Memoirs of James Robert Hope-Scott Part 23

And now, my dear Gladstone, _vive valeque_. You have already earned a n.o.ble place in the history of your country, and though there is one great subject on which we differ, I am able heartily to desire that your future career may be as distinguished as your past. But since it is only too certain that the highest honours of statesmanship can neither be won nor held without exertions which are full of danger to those who make them, I will add the further wish, that you may long retain, as safeguards to your health, your happiness, and your usefulness, that fresh and versatile spirit, and that strong sense of the true and beautiful, which have caused you to be addressed on this occasion by Your affectionate friend,

JAMES R. HOPE-SCOTT.

The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone.

Dr. Newman's letter, on receiving from Mr. Hope-Scott a copy of the Abridgment, is full of interest:--

_The Very Rev. Dr. Newman to J. R. Hope-Scott., Esq., Q.C._

The Oratory: May 14, 1871.

My dear Hope-Scott,--Thank you for your book. In one sense I deserve it; I have ever had such a devotion, I may call it, to Walter Scott. As a boy, in the early summer mornings I read 'Waverley' and 'Guy Mannering' in bed, when they first came out, before it was time to get up; and long before that, I think, when I was eight years old, I listened eagerly to the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' which my mother and aunt were reading aloud. When he was dying I was continually thinking of him, with Keble's words--'If ever floating from faint earthly lyre,' &c. (Sixth after Trin.). [Footnote: Compare a letter of Dr. Newman's to J. R. Hope in 1852. See _ante_, p.

143.]

It has been a trouble to me that his works seemed to be so forgotten now.

Our boys know very little about them. I think F. Ambrose had to give a prize for getting up 'Kenilworth.' Your letter to Gladstone sadly confirms it. I wonder whether there will ever be a crisis and correction of the evil? It arises from the facilities of publication. Every season bears its own crop of books, and every fresh season ousts the foregoing. Books are all annuals; and, to revive Scott, you must annihilate the existing generation of writers, which is legion. If it so fares with Scott, still more does it so fare with Johnson, Addison, Pope, and Shakespeare. Perhaps the compet.i.tive examinations may come to the aid. You should get Gladstone to bring about a list of cla.s.sics, and force them upon candidates. I do not see any other way of mending matters. I wish I heard a better account of you.

Ever yours affectionately,

JOHN H. NEWMAN.

During all this time Mr. Hope-Scott's health continued steadily to fail; yet he suffered rather from malaise than from any acute symptoms. Now and then there were gleams in which he seemed better for a s.p.a.ce, but they were but as the flickerings of the flame in the socket. In March 1872 Bournemouth was tried. In the summer of that year he was in Scotland, and in July had the great happiness of receiving a visit of about a fortnight from Dr. Newman at Abbotsford, which revived the memories of twenty years-- for so long was the interval since his former visit. This, I suppose, was the last occasion of Mr. Hope-Scott's entertaining guests. He was able to move about quietly; old times were gently talked over, and there was nothing to show that the great separation was very imminent. It was even possible, the doctors had told him when the disease was first apparent, to linger under it for twenty years. Thus the last days at Abbotsford looked as if lit up by the setting sun. He fell off, however, a day or two after Dr. Newman left; went first to Luffness, and in October, whilst staying in Edinburgh, the heart affection becoming worse, he seemed, for a time, in immediate danger; yet rallied, and removed to London by easy stages, halting first at Newcastle and then at Peterborough. Owing to the thoughtful kindness of Mr. H. Hope, of Luffness, he was accompanied by Dr.

Howden, the family physician at Luffness. It was, however, a most anxious journey, and it often seemed doubtful whether he would reach his destination alive. Soon after his arrival in London he had a dangerous attack, and received the last sacraments, with the Holy Father's blessing.

This was at No. 7 Hyde Park Place, a house which he had taken conjointly with his widowed sister-in-law, the Hon. Mrs. G. W. Hope; and here, under her affectionate care, and that of his daughter, Mary Monica, Mr. Hope- Scott spent the few months that remained to him.

Miss Hope-Scott (now the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott), during those months, kept a diary, commencing March 13, 1873, of all that pa.s.sed, which she has kindly placed in my hands. At first the entries were usually of 'a good night,' and 'tired,' or 'very tired,' during the day, though he is occasionally able to go into the library, to talk a little with his infant children in their turns, and to see near relatives from time to time. Soon the nights get less good, the days more languid, and he is seldom able to leave his room. For about a fortnight (April 4-17) there seemed a slight improvement, but this did not last, and on April 28 there was a great change for the worse. Sir W. Jenner, Sir W. Gull, and Mr. Sims held a consultation, and p.r.o.nounced very unfavourably. Father Clare, S. J., brought the Blessed Sacrament, and spent the night in the house. The following morning, Tuesday, April 29, he heard his confession, and gave him Holy Communion. It was the morning on which he usually received. The two physicians hesitated about Extreme Unction being administered, for fear of causing excitement. But, on the priest's asking him what he wished, the reply at once was, 'Dear Father, give me all you can, and all the helps which Holy Church can bestow.' During the administration of the sacrament he answered all the prayers himself; and the physicians, on leaving the room, said there had not been the least excitement. I take these particulars from a letter of Father Clare's to the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott, in which he also says: 'During the whole of his illness I never knew him to show the slightest impatience, I never heard one murmur; but in all our conversation there was _invariably_ a cheerful resignation to the holy will of our good G.o.d. His lively faith and wonderful fervour in receiving Holy Communion, which was at least twice a week, I have never seen surpa.s.sed.'

The Duke of Norfolk was telegraphed for from Arundel. He arrived about 2 P.M. Mr. Hope-Scott was able to see him, spoke of the blessing which his church would bring on him (the splendid church of St. Philip's, Arundel, just completed by the Duke), and promised to pray for him the next day, when it was to be opened. Sir William Gull now left hardly any hope. The ceremony of the opening of the church was deferred, and all the Arundel party arrived that night. The following is the last paragraph in the diary:--

'In the afternoon, dear papa, after taking something, said out loud his favourite prayer, "_Fiat, laudetur_." [Footnote: This prayer is as follows: _Fiat, laudetur, atque in aeternum superexultetur, justissima, altissima, et amabilissima voluntas Dei in omnibus. Amen._] Then, looking at me, he said, "G.o.d's will be done," and asked me to say some prayers. I said the _Angelus_, in which he joined, and the "Offering."

Father Clare comes about five, and goes out, to return about seven, meaning to spend the night again. A little before seven I was in the library with Aunt Lucy and Uncle Henry. Aunt Car. suddenly called me, and we all went in. I gave dearest papa the crucifix to kiss, and Uncle Henry read the prayers. Edward [Footnote: The persons mentioned by their Christian names in this paragraph of the diary are--Lady Henry Kerr, Lord Henry Kerr, the Hon. Mrs. G. W. Hope, and her son, Mr. Edward Stanley Hope, nephew to Mr.

Hope-Scott, and now (1883) one of the Charity Commissioners for England and Wales.] was there too, Mr. Dunn, &c.

'He died very peacefully and calmly, about seven.'

To this is only to be added that there was conveyed to Mr. Hope-Scott on his death-bed the special blessing of his Holiness Pope Pius IX.

Shortly after death, the body having been laid out, according to Catholic custom, with lights round the bed and flowers upon it, a sudden change was observed to have come over the face of the deceased, which a.s.sumed a totally different expression. All signs of sickness or pain seemed to vanish, and in one minute he had become like what he used to be in very early years. Readers who may perhaps have witnessed a change of the kind, which is not unfrequent, will understand the striking remark made by a friend on this occasion: 'It is sometimes given to the dead to reveal their blessedness to the living.'

The following particulars of the Requiem Ma.s.s for Mr. Hope-Scott, and of the funeral, are taken, with alterations and omissions, from newspapers of the day (the 'Tablet' of May 10; 'Scotsman,' May 6 and 8; and 'Edinburgh Courant,' May 8, 1873).

The Requiem Ma.s.s for the repose of the soul of the late Mr. Hope-Scott, Q.C., took place at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street, on Monday, May 5, at eleven o'clock. The coffin was removed, on the previous evening, from Hyde Park Place, and laid on a splendid catafalque in the church. The ma.s.s was celebrated by the Very Rev. Fr. Whitty, Provincial of the Jesuits, _coram Archiepiscopo_; and the sermon was preached by the Very Rev. Father (now his Eminence Cardinal) Newman (by whose kind permission it is placed in the Appendix to this volume).

Cherubini's Second Requiem in D minor, for male voices only, was used. Weak with old age and sorrow, Father Newman had almost to be led to the pulpit, but the simple vigour of language and the lucidity of style so peculiarly his own remained what they had ever been. When, towards the conclusion of his discourse, he came to speak of the last hours of the deceased, Father Newman almost broke down, and for a moment it seemed that his feelings would prevent him from finishing. The solemnity of the occasion--the church draped in black, the old man come so far purposely to pay the last offices to his friend--produced such an impression on those who witnessed it as they are not likely to forget.

Among the clergy and laity present were--Mgr. Weld, the Hon. and Rev. Dr.

Talbot, Revs. E. G. Macmullen, C. B. Garside, Father Fitzsimon, S. J., Father Clare, and the Fathers, S. J., of Mount Street; Father Coleridge, S.

J., Father Amherst, S. J., Father Christie, S. J., Father Dalgairns, of the Oratory, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Buccleuch, the Marquis and Marchioness of Lothian, Cecil, Marchioness Dowager of Lothian, the Marchioness of Bute, Lord and Lady Howard of Glossop, Lord Henry Kerr, Mr. Hope of Luffness, Mr. Edward S. Hope, Mr. Herbert Hope, Field-marshal Sir William Gomm and Lady Gomm, Lord Edmund Howard, the Earl of Denbigh, Lady Herbert of Lea, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, Mr. Allies, Mr. Langdale, &c.

The Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Norfolk and the Ladies Howard, Mr. Hope-Scott's daughters, the Hon. Mrs. George W. Hope and Misses Hope, and Lady Henry Kerr, occupied a separate tribune.

On Wednesday, May 7, the remains of Mr. Hope-Scott, Q.C., were interred in the vaults of St. Margaret's Convent, Bruntsfield, Edinburgh. The coffin had been conveyed from London on Tuesday, and was placed on a catafalque within the choir of the chapel, where several sisters of the community (Ursulines of Jesus) watched until the morning. The catafalque was draped in black, surrounded by ma.s.sive silver candlesticks hung with c.r.a.pe, and lit up with numerous wax candles. The altar, sanctuary, organ, and choir gallery were hung with black cloth. The east aisle of the chapel was occupied by the relatives and friends of the deceased; the west aisle by the young ladies of the convent school, about fifty in number, dressed in white, and with white veils, and the household servants from Abbotsford; whilst at the south were persons who had received special invitations. In the stalls of the choir were the clergy, and the sisters of the convent in their accustomed places.

The ceremonies commenced at eleven o'clock, when a procession, consisting of the cross-bearer and acolytes, the clergy in attendance, and the Right Rev. Dr. Strain, Bishop of Abila, V.A. of the Eastern District of Scotland, entered the chapel at the great south door, and marched slowly up the centre of the choir to the sanctuary, the organ sounding whilst the bell was heard tolling in the distance. The Bishop was attended by the Rev.

George Rigg, St. Mary's, and the Rev. Mr. Clapperton. The Rev. W. Turner acted as master of the ceremonies; the Rev. Father Foxwell, S. J., said the Ma.s.s, which, by the express desire of the deceased, was a Low Ma.s.s, although accompanied by music (Father Foxwell, stationed at Galashiels, frequently said Ma.s.s at Abbotsford). During the Ma.s.s, among other exquisite music sung by the choir, was the _Dies Irae_. The Rev. W. J. Amherst, S. J., Norwich, a great personal friend of Mr. Hope-Scott's, preached the sermon (which, by his kind permission, is placed in the Appendix to this volume).

Bishop Strain then read the Burial Service in front of the bier, and concluded by giving the absolution. The procession was then formed, and during the singing of the _Dies Irae_ emerged from the church, and walked to the vault, in the following order:--cross-bearer and acolytes, the young ladies of the convent school, the _religieuses_ of the community of St. Margaret's, the clergy and Bishop, then the coffin, borne shoulder-high, and attended by the pall-bearers, the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Henry Kerr, Mr. H. W. Hope of Luffness, and Dr. Lockhart of Milton Lockhart. The ladies who followed the coffin were Miss Hope-Scott, the Hon.

Mrs. G. W. Hope, Lady Henry Kerr, and Mrs. Francis Kerr. Then followed the relatives and friends, servants, and tenant-farmers of Abbotsford.

The procession marched slowly from the quadrangle in front of the chapel northwards to the entrance to the vaults, the sisters of the community chanting the psalm _Miserere_. It opened up at the mortuary door, and the coffin was borne into the vault, and placed in the recess a.s.signed to it beside the coffin of his first wife, and under those of his two children. A short service here took place, the _Benedictus_ was sung, and the funeral service terminated.

The outer coffin, which was of richly polished oak, bound with bra.s.s ornaments, had a beautiful crucifix on the lid, and beneath, a shield, bearing the following inscription:--

'JAMES EGBERT HOPE-SCOTT, THIRD SON OF GENERAL SIR ALEXANDER HOPE, OF LUFFNESS AND RANKEILLOUR. BORN JULY 15, 1812. DIED APRIL 29, 1873. MAY HE REST IN PEACE.'

I have now placed before the reader the materials from which he will be enabled in some measure to judge what Mr. Hope-Scott was, and how he appeared to those around him. But to all beauty of character there belongs a l.u.s.tre, outside of and beyond it, which genius alone can portray. This task has fortunately been performed by two of his most intimate friends, of whose genius it is needless to say a word--Cardinal Newman and Mr.

Gladstone--by whose kind permission their respective papers on his life will be appended to this volume. With reference to certain expressions on religious subjects in Mr. Gladstone's Letter, it will be remembered that it here appears as a biographical and historical doc.u.ment, and therefore without omissions--a remark which I feel a.s.sured that the ill.u.s.trious writer will not misinterpret, and that both will accept the grat.i.tude and admiration due from all surviving friends of Mr. Hope-Scott, for the splendid tribute which each of them has given to a memory so dear.

APPENDIX I.

_Funeral Sermon by his Eminence Cardinal Newman, preached at the Requiem Ma.s.s for Mr. Hope-Scott, at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street, May_ 5, 1873.

I have been asked by those whose wish at such a moment is a command, to say a few words on the subject of the sorrowful, the joyful solemnity which has this morning brought us together. A few words are all that is necessary, all that is possible; just so many as are sufficient to unite the separate thoughts, the separate memories, the separate stirrings of affection, which are awakened in us by the presence in our midst of what remains on earth of the dear friend, of the great soul, whom we have lost,--sufficient to open a communication and create a sympathy between mind and mind, and to be a sort of testimony of one to another in behalf of feelings which each of us has in common with all.

Yet how am I the fit person even for as much as this? I can do no more than touch upon some of those many points which the thought of him suggests to me; and, whatever I may know of him and say of him, how can this be taken as the measure of one whose mind had so many aspects, and who must, in consequence, have made such distinct impressions, and exercised such various claims, on the hearts of those who came near him?

It is plain, without my saying it, that there are those who knew him far better than I could know him. How can I be the interpreter of their knowledge or their feelings? How can I hope by any words of mine to do a service to those who knew so well the depths of his rare excellence by a continuous daily intercourse with him, and by the recurring special opportunities given to them of its manifestation?

I only know what he was to me. I only know what his loss is to me. I only know that he is one of those whose departure hence has made the heavens dark to me. But I have never lived with him, or travelled with him; I have seen him from time to time; I have visited him; I have corresponded with him; I have had mutual confidences with him. Our lines of duty have lain in very different directions. I have known him as a friend knows friend in the tumult and the hurry of life. I have known him well enough to know how much more there was to know in him; and to look forward, alas! in vain, to a time when, in the evening and towards the close of life, I might know him more. I have known him enough to love him very much, and to sorrow very much that here I shall not see him again. But then I reflect, if I, who did not know him as he might be known, suffer as I do, what must be their suffering who knew him so well?

1. I knew him first, I suppose, in 1837 or 1838, thirty-five or six years ago, a few years after he had become Fellow of Merton College. He expressed a wish to know me. How our friendship grew I cannot tell; I must soon have been intimate with him, from the recollection I have of letters which pa.s.sed between us; and by 1841 I had recourse to him, as a sort of natural adviser, when I was in difficulty. From that time I ever had recourse to him, when I needed advice, down to his last illness. On my first intimacy with him he had not reached the age of thirty. I was many years older; yet he had that about him, even when a young man, which invited and inspired confidence. It was difficult to resist his very presence. True, indeed, I can fancy those who saw him but once and at a distance, surprised and perplexed by that lofty fastidiousness and keen wit which were natural to him; but such a misapprehension of him would vanish forthwith when they drew near to him, and had actual trial of him; especially, as I have said, when they had to consult him, and had experience of the simplicity, seriousness, and (I can use no other word) the sweetness of his manner, as he threw himself at once into their ideas and feelings, listened patiently to them, and spoke out the clear judgment which he formed of the matters which they had put before him.

This is the first and the broad view I am led to take of him. He was, emphatically, a friend in need. And this same considerateness and sympathy with which he met those who asked the benefit of his opinion in matters of importance was, I believe, his characteristic in many other ways in his intercourse with those towards whom he stood in various relations. He was always prompt, clear, decided, and disinterested. He entered into their pursuits, though dissimilar to his own; he took an interest in their objects; he adapted himself to their dispositions and tastes; he brought a strong and calm good sense to bear upon their present or their future; he aided and furthered them in their doings by his co-operation. Thus he drew men around him; and when some grave question or undertaking was in agitation, and there was, as is wont, a gathering of those interested in it, then, on his making his appearance among them, all present were seen to give to him the foremost place, as if he had a claim to it by right; and he, on his part, was seen gracefully, and without effort, to accept what was conceded to him, and to take up the subject under consideration; throwing light upon it, and, as it were, locating it, pointing out what was of primary importance in it, what was to be aimed at, and what steps were to be taken in it. I am told that, in like manner, when residing on his property in France, he was there too made a centre for advice and direction on the part of his neighbours, who leant upon him and trusted him in their own concerns, as if he had been one of themselves. It was his unselfishness, as well as his practical good sense, which won upon them.

Such a man, when, young and ardent, with his advantages of birth and position, he entered upon the public world, as it displays itself upon its n.o.blest and most splendid stage at Westminster, might be expected to act a great part, and to rise to eminence in the profession which he had chosen.

Not for certain; for the refinement of mind, which was one of his most observable traits, is in some cases fatal to a man's success in public life. There are those who cannot mix freely with their fellows, especially not with those who are below their own level in mental cultivation. They are too sensitive for a struggle with rivals, and shrink from the chances which it involves. Or they have a shyness, or reserve, or pride, or self- consciousness, which restrains them from lavishing their powers on a mixed company, and is a hindrance to their doing their best if they try. Thus their public exhibition falls short of their private promise. Now, if there was a man who was the light and the delight of his own intimates, it was he of whom I am speaking; and he loved as tenderly as he was beloved, so that he seemed made for domestic life.

Again, there are various departments in his profession, in which the particular talents which I have been a.s.signing to him might have had full play, and have led to authority and influence, without any need or any opportunity for those more brilliant endowments by which popular admiration and high distinction are attained. It was by the display of talents of an order distinct from clearness of mind, acuteness, and judgment, that he was carried forward at once, as an advocate, to that general recognition of his powers, which was the response that greeted his first great speech, delivered in a serious cause before an august a.s.sembly. I think I am right in saying that it was in behalf of the Anglican Chapters, threatened by the reforming spirit of the day, that he then addressed the House of Lords; and the occasion called for the exercise, not only of the talents which I have already dwelt upon, but for those which are more directly oratorical. And these were not wanting. I never heard him speak; but I believe he had, in addition to that readiness and fluency of language, or eloquence, without which oratory cannot be, those higher gifts which give to oratory its power and its persuasiveness. I can well understand, from what I knew of him in private, what these were in his instance. His mien, his manner, the expression of his countenance, his youthfulness--I do not mean his youth merely, but his youthfulness of mind, which he never lost to the last,--his joyous energy, his reasonings so masterly, yet so prompt, his tact in disposing of them for his purpose, the light he threw upon obscure, and the interest with which he invested dull subjects, his humour, his ready resource of mind in emergencies; gifts such as these, so rare, yet so popular, were necessary for his success, and he had them at command. On that occasion of his handselling them to which I have referred, it was the common talk of Oxford, how the most distinguished lawyer of the day, a literary man and a critic, on hearing the speech in question, p.r.o.nounced his prompt verdict upon him in the words, 'That young man's fortune is made.' And, indeed, it was plain, to those who were in a position to forecast the future, that there was no prize, as it is called, of public life, to which that young man might not have aspired, if only he had had the will.

2. This, then, is what occurs to me to say in the first place, concerning the dear friend of whom we are now taking leave. Such as I have described were the prospects which opened upon him on his start in life. But now, secondly, by way of contrast, what came of them? He might, as time went on, almost have put out his hand and taken what he would of the honours and rewards of the world. Whether in Parliament, or in the Law, or in the branches of the Executive, he had a right to consider no station, no power, absolutely beyond his reach. His contemporaries and friends, who fill, or have filled, the highest offices in the State, are, in the splendour of their several careers, the ill.u.s.tration of his capabilities and his promise. But, strange as it may appear at first sight, his indifference to the prizes of life was as marked as his qualifications for carrying them off. He was singularly void of ambition. To succeed in life is almost a universal pa.s.sion. If it does not often show itself in the high form of ambition, this is because few men have an encouragement in themselves or in their circ.u.mstances to indulge in dreams of greatness. But that a young man of bold, large, enterprising mind, of popular talents, of conscious power, with initial successes, with great opportunities, one who carried with him the good-will and expectation of bystanders, and was cheered on by them to a great future, that he should be dead to his own manifest interests, that he should be unequal to the occasion, that he should be so false to his destiny, that his ethical nature should be so little in keeping with his gifts of mind, may easily be represented, not only as strange, but as a positive defect, or even a fault. Why are talents given at all, it may be asked, but for use? What are great gifts but the correlatives of great work? We are not born for ourselves, but for our kind, for our neighbours, for our country: it is but selfishness, indolence, a perverse fastidiousness, an unmanliness, and no virtue or praise, to bury our talent in a napkin, and to return it to the Almighty Giver just as we received it.

This is what may be said, and it is scarcely more than a truism to say it; for, undoubtedly, who will deny it? Certainly we owe very much to those who devote themselves to public life, whether in the direct service of the State or in the prosecution of great national or social undertakings. They live laborious days, of which we individually reap the benefit; nevertheless, admitting this fully, surely there are other ways of being useful to our generation still. It must be recollected, that in public life a man of elevated mind does not make his own self tell upon others simply and entirely. He is obliged to move in a groove. He must act with other men; he cannot select his objects, or pursue them by means unadulterated by the methods and practices of minds less elevated than his own. He can only do what he feels to be second-best. He proceeds on the condition of compromise; and he labours at a venture, prosecuting measures so large or so complicated that their ultimate issue is uncertain.

Nor of course can I omit here the religious aspect of this question. As Christians, we cannot forget how Scripture speaks of the world, and all that appertains to it. Human society, indeed, is an ordinance of G.o.d, to which He gives His sanction and His authority; but from the first an enemy has been busy in its depravation. Hence it is that, while in its substance it is divine, in its circ.u.mstances, tendencies, and results it has much of evil. Never do men come together in considerable numbers, but the pa.s.sion, self-will, pride, and unbelief, which may be more or less dormant in them one and one, bursts into a flame, and becomes a const.i.tuent of their union.

Even when faith exists in the whole people, even when religious men combine for religious purposes, still, when they form into a body, they evidence in no long time the innate debility of human nature, and in their spirit and conduct, in their avowals and proceedings, they are in grave contrast to Christian simplicity and straightforwardness. This is what the sacred writers mean by 'the world,' and why they warn us against it; and their description of it applies in its degree to all collections and parties of men, high and low, national and professional, lay and ecclesiastical.

It would be hard, then, if men of great talent and of special opportunities were bound to devote themselves to an ambitious life, whether they would or not, at the hazard of being accused of loving their own ease, when their reluctance to do so may possibly arise from a refinement and unworldliness of moral character. Surely they may prefer more direct ways of serving G.o.d and man; they may aim at doing good of a nature more distinctly religious, at works, safely and surely and beyond all mistake meritorious; at offices of kindness, benevolence, and considerateness, personal and particular; at labours of love and self-denying exertions, in which their right hand knows nothing that is done by their left. As to our dear friend, I have already spoken of the influence which he exercised on all around him, on friends or strangers with whom he was connected in any way. Here was a large field for his active goodness, on which he did not neglect to exert himself. He gave others without grudging his thoughts, time, and trouble. He was their support and stay. When wealth came to him, he was free in his use of it. He was one of those rare men who do not merely give a t.i.the of their increase to their G.o.d; he was a fount of generosity ever flowing; it poured out on every side; in religious offerings, in presents, in donations, in works upon his estates, in care of his people, in almsdeeds. I have been told of his extraordinary care of families left in distress, of his aid in educating them and putting them out in the world, of his acts of kindness to poor converts, to single women, and to sick priests; and I can well understand the solicitous and persevering tenderness with which he followed up such benevolences towards them from what I have seen in him myself. He had a very retentive memory for their troubles and their needs. It was his largeness of mind which made him thus open-hearted. As all his plans were on a large scale, so were his private charities. And when an object was public and required the support of many, then he led the way by a munificent contribution himself. He built one church on his property at Lochshiel; and another at Galashiels, which he had intended to be the centre of a group of smaller ones round about; and he succeeded in actually planting one of these at Selkirk. Nor did he confine himself to money gifts: it is often more difficult to surrender what we have made our own personally, than what has never come actually into our tangible possession.

He bought books freely, theological, historical, and of general literature; but his love of giving was greater than his love of collecting. He could not keep them; he gave them away again; he may be said to have given away whole libraries. Little means has any one of determining the limits of his generosity. I have heard of his giving or offering for great objects sums so surprising, that I am afraid to name them. He alone knows the full measure of his bounties, who inspired, and will reward it. I do not think he knew it himself. I am led to think he did not keep a strict account of what he gave away. Certainly I know one case in which he had given to a friend many hundreds, and yet seemed to have forgotten it, and was obliged to ask him when it was that he had done so.