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“Monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres
Quem super uotas aluere ripas,
Fervet, immensusque ruit profundo
Pindarus ore:

–‘per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.'”

This is to our mind singularly characteristic of our perfervid Scotsman. If we may indulge our conceit we would paraphrase it thus. His eloquence was like a flooded Scottish river,–it had its origin in some exalted region–in some mountain-truth–some high, immutable reality; it did not rise in a plain, and quietly drain its waters to the sea,–it came sheer down from above. He laid hold of some simple truth–the love of God, the Divine method of justification, the unchangeableness of human nature, the supremacy of conscience, the honorableness of all men; and having got this vividly before his mind, on he moved–the river rose at once, drawing everything into its course–

“All thoughts, all passions, all desires,–
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,”

things outward and things inward, interests immediate and remote–God and eternity–men, miserable and immortal–this world and the next–clear light and unsearchable mystery–the word and the works of God–everything contributed to swell the volume and add to the onward and widening flood. His river did not flow like Denham’s Thames,–

“Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull;
Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.”

There was strength, but there was likewise rage; a fine frenzy–not unoften due mainly to its rapidity and to its being raised suddenly by his affections; there was some confusion in the stream of his thoughts, some overflowing of the banks, some turbulence, and a certain noble immensity; but its origin was clear and calm, above the region of clouds and storms. If you saw it; if you took up and admitted his proposition, his starting idea, then all else moved on; but once set a-going, once on his way, there was no pausing to inquire, why or how–fervet—ruit—fertur, he boils–he rushes–he is borne along; and so are all who hear him.

To go on with our figure–There was no possibility of sailing up his stream. You must go with him, or you must go ashore. This was a great peculiarity with him, and puzzled many people. You could argue with him, and get him to entertain your ideas on any purely abstract or simple proposition,–at least for a time; but once let him get down among practicals, among applications of principles, into the regions of the affections and active powers, and such was the fervor and impetuosity of his nature, that he could not stay leisurely to discuss, he could not then entertain the opposite; it was hurried off, and made light of, and disregarded, like a floating thing before a cataract.

To play a little more with our conceit–The greatest man is he who is both born and made–who is at once poetical and scientific–who has genius and talent–each supporting the other. So with rivers. Your mighty world’s river rises in high and lonely places, among the everlasting hills; amidst clouds, or inaccessible clearness. On he moves, gathering to himself all waters; refreshing, cheering all lands. Here a cataract, there a rapid; now lingering in some corner of beauty, as if loath to go. Now shallow and wide, rippling and laughing in his glee; now deep, silent, and slow; now narrow and rapid and deep, and not to be meddled with. Now in the open country; not so clear, for other waters have come in upon him, and he is becoming useful, no longer turbulent,–travelling more contentedly; now he is navigable, craft of all kinds coming and going upon his surface forever; and then, as if by some gentle and great necessity, “deep and smooth, passing with a still foot and a sober face,” he pays his last tribute to “the Fiscus, the great Exchequer, the sea,”–running out fresh, by reason of his power and volume, into the main for many a league.