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IN the year 1825 his father
was translated from Campbeltown to the parish of Campsie, in
Stirlingshire, where he remained till 1835. The change was, in many
respects, great from Campbeltown and the Highlands to a half-agricultural,
half-manufacturing Lowland district, in which the extremes of political
feeling between stiffest Toryism and hottest Radicalism were running high.
The parish was large and thickly peopled, and its natural features were in
a manner symbolical of its social characteristics. The long line of the
Fell, its green sides dotted with old thorns, rises into mountain
solitude, from a valley whose wooded haughs are blurred with the smoke of
manufacturing villages. The contrast is sharply presented. Sheep-walks,
lonely as the Cheviots, look down on unsightly mounds of chemical refuse,
and on clusters of smoking chimneys; and streams which a mile away are
clear as morning, are dyed black as ink before they have escaped from
print-work and bleaching-green. The Manse was on the borderland of
mountain and plain, for it was placed at the opening of Campsie Glen,
famous for its picturesque series of thundering waterfalls and rocky
pools. Behind the Manse lay the clachan and the old parish church, now in
ruin.
This was a busy period in
his father's life, for, besides taking the pastoral charge of the large
parish, he wrote, during the ten years of his ministry in Campsie, the
greater part of the Gaelic Dictionary, which bears his name along with
that of Dr. Dewar. He was editor and chief contributor to a monthly Gaelic
magazine, which acquired unrivalled popularity in the Highlands; [The "Teachdaire
Gaelltachd."] and he also translated, at the request of the Synod of
Ulster, a metrical version of the Psalms into Irish Gaelic, for the use of
the Irish Presbyterian Church. Besides these literary labours, he took the
chief part in establishing the education scheme of the Church of Scotland,
the special sphere of which lay in the Highlands. While these public
labours taxed his energy, his increasing family, and the concomitant
res angusta demi, gave no little anxiety to himself and his partner in
life. The Manse maintained the traditions of Highland hospitality, and the
ingenuity with which guests were accommodated was equalled only by the
skill with which a very limited income was made to cover the expenses of
housekeeping, and the many requirements of a family of eleven children.
Norman was sent for a year to the parish school, taught, as many such
schools then were, by a licentiate of the Church—an excellent scholar, and
a man of great simplicity and culture. There is little to record of his
schooldays, or of his first years at college. His career at the University
of Glasgow, where he took his curriculum of Arts, was not distinguished by
the number of prizes he carried off, for he gave himself rather to the
study of general literature and of science than the subjects proper to the
classes he attended. Logic, admirably taught by Professor Buchanan, was
indeed the only class in Arts which kindled his enthusiasm, and it was
also the only one in which he obtained academical honours. He was
frequently dressed sailor-fashion, and loved to affect the sailor in his
speech as well as dress. His chosen companions seem to have been lads of
precocious literary power— some of them considerably older than
himself—whose attainments first inspired him with a passion for books, and
especially for poetry. His favourite authors were Shakespeare and
Wordsworth, the first acquaintance with whose works was as the discovery
of a new world. He was, besides, passionately fond of natural science, and
spent most of his spare hours in the museum, studying ornithology. There
is little in his journals or letters to indicate the impression which
these college years made on him; but one of the favourite subjects of
conversation in his later days was the curious life he then led; the
strange characters it gave him for acquaintance; the conceits,
absurdities, enthusiasms in which it abounded , the social gatherings and
suppers, which were its worst dissipations; the long, speculative talks,
lasting far into the night, in which its glory and blessedness
culminated—and the hard, although unsystematic, studies to which it was
the introduction. The
loss of accurate scholarship, which the desultoriness of this kind of
training entailed, might not have been sufficiently compensated by other
advantages; nevertheless, contact with men, insight into character, the
culture of poetic tastes, of original thought, and of an eye for nature,
were perhaps no mean substitutes for skill in Latin verse and acquaintance
with the Greek particles. He was, besides, very far from being idle. He
read much and thought freshly, and even at a very early period in his
University career he seems to have contemplated joining a fellow-student
in the publication of a volume of tales and poetry. His moral life was at
the same time pure, and his religious convictions, though not so strong as
they afterwards became, were yet such as prevented him from yielding to
the many temptations to which one of his temperament and abounding, as he
did, in animal spirits, was greatly exposed. Next to the grace of God, his
affection for home and its associations kept him steady. A short journey
from Glasgow brought him out on many a Saturday during the session to
spend Sunday at Campsie, and the loving welcomes he there received and the
thousand influences of the Manse-life served to keep his heart fresh and
pure. These visits sometimes gave no little concern to his father and
mother, for coming, as he did, in a full burst of buoyant excitement after
the restraint of study, the noisy fun and the ceaseless mimicry in which
he indulged, disturbing the very quiet of the Sabbath, made them afraid that
he would never be sedate enough for being a minister. Both father and
mother; who could scarcely repress their own laughter at his jokes, wrote
to him very gravely on the dangerous tendencies which were manifesting
themselves in him. But they —might as well have asked him to cease to be,
and, had they told the secret truth, they would scarcely have wished him
different from what he was.
[There were some most
original characters then in Campsie, who afforded much amusement to
Norman; but his great friend was old Bell, the author of "Bell's
Geography," and editor of "Rollin's Ancient History." This man had been a
weaver, but, impelled by a powerful intellect and literary taste, he
devoted himself to study. He lived with his wife in a mere hut, and sat
surrounded by books, a Kilmarnock nightcap on his head, and conversing
with an emphasis and an originality, not unworthy of Johnson, on every
subject—literary, political, theological. Some of his sayings are worth
recording. There was a hawker in the parish, a keen controversialist, ever
talking of his own perfect assurance of salvation, but withal very greedy
and worldly. "Humph!" grunted old Bell, when asked his opinion of him; I
never saw a man so sure o' goin' to heaven, and sae sweart (unwilling) to
gang till't." He used to utter aloud in church his dissent to any doctrine
he disliked, or sometimes his impatience expressed itself by his long
black stick being twirled gradually up through his fingers till it reached
well over his head. On one occasion, a young preacher having chosen as his
text, "There shall be no more sea," proceeded to show the advantages of
such a condition of things. Higher and higher rose Bell's stick, as his
favourite principles of geography were being assailed under every "head,"
till at last it came down with a dash on the pavement, accompanied by a
loud "Bah! the fule!" When he was dying, an excellent young man, whose
religious zeal was greater than his ability, volunteered to pray with him.
Bell grunted assent; but as the prayer assumed throughout that the old man
was a reprobate, he could scarcely restrain himself to the Amen, before he
burst out, "I'm saying, my man, nae doubt ye mean well; but ye'd better
gang hame and learn to pray for yoursel' afore ye pray tor other folk."
When Norman remonstrated with him afterwards for his rudeness, Bell said,
"Maybe ye're richt; but, sure as death, Norman, I canna thole [bear] a
fule!"]
And so he passed the four
years of his study of "the Arts," with happy summers interspersed,
sometimes in the Highlands, sometimes in Campsie, until, in 1831, he went
to Edinburgh to study theology.
Dr. Chalmers was then professor, and Norman
listened with delight and wonder to lectures which were delivered with
thrilling, almost terrible, earnestness. The Professor's noble enthusiasm
kindled a responsive glow in the young hearts which gathered to listen to
him, and the kindly interest he took in their personal welfare inspired
them with affection as well as admiration. Dr. Welsh, a man of kindred
spirit and powerful intellect, then taught Church History. Such in
fluences did not fail to waken in Norman loftier conceptions of the career
to which he looked forward. As might have been expected, Chalmers had a
peculiar power over him, for professor and student had many similar
natural characteristics. The large-heartedness of the teacher, his
missionary zeal, and the continual play of human tenderness pervaded by
the holy light of divine love, roused the sympathies of the scholar. He
heartily loved him. And Chalmers also valued the character of the student,
for when asked by a wealthy English proprietor to recommend for his only
son a tutor in whose character and sense he might have thorough reliance,
Chalmers at once named Norman. This connection became of great importance
to him. The gentleman alluded to was the late Henry Preston, Esq., of
Moreby Hall, then High Sheriff of Yorkshire. For the next three years
Norman acted as tutor to his son ; and whether residing at Morby or
travelling on the Continent, the simple-hearted old squire treated him
with the utmost confidence and affection, In the autumn of 1833 he went
for a few weeks to Moreby, but returned shortly afterwards with his pupil
to Edinburgh, and was thus able to attend his theological classes, while
he also superintended the studies of young Mr. Preston. During his second
session at Edinburgh, besides the usual classes, he attended Professor
Jamieson's lectures on geology, and studied drawing and music. His
brother-in-law, the Rev. A. Clerk, LL.D., who was then his fellow-student,
contributes the following reminiscence :—
"It was in the social circle Norman displayed
the wondrous versatility, originality and brilliancy of his mind. With a
few of his chosen companions round him he made the evening instructive and
delightful. He frequently, by an intuitive glance, revealed more of the
heart of a subject than others with more extensive and accurate
scholarship could attain through their acquirements in philosophy or
history. He was often disposed to start the wildest paradoxes, which he
would defend by the most plausible analogies, and if forced to retreat
from his position, he would do so under a shower of ludicrous retorts and
fanciful images. He was ever ready with the most apt quotations from
Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats, or with some telling story;
or, brimming over with fun, he would improvise crambo rhymes, sometimes
most pointed, always ludicrous, or, bursting into song, throw more nature
into its expression than I almost ever heard from any singer. The
sparkling effervescence of his mind often astonished, and always charmed
and stirred, the thoughts, feelings, and enthusiasm of his companions."
It was at this time he experienced the first
great sorrow of his life. His brother James, his junior by three years,
was a lad of fine promise. Like Norman in many things, he was his opposite
in others, and the unlikeness as well as similarity of their tastes served
only to draw them nearer to each other. Clever, pure-minded, and
affectionate, he was also—what Norman never was—orderly, fond of practical
work, and mechanics. Norman was rollicking in his fun, James quietly
humorous. He was the delegated manager of glebe and garden, and of so
sweet and winning a nature, that when he died the tokens of sorrow
displayed by many in the parish were a surprise, as well as a consolation,
to his parents. Hitherto Norman had given little expression to the
religious convictions which had been increasing with his growth since
childhood. Now, however, he broke silence. In the sick-room, with none but
their mother present, the two brothers opened their hearts to one another;
and, on the last evening they were ever to spend together, the elder asked
if he might pray with the younger. This was the first time he had ever
prayed aloud in the presence of others, and with a full heart he poured
out his supplications for himself and his dying brother. When he left the
room, James, calling his mother, put his arms round her neck, and said, "I
am so thankful, mother. Norman will be a good man." This was a
turning-point in Norman's life; not, indeed, such a crisis as is usually
called conversion; not that the scene in the sick-room marked his first
religious decision; but the solemnity of the circumstances, the frank
avowal of his faith, and the tremendous deepening which his feelings
received by the death which occurred a few days afterwards, formed an
epoch from which he ever afterwards dated the commencement of earnest
Christian life. The anniversary of his brother's death was always kept
sacred by him. Other critical times arrived, other turning-points no less
important were passed; but, as in many other instances, this first death
in the family, with the impressions it conveyed of the reality of eternity
and of the grandeur of the life in Christ, was to him " the beginning of
days." At the close
of the winter session he returned, with Mr. Preston, to Moreby, and in the
following May he and his pupil started for the Continent.
To his Mother, written by him when a mere
boy:— "Campsie Manse,
Friday. "I know how
very difficult it is to ease the yearnings of a mother's heart when far
from her beloved offspring; yet I am sure, when she hears that 'all are
well,' the wan and wrinkled face of anxiety will give way to the bloom of
youth that makes you look at all times so beautiful. The garret windows
being nailed, none of the children have fallen over, and the garden door
being locked, none have died of gooseberry or cherry fevers.
"But the children are the least of my
thoughts; no, no, let them all die if the housekeeping succeeds; this is
the point. The Principal [Principal Baird, of Edinburgh.] and Mr.
Gordon came here to-night, and don't go off till Monday! I and Betty are
dying of lamb fevers with the very thoughts of preparing dinners out of
nothing; these two nights I have been smothered alive by salmon and legs
of roasted lamb crammed down my throat by Jessy and Betty. Oh, my dear
mamma, it is only now that a fond mother is missed, when dangers and
misfortunes assail us. If you but saw mo without clothes to cover, or
shoes to put on my feet, all worn away with cooking. I am quite crusty.
"But I will not mar your enjoyments or hurt
your feelings by relating more of this melancholy tale.
"Betty, my worthy housekeeper, has told me
to-day that she has forty-five young birds and ducks. I think a sixth is
to be added in the laundry —if it be so, I intend to get a share of Donald
Achalene's [A Highland character.] bed in the asylum."
From his Mother, when he was a student in
Glasgow:— "While
younger, and under the immediate eye of your father and myself, I could
watch every little tendency of your disposition, and endeavour as much as
I could, to give it the right bias; but now, my beloved child, you are
seldom with me, you are exposed to many temptations, and oh ! if you knew
the many anxious thoughts this gives rise to ! Not, my dear, that I fear
anything wrong in principle, in the common acceptation of the word; but
how many shades are there between what is glaringly and broadly wrong to
the generality of observers, and the thousand acts and thoughts and words
that must be watched and corrected and repented of and abandoned, in order
to become a Christian ! Avoid whatever you have found hurtful, be it ever
so delightful to your taste, and persevere in whatever you have found
useful towards promoting piety and heavenly-mindedness. You must not look
on this as a mother's dry lecture to her son; no, it is the warm affection
of a heart that truly loves you as scarce another can do, and which prays
and watches for your eternal interest."
From his Father :—
"CAMPSIE, February 23, 1829.
"I rejoice to see your companions, if you
would conduct yourself with calmness and seriousness on the Sabbath day,
and cease your buffoonery of manner in tone of voice and distortions of
countenance, which are not only offensive, but grievous. You carry this
nonsense by much too far, and I beg of you, my dear Norman, to check it.
Imitation and acting a fool is a poor field to shine in; it may procure
the laugh of some, but cannot fail to secure the comtempt of others. I was
much pleased with the manner of the Stewart boys—their steady, grave,
sedate manner formed a very striking contrast to the continual mimicking
and nonsense at which you aim. I implore of you, by the tenderness of a
father, and by the authority of one, to desist from it in time, and to
despise it, and to assume a more manly, sedate manner.
"I hope you will take in good part, as
becomes you, all I have stated and evince to me that you do so when I have
the happiness, my dear boy, to see you. I rejoice to see everybody happy;
but there is a manner that gains on a person if indulged in, which must be
guarded against, and none more dangerous than that buffoonery which, by
making others laugh, causes us to think ourselves very clever. You, even
already, seldom use your own voice or gestures or look—all is put on and
mimicked; this must cease, and the sooner the better. After this I shall
say no more on the subject. I leave it to your own good sense to correct
this. "Ever your
dutiful Father." To
his Aunt Jane:— " February, 1831.
"I read your letter over and over, and
chuckled over its coruscations of wit and brilliancy; swallowed, and
finally digested all the advices. In fact, it brought me back to Fiunary
once more—to Fiunary with all its pleasures and its many enjoyments. I
could, with a little effort of fancy, picture myself sitting with J. in
the garret, giving way to my mimicking propensities to please her, in
whatever character she chose, or one of the social circle round a happy
tea-table, or taking an intellectual walk along the beach; and no sooner
is this imaginary train set a-going than many a happy day spent among the
rocks, and in the woods, hills, or glens, rise ghost-like before me, till
my too pleasing dream is broken by a dire reality —the college bell
summoning poor wretches from their warm beds to trudge through snow and
sleet to hear a crude lecture on philosophy, and reminding me that I have
so much to do that I cannot expect to see my dream realised for another
year. There is no use in fighting against fate, though I long for the day
that I shall escape from prison, and ' visit those blessed solitudes from
toils and towns remote.' "
From his Mother:—
"Campsie, November 27.
"It gives me pleasure to observe the warm and
genuine feelings and confessions of an affectionate disposition—freely
spoken. Yes, my dear Norman, long may I find you frankly owning your
thoughts and feelings; this is the true way to a parent's heart, and the
true and only comfortable footing for parent and child—the only way in
which a parent can really be of use; and never will you repent trusting
yourself to me. Wonderful would be the fault that, when candidly
acknowledged, I could not excuse, or at least try to help you to remedy.
In all I said I wished to cure you of an ugly habit of arguing that has
crept in on you, before it becomes a confirmed habit, and leads you (just
for argument's sake) to maintain wrong views; from first beginning to
argue you will by-and-by think these views right."
To his Aunt Jane:—
"June, 1832.
"Where, in the name of wonder, did you light
on that lovely poem, Jane? Talk no more to me of the powers of music to
lull the angry feelings or to excite the more gentle ones. Poetry, poetry,
for ever! "We have
had four cases of cholera here, and two deaths. My father was down at the
Torrance every day, and had no small trouble between keeping down rows,
coffining the bodies, and quelling all those disgraceful and riotous
feelings that have been too much the attendants of this sad complaint.
"All the children are half ill with
chicken-pox; Polly's face is like a rock with limpets. Limpets ! How that
word does conjure up a thousand associations!—the fishing-rock, the rising
tide waving the tangle to and fro at my feet! Out comes a fine cod, see
how he smells the bait! I am already sure of him; I know the bait is good,
and the hook of the best Limerick. He sniffs it, and away he slowly sails,
gently moving his tail from side to side as he goes off. But he repents,
and turns back and casts a longing look at the large bait; slowly his jaws
open, and in the most dignified manner close on the meal, and now the line
strains, the rod bends, I see something white turning in the water, my
eyes fill till I hear 'Whack' on the rock, and there he lies as red as—as
what's the man's name, at Savarie—John Scallag's father? as red as he.
Pardon me, Jane; this night is oppressively hot, it is perfect summer.
They are turning the almost dry hay on the glebe—a calm sleeps on the
woods and hills, and this, too, vividly recalls the sound of Mull, as I
fancy it to be on such an evening. I am at this moment in fancy walking up
the road to Fiunary with a gadd of fish, knowing that thanks and a good
tea await me. "I
confess that when I indulge in such fancies, I involuntarily wish myself
away from my books to feast and revel in the loveliness of the Salachan
shore, or 'Clach na Criche;' but, as I told you before, I wish to have
some summer to look back to as one usefully employed."
Letter to his Brother James. (Inside of this
letter was found placed a lock of James' hair):—
"Moreby Hall, October, 1833:
"I went on Sabbath to church. There was no
organ; but what think you % a flute, violin, and bass fiddle, with some
bad singing. However, I liked the service much. Monday was a great day at
York, all the town and country were there, it being the time at which,
once every three or four years, Lord Vernon, the Archbishop of York,
confirms the children of this part of the diocese. The scene was beyond
all description. Fancy upwards of three thousand children under fifteen,
the females dressed in white, with ladies and gentlemen, all assembled in
that glorious minster — the thousand stained glass windows throwing a
dazzling light of various hues on the white mass—the great organ booming
like thunder through the never-ending arches! The ceremony is intensely
simple; they come in forties and fifties, and surround the bishop, who
repeats the vows and lays his hand successively on each head. I could not
help comparing this with a sacramental occasion in the Highlands, [It is a
common custom in the Highlands to celebrate the Communion in the open air
during summer.] where there is no minster but the wide heaven, and no
organ but the roar of the eternal sea, the church with its lonely
churchyard and primitive congregation, and—think of my Scotch pride!—I
thought the latter scene more grand and more impressive. I ascended to-day
to the top of the great tower in the minster, two hundred and seventy
steps ! But such a view ! I gazed from instinct toward the North for a
while—not that I expected to see anything; but there was nothing but
masses of wood."
Extracts from his Journal:—
"Edinburgh, Tuesday, 1st Nov., 1833.—"Began to
read on crystallography and geology (Lyell). I wish, above all things, to
know mineralogy and geology thoroughly. I must attend chemistry, anatomy,
and botany. To acquire accurate knowledge is no joke.
"Tuesday, 3rd Dec.—There are certain days and
times in a man's existence which are eras in his little history, and which
greatly influence his future life. This day has been to me one of much
pain; and oh ! when the grief has passed away (and shall it ever be so!)
may its influence still remain! I heard my own dear brother James was so
ill that he cannot, in all human probability, recover. How strange that I
who, when in health and strength, and with everything to cheer, and little
to depress the heart, thought not of God, the great Giver of all good,
should now, when my beloved brother is sinking into the grave, my best and
dearest of mothers sore at heart, for her child, raise my voice, and I
hope my heart, to Him who has been despised and rejected by me. My mother
has been my best earthly friend, and God knows the heartfelt, profound
veneration I have for her character. And now, O God of my Fathers, this
3rd day of December, solely and entirely under Thy guidance, I commence
again to fight the good fight. I acknowledge Thy hand in making my dear
brother's illness the means; through, and only for the sake, of the great
Redeemer Jesus Christ do I look for an answer to my most earnest prayer.
Amen. "Thursday.—It
is past twelve. The wind blows loud, and the rain falls. I am alone in
body, but my mind is in my brother's room, where, I am sure, my dear
mother is now watching her boy with a heavy heart. May God be with them
both! "Saturday.—I
heard the waits last night play The Last Rose of Summer' beautifully. It
went to my heart; I thought of my poor James. The week is past, the most
memorable, it may be, in my existence.
"Monday, 16th Dec.—I saw James, Wednesday
morning. Such a shadow ! Still the same firm mind, with the same
dependence upon his Saviour. I shall never, I hope, come to that state in
which I can forget all the kindness which God has shown me for the last
six days! I had many earnest conversations with dear James.
"Alas, this day I parted from one I loved as
devotedly as a brother can be loved! Thank God and Christ, we shall meet.
I went to his bedside: 'I am going away, James, my boy; but I trust to see
you for a day during the holiday's.' 'Norman, dear, if I'm spared I'll see
you. But what is this to end in?' I hardly knew what to say. 'I know your
firmness of mind. But, James, it is but the husk, the mere shell.' 'I am
very weak.' 'Yes, Jamie; but I shall be weak, and all weak. I part without
sorrow, for I know you are Christ's, and Christ is God's.' 'I have,
Norman, got clearer views since we met. I know on whom I can lean.'
"Friday evening, 20th Dec—It is all past. My
dear brother is now with his own Saviour. I do heartily thank God for His
kindness to him; for his patience, his manliness, his love to his
Redeemer. May I follow his footsteps! May I join with James in the
universal song! I know not, my own brother, whether you now see me or not.
If you know my heart, you will know my love for you, and that in passing
through this pilgrimage, I shall never forget you who accompanied me so
far. "Thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven."
From his Mother:— "February 7, 1834.
"Now, write me everything as you would to your
own heart, and do not hide even passing uneasy feelings, for fear of
making me uneasy. Believe me, I will just give everything its own value,
and from 'the heart to the heart' is all, you know, I care for."
From, his Journal:—
"Friday.—Went in the evening with Uncle Neil
to a meeting of the Shakespeare Club—Vandenhoff, Ball, MacKay, &c. A very
pleasant evening ; fine singing; two scenes I won't forget: the noble
feeling of Vandenhoff when his daughter's health was drunk, and Ball's
acclamations (!!) interrupting a very humbugging, stupid speech, proposing
the memory of Lord Byron. There is blarney all the world over. I plainly
see the stage, as it now is, and the Church are at complete antipodes.
"Sunday.—Not two months dead—my dearest
brother—and yet how changed am I! I thank God with my whole heart and soul
that He has not forsaken me. I seem a merry, thoughtless being. But I
spend many a thinking and pleasant hour in that sick-room. That pale face,
all intelligence and love—the black hair—the warm and gallant heart of him
I loved as well as a brother can be loved—shall never be forgotten."
To My Mother :—
"York, March 9, 1834.
"In an old, snug garret, in the city of York,
upon Good Friday, with the minster clock chiming twelve of the night, do I
sit down to have a long chat with you, my dearest mother.
"I intend upon Sabbath to take the sacrament
at Moreby. I have reflected on the step, and while I see no objection, I
can see every reason in showing forth the Lord's death with Christian
brethren of the same calling; as to me, individually, it signifies little
whether I take it kneeling at. an altar, or sitting at a table."
To his Aunt:—
"Sion Hill, April 12, 1834.
"One peep of Loch Aline or of Glen Dhu is
worth all in Yorkshire. Their living is certainly splendid; but, believe
me, I shall never eat any of their ragouts, or drink their champagne, with
the same relish as I ate the cake and drank the milk beside my wee bed
when I returned from fishing. If only the white can had not been broken! "
To his Mother:—
"Near Moreby, April 15, 1834.
"The house is full, and I am now sleeping at
the farm, a quarter of a mile from the house. We have very pleasant
people—Lady Vavasour and her son and daughter. They have been abroad for
six or seven years in different parts of the Continent. She and I are
great friends. We get letters from her for the Court of Weimar, and she
has been drilling me how to speak to her 'Imperial Highness' the Grand
Duchess, sister to the late Emperor of Russia."
From his Journal:—
"22nd April, Monday.—Upon Easter Sunday I
partook of the sacrament in York minster, and although the formulas are of
course different from ours, yet, 'as there is no virtue in them, or in
them that administer them,' I found God was present with me to bestow much
comfort. "During the
next week all was gaiety. A party or ball every night.
The next week we spent at Sion Hill and,
between fishing, riding, seeing the railroad, and, above all, Fountain
Abbey, I must say I was very happy. "I start to-morrow morning for London.
But what hangs heavy on my mind is the deep sense of responsibility I am
under: I have not only the superintendence of my pupil, but I am about to
be placed in hard trial in a thousand circumstances which are eminently
calculated to draw my mind off from God. But my only confidence is in Him.
O Thou who hast brought me to this—Thou who didst make me what I am when I
had no strength of my own—to Thy loving and merciful hands I commend
myself, wholly trusting that I may, through the aid of Thy Holy Spirit, be
every day more sanctified in my affections, and ever constant in the
performance of my duty." |
