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His emotions were as lively as a child’s, and he ran to discharge them. There was in all his ways a certain beautiful unconsciousness of self–an outgoing of the whole nature that we see in children, who are by learned men said to be long ignorant of the EGO–blessed in many respects in their ignorance! This same Ego, as it now exists, being perhaps part of “the fruit of that forbidden tree;” that mere knowledge of good as well as of evil, which our great mother bought for us at such a price. In this meaning of the word, Dr. Chalmers, considering the size of his understanding–his personal eminence–his dealings with the world–his large sympathies–his scientific knowledge of mind and matter–his relish for the practical details, and for the spirit of public business–was quite singular for his simplicity; and taking this view of it, there was much that was plain and natural in his manner of thinking and acting, which otherwise was obscure, and liable to be misunderstood. We cannot better explain what we mean than by giving a passage from Fenelon, which D’Alembert, in his Eloge, quotes as characteristic of that “sweet-souled” prelate. We give the passage entire, as it seems to us to contain a very beautiful, and by no means commonplace truth:–

“Fenelon,” says D’Alembert, “a caracterise lui-meme en peu de mots cette simplicite qui se rendoit si cher a tous les coeurs, ‘La simplicite est la droiture d’une ame qui s’interdit tout retour sur elle et sur ses actions–cette vertu est differente de la sincerite, et la surpasse. On voit beaucoup de gens qui sont sinceres sans etre simples–Ils ne veulent passer que pour ce qu’ils sont, mais ils craignent sans cesse de passer pour ce qu’ils ne sont pas. L’homme simple n’affecte ni la vertu, ni la verite meme; il n’est jamais occupe de lui, il semble d’avoir perdu ce moi dont on est si jaloux.'”

What delicacy and justness of expression! how true and clear! how little we see nowadays, among grown-up men, of this straightness of the soul–of this losing or never finding “ce moi!” There is more than is perhaps generally thought in this. Man in a state of perfection, would no sooner think of asking himself–am I right? am I appearing to be what inwardly I am? than the eye asks itself–do I see? or a child says to itself–do I love my mother? We have lost this instinctive sense; we have set one portion of ourselves aside to watch the rest; we must keep up appearances and our consistency; we must respect–that is, look back upon–ourselves, and be respected, if possible; we must, by hook or by crook, be respectable.

Dr. Chalmers would have made a sorry Balaam; he was made of different stuff, and for other purposes. Your “respectable” men are ever doing their best to keep their status, to maintain their position. He never troubled himself about his status; indeed, we would say status was not the word for him. He had a sedes on which he sat, and from which he spoke; he had an imperium, to and fro which he roamed as he listed; but a status was as little in his way as in that of a Mauritanian lion. Your merely “sincere” men are always thinking of what they said yesterday, and what they may say to-morrow, at the very moment when they should be putting their whole self into to-day. Full of his idea, possessed by it, moved altogether by its power,–believing, he spoke, and without stint or fear, often apparently contradicting his former self–careless about everything, but speaking fully his mind. One other reason for his apparent inconsistencies was, if one may so express it, the spaciousness of his nature. He had room in that capacious head, and affection in that great, hospitable heart, for relishing and taking in the whole range of human thought and feeling. He was several men in one. Multitudinous but not multiplex, in him odd and apparently incongruous notions dwelt peaceably together. The lion lay down with the lamb. Voluntaryism and an endowment–both were best.