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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ROBERT W. BARBOUR 
 
 LETTERS, POEMS, AND l'ENSEES.
 
 /
 
 ROBERT W. BARBOUR 
 
 LETTERS, POEMS, AND PENSEES. 
 
 COLLECTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION, 
 
 TroTpiSa eTriQjTOvat. 
 
 lirmtti) it the ilmtcrsil!; (Jrcss bij 
 
 ROBERT MACLEHOSE, WEST NILE STREET 
 
 GLASGOW. 
 
 1893.
 
 PR 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 SCARCELY anything in this book was written for publication. 
 Indeed it is less a book than an album — an album in which 
 some old fellow-students have wished to preserve for their 
 own sakes a few things which remained to them in the hand- 
 writing of their friend. The Poems included here are partly 
 taken from an early volume which Mr. Barbour published 
 when leaving College, but many of them are new. The 
 Pensdes have been extracted from sources purely informal, 
 and, like the Letters, are printed exactly as they were 
 written. 
 
 Published for those who knew him, no detailed biography 
 has been added. But that no attempt even at portraiture is 
 prefixed to these Letters has perhaps the deeper explanation 
 that no hand among us was equal to the task of tracing it. 
 The outward circumstances, indeed, of Robert Barbour's life 
 can be simply told, and in the " Memorial Chronology " they 
 will be found in outline. At the end also are preserved a few 
 delineations of feature which those who knew him less will 
 
 Ctf)A«
 
 vi preface. 
 
 be glad to have recalled. But these personal impressions — 
 for which we have almost reluctantly found room among 
 his own writings — can never record what he was to us, or 
 express the quality of his influence. The total effect, also, 
 of his career upon his country and his church is so bound 
 up with what he was, that to attempt to summarise it in 
 records of work done or schemes achieved would be wholly 
 vain. What Robert Barbour did for his generation was 
 simply what he was. His great work was unconscious. It 
 lay less in planning reforms, though he had the mind to 
 conceive them ; or in furthering philanthropies, though he 
 had the power to carry them out; or in proclaiming ideas, 
 though his gift of eloquence might have won him a world- 
 wide hearing. It lay rather in making impressions, im- 
 pressions upon individual minds and souls, impressions of 
 saintliness and other-worldliness, of unselfishness, meekness, 
 and single-eyedness, impressions as of one who habitually 
 walked with God, and lived only to serve. A genius who 
 was also a little child, a scholar with an almost elemental 
 faith, a man of position who made himself of no reputa- 
 tion, one who with a nature and disposition limited, to 
 start with, in some directions, yet by the grace of 
 Christ grew so into sympathy and beauty and fulness 
 of love and life that he made an instantaneous spiritual
 
 $refare. vii 
 
 mark upon everyone who even casually crossed his 
 path, — this mainly, and increasingly as the years went on, 
 was our friend. It is clear that no printed page can 
 ever reflect, still less perpetuate, an influence such as this. 
 One fact alone, a circumstance that has almost awed us 
 in editing these letters, we must here record — that in going 
 over the large number from which the selection is made, 
 not one has been found among them containing an ungentle 
 word or judgment of any human being : not one which 
 could not be printed as it stands without injuring the 
 feelings or the reputation of the least among the long 
 list of contemporaries to whom he refers. 
 
 In addition to the personal object held in view in making 
 this collection, a still more sacred purpose has lain not 
 far in the background. Mr. Barbour has left four children. 
 The heritage they have lost they can never know. But 
 if these pages can preserve for them a few echoes of their 
 father's voice, and convey to them even some faint sug- 
 gestions of the inner life he lived, and which he would 
 have them follow, the gathering together of these casual 
 words needs no apology. 
 
 HENRY DRUMMOND.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Memorial Chronologp. 
 
 MEMORIAL CHRONOLOGY, 
 
 Page 
 
 xi 
 
 ftcnsccs. 
 
 PENSEES, 
 
 J3ocms. 
 
 HARMONIES, ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 3 1 
 
 COMPENSA TIONS, ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 •EX' AEI, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 REMEMBERING ARNOT, - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 JEROVEAM'S WIFE, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 SWALLOW-FLIGHT, - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 THE SOURCE OF SONG, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 " 58 
 
 MORNING, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 TWILIGHTS, - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 THE LINNET, ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 63
 
 (Contents. 
 
 Page 
 
 VOCATION, 66 
 
 SPRING, 68 
 
 HAUNTED, 69 
 
 AFTER RAIN, 71 
 
 " UNTO THE HILLS;' 74 
 
 FLUX, .... 7S 
 
 HOME FROM THE CONTINENT, ■ - - - 76 
 
 EVOLUTION, 77 
 
 A HIGHLAND FUNERAL, 78 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, ------ 80 
 
 IN THE DARK, 85 
 
 LOST— A LITTLE CHILD, 87 
 
 ON THE MARCH, S9 
 
 THANKS, 92 
 
 DEO QUI DAT VICTORIA M, 93 
 
 A PREACHER, 94 
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH, 95 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE, - - - - 99 
 
 CHANGED ARE THE THINGS I SEE, - - ■ - 107 
 
 DETERMINATION, I0 g 
 
 IN THE GARDEN AT FINCASTLE, - - - - no 
 
 THINKING OF A FRIEND IN TROUBLE, - - - 1 1 1 
 SURSUM CORD A— A SPRING SONG, ■ - - -113
 
 Qlontrnts. 
 
 XI 
 
 IN AMOREM, 
 
 OX THE OPENING OF FREE ST. JOHNS CHURCH, 
 
 DUNDEE, 
 
 ALEXANDER DUFF, .... 
 
 /N MEMORIAM W. G. ELMSLIE, 
 
 IN MEMO RI AM J. F. EWING, - 
 
 PROVOST SWAN, - - - 
 
 G.A.S. TO L.S., .... 
 
 MUSIC FROM THE MARRIAGE OF R. AND E., 
 
 WITH A BRACELET OF BOG OAK FROM IRELAND, CUT 
 
 INTO ROSE, THISTLE, AND SHAMROCK, 
 
 "IMAGO CHRISTI," 
 
 THE DA V WHEN RUDOLF DIED, 
 
 AN ORPHAN, . 
 
 GOD'S NURSERY, 
 
 ON RECEIPT OF A CABLEGRAM, 
 
 WELCOME TO BABY, 
 
 SCHOOL-GIRLS, 
 
 IN THE NURSERY, - 
 
 A SONG OF SEVEN DAISIES, 
 
 A FLOWER MAIDEN, 
 
 THE LITTLE RED SQUIRREL, 
 
 Paue 
 114 
 
 US 
 119 
 124 
 
 125 
 126 
 127 
 129 
 
 132 
 '34 
 137 
 139 
 140 
 144 
 
 145 
 146 
 
 147 
 148 
 
 15° 
 152
 
 xii Contents. 
 
 fetters. 
 
 Page 
 BONSKEID, - - - 157 
 
 CULTS, ... . . . . !3 3 
 
 TRAVEL, ... 225 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS, - - • 309 
 
 biographical Jioticcs. 
 
 FROM ''THE FREE CHURCH MONTHLY;' 1891, WITH 
 
 ADDITIONS, 419 
 
 PRINCIPAL RAINY IN FREE ST. GEORGE'S, EDINBURGH, 431 
 
 AN IMPRESSION, 436 
 
 FROM A LETTER, ■ - 443 
 
 A MEMORY, - 445 
 
 SPOKEN IN THE CHAPEL IN THE GLEN THE SUNDA Y 
 
 AFTER THE FUNERAL (JUNE 7///, 1891), - - 449 
 
 EXTRACT FROM LETTER, -S\ TO S., - 460
 
 MEMORIAL CHRONOLOGY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Robert William Barbour was born November 29, 1S54. a.d. *t. 
 
 1854. 
 He was the first child of the family after his parents lost 
 
 their two boys, Frederick and George, in a railway accident 
 
 near Manchester, as narrated in Mrs. Barbour's book, The 
 
 Way Home. His sister Margaret, now Mrs. Simpson, was in 
 
 the accident, but made a marvellous escape. His brother 
 
 Hugh, now Dr. Freeland Barbour, and his sister Jane, now 
 
 Mrs. Whyte, were younger than he. His father survived 
 
 till 1887, and his mother outlived her son a few months. 
 
 There were many uncles, aunts, and other relatives living 
 
 in different parts of England and Scotland, whom he visited 
 
 from time to time. But Springland, Perth, the abode of 
 
 his grandmother, Mrs. Stewart Sandeman, whose life was 
 
 written by his mother, always was the chief resort till her 
 
 death in 1883.
 
 xiv ^tentorial (Ehrtmotogj). 
 
 a.d. mt. His father and mother influenced him strongly from first 
 to last — the father by his dignity, method and exactness, 
 the mother by her enthusiasm and literary tastes. The 
 atmosphere in which he grew up was intensely religious. 
 
 During his boyhood and youth he had two homes — 
 Bonskeid in summer and Edinburgh in winter. To both 
 he was singularly attached — the one becoming the centre 
 of his personal feelings, the other of his public and patriotic 
 sentiments, which were exceptionally strong. 
 
 His education was carried on by tutors. For a short 
 time he attended Edinburgh Collegiate School, in Charlotte 
 Square. 
 
 As a boy he was shy, difficult and introspective — the 
 very reverse of what he became in later life. For years 
 he poured himself out in private diaries, written in prose 
 and verse, and there are whole volumes of these boyish 
 productions. 
 
 1869. 15. The principal event of his boyhood was the winter spent 
 by the family in the South of France — at Cannes, Nice, 
 Mentone and Pau — in 1869-70. Here he began to be drawn 
 out of himself. In the hotels where the party stayed he 
 formed acquaintance with people of different nationalities. 
 The beauty of the Mediterranean and the Riviera made 
 the deepest impression on him, and he drank in the novel
 
 Jftcmorial Chronology. xv 
 
 aspects of life at every pore. Always afterwards this period A - D - *-t- 
 hung in his memory as a dream of romance, and he re- 
 visited its scenes in subsequent years with enthusiasm. 
 Here he learned French and Italian. Mrs. Fowler and her 
 daughter Charlotte, who ten years afterwards became his 
 wife, were living that winter in the same hotel at Cannes. 
 
 II. 
 
 After returning from France Robert, along with his brother 1870. 16. 
 Hugh, began his course as a student by entering the 
 University of Edinburgh in November, 1870, where he 
 continued for five years. This proved for him a period of 
 immense labour, excitement and happiness. He distin- 
 guished himself in all the classes, except the mathematical, 
 for which he had no aptitude, and he won some eight or 
 ten medals. Not only had he the power of steady, con- 
 tinuous work, but he could, at a crisis, put on a spurt 
 which carried everything before it. He finished his course 
 by graduating with first-class honours both in Classics and 
 Philosophy — at that time a very rare performance in 
 Edinburgh — and gaining the Rhind Fellowship in Mental 1875. 21. 
 Philosophy.
 
 Jftemorml Chronobgg. 
 
 a.d. *t. He would have followed a common enough course if at 
 ' this stage he had passed to an English University ; but he 
 preferred, with great deliberateness, to commence at once 
 the study of Theology with a view to the ministry of the 
 Free Church, and for this purpose entered the New Col- 
 lege, Edinburgh, in November, 1875. Here the course lasted 
 other four years, and at the exit examination in 1879 he took 
 the highest place, gaining the first Cunningham Fellowship. 
 
 The brevity of the Scotch academic session, which lasts 
 only from November to April, allows students who may 
 be so disposed to take a summer session at a German 
 University ; and between his first and second sessions he 
 availed himself of this opportunity by taking the summer 
 session at the University of Tubingen. This opened to 
 him the treasures of German theological literature, though 
 his stay was too short to give him a real mastery of the 
 language. In the holidays he made excursions in the 
 Black Forest, and on the way home he took a wide circuit 
 by Vienna, Dresden and Berlin, going down the Danube 
 as far as Belgrade — that part of Europe being at the time 
 aflame with the Bulgarian atrocities, which stirred his 
 deepest emotions. He had made a brief tour in Italy 
 with Professor Simpson in 1872, and he visited the Paris 
 Exhibition in 1878.
 
 jftemottftl Chronology. 
 
 Crowded with work as his college years were, he yet a.d. kt. 
 found time for other interests. He threw himself into the 
 social life both of the University and the New College, 
 and distinguished himself as a speaker, especially in the 
 Theological Society. He had many friends, the classes to 
 which he belonged containing men of great brilliance and 
 singularly high tone, to whom he attached himself. Thus 
 he learned still more to live in others, and divested him- 
 self of the somewhat morbid tendencies of his boyhood. 
 
 During this period also he took a sympathetic part in 
 two religious movements. The one was the first visit of 
 Mr. Moody to Scotland in 1874. In the summer of that 
 year he, along with a friend and fellow-student (now the 
 Rev. Frank Gordon, of Vienna), accompanied Rev. Dr. 
 Burns, of Kirkliston, and Rev. Dr. Wilson, of the Barclay 
 Church, Edinburgh, on a visit to America, and in many 
 cities of the United States and Canada helped to tell of 
 the revival of religion in Britain. Copious notes of this 
 tour from his pen appeared in a periodical entitled Times 
 of Blessing. The other movement, in which he took a still 
 more active part, was a series of remarkable religious services 
 for children carried on in Edinburgh by Mr. Spiers in 1877. 
 
 Before his College course closed he published anony- 
 mously a volume of poems entitled Jeroveam's Wife. 1879. 24. 
 
 b
 
 xviii JEematial Qihronologi). 
 
 A.D. JET. HI. 
 
 1879. 24. In the Scottish Church, when a student has completed 
 his theological course, he is licensed to preach by his 
 Presbytery, and thereby becomes eligible to be called by 
 any vacant congregation to be their minister. At this 
 stage he is termed a probationer, and frequently spends a 
 year or more as assistant to an ordained minister. Of 
 course the time of waiting varies in different cases. Robert 
 left College in 1879, and was not settled in a charge of his 
 own till near the end of 1881. 
 
 In May, 1879, he attended, at Springfield — the country 
 house, near Cupar, of Provost Swan, of Kirkcaldy— a 
 meeting of a club, formed a year before by a number of 
 companions, most of whom were rather in advance of him, 
 for the purpose of prolonging the friendships of College into 
 subsequent life. For some fantastic reason this club was 
 denominated the Gaiety, and it has met every year since 
 for a week in May, the place of reunion changing from year 
 to year. He was nearly always present, both giving and 
 receiving abundantly ; and these friendships ripened as time 
 went on. The other members have been Rev. James Brown, 
 Professor Drummond, Rev. John F. Ewing, Rev. Frank 
 Gordon, Rev. D. M. Ross, Rev. Alex. Skene, Professor
 
 JEUmoml (Ehronologn. 
 
 G. A. Smith, Rev. Dr. Stalker, Provost Swan, Rev. John a.d. 
 Watson. 
 
 September 25, 1879, he was married at Corsham, Wilts, 1879. 
 to Charlotte R. Fowler, daughter of Sir Robert Fowler, 
 who was twice Lord Mayor of London. By his marriage 
 he was brought into acquaintance with a wide circle of 
 relatives, in experience and church connection different from 
 him ; but this was only another opportunity of widening 
 his own sympathy and experience, as he had by this time 
 acquired complete openness for all forms of goodness, though 
 he remained intensely devoted to the interests of his own 
 church and country. 
 
 The marriage tour was an extended one — to South Africa, 
 and it lasted about a year. In Natal he met with Bishop 
 Colenso, and became interested in the native problem. 
 They stayed long at Lovedale, where he taught for a time 
 in the Institution ; and he formed a warm attachment to 
 Dr. and Mrs. Stewart. The scenery of some of the more 
 romantic parts of the country, and the habits and customs 
 of the natives suggested to his mind numerous remarkable 
 coincidences with the Iliad, which he and Mrs. Barbour 
 were studying on the journey ; and he embodied these 
 impressions in a pamphlet entitled, Homer on the Katberg. 
 
 When they returned to Scotland in the autumn of 1880,
 
 xx ^Tentorial dhronologj). 
 
 a.d. mt. various suggestions were pressed on him as to his future 
 work. He was urgently requested, for example, to become 
 minister of a new charge at North Queensferry. But he 
 decided to seek some experience first in an assistantship ; 
 and, before the year ended, they settled in the town of 
 Brechin, where he continued for several months as assistant 
 under the genial superintendence of the Rev. John Fraser. 
 
 IV. 
 
 26. Having been called by the congregation of Cults, he 
 was ordained there October 13, 1881. 
 
 Cults is the second station out of Aberdeen on the 
 Deeside Railway. It is near enough the city to allow 
 its minister to feel the influence of the commercial and 
 academic centre and to take part in its public life ; yet it is 
 quite a country place, situated on the edge of the valley 
 of the Dee, up which the Braemar mountains are visible 
 in the distance. The congregation consists partly of villa 
 people, whose business is in Aberdeen, and partly of the 
 rural population ; and it is of considerable size, with possi- 
 bilities of extension. 
 
 He was full of enthusiasm for the work, and threw
 
 Memorial GLhronologu. 
 
 himself into it with ardour. His sermons absorbed the An - 
 greatest portion of his time and strength ; but he also 
 visited assiduously ; and he put into operation every kind 
 of appliance for the good of the people which the 
 Christian zeal of our age has been able to devise. He 
 devoted himself especially to the young, and took im- 
 mense pains with the farm servants — a class whose con- 
 dition never afterwards ceased to exercise his mind. 
 His influence was felt in many ways in Aberdeen, where 
 there soon sprang up a singular reverence and affection 
 for him. In 1882 Mr. Moody, who was evangelizing in i3s?. 
 the city, went out to Cults and held an impressive service. 
 While, however, he thus spent himself for his congregation 
 and for every class in it, perhaps his most characteristic 
 work was done for individuals. Whenever he met with 
 any case of special necessity — such as a poor person in 
 illness, or a drunkard verging towards delirium tremens, or 
 a student in need of means — his whole being was for the 
 time occupied; he would visit the house incessantly; 
 carry anything with his own hands ; and not let go till 
 his end was accomplished. If these cases could be 
 collected, the record of them would form one of the most 
 unique pages in the history of the modern ministry ; but 
 they are sacredly kept in the memory of those whom he
 
 xxii JHemoriitl (Ehnmolcgj). 
 
 XT. 
 
 benefited till the day which will bring all hidden things 
 to light. 
 
 His friends at a distance were always waiting for some 
 literary product of his thought and learning ; but for this 
 he was too busy at home. Yet, in 1882, he produced an 
 essay of an elaborate character on John Knox, which was 
 published in a series entitled The Evangelical Succession; 
 and this was perhaps his best effort in prose. He had 
 previously published a magazine article on the Theology 
 of Beck, under whom he studied at Tubingen. He 
 immensely enjoyed a visit to Bishop Lightfoot in 1882 ; 
 and interest in Luther's life took him to the Luther places 
 in Central Germany, in the summer of 1883. 
 
 Most who saw him for the first time in those years, 
 with his tall figure, pale face, bright and eager eye, 
 thought that he had not strength for anything like the 
 amount of work he was imposing on himself. But his 
 friends had faith in his muscular vigour, which had long 
 been wont to prove equal to immense efforts. At length, 
 however, it began to be manifest that the sword was too 
 keen for the scabbard. This was hastened by domestic 
 affliction, which told on his sensitive nature with shattering 
 1884. 29. effect. In the beginning of 1884 Mrs. Barbour was laid 
 down with severe and prolonged illness ; and in the
 
 JBentoral Glhronologi). xxiii 
 
 midst of this anxiety their second child, Robin, somewhat A - D - ' ,:T - 
 suddenly died. That winter it was necessary to proceed 
 to the South of France; and, after a summer and autumn 
 at home, a portion of the following winter was spent in 
 Egypt. It was feared that similar long absences might 
 still be necessary in the future. Besides, his own health 
 was suffering from the strain. With great reluctance he 
 had at length to face the idea of quitting Cults. At first 
 he thought of a change to a charge in some milder spot ; 
 and there was talk for some time of a transference to the 
 English Presbyterian Church at Bournemouth. But ulti- 
 mately it was decided to be necessary to abandon, at least 
 for a time, the active duties of the ministry ; and he re- 
 signed his charge in November, 1886, after having held 1886. 32. 
 it for five years. 
 
 V. 
 
 After the resignation he proceeded with Mrs. Barbour 
 to Corsica, where they were surprised by the news of his 
 father's death. Thence they went to Sicily and the South 
 of France. In the spring of 1889 they were again in Italy. 
 In both 18S7 and 1889 he paid brief visits to Ireland, being 
 keenly interested in the Irish question. After his father's
 
 Jftenwrial (Ehvonologi). 
 
 a.d. jet. death he resided at Bonskeid, till in November, 1S89, he 
 1889. 35. 
 
 acquired the neighbouring property of Fincastle, with a 
 good house, in which he established himself, while his 
 mother occupied Bonskeid. Of his children the eldest, 
 Freeland, was born February 15, 1882; Robin, whose 
 death has been already mentioned, November 15, 1883; 
 Maida, July 3, 18S5 ; Margaret, August 12, 1887; Gwen- 
 dolen, February 21, 1890. 
 
 Though he was now living in retirement, his interest 
 in the world and in the kingdom of God continued 
 unabated ; and opportunities of usefulness of various 
 kinds soon presented themselves without his seeking. He 
 preached frequently in the Glen of Fincastle, where his 
 family have maintained service in a private chapel for 
 a lengthened period ; and his many ministerial friends 
 throughout the country were always eager to avail them- 
 selves of his help. The reading and answering of letters, 
 which poured in on him from every side, asking for 
 pecuniary assistance for individuals and causes, occupied 
 much of his time ; for he made the distribution of a very 
 large proportion of his means for good objects a part of 
 the business of life. He was asked to enter parliament, 
 a constituency which could have been easily won being 
 offered him ; and some of his friends believed that this
 
 JHtmorial (Ehrotiologo. xxv 
 
 was the work for which he was peculiarly fitted ; but he A - D - m 
 was resolute in refusing, on the ground that, if strength 
 were given him again, it was already covenanted to the 
 ministry of the gospel. He accepted, however, the presi- 
 dency of the Scottish Branch of the Anti-Opium League, 
 and he both spoke and wrote strongly on this and the 
 kindred subject of Temperance. His father had for many 
 years acted as President for Scotland to the China Mission 
 of the English Presbyterian Church, and, at his death, 
 Robert took over this position. His door was always open 
 to provide a resort for missionaries home on furlough ; 
 and one of his projected schemes was a visit to the 
 stations of this mission in China. He did not live to 
 carry his design into effect ; but since his death it has 
 been accomplished by his brother. 
 
 In 1888 Professor Lindsay was sent out to India on a 
 special commission by the Foreign Missions Committee of 
 the Free Church, and someone had to be appointed to 
 fill his place in Glasgow College during his absence. The 
 Senatus asked Robert to undertake this duty, and he ,888. 34. 
 agreed. He brought his family to Glasgow, to the great 
 joy of his friends there, and rented a furnished house for 
 the winter. He read the Professor's lectures, at the same 
 time, however, studying the subject — Church History —
 
 xxvi Jrtcmorhtl QIhron0loQt!. 
 
 a.d. a:t. w ith care as he went on, and making the work living 
 by adding much of his own. He enjoyed it, and the 
 students spoke enthusiastically of the spiritual influence 
 which he exerted in the College. 
 
 In the summers of 1889 and 1890 there were gatherings 
 at Bonskeid of students, representing the various religious 
 and missionary societies in most of the Universities of 
 England and Scotland, and here also he was thoroughly 
 in his element, enjoying the spectacle of many fresh minds 
 in friendly collision with each other, and of men with 
 different traditions and creeds brought together to talk 
 harmoniously about the religious and social interests 
 common to all Christians. 
 
 1890. 35. Next year a juncture arose in the United Presbyterian 
 Divinity Hall in Edinburgh, through the death of one of 
 the professors, similar to that in which he had lent his 
 aid in Glasgow, and he was invited by Principal Cairns 
 and the College Committee to conduct the class during 
 the winter, 1890-91. To this he readily consented, both 
 because he liked such work and because an act of courtesy 
 to a sister church might forward the interests of union. 
 He was preparing to fulfil this engagement, and in October 
 took his family to Edinburgh, where a temporary home 
 was secured. But the work was destined never to com-
 
 irtcmorial Chronologp. xxvii 
 
 mence. In August he had caught a cold, which settled a.d. *t. 
 down on his lungs. He strove hard to get rid of it, 
 especially as the College session drew nigh. But it clung 
 to him, and the commencement of his lectures had to be 
 deferred to Christmas. Long before this date arrived, 
 however, it had become manifest that he was in the 
 grasp of dangerous disease. Week after week, amidst hope 
 and fear, in spite of everything being done that medical 
 skill and domestic love could contrive, the illness pursued 
 its inevitable course. In February he travelled to Mcntone, 
 and thence in May to Aix-les-Bains, where, on May 27, 1891. 36. 
 he passed into eternal peace. 
 
 Besides Mrs. Barbour, Dr. and Mrs. Whyte and Pro- 
 fessor Drummond were present at the close. They brought 
 home the beloved dust, and he was laid in the lonely 
 burying-ground, amidst the weeping birches, in the West 
 Wood at Bonskeid, side by side with his child Robin and 
 his father ; and there, a few months later, his mother 
 was also buried. 
 
 As this brief record has been written for the eyes of 
 those who knew him and do not require any description 
 of his character, it has been confined, as far as possible,
 
 Memorial QJhronologi). 
 
 to the bare facts of his outward life. Yet it is not easy 
 to lay down the pen without at least a word of thankful 
 recognition for what he was made by the grace of God. 
 
 As has been already indicated, his character underwent, 
 in the course of years, a decided development, and it grew 
 and clarified until the end. Perhaps the completeness of 
 this transformation was the most remarkable element in 
 his history. From being close and unsociable, he grew 
 to be the very soul of frankness, enthusiasm and unselfish- 
 ness. Though he never lost a certain grand air on 
 appropriate occasions, he learned to stoop to the weakest 
 and the least. 
 
 It will, for example, be remembered by all his friends 
 with what reverent affection he was regarded by the 
 servants in every household in which he was familiar. 
 A good deal has been said above about his intellectual 
 eminence; and as a student he had his own share of 
 ambition. But in his later life he hid the gifts of 
 learning out of sight; and many who approached him or 
 heard him preach had no idea of the resources concealed 
 beneath the simplicity of his manner and the earnestness 
 of his words. 
 
 It was the love of man entering into him which made 
 him forget himself. The philanthropic and missionary
 
 JHemorial dhronologj). xxix 
 
 instincts of the age took complete possession of him, not 
 running to seed in words, but embodying themselves in 
 acts. Misery of every kind touched him to the quick, and 
 his feelings blazed up, even to excess, in the presence of 
 selfishness and wrong. A visit from him to the house of 
 any of his friends was like the coming of sunshine ; and, 
 when they went to his, they were ashamed of the kindness 
 with which he overwhelmed them. 
 
 But there was a still more transforming passion at work. 
 On very rare occasions he mentioned to those most intimate 
 with him a day at Springland, in his boyhood, when between 
 him and Christ there took place something about which he 
 could give no very connected account, but which marked 
 a crisis and a beginning. From this seed there grew that 
 which at length overspread his entire existence. During 
 his later years all who knew him remarked his Christ- 
 likeness. Even in these years, indeed, he often displayed 
 a rollicking buoyancy of spirits ; and he had always been 
 fond of fun. Yet there was withal something tense, pure 
 and absorbed, which made a unique impression. Even 
 those thrown casually into his company felt that they had 
 met something such as they had not seen before ; and an 
 interview of a few hours with him sometimes made a mark 
 on a young soul to endure for a lifetime. It was the
 
 Jrlcmoml (Ehronologt'. 
 
 indescribable influence of holiness. Many throughout his 
 native land had come to think of Robert Barbour as one 
 apart, who, if he were spared, might intervene in our affairs 
 with a power and an effect all his own. My own strongest 
 wish was that he might sometime pour all the resources 
 of his mind into a great poem, instinct with Christian 
 feeling and conviction, which would take rank with the 
 classics of our literature. There were so many possibilities ! 
 for he had hardly begun to put forth the powers that lay 
 in him. It has pleased the Eternal Wisdom to resume all 
 into Himself, leaving the world so much emptier for us. 
 But we know that everything will unfold there and fulfil 
 its purpose under far happier conditions ; and we thank 
 Him for granting us to enjoy this gift so long. 
 
 JAMES STALKER.
 
 PENSEES.
 
 PENSEES. 
 
 Friends electrify each other ; there is a dulling down 
 when they part. 
 
 Avignon, April, 1885. 
 
 A TENDER heart with wounds is better than woodenness 
 without. 
 
 Oct. 30, 1885. 
 
 The Lord's goodness surrounds us at every moment. I 
 walk through it almost with difficulty, as through thick 
 grass and flowers. 
 
 May 22, 1879. 
 
 CHILDREN have the effect on your spirit that morning 
 air has on your body. There is no exhaustion in them ; 
 they are charged with life and health and sunshine. 
 
 Moyallon, July 23, 1889.
 
 2 flense'te. 
 
 There is something very strange to me in a child's 
 voice. It is like a sound from a better life and a better 
 land, so simple and pure. 
 
 Edinburgh, Oct. 26, 1882. 
 
 Children do more for us in our hours of joy than we 
 know ; Browning teaches, in Jochanan Hakkadosh, I think, 
 how much they may do in an hour of sorrow. 
 
 Nov. 27, 1889. 
 
 They used to say that old blood could be made young 
 by pouring young blood in. I think they meant that 
 children, either natural or spiritual, were the grand restorers. 
 
 Cults, May 30, 1884. 
 
 THE possession of a child of one's own opens up the 
 possibility of an entirely new world of experience, and 
 therefore of an entirely fresh revelation of the First Author 
 and Supreme Object of all experience. I think I have 
 told you before what my first thought was when I caught 
 sight of a little living, moving, grumbling thing, mouthing 
 its fingers and rubbing its fists in its eyes, on the floor 
 before the fire. It was as if the Father in heaven had 
 fairly (if it is not irreverent to say so) shaken hands- 
 offered me His hand — and said, Thou art forgiven. 
 
 Mentone, Saturday, December 13, 1S84.
 
 Veneres. 3 
 
 I THINK I would get cured of the disease of unsatisfied 
 desire if I saw a few souls won to Christ through me. 
 
 Cults, May 30, 1884. 
 
 ONE yearns to unite the deepest revelry of soul in spiritual 
 tilings, with the clearest mind to report upon them to others 
 — and especially to men in need. 
 
 Cults, May 30, 1884. 
 
 I AM trying to watch and pray hour by hour, but it 
 is no easier to learn to do that than it was 1800 years 
 ago. The second hour is as difficult as the first ; and I 
 have learned to fear that the third may be the hardest of 
 all ; and one just wakens to find the Master is on foot 
 once more, and needs watching with no longer. 
 
 Cults, May 14, 1884. 
 
 The artist is known by his omissions as much as by 
 what he includes. 
 
 Ajaccio, Jan. 22, 1887. 
 
 " WE shall meet where death shall not dissever." I 
 have just read these words at the head of one of Knox's
 
 4 Veneres. 
 
 letters. He has a way of writing something of that sort 
 at the top of the page — a prayer or a promise- — and, like 
 everything he does, it is as full of beauty as meaning. 
 His life is only another revelation of how rich their lives 
 are made who are truly God's people— how thought-full 
 and sympathetic and suggestive. One learns on every 
 page how real goodness deepens a man's humanity every 
 way. 
 
 April 1 8, 1882. 
 
 The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is like 
 
 the dust from flowers in bloom. It insinuates and 
 
 instils. The meek man is not without opinions, or a 
 
 stranger to enterprise. He does not live in an untroubled 
 
 sphere, but he has no desire to see his opinion imposed 
 
 on any. Children find out the meek, for meekness is the 
 
 childhood of the soul. Haughty men are never young, 
 
 the meek never grow old. Most of us have known some. 
 
 The young are warmed by them, the middle-aged soothed, 
 
 and the old supported. 
 
 Meek hearts live for ever. They are the stock of an 
 
 immortal tree. They inherit lives that live after them, 
 
 they are spiritual children. David says, " God is meek " : 
 
 Christ says, " I am meek." The Holy Spirit's emblem is 
 
 I
 
 $cnsecs. 5 
 
 a dove. The dove comes when you do not stir it. Ask 
 gently in silent prayer. He came thus to Christ and will to 
 you when kneeling and broken down. Thou, who art Thyself 
 meek and lowly, take pity and create in us Thy meekness. 
 
 Pitlochrii', Aug. 1889. 
 
 IT is pleasant in beginnings (household, no less than those 
 of a higher kind) that you can for a time at least refuse 
 everything that is not beautiful or that has not a beautiful 
 association. Nothing enriches a life like rich surroundings ; 
 and we have scarcely a book, picture, or piece of furniture 
 which does not call up the affection, or at least the idea, 
 of a friend. Everything we have is either a memory or a 
 memento of someone dear to us ; so that, when the friends 
 themselves have visited us, certain parts of the house stand 
 out for a little afterwards like the traces of phosphorescence 
 in the dark. 
 
 Cults, Nov. 29, 1881. 
 
 Grace or favour (in the Old Testament) means the 
 immense honour (and sometimes even outward beauty) 
 which God's goodness confers on a man. It refers to the 
 unspeakable ennoblement of the whole of human nature
 
 6 fusees. 
 
 by its contact with God. So it may come to mean (as 
 in Psa. xc.) the sort of " beauty " or " glory " (in the New 
 Testament) which passes upon Christians from the presence 
 of their Master, clothing them with radiance, winningness 
 and power. 
 
 May 26, 1879. 
 
 Now the sun is strong, and I get my strength for arm 
 and limb from him ; but for its strength my heart travels 
 to God and to home ; for he who is near Christ is near 
 the hearthfire. 
 
 Dec. s, 1883. 
 
 The rarest Christian graces — you can almost see them 
 springing up day by day ; as you fancy you hear the 
 grass grow in hot climates after rain, marked with the 
 high healthy colour and the dew of youth. Tears are 
 too large for the little eyes. There (in that little believer) 
 is one of the fruits of the Spirit, one of the first, finest, 
 and most inimitable of them all — care for another soul ; 
 and all of a night's growth. 
 
 The work begins to exert an indescribable fascination 
 over the worker ; infinite openings suggest themselves as
 
 the conversation goes on ; he is guided to the right word 
 by a sure instinct ; there springs up in him unconsciously 
 that deft and delicate touch which in other things we call 
 "tact"; he learns to give the little ones less pain, to be 
 faithful and to be gentle ; he finds not two things, but 
 only different ways of one. Meantime his own faith has 
 helps unheard of; the realities of Eternity take living 
 shape and form ; he gains confirmation of his own experi- 
 ence in that which is passing under his eyes ; he sees the 
 thing going on "outside of himself," independently of any- 
 thing he may say or do ; it is there, a great power, a 
 supernatural influence. Another is there, who worketh like 
 the wind, which bloweth where it listeth. He feels as 
 those three disciples must have felt whom Christ took in 
 with Him alone into the sick-room and the chamber of 
 death, not to say anything or do anything or even lend 
 a helping hand, but simply to keep as still as possible 
 and not interrupt Him at His wonder-working, as it went 
 on in their very presence. 
 
 One thing is evident in Mr. . He has a perfect 
 
 passion for children : the world for him is made up of 
 little ones. On the street he sees nothing else. Indeed,
 
 8 Jjtitsc'fs. 
 
 had he been in heaven, we firmly believe he would tell 
 
 us he had not noticed any old people there. . . Such 
 
 singing it is — just talking in song. The little lines might 
 
 be unharnessed out of their rhymes and stand as texts 
 
 or bits of an address by themselves. 
 
 Feb. 1878. 
 
 We are having bright warm days again after last week's 
 rain, four inches of which fell in a day or two. . . About 
 the hymns — it would be well, I think, to introduce as many 
 as possible which the boys actually sung, or, if not, at 
 least about the things they are interested in. Do not let 
 it be all " goody-goody," a great mistake in children's ser- 
 vices, and let there be as little about "death" and "grief" 
 and "pain" and "mist on the mountains" as you can 
 — the former of which frightens children — except those 
 who are being made ready for it, who need no " ministries 
 of song." The " grief and pain " and " earthly-friends-may- 
 leave-and-fail-us " business, though true enough, never touched 
 me one bit — though, perhaps, the children of the poor know 
 more about it. The children in the Emigrant Home in 
 Lauriston, I remember, always chose " hard trials and 
 tribulations," or something of that sort, when they had
 
 ■tJcnsrc?. 9 
 
 their choice. So there should be something put in for 
 
 juvenile martyrs, perhaps, only not much. 
 
 Then there ought to be some things with really good 
 
 music. Luther always would have that. It is a faculty — 
 
 a child's fine ear — that we evangelicals cannot too early 
 
 capture for God. Then there are a number of fine 
 
 things in our new hymn-book, which should not be lost 
 
 sight of. Last, there are the "Jubilees" and "Spiers'" 
 
 Collection. 
 
 Mentone, Feb. 6, 1885. 
 
 ONLY hearts that do not live in themselves know what 
 
 life is. Nur llerzcn die aiisser sich leben haben 
 
 Erlebnisse. 
 
 North Berwick, July 16, 1890. 
 
 It is good for us to know that some whose studies 
 lead them into strange places, and into utterances about 
 parts of God's revelation so unlike what we have been 
 accustomed to and may think ourselves still bound by 
 reason as well as tradition to believe, are at heart rooted 
 and grounded in the very faith and love from which 
 we draw our lives. Every day I live I hear, louder
 
 io ^Jensere. 
 
 and more loud, that saying of our Lord : " JUDGE NOT 
 THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED." What a word that is for 
 disciples. 
 
 \orth Berwick, July 7, 1890. 
 
 How different was in his colleague days. I remem- 
 ber him massive, and powerful, and conscience-striking as 
 now, holding your intellect, winning your reverence. But 
 what a difference ! Then he was like a half-trained lion 
 going along in harness with another lion — older, and 
 mightier, and thoroughly trained — giving a lurch, shaking 
 his shoulders, and " raxing out " the reins and other harness 
 occasionally, as if there was something more in him, but 
 then relapsing again into the becoming, eighteen -forty- 
 three regulation stride, to keep step with the old lion ; 
 but never, almost never at least, fairly breaking out and 
 loose, and going all fours into the air, harness and chariot 
 along with him, in the way that some Biblical animals, 
 Ezekiel's and John's, e.g., are morally bound to do. 
 
 Biarritz, Nov. 15, 1884. 
 
 His lectures on poetry are the best part of that [the 
 Rhetoric course] — just because he never wrote a verse:
 
 13 f usees. ii 
 
 he is a dumb poet, and can keep time, as many of the 
 dumb creation will do, when there is music going on. 
 
 The Katberg, March 8, 1880. 
 
 I CAN conceive of no more perfect or quaint object on a 
 study table than the little brown bookie [a reproduction 
 of an old Latin copy of A Kempis] which delights one 
 every time he lifts his eye. I am sorry I have got so 
 little hitherto from it inwardly, chiefly, I suppose, because 
 the quiet from which it came and to which it points has 
 been so little sought or gained in my life. It always 
 seems to mc that the A Kempis-Keble order of living 
 leans too much to the mere self-denying side of Christianity, 
 making it indifferent what sphere you fill or whereunto 
 you attain ; whereas our Lord says indeed, " Lose your 
 life," but " Lose it only to gain it " ; not " Lose it here 
 and gain it hereafter," but " Lose it here and gain it 
 here " : Get from me that life for which I seized you — 
 that self which can do all things through Him that givcth 
 it power. However, that is of opinion. 
 
 Yet even the title of the little book contains for me, 
 and I suppose for all of us, a truth excelling all attain- 
 ment. "To copy Christ," that seems to be Christianity
 
 12 JJenstes. 
 
 as none has hitherto been Christian. If we could sing 
 the " irpoioptifju/v Tot' Kvpiov evdnrmv fxov Siavavros, perhaps 
 we should come nearer the close of the canticle: "on eK 
 Segiiev pov earrtv Iva ph aaXevdw." That unwavering, that 
 equal walk we ask for ourselves and you. 
 
 Cults, Nov. 29, 1881. 
 
 I may err, but I do not know if you are aware what a 
 breath of the Mediterranean is. It has blown through 
 my life these twelve years now, and I feel it as fresh 
 while I write as the first morning I threw open my 
 window at Cannes in December, 1869. It IS J ust twelve 
 years, to a day or two, since we went there. It is just 
 the season to go, and you can run right through without 
 a break. Why, your own Newman could tell you about 
 it ; he got his hymn in the harbour at Marseilles. Write 
 and ask your father confessor, if you distrust a lay brother 
 whether it is right to go. The chance may not return, 
 and trust me there are more inspirations to be had there 
 for home work than you might judge from returned 
 ministers' lectures on hotel life, antiquarian jokes, and 
 general drivel. 
 
 Edinburgh, Nov. 27, 1882.
 
 I HAVE seldom felt before how possible it is to get pure 
 health and pleasure just in a moment by complete isola- 
 tion. We were living at the end of the world. Nothing 
 went by ; scarcely anything even reached us ; no letters, 
 papers, visitors. It was like being on board ship without 
 being on the sea. Your letter came very fitly at the end of 
 it. I had time to take it in as an extra sip of honey, 
 with the heather, and the sunset, and the hills. 
 
 It takes leisure to make cream gather on one's life, 
 and when you are in a constant commotion it requires a 
 very deep-seated joy indeed to bring up riches to the 
 surface every day. But two experiences do suffice, I 
 find, to bring it — the love of God and the love of wedded 
 souls. . . . To the heart which loves God and loves 
 another, a daily freshness and growing youth is ever given. 
 
 Rrechin, July 27, 1881. 
 
 Above all things, use post-cards — ten of them to every 
 one letter you write. If I could have given you this 
 advice on the back of one, believe me you would have 
 had it. You don't know how much more people respect 
 you when you give them post-cards ! Now do it. 
 
 Brechin, Feb. 5, 18S3.
 
 14 $metes. 
 
 I SHOULD say, read M'Crie's " Life of Knox," or M'Crie's 
 (the younger) "Sketches of Scottish Church History," or 
 Chalmers' Life, or Guthrie's; or Green's "Short History," 
 or Stanley's "Jewish Church," or his "Life of Arnold," 
 or " Memorials of a Quiet Life," or Trevelyan's " Macaulay," 
 or Farrar's " Paul." Perhaps the last or first two would 
 be best ; only get one, get it done. Before you begin 
 each evening's reading, get your reader to question you 
 upon last day's lesson. That is worth two readings. 
 History is the very best kind of reading. It connects, 
 collects, and cools one's mind. It gives you illustrations, 
 examples that light up your own life and the life of the 
 present day. Religious history is perhaps the best for 
 us ; but there is no good history of Scotch or English 
 religion. If you take secular, Froude's, which is 
 re-appearing just now, might be good. Have you read 
 Livingstone's ? If not, you might get that for Sabbath. 
 It is the most Christ-like life I have ever heard of, except 
 Paul's. 
 
 Brechin, June 22, iS3i. 
 
 I HAVE been much in spirit to-day at Newman's burial. 
 How little his later associates seem to have found in him ! 
 I can hardly credit the reports of their sermons, they are
 
 Veneres. 15 
 
 so utterly inane. It confirms the opinion I have always 
 held, that his creative period lay almost wholly within the 
 years before he joined the Church of Rome. 
 
 Hutton's eulogium was not unworthy of the writer. 
 But how false any unqualified admiration sounds from 
 the lips of a Christian man. Saint-worship is a far sadder 
 thing than hero-worship, inasmuch as the saint-worshipper's 
 ideal is so much higher than the hero-worshipper's. " Call 
 no man your father upon earth," has been going in my 
 ears these last days. " Call no man your Master or your 
 Lord." The Speaker knew how very hard it was not to 
 do that ; so He said it over to us these three times. 
 He said something harder and more wonderful still — to 
 sense harder, more wonderful to faith. " It is expedient 
 for you that I, even I, go away." 
 
 Yes, dear Absenter of Thyself, it is true ! For what 
 follows ? 
 
 Ah, pere Newman, if we could only learn of the Third 
 Person in the Blessed Trinity, each by ourselves, and all 
 together in the Church Catholic, to worship the Holy 
 Ghost; even as we learned of Him, by thee, to worship 
 the unbegotten Son ! 
 
 I am not a theologian, nor the son of a theologian, 
 but I am beginning to be able to adore the Spirit
 
 16 JJme/es. 
 
 equally with the Father and with the Son. It is a won- 
 derful and a blessed thing to do that. We must not 
 speak much of it ; but we must try to do it, and do it 
 more. 
 
 Royal Hotel, Edinburgh, Aug. 19, 1890. 
 
 After sending away my letter at 4, I sat reading 
 "Luther" (Kostlin's Leben) — the part about the Witten- 
 berg troubles and his return in 1522. More and more 
 the one source and secret of his power, many-sided as it 
 was, comes before me — his knowledge of and trust in 
 God's Word. And for him God's Word always meant the 
 Good News ; it was the personal message of pardon which 
 it had brought to him that made him prize the Bible so 
 deeply. It was the discredit, too, which the "prophets" 
 tended to bring on God's truth which first stirred his soul 
 against them. If we could only get and cherish this 
 living interest in Scripture, as the record of redemption, 
 how it would stimulate us to activity and soothe us in 
 trouble. 
 
 Bonskeid, Aug. 30, 1883. 
 
 It is for God's children John wrote that golden line, 
 " The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from
 
 jjcnsc'es. 17 
 
 all sin." To confess that is to be forgiven. To walk 
 in the light, and to bring everything before Him into 
 the light, that is to have the only perfect communion with 
 each other ; that is to be cleansed from all sin. May we 
 get the secret of forgiveness, and know to give it to others. 
 
 Edinburgh, Oct. 27, 18S3. 
 
 ABUSES are like weeds : they need only toleration to 
 spread and grow. Reforms are tender plants : they 
 flourish only on stubborn effort, on broken clods of 
 patient toil, on showers of secret tears, on the irresistible 
 sunlight of the Almighty's smile. 
 
 May 161I1. 1890. 
 
 I SUPPOSE that, or something like it, was the faith, or 
 rather mental substitute for faith, he (Byron) went on 
 living on, or trying to live — what is commonly called 
 Pantheism, but which I think is a mere negative — 
 all that is left when one casts away, or loses, or rather 
 has never possessed, the excellency of the knowledge of 
 a personal God in Christ. I have seen many who have 
 lost all hope because they have lost that faith. That 
 seems to be the reason why so many have no light on 
 
 B
 
 1 8 Census. 
 
 what lies beyond this life ; which only comes with the sure 
 grasp — sure and certain, though shaking — of the Father's 
 hand here and now. And it is the craving of the heart 
 after immortality, at least after a hope for others in the 
 hereafter, if not at first for themselves, which has led 
 many back to the belief in a personal God. 
 
 But how one ought to be living, if all he believes — 
 or any of it — is true! Even with a little separate gold 
 strand of one's own in the great rope which goes for us 
 through the veil, how little and how seldom the heart is 
 sensibly tugged thither, how little and how seldom it 
 hears the tiniest cracking of a thread or root (for they 
 are roots too, and they grow if they are not cut, and 
 even when they are) which holds him to earth, and sense, 
 and time. 
 
 Biarritz, Nov. 15, 1882. 
 
 What is the Bible, but a collection of letters from our 
 great Friend. You know what a friend's letter is. With 
 what eagerness you open it ; with what care you scan 
 every line of it. How it delights you to find himself in 
 his letter, to point to this and this, and say "so like him." 
 How you read it, and re-read it, and keep it in the safest, 
 most sacred place.
 
 |tatgee0. 19 
 
 If you have any plan already, any rule or course of read- 
 ing, keep to it. But in any case, have a Bible of your own, 
 and have otte Bible; bring the one you use in your room 
 to church and meeting. Do not leave your Bible behind 
 either at church or at home, if you can help it. I have 
 seldom seen an outstanding Christian man who did not 
 prefer his own Bible to any other. 
 
 Do you ask, How much ought one to read at a time ? A 
 chapter is the ordinary, and it is a safe, advice. But I 
 should rather say, Read on until you reach a verse where, 
 if it be night-time, you can lay your head right down as 
 on a pillow ; or where, if it be morning, you can plant 
 your foot as upon a rock ; and stop there. Wait till you 
 come to a word which will bear the day's burden — its sin, 
 sorrow, struggle, duty, joy, and there let your whole weight 
 lean. 
 
 If Bible-reading be like getting your friend's letter, then 
 prayer is like a visit from your friend. If I know my 
 friend and I are soon to meet, how glad I am to think of 
 the moments we shall spend together. How I try to make
 
 20 fjmsc'cs. 
 
 the most of them. I go over in my mind all that has 
 happened since we last met. I note what I have to tell 
 him ; I put down the questions I wish to ask him. There 
 are books I have been reading or am going to read ; people 
 I have been seeing or am hoping to see ; things I have 
 been doing or am trying to do. Now, is there any pre- 
 paration of that kind before we pray ? Might we not at 
 least think an instant or two before we kneel, and go over 
 what we have to say. Aug. 8, 1882. 
 
 S/NG to Christ when you sing. Think of Him, and He 
 will be in the psalm. That is the way to forget others ; 
 speak out every word to Him. How it helps the minister 
 to preach when everybody tries to sing. Again, Pray to 
 Christ when you pray. Let me ask how you accompany 
 the minister when he prays. If you can, you ought to 
 follow every word in thought, under your breath. It is 
 not difficult if you try; it becomes a habit like everything 
 else. If you cannot do that, then let your whole heart go 
 with the sense of what the minister says. If not, at least 
 add an Amen in your heart when the prayer comes near 
 you. When absent friends are prayed for, look up in fancy 
 at the face of your absent friend, or breathe his name.
 
 $ensccs. 21 
 
 How differently a minister prays when he feels that the 
 whole heart of the congregation is going forth with him as 
 one man. Prize especially the moments of silent prayer 
 after the benediction ; prolong them ; do not restrain 
 prayer ; put the sermon into a petition. At no time 
 should the heart be better prepared than just then. 
 
 August 8, 1882. 
 
 If you are not sure about anything, shun it. There is no 
 true cleaving without shrinking. Every Christian has a 
 shrinking side to his life ; there are some things he utterly 
 loathes, is heartily and wholesomely afraid of, cannot think 
 of without a shudder. There is no fear but that this will 
 come if you keep near Christ. August 8, 1882. 
 
 A DRIVE up the dear old roads — dearer they get every 
 time I go along them— they seem more real, more the real; 
 it is I who am the shadow, who change. 
 
 Bonskeid, Feb. 22, 1889. 
 
 How good it is to hail pilgrims on the great journey even 
 for an hour by the way: the sound of their 'tramp, tramp' 
 quickens one's own tread and makes one take in his knap- 
 sack-strap one hole further. Park Circus, July 18, 1889.
 
 22 Veneres. 
 
 I THINK less and less of the outward marks and turnings 
 in life : we can hardly read the record at all until the ink 
 is very pale. Perhaps even then it would be better if we 
 left that — the reading of it — to the Editor, and only opened 
 hopefully and wrote resolutely upon the next page. 
 
 Edinburgh, Aug. 23, 1890. 
 
 The riots in England were reported. They will make the 
 cause of progress much harder; but those who go in for 
 being bearers of burdens must lay their account with un- 
 looked-for additions to the load. If only these commotions 
 might be the means of startling Christian men into life and 
 activity, as they did the Haldanes and others a century 
 ago. There is but one reform worth working for. Would 
 we might see more of it accomplished, and encourage each 
 other to look for its sure coming. 
 
 Egypt, Feb. 14, 1886. 
 
 The sight of him [Dr. Stewart of Lovedale] always touches 
 me — and never more than this time. He is so true, and 
 so noble, and so lonely, as all the truest and noblest souls 
 it seems, must ever be. 
 
 Glasgow, 1808.
 
 There seems something to be learned here [Lovedale] that 
 
 one did not and could not know elsewhere ; something of 
 
 the wants of men, and of the work of our Lord, and of 
 
 the noble sacrifice and devotion of His servants. Yet it is 
 
 the same things we see here as at home; everything goes 
 
 to tell us that it is one service the wide world over, and 
 
 that it matters very little in which part of it one is engaged. 
 
 1880. 
 
 If we be in Christ, then we are in a new world, and all 
 things must be becoming new to us. Now tell me, was 
 there more light on God's world when you woke up this 
 morning than there was a year ago ? Or were the daily 
 duties easier and delightfuller to-day than they were last 
 week ? Then you are in Christ. 
 
 For to those in Christ all things are not only new, but they 
 are growing continually newer. In the old world, and with 
 the old man, it is just the other way. Things are always 
 getting older, until life gets to be an unsufferable burden, a 
 dreary round, a wretched repetition, and we see backs bent 
 with nothing but pure sorrow, and heads white with none 
 other sickness than vexation of spirit, and men brought to 
 the grave because life was too wearisome, and time too in-
 
 24 $tns£t0. 
 
 tolerable, and existence too aimless and stale, to be supported 
 any longer. But in the new world, and with the new man, 
 the whole is reversed ; and the new cry ever waxes more fre- 
 quent and more loud, " Look, and look again, how the old 
 is passing, how the new is coming, how things are getting 
 new." Every day more of the old is weeded out, more of 
 the new is coming in. Life is "fresher and freer" and 
 fuller of promise. There are new discoveries of the Father's 
 love, new revelations of Christ's grace, new experiences of 
 the Spirit's comfort. Life becomes interesting, and enter- 
 taining, and significant, and splendid, and grand beyond 
 belief. What views of life Christ's world contains ; what 
 heavens of expansion overarch it ; what an earth of solid 
 stability supports it ; what hills of attainment are reared 
 upon it; what distances of outlook are discernible from it. 
 Yourself, Christ, God — what thoughts about them all, you 
 could never have conceived before ; History, Time, Eternity 
 — what feelings they stir in you, you never could have 
 felt before; Purpose, Progress, Achievement — what mighty 
 motions of the will they produce. 
 
 Murthly, June 7, 1891. 
 
 Oh for love to be as gracious to another as one is to oneself! 
 to put the same favourable interpretation upon their acts
 
 ftatg&0. 2 S 
 
 to make the same liberal allowance for opinions ; to choose 
 among many the more generous motives ; to be as gentle 
 of the living as of the dead — as kind toward the present 
 as the absent ; as jealous of to-day as one is wistful about 
 yesterday. 
 
 Wherever love has been, there joy will surely be. Do 
 the act, and the feeling will come. Love anything, anyone, 
 and joy will follow. You never loved but it brought you 
 happiness. The happiest hour in your life is the hour when 
 you loved most. 
 
 Some have the great grace given them of late years to go 
 in and out, lie down and rise up, always staff in hand, like 
 apostles on pilgrimage — always with loins girt, never with 
 more in the purse than will carry them one stage on ; never 
 with more in their wardrobe than the daily wear. Like 
 Wesley, if they are suddenly taken, they have left no engage- 
 ments unfulfilled, they have no letters to answer or matters 
 to arrange. The children they leave cannot but talk about 
 them, as if they had just been seen off on some happy excur- 
 sion. No farewells to say, no tears to be shed ; nothing 
 but to go after them in a day or two. 
 
 Cults, Jan. 27, 1884.
 
 26 $ensees. 
 
 Not so much to sudden and bold strokes does the marble 
 owe its utmost perfectness ; no, but to the silent, oft-repeated 
 passages of the chisel over the stone, little more than audible 
 in their occurrence, almost imperceptible in their separate 
 result ; it' is these that leave the statue a marvel and a desire. 
 " Let us run with patience." cults, Feb. i 9 , 1882. 
 
 THE supreme impulse of all in a man's life comes sometimes 
 with the simple resolve just at last to let something go. 
 
 Cults, Feb. 19, 1882. 
 
 Perhaps there are comforts and compensations that one who 
 has not suffered knows nothing of — like the lamps that 
 nobody sees till the tunnel comes. 
 
 Noble examples are not enough to live upon : it needs 
 the same grace which produced them to make their impress 
 
 durable. Palermo, Feb. 19, 1887. 
 
 Here again I am in the old place — not too changed, 
 thank God, but that I can still feel something of the old 
 man. One does change, I find, more than one thought he 
 could when he had only been through one or two periods
 
 $lcnslcs. 27 
 
 of life ; but not so much as to shake his confidence in that 
 centre of all certainties — the soul ; which means one's own 
 soul, for that is the only soul one knows. And yet, there 
 again I must distinguish, for the only self worth having and 
 worth keeping, or worth hoping to have more of, is the second 
 self — the new man — and that seems strangely slow in coming 
 or in growing. Do you know I think sometimes — and the 
 more I try to think of it the more it appears to me certain 
 —that the beginnings of that second life lie very far back — 
 farther than one can at times see. Perhaps the new birth 
 admits of that — nay, means it. Only along with that, one 
 holds ever more tightly to the truth of an entire change — of 
 a complete new creation ; at least I see painful cause to 
 draw the line for myself ever sharper and sharper between 
 the new and the old. Beau Sejour, Cannes, Jan. 3, 1885. 
 
 And underneath us everywhere, deeper than the dark- 
 ness of Death and the emptiness of the grave, are those 
 everlasting arms. . . The dead make no weight in His 
 arms; they do not toss, and fret, and give Him trouble 
 as we do. Their deaths are precious; for then He gets 
 them all to Himself, feels the full weight of them, and 
 they lie still in His arms. 
 
 July 7, 1879.
 
 28 $£1t0&S. 
 
 God be praised for the prospect of a life which shall 
 terminate this painful strait betwixt the earlier joys which 
 were so good and the latter joys which would be perfect 
 if one did not feel sometimes as if they were pushing the 
 earlier out of reach. Such a feud has the heart with the 
 memory. God speed the hour when Time shall have 
 struck its last misleading and defrauding chime, and we 
 shall have our best at once and for ever. 
 
 Cults, May 10, 1885. 
 
 Heaven — The land where there are no two hemispheres, 
 but only one infinite circle of united love. 
 
 Ajaccio, Jan. 22, 1S87.
 
 EARLIER POEMS.
 
 HARMONIES.* 
 
 Sounds from the organ in the under-room ! 
 
 Slowly the broad bass throbs up through the air, 
 Reft of the melody. But from some strange where 
 
 Is it heart or fancy shapes in the helpful gloom 
 Harmonious treble? making full and fair 
 
 These deep notes, else like nothing unless doom. 
 
 So, often, sauntering by the flying spume, 
 I have put in high child-music, scarce aware, 
 
 Timid with joy, to join the cataract's chords 
 With something human ; often sung low note 
 To the lofty star-tune, till the artless throat 
 
 Went hoarse with unmeant melody. So the Lord's 
 Wand beckons, we here beat out our life's bass, 
 While He builds up the treble in His own high place. 
 
 Wednesday livening. 
 
 [* Dear Frank, 
 
 Can you make anything of the enclosed ? The thing 
 seems to want the "obstetric art of utterance.'' The thought
 
 32 tyotms. 
 
 was something after this fashion. Often when very little, 
 I used (either from sense of imperfection or far away-ness in 
 nature) to try in a matter-of-fact sort of way if I could not 
 sing a literal part, in harmony with the sounds of the outer 
 world — say, bass to the shrill wind, or treble to the deep 
 river. Which thing I even yet, metaphorically of course, 
 do attempt. Now, to-night, hearing in my little room two 
 storeys up, the organ droning in the dining-room, but only 
 the bass (the treble being lost through distance and from 
 being of a finer sort), and finding myself able, either from 
 imagination, or memory, or deeper feeling in the deep dark- 
 ness, to supply a richer, fuller, more significant chord from 
 the bass which was otherwise meaningless, except perhaps 
 in the weirdness of its droning ; having this experience, I 
 say, the old one (which was similar) came floating in upon 
 me in a thousand forms, and I sought to link the two in 
 a sonnet, with a further analogy from God's standing as 
 Leader of all our music, rod in hand, and giving us a (seem- 
 ingly) senseless, imperfect, nay, fearsome bass to play, the 
 finer parts of which are being worked out by Him above 
 (to be revealed some day). 
 
 I have failed ; as you will scarcely need to be told after 
 reading. Which nevertheless I request you to do several 
 times aloud to yourself (and not at one time) before you
 
 fjocms. 33 
 
 begin to think, far less speak, of it ; so that the rhythm, if 
 there be any, may have some chance of entering' you. 
 
 Robert W. Barbour. 
 
 P.S. — To save you a gratuitous stumbling-block at the 
 close of the seventh line, the last word is an Elizabethan 
 from the Italian fiinne, stream). Such are the straits of 
 rime (as the rabbit remarked as it brushed the dust from its 
 fur pelisse after a tumble on the slippery hoar-frost).]
 
 34 ftotms. 
 
 COMPENSATIONS.* 
 
 There's a leaf gone, look, and a leaf, 
 
 And another, the grey ground staining ! 
 To count the rest, O grief, 
 
 So few are found remaining. 
 But the distance breaks between, 
 
 High hill-top and deep dingle; 
 The rents in the pretty screen 
 
 Leave the far-view fair and single. 
 
 There's a friend gone, aye, and a friend, 
 
 And another ! The poor Past's richer 
 To tread upon. Ripe boughs bend, 
 
 Break — fruit fills the brim of the pitcher. 
 But a hand shakes, see, behind, 
 
 Same hand set. Our loss heightened 
 Means His love heavier. Kind 
 
 Were His heart, if His handstroke lightened?
 
 flocms. 35 
 
 There's a year gone, yes, and a year, 
 
 And another, sad count I'm keeping, 
 No gain in memory clear, 
 
 No loss in forgetfulness sleeping. 
 But the break in the days bodes this : 
 
 There's an end here beside a beginning — 
 Vanish, dark Past, O bliss 
 
 That allows a new essay with sinning ! 
 
 ii George Square, Edinburgh, 
 Tuesday Afternoon, Nov. 30, 1875. 
 
 [*Dear Frank, 
 
 In accordance with your usual habit of accusing 
 me by means of quotation-marks from my own epistles, I 
 might justify myself for seeming to break what was pro- 
 mised to-day. I heard something then about "some of 
 Newman's Sermons " ; now, on reaching home, I find — 
 well, your kindness knows what. 
 
 However I can charitably enough account for it by the 
 well-known psychological fact, that in some men, when they 
 become emotional, feeling entirely overcomes reason, and to 
 this extent they may, for the time, be reasonably regarded 
 as totally irrational. 
 
 Nothing just now can express my state of mind, simply 
 because I don't understand it — don't understand this 29th
 
 3 6 poems. 
 
 Nov., '75, and the doubt about it threatens to make the 
 past pretty dark as well. I can't see why I have been let 
 live until now ; or, indeed, what I have been doing living 
 at all these so many years. The question comes with terrible 
 irony, rl ^reire, to what purpose art thou here ? But, thank 
 God, " quod nunc nescio, olim sc/'am." You have at least 
 been happy as well as good (and what sure instinct like 
 goodness ?) in your choice of books. In seeing them there is 
 that additional pleasure which one feels when one's friends 
 are kindly treated (even more than when oneself). For 
 books are my real friends ; and, after dear human faces, only 
 less dear. Any thoughtfulness shown about them brings 
 thus a strange double sort of delight to me. 
 
 Outside of this single circumstance, you will find all I 
 have been able yet to feel about my birthday in these rude 
 verses, beaten out when I was waiting for the dawn on 
 Monday morning, watching the wind busy with its last bar- 
 barities in the trees before the house. Your interest will 
 interpret them, I hope. — Yours sincerely ever, 
 
 R. W. Barbour.]
 
 iJoems. 37 
 
 'E2' AEI* 
 
 O stars, that will rise and shine 
 
 For other eyes than mine, 
 
 When these are rapt with the radiance of light divine; 
 
 O stars, will ye tell of me true, 
 
 As I have spoken of you, 
 
 Will ye shine far brighter than stars unsung could do? 
 
 O night, who hast trusted me 
 
 Such secrets deep and free, 
 
 As told ye had spoken with others, ere I with thee ; 
 
 Wilt pass from mind as sight, 
 
 Because it is written: No night? 
 
 Will thy face lean forth from some gladsomer gleam of light? 
 
 O hills, that will catch the glow 
 
 When I'm in the Long-ago, 
 
 Will ye break yourselves open for other hearls to know?
 
 38 JJoems. 
 
 Will one in the After say, 
 
 When the sunset's too fair for the day : 
 
 He is singing this scene on the hills that are far away? 
 
 Bonskeid, Tuesday Night. 
 
 [* Dear Frank, 
 
 I leave to-morrow at 2.20. One message : If a 
 favourable answer about Reading-room comes before close 
 of week, village should be assaulted with the news. You 
 will see Sorley is Ferguson Scholar. 
 
 The lines on the reverse contain all I have ever felt or 
 thought about my life in the country. If you have time 
 or heart to study them, you will find, I think, three ideas, 
 without which I could not live here : — (a) Intense kinship 
 with those who have had communion with nature from the 
 first, especially Christ ; (b) thereby a sort of welcomeness 
 in the thought of a coming world with its possible interpre- 
 tations of things dark at present ; and yet (c) an unutterable 
 desire to hold at once both this and that, whence all the 
 trouble and trial that is in the earth — that eternal "strait 
 betwixt two " ; which is better, I know no more than Paul. 
 
 Keep the thing to yourself; if it helps, you maybe able 
 to tell me how to make any little point more musical ; if it 
 confuses — " ad leones." This is the first clean copying, and
 
 
 {) o cm 0. 39 
 
 what has seemed hitherto to move with some slight melody 
 
 in the brain, looks as if it had lost all the music upon 
 
 paper. — Yours sincerely ever, 
 
 R. W. Barbour. 
 
 P.S. — If any date should stand at the close, perhaps the 
 week after our return from the States first saw the rhymes 
 tacked on ; but, as I say, the matter is old as the marrow 
 of my rheumatic bones.]
 
 4° £locm<5. 
 
 REMEMBERING ARNOT." 
 
 I saw the sunset, as it wandered west, 
 Mingling the very mists with light, flee forth 
 And strike the tops of heaven. A cloud, lit up, 
 One moment grasped the glory, whose grand fall 
 Stole half its snowy shelter. Into gloom 
 The world went from me. I was left alone. 
 Straight in the thinning winter of that cloud 
 A star stood smiling, as it were its child, 
 And lo, a storm of stars sent laughter back ! 
 
 Christ seems to set with each departing saint ; 
 
 But in the morning He is here again, 
 
 And will be with us still ; new radiance wraps 
 
 His latest triumph, His last trophy taken, 
 
 Last captive taken home. 
 
 The skies are stricken with His chariot wheels ; 
 
 The heavens His horsemen hold. Why breaks the west 
 
 With sudden burst of glory at the death,
 
 JJocms. 4 1 
 
 Save that some new world wakes in welcome ? Why 
 Such crowding of all colours in the daylight, 
 As they are borne away, but that beyond 
 Beams something better, some eternal thing? 
 
 'Twas but a beam of brightness left the earth ; 
 Tis only earth can seem a little less. 
 Heaven shrinks not ; oh, her stars are all the more ! 
 The wider grows that world, the friendlier 
 And closer far to this. Such passages 
 Are no more severance, but attraction, 
 And bring the heavenlies almost within hail. 
 O thou, to whom the shadows were so much, 
 How dost thou bear the substance? If that earth 
 Were signful so, and set about with lights 
 That had their meaning from a source unseen, 
 See'st now Heaven's shadows hanging towards earth, 
 Since earth can cast no curtain over heaven ? 
 O'erlean these steep celestial summits, look down, — 
 See what great glooms they let upon us go, 
 What shapes are shone into us by their serene 
 And super-eminent glory, — see how the symbol 
 Prophesies, ay, and will produce the soul.
 
 42 JJoms. 
 
 Still dimmer. These are tears ! Can it be true? — 
 
 Thou weepest? Nay, the shade becomes a mist — 
 
 That city's shade — and seems to weep with me. 
 
 Tears that the far reflection is so faint, 
 
 Tears that the image trembles so; sad tears 
 
 That thou art, — nay, thou weep'st not; nor will I. 
 
 Who weeps with heaven at her gates? — weeps when the ranks 
 
 Roll out a long rejoicing? — weeps to see 
 
 The chorus of a comrade crowned? 
 
 Yet, like the friend 
 Of some great general borne from battle-field 
 Victorious — whom his king comes forth to claim 
 Guest at his court for ever — his poor friend 
 Turns in the tumult of the drums aside, 
 And seeks a corner from the crowd, and still, 
 Pride poured on bitterness and love on pride, 
 His sobbing dulls the distance of the drums, — 
 So must I weep, in outrage of the sound, 
 Sight, thrill, wherewith eye, ear, and heart abound. 
 
 He will be with us still. And it is He 
 Who is the substance ; so be life a shade. 
 What finer mystery than to fall from Him ! 
 Thus learn we the high lesson of this life
 
 JJoems. 43 
 
 Gone from us, and the secret of its going, 
 Which saith : — All things are but the shadow cast 
 By the great Master, Christ, across the world, 
 Himself the sole, the grand Reality. 
 
 June 4, 1875. 
 
 Bonskcid, 1875. 
 
 [* Dear Frank, 
 
 Being, in such matters, one of my small public, I 
 do not make myself common by sending the enclosed to 
 you. 
 
 The thing is old, written of another, with an added brine- 
 bubble dashed in to crystal round Arnot's name. 
 
 For 1 felt his death in no feeble fashion. Yet scarcely 
 his more than any other departure ; all loss catching up 
 my breath with the same sort of angina cordis — is there 
 such an expression or intermission of heart-beat — aye, and 
 heart-everything as well, till at length the faintness fades 
 off into a sicklier craving, that unspoken, inexpugnable 
 aQo.vama<; irodos. Verily, immortality exhausts its believers 
 beyond belief. Indian goddess Vrama never charmed her 
 votaries into such e/arravia (literally 'exist from one's skin';. 
 To dream of it is palpable evisceration.
 
 44 }Jccms. 
 
 However, it is no use dying before one's time ; moreover, 
 by general persuasion, we are already, as it is, immortal. 
 Nay, more, are not other men immortal as well as we are ? 
 And why shall we not eat, drink, and sleep on the back 
 of it as our brothers seem to find it profitable to do. Let 
 us eat and drink, for we live for ever. 
 
 This is considering your future very likely. For one 
 fears such leaps after the future may arise most chiefly 
 from decided defect in the little patch of eternity, which 
 alone is priceless, and price/?// to us at present. 
 
 And yet — and yet, would to God we were in the Book 
 
 of the Revelation. I suppose Arnot is there now — he 
 
 and others we have known. Hope is harder, much harder, 
 
 to me than faith ; who yet, like John, seem to live in it. 
 
 Only when the two strike and stream off into each other 
 
 do I understand either. And we call the golden drop — 
 
 Love. 
 
 R. W. B.]
 
 Uocme. 45 
 
 JEROVEAM'S WIFE. 
 
 J laid the draught upon his lips once more 
 With no leave-taking ; moved the palm-leaf twice. 
 Till he half-smiled ; then left it to the maid — 
 A little Memphian maid my lord saw, loved 
 And gave to me when we were married first — 
 With strict injunction, putting my wish for him 
 In words to her, thinking he nothing knew. 
 
 But, as I stooped to raise the tapestry, 
 A sudden pause, or paroxysm, came, 
 And in it a wild look and cry for me. 
 I dared not stop; he turned him to the wall 
 And slumbered. But, as I hurried down beneath, 
 That cry was nearer to me than my breath 
 And seemed to catch it. Would I might have stayed, 
 For it was near the noonday, and, at night, 
 Said the physician, 'twould be salvation . . . or . . . 
 I dared not say it; my boy fought hard for life. 
 
 But where the gallery strikes the outer stair, 
 I met my lord : and : " Art thou then prepared ?
 
 46 $:1oeme. 
 
 Why tarriest?" ... I made no answer; he moved on 
 Toward the sickroom, musing many things. 
 
 Then altering even these my nurse's weeds 
 For coarser clothing : such seemed natural then ; 
 Nor would I help the prophet in the least — 
 Who knows what thoughts he harbours towards our house? 
 Or hold a peg for him to hang on doom : 
 Beneath a heavy sackcloth veil I hid 
 Three cakes of mine marked with the Egyptian seal, 
 A jar of honey sucked out on the heaths 
 Of Mount Gerizim, with those clusters fine 
 That purple half the hills, whereof he sings, 
 Our Tirzah poet, in the first of spring : 
 
 Come, get up early to the vineyards ; see 
 
 If the vine flourishes ; if the vine-blossom 
 
 Shakes itself open. 
 
 At the door there came 
 Nadab, the elder, huge and swart of skin, 
 From early hunting ; on his shoulders hung 
 A leopard's hide from Cush; Javan, the hound, 
 Clamoured about his heels. I cried him Peace 
 For his sick brother; then, with the strange joy 
 Of a last deed done for a dear one, hurried on. 
 
 'Twas noonday now; and five hours lay before 
 'Twixt this and Shiloh; but my eager feet
 
 
 Jjoems. 47 
 
 Would be at Shiloh ere the sun was down, 
 To know the best and worst about my boy. 
 So from the palace by a winding path, 
 Unseen and unsalamed, I gained the vale. 
 Tirzah, the Lovely, Tirzah, lay behind, 
 Well named — the letters of its name make Love — 
 liut 1 ne'er looked, lest that same lattice, green 
 With plants well-watered, for the wind to blow 
 Over and in upon his face, should loose 
 My knees and make my hands hang. I moved the veil 
 And set the jar upon my shoulder, and so 
 balanced the quicker heart-beat with stiff arm. 
 The other held the cakes and raised a fold 
 My skirt for the rough watercourse turned way. 
 But where the valley straitens and the brook 
 Comes round the spur from Shechem, I must turn : 
 For distance made one look not dangerous : 
 And from the shadow gaze back to the sun. 
 
 O Tirzah, lovely Tirzah, on the hill 
 Written out run the letters of thy name, 
 The long strokes lying, the short standing up, 
 Whereon the windows dot their dagesh-points, 
 Like those strange characters the Hebrews use. 
 
 O Tirzah— such he ealled me by the Nile,
 
 4< s $o:me. 
 
 Sware on the calf, mixing his gods and mine ; 
 
 And such should be our dwelling when we came 
 
 Across the desert, a second Solomon, 
 
 A second daughter of Pharaoh ; whence that song 
 
 His Northern poet wrote to shame the loves 
 
 Of Judah : Fair as Tirzah, proverb turned 
 
 For all that's lovely — twenty years ago. 
 
 Oh what a dream was then ; the very thought 
 Shines like the chastened sunlight ere a storm : 
 Of his land, Israel, reconciled with mine, 
 Of priests at worship with a world at play. 
 
 Oh that new desert wandering, which was to yoke 
 Egypt to Canaan, in no exodus, 
 But common concourse of the sundered lands — 
 Egypt-to-Canaan being but half the song, 
 Canaan-to-Egypt coming as refrain. 
 
 He hindered nothing, let me name my babe 
 First-born — not like that Jewish birth of blood — 
 Nadab, that's : Willing ; freewill-offering he, 
 The altar was that kingdom which should be. 
 And in his face, tinged from the Ethiop East, 
 I spelt out all the answer of our hopes.
 
 gottm 49 
 
 So we came northwards through the sands of Zin. 
 But all the brooks were full ; the valleys bloomed 
 Oasis round about us ; Sinai's head 
 Had neither clouds nor thunder; only the peak 
 Of Pisgah, fabled for its prospect far, 
 Was wrapped in gloomy vapours as we passed. 
 
 And he would mark the places, making note 
 Of all that God had done for Israel — 
 Israel at length a kingdom, he the king — 
 Guiding their journey ; and going further back, 
 Of that same Joseph who made Egypt his, 
 Whose family, holding headship, now besought 
 Him for their head ; and I, I mingled myths 
 Of Isis and Osiris kept at On, 
 Stringing the two together for the child, 
 Until my lord was minded variously, 
 Now leaning here, now there : at length he too 
 Thought Moses Amun, Joseph Horos, and so 
 Found Egypt's memories, Canaan's hopes the same. 
 
 So came we where king Solomon's boy-babe 
 Fretted and fumed at Israel, and Israel took 
 My lord Jeroveam and made him king ; 
 And we twain dwelt at Tirzah.
 
 5° iPoms. 
 
 Our first work — 
 The city's self once built and beautified — 
 Was : How confirm the people's serious heart 
 In their revolt? How drive regrets away? 
 So were our dreams made real. For at Dan, 
 The little, northern, old, oft-peopled town, 
 Where traders come; and Bethel, the other end, 
 Of ancient memories too, and far inland, 
 A place the people going southward pass 
 Last on the way to Salem ; there we set, 
 Strange to their temples but not strange to them, 
 The gods they found it in their heart to make 
 Even in the bellowings of the Mount Divine, 
 The gods which led them from the land of Ham, 
 Two golden calves, to which the people prest — 
 Fewer frequented Zion, so 'twas said — 
 To native worship gathering natural rite, 
 Until they made a nation. Never plague 
 Fell on the celebrants. Nay, these rugged souls 
 Felt Jahveh nearer in the fruitful form, 
 The land's old deities their fathers loved, 
 Than ever at Salem in an empty fane. 
 Round these there grew a priesthood, he, my lord, 
 Mingling in all and using the twin-rite, 
 Fallen to disuse, of high priest and of king.
 
 Poems. 
 
 Only the prophet's office stood aloof, 
 And one adventurer out of Judah came — 
 So ours too cross the border carrying Woe — 
 And railed against the altar ; going home 
 A lion tare him and his lies in twain, 
 And he was buried by the outraged shrine. 
 
 At length round altar and priests a people grew, 
 Weaned from old worship, true to us and ours ; 
 For when the land was settled, came a child, 
 A little Israelite, to my lord and me, 
 And to the land which longed for such an one, 
 All fair and ruddy to look on, features sharp 
 And calling Canaan up at every turn, 
 And telling me, more than words, what David was 
 And Samuel and Solomon and the rest 
 On whom grace settled from their earliest years. 
 He seemed no babe of ours, but of the land. 
 And I, who leant to the people's persuasion more 
 And heard them call him — for they clung to him — 
 Son of their God, I let him keep the name : 
 Jahveh-my-father, such Abijah means, 
 No other parentage beseeming him. 
 
 So Nadab, who ne'er won the people's heart, 
 Grew ever more from Israel, loving sport
 
 52 $o*m0. 
 
 And easy grandeur, all that Egypt means. 
 
 And Egypt seemed to stretch out hands to him ; 
 
 For King Susdkim and his childless bride, 
 
 Young Thekemina, my sweet sister, these 
 
 Would have their sister's child to share their throne. 
 
 And all these years Abijah gained the heart 
 
 Of all the people, and the people said 
 
 In him was found some good thing of the Lord, 
 
 Their God of Israel ; therefore he should reign 
 
 After JerovSam, my lord, the king. 
 
 With such long thoughts was the hill country clomb, 
 And on the edge of evening Shiloh came, 
 All the old proverb beating in my breast, 
 Uttered in Egypt : They shall not want a king 
 While men still come to Shiloh. Was it ours, 
 Or was it Judah's? There the village lay 
 Between the kingdoms, leaning neither way ; 
 And there had Samuel judged, and there the Ark — 
 That empty effort at idolatry — 
 Had rested, handing down a holiness 
 For many days. Therefore the prophet chose 
 This spot, left lonely 'twixt two capitals, 
 To be his dwelling. For he neither clave 
 To Judah, having crowned my lord, the king,
 
 ilocms. 53 
 
 Nor yet inclined toward Jcroveam, 
 But lived a distant and a midway life 
 Between the nations. Yet my lord, the king. 
 Had him at heart in reverence, and even now 
 In trouble bade me go disguised to him, 
 And know what thing was coming on my boy. 
 
 So, thus disfigured, to the door I came, 
 Musing how best to buoy a sinking heart 
 With speeches blown out full. But on the steps, 
 So busy was I mustering my thoughts, 
 I could not guard my goings; and in the dim, 
 Half-lighted chambers of his cloistered mind 
 Some traitor echo must my feet have made, 
 Faltering between the stateliness of a queen, 
 The anxiety of a mother. For he cried, 
 His whole face flashing up the deepened gloom, 
 Struck from a world beyond the world, and said : 
 
 Come in, come in, wife of Jerdveim : 
 
 Why feignest thou thyself to be another ? 
 
 For I am sent to thee with heavy tidings. 
 Even as a messenger met by one dispatched 
 From him to whom he goes ; who turns him back 
 Answered or e'er he asks, so turned my heart, 
 Meeting the news it thought itself to bring.
 
 54 }Jocms. 
 
 There opened on me not the prophet's cell 
 
 Or that pale face pronouncing words of doom ; 
 
 But all the future, yawning horribly, 
 
 Leapt from the cleft heart of my former sin. 
 
 Then through the dizziness flitted a wild look, 
 
 The fevered look of him I left at home, 
 
 And parcht lips calling : Mother. I could have swooned ; 
 
 But those harsh words of prophecy held me up. 
 
 I bowed against them, and they bore my weight, 
 
 I flung me on them, but they would not yield; 
 
 So, steadying me by the doorpost, I heard on : 
 Go tell Jeroveam : Thus saith the Lord 
 The God of Israel : Forasmuch as I 
 Exalted thee from among all the people 
 And made thee prince over my people, Israel, 
 And rent the kingdom from the house of David 
 And gave it thee : 
 
 And yet thou hast not been as My servant David, 
 Who kept My statutes and who followed them 
 With all his heart, to do right in Mine eyes; 
 But hast done evil over all before thee : 
 For thou hast gone and made thee other gods 
 And molten images to provoke to anger 
 And hast cast Me behind thy back : 
 See, I bring evil on Jerovedm's house
 
 #oein*. 55 
 
 I heard no more ; only a muttering 
 
 Like the dull thunders of some far-off doom 
 
 Tipped with these lightnings: The Lord hath spoken it. 
 
 The universal Woe was spoken forth, 
 And I stood speechless, fearful to find out 
 How my boy's fortunes were bound up therein. 
 
 But while I waited for a bolt to strike 
 And held my quivering heart up under it, 
 There fell like gentle drops that hurt and heal 
 And heal and hurt : Thou therefore arise and go, 
 
 Get thee to thine own house, and, when thy feet 
 
 Enter into the city, the child shall die ; 
 
 And all Israel shall mourn and bury him, 
 
 And of Jeroveam he only hath such an end, 
 
 Because in him there is found some good thing 
 
 Toward the Lord, the God of Israel, 
 
 In the house of Jeroveam. 
 
 I heard the sound 
 Of rain beat on a lattice and wind that blew 
 Over and in upon his face, and he, 
 Glad with the wafting of the watered plants, 
 Turned over toward them and smiled .... and slept.
 
 5 6 J3 o ems. 
 
 He told me, sad at heart, my lord, the king, 
 How, when I reached the city's gates again, 
 There came a breath and blew in on his cheeks — 
 For it had thundered, as I dreamt, and rained, 
 And all the lattice was refreshed with rain — 
 And he had turned toward it . . . smiled . . . and slept- 
 And as I entered still he slept . . . and smiled.
 
 JSocms. 57 
 
 SWALLOW-FLIGHT. 
 
 Swallow, fly high, the hour is nigh, 
 We shall be wedded, my love and I, 
 Wing away up, and tell the sun, 
 He shall not hurry, till all is done. 
 
 Swallow, fly high, flash through the sky, 
 Meshlike and mazy your passages ply, 
 Swoop not to earth to take one strand 
 To your web from out of this weary land. 
 
 Swallow, fly high, the best ye try 
 Hope will better it by and by ; 
 Heaven's not too high for hope to covet, 
 Earth's too low when heaven's above it.
 
 58 $ofine. 
 
 THE SOURCE OF SONG. 
 
 " What does it take to sing, my Love ? 
 
 What does it take to sing?" 
 "The first fine day in spring, my Love." 
 
 " The first fine day in spring ? 
 But such a little thing, my Love?" 
 
 "Just such a little thing, 
 
 A day in spring." 
 
 " What does it take to sing, my Love? 
 
 What does it take to sing ? " 
 "An arm like yours to cling, my Love." 
 
 " An arm like mine to cling ? 
 But if it burden bring, my Love?" 
 
 "Yes, though it burden bring, 
 
 An arm to cling." 
 
 " What does it take to sing, my Love ? 
 What does it take to sing?"
 
 IJucms. 59 
 
 "The feeling of a king, my Love." 
 "The feeling of a king? 
 
 But I am not a queen, my Love ! " 
 " Oh be what you have been, — 
 My Love's a queen!"
 
 6o ftlocme. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 Lovely is the morning when it breaketh, 
 Lovely is the morning when it goes, 
 
 Lovely is the morning when it taketh 
 Colour from the opening rose. 
 
 Lovely is the morning when it lieth 
 
 Pale upon the lap of noon, 
 Lovely is the morning when it dieth, 
 
 Lovely — but loo soon.
 
 $oem6. 61 
 
 TWILIGHTS. 
 
 Just when the night is casting 
 
 Her curtain over me, 
 A sense of the everlasting 
 
 A moment comes. I see 
 Strange light in the westering sunward, 
 
 And hasten it with a hymn ; 
 When I turn my eyes again downward, 
 
 My book is dim. 
 
 Just when the soul is weary 
 
 With watching of herself, 
 And even the desk is dreary, 
 
 And dreary is the shelf, 
 A calm, clear call comes to me 
 
 From the Blessed and the Beyond — 
 Bright fire-burst, oh how gloomy, 
 
 Free fancy, oh how bond.
 
 $ocms. 
 
 Just when the darkness presses, 
 
 I do not care to own, 
 And I cling to these strange caresses 
 
 To make mc not all alone, 
 When the silver-streaks grow slender, 
 
 And the pencil's shadow long, 
 I make the moment tender 
 
 With a song.
 
 fjocme. 63 
 
 THE LINNET. 
 
 To my first sorrowing there came 
 A linnet chirping in the leaves, 
 
 That yearly laid delightful claim 
 To covert 'neath the eaves. 
 
 She sang as they can only sing 
 
 Whom common troubles draw to men, 
 
 And sympathy woke up a string 
 I never knew till then. 
 
 " Thy love is gone, and gone the flowers, 
 The flowers will come again in spring, 
 
 And when are past the wintry hours, 
 Thy love will hither wing. 
 
 " No happy trysting waits for me, 
 The cruel arrow pierced my mate, 
 
 He never will return to see 
 How leal I watch, and late.
 
 64 ;j8o«tn£f. 
 
 "There in the forest by the brook, 
 The ground is red, the feathers lie, 
 
 Ah woe is me ! the dying look, 
 The faint, expiring sigh." 
 
 I rose and let the linnet in, 
 She hopped upon my beating wrist, 
 
 She poised her on a finger thin, 
 I bent me down and kissed. 
 
 She looked up in my brimming eyes, 
 She twittered to my quivering lip, 
 
 And half she let a warble rise, 
 And half she let it slip. 
 
 And half I filled it up for her, 
 We sang together lover and bird ; 
 
 We saw not, with our eyes ablur. 
 We saw not, but we heard. 
 
 And in between the notes there stole 
 A something sweet, a something smooth, 
 
 It could not make a sick heart whole, 
 But still it seemed to soothe,
 
 JJocms. 65 
 
 And leave for pain a pleasing want, 
 A willingness to wait and see ; 
 
 And this was all the linnet's chant, 
 And this she did for me.
 
 66 jjoems. 
 
 VOCATION. 
 
 Oh who would sing another's song, 
 Such beauty round him strewn ? 
 
 I've danced to others' notes too long, 
 Now let me chant my own. 
 
 I've felt their words rise naturally, 
 When walking through the wood, 
 
 Its voice seemed half an alien cry, 
 Now be it understood. 
 
 Great spirits, thanks, who led me to 
 
 Sweet Nature at her best; 
 And yet I've felt a strain run through 
 
 Not hitherto exprest. 
 
 A something dropt from every tree 
 The deepest thing it held,
 
 Jjonns. 67 
 
 More subtle sweet than ever bee 
 By her close press compelled ; 
 
 More fresh and new than ever breeze 
 
 Wafted to life in spring — 
 Something that moved behind all these 
 
 Bird's heart-beat 'neath his wing. 
 
 Instinctively I used to long 
 
 To take it free and fair, 
 For 'tis the stuff that shapeth song, 
 
 And others got it there. 
 
 I called it mine, because it moved 
 
 Toward me from the tree ; 
 It seemed myself, because 1 loved, 
 
 And it seemed loving me.
 
 68 JDoems. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Every evening light's a little longer, 
 Summer pushes night-time further North ; 
 
 Every day the thrush's note is stronger, 
 Floods the lark a fuller music forth. 
 
 All the world's at one to banish winter, 
 All the world is wishing well to spring, 
 
 April's in, the dainty daisy-tinter, 
 
 May's alive, ere birds her beauty sing. 
 
 Every evening less for books and study. 
 
 All the school is out of doors again. 
 Strength goes up the sinew, cheeks grow ruddy, 
 
 Joy's not withered yet from sons of men.
 
 J.lonne. 69 
 
 HAUNTED. 
 
 There's a place on the path as you come along, 
 
 The wind comes with you and then stays ; 
 Just at the corner, you can't go wrong — 
 
 Here the wood, there the water, no two ways — 
 But it's there I always get my song, 
 
 Out of the wind-whiff, the strong sun-rays; 
 You'd hurry faster, I wait and feel strong, 
 
 These are the moments that make my days. 
 
 Who could have left it ? The Dryads are dead, 
 
 This is no scrap of their picnic cheer; 
 On a bit, often, strange sounds it is said 
 
 Echo, all hasten, and none rest here. 
 Or is it a fragment of thought that fled 
 
 From a singer set musing and left in the rear, 
 When a shout broke it off, to the winds since wed, 
 
 Hovering till he shall reappear.
 
 70 JJuems. 
 
 Nay, for it's new, and chimes in with the hour, 
 
 Chimes with one, and the way one feels; 
 Surely when song-seed rhymes out a flower, 
 
 Some tiny bud through its sheathlet steals, 
 For me to take up at my level ; a Power 
 
 Takes us both up and itself reveals. 
 What if two storeys in one tall tower 
 
 See the same sun — 'tis the cornice conceals !
 
 
 iloems. 7 1 
 
 AFTER RAIN. 
 
 The wind went out with dewy breath, 
 And swept the rain drops to their death 
 
 Upon the ground, 
 The grass sprang up to meet the shower, 
 The rushes waved their withered flower, 
 
 Life fell around. 
 
 The earth her hard hot lips expands 
 And stretches forth her arid hands, 
 
 To grasp the rain, 
 And every brooklet bubbles brown, 
 And all the river rushes down 
 
 Upon the plain. 
 
 The wind has pass'd, the rainbells lie, 
 Glittering fragments of the sky 
 
 Among the grasses. 
 Whole clouds are rent, and in between 
 Brings the blue heaven her painted screen, 
 
 Whence tempest passes.
 
 7 2 {i (JetttS. 
 
 Now lives the world a life renewed, 
 Nature revives her happy feud 
 
 With care and ill. 
 The stream refreshing sent from bliss 
 Has planted a bewitching kiss 
 
 On vale and hill. 
 
 And everywhere, by wood and glade 
 Some song-bird lends a willing aid 
 
 To cheer the earth. 
 He sits upon a greener bough, 
 Sees fresher things around him now, 
 
 And trills for mirth. 
 
 The dust is laid upon the path, 
 The air is sweeter in the strath 
 
 And up the glen. 
 The moss is steeped in emerald dews, 
 That heighten half her velvet hues, 
 
 And glows again. 
 
 Here plays the rabbit by his home, 
 Right glad is he the rain has come 
 Upon the field.
 
 {Jocms. 73 
 
 Dragging the long grass 'tween his paws, 
 He eats, and licks his dewy claws, 
 And then has mealed. 
 
 The wild dove plumes her tarnished breast 
 And, in her purple bodice drest, 
 
 Takes speedy wing. 
 Over the mount her course is laid, 
 Deep in the hazel's fragrant shade 
 
 Her praise to sing. 
 
 The flowers have bathed their modest form 
 And in the sunshine breathing warm, 
 
 Unfold their fronds, 
 And to the breezes cast the smell 
 Piloted on through every dell 
 
 By fairy wands. 
 
 Father, I thank thee for the rain, 
 And all its blessing to the plain, 
 
 And to the mountain. 
 May my poor thanks with those arise 
 That happy nature upward cries 
 
 To Thee the fountain.
 
 74 gteema 
 
 "UNTO THE HILLS." 
 
 Schiehallion clearing from her snows — the sight ! 
 
 You fancy how she stretched one seamless sheet 
 
 Daily the sun did into diamonds beat 
 And every evening to red rubies smite, 
 Till 'twixt the flakes at foot, grown faded quite, 
 
 The heaven's and heather's answering eyes did meet, 
 
 While the robe rose from her far-planted feet, 
 Crept to the shoulder and past, one crown of light. 
 
 So have I witnessed some immortal theme 
 Rise on the mind and have the mastery, 
 
 Perfect and in one piece without a seam, 
 Challenging all and always conqueringly, 
 
 At length shot through by a superior gleam, 
 And it and all the heaven see eye to eye.
 
 IJoems. 75 
 
 FLUX. 
 
 They change, all change, they perish evermore; 
 
 The new is fairer than the old before ; 
 
 They change, all change, and shall not man the more? 
 
 They change, all change, they perish nevermore; 
 
 This ceaseless death is glory's noiseless door ; 
 
 They change, all change, and shall not man the more? 
 
 They change, all change, He smileth as of yore; 
 
 With Him no now, no after, no before ; 
 
 He changeth not, and shall not man the more? 
 
 They change, all change, unknowing o'er and o'er; 
 
 We know their changes — naught is as of yore ; 
 
 They change, all change, and shall not man the more? 
 
 They change, all change ; Him changeless we adore, 
 And smile His smile in the face of the dark before ; 
 We change, all change, immortal all the more.
 
 76 $otms. 
 
 HOME FROM THE CONTINENT. 
 
 (AUTUMN OF 'SEVENTY-SEVEN.) 
 
 England, 'tis something to come back to thee, 
 On billows of despisal homeward borne, 
 Full to the ears of bitter foreign scorn, 
 
 And find thee sleeping on a summer sea, 
 
 Free as of old to all abuse, and free 
 To welcome thine abusers any morn 
 Tyranny turns them suppliants forlorn 
 
 To the one soil whither all exiles flee. 
 
 England ! and yet I join the charges now, 
 
 For these dumb signs are not thine ancient mood, 
 There lies upon thee our great fathers' vow, 
 
 Never to slumber at the cry of blood, 
 Bestir thee, nor to darker hands allow 
 
 The birthright and the bliss of doing good.
 
 JJoemo. 77 
 
 EVOLUTION. 
 
 Far space 'tween us and Him as 'tween us and the ape, 
 But each to the other turns, lifts hand, holds lips agape, 
 The image fills the eye, though neither gain the shape. 
 
 We ever liker grow, but never strike the level. 
 
 Each glimpse of the beckoning glance is goodbye to the devil. 
 
 We know He is our crown, but faint through weight of evil. 
 
 The life is but the form that fringes on the soul; 
 For matter is not all, and mind aye lacks the whole; 
 The age begins to open and hurry on the goal. 
 
 Christ is arisen far-off, the days do draw us near; 
 He is the missing Man, He is the higher sphere ; 
 We circle round Him darkly, yet He shall appear.
 
 78 $Joems. 
 
 A HIGHLAND FUNERAL. 
 
 "LORD, THOU HAST BEEN OUR DWELLING PLACE IN ALL GENERATIONS."' 
 
 Once more we meet in the old retreat, 
 
 The home roof over us once again ; 
 But the old walls wake to the bearers' feet, 
 
 And the old rooms sob with the mourners' train — 
 
 Tis the old, old home again, 
 
 But the old dwellers will not remain. 
 
 So we bear her out to the mountain side, 
 
 For the hills are an older sort of home, 
 And better, they say, will the mountains bide 
 
 And the heath thatch over the dark peat loam. 
 
 Oh ! this is an older home, 
 
 Where the feet of her childhood used to roam. 
 
 The hills rise round us as we rise, 
 
 As they rose to Him who gave them birth,
 
 $oem(5. 79 
 
 Creation's dawn-look in their eyes, 
 
 And their witness-feet fixt fast in earth. 
 
 Attesting as at birth, 
 
 Till our thoughts are spurred to the heaven's far-spanning girth; 
 
 His heaven whose home is everywhere, 
 
 And all within His ken is home, 
 Who sleeps with the dust we scatter here, 
 
 Who sleeps not, over that crystal dome, 
 
 Where she is awake and at home, 
 
 Whither her spirit in living slowly clomb. 
 
 So we aye shall meet in an old retreat, 
 
 A home-roof over us evermore, 
 One house to the lords whose rest is sweet, 
 
 And the servants busy about the door, 
 
 One dwelling-place evermore, 
 
 In whose going and coming we rest and rejoice and adore.
 
 tjotms. 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 (for a friend sea-faring.) 
 
 Swallows built in my balcony, 
 Long and late awake lay I; 
 Morning came with a call and a cry ; 
 
 Wakened me out of my dream about you— 
 Was it not tender? will it come true? 
 You and your friend's distress — these two. 
 
 In broke the cry of the birds uncouth, 
 
 Barely-fledged, unquiet of mouth, 
 
 Brought up here, but bound for the South. 
 
 And through the sameness of their notes 
 
 Some of your chequered story floats, 
 
 And makes a mouth-piece of their throats. 
 
 So what I send you does not seem 
 
 So much my own — you may call the theme : 
 
 What he dreamt and the swallows did with his dream,
 
 $oems. 8 1 
 
 I dreamt the swallows were bidden go 
 From the balcony they clung to so; 
 There came a wailing deep and low. 
 
 Why leave the nest, the cosy nook, 
 
 The grating above, where the still stars look, 
 
 The water-pipe doorway, our perching-hook ? 
 
 Why seek the South? If friends are there, 
 We do not know of them, and where 
 Were friends like these so fond and fair? 
 
 So spake they, when the Summer smiled, 
 
 But God's great heart touched theirs and wiled 
 
 Them, as a father does his child. 
 
 His suns set daily further down, 
 
 He gave the Northern skies His frown, 
 
 His breath blew all the leaves to brown. 
 
 And beckonings in their bosoms grew 
 To meet the South that beckoned too ; 
 A Hand came out from far and drew 
 
 My swallows to a warmer home. 
 
 I did not see them start to roam, 
 
 But something whispered : Winter's come. 
 
 F
 
 8; JJotms. 
 
 Then in my dream I looked and saw 
 Their far-off course that hand did draw, 
 Who followed it and fulfilled the law 
 
 Within them. And, since they obeyed, 
 Behold a gradual change was made, 
 And these in glorious guise arrayed. 
 
 The Southern suns smote into fire 
 About their necks, and higher and higher, 
 Ring by ring, rose the grand attire. 
 
 In every lovely lake they crost 
 Some poverty was plunged and lost ; 
 They robed them at the country's cost. 
 
 With every tint of flower and tree 
 Royally revelling they made free. 
 Ah, what the wonder that will be, 
 
 I sighed, beyond those hills that rise, 
 
 The barrier of my eager eyes ! 
 
 Then something whispered : Paradise.
 
 $ocms. 83 
 
 'Twas then the morning woke, and I 
 Harked for the swallows' altered cry — 
 The old twitter seemed to laugh reply. 
 
 But still it could not steal the sweet 
 The dream did leave, though incomplete. 
 My waking must add something meet. 
 
 And, as I mused, there came a sense 
 Of Him whose love means permanence ; 
 Who knows no whither and no whence ; 
 
 Who liveth everywhere and moves; 
 Home is wherever He most loves ; 
 Who draws us on by noiseless grooves ; 
 
 Who leadeth the light-minded bird 
 By some blind motion inly stirred ; 
 Who leads us by the voice we heard ; 
 
 By no dim influence of a law, 
 But by a Figure that we saw, 
 And cords of brotherhood that draw, 
 
 And, drawing to a stranger shore, 
 Make Him less stranger than before. 
 Make us arow like Him more and more
 
 84 foetus. 
 
 Till law and love are scarce disjoined, 
 And both in likeness intertwined, 
 And even upon the path we find 
 
 Christ grow to our enlarging eyes, 
 And Valparaiso, with changed skies, 
 Be but a Vale of Paradise.
 
 $ocms. 85 
 
 IN THE DARK. 
 
 Death doth make us draw together, 
 Like weary birds in the wild weather, 
 
 Till we scarcely know 
 The once dread difference of feather 
 
 We felt so much a little ago. 
 
 Death wins from us our weekday dress ; 
 
 We can't do common things ; life seems less ; 
 
 There has past away 
 That blessed use of littleness 
 
 We live in, day by day. 
 
 What cause for quarrelling (he speaks true), 
 Or talking loudly, as if we knew ? 
 
 All that man saith 
 Hath been said to him long since. Very few 
 
 Have been found to answer Death.
 
 86 $oime. 
 
 Sit still together. The sunbeams pour 
 In on us, past the swinging door; 
 
 And, under our breath, 
 Say : Life's not less, the Immortal's more- 
 Be kind to us, Death !
 
 $ofms. 87 
 
 "LOST— A LITTLE CHILD." 
 
 I never feigned such tiny hands 
 
 Upon these massive doors. 
 I never heard such little feet 
 
 Tread up the burnished floors. 
 The child-friends in my Father's house 
 
 Had grown away from me, 
 And for them, in this darkened world, 
 
 I had these darlings three. 
 
 The Hands that fashion out our lives 
 
 Had not gone very far, 
 And what these Hands had made so fair, 
 
 That Heart will never mar. 
 The very tissues will compact 
 
 In some diviner way, 
 And faculties of thought and act 
 
 Have fuller scope and play.
 
 88 J3oeni0. 
 
 All will be finer, fittinger, 
 
 But nothing changed will be, 
 Or nameless; but the same old stir 
 
 Will lay strong hands on me. 
 When I shall see him, so preserved, 
 
 And so improved, I'll cry : 
 O happy people who deserved 
 
 A child at school on high.
 
 jjorms. 89 
 
 ON THE MARCH. 
 Ps. ex. 
 
 We are going home, 
 
 We are almost there, 
 No more to roam, 
 
 Not anywhere. 
 We are going home, 
 
 The house in view ; 
 That last hill's clomb, 
 
 This will be too. 
 We are going home, 
 
 Convoyed by love ; 
 Out of the womb 
 
 Of morn above, 
 Like dew, so thick, 
 
 So fresh, like dew, 
 We are dropping quick. 
 
 We are sparkling new, 
 Yeomen the youthfullest 
 
 E'er drew sword,
 
 90 $0£tUS. 
 
 Bowmen the truthfullest 
 
 Ever warred, 
 All Thy young soldiers 
 
 With one accord 
 Are coming, are coming 
 
 To Thee, O Lord, 
 Garlanded feast-like, 
 
 Helms concealed, 
 Filleted priest-like, 
 
 Stole upon shield, 
 Fail not nor falter, 
 
 Once offered to thee ; 
 Thou art the altar, 
 
 Sacrifice we, 
 Bound to the horns by 
 
 Love's own cord, 
 Catching the kindling 
 
 Look of the Lord, 
 Ready to leap up 
 
 At His word. 
 Devoted, desirous, 
 
 Lord, we yeam, 
 Fire us, inspire us, 
 
 Till we burn!
 
 $oems. 91 
 
 Quick ! the home rises 
 
 Clear in view; 
 Shine we, sparkle we, 
 
 Fire and dew. 
 Kindled in common, 
 
 Together poured, 
 Coming and coming 
 
 To Thee, O Lord. 
 Spotless and numberless, 
 
 Lord, we come, 
 Countless and cumberless, 
 
 And almost home.
 
 92 $0£ttti5. 
 
 THANKS. 
 
 Give thanks, give thanks, my soul, and sing. 
 Give thanks, give thanks always. 
 
 Give thanks, for the least little thing 
 Is great, if turned to praise. 
 
 The lute is larger, not for length, 
 
 But for its range of tone; 
 And thou are greater, not for strength, 
 
 But how that strength is shown. 
 
 The lute is larger in its scope, 
 
 If pierced at one place more ; 
 Then sing for love and faith and hope, 
 
 And for them o'er and o'er.
 
 $oe!ns. 93 
 
 DEO QUI DAT VICTORIAM. 
 
 Lord, I thank Thee who hast wounded; for the mercy that 
 abounded, 
 
 For the multitudinous mercy flowing forward like a sea, 
 For the deeps that, rolling o'er me, arched into an arm that bore me, 
 
 For the thunder-step of time that woke thy peace, eternity. 
 
 And I thank Thee that the thunder never woke one word of 
 wonder, 
 Only hushed the murmurous thought and drove rebellion far 
 away ; 
 That the wrath revealed outside me showed a rest where I might 
 hide me, 
 Till the inward clouds rejoined the outer darkness black as they. 
 
 Therefore Thee I praise for ever, merciful Taker, mighty Giver, 
 Taking but to give, and giving none but Thou to take away; 
 
 And if darker clouds encrust Thee, though Thou slay me, I will 
 trust Thee. 
 For Thy hurt is simple healing, and Thy darkness simple day.
 
 94 $ocms. 
 
 A PREACHER. 
 
 I heard him speak, and at the subtle sound 
 
 Of music such as manhood only knows, 
 
 Winning the words a welcome, as a rose 
 Reaches you of her smell, I felt the ground 
 Yielding beneath me and 'neath all around, 
 
 Sceptic and scholared Christian. We were those 
 
 Who, drawn by the common need — the common woes 
 Of youth who let faith go and nothing found — 
 
 Leaned hard together toward the common one 
 Reality left remaining. Then gleamed out 
 The single certainty all are sure about, 
 
 Our childhood's Trust and God's dear eldest Son, 
 Who schooled ourselves His brothers — I could shout 
 
 To learn from bettered books that lesson new begun.
 
 JJocms. 95 
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH. 
 
 (Farewell Supper of the Fourth Year Students, New College: 
 Darling's Hotel, Edinburgh.) 
 
 Once again in the old places, 
 And again the old, old faces, 
 
 About a common board ! 
 And, friends, 'twere mere dissembling 
 Not to tell you with what trembling 
 
 The last glass is outpoured ; 
 
 Not to let the lips deliver 
 Their last with their own quiver 
 
 Thrilled through from thrice three years; 
 To trust the heart's denying 
 That somehow it was crying, 
 
 And somewhere there were tears. 
 
 O days and names and places, 
 O happy, tear-stained faces 
 That throng on us this eve !
 
 96 $0£tttJ5. 
 
 O dear, delightful seasons, 
 O loved for fifty reasons, 
 The College days we leave ! 
 
 Come back, my friends, together 
 To the gay, glad, glorious weather 
 
 When we were yet but boys ; 
 When the cheek had yet its rounding, 
 And the foot had yet its bounding, 
 
 And life was loud with noise. 
 
 Come, sign with slow, stiff writing, 
 Like one his doom inditing, 
 
 The College Book again ; 
 And ask, or ere you close it, 
 Your neighbour if he knows it — 
 
 How things have changed since then. 
 
 And ask of your old Being 
 If aught was to its seeing 
 
 As things this evening seem ; 
 Do College skies beam o'er you 
 Bright as they beamed before you 
 
 Or was it but a dream?
 
 $oent0. 97 
 
 A truce to such sad comment 
 On the gold-engirdled moment 
 
 That links us here to-night 
 If it was not all fair weather, 
 Yet we went through it together, 
 
 And that makes it all seem right. 
 
 Oh, this those years have given, 
 And better gives not Heaven 
 
 That gives us all the best : 
 The love of the leal-hearted, 
 A link not to be parted, 
 
 Two heart-beats in one breast. 
 
 O friends, be still and listen, 
 Though it make an eyelid glisten, 
 
 To the voices of your lives, 
 To the head with his hard wrestling, 
 And the heart with her soft nestling, 
 
 And the hand that strikes and strives. 
 
 And better — blown across 'em 
 Like a bit of bee-sucked blossom 
 The presence of a Friend ; 
 
 G
 
 9§ $oem0. 
 
 A busy brain beside you, 
 An heart wherein to hide you, 
 The help that brothers lend. 
 
 Oh, this was the best learning, 
 To find such fires were burning, 
 
 As nothing ere shall drown ! 
 Oh, this was the best schooling 
 To feel the rays uncooling 
 
 Of the sun that goes not down ! 
 
 What though the Year be broken, 
 Our bosoms bear the token 
 
 That binds, that binds for aye. 
 South Afric suns may smite it, 
 Australian stars may light it, 
 
 We'll wear it night and day. 
 
 Then here's to the old places, 
 And here's to the old faces, 
 
 Be every glass outpoured ! 
 Here's to no cloud between us 
 Till some kind Hand convene us 
 
 About a higher board. 
 
 March 27, 1879.
 
 $OEtn0. 99 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 (University Prise Poem, Rhetoric Class.) 
 
 They are gone; the last word spoken, ere we meet in dense 
 
 array, 
 Yet I seem to sing — such music is in darkness more than day. 
 
 'Tis the song we sang as striplings, when we mimicked war's 
 
 alarms ; 
 'Tis the song will thrill to-morrow through the thundrous clash of 
 
 arms. 
 
 Strange, that aye before the conflict quivering calm the spirit 
 
 whelms, 
 Like the whispers rolling, rushing, through the depths of evening 
 
 elms. 
 
 Ah ! the palm supplants the elm, the aloes screen the beechen 
 
 lea; 
 But the heavens are one above us, big with stars for them and me.
 
 ioo $otms. 
 
 O ye silences of earth, how dread and deep are ye to bear ! 
 Easier in the sweltering noonlight prodigies to do and dare. 
 
 Nights that mock us with your stillness, days that deafen with 
 
 your roar, 
 
 Stirring thoughts you will not answer — What behind us? what 
 
 before ? 
 
 Fancy, O thou second dawn, thou meteor blazed about the sky ! 
 Swifter than the shafts of sunrise runs thy lightning, Memory ! 
 
 Angel of my country, why dost vex the angel of my home? 
 She is pale with woes and weeping, thou art flushed with wrath 
 and doom. 
 
 Out upon this frenzied flutter, has a song the soul unbent? 
 I will quit this world of visions clustered in the stifling^tent ; 
 
 I will step into the midnight, silent save the leafy hum ; 
 
 I will see how fair the earth is, ere the battle-curse be come. 
 
 I will step into the midnight, consecrate to God and me; 
 Hear Him send His voice before Him, ringing through the times 
 to be.
 
 JJoeme. 101 
 
 Burning thoughts into the future still my wildered fancy flings, 
 As into a well a pebble, listening for the sound it brings. 
 
 Low and lurid lower the watch-fires, gleaming through the forest 
 
 bars, 
 Flaring up their gross pulsations to the trouble of the stars. 
 
 Hush 1 a whiff of wind, a whisper, blowing from a distant sea, 
 Calm and cool, as a new star from breathless heaven had yearned 
 o'er me, 
 
 Blotting out the fire, as mother's kiss her fevered infant's dream ; 
 And the tranquil mind returning, tears the veil from things that 
 seem. 
 
 What is life ? A flash of steel, the dim delirium of a wound. 
 Am I here? or, Have I passed? And life is gone while I am 
 swooned. 
 
 What is war ? A maniac's ponderous rattle at the gates of Truth ; 
 Tapestry reversed ; a monstrous infant uttering tones uncouth. 
 
 Something crude, confused, imperfect, marred by turmoil in our ears; 
 Wiled into a subtler song, when echoed down the rolling years.
 
 102 $0«m«. 
 
 War is not our own. A bird may bear the thunderbolt of Jove ; 
 Who but He can trace its pathway when the splintered oak is clove ? 
 
 So the battles shake our cities, but they die away to heaven ; 
 Softest snatches, blent in beauty, to the upper spheres are given. 
 
 Hark ! what says that wind of whispers busy with the wanton buds? 
 Is it not some fringe of tempest threshing forests, whirling floods? 
 
 Is there not some spot of fancy, be it space or be it time, 
 Where the battles make a music, deeper peace and more sublime? 
 
 Verily the ages tell it — war is but the shell of peace, 
 Till the blossom, grown to fulness, bursts the leaves, and war 
 shall cease. 
 
 War is but the severed cadence, voiceful, for its mates are dumb ; 
 So our note be full and true, what matter when the others come? 
 
 Is the old to go by dying? Is the new to come by birth? 
 Where the uproar and convulsion? Where new heavens and new 
 earth ? 
 
 O thou world so big with dying, therefore art so big with life ! 
 Stars may point the path, may comfort, but they will not quench 
 the strife.
 
 $Joem0. io 3 
 
 Angel of my country, how dost clasp the angel of my home ! 
 Ye are one, the civil manhood, fraught with social herodom. 
 
 Certes, gory is the gauntlet, but it graspeth life about; 
 Certes, blows are on the harness, but they beat a music out. 
 
 Let the fires then flicker heavenward, let them sink to ghastly 
 
 glare, 
 
 I will never call back darkness ; let them burn — they cleanse 
 
 the air. 
 
 Better is an English song than shrieks that trouble yonder camp ; 
 Better is the rail and trenching than the vapours of the swamp. 
 
 Better the Martini rifle, that I burnish here alone, 
 
 Than the spear or blundering firelock that these rebel races own. 
 
 Better than discordant clamour, clanging fierce of lance and targe, 
 Rings the " Forward, Forty-second, this way, on your pins and 
 charge ! " 
 
 All is well. This life is little ; little can our vision seize. 
 
 Time is larger than our out-look ; there are other worlds than these.
 
 104 ^poJlttS. 
 
 Therefore I will trust the future, turn my face toward the sun, 
 Where in front the dawn, Perfection, lights and leads the ages on. 
 
 I will trust : for, not as painter, poet, or musician He, 
 Having well begun and prospered in His masterpiece to be, 
 
 Falters fearful at the crisis lest the promise fail the end, 
 When the plot's detail has thickened, craves a master-stroke to 
 blend ; 
 
 Throned in silent sense of triumph, clad in consciousness of 
 
 might, 
 He can watch His purpose, pressing through our darkness to His 
 
 light.
 
 LATER POEMS.
 
 CHANGED ARE THE THINGS I SEE. 
 
 Changed are the things I see 
 
 To my window come back grown older, 
 
 Ay, field and tree, they are changed to me, 
 And still more changed the beholder. 
 
 Say is the light as warm, 
 
 Is the day as bright as ever, 
 Is it past the glimpse of perfect form, 
 
 The flush of a full endeavour? 
 
 So sank the sun, and with him 
 My heart sank down with sorrow, 
 
 But heaven grew bright as earth grew dim, 
 And the sun came shining thorough. 
 
 Still 'tis the same, the same 
 
 As when first the sight was given, 
 
 Still a crescent of silver flame 
 Hung in the height of heaven.
 
 io8 borate. 
 
 Changed are the things I see 
 From life's low window comer, 
 
 And many a truth is changed to me, 
 And still more changed the learner. 
 
 But oh, God's heavens, ye shine, 
 Ye shine and do not alter; 
 
 Turn more that way then, eye of mine, 
 Foot less in the footpath falter. 
 
 Bonskeid, Dec. 28, 1889.
 
 $oems. 109 
 
 DETERMINATION. 
 
 1 C'est bien puissant le ' ie veux' de la VolonteV' — Eugenie dt Cuerin. 
 
 A vacant hour ! a wintry day ! 
 Green fields ! a sky of ashen grey ! 
 A horse there on the towing way 
 
 Straining along ; 
 Not worth so many words you say ? 
 
 'Tis worth a song. 
 
 Ho ! brother, in the traces there, 
 With starting thews and steaming hair, 
 How bravely dost thou forward fare 
 
 Up the canal. 
 Thy load says, " Further if you dare " ; 
 
 Thou say'st, " I shall." 
 
 O heart upon life's towing road, 
 
 With cares that drag, and fears that goad, 
 
 Tug on, toil on, 'tis well bestowed, 
 
 This strife and strain, 
 One more mile onward with thy load, 
 
 Is surely gain. 
 
 Between Winchburgh and Linlithgow, Feb. 3, 90 — 2 p.m,
 
 IIO $0£tttS. 
 
 IN THE GARDEN AT FINCASTLE. 
 
 Not but under showers, 
 
 Under sunshine sealed, 
 Do the fairest flowers 
 
 Fullest fragrance yield. 
 
 Not but from the cloud, 
 Light that makes him dark, 
 
 Pours his loudest loud 
 Pastoral, the lark. 
 
 Not but from thy pain, 
 Thorn that tortures still, 
 
 Struck and struck again, 
 Poet, pipe thy fill ! 
 
 Sept. I, 1890.
 
 $oems. in 
 
 THINKING OF A FRIEND IN TROUBLE. 
 
 ' O why for me this starry light, 
 When others tread the starless night? 
 O why for me this perfumed rose, 
 When my own brother flowerless goes ? ' 
 Thus speaks to me a brother's pain ; 
 Answer me, gracious God, again. 
 
 Is't that th'abyss had whelmed my bark, 
 Compelled to voyage in the dark? 
 Is't that my steps had strayed from Thee, 
 If no sweet flower had bloomed for me? 
 Say, speaks it thus, my brother's pain, 
 ' Beware thou stray, or sink, again ? ' 
 
 Is it that, with no pain to see, 
 My heart had heartless grown in me? 
 My star, unmarked, had fruitless shone? 
 My rose, unshared, had bloomed and gone? 
 Say, speaks it thus, my brother's pain : 
 ' Beware thy selfishness again ' ?
 
 $onn:s. 
 
 Is it that, had I known to trace 
 Some merit congruent with grace, 
 I had been lifted up with pride 
 And Love's pure sov'reignty denied? 
 Say, speaks it thus, my brother's pain : 
 'Adore Omnipotence again'? 
 
 O Sovran and Unsearchable, 
 Who doest all, and all things well, 
 Thou wiser than the wisest mind, 
 And than the kindest heart more kind; 
 My very doubts Thy wisdom prove, 
 Thyself dissolves them : Thou art Love. 
 
 Friday, Sept. 26 ; Sabbath, Sept. 28, 1890.
 
 $ocms. 113 
 
 SURSUM CORDA— A SPRING SONG. 
 
 1. 
 Light slowly lengthening, life slowly strengthening, 
 
 Green coming back again, vivid and young; 
 Breath beating fast in us, death fleeting past in us, 
 
 Powers meeting vast in us, proud to be sung. 
 
 II. 
 Hope, how we bound with thee ! joy, how fly round with thee ! 
 
 Spring, how are crowned with thee spirits of men ! 
 Earth, how thou ravishest ! heaven, how thou lavishest 
 
 Songs on the minstrel who greets thee again ! 
 
 TIT. 
 Freedom fall'n low with us, right moving slow with us; 
 
 Haste ye, and go with us, rouse ye and sing; 
 Strike, fife and drummer, in ; speed the late-comer in ; 
 
 Welcome the summer in, welcome the spring. 
 
 Jan. 27, 1890.
 
 114 ^OflU0. 
 
 IN AMOREM. 
 
 " Every sacrifice shall be salted with salt : every one shall be salted 
 with fire.'' — Mark ix. 49. 
 
 When thy cup is at the brim, 
 
 And thine eyes for gladness swim; 
 
 When thy darkest doubt is stilled, 
 
 And thy dearest hope fulfilled ; 
 
 When joy is heaped and cannot higher— 
 
 Ask the baptism of fire. 
 
 When the lips that thou dost love 
 To their sweetest utterance move, 
 When the soul, with longing sore, 
 Knows it does not long for more, 
 When thou hast thy heart's desire — 
 Ask the baptism of fire.
 
 $otm«. us 
 
 ON THE OPENING OF FREE ST. JOHN'S 
 CHURCH, DUNDEE. 
 
 O Thou that art engaged to be 
 The unfailing Guest of two or three, 
 We name Thy name and wait for Thee, 
 Thou promised Saviour, come. 
 
 O Thou whose word we strive to keep, 
 And love Thee, and are led like sheep, 
 Bring us God's love, indwelling deep, 
 Thou and Thy Father, come. 
 
 O Thou that at our door dost stand, 
 And knockest with the wounded hand, 
 Open Thyself, the feast command, 
 Come in, Lord Jesus, come. 
 
 O Thou that wilt not see bereft 
 
 The little ones whom Thou hast left, 
 
 Give us, we cry, the children's gift, 
 
 Thou, by Thy Spirit, come. 
 
 Feb. 7, i83.j.
 
 FRIENDS.
 
 ALEXANDER DUFF. 
 Nat. 1806, Ob. 1S7S. 
 
 " BLESSED ARE THE DEAD WHICH DIE IN THE LORD. 
 
 The histories of heaven and earth are still, 
 
 And through the silence, through the shifting scene, 
 
 A fragment from a chorus breaks between, 
 Pure melody, 'mid the mixed strains which fill 
 The Apocalypse. Heaven has a sudden thrill 
 
 From earth. We know not wholly what they mean, 
 
 Those lips of benediction that o'erlean, 
 Those drops that on some open grave distil. 
 Yet so could we cry peace to the world's noise, 
 
 The rush of all things racing on their goal, 
 And hear, above, beyond, another Voice 
 
 Bid it all cease, to list a passing soul, 
 And know how such a dying not destroys, 
 
 But only marks the march by which His plans unroll.
 
 i2o Rosins. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Saints' deaths do but give dating to the world, 
 They are the human points of that one plan 
 Which moves unhindered and unhelped of man, 
 
 On whose sure surface he and his are whirled, 
 
 Obedient ripples that a breath has curled 
 And quieted again. For when the span 
 Fulfils, and goeth back where it began, 
 
 Into the interval God's own voice is hurled. 
 
 For He will have them forth to write in heaven 
 How far His purposes have reached the full. 
 
 These deaths are dear, for that the dead are given 
 Entirely up to Him, being home from school, 
 
 And henceforth needing to be drawn, not driven, 
 The subjects of His reign, while others of His rule. 
 
 III. 
 
 "BEHOLD A WHITE CLOUD " (REV. XIV.) 
 
 Oh, well it seems that this same snowy cloud, 
 Wherefrom the final blessing falls in dew 
 
 (Much like the mist that once before was loud 
 With words of " My Beloved "), sudden grew 
 Into a fair white throne whose wintry hue
 
 $3ocms. 
 
 Took nought of shadow from the golden-browed, 
 
 Keen-sickled Reaper-King, who rose and drew 
 His weapon down earth's harvest heavy-bowed. 
 Oh well for us, who bend sore hearts to-day 
 
 To hear that benediction for the dead. 
 We weep, for the best sickle is away; 
 
 We shout, the King of Reapers conies instead; 
 " Had we but him to lead us ! " do we say ? 
 
 Look you! the Lord Himself! We shall be led. 
 
 IV. 
 
 TWO kl\ BUS. 
 
 The restless Tummel runs about the feet 
 Of these fair heaths, fresh-springing at his birth, 
 
 The restless Tummel goeth wild and fleet, 
 Nor halteth him to help the needy earth 
 To any show of fruit or flower's gay mirth, 
 
 Nor swerveth save a brother stream to meet, 
 Hurry it on, and gather force and girth, 
 
 Never, till name and course are gone, complete. 
 
 The sluggard Hoogly creepeth sad and slow, 
 Washing his rice fields, laving groves of cane ;
 
 122 JJotma. 
 
 He steals no strength from the far hills to sow 
 The easy flats, producing without pain — 
 
 Such and so different do the rivers flow ; 
 
 Who knows what currents mingle underneath the main? 
 
 Spring, doors of peace, spring open, we are come ! 
 
 We bring him to his resting-place and peers. 
 
 Were sorrow not so sown across the years, 
 What company his, the cream of Christendom ! 
 And even now we catch a gathering hum 
 
 From the great dead who greet him. Ringing cheers 
 
 These plain inscriptions sound — Miller and Spiers, 
 Guthrie, Chalmers, and Cunningham, we are come. 
 Oh, master of the pen that sprinkled fire, 
 
 Oh, gentle knight whose words were lances thrust, 
 Oh, golden mouth inspired to inspire, 
 
 Oh, hammer head that did our foes to dust, 
 Oh, princely prophet than the highest higher, 
 
 Take this last hero-heart ! His sickle shall not rust. 
 
 The Grange, Feb. 18, 1878.
 
 {Joeing. 123 
 
 VI. 
 
 GOV OF THE DUAL) AND of THE LIVING. 
 
 Cry "Blessed" to the dead, but bless us too, 
 Who must go orphaned over vacant ground ; 
 Bless us, O God, in listening for the sound 
 
 Of these lost footsteps, that we follow true, 
 
 And do not quit us as lost children do, 
 
 Whose tears and trouble turn their senses round, 
 Until they cease to follow and be found, 
 
 And out of very weeping miss the clue. 
 
 Yet let us linger a little near the spot. 
 
 Tis pleasant, and we think the hand that took 
 Our brother just from here will turn again, 
 
 Having housed him safe, and we would miss it not 
 When it returns, for like a child we look 
 Just there to get what went amissing then. 
 
 New College Feb. 14, iS
 
 i24 Scents. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM W. G. ELMSLIE. 
 
 Dear friend — for 1 may call thee thus; the name 
 Will sound not strangely where thou art — dear friend, 
 Whom here I honoured with the cordial bend 
 
 The boy's heart gives the student grown to fame. 
 
 "Friend," that first night I saw these blue eyes flame, 
 And heard these lips their rapid arrows send, 
 Swift to attack but swifter to defend, 
 
 " Friend," said my heart : to-night it says the same. 
 
 Dear friend, who seest the truth now through no glass, 
 Who readest now no Scripture but the Word, 
 Who ridest now to triumph, not to fight, 
 
 Would that my soul one day to thine might pass, 
 Would I might be for ever with the Lord, 
 Changing this darkness for that light of light. 
 
 Nov. 16, 188
 
 }Joetns. 125 
 
 IN MEMORIAM J. F. EWING. 
 
 One more who made this earthly pilgrimage 
 An arduous mountain climb, a stubborn fight, 
 Fought till the nightfall ! Yet it was not night 
 That fell, what time a voice cried : " Cease to fight 
 
 My warfare ; enter on My heritage ; " 
 
 Nay, but full daybreak, "day most calm, most bright," 
 Boundless and endless, rich with all delight 
 
 That heart can hunger for or mind can gauge. 
 
 One more at Life's clear fountain drinks his fill. 
 And feasts his eyes out on the Face divine ; 
 
 One more ascends into His holy hill, 
 
 Beholds His beauty, worships at His shrine. 
 
 Brother, let Christ call me too, when He will. 
 If only my freed spirit he with thine. 
 
 May 7, 1890.
 
 i26 $)oems. 
 
 PROVOST SWAN. 
 
 (and L. S.) 
 
 December 17-18, 18S9. 
 
 Written at the Club Meeting, 3 Park Circus, Glasgozu, \/s,tli January, 1S90. 
 
 Our head has fallen ; fall'n is the ample tree 
 Beneath whose generous shade this friendly band 
 First gathered. Brother clasped the outstretched hand 
 
 Of brother ; but who joined all hands was he. 
 
 Fallen is our head, and in our sorrow we 
 
 Stand orphaned. Bare to all the winds we stand 
 Trembling, as if the next our face that fanned 
 
 Might be the chill breath of eternity. 
 
 Is this it? or what is it? this soft breath 
 That blows from out the South, and with it blown 
 Something? — a lily from an English lake? 
 This is the breath of life, and not of death ! 
 Welcome already for our brother's sake, 
 
 Henceforth and always welcome for thine own.
 
 JJocms 127 
 
 G.A.S. TO L.S. 
 
 Lilies are of flowers most rare, 
 Lilies are for all things fair; 
 But I say, deny who can, 
 "Lilies are for Lilian." 
 
 Lilies lurk in hidden wood, 
 Lilies are like maidenhood ; 
 And I say, the happy man, 
 " Lilies are like Lilian." 
 
 Lilies are the songs of spring, 
 Lilies bloom what poets sing; 
 But what song is sweeter than 
 "Lilies are for Lilian"? 
 
 Lilies flower for spirits meek, 
 Lilies fan the lowly cheek; 
 But, the best that flower or fan, 
 "Lilies be for Lilian."
 
 128 $OTtn0. 
 
 Lilies are of flowers most rare, 
 Lilies are for all things fair, 
 And (I sing it ; join who can) 
 "Lilies are for Lilian." 
 
 An Elizabethan, 
 'The Friend of the Bridegroom.'
 
 {Jocms. 129 
 
 MUSIC FROM THE MARRIAGE OF R. AND E. 
 
 Currents Unconcealed. 
 
 Two streams I knew together — 
 One rose among the heather 
 
 Where a south moorland lies ; 
 And one rose near the city, 
 Full-breasted one, one pretty, 
 
 Under the self-same skies. 
 
 You could see them both by climbing 
 A height not meant for rhyming, 
 
 So call it what you will; 
 The spots from which they started 
 So slenderly were parted — 
 
 It seemed a single rill. 
 
 And when you saw their severance, 
 
 How one was grave, like Reverence, 
 
 And one was wild, like Mirth, 
 1
 
 130 $oem0. 
 
 So likely lay their courses, 
 You said : The natural forces 
 Have mated them from birth. 
 
 You said : A kindred motion 
 Will link them ere the ocean, 
 
 Or marriage must be wrong ; 
 For all the stars intended 
 That these two should be blended, 
 
 So also said my song. 
 
 Still they kept strangely sundered 
 Till everybody wondered 
 
 Why nature disobeyed ; 
 But if they knew not, I did, 
 Why one a bachelor bided, 
 
 And one remained a maid. 
 
 Oh, sealed to common senses, 
 The subtle influences 
 
 That shape these lives of ours ; 
 Oh, plain to their quick spirit, 
 Who, when the grass grows, hear it, 
 
 Who hark the springing flowers.
 
 JUofms. 13 1 
 
 Then meet and flow together, 
 Make summer in the heather, 
 
 You wedded streams at last. 
 I understood — the stars too — 
 And wished away the bars to 
 
 This joy that's flowing fast. 
 
 Oh meet, the stars will quiver 
 More brightly on one river 
 
 Than on two severed streams ; 
 And I shall sing the better, 
 When once there comes a letter 
 
 Fulfilling all my dreams. 
 
 And from the height I'll often 
 Gaze till the distance soften 
 
 Around your wedded ways; 
 Shall I name the place — I dare to — 
 "The eyes a Poet's heir to," 
 
 Which has watched you many days? 
 
 Then meet, and flow, and murmur, 
 It makes one's faith the firmer 
 
 To see one's hope come true. 
 To see you twain together 
 Brings a blush above the heather, 
 
 Though that is blushing through. 
 
 Aug. 1877.
 
 JjoEtns. 
 
 WITH A BRACELET OF BOG OAK FROM IRELAND, 
 CUT INTO ROSE, THISTLE, AND SHAMROCK. 
 
 Here, Love, 's a little gift for thee, 
 Carved from an ancient Irish tree, 
 Which bloomed in happier times, A.D. 
 
 700 odd, 
 When Erin's Isle was owned to be 
 
 The Isle of God. 
 
 Perchance it heard him, garbed in brown, 
 The herd boy from Dumbarton town, 
 With furrowed face and shaven crown, 
 
 Proclaim the Truth ; 
 Perchance it saw the Druid's frown 
 
 Melt into ruth. 
 
 Perchance its fellow bore him forth, 
 The Dove that nested in the North — 
 Crown, lyre, and pen of little worth
 
 iJoems. 133 
 
 He counted then, 
 To herald over Scottish earth 
 The King of men. 
 
 Perchance upon its neighbour leant 
 Grave Columbane, as on he went, 
 Hood, cloak, and girdle travel-rent, 
 
 O'er sea and land, 
 While Gaul and German meekly bent 
 
 Beneath his hand. 
 
 So, Love, at length it comes to thee, 
 
 This bit of an old Irish tree, 
 
 To bloom upon thine arm, and be 
 
 A signet broad, 
 That Erin's Isle again we'll see — 
 
 The Isle of God. 
 
 Sept. 27, 1889.
 
 1 34 $oms. 
 
 "IMAGO CHRISTI." 
 
 As one who enters on the shaded room 
 
 Where sits some watcher of the heavens, and peers 
 Through his wise instrument, and straight the spheres 
 
 Flash on him. Up from the illimitable they loom, 
 Enlarge, and pass into their spacious tomb 
 
 In shining sequence, till the ravished seer's 
 
 Eyesight is dazzled, less by what appears 
 
 Than what lies hidden in the boundless gloom. 
 
 So through this kindly glass that thou hast given 
 I look, and look ; and lo, the skies are rent, 
 
 And whole stars shine where points were seen before. 
 
 Yet with each vision of an ampler heaven, 
 Much as the record moves my wonderment, 
 The unrecorded moves me even more.
 
 CHILDREN.
 
 THE DAY WHEN RUDOLF DIED. 
 
 Oh ! well for the Little Children, that they are gone away, 
 They never gave their missives up nor promised us to stay ; 
 Just fingered a while with the fringes hung over them out of 
 
 heaven, 
 And in between their gazings at God a glance at us was 
 
 given. 
 
 Oh ! well for the Little Children, they left their angels there, 
 Keeping a rapid converse up the blue way of the air — 
 Keeping a wistful watch till the child was home again, 
 Glad that he came himself, nor cost them a journey's pain ! 
 
 Oh ! well for the Little Children, they patter along the row, 
 
 And seek out each his minister, and tell him he may go; 
 
 Tell him, "I'll stand for myself now — you needn't keep room for 
 
 me," — 
 And send him on errand elsewhere, who knows? they send him 
 
 to thee.
 
 138 $oems. 
 
 But, oh ! our Little Children, they could not stand upright, 
 Will the angel hold them in his arms till they are grown up quite? 
 Or will he take them by the hand and run with rapture wild 
 To the Angel of the Presence, who waited on Jesus-Child? 
 
 Ah ! ill that the Angel of Presence is angel of absence for us, 
 That, his face being turned to the Father, we see but his back 
 
 parts thus ; 
 His back and a bit of his wings, all pink and transparent with joy, 
 And folded round something — you see it ? — the form of a little boy. 
 
 Oh ! well for the Little Children, some office hath fallen free, 
 Heaven would take in some wider note, some novel order see; 
 We gave him to a service — small part on earth appears : 
 Oh ! well for the older people, who have children in two spheres. 
 
 December 13, 1877.
 
 $flems. 139 
 
 AN ORPHAN. 
 
 Mother is dead : she simply said 
 With a slight droop of the curly head, 
 Just like a flower at fall of rain 
 Bent to be lifted up again. 
 
 Mother is dead : I had no dread, 
 
 Saw no other to ask instead, 
 
 Spoke to the child as if naught had occurred, 
 
 Saw it all in a single word. 
 
 Mother is dead : two little feet led 
 Where the turf was newly, newly spread. 
 Then, with a sob that startled me : 
 Mother, O mother, to have died with thee.
 
 140 ^oem©. 
 
 GOD'S NURSERY. 
 
 I was in God's nursery to-night as the evening was getting dim, 
 And I sat with God's children, and they were talking of Him ; 
 And another Child was with them, though Him I could not see, 
 They say that God has an Elder Son, I think it was He. 
 It was bedtime before I was there, and all was done for the 
 
 day, 
 And the children were going to bed, but first they were going to 
 
 pray; 
 And that strange Child who was with them the other children led, 
 But He did not say ' Let us pray,' but He went on talking 
 
 instead. 
 " Father," He said, first of all : though I could not see for the 
 
 gloom, 
 Yet the instant He said it I felt there was Someone else in the 
 
 room; 
 And the room itself must have grown in a very little space, 
 For the Child called to Father in heaven, and heaven is a far 
 
 away place.
 
 JJoems. 141 
 
 But oh, what an echo was left by that one single sound, 
 
 It crept into every corner and wandered round and round, 
 
 The very air felt holy wherever the echo came, 
 
 Cried the children, "Oh! that it ever were so. Hallowed be that 
 
 name ! " 
 With that they smoothed their dresses, the frocks their Father had 
 
 given, 
 Marked with His name and made to be kept clean for Father in 
 
 heaven ; 
 They seemed to prepare for a feast, though everybody was 
 
 dumb ; 
 When all was ready I heard, "Now may Thy kingdom come." 
 And then did they talk of a playground? or what were they speak- 
 ing about? 
 A place for spending days in, for running in and out : 
 But might it be under His eye like one somewhere else they had 
 
 seen, 
 Strong and sheltered and safe, but pleasant and wide and green. 
 Wherever He wished it to be, they would play in it under His 
 
 eye, 
 They would not have two playgrounds, one on earth and one for 
 
 the sky ; 
 The same would do for both, and so the word was given, 
 " Let us do what our Father likes on earth as they do it in 
 
 heaven."
 
 i4 2 $oems. 
 
 And was it hunger now these little hearts perplexed ? 
 
 Though it was not long since last meal time nor far to the next, 
 
 For fathers lay by for the year, mothers lay in for the week, 
 
 But 'tis only of the little each day that the children speak. 
 
 A little makes them hungry, a little satisfies, 
 
 So "Give us to-day our daily bread," was one of the children's 
 
 cries. 
 And then a rustling of ravens, that after the sower run — 
 No more noise than the lilies make when they drink in the 
 
 sun; 
 So each with a piece in his fingers, the children were put to 
 
 bed, 
 But first there came a meeting of lips and little voices said, 
 " We have kissed with one another, kiss us, our Father in heaven, 
 We have forgiven each other, we want to be forgiven." 
 And then I heard the sweetest sound any on earth can hear, 
 A face hung over each little head, coming quite close and near, 
 Leaving a rose on either cheek and either eyelid wet, 
 And the mouth of God and the mouth of the little children met. 
 But, when the face was lifted, there was something clasped them 
 
 still — 
 " Surely it will not lead us wrong but rescue us from ill." 
 Then came low regular breathings like footsteps dropped in a 
 
 dream, 
 Led past every perilous place, lifted at every stream ; —
 
 JJocms. 143 
 
 But the things they said in their sleep were the strangest things 
 
 of all, 
 Angels round them, heaven opened over them, words let fall. 
 The feast had come His hand had prepared, His brightness made 
 
 it shine, 
 And "The kingdom, the power, and the glory," said the children, 
 
 "all are Thine." 
 
 Begun Bournemouth, April 27, 
 finished on board the " American, " Oct. 12, 1879.
 
 144 JJocms. 
 
 ON RECEIPT OF A CABLEGRAM. 
 
 Uncles, when new nephews come, 
 Some give gold, and silver some; 
 Uncles who have nought to give 
 Ought to play the fugitive. 
 I who neither pay nor flee, 
 Should I send some poesie? 
 
 Shall I an epistle frame ? — 
 But I do not know his name ! 
 Praise his voice, portray his mien 
 Whom I've neither heard nor seen? 
 Ah ! but one suggestion slips 
 Through my pursed and puzzled lips — 
 Do you ask it ? think of this : 
 Take and give the boy a kiss. 
 
 Wynberg, Cape of Good Hope, 
 June 1st, 1880.
 
 $)ocms 145 
 
 WELCOME TO BABY. 
 
 (EDWARD PEASE.) 
 
 What is the weather we welcome him in? 
 Chilly without and cosy within, 
 Into our new made, lovely nest 
 Baby came — the loveliest. 
 
 What is the cradle we twist for him? 
 Mistletoe mad and holly trim, 
 Wreathed with Christmas roses round, 
 And the first snowdrop from the ground. 
 
 What are the christening robes he'll wear? 
 See, they're weaving in the air : 
 Frosty flake and crystal star 
 Baby's earliest broideries are. 
 
 What is our hymn for Christmas morn? 
 
 "Unto us a Child is born"; 
 
 Sing it on earth as they sing it in heaven, 
 
 " Unto us a Son is given." 
 
 Dec. 15, 1880. 
 K
 
 146 $O£m0. 
 
 SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 Girls are going to school — 
 
 Looks high-coloured and cool; 
 Spring's sweeping by with a light in her eye, 
 
 Beaming and beautiful. 
 
 Girls are going to school, 
 
 Conning the crookedest rule ; 
 Puzzle's a grace in a girlish face, 
 
 Learning leaves woman a fool. 
 
 Girls are gone into school, 
 
 Faces rounded and full, 
 Spring has swept by with the light in her eye, 
 
 Leaving me sorrowful.
 
 Jpotms. 147 
 
 IN THE NURSERY. 
 
 ON EARTH. 
 
 M. S. S. W. C. M. B. 
 
 "How is she, Nurse, to-night?" I said. 
 "Safe asleep in her little bed." 
 Yet not the cradle soft and strong, 
 Nor the love that watches it all night long — 
 Not these can quiet the heart's alarms, 
 Till I lay her again in her Shepherd's arms. 
 
 IN THE SKY. 
 
 R. F. B. G. B. W. 
 
 "How is he, Lord, to-night?" I said. 
 
 "Safe asleep in his little bed." 
 
 But not the sight of the narrow tomb, 
 
 Nor the bitter blight of an opening bloom — 
 
 Not these can trouble the heart's deep rest, 
 
 When I see him clasped to his Saviour's breast. 
 
 Aug. 23, 1885.
 
 i4 8 Poems. 
 
 A SONG OF SEVEN DAISIES. 
 
 Which name is sweetest, none agree ; 
 I know the sweetest name to me : 
 It is another name — and yet 
 I love the name of Margaret. 
 
 One wears it with the angels now, 
 At whose grave knee I learned to bow 
 My infant head. My eyes are wet ! 
 I bless the name of Margaret. 
 
 And one — we love thee for her sake, 
 Her life thy love will stronger make, 
 She loves thee for thyself, and yet 
 She loves herself in Margaret. 
 
 One we already sister call; 
 We all were rich if one were all; 
 But thou dost make us richer yet, 
 We have two sisters, Margaret.
 
 {Jocms. 149 
 
 And last I name them, children three, 
 
 "Five," "seven," and "two" — clap hands for thee; 
 
 Our Meg she is a clinging pet, 
 
 But she will love "Aunt Margaret." 
 
 July 16, 1889.
 
 iS° $oems. 
 
 A FLOWER MAIDEN. 
 
 Freeland brings me all delight, 
 Wealth of budding powers; 
 
 Joys of soul, and mind, and sight — 
 Meg brings me flowers. 
 
 Robin flings me — seraph bright — 
 
 Buds from Eden's bowers ; 
 Baby missives, angel white — 
 
 Meg brings me flowers. 
 
 Maida brings me, laughing sprite, 
 Sunshine dashed with showers ; 
 
 Rainbow moments, dark and bright — 
 Meg brings me flowers. 
 
 Gwendolen brings — the darling mite — 
 
 Smile that never lowers; 
 Tenderest clasps for day and night — 
 
 Meg brings me flowers.
 
 JJocms. 151 
 
 Men may bring me wrong and right, 
 
 Thorny days and hours ; 
 But I'm armed for any fight — 
 
 Meg brings me flowers.
 
 iS 2 iPotms. 
 
 THE LITTLE RED SQUIRREL. 
 
 An account of his Death and Butial, and of all those who had any share therein, 
 
 (Written at the Age of Twelve.) 
 Published by W. Young & Co., one wet afternoon at Bonskeid, in the Year 1864. 
 
 A little red squirrel sat on a green tree, 
 
 And merrily, merrily chirrup did he ; 
 
 He climbed up the boughs with his sharp little claws, 
 
 And cracked the hard nuts in his firm little jaws ; 
 
 And oft as you walked underneath the green tree, 
 
 The shells falling down by your side you would see. 
 
 But one day as we passed — 
 
 'Twas on Saturday last — 
 
 We saw no squirrel there, 
 
 Though we looked everywhere ; 
 
 No nut-shells were falling, 
 
 No chirrup was calling ; 
 For the poor little squirrel, while merry at play, 
 Had been captured, and murdered, and carried away.
 
 gtottlttf. 153 
 
 Who killed the squirrel ? 
 'Twas I, said the cat, 
 I'd a right to do that, 
 I killed the squirrel. 
 
 Who saw him die ? 
 I, said the hawk, 
 Sitting near on a rock, 
 I saw him die. 
 
 Who caught his blood ? 
 I, said the stoat, 
 Sitting near on the rock, 
 I caught his blood. 
 
 Who'll make his shroud ? 
 I, said the rabbit, 
 I'll fold it and lap it, 
 
 I'll make his shroud. 
 
 Who'll make the coffin ? 
 I, says the hare, 
 I'll gnaw it out square, 
 I'll make the coffin.
 
 154 floems. 
 
 Who'll make the grave ? 
 I, says the pig, 
 With my snout I can dig, 
 I'll make his grave. 
 
 Who'll carry him to the grave ? 
 I, says the toad, 
 I don't fear the load, 
 
 I'll carry him to the grave. 
 
 Who'll bear the pall ? 
 I, says the fly, 
 If it be not too high, 
 I'll bear the pall. 
 
 Who'll be chief mourner ? 
 I, says the adder, 
 I'll daily grow sadder, 
 
 I'll be the chief mourner. 
 
 Who'll lower him down ? 
 We, say the crows, 
 We'll stand in two rows, 
 We'll lower him down.
 
 $onn8. 155 
 
 Who'll read the service ? 
 I, says the jay, 
 I can chatter away, 
 
 I'll read the service. 
 
 Who'll say Amen ? 
 I, says the owl, 
 I can dolefully howl, 
 I'll say Amen. 
 
 Who'll fill in the grave ? 
 I, says the mole, 
 I'll come away from my hole, 
 I'll fill in the grave. 
 
 Who'll tell his poor friends ? 
 I, says the monkey, 
 I'll ride post on a donkey, 
 To tell all his friends. 
 
 Who'll toll the bell ? 
 I, says the quail, 
 If you tie the rope to my tail, 
 I'll toll the bell.
 
 156 $oems. 
 
 Who'll deck his grave ? 
 I, says the ant, 
 Some flowers I will plant, 
 
 And thus deck his grave. 
 
 Who'll put up a tombstone ? 
 I, says the sheep, 
 I'll fill it in deep, 
 
 I'll put up a tombstone. 
 
 Who'll carve the name ? 
 Who but I, says the weasel, 
 With a mallet and a chisel, 
 I'll carve the name. 
 
 Who'll write his life ? 
 I, says the rook, 
 I'll make up a book, 
 Written so well 
 That it cannot but sell, 
 I'll write his life.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 BONSKEID.
 
 BONSKEID. 
 
 Bonskeid, Pitlochry, 
 
 October 9, Evening, 1875. 
 
 I WRITE to remind you of your promise to let me have 
 the name of Craik's little book — not because I think you 
 will forget it, but rather as an excuse to my conscience 
 for omitting a small dose of Livy before shutting up for the 
 night. 
 
 I had a delightful plunge through mist and mud to-night 
 to my meeting in the Glen, where we had a pleasant hour, as 
 always, when there are very few. We talked together about 
 the words, "Thou wilt light my candle," Psalm xviii. The 
 energy of the walk rid me of an attack of discontentment, 
 consequent on an unsuccessful attempt to settle down to work 
 again, after my two days' (would it had been twenty) dissipa- 
 tion with you ; when, instead of plodding, we indulged in 
 'vain and foolish questionings.' The pleasure of your visit 
 has not yet lost its evil effect on me ; though, I hope, our 
 ' night thoughts ' of Wednesday have been ere this atoned for
 
 160 Setters. 
 
 by you in the shape of lengthy slumberings. You have been, 
 I have no doubt, already up at Edradour, and out for a ride to 
 make up for a six hours' stretch at Hebrew. Julius had not 
 overdone the 5th conjugation in your absence, I hope. It is 
 pleasant to think of the number of pheasants you have slain 
 since your return. 
 
 I have just been hearing from the under gardener 
 
 about the joy and peace of and his wife, who 
 
 were brought to the Saviour when Miss Savill was here. 
 Formerly rather a quiet man, he is now overflowing with the 
 warmth of first love, and the two talk of nothing else in their 
 daily work. When the Master is working at one's very door, 
 one feels lost in shame at the trustlessness and restlessness of 
 one's life. You feel as if your struggling and weary spirit 
 got some dim realization of what it is to be in the secret 
 of the Lord, wherein some lives seem to find their guiding 
 spell. It throws a bar of light athwart the seething unintelli- 
 gibility of our own little world, and the great world beyond, 
 of which ours is an image. It kindles a tremulous hope of 
 possible restitution, which is enough for me. 
 
 Forgive the madness of this epistle, and forget the nonsense 
 of it ; but, oh don't forget me in your prayers ; for the coming 
 session, I fear, will soon drown me again in a miserable 
 alternation of self-satisfaction and self-despair.
 
 IJonskciii. 161 
 
 Bonskeid, Oct. 22, 1875. 
 
 Candlislvs death makes one feel very heart-sick, I was 
 almost going to say home-sick, but you won't hear of 
 shuffling off this mortal coil yet. And, indeed, after the 
 first faintness has passed over, the emptiness and cheer- 
 lessness of the struggle makes one draw the girdle tighter, 
 and resolve to live, rather than die. For, if He has blessed 
 Chalmers, Welsh, Cunningham, Guthrie, Miller, and Candlish, 
 surely he will bless you, Frank, and me ; and finding work 
 and faith for them, neither shall be lacking to us. 
 
 The last words of the grand old doctor from the pulpit, 
 about the Christian life being a ' walk,' quite startled and 
 then encouraged me ; so like they are to what we were 
 talking about together while he was dying ; saying how 
 difficult it was to believe in progress, when one was toiling 
 along in the darkness, forbidden to linger behind, unable 
 to run on before and see the end of it all. Whose faith 
 follow, considering the end of his conversation ; Jesus Christ 
 the same yesterday (when He was toiling along, and we 
 were dreaming), and to-day (when He is transfigured, and 
 His death calls us to labour), and for ever (when we hope 
 to be united).
 
 1 62 lleticrs. 
 
 Attic Tower, June 5, 1879, 1.30 a.m. 
 
 So I have stolen away to " my Den " through the hushed 
 house and up the creaking stair, and am alone to meet 
 the dawn of a new day for Bonskeid and me. 
 
 All round me are plain green-papered walls, with narrow 
 windows let into the walls, through which one bar of land- 
 scape at a time can slide, of heaven or earth, according as 
 I sit or stand. There is a little square tapestry carpet 
 rounded with the varnished floor ; a low cane-and-pine 
 couch to match a reading stand for one reclining; a 
 little oblong table covered with an old crotcheted cover of 
 roses and lilies, and behind me a bookcase with books. 
 Oh, there are all my select friends, seen and smiling to me, 
 though my back is to them. A row of pure German 
 theology : on Christian Doctrine, Christ's Person, Old and 
 New Testament Theology, a couple of great Commentaries 
 on the Psalms and the Life of Christ. Then there are 
 select books of reference : dictionaries, grammars, and so 
 on. Then there are my great Christian heathen — Homer's 
 " Odyssey " and Virgil all ; then my heathen-Christian 
 Heine ; my great Christians — Dante and Pascal ; then the 
 mighty singers of our century — Goethe, Tennyson, and 
 Browning. Some lighter verse, Barbour's epic ballad of 
 " The Bruce," " The Nibelungen Lied," a rare volume of
 
 jtoitsketb. 163 
 
 the best shorter Scotch ballads, and the master ballad 
 singer from Tubingen — Uhland. There are lighter things 
 than these : some volumes of German story, the " Promessi 
 Sposi," and a trifle of Corneille, Racine, and Moliere. Then 
 come some things more sacred — " The Imitation," the 
 " Gesangbuch," and a volume of Beck's " Reden." Last 
 there are the words of eternal life themselves : my Cannes 
 Latin Testament with Beza's Psalms ; my Italian " Santa 
 Biblia" of '72; Martin Luther's, with me since Tubingen 
 in 'j6 ; and a Griesbach's New Testament with the Scotch 
 Psalms and tunes. These are almost all, and they have 
 not come there by careful forethought or intentional selec- 
 tion ; they have been floated in here by the everyday 
 tide of human affairs — one when a room was shifted ; 
 one when a sudden fit of sorrow took me; one in a flush 
 of joy ; one when some thought struck me, or some wish, 
 or some recollection. 
 
 I have just come from two hours over my old college desk, 
 my shelves, my papers and letters, and I came up here to 
 get calm, and I liave got it. For I could not turn over ten 
 years of my past life and touch, now college letters, voices 
 of men in trial, misunderstandings, makings-of-it-up ; now 
 essays, now records of societies, now the quartettes we made 
 to play away the tiresomeness of a diligence in the Pyrenees ;
 
 i6 4 fetter*. 
 
 now a passport to Italy, and a wax taper for the Catacombs ; 
 now exam, papers — bushels of them, and exercises — cart- 
 loads in Latin and in Greek ; now relics of the French 
 winter ; now sacred records of the Revival time ; now certifi- 
 cates — no end of them ; I couldn't do it without being fairly 
 unmanned. 
 
 Bonskeid, July 15, 1879. 
 
 . . . And then the drive home. You can have no 
 conception of the summer that is here. The green is 
 wonderful. The woods are crowded to an impenetrable 
 mass ; every wall is overleant, every water overhung, by 
 the rank riches of summer ; every mountain climbs to 
 heaven, heavy with luxuriance ; every valley is an unknown 
 depth of verdure ; here the birches flutter full of leaves 
 through every trembling tendril, there the pines drop 
 languid with large fans fringed with fresh gold; here the 
 chestnuts are broad with glistening foliage, there the firs 
 taper to a new, never before seen, top of spring. Every 
 plane tree flaunts a thousand leaves of glossy lightness, 
 every oak bristles dark with a myriad patterns of deep
 
 ISmtskctb. 165 
 
 July 13, 1879. 
 
 "Wilt thou know of my doing to-day? Here are some 
 of the a-KOTTiat kcu Trpuioves aicpoi which stand out in 
 the sunlight. 11. 15 walked to the school with Uhland, 
 reading snatches of Swabian song and calling Carlo, 
 our Dandie Dinmont terrier, to heel. Spent some time in 
 school, hearing Bible lessons, infants' spelling, older boys' 
 arithmetic, big girls' reading, examining books and " copies," 
 and all school gear. Then a " blow " home, roaring " Graf 
 Eberhard im Barte " to the glorious mountain air. Then 
 a hasty getting "tidied," and then into the arms of — 
 who ? who but your old friend of the Rialto, — guess 
 again, — Professor Blackie, with his hearty Ilaij exei? ; /ca\ai? ; 
 and my unhesitating HayKaXKiara. Then follow minutes 
 of Elysium, were life only the academy, and the world 
 made for students and professors. I hear him talk of 
 foreign travel, of the pictures it gives to hang for ever 
 in one's after-study ; and as the brave old snowy head falls 
 back against the claret of the sofa, he brings me out, one 
 by one, the pictures — Rome, Florence, Milan, Gottingen 
 — latest hung therein. Then we go to early dinner, 
 Mrs. Blackie and Miss Fraser being our other ' company.' 
 After dinner the Professor and I have an hour 
 and a halfs stroll to the school, while I drink -in the
 
 166 fitters. 
 
 delightful desultoriness of his talk, and try to stop just 
 when he does — which is not always easy ; for you cannot 
 tell why this cistus should so seize his fancy, or that 
 potentilla interrupt his thought. But it only breaks, to 
 flower forth again more beautiful, as he talks first of 
 Italy, its grace we lack so in Scotland, its lack of stern- 
 ness we could so well supply ; its few great hearts alive 
 and active, its multitudes asleep and slow; then of its new 
 literature ; of Massimo d'Azeglio's Memoirs and Villari's 
 Savonarola; then the parties — Cairoli's and Minghetti's, hurry 
 (as he thinks) and moderation ; then what poets should do 
 now, not be so sundered from their time as Browning 
 (who walked these roads), nor so bound to the mere acci- 
 dent of rhyme ; let poets write short, sympathetic lives of 
 men ; let them write history, not stories. And so we come 
 to the school, where the Professor has half an hour of 
 cross-questioning the best scholar, to the advantage of the 
 whole school ; and such happy definitions, such funny 
 " pokes " with the mind and the walking stick, and such 
 instructive sallies and amusing information. They are 
 rather annoyed when I tell them how great a man my 
 master is. Then they sing to him in good Scotch, to his 
 heart's desire, the alte Greis and junge Herr joining in, and 
 then the little ones have "action-songs" which please him
 
 JJonskrib. 167 
 
 well. So at last he rises, and, asking them some things in 
 a Gaelic too good, or bad, or both (or rather book-born), 
 to be understanded of them, he breaks into a beautiful 
 Gaelic lament, while the whole little audience stands open- 
 mouthed-eyed-and-eared and hardly recovers to whisper 
 " Goodbye, sir," ere he and I are out into the air again, — 
 I apologising for having given him such little work for so 
 long, and he humming out something in Scotch, which 
 he breaks half sternly, to say : " There are four things 
 a man must love : children, flowers, woman and — must 
 I say it? — wine." He went on to tell me how hateful 
 and horrible a nature Napoleon's always had seemed to 
 him, who said : " I love nothing, I love not woman, I love 
 not dice, I love not wine "; " II n'aime que la politique." 
 Then the hill came, and with the hill our thoughts 
 could not help climbing. ' Was I licensed ? ' No, not 
 ordained yet, of course. Would I preach the splendid 
 possibilities in a man, to sink to the beasts which perish or 
 to rise to heaven itself? No; he did not deny that the 
 heart was deceitful and desperately wicked, but should we 
 not call on men to realise for what they were made ? Jugend 
 ist immer bigot, says Goethe ; yes, but age will make the 
 heart open, and you will always grow gentler. No man 
 understands men who does not always leave himself more
 
 1 68 Setters 
 
 behind and go and sit by others, wherever they may be. 
 He could not say what Greek one should read who had 
 few books and less time ; no, read only where the heart 
 runs ; read nothing except that about which you are 
 'passionate.' (Oh how my whole soul leaped out to meet 
 these words ; I did not once even gently deflect the current 
 of the conversation, for to get the testimony of a true heart 
 is a priceless treasure, KTtj/m.a is uel). So I got no lists of 
 authors or works, and was it not well for either of us ? I told 
 him of my three loves — Greek, German, and Italian. Yes ; 
 Italian was living ; there was a great language being spoken 
 there at present — what would the issue be? "L'ltalia e 
 fatta, 1'Italiani sono da fare." Then German, "Alles Gross 
 ist Deutsch geschrieben." Read, where you are thinking ; 
 don't read where you are not feeling. This and much 
 more on churches, war, and architecture ; youth and new 
 opinions in theology, and materialism (he had read some, 
 he couldn't for the life of him remember it) and 
 philosophy. He talked and I treasured up. But most 
 the thing on the three tongues and what was work for 
 poets. Then came afternoon tea, and raillery between 
 him and my mother, who since many years has 'cared for 
 his soul/ upon religion and growing ripeness in it. Then 
 they packed into the pony phaeton — my professor a perfect
 
 $onskcib. 169 
 
 picture, his broad Leghorn bright with a flower, scarlet of 
 sedum, fringed by golden yew ; and the ladies a good back- 
 ground. 
 
 Bonskeid, August 26, 1879. 
 
 . . . After dinner at 1.30 yesterday, I wrote letters 
 for an hour till 3. Then Hugh and I walked up the Glen 
 to finish our visits. We called on the gardener's wife, and old 
 Mrs. Seaton, Balnald, in whose house I have kept a meet- 
 ing these many years. I told her of aunt (she is 82 her- 
 self), and it comforted her to hear of another who at her 
 own age was leaning on Christ and getting rest. She is 
 my truest friend in the Glen. Then we called on the smith's 
 widow, a comfortable little character who keeps chickens 
 and has a queer accent ; the tailor, an old soldier, brought 
 to the Lord some years since, now near his end ; the old 
 land steward of a neighbouring estate ; and Mrs. M'Lauchlan, 
 Drumdagowan, a young wife with four little girls. Then 
 Hugh and I hurried home to have tea with the children in 
 the Temple, and had the greatest fun carrying down the tea 
 things in the rain to the house. Then for an hour Anna 
 and I watched the sunset wandering up and down the strath, 
 and working every moment a fresh wonder with river and
 
 i7° Suiters. 
 
 rock and tree. It struck out every little cranny in the 
 hills into bright relief; sparkling with the rain, it came 
 behind the birches, and traced every tendril of their match- 
 less foliage out upon a fair background of brilliance ; it 
 caught up a mist from the river, and kept painting the 
 hills and trees between it, and finally fixed it all with rose. 
 It threw a rainbow light over all else, one foot of it upon 
 the Giant's Steps and one on Ben-y-Vrackie. 
 
 Bonskeid, September 2, 1879. 
 
 Coming home from the little meeting instead of taking 
 the Pass, I crossed the heights above Killiekrankie, and, 
 as I came out upon the open, all the stars came out, 
 and the heavens brake open to their highest, and through 
 a sea of snow and azure rode the moon triumphing. In 
 the midst of it all I stood by a sick woman's bedside and 
 heard her say she was leaning all her weight on the Lord 
 Jesus, and then wrestled with her husband at the door. 
 
 Bonskeid, SabbrUh, 4 p.m., September 6, 1879. 
 
 At the Bridge of Garry on our road home from 
 church we dropped off and climbed to the lofty plateau
 
 |kmsktib. 171 
 
 to ask after the poor woman. At 11 the Lord had 
 come and taken her to Himself. We knelt by the bed, 
 where the face was so thin and pinched, but peaceful, 
 (I never saw any but an infant after death till to-day) 
 and gave thanks and prayed, and then I spoke and prayed 
 with the family in the kitchen. Surely the Lord was with 
 us there. . . . 
 
 8 p.m. — What a marvellous joy possessed me in the 
 pulpit to-night as I closed ; to think, said my heart, that 
 the joy of the Lord is the best joy, and that thou art to 
 have this hereafter for ever. And so I kneeled forward 
 in the pulpit until all the people had passed out, praying 
 in the darkness. ... It was dark to-night in the 
 chapel after I began to speak, and I spoke with the more 
 freedom and boldness, and they heard with the less con- 
 fusion and fear. I forbade the lights at the close, and 
 at the last we stood in the gloom together in confession 
 and raised our voices together in song. It was " Rock 
 of Ages" I repeated, and we all knew the words. Mean- 
 time the rain fell heavily outside, and I intimated in 
 deep silence how to-morrow our whole Presbyterian Church 
 in Scotland (Established, Free, and United) would join in 
 prayer for fine weather, if it be God's will, and we should 
 join too.
 
 i72 fetters. 
 
 The poor woman at Tenandry said to Grace Stewart, 
 who nursed her, on Friday morning : " But will I get 
 away with Jesus, Grace ? " Grace said her end was near, 
 and, if she trusted Jesus, she would get away with Him. 
 "Then I'm lippening to Him" (trusting to Him), she said, 
 and so was quiet and spoke little more that was for 
 earthly ears. I breathed into her ear yesterday, "Jesus 
 is with you," " The Lord is your Shepherd," " In the 
 valley of the shadow of death, Thou art with me." She 
 nodded assent. When on the day before she was tossing 
 and throwing herself about she cried, " Row (roll) me over 
 to Mr. Barbour's side ; that's the strongest side." Then 
 she began to wander. 
 
 Bonskeid, 1881. 
 
 These two days I have been going throughout the coasts 
 of Bonskeid, from Ballinluig even unto where thou goest 
 unto the Bothy, and from the hill that goeth up to Drum- 
 dagown even unto the oak that is by the well. Are they 
 not all written in the book of our rambles together ? I 
 have pursued after the reapers and overtaken them, and 
 smitten them with an exhortation great and sore. Yea, I 
 have shewn unto them a new teacher, above all the teachers 
 that have been in the glen.
 
 #<mskeifc. 173 
 
 Bonskcid, 11.30 p.m., 18th June, 1883. 
 
 I am writing in the saloon, strangely silent, and yet 
 surrounded with so many voices of memory more elo- 
 quent than any speech. One feels here how little past 
 he has had in his own home ; the present is all there, rich 
 and full ; but here there rushes on you at once a whole 
 world of association and allusion ; you enter a crowded 
 room ; you are awed by all you have been, and others 
 before you have been ; it is a long history you are con- 
 scious of, not an individual life. I never felt it so much 
 before ; though the feeling is old enough to make me 
 fancy it must be true. 
 
 Outside, things are to match. How poor Aberdeenshire 
 is to Perthshire. Here the hills are wooded to the tops ; 
 you have a delightful sense that all is clothed ; there 
 are such hidden depths to explore, such recesses in 
 which to hide and live a hundred fairy lives, far 
 from men and hard, onesided, domineering reality. 
 The rhododendrons are all in bloom, scented with jour- 
 neys twenty years old at least, when we drove up from 
 Dunkeld. Azaleas are at their best, redolent of Springland 
 and childhood and iroOos ui>€ic\a\>iTos. The broom blazed 
 like a golden lane along the railway line ; while the rowans
 
 174 getters. 
 
 and lilacs and chestnuts glimmer visible, though ghostly, 
 even at this midnight hour. Just now I saw out of the 
 dining-room window the moon riding, Diana-fashion, on 
 great masses of white fleece cloud against a deep background 
 of blue, right over the west wood. It was a great sight here 
 now for anyone ; but it was also a splendid picture out of 
 an old gallery for me. 
 
 Mr. Fergusson and Mr. Pittendrigh have just disappeared 
 after one and a half hour's talk in the gloaming (after wor- 
 ship) over old Highland stories, wherein Mr. Fergusson 
 told us, among many things, how he grew up a jack-of-all- 
 trades in his father's house, and shod the minister's pony 
 in the home smithy, and made two ploughs, one of which 
 still cuts old mother earth at Moulin, and a set of harness, 
 also shoes for himself and family, and did odd joiner jobs 
 about the place ; and how the minister ' improved the occa- 
 sion' by calling him out before everybody at a catechizing 
 and saying, 'Ye have got great talents and ingenuity; just 
 so much will be asked of ye.' Who knows what he owes 
 to these faithful words ? 
 
 We had a delightful drive, abundant tea, and stroll 
 thereafter to the view beyond the saw-mill. Everything is 
 as it was.
 
 $ottskciJ>. 175 
 
 Birnam, January 11, 1884. 
 
 I have just enjoyed a delightful drive down with Norman 
 Mackay in the car. Bonskeid was looking its best, bright 
 April sunshine breaking through the mists and falling on 
 purple birches, brown oaks and larches, and green Scots 
 fir. A slight peppering of snow covered the ground, 
 hardened into frost on the higher grounds. Walking up 
 
 to , I found Mrs. away at the doctor's. The old 
 
 man (well over 80) looks sadly stricken, but is still a fine 
 gentlemanly old fellow. Coming from rugged Aberdeenshire 
 it was like being received in the grand Springland manner. 
 The old woman, also a goodly bit of clay — with Gaelic 
 shining through every second word, and the second-sight 
 tinging her stern Calvinism. What these Highlanders might 
 have been, might yet be, and bring forth — but for the poison 
 with which Saxons have drenched them. She drinks — has 
 always drunk, I am told — this grandmother stepping into 
 the cold stream — has suckled and bred both son and 
 daughter to drink (so they say) .... I sometimes 
 wonder whether it is I who am mad on this subject — and 
 all the world — who are taking all this murder quite pleas- 
 antly — are sane.
 
 176 fetters. 
 
 Bonskeid, April 13, 1886. 
 
 . . . The Vale of Athole was as beautiful as ever 
 to-day, as we passed along. Only its beauty somehow 
 seems less inspiring and more subduing than it used to. 
 One begins to understand why people, as they feel life 
 ebb within them, desire to see again the old sights and 
 familiar spots of their first days. They soothe one some- 
 how, like the faces of those you love. I still feel life 
 strong within me ; but I am thankful, too, for the sense 
 which restrains, as well as the sense which urges. I need 
 much holding back. 
 
 April 14. 
 
 I was up at Robin's grave this evening, and did give 
 thanks for God's goodness. The words on the stone 
 seemed to tell of his life above. " The Lord took him up 
 in His arms, put His hands on him, and blessed him." 
 He did that two years ago, and He is doing so still. 
 
 My chapter this morning, too, told me something of 
 him (Luke xx. 35-8). We shall not get new children 
 there, but we shall have our own made angels. There is 
 no more dying there for them or us, but a blessed life as 
 God's children. What it will be, we know not ; though 
 Mrs. 's last words often come back with sweetness
 
 jtottskttb. 177 
 
 — " Everlasting — spiritual — union." It seemed given me 
 as a watchword for to-day's life that part of the text, 
 " worthy to obtain that world." It is an extraordinary 
 thought that we may be, and by grace are being, fitted 
 here and now for such a world. 
 
 At 11.30 Mr. Ritchie came, and we climbed the hill 
 together to the Mains. . . . The Glen was looking 
 lovely, the young larches just breaking into green, and 
 the hills quite royal in their purple. . . . We walked 
 back by the new drive. The riverside was sunny and 
 warm as June. ... At 3.30 we drove down by the 
 Falls to look at the new plantation there. ... At the 
 bridge Robert Mackintosh and I came down from the 
 dog-cart and walked home by the footpaths along Garry 
 and Tummel. It was a lovely afternoon. The mottled 
 bed of the Garry showed brightly through its flowing 
 stream ; while dark Tummel in his full strength went 
 hurrying down and "leapt his falls with thunder rather 
 than glee." It was almost terrible to sit at the Queen's 
 Seat and watch the frothing water sweep sounding by. 
 The background was unusually striking. The Giant's 
 Steps stood out behind in black profile against the sink- 
 ing sun, while clouds of spray curled up in front like 
 incense steaming from an altar.
 
 178 fetters. 
 
 All the way home was one wonder of beautiful bare 
 birches ; their delicate foliage full of sunlight, shaking like 
 fairy veils in the faint-blowing wind, and their straight 
 stems flashing like spears of silver out on the hillside. I 
 never knew Bonskeid more beautiful. 
 
 Bonskeid, Pitlochry, May 17, 1887. 
 
 We are having days of great happiness here. Every 
 hour is filled, with errands to the Village, the Milton, the 
 Cottage, the School, Balnald, the Farms, and so on, and 
 so on, which bring back at every turn old scenes, in few 
 of which you do not figure. From measuring fields to 
 catching fish, from fetching home a minister to finding out 
 what is wrong with the water-supply, from recovering a 
 runaway tune in the chapel to restoring a strayed sheep 
 to its park — what Bonskeid experience have you not shared? 
 And now over all there is shed a strange halo from the 
 green sward on the top of the West Wood, where he sleeps 
 who gave its character to everything, and for whom it 
 seems as if everything might still be done. God grant 
 that it may be done in some measure as he would have 
 desired.
 
 IJonakcib. 179 
 
 The magic of spring was surely never more wonderful 
 than it is at Bonskeid this May. Even while I am writing, 
 and it is growing dusk by long delightful inches, the woods 
 are still bursting open, as if for pure excess of life they 
 would die. The green is almost too bright for earth, and 
 far too rapid and varied in its change for earthly senses. 
 You could shut your eyes and cry for want of human 
 beings fit to match it, were it not for two little figures that 
 flit about as familiar with it as angels with Paradise, two 
 little souls that laugh and prattle, eat and sleep, and only 
 know that it is their father's and mother's home. 
 
 Bonskeid, 
 Pitlochry, N.B., August 26, 1887. 
 
 I promised to tell thee of my ride yesterday after- 
 noon. 
 
 I heard in the morning that the re-cast bell for Tummel 
 Bridge Free Church was lying at Pitlochry, and that there 
 was no sign of any one coming for it. So I thought I might 
 go up there myself and see why it was not being sent for, 
 and get some one to go for it. The man from the casting- 
 works was waiting in the village, wasting his time, until it 
 should be sent for.
 
 i So gutters. 
 
 At a quarter to four I trotted off with Polly by the front 
 avenue, in order to post some late letters and have a look 
 at the new entrance to the gate, which Forgan has finished 
 on one side. I trotted quietly up to the glen (4 o'clock), 
 walking down all the hills, and letting Norma have a 
 good look at everything. She showed a disposition to turn 
 in at the west lodge (as she had done at each of the Faskally 
 lodges the evening she arrived), and seemed to think the 
 well was ' meant for her to drink at.' 
 
 It was a strange, still afternoon — everything covered with 
 a grey-blue mist. At the Queen's View (4.15-20) I got off, 
 and led Norma near to the edge of the rock, and had a 
 quiet glance at the weird landscape. Land and water lay 
 under the same heavy veil of vapour, reed-beds and glassy 
 levels and jutting promontories (uktui TrpofiXtjres), standing 
 distinct, yet dim, in their gauzy dress. The very heavens 
 were thickly draped and curtained, so that Ben-y-Vrackie, 
 behind me, loomed faint and spectral against the sky. Only 
 above Schiehallion the mist was caught aside, and a slight 
 suffusion of red showed the grand mountain in its simple 
 strength and massiveness. 
 
 Gently descending the hill, I felt the rich fragrance of the 
 birchwood on Borenich, doubly rich with all the drought and 
 heat of this tropical summer, and ready to exhale with the
 
 |3cm0keit). 181 
 
 slightest moisture. I passed the farm at 4.40, and beyond 
 Croft Douglas had a minute or two's chat with a lad, 
 carrying fowls to market, to whom I gave a threepenny-bit 
 to carry the fowls head-upmost for the rest of the way. 
 That was at a quarter to five — an hour from starting— and 
 at five minutes past five I made Loch Tummel Inn. A 
 little girl at a cottage beyond gave me some water in a tub 
 for Norma, who said she could go no further till this want 
 was supplied ; indeed, she nearly carried me into the cottage 
 in order to emphasize her feelings on the subject. So we 
 went through the close wood of Portneilan, and, emerging 
 from it, caught the full blow of moorland air off broad 
 Rannoch and lofty Schiehallion. How I drank it in ! 
 
 The last three miles we did in twenty minutes, for I was 
 getting anxious about my time. As we flew along, I was 
 only aware how the scents kept changing. Rich aromatic 
 birch, with bog myrtle among it, rose from either side as we 
 slanted down from the heights above the loch to the river- 
 level again. Then came the open moor, with honey-laden 
 heather in full bloom, among grey rocks and stones on the 
 one hand, and on the other the wide-running Tummel begin- 
 ning to race and grumble again with the narrowing glen. 
 
 I arrived at my destination, a little way beyond the 
 peaked bridge on the Rannoch road, at 5.25.
 
 1 82 letters. 
 
 Bonskeid, April 9, 1890. 
 
 Everything is bursting and breaking and sounding 
 with young life ; starlings and ' merles ' were crying in 
 the oaks above me; doves, pairing, fled like surprised lovers 
 from a spruce close by my side ; rabbits set off before me 
 with the peculiar hop, step, and jump they only put on in 
 spring. Every tree and branch and twig wore a favour 
 different to its fellow, that looked as if it had never been 
 worn before. It is God's world, and He still says in the 
 hearts of those who keep His commandments, It is very 
 good.
 
 CULTS.
 
 CULTS. 
 
 The Free Manse, 
 
 Cults, Aberdeen, October 17, 1881. 
 
 [After his Ordination.] 
 
 Many thanks for your timely reminder of Wednesday 
 last. It struck a dormant chord and met a real need 
 in me. I had no time to sit, or stand still and think 
 beforehand. Things were pressing in on every side, till 
 the Martha in me was fain to exchange places with her 
 meditative sister. But Mary had her hour at last, I think. 
 
 The minister, an earnest young man, took for his text, 
 " This is the record, that God hath given to us eternal 
 life," and he was helped to bring home to me in a new 
 way what the outlook and the issues of the work that 
 was being given me were. 
 
 And when he and the others, my brother among them, 
 laid their hands upon me, my heart did indeed melt down, 
 and I sought to offer up myself, all sinful and ashamed 
 as I felt to be, to Christ and His service.
 
 1 86 letters. 
 
 Yesterday Mr. Wilson was all his old self. The opening 
 prayer, going about like an invisible friendship among the 
 people and finding out what everyone wanted to ask for ; 
 the chapter (Acts xx. ad fin.) opened up like a pastoral 
 directory ; the sermon (Tit. iii. 8), ' the doctrines of grace 
 the only guide to a holy life,' full of large familiar ex- 
 pressions and masculine force ; the introduction making 
 such solemn engagements and undertakings for me as, I 
 trust, will be remembered and striven after with strong 
 wrestling and tears. 
 
 The Free Manse, 
 Culls, Aberdeen, July 29, 1882. 
 
 I must write and tell you how it went with us yesterday 
 [on the occasion of Mr. Moody's visit]. 
 
 I had 100 great bills printed the day before, and a lad 
 and myself went over the whole place the afternoon of 
 Wednesday posting them and personally inviting the people. 
 I had been in Aberdeen each night through the week, 
 and saw some souls pass into the light at the Music Hall 
 meetings. Many of our best people went in too. We 
 had a special 'bus out at night each evening through the 
 week. Some of them were deeply impressed.
 
 Guilts. 187 
 
 Yesterday forenoon I again spent in bill- posting and 
 publishing. At three I heard Moody give his Bible Reading 
 on " God's love," one long and moving appeal to Christian 
 people to open their hearts to this revelation of love. We 
 had a prayer meeting at the close. 
 
 At 4.30, he, Stebbins, Gray Fraser, and the "Christian" 
 reporter, drove out with a carriage and pair to the manse. 
 Charlotte had tea in the drawing-room for them and for 
 some of our people. Moody had his arms open at once 
 for Freeland, and said as he took him, " This is the fourth 
 generation." I marvel at his absolute disengagement from 
 everything except the matter in hand. 
 
 Twelve of the Aberdeen choir had come out by the 
 train, and had tea in the dining-room. Then we drove up. 
 I had great hopes of a good meeting, but a few fears 
 they were all disappointed. 
 
 Our office-bearers were marshalling the people in their 
 places, and Mr. Moody at once took the meeting in hand, 
 making the people sing, getting them massed up about 
 him, ordering all things. 
 
 Almost all Cults was there. 1 think every house had 
 masters or servants, old or young, representing it. Perhaps 
 this mixing of classes was the finest outward feature of 
 the meeting. Town and country, rich and poor, saints and
 
 1 88 Setters. 
 
 sinners, were all mingled together. By six o'clock the place 
 was packed, without being crammed. Moody gathered him- 
 self together for a great effort. He would get hold of the 
 youngest there and make him understand the way of sal- 
 vation. If we were all to be in eternity to-night, this would 
 be what he would do. We should never meet again until 
 the judgment seat. He would so speak that no one could 
 then say, I never knew the way of salvation. 
 
 Four words he took to tell it, ' receive,' ' believe,' ' take,' 
 ' trust.' Under each particular he was extraordinarily full 
 and explicit. Every word seemed given him ; like John 
 Knox he ' spared no arrows,' and they seemed sticking ; 
 you could hear them strike. In all my life I never heard 
 the Gospel so fully and powerfully preached. My own 
 heart seemed an index, registering the effect on others. I 
 just drank it all in, and prayed heart and soul all the time 
 that my people might drink it in too. 
 
 His wealth of Biblical reference was amazing, only more 
 wonderful than his anticipation of every possible objection or 
 question of the human hearts before him. It was the true 
 prophet reading off the history of every one before him, 
 and then reading the Scriptures into the face he had read. 
 The effect of each successive experience, caught and carried 
 back to you with a text at its heels, was very impressive.
 
 (lults. 189 
 
 Towards the end he began to plead with the people 
 individually. I saw nothing, but I know now heads were 
 going down all over the church ; and then, to my intense 
 delight, he began to call upon those who wanted prayer 
 to rise. The Spirit of God seemed moving on the face of 
 the waters, and raising, literally raising one after another. 
 It was unspeakable to hear how he pleaded and pleaded 
 for another and another before he should pray. Twenty- 
 tltree rose and sat down again. 
 
 He did not spare himself. He spoke on for more than 
 an hour. You would never have imagined that he had 
 an audience of between two and three thousand waiting 
 him half-an-hour away. We seemed to be the only people 
 he had ever preached to, or would ever preach to. He 
 might have been living among us by the way he took 
 hold of the entire wants and state of the congregation. 
 Young men, women, children, parents, all got their own 
 message. His closing prayer was most pathetic. His 
 petitions for my people and for me, and for the mother 
 of our old minister, and for you next week, were just 
 brimful of affection and understanding. 
 
 He told us he had come here in order to keep a promise 
 to you ; you were going to be among us next week (the 
 words he used of you were very high but most discerning),
 
 190 getters. 
 
 and he had just come to make a beginning. The humble- 
 ness, as well as the gigantic strength of the man, shone 
 out radiantly all through his address. What touched a 
 High Church lady who is staying with us, and who only 
 knew him from hearsay, was his exquisite tenderness. 
 
 After he left I asked those who wished to be spoken to 
 to come into the hall. Several did so, and I believe one 
 or two found peace. I am just going out on a search- 
 expedition. 
 
 I intend to have a noon prayer meeting each day of our 
 meetings. In great thankfulness, in trust and prayer, — 
 Yours ever. 
 
 The Free Manse, 
 Cults, Aberdeen, Aug. 8, 1882. 
 
 I think evangelism has got a standing among us, which, 
 with God's help, it may never lose. 
 
 It was a little awkward ending with a new voice, and 
 one pitched in a slightly different key to that of the 
 evenings before. But even this could not interfere with 
 the impression, or hinder God's hand from working, as it 
 did ; we had a good meeting, and I gave them Rev. iii. 
 20, as a close, and got one new one to speak to. 
 What I learned most at the meetings was the absolute
 
 (Cults. 191 
 
 indispensability of previous preparation and of prayer, and 
 the great advantage of keeping feeling under restraint. I 
 managed better, I think, on Sabbath night about that 
 
 We had a good little noon meeting upon Friday — not 
 quite so large however. I took the account of the revival 
 under Samuel, 1 Samuel vii., with its completing touch, the 
 setting-up of Eben-Ezer. On Saturday night we gathered, 
 some fifty, to give thanks. I took the treasure, the trustee, 
 the entrusting of it, the security, the termination of the trust. 
 
 On Sabbath morning Milne was admirable, giving us 
 first a rapid Bible reading over John i.-xi., to bring out 
 how much might be accomplished at one interview with 
 Jesus; then preaching on John i. 29 and 33 ad fin. — the 
 connexion between the outpouring of the blood and of 
 the Spirit, the connexion for the Christian preacher, for 
 Christ Himself, and for the believer; under the last 
 article he was most practical, showing how Christ was the 
 fountain of the Spirit both for pardon, purity, and power, 
 and meeting the difficulties about predestination, evidences 
 of grace, and assurance of salvation. The people listened 
 and liked him. 
 
 At night I was helped, taking your theme, "A Good 
 Man's Visit to a Revival." 1. The revivalists ; 2. The 
 visitor ; 3. His view of the revival ; 4. His advice.
 
 192 l!ettn-s. 
 
 i. The central object of the Christian life — "the Lord"; 
 2. The vital attitude of the Christian life — " cleaving to the 
 Lord " ; 3. The essential organ of the Christian life — " with 
 purpose of heart ... to the Lord." 
 
 Your words about the burden of life and work were, and 
 are, very helpful to us. It brings one strangely near to 
 another, to know of his conflict, ay, even to hear his heart's 
 sighs. I think there is a secret and irresistible sympathy 
 which knits us at such times. It reminds me of the scene 
 in Iliad, ft, where Agamemnon summons the chief of the 
 Greeks to his side in dire need, while he makes prayer 
 and sacrifice. But his brother comes uncalled, his own 
 heart telling him what trouble Agamemnon is in. avro- 
 ix a t o c Si 01 ij\6e fioyv aya9o$ MeveAao?. j] S e e yap kutu 
 Qv/xov aSe\<peo v a>s eirove'iTo. And if human hearts 
 thus answer each to the other's need, what of that divine, 
 sustained, untiring sympathy of the Brother of us all. Non 
 enim habetnus . . . qui non possit affici sensu infirnri- 
 tatitm nestrarum, sed tentatnm in omnibus similiter. 
 
 Cults, March 15, 1883. 
 
 I have had a blessed afternoon, trying to do the Father's 
 business. After sending off the money I went to visit
 
 Cults. 1 93 
 
 poor Mrs. . She had wonderfully recovered from her 
 
 terrible illness, when one day at church she caught cold, 
 and three weeks' nursing her parents made it worse. The 
 left lung is badly affected, and her cough was harrowing 
 to hear. Yet she said she was 'contented.' I had no 
 words of my own for such distress, but I took her back 
 some grapes. 
 
 Then I carried Dr. 's message to old Dr. , who 
 
 is standing, very calmly and happily, not far from where 
 the river must be. I felt like a child at the foot of a rich 
 old fruit tree, with beautiful, sweet fruit, falling off of itself 
 whenever he opened his lips. He spoke much of the 
 mystery of Providence; much of faith in Jesus Christ; 
 but most of the great tenderness of God's love and of our 
 need for great tenderness in telling it to men. 
 
 In the train to Perth, June 18, 1883. 
 
 It is a perfect day to travel in, so warm, yet fresh, 
 
 so genial, yet stimulating- — a day like one of 's ideal 
 
 characters, who do you good without either ruffling or re- 
 laxing you ! On starting from Aberdeen the sea-effect was 
 more brilliant and original than I ever remember to have
 
 194 Setters. 
 
 seen it. It was this. The light, penetrating the thick clouds 
 with itself, cast, through their medium, a rich purple over 
 the nearer part of the sea, which lay perfectly still, as 
 though pleased to receive it, and content to rest a little 
 after the rough play it had had yesterday. But beyond 
 the clouds the light poured, straight and strong, upon the 
 further surface of the waters, which were ruffled slightly so 
 as to resemble frosted silver. On this silver the little brown 
 sails of the herring-boats were set, like flies in amber. Only 
 what made the silver so wonderful was that the purple 
 ground appeared quite distinctly in it. It was, for all the 
 world, like my ' Babylonish Garment ' of last night, fine 
 soft stuff embroidered with precious metal. . . . Reading 
 to-day in the 'Journal' of the opening of the Episcopal 
 Church at Mannafield, with its 'procession,' its 'priests,' its 
 Presbyterian ministers put down among 'the laymen,' its 
 inaugural sermon saying there were ' no means of grace ' 
 between Aberdeen and Banchory-Ternan, rather dis- 
 heartened me. One must try to put the doctrines of ' free 
 grace,' of the utter ruin and the unmerited redemption, of 
 the 'One Mediator' and the universal priesthood, so plainly 
 that such things may be seen to be manifest lies. Above 
 all, one must testify more with the life, that these are 
 truths to live for, and turn out better lives than delusions
 
 QTults. 195 
 
 do. There is trial and discipline enough for a follower of 
 Christ in these days, if he have but grace to take it up. 
 Only the cross in the heart can conquer and keep down 
 the cross on the sleeve — but it can and will. 
 
 The Free Manse, 
 Cults, Aberdeen, Aug. 10, 1883. 
 
 About more devotion to the work, I can join in your 
 prayer for that with all my heart. I feel the need of it 
 more every day. Old habits, easy circumstances, even 
 earthly love, and a hundred other things fight against it. 
 You know me enough, and yet not enough, to tell what 
 my battle is. 
 
 I had to induct Barry last night, and took the oppor- 
 tunity to pour forth my own experience into the text, 
 " Feed my sheep." The pastoral virtues I said were these : 
 sense of responsibility, sustained effort, patience, self-denial. 
 I know them from sore need of them, scarcely more. 
 
 You ask about my summer plans. I suppose you mean 
 for work, as I have had my play. I am lecturing over 
 Joseph again in the morning — miserable flogging of a dead 
 horse, for the most part. I began it without sufficiently 
 thinking, but chiefly in order to get sermons on the
 
 196 gCettms. 
 
 Commandments written out for the evening. I have gone 
 through three or four of them. My greatest trouble is to 
 be clear and elementary enough. 
 
 But I am at sea about the whole subject of preaching. 
 I have been labouring these two or three years at your 
 plan of subjects and divisions, not without benefit, mainly, 
 however, in the way of checking indolence and slovenli- 
 ness. But I am not sure it is the right path for me. 
 Sometimes I feel as if Maclaren's plan of a succession of 
 explosions were the one for me. Yet there there is the 
 danger of carelessness, not to say extravagance. 
 
 I am in another trouble about the question of reciting. 
 It is a heavy burden sometimes. I read last night for the 
 first time for many years. 
 
 Another and a much wider question lies before me, 
 whether orator's work is mine, or poet's ? There is not 
 much difference in the two, it seems to me. My nature is 
 not to reason, but to feel. Reason wrong I often do, but 
 feel wrong very seldom. I sometimes think I could help 
 in the work of the time better by singing in a corner 
 than by shouting on a stage. 
 
 But half of this is cowardice. I do not forget the 
 higher interests, sometimes the aedy/o;, thank God, really 
 eTTiKetTai, sometimes I can rise to the Oval fioi. Nor do
 
 QTnlt0. 197 
 
 I forget that a minister may sing, there being birds about 
 the altar as elsewhere, ay better, happier birds, as David 
 found, than elsewhere. Perhaps this, too, some day may 
 be given me. 
 
 Freeland is getting ' strong on his feet ' ; he has a 
 merry way with him, which comes from some ancestor who 
 lived when there was a good, healthy humour and a 
 jovial laugh among mankind. 
 
 Cults, December 24, 1883. 
 
 I had a pleasant journey north on Wednesday by 
 the 'Ferries.' A number of Lord Randolph's hearers, 
 fetched over from Fife, were returning to their homes. 
 Having testified to the Conservative unity in Queen Street 
 Hall, they were already indulging in local jealousies as 
 they recrossed the Forth. "Na, na," said a farmer (Kirk- 
 caldy man, I think), " Na, na, thae Cupar foivk need na' 
 suppose they'll get the like o' hint " (referring to an invita- 
 tion the poor, proud little local capital had sent to his 
 lordship.) After crossing the Tay (where Broughty Castle 
 always reminds one of Knox's galley lying off it, in the 
 estuary, and his prophecy, as he looked over to St.
 
 198 letter©. 
 
 Andrews, that God would yet make his voice to be heard 
 there), I had two interesting talks with fellow-passengers 
 upon temperance. The first was a young lady, who had 
 grown up in a Christian family, where wine was moderately 
 used, but who, with all her brothers and sisters, had be- 
 come an abstainer, partly through her parents' care and 
 counsel, and partly through a friend's example. She, however, 
 would not hear of going one step further and encouraging 
 those within her influence to do likewise. She prided her- 
 self on being above that sort of proselytizing (I think 
 the want of a ministerial and congregational opinion on 
 the subject had prejudiced her). I asked her if it was 
 fair to have enjoyed the advantages and securities of her 
 position (which she admitted), and escaped the many 
 perils of a less decided attitude (which she admitted also), 
 and not even to lift one little finger to bring others of her 
 own age and standing and intimacy to a like situation of 
 decision and safety ? 
 
 Her seat was taken, at Montrose Station, by a man 
 (about 35, I should say), who stood on a curiously 
 antipodal ground. He was the father of a young family, 
 and I opened the question from that quarter. He at 
 once met me with a blank negative, enlarging on the mis- 
 chief he had so often seen arise from an over-strict up-
 
 Cnlts. 199 
 
 bringing of children, giving me a score of ministers' 
 children who had turned out ill, — those worst, who had 
 never seen wine in their father's house ; stating that 
 children were not to be governed by moral considerations ; 
 they never dreamed of such things, and that they would 
 start in life far more likely to succeed, if they had seen a 
 moderate use of stimulants at home. Much of this was, 
 of course, impossible to meet. 
 
 To the 'manse- child' argument, I could only reply with 
 a list of manse children who had not done badly, from 
 the University of Edinbro' in my time — such as Guthrie, 
 Ritchie, Macleish, Sorley, Greig, Lundie, etc.; that no child, 
 in manse or out of it, was born good (which he admitted) ; 
 that a minister's child had as many censors as there were 
 names on the church roll ; and that, from their position, 
 they were more exposed in some ways, e.g., to flattery 
 and over-attention, and general spoiling, than others. 
 The government by non-moral considerations I, of course, 
 flatly denied ; and went, I think, within some little 
 distance of his affections by the argument, that all a 
 mother's influence was derived from self-sacrifice — an 
 influence which a father could possess in a much smaller 
 degree — and that, if he was not prepared to curtail his 
 comfort, or go contrary to the custom of society, for his
 
 200 fitters. 
 
 children's sake, to this small extent, he was putting from 
 him one of the most potent weapons he, as a father, could 
 wield. But the ' manse-child ' and ' Christian-child ' theory- 
 blinded him to the better part of this appeal. We parted 
 good friends ; he, I hope, to reconsider his position ; I to 
 tell myself and my people at the prayer-meeting what is 
 the great obstacle to worldly men taking Christian ground 
 — the atrocious inconsistency of Christians. A minister 
 had led this man, an abstainer and disliking stimulants 
 up to the age of 21, to begin beer-drinking. 
 
 It is one great charm of travelling that you can learn, 
 as you cannot where you are known, what men's opinions 
 and positions are. 
 
 I was at Queen's Cross, relieving Smith, yesterday and 
 preached from 1 John i. 7 ; subject : " The Cleansing 
 Efficacy of Christ's Blood." Heads : (1) the Place of Cleans- 
 ing — in the presence of an awakened conscience; (2) the 
 Time, ' cleans^,' now ; (3) the Cause, ' the blood of Jesus 
 God's Son.' I gave my people the same at night. In the 
 Bible Class I am going through the Catechism, and am 
 profiting now by Dr. Whyte's peerless work on the subject. 
 It possesses the principal virtue of a book, readableness, 
 and the second next virtue, originality. You hear the tone 
 of the man's voice nearly in every line.
 
 dnlts. 
 
 20I 
 
 I asked Freeland if he had a kiss for ' Anda,' his name 
 for you, and he held up his great loving mouth. I hope 
 to be at Bonskeid about the beginning of the year. 
 
 Cults, April 19, 1884. 
 
 I was helped in preaching on "A Desperate Case and 
 a Divine Cure " (Rom. viii. 3) ; only I got harsh at times. 
 Oh for some of the love of Christ in the heart to take 
 the place of this wretched self! It makes me so miserable 
 at times. If I could but look to Jesus, I should be so 
 happy. I do get glimpses — just beginnings of glimpses 
 — of Him, but they fade away ; and I find myself speak- 
 ing of what I do not know. 
 
 Cults, September 28, 1885. 
 
 . . . At it came on to rain, pleasantly softening 
 
 the frosty night air. I ran up Street to get an 
 
 umbrella, and saw one in a clothier's, newly opened. As 
 I went in, the man at the counter said to a poor outcast- 
 looking creature who was leaving the shop, " Good bye, 
 and mind you look after yourself." It was, as I thought, 
 a poor victim, he had been trying to help and counsel.
 
 202 ICcttevs 
 
 The incident led to one of the best and most helpful ten 
 minutes' talks I have had for many a long day. The 
 clothier (a young man about thirty) and his wife, members 
 
 of Church, have been married for four years and led 
 
 a very happy life together, but they have both at the same 
 time been very unsatisfied. During the last year a strange, 
 new experience has come to them — through no express 
 message or agency or special providence, but only as a 
 growing conviction taking possession of them both — the 
 feeling, viz., that they had not yet let everything go and 
 wholly given themselves up to Christ and His service. 
 He could not say that the satisfaction was complete, but a 
 new desire and power for service (in the mission district) 
 had already come and was making him very glad. The 
 only thing he could associate with this experience was — 
 the breaking down of a reserve which had always been 
 between his wife and himself upon religious subjects. 
 
 Cults, Saturday Night, "Oct. 10, 1885, 10 p.m. 
 
 Dear old Mr. Reid has gone up to his room. It felt 
 very solemn, seeing his white hair and bent form in the 
 pulpit to-night, and hearing his frail but clear voice pro- 
 claiming the Gospel of God's plighted faithfulness from a
 
 dults. 203 
 
 text redolent of the "revival" memories of 1859 (Hos. 
 ii. 20). He was very fine upon how we must trust God, 
 even when He was doing what we did not wish. 
 
 I had a good forenoon at my sermon, and a merry 
 
 afternoon with sober J over the bills. I felt as if 
 
 the joy of the Lord was moving me to make puns, but, as 
 
 J had nothing wherewith to respond to them, it was 
 
 not a very satisfactory frame to be in. 
 
 3.45. — We have had a blessed day. After going over my 
 sermon last night, I felt it would never do — it was too 
 philosophical and special a discourse for the occasion, and 
 also too high and advanced a theme for me. 
 
 So at 11, on going to bed, I turned to Rev. i. 5-6 — the 
 Ascription of the Redeemed to Christ — and much enjoyed 
 meditating upon it. I soon fell asleep. Margaret wakened 
 me at 7 to a most perfect morning. Autumn excelled 
 itself indeed, and the first yellow sunshine on brown leaves 
 and golden sheaves was like a benediction to begin the day 
 with. Mr. Reid at worship was again very reverential 
 and helpful. I left him to finish his breakfast, and had 
 three quarters of an hour to myself. Then came the hour 
 with the young men over Luke xxii. (the Last Supper). 
 On the way I took dear Freelie's painted beasts to give 
 to poor Johnnie, who has the sore foot. I thought
 
 2o 4 getters. 
 
 Freeland would like the sick little boy to have his beasts. 
 Dadda will get him some more. 
 
 Old Mr. Reid and I walked up together, the whole 
 
 family of F 's going before us ; it was a goodly 
 
 sight. I was much helped in prayer and meditation — 
 though it was all unpremeditated almost — on " Christ's 
 love, Christ's cleansing, and Christ's dress." Some seemed 
 a good deal impressed. 
 
 I also enjoyed the Table fully more than I have yet 
 done. I spoke on Mark x. 45 — Lady Macneill's text — on 
 how we must just let Christ serve us and not try to serve 
 Him. Mr. Reid was ripe and fragrant and impressive on 
 " It is good for me to draw near unto God." The singing 
 throughout and parting prayer were unusually enjoyable. 
 A large number communicated, though the church, as 
 usual, was not full. 
 
 Study-Room, 9.50 p.m. 
 
 At tea Mr. Reid and I had a long talk on the history 
 and work of the Free Church. The evening service was 
 largely attended ; the devotions were, if anything, a little 
 long, but the sermon on 'Abide with me' suitable, and, at 
 the close, searching. 'Ye gates, lift up your heads' went 
 with great vigour.
 
 (Hvdis. 205 
 
 1 Another meal ! ' as the old gentleman greeted it, came 
 at eight. Margaret has been excelling herself. And since 
 then we have had a pleasant fireside chat, chiefly on his own 
 experience, which covers the entire period of the evan- 
 gelical revival in Scotland from '32 onwards. His visit 
 has much encouraged and, I think, instructed me. I think 
 one should always have one old minister a year at a com- 
 munion. ' No man, having tasted old wine, straightway 
 desireth new ; for he saith, The old is better.' There is a 
 rich mellowness and chastened calm about old saints which 
 far surpasses the fresh wit and ' scampering ' activity of 
 the younger ones. I should like Freeland to know some of 
 the ' Fathers ' before they are quite extinct. 
 
 [ The following letters refer to a deputation of students which 
 had come to Aberdeenshire to hold a special Mission] 
 
 Cults, Tuesday Evening, 1885. 
 
 I have been trying to remember the meeting to-night, 
 and it has been strongly borne in on me that I should 
 try and do something to bring you (the deputation) 
 and our young men — and also the audience — nearer to- 
 gether. At least, the prayer given to me has been that
 
 206 |C*tter0. 
 
 you and they may, if it is God's will, be led very close to 
 each other to-night. The fire generally kindles when 
 the sticks rub hard. 
 
 I thought at first that it would be best for me to stay 
 down here all the time. Only I am not quite sure how 
 that might look to those outside. So I am coming up to 
 the meeting at 8.30, and shall spend the half-hour before 
 in prayer for, if not with, you. 
 
 1. I am anxious — very anxious — about my own young 
 men One great prospect about this week has been the 
 hope that they might get to know one another as Christian 
 men, so as to stand together afterwards and (perhaps) 
 form a nucleus round which others might rally. The be- 
 ginning of such a fellowship is sometimes laid in united 
 (audible) prayer. It would be a true heart's-joy to me to 
 know that they could so join with one another. That, I 
 am well aware, may be not at all the best way for them : 
 it may not be God's will. But, on the other hand, it may. 
 How to compass this end I hardly know. If they could 
 have joined you alone in the vestry for ten minutes before 
 8.30, while the other deputies waited and did their work at 
 the door, one of them (or two) might be persuaded to join 
 in, and so the ice be broken. Perhaps you might manage 
 it by saying the deputies would like to get to know the
 
 GEnlts. 207 
 
 fellows' faces (I mean the strangers), as they come in, as 
 some of them gave them promises on their outings to-day, 
 
 and that would be a reason for asking (whoever of them, 
 
 that is to say, happened to be up in time — it wouldn't 
 do to delay the hour, to get them all into the vestry 
 beforehand) to come into the vestry. 
 
 This is a long rigmarole. You will consider whether there 
 is anything available in it. 
 
 2. About the thing that is next your own hearts — I 
 mean reaching those outside. I could leave the meeting 
 before it ends (for the vestry), and so practically let you 
 be alone with the rest. Perhaps you could then press 
 the men more earnestly, just as your fellow young 
 men, if they have any desire to begin the New Life, 
 to stay and have a few words with you about it. The 
 Christian young men, and other Christians there, will, of 
 course, be a difficulty ; perhaps it might be lessened, how- 
 ever, by entreating them to cry to God for their fellows as 
 they go home. 
 
 This also may be impracticable. I only mention it be- 
 cause it is on my mind. Such burdens are a happy load, 
 being very real proof that One above is moved by a 
 lively concern for ourselves and our fellows — a small por- 
 tion of which He is communicating to you and me.
 
 zo8 letters. 
 
 [On return to Cults after four months in Cornwall and Egypt. .] 
 
 Saturday, 13.3.86. 
 
 . . . I had a welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Donald this 
 evening ; the doctor was out. But my chief recognition has 
 been a nod from a little girl as I drove along the road. 
 
 Sunday after church, 1.30. 
 
 I have got through my first sermon with God's help, 
 not to my own comfort certainly, but I trust to His glory. 
 The place was sweet and, at moments, sacred to be in ; 
 and I gave what I had sought and got, though with much 
 conscious weakness and want. Oh to have love in the heart 
 to Christ and His people. So many faces were there that 
 wore the grave, sweet look of true worshippers. I could not 
 name them all. 
 
 Cults, March 19, 1886. 
 
 I have had a busy, happy day. The thaw continues, 
 making everything dismal and bleak without, but all is 
 warmth and peace within. ... I had 33 boys and 
 girls at the class. They behaved better and sang better 
 than before. I told them about our journey as far as
 
 (Units 209 
 
 Cairo. . . . Looking round on the children to-night, I 
 felt as if I might be getting more of the pastor's heart 
 than I knew. I seemed so to love these lambs — perhaps 
 it was because of our own little ones, perhaps because of 
 the Good Shepherd. 
 
 7.30 p.m. 
 
 R. M. preached with much calm convincing power on our 
 sin : its disease, bondage, debt, and guilt ; and how the 
 only deliverer is Jesus ; and how we are either welcoming 
 Him and only sinning against our will, or refusing or neglect- 
 ing His help, and sinning wilfully (Rom. vii. 24). 
 
 9.50 p.m. — I have just come up from worship, after a 
 long chat by the fire on a point in R. M.'s book. We both 
 parted where we began — on our own ground. His spirit is 
 good to be near, especially for me. So clear and truthful, 
 and thorough, and withal so earnest and humble. It is a 
 great opportunity and privilege for me to be with him. 
 
 Cults, April 5, 1886. 
 
 I have had a blessed time to-night with the young 
 communicants. All four who came said they were pre- 
 pared to come to the Table ; and, as far as I could see, 
 they are true and sincere. said he thought he heard
 
 2io fetters. 
 
 singing ' like the church,' as he was at the harrows to-day ; 
 and he had been happier these weeks past than ever 
 before. He said he never had understood so that Christ 
 had suffered for him. That he must have been taught 
 from above, for I have not dwelt much on Christ's suffer- 
 ings. Would I could enter into them more. 
 
 , who is very reserved, said he believed he had 
 
 entered Christ's service ; and, when I asked him why, 
 
 answered 'because he felt it easier now to do right.' , 
 
 when asked to pray for me, put up a beautifully simple 
 request for 'him who is trying to make me Thine, and 
 for everyone that is connected with him.' Amen. With 
 
 I had a long talk ; her heart seems like Lydia's, 
 
 all 'opened.' She picks up what is said with the eager 
 sense of a living soul. ' It has been put into my heart 
 by the Lord,' she said first thing, 'to come to His 
 Table.' 'Why?' I said. 'Because I love Him.' 
 
 Cults, April 9, 1886. 
 
 . . . It is incredible how blind we people called 
 ' Christians ' are to everything most real in life. Mr. 
 Stalker has a touching passage about the painfullness of all 
 the truest work for Christ, in the little memoir of Mr. 
 Brown Douglas.
 
 Cult©. 211 
 
 And next to our blindness about things as they are, 
 surely most marvellous is our deafness to the simplest 
 teaching of the Saviour. To leave the ninety and nine 
 respectable persons and wander, and KEEP wandering, after 
 one lost person — who follows Jesus in that eccentricity? 
 (Luke xiv. 21, 23, 26, 27; xv. 2, 4-7, etc.) It seems as if 
 I heard him saying (Luke xiv. 34) mournfully: You 'salt' 
 of the earth, yes, you are very ' good ' ; but suppose, there's 
 not an atom of saltness in you ? What then ? where 
 shall I put you? What can I make of you? And isn't this 
 the secret of all — our infidelity about what Jesus offers 
 and promises ? Nobody dreams of a woman overtaken with 
 intemperance being recovered ; every Christian you meet 
 says so; and you catch the 'infidel's' spirit yourself, — 
 secretly you cherish it. Christ does not pardon sinners, 
 nor does pardon change them. We don't believe it for 
 others, because we don't believe it for ourselves. 'Lord, I 
 believe ; help thou mine unbelief.' 
 
 I only ran over the outline of Gladstone's speech, and 
 knew my prayers were heard. He may not carry it, but 
 God will. I felt as if all our heroes in the Scottish Kirk 
 were cheering that grand statement that Christian justice 
 would never see another Establishment of religion set up 
 anywhere within our realm.
 
 2i2 getters. 
 
 Cults, April 19, i386. 
 
 . . . Mrs. B. was worn away to a girl's face, just 
 able to smile and speak. But what words ! and what a 
 smile ! " I'm so weary, weary," she murmured, after a fit 
 of coughing, " I wish I was at rest." " You'll get rest," I 
 said. Her look was so lovely as she answered, "Yes, 
 rest — delightful rest." 
 
 I was peeling some grapes for her, when her sister said, 
 half shyly, " If it wasn't too much to ask, might she get a 
 little of the soup Mrs. Barbour sent last summer ; it did 
 her so much good ; Mrs. B. has taken a fancy that she 
 would like some of it last night." I said nothing, but 
 saw by my watch there was just time to catch the Cults 
 train at 3. So I left Mrs. M. the grapes to peel, and took 
 a cab to the station. Margaret had no soup ready, but 
 was so pleased to make it in an hour. So at 4.16 I took 
 it in and drove to the house again. I shall never forget 
 the look the dying eyes gave me and the firm, loving 
 clasp of the dying hand : " Thank you for your great 
 kindness," she said. I had the delight of putting three 
 tiny spoonfuls between the wasted lips. I took her hand 
 in mine — " I'm leaving you with Jesus, Mrs. B." She 
 smiled again. May I die the death of the righteous, and 
 may my last end be like hers.
 
 Cults. 213 
 
 Saturday Night, 
 Cults, April 24, 1886. 
 
 At 4.30 four children came. We read picture books 
 together, and then had tea, at which one of the deputies, 
 Mr. Maclagan (first year Divinity, U.P., nephew of Bp. 
 Maclagan) turned up and entered into our society very 
 nicely. We had the wild beasts' class and letter games 
 as usual, and closed by singing a hymn together. We 
 are to have Gospel addresses at the evening service to- 
 morrow. 
 
 April 26, 1886. 
 
 I have had a strange time the last hour. Coming 
 home from our meeting — which was good — I fell in with 
 
 Mr. 's prodigal son, and helped him home to his father's 
 
 house and to his bed. May God have pity upon his soul, and 
 show me more what I have been that I may have pity upon 
 poor wanderers. . . . There are many poor wanderers 
 for us to minister to here, if it be His will to give us strength 
 
 to do it. The poor woman opened her door and heart 
 
 to me so gladly, almost reprovingly, to-day. I had passed 
 it for years. May God forgive my unbelief, and help my 
 faith. Work for Him seems only beginning.
 
 214 fflkttcrs. 
 
 [On the occasion of a second Students' Mission.] 
 
 April 27. 
 
 Two young men's figures have just disappeared through 
 the gate, Simpson's and Maclagan's. " He began to send 
 them forth by two and two " (Mark vi. 7). They are 
 going to prepare for to-night. We have had a delight- 
 ful time together — reading, praying, and communing. . . . 
 On coming in at 5.10 to dinner, we found a third man — 
 Hamilton, from Canada — arrived out of town to help us, 
 and during dinner Mackay, of Thurso, second year medical, 
 turned up, more dead than alive, after travelling all night 
 and day to be in time for the meeting. 
 
 We had delightful intercourse and a blessed meeting — 
 the hall nearly full, and many farm lads there. The 
 addresses were simple and telling, Mr. Mackay's especially 
 touching a number. Three girls came back to talk with 
 me. Oh ! may the showers continue. 
 
 Wednesday, April 28. 
 
 In the morning the Aberdeen meeting ' men ' came out 
 — such a noble set of fellows — one New College, second 
 year ; one big, broad-shouldered medical ; and one honours 
 man in philosophy from Belfast. We had a talk and
 
 Cnlts. 215 
 
 prayer together ; then they took coffee and set off for a 
 stroll round by Countesswells and into Aberdeen. I went 
 
 to see the persons who stayed behind last night. 
 
 turns out to be a splendid character every way. She is 
 sure she found Jesus last night. 
 
 Thursday, April 29. 
 
 We had a good time to-night, though no one waited 
 afterwards. Mr. Maclean (med., from South Wales), a 
 fine, manly fellow, told his story with singular simplicity 
 and beauty, and Gray's address (New Coll., Edinburgh), 
 also went home. I am sure God is blessing us. 
 
 Cults, April 29, 1886. 
 
 I had a prosperous afternoon in town seeing Mrs. W., 
 Mrs. B., F.S., and some other people in trouble. You feci 
 nearer Christ Himself on such errands. The 'overtaken,' 
 the diseased, the wretched and miserable, the conscience- 
 stricken, are specially His. 
 
 Friday, April 30, 1886. 
 
 At 7 I went to call for the lads at the Mains. At 
 7.15 we gathered for prayer in the vestry. The meeting 
 was hardly so large as last night, perhaps, but the impies-
 
 216 getters. 
 
 sion seemed much deeper. Mackay was much helped to 
 be simple, faithful, and pleading ; Maclagan told of some 
 mistakes he had made about coming to Christ with great 
 clearness and quiet force ; while Simpson was very direct 
 and earnest. Many remained afterwards to pray for them- 
 selves and one another. I spoke to several ; most seemed 
 Christ's already, but one or two were seeking peace. It 
 felt so blessed to be amongst seekers. 
 
 I went up afterwards to have a talk with the lads in the 
 bothy at the Mains. They promised to pray by their own 
 bedsides to-night. 
 
 Saturday, May I, 1886. 
 
 Simpson and Mackay went up to the thanksgiving meet- 
 ing at eight, and were helped there. Mr. Maclean came 
 out from town and spoke also. Not so many were there 
 owing to its being Saturday night and the other meeting; 
 but it was beautiful to see the one or two radiant faces of 
 those who have been ' helped.' " The Lord hath been 
 mindful of us, and he will bless us." 
 
 Sabbath Night. 
 
 I took the Bible class myself to-night, as I wished to 
 speak alone with them about the Great Choice. I spoke of
 
 Quilts. 217 
 
 faith as receiving and resting on Christ — of the simplicity 
 of the act and the joy of the rest. It was a good time to 
 some, I trust. 
 
 Church was unusually full at night to hear the young 
 men's last addresses. We four went into the pulpit. I read 
 Isaiah liii., and then Caldwell spoke, gravely and weightily, 
 of what he had found the new life to be — how it had given 
 definiteness and decision and earnestness to his life. Christ 
 gave you something to live for ; that thing must be the one 
 thing ; there was nothing indifferent in the Christian life ; 
 everything questionable had to be settled one way or other ; 
 all must be submitted to Christ's will. Simpson followed ; 
 and then came the pearl of the evening, such a moving 
 little last word from Mackay, thanking the Christians for 
 having prayed for them, and telling them they would find 
 unexpected jewels in their crown in the great day. It had 
 been the happiest week in his life and a foretaste of heaven. 
 
 At eight a little company of eighteen or twenty men 
 gathered to bid the young men farewell. Caldwell was 
 greatly helped to ask all to begin the new life there and 
 then, who had not yet done so. . . . 
 
 Since then we have had a great supper, and are in high 
 spirits. . . . They spoke so touchingly of the bright 
 spot this week would be in their after-lives.
 
 218 fetters. 
 
 Friday Morning. 
 
 I write in case I don't see you at S'haven. 
 
 I can't tell you what a help the deputation has been 
 to me personally and in my work. Ps. cxv. 12 expresses 
 my feelings and hopes for us and you. 
 
 About the future — I think something should be 
 attempted. I have tried once or twice to project a 
 Y.M.C.A., or something of that order, but the time was 
 not yet. 
 
 I don't know what you will be guided to do ; do that 
 whatever it is, even if it = o. 
 
 I would suggest the following. Sound your men after the 
 meeting to-night, and tryst them to meet you in the school- 
 room (where you spoke on Wednesday) on Sabbath morning 
 at 10.15, to meet for an hour (that leaves time to attend 
 F.C. at 11.30 and E.C. over the river at 12) before church, 
 and talk over then the idea of their having such a meeting 
 regularly there themselves. Say the room, you believe, 
 will be got, to meet there at any rate, on Sabbath first, 
 if it is not available, you'll adjourn here. I've asked the 
 teacher to consult his managers to-night. He believes it 
 will be all right. You'll have to look him up to-morrow
 
 Knits. 219 
 
 evening (or any time before Sabbath) and see how it has 
 been arranged. 
 
 Then, having got them to meet you, ask them whom 
 you should tryst besides, any of our young church mem- 
 bers, members of choir, and whoever else they say ; 
 drop a note to tliese to-morrow forenoon, and post it before 
 5 p.m. (to-morrow Saturday), asking them to meet you, or 
 
 leave the notes yourselves with J . Besides those, 
 
 write (on your own hook) to the following, unless they 
 mention them themselves. . . . You might arrange 
 at the Sabbath meeting one meeting forward, and let 
 Committee meet during week to arrange more if think- 
 good. 
 
 Excuse me — I know you will — giving so much trouble. 
 It looks as if you were being left here to try and throw 
 the thing into some lasting mould. Don't fear for Sab- 
 bath, nor be too elaborate (I should say), God will help 
 
 you mightily. D and I and many more will be 
 
 praying for you all the time, so you won't be alone. 
 
 Cults, May 1, 1886. 
 
 I almost tremble when I think of the many ' schone 
 Seelen ' I have been allowed to see in this world of woe
 
 2 2o fitters. 
 
 unspeakable, but I never think of them without devout 
 thanksgiving also : 
 
 " Mir ist's als ob Ich die Hiinde 
 Aufs Haupt ihnen legen sollt' ; 
 Betend dass Gott sie erhalte 
 So schon und rein und hold." 
 
 Yet even as lovely and even more wonderful is it to see the 
 virgin white coming upon darkened souls again, as they 
 welcome the Light of the world. . . . 
 
 I am almost afraid sometimes when I think of the life 
 
 is leading, that it may be near harvest time with him. 
 
 Yet why should it ? Surely God needs him and such as he 
 here as much as He could need them anywhere. I think- 
 both he and I shall "live and not die" for some time, "and 
 declare the works of the Lord " ; though I have lost much 
 time, and he not much. 
 
 [Resignation of the pastorate at Cults.'] 
 
 Polmont Junction, November 18, 1886. 
 
 We have had a pleasant journey with bright sunshine 
 all the way. . . . The country has been looking very 
 lovely as we came along. The first white veil dropped on
 
 (Eult0. 22 1 
 
 the hills from Kincardineshire inwards, — the blue waters and 
 yellow reeds and black water fowl of the loch of Forfar; the 
 mossy green of the banks and the bright emerald of the 
 turnip fields ; all are beautiful. Winter takes away much, 
 but what it leaves seems to become more. Now the easterly 
 air is coming up the Firth and shutting out the land- 
 scape. That is the way dear old Edinbro' shows you her 
 affection. 
 
 52 ljueen Street, 4.30 p.m. 
 
 At 4 o'clock Dr. Stewart came and Dr. Arthur and 
 Alick and he had a talk together ; then I was called in 
 and examined and they had another consultation. They 
 called me back about 5, and Dr. Stewart said they were 
 all fairly agreed that I must give up Cults and take entire 
 rest for a year. I was not prepared for this and it has come 
 upon me as a heavy blow. . . Rut, ' He knoweth the 
 way that we take.' Oh that He would bless to us this 
 trial, and make me now a better man, and, some day, if it 
 be His will, a better minister. 
 
 November 19, 18S6. 
 
 After the doctors had spoken, I felt stunned. I do 
 not yet realise it, though every fresh sense of reality brings 
 pain. The chief feeling is the solemn one that my work
 
 222 fCrttere. 
 
 at Cults is at an end. May God deepen that feeling and 
 sanctify it. 
 
 . . . . After a talk with Alick I was sitting by my 
 fire, drinking a cup of cocoa and reading the end of 
 Romans viii., which I had come to in the morning: 'The 
 Spirit helpeth our infirmities — all things work together for 
 good— who shall separate us from the love of Christ' — 
 when Hugh brought in Mr. Stalker. His visit was very 
 comforting. He said, ' I am convinced that it is the right 
 thing. You have not sought it, God has sent it. It may 
 be the preparation for something far greater than anything 
 you have yet done.' 
 
 He did not stay long, but said, 'Let us pray together.' 
 So we knelt down, and he offered up such a tender, fervent 
 prayer : — " O God, we have come to a point where Thou 
 hast gathered everything into Thine own hand ; we have 
 snatched at other things and they have gone flying past 
 us. This is Thy doing, the work is Thine ; we never were 
 so certain of it as we are to-night. The race is not of our 
 running. The battle is not ours. It is the Lord's. . . . 
 Bless the people ; we thank Thee for the bright past up 
 there ; it will dwell in their minds for ever." 
 
 It was so sweet and solemn, like a benediction coming 
 down on our heads.
 
 (Units. 223 
 
 11 LJjorge Square, November 20, 1886. 
 
 . . . The more I think of it the harder it seems. 
 When others speak, they seem to be looking at something 
 quite different to that which I see : they do not seem to 
 see the great black shadow, to feel the wrench and the 
 gaping wound. But that is the way with all sorrow : the 
 heart knoweth its own bitterness. Oh to feel His sym- 
 pathy who sticketh closer than a brother. . . . Dear 
 Hugh sent me this to-day.* I believe it all, tho' I am no 
 eagle, but only a sparrow that cannot fall to the ground 
 without our Father. It is just being put to sleep that 
 I need, a sleep under a juniper tree with a cruse of water 
 at my bolster and no wish to wake till the angel says, 
 " Arise and eat." My passage to-night ended with : — 
 "How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past 
 finding out ; and of Him, and through Him, and to Him 
 are all things, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen." 
 
 *"Be sure that God 
 Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart ; 
 Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
 Into the vast and unexplored abyss, 
 What full-grown power informs her from the first 
 Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
 The silent, boundless regions of the sky ! 
 Be sure they sleep not whom God needs.'
 
 224 fetters. 
 
 July 10, 1890. 
 [His last visit to Cults.] 
 
 Had a most satisfying and uplifting day among my old 
 people at Cults on Sabbath last. Not one is wanting to 
 the good cause whom we left attached to it, and several 
 have been added. Laus laudesque Deo !
 
 TRAVEL.
 
 TRAVEL. 
 
 Bei Herrn Pfarrer Pressel, 
 Lustnau, Tubingen, Wurtemberg (1876). 
 
 My last note told of arrival here. 
 
 When we climbed up to the dining-room, the Pfarrer left 
 the piano, and greeted Sorley and Smith successively as 
 " Herr Barbour " ; the proper party being at length produced, 
 he was warmly welcomed, and constituted at once part of the 
 family. The other members arc — the Mutter, a fine middle- 
 aged lady, housewifely and hearty ; the eldest son, Gustav, 
 in business here ; the second, a student of medicine under 
 Ouenstedt and Hoffmeister; the youngest, Wilhelm, a lad of 
 fourteen at the Gymnasium ; a boy from Glasgow, Willie 
 Mure, who has been learning German here all winter and 
 returns to Scotland next week ; an Established Church 
 student, who, like myself, is preparing to attack the language 
 and divinity together. The dog Hector, like M. Roch's 
 " Mouton," brings up the rear.
 
 228 fEctiera. 
 
 We were at home in a moment, the visitors getting the 
 place of honour on the sofa ; the Frau Pfarrer insisted, good 
 soul, on tea ; and, as it was Scotch tea, that was not to be 
 rejected. (I have smuggled through my two pounds, but it 
 looks as if I should carry them back again.) When my 
 friends left me, I felt a little strange, being for the first time 
 cut off, as it were, and among strangers ; but I promise 
 myself better times than even in a friend's or acquaintance's 
 house ; for there are no antecedents here to tie one down, 
 save the general report of Scotchmen, which is on the whole 
 high (one hundred and fifty have dwelt with or visited the 
 Pfarrer), so that there is room for a fresh start in everything. 
 
 I kept to English for the first night, and we went over all 
 the famous names that were common property to us all — 
 Somerville, John Ewing, Heinrich Drummond, David Ross, 
 etc., etc. The Pfarrer walked up and down the room, cigar 
 in hand, while I talked by turns in either language with the 
 Mutter, who was shelling some unknown vegetable at the 
 table. The room is scrupulously clean, uncarpeted ; a flower- 
 stand holds the corner ; a semi-grand piano lies between the 
 windows ; opposite it is the sofa with the table drawn in to 
 it; along a bit, at one side, is the polished stove (not in use), 
 at the other a press and chiffonnier. Bookstands are scat- 
 tered about, and engravings are on the walls. In the next
 
 <3[rabcl. 229 
 
 room is the family meal-table, opening in here by a folding- 
 door. An old Swiss clock that cuckoos at all hours is in the 
 corner of it, and more books and papers lie about. The view 
 from that is the same as from my bedroom, which lies above. 
 From the first room one sees a stretch of undulating meadow, 
 fringed with hills, and these with woods in the delightfully 
 distracted colour of spring. There are patches of vine on 
 the hill sides, but as yet these are scarcely more than a mist 
 of green. Clean muslin curtains hang about the windows, 
 ready to exclude light while allowing of air. The roof is low 
 and long, the paper a light lilac, the chairs strong cane- 
 bottomed affairs, meant to be sat upon. 
 
 We had been lighted up the street by the bright windows 
 of Wirthhauses, and directed by the sounds that came from 
 them. Now, when I had climbed another stair to a loft like 
 that you see in an ancient farm-house, but very neat and 
 clean, and after bidding Gute Nadit to the servant also who 
 lighted me upstairs, and taking off my hat to her (as it 
 happened to be on), I went to the window of my room 
 and looked out into the moonlight. They were the same 
 lighted houses which lay below me roofed with red tiles, 
 peaked and gabled, with the black beams and rooftrees 
 standing out against the white-washed walls. The big 
 church rose from among them, and the bells rang a quarter
 
 230 fetters. 
 
 past ten. A mile away over the valley lay Tubingen, 
 also ringing itself to rest for the night. I found my lamp 
 and arranged it, then inspected affairs, and finally sat 
 down to meditate on the new little world of which this 
 will be the centre all summer. The roof is low, but the 
 room is long and airy. There are two presses for my 
 things in the wall. A neat little wooden bed, five and a 
 half feet in length, is covered by a feather quilt, bounded 
 on the north and south by two sheets to keep it from 
 going oft" in a heap, on the east by a pillow half the length 
 of the bed, and on the west by a stout brown board, 
 against which one feels bound to beat a tattoo every 
 night. The eternal sofa faces the everlasting table, a 
 smaller copy of which supports some ink in the corner. 
 Along a bit is the little washing-stand, with glass above 
 it ; beyond that is the polished stove on a smaller scale ; 
 another lamp depends from the white ceiling just over 
 the place where one brushes the hair, so that the operation 
 is one of considerable strategy, as I am in imminent danger 
 of getting hair-oil. After looking about, I went off to 
 bed about eleven, and examined the spire and other 
 objects visible in the moonlight before falling asleep. 
 Things had been painted and renewed evidently in my room, 
 so I felt clean and comfortable. There was no waking till
 
 ^rubcl. 231 
 
 the morning. I heard some quarter hours from the clock, 
 the servants climbing up higher to sleep among the pigeons, 
 whose cooing and pecking I can hear above, somebody 
 breathing heavily below, and then dropped oft". 
 
 Sharp at six I sprang out of bed, with a sleepy reply 
 to the maiden who waked me. A cup of coffee was waiting 
 down stairs, and, after taking it with a roll, I found my 
 way in the drizzle into town. The Aula (University) is 
 on the great street, just on this side of the town. I 
 found Sorley and Schmidt there, and with them adjourned 
 to the first floor, where Professor Sigwart was to lecture 
 on Metaphysic. There might be a hundred there, silent 
 and business-like, with little black leather cases hold- 
 ing their notes (they wrote in the centre of a large 
 page, leaving a margin), with yellow wooden ink bottles. 
 Several had on the students' caps and sashes which mark 
 them out as members of some club (generally containing 
 members of one district), blue, white, and red ; these were 
 mostly the better-living sort of men, and some had their 
 faces fearfully gashed with sabre cuts in duel. After 
 waiting a bit, looking out at the green trees and white 
 houses one sees from all the classrooms, the door opened, 
 in rushed a little, wiry-looking man in mixed tweeds, 
 swaying somewhat in his walk. As we all rose at his
 
 232 l&ttitxe. 
 
 entrance, he barely stopped to close the door and nod his 
 head by way of recognition. He mounted the rostrum 
 and began ; no reading, though he turned over notes ; the 
 students wrote almost continuously, though the hurry was 
 most when he dictated paragraphs of special importance. 
 He flung down his grey wide-awake beside him, and writhed 
 with his little body, and worked with his little hands, and 
 put his finger alongside his nose in moments of deep 
 argument. He looked like a slim Scotch mason ; there 
 was something of Hugh Miller in his face, and he gradu- 
 ally twisted himself up to a given point, at which he 
 made a circle with his fingers and seemed to have grasped 
 the truth. He was of course difficult to follow from his 
 jerky style, but interesting to watch. We have an intro- 
 duction to him, but will wait for its delivery till we know 
 more of the ways of the place. The way his eyes twinkled, 
 the familiar illustrations he threw in, half in playful style, 
 the good-natured size of his person and set of his face, 
 seem to show that philosophy is not the thing of toil and 
 anguish it once was to men. 
 
 At eight o'clock we adjourned to Teuffel's class (the 
 Principal's), whose Latin history was a text book of mine, 
 and for a dreary hour heard him lay down the pros and 
 cons of Homeric unity with all the regularity, but little
 
 'Siabd. 233 
 
 of the interest, of the array of combatants in the Trojan 
 War. He made a very inferior Fate indeed, and seemed 
 afraid to say anything himself, while unsparing to the 
 combatants on either side. 
 
 After him, we trotted off at nine to the Stift (Educational 
 Institution) to hear the great Sanskritist, Roth, lecture on 
 the universal history of religions. He knows Muir well, 
 from whom Smith has an introduction to him. The sub- 
 ject was the first beginnings of religion among the early 
 Aryans ; he spoke distinctly, hand in pocket, and looked 
 like an improved edition of John Stewart, who built 
 Bonskeid. The class is very large ; we notice the desks 
 cut with the favourite feminine names of the German 
 students ; but except for that, and some outlandish outlines 
 in ink, there was nothing to distinguish it from home. 
 The students hang their caps at the door ; the professor 
 wrote out hard names on a black board ; there was no 
 fussing, but the utmost order prevailed. 
 
 Being in the exploring mood, we went back to the Aula 
 at ten in time for Milner's English class. There were 
 half a dozen men in it, and they were translating Goethe 
 into English with a precision and sweep that astonished 
 one. At eleven we went upstairs to the hero of the place 
 (Beck), an old fellow of "J2, who holds on like a youth.
 
 234 Setters. 
 
 The class might hold 300 (there are 1000 students in all — 
 many non-theologues take it) and, although he speaks broad 
 Swabian, his very appearance is interesting. He prelected 
 sitting, with a burst now and then, in which he left his 
 slowly read MS. and warmed up to some great argu- 
 ment. We couldn't understand much : he was on the 
 difference between ordinary and Christian morals — the one 
 being a culture of the old personality, the other being the 
 taking on of a nczv one. He ran briefly over the notices of 
 the distinctions which occur in the Church before the 
 Reformation, tripping down the centuries with an easy 
 tread — the fathers, scholastics, mystics, etc., being briefly 
 characterized and passed. We noticed several young fellows 
 in military dress : they have been drawn for the army, and 
 are allowed to go on attending college, Government having 
 established a station near Tubingen to admit of this. The 
 professors wear no gowns here. 
 
 Feeling funny after five lectures, we adjourned to the 
 Lamm for dinner. After soup and meat, for which we were 
 mulcted in the sum of one shilling, we called on the Pedell 
 (University secretary) and enrolled as theologues. Thence 
 we marched to Smith's lodgings ; the dyer had great widths 
 of indigoed cloth the height of the house hung up to dry. 
 The river Ammer — size of the Glen burn — flows at the front
 
 'vErnlKl. 235 
 
 door down the street, and acts as bathing establishment, 
 gutter, drain, and air-cooler (not to say odorifier) all the 
 way. We saw some Scotch papers there, and then went 
 up the hill behind with him — Tubingen lies between two 
 — and looked over the little town and Stift Church to 
 the other one, with castle and wood thereon, and beyond 
 to the Swabian Alp ; in the other direction to Stuttgart, 
 round a little to Hohenzollern, etc. Descending to the 
 post-office, we blew up the functionary, having passed the 
 poet Uhland's dwelling on the bridge over the Neckar, 
 and had a turn down the long avenue of trees. Thence 
 we went to Lindenmaier, a delightful bookseller (whose 
 shop will be the ruin of us, I fear) : he knew all the old 
 Scotchmen, and walked with Smith and Sorley teaching 
 them to speak German. They go out to some neigh- 
 bouring village and get milk and wine in a Wirthscliaft, 
 over which their tongues seem to be loosened. At 
 another shop we possessed ourselves of note-books and 
 pencils. The shops all shut here from twelve till two 
 for siesta, and again for altogether at 7 p.m. Things are 
 middlingly cheap ; but have risen much since the soldiers 
 came. We next attacked the Museum, saw the library, 
 and in the reading-room got the last news, in German, 
 from London. It was now time (4 o'clock) to hear Diestel,
 
 236 fetters. 
 
 so we went. He lectures on Hebrew Exegesis ; takes up 
 Genesis just now ; going word by word over all, giving 
 new translations and discussing every line in the light of 
 contemporary or analogous records and of modern science. 
 He burst out into a great fit of cachinnation now and 
 again, is satiric and speaks no good of his opponents, and 
 is the most lively of the lot. After this we read some of 
 Heine's songs together in Sorley's room, and I trotted off 
 home. I was in time for tea at 7.30, a great feast, of real 
 tea, if one takes it, meat and rolls. The Pfarrer and 
 Frau sit as in Germany together at the farther side and 
 not separate at each end of the table, as in England. 
 The grace is a pretty German couplet of which I am not 
 yet sure. The politeness here is great. After separation 
 for the day a " Griiss Gott" (God bless you) is expected, 
 and a shake of the hand. So on returning to a room after 
 bidding good-bye, you are expected to repeat it. In shops 
 and such like, you bid good-day to the shopkeeper on 
 entering and lift your hat on retiring, etc., etc. After 
 prayers, in which we read all round and merely bent for- 
 ward towards the table during devotion (the servants 
 sitting in the darkened ante-room), I read some of Uhland 
 with Frau Pfarrer. while Herr and Halliday laughed over 
 chess in the neighbouring room. The former is re-writing
 
 '(Erabfl. 237 
 
 his articles for Herzog's Encyclopedic. He is quite a don 
 in Hebrew, Egyptian and Palestinian literature generally. 
 After that I went off upstairs rather tired, but slept 
 well. 
 
 Next morning on rising at 6, it was plain from the 
 feeling that there had been frost. However, the sun was 
 bright, so I walked off to Tubingen, heard Schwabe lecture 
 on Greek Art, was back at 9, and after writing for an 
 hour, read from 10 to 12 with the Frau, translating and 
 retranslating. We finished the day in a cafe, where the 
 comic papers are kept, though we did not make much 
 of these. The others walked home with me at 9 ; I had 
 a long talk with the Pfarrer about his books, half in 
 English, half in German, and, after writing, turned in for 
 the night. Yesterday (Friday) morning it was Scotch 
 mist in earnest and very cold. I heard Sigwart at 7, ReifT 
 on Modern Philosophy at 8, Roth at 9, and Beck at 11. 
 We dined at table d'hote in the Lamm. Thereafter I 
 went home ; the others waited to give in the lists of classes. 
 We intend to take Reiff and Sigwart in Philosophy ; not 
 however in the sense in which one takes an English pro- 
 fessor ; for all our getting will be knowledge of German 
 at first, and it will be long ere we know enough to enable 
 us to work for the classes. After a game at nine pins
 
 238 Setters. 
 
 (knocked down by a swinging ball), afternoon coffee and 
 conversation, I returned to Diestel and also attended a 
 stray lecture of Weiszzacker on New Testament Intro- 
 duction. After being in Smith's room from 6 to 7, I came 
 back to tea, receiving a letter from Greig who is now in 
 Switzerland. Shakespeare was being read in the Museum 
 at night, but it was very wet. After tea here I had a long 
 talk with the Pfarrer, when he played and sang some of 
 his brother's songs and part of an opera (oratorio). I un- 
 packed afterwards and found my way into bed. 
 
 Not being up to the mark this morning, I have not been 
 in Tubingen, but have been busy reading and writing. 
 Otherwise I am very well. I go to see a confirmation 
 service in Bebenhausen to-morrow. 
 
 At Andernach we saw the head Moravian settlement, 
 women in colours according to age, a quaker-like, calm 
 set of people. Wood floats and rafts then met us, and, 
 as the river narrowed, the cliffs closed in, to lift up 
 upon their very brow the splendid boundary fortress of 
 Coblentz. (Did I tell you we heard Christlieb on Sabbath, 
 a noble sermon on " The joy of the Lord our strength " ? 
 I understood a good deal ; there were soldiers and English 
 schools in church, the latter behaving pretty well ; the 
 singing was like ours in Scotland, only with a peculiar
 
 'tErabcl. 239 
 
 German fall at the close ; the organ was grand, and almost 
 all joined.) 
 
 Of the home life much might be said ; of the greetings 
 on going out and coming in ; of the patriarchal relations 
 between servants and superiors ; of the housewifeliness of 
 the Fran Mutter; of the way things are cut and served at 
 table (the eldest son doing the first slicing at a side tabic, 
 and every one being invited to a second portion as the 
 plate en masse goes round) ; of the afternoon coffee for 
 visitors ; of the family game after dinner ; the universal 
 gathering at Abendessen, when everybody seems to see 
 everybody else for the first time ; of the prayers, when that 
 is over, at which we all read round, the Pfarrer coming in 
 with his beautiful, all-embracing collect at the close; of the 
 Pfarrerin's Gute Nacht at nine o'clock ; of my talks there- 
 after with Herr Pfarrer, while he sits in the dark at the 
 piano, and plays alternately chorales, Scotch songs, and 
 snatches from his brother's operas ; of the later evening 
 alone, or in one another's rooms, given to newspapers and 
 the German Bible; of the final Schlafen Sic wohl to the 
 old JMagds as they stump up to a higher loft still, which 
 might be among the heavenlies, and is among the cocks 
 and hens — all this and more might be made the subject 
 of a series of idylls, but being in no mood for verse-making,
 
 240 fetters. 
 
 the mention of them shall be strictly dramatic, i.e., only as 
 they touch upon the progress of my life-play in the little 
 world here. 
 
 Outside of the house are Idylls more. Indeed, though, 
 save to Tubingen, I have never walked beyond the Hof, 
 that itself (and I get it all from my windows) is a study. 
 So it was to-night ; the second attempt at a sunset (it 
 has been dark and bitter since my last) just threw the 
 different points into their proper places, so that I can go 
 over them one by one. First, in the furthest corner, the 
 great square church tower, springing above the houses into 
 a spire (as if it waited like the other houses till it got 
 above them, and then set about more original aspirations), 
 its presence is with me even in the darkness, in the form 
 of the constant quarter-hour bell, which never lets one 
 get lazy ; under its shadow the other houses are grouped, 
 with delightful difference of roof in the way of tiles, old 
 and new, red and brown, with just a sprinkling of slates 
 to prevent the church seeming at too great a distance ; 
 their gables are white, with black beams appearing, giving 
 you a sense of strength, which, however, does not stand 
 out too strongly ; the windows are muslin-curtained at the 
 top, with flowers in some, and now (nine p.m.) all bright 
 with the ' best flower in the garden,' rosy fires ; at their
 
 'STralwl. 241 
 
 foot they grow distracted, separating into sheds, out-houses, 
 waggon-stands, etc., leaving only so much bare wall as 
 convinces one that the upper storey does not rest on 
 nothing. One half of the court is green with bushes, 
 carried up into the woods behind the houses (the far view 
 is Tubingen itself) by glimpses of green poplars and fruit 
 trees scattered among the buildings everywhere. We may 
 pass over the manure heaps before the houses (easier to 
 do with the pen than with clean feet on a dark night), 
 going no nearer them than the goose pond, where half-a- 
 dozen of these fairy-book creatures are waiting to be 
 turned into Maddens a la Grimm ; a madchen, however, 
 does appear, fresh and ruddy, and turns them into a little 
 wooden house, not without a remonstrance which is some- 
 thing worse than the drawing of a blunt pencil over a 
 greasy slate ; they are out again in an instant, following 
 the old Magd, who, with pitcher on head, marches into 
 the court from a stable, followed by a score of great, 
 relieved-looking kine, who again are pursued by a youth, 
 clothed as to his feet (so are all the children here), but 
 bare on the head, and driven out to pasture for the night. 
 There is a large waggon underneath the windows (like a 
 wash-basket on wheels) from which the Bauer, in dress 
 somewhat like a dirty night-gown, is loosing the grateful
 
 242 |Cettcrs. 
 
 oxen, which bend their necks into the box of mixed rye 
 grass hung from the cross bar which keeps the heads 
 together. Another boy is working the pump (going like a 
 rusty saw) and then staggering along, tub on head, half 
 tripped up by the geese, into the low-linteled enclosure 
 whither the oxen have just disappeared. Said geese are 
 finally sent flying by a herd of cows with calves, which 
 come scampering down the steep causeway, past the end 
 of the square, sending their bells before them and leaving 
 them behind them with a surprising sense of what is most 
 attractive about their persons. This cmcute rouses the 
 feelings of the Goose-madchen who appears, dashes down 
 the outside stairs to the tune of an admonishing mother 
 and admiring baby brother, seizes a broom, and making 
 said animals show the white feather, finally succeeds in 
 locking them up to cackle and hiss to their hearts' content. 
 Bauer has by this time finished operations, and is now 
 going up the same stair to the crowing of the afore- 
 mentioned child, and hastening of the Hausfrau, the last 
 of whom I see when she crosses the room, with lattice 
 left open, carrying a bowl of something that steams and 
 needs stirring. Looking higher, there is a black thing like 
 Milton's Satan in the Sun ; on coming nearer it turns out 
 to be the gentleman stork, who is welcomed by his wife
 
 ^rabcl. 243 
 
 on the handsome edifice erected for them, I believe, by 
 the corporation. The sunset is going now ; the sparrows 
 are getting quiet ; Wilhelm comes to my room to let down 
 the pigeons' trap door (through a hole in the ceiling) ; 
 they are calling for tea, and it is two hours before I get 
 upstairs again to begin this letter. 
 
 The old lady is really a good soul, tells me about her 
 dead daughter, hears about home, reads me her husband's 
 hymns (she, too, has written a book), feeds me ad lib.; 
 offers another bed in the same room for Sorley or Schmidt, 
 in the event of my having the Heimweh ; manages her 
 house and her children (the second son is a genius, fiery 
 tempered and difficult to keep in, but she lets him blow 
 over and come round, and he is proud of her and loves 
 her like a queen ; she explains the ways of the Herr Vater 
 to him, hears his woes — he is medical — and gives him 
 money when it fails elsewhere). She plays a little, but 
 works a great deal ; is very gentle in teaching me ; we 
 help each other out with French which they all know so 
 far. The eldest son was a transit officer in the war, and saw 
 thousands of prisoners over the frontier in 1870-71 ; they lost 
 none of their own then, though every family they speak 
 of misses someone ; it seems to have been a deep spiritual 
 experience with many of them, and they speak of it as a
 
 244 fEettcre. 
 
 solemn thing and yet a triumph. Just now, in the event 
 of a Russian war, there is a great watchfulness and pre- 
 paration everywhere, and, though much apprehension, no 
 fear. Bismarck is believed in, after God, and is an 
 Evangelical of the Evangelicals. Salmond's pamphlet has 
 been issued in German, and everyone has heard of him 
 here. The youngest son talks most with me, shows me 
 his Greek and Latin versions for the Gymnasium, wakens 
 me in the morning, etc. He brought me in some of the 
 first of the Maiblumen (lily of the valley) to-day, and has 
 just been in to tell me how he liked the circus which he 
 begged his mother to let him see to-day, she sent him on 
 to his father, who heard, I suppose, of a previous permis- 
 sion, and gave him Pfcnnige enough to go. To-morrow 
 (Sunday) a marriage will be in the church, and a children's 
 service in the afternoon ; Sorley and Schmidt walk out 
 after dining at the Lamm and spend the remainder of 
 the day with me. 
 
 Sunday. — The only change in the weather has been a 
 little hail, with south wind freezing from the Swabian 
 Alp. There are funerals almost every day, mostly, how- 
 ever, old women and children, from the delayed summer, 
 and the number of sick people which the Frau Pfarrer 
 goes to see is striking. She has just shown me a beautiful
 
 iJr&beL 245 
 
 book of hymns with tunes which one of the old wives 
 had been feasting upon, and telling me about the Sttmdc 
 of the Pietists in the village, to which I must go some 
 day, and of some others up in Wankheim who are like 
 Plymouth Brethren, and quarrelled with the Pfarrer when 
 he was settled there. With remembrance to such as 
 remember me. 
 
 Tubingen, Friday, May 26. 
 
 Halliday was at a duel this morning ; 
 
 and saw eight young men of high rank engaged in carving 
 at what little of the divine likeness remained in their 
 faces. It took place in a lovely wood, which had to 
 be cleared of singing birds for this piece of work ; and 
 resulted in: — 1st round, scalp removed; 2nd, cheek cut 
 clean through ; 3rd, eight head wounds ; 4th, cheek and 
 chin slashed ; the wounds were sewn by fellow-medicals 
 on the spot, and then the spectators and those of the 
 combatants who could bear the pain, drank beer together ; 
 it was no affair of love or war ; only one belonging to one 
 society had spoken with a forbidden member of another 
 and ' Hinc illae lacrimae' — this is what came of it.
 
 246 fitters. 
 
 I missed a delightful canter to Reutlingen with a party of 
 them to-day in order to be at a garden concert, where the 
 dite and beauty of Tubingen were to be beheld. They 
 were merry enough in little domestic or erotic circles under 
 the trees, talking and drinking, the young ladies filling the 
 pauses of tatting or tete-a-tcte with potations of red or white 
 Rhenish. In spite of very neat and expressive clothing — 
 a custom they continue beyond childhood here — they are 
 not wonderfully good-looking ; the loveliness they had when 
 children — and they are almost all lovely then- — seeming to 
 be thinly spread over their faces as they grow old, and never 
 being renewed. It reminds one of butter as respectively 
 laid on a child's 'piece,' and sparsely distributed over that 
 of an old one. 
 
 Yet in some things there is a deeper sense of harmony in 
 them than among ourselves. With us, ministers on meeting 
 generally make it the sign for a discussion on divinity. 
 Here it is otherwise. For instance, Mrs. Pressel's brother 
 (a pastor) arrived to-night. He is musical, as most of them 
 are. And if there is less reason than usual in this last sheet, 
 you must lay it, not at my door, but at that of the dining- 
 room below, where the two brothers in Christ have been 
 signalizing their reunion by a series of splendid bursts on 
 the piano, sacred and profane ; all the while, I have no
 
 ^rabd. 247 
 
 doubt, darkening the room with two rich cigars, and laying 
 them down now and again to suggest a new method of 
 meeting the world, flesh, and devil. Somehow their Chris- 
 tianity comes as naturally here out of their fingers' ends as 
 anywhere else, the mouth in private being generally other- 
 wise filled. And if their religion, nay their whole life, has 
 one strength or one weakness (and it has many), the secret 
 of either lies assuredly in the place to which the body is 
 admitted in both. However, on the whole, if a German is 
 saved, it is a complete thing, for the soul without the body 
 is an idea they never thought much of. 
 
 Lustnau, 
 Tubingen, June 4, 1876. 
 
 I'm afraid, if I don't now, I shall never get a letter begun. 
 
 I have just got free from a troublesome cold and am 
 going about, walking and working as usual. Of the latter 
 there is precious little ; some German reading and, alas ! 
 less speaking, filling up the pauses of my much-outing 
 every day. However, I think I am getting impressions 
 now ; and it is a state the most pleasant, fruitful, and 
 hopeful that man can enjoy. It has taken longer than I 
 thought to get rid of English, not so much on the tongue
 
 248 S^tcrs. 
 
 as in head and heart ; to isolate one's self so far from 
 home ways and ideas and lie open to the Einfluss of other 
 and new ones. I have great advantages here, too, in being 
 utterly free from ordinary surroundings, so that the isolated 
 watch-tower of observation, which jars on "our ain folk," 
 is neither so much ascended, or, if it is, doesn't do any 
 harm to anybody's feelings. It is a great grace, too, to be 
 allowed to begin anew in a few things, though the difficulty 
 and the circumscribed extent of change are not without 
 their pain. It is good, too, to see one's old self slightly 
 at a distance ; one's church I must add, for I have been 
 looking back and forward at her with you and others, while 
 your much-prized pictures of her present position have kept 
 me within call of the realities. 
 
 Of the life here, it must be said that in many ways I 
 must regard it as a thing to put within brackets — e.g. the 
 Sabbath-life, though I couldn't protest against it, will give 
 me arguments for sincere devotion to Scotch ways when I 
 return ; and in other things, where I might have been 
 tempted to press against home bounds and barriers, ex- 
 perience here will help me to be more respectful and content 
 with them than heretofore. But, on the other hand, in 
 many ways there are rebukes for one in the ordinary life 
 here ; the relations between parents and children, the mani-
 
 <3[rnl)cl. 249 
 
 festations of open feeling, the rules of courtesy, the strong 
 and deep patriotism, more than a century in sweep, and 
 the general religiousness, in matters like the late war, 
 deaths, high tides, and so on, give one much cause to im- 
 prove. Of course you will say observance is not morality ; 
 the family tie is strong among the lower animals, emotion 
 is in the majority there also ; politeness is a poor substitute 
 for personal respect ; the empire and love for it is a piece 
 of hard uncalculating cruelty, etc., etc.; but while much 
 of this is true, and it were easy to construe still more in 
 the same unworthy direction, yet there is a possibility and 
 a reward in engrafting observances upon deeper feelings, 
 purer motives, more real and living commands. 
 
 Anyway, I trust I am beginning to learn. I had intended 
 to write pictures of the places I have seen and studies of 
 some points of character for the Review, but my illness 
 has put that out of my head. And I daresay the thoughts 
 which do us most good are those which, rushing up out of 
 our hearts spontaneously in moments of new and pure 
 experience, are possibly turned back again in upon the under 
 being which they sprang from, and for whose nourishment 
 they most are needed. 
 
 With which generality I pass to details. I am keeping 
 the Schwartz VVald for some later time, when the weather is
 
 250 fetters. 
 
 more settled. Smith and Sorley go off on Tuesday. I 
 follow the professors now pretty well, all except Beck. 
 But I am going carefully over the 'Seelenlehre' to get 
 his standpoint. I have read Faust, Gotz, Don Carlos, 
 Monologen (partly), and looked at my subjects for next 
 winter. Aren't they splendid ? Isaiah vi. (Davidson) and 
 "That Rock was Christ" (Macgregor). 
 
 Thursday Evening, 
 Lustnau, Tubingen, June 8, 1876. 
 
 On Monday and Tuesday it was from 80 to 90 in the shade, 
 so I dosed over a German novel under an awning in the court 
 with the Frau, who read to me dreamily about knights and 
 monks, etc., etc., I keeping her awake by timely interrogation 
 about some queer-looking word. She is ill to-day; Halliday's 
 and my studies have half killed her. 
 
 Then came yesterday's thunder-storm, with rain in sheets : 
 everybody disappeared, but the geese made a public washing 
 out of it. Gustav says it only went six inches into the soil ; 
 he is gardener among other things (was up at four this morn- 
 ing catching a creature known as the ' early worm ') ; but any 
 way it went deeper in the ' drooked ' dresses of some ladies I 
 saw ; but then they are more impressible.
 
 'tlnibel. 251 
 
 I caught my worm too ; for being in the woods this morn- 
 ing, I caught a young mole, washed out of ' house and hole ' 
 by the floods, and walking in the sun to dry its moleskin. I 
 haven't, however, got the animal yet ; he rattles a crust in the 
 cupboard every night, and plays a war dance 'on the top' of 
 the trap, thinking that is far enough. The cats, too, in num- 
 ber legion, build houses (at least it sounds something like it) 
 with the piles of firewood just outside my door at midnight, 
 till there is a rush, a crash, and 'fuffmgs' fearful to hear, and 
 I know that Hector has forsaken his sleep on the mat outside 
 Heinrich's (the medical's) door in order to straighten up 
 affairs among the felines. I can testify to the success of his 
 attempts ; for when I meet said animals after Hector has 
 been talking to them, they look very straight, especially the 
 hair, alongside of which one might lay a rule without hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 Tuesday Night, 
 Lustnau, June 13, 1876. 
 
 The time of night and position of my pen, in the 
 dark dining-room underneath, must be my excuse for 
 this pencil note. Three days' rain and no outing must 
 similarly account for my want of news.
 
 252 Setters. 
 
 There is only the inundation to speak of, and since 
 that event has been frequently repeated since Noah origi- 
 nated the idea, a few words about it are enough. Suffice 
 to say, Cause: rain since Wednesday last. Buckets, drench, 
 steady downpour, drizzle have all been 'on,' and seem 
 only to have given in for sheer want of water. One day 
 it drove like pellets of hail ; but, though not a leaf is left 
 on the trees at Heilbronn, we have been mercifully spared 
 that here. The streets are rivers ; we went to bed last 
 night with the Neckar 12 to 13 feet above high water 
 mark. This morning the whole valley was seamed with 
 canals, which, as the day advanced, clubbed together to 
 form a sea. I went down after lunch and saw a boat 
 being carefully steered about by fences and ditches, to 
 keep it clear of currents, carrying dinner to people whose 
 dwellings are, like champagne bottles in summer, up to 
 their waists in water. The clouds seem quite rotten, 
 can't hold in any more, and so are moving about in shreds 
 about the hills and close to the ground ; while the sun, 
 thinks Wilhelm, has drawn up too much water, like Jeanne's 
 fish, and is quite drunk. I had a great talk on Sunday 
 night with the Pfarrer over Baur, Schwegler, Strauss, and 
 Zeller, all of whom he knew. If the river is passable, I 
 shall resume the 'Aula' (college) to-morrow.
 
 'vEvabel. 253 
 
 There is an eighth Scotchman come, an F.C. from Glas- 
 gow. We half propose getting up a Scotch club to rival 
 those of the German students. I had a good game at 
 foreign billiards with Halliday last week and beat him. 
 I am gathering a list of good books for Jeanne and 
 Margaret, a number of evangelical stories, cures for neuralgia, 
 and sudden deaths for Mamma, agricultural facts for Papa 
 (they are all, I am sorry to say, under water at present, 
 along with half the Swiss railways and the cricket pitch), 
 and observations of the medical students for yourself. 
 
 Lustnau, Tubingen, 
 Saturday Night, June 27, 1S76. 
 
 On Wednesday it cleared and the flood abated, so after 
 my lesson I strolled out to the Aula, picking my way 
 among remnants of burns (still in rebellion and keeping hold 
 of the high road), and heard Beck on the morality of free- 
 grace. He is an earnest old gentleman, and talks the truth 
 out to his men in a way that makes one wish oneself at times 
 under the table ; he was scolding them about duelling, etc. 
 In spite of this, however, there is a large increase of students 
 on the evangelic side this year (there is a Romish faculty as 
 well), helping to swell the number of students to 1060, being
 
 254 fetter©. 
 
 200 more than it has ever been. Beck has a bigger class 
 than Baur ever had, the northern students coming most to 
 hear him and Weiszzacker, a New Testament expounder, 
 successor and student of the great Baur, who made the 
 school here. 
 
 At dinner, however, that day the storm renewed, and we 
 had a rattling thunder {Getvitter) again (8th day). The 
 effects of the flood began to fill the newspapers here and in 
 Switzerland. The peasants are about broken-hearted, hav- 
 ing lost everything, and some of them weep like babies 
 about it, and no wonder, for their bit of land is more to them 
 than wife or child, and the attention paid thereto would be 
 the salvation of any human being if turned in that direction. 
 They have it direct from the State — there are no landlords — 
 paying a small ground tax for vine- or hopyard. The Barons 
 are not like our landed proprietors ; they have, indeed, 
 patronage of country churches, people having no vote or 
 voice in the matter, but otherwise 'well apart' from the 
 people, though they do not on this account resemble 'stars' 
 (see Wordsworth's Sonnet on Milton), except in the fact that 
 they are ' fading away.' Speaking of peasants, I must tell you 
 of one respect in which they exhibit regard for their chil- 
 dren's well-being. No child is allowed barefoot, or with torn 
 frock or coat in school ; the children are kept very clean, in
 
 ^rabel. 255 
 
 order to distinguish them from the streets where otherwise 
 they might be run over. Now this is how they do it. They 
 wash the children on Sabbath morning, but at the same time 
 they wash the clothes too, of which every child possesses one 
 set, and none more. Now it happens that walking down the 
 street at an earl)' hour, one sees little cherubs in a state of 
 native innocence set out upon the threshold or in the centre 
 of the street to dry in the sun, while the outer ' hull ' or 
 tabernacle, from which they have been temporarily unclothed, 
 hangs above them drying in the same sun. The doctor says 
 it is the senna-quinine (I think the English of it is sine qua 
 noii) of health to do so. A philosopher whom I consulted 
 on the subject, says the incident comes under the rule of 
 ' divide et impera,' which, being interpreted, reads ' split 
 your washing into two, and the thing's done.' 
 
 Returning from the ' naked lie ' (as Halliday remarked to 
 me, on observing one such asleep at full length by the kerb- 
 stone) to the naked truth, let me tell you of a wash I had, 
 without separating beforehand unhappily. 
 
 On Thursday after dinner it was so cool that I thought 
 no more storms could come, and so sauntered in the cool 
 afternoon wind into Tubingen. When about half-way (}£ 
 mile) however, it became suddenly calm, and soon a few 
 first drops, flung like teacupfuls of water on the ground by a
 
 256 getter*. 
 
 woman before she begins to brush, told that something was 
 ' up ' and would shortly be ' down.' I quickened my pace, but 
 before finishing the Wilhelm's Strasse (the long, lime-edged 
 avenue which unites that and this), the rain was lashing 
 down and leaping up from the ground as if driven by wind, 
 though not a breath was there, and it came down straight as 
 stones. It took a minute to fill the cracks of the rent ground, 
 but, ere I had got under an overhanging verandah, the street 
 cleared like lightning, and I was left alone with one or two 
 labourers sheltered in similar fashion, and the town water- 
 man, who kept rushing about clearing gutters, lifting gratings, 
 and opening drains. It got dark and a great band of thunder 
 undid itself gradually to and fro along the heavens, which 
 seemed bowed quite down with the weight of what was 
 rolling above, whatever that might be ; while, in the rough 
 seams of the cloud, three-forked lightnings worked up and 
 down, lacing the ragged edges of the two conflicting clouds 
 with a hem that was needle, thread, and seamstress all in one. 
 
 Bei Pfarrer Pressel, 
 Tubingen, June 28, 1876. 
 
 I am owing letters all round, but yours are mostly 
 received and read out-of-doors, where answering is out
 
 ^rnbcl. 257 
 
 of the question, and I seldom am elsewhere except when 
 opening my mouth to feed or snore. 
 
 We are much in the open air ; I went through the 
 delicious process of getting my ' pow ' cropped to the 
 quick the other day, and have begun an epic on the 
 subject. The boys at school here have a trick. It is 
 this : on a promising evening, when it looks like being a 
 very hot to-morrow, they go and get themselves shaved 
 'ad unguem.' The reason is, that the master, losing his 
 temper in the hot weather, makes a frantic grab at the 
 heads of all and sundry, and is fearfully and wonderfully sur- 
 prised to find himself — like JEneas with his mother's ghost 
 — grasping nothing. One boy who crept to the window last 
 night saw the master watering his nails to make them grow. 
 
 Did I tell you of our fun a week ago ? The last of the 
 Scotch was come ; so we fixed to have a Scotch evening. 
 It took place at Henderson's. The coffee took two hours 
 to make, so we drank it as dessert to the other things — 
 cookies, rolls, cake, etc. Smith had brought his machine 
 along to club with Henderson's (carrying it in a dressing- 
 case) and we were about stifled with methylated spirit 
 before the thing began. There were nine of us in all : 
 the hosts, Cullen and Henderson, Smith, Sorley, Halliday, 
 Hunter (Glasgow, E.C., ready for licence), Sutherland (Glas-
 
 258 fitters. 
 
 gow, entering F.C.) and I. There was not much talk 
 during tea, our attention being chiefly attracted by the 
 ongoings of the Wahnsinniger (i.e., idiot), as we have dubbed 
 a mad student who lives an quinzihne of an hotel opposite, 
 and takes a ghastly interest in our two friends, his attention 
 being divided between them and peppering big papers on 
 the road. After a while he lit his lamp in order to get us 
 to do the same, so that he might command a view of our 
 conduct, but we voted no light, to his infinite chagrin. 
 By this time Sutherland was getting loud ; he imitates 
 animals like one of themselves, only much better. Forth- 
 with he set up all the dogs within call by summoning them 
 to a fight with a supposed dog ; which, however, they 
 couldn't find when they came, but were thrown into fury 
 by the ' meows ' of an imaginary cat which seemed every- 
 where present in the midst of them. At last they fell on 
 one another, and then ' disparurent.' The Wahnsinniger 
 drew his chair and lamp to the window and pretended to 
 study. Sutherland, however, did for him. For we saw 
 him spring up at the sound of a supposed bugle and look 
 out to see the street full of soldiers, having stealthily filled 
 his pockets with pellets wherewith to pelt them. But, when 
 he slipt from behind the curtain and craned his neck over 
 the sill, the military — oh, where were they — he was greeted
 
 IBxttbtL 259 
 
 by howls of laughter from the other side of the way ; a 
 crowd of children collected ; we left him to ' orate ' to the 
 assembled crowd and visit them with his vengeance. We 
 drew in to the table. The first toast was the new Tubingen 
 school and its revival by the Scotch, which Sorley and 
 Cullen managed between them ; this was capped by the 
 "Braes of Banavie" from Halliday. 
 
 Then came "three universities and churches" (Edinburgh, 
 Glasgow, and Aberdeen ; F.C., E.C., U.P.) which Hender- 
 son and Hunter looked after. Thence we broke into the 
 chorus of a hunting-song from the last mentioned. We 
 noticed that more than the Wahnsinniger had by this time 
 drawn close to the opposite windows ; for a Scotch chorus 
 is, after all, not a German one. Then came a temperance 
 recitation from Schmidt in reply to his health ; and this 
 was felt to be a peculiarly fitting opportunity for intro- 
 ducing some more beer. Then came Sutherland (who had 
 been splitting our sides all evening, by acting the part of 
 an imaginary general audience, which sometimes seemed 
 to be in the gallery, at others in the reserved seats) with 
 Blackie's song of Good Greeks ; we had already begun to 
 warm to a chorus, and the thing went really well. It was 
 getting dark, and of course we were rapidly becoming 
 grave, when Sorley gave " The Professors, and success to
 
 260 letters. 
 
 their efforts in the direction of Foreigners." I forgot that 
 we began with an enthusiastic one, " The Girls we've 
 left behind us," which was drunk with honours and ' Good 
 fellowing ' to the full ; the others had prosit, clinking 
 of glasses, and other customs of the country, for, though 
 our hearts were at home, the willows must needs be 
 Babylonish, and the harps discoursed the language of 
 Babel. A long breath, a fill-up, and then we gave one 
 for the Queen, and a deep-throated " God save our gracious 
 etc.," sung in splendid style (we had six parts going) 
 shook the roof, and made the other side of the street 
 look up. By this time the Wahnsinniger was frantic, he 
 couldn't see us, couldn't shy anything at us, and, by the 
 light of his lamp added to that of natural reason, we saw 
 him pacing up and down the room, with his arms rolling 
 vehemently, and his shirt sleeves rolled up stringently, 
 while his eyes were a match. Sutherland was sent to the 
 window, and communicated to him in a series of sounds 
 the desire to have a duel ; that made him, if possible, 
 wilder still. When S. came back, we were clearing our 
 throats by instinct, and when one of us gave (in a melan- 
 cholisch Ton, it must be admitted) " Bonnie Scotland," we 
 felt bound to clear the room by three hearty cheers for 
 what was to follow. Then we stood up in close circle
 
 •i&rabcl. 261 
 
 round the table and sang, as never before, " Should auld 
 acquaintance be forgot." The last verse and chorus were 
 repeated, till our arms rattled in their sockets (Henderson 
 had on purpose opened a side window which overlooks 
 another house, where the Frau comes from Schottland ; 
 and, as we rose from "Auld Lang Syne," I fancied a figure 
 slid from the window vis a vis); after 'good-night' all 
 round, we broke up. It was only to meet again at the 
 city gates, however, where, under the quiet moon, we 
 marched out (singing in streets sends you to prison) along 
 the Wilhclms Strassc, with " Old Folks at Home," " South 
 Carolina," "John Brown," "Tramp, Tramp," "Rule Britannia," 
 etc., etc. 
 
 On Sunday afternoons the same party meets for dis- 
 cussion, critical and exegetic, of the " Romans," which we 
 are enjoying greatly. 
 
 The story of my matriculation, address of rector, and 
 diploma (everybody gets a thing like a newspaper here) 
 must be untold. Also of my Sunday's walk to Bebenhausen, 
 of the Reformations Predigt there, the singing of Ein 
 feste Burg, and the catechizing of the children about the 
 story of three hundred and forty years since. 
 
 I must tell some other time of Monday's garden-party, 
 of games with a score of Tubingen beauties (such as they
 
 262 letters. 
 
 are), ending — sting in the tail as usual — with a Polonaise, 
 which you are not to fancy I took any part in ; for the 
 thing is a fact. 
 
 Tubingen, 
 Wiirtemberg, July 26, 1876, 11 p.m. 
 
 My good angel turned up in a half invalid Balliol man 
 (between Mods, and Greats) who wanted a companion in 
 the Black Forest. So, as my only hearty friend in the 
 house, the Frank, was down with heart disease (a result, 
 I believe, of desperate attempts to instil the irregularities 
 of the language into said Englishman's thick head, you 
 will add, that of somebody else as well), I accepted ; and 
 leaving Beck up to the waist in Baptism (he was just 
 emerging, and that gloriously, when I picked him up again 
 to-day), Diestel deep in the 4th "I-v-st" of Genesis, and 
 class wrestling with Schleiermacher's notion of Immor- 
 tality, I got into the open air. I can never hope to 
 tell you what a time we had. For the first moment 
 since coming here, I got really free from my cold ; the 
 weather was wonderful ; and the walking ground even 
 more than we had imagined. Just think of one hundred 
 and fifty miles in five days ; of getting lost, and having 
 adventures with peasants, wood-rangers, and charcoal-
 
 ^rabel. 263 
 
 burners ; of taking short cuts which led nowhere, and 
 leaning on guide posts which pointed everywhere ; of 
 climbing twice each day a range of 2500-3000 feet ; of 
 waterfalls and precipices ; of strange inns and characters 
 enough to fill a photograph book ; of sleeping on straw 
 in a barn with workmen, and bathing in brooks of every 
 size and shade ; of feasts on blaeberries, wild strawberries, 
 and rasps ; of talking German, French, English, Latin (to 
 a priest) and broad Scotch (in the trains) to mystify the 
 people ; of meeting in with at one boarding-school one mad- 
 man, two drunkards, and the daughter of a Russian mil- 
 lionaire ; of seeing the sick world in Wildbad, the naughty 
 world in Baden, the religious world in Freiburg, and the 
 ordinary world everywhere ; of dining on beer and hard- 
 boiled eggs, and smuggling the uneatable things into one's 
 pockets; of blisters treated with brandy and cotton thread; 
 of ' puggeries,' bad jokes, and classical quotations ; of ' wind- 
 ing' rival student walkers till their faces grew as long as 
 their breath was short ; of being ' done ' by hotel keepers, 
 and eventually arriving with a few Pfennigs among the 
 party. One of my feet went the third day, with descend- 
 ing three hours of broken stones ; so I removed the top 
 of my shoe and walked, a wonder to many, for the re- 
 mainder of the way. On Tuesday when we started we
 
 264 ISettms. 
 
 were respectable travellers, on Wednesday we were directed 
 to an asylum (Gutleutkaus), the next two days 'vagabond' 
 was written on our brow ; we finished up at Strassburg 
 as ' spies.' 
 
 To ascend to the solemnities. Hebrew is buried ; Schleier- 
 macher and Beck are being waded through, with shippings 
 over Schiller and Lessing (the former of whom turns very 
 poor after some reading); the lectures are easily followed 
 now. Roth is extremely interesting upon the remains of 
 Celtic religions, while Weiszzacker is retreating with the 
 Gospel of John to about the year '90. After all, the world 
 is improving and men with it. I intend to take a month's 
 grind at pure philosophy when I get back (D.V.) and then 
 another at mixed theology. 
 
 After all, I shall be sorry at heart to leave this old place, 
 spite of its much imperfection, and more failure on my side. 
 I am beginning to believe that the heights where your last 
 and higher effort leaves you, are the very spots (the only ones 
 perhaps) where you get lifted up ; that there is no point of 
 worked-out aspiration that does not hold out wings to some- 
 thing higher ; and that all such experience is spiritual. 
 
 With which sermon I am done. The storks are clapping 
 their beaks from the nest on the church tower, the servants 
 are snoring sonorously through the wall ; and I must have off
 
 '(JErabtl. 265 
 
 my slippers, not to wake the Frau Pfarrer who sleeps in the 
 room under, as I get to rest for the night. With remem- 
 brances to all who remember me. 
 
 The Katberg, 
 S. Africa, March 2, 1880. 
 
 They will have told you that we came up here to rest 
 during the last month of summer, intending to descend to the 
 plain again this month and spend the next month or two of 
 cool at Lovedale. It is the first of a series of ribs which run 
 up the centre of S. Africa, parallel to the sea. We are upon 
 the side of one of the spurs which run into the range of 
 mountains, here called the Katberg. Some three thousand 
 feet of elevation leave us with an immense sweep of land 
 lying below ; accordingly, you sweep the horizon, and find 
 your eye rests on range after range of hills. To the right are 
 spurs from this mountain ; beyond them the faint blue of the 
 Beaufort district ; to the left arc great flat tables of stone, the 
 edges of them sheer precipice. Over these again peep further 
 heights, cones, and ridges — in front the rough peaks of the 
 Chumi which looks down on Lovedale as we look down on it. 
 But best of all is the view behind. For full two thousand 
 feet the Katberg climbs above us, first in slopes of green 
 velvet, divided off by deep glens, filled with forest trees, finally,
 
 266 getter*. 
 
 in great upright, almost overhanging, basaltic cliffs, like 
 " Samson's Ribs," only ten times higher and continued for 
 miles, like the turrets on the brows of Cybele. At last, on 
 the far right, the mountain goes up 700 feet higher yet, in a 
 needle-like point, from which it descends in a ragged shoulder 
 to the lower ground. In one light alone, and seen for a brief 
 instant in passing, this mountain must fix itself for ever in 
 your mind. It did so or ever we alighted from the coach. 
 But how much it grows with the inexhaustible play of feature, 
 the resources of expression, poured into every part of it, 
 drawn forth from every corner, at every change of the weather, 
 at all hours of the day. It is a ceaseless panorama ; or rather 
 it is a stage, upon which daily dramas are done by sun, moon, 
 and stars, cloud, wind, and sky. 
 
 We have been reading Homer's descriptions of scenery in 
 the Iliad, and are greatly struck by the resemblances between 
 the country he describes and this. A dweller here would 
 understand almost every line, would appreciate each allusion. 
 Some of these seem perfect voces signatae for the place and 
 the people. The simple agricultural and pastoral life, the 
 virtues and qualities of the natives, the outs and ins of the 
 country, — you find apt words for each and all in those old 
 lines. The sixth book and the ninth recall readings with you 
 at every verse ; part of the first, too, you taught me to scan at
 
 'tTrabel. 267 
 
 Cannes, from the little copy \vc read out of — a cheap Triibncr 
 bought at Paris, and bearing the lines and handwriting of this 
 month ten years ago. My present seems to " copy fair my 
 past " in a way not easy to describe. 
 
 We are just finishing the closing lines of Homer, and I can 
 understand Shelley's outburst about the closing books — their 
 " perpetually increasing magnificence." But I have hunted 
 him through from the first line, in search of bits of 
 S. African scenery, of which he seems completely full. I 
 think to write a paper on Homer from the point of view 
 of these hills. 
 
 You will maybe think I am not attending to theology. I 
 trust it is not so. Here you cannot help getting " Introduc- 
 tion," of a kind, to all the books, from every walk in the open 
 air. If Homer might have set his heroic life down in this 
 district, the Scripture seems just here — as it does, I suppose, 
 more or less, everywhere— to have been on the field before 
 everyone else, and said all about it. 
 
 From the thunderstorm of Psalm xxix. to the gorgeous 
 lilies of the gospel field, which the thunder brings to bloom in 
 a single night, everything under the African sky speaks that 
 same Mittterspradie of us all which is transcribed in the Bible. 
 The forests on the mountains, the locusts on the green 
 pastures, the oxen ploughing, the watercourses, like Jordan
 
 268 getters. 
 
 himself, every one of them, for steepness and thick growth, 
 the springs, the drought, the head-dresses, the heat and the 
 shadow — all of them make the old well-known words as if 
 heard, or rather seen, now for the first time. I know not how 
 the colours in which Revelation is steeped, were chosen ; or 
 in what single rich conjunction they were first found ; unless 
 it have been by that "wisdom of many hues" (TrotKtXi'i cro<p[a) 
 which has made two things — the daedal earth and the divine 
 word. 
 
 Perhaps this is very elementary divinity — and only so much 
 as saying that nature is a theologian, as long ago some one 
 said she was mathematical (airofxerpei r) $vatg). Beyond this, 
 however, we have been reading Farrar's " Paul " pretty care- 
 fully, and are now half-way through vol. II. One cannot 
 ever sufficiently wonder at the erudition of the man, the 
 wealth of reference, the flood of side light he throws upon 
 everything. I feel the classical parallels in themselves to be 
 a reminiscence to me of everything I have read, besides the 
 thousand instances where I can barely follow. It is, without 
 doubt, a noble work ; as far above the Life of Christ as 
 possible, — unless it be that the latter subject is "as far as 
 possible," virepeKTrepicro-ujs, above any writer. 
 
 The point in which he is strongest is his "preparatio 
 scholastica " for such a work ; it puts him on a perfect level
 
 ^rabcL 269 
 
 with the whole region, sphere, and outward relations of 
 Paul's life. Farrar's patient years as a teacher have been a 
 great help to him in this. The point in which he seems to 
 me to be least sure-footed and steady is his treatment of 
 passages where the circumstances and issues lie most nearly 
 within the spiritual domain, e.g. the descent of the Holy 
 Ghost at Pentecost, where a word of Neander's is worth a 
 world of criticism, elucidation, and explanation ; the conver- 
 sion itself — where the psychological analysis is interesting, 
 but the transition point — the real Brennpunkt of the whole 
 — is vague and therefore inadequate ; the dispute at Jerusalem 
 and the point of Titus' circumcision. His eschatological 
 views, though nowhere very prominent, colour his treatment 
 at times, as in 1 Thess., " taking vengeance on them that know 
 not God." His giving of the gist of the epistles, so far as I 
 have read, is beyond all praise. His translations rest upon 
 the accuracy of a scholar, but they have all the forcible 
 freedom of one who understands in his heart the language 
 spoken by Paul. Such a work as Farrar's is a great apology 
 for the Christian faith, a vivid exhibition of how completely 
 the doctrine of Jesus can saturate, and captivate, and occupy 
 a human intellect and soul. I should like to write a review of 
 the book, perhaps for the B. and F. ; I wish you would ; you 
 know Conybeare well.
 
 270 gutters. 
 
 Besides this, I have had a little of the highest privilege 
 of theology — to preach. At East London thrice, and here 
 each of the last three Sabbaths at a little afternoon meet- 
 ing in the inn, I have spoken, sometimes on old subjects, 
 as often on new. " My yoke and My burden " ; " Seen the 
 promises, been persuaded, embraced, and confessed " ; " The 
 word of God — its scrutiny of us, the Son of God — His 
 sympathy" (Heb. iv. 12-15) — these have been the new 
 topics. 
 
 I have had the still higher privilege, while staying here, 
 of coming very close to one or two young men ; one led to 
 another, and I trust God has given us to help each other. 
 It is very striking to find how almost all wv Kvpios So'ivotgev 
 t>]v KapSiuv, 7rpo<Texeiv Toti AaAot/jUtToiy, have had a godly and 
 goodly upbringing ; sad and encouraging it is at once : for 
 one sees how bread cast upon the waters comes back again ; 
 and yet — that it should only be after such tossing and 
 wandering, and going astray. 
 
 Last Friday night a young German — come out here for 
 his health — asked me to accompany him as far as the top 
 of the mountain ; he was going to cross it to meet a friend. 
 It is a grand ride. You must go back to that never to be 
 forgotten route from Pau to Eaux Bonnes, to find its equal, 
 and even that, I fancy, must be enhanced by memory in
 
 Mirabel. 271 
 
 order to match this. You climb along the sheer side of 
 the mountain, mounting up all the time, rounding shoulder 
 after shoulder and fold after fold. Below the road, banked 
 up by a retaining-wall and partly cut out of the solid rock, 
 with no barrier, but now and again a big stone, the hillside 
 pitches down for hundreds of feet, thick with every kind 
 of undergrowth, overgrowth, creepers and streamers of lichen, 
 and filled, after these rains, with an innumerable noise of 
 waterfalls, subdued by the distance, the echoes, and the 
 intervening foliage, to one soft murmurous sound like a 
 blind wind finding its way over and through a thick forest. 
 On the other side of the ravine a similar bushy wood 
 ascends ; and above it again are reaches of light emerald 
 velvet, to the very feet of these magnificent basalt bastions 
 that crown the hill. As far as you can see there is this 
 waving land of shoulder and hollow, slope and glen, 
 presided over by the keen grey glitter of the cliffs, and, 
 over that, the eternal blue. Above the road, over the wet 
 stone walls, living with moss and many flowers, rises the 
 same entangled bush, too brilliant for shadow to damp it, 
 too deep for sunlight altogether to enlighten it. Monsters 
 of trees, fallen or hewn down, peep out of beds of green, into 
 which they have been pulled by the constant embrace of 
 parasites and weeds. The bright lamp-like blooms of the
 
 272 Inciters. 
 
 sugar bush (" protea " — from its many forms) look out of 
 their branches, snowy-hearted, pink-tipped, and crimson- 
 sheathed. 
 
 As you rise to the heights the land levels out underneath 
 you, ridge on ridge of distant purple discovering to you on 
 how much you are looking down. My friend and I walked 
 our horses all the way up for an hour and a half, talking 
 of Homer, Greek life, and the poets. Then we had some 
 earnest words, and reining in our horses, prayed before 
 parting. A storm had been gathering for some time, and 
 as I opened my eyes they were filled with lightning. 
 Bidding good-bye I cantered off, and watched the thunder- 
 cloud making for our inn. Every moment the growls 
 became louder ; we had a race for it. In half an hour I 
 came down the four or five miles we had climbed, and 
 galloped into the yard just as the big drops came down, 
 followed by a deluge like those we had in the Pyrenees. 
 
 Katberg, 
 South Africa, March 23, 1880. 
 
 Our greatest event since we last wrote has been the 
 visit of Dr. and Mrs. Stewart and Ida Leigh (baby) to carry 
 off Mina. They spent a whole day with us, roaming through
 
 ^rabcl. 273 
 
 the woods and gathering trees and roots to plant at Love- 
 dale. This session is a very successful one there, in spite 
 of the drought — there are more boys and girls than last. 
 The feeling is again running high about the natives ; the 
 Basutos are to be disarmed, though they have fought for 
 us and done nothing to deserve it, and many fear a new 
 war. Dr. Stewart has a great deal to do and to bear in 
 his fearless defence of their rights. He does not flatter the 
 natives, but he does wish to see fair play, and to give them 
 a chance of standing on their own feet in all this hurry 
 and press of Europeans, eager to get more land, and 
 threatening to over-ride the coloured people altogether. 
 Pitiably enough, the subject is made here, just as at home, 
 a matter of party. I see in England Sir R. Frere is being 
 made the scapegoat of all that has happened, and I fear a 
 new Government may send out some one to go against 
 everything he has done simply because he has done it. 
 Now, this will only irritate the colonists, and justify them 
 in saying England changes about and interferes with us 
 whenever a new minister comes in. Whereas, it is for- 
 gotten, there is a strong feeling among colonists themselves, 
 especially among farmers, against the natives, and the late 
 wars with the Kaffirs were not Sir B.'s doing alone, but the 
 
 Colonial Ministry's, for the Cape has as free and respon- 
 
 s
 
 274 letters. 
 
 sible a government as England has at home. I see by last 
 night's paper that to-morrow writs will be issued for another 
 home Parliament. I have no doubt how it will be con- 
 stituted ; but I do trust that righteousness will reign in it, 
 and not revenge. Some colonists think the Liberals neglect 
 everything out of England, and that Lord B. sees beyond. 
 I wish any Government were in that would help to train 
 up and send out of England a nobler sort of men, who would 
 make our name more unmistakably the name of freedom and 
 intelligence and earnestness all over the world. 
 
 Our time in the open air daily varies from eight to nine 
 hours. We start with the herd of goats that saunter about the 
 grass near here, and come home with them. In wet weather 
 they run into the verandah and play pretty tricks, boxing 
 with each other, tipping over one's umbrella and scampering 
 off in fun, chasing the hens, and in turn chased by the 
 dogs. These last have the best of all the farmyard games 
 that are daily and hourly played here; they stir up the 
 sleeping kittens, send the cats helter-skelter up the willow 
 trees, pursue the piglings (one of whom we call Orion, be- 
 cause he has a broad white belt on a black ground, and one 
 Pleiades, because he has seven dark spots on a light body), 
 steal their meat from the ducks, hunt the calves, and even 
 trot the horses up at dusk. There are so many dogs that 

 
 ^rabcl. 275 
 
 no one has yet finished counting them ; we began when we 
 came. The kittens are dying off day by day — the mortality 
 comes from their being made presents of. The latest 
 additions to the establishment are a silver peahen and a 
 blue peacock ; the latter gave it to a cat who came too 
 close the other day in a way that would have amused you. 
 We have found out the feud arose from peacock's thinking 
 the cat's ' miaow ' was an attempt to take off his ' piaow ' ; 
 it was really very natural when one came to think of it. 
 
 Loved.ili', April 27, 1880. 
 
 Mr. Watson's farm lies quite on the top of a rise. It is 
 a great white, square building, like a Scotch shooting-box. 
 For many miles from it stretch the ostrich camps, immense 
 enclosures of bush and veldt railed in by three wires sup- 
 ported on sneex wood. Inside these roam the younger birds 
 in flocks, while the older ones are paired in paddocks nearer 
 home. Their nest is a deep pit of gravel, level with the 
 ground, and there they lay perhaps twenty eggs like im- 
 mense ivory balls. When they are all laid, the hen and the 
 cock keep them warm turn about, by night and by day. 
 When the little ostriches come out, they are such oddities,
 
 276 ICcttere. 
 
 just like hedgehogs set up on hen's legs, with brown serpents 
 coming out of one end. These serpents are their necks, and 
 they are the most deliciously soft, downy things, all speckled 
 over with black mottles upon a brown ground. Then Mr. 
 Watson takes them away from their father and mother, and 
 they run about the farm-yard, with two little black boys to 
 feed them. They get chopped-up cabbage many times a day, 
 and peck it up as if they were hammering tacks every time 
 into the ground. The ones we saw like this four months ago, 
 like babies, are now grown big girls and boys. They are 
 now like an armful of feathers fastened on umbrella sticks, 
 with one big claw, like the claw of a mahogany table, at the 
 bottom. The serpents are grown longer, and go arching 
 about like india-rubber canes, while all the little mottles have 
 died away. It was near sundown when we saw them last 
 Wednesday, and it was the first time they had been out for a 
 long walk. They appeared far off among the bushes like 
 the tops of guns on soldiers' backs when they are marching. 
 One little boy was behind them and one before. Mrs. 
 Watson called another little boy to go to make them come 
 faster. He went away like the wind, and instead of chasing 
 them as little boys do at home, he ran backwards in front 
 of them quite fast, and called to them and cheered them on, 
 and on they came, careering and flopping and flouncing,
 
 ^rabcl. 277 
 
 stepping on their toes, and moving as if on springs, till they 
 came to the farm-yard. They had great handfuls of maize 
 thrown them, and they darted out their necks and picked it 
 up like lightning. It was a funny sight to see all these feather- 
 cushions crowded together, while the long necks went dab- 
 dab-dabbing in between their legs. You could pull their 
 feathers gently, they were so tame, and the cocks and hens 
 crept out and in between their big limbs, to try and get a 
 corn of wheat, but the crush was so great they had to get out 
 of the way. Each of them was worth about .£20, for very 
 soon their feathers will be clipped and sent home to go in 
 ladies' hats, and trim dresses, and make soldiers' "shakos"; 
 and that will bring the farmer a good price. 
 
 On ihc " Melrose," lying ofT Port Elizabeth, 
 May 27, i38o, 9.30 a.m. 
 
 We are on our way home, being about /\ ,\ ,\ miles nearer 
 you than we were last Sabbath at Impolweni. 
 
 Our last letter, which is lying somewhere in the mail 
 bags on board, was posted after two days in Maritzburg 
 (Thursday-Saturday), when we left to go on fifteen miles 
 further to Impolweni. On the Friday morning, at 10.45,
 
 278 getters. 
 
 we started off in a spider with two fresh horses from the 
 Egyptian House, of which you have heard. It is a most 
 exhilarating atmosphere that of Natal ; the sun warm, the 
 breeze cool, and everything as clear as crystal. We drove 
 out of the trees that surround the town and out on the open 
 hillsides to the east of Maritzburg, with the summit of 
 Table Mountain standing up on the horizon beyond. We 
 passed a native kraal or two, ran down into a donga, and 
 up again to the crown of a small hill, on the end of which 
 lies Bishopstowe. We saw the Bishop's house among the 
 trees to the right, and turned towards it through a field of 
 maize skirted by native huts. Many of them were of the 
 ordinary Kaffir kind, differing from the Fingo in being 
 thatched down to the ground. But further up the hillside 
 we saw several neat square cottages, such as mark an im- 
 provement in their owner's mode of life. If all we have 
 heard of the German missions in Natal be true, Mr. Glockncr 
 should not have cast the first stone at Bishopstowe. 
 
 We passed a beautiful little rustic chapel, and then 
 rounded a low-built spreading gabled house, overgrown 
 with roses and creepers, and embowered in trees. We left 
 the carriage and went up the gravel walk, but, before we 
 reached the steps, a stately figure came out upon the 
 verandah and welcomed us without any introduction.
 
 Isabel. 279 
 
 Bishop Colenso is a splendid looking man, about Uncle 
 Robert's size, with the same beautiful white hair and large 
 mild eyes, over which he now and then draws down a pair 
 of eyeglasses. He led us through the dining room with 
 its bare polished floor and simple furniture, where one or 
 two boys were cleaning. They saluted us as we went past 
 — one of them was the son of the chief Langalibalele. In 
 the corridor Mrs. Colenso met us ; we were introduced as 
 " a minister from Edinburgh and his wife." 
 
 Soon we were sitting in the parlour and were very 
 courteously questioned as to how we found the country 
 and other things. We had known some lads sent by the 
 Bishop to Lovedale, so that was something common between 
 us. In a little the Bishop invited me out through the 
 window door, as we used to go out and in to the drawing 
 room of Bonskeid, and took me round to his school. There 
 was a small attendance there. The lady teacher accounted 
 for it, as our own in the Highlands does, by so many 
 of the children being taken away to " scare crows," " herd 
 beasts," or kept back by sickness. She said, too, that 
 from the poverty of fuel, the children were kept late in 
 the day collecting grass and rubbish enough to make a 
 fire for breakfast. Of course there is no compulsory clause 
 here, and the Government of Natal has no system of re-
 
 28o getters. 
 
 cognition or inspection of native education as there is in 
 the old colony. 
 
 While Charlotte was talking to the mistress — Mrs. Larkins 
 — the Bishop took me to his printing office, where I saw 
 an interesting man, Magema, his head printer, who was 
 sent into Zululand last autumn to recover some things of 
 the Prince Imperial's. He learned a good deal there that 
 throws light on the late war. I inquired of him how he 
 found the people : were they settling down ? He said 
 the one thing they were longing for was to see their king. 
 He said the common people loved him and many of the 
 chiefs now in possession. He could be brought back 
 without disturbing the new settlement, only John Dunn 
 would object. He said they never expected war when 
 it happened, unless it were from the English side, who 
 seemed to want all the lands for themselves, and would 
 not let any one else have them. The stories of the king's 
 cruelty were quite new to him. He had often heard of 
 his trying to save those who, by the laws of the nation, 
 ought to have been put to death. 
 
 After having learned this for myself, for the Bishop left 
 me to talk with him, Dr. Colenso himself returned and 
 began to speak of the Zulu war. It seemed to touch his 
 inmost soul ; he did not speak wildly ; he was very calm,
 
 ^rabtl. «8i 
 
 but that only made his words more impressive. He took 
 me into his library and showed me from the blue books 
 how everything had been done to bring on the war, telegrams 
 being sent home to prejudice men's minds about the king, 
 officers having been arranged to co-operate or actually to 
 enter the country — all this before one of the charges 
 alleged as casus belli in the ultimatum had occurred ; 
 how the country was entered before the days expired, 
 although the king had done everything in his power to 
 collect the indemnity asked for ; how his messengers were 
 ignored, and in one place put in irons ; and how dynamite 
 had been used to blow up men, women and children after 
 the war was said to be ended. He put into my hands the 
 authority in detail for each of these statements, and they 
 make one's ears tingle, and one's heart sick and sore. 
 Everything you have read at home of the treachery and 
 horrors of the Afghan campaign has had its counterpart 
 here. No one can believe that the authors of these things 
 intended to bring about such awful effects ; it is one more 
 instance of the inviolable law, that what begins in injustice 
 ends in cruelty; that where righteousness has first been 
 outraged, no other virtue under heaven is secure. Two 
 hours passed very quickly as we talked on these things, 
 Miss Colenso making a fifth, and not the least outspoken,
 
 282 fetters. 
 
 in the conversation. We felt how grievous it is that the 
 Bishop's isolated position in other things should have 
 separated him from good men at such a time as this, 
 when every voice that can murmur should be raised to 
 thunder, and every hand that has the least life left in it 
 should be lifted up. We felt how much judgment and 
 observation of all sides was needed in a matter such as 
 this, but I believe they are not half so much wanted as 
 common honesty and unflinching courage. There is a time 
 to hear all sides, and there is a time to take one. 
 
 If you wish to get a short statement of these things, 
 send for a book called " Cetshwayo's Dutchman," by Mr. 
 Vijn, edited by Bishop Colenso (Longmans), and read it 
 carefully, especially the notes. 
 
 The last thing we saw at Bishopstowe, a thing I shall 
 never forget, was a handsome morocco case, with the royal 
 arms of England engraven upon it. A book in rich scarlet 
 binding, resting upon a purple ground, lay inside. It was 
 a copy of a report of the installation of the King at the 
 hands of the representative of Her Majesty in 1873. On 
 the outside, lettered in gold, ran the following : Queen 
 Victoria, etc. etc., to King Cetewayo. I remember how 
 it startled me, in closing the best and most impartial history 
 of South Africa, written just before the beginning of these
 
 ^rsHjcl. 283 
 
 troubles with the Kaffir and Zulu tribes, to find the last 
 sentence state that Zululand was then in peace and quiet, 
 and that a new ruler, Cetewayo, had been crowned by Sir T. 
 Shepstone in the name of our Queen. Little did I dream 
 one day to see such a seal of friendship between ourselves 
 and the Zulu nation wet with the dews that fell on it as 
 it dropped from the hands of the same king in his flight 
 before an English force, which had invaded his land, 
 ignored his overtures, and by help of traitors, worthy to 
 be descendants of Judas, hunted him down. Until this last 
 accident, the book had evidently been carefully kept with 
 an equal chivalry to that which forbore to cross into our 
 borders when Natal lay at his feet, which spared the 
 mission houses in his country till they were turned into 
 forts against them, which protected white people within 
 his borders while the war still raged. 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Colenso asked us to come and stay with 
 them on our return from Impolweni if we should have 
 time. I told him Mr. Fowler was my father-in-law, and 
 he recognized the name with pleasure, remembering his work 
 in the Aborigines Society. The courtesy and kindness 
 we received at Bishopstowe touched us much. 
 
 The drive up the hill to the north was delightful in the 
 fresh morning. We were on the Greytown road, which
 
 284 fetters. 
 
 winds along up and down over a rolling plateau, covered 
 with grass that reminded me of the south of Scotland. 
 Only here and there little patches of trees with neat houses 
 and plots of tilled land make a welcome diversion in the 
 view. The dwellings are much neater than in many parts 
 of the old colony. There is much less roughness and 
 neglect in Natal ; some say it is because the Dutch element 
 is less prominent there. After about twelve miles we 
 descended into the valley of the Umgeni, the large and 
 beautiful stream, the mouth of which we saw on our way 
 to Verulam. It has a broad, deep mass of water, of a 
 pale green colour, as though it came off snow, and, just 
 above where we crossed, it comes over a low fall in the 
 whole length of it with about a dozen distinct tresses of 
 water descending between green bushes. On the rise above 
 it we turned off the smooth road to the right to seek for 
 Impolweni, which lies some three miles further on. Our 
 road was a self-made one, leading through long grass and 
 fields of maize, with water sprouts and mud holes to vary 
 it. It was the wrong way, of course, we found afterwards, 
 but the right one is not nearly so amusing. However, 
 nothing could exhaust the horses who went through thick 
 and thin. We came out upon the face of a stream running 
 parallel to the high road, and just below us joining the
 
 <Srabel. 285 
 
 Umgeni is a " meeting of the waters," that reminded me 
 of another place. This was the Impolweni, and in front 
 of us it made one of those sharp serpentinings you so 
 often see in South African rivers ; the opposite banks 
 being rocky krantzes, with a small kloof coming down 
 from the other side, where the river bends furthest in. 
 On the flat meadow left by the stream is a little cluster 
 of trees at the nearer end, sheltering the old mission house 
 where Mr. Allison lived. He brought a settlement of 
 Swazis here from another place where he worked, near 
 Maritzburg. They were part of a tribe that he brought 
 over into the colony to escape destruction among their 
 own people. He leased this piece of land, which was one 
 of the 6-7000 acre farms given out to the Dutch in the 
 first settlement of Natal by English in '50, from a Boer 
 named Maritz, whose brother's name the neighbouring town 
 bears. The Dutchman's house became a manse, his barn 
 the church and school. When Dr. Duff passed there, Mr. 
 Allison joined the Free Church Mission, and the land is 
 now ours for mission purposes. We saw more square 
 cottages round about than at almost any mission station 
 we have seen. A German workman at a lar^e buildincr 
 on the hillside above the river, which turned out to be 
 the new church, stopped us on our way down.
 
 286 Setter* 
 
 Monday Night, 
 Jan. ii, 1886, 9 p.m. 
 
 We are speeding along due east with a favourable wind, 
 which is ruffling up the dark blue waves with white caps 
 under a crescent moon somewhere to the south of Malaga. 
 This has been a day of great excitement and delight to us, 
 for it brought us our first sight of Gibraltar. 
 
 Yesterday towards afternoon the coast began to grow nearer 
 and clearer, running out northwards in a series ot rocky pro- 
 montories. At the corner of these came a great headland 
 crowned with a heavily-built lighthouse like a fortress, which 
 every one recognized as Cape St. Vincent. The shore con- 
 tinued to run on in a low line of sheer cliff, surmounted by 
 bare downs for a considerable distance, till it ended in 
 another cape ('St. Mary'), after which it gradually trended 
 again to the east. As the sun went down we were entering 
 Cadiz Bay, reminding us vividly of Browning's description 
 of the same scene in his " Home Thoughts from the Sea." 
 Those few lines reproduce the place, and the feeling of it 
 perfectly. 
 
 At half-past seven Charlotte and I went forward to the 
 other cabin to have a short service with the soldiers, which 
 they had agreed to the evening before. About a dozen came, 
 and we had some nice hymn-singing, their strong deep voices
 
 "StrabeL 287 
 
 sounding beautifully. We had " Hold the Fort," " Only an 
 Armour-Bearer," and so forth. Then the English clergyman 
 offered up prayer, and I gave a short address from the 
 words, " My son, give Me thine heart." We were very thank- 
 ful for the quiet and attentive way in which every one 
 listened. They assented pretty warmly to a proposal to 
 have a meeting again on Sabbath next. This morning at 
 six the steward told us we were already in the straits. By 
 the faint red light we could see through the port-hole that we 
 were passing a fine bold, mountainous coast to the right. 
 I thought of old Ulysses, or the first Phoenician seamen, 
 creeping through this wonderful gate which joins two 
 worlds. But we were both still more eager to see what 
 lay on the other side. So by a quarter past six we 
 had climbed on to the highest deck, and there, in the 
 north-east, in pure purple outline against an orange sky, 
 " dawned Gibraltar grand and grey," as Browning sings. It 
 was quite something to take your breath away — the heroic 
 place you had heard of since a child ; a great bit of Mother 
 England hundreds of miles off from the rest of her — all 
 suddenly, unmistakably visible, palpable, and far grander 
 than the best you had looked for. 
 
 Thursday morning. — Tuesday was a quiet and uneventful 
 day. We sped along within sight of the rugged outline of the
 
 288 getters. 
 
 African coast, feeling rather inclined to be sober, like children 
 after a holiday. Toward evening it freshened, and as we 
 passed a light (C. Bono, somebody said it was), C. thought 
 something was coming on. Whatever it was, I could not sleep, 
 and as I lay awake became conscious that we were beginning 
 to get into an uneasy roll. About three I rose and shut the 
 window in front of the ' port,' which we had been told the 
 night before might remain up all the way now. The motion 
 steadily increased, and at four we heard the men overhead 
 letting down our ports from the deck. As no one came in to 
 screw ours fast, and as the waves were dashing up, I got up, 
 and by dint of ' fighting with it,' as papa would say, got it 
 pretty tight. A little broken sleep and one woke at last to all 
 the sad consciousness that we were lying across a heavy sea, 
 which ' sea-sawed ' with a regular motion like a swing, first 
 to one side then to another. I went on deck at once, 
 and for a time enjoyed the adventures of the occasion, 
 holding on, as Ulysses did in Charybdis, like a bat — 
 vvurepK uxrirep — to a tree and watching the vain antics of 
 those who tried to walk from point to point, and only suc- 
 ceeded in showing a wonderful similarity to their physical 
 ancestors. Then the cold (for it blew a gvegali or misty 
 air from the north-east) and the uncertainty of one's tenure 
 made me move into the upper saloon, where I lay curled up
 
 ^rabcl. 289 
 
 on one of the sofas, and moralized on the situation. In truth 
 it was a marvellous sight. This seething chaos, far as the eye 
 could reach, no inch of it for a moment stable, no point in it 
 fixed, and through and over it all our vessel pursuing her 
 trackless path, shaken but not turned aside, opposed but not 
 overthrown. It reminded one of Gerhardt's fine paraphrase of 
 the 37th Psalm : 
 
 " Die Wolken, Wellen, Winden 
 Sind lauter Strass und Bahn, 
 Der wird auch Wege finden 
 Wo Dein Fuss gehen kann." 
 
 One moment we were slanting like the roof of a house down 
 to the water's edge, the next lifted as high in the air. And 
 with this that sinking at the heart came on which seems 
 inseparable from any sudden motion of the kind, and makes 
 a child cry if you swing it beyond a certain point. " They 
 mount up to the heavens, they go down again to the depths ; 
 their soul is melted because of trouble." That is all that can 
 be said about it, as about every experience that the Bible 
 touches ; it always hits the centre of the mark. At another 
 moment it was an unseen spirit one fancied descending from 
 the snowy heights of the north, and urging this chill army 
 towards the warm shores of Africa ; while every now and 
 then some ereat broad-backed leader among them came
 
 290 |£cttcr0. 
 
 striding up out of the ranks, caught us on his huge shoulders 
 an instant, shook us all over, and passed on in the track of 
 the others, triumphing as he went. 
 
 By this time the wind had gone round to the north-west, 
 and the seas were coming up after us on the port quarter 
 with increasing strength It was a picturesque sight watch- 
 ing the troop of nimble native sailors reefing the awning over 
 the quarter-deck ; while a great burly tar climbed atop of it 
 to keep it from flapping out of reach. 
 
 Monday Morning, January 18, 1886. 
 11 o'clock (about 9 with you). 
 
 Off the low coast near Alexandria ; wind south-west, with 
 a falling sea, light blue sky and veil of haze on the horizon. 
 
 After dinner at 7 p.m. on Thursday evening last, we heard 
 the engines stop, and going on deck, found ourselves lying 
 just outside the harbour (or rather harbours) of Valetta. 
 To the left was the opening to the grand harbour, through 
 which in the distance we could just see the climbing lights 
 of the hillside city glimmering like fireflies through a mist. 
 To the right was our haven (the quarantine harbour), while 
 on either hand gleamed the lights of the two guardian for- 
 tresses (St. Angelo and St. Elmo), reminding one of the
 
 (Trnbel. 291 
 
 'Twin Stars' under whose auspices St. Paul sailed away from 
 this very spot 1 800 years ago. We had passed his bay about 
 9 miles westwards along the coast, — dimly discernible in 
 the moonlight. The planet Venus, large and luminous, was 
 dropping down into the eastern waves, like an imperial pearl 
 into Cleopatra's cup. 
 
 It felt like being in fairyland, as we were urged on over 
 the glassy surface by two stalwart figures standing barefoot, 
 looking forward and working their long white sweeps 
 with leisurely strength, away from them. Prose, however, 
 shortly set in again, on our arrival at the landing place ; 
 and we set our faces to the long ascent of steep stairs 
 leading up to the principal streets of the town. At this 
 point there emerged, and pursued us without intermission 
 for the next fifteen hours till we departed again, what may 
 be described as perhaps the characteristic phenomenon of 
 modern Malta. 
 
 Maltese lace still exists and flourishes in its original forms 
 of wonder and beauty. But the other special product of 
 the place — the maltese terrier — has undergone a striking 
 transformation. To cut the matter short — he has assumed 
 a human form. No longer does he sportively attend your 
 steps, careering joyously before you, and turning round 
 every now and then, salute your friendly countenance with
 
 292 |Cetters. 
 
 a yelp of delight. He 'dogs' your footprints still, it is true, 
 with an assiduity that is invincible, and a tolerance of 
 rebuffs that excites your admiration (to say nothing of 
 stronger feelings) ; but the only sounds to which he ' gives 
 tongue' are muttered inquiries such as these — 'Gentleman, 
 want to see Malta, sir?' 'Gentleman, find best hotel, sir?' 
 'Gentleman, need a guide, sir?' 'Only a sixpence, sir'; 
 'That's nothing to gentleman, sir'; 'Number 199, sir'; 'No, 
 no, not a guide, sir ' ; ' Gentleman find me to-morrow 
 morning, sir'; 'Not forget number, sir': and so on ad 
 infinitum. 
 
 Indeed this 'animal de combat' more often reminds 'you 
 of a lower order of life than the noble canine.' He is 
 generally brown, and crawls silently, almost invisibly, but 
 his entomological antitype shall be nameless. 
 
 Climbing up the flights of steps from the sea, we passed 
 under a narrow, high-arched portal, which reminded us that 
 we were on the borderland of Moor-dom. Emerging on 
 a narrow street, the high built houses, with their lofty, 
 rounded doorways (a pattern which always carries one's 
 thoughts to the desert palm), deepened this impression. 
 At last we emerged on the parallel lines of main street 
 (Strada Forni and Strada Reale successively) which skirt the 
 face of the hill on which the city is built. There the full
 
 ^rabcl. 293 
 
 oriental vision burst on us. We were in Moorland at once. 
 Far as the eye could see ran the narrowing vista of high 
 house fronts, their clear white limestone mosaiced into the 
 clear blue sky. Half-way down, on both sides, were tiers 
 of projecting windows — " casements in balcony " is the only 
 name I can think of for them — supported on brackets of 
 stone. On the street level opened countless shops — doorless 
 and windowless — less shops than show-rooms, open to the 
 street. The blaze of light from these was the more striking 
 to eyes coming out of oceanic darkness. At the doors or 
 in the street stood the merchants, glibly rattling off their 
 string of English syllables like a shower of small beads on 
 the head of the passers by. Lace, filigree work, tobacco, 
 coloured cloths, all passed before ear and eye in a panorama 
 that was perfectly bewildering. And all the time there 
 was the consciousness of this other obsequious something 
 which stuck to one like an alien shadow hurrying behind, 
 ready on the faintest occasion, or on none, to resume its 
 midge-like " sum-sum-sum "-ing in one's irritated ear. 
 
 At last, after much hasty, silent inference (inference with 
 a margin of error, of course) and some little bold stationary 
 interrogation (most successful of which was from a raw lad 
 mounting guard at some barrack entry, whose broad Forfar- 
 shire burr sounded sweet as northern porridge to the skim
 
 294 |£ctteT0. 
 
 milk of "Maltese Dog"), we reached our hotel — nominally 
 " The Grand," actually the old-fashioned, many-staired, half- 
 staged, Albergo-like institution familiar to the traveller in 
 North Italy. Only, anything in the shape of a real hotel 
 with foundations was welcome. What a luxury it was even 
 to see a four-poster, though the posts were only hollow tin 
 tubes immersed in clouds of gauze drapery supposed to keep 
 mosquitos out, which, of course, they didn't, but only served 
 to keep one fine, musical, muscular specimen in. One 
 could almost fall upon these hollow tubes and cover them 
 with tears. It seemed superfluous, if not wrong, to undress 
 and go to bed — how ungrateful not to go on all night 
 feasting one's eyes on the delightful object. As it happened, 
 one paid the penalty of not being content with joys in pro- 
 spect. For when morning came in through the window on 
 the square court open to the sky, behold the white drapery, 
 yea, the four solid walls themselves were rolling and pitching 
 about in all directions, or, at least, the sleeper thought so. 
 
 We were early astir, for only a precious hour or two had 
 to elapse ere we must be on board again. Happily for us, 
 the chief sights of Valetta lie close together. We went 
 over the governor's palace, formerly the residence of the 
 Masters of the Knights of St. John. These brave repre- 
 sentatives of the Crusades, at first not only a martial, but a
 
 ^JTrabel. 295 
 
 nursing order (of which the modern Red Cross still keeps 
 up the tradition), made a gallant stand for four centuries 
 (the 1 2th to the 16th), first at Jerusalem, next at Rhodes, 
 then at Cyprus, and finally here at Malta, where Charles 
 V. had the wisdom to plant them in 1530 as a last bulwark 
 against the then overwhelming tide of Moslem invasion. 
 A splendid bulwark they proved, contending on this little 
 spot for over a century stubbornly and all but singlehanded, 
 unless when like-minded Venice came to the rescue in 
 behalf of the Cross. As one looked down the noble hall, 
 where stand ranged in order the arms of each noted champion 
 (from Spain, Italy, Germany, England, as the case might 
 be), preserved here with the wearer's name on the dis- 
 solution of the order a hundred years ago, one realized 
 more vividly than ever that episode most strange and 
 momentous in the history of Christendom ; dark on the 
 whole, yet broken with bright gleams of faith and heroism 
 — the 700 years' conflict between Mahomet and Christ. 
 The presence in the armoury of some of our red-coated 
 fellow-travellers bound for Egypt lent an additional interest 
 to the scene. One felt how truly they and we were engaged 
 more or less worthily in another act of the same gigantic 
 drama. Ay, and beyond us, beyond all this stormy and 
 obscure present, one could not restrain the flight of a
 
 296 getters. 
 
 trembling hope, the hope that by and through it all there 
 was slowly, surely coming the kingdom of God's Son, the 
 greater Peace, the larger Christendom. 
 
 Yet, here too, as everywhere, starvation and misery go 
 hand in hand with drink shops innumerable. There may 
 be barely a farthing for bread, there are always pence in 
 abundance for wine, spirits, and beer. Never has one felt 
 more the need of the little badge of blue in his coat, or 
 at least of its equivalent in his heart, than at every stage 
 on this voyage hitherto. Wherever our countrymen go, 
 they carry with them this terrible complaint, and every 
 race they mingle with is infested afresh with it. There 
 is drinking on board the steamer on every occasion — on 
 leaving, arriving, and leaving again ; in fine weather, to 
 pass the time ; in rough weather, to keep the spirits up. 
 And these two most heroic possessions of England, which 
 we have seen, the very mention of whose name quickens 
 the blood of any true Briton, what are they when you 
 look into them ? Every tenth house in them a place of 
 temptation ! O you young countrymen of mine at home 
 (such is the cry forever rising from the depths of my soul), 
 would God I could persuade every one of you to abstain, 
 were it only for the honour of this noble history, this 
 goodly inheritance He has given to you and me.
 
 ^nibel. 297 
 
 Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo, 
 
 Thursday, 21st January, 1886 ; 3 p.m. 
 
 (10 minutes to 1 with you). 
 
 We are writing in a large, airy room on the east side of 
 the open court-garden of the hotel. Looking out, one sees 
 the upper boughs of thick acacias, whose stcut stems and 
 broad foliage make you think they must have thriven on the 
 mud and water of the Nile. A few birds, with wings of a pale 
 brown — a kind of crow, apparently — flit among the branches ; 
 while overhead a keen-eyed hawk occasionally hovers or sails. 
 The sun would be an August one in Scotland, but the air is 
 June ; in the morning and at night it is delightfully crisp and 
 cooling, while the edges of the light-stone buildings seem to fit, 
 rather than fade, into the azure sky like the finest mosaic. Last 
 night, as the after-glow came on above the roofs opposite, in 
 colours one has not seen the like of since those wonderful 
 autumn sunsets two years ago, and the feathery tops of two 
 solitary palms stood out against it in pure and perfect outline, 
 with Venus every instant looming larger, like an advancing 
 seraph, through mingled pink and purple and blue, and the 
 sound of water plashing up from underneath just noise enough 
 to set off the silence, the spirit of the place seemed to come 
 over one like a bodily sensation, and shutting one's eyes one 
 seemed to sink away into one of those Arabian nights
 
 298 gutters. 
 
 which were lived here half an ason ago in old Mohammedan 
 Cairo. 
 
 Thursday evening. — We have spent the afternoon visiting 
 two of the mosques — one of the earlier and the latest, dating 
 from 1356 and 1856 respectively. The sight of them also 
 has greatly impressed us. 
 
 Cairo abounds in mosques ; they are reckoned by the 
 hundred. Many, perhaps most, seem going to ruin, unre- 
 paired ; but some are well kept up, though we have been 
 told it is chiefly by strangers. 
 
 The mosque of Sultan Hassan, to which we went first, is 
 a large building, of a rough oblong shape, standing at the 
 foot of the Citadel, or Castle Hill. Its high and almost 
 unbroken walls, together with the chain-like barring of its 
 one or two windows, give it, from without, something of 
 the air of a prison. Whether the original idea was to 
 keep the world outside altogether, or only to exclude one's 
 enemies (objects, to the Christian at least, quite reconcil- 
 able), I cannot say. But certainly, when one has passed 
 under that lofty doorway, nearly seventy feet high, and 
 threaded a winding passage, arched with much strength and 
 beauty, and crossed by solid beams from which lamp-chains 
 are suspended, and has put off his shoes from off his feet 
 at the further end, one feels he is leaving everything worldly
 
 'STvabel. 299 
 
 beliind and is entering on a spot set apart and sealed. 
 Sealed it certainly is, but to earth only ; for as one emerges 
 into light again, one stands in a vast court entirely open to 
 the sky. In the centre stands a large round basin-shaped 
 fountain, roofed over by a cupola, supported on pillars. Here 
 the worshipper goes through that rite of outward cleansing 
 which, from Jewish times at least, has been inseparable from 
 the thought of fellowship with God. All round the floor is 
 polished marble, unsoiled by any dust from the street. On 
 the north, south, and east sides are enormous square recesses, 
 spanned by a single arch, the slightly raised floor of which is 
 covered with strips of carpet, where the worshipper stands 
 motionless, his face turned towards Mecca, then bends for- 
 ward with his hands on his knees, then kneels, and finally 
 prostrates himself with his forehead to the ground. The 
 action is an impressive one, and the devotion seems far more 
 deep and undistractcd than that of similar devotees in 
 Roman Catholic countries. The eastern recess is larger than 
 the others ; most seem to pray in it. A high pulpit, with 
 steep staircase at the back, and a stone table in the centre, 
 the meaning of which I could not make out, were the only 
 objects it contained. The whole reminded one of the Jewish 
 and the Puritan modes of worship. So did the plain windows 
 above, with their barred ornament, of which the pattern
 
 3°o letters. 
 
 suggested, if it was not actually suggested by, strings of 
 beads crossing each other. Even the high apertures in the 
 wall, resembling niches and roofed in with an ornament like 
 drooping flower-stems cut short, contained nothing. There 
 was nothing on any hand to make the thought stop, or even to 
 catch the eye, short of the infinite blue — no representation of 
 the human form, far less the divine. The worshipper's own 
 self was quite lost in the great spaces surrounding it, un- 
 observed save of the omniscient heavens above. The sole 
 decoration, and it was everywhere, on fountain, canopy, frieze 
 and portal, was drawn from the world of the Unseen ; it 
 spoke of the spirit of man and the mouth of God. Words 
 from the Koran in the old picturesque character- — these were 
 the images and the adornment. Silent or muttered petition 
 from the individual's own lips to the Heartsearcher — that was 
 all the ritual. A wild, fanatical rallying cry, ringing from the 
 summit of these narrow stairs to the thronging thousands of 
 the faithful, on some feast, or pilgrimage, or sudden outbreak 
 — such, one could well fancy, would be the only sermon 
 suitable to these four walls. 
 
 As in a lightning flash that scene brought before me the 
 fierce ' Protestantism ' of twelve centuries since, which burst 
 like a whirlwind from the desert on the indolent, corrupt, 
 idolatrous Christianity of those days, and dashed the altar
 
 Irabel. 301 
 
 with its bread-god from the choir, and the stone-goddess 
 from her bracket in the aisle, and reared in their place, some- 
 times of their very substance, these gaunt tabernacles, whose 
 architecture and outlines are all of the wilderness, and whose 
 pavement is mingled, in terrible irony, — a mosaic of heathen 
 and Christian marbles. 
 
 Through a massive door in the east screen, we reached 
 another part of the building, a kind of square nave or 
 tribune, where the founder's body lay. Like the Pharaohs, 
 these Arab rulers made religion the handmaid of their fame. 
 The mosque, like the pyramid, was a monument of royal 
 magnificence and a reminder of kingly claims. In the walls 
 of this second chamber there were again recesses, the faint 
 horse-shoe arches of which (almost Norman in their char- 
 acter) were brought out in finely pieced marble. A curious 
 wood-work, apparently of the broken-flower-stem pattern, 
 filled the corners downwards from above. 
 
 Immediately on the outside of this tribune, i.e. in the 
 south-east corner of the mosque, rises for close on 300 feet 
 its one surviving minaret, a grand palm-stem in solid stone, 
 with prayer balconies projecting over the same inverted 
 moulding (as if the first droop of the feathery branches 
 had formed the model) near the summit. It, with hundreds 
 like it, though less lofty, we watched from the overhanging
 
 302 getters. 
 
 / 
 
 citadel an hour later, rising all through the city into the 
 purple air like stately flowers from the thick-sown buildings 
 of the city ; and from one to another came the voice of the 
 muezzin in rhythmic monotone summoning the faithful 
 ere night fell to bethink them of the Almighty and betake 
 themselves to Him in prayer. Sleepless sentinels, they 
 seemed posted on the bristling ramparts of this religion of 
 the sword, keeping watch against the enemy. Verily, if 
 God's work could be done by an arm of flesh, then this 
 people of the prophet must have accomplished it long ere 
 now. 
 
 Killarney, 
 Sabbath Morning, October 9, 1887. 
 
 It is the loveliest, most peaceful of Sabbath mornings, 
 the mist has cleared away, and lake, woods, mountains, 
 skies, all stand revealed — a scene of wondrous beauty. We 
 are just going to church. It is a quarter to eleven with us, 
 but 11.15 with thee ; and I think of thee going with Freeland 
 and Maida about the paths and under the trees of dear 
 Bonskeid — Greta too, the pearl, in her white shell, somewhere 
 in a nook of the boudoir, or nestling in thine arms. God 
 bless my four darlings on earth, and help us to praise 
 him to-day on earth, as our Robin is doing up in heaven.
 
 Mirabel. 303 
 
 2 p.m. — It is still Paradise — sunshine in full flood upon 
 the lake, and on the mountains luminous blue and green. 
 
 We worshipped in the noble and beautiful church of 
 Ireland, built by the people in the last ten years. They 
 have learned liberality with freedom. Like all the Protestant 
 churches we have seen, it is perfectly simple, yet not bare — 
 the communion table standing in its ancient shape and 
 place, unadorned except by the words, " Behold the Lamb of 
 God, which taketh away the sin of the world." The con- 
 gregation was fairly large, earnest and reverent — members of 
 the leading households in the neighbourhood (Kenmares and 
 Herberts), a few townspeople, and several visitors, some ten 
 soldiers with their lieutenant, and an officer of constabulary. 
 
 The service was expressively and deliberately said ; the 
 prayers of the litany, especially those for 'unity, peace and 
 concord,' heartily responded to ; the psalms (xliv.-vi.) seemed 
 as if chosen for to-day — cries to the true King to come 
 and rule over a perplexed and troubled people ; and the 
 sermon, from the text in Joel ii., " Rend your hearts, and 
 not your garments," a weighty and wise appeal to individual 
 and united prayer in view of the present condition of ' our 
 country.' "Other means," said the preacher, "are difficult to 
 use ; we can all use this greatest and best of means — hard 
 to manage — prayer."
 
 304 |£ettcra. 
 
 We came away, thankful to have been united with those 
 who were seeking" the true peace of Ireland in such a 
 fashion. One is not surprised to learn, as the constabulary 
 told us, that here in Kerry there is little or no religious 
 animosity. Mr. Wynne, the English rector, is revered 
 and beloved of all. 
 
 6 p.m. — After a quiet hour, Mr. Bain and I went out 
 (3.30) to the lake side and sat on a seat perched on the 
 ruins of an old castle, now the landing place, while he read 
 aloud a bit of the life (strange life-story) of one of the 
 Indians in the 'Wild West' Then, the north-eastern air 
 growing chilly, we put our books and wraps inside (into 
 the house), and skirted the lake westward. Soon we found 
 ourselves in the grounds of Muckross Abbey, an old seat 
 of the Herberts, open to visitors. We wandered on for 
 about a mile, amid the loveliest wildness, reminding one 
 at every step of Milton's mazy wildernesses or Spenser's 
 enchanted forests. Every sort of tree grows there in 
 profusion, from common ash and beech and chestnut, to 
 Norfolk pine and yew and cedar and deodar, and over 
 everything runs the densest tangle of overgrowth, ivies and 
 that wavy red berry with the thorned ivy leaf, and a 
 wonderful silky-tufted creeper of a silvery lilac grey. 
 Laurustine, rhododendron, hart's-tongue and every kind of
 
 ^Trabcl. 3°5 
 
 fern flourish luxuriantly; and ever)' now and then the 
 great mountains come and look down at you, like strength 
 rejoicing over beauty. We turned in by the ruins of the 
 Abbey, hardly more than unroofed, and like a grand 
 rockery filled with every kind of moss and fern and grow- 
 ing tree. The little square cloisters hold a huge trunk, 
 of which the branches almost cover in the enclosure. All 
 round it and within are the resting places of Killarney 
 people. 
 
 Now the great hills are changing from deep purple to 
 steel black, and the lake is a mirror of polished metal. 
 
 I gave a Gospel of Matthew to a maid here to-day, 
 saying it told about our Lord Jesus Christ and His mother : 
 " Does it tell about the Blessed Virgin," she (my friend) 
 returned with such an eager delighted look. I showed 
 her the passages where Mary was mentioned, and she 
 took it, well pleased ; nowhere do they refuse the Gospels 
 if they are given with a kindly word and in the right way. 
 
 Our old carman from Mitchelstown to Fermoy yesterday 
 was a most interesting and amusing character. He told us 
 if we only read the 'glories of Mary,' we should either 
 believe in her altogether or disbelieve altogether. He 
 thought the humble and ignorant should not have the 
 Bible for fear they should explain it amiss, and so have
 
 306 gutters. 
 
 the condemnation of adding by wrong interpretation or 
 taking away by want of understanding. We did not 
 argue, but I tried to tell him what the effect of reading 
 Christ's own words for ourselves was — how it made us 
 try to do better. To this he responded — "Ah, that's 
 it, we often hear but we don't do." He regretted greatly 
 having lost a life of Christ he once had, so I gave him 
 the Apostle John's, whose figure he knew in the church, 
 and told him what a friend of the Blessed Virgin's John 
 was, and marked John iii. \6 ; and he took it with 
 pleasure. How it condemns one to see the devotion with 
 which they hold to the form of faith which has been 
 delivered to them, and the small and often misshapen 
 fragment of it allowed them. What it does for their lives ! 
 If one does not contradict their way of it, but simply 
 repeats instead the New Testament way, they seem wonder- 
 fully reasonable and ready to receive it. 
 
 Now, goodnight to the three darlings, — Freeland, Maida, 
 and Margaret. 
 
 5.30 p.m. Monday. — This has been a day of days ; six 
 or seven hours in the open air, under a lovely sky, and in 
 every manner of conveyance — wagonette, one's own legs, 
 and boat, round thirty miles of the loveliest scenery 
 in all creation. " Shure and this was the last county
 
 ^rabcl. 307 
 
 made in all Ireland, ay, and in all the world," said 
 an old guide, "and everything that was left over from 
 the rest was thrown into it — that's how you have a bit 
 of everything." And so it is — rich grove, green pasture, 
 flowing stream ; birds wild and tame ; vast mountains, 
 wild glens, dashing torrents ; everything. I yield to no 
 man in praise of Athole, but Killarney is Athole and 
 Badenoch both in one. It is Argyleshire and Perthshire 
 in one, Loch Katrine planted in Loch Awe. Our com- 
 panions were from New Zealand, South Africa, and 
 Lancashire ; and we had a guide a great character — Sir 
 John he is called — prince of talkers, singers and buglers. 
 
 The two sweet messages of Friday and Saturday met 
 us on the way at the Post Office. I think the Lord put 
 it into Freeland's heart to send the pictures; for I had 
 just got them when we began to meet children who asked 
 for something, and I gave a dozen of them away, and they 
 were so pleased.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Friday Night, August 30, 1878. 
 
 Strangely enough, the last long talks I had at college 
 
 with were about the Atonement (he was reading 
 
 Dale — a good book, but not that of a theologian) ; then 
 when I was telling you about some glimpses I had been 
 getting in a practical way from talking with a man in 
 trouble, you said, I think, you wished you knew more 
 
 about it. Then the two nights in , Mr. and I 
 
 talked nothing else — he stating the old hard way of it 
 (such as I, at least, never heard), and I trying to meet 
 him with a more excellent way — the whole thing ending 
 
 in smoke. Then came, also talking of it, who 
 
 preaches the doctrine far the most (of any of us) and 
 knows it quite the least. 
 
 Last of all, after devouring Uorner all summer and 
 creeping in at corners from the Person to the Work, I 
 had the matter much laid upon me these past weeks, and
 
 3 1 2 |£etters. 
 
 on Sabbath last resolved to try and have a message about 
 it. I had to fill Pitlochry twice. In the morning I 
 preached on the knowledge of God before and after Christ, 
 from the texts, "Thou art a God that hidest Thyself" 
 and " He could not be hid." But it was cold, dry, intel- 
 lectual, and moral ; scarcely beyond the prophet-part of 
 Christ's ministry, and altogether unsatisfactory. The after- 
 noon I spent with in the garden at Donavourd. 
 
 There our talk all turned on the same theme. I found 
 he had just got Dale ; but was longing for light, and 
 feeling, as we all do, that we want a centre for our 
 theology, so long as we have not got the Atonement 
 into position ; that we want not only to place the 
 undivided image of Christ (His Person) before men's eyes ; 
 but must feel where the point of contact for them is in 
 it ; what it was that He did for men. We were asking for 
 it all afternoon. 
 
 In the evening very tremblingly, half thinking I had 
 done wrong, I took for my text, " Behold the Lamb of 
 God which taketh away the sin of the world." I had 
 these divisions : the surroundings and circumstances of the 
 speaker, the sight which he saw, and certain finger-points 
 towards that sight. The first part I had carefully pre- 
 pared, and seemed to get in (and bring the people in with
 
 jfttaceUsfteotttf. 313 
 
 me) to the spot where John was standing at the time. But 
 more I had not prepared, for further I knew not. But 
 just at that moment it broke upon me the thing that he 
 saw ; and I saw it for myself, and cared not whether the 
 people saw it or no, and yet showed it them as I saw it. 
 I did not seem to speak ; but One spoke for me, and the 
 words came and went, and only the sight remained. I will 
 not tell you what I said, for I cannot tell you what I saw ; 
 and it was more a picture than a truth, more a seeing than 
 a believing. Any way since then I have had no doubt of 
 the thing ; the formulas of it we have known since our 
 childhood — the power and the presence of it not till now. 
 I don't desire to rest in any past sight of it — the words 
 of last Sabbath are already old, but the thing is not. I 
 am resolved to go through the New Testament looking 
 
 for this one thing, and have already begun. came in 
 
 afterwards, and we both felt that God had been hearing 
 
 our prayer. I walked half the way home with (of 
 
 whom I have seen a good deal) who has been nearer this, 
 I believe, at times than any of us, and who talked me 
 clear upon it. He too has been longing for a fuller 
 view. 
 
 Do you see what a great and marvellous thing God 
 has been doing for us — making us all feel our need of
 
 3H fetters. 
 
 this thing; and, indeed, to speak of one's making out so 
 long to do without it, brings more of utter humiliation 
 than even of thankfulness. 
 
 Murthly Castle, Murthly, 
 Perthshire, May 31, 1879, 5 p.m. 
 
 Jeanne and I arrived here at 12 to-day. At once 
 Sir Douglas had Jeanne forth to show her some of his 
 pet pines, and Miss Fraser (Lady Stewart's sister) took 
 me up and down some of the grassy green walks. The 
 place is the perfection of beauty ; two castles — an old and 
 a new (the old inhabited, the new a lonely stone shell 
 dropped in the bosom of a wood), in the former of which, 
 a curious, contradictory building of all ages, I am writ- 
 ing this. . . . Down from the side of the castle runs 
 an avenue of yews, ending in the old and new chapels 
 (the former now the mortuary and serving as the vestry), 
 and, parallel to it, another avenue of very black yews en- 
 tirely over-arching, down which no one ever goes, except 
 when they carry the master down it to rest with his 
 dead. Beyond this is a terrace of deodars with rhododen- 
 drons below and grassy turf between ; everywhere there is 
 the same endless avenue of green grass, shorn to the roots,
 
 .^Riscelhuieoiia. 315 
 
 mossy to the look and velvet to the step. Further along 
 is an avenue of Douglas pines, giants with great spreading 
 fans, shot at the tips just now with something like gold, 
 and rustlcd-through by wild doves or rushed-under by 
 rabbits no bigger than your little hand. All the avenues 
 end in a great one which goes by the river, walled in at 
 first by yews, but then opening out as it skirts an immense 
 field, dotted over by ample trees and backed by a belt of 
 wood in every conceivable shade of green. Round the 
 park you wind by this unwearying avenue of soft green 
 grass and ascend a slope where the broad branches of the 
 pinus nobilis hang over you, and at their feet is an out- 
 burst of colour beyond compare. It is the rose-red rhodo- 
 dendrons in full bloom, blushing out amid the green, as if 
 lavish of their too great loveliness, and yet pressing back 
 against the pines, as if ashamed of their beauty. With 
 these are blood beeches, where the sap is stealing up in all 
 stages of strength, from a faint suspicion of orange through 
 which the fibres shine, to fine tints of claret and deep 
 imperial purple ; beeches beside them of the common kind 
 with a light veil of emerald hanging upon them, scarcely 
 enough to conceal the loves of the pigeons or the sports 
 of the squirrels ; birches, the glory of the Highlands, with a 
 mere mist of yellowish green shaken through the airy
 
 6 
 
 1 6 $£tt«0. 
 
 branches, making you afraid that the next breath of air 
 will brush it off again ; oaks ashamed of being later than 
 ashes, and reddening up in a hasty russet, and ashes afraid 
 of being much behind oaks and sallying forth in taper slips, 
 almost too tender and slim ; Scotch firs, holding up what 
 spring this year has given them like lighted candles on the 
 end of their long, spiny boughs ; there is nothing like it 
 in the whole range of language ; there is something in the 
 end of Isaiah lv. : " The mountains and the hills shall break 
 forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field 
 shall clap their hands." 
 
 After a little of this, we came in to luncheon in an old- 
 fashioned, lofty-roofed room, where you seemed afraid to 
 speak above your breath, and were severely criticized by 
 the old ancestry upon the walls, who had got beyond the 
 deadening and debasing influences of eating and drinking. 
 Then Jeanne and I got leave to trot away by ourselves, 
 along by the river, where lilies of the valley grow, and joined 
 the others in the rhododendron avenue, and drove with 
 them to have the finest view of the castles from the high 
 terrace. It was wonderful to see the world of woods, 
 everywhere of every colour, and yet all one with the spirit 
 of spring ; to see those Highland hills that give us our 
 narrowness and our gloominess and rudeness — aye, and our
 
 iHiscrllitncons. 317 
 
 constancy, our inspiration, and our faith ; to feel my own 
 heart rise up with the uprising of them, and " beckon to 
 them " (aa-jru^eiv), as the saints of Heb. xi. did to the distant 
 promises, and be drawn by them forth from all its earthli- 
 ness, fickleness, and meanness to their eternal loftiness 
 and immutability and nearness to heaven ; to greet the 
 gates of the Highlands, Birnam Hill and its fellows, and 
 feel that round the shoulder and up the strath lay the 
 land of my fathers, my own dear land. 
 
 10.30 p.m. — I have just left Sir Douglas in the draw- 
 ing-room to come and read over again Heb. xii. 20-25. 
 What an intimate connection between eipi'jvij and Karap- 
 Ticrai ; only in peace and at leisure, as it were, can the 
 great Artificer perfect His work ; only in peace does per- 
 fection come ; action perfected is near passing into peace. 
 " Thus saith Jehovah, Creator of the Life's fruit, Peace, 
 peace (i.e. perfect peace) to him that is afar off and to 
 him that is near." And, again : " Thou wilt keep him in 
 peace, peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he 
 trusteth in Thee." Then, how very wondrous to think He 
 will work in us, if we let Him have His way with us, 
 something evdpecrrov evwirlov avrov, something for His 
 eyes to linger on and for His lips to say : This is very 
 good.
 
 3'8 getters. 
 
 Springland, June 4, 1879. 
 
 I have just been to grandmamma. On a little table 
 at her bedside lay a great, glossy-backed, brown book, 
 with faded gilt edges. She gave it me. It was her 
 mother's, Miss Oliphant of Gask, eldest daughter of the 
 house, and elder sister of Carolina Oliphant, Aunt Nairne. 
 Her mother, you know, married Dr. Stewart of Bonskeid, 
 and grandmamma was their only child. ', Her mother 
 brought this Gask Bible away with her on her marriage, 
 and out of it and the Book of Common Prayer bound up 
 with it, she taught her child, Margaret Stewart of Bon- 
 skeid, reading every day the Psalms, and every Sabbath 
 the Service, so that grandmamma was reared in the English 
 church (a strict Episcopalian), and in those daily lessons 
 from this book she learned first the marvellous acquaint- 
 ance with Scripture which she has. She never loved the 
 Episcopal Church, and after her marriage and conversion 
 joined the Presbyterian Church and ' came out ' at the 
 Disruption in 1843 into the Free Church. 
 
 I must tell you something about Springland. It is a 
 lovely little place, a mile up the Tay from the town of 
 Perth, with beautiful, simple grounds, and a tower built on 
 the river (the mark for boat races) overlooking the Inch, 
 where the battle in the " Fair Maid " was fought ; in that
 
 jjttigceUattecttg. 319 
 
 tower the ' schone Magd ' herself, my mother, as the towns- 
 folk fondly talked of her, taught for years of unconscious 
 waiting a little school of children, while my father was 
 building up his business and a stainless name in Man- 
 chester. Such a funny mixture it is — to come of high 
 chivalry, poetry, Jacobitism and Episcopacy, hard work, 
 strong sense, Lancashire cotton and Presbyterianism — such 
 is some of what has gone to the making of me. And 
 from this door the mutterlich-gesimile herself (for she had 
 brought up a whole army of brave boys, managed a high- 
 spirited mother, and been submissive to a strict, resolute- 
 minded father) was married away thirty years since, to 
 begin a life of suffering and deliverance, of succouring 
 others and succour sent from God, only second to grand- 
 mamma's. I feel almost 'to inherit' too rich 'a blessing.' 
 There have been clouds gathering in every quarter of my 
 heaven for a hundred years, since my great grandmother, 
 Marjory Oliphant Stewart, began to lead an invalid's life 
 in a little house in town here, and retired every day at 
 noon for an hour to pray for her place of Bonskeid, for 
 her child Margaret Stewart, and for everyone who should 
 ever come of her house or come into it.
 
 32° pitas. 
 
 Bothwell, 
 In the train to Glasgow, July 14, 1879. 
 
 I want to tell you about Bothwell. I had half-an-hour's 
 wait in the College Station, Glasgow, where my father 
 used to sit as a student in his red gown, and where 
 Adam Smith, the economist, and Reid and Hutcheson, 
 the philosophers, and Sir D. Sandford, a great Grecian, 
 lived and taught (now turned into a railway station). At 
 6.27 p.m. I got out of this into the Bothwell train, and at 
 6.55 was welcomed by Mr. Moody and his two boys, one 
 of whom seized my probationer's bag and marched off 
 with it in triumph. I felt quite at home from the first 
 and did so all through. A short walk brought us to 
 ' Benvue,' a little red house climbed all over with green, 
 and looking over the Vale of Clyde to Ben Lomond. So 
 in a moment or two I was kneeling in my own room. 
 
 After tea a walk was proposed, and I was sent off in 
 search of Bothwell beauties under the guidance of the two 
 boys. It was a quiet, sombre evening, but the gorgeous- 
 ness of the green, relieved by the pretty red stone of the 
 buildings, made colour enough to shame the clouded sun. 
 I drew as near the boys as I could, and we rattled on 
 about books and railways, coal-pits and country life, and 
 all the round of garrulous Gesprach that boys' talk will
 
 jfttjaceUaneang. 321 
 
 ramble into when it is let run whither it will. And so 
 we came to the valley of the Clyde, a deep still river 
 sunk in a bed of green, with high banks clothed in sum- 
 mer or rather second spring. Over it ran a light and 
 airy-looking bridge. Could this be Bothwell Brig, the 
 darkest spot of Covenanting days ? That was surely a 
 narrow, high, impassable place. But the boys took me 
 down the ' brae ' to the ' borne's side ' and let me into the 
 secret. There underneath the new building one could 
 make out the old arches cleverly let into the later struc- 
 ture. This, then, was the old ' Bothwell Brig ' ; here was 
 a bit of history. Below us stretched a lovely flat green 
 field, called in Scotland a ' haugh,' and the farm on 
 it, which gave his name to the murderer of the good 
 Regent Murray. Down the river a bit lies Bothwell Castle, 
 a beautiful ruin, ringing with the memory of Mary's un- 
 happy husband. Opposite is an old priory. Up the river, 
 again, is a fragment of Roman aqueduct. So one's history 
 had to hop about and fly like a bird from tree to tree. 
 But most of all to me were the beautiful banks themselves, 
 with that strange story of the Scottish woman and her 
 song in Arabic, told me by the Pfarrer at Tubingen. 
 Through my head the words went ringing, " O Bothwell 
 Bank, thou bloomest fair." So we wandered on, wondering
 
 322 Ipcttcrs. 
 
 at the May flower out so late, and at the exuberant foliage, 
 broken here and there by the sharp points of a coal-pit 
 chimney, signs of labour and the stern work of life. Then 
 we turned up through a steep gully to a green hill-top, 
 crowned by the old Parish Church, an ancient bit of building 
 from before Reformation times, some fifty years since re- 
 stored to a large cruciform with buttresses and roof of 
 stone. A light, square tower rises from the centre. I 
 made a stand with my boys to try and take the thing in. 
 Home we came by the Free Church, a pretty red stone 
 thing with two towers, I think, and a slender spire. The 
 manse was just over the way. Coming in, we had a quiet 
 talk in the long light, and then I had prayers, singing our 
 psalm ' O hatte ich Fliigel.' The children sang delightfully. 
 Yesterday, Sabbath morning, at 11.15 M f - Moody took 
 me to the vestry, where the beadle shortly found me, and, 
 to my surprise, proffered the right hand of fellowship (in 
 encouragement, no doubt, to the poor probationer). Next 
 came the precentor and persuaded me to change " Ye 
 servants of the Lord " to " My God and Father, while I 
 stray," which he said was a favourite ; which I did. Then 
 I had a good time alone, and then the beadle came and 
 robed me, and, after he had taken the Bible in, came back, 
 and I followed him to the foot of the pulpit stair, where he left
 
 Jttiscelkuicous. 323 
 
 me to take my way up a funny spiral stair to a little round 
 pulpit. Then I think I was helped to forget nearly every- 
 thing except that many were praying for me. The church 
 was pretty well filled, the singing was good and helped 
 me much, especially "Thy will be done" and "Oh! for 
 a heart." 
 
 Ross's Rooms, 
 Dundee, August 2, 1879. 
 
 When I came back here at 5, I had a great welcome 
 from Ross, whom I found writing his sermon in his study. 
 We dined and teaed together and had the old student talk, 
 deepened by the deepening experience of his ministry. This 
 is the end of his first year as an ordained minister, and it has 
 been a time of much learning. He says " personal influence 
 is the chief part of a minister's work." 
 
 Then we had a walk such as comes once a summer, when 
 the world is still and the sun has time to set slowly and all 
 the land lays aside its labour and thinks only of rest and 
 peace. We rose above the town, over the blue haze of smoke 
 beautiful in the evening air, and saw the stretch of river widen 
 as we rose. Then we came into a public park and climbed 
 and gazed.
 
 324 fetters. 
 
 The whole earth every way undulated in light and 
 shade, mist-wreathed and sun-smitten, cloud-shadowed and 
 light-pierced. Sometimes the trees against the sky seemed 
 carved ebony ; sometimes, standing out in the fields, 
 wrought ivory. Then the sun slid down and wrought a 
 new wonder at every step, forcing the land to deliver up 
 its entire riches of outline and colour. Here it drew 
 purple out of the hills, there chased a mist down every 
 glen, now it laid the fields level with gold, now heaped 
 up the mountains in heights and ridges of iron. Then 
 the earth suddenly leapt up, lit with the sun's own glories, 
 fired with its own thought, and caught the sun in an 
 exultation of desire and hid it in her breast ; and so the 
 triumph of the earth ended. For when the earth caught 
 the sun, she darkened instantly. But then heaven began 
 and gave a glory for everyone of earth's, and all the 
 wonder was gone through in sky scenery, as late in the 
 land. New strata, every instant, of cloud were caught and 
 elevated in a golden moment and tost aside for some new 
 thing to toy with — fleeces of snow, flakes of crimson, 
 swan feathers turned flamingo's. The whole air changed 
 like a dove's breast when the sun passes over it. In the 
 west there was first a furnace of pure fire, then bits ot 
 amber, vermilion, and Indian red fell into it and remained
 
 .fttisccllancous. 325 
 
 burning as the furnace flame went out. Meantime the 
 long flats of water were flecked with the faint reflex of 
 these glories, dappled with blots of unsympathetic sand. 
 
 Monday, Aug. 4, 1879, 9.30 a.m. 
 
 Now, let me tell of yesterday. Breakfasted at 9, and then 
 read and prayed together. We had had a good time before 
 turning-in the evening before. At 9.30 I lay down and got 
 up my sermon till 10.30, when I had prayer. At 10.40 Ross 
 took me round to show me the church, while he went on to 
 preach for a friend. I enjoyed the service, though not in 
 first-rate bodily form ; and it is always an effort to speak 
 to a somewhat small congregation in summer time, when 
 sleep and sultriness are in the field before you. 
 
 At 2.15 I went to church again, and found a larger 
 congregation and less sleep. I greatly enjoyed the devo- 
 tional exercises — praise, prayer, and reading — but the 
 sermon was again an effort. Ross enjoyed it, but I felt 
 humbled, and yet I was not unhappy. Going home, I met 
 a New College man from Leipsic, who promised to visit 
 us in the evening. Ross and I dined at 4.30, then rested 
 an hour and talked on our wants and our work : it was 
 a very good time.
 
 326 getters. 
 
 At 6 came two of the elders from Cupar to tea ; they 
 were kind, honest men, but it was not easy. Then at 7 
 Ross and I went to his little mission meeting, which was 
 very delightful. We both spoke a little on " He that is 
 unjust," etc. — on how our actions fix our character, how 
 we are making our eternity to-day, and how that sentence 
 is being already pronounced ; but how Christ can break 
 that fearful chain of consequences ; how He breaks the 
 power of inbred sin ; how He gives the new heart, and 
 destroys the works of the devil, in those who believe on 
 Him. 
 
 Then I walked with Ross on his way to see an old 
 elder of his church who is dying, and returned to meet 
 our friend from Leipsic. Then for one and a half hours 
 we had the rare treat of a college talk on Germany, on 
 professors and books, men and events ; on the Durcligdngig- 
 keit of German students ; of the views one gets of the 
 lie of the theological land there ; of the religious life ; 
 of the moral and social state of the country ; of what it 
 needs just now. Then we spoke of ourselves ; of the dear 
 New College, which has our warmest devotion, as it holds 
 some of our most delightful memories ; of his feelings and 
 responsibilities as a "4th year's man," and of mine as 
 near my ministry.
 
 JftiaceUaittfltte. 327 
 
 Then Ross came, and we supped together, not without 
 merriment over some reminiscences, but with the deeper 
 gladness of friends who have crossed each other's path, 
 and wished one another God-speed. 
 
 Then from 11-12 Ross and I talked on, still of our 
 work and our wants, of how much was opening to us, 
 and more was yet to open ; and chiefly of our need of a 
 deeper sense of sin and of the presence and help of God's 
 Spirit. We read Rev. i. and prayed. 
 
 About Cupar, I felt from the heart I could pray to the 
 God whose never-failing Providence orders all things in 
 heaven and earth, that He would put away from us all 
 hurtful things and give us those things which are profit- 
 able to us, through Jesus Christ cur Lord. 
 
 I did not tell, did I, how when the sunset on Saturday 
 night was near its height, we were standing on the slope 
 of a fair green hill to the west of Dundee, away from the 
 smoke and the din, with a stretch of land filled with dust 
 of amber and wreaths of golden gloom ? It is the cemetery 
 of the place, not a crowded city of graves like most of 
 ours, but, as they have in America, a large and beautiful 
 bit of country dedicate to death. As we returned, the 
 moon rose up out of a cloud, the "silver sickle" of Wilt- 
 shire become a "golden shield" in Fife, immense as it
 
 328 getters. 
 
 emerged from earth and held half of heaven, not ashamed 
 to face the other half, though that was pearls and roses, 
 roses and pearls unspeakable. One yellow band, not 
 ruffled even to the roughness of rich silk, joined us and 
 it across the broad estuary. It was like the golden ray 
 that Giotto and his fellows saw and we so seldom see, 
 that we think their sight was less, not more, than ours. 
 Have you ever seen how sunsets and moon-rises rival 
 each other ? But then they are brother and sister, are 
 they not, under one roof, and their combats of beauty 
 are most beautiful. 
 
 Springland, September 8, 1879. 
 
 Before the colour is quite off to-day, let me try and tell 
 you how it was when I went first to visit Gask. 
 
 I have been back in my school and college days, walk- 
 ing along a Roman road, back in my childhood with the 
 1 Auld Hoose ' on the Earn, back in my poet's life with 
 Lady Nairne, back in history with the Jacobites, back to 
 everything that has helped me in the outer world from 
 rich solemn music to bright sunshine and flowers. 
 
 At nine this morning, Jeanne and I changed the Highland 
 for the Crieff line at Perth, and soon were going leisurely
 
 ^tieccUaneone. 329 
 
 enough up the rich valley of the Almond, clothed with 
 green. It runs westward at right angles to the Tay, under 
 the shadow of the first ridge of the Grampians, and into the 
 heart of the Trossachs at the further end. At 10 we left 
 the train, getting out at a small roadside station called 
 Balgowan and struck south and climbed the hill. A sign- 
 post by the wayside said " Gask," so we went on without 
 question. It was wonderful how, as we rose, to north and 
 west rose the blue rim of glorious mountains, laid like a 
 tiara about the land, whose locks were yellow corn and 
 brown barley. We passed a miniature pine forest, then a 
 real "selva selvaggia," where broad-fanned spruce were 
 weighted with the flakes of sunlight, and slim, solemn 
 Scotch firs were glancing, like veins of flesh colour in the 
 deep darkness of the wood. Over the sky went clouds, 
 and after them came sunset, shivering them gloriously, 
 then clouds again, bright spots in heaven, fair shadows 
 upon earth. The south wind came up in our faces, as we 
 climbed to the top of the hill, and then sank or was 
 sucked into the breast of a forest, when we were on the 
 summit. And then a sight, and then a memory. The 
 sight- — a straight line of highway shot along the very ridge 
 of the hill, cleaving the firwood, and going on, like a 
 messenger in haste. It was broad and level as one's palm,
 
 33° gCettcrs 
 
 with a ditch dug on either side, and then a dyke of earth 
 and stones, so old that aged trees took its cope for firm 
 ground. The memory — a thunder of legionaries along this 
 Roman highway, a thought of the order, the wisdom, the 
 immense purpose, the indomitable energy of old Rome. 
 Jeanne and I turned eastward along it, till, with our map, 
 we found an entrance to an open field, descried a mound 
 In it, and jumping the fence, stood in the centre of a 
 veritable "statio" or post, for changing horses and so 
 on, to keep up communication between the camps. There 
 was the "agger," the rampart; "the vallum," the ditch; 
 the " pons," the bridge ; and we thought we could hear 
 the clatter of a cohort up the " stratum " or street, and 
 the picket in the "statio" hail their leader with a "Quid 
 novi adfers ? " — What's the news ? Then we went back 
 and found the Gask gate and entered, and found our- 
 selves descending already into Strathearn, lying like an 
 open leaf at our feet, one stretch of fertile valley, veined 
 with ripening grain. An instant's turning showed us 
 the masterly eye of the Roman, for the road we had just 
 left rose against the horizon, tipping the very crown of 
 the hill, and commanding at a glance all Glen Almond 
 north to the Grampians, and all Strathearn south to the 
 Ochils.
 
 /Riscellancows. 331 
 
 But we were on other ground now, and sacred to other 
 memories. Here, we said, had Lady Nairne walked and 
 ridden, and loved and sung, till Strathearn, that made 
 Caroline Oliphant so beautiful and such a poet, was made 
 by her more lovely and lyric still. We walked down the 
 avenue and, turning to the right, came through a thicket 
 of unannouncing trees, and were upon the gravel before a 
 large, brown country house, eighty years old, generally in 
 the Grecian style, flanked by porticoes and fronted by 
 steps, with two geraniums, like rosy cheeks on either side 
 the door, and fascinating glances down endless avenues of 
 green, opening every way just enough to tell you that at 
 the end of them were water, sunshine, and green fields. 
 Shortly, we were in the drawing-room, cool with drawn 
 blinds, the faint green of the walls broken by family faces 
 — Raeburns and Watson-Gordons. A piano, rich reading- 
 stand, and centre-table, with old and choice books, were 
 what I noticed ; only you felt there were flowers at the 
 window and on the table among the books. A little table 
 near the fire made you think it was a friend of Christ 
 lived here, from the names and papers and the general 
 appearance. In a little a side door opened, and in the 
 room was (not came) a widow lady, neat as a picture in 
 black and white, about the prime of life, with a face
 
 332 fetters. 
 
 remarkable for its look of pleased good nature, its constant 
 liveliness, yet its placid calm. An ordinary face, elevated 
 by having its conversation in heaven. First, there was a 
 welcome in manner, words and countenance, passing im- 
 mediately out of that region, for we were friends from the 
 heart instantly. We talked of common interests, and went 
 back to the past, where our friendships were, and stayed 
 there for a while. It was a quarter past eleven as we 
 arrived, and at the half hour, when the good lady thought 
 us rested from our walk, she left us to look at family 
 records and pictures of the place, and reappeared instantly 
 in hat and umbrella and soft velvet coat, with a bunch 
 of keys, entries to the sweetest batch of secrets I ever 
 saw. 
 
 We were moving over the gravel and down by a lawn, 
 the sunlight moving over us and streaming among the 
 grass as the leaves gave it entrance. Down the hill we 
 moved, treading on ground soft with dead leaves of re- 
 collection and fresh with the latest grass of this grassiest 
 of summers, till the view was stopt by a low outline of 
 ruin, irregular with ivy, which scarcely allowed inlet to the 
 sharpest sunbeams to pierce it into shape. That is the 
 " Auld Hoose," she said, as you might say it of an old 
 friend. " There, look !" We looked. And sight veiled
 
 Jftieccllaiuous. 333 
 
 herself with memory, as memory at this moment would 
 fain veil herself with tears. Just the south wall stands, 
 one mass of ivy, wrapt up in unutterable associations. We 
 stept through it, as men say they step through ghosts, 
 who were men once upon the earth, but are now no more, 
 and came out upon other things. For here memory had 
 sat down and spread out her lap, and lo ' it was filled 
 with flowers. We crossed by the flower beds, as you go 
 by happy children, happy, but not disturbing them, and 
 stood under a glorious hedge of plane and yew at the spot 
 where Caroline's pencil took the picture that opens " Lays 
 of Strathearn " nigh a century ago. There was the outline 
 — indistinct, but the same — a low-roofed, sloping, "dear 
 wee house," with a balcony of wood before and a tower 
 at one end ; the " auld pear tree " leaning its age sorrow- 
 fully against the ruin still. We turned under the shade, 
 " sheltered by the sombre-eyed yew," and soon were at the 
 site of the old church, screened from the house by plane 
 and chestnut. It was removed many years ago, and now 
 in its place stands a brown stone chapel, beautiful with 
 high walls, Saxon windows, and stone slates, built by James 
 Oliphant (Lady Nairne's only brother's second son), the 
 last heir male and his bride, Henrietta Graeme, in 1845. 
 It was Henrietta herself who guided us, (for her husband
 
 334 getter* 
 
 went from her two years later, and she weeps, some foolish 
 people say worships, him still) and she unfolded for this 
 the first of her shining bunch of keys, used every day. It 
 is a lovely little chapel, erected for the English rite, with 
 oaken pews, pulpit, reading desk, and communion table. 
 They were English Episcopalians, though, when the Scots 
 Episcopals had become so high that they would not con- 
 nect themselves with them, she and her husband went to 
 the Parish (Presbyterian) Church. On his death, the Lord 
 touched her heart, and she attended to the things which 
 were spoken by a faithful servant of Christ, and joined the 
 Free Church. There is no further Episcopal service there ; 
 only a meeting, like our own, for the poor people in the 
 evening. We went reverently forward to where, on the 
 left side of the aisle, was written in brass on the floor, 
 "Caroline, Baroness Nairne. Died, Oct. 27, 1845. Buried 
 here, Nov. 4." In the whispering summer, in the loveliest 
 fold of earth's lap, lies the form of the sweetest woman- 
 singer God has given to Scotland. Across the aisle and 
 before the rails, lies James Oliphant himself. We spoke 
 low and long, though words were few, about them ; the 
 wind was saying requiescat round and round the place. 
 We knew the lady's ancient love of music and her old gift 
 of song, and, as she pointed to a lovely little oaken organ
 
 Jttigceliatteom 335 
 
 in a deep alcove, the story rose to me of how the people 
 said that often at night they saw a light in the chapel 
 and that, if you went near enough, you heard the solemn 
 boom of the instrument, and knew the lady was alone with 
 herself, her Lord, and her dead. I was afraid to ask any- 
 thing, but she said: Would we hear it? I said: "If we 
 dare ask it, it would be such a delight." So she only said, 
 " But we want more light," and went and closed the western 
 door by which we had entered, and opened two broad 
 leaves opposite the organ, letting in the summer and the 
 south and the sound of rustlings and flutterings innumerable, 
 and the sight of streaming sunshine and branches beating 
 with brilliance. Then she ascended into the organ seat 
 and sat down. 
 
 Jeanne sat in one of the oaken pews, I moved to the 
 doorway and stood between the opened leaves, betwixt 
 the strange coolness and quietness within and the stranger 
 movement and warmth without, and then the organ began. 
 It was a quiet note at first, but full and grand, as of chords 
 preluding. Then there stole through the little chapel a 
 melody wondrous sweet. It was a child's hymn, and a 
 voice, soft and simple as a child's, sang " I am so glad that 
 our Father in heaven." My heart was filled with prayer. 
 Then Jeanne was called up into the little alcove and soon
 
 336 fetters. 
 
 with fingers trembling at her first attempt to touch an 
 organ, but voice that trembled nothing, she sang, and I 
 prayed, " Nearer, my God, to Thee." Then she sang the 
 " Lost Sheep " and I joined from the doorway. Then we 
 all drew near and united together in a song, " I am coming, 
 Lord." Then I asked for one of Lady Nairne's and sang 
 the " Land of the Leal " — Jacobites to the Lord Jesus, 
 everyone of us three as our fathers were all one hundred 
 years ago. For to them, too, as to us, and to us, too, as 
 to them, "the king is over the water," and we keep our 
 heart's best place for an absent one. Then the organ was 
 closed, and we communed together, speaking of her who 
 joined these twin loyalties in a chain of golden song, and 
 of the comfort that comes from music, and of the blessing 
 of solitude. " I come into another country here," said the 
 lady, "but before we leave, will Robert lead us in prayer?" 
 She pointed to the pulpit, and I went and lifted off the 
 white coverings and kneeled down, and they kneeled in 
 the last pew. Then we thanked God for the ties of 
 family that drew us together there, and for the past, but 
 more for the present, for these closer bonds that bind us 
 to our Father, our Head, our King. We prayed for all 
 our household, and joined our prayers with the Church 
 throughout Scotland, asking for fine weather, were it the
 
 j&taceUsneonft 337 
 
 Lord's will. So we worshipped, and, as we went to the 
 door, Mrs. Oliphant stopped and pressed my hand. 
 
 Then we went forth, feeling no strangeness, into the sun- 
 shine and the myriad-motioned green. By vista and view, by 
 terrace and lawn, she led us, drinking draughts of the 
 goodness of the Lord. We went reverently up to the "Old 
 Dial " — " The old dial " of the dear song — and saw it reared 
 once again from 'weeds and grass.' Then we turned to the 
 edge of the plantation and looked up and down. The 
 strath stretched away for miles, faltering from under our 
 feet in folds of beauty, quartered by sunlight and shade. 
 
 Then we strolled along the southern terrace at Gask, 
 skirting a great bank of laurels between us and the river, 
 and a beautiful, useful garden with a rustic fence. This 
 led us to the other corner of the grounds, whence we 
 looked south and west up the Earn Valley over to Orchill, 
 her old home ; Auchterarder, famous in the Church struggle 
 of 1833-43; Aberuthven, where the Lords Ruthven (you 
 remember the Ruthven raid) live. Here the view was 
 surpassing. A wall of mist, transparent to the sunlight 
 moved down the valley, concealing and revealing every- 
 thing. The serried clouds sent all the sunlight down in 
 shafts of gold, and the first faint colour on the corn sent 
 
 it back again. Then we turned at right angles up the 
 
 v
 
 33 8 Setters. 
 
 west terrace, past immemorial chestnuts and fragrance- 
 laden limes ; everywhere an avenue, a vista, or over-arch 
 of green — green above, green under, green around — all a 
 wonder in the chequered light and shade. Round the 
 back of the house we stept, and, "Will you see the dairy?" 
 the lady said. We assenting, she led the way to the pretty, 
 low, brown stone building — all in the one style her husband 
 had loved and planned with home-stone from the estate — 
 whose cupola had made us wonder as we saw it through 
 the trees on approaching the house. Every bit of gravel 
 seemed in its own place, and it seemed natural that it 
 should be so; for art was only labour in love, and toil in 
 triumph, at such a place, except where summer's second 
 gift of green in this astonishing year had defied the 
 following of gardener's hoe or woodman's hatchet, and crept 
 up or thrust itself forward in sheer abundance. Another 
 of the bright keys came out and we were in a large open 
 chamber with tiled floor, Venetians in the door panels, and 
 in the cupola, from which the only light came, losing its 
 heat by the contrivance. Round the room were shelves 
 of spotless wood, and on them large liberal bowls in their 
 simple chocolate and olive, full of milk and cream that 
 lent an odour to the air. Behind the bowls the walls 
 were polished earthenware, Dutch tiles, porcelain — her father's
 
 Miscellaneous. 339 
 
 gift, sent from that country of cows and Cuyp's pastoral 
 pieces — from Holland. We praised them all, and were 
 only kept from tasting by being warned of an early dinner. 
 Then all was locked again, and we went and sat in the 
 parlour of the place, where visitors rest and resume their 
 journeyings. We rested and resumed. Then came the 
 makers of the milk to be inspected themselves, great happy- 
 looking kine, in a clean, bright cowhouse, filled with their 
 "soote brethe," as Chaucer says, and inviting praise and 
 pattings. You could go round by their heads and gaze 
 into their great, mutely-luminous eyes and understand what 
 /3o(T>7T(? meant. Then came the scalding-house and the 
 cheese-loft, and everything neat and trim. After that we 
 were led to the stables, for the lady is fond of driving. 
 We saw two sturdy Norse " hestas " — ponies — as comfortable 
 as everything in this land of plenty, very unlike their 
 brethren of the trace in Norway, also asking for strokes 
 and compliments. So we went in about 1.30 to the great 
 cool hall ; like all Greek houses this one had its av\a, 
 paved with pavement of the place, and surrounded by a 
 semi-circular wall with niches. We were taken to two 
 rooms, up broad stairs, and to ' landings,' all of bare stone 
 with strips of TaVj;?, and lighted by a cupola covered with 
 canvas, making for coolness in the air and mildness in the
 
 34° getters. 
 
 light My room was Aunt Nairne's sitting-room in the two 
 years when she closed her life here under the roof of her 
 brother Laurence's second son, James, and his young wife, 
 Henrietta Graeme, of Orchill, our hostess. Here they 
 brought her in 1843, and in 1845 she died in the next 
 room. There is a sketch of her in a book below, stolen 
 one night as she sat with her fingers ever full. She was 
 very like what our noble grandmother is now ; the same 
 hooked nose, large countenance, and high spirit, utterly sub- 
 dued to Christ. I knelt down, prayed, and wrote one line 
 to thee, and then went down. I took Mrs. Oliphant across 
 the hall, from the drawing-room to the other wing, where, 
 in a coolness like sun-pierced sea-water — for the walls were 
 green, light green, and all the blinds were down — the 
 tables were spread. A great hydrangea filled the centre 
 of it. We sat down and the meal was made less earthly 
 than meals usually are ; for was there not the wall there to 
 talk to, and to talk to us. Behind Mrs. Oliphant were her 
 father, Graeme of Orchill, and her brother-in-law, Laurence 
 Oliphant, in full Highland dress. Then there was Laurence, 
 her husband's and this Laurence's father, a 'lovely' man, 
 brother of Lady Nairne, and Mrs. Stewart of Bonskeid (the 
 lady who prayed for us), and Mrs. Steuart of Dalguise, and 
 Mrs. Keith of Ravelstone, who, in full length, filled, with her
 
 •ittisirclbnuons. 341 
 
 husband, the foot of the room. This Laurence was there 
 with his father, the good Laurence, Lady Nairnc's father and 
 his father again, who was out in the 181 5 with his son, and 
 lost health, lands, and name for it. Then there was Miss 
 Robertson of Ardblair, Laurence's (Lady Nairne's brother) 
 wife, mother of seven lovely daughters, the youngest of whom 
 was Caroline the younger, poetess and dweller at Gask, and 
 one of whom, Margaret, made her English husband, Mr. 
 Kington, Kington-Oliphant, a son of whom is the heir to the 
 place. On the window side was Lord Nairne, a grand old 
 gentleman in old age, and at the other corner, Aunt Nairne 
 herself, with her proud aquiline in eye and nose, pressing 
 her only child, Lord William (who was buried the night 
 mamma arrived to be with her at Brussels) of six to her 
 side. In the centre lay this same child, a dreamy boy of 
 ten ; over the door, an original of Robert R., the Bruce 
 himself, whose daughter married Sir Walter Oliphant, the 
 direct male ancestor of our great grandmother, May 
 (Marjory) Oliphant of Gask, Mrs. Stewart of Bonskeid. 
 Over the fireplace, is a splendid piece by Frank Grant, 
 James Blair Oliphant, her husband, riding a favourite 
 mare near a ford where he was nearly swept away by the 
 Earn. All the other pictures in the room, except the 
 Oldbues, were Watson Gordon's. So we had a picture-
 
 342 letters. 
 
 book. Back to the drawing-room at three we went, the 
 lady letting in more light as the sun went round. She 
 showed us the sketch-book, a rare prize, with things by- 
 Grant, Watson Gordon, and other great names. One of that 
 arch-child, Caroline the younger, Lady Nairne's youngest 
 niece, and her brother, James Oliphant's, pet sister, who 
 knew to love these gardens, and to sing of them in words 
 you will find at the end of the Memoir. Her other 
 sisters — Rachel, Amelia, Christian the scholar, and Mar- 
 garet the beautiful — were all shown. So we talked of 
 our kindred according to the flesh, and then went to 
 converse about friends in Christ and the conference of 
 them at Perth. " But have you heard of the Relics ? " 
 she asked. We said our mother had bade us be sure of 
 not missing them. So she brought an old laburnum 
 box, lettered C.R., 1745, and opened it; and out came 
 the Prince's .bonnet, and his sandals, and riding gauntlets, 
 and the Garter of Blue with " Honi soit " he wore ; and 
 an autograph letter from Charles R. of Rome praising old 
 Laurence's loyalty. But most of all was the " Lock of 
 Yellow Hair," now reduced to a golden strand or two, 
 and a medal with his face and the words " Look, love, 
 and follow." Can you wonder, with the sad reality over 
 seas, that they readily transferred such words and things
 
 JttisceUancous. 343 
 
 to the Kvptos rn*wv I.X. ? There was also a bit of the 
 black dress in which Charles I. went to execution. 
 
 Then we talked till 4, and then into a new room, the 
 prayer room, for tea ; every room was a new picture. 
 Here the lady has worshipped with her household since her 
 husband read here with her for the last time thirty-two 
 years ago. Green mignonette sweetened the wind's breath, 
 as he played about the foot of the shaded window, and 
 tapped softly, saying : " Let me in." Round one half of the 
 room the wall was lined with green transparent lining up 
 to the shoulders of one sitting, and black chairs stood 
 there against the wall. I said : " You have worship here." 
 " Yes," she said, " I read here every day, since Oliphant 
 read the last time." The little table in the centre shone 
 with the silver circumstance of afternoon tea, and home- 
 made things were past round about it, under a cup all filled 
 with flowers. We looked at the walls again and saw the 
 lovely Margaret (Kington) Oliphant and her studious 
 sister Christian, also young Lord Nairne at the age of 
 twenty — almost all fine pictures (the ladies by Challon, 
 a beautiful French painter), and each, as I have said, a 
 stoiy. 
 
 At 5.15 Jeanne and I took leave. We thanked her for 
 a golden day, one of the r/fxepat {afx-rpai) of our lives, and
 
 344 |£ettn-s. 
 
 went out very happily through the evening air, from the 
 Earn Valley to the Almond and took the train home. 
 People from all parts were gathering in at the general 
 station, Perth, for the Conference. We went out to Spring- 
 land. There we found papa, mamma, and Margaret, all 
 well, and above all, " the noblest Stewart of them all," 
 grandmamma. 
 
 Grandmamma was full of a wonder that had happened. 
 She has had her house full for weeks of work-people — 
 plumbers, masons, slaters. Last week they left the house 
 completely raccommodec, beautiful and clean. It is an old 
 haunt of swallows and they have to be driven every year 
 out of the porch, or Springland would be one big nest. 
 However, when the work was done, they came about the 
 house in flocks, screaming and flying and settling on it, and 
 nestling around it and "loving" it. And when they were 
 not allowed the porch, they went to the coalhouse and 
 nested and brought out a second brood, till, last Sabbath, the 
 roof was black with them ; they clustered on the fresh 
 gilded vane and chattered to it and to one another. They 
 cannot feed the young ones fast enough, to get them fit 
 for flying by the end of the month, and they keep up a 
 continual fluttering and practise the little creatures for 
 flight. So saying and fluttering her hands like one of
 
 jfflisccUancous. 345 
 
 themselves, grandmamma told us the whole story at the 
 tea-table and went out of the room, and I heard her sing- 
 ing to herself, and the song was " Swallow, fly high." 
 
 E / u/3Ae'\/'aTe ei? ru irereivu tou oCpavov ■ are we looking up 
 to them, who feel what weak-winged things we are in the 
 nest where we have dwelt, and fear the new journey and 
 the short time to prepare. Ovx W*«S /J-uWov SicupepeTe avrwv ; 
 will He take care that those little black, woolly things get 
 so many worms before they have to go; will He see to it 
 that they have their full number of bites (He counts them, 
 be sure) before their time comes ; will He provide that 
 these bits of soft down become strong and regular and curved 
 for flight, before the frost comes ; and will He not feed us 
 against our flying time ; is there not grain in His granary 
 enough to satisfy us. As thy day so shall thy strength 
 be ; let us take what the Lord sends us and rest in the 
 strength of what He has already sent. Did He not know 
 what was before us when He appointed us our food, and 
 if He sees we want more, will He not send a hunger to 
 our hearts, His angel to waken us again, saying: — "Arise 
 and eat, because the journey is too great for thee." And 
 we shall go in the strength of that meat just so many 
 days as He sees to be before us when He sends us food.
 
 346 letters. 
 
 Rossie Priory, 
 n p.m., September 13, 1879. 
 
 My chapter to-night tells us that all the grace we 
 have is meted out to us of Christ's free gift. Is not this 
 consecration, then ? that it shall all be given to the 
 furnishing-forth of holy lives both in us and in others, 
 given to the work of service, given to rear the church, 
 which is His body. If the strength He gives us be 
 measured by these objects, to how simple and single a 
 thing it reduces life. To live is to make better saints both 
 of ourselves and of others ; to work only in our own place 
 and all for others ; to be growing members of Christ's grow- 
 ing body. To us, then, to live is Christ ; Christ in us — the 
 making of saints, Christ in others — the work of servants, 
 Christ in all — the building of the temple of His body, wherein 
 as saints we serve, wherein as servants we are sanctified. 
 
 Good-night ; yes, night is good, and all is good, with 
 knowing that the thing which joins our spirits — the kvorw 
 tou Trvev/uiaTos — is a band of peace — <rw(W/uo? elpi)vt]^. 
 Peace unites as nothing does. The sound of its name is 
 the snapping of a clasp. For when a Greek said eiptjvtj, 
 he knew it came from e'tpw, to join. But no Grecian lips 
 were our teachers when we heard, as we hear to-night, 
 One stand in the midst and breathe on us, Wtpi)vij v/mtv.
 
 jHiscfllaneous. 347 
 
 Sabbath evening, 11.30, September 14, 1879. 
 
 I am just going to rest after reading our verses. 
 The end of all His gifts to us is the " measure of 
 the age of the fulness of Christ." That is the true date 
 in Heaven's calendar of our marriage-day, the >)\iKta rod 
 ■7rX>ipwfxaTOi tov XpiiTTou. To be filled with Christ — with 
 the grace He gives for any event — is to be of full age for 
 that event. The seasons of our lives are brought round 
 by the supplies of His grace. If the day be a wedding- 
 day, it will be wedding strength He will give. If His 
 wise purposes call Him to a friend's marriage, He will be 
 there with a marriage miracle. He will be there, and where 
 He is they have plenty of wine and love. He crushed the 
 clusters of human wedded love into the sacramental cup, 
 wherein His bride drinks eternal union with her Lord. And 
 so He bids us love each other as "He loved the Church 
 and gave Himself for it." 
 
 Oh, can we fear to lose anything of the hallowed sim- 
 plicities of childhood, when He draws us images, makes 
 us promises, gives us precepts such as these ? It is only 
 the i/>)TrtoT>]s, the childishness, He bids us lose — ha n>iKeri 
 w/xev vt'jTTiot, vtj-eiros, you know; (aye, He has a new lan- 
 guage for us, then, in the life before us) — icXvSwvi^o/xevoi. To 
 think that we may be free from all the stammering, the
 
 348 Qtttete. 
 
 uncertainty, the wavering of infancy, and grcnv up together 
 now and for ever unto Him at all points, unto Him who 
 is our common Head ; and, united in Him, start off again, 
 from Him, to grow compact and fitted together to build 
 each other up in love. That is what Paul says of the union 
 of believers in Christ, and therefore of the vine. He says 
 we grow together in two ways, first up into Him as our 
 Head (eiV avrov), and then down from Him (<?f ov) into each 
 other, helping so to build each other up. 
 
 And the way of all this wonderful union seems to come 
 to me to-night as my consecration-command, 'Afydeue iv 
 aydiry : Be true, be loving. Let the tongue be truth, and 
 the lips be love. 
 
 At Inchture I got out, about 5.15, and found a dog-cart 
 waiting. We drove across the strath, and then into a pretty 
 village. Another pretty village, and then came the avenue, 
 deep with trees, and lively with rabbits skipping every- 
 where over the green sward. Lord Kinnaird has a very 
 soft heart to such creatures, and they take advantage of 
 it. After a long drive, the trees opened, and, at the end 
 of a straight stretch of road, out of a frame of fresh green 
 trees, came the Priory, a beautiful bit of brown stone with 
 open porch in front, and surmounted by a spire. A wing 
 of stone came out to the left as we drove up, matched by
 
 JftisccUancous. 349 
 
 another, beyond the body of the building. We were led 
 into a great corridor — the cloisters running from end to 
 end of the main house, itself antique and a museum of 
 antiquities, old statues from Italy along the sides and in 
 niches, whole floors of mosaic, from an old Roman villa, 
 let into the walls, inscriptions, altars, bas-reliefs, monuments 
 — things that are classics even of an age and country that 
 was all classical. The floor was polished stone. Wc went 
 into the drawing-room, rich with old pictures, some the 
 first efforts of Frank Grant (portraits of the Lord Grand- 
 father and Lady Grandmother of the house, the former of 
 whom was a devout antiquarian and lover of the land, and 
 buyer of the best books). There were flowers and statues 
 in the room, an Achilles' head, monster-size and in marble, 
 and, to match, some R.C. saint's- — heathen both, but the 
 former more noble and pure. It was as if you should 
 lay our Iliad by the Acta Sanctorum. Then came after- 
 noon tea, the old Lord joined us, fresh from driving to 
 some far away corner of the estate, full of friendliness and 
 pats on the back for me. Miss Kinnaird asked if I was 
 too tired to walk, and I, who want to know all lovely 
 things, went with her. It is so much easier to be with 
 Christians. The house had the Heimathsathem to me from 
 the first. There are no introductions, ceremonies, pre-
 
 3So letters. 
 
 liminaries, where all are Christ's people. The world has 
 this feeling, they say : tovs IStovs aya-Tra. But we love 
 Christians, not because they belong to ourselves first, but 
 as part of our Master's dear possessions. 
 
 We went by terraces and green slopes, fringed with a 
 rare forestry, peeped into gardens bright with earth's blushes, 
 and down avenues dark with the strong children of the 
 wood, and looked over them and beyond to where the 
 Carse lay like Achilles' shield, with all the scenes real and 
 acted out in full upon it, — here a cornfield, there a farm, 
 yonder a forest, further on a hamlet — all rounded, like the 
 Homeric earth, with the silver rim where sea and river 
 join — the real ioKeavos, half ocean and half stream. 
 
 Then we turned, and swept round the house, and into 
 the wild wood beyond. Here nature was at her best, and 
 thrust a white arm of silver waterfall through the thick 
 drapery and rough rock - ornament of the wood. We 
 watched it gathering the waifs of sunlight to one sparkling 
 sheaf, leaving the sombre pines the sadder for that theft. 
 Then we broke from this — the Rossie Glen — and out into 
 the open, and ascended the steep hill to their cousins' 
 (the Ogilvies') farm, and turned and took in the view. You 
 fancy Achilles' shield grown from the round Greek target 
 to the long oval of old Rome — the clypeus they called
 
 Miscellaneous. 35 1 
 
 it — and bossed about the edges with the blue Cyanean 
 hills (that wondrous colour, kvuvos, that comes every even- 
 ing on all my Highland hills, but never came yet into 
 Crusius or Bekker ; and how should it come into a 
 scratchy letter, written in a third-class carriage, with 
 seven others besides the writer, all of them more or less 
 amused at his extemporized desk and his efforts to keep 
 steady). 
 
 For, far up the strath, as far as the eye went, went the 
 fair Carse of Gowrie, sung by Lady Nairne, and down the 
 strath, where the eye stopped, it saw Dundee beginning, 
 one solitary stalk outstanding in the evening light, the 
 advance guard of labour. 
 
 We turned and came back, telling people of the meet- 
 ings on the morrow, and giving and getting good words 
 from the workpeople on their way home. Then there 
 was dinner, and drawing-room talk and worship, and 
 at tea we parted, I to my room to rest and study. 
 At g yesterday morning was worship, and we read Eph. v., 
 then breakfast, and after a little quiet time (at 10.45) the 
 old Lord took my arm and I piloted him up the lovely 
 Baledgarny Glen, with sunlight at the top, thick trees, and 
 at the bottom a brawling stream. At last we came out 
 upon the uplands, and breathed the northern air, and
 
 35 2 Setters. 
 
 looked on the valley asleep in the sunshine, and joined 
 the knots of worshippers making for the little village of 
 Aberfoyle. I preached in the little Free Church, full to 
 the door, with sunshine everywhere in it. We came down 
 the glen another way with the south-west wind washing 
 up in our faces and in the golden face of the ripened 
 grain. 3.30-4.30, I spoke to the household (in the picture 
 gallery) joined by the tenants (in the conservatory); at 5.30 
 I joined Mr. Kinnaird and his sisters on their way to the 
 evangelistic service in the Parish Church of Inchture. I did 
 not know the meeting was to be there when I was asked 
 to speak at Rossie, but I had no doubt in my own mind, 
 as it had so happened, that I ought to do it. It was my 
 first time of speaking in an Established Church. The 
 knocking of the Lord Jesus never seemed so real and near 
 to me as it did last night. The people were hushed, and 
 I felt God's hand had been with us. We walked home 
 through the avenue, speaking about books about Christ. 
 
 Mooranbank, 
 Brechin, N.B., February 8, 1881. 
 
 Thanks for your card. Hugh knows all about ' Con- 
 science,' they 'deaded' it in his year at College. The 
 creature hadn't recovered twelve months later, when I
 
 .Miscellaneous. 353 
 
 came that way ; some fellows did fetch it a poke with 
 their umbrellas, but, like a stuffed animal in a museum, 
 it didn't even cheep. The ticket was on it, I remember, 
 but that was all. 
 
 But, joking apart, I don't even remember the references 
 to the subject : all Kant is ringing with it of course, and 
 Bp. Butler in his two sermons. Then there is Trendelen- 
 burg's Platonic theory of the uprising of the soul against 
 itself (Repub. IV. is it ?), than which I don't know any- 
 thing better has been said on the subject. You find that 
 in Lorimcr's book on law. But there's more about it in 
 the ' Ode ' (' blank instincts before which this mortal nature 
 doth tremble like a guilty thing surprised') and in Lady 
 Macbeth and such like, than in half the philosophies. It 
 was Carlyle's gospel : ' there's a better man in you, and 
 you had better obey him, or be eternally lost.' That was 
 his truth, and he stuck to it. 
 
 Conscience, I believe, comes to about this : it's the sense 
 that you've something within you to reckon with now 
 (and, if you like, somebody, both now and afterwards). 
 It's the soul coming into direct relations with itself — its 
 higher self — and Him who gave it.
 
 354 getters. 
 
 Eden's Room, 
 Auckland Castle, April 28, 1882. 
 
 I suppose it is the curfew which has just rung, 
 for my watch says 8 o'clock, and I feel as if I were at 
 home, and indeed should be quite content were my wife 
 and wee one only with me. For I think every true Bethel 
 — every house of God, or of a Godly man — feels like home, 
 however different the outward form of the life be. And, 
 indeed, the form here seems to me quite a secondary thing, 
 and quite separable from the reality. The stone and lime of 
 it is different to ours — the choir-stalls and the palace- 
 chapel — but the songs are the same, and the hearts are 
 one. So I felt at the practising to-night. But to say so 
 is to run on to the end of my story. 
 
 At Darlington I crossed from station to station, as we did 
 eighteen months ago. Here there was a dog-cart waiting, 
 with a big St. Bernard, I believe, in attendance on it. But 
 before we had fairly driven off up came Eden, so we 
 walked home together. 
 
 Why should I tell thee of the walk down the 'long, 
 unlovely street,' the escape from the square through the 
 archway to the great castle, with its square masses and 
 little ornament, except where the chapel takes hold of the 
 heavy Tudor and lifts it heavenward — not a bad likeness
 
 Jttisrelhmeoiis. 355 
 
 in stone of the Bishop himself? Why should I tell thee 
 what thou knowest ? It was good to have been here with 
 thee, it felt safe ground and hardly strange. The absence 
 of any lady was another appropriate element in the ex- 
 perience. One does not know what kind of creature could 
 have sat by the Bishop's side and not have seemed in- 
 appropriate, or detracting, or unworthy in some way. 
 
 A cup of tea waited in the small drawing-room. A man, 
 Bampton I think, Eden left beside me and ran off to his 
 choir practice. We had some good words on personal 
 influence as the crowning part of a Christian's and conse- 
 quently of a minister's life and how hard (as the crown 
 always is) of attainment. I said it was like humility, it 
 escaped if you pursued it directly. The most that could 
 be done in the way of cultivating it, was to remove and 
 cut off what interfered with it — pride, hypocrisy, unreality, 
 and harshness of every sort. Easy to say, and very hard 
 to do. But it was good to hear a man begin his overture 
 by taking a deep string. 
 
 Then we joined the little party in the chapel. Some six 
 little boys on either side sat in the stalls, Eden just 
 beyond at the harmonium, the men in residence in the 
 back seats. This happens, not every day, but every 
 second, when the psalms and hymns for morning and even-
 
 356 fetters. 
 
 ing prayers are gone over. I sang tenor, with Eden's 
 brother, I think ; they call Eden ' the Dean.' The singing 
 was sweet and real, though we were a little rough. I forgot 
 to say that the Bishop had come in while we were having 
 tea. He received me so warmly, and trotted out and in 
 so simply. There is an air almost of wistfulness, a dumb 
 kind of devotion in his face, that gives you an impression 
 of the most downright honesty. You know the way a New- 
 foundland or a setter looks at you when it wants to show 
 you it loves you. Well, it is not unlike that. I think the 
 cherub with the face of an ox which Ezekiel saw cannot 
 have been far from the Bishop's. Just as Mozley or Westcott 
 make one think of the one with the eagle, and Rainy or 
 J. H. Wilson of the lion, and Livingstone or Dr. Stewart 
 or Mr. Stalker of the man. After chapel we went into 
 the tea-room, Dr. Lightfoot showing the way with such a 
 womanly grace. The table was ample, and the table talk 
 easy to a degree. The talk was about the book "John 
 Inglesant," which everybody had been reading but myself. 
 The Bishop's words were always worth taking to-day. 
 Such a judgment it is. He always speaks with a pair of 
 balances in his hand, like Justice, only he is not blind- 
 folded like her. And yet he looks about after speaking like 
 a child, as if to see whether he has not made a mistake.
 
 ^ttisrcUaiuous. 357 
 
 "I know the plot" said one man. "There is plenty of 
 plotting in it, but little plot," rejoined the Bishop, evidently 
 without any sense that he was using the language of 
 repartee. "A curious condition of mind to be in," he went 
 on to remark, " to be scrupulous about honour and to have 
 no regard for the truth." He spoke, too, of the contrast 
 between the contented life of a country gentleman and 
 these sudden stirrings of spirit which came to John 
 Inglesant. " I wonder," he asked, " whether such a state 
 of mind ever existed to any extent in those days." I 
 thought of saying that it was a common enough type of 
 character in our own day, and that the writer had probably 
 carried it thither out of his own time. " But," added Dr. 
 Lightfoot, " I imagine the description of Roman society 
 is perfectly correct." Somebody quoted a lecture of 
 Seeley's on Pope Leo the Atheist versus Luther the 
 Dogmatist. " That is putting it very strongly," rejoined 
 the Bishop ; " Leo was a sceptic rather." These are just 
 a few crumbs. Meantime, remarks on tennis, offers and 
 acceptances of 'grilled chicken,' 'cocoa,' 'toast,' and college 
 stories flew about. It was not brilliant, but it was very 
 bright. Dr. Lightfoot asked after Cults and Pitlochry, 
 and smiled upon us all.
 
 358 gutters. 
 
 10.45. — The evening worship was very uniting. The 
 servants came in, and we sang the psalms and hymns, and 
 Dr. Lightfoot and a chaplain read and prayed (from the 
 new version and the prayer book) in his own voice and 
 with his own devout, simple soul uttering itself in all. 
 His after talk in the drawing-room was even more charm- 
 ing. You know how a mastiff will lie down (out of sheer 
 love for the canine race) and let a crowd of small dogs 
 jump and tumble over him, and put them off, and egg 
 them on with great pawings and immense 'laps' of his 
 broad tongue. Even so did Dr. Lightfoot. 
 
 Since then Eden and some of the men have come in 
 from the Boys' Institute, where they have spent the evening 
 attempting to solve the impossible — how to command the 
 wild, wicked young life of Bishop Auckland. 
 
 It is good for me to be in the midst of so much informal 
 earnestness and Christian manliness. 
 
 Auckland Castle, 
 Bishop Auckland, April 29, i832. 
 
 I write at an open window of the little drawing-room 
 here. I have so often longed you could have moved 
 about with me through these rooms and among these
 
 ^isrcUancons. 359 
 
 men ; for it is, I think, altogether the best glimpse you 
 can get of the English Church both outside and in. Every- 
 thing that adds honour to her name is here. There is a 
 good tradition in the diocese. The bishops have not sel- 
 dom been men of piety and power. Butler's memory alone 
 is enough to ennoble any place in any Church ; and the 
 history of Auckland Castle both before and after his time 
 is not out of sympathy with the thoughts you have when 
 you hear his name. They are thoughts, are they not, of 
 honest bravery in theology, of a great man doing battle 
 by himself in a quiet corner, until the Church at length 
 awoke and found he had won her victory. 
 
 Then I suppose it is not taking her past out of the 
 hands of time, to say that Butler's seat is now filled by 
 his nearest successor ; a man as great in his work and in 
 his day, as his great namesake (for they both are written 
 'Joseph Dunelm'). I know not if there be any better test 
 of true iastingness in any man who is yet living, than 
 when, knowing his written works, one is able to compare 
 them with his person, and to say that these correspond. 
 The same judgment which you admire in Dr. Lightfoot's 
 commentaries meets you in his conversation. He seems, 
 like Justice in her statues, always to give his sentences, 
 holding meantime a pair of other scales. Indeed, the
 
 360 inters. 
 
 analogy might be extended. Justice is but badly described 
 in stone as being blind-folded in her decisions. But there 
 is in the bishop a strong cast of eye which enables him, 
 when he speaks, to address himself to nobody in par- 
 ticular; although, immediately after speaking, he turns on 
 you a glance that conveys an impression of the most 
 absolute impartiality. 
 
 It has been an old custom here for a number of students 
 to reside with the bishop. The practice is, I believe, a 
 relic of that order of things in which almost all our pre- 
 Reformation Universities arose; the habit, I mean, of 
 having a school attached to the church (though that of 
 course by itself is as old as the synagogue), and of having 
 a separate body of clergy appointed to teach. There is, 
 or was, such a foundation of teaching canons in connec- 
 tion with the parish church of this place. The remains 
 of a college still exist behind the castle. Some bishop, 
 who was as much knight as minister, turned these into 
 stables. As it is, Dr. Lightfoot has some six or seven 
 young men in residence with him. They come here from 
 Oxford and Cambridge for a year before ordination. Some 
 have taken their degree in arts ; others (according to the 
 later custom, which allows one to occupy his under- 
 graduate course entirely with divinity — an arrangement
 
 JfttsrcUancotis. 361 
 
 which saves theology at the sacrifice of general culture) 
 others, I say, are bachelors in divinity. They have an 
 ordered life in the castle. Breakfast is at 7.45, and is fol- 
 lowed by prayers in the chapel at 8.15. Then one of the 
 chaplains lectures to the men from 9-10. For instance, 
 this morning a Mr. Southwell has been saying some 
 things upon the genius of Hebrew poetry, previous to 
 reading the first forty psalms, which is a subject of ex- 
 amination for Orders. Then follows an interval of two 
 hours which is filled with reading, directed (by the chap- 
 lain) to the foregoing lecture. Another lecture comes from 
 1 2-1, To-day my friend, Eden, will take introduction to 
 the 1st Epistle of Peter, if his economic duties (for he is 
 purser, caterer, steward, and I know not what all, to his 
 chief) allow him any time. The bishop is to lecture 
 shortly on principles of textual criticism. We dine at 
 one. The afternoon is taken up with district visiting. 
 Each man has a little plot of ground to work in the 
 agricultural and mining country round. One evening a 
 week is, I think, given by each to a cottage reading. 
 Other nights these men help my friend in evening classes 
 and recreations at an institute for lads in the town. 
 
 This, you will think, is a long, but I assure you it is a 
 needful, interlude between telling you how beautiful a
 
 362 letters. 
 
 thing the bishop's household life is, and saying in so many 
 words wherein its beauty lies. 
 
 He calls these lads (and I can imagine worse things 
 than to feel myself, for the nonce, one of them) his family, 
 and they treat him as frank, ingenuous English gentle- 
 men's sons would treat their father. He is accessible to 
 their difficulties and their doubts, if they have any ; but, 
 a thing more remarkable, he is open to all their kitten- 
 hood of mirth and fun. To hear him alone with them is 
 to feel you are on the edge of a circle, which tempts you 
 almost to stand on tiptoe and look over and wish you 
 were inside. It is a searching trial of true homeliness, to 
 observe how it comports itself when there are strangers 
 present. But I assert my coming in has not bated one 
 jot of all this family joy. Last evening after prayers, they 
 were poking fun at the bishop. One man was asked how 
 he was getting on with Hebrew. The fellow boldly turned 
 the weapon round by inquiring whether his lordship was 
 prepared to teach him. Dr. Lightfoot was gently demur- 
 ring, when somebody else burst in, as if with a child's 
 impatience and fear of some older uncompleted promise : 
 " No, not before we have had these lectures on botany." 
 Then, assuming the air of someone to whom that study 
 was even as his necessary food, he went on to report his
 
 JEtiflceHmmmg. 363 
 
 observations, taken daily on his walks to and from the 
 district, of two interesting weeds. It sounded like a clever 
 parody upon Darwin and his climbing plants trained up 
 the bed-post. 
 
 I have written all this in order to show — if it is within 
 the power of words to show a thing which lies more in 
 the feeling of the whole, than in any enumeration, how- 
 ever complete, of the details — how happy an example one 
 has here of the spirit and the action of the English Church. 
 Within, you have a home and a beehive both in one ; 
 without, everything is plain, and simple, and strenuous. 
 The bishop preaches such sermons as the one I sent you. 
 His chaplains teach, and visit, and preach. The students 
 are an earnest and healthy set of men. Nothing is allowed 
 in the castle which speaks of pomp or pretension. You 
 go down morning and evening to prayers in the chapel ; I 
 suppose it is about the finest palace chapel in Britain. A 
 simple service is held. The bishop and a chaplain read 
 the lessons and lead the prayers. Another chaplain has 
 trained a choir of boys from the neighbouring town. 
 Behind these choristers sit the students ; the bishop and 
 servants (eight I counted) are in the back seats. One or 
 two from the outside also seem to attend. The psalms 
 and hymns are simply but sweetly sung. So anxious is
 
 364 getters. 
 
 Dr. Lightfoot that nothing should lie unused, nothing rest 
 in an empty name, that I believe he is fitting up the 
 chapel with seats, so as to have a service every Sabbath. 
 Much of what I have seen here, the earnestness and 
 the manliness of the men, the order of the household, 
 the thoroughness of the instruction, the devoutness of 
 prayers, the sweetness of the singing, the beauty, the 
 learning, the goodness, the simplicity make me hang my 
 head for shame both as a man and as a minister; for my 
 whole heart consents to these things that they are right. 
 
 And yet something within me always rises and says : 
 Thou hast a better portion in the North than all these 
 things if thou only knewest it. Thy God, thy father's 
 God, hath wrought nobler things in Scotland than any 
 that are here. I know not altogether what it is, unless it 
 be the feeling that there is nothing in our existing 
 Scottish Church that one cannot find in Scripture, and 
 that there is nothing in our history that does not speak 
 of conscience and of independence. I come to no bit of 
 Revelation which is not illustrated or exemplified some- 
 where in our worship and our faith ; but I also find no 
 demand made on integrity, or truth, or courage, or self- 
 sacrifice which has not been answered, and thrice answered, 
 by the lives of our ministers and our people. The former
 
 .Miscellaneous. 365 
 
 part of this grand claim can be urged, perhaps with equal 
 force, by England. It is in the latter part that Scotland's 
 glory lies. To have welcomed truth — that is England's 
 honour as it is ours. But to have rejected all that is 
 untrue, Scotland has done that for me ; would God that 
 I might do it now for her. I mean, that all which sepa- 
 rates us from the Church of England — the civil supremacy 
 in matters spiritual, the several orders, and the exclusive 
 succession through them (for to the system of permanent 
 bishops, merely considered as one of several alternatives 
 offered by providence I have no objection), the cross in 
 baptism, the bowing at the name of Christ, the kneeling 
 at the communion (though this I think less than that) — 
 all this seems to me an embodiment of the fatal weakness, 
 which, while it welcomes the truth, will not also dismiss 
 the untrue. We are much blamed in Scotland for preach- 
 ing a gospel of denials and practising a religion of ' thou- 
 shalt-nots.' Of course, there is a negation that never 
 comes to belief or love ; but there is also a negation 
 which says, This I believe and love, but this and no more. 
 To do that, I must abstain from doing this. 
 
 These thoughts have come to me to-day, since hearing 
 the bishop's beautiful prayer added (by his own hand and 
 heart, I believe) to the morning service. He asked the
 
 366 Setters. 
 
 Lord of the Universal Church mercifully to direct those 
 who were now charged with the choice of a chief minister 
 for this county of Northumberland, that they might ap- 
 point one who could set forward God's work in the district 
 and further the salvation of all men. That was for the 
 new bishop of Newcastle, a see to which Dr. Lightfoot 
 has parted with a considerable part of his living. 
 
 But I thought of one man, my countryman, who just 
 300 years ago refused this very place (for Newcastle was 
 to be divided then too) because he did not think he ought 
 to serve in a church which admitted the royal supremacy. 
 
 What surprises me in Knox's life is the sure-footed way 
 in which he took up his ground on all these questions, so 
 that we have for centuries been but 'following the footing 
 of his feete.' No doubt he had the advantage of the 
 Genevan and German successes and the English failures 
 before and in his time. But I imagine Knox owes his 
 originality (after his genius and his other studies) most to 
 his possession and command of Scripture truth on every 
 point. I think we ought to go back more to that fons 
 fontiitm for everything than we do. Our system of giving 
 the prominence to preaching is all in favour of that. We 
 want more exposition— continuous and comparative exposi- 
 tion — of whole tracts oi Scripture. It is wonderful how
 
 £Slisctli&xttsms. 367 
 
 Knox always seemed to be lecturing on something which 
 he could fling at the head of any evil that arose, or on 
 the top of which he could stand and blow a blast to rally 
 his friends. For instance, I find him in the book of 
 Haggai when the first reformed parliament is sitting, in 
 Matthew when he began the reformation in St. Andrews. 
 It is indeed a ' living ' word, were it only for the com- 
 mand it gives you over the life of your time. 
 
 Auckland Castle, May I, 1882. 
 
 I think my last letter ended on Friday night after service 
 in the little chapel at half-past nine. True family worship 
 it was. 
 
 At 12 this forenoon I came up to the students' room and 
 took notes of an oral lecture of Eden's on ist Peter. It 
 was a discussion of the h Ba/3tAu>w ch. v., based on the 
 Bishop's notes. At i we dined, and at 1.30 ran for the 
 train to Durham, whither Eden had invited me to go with 
 him for the afternoon. 
 
 Thou knowest — dost thou not ? — the steep, picturesque 
 little town that lies on the wooded Wear, the old and throng- 
 ing bridge, the climb to the castle — as precipitous, we said,
 
 J 
 
 68 Settas. 
 
 as the ascent to Killiecrankie — the cottage, the old gateway, 
 the open square, a retreat (like the Wartburg) from the busy 
 town, with dean's, canon's, archdeacon's houses about. First 
 we went through the cloisters and cathedral to the castle 
 where the college now is. We explored the rooms of the 
 ' Union,' saw the dining-hall and the pictures, and the places 
 of state just vacated by the judges on circuit. Eden showed 
 me with a kind of rapture the rooms where the Bishop's 
 party first resided on coming to Durham. The tapestries 
 and carvings were very fine. 
 
 But by far the finest remained. About three we went into 
 the cathedral. An enthusiastic but sensible verger, Eden's 
 friend, showed us over it ; and we joined in his praises as he 
 passed from point to point of the history and the building. 
 Cuthbert's legend came first ; we heard it standing over his 
 tomb. The old apse-end of his Norman Church was traced 
 out to us ; the transformation of that into the ground plan of 
 the place, which began in Early English ; the transition 
 thence into the 'decorated' and ' perpendicular' styles ; the 
 gradual growth of the whole and the peculiarity of each part ; 
 the tombs of famous bishops, and the pained face in stone of 
 the last temporal lord Van Mildert ; all this and more we 
 heard before the 3.45 service began. We sat in the choir- 
 stalls and saw Canon Greenwell sitting opposite us. The
 
 JHt0ceUane<ras. 369 
 
 air was cool, the scene solemn, the worshippers reverent, the 
 prayers beautiful. But I could not help feeling out of sym- 
 pathy with the service. The chanting of the psalms I could 
 join in and enjoy ; but the chanting of the prayers (" Christ 
 have mercy upon us " for instance) seemed to me unreal 
 and unedifying in a high degree. The anthem too was, like 
 Nazianzen's lyre in E.B.B., ' out of reach.' Perhaps it is a 
 defect of harmony in me. But I could not find these parts 
 of the worship correspond to any part of my spiritual nature. 
 I like a service best in which everybody can join. I 
 have a horror of having the thing done for me. But much 
 I have seen here makes me feel how we must give more 
 attention to worship with us in the North. I still think, 
 however, that the Reformers were right when they wished 
 never to have any worship that was apart from exhortation. 
 
 After the service (about 5) it rained heavily. We sought 
 refuge in Canon Tristram's, whose house is, like himself, a 
 treasury of birds and beasts. From the canonry we de- 
 scended into an archdeacon's, whom we found full of 
 emptiness, new paint, and house ' flitting.' From thence a 
 hand-gallop brought us through the drenching rain to the 
 station. 
 
 Before tea (at 7) I had a little talk with a man, Gore- 
 Brown, who has been in the army for a year, just to see how 
 
 2 A
 
 37° fetters. 
 
 things are there, that he may know to work among men. 
 In the evening I sat in the drawing-room reading the news- 
 papers. 
 
 Then some words with Eden followed in his den ; then 
 prayers ; a talk with him again in his ' den ' about our work. 
 He is a truly lovable and lovely soul, seeking truth and 
 hating hypocrisy. 
 
 Yesterday morning the bishop and his men all went to 
 early communion in a neighbouring church. I rested till 8, 
 and then joined them at 8.30 in the chapel. After break- 
 fast I went with Dr. Lightfoot and Mr. Eden to one of the 
 town's churches, where we had a simple easy service, and an 
 earnest popular sermon from the words, " Whence then 
 cometh wisdom ? " The preacher showed us how even in 
 Job's day the devout heart felt through and behind all the 
 phenomena of nature, and the explanations of these offered 
 by men, and reached to an Eternal Power before which it 
 bowed, and to which it trusted for a life beyond. It was 
 beautiful to see the chief minister worshipping among his 
 people, and going in and out before them like a true irolfuiv 
 
 Both sermons were extempore. It was beautiful to see the 
 supper table in the evening with Dr. Lightfoot. All his 
 ministers and curates and students gathered about it, after
 
 JHisrcllancmis. 371 
 
 the day's work was done. The evening worship was full of 
 solemnity. You felt the influence of good men being all 
 about you. " Verily God is in this place." 
 
 Im Zug n. Brecliin, November 26, 1880. 
 
 On your advice we went to hear Cook. He is indeed a 
 man, a ' Gottgesandter Mann.' It was, by all accounts, his 
 finest appearance — gathering up the threads of past evenings, 
 gathering, too, the enthusiasm. He spoke on God in Con- 
 science — (1) On the evidence in Conscience of a Law; (2) 
 on the evidence in this Law of a Person ; (3) on the relation 
 of these two facts to the Christian Revelation. All night 
 he was travelling along the level undeviating roads of 
 Kantianism, flying along them, so that it " winded " one to 
 follow — you only caught a mile-stone now and then — saluting 
 and acknowledging the parallel path of science so far as 
 it came, but in the end breaking off with a magnificent 
 fresh effort and far away beyond it, and reaching out 
 hands of Reason to grasp the very goals of Faith. Another 
 thing was his wealth of reference, not, as in Farrar, of 
 loaded and elaborate reading, but merely a familiar and 
 passing nod given to each of the great witness-faces that 
 smiled upon his progress from their heights of serene
 
 372 Settees. 
 
 attainment — Euripides, Bacon, Shakespeare, Kant, Rothe, 
 Miiller, Mrs. Browning, Carlyle, Tennyson. His own bits 
 of poetry were splendid, brief photographic illustrations of 
 his theme, especially that beginning, " Duty done's the soul's 
 fireside, Blest who keeps that ingle wide." Altogether it 
 was an assurance, a stimulus, an inspiration. 
 
 His lines were clear (what he fights for is clearness first, 
 not truth — "was klar ist, wahr ist" — one for me, you say), 
 especially his riding of the marches between the judgment 
 accompanying conscience (which may be fallible, so far as 
 it falls outside the person's will and comes into the court 
 of prudence and imprudence in respect of external ends) 
 and conscience as an intuitive act itself, which cannot fail, 
 being the soul's immediate perception of right and wrong in 
 its own choices or intention. I never heard such a com- 
 bination of philosophical firmness with popular freedom — 
 e.g. in explaining what an intuition was, viz., the perception 
 of that which you cannot imagine away, he gave a most 
 telling description of Kant's illustration in the case of the 
 intuition of space, by pointing to a corner of the roof and 
 asking 'you to try to bring down that part of space so as 
 not to leave space still where you took it from. 
 
 But his Ke<f>a\aiw<Tis about getting God ever present in 
 any act of conscience was the masterpiece.
 
 iVtiscellnneous. 373 
 
 He asserted God (by previous demonstration) One. There- 
 fore, wherever God acts, there Father, Son and Spirit are — 
 not pantheistically, as immanent, but theistically, as trans- 
 cendent. Then he laid on the table before him, like any 
 master of experiment, one critical case, the bit of live, 
 beating conscience laid open and exposed in the men of 
 Israel at Pentecost. What means this cutting to the heart ? 
 Peter asserts, and all philosophy and theology approves, 
 that it was the coming of Him who as God the Son 
 promised — "A little while and I am coming to you"; of 
 Him who, as God the Spirit, that day came and proved 
 Himself present by the immediate demonstration of con- 
 science. Wasn't it beautiful ? 
 
 These are but the "hearing of the ears." I wish you 
 could have seen it, and thank you many times for sending 
 me to see. 
 
 Monday, May i, i382. 
 
 I have just come in from visiting an old Saxon church, 
 in the midst of a mining village, where Christian service 
 has been carried on for well over a thousand years. My 
 holiday is drawing to an end, but it is already full of 
 KTv/jciTa and of eirSvixlai (in the good sense). North Berwick
 
 374 getters. 
 
 lies behind me as a bright accomplishment. I think it was 
 in many ways the best meeting we have had. It was 
 very good to get you among us again. I think you were 
 much helped to make us happy, and to move our thoughts 
 to higher things. We remember your sorrow — our sorrow 
 — though not with words. I have just read Calvin's words 
 to Knox about this very matter. " Viduitas tua," he says, 
 " mihi ut debet tristis et acerba est." In a letter to a 
 friend he says, what we say : " Fratrem nostrum, etsi non 
 parum doleo suavissima uxore fuisse privatum, gaudeo 
 tamen ejus morte non ita fuisse afflictum, quin strenue 
 operam suam Christo et ecclesiae impendat." 
 
 Velumis, mi fratre, operam ad hue majorem impendas. 
 
 Cults, March 7, 18S3. 
 
 Thanks for your very clear, full, and satisfying account 
 of dear Grandmama's death. I was looking very eagerly 
 for it, thinking there might be last words and other 
 precious things ; for memory has suddenly become jealous 
 of the least fragment of her treasures. But the reality was 
 beautiful beyond all poetry. The close was worthy of the 
 career ; that is high praise, great glory to God. He is ' the 
 best poet ' and we are His Troitj/j.a. ... So often the last
 
 Jtttscelhmcous. 375 
 
 days bring strange surroundings. Sad changes come within, 
 and there is hurry and excitement and whispering without ; 
 but here the Lord had it all arranged for and over before 
 He let any one, except those to whom it was no secret, 
 know. " Nothing is here for tears " (I have been singing), 
 
 " Nothing to wail 
 Or knock the breast, . . . nothing but well and fair 
 And what may quiet us in a death so noble." 
 
 And what more touching, even to tears, than the grand 
 and reverent woman, the ripe saint, become again at last the 
 little child laying its tired head down with one sharp cry on 
 the bed, which turned out to be the breast of Jesus. How 
 even He must have thrilled to have her at last, to have her 
 all to Himself, who was His already here so wholly. 
 
 "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His 
 saints"; for He has them to His heart's content. 
 
 Saturday, 2.15 p.m. 
 
 I am waiting on the station at Inverramsay for the 
 Turriff train. I have had a pleasant journey thus far, 
 clear north-west wind blowing into the carriage off fields 
 of ' tedded ' hay and bearded barley. Harlaw Castle,
 
 376 fetters. 
 
 where Provost Davidson and his stubborn Aberdonians fell 
 stemming the tide of Highland invasion in 141 1, is peeping 
 out on the right from a cluster of firs, while Don and 
 Ury come down from the heights of Bennachie with the 
 same old song they did that grim summer day, to meet 
 and mingle at Inverurie. My companions have been an 
 honest E.C. layman, with whom I talked of the church's 
 future, and gave him Nelson's Bill ; a lieutenant of the 
 Salvation army — gentle in sex and English in speech, 
 who received Dr. Saphir's " Christ and the Scriptures " 
 gladly ; an old lady and a young mother with a baby, 
 two 'labourer' lads with a bit of a bagpipe, and a little 
 girl! 
 
 Now I am comfortably packed in a ' Turra ' carriage, 
 among sundry of Johnny Gibb's good simple country folk 
 — a lame old gentleman, who might have kept a school 
 at the ' Walls ' in his day ; two or three old wives 
 with baskets and flowers ; a young lady bound for ' Fyvie,' 
 and two little girls. The train we left has just disappeared 
 along the foot of Bennachie towards Insch, while we are 
 speeding seaward. We have three-quarters of an hour or so 
 of this gently undulating land, over which one can still hear 
 the 'trundle' of Johnny's cart, and the trot of Johnny's 
 pony, before reaching ' Turra.' At Aberdeen I had just
 
 ^iscfllanttrns. 377 
 
 three-quarters of an hour. So after leaving the note at the 
 tailor's I took the tramcar up Union Street to the top and 
 
 called on Mrs. . It was one of those visits that make 
 
 one happier to have paid them ; she spoke so quietly 
 but surely of having found Christ at some meetings in 
 the Music Hall after Mr. Moody's visit seven or eight 
 years ago. " No special one it was," she said, " but just 
 going to and from them all." " I wish there were the like 
 of them often ; but those who never attend such don't 
 seem ever to care about these things. You don't hear it 
 in some of the churches." It made one feel the wish to 
 make the glad sound audible every time one opened one's 
 mouth. 
 
 Rothie-Norman, 2.40. — We have another passenger, and 
 a boy eating dulse in the carriage now. He has a bit of 
 Johnny about him, and the good lady opposite might be 
 Sir Simon's henwife ; she has been giving an account of a 
 thunderstorm she was in, which reminded me of that 
 garrulous individual. 
 
 Now there are bits of ' knolls ' with pine trees growing 
 upon them and a little ragged heather, and fields with 
 hay set up in sheaf to save the seed. This is Fyvie. 
 
 It is curious how individual localities are. One could 
 almost have told that this corner of Aberdeenshire had
 
 378 fetters. 
 
 produced 'Johnny Gibb ' from the spicy character of the 
 conversation. 
 
 Das Huhnweib versucht in diesem Augenblick meinen 
 Brief zu lesen, so muss ich acht nehmen. The afternoon 
 is lovely. The Lord God is a Sun, as Henry says, and 
 David said before him. 
 
 He is a Shield too, our Shield, who keeps us for each 
 other while we are away. 
 
 Edinburgh, January 22, 1884. 
 
 I have just come in from Professor Butcher's junior 
 lecture, to which Condie took me at 9. It was a great 
 refreshment and stimulus. He had the explanatory style 
 to perfection. The first half-hour was a dictation upon 
 the difference between the use of ov and fxi'j with sub- 
 stantives, participles and adjectives. He drew the thing 
 out of these backward, awkward Scotch pupils, with beautiful 
 courtesy and helpfulness. His illustrations from the parallel 
 uses of Latin were exquisite. The second half-hour was 
 half a page of Plato's " Laches," about Socrates' maicutic 
 art (I think), which was simply a further lesson in phrases, 
 only given the analytic instead of the synthetic way. His 
 method is the English tutorial, with perhaps a little over-
 
 ^Hiscellancous. 379 
 
 refinement of expression, but for the purpose, and con- 
 sidering the stage of his scholars, perhaps the best possible. 
 ' White Cross ' papers were being given at the door, as the 
 class came out. 
 
 I had a long talk with K. upon his book (translation 
 of Schopenhauer — the Pessimist — kind of modern Buddhist), 
 and upon his own views. He gave me some hints about how 
 one needs to preach the goodness of the Unseen, not as a 
 future after death, but as a present possession — something 
 above us which may be in us now. That, of course, is just 
 what Jesus has been saying for two thousand years : " he 
 that hath faith hath eternal life " ; " everyone which seeth 
 Me and believeth on Me hath everlasting life." One must 
 not preach the hereafter only, especially to those who feel 
 (like the young) the livingness, and greatness, and earnest- 
 ness of the now. But neither must one forget that other 
 word, so often repeated after those I have quoted : " and I 
 will raise him up at the last day." For aged, for outworn, 
 for laden souls, for dying and bereaved, ay and for children 
 lately come from the other land, that also is God's truth. 
 And even to us, 'in the midtime' (especially if "nel mezzo" 
 means still for us as for Dante some "selva selvaggia" of 
 doubt, and temptation, and sin) it is sometimes said: Young 
 man, see thou live in full face of that 'after' ; see thou turn
 
 380 |£ctter0. 
 
 thine eyes that way, even if it be thou see but a horizon 
 line, whose light is borrowed from things quite over the 
 edge and out of thy seeing. 
 
 I walked with him to Hugh's rooms. He wants a book 
 to put before men, especially working men, how wealth is 
 not the thing to work for : to supply the motives which 
 will bring the ideal and avert the perils which Political 
 Economy is able to teach, but is quite unable to deal with. 
 
 Prince of Wales Hotel, Grasmere, 
 May 5, 1885, 10 a.m. 
 
 . . . When I ran up the old-fashioned, continuous- 
 corded roller-blind at a quarter to 9 this morning a lovely 
 picture was framed in its place. Before the simple, neat 
 hotel garden a daisied lawn, with two half-tidy flower 
 beds, an araucaria and two or three weeping ashes ; then 
 over a belt of straw-coloured reeds — of which you could 
 almost catch the rustic through the crisp morning air — a 
 breath of Grasmere lake, with all the strange ' far-away- 
 ness' water always brings, partly from its hidden depths, 
 partly from the reflection of heaven ; a green island- 
 knoll beyond it, and behind, a breadth of mountain-side 
 big enough to fill the eye but not to weary or overbear
 
 ^ttisrcUancous. 381 
 
 it, with two delightful, quiet English ' chalets ' crowned 
 by woods and resting on green meadows. Someone says 
 the scenery here is just the right size — it has just enough 
 of everything, and I think it is true. . . . 
 
 5 p.m. — We sauntered through the village this morning 
 and into the little village church, where there is a tablet 
 to Wordsworth, beautifully worded by Keble, and telling 
 how he was a poet and a champion of the poor and 
 simple ' by the special gift and calling of God.' The 
 High Church fittings did not fall in with the homely old 
 building. But outside in the churchyard all was harmony. 
 Here under the church shadow and looking to the moun- 
 tains he so loved is the poet's grave. He lies among his 
 people, the plain grass marked by an unadorned slab 
 which only bears the name and year of his departing. A 
 flat stone on another tomb prepared before his death tells 
 how it was his wish to lie near his ' kindred ' in the 
 humble hope of a blessed resurrection with them in Christ. 
 No fitter monument could have been found to our noble 
 Christian poet and man of the people. The hills around 
 and the whole country seem to make the grandest of 
 Westminsters. Hartley Coleridge rests behind. 
 
 We trudged on, off the high road, by a brawling stream, 
 then up a grassy hillside, in the hollow of which the
 
 382 getters. 
 
 water rushed and plunged with creamy whiteness. ' Sour- 
 milk gill ' seemed rather a poor name for it. At the foot 
 of crags behind we reached a lonely mountain tarn and 
 felt another of the charms which water lends an English 
 landscape. Thence we turned and came back across a 
 ridge which showed us numbers of lovely sheets of water 
 with valleys well-cultivated and well-peopled, and the 
 dim blue lines of Cumberland hills behind. 
 
 In the train, 
 Plymouth, March S, 1886, 2.15 p.m. 
 
 Dadda has had a comfortable journey hitherto. The 
 wind has been cold, but his warm greatcoat and rug have 
 kept him from feeling it, and the bright sunshine on 
 everything has spoken to him of gladness. A few green 
 ears pushing through the rough brown earth, like good 
 dogged Britons determined not to be beaten, are all there 
 is to tell that spring is coming. 
 
 He had a good talk with a Cornish miner coming up to 
 Truro. He had worked for thirteen years at a town called 
 Calumet, on Lake Superior, in a copper mine, where they 
 never got up in time to see the sunlight except on Satur- 
 day afternoon and Sabbath, and where the snow lay six
 
 JftisceUaneous. 383 
 
 feet deep in winter. He had once been a drunkard, but for 
 six years an abstainer, and had one boy of eleven at home 
 who he hoped would never work underground. On part- 
 ing, he said " I wish you all that's good," or something 
 like that. It seemed an earnest of God's blessing on this 
 journey. Now I am with other two. Bath, 6 p.m. — Since 
 Exeter I was left with one of them. We had a good 
 time. He was on his way to London to be appointed to 
 a mine in the Transvaal. When asked if he was a 
 Christian, he said sadly — " No, but he had once been." 
 Six years of seeking first the world and its gains in 
 Mexico had lost him his peace. It was very hard to 
 make him realise that God's forgiveness was there for 
 the taking more fully than ever. But as we prayed a 
 great softening came, and he said he could trust again. 
 He asked for my address, and promised to write to me. 
 God heard Freeland's prayer that God would not only 
 " take care of father, but bless him." 
 
 Hotel Continental, Ajaccio, Corsica, 
 January 20, 1887. 
 
 Your letter of Saturday reached us this afternoon. 
 We took it out and read it on a big granite boulder
 
 384 fetters. 
 
 under the olives, and it seemed to carry us right into the 
 shaded room where you were sitting beside that dear, 
 noble presence just entering into rest. Thank you very 
 much for giving us such a glimpse of that solemn, blessed 
 scene ; what more could we have desired for him than the 
 abundant entrance ' which was being ministered even as 
 you wrote. What struck me most in the last days we were 
 with him was the wonderful meekness which was given 
 him. He asked so gently for his cap to be put on, or the 
 clothes to be moved, and received little services so grate- 
 fully. It was like the trait of an old child-nature coming 
 out again, after the struggle with the world was past and 
 over. The thirty-seventh Psalm has often, and long since 
 spoken to me of papa. As I looked at him, I seemed to 
 hear one say : " The steps of a good man are ordered by 
 the Lord ; and He delighteth in his way. . . . The 
 law of his God is in his heart: none of his steps shall 
 slide. . . . Wait on the Lord, and keep His way, and 
 He shall exalt thee to inherit the land." And now the 
 Psalm is finished : " Mark the perfect man, and behold the 
 upright: for the end of that man is peace" ; or rather, he 
 is gone to finish it above. And we may hear his voice 
 among the rest, saying for us, who are still in the struggle, 
 as well as for himself, for whom it is ended : " The salva-
 
 cfttiscelliineous. 385 
 
 tion of the righteous is of the Lord ; He is their strength 
 in the time of trouble. And the Lord shall help them 
 and deliver them ; He shall deliver them and save them, 
 because they trust in Him" (Psalm xxxvii. II, 23, 31, 34, 
 
 37. 39. 40). 
 
 Oh, how reverently, how heartily, he will join in that 
 cry we used to hear him read on Sabbath evening when 
 anyone dear or noble had been taken away : " Salvation 
 to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the 
 Lamb" (Rev. vii. 10); and, however sore our hearts may be, 
 yet how heartily can we join with him in it now, and how 
 earnestly must we seek to live for the day when we may 
 again sit around one table and join in one Psalm. 
 
 We think often of you in the crowded duties and calls 
 of this week, and shall be with you in spirit all Saturday. 
 May you be kept from all harm of body and all distress 
 of mind. Do give yourself good meals and long nights, 
 and remember papa's advice about how the former should 
 be taken. I find myself saying over that funny string of 
 imperatives he used to give us, like a grace during meat, at 
 the table dhote. 
 
 2 B
 
 386 fetters. 
 
 [ To Robert Browning s sister on her brothers death.] 
 
 Bonskeid, December 21, 1889. 
 
 Although we have never met, and although I only 
 saw your brother as a boy, I think that for his sake you 
 will allow me to write and tell you how a little circle of 
 friendly hearts he drew around him in this Highland valley 
 eighteen years ago, and has held in growing, though un- 
 uttered veneration ever since, has been with you during 
 these first days of a deep sorrow, and is with you still. 
 For him 
 
 " Nothing is here for tears," 
 
 but how much for you. May the strong consolations with 
 which he comforted many be yours now to the full. 
 
 My wife and I were up in the little glen where he lived 
 during the summer of 1871, this afternoon. It was beautiful 
 to hear his praises from those simple peasant people, whom 
 greatness in the face and in the soul seems to reach and 
 touch at first hand. 
 
 The good woman who waited upon him has an especially 
 clear and bright recollection of your brother. " He was the 
 pleasantest gentleman she had ever to do with " ; and " he 
 was so happy ; he was always happy." " ' God bless you,' he
 
 Miscellaneous. 387 
 
 said on one occasion "; "and," she added, "there was always 
 a blessing into that old gentleman " (the Gaelic way of 
 putting it). How true it was she little knew. 
 
 If ever you should be able, or feel drawn to visit Glen- 
 fincastle, be very sure of a friendly, dare I say a tender, 
 welcome to our home. 
 
 We live at a house perched on the hill just above the 
 cottage where he stayed. It is a quiet place, and the in- 
 mates quiet people, except for the voices of mountain-winds 
 and falling waters and merry children. 
 
 You will not reply to this now, or think about it after- 
 wards, unless the thought pleases you ; but whenever you 
 come to see us, you will find us always, — Two grateful 
 friends. 
 
 Fincastle, 
 Pitlochrie, N.B., 20th June, 1890. 
 
 How glad the Huntly call has made me. Of all places 
 on earth I should have wished you to be in (next to 
 Aden or Lovedale, which we both, I think, sorrowfully 
 have been forbidden), there is none more dear to me, or 
 more good for any friend of mine with ' grit ' in him, than 
 Aberdeenshire. And the heart of Christian Aberdeenshire 
 has long been Huntly.
 
 388 getters. 
 
 I shall never forget one Fast Day, the only one, I spent 
 there in the manse and church and town. Everything that 
 happened in these days was 'dinted with a silver pencil,' 
 but Fast and Communion Days were ' graved in gold.' 
 
 The quiet hours of preparation in rooms where the 
 Principal had passed his waiting time ; the solemn rows 
 of solid, God-fearing town and country folk ; the silence in 
 God's house ; the pleasant converse round the manse table 
 (Dr. Blackie was there, I remember) ; the grave counsels 
 (about my first case of discipline) from the minister and 
 his guest over the study fire; and, above all, the walk 
 ' round about Zion ' (for it was all Zion to me) ; the peep 
 of the Castle towers, where the last Duchess held her 
 court spiritual ; the site of the meeting house which bred 
 George Macdonald and Legge and other worthies; the 
 R.C. Chapel, now (prosit omen) a carpenter's shop, in 
 which Mr. M'Cheyne preached and took part in his first 
 and only ' act of intrusion,' and where the mother of one 
 of my church members was bidden by him go back and 
 bend down for the first time over the cradle of her first 
 born, and give herself and her child to the Good Shepherd, 
 and did so ; the farm (or other place of meeting) on the 
 hill in which Dr. Whyte held the 'hinds' and other 
 children of the soil in the strong grasp of his masculine
 
 JttisceUaneoits. 389 
 
 divinity ; all that and more remains with me, and shall 
 remain, while I am with myself. 
 
 But why should I tell it to one who will drink where I 
 sipped, and walk up and down many a long furrow over 
 many a long field where I only scattered a handful of 
 seed ? God bless you, going, such an one, to such a place. 
 God bless you and her who is (please God and a watchful 
 husband !) to spend many a happy day with you in it all. 
 These quiet-living Aberdonians leave a lately-wedded pair 
 something to themselves ! May you share it richly. 
 
 Kincastle, 
 Pitlochrie, X.B., 51I1 September, 1S90. 
 
 Friends are utter ' beggars ' ; but they have sometimes to 
 be sad recusants to their friend's request. 
 
 The truth is, my little pittance of not absolute inability 
 for the month you mention is already signed away, on an 
 old understanding to our common friend of Queene for 
 October II. The week following Wilbcrforce 'descends' 
 on Edinburgh for an anti-opium crusade, and I must 
 work for that whatever comes. 
 
 You know, perhaps, that on the very day my wife and 
 I locked the manse door at Cults, and were once again 
 homeless under my father's roof, he received his first
 
 39° fetters. 
 
 distinct summons to bid us all good-bye. And during 
 these days, as his life-long before, he bequeathed to me, 
 forbidden a regular profession, the care of China, as a 
 first charge upon all I should have to give of time, strength, 
 means to the good cause. That is why I am taking up, 
 nianu vel remissa genibus(? )que solatis, this quarrel with 
 the opium dealers, who are ourselves. 
 
 Pardon such a long story; but a friend has a right to 
 hear, and to inflict, a reason for small inconsistences. 
 
 God bless you : He is blessing you : and help you to hold 
 His blessing with a hand trembling for very thankfulness. 
 
 The first few months of things — of wedding to one's 
 people, or one's bride — settles much. Well taken, it is 
 not easily lost ; ill, it is not easily regained. But you 
 know that, I trust, and will act upon it better than, — Yours 
 most hopefully. 
 
 P.S. — I try to remember you on Sabbaths : preach the 
 Cross. 
 
 The conference has been as happy and uniting as it 
 was last year. The idea is a true one, for it bears fruit. 
 
 I do want to come to Huntly one day, for your sake 
 and China's. It used to be a missionary stronghold : teste 
 Legge ! 
 
 I have re-opened this letter to say that one of our China
 
 Jttisttllaneons. 391 
 
 missionaries, John Watson, a man full of faith and of the 
 Holy Ghost, is at present at " Whitestone Cottage, Banchory 
 Devenick, Aberdeen." He could fill your pulpit and your 
 people's hearts (D.G.) with fire on the subject of the 
 heathen's need one day you were away, if you are able to 
 ask him. Forgive me for making the suggestion. 
 
 11 Belgrave Place, 
 Edinburgh, Sabbath, October 5, 1890, 
 
 I am still kept in the house by a tedious cold, which is 
 now however, I hope, beginning to take leave. 
 
 Convalescence is in some ways the most trying stage 
 of sickness. And for two reasons, I think. The full 
 effect of the disease — fever, or whatever it is — is not felt 
 while the strain lasts. It is only when the struggle 
 between the forces of life and its enemy is over that the 
 full gravity of it is realized. And, besides, the return of 
 life to its old ascendancy is generally by gradual steps and 
 slow. So is it, too, in the spiritual experience. It is not 
 conversion, but what follows conversion, that tests the 
 virtue of the new man in Christ Jesus. During the excite- 
 ment, so to speak, of the crisis — of the decision which 
 means ultimate victory — there is a certain exhilaration and, 
 to borrow a figure from the body, a heightened tempera-
 
 392 |Eetters. 
 
 ture of the soul. But when the tension begins to slacken, 
 then it is that lassitude sets in, and the soldier who waxed 
 valiant in fight grows faint when the fight is over. Also, 
 the flow of the spirit's tide is, like the flow of the ocean's, 
 wavering and wearisome to the eye that watches long for 
 it. The prize that seemed all gold, and altogether worth 
 the winning in the long-run, gleams but little in the 
 thousand steps towards it, and is sore, sickening sore, to 
 win. We pray for grace to withstand the temptations of 
 the world, the flesh, and the devil. But there are two 
 worlds, the favouring and the frowning one ; and two 
 fleshes, the flattering and the enfeebling ; and two devils, 
 the angel of light and the roaring lion. And whether of 
 the two is the one we ought to pray against and fight 
 against the more, I know not. The Holy Spirit and the 
 particular occasion must instruct us. Society and solitude, 
 health and disease, the temple and the wilderness, have 
 each their usual and wonted temptations. But the enemies 
 of God and of His saints keep no faith with their 
 opponents : they acknowledge no rules of warfare. There- 
 fore is there safety, not in the multitude of counsels, but 
 in this one precept of the only Victor — " Watch," He said, 
 " and pray," that ye may not begin to go into temptation. 
 "The Spirit, indeed," i.e. the new man who hath in him
 
 JttisccUttncous. 393 
 
 the Spirit, " is willing ; but the flesh," i.e. the old man, 
 which hath both the world and the devil in him, " is 
 weak." " Watch," that is, set a guard entirely over thyself, 
 look well to thyself, and " Pray," that is, " look away from 
 thyself entirely to Me thy Captain." 
 
 The foregoing is a meditation I had with myself in the 
 forenoon when the others were at church. 
 
 11 Belgrave Place, 
 Edinburgh, November 29, 1890. 
 
 Your letter was very good to get. You did right to leave 
 the flock and go to the house of mourning. Everything that 
 cuts across the seeming continuity of the life of sight, and 
 shows us life in its true dimensions — which are directly con- 
 trary and opposite to those of time — helps to reinforce the 
 life of faith, which is all the real life we ever have and never 
 lose. Browning makes the raised Lazarus look continually 
 at his life across and not along. But, ah, it strains the vision. 
 
 I am thirty-six years old to-day, one year over ' il mezzo del 
 camming And already, even while the clock is striking, 
 another eager year is hurrying on. 
 
 This has been an eventful week in the life of our nation — a 
 great political crisis, an immensely greater moral one. We 
 have lived an era since last Sabbath. God be magnified, who
 
 394 |£etttrs. 
 
 only doeth wonderful works. Is not His word like a fire and 
 a hammer? 
 
 How silently and unforeseen the mightiest steps in a 
 nation's upward course (or downward) are taken. Last spring 
 revolt against the publican ; this autumn's rising against the 
 debauchee — all the work of an hour. 
 
 I am with you heart and soul for pressing Christ's gospel 
 of purity into the code of our public life and law, far beyond 
 any recognition it has yet attained. 
 
 Glad to hear of any prospect of early closing in our great 
 towns. We must nibble as well as gape in the temperance as 
 in every department of the one good cause. I confess that I 
 gape a good deal.
 
 CHILDREN.
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Hotel Continental, 
 Ajaccio, Corsica, Tuesday, January 25, 1887. 
 
 Dear SoNNIE (that is what Mother called you just now), 
 
 We got Nurse's letter after lunch to-day, and when 
 the two little browny-green leaves came out we said, 
 " These are from Freeland," and so they were. Thank you 
 very much for them. We send you a fern and a little bit 
 of heath. 
 
 We were so glad that you sent a wreath of white 
 heather to George Square. Grandmother wrote and told 
 us to-day that when she saw it in her room she was made 
 glad. The last time I saw her with white heather was at 
 Elm Grove on Mother and Father's wedding-day. 
 
 We have got a new room to live in now, on the third 
 floor. One window looks to the hills, and one to the sea. 
 There are many fishes caught here, and such funny ones. 
 We saw them in the market yesterday, in the fishwives' 
 baskets. Some were a bright steel-blue, and some gold
 
 39» getter*. 
 
 colour, and one great fat fellow was quite red. I wonder 
 if he was a soldier among the fishes, or just a ' dandy.' 
 Some were spotted with brown, like long serpents. There 
 is a little round ball, too, covered with prickles, like a 
 hedge-hog, that people find on the rocks, and eat raw as 
 sauce to their bread. One day when Mother and Father 
 picked up some shells, twisted ones, behold, there began 
 crawling sideways out of each of them a little black 
 creature with two soft hands, and a hard body in the 
 middle of him. He is called a ' hermit ' crab, because he 
 lives all by himself in an empty shell. 
 
 We take our lunch in the open air, sometimes under an 
 olive tree. Whenever the country people pass they smile 
 to us, and say, ' Buon appetit,' which means, ' May you 
 enjoy your dinner.' Would you like to say that to Nurse 
 and Maida when you begin dinner ? 
 
 Good-bye, dear Son, iust now, and kiss Maida from 
 
 Father and Mother, and ask her (if she likes) to give you 
 
 a kiss from us. 
 
 From Father.
 
 CThilbrcit. 399 
 
 In the Train, Glasgow to Edinburgh, 
 Glasgow, Dec. 21, 1888. 
 
 Daddy's delight, 
 
 We are travelling to-night, 
 
 And our train it is snorting and shaking; 
 But happy are we, as happy can be, 
 
 For us to our darlings it's taking. 
 
 Daddy's delight, 
 
 Is your cold all right, 
 
 And Freeland's, and dear little Mouse's : 
 And do you not find all ' my F'ens ' very kind, 
 
 And Gastard. a very nice house is? 
 
 Daddy's delight, 
 
 When it's Monday night, 
 
 You will say that a Rabbit has kissed you ; 
 But you never will know, though you try ever so, 
 
 How much your own Daddy has missed you.
 
 4°° getters 
 
 Train from York to London, 
 Dec. 22, 1888. 
 Freeland, my boy, 
 Here is a "good joy," 
 
 And the end of a fifty days' sorrow ; 
 For mother and I think of dastard and cry : 
 " We'll be there the day after to-morrow." 
 
 Freeland, my boy, 
 
 We shall bring you a toy, 
 
 And Maidie, and dear little Miss Ma. S. ; 
 But you mustn't expect to get them direct, 
 
 Toys come the day after — that's Christmas. 
 
 Freeland, my boy, 
 Sailors say, " Ship ahoy ! " 
 
 When they're coming in sight of each other; 
 So Freeland, our boy, and two maids sweet and coy, 
 " Ship ahoy ! " from your father and mother.
 
 (HhilfJttn. 401 
 
 [To Maida!\ 
 
 Train from Paris to Aix 
 (called "Aches") les ("lay") Bains ("Bang"), 
 Saturday, March 30, 1889, 10.30 a.m. 
 
 Mother, Aunt Minnie, and Father slept last night at 
 Paris, in two beautiful rooms on the second flat of the 
 Hotel du Louvre, Paris, where the Kings of France used to 
 hunt the wild dogs called 'Loups,' that is, 'wolves,' when there 
 were woods there ; now there is a large, broad street, of 
 which the hotel forms one whole block, nearly as long as 
 grandmamma's side of George Square. We were wakened 
 by the rolling of the carts in the street, and ringing of the 
 tinkling little bells which many of the carthorses carry on 
 their harness. 
 
 We had for breakfast these dear little, round, white rolls 
 and delightful butter, which the French people make so 
 nicely, and fried fish and tea. Then we drove in a cab, 
 with two brave, little horses, along the river Seine a long 
 way to the Lyons railway station, and got into a large, 
 first-class carriage, where a gentleman and lady and two 
 nice boys and another lady, their companion, got in after 
 us. 
 
 At first we ran along by the river Seine, where the water 
 
 is green and smooth. The land is beautifully kept by 
 
 2 c
 
 402 letters. 
 
 the peasants. It is drier than England, but they water it 
 by canals from the river. The trees are small, but they 
 trim them carefully. Every little spare twig is cut off and 
 bound into bundles with others, to burn. When the trees 
 are cut down, the bigger branches and the stems are 
 burned a little, and so made into charcoal, which is used in 
 the French fireplaces instead of coal. We saw a man 
 pruning the vines (nurse will tell you what that means). 
 A vine is just a poor little bush, like a gooseberry bush or 
 a currant bush at the bottom, but not at the top. Every 
 year the top branches are cut off or pruned (when the 
 grapes have been pulled), and then in the spring-time the 
 old root puts out new branches, which are nailed against a 
 wall or over a wooden frame, or even twisted round a 
 tree, and when autumn comes bear more grapes than the 
 old branches would have done if they had not been pruned. 
 When the new branches begin to grow, you can hardly tell 
 which is the vine root and which are the vine branches. 
 Perhaps nurse can tell you what Jesus says (John xv. 5) 
 about vines, and why He calls Himself "The Vine" and 
 says that we are His branches. 
 
 11.30. — Now we are in another county of France, called 
 Yonne ("Yon") from a beautiful river which is running 
 beside the railway. We have seen two oxen drawing a
 
 Uthilbrcn. 403 
 
 cart with a piece of wood tied across their necks, which is 
 called a "yoke" because it joins them together. Jesus says 
 that He wishes to put His yoke upon us, that means that 
 He wishes to come close beside us and wants us to walk 
 close beside Him. Now we have seen four oxen in one 
 cart, two and two. 
 
 Father and mother are happy about their three dear 
 little ones; they often think of them and know that they 
 are being well cared for. 
 
 To-night father and mother will be near the borders of 
 
 France at a place called Aix (that means, in old French, 
 
 " Waters," because there are waters there that make people 
 
 well when they drink them or bathe in them). On Monday 
 
 they expect to be in Italy. 
 
 From Father. 
 
 Kiss Margaret, if she wants a kiss, and do you and Free- 
 land say, each to yourselves, " Mother and Father love me." 
 
 Hotel de l'Europe/Aix, 
 Sabbath Evening, 31st March, 1889. 
 6 o'clock. 
 
 Dearest Sonnie, 
 
 Mother and I are sitting in a bright room, with 
 doors and windows newly painted white and newly-washed
 
 404 gutters. 
 
 muslin curtains. The walls are covered with a pretty white 
 paper of leaves and roses against a shining gold ground ; 
 the floor, with a carpet of leaves and flowers on a cream- 
 coloured ground. Everything is fresh and clean. Outside 
 the two windows, which are made to open, runs a balcony, 
 where you can walk or sit and see the view. 
 
 It is a beautiful view. Over the hotel garden and the 
 roofs of the houses there is a long brown hill, the slopes 
 of which are planted with vines. Many of the vines are 
 trained on elm trees, and the earth underneath is sown 
 with wheat or grass, so that two crops grow on the same 
 piece of ground. Behind the hill rises a great mountain, 
 iooo feet higher than Ben Nevis, called " Cat's Tooth." 
 
 This morning we all slept very late, for we were very 
 tired ; we had been travelling from 8 yesterday morning 
 till 1 1 at night. We read our Bibles in the house, and 
 then took our books out with us to the open air. There was 
 no service in the English or Scotch church, as the visitors 
 have not arrived yet. We are nearly the first who have 
 come. We think no one had been in our rooms this season 
 before. But the kind people had lighted a nice fire of beech 
 logs in them. 
 
 We climbed up two lovely hills above the town until we 
 could see all the houses lying at our feet. Then a most
 
 Children. 405 
 
 beautiful lake, called the Lac de Bourget, came in sight. Its 
 waters were a lovely dark blue, in which the shadows of a 
 large house and of the rocks along the lake side were 
 clearly seen. All round and round us were great mountains, 
 streaked with snow and dotted with dark fir trees, which 
 climbed, like soldiers, far up the heights. Wreaths of mist, 
 like white breath, hung upon the topmost peaks, hiding 
 them sometimes quite away from us. Then the strong sun 
 came out and cleared them away. It felt as hot as in 
 summer. 
 
 Sweet, pale primroses were peeping here and there from 
 among the dead leaves and stones on the hillside, and a 
 bright, little blue flower, something like a tiny hyacinth, 
 stood up here and there. There were brambles too, with 
 their pretty leaves and sharp prickles, and junipers with 
 berries purple and green. 
 
 Father said aloud some of the beautiful Scotch Psalms 
 (such as Psalm xxxvi. 5-9), which tell about such things as 
 we were seeing. 
 
 This afternoon we had tea in our room, just at the same 
 time as our three dear little ones would be having theirs 
 with nurse and Sarah in their nursery at Nairn. Mother 
 made tea, and Aunt Minnie and she 'cleared away' and 
 ' washed up.'
 
 4°6 getters. 
 
 9 at night. — Now we have had dinner, and are soon going 
 
 to bed. To-morrow we shall go through the Mont Cenis 
 
 tunnel to Italy. 
 
 With dear love to you all from 
 
 Father, 
 
 Florence (that means Flower town), 
 Hotel Paoli, Lung' Arno, April 6, i28q, 2 p.m. 
 
 My dear Girlie, 
 
 We came here last night in the train from a place 
 called Siena. Siena is a most beautiful town ; it is all 
 built on the top of a hill, or rather two or three hills. The 
 streets are covered with great flat stones like a pavement ; 
 and they go uphill and downhill, like the roads at Bonskcid. 
 They are very narrow, just broad enough for two little 
 carriages to pass, and no more. There is a beautiful big 
 church on the top of the town, built with black stones and 
 white turn about, and a very high tower with a sweet- 
 sounding bell, which goes ' ding-dong ' at one o'clock, two 
 o'clock, and so on. Then there is a market-place with a 
 very pretty fountain in the middle, all built round with 
 white stones cut into the shapes of Bible pictures. There 
 are a great many dear little children in the town, with merry
 
 Hhilbrcn. 407 
 
 black eyes, who laughed and chattered about us when we 
 walked past. They had never seen a long white ulster like 
 daddy's before, and thought it a good joke. 
 
 Father and mother and Aunt Minnie went to see the 
 house where a good lady lived long, long ago. She was 
 called Catherine. She had a little room all to herself, where 
 she used to pray, and a beautiful prayer she used to say was 
 written on one of the walls of it. Here is a bit of it : — 
 " My dear Lord Jesus, help me now in all that I do for 
 Thee ; Christ, Thou lovest me, Christ, thou lovest me ; come 
 into my heart, and make me love and fear Thee ! " Then, 
 when she had prayed, she went and helped her father and 
 mother, her brothers and sisters in the house ; and when 
 they did not need her, she took breakfast and dinner to 
 poor people who had none, and nursed people who were very 
 ill, and made people who were quarrelling friends again ; 
 and every evening, when her work was done, she went up to 
 a church on a hill behind her fathers house, and told the 
 Lord what she had done for Him, and asked Him to help 
 her to do more. 
 
 Was she not a sweet lady ? How daddy would 
 be delighted if his dear girlie was like that (and little 
 Meg too) !
 
 4o8 Ueiiere. 
 
 Outside our windows runs the river Arno, a greeny colour, 
 with a fine walk on each side of it. There is a hill opposite 
 covered with trees, and houses on the top. 
 
 Please thank Freeland for his two nice letters — one to 
 father and one to mother — and say to Meg she is a dear 
 little girl. 
 
 From your loving father, who loves to hear that Maida 
 thinks of him sometimes. 
 
 Train (Express) 
 Chiusi (called "Kee-oosy") back to 
 Florence, Saturday, April 20, 1889. 
 
 Dear Sonnie, 
 
 Mother and Father and Aunt Minnie went a 
 long drive (15 miles — as far as from Dunkeld to Perth) on 
 Thursday to see a famous town (about half the size of Perth) 
 called Assisi (" Asseasy "). We drove down the hill on 
 which Perugia stands (1700 or 1800 feet above the level of 
 the sea), and then across a fruitful plain, where corn and 
 vines were growing. We went over the river Tiber (which 
 runs on to Rome) by a very steep bridge, like the one at 
 Tummel Bridge, then over another stream, and so up the 
 side of a mountain called Subasio. There is a great cluster 
 of houses above you, with high walls and brown tiles very
 
 (Hhittirm. 409 
 
 like the colour of the mountain. That is Assisi. The 
 horses stopt at an hotel called Subasio, after the mountain, 
 I suppose. There we got out and left our wraps. We 
 walked a little further up the hill and saw a big church, 
 three stories high. In the lowest story of all is buried a 
 good man, Francis of Assisi, who lived there about 700 
 years ago. In his days the church of Christ was very 
 unlike what Christ said it was to be : it was very rich, and 
 the ministers were idle and fond of pleasure. Francis heard 
 what Christ said to His apostles about being poor, and 
 not having many spare clothes or houses or lands. He 
 gave up all he had in order to be like what Jesus was. 
 He did not take the money he might have had from his 
 father ; he wore only one coarse cloak and no shoes. He 
 eat just what people offered him. Then he went about and 
 preached everywhere, and got other men like himself to do 
 the same. He did not know very much about the Bible, 
 and did not understand all that he heard out of it; but 
 what he knew, he tried to do himself, and tried to get 
 others to do. He was very patient and gentle, and kind 
 to everyone and everything. He made friends with birds 
 and hares and rabbits, and is even said to have tamed a 
 wolf. You will read his life, I hope, when you are 
 older.
 
 4io fitters. 
 
 In the second church there are pictures of the three promises 
 Francis made : to be poor, to have no wife, to do whatever 
 God or God's servants bade him. God does not want us 
 to make such promises, unless He Himself puts it into our 
 heart, and He does not tell us to try and get our friends 
 to make them. After Francis died, his friends, who were 
 called ' Franciscans,' got idle again, and the monasteries, or 
 monks' houses, became as bad as the ministers' houses ; 
 and so God sent Martin Luther to ' re-form ' (that is, change 
 the form of) His Church, and make it more like what the 
 Church of the New Testament is like. John Knox was 
 the Reformer of Scotland. 
 
 In the church that is highest of all, we saw pictures of 
 many wonderful things which Francis is said to have done. 
 Some of these things I do not think he ever did : for they 
 are not things God tells us to pray for. But some were 
 just wonderful answers to prayer, and such things happen 
 to God's children still. 
 
 Coming home, we saw some curious tombs, called 
 1 Etruscan,' cut in the rock, with stone images of the people 
 who lived long, long ago, in the days of old Rome. 
 
 Yesterday was Good Friday, which many Christians 
 keep in memory of Christ's dying on the Cross. We went 
 to service in a little room at the bottom of the hotel. An
 
 dhilbrcn. 411 
 
 English church minister preached beautifully from Jeremiah's 
 Lamentations, ch. i., v. 12. He told us how Francis tried 
 to follow Jesus, and bade us do so too. We sang, " Oh 
 come and mourn with me awhile." 
 
 This morning we were up at 6.30, and at 8.30 two brave, 
 black horses, harnessed in a large carriage, trotted off with 
 us for a 30 miles' drive, right west across country. We 
 passed many fine old castles and churches (with houses 
 round them) perched on tops of hills, and rounded a most 
 lovely lake called " Trasimene," where a mighty soldier, 
 from Carthage in North Africa, beat the soldiers of Rome. 
 At Chiusi we had some nice soup, and now (3 p.m.) we 
 have passed dear old Florence again, and arc going to 
 climb up through the Apennines (in tunnels) and so get to 
 Bologna (for Sabbath) at 6.25. 
 
 P.S. Hotel Brun, 
 
 Bologna, Sabbath Evening, April 21. 
 
 This morning father and mother were at the Communion 
 in the Free Italian church, and this afternon at the English 
 church in this hotel. 
 
 Love to Maida and Margaret, and kind remembrances to 
 
 nurse and Sarah from 
 
 Father.
 
 4i2 getters. 
 
 Train to Perth to see Mr. Ritchie. 
 
 Stanley, July 25, 1890, 11. 28 A.M. 
 
 Dear Sonnie, 
 
 Our train you will see is late through a breakdown 
 which happened here to the 11.30 on its way north (we 
 crossed at Dalguise); and as 'Cromartie' has gone off with 
 a truck, I do not think we shall be in Perth much before 
 twelve. 
 
 It is a warm day, though at Fincastle the air was 
 cold. The hay in the first field (where we worked) is 
 all put up in large cocks ; they are working in the 
 second field (to the west) now. The children — David, 
 Katie and Willie — are helping them ; Katie and Willie 
 hope to see you on Tuesday night. You may, perhaps, 
 come by the same train as the Principal and Mrs. Rainy ; 
 if so, you must point out the places to them as you drive 
 up — Faskally, and Tighngiat, and the Pass, and Ben-y-Glo 
 (from the Bridge), and the Falls Gate, and Lady Bath's 
 Garden and Hill (the Falls Hill), and Coillebrochain, 
 and Bonskeid, and the Well and Chapel, and Browning's 
 House and his Walk, and anything else that you 
 remember. 
 
 I am glad to have your text, and shall think of
 
 QlhUircn. 413 
 
 you between six and seven at your service. It is a 
 fine text. 
 
 I. The Girdle, Truth or Truthfulness. That means your 
 grip of God's truth, and its grip of you — like a belt round your 
 waist — which holds you up and keeps you together. Always 
 love the truth, and speak it. The new man is the true man. 
 Abhor lying. 
 
 II. The Breastplate, Righteousness. The uprightness of 
 the man who is forgiven, and who knows it, and lives accord- 
 ingly; looking God and man in the face. Be honest; do 
 the truth ; owe no man anything. 
 
 III. The shoes (sandals), the Preparation of the Gospel of 
 Peace. That means to be always ready to run Christ's 
 errands. Blessed are the peacemakers. 
 
 IV. The Helmet of Salvation, To be saved, and to know 
 it, is like a crown on your head. That is what a Christian is 
 known by. He is a saved man, and carries his head high. 
 His crest is the hope of salvation. 
 
 V. The Shield, Faith. Looking away from himself to the 
 Unseen Defender. That keeps the Devil off. 
 
 VI. The Sword, God's Word, hung in the girdle of 
 Truth. 
 
 VII. All — Prayer. That is calling on your Captain to 
 keep you.
 
 414 getters. 
 
 Love to all the Cousins, and Uncle Alick and Aunt 
 Margaret. I hope the singing at the Church Rock will 
 come off, and the Sabbath service too. 
 
 I think I shall buy ' Gipsy,' Mr. Craig's little dark brown 
 
 horse. Kemp has tried her in harness, and she goes nicely. 
 
 To-morrow we shall try her with one of the children and 
 
 the leading rein. — Goodbye, old boy, from 
 
 Father.
 
 Glrtilrjrrn. 415 
 
 Train, Edinburgh to London, 
 
 Feb. 25, 1891. 
 
 [Alter passing four months a prisoner 
 
 through illness.] 
 
 Dear Mistress Meg, 
 I've eaten a leg 
 Of a chicken — and more ; 
 Some bread from a store, 
 Which mother had packed 
 In a box — that's a fact 
 
 We are riding along 
 In a carriage so strong, 
 With three little rooms 
 Where nobody comes 
 Except only us six. 
 
 In the first there's no other, 
 But father and mother; 
 In the second are two — 
 Aunt Margaret and Hugh ; 
 In the third there are ladies, 
 — It is Sarah's and Maidie's.
 
 4i 6 fetters. 
 
 Now I must not write more 
 Lest my head should get sore; 
 And if I've a sore head 
 Mother sends me to bed. 
 I just lie on the top, 
 Clothes and all, and then drop 
 Fast asleep, like my M<g, 
 Till I waken and beg 
 For my tea — which I sup 
 From a white China cup. 
 
 So goodbye for just now 
 To my dear Shaggy pow, 
 With seven kisses and hugs 
 For my queen of Pug-mugs, 
 And the rest (if you've any) 
 For my sweet little Gwenny. 
 
 From Fader-Pader.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 S 
 
 2 D
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 FROM "THE FREE CHURCH MONTHLY," 1891, 
 
 WITH ADDITIONS. 
 
 Robert Barbour was born at Edinburgh on the 29th 
 November, 1854. His father, who died in 1887, was George 
 Freeland Barbour, Esq., of Bonskeid and Gryffe, loved by 
 his son's friends as a man of singular culture, piety, humour, 
 and liberality. His mother, who died in 1892, is known 
 throughout the Church by " The Way Home," and other 
 religious writings. She was a woman of great force of 
 character, who lived for her ideals — and she expected their 
 fulfilment from China to the Hebrides — with a thoroughness 
 of faith and a constancy of prayer very unusual in these days. 
 Consequently, to many she appeared eccentric. But those 
 who were intimate with her know that there have been few 
 women or men of greater shrewdness, humour, sympathy and 
 common kindliness. Through her mother, Mrs Sandeman, of 
 Perth, she came of a Celtic stock, the Stewarts of Athole, and 
 was a niece of the poetess, Lady Nairne. She had herself a
 
 420 $io graphical Jloticcs. 
 
 share of the poetic gift, more in her way of looking at things, 
 perhaps, than in actual expression, and Robert derived from 
 her both this and many of his other talents. Her brother, 
 David Sandeman, went as a missionary to China and died 
 there in the midst of his work. This gave her and her 
 whole family that devotion to the China Mission, which has 
 been one of their most beautiful characteristics. Four of 
 the family survived childhood — Robert, two sisters (now 
 married to Professor Simpson and Dr. Whyte), and Hugh, 
 now in medical practice in Edinburgh. They grew up under 
 such parents, and with these backgrounds to their education 
 — Edinburgh, the Highlands, the Free Church, and the China 
 Mission. 
 
 Robert went to school at the Collegiate Institution. The 
 men who most influenced his boyhood were his father, his 
 tutor, James Stalker, and Mr. Wilson of the Barclay 
 Church : the Young Men's Society of which was also one 
 of his training-grounds. At Edinburgh University he came 
 at once to the front and achieved a very brilliant career. 
 Ten class medals, the prize poem, essay prizes, a double- 
 first degree in classics and philosophy ; in the debating 
 societies a power of strong and ready speech ; an extra- 
 ordinary capacity for hard and rapid work, the gift of a 
 great imagination, a touch of genius on much that he
 
 $i<jgraphii.-.il iloticts. 421 
 
 thought and did — it was no wonder that to those of us who 
 stood behind him nothing seemed beyond his reach. The 
 usual sequence to such a career in Edinburgh at the time 
 was Oxford, and he was tempted to go there ; though, if 
 no other reasons" had been present, he believed too much in 
 the sufficiency of the Scottish curriculum to have gone 
 readily. But another claim was upon him. In early boy- 
 hood he had given himself to the Christian life, and ever 
 since the hope of being a minister had grown upon him. 
 From his letters this appears to have now become a 
 passion — a passion which neither long study, nor the 
 weariness of the ministry, nor the engagements for a time 
 of another calling in life, nor ill-health, ever diminished 
 in him. In his last illness he wrote much to one friend 
 about the office of the preacher. ". . . I say most 
 religiously, that if I had my ministry to begin again, I 
 should try — not to study less — but to put myself, heart, 
 soul, strength, AND MIND, more than ever I did into preach- 
 ing. ... I know— though I have had only five, and 
 these five broken, years — the temptation to weary of the 
 road. It is a strong temptation. But as the weight of the 
 cross is heavy, so is the reward, both now and hereafter, 
 heavy also. ... I am now for four years a most 
 interested and patient hearer of sermons, and the more I
 
 422 $Ho graphical Notices. 
 
 hear, the more I feel inclined to cry aloud : 'Covet to 
 prophesy.' I have my own secret conflict going on, God 
 knoweth, not since yesterday, upon this very point. Ever 
 since I came into the world (36 years ago to-morrow) or 
 rather came to know I was in it, I have had a draw- 
 ing to one kind of work. Since I was called to the 
 ministry that inclination has not left me. Whether God 
 intends me by repeated intimations of bodily weakness 
 to give myself to that other vocation, or — which I am as 
 ready to accept, to surrender it and all effort beyond the 
 daily burden — for a place in the ranks of those who do 
 their little and suffer their little and so serve the grandest 
 end — I do not know. I only speak of it to tell you how 
 loud and imperative the ova) /jloi e! fit] evayyeXifafiai still 
 sounds to me." 
 
 In 1875 Barbour entered the New College. In 1S76 he took 
 the summer session at the University of Tubingen, where 
 Beck, Tholuck's real successor in Germany, was a great 
 moral as well as intellectual influence ; and what Barbour 
 got from Beck may be seen in an article he contributed 
 on Beck's death to the Britisli and Foreign Evangelical 
 Review. His last session at the New College was full— per- 
 haps, from what we now know, too full — of hard work. 
 He won the medal of the Political Economy class at the
 
 biographical Jloticcs. 423 
 
 University, writing all the long fortnightly essays set by 
 Professor Hodgson ; he won the Cunningham Fellowship ; 
 he was a leader in the Theological Society ; he held classes 
 in continuation of Mr. Spiers's meetings for children ; he 
 was always helping some of us in our mission work ; and 
 in the spring he published a volume, " Jeroveam's Wife, 
 and other Poems." With the autumn came his marriage 
 to Charlotte Fowler ; their wedding journey through the 
 mission stations of South Africa occupied the winter and 
 spring of 1880. On this tour he came under another of 
 the great influences of his life — Dr. Stewart of Lovedale. 
 In December, 1880, he went as assistant to Mr. Fraser 
 of Brechin, and rejoiced, like all who have begun their 
 ministry there, in the field of work that is open, in the 
 sympathy that blesses it, and especially in the counsel 
 and example of his "bishop." In October, 1881, he was 
 ordained to the church of Cults, near Aberdeen. For 
 five years, broken by two absences in search of health, he 
 worked in Cults with all his own thoroughness and enthu- 
 siasm ; and then, in obedience to the doctors, he laid down 
 his charge, and went to reside at Bonskeid. There, and 
 afterwards on the neighbouring estate of Fincastle, which 
 he bought, he lived, while health and other work allowed 
 him, not only a good landlord and a most generous host,
 
 424 $iogntphiral Notices. 
 
 but the pastor of all the countryside. Urged by his party 
 to enter Parliament, he was true to the vision of his youth, 
 and replied that highly as he honoured a political career, 
 he held still higher the vocation of a Scottish minister. It 
 is certain that deep in his heart lay the hope of return to 
 some stated charge as soon as strength came back. Mean- 
 time he shepherded " his Glen " ; preached occasionally in 
 the little chapel and for friends ; prayed and laboured for 
 China (he was Scottish chairman of both the Presbyterian 
 China Mission and the Anti-Opium League) ; kept his 
 friends in heart by his strong, faithful letters ; and dis- 
 pensed his wealth with a liberality rare in one who came 
 so young to great riches. He laboriously investigated 
 every one of the numerous appeals which reached him from 
 home and abroad; but it was like him to lay it on his 
 friends to tell him of needy men and causes, who might 
 be helped without having asked him themselves. Barbour 
 also continued another characteristic work, apart from which 
 it is impossible to remember him — his work on behalf 
 of temperance. This had three sides. In his preaching 
 he constantly strove to keep the public conscience in- 
 formed and tender upon what he felt to be our greatest 
 national sin. He also believed very strongly in total 
 abstinence as a Christian's duty, — not simply for the
 
 $iographual Hotires. 425 
 
 purpose of testifying, but also as a practical means of 
 lessening the evil — see his tract called : Why are you not 
 an Abstainer? Most of all, however, he believed in personal 
 help to the victims of drunken habits. His zeal never got 
 the better of his love, as it does with so many teetotallers. 
 But in the course of his short life he must have laid 
 himself in the deepest compassion alongside a very large 
 number of worsening or desperate cases, and by his own 
 patience with them, and the faith which he infused into 
 them that God's grace was all-sufficient, he became the 
 means of lifting many of them back to sobriety and health. 
 In 1S88 Robert Barbour undertook the duties of the 
 Church History Chair in Glasgow during Dr. Lindsay's 
 absence. What he achieved not only as a lecturer, but in 
 his personal intercourse with the students, as a spiritual 
 force, was told by their warm tribute when he left. But 
 indeed he was always at his best with young men. The 
 pressure of their life behind, along the well-known passages 
 which he himself had traversed with so much hope and 
 vigour, was a most cherished stimulus. In one of his 
 letters he describes a visit to the New College, Edinburgh, 
 in these inspiring words : " I enjoyed being in the old 
 place. It was a good sight : though ' new faces, other 
 names ' rather made ' the days darken round one ' and the
 
 426 gHogtaphtcal JJoticts. 
 
 years. I felt how it should make us spur on to feel the 
 hot breath of others already behind. We are getting fast 
 pushed into ' the foremost files of time.' I feel like Meriones 
 when Eumelus came up on him in the chariot-race : 
 
 ' irvoqi S Ei/jUi/Xofo fxeTu^pevov eupee t top.ii) 
 uepfieT ' ex' avrifi yup /ce</>aA«? KwraBevre xeTea^j/v ' '. 
 
 or like Ajax with Odusseus after him, 
 
 1 ixviu Ti/xTe TroSecrm x«'/5o? koviv ap<l>i\vQr]VUi' 
 Kai S upu ol Ke </>u\>7? X 6 ' uuTfievu Sios 'OSu<T(rcvg.' " 
 
 A man who felt the reality and force of the life behind 
 him in as vivid and sympathetic a way as that, could not 
 fail to be a leader. In 1890 another call came to him to 
 another Church History Chair in the United Presbyterian 
 Hall. It was much on his heart to take this work, not 
 only for its own sake, but as his effort towards the union 
 of Scottish Presbyterianism, which was one of the great 
 ideals of his life. God's will, however, was otherwise. An 
 illness, which had been first apparent in the trouble he 
 gave himself in the spring about a sad piece of pastoral 
 work, reappeared with bad symptoms. The doctors put 
 off his teaching till Christmas, then forbade it altogether. 
 In February he was moved to the south of France, and
 
 biographical Notices. 427 
 
 later to Aix-les-Bains. Tended by his wife and some dear 
 friends, he lingered there till the end of May, when he sank 
 out of great weakness into sleep. He was very happy. 
 " Thy rod and staff," he said, " especially Thy rod — they 
 comfort me." 
 
 It is almost impossible to tell how much he was to his 
 friends and the Church — how much he is, and will be 
 always, to those whom he touched. There have been very 
 few men of whom their friends had the right to hope such 
 high things as we had of Robert Barbour when he entered 
 public life. But that brilliant career at college, on which 
 he rose to the full height of his great powers, is to-day 
 not so bright in our memories as the subsequent years of 
 declining health, quieter preaching, and the pastorate, painful 
 and broken, at Cults, and in "the Glen." If he has failed 
 to build any monument worthy of his intellectual strength, 
 it is largely because he consecrated his powers to pastoral 
 work ; but so he has left us an heritage of character we 
 could not have expected even from those earlier years. I 
 shall always feel his purity the most. In college days 
 we knew it as (in the words Milton uses of himself) "a 
 certain reservedness of nature, an honest haughtiness and 
 self-esteem, which kept me above those low descents of 
 mind." But during his ministry it took an active and
 
 42§ biographical JJotice©. 
 
 forward shape, a yearning to do the right and win others 
 for the right, which is only possible with a heart and 
 imagination that cherish no secret sin. Not that Barbour's 
 was a nature which found it easy to be good ; on the 
 contrary no man ever felt temptation more strongly, or 
 had a heavier sense of sin and of the awful difficulty of 
 doing the Father's will. One of his last messages for 
 young men was: " Teach them to pray for forgiveness." The 
 "woe is me if I preach not the gospel of Christ," which 
 throbs through so many of his later letters, flowed from 
 the same source. The Cross was to him in the most ex- 
 perimental way the centre of all religion, and the enthusiasm 
 at least of his later years was born at the foot of it. As 
 to his gift of oratory, he had a rich voice, and a command 
 both of language and information ; he had a conscience 
 about form, and his style was always stately ; but you 
 felt as he spoke that the power was rather due to his 
 intense spiritual earnestness. When some graceful speakers 
 are done, it is as if they had said, " I have spoken because 
 I can speak;" but with him, most graceful of all, it was 
 ever, " I believed, therefore I spake." As to his poetic 
 gift, I do not think that the poetry of his book comes 
 near the poetry of his life. He saw the ideal in every- 
 thing ; especially in common Christian work and in our
 
 ^Biographical ^lotirrs. 429 
 
 Scottish life, in both of which it is so difficult for ordinary 
 hearts to rise above the commonplace. He saw the blush 
 of the heart's blood through the meanest face, and had a 
 way all his own of glorifying the humblest means of 
 grace. There was one thing which I have felt, and many 
 other men younger than himself have felt, on our first 
 introduction to him. He not only treated us sympath- 
 etically, but spoke of our work, whether accomplished or 
 lying still before us, in its ideal light ; made us ashamed 
 of our own low opinions of it, and sent us back to it with 
 new conscience and new hope. He was a thorough Scot, 
 with a love for his land, her history, and her songs, that was 
 very beautiful. He knew Scottish life to the bone, Scottish 
 history to the fountainhead; and it was delightful, in con- 
 versation about parish politics and every-day matters, to 
 be surprised by his emphasis of the historical meaning and 
 national virtue of some ordinary event or institution. His 
 company was always stimulating. How can we ever forget 
 his look as he swung down one of " the Glen " roads with 
 his cheery shout of welcome. How can we ever forget 
 his happy ways with children, his chivalry in debate, his 
 courtesy with the poor and aged, his humour and occasional 
 sarcasm, his singing of a favourite Jacobite song : Will ye 
 no come back again ?
 
 43° biographical Notices. 
 
 But the virtue and honour of his life lay in his faithful- 
 ness as a pastor. With the same devotion — which in boyish 
 years overcame most unusual temptations to idleness and 
 pride by toil as hard as if he had his bread to win — he sacri- 
 ficed in later years even stronger ambitions to be the mere 
 preacher and poet, and gave his strength to personal 
 service and rescue work. He took extraordinary pains 
 with individual cases. At Cults and in Aberdeen and by 
 the Tummel, numbers bless God to-day for the truth and 
 love with which his servant dealt with them, for his perse- 
 verance and generosity. He always had some poor soul 
 anxiously on his heart before God, fulfilling thus the 
 pastor's highest office of intercession ; and I believe it was 
 the way in which he prayed for all who were weak and in 
 error in his flock and in his neighbourhood that kept him 
 so free from gossip or the misuse of those strong gifts of 
 scorn which were natural to his lofty spirit. It was some- 
 times easy to criticise an enthusiasm so utterly regardless of 
 self as his was ; but now that it is gone from us, it seems 
 to his comrades to be one of their holiest duties to preserve 
 its memory and example — to live more strenuously by that 
 faith in Christ and His Cross which was its secret. 
 
 George Adam Smith.
 
 JJtographiral Notices. 431 
 
 PRINCIPAL RAINY IN FREE ST. GEORGE'S, 
 EDINBURGH. 
 
 Many of you know that I am here to-day in connection with 
 a bereavement which has nearly touched your pastor's family, 
 and which is very sorely felt by a wide circle of friends. And, 
 I confess, the text came to me in connection with his life. 
 Our friend had many advantages, providential and natural. 
 He had gifts of mind that were exceptional ; his capacity 
 for enthusiasm was high, and, unquestionably, the light of 
 genius gave its irradiation to all his other qualities. But he 
 found the condition and the consecration of all other worth in 
 Christ ; and for many years trust in Christ, and obedience to 
 Christ, was the central influence of his life. All right human 
 ideals harmonize with a supreme regard to Christ, although 
 not all Christians see this, and few make it fully apparent in 
 their practice. But to our friend this agreement and subordina- 
 tion were revealed, and whatever struggles he may have had, 
 the impression he made on others was always that of a man 
 at harmony with himself, a man whose ruling maxims were
 
 43 2 biographical Notices. 
 
 loftily Christian, and whose daily life embodied them with 
 rare force and clearness. We have known few, indeed, who 
 have been so conversant with noble and ideal views, and who 
 carried them with more vigour and simplicity down into the 
 detail of ordinary life. His Christian thinking and Christian 
 walking had the glow of poetry, and they had the loftiness 
 and fineness we associate with the idea of chivalry. In the 
 case of one so conversant with the ideal, and so open to 
 fine enthusiasms as he was, it is, perhaps, not unnatural to 
 ask one suspicious question — to ask, "Was all this genuine, 
 or was it, perhaps, as sometimes it is, only a vivid perception 
 of what life might be, a perception that dazzled and stirred 
 the mind without inspiring the character ? " I have alluded 
 already to the answer to such a question which has practically 
 given the answer to any doubts like these. But I might find 
 another answer in another direction. When lofty ideals are 
 not simply and seriously reckoned with, but are played 
 with in a windy and unreal way, that is always accompanied 
 by self-inflation and self-adulation ; but in our friend's case, 
 these elements of his thought and feeling led him to cherish 
 high thought, never of himself, but very often of other 
 people. When he saw in others what struck him as good, 
 then he was willing to believe his ideals were there realized, 
 and was ready to give love and honour and trust as freely
 
 J3u>graplwal Notices. 433 
 
 as he gave his money for work that appealed to him as 
 right. There could hardly be a better proof of the purity 
 and sincerity of the man. It is very well known how freely 
 he gave money ; but it will be a great mistake to think 
 that he allowed this to stand in the room of real and 
 practical ministry to men as the servant of Christ. In the 
 most practical ways, amid all the limitations of imperfect 
 health, he was a helper and a succourer of many. There 
 survive him many an impression on human hearts and 
 histories which mere money could not make, and grateful 
 memories which money could never buy. As a Christian 
 scholar and thinker there was to be ascribed to him this — 
 that he combined the points of view of various parties that 
 are apt to misunderstand one another. He could sympathize 
 with each, and also perceive the defectiveness or the bias 
 of each ; of the more advanced as well as of the less. 
 Indeed, he personally had taken possession of the points 
 of view which are sometimes treated as irreconcilable ; they 
 were together parts of his own experience. He could 
 sympathize — he did sympathize — with the anxieties that 
 would guard the interests of experimental, evangelical 
 Christianity, as well as with the instincts that dictated 
 intellectual independence and veracity. Men of various 
 schools found it easy to trust him. It is a loss to us of
 
 434 jKffgraphical Notices. 
 
 no common order that such a man should have been called 
 away. Our hope had been that, in coming years, he would 
 have become more and more a source of elevating and 
 strengthening influence, especially among students and 
 ministers. Gifts and qualities like those he united under 
 the inspiration of a Christian life, so intense and so con- 
 sistent, it might well be hoped would form a stimulating 
 power, would kindle fresh enthusiasm, would help men 
 to conceive higher standpoints of attainment and of service. 
 It might have been so. He had great love for students, 
 and delight in ministering to their mental and spiritual 
 progress. But these thoughts of ours are broken off and 
 baffled. I cannot suppose that, to those who had not oppor- 
 tunities of knowing him, any of the things that I can say, 
 or that have been said, can carry a very definite image or 
 make a very strong impression. They are but reminiscences, 
 echoes faint and straggling, of a character and a life. But 
 I may be allowed to say this at least, that it is long since 
 any one has passed away who left on my mind, and many 
 a mind besides, a stronger admonition as to the spirit in 
 which life can be lived, and what it may attain to be even 
 here, amid all the pedestrian necessities, the spiritual dimness, 
 the inevitable temptations of this present world. It is some- 
 thing — it is much — to have lived so by the grace of God,
 
 biographical Jlotices. 435 
 
 that a man's memory shall always be a help and a stimulus 
 to whatever is best, highest, least tainted, and least craven ; 
 to what is most believing, expectant, and aspiring in the 
 soul, and always a rebuke to that which is lower and mis- 
 leading. It is something — it is much — to have lived so 
 that the remembrance of him shall always bring back to 
 our minds the words of Paul : — " Finally, brethren, what- 
 soever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatso- 
 ever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever 
 things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report ; 
 if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on 
 these things." 
 
 June y, 1891.
 
 43 6 Jhogvaphical Notices. 
 
 AN IMPRESSION. 
 
 I HAD been three years at Edinburgh University before 
 Robert Barbour came up from the Collegiate School. His 
 reputation as a scholar, and a scholar who might turn out 
 to be a genius, had preceded him. We older students were 
 interested in the shy, pale-looking lad, of whom the younger 
 men spoke with bated breath. I can recall his figure in those 
 early days, as he moved quickly across the quadrangle, with 
 an air of aloofness from the boisterousness of his class fellows, 
 and with an intensity of grave expression which marked him 
 out, to those who did not know him, as a youth too old for 
 his years. 
 
 It was not till his last year at the University that I got 
 to know him personally. By that time he had proved him- 
 self a brilliant classical scholar, and an accomplished essayist 
 and poet. University men were proud of him, and asked 
 each other whether another Browning had appeared amongst 
 them. His work for the class of metaphysics — his essays 
 and examination papers — passed through my hands as
 
 biographical Notices. 437 
 
 University tutor. For months he lived and moved in the 
 atmosphere of the mysticism of German philosophy. One 
 of his essays, I remember, was as nearly unintelligible as a 
 piece of philosophical writing could be, but the darkness was 
 lit up by the luminous phrases, in the making of which he 
 was even then a master. I used to think in later days that 
 his studies in metaphysics were largely responsible for the 
 trouble it cost him to make his meaning perfectly clear to 
 the average hearer. 
 
 In his last years at the University he worked harder than 
 would have been good for a man of robust constitution. 
 Compared with the University, the New College was a place 
 of rest. And it was only there that men who knew him but 
 little discovered what an amount of riotous fun was possible 
 to the grave pallid prize-taker of the University. His jokes 
 at the dinner table came as a surprise to those whose chief 
 impression of him was derived from his intense speeches at 
 the Theological Society. 
 
 During one winter some eight or ten men — mostly New 
 College men — met in my rooms in St. Vincent Street to 
 read together Schleiermacher's Christliclie Glaube. Most 
 of us had been students of philosophy, and were feeling 
 about for a theology which could be harmonized with our 
 philosophy. Schleiermacher's view of theology as the
 
 43 8 ^Biographical polices. 
 
 scientific exposition of the Christian consciousness attracted 
 us. Those Sunday afternoon readings were fruitful in dis- 
 cussion. I remember how Barbour used to put in a plea 
 on behalf of traditional views which found few supporters. 
 It was indeed one of the characteristic features of his New 
 College life that he was far less affected by the newer 
 fashions in theology than most of his contemporaries. His 
 friends were amongst men of the newer school, but his 
 sympathies were with the older views. To the end this 
 continued to be his position, and to this may partly be 
 attributed the confidence with which he was regarded by 
 men of opposite schools of theological thinking. 
 
 At college, as in later life, he was less interested in the 
 problems of theology than in the problems of the religious 
 life. And one of the secrets of his influence over his college 
 friends was the glow of spiritual fervour with which he 
 recalled us to the practical interests involved in theological 
 problems. He might make excursions into speculative 
 regions, but it was not there he found himself at home. 
 The evangelistic meeting was more congenial to him than 
 the debating society. 
 
 J have a vivid recollection of one of his sermons — a 
 sermon on the Prodigal Son— preached in my old church 
 in Small's Wynd. It was just beautiful talk. With that
 
 $togniphual Notices. 439 
 
 strong, sweet voice of his, he described the father's welcome 
 of his son with a pathos which forced tears from my eyes. 
 The preacher unveiled for his hearers the very heart of 
 the Godhead. That sermon taught me what preaching 
 might be. 
 
 On the Sunday after his death I could not resist 
 speaking of him to my congregation in Dundee. The words 
 found their way into print, and 1 am glad to have the 
 opportunity of recalling them here : — 
 
 " Many hopes were centred in Robert Barbour. He was 
 a marked man at college — easily the first student of his 
 time, and with the stamp of genius upon his work. Culture, 
 eloquence, poetry, philosophy — these were the things Uni- 
 versity men associated with the name of Robert Barbour. 
 But amid all the triumphs of his college days, and all his 
 prospects of distinction, to those who knew the inner life 
 of the reserved, contemplative student, what stood out most 
 prominently was the consecration of his life to Christ, and 
 to Christ's causes in the world. He was strongly urged to 
 go to Oxford as the proper sphere for gifts like his. But 
 he had a higher ambition — to do the work of a minister of 
 Christ in the country he loved as a Christian patriot. He 
 began his professional work as a country minister in Aber- 
 deenshire. His influence and that of his wife were like the
 
 44° ^hogiaphural Notices. 
 
 dew of heaven upon the parish. He was the most cultured 
 man I have met in any of the Scottish churches, but all 
 that culture he laid upon the altar for his little congrega- 
 tion. The fidelity of his ministry was an inspiration to 
 many a minister in Aberdeenshire and beyond. His 
 sympathy with the individual members of his congregation 
 reminded one of the tenderness of the Apostle Paul. It 
 was a great wrench when he was compelled by illness to 
 tear himself away from his loved work. 
 
 " In the years that followed, when his health was partially 
 restored, he was fast growing to be one of the most in- 
 fluential Scotchmen of his day. The range of his interests 
 was extraordinarily wide. He was as interested in all the 
 affairs of the Scottish churches as if he had been an eccle- 
 siastical leader. He was as interested in politics as if he had 
 been a professional politician. He was as interested in the 
 administrative work of the county of Perth as if he had been 
 nothing but a county gentleman. He was an ardent advo- 
 cate of temperance reform, and threw his whole heart into 
 the movement for the suppression of the opium traffic in 
 India. He was in touch with foreign missions all over the 
 world, and himself paid the salaries of several missionaries. 
 He was as interested in literature and art as if he had been 
 a quiet Oxford scholar, and he was as interested in all
 
 ^Biographical Jlotircs. 441 
 
 questions which affected the welfare of his fellow-men as if 
 he had devoted his life to works of philanthropy. In 
 Robert Barbour the Church of Christ had one of her 
 noblest workers, and Scotland one of her ablest and most 
 patriotic sons. 
 
 " Mr. Barbour's life was rich in outward activities, but 
 what made him so lovable in the eyes of a singularly 
 large circle of attached friends was the charm of his character. 
 In his company one felt that a bit of the upper world had 
 been let down at one's side. There was a spiritual glow 
 about him which kindled the duller natures of his friends. 
 He lived in an atmosphere of aspiration. He was baptised 
 with fire. One notable feature in his character was the 
 Ihoughtfulness of his kindness. He could not be happy 
 unless he was doing kind things. It was more blessed 
 for him to give than to receive. In the spending of his 
 ample means it was the law of the kingdom of Christ he 
 obeyed. If men of wealth followed his example in dis- 
 charging the responsibilities of wealth, the social question 
 would be in a fair way of solution. 
 
 " A man so richly gifted in head and heart is a great gift 
 of God to the Church and to the nation. As it seems to 
 our imperfect understanding of God's ways, the gift has 
 been withdrawn all too soon. It was men like him we
 
 442 $iognt}ihu-;tl JJlotucs. 
 
 needed in these days, and he has been taken from us just 
 when it was beginning to be known how great a gift God 
 had given to our country. But he has left to young 
 Scotchmen and to young ministers a memory that is rich 
 in inspiration. 
 
 D. M. Ross.
 
 $iograpliual Notices. 443 
 
 FROM A LETTER. 
 
 Few men have had such a chorus of praise as was given to 
 Robert Barbour. The praise was deserved. Vet I am not 
 sure that it was the best that could be said, and I am quite 
 sure it was not what he would have liked. You will remember, 
 none of us can forget, the day we buried him. It was fit and 
 right to sing that psalm, for he would have joined in it, and 
 the words he would have sung with deepest meaning are, " My 
 soul He doth restore again." My chief impression of Robert 
 Barbour is the change effected in him. I felt more and more 
 in these later years that he had attained ; but not without 
 effort, agony, and bloody sweat. There was that crooked 
 which God had to make straight. Every one knows how he 
 strove to gain, and gained, simplicity and directness of speech, 
 and how much need there was. In the same way he had, with 
 pains, endeavoured to be business-like. As Blackie said, he 
 was " a mixture of poetry and piety," and it was only conscien- 
 tious effort which made him diligent in business. It was the 
 same with the deeper, more bitter, more sacred, and happier
 
 444 $5ixrgrBphtcaI .i'TotirEs. 
 
 things, of which one may not speak. But one Sunday, as we 
 went home from Blair Athole, and were speaking of the 
 sermon in which mention was made of those who stand at the 
 door of the kingdom, turning the handle, but not entering, 
 I remember the humility and sincerity with which he spoke 
 of himself. " Without were fightings : within were fears." 
 But in due time, in God's good time, he did arrive. 
 
 D. M.
 
 biographical Notices. 445 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 Old letters are so pathetic, and often so painful, that one 
 rarely has courage to open them ; but amongst a packet of 
 these I have found a letter written from Bonskeid, August 8, 
 1874. 
 
 It was Sunday evening, and we had just returned from the 
 chapel in the glen, where we had been listening to a sermon 
 from Robert Barbour. The letter says : — 
 
 " We had a marvellous sermon, such a one as I have 
 scarcely ever heard before, and it was strange and wonderful 
 to see such a boy (for he cannot be more than 20) carrying 
 his own father and mother, and their own people, so entirely 
 out of themselves. The sermon was from the 8th verse, iii. 
 Ephesians, and instead of the unsearchable riches of Christ, 
 the more literal rendering of the word, untrackable, was given. 
 The illustrations were taken from the mountains and the 
 valleys round us." 
 
 Even now I can recall, as it were but yesterday, the hush 
 and stillness of that lovely Sabbath evening, and the rapt
 
 446 JiiograpltinU Jtotues. 
 
 attention of the little congregation who listened to this boy 
 preacher, so entirely absorbed in his subject as to seem almost 
 unconscious of our presence. 
 
 The sermon was more poetical than theological, and it 
 closed with a quotation from Aurora Leigli, but it was the 
 reality and fire of the preacher that impressed me so much. 
 Probably there was a something crude and undefined about 
 that early sermon, because, as far as I can remember, his 
 mind was more full of the world of books, from which he was 
 then, and had been, absorbing so much, than of the work he 
 was to do later. When we met once again, five years after- 
 wards, the thoughts and yearnings of those young days had 
 crystallized into the definite purpose of a life-time. We made 
 acquaintance first over our mutual liking for Matthew Arnold's 
 " Rugby Chapel," and in recalling those days I remember a 
 description of Erskine of Linlathen I have read : " There is 
 a sort of high-wrought spirituality about him, without a 
 shadow of affectation or singularity ; he never dwells for 
 a moment on mere decencies or common-places, but 
 proceeds naturally, and at once, to matters of thought 
 and feeling." 
 
 Even at meal times he produced books like " Samuel 
 Rutherford's Writings" from under the table, and instead 
 of the prelude of conventional remarks, usual at such times,
 
 fliogtaphical jftoticrs. 447 
 
 he tumbled headlong into the cliaracter of Cromwell, or the 
 right translation of a Greek word, or the poetry of Clough. 
 There was much of the boy about his unconventionality then, 
 and his absorption in the world of thought and poetry in 
 which he was living. It is strange, perhaps, to say it, but 
 in looking back I seem to feel that one of the strongest 
 influences Robert Barbour appeared to reflect, was that of 
 the world of nature round him. 
 
 The inspiration of that beautiful world must have become 
 a part of his life, for my remembrance of the eloquent speech 
 he made on his wedding day in Wiltshire is that it was like 
 " flashing lights " over the purple mountains and the Scottish 
 moors. 
 
 One other point I must mention. A conversation about 
 preserving deer revealed to me that even in those days Robert 
 Harbour was a genuine Liberal. This practical side of his 
 character surprised me a good deal at the time, as it seemed 
 a ' side-light ' not altogether in harmony with the intense 
 absorption in more abstract things. It struck me also from 
 the unselfishness it betrayed, because it is not very often that 
 those whose lives have fallen to them in such ' pleasant 
 places ' really desire great changes that can only benefit the 
 less fortunate. 
 
 The faculty of imaginative sympathy is a rare one, and
 
 448 ^Siographintl Jlotires. 
 
 those who knew Robert Barbour in riper years say that it was 
 one of his special gifts. 
 
 My one far-off memory of him is like the meeting with 
 a sign-post directing the road along the difficult journey of 
 life. Even then the sign-post pointed upward, towards the 
 better day of which he told us in the lines he quoted at the 
 end of his sermon that bright August Sabbath : — 
 
 " He turned instinctively, where faint and far, 
 Along the tingling desert of the sky, 
 Beyond the circle of the conscious hills 
 Were laid in jasper stone as clear as glass, 
 The first foundations of that new, near day, 
 Which should be builded out of heaven to Clod." 
 
 S. S.
 
 biographical Notices. 449 
 
 SPOKEN IN THE CHAPEL IN THE GLEN THE 
 SUNDAY AFTER THE FUNERAL. (JUNE 7TH, 
 1S91.) 
 
 (From the Notes of a hearer.) 
 
 This is not an occasion on which one can say much. 
 One cannot trust oneself to say much. Mrs. Barbour 
 telegraphed to you from France the text that follows the 
 hymn upon our card. Let me read it to you, — it shall be 
 our text to-night. ' Except a corn of wheat fall into the 
 ground and die, it abideth alone ; but if it die it bringeth 
 forth much fruit.' 
 
 A man's life is but a corn of wheat. A corn of wheat 
 is a very little thing, almost a common thing. There are 
 millions of them in our own little country-side. Some of 
 them have more in them than others have, but after all 
 they are only corns of wheat and what comes of them 
 depends less on what is in them, than on what they im- 
 merse themselves in and spend themselves in doing. One 
 of you boys might put one of these corns in your vest 
 
 2 F
 
 45° biographical Notices. 
 
 pocket and carry it about for years ; it would never be 
 anything else, it would never help to nourish any one. Put 
 it in your garden and a stalk will grow up bearing 30, 40, 
 or 100 grains by next autumn. Put these in the garden 
 and some thousands more will grow from them. Go on 
 sowing these, and in twenty years all the carts in Perth- 
 shire would not contain a fraction of them. Where has it 
 all come from? It was not in the corn. It was in God's 
 earth, God's air, God's rain, God's sunshine. And all a 
 man has to do is to put himself in proper conditions, to 
 immerse himself in God, and he will bring forth much 
 fruit. 
 
 The worst thing that can happen to anybody is to live 
 alone. It's a very easy thing to shut oneself in, to fence 
 oneself round, to become silent and unapproachable. You 
 ask at a house in the village about a neighbour, and 
 the woman tells you with an air of pride that she has no 
 dealings with her neighbours ; she does not know them. 
 That woman is outside life, has no influence on the little 
 world of her district, is not bringing forth fruit. The 
 condition of bringing forth fruit is very serious. It is that 
 we must die. Unless we die we abide alone. That is a 
 law of nature. Look at the blossom on the trees. Soon 
 you will see it all lying on the ground. Except the bios-
 
 biographical £Lotict<3. 451 
 
 som fall and die the tree will bear no fruit. It is the 
 
 same everywhere. Death is the preliminary to life. That 
 
 is not really death : it is only a stage in life : it is all a 
 
 birth — the birth into a larger and fuller life. All life is 
 
 sustained by death. The dinner table at which we sat down 
 
 to-day was full of dead things, dead corn in the bread, 
 
 dead vegetables, dead animals. We are clothed with the 
 
 dead — dead sheep, dead silk worm, dead cotton plant. 
 
 All the things we handle and work with are the product 
 
 of sacrifice. The miner goes down into the bowels of the 
 
 earth and brings out coal and iron and gold and silver. 
 
 These all are gained at the cost of health and industry and 
 
 life. We have no happiness, no comfort, no life, unless 
 
 some one or some thing has died. So we are surrounded 
 
 by death. 
 
 Much more is all this true of a human life. To do any 
 
 good it must die. When I say " must die," I do not 
 
 mean that the body must die. That is the mere case or 
 
 husk. The life inside must be slowly laid down for others 
 
 before we can bring forth fruit. Now I need not tell you 
 
 that our friend — more perhaps than any one else we knew 
 
 — laid down his life for others. He even laid down his 
 
 bodily life. 
 
 Perhaps you would like me to tell you first of his last 
 
 2 f 2
 
 452 biographical Notices. 
 
 months; but there is very little to tell. You know how 
 he went to Edinburgh to prepare for a course of lectures 
 in winter ; how the doctors told him not to go out ; how 
 his illness was at first stationary ; then showed, in the 
 chest, symptoms of the disease that carried him away ; 
 how before the cold winds of March came, the doctors 
 told him that the only chance to prolong his life was to 
 find summer in a strange country. You wondered, I dare- 
 say, why he went away from you. It was his only chance. 
 If he had stayed at home he would have died sooner. 
 The science of to-day tells us that the only treatment for 
 trouble like this is to go where the air is warm and 
 mild and dry. Within thirty-nine hours of where we are, 
 is a country where there is summer in March. Even 
 when I went there in April the summer was almost over. 
 The roses were past and the geraniums fading. You will 
 not grudge his being among strangers when you remember 
 that he was able for a time to drive by the blue Medi- 
 terranean and enjoy the beautiful sunshine in that lovely 
 invalid's land. But he grew weaker and weaker, and by 
 the end of April when I got there he was no longer able 
 to go out. 
 
 Then it grew too hot in Mentone, and the doctors said 
 he must go to the east of France where he would get
 
 jfargtsphtcsl Notices. 453 
 
 strength, if strength was to be given. He was taken in a 
 saloon carriage to Aix-Ies-Bains, almost under the shadow 
 of the highest hill of Europe, Mont Blanc. The boys know 
 where that mountain is. There was a hill behind the hotel 
 from which you could see the eternal snow of Mont Blanc. 
 There he felt more comfortable for a time. Many friends 
 came to see him. Dr. Simpson and his wife were with 
 him at Mentone ; Dr. Barbour was with him there and 
 again at Aix. He was surrounded with every comfort. 
 God spared him a great deal of suffering. He had some 
 cough and a great deal of weakness, but I may say he 
 suffered little compared with what many do. If you ask 
 me, "Was his mind clear?" I should say "Yes." But his 
 body was too weak to allow his mind to act. You might 
 say that before he left Mentone the curtain had dropped 
 on the active interests of his life. If you spoke to him, 
 he was able to talk about anything, but did not take the 
 initiative. God was gradually withdrawing him from the 
 things in which he used to take so keen an interest. He 
 was too weak to think or feel deeply, and none of us liked 
 to trouble him much. The state of weakness went on, 
 getting extreme. On Tuesday of last week we were sum- 
 moned at two in the morning, thinking the end had come. 
 The company gathered round, his wife, Dr. and Mrs. Whyte,
 
 454 $urgraphkal Matures. 
 
 Dr. Webster and the nurse, expecting every breath to be 
 the last. But he rallied and was almost himself during the 
 day. Early next morning at five he had another attack. 
 It was when coming out of this that his wife, holding his 
 hand, repeated the xxiii. Psalm. When she came to " Yea 
 though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," 
 he said "Again," until she had repeated it many times. 
 Then she went on to the assurance " Thy rod and Thy 
 staff they comfort me," — " Especially Thy rod," he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 He did not speak much about his end. Perhaps he was 
 too weak to think about it. One thing I have learned 
 most clearly from his illness is how impossible it is for 
 a man to make his peace with God on a dying bed. 
 You will die suddenly as far as religion is concerned. As 
 far as religion is concerned, ninety out of a hundred die 
 suddenly. He was lying ill for weeks, but the body always 
 asserted itself: only at intervals we saw into the sanctuary 
 of his inner life. When I came in on that morning of 
 which I have just spoken — his last on earth — he looked 
 up and said "Near Heaven," — these, and when he spoke 
 the words about Psalm xxiii., were the only times he said 
 anything to me on the subject. At night, at a quarter to 
 ten we were summoned. It was again a weak turn — the
 
 biographical Hotter. 455 
 
 last. For five minutes a struggle with the king of terrors, 
 for not more than one minute painful. And then the end. 
 
 Next night the funeral began. When all was ready, 
 men came at midnight to carry him from the sleeping 
 hotel to the little French Protestant chapel. I shall never 
 forget that scene. Day was just breaking when the coffin 
 was laid there covered with flowers. Then a nightingale 
 began to sing. It was like God sending a choir. There is 
 no bird that sings so like an angel. Probably none of 
 you have ever heard the nightingale sing. Four or five 
 days before he told me that the nurse had awakened him 
 to hear one : " It was not like a bird at all," he said, " it 
 was like a flute or a bell, great bubbles of music going up 
 to Heaven." What a poet our friend was! He talked as 
 easily that way as you and I talk about the weather. 
 Genius was in his blood. 
 
 Next day we travelled through France and the next 
 night he lay on the deck of the Channel steamer by moon- 
 light. Another Englishman had died at the same time 
 and the two coffins lay on the deck side by side. So we 
 came to London and you know the rest ; how kind friends 
 received him at Killiecrankie, the service in the house. . . . 
 
 What brought that crowd there ? The merchant from 
 London, the principals of two colleges, professors, lawyers,
 
 45<5 IHoQttiphiotl Notice©. 
 
 doctors and ministers by the dozen, proprietors, servants, 
 apprentices, schoolboys, the great and the small, — why 
 had they all come ? Because he was rich ? People do 
 not go sixty miles to the funeral of a man because he is 
 rich. Because they had been invited ? Many came un- 
 asked. Because he was famous? His name was not much 
 known beyond his native land. What brought them ? It 
 was because he was like his Master. It was because he 
 went about doing good. It was because he dropped kind 
 actions and gentle words into the lives of others. There 
 were none of you who did not feel that you had in him a 
 friend. You all knew for yourself, at first hand, the mar- 
 vellous beauty of his character — its childlikeness, its unas- 
 sumingness, meekness, courtesy, forbearingness, considerate- 
 ness, gentleness, the trouble he took about small things. You 
 knew there was not anything he would not have done for 
 any one in this district. This is what is meant by falling 
 into the ground and dying. It is not the being laid in the 
 West Wood. It is the taking of long walks at night to 
 help this and that one, and spending the time in your 
 houses which might have been spent on himself. 
 
 He was a rich man during the last four years. Did he 
 spend his money on himself? He died to it. It is a 
 thousand times harder for a rich man to lay down his
 
 biographical Notices. 457 
 
 life and die for others than it is for a poor man. The 
 danger of riches is that they make a man proud and 
 worldly and fill his life with engrossing cares. These 
 things never touched him. There was no class of men 
 that Christ pitied more than the rich, because He knew 
 how they were tempted. Mr. Barbour had so entirely 
 overcome the temptation that we don't even think of 
 him in connection with it. 
 
 Then there were his accomplishments, his learning for 
 example. He was out of sight the ablest man of his time 
 at college. None of his companions came within miles 
 of him, for he had what none of them had, the sacred fire 
 of genius. His accomplishments were endless. He was 
 an orator. Physically few had a more musical voice than 
 he had. You have heard him delivering his message. 
 You know how he shot up at once into the higher air. It 
 was easy for him to see into things above, while we have 
 to drag our limbs with effort along the common earth. 
 
 Then you remember the accomplishments of music, of 
 literature, of poetry, — though even poetry never came to 
 him as a temptation. What is the poet's temptation ? 
 To be a dreamer. He was no dreamer, he was a worker. 
 He walked these roads more than his study, he wrote on 
 men's lives more than he ever wrote on paper.
 
 458 biographical £Loiicee. 
 
 We could least of all afford to lose him, because the 
 quality of his life was such that the slightest touch of it 
 influenced others. None who were with him for ever so 
 short a time can forget the impression of saintliness, gen- 
 tleness, loving-kindness, humbleness, which he made upon 
 them. Why do I say these things to you who were his 
 best friends ? Partly to help your recollection, and partly 
 because we see least clearly those who live nearest to us. 
 Sometimes we do not see the beauty of a life which is 
 lived very near our own till God proves it by taking it 
 from us. Partly because his life was so natural and perfect 
 that you had to look hard at it to characterise it. God 
 gave him grace to complete his character from year to 
 year and from day to day, as he gave up his own time 
 and ease and means, and lavished them upon others. The 
 hard thing is for us to take trouble, to put ourselves about, 
 to go out when we are bodily weak, and do good to some 
 one at personal discomfort. To do that is to be like 
 Christ. Tried by that standard these glens testify that 
 his life bore fruit. Where is the fruit ? None can answer. 
 Part of it is only yet in blade, for you remember it grows 
 up "first the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the 
 ear." Partly because it will be seen in many lands, in 
 thousands of homes and after many generations. Some
 
 *3iogntpIuc;tl Notices. 459 
 
 has been sown in China, and the fruit will be found there. 
 Some in India, and the fruit will be found there. Some 
 in Africa, where he spoke so often to the natives. Some 
 in America and Canada, and that will have to come up. 
 And he has had part in all the philanthropic movements of 
 the time. In some of them he was a leader, and that 
 has to come up. Don't imagine that his life is at an end. 
 His body is at an end, but all the potency of his life has 
 yet to manifest itself. 
 
 Must I not ask myself and you, can we get no inspir- 
 ation from these words ? His voice we shall not hear 
 again, but through that text he speaks to us. Maybe 
 he has sown seeds in the hearts of some of you. Has 
 that been watered and encouraged to grow ? Was there 
 any advice he gave you — suggestion I should say, for he 
 was too modest to give advice — any pure impulse to per- 
 petuate ? Let us hear through him the voice of Him who 
 was his inspiration. We may not be able to make much 
 of it for a while, but let us begin and try. Mr. Barbour 
 had to struggle a great deal for his goodness. I know 
 privately that it was at the bayonet's point that he got 
 some of his virtues and it is at the bayonet point that we 
 must get some of ours. Let each brace himself to the 
 task.
 
 46c ^Biographical Notices. 
 
 " Life is a leaf of paper white 
 Whereon each one of us may write 
 His word or two, and then comes night. 
 Greatly begin ! Though thou hast time 
 But for a line, be that sublime, 
 Not failure, but low aim, is crime." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM LETTER, S. TO 
 
 " We do need, as you say, Robert's enthusiasm, and do you 
 know, I think we'll have it more than if he had lived. There 
 is this feeling over us all, that we must take up the fire he 
 is not here to carry. It is so near us to say of the living, 
 ' Ah ! so and so is enthusiastic ; we don't need to be,' and 
 to criticise him, till we are driven to the opposite extreme 
 of temper. But the dead man's sword lies without a hand, 
 and it must not be left to lie ; his temper must be continued. 
 As he is not here to show it let us take it up. Oh! just 
 because Robert is gone, we must be more enthusiastic." 
 
 GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE. 
 
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