ground like foam snatched by the storm-blast from a wintry ocean; but the moment it ceased, there was such a sweet blink of sunshine, and instantly the woods were full of melody from a whole choir of blackbirds! We, too, should sing when the storm is over!—but why do we not beat the birds, and sing while it lasts? 'Are we not better than the fowls?—yet God careth for them!'

"I have preached in England and Ireland, America and the Continent, in all sorts of places on sea and land, in huts and palaces, to paupers and to nobles—I sometimes feel a curiosity to know the results! and I shall know them! It is a noble, a glorious work! I praise God for giving me such a ' talent,' and only pray that while I preach to others I may not be a castaway ! But, no! I know I shall not—praise to his omnipotent Grace!

"I have for years been a very busy man, but I never for an hour sought for work—it was always given to me. I know your active spirit is one of the features of your character, but be patient, and only by God's grace keep your mind in that most necessary state—which will discern the Lord's voice when He calls. I have great faith in what I call signs—indescribable hints, palpable hints, that ' this is the way, walk ye in it.' One cannot, before they come, tell what they shall be ; but when the ' fulness of the time' comes when the Lord has appointed us to do anything, something or other occurs that comes home instantaneously to us with the conviction, the Lord's time has come ! I have to do this !' "

To the Same:—

10½ p.m. Sunday.

"Shall I tell you all I have been doing to-day?

"I went to bed at one (a.m.), for my time had been broken up all day, and in the evening I did the honours to------. By the way, in all our judgments and criticisms of people,' we should ever see them in their true relationships to us. The world has one set of rules, the Church another. Distinguish between gifts and endowments, and the use which is made of them. See things in their spiritual rather than their earthly relationships. I do not say that one can entirely forget the latter, or that when combined with the former (I moan the gift with the grace) they do not make God's creature much more beautiful; but accustoming ourselves to these thoughts, our judgments and mode of thinking and speaking about people will every day be modified and brought by degrees into greater harmony with God's judgments. I have had sore struggles with this; but intercourse with the good, especially among the working classes, has gradually moulded my feelings into a quieter state. And how has all this been so rapidly suggested?

I cannot help smiling, yea laughing, at poor------having been the cause!

But I often feel sore if I have seemed to speak unfeelingly or unkindly, or in a worldly way of any one or for any cause, who I feel is a believer.

"I am only at one in the morning yet! I rose at half-past seven, read, &c., till half-past eight. Went to my Sabbath school at nine. Preached twice. Went in the evening with Jane to read part of my sermon to dear Elizabeth Patterson, and had worship there, after paying a visit to an old woman, who I believe was really brought, as she says herself, to the knowledge of Christ by me when she was sixty-three, and whom I admitted for the first time as a communicant!"

To the Same:—

"Tuesday Evening, June 26.

"By fellowship is meant one-mindedness, sympathy, agreement. It is not the submission of a servant to a command because it is a command. It is more, much more than this. It is the sympathy of the friend with the friend, seeing and appreciating his character and plans, and entering into them with real heart satisfaction. It is the 'amen,' the 'so let it be,' of the spirit. 'I have not called you servants, but friends.' To have this fellowship two things are needed: first, knowing our master's will, and secondly, having that mind and spirit in us which necessarily sympathises with it.

"It is delightful to stand in spirit beside Christ, and look outwards from that central point, and see things as He sees them. This is having His 'light' and 'life,' and therefore so living and seeing as He does; and while we do so, He has fellowship with us! There is something very grand I think in this high calling, to be partakers of Christ's mind and joy! It is such godlike treatment of creatures ! It shows the immense benevolence of Christ, to create us so as to lift us up to this sublime position, to make us joint heirs with Himself in all this intellectual and moral greatness and blessedness."

To the Same:—

"Have just come in to breathe a little after visiting sick. How beautifully Christ's example meets us and suits us in everything. In visiting the sick poor one endures innumerable petty sufferings from the close den, bad air, and fifty things which are sometimes almost insufferable to our senses and tastes. But when one is disposed to fly, or get disgusted, the thought comes of His washing His disciples' feet, and living among wretched men. He who was rich'—from whom all taste and the perception of the beautiful has come! He who was heir of all things. Yet, with His human nature, what must He have 'put up with' in love!

"It is difficult to separate the real from the accidental. But when I sea a poor, ugly, unlearned Christian, I sometimes think that if the heart and spirit remained as they were—yet if that face by some magic power was made beautiful, that tongue made to speak nicely, that form made elegant, the manners refined, the cottage changed to a palace, in short, if the real person was put in a better case, how altered would all seem. So in the reverse, if George IV. had a squint eye, hump back, ragged clothes, vulgar pronunciation, manner, &c, what a revolution! Yet will there not be a revolution in the good and the bad like this! Thus you see I try and idealize poor Lizzie S., and some of my poor Christian bodies, and if possible see kings and queens shining through their poor raiment.

"You never beheld a more peaceful, lovely evening. Oh! it is heavenly. The large pear-tree is bursting into blossom, the willows are rich yellow in the woods, and the birds are busy with their nests.

"'Singing of summer with full-throated ease.

Everything is so calm, so peaceful; why is not man's throbbing heart equally calm? Why do we not always sing with the birds, and shine with the sun, and laugh with the streams, and play with the breeze! It is, I suppose, because much sorrow must belong to man ere he can receive much joy. Yet when the true life is in us, there is always a sweet undersong of joy in the heart; but it is sometimes unheard amidst the strong hurricane.

"The calls I am from time to time receiving from those to whom I have done good are most delightful. I begin to think that the seed has taken better root than I had thought. Praise God for it!"

To the Same:—

"Friday Night, 12½.

"Free salvation. Justification by faith alone. John did not see this for a time. When he saw it the burthen was removed for ever! Unbelief is dishonouring to God. You glorify Him by reposing on Him, and heartily trusting Him: trusting His teaching in the Word, conscience and providence. Remember you have a living Saviour, and a loving one, always the same.

"Confess Christ, and commend the gospel by calm peace as well as by words. Aim at passing Christian judgments upon things, and beware of worldly judgments. Aim at seeing persons in their relation to Christ, and to nothing lower.

"I have had two days' visitation since you went away. You have no idea of the overwhelming interest of such clays among our brothers and sisters. What a volume of intense romance each day contains! How good, how contented it makes you; how it corrects selfishness; how deeply it makes you feel your responsibility; what treasure you lay up! Let me see ; can I convey to you, in a few lines, specimens of my cases?

"1. A husband sick, has hardly spoken for months to his wife and family... selfish, jealous; I got them reconciled; promises to have family worship."

"2. A woman in low spirits, all alone, cried bitterly; told me in agony she frequently planned suicide. Made her promise to go through a course of medicine, and always to come to me when ill.

"3. A bedridden pauper—horrid house.

"4. An infidel tailor—very intelligent. Had read Alton, Locke, &c. An hour with him. I shook him heartily by the hand—is to come to church.

"5. An idiot pauper—a half-idiot sister- a daughter-in-law of latter who is very wicked, says 'she will take her chance' for eternity, was impressed by all I said yesterday, but came here to-day tipsy, but knowing, however, what she was saying.

"6. A mother very anxious—had a long talk with her, she received good and comfort And so on, and so on. Oh, for unselfish, Christian hearts to live and die for the world! How far, far are we from Him who left the heavens and became poor and lived among such—to lift us up! Alas! alas! how unlike the world is to Him! It has no tears—no labours, no care for lost men. We are selfish and shut-up. Christians hardly know their Master's work in the world!"

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