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
'Blazed the comet of a season.'
To this day his name yet lives. In spite of the delusions and follies
with which his name was connected--in spite of the reaction, the natural
result of all enthusiasm, no matter what--Irvingite churches remain
amongst us to this present hour. But at one time they threatened to
pervade the land. All London flocked to Regent Square Church: the
religious world was in a state of intense excitement. Timid men and
nervous women went there, Sunday after Sunday, till they became almost
mad. Unknown tongues were heard; strange sights were seen. Some thought
the end of the world had come, and were seized with trembling and fear.
It was a time of wonder, and mystery, and awe; but it passed away, as
such things in this world of ours must pass away. The great magician
died. The crowd that had wondered and wept at his bidding, went to
wonder and weep elsewhere.
Under such circumstances, to attempt to fill the vacant pulpit was no
easy task; and yet that it has been done, and done successfully, is
evinced by Dr. Hamilton's success. It is a fact that he preaches there
every Sunday to a crowded church; that there, where there were divers
prophesyings and bewilderment universal, now order reigns; that the only
voice that you hear there now, besides that of the preacher, is that of
the precentor, as he reads the bald version of the Psalms, to which the
modern Scotch stick as immovably as did their fathers to the Covenant in
the days of Montrose. This is an undeniable fact. Nor does it surprise
you when the Doctor makes his appearance in the pulpit. At first,
perhaps, you are rather surprised. There is certainty nothing taking
about the man. He looks tall, strong, and awkward, with a cloudy face,
and a fearfully drawling voice; a man, not timid, but not striking--plain
and unaffected--better fitted for the study than for the fashion of May
Fair. If you look closer, you will see indications of a calm, untroubled
heart, with deep wells of fine feeling, of tenderness and strength
combined. But still the Doctor is not the man to make a sensation at
first sight--very few ministers are. One can understand this in a way.
In certain families, it is said, the good-looking are put into the
army--if fools, into the Church. Yet, generally, the jewel is worthy of
the casket. If the one be rich and beautiful, the other is so as well.
Plain and slouching as he is, I am told the Doctor succeeded in engaging
the affections of a lady possessed of considerable property. But this is
by no means remarkable: clergymen of every denomination make as many
successful marriages as most men. One would think that they took the
common wicked standard of wicked men, and judged a woman's worth by the
extent of her purse. I fear that there are as many fortune-hunters in
the Church as there are in the world.
If 'Hudibras' had been written in our day, we should at once have
supposed that Dr. Hamilton had helped the poet to a hero. Like Hudibras,
the Doctor
'scarce can ope
His mouth, but out there flies a trope.'
He has been called the Moore of the pulpit. An admiring critic says of
him: 'Like the poet of "Lalla Rookh," he possesses vivid imagination,
brilliant fancy, and sparkling phraseology. His sentences are strings of
pearls, and whatever subject he touches he invariably adorns. His
affluence of imagery is surprising. To illustrate some particular
portion of Scripture, he will lay science, art, and natural history under
contribution, and astonish us by the vastness of his acquirements, and
his tact in availing himself of the stores of knowledge which, from all
sources, he has garnered up in his mind. But plenteous as are the
flowers of eloquence with which he presents us, their perfume, their
sweetness, do not cloy. We listen in absolute wonderment as he pours
forth a stream of eloquence, whose surface exhibits the iridescent hues
of loveliness--one tint as it fades away being succeeded by another and a
brighter. And a pure spirit of earnest piety pervades the whole of the
sermon, the only drawback of which, to southern ears, being the broad
Scotch accent in which it is delivered.'
Perhaps this character is a little coloured. Something must be set down
in it for effect. Still the characteristic of the Doctor's oratory,
whether in the pulpit or on the platform, is poetry. He is a prose poet,
and his genius makes everything it touches rich and rare. As becomes a
divine, he sees everything through an Eastern medium. He is at home in
the Holy Land. Jerusalem is as dear to him as London. All the scenes of
sacred story, in the dead and buried past, live before him, and are
realized by him as much, if not more, than the most exciting scenes of
the living present. He follows the Christ as he treads the path of
sorrow--sees him in the manger--in the temple disputing with the
doctors--in the crowded streets followed by an awe-struck Hebrew
mob--alone in the wilderness--or dying, amidst fanatic scorn and hate, a
triumphant death: and the Doctor tells you these things as if he were
there--as if they had but happened yesterday--as if he had come fresh
from them all. Hence there is a pictorial charm in his preaching, such
as is possessed but by few, and excelled by none.
This is also characteristic of the Doctor's writing. He has used the
press extensively. I see he has just issued an account of one of the
sufferers in that unhappy missionary expedition to the island of Terra
del Fuego, the result of which was the slow death, by hunger, of the
parties engaged. His cheap series of tracts, entitled 'Happy Home,' are
considered, by the religious world, exquisite productions. They are much
in demand. This, however, is easily accounted for. The pastor of a rich
London congregation can always have a good sale for his works. The
wealthy members of his church will buy them for distribution; even the
very poor will make an effort to procure them. Bad or good, they are
sure to have a respectable sale. Happily, in Dr. Hamilton's case, this
respectable sale is deserved. His publications have the same beauties as
his sermons. It is to be regretted that the small tracts, published by
well-meaning men, with the best of motives, should be so little adapted
to that end. In reality, they do more harm than good. The very class
they are intended for do not read them; and those who do are precisely
the class that need to be stimulated into some life higher and grander
than your small tract-writer can generally conceive of. It is to the
credit of Dr. Hamilton that he does not disdain to write little books on
great subjects, and thus seek to rescue the tract system from the
contempt into which, owing to the injudiciousness of its friends, it has
so extensively fallen.
We have only to add here, that the Doctor sides with the Free Scotch
Church, and that, of that remarkable movement, he was one of the earliest
and warmest friends.
Miscellaneous.