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He was childlike in his simplicity; though in understanding a man, he was himself in many things a child. Coleridge says, every man should include all his former selves in his present, as a tree has its former years’ growths inside its last; so Dr. Chalmers bore along with him his childhood, his youth, his early and full manhood into his mature old age. This gave himself, we doubt not, infinite delight–multiplied his joys, strengthened and sweetened his whole nature, and kept his heart young and tender; it enabled him to sympathize, to have a fellow-feeling with all, of whatever age. Those who best knew him, who were most habitually with him, know how beautifully this point of his character shone out in daily, hourly life. We well remember long ago loving him before we had seen him–from our having been told, that being out one Saturday at a friend’s house near the Pentlands, he collected all the children and small people–the other bairns, as he called them–and with no one else of his own growth, took the lead to the nearest hill-top,–how he made each take the biggest and roundest stone he could find, and carry,–how he panted up the hill himself with one of enormous size,–how he kept up their hearts, and made them shout with glee, with the light of his countenance, and with all his pleasant and strange ways and words,–how having got the breathless little men and women to the top of the hill, he, hot and scant of breath–looked round on the world and upon them with his broad benignant smile like the {anerithmon kymaton gelasma}–the unnumbered laughter of the sea,–how he set off his own huge “fellow,”–how he watched him setting out on his race, slowly, stupidly, vaguely at first, almost as if he might die before he began to live, then suddenly giving a spring and off like a shot–bounding, tearing, {autis epeita pedonde kylindeto laas anaides}, vires acquirens eundo; how the great and good man was totus in illo; how he spoke to, upbraided him, cheered him, gloried in him, all but prayed for him,–how he joked philosophy to his wondering and ecstatic crew, when he (the stone) disappeared among some brackens–telling them they had the evidence of their senses that he was in, they might even know he was there by his effects, by the moving brackens, himself unseen; how plain it became that he had gone in, when he actually came out!–how he ran up the opposite side a bit, and then fell back, and lazily expired at the bottom,–how to their astonishment, but not displeasure–for he “set them off so well,” and “was so funny”–he took from each his cherished stone, and set it off himself! showing them how they all ran alike, yet differently; how he went on, “making,” as he said, “an induction of particulars,” till he came to the Benjamin of the flock, a wee wee man, who had brought up a stone bigger than his own big head; then how he let him, unicus omnium, set off his own, and how wonderfully IT ran! what miraculous leaps! what escapes from impossible places! and how it ran up the other side farther than any, and by some felicity remained there.

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He was an orator in its specific and highest sense. We need not prove this to those who have heard him; we cannot to those who have not. It was a living man sending living, burning words into the minds and hearts of men before him, radiating his intense fervor upon them all; but there was no reproducing the entire effect when alone and cool; some one of the elements was gone. We say nothing of this part of his character, because upon this all are agreed. His eloquence rose like a tide, a sea, setting in, bearing down upon you, lifting up all its waves–“deep calling unto deep;” there was no doing anything but giving yourself up for the time to its will. Do our readers remember Horace’s description of Pindar?