Chapter XIV

The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John
Knox--Monuments of William Macgavin and Dr.
Dick--Reminiscences--Character and Writings of Dr. Dick--Pollok and
'the Course of Time'--Grave of Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His
Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie Morrison.'--'My Heid is like to rend,
Willie.'--'A Summer Sabbath Noon.'

East of the Cathedral, a few steps, lies the Necropolis, on the brow of a hill which overlooks the city and the surrounding regions. We pass over the "Bridge of Sighs," so named from its leading to the Cemetery, and consisting of a handsome arch, spanning the "Molendinar Burn," a brawling rivulet, whose waters, collected into a small basin, dash over an artificial cascade into the ravine below. The Necropolis covers the rocky eminence formerly crowned with dark firs, and supposed, in ancient times to have been a retreat of the Druids, who here performed their fearful rites. But how sweet and peaceful now, ornamented with fine trees and shrubbery, shady walks, and beautiful monuments, a serene retreat for the peaceful dead. In point of situation and appearance, the Necropolis is superior to "Pere la Chaise," though certainly inferior to "Greenwood" and "Mount Auburn," in our opinion the most attractive burying-places in the world. Still, each of these has a beauty of its own, well fitted to soften and subdue those feelings of grief and horror naturally excited by death and the grave. Such sweet and attractive places of burial are in harmony with the genius of the Gospel. The ancient Greeks, from their very horror of death and their ignorance of futurity, endeavored to invest the tomb with festal associations. Why, then, should not we, upon whom the light of immortality has descended, lay those we love in scenes of quiet beauty, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest?" Does not Holy Writ declare, "_Blessed_ are the dead that die in the Lord?" It is therefore meet to place their bodies only in scenes which remind us of rest, of hope, and of Heaven.

"The Dead cannot grieve,
Not a sob nor a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve.
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here."

Let affection, then, bury her dead and build her tombs amid the trees and the flowers, which preach to us of the resurrection-morn and the paradise of God.

"The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!
The second to Faith which insures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose from the skies!"

This cemetery was founded in 1831, and the first sale was to the Jews, who require a burying-place for themselves. It lies in the north-west corner of the grounds. The enclosure contains the requisite accommodations for washing the bodies before interment as required by the Jewish law, which also forbids one body to be deposited above another. The place is ornamented with excellent taste. On the left is a beautiful pillar, in imitation of Absalom's pillar in the "King's dale." On the front of this column, and immediately under its capital, is a piece of fret-work, formed of Hebrew letters, representing the words, "Who among the gods is like unto Jehovah?" On the shaft of the column are those touching stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, concluding thus:

"Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
Where shall ye flee away and be at rest;
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country--Israel but the grave."

On the lower part of the column is the following:

"Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let
thy widows trust in me."

On the other side of the gateway are engraved the following verses:

"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel
weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children,
because they were not."

"Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine
eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord,
and they shall come again from the land of the enemy."

"And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children
shall come again to their own border."

And on the opposite pillar is the following:

"How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Sion with a cloud in
his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of
Israel, and removed not his footstool in the day of his anger."

"But though he caused grief, yet will he have compassion according
to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly,
nor grieve the children of men."

On the summit of the hill, and towering above the rest, is the commanding monument of John Knox, intended to be commemorative of the Reformation. On a lofty square pedestal, stands the statue of the stern old Reformer, with the Bible in one hand, and the other stretched out, as if in the act of addressing the multitude. On one side of the pedestal is the following inscription:

To testify gratitude for inestimable services
In the cause of Religion, Education, and Civil Liberty,
To awaken admiration
Of that Integrity, Disinterestedness and Courage,
Which stood unshaken in the midst of trials,
And in the maintenance of the highest objects--
Finally,
To cherish unceasing reverence for the principles and blessings
of that Great Reformation, by the influence of which our
country, though in the midst of difficulties, has
risen to honor, prosperity, and happiness,
This Monument is erected by Voluntary Subscription,
To the Memory of
JOHN KNOX,
The chief instrument, under God, of the Reformation
in Scotland,
On the 22d day of Sept. 1825.
He died rejoicing in the faith of the Gospel, at Edinburgh, on the
24th of Nov. 1532, in the 69th year of his age.

On the other sides are the following:

"The Reformation produced a revolution in the sentiments of
mankind, the greatest as well as most beneficial that has happened
since the publication of Christianity."

"In 1547, and in the city where his friend George Wishart had
suffered, John Knox, surrounded with dangers, first preached the
doctrines of the Reformation. In 1559, on the 24th of August, the
parliament of Scotland adopted the confession of faith, presented
by the reformed ministers, and declared popery no longer to be the
religion of this kingdom.

"John Knox became then a minister of Edinburgh, where he continued
to his death, the incorruptible guardian of our best interests.

"'I can take God to witness,' he declared, 'that I never preached
in contempt of any man, and wise men will consider that a true
friend cannot flatter; especially in a case that involves the
salvation of the bodies and the souls, not of a few persons, but of
the whole realm.' When laid in the grave, the Regent said: 'There
lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened
with pistol and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and
honor.'

"Patrick Hamilton, a youth of high rank and distinguished
attainments, was the first martyr in Scotland in the cause of the
Reformation. He was condemned to the flames in St. Andrews, in
1528, and the 24th year of his age.

"From 1530 to 1540, persecution raged in every quarter, many
suffered the most cruel deaths, and many fled to England and the
continent. Among these early martyrs were Jerome Russel and
Alexander Kennedy, two young men of great piety and talent, who
suffered at Glasgow. William Wishart returned to Scotland, from
which he had been banished, and preached the Gospel in various
quarters. In 1546, this heavenly-minded man, the friend and
instructor of Knox, was committed to the flames at St. Andrews."

Let the thoughtful ponder these interesting memorials, and say whether the Reformation in Scotland was not a glorious event!

At a little distance from Knox's monument, is one to the memory of Mr. Macgavin, a banker in Glasgow, and author of "the Protestant;" and another of great elegance and beauty, to the memory of Dr. Dick, late professor of theology in the United Secession Church. "Say not that the good ever die," and "he sleeps a sacred sleep," are engraven, in Greek, upon the sides of the monument, beautiful and appropriate sentiments for the tomb of a Christian. Dr. Dick was pre-eminently a good man, and not only so but a man of the highest attainments. Well does the writer remember his dignified bearing, fine countenance, and silver hair. But a few years ago, he sat at the feet of this venerable man, as his instructor in theology, and received from his lips lessons of holy wisdom. While professor of theology, the reverend doctor was also pastor of one of the largest and most influential of the Secession churches in the city of Glasgow. He was greatly venerated, both by the people of his charge and by his theological pupils, for his dignity and purity of character, his clear, well balanced intellect, his calm and consistent piety. He wrote lucidly and elegantly on the "Inspiration of the Scriptures," a work which a distinguished English bishop so much admired that he carried it about with him in his pocket. His "Lectures on the Acts of the Apostles," though inferior to the production just named, is also a valuable work. Since his death, his "Theological Prelections" have been published, and are much esteemed for their clear statement, and defence of evangelical truth. Always lucid, always logical and satisfactory, he is never profound or original. His style glides in pellucid beauty, like a rivulet through the meadow, mirroring in its calm depths the green foliage which adorns its banks, and the blue heavens bending above it, but never cutting itself a new channel, or sweeping onward, with majestic force, like a torrent to the sea. The labors of Dr. Dick were pre-eminently useful; and a host of young men, educated under his influence, now fill posts of the highest responsibility in Scotland, and in other parts of the world. Pollok was a student of the Doctor's at the same time with the writer, but was not known to be possessed of any extraordinary genius till after the publication of "The Course of Time." He was considered a man of talent, however, and had written two or three sermons, containing passages of considerable power. But his heart was in his great poem during the whole of his student life. So intensely did he work upon it, that he had often to be assisted to bed, from sheer exhaustion. "The Course of Time" has many obvious faults, but abounds in strokes of genius and power. A great soul has poured itself into this rugged and sometimes gloomy channel, which, traversing the whole course of time, finally loses itself in the ocean of eternity. Pollok was tall, well proportioned, of a dark complexion, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed, with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he spoke with enthusiasm and energy. He was born in 1798, at North Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,--

"'Mong hills and streams
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw as he pass'd, a shepherd only here
And there, watching his little flock; or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers."

His father was an honest farmer, and his early home a scene of much domestic endearment. To the trees which overshadowed the paternal mansion he thus pays homage in his verse:

"Much of my native scenery appears,
And presses forward, to be in my song;
But must not now; for much behind awaits,
Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,
Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw;--
Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,
And old; and had been old a century
Before my day. None living could say aught
About their youth; but they were goodly trees;
And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought
Beneath their summer shade, or in the night
Of winter heard the spirits of the wind
Growling among their boughs--how they had grown
So high, in such a rough, tempestuous place:
And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast
Fell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen."

Pollok had just finished his studies, and was licensed as a preacher, by the United Secession Church, when he published his poem which thrilled all hearts in Scotland, and struck his fellow-students with perfect amazement, not unmingled, however, with delight. But he was then sick. His over-wrought frame began to yield, and he sought health in a foreign country, which he did not live to reach. He died in England in the autumn of 1827, the same year in which he had published his poem, having lived just long enough to complete it, and receive the applause of his countrymen.

Before leaving the Necropolis, we must visit a grave at one corner of the grounds, in a quiet, shady spot, as if retired somewhat from the rest. There it is, the grave of William Motherwell, one of the sweetest of the Scottish poets, the author of "Bonnie Jeanie Morrison" and "My Heid is like to rend, Willie," and many other poems of exquisite grace and pathos.

William Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and died there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care of his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal education, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly respectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called "The Harp of Renfrewshire," which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish for antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the ballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in two volumes, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." His introduction to this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all future investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually successful in recovering many of the old ballads, which were never committed to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these, though rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely beautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had labored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of both of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad rhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they naturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching style. Soon after the publication of his "Ancient Minstrelsy," Motherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The talent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the occasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial care of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. He conducted this paper with great ability.

Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In mixed society he was rather reserved, "but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul." Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.

In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also associated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and at the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of Tannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest song-writers Scotland has ever produced. "Accompanied by a literary friend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and on his return home, feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he awakened, and complained of a pain in the head, which increased so much as to render him speechless. Medical assistance was speedily obtained; but alas! it was of no avail--the blow was struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell. One universal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet and elegant writer became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of the citizens, by the most eminent and learned of the literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. William Henderson."

Though Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to have had something like a premonition of it. The following touching lines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease:

When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping,
That I'm no more?
Will there be any heart still memory keeping,
Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,
Sad music make?
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Like full hearts break,
Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing,
Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,
With purest ray,
And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay,
Will there be one still on that spot repining,
Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
On that low mound,
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,
Its loneness crowned;
Will there be then one versed in misery's story,
Pacing it round?

It may be so,--but this is selfish sorrow,
To ask such meed--
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow
From hearts that bleed,
The waitings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start;
It were in vain--for Time hath long been knelling--
Sad one, depart!

These are mournful, but somewhat hopeful strains; for one who feels that "time has long been knelling, sad one, depart!" must, if not a sceptic, have looked beyond the grave, and descried in better worlds, rest and solace for the aching heart. Here, in his "narrow dwelling," he gently sleeps, while pilgrims from afar drop tears of sympathy upon its "grassy mound."

Motherwell was a man of pure genius. His poems are distinguished for their deep tenderness and exquisite melody. They are gemmed, moreover, with beautiful conceptions, with original and striking expressions. There is nothing, in the whole range of Scottish poetry, except Burns's "Highland Mary," equal in beauty and pathos to

"JEANIE MORRISON."

I've wandered east I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget,
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane[126] e'en,
May weel be black 'gin[127] Yule,[128]
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
When first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts of bygane years,
Still fling their shadows o'er my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut,[129] saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks[130] o' lang syne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk[131] ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at school,
Twa bairns and but ae[132] heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh[133] bink,
To lier[134] ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof[135] locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent down o'er ae braid page
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O mind[136] ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule[137] weans laughin' said,
We cleeked[138] thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
(The schule then skail't[139] at noon,)
When we ran aff to speel[140] the braes,
The broomy braes o' June?

My heid runs round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back,
O' schule time and o' thee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied[141] hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin'[142] dinsome[143] toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?[144]
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood,
The throssil[145] whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we wi' Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe[146] abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat:
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very, very gladness grat.[147]

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled down your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled,--unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin[148] I hae been to thee,
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me?
O! tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine;
O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149] grit
Wi' dreamings o' lang syne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it runs,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed,
O' bygane days and me!

[Footnote 126: Holyrood day.]

[Footnote 127: Until.]

[Footnote 128: Christmas.]

[Footnote 129: Salt.]

[Footnote 130: Gleams, or flashes.]

[Footnote 131: Each other.]

[Footnote 132: One.]

[Footnote 133: Low bench.]

[Footnote 134: To teach.]

[Footnote 135: Hand.]

[Footnote 136: Remember.]

[Footnote 137: School children.]

[Footnote 138: Clasped.]

[Footnote 139: Dismissed.]

[Footnote 140: Climb.]

[Footnote 141: Honied.]

[Footnote 142: Deafening.]

[Footnote 143: Noisy.]

[Footnote 144: Murmur.]

[Footnote 145: Thrush or mavis.]

[Footnote 146: Knoll.]

[Footnote 147: Wept.]

[Footnote 148: If.]

[Footnote 149: Swells.]

Equally beautiful and still more pathetic, is "_My Heid is like to rend, Willie_." Indeed, we know of nothing so affecting as the last stanzas of this exquisite ballad. The poor heart-broken girl gives abundant evidence of her profound penitence:

O! dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame,--
But O! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a world's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin;
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin.

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,--
I canna live as I hae lived,
Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine,--
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,
Ye said was red lang syne.

A stoun[150] gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun through my heart,--
O! hand me up, and let me kiss
Thy brow, ere we twa pairt.
Anither, and anither yet!--
How fast my life's strings break!--
Farewell! farewell! through yon kirk-yard
Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock[151] in the lift,[152] Willie,
That lilts[153] far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap[154] the heart that luvit thee,
As warld has seldom seen.

But O! remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be,--
And O! think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And O! think on the cauld, cauld mools,[155]
That file[156] my yellow hair,--
That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,
Ye never sail kiss mair.

[Footnote 150: A darting pain.]

[Footnote 151: Lark.]

[Footnote 152: Sky.]

[Footnote 153: Sings.]

[Footnote 154: Cover.]

[Footnote 155: Clods.]

[Footnote 156: Soil.]

As a specimen of Motherwell's descriptive powers, the exquisite grace of his diction, and the deep-toned melody of his verse, and not only so, but of his high devotional feelings, we give the following:

A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.

The calmness of this noontide hour,
The shadow of this wood,
The fragrance of each wilding flower
Are marvelously good;
O! here crazed spirits breathe the balm,
Of nature's solitude!

It is a most delicious calm
That resteth everywhere,--
The holiness of soul-sung psalm,
Of felt, but voiceless prayer!
With hearts too full to speak their bliss,
God's creatures silent are.

They silent are; but not the less
In this most tranquil hour,
Of deep, unbroken dreaminess,
They own that Love and Power,
Which like the softest sunshine rests,
On every leaf and flower.

How silent are the song-filled nests
That crowd this drowsy tree,--
How mute is every feathered breast
That swelled with melody!
And yet bright bead-like eyes declare,
This hour is exstacy.

Heart forth! as uncaged bird through air,
And mingle in the tide
Of blessed things, that, lacking care,
How full of beauty glide,
Around thee, in their angel hues
Of joy and sinless pride.

Here on this green bank that o'er-views
The far retreating glen,
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse,
On all within thy ken;
For lovelier scene shall never break,
On thy dimmed sight again.

Slow stealing from the tangled brake,
That skirts the distant hill,
With noiseless hoof two bright fawns make
For yonder lapsing rill;
Meek children of the forest gloom,
Drink on, and fear no ill!

And buried in the yellow broom,
That crowns the neighboring height,
Couches a loutish shepherd groom,
With all his flocks in sight;
Which dot the green braes gloriously,
With spots o' living light.

It is a sight that filleth me
With meditative joy,
To mark these dumb things curiously
Crowd round the guardian boy;
As if they felt this Sabbath hour
Of bliss lacked all alloy.

I bend me towards the tiny flower,
That underneath this tree,
Opens its little breast of sweets
In meekest modesty,
And breathes the eloquence of love,
In muteness, Lord! to thee.

* * * * *

The silentness of night doth brood
O'er this bright summer noon;
And nature, in her holiest mood,
Doth all things well attune,
To joy in the religious dreams
Of green and leafy June.

Far down the glen in distance gleams,
The hamlet's tapering spire,
And glittering in meridial beams
Its vane is tongued with fire;
And hark, how sweet its silvery bell,--
And hark, the rustic choir!

The holy sounds float up the dell
To fill my ravished ear,
And now the glorious anthems swell,--
Of worshippers sincere,--
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed
Faith's penitential tear.

Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread,
On all mine eye can see;
And filled at the pure fountain-head
Of deepest piety,
My heart loves all created things,
And travels home to thee.

Around me while the sunshine flings,
A flood of mocky gold,
My chastened spirit once more sings,
As it was wont of old,
That lay of gratitude which burst
From young heart uncontrolled.

When in the midst of nature nursed,
Sweet influences fell,
On childly hearts that were athirst,
Like soft dews in the bell
Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads,
And breathed a fresher smell.

So, even now this hour hath sped,
In rapturous thought o'er me,
Feeling myself with nature wed,--
A holy mystery,--
A part of earth, a part of heaven,
A part, great God! of Thee.

Fast fade the cares of life's dull even,
They perish as the weed,
While unto me the power is given,
A moral deep to read,
In every silent throe of mind,
Eternal beauties breed.

It would be pleasant, but we have not time, to make the acquaintance of some of the Glasgow clergy, particularly of the classic Wardlaw, the vigorous Heugh,[157] the accomplished King, the energetic Robson, the intelligent Buchanan, the eloquent Willis, the strong "in knee'd" Anderson, and others of equal distinction. A fair specimen of the Scottish clergy has been given in the ministers of Edinburgh, and that must suffice for the present.

[Footnote 157: Since the above was written, the Rev. Dr. Heugh has gone to his reward in heaven. He was a man of fine talents, deep piety, and most engaging manners. We met him some years ago on the banks of Lake Leman, whither he had gone for his health, in company with Merle D'Aubigne, Joseph J. Gurney and others; on which occasion Dr. Heugh gave an interesting and graphic account of the Free Church movement, which was translated for the benefit of those who did not understand English, by Professor La Harpe. Never shall we forget that interview. There were present, French and English, German and Swiss, Scots and Americans. Some of these were Presbyterians, others Episcopalians, and others Baptists, Lutherans and Quakers; but all were "one in Christ Jesus." Joseph J. Gurney closed our interview with a prayer in the French language, the most simple, solemn, and touching we ever heard. Ah! little did we think that one of the most agreeable of that happy company was so soon to pass away from the scenes of earth. The following sketch of Dr. Heugh as a preacher, is from a funeral sermon by Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh.

"As a preacher, he was judicious, faithful, discriminating; not exclusively doctrinal or practical, or experimental, but all by turns, and often all in the same discourse. The matter of his discourses was drawn from the living oracles, and his constant aim was to explain and to apply the saving doctrines of the cross--to bring the mind and hearts of men into harmony with the mind and will of God, especially as those are revealed in the person and work of his incarnate Son. He was eminently a scriptural preacher, both in substance and in form. The commands of the Master, 'Divide rightly the word of truth,' 'Feed my sheep,' 'Feed my lambs,' seemed to be ever present to his mind, and to guide all his ministerial studies; and hence it was that his pulpit services were marked by a lucid, pointed, and affectionate inculcation of those varied truths which the circumstances of his hearers required. There was nothing trivial or extraneous in his discussions. He stated massy important thoughts, wide and comprehensive views--the result of much reflection and experience--illustrative of his subject and suited to the occasion--in simple and appropriate words; and the hearer was made to feel that he was not listening to human speculations, but that Christ was, by the preacher, unfolding his mind and will--'making manifest the savor of his knowledge.'

"His manner in the pulpit was singularly easy, graceful and pleasing. All that he said and did was natural and becoming. His fine open countenance, his animated appearance, his fluency of utterance, the pleasantly modulated tones of his voice, his graceful action, and the solemn devotional feeling which obviously pervaded all these, rivetted attention, and threw a peculiar charm over his whole discourse. There was no seeking for effect, no going out of the way for ornaments, no efforts to dazzle and to overwhelm. He was occupied with his subject, and sought to fill the minds of his hearers with it, as his own mind was filled with it. There were occasionally passages of great beauty, touchingly tender statements, stirring suddenly the deeper emotions of the heart; but the ordinary character of his eloquence was instructive and pleasing, rather than affecting or overpowering."]