"All the old widows and old maids of the house are stretched upon beds or sofas with nervous headaches or slow fevers brought on by loss of appetite, violent thirst, broken sleep, and other dog-day complaints, while I, the only young and strong person among them, am called on to divert their blue devils from bringing them to an untimely end. I love to be of importance, and so the present society is flattering to my vanity. Not so the sonnet which was lately sent me at sixteen it had been applicable, but at sixty-five a dirge would be more suitable."

The enforced regularity of a boarding-house was very irksome to her. She soon wished to be again where she could "dine at the hour of hunger, and cut a piece of crust off my own loaf." Yet her next, and last, removal, in 1819, was to a similar though superior residence-Kensington House, where she met several old friends, the Cosways among them. Here, at the end of 1820, she received a farewell visit from Kemble-a last farewell, as both of them anticipated. "When I left you before, dearest," he said, "it was to visit Spain, and you managed for me in my absence. Now I think I shall make out my tour to Italy, and end, perhaps, like an old Roman." Three years after this parting he died.

While living in Kensington House Mrs. Inchbald told Mrs. Opie that she rejoiced in her residence.

"We are even in these short and dark days as brilliant on the high road and in open air as during the long and bright days of summer and autumn. I think I never saw a more gaudy yet numerous and sober procession (processions, I should say, for they lasted from morn. ing until night) than passed the house yesterday. I think myself particularly fortunate in the place of my abode, on this account. The present world is such a fine subject to excite

intense reflection."

She also speaks of their old friend :"Mr. Kemble called on me during the short time he was in England. He looked remarkably well in the face, but, as he walked through the courtyard to step into his carriage, I was astonished to perceive him bend down his person like a man of eighty. How, I wonder, does she support her banishment from Eng. land? He has sense and taste to find 'Books

With regard to his share in the Covent Garden Patent, Mrs. Kemble's letters to Mrs. Inchbald during her husband's absence are very clever and interesting. + December, 1820.

in the running brooks, and good in everything.'

Though the study of humanity had not lost its charm, that of literature, except on one all-absorbing topic, was gradually abandoned.

drawing room most days," she continues, "Your books are lying on the table of our "and I hear great praise of them. And yet I do not feel the slightest curiosity to open one of them. The reason is, there are also a

hundred of Sir Walter's in the same place, and as it is impossible to read all, I have no wish to read any. . . . Besides, I have so many reflections concerning a future world, as well as concerning the present, and there are on that awful subject so many books still impedes my gaining information from holy unread, that I think every moment lost which and learned authors."'*

Her time for any study was indeed growing short. Seven months later she complained of cold, sore throat, and much pain. On the 29th of July her diary says: "Went down to dinner, very ill of cold and fever, could not eat, and retired to bed." On the 1st of August, 1821, she expired.

Her

She was buried in Kensington Churchyard; her grave is next to the monument erected by Canning in memory of his beloved son. Her funeral, by her own express desire, was attended only by relations and intimate friends. small annuity to Robert Inchbald, the will was very characteristic. She left a needy spendthrift who of all her husband's family had most insulted and annoyed her; she divided the bulk of her property fairly among her nearest relations; so far as her means allowed, she remembered all who had been kind and obliging to her, including a laundress and a hairdresser; and she left fifty pounds each to the Theatrical Fund of Covent Garden Theatre and to the Catholic Society for the Relief of the Aged Poor.

In literature, as in life, it is not always the most famous or distinguished persons who are the most interesting. Elizabeth Inchbald cannot claim high rank in the former class, but her character, her letters, and her "Simple Story" leave her with few rivals in the latter.-Temple Bar.

* "Memorials of Amelia Opie," by C. L. Brightwell. Pp. 180-81.

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ALL that one and another can tell us of Dr. John Brown is welcome to those who were his friends, and in a very true sense he was a man whom to know was to love. To the far larger number who were linked to him only through his books it seems to the writer of these lines a difficult task to convey any fitting idea of the man as he was in his essential nature," for there was much in his character and in the subtle quality of his genius that escapes analysis. We who have looked in his eyes, felt the warm clasp of his hand, heard that low, pleasant voice, must share with Dr. Peddie the hopelessness of exact portraiture, the very effort to catch and transfix it making the remembered image grow dim and blurred. This arises in large measure because but one side of him is displayed in his writings. Too often an author gives the best of him to the public, enunciating moral sentiments that he is not always careful to translate into practice in the home circle; but Dr. John Brown was greater than his books; they lack his completeness," they give no adequate conception of his fulness," to quote the Scotsman, with which he was so long associated, "his readiness, his playfulness, and humor," nor, perhaps, it may be added, of the deep spirituality of his nature. His own words of another might be aptly used of himself: "There is no sweetness so sweet as that of a large and deep nature; there is no knowledge so good, so strengthening, as that of a great mind which is ever filling itself afresh." For behind the fun with which in his brighter days he cheered the world for others there lay the satisfying assurance of great deeps of sympathy and experience, of large and wise knowledge of men and of books, of art and of nature, which made communion with him indeed and in truth a liberal education. There was a point at which he touched every one whom he met; something magnetic in him-was it not the child-like heart, nearest to the Christ-ideal?-drew men

"Recollections of Dr. John Brown," by Alexander Peddie, M.D. (Percival & Co.).

and women to him, and drew the best out of them, perhaps because he so silently passed by all that was less good. Yet few men had so keen, so penetrative a judgment, so unerring an insight.

Nothing could be at once more droll or more absolutely faithful than his characterization of chance acquaintance or familiar neighbor-the whole man often summed up in a word, his salient points brought into vivid prominence, and yet all done with such sweetness, such lambent humor, such a kindly gleam in the eye that the touchiest could not take offence. Some of these word-etchings concerning fellow-citizens who survive him may not be recorded, but to those who recall the fat, rotund little body, packed tight in its clothes, crowned by the noble and benign head of the late Sir James Simpson, could anything be better than this: The body of Bacchus, and the head of Jove?" His memory for faces, and for family facts connected with them, was almost royal; like the little laddie he tells of, he didn't know how to forget." When one remembers how dangerous a gift this sometimes proves itself, how wide a door this knowledge of a man's forbears may open to gossip, it is surely good to remember and record the perfect charity that always found something pleasing to say, some point of character to praise or commend.

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The house in Rutland Street, his home for more than thirty years, was hospitably open to a large and ever-increasing circle of friends. The street itself, dull and quiet till the Caledonian Railway Station brought life and bustle to the scene, had one great point to recommend it in its central position, making it easy for his friends to turn round the corner from sunny Princes Street and ring at the familiar door. Surely there was no other door in that street where so many appeals were made! Yet there was no formal visiting or entertaining-formality of any sort he could not away with; people came and went-those who knew him well, and those who knew him but little, and longed to know him more.

He

had a playful way of introducing his visitors by odd names to each other. An astonished lady would find herself in the company of Marco Polo, new home from a journey round the world; and it often befell that you might be seated beside Strabo's daughter, or some other equally unexpected and uncanny guest, without ever penetrating to the real identity of your casual neighbor. But in the society of a host so gentle, so genial, it was impossible for the stiffest and most starched not to thaw. Of all things he loved naturalness, sincerity, simplicity-himself the most unaffected of men. In one household where the old cook bore a reputation for the excellence of her scones he would peep into the kitchen on his way upstairs with a laconic "Scone day?" making a point if the answer was in the affirmative of remaining to partake.

His entire selflessness made him naturally and quickly the friend of all little children. He was one of them; they made him free of their kingdom. One little illustration of his way, drawn from personal knowledge, may be permitted here. By a certain family to whom his name had long been familiar, not as the famous author, but as John Brown the "hafflin laddie" who used to "jink" round the "stooks" with his girl-relatives in holidays at a country house, and was mercilessly teased by those same maidens when he appeared before them in all the glory of his first tailcoat, he was invited to a dinner party. It was an affair of some ceremony, given in honor of a big-wig passing through the city-and Dr. Brown did not love ceremony. The nursery children were allowed to appear in the drawing-room in the ten minutes before the gong sounded, and one of them, a little girl, was instantly beckoned to his knee. She went reluctantly, for those beautiful eyes behind the tortoiseshell spectacles were surely the saddest in the world, and this was not the laddie of the cornfield legend, but the author with all his honors fresh upon him.

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What did you have for dinner?" was the first question.

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'Mince collops," came the trembling answer-such a plebeian, such a homely dish it seemed when one remembered the feast spread in the next room.

The shamed tears were not far off when it had to be confessed that there was nothing more; but consolation instantly followed:

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My bonnie woman, why didn't you ask me to dine with you ?"

There was such earnestness, yet such twinkling fun, such a direct appeal in the words, that the child's heart was won instantly; for no one sees through pretence sooner than a child. He meant it, strange as it might seem for a grown-up to be so anxious to forego his privileges; and what a meal it would have been, seasoned with laughter and merriment! For in his own words, speaking of another lovely soul, he was, if not always happy himself, a 'happy making" man.

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A later dinner, years after, is recalled. Again a celebrity had been asked to the board, and it was hoped that the two who had so many sympathies and tastes in common would find each other congenial company. But Dr. Brown was silent, and no word that the most eager interviewer could transcribe spoke he. Even when the shadow lay on his spirit there was something infinitely pathetic in his extreme gentleness, in the feeling of secure, unshaken trust, veiled only for a little while, that underlay the depression; and no one who has seen it can forget the sudden "irradiation" of the smile which broke through sooner or later, like sunshine after gloom.

But it was not in the social crowd that he showed his best side. He shrank from public appearances and from any call to make himself prominent. Dr. Peddie records the ludicrous inadequacy of his attempt to return thanks when his health was drunk at a public dinner: " Gentlemen" (a pause), "I thank you kindly" (pause) "for your kindness." He sat down amid laughter, in which, no doubt, he was very ready to join. Like most people who are worth knowing at all, he reserved the best of him for his own fireside, and for the little band of intimate friends privileged to share his winter evenings. Even there he was often silent. As a rule, no man could be more quiet and sober

in speech; he listened and assented far more than he talked, though now and then among congenial souls, the fun and humor would bubble forth unrestrained; but even if he said nothing his sympathy made itself instinctively felt. And when he did open his stores they were found full to overflowing talk so shrewd, so wise, so kindly, so quaint was worth long waiting for. He seasoned it with the homely Scotch, familiar to most of his hearers, using it with perfect and fastidious taste, so that an "orra" word came to have a new value from the setting he gave it. Those familiar with his writings must have noticed this fine discrimination in the choice of simple and suitable words which gives to his style so large a part of its charm.

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But to turn to Dr. Peddie's reminiscences. He tells us his acquaintance with John Brown began when both were boys of twelve, on the occasion of his father's translation to the congregation of Rose Street, Edinburgh, and when my father assisted at the Induction' ceremony. We sat together on the pulpit-stairs-by special permission as the ministers' sons-the church being crowded to excess; and I felt drawn to him more than to any youth I had met before, impressed by his looks of sweetness, intelligence, and earnestness, and the keen interest he showed in the proceedings; and from the fact likewise that, as there was a book under his arm, I thought he must be an awfully studious and clever fellow."

Of his childhood in the Manse of the Seceder Minister at Biggar we have a vivid picture in the "Letter to John Cairns, D.D."-(Hora Subsecivæ, 2d series). A few lines extracted from it, illustrative of the relations between parent and child, may, perhaps, send readers back to what is surely one of the most honest, tender, and pathetic portraits son ever drew. Reading it, one feels sure that it was no fancy sketch, but indeed "the truth told lovingly."

Children are long

my fifth year. of seeing, or at least of looking at, what is above them; they like the ground, and its flowers and stones, its 'red sodgers' and ladybirds, and all its queer things; their world is about three feet high, and they are more often stooping than gazing up. I know I was past ten before I saw, or cared to see, the ceilings of the rooms in the Manse at Biggar.

On the morning of May 28, 1816, my eldest sister Janet and I were sleeping in the kitchen bed with Tibbie Meek, our only servant. We were all three wakened by a cry of pain, sharp, insufferable, as if one were stung. Years after we two confided to each other, sitting by the burn side, that we thought that great cry' which arose at midnight in Egypt must have been like it. We all knew whose voice it was, and, in our night-clothes, we ran into the passage, and into the little parlor to the left hand, in which was a closet-bed. We found my father standing before us, erect, his hands clenched in his black hair, his eyes full of misery and amazement, his face white as that of the dead. He frightened us. He saw this, or else his intense will had mastered his agony, for, taking his hands from his head, he said, slowly and gently, 'Let us give thanks,' and turned to a little sofa in the room; there lay our mother-dead. She had been long ailing. I remember her sitting in a shawl-an Indian one, with little dark green spots on a white ground

-and watching her growing pale, with what I afterward knew must have been strong pain. She had, being feverish, slipped out of bed, and Grandmother,' her mother, seeing her change come,' had called my father, and they two saw her open her blue, kind and true eyes, comfortable' to us all as the day'

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I remember them better than those of any one I saw yesterday-and, with one faint look of recognition to him, close them till the time of the restitution of all things.'

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.. The Manse became silent. We lived and slept and played under the shadow of that death, and we saw, or rather felt, that he was another father than before. No more happy laughter from the two in the parlor, as

he was reading Larry the Irish postboy's letter in Miss Edgeworth's tale, or the last Waverley novel; no more visitings in a cart with her, he riding beside us on his thoroughbred pony, to Kilbucho, or Rachan Mill, or Kirklaw Hill. He went among his people as usual when they were ill; he preached better than ever-they were sometimes frightened to think how wonderfully he preached-but the sunshine was over the glad and careless look, the joy of young life and mutual love. What we lost, the congregation and the world gained. He gave himself wholly to his work. From this time dates my father's possession and use of the German Exegetics. After my mother's death I slept with him; his bed was in his study, a small room with a very small grate, and I remember well his getting those fat, shapeless, spongy German books, as if one would sink in them, and be bogged in their bibulous, unsized paper; and watching him as he impatiently cut them up, and dived into them in his rapid, eclectic way, tasting them, and dropping for my play such a lot of soft, large curled bits from the paper-cutter, leaving the edges all shaggy. He never came to bed when I was awake, which is not to be wondered at; but I can remember often awaking far on in the night or morning, and seeing that keen, beautiful, intense face bending over those Rosenmüllers, and Ernestis, and Storrs, and Kuinoelsthe fire out, and the gray dawn peeping through the window; and when he heard me move, he would speak to me in the foolish words of endearment my mother was wont to use, and come to bed, and take me, warm as I was, into his cold bosom.'

دو

Here is what Dr. Cairns writes of the father, from whom the son inherited so much.

"As he was of the Pauline type of mind, his Christianity ran in the same mould. . . He was a believer in the sense of the old Puritans, and, amid the doubt and scepticism of the nineteenth century, held as firmly as any of them by the doctrines of atonement and grace. There was a fountain of tenderness in his nature, as well as a sweep of impetuous indignation. The union of NEW SERIES.-VOL. LIX., No. 1.

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these ardent elements and of a highly devotional temperament, not untouched with melancholy, with the patience of the scholar and the sobriety of the critic, formed the singularity and almost the anomaly of his personal character. These contrasts were tempered by the discipline of experience; and his life, both as a man and a Christian, seemed to become more rich, genial, and harmonious as it approached its close."

The physical beauty, if not of feature, at least of expression-a mingled dig. nity and sweetness-was inherited too.

Taught solely by his father while at Biggar, John Brown was sent on the removal to Edinburgh, to the High School, and thence to the Universitya very young student surely, since we find him already, at seventeen, beginning his medical studies as the apprentice of Mr. Syme, then a rising young surgeon. Of him, Dr. Brown spoke to the last in terms of the utmost affection and respect. "He was my master; my apprentice fee bought him his first carriage-a gig-and I got the first ride in it. He was, I believe, the greatest surgeon Scotland ever produced, and I cannot conceive a greater, hardly of as great, a clinical teacher." The ride was across Corstorphine Hill by the Dean Road, where he often walked, looking toward the far Highland hills; where, one December evening, years upon years later, he walked at the going down of the sun with Thackeray.

One wonders that one so sensitively poised should choose the profession of medicine, yet but for the clerkship at Minto House there would have been no "Rab and His Friends." In spite of his admiration of Syme as an operator, he "seemed to recoil from the painful scenes of surgery" (chloroform was not as yet), and it was as a physician he started in Edinburgh in 1833. His constitutional sorrowfulness was largely increased by the incidents of his profession. So touched was he with a feeling of the infirmities of his patients, he suffered ache for ache with them, grieving long and greatly when his utmost skill could not save them from the common fate. Yet when the case was one that admitted of cure there was no bet