suppose as many may-that our testimony is partial or exaggerated, we can but refer them to those works of Irving which the fame of Irvingism has covered up and buried from daylight and the world; where they will find ample excuse for all that may seem extravagant in our admiration; and when, in his appealsin his denunciations-for which last we claim no praise of toleration or charitable judgment-they are fiery, sweeping, and absolute, as the mind which uttered them in every development and digression of his oratory-they will see, not an intellect, but a man. It is this characteristic which conveys to the whole that singular elevation and subliming force of which it is hard to resist the influence. It is not the mind that speaks, but the heart, the affections, almost-if that is possible-the very person-the whole complete being a power which baffles criticism, and defies logic, and takes triumphant possession of the imagination and sympathies the other hearts to which this heart makes its vehement appeal and address. And perhaps Edward Irving is as entirely a national hero as Wallace wight. His whole soul and eloquence breathe of his country-a heroic sublimation of the lyrical and choral genius of his native soil. And it is remarkable that the greatest preachers of the last and the present gene ration-those most certain to bring together, for example, the dazzling crowds of this metropolis - have been and are the issue of the sedatest nation and least imaginative Church in existence, Scottish preachers, of a fervid and exuberant eloquence peculiar to the North. So universal is this paradox, that it is with surprise, as well as admiration, that we see the new development of Scottish preaching, which has recently lifted up a calmer, softer, and more equable voice in the country of Chalmers and Irving. Mr Caird vindicates Scottish pulpit eloquence from onesidedness, and demonstrates that the lofty quiet of authoritative oratory does not belong alone to the golden mouth of the old Episcopate, or the stately English of those great preachers whose calmer renown belongs to this side of the Tweed. Yet the common affirmation, which says of the author of Religion in Common Life that he preaches like a bishop, is not without its truth and insight. Where imagination is permitted, it is less violent and dominant; and we shall still find the calmer voice rare and single, and the vehement voice the more usual expression, whether we take the present generation of the reticent and abstract Church of Scotland as our rule of Scottish preaching, or any former generation of the past. THE LIGHT ON THE HEARTH.-PART III. CHAPTER X. "Like the swell of some sweet tune, "LIKE the swell of some sweet tune," like the rising of rich melody, is the progress of young life, now bursting into full chorus, now sinking into low soft cadences, now running into gushing thrills; sometimes throwing out a discordant note or a mournful one, and then rushing again into mellow flows of music. As the score of some sweet loved harmony, the tune of young lifeyoung life ripening into manhood, swelling into feeling and passion, rising into hope, aspiration, ambition, softening into love-sounding, flowing onwards, ever onwards, falls again on my ear. It was the transition-time of lifethe passing stage from boyhood, girlhood, onwards to men and womenthe intermediate period, so graceful, so beautiful in the girl-woman, so full of opening beauty, of nascent poesy, of new thought and new vision, of timid, besitating sensitiveness, which makes the young form, the young mind, quiver as an aspen, or bend as a willow in the breeze; so ripening, so pleasant, and yet so perplexing to the boy-man; so set with hope, so cast with purpose; so earnest, yet so fitful in resolve; so confident in inward thought and will; so abashed in speech or action; so buoyant, yet so gauche-when all that is said is such half-utterance of what is thought; all that is done such feeble expression of what is felt. It was such transition-time when we were all meeting together again at Penhaddoc, after a year or two had passed away-a year or two broken into absences, into experiences of school and college life. Gerald and myself were on the debatable ground, men in dress and manner, youths in sympathies and feeling. Gerald more than myself had adopted and brought away with him the Oxonian mannerism, the little trickeries and fopperies which hang often on the best natures, as wisps of hay or straw caught from passing waggons dangle from the boughs of a tree, incongruous and odd. The impulse of young life catches and carries on stray eccentricities with it, as a stream bears patches of mould or turf, which whirl on for a while in little eddies and little muddy circles, and then sink or disappear altogether. Any trick, or mode, or affectation of this sort, exasperated and irritated the Squire, and produced little effervescences, which in my Uncle Toby's time were commoner with gentlemen of the army than their prayers, and even now, in these days of morality and decorum, escape from profane natures. But ever and anon, some frank hearty speech, or generous thought-some bold feat or manly impulse, would clear away the clouds. To see him put his horse well and boldly at a fence to see him give old Jim at the farm a turn of the shoulders and a tip of the toe which sent him on the broad of his back-to hear him dash out some earnest, heartful denunciation of baseness or poltroonery-to see the impetuous spirit with which he would take up some wrong, or relieve some distress-would redeem the puppyism. Ay, ay," he would say to himself, "there is the making of a man in him, after all. Twill be all right; this nonsense will wear off. 'Tis always the way with true blood. I remember that old Royal even, when he was a pup, would yelp and pretend to skirt, until his true nature began to tell, and now he is the best and steadiest dog in the pack." Taking this comfort and this experience to his heart, the Squire threw himself heartily on the companionship of his first-born. 66 We were sitting in the old diningroom-the old room, with its wain scot panels, hung with the old por- and left this as a memorial of his traits, which were a corollary on the taste and travel. The Squire, though Grenfell pedigree-a hieroglyphic il- yielding to an admiration of its lustration of the Grenfell character beauty, hardly looked upon as a and history. The same face, the legitimate ornament, and regarded it same features, with here and there very much as he would have the insome strange exception, such as every troduction of foreign blood into his race shows, shaded and varied by the stable or kennel. The wine was on temper of generations and the cos- the table, and dishes of fruit, intertume of ages, photographed a lineage spersed with vases of flowers, suited of stalwart, manly, honest men, from well with the summer time and the the Crusader, stiff, grim, and reli- summer light and the summer air gious as pre-Raphaelite art could de- which was passing in through the sire, down through the stages of the open windows. The Squire sat in a warriors of the Roses, the Cavaliers, large oak chair, and considered that bearded and Vandyked, the men of he thereby avoided the effeminacy of the Georges, smug, smooth-shaven, ease, and the undignified posture enand voluptuous (and this, perhaps, tailed by the small, straight-backed was the worse phase of the family enormities in which our ancestors physiognomy), down to the fox-hunt- and ancestresses loved to mould their ing father. There was one portrait attitudes. He was quaffing port, that of an ancestor who had upholding it as the manly drinkfought with the Parliament in the jeering at Gerald, who affected to civil wars-which the Squire would prefer claret. Port was then as orhave fain turned to the wall, and thodox as Church and State, and made a Faliero among Grenfells, sherry or light wines looked upon save that a sort of race-reverence with pretty much the same feeling awed him from passing a doom on as Radicalism or Dissent. In fact, the the men of the past. Gerald, in wil- age had then a port-wine flavour and fulness and sportfulness, would often tone-full, strong, and well-bodied, instance this as "the best-looking but rather heavy at seasons, perhaps, and most like a man of the lot," and apt to get very crusted, beesand would tempt Rose to say the wingy, and tawny with age. The same; but the girl's eye would not windows looked out on the lawn, recognise beauty in the Puritan's nearly opposite the oak. There, on look or garb. Here and there a fa- garden-chairs, or on a pile of cushions, vourite hunter or dog, or a group of sat the matrons. At their feet lay dead game or fruit, intermitted the Rose, half-sitting, half-reclining-the ancestral row; but the prettiest and soft face now shown in delicate prosoftest relief to the armour and the file, now turned in fuller contour, with wigs and the strong visages, was the the sunny ringlets, golden as ever, picture which stood over the chim- dancing and falling in rich shades ney-piece, of two young girls, sisters, over cheek and shoulders; the figure whose bloom, beauty, and youth, in all its movements, all its poses, shone out amid the manly character- graceful, and true to the curves and istics like gleams in a dark sky, or lines of beauty. She had not changed little oases in rugged scenery, shed--not changed from childhood on to ding the charm of feminine grace over the family lineaments. A contrast, too, to the dark oak panelling was the chimney-piece of Carrara marble, sculptured with bunches of grapes and vine-leaves and Bacchante groups, all touched with the skilful hand and the sunny thought of southern clime. This had been imported by a virtuoso of the race-a Grenfell who had gone so much out of the track as to be a traveller and the member of an embassy, womanhood, but unfolded gently, opening from one stage into the other, ever with the same loveliness not brilliant, not dazzling, not coldly classical, but the soft, bright, beaming loveliness which lights on the soul with the warmth of a sunbeam and the breath of a zephyr. The eye had deepened its blue, and the long fringes of the lashes were darker and richer; the forehead had kept its fair roundness, and the same dimples played around the mouth and chin; the lips were ripe and dewy as ever. The face was all expression, ever lighting with passing thought and feeling; and the thoughts and feelings must have been bright and gladsome, for such were the smiles and glances which gleamed from eye and lip, and dimpled in every feature. It could not grow fairer, but had still the fresh soft touch and bloom of blossom-the floating downy fairness which is to the marble and enamel whiteness of skin as the colours of nature are to those of art. "When her life was yet in bud, It but foretold the perfect rose." Her figure had grown to my ideal. Springing up to a fair height-the height of grace and symmetry--and sweeping softly in its outline, never bursting into fulness, or sinking into sudden falls, it had more the elegance of the Greek type than is often associated with Saxon beauty; and when it moved, or bended, or bounded, then there I saw and felt what is the poetry of motion. The voice, the laugh-they were to be felt as well as heard. Rose, Rose! how the dull pulse and the world-worn heart beat and throb even now, as thy picture rises before me! All eyes were turned towards her at every pause, and at every sound, laugh, or word, or song, which came from without, Gerald's with the fervent gaze of early love and worship-mine with the deep abiding devotion which silent unspoken hearts ofttimes bestow-the Squire's with the hearty, smiling, pleasant look of fondness and admirationTrevenna's with the rapt, still, fulljoyed gaze which recognises the blessing the all-pervading, all-satisfying blessing-of a life. Thus the wine was passed, and the evening light shone, and the gladness of happy thoughts waved on from heart to heart. "These young fellows, Roger," said the Squire (for confidence and fellowship had now begotten familiarity), "are so learned and so conceited, that 'tis hard to stand up against their scholarshi and their puppyism. As fo ow," pointing to Gerald, " ed head, his padded coat, and tight pantaloons, I could have cuffed him with all my heart, till I heard that he was the best oar of his college, and saw him stand so well up to old Tom to-day with the gloves. By the by, Gerald, that touch of the left hand was something new. Well, well, as long as they cram learning into the brain without driving manliness out of the heart, I shan't quarrel with those universities. I can even pardon the dandyism of cravats, pomatum, and gewgaws, though I would rather not see a son of mine dressed like one of the chaps in the play-booth, or a monkey dancing before an organ." Gerald siniled provokingly at this attack, and with an air of affectation gave a twist to his hair, touched up his cravat and frill, and patted a small snuff-box, carried for fashion only, and then laughed outright, as he looked down on his strong muscular limbs, which even his artificial dress could not disguise. "You ought, John," answered Trevenna, "to have lived in the old primitive days, among the strong men-Paladins, Berserkers, and Vikings-with whom the manliness you admire so much was the prime virtue." "Well, Roger, they were not so far out. To be a man, seems to me a step towards being a gentleman or nobleman. The best gentlemen-races -the Greeks, the Arabs, the Normans were all manly. I am not much of a philosopher or political economist, but I should begin to have my fears for an age or family when gentlehood became too fast and too fine for manhood. They must go together to make a pace that will last." The Squire was on his hobby now, so we slipped quietly away through the window, to join the group underneath the tree. "The young ones are off, Roger. Youth to youth; young nature to young nature. 'Tis the law of the world. See how that puppy is parading and grimacing before Rose. By Jove! she is laughing at him. She will soon take the nonsense out of him. Nothing like a pure, pretty, gentle-nurtured girl, for making a fellow show out in his true colours. He will be hown man again before he has been with her a week; and I shouldn't wonder if the cravats and snuff-box mightn't be had a bargain by that time." "Youth to youth, John, is good poetry; but youth to youth sometimes brings heart to heart; and 'twould be well for us to look at the realities of the companionship ere it go farther. You may have views for your son hopes and wishes which lead in a different direction; and I— I could not bear that the shades of a crossed fancy or blighted love should dim the light of my hearth." "Honestly said, Roger; said like a man. But don't fret about that, or have any misgivings. The Dame and I have talked it over often and often. Rose is already a daughter in heart, and we shall gladly receive her as one under the old roof, if so God please. But we must let things take their own way. We often balk young hearts by trying to help and hurry them. This idea has been with us for years. Gentle blood, gentle nurture, is all we care for or ask. They must live on the old acres, as others have lived before. If Rose can redeem the remnant of the old mortgage on Penhaddoc, so much the better; otherwise the old land must bear the burden." Could Trevenna's face have been seen then, it would have shown a bright happy light, as though it were catching and reflecting the dawn of a rising future. "Tis too pleasant a thought, John -too pleasant, too perfect, to realise at once. It must be left, as you say, to time, and the course of their own hearts. God grant the issue may be such as we both desire. Meantime, the hope will be a bright star to follow." A warm grip of the hand, a look such as true men give each other, and they passed forth, to hover round those who were knit to them now by a new hope-a new interest-a new future. The evening light was waning into that soft dimness in which outlines become confused, colours lost, and only a few bright spots of sward, or water, or upland, shine out from the midst of masses of shadow, or the shapes of waving, flowing shades. There was, too, the hush of eve-the hush of all save sweet sounds-rustlings, murmurings, wavings of air, leaf, and water. The shadow of the old oak fell on us, and the moving of its thick foliage fanned us with a gentle freshness. I had been reading a poem to Rose-a tuneful tender lay of love and like the lady of the lay, the guileless Genevieve, "She listened with a flitting flush, With downcast eyes and modest grace;" and if "the impulses of soul and sense thrilled then, and hopes and fears that kindle hope ;" and "if, like the murmur of a dream, she breathed a name," it was not for me the impulses thrilled, nor my name that the spirit of the poem drew from her heart. What looks she dared-what wishes she breathed-were Gerald's—his, not mine. Even "the music and the doleful tale" were soon forgotten in his sportive sallies and laughing talk. Then the Squire called on her to challenge the nightingale by a song: a simple sweet song it was, trilled forth with the soft voice, without art or effort-natural and gushing as a throstle's note. The melody still swells and swells on my heart. She was a poem-music-a picture-all that spoke of beauty or gladness, to me and my thoughts. The nature had grown with the form-gentle, loving, sunny, pure, and joyous. The natures aroundthe Squire's healthy true-heartedness; the gentle, genial ladyhood of his dame; the earnest, deep feeling of the father; the calm, enduring love of the mother; the joyous, free spirit of Gerald-had all fanned, and fostered, and nurtured hers, as the air and the sunshine, the dews and the rain, nourish and cherish the flower and tree. Even the grotesqueness and comicality of Quamino, ever seen, ever before her, had instilled a love of drollery, which showed itself ever and anon, softened in flashes of fun and wit. And mine? my nature; did it cast no shadow act no ministering part? Yes, yes. Again and again, in the sense of beauty, in the touches of poesy bright and transient, in the imaginative thought, rare yet beautiful, I saw myself and my mis |