Musselboro'll be a boro' when Edinburgh is gane.'
Moir was buried at Inveresk, where his remains are honored by a noble monument; the memory of his genius will be cherished by all readers of Blackwood. He died in 1854.
While engaged on the Encyclopedia to which we have made reference, I made the acquaintance of McCulloch, the distinguished writer of finances, who furnished the article on 'Banking.'
However distinguished may have been the position of this man in point of talent, he failed utterly to command respect; and I chiefly remember his coarse, overbearing tone of boastful superiority, and his abusive language to the compositors who set up his MSS. That they found the latter difficult of deciphering is not surprising, since the sheet looked less like human calligraphy than a row of bayonets. McCulloch had edited the 'Scotsman' with decided ability, and having attracted the attention of Lord Brougham, had received an appointment in the stationer's office. But in his promotion he quickly forgot his humble origin, and displayed his native vulgarity by lording it over the craftsmen who gave form and life to his thoughts.
Among the giants of Scotland at that time, Thomas Chalmers ranked chief, and the death of Sir Walter Scott had left him without a peer. I used to meet him as he took his early walks, and in his loving way of greeting youth he often bade me a cheerful good-morning. He was then living at Kinghorn, about eight miles from Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers' robust stature was in keeping with the power of his intellect. He was of massive frame, and displayed a breadth of shoulder which seemed borrowed from the Farnese Hercules. Though so distinguished as a divine, there was nothing clerical in his appearance—nothing of that air of 'the cloth' which at once proclaims the preacher. His noble features were generally overspread with a benevolent smile, which seemed to shed an illumination as though from the ignition of the soul; while at other times he was possessed with a spirit of abstraction as if walking in a dream.
As a theologian, Chalmers was great beyond any of his contemporaries; and yet, strictly speaking, his genius was mathematical, rather than theological. In this respect he resembled that famed American of whom he professed himself a disciple—Jonathan Edwards. Of the latter it is stated by no less a critic than the author of the Eclipse of Faith (Henry Rogers), that he was born a mathematician. Chalmers, however, was a master of all science, and it would have been difficult for even a specialist to have taken him at an advantage. As greatness is always set off by simplicity, the latter feature was one of the chief beauties in what we may call the Chalmerian Colossus. I have often seen him leaning upon the half open door of a smithy, conversing with the intelligent workmen, as they rested from the use of the sledge. Having referred to his love of children, I may add, in respect to myself, that when I, in my childhood, spoke to him in the street, I was generally favored with an apple. He was indeed an ardent lover of the young, and his genius seemed to gather freshness from his intercourse with childhood.
Edinburgh will not soon forget his interest in the welfare of the poor, in which he has been so ably seconded by the present Dr. Guthrie. I well remember beholding the two Christian reformers, standing above the slums of the city, contemplating the fields which the latter had assumed. Suddenly Chalmers clapped his friend upon the back, and exclaimed, in rude pleasantry, 'Wow, Tummus Guthrie, but ye ha a bonnie parish.' Chalmers' pronunciation was singularly broad, and not easily understood by many. Stopping once, during a tour in England, at a place where there was a seminary, a gentleman inquired of him how many Scotch boys were in attendance. 'Saxtain or savantain,' was the reply. 'Enough,' says the gentleman, sotto voce, to corrupt a whole school.' As regards calligraphy, Chalmers wrote the most illegible hand in Scotland. He could not even read it himself, and was frequently obliged to call his wife and daughters to his aid. Many of his discourses, when intended for the press, were copied by them. His manuscript, when fresh from his hand, looked as though a fly had fallen into the ink-stand, and then crawled over the page. When his letters were received at his paternal home, the language of the father was, 'A letter from Tummus, eh; weel, when he comes hame, he maun read it himsel.' There was something Homeric in Chalmers' mind; and Hugh Miller always considered him the bard of the Free Church, as well as its great theologian and still greater benefactor; and this, too, notwithstanding the fact that he never wrote a line of verse in his life. The simplest truths, when announced by him, took a poetic shape, and moved along with all the majesty of his towering genius. Speaking of Hugh Miller brings him before us at the time that he was writing for the Caledonia Mercury. He was then editor of The Witness, but gave to the former paper such moments as he could abstract from his more serious duties. His department in the Mercury was the reviewing new publications. Besides his engagement with these two journals, he was pursuing those studies which made him the prince of British geologists. Geology was his passion. Indeed, while writing leaders for the Witness, or turning over the leaves of hot-pressed volumes, his mind was wandering among such scenes as the 'Lake of Stromness,' and the 'Old Red Sandstone' of his native Cromarty. His geological sketches in the Witness were a new feature in journalism, and formed the basis of that work which so admirably refuted the 'Vestiges of Creation.' I met Miller daily for several years. He was tall, and of a well-built and massive frame, and evidently capable of great endurance, both of mind and body. Considered as one of the distinguished instances of self-made men, Hugh Miller finds his only parallel in Horace Greeley, although the path to greatness was in the first instance even more laborious than in the latter. Let any one read Miller's experiences and adventures, as described in 'My Schools and my Schoolmasters,' and he will find a renewed suggestion of the thought which Johnson so pathetically breathes in his 'London:'—
'The mournful truth is everywhere confessed,
Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.'
Miller's appearance, when in trim attire, was that of the Scottish 'Dominie,' or parish schoolmaster; but, like the great American editor, he was exceedingly slovenly, both by nature and by long habits of carelessness. When in the street, he always wore the plaid, although that garment was quite out of use, and indicated at once something quaint or rustic in the wearer. At this time Miller was living in one of the suburbs of Edinburgh, called Porto Bello. When we exchanged greetings in the street, his countenance, usually overcast with the pale hue of thought, would light up with a bright and open smile, which continued as long as he was speaking, but soon yielded to returning abstraction. One of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen was the groups of youth whom Miller used to invite as companions of an afternoon walk. None were forbidden on the score of childhood, and many a 'wee bairn' trotted after the larger lads who accompanied 'the gude stane-cracker,' and 'the bonnie mon what gaes amang the rocks.' He might well be called the 'stane-cracker,' since I have seen him on Calton Hill, or Arthur's Seat, or among the crags, lecturing, in a calm, quiet tone, on the mysteries which his hammer had brought to light. These were the only recreations of one whose days and nights were, with the exception of a brief and often wakeful season of rest, given to laborious study. Had he indulged more freely in them, he might have escaped the terrible fate which overtook him. But he never could emancipate himself from the labor to which he was chained. His 'Impressions of England,' which is one of the most delightful of his books, was the product of a subsequent tour for health. If such were his recreations, what must have been his labors? Miller's domestic life did much to cheer an over-worked system. He gives, in the 'Schools and Schoolmasters,' a pleasing allusion to the fascination of his courtship; and his subsequent life was graced by one whoso appearance, as I remember her, was singularly lovely and interesting. In his home circle, Miller was truly a happy man. I may remark, in passing, that this is a feature in Scottish genius. While Shelley, Byron, Bulwer, Dickens, and other English authors, have been wrecked by home difficulties, Scott, Chalmers, Miller, Wilson, and the whole line of Scottish authors, drank deep of domestic felicity. Perhaps this may be explained by the contrast between the warmth of Scottish character, and the saturnine and unsocial disposition of the English. Edinburgh could at that time boast of two distinguished men of the name of Miller; and the great geologist had almost his fellow in the professor of surgery. The two were very intimate, and the one found in the other not only a friend, but a faithful medical adviser. Professor Miller was then printing his leading work, and I had frequent occasion to visit him with reference to its publication. One morning, as I rang, the professor came to the door with a hurried and nervous step. As it opened, I noted that his tall form was peculiarly agitated, and his countenance was deadly pale. In a calm, subdued voice, he informed me that Hugh Miller had just committed suicide with a pistol. The terrible news overcame me with a shudder, and I almost sank to the floor. The fact was not yet generally known; and oh, when it should be made public, what a blow would be felt by the moral and scientific world! The professor knew that the affair might possibly be ascribed by some to accident, but he at once referred it to insanity. The over-worked brain of the geologist had been for some time threatened with a collapse. He had, in addition to the management of the Witness, been elaborating a work of deep and exhausting character, and the mental excitement which accompanied its completion was like devouring fire. I have frequently gone to his room at a late hour of the night, and found him sitting before the smouldering grate, so absorbed in thought that, as he balanced the probabilities of contending theories, he unwittingly accompanied the mental effort by balancing the poker on the bar. I have seen, on such an occasion, a greasy stream oozing from the pocket of his fustian coat, and supplied by the roll of butter which at morning market he had purchased for home use. On the table lay his MSS., so marred with interlinings and corrections, that, notwithstanding his neat and delicate hand, it was almost a complete blot. These habits could not but terminate in utter wreck, and I have ever coincided with the professor's opinion as to the cause of his death. This gentleman stated to me a fact not generally known, that a few days before the awful catastrophe, the unfortunate man called on him in great distress, and sought his advice. He complained of a pain in his head, and then added an expression of fears with regard to that which was to him of untold value. This was his mineral and geological collection in Shrub Place, which was, no doubt, the most valuable private one in the kingdom. He was haunted by apprehension of its robbery by a gang of thieves, and asked what measures of safety would be advisable. The professor endeavored to expel the absurd idea by playful remark, and supposed himself somewhat successful. The next thing he heard was the intelligence of his death. It is quite evident that the fatal revolver was purchased for the defense of his treasures. What a lesson is this of the danger of excessive application, of unreasonable toil, of late hours, and mental tension. A continued exhaustion of his energies had brought upon the geologist a state of mental horror from which death seemed the only relief. The reaction of the nervous system was, no doubt, similar to that arising from delirium tremens; and thus extremes met, and the savant perished like the inebriate.