faith. A polished, graceful, self-contained, and self-satisfied man. He may be a man of large heart and sympathies; but he has not the appearance of one. He rather seems a man great in small things, tediously proper and scrupulously correct—a great gun, I imagine, at an Evangelical tea-table—and, with his ultra Protestantism (he is a countryman of Miss Cuninghame’s, and every Scotchman hates Popery as a certain personage does holy water), he is a tremendous favourite at Exeter Hall. Indeed, I do not know that there is at this time a more popular performer on those boards, and he is a favourite with people whose favour pecuniarily is worth something—with people who can afford to buy his books. Hence, also, he is one of the most copious religious writers of our day.
It is vain to attempt to give an account of the Doctor’s works, when ‘every month brings forth a new one:’ their name is Legion. There is only one man who can be compared with Dr. Cumming in this respect, and that is that notoriously hardened sinner, Mr. G. P. R. James.
I read in one place of Dr. Cumming that ‘he has everything in his favour; his singularly handsome person, his brilliant flow of poetic
thoughts, his striking talents, and his burning Protestant zeal, combine to make him one of the most interesting speakers of the day; and when we add to all this, his modest simplicity and humility (qualities as becoming in one of his years, as they are rare in one of his powers), we need not wonder that he is generally admired and beloved.’ Another admirer writes: ‘When hearing Dr. Cumming, one is reminded of the description of “Silver-tongued Smith,” one of the celebrated preachers of Elizabeth’s time. But though the subject of our sketch is truly silver-tongued, the solemnity, at times, almost the severity, of his manner preserves him from anything like tameness. Perhaps there is not a firmer or more fearless preacher than the Doctor—a fact which has been proved over and over again of late, as his Romish antagonists have found to their cost. Dr. Cumming’s manner in the pulpit is pleasing. He seldom uses any other action than a gentle waving of the hand, or the turning from one part of his congregation to the other. He is no cushion-thumper, and depends for effect more upon what he says than on the graces of action. Not that he is ungraceful at all—far from that: what we
mean is, that he is in this respect directly the opposite of those pulpit fops who flourish their bordered pieces of inspiration-lawn in the pulpit, and throw themselves into such attitudes as compels one to believe that the looking-glass is almost as essential a preparation for the pulpit as the Bible itself.’
Dr. Cumming is a warm supporter of Establishments, a sworn foe of liberalism, which he declares to have ‘charity on its mantle, and hell in its heart.’ He is a good hater. These things may fit him to be the idol of Crown Court, but do little more. The large vision which looks before and after, which makes man a philosopher, which teaches him to see the good in all human developments of thought and action, and calmly and lovingly to abide their legitimate results, has been denied him. The consequence is, he has sunk into the apostle of a coterie, and ‘gives up to party what was meant for mankind.’
THE REV. JAMES HAMILTON, D.D.
It is a remarkable fact that a Scotchman has never led the House of Commons. The real reason is, I imagine, that Scotchmen are not generally very oratorical. The Scots suffer from the fercidum ingenium which old Buchanan claimed for them, undoubtedly; but it does not generally assume an oratorical form: it finds other ways of development. It leads Sawney, junior, to bid farewell to the porridge of the paternal roof, to cross the Tweed, to travel in whatever dark and distant land gold is to be had, and a fortune to be won. But there it stops. Joseph Hume was a model of a Scotch orator. There was not a duller dog on the face of the earth than that most excellent and honoured man. One would as soon listen to a lecture from Elihu Burritt, or sit out a pantomime, as listen to a speech from the Scottish Joseph.
So it is with the Scottish pulpit. It is generally hard and heavy, destitute of life and power, abstruse, metaphysical, learned, and consequently dull. Yet there have been splendid
exceptions. The fiery and holy Chalmers was one, and Edward Irving was another. The Scottish Church in Regent Square was at one time a place of no common repute. Irving, with his splendid face, half fiend half angel—with his intellect hovering between insanity and genius, the companion of fanatics and philosophers—there