ON

N the 27th of June, 1886, Scotland lost one of her choicest spirits-one of the brightest, nimblest souls it has ever been my good fortune to meet, and I have known a few, like Norman MacLeod and Dr. John Brown, who were brilliant enough to have mothers bidding their children note them as they passed, and remember in the coming years that their eyes had once seen them. William Robertson, indeed, had not made a name for himself in literature, and was not widely known where his voice had not been heard. A Scottish minister has not much chance to do that, unless he neglect his proper work, or is gifted with a superabundance of bodily strength. He has too much preaching to do, too many visits to pay to his flock, too many meetings to attend, and in general too much "serving of tables," for nothing in his town or parish goes on well without him; and being at everybody's

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tion-deeper, perhaps, in its spiritual issues than even that great movement wrought. They were not given to polemics; they were more reflective than combative; they were also rather eclectic in their philosophy; mostly believing that single school of opinion embraced the whole truth, while some, like Robertson, held the Hegelian doctrine of "the harmony of contraries," and regarded Calvinist and Arminian as both alike right, and both alike wrong, and both reconcilable when looked at from the proper point of view. They had caught their inspiration, no doubt, from John MacLeod Campbell of Row, and Erskine of Linlathen, at

call, he has little leisure, and less calm for the kind of study that literary work requires. Robertson had not a robust constitution, had indeed no more vigour than was needed for his day's work, which was often interrupted by uncertain health. Besides, he was not very methodical, and did not economise time, not being ambitious of fame, but only faithful to do his duty. Had he been different, he would have left, I think, a bigger mark XXVIII-7

[T. and R. Annan, Glasgow.

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whose flame also Maurice had lighted his terch; but unlike these, they did not quarrel with the common creed of the Church, which they mainly accepted as one side of the truth, though nowise the most important side of it; meanwhile they gave special prominence to its other and weightier aspect, which was the faith whereon their own souls lived. Hence the moral idea of God's Fatherhood took the place in their teaching which used to be held by the metaphysical idea of Infinite Power and Will. They did not deny the latter doctrine, but they exalted the other above it, as being greatly more significant, and also more of a spiritual power to touch the human heart. At first people shook their heads, and doubted whereto such things were tending. An atmosphere of suspicion surrounded them, and had they not been mostly effective preachers, they would soon have been stranded as "stickit-ministers," who must drift into school teaching of the humblest sort. But they were some of them orators, some poets, some scholars, and all honest workers whose power in the community could not be overlooked, and by their labours the Scottish pulpit has quietly passed through a very remarkable change. You shall hear there now very little about the divine sovereignty, and far more about the divine love. Calvinistic decrees and predestinations are no longer allowed to direct and limit the grace of God. The atonement is no more preached as a bargain according to which so much suffering was endured for so many souls, neither is the shedding of animal blood regarded as the master-key to open up its meaning, for it was not meant to appease an angry God, but to reveal a God of love. Least of all are the terrors of hell any more brandished with the view of driving those by fear who will not be drawn to God by love. Divine Sovereignty, Predestination, Atonement, Wrath are nowise denied, for there is, beyond doubt, a truth in the heart of each of them. But the other side of the medal is now chiefly presented as being most potent for good; and that other side the Church never questioned, though it was but dimly present in her creed, and often strangely absent from her pulpits. Among those who helped to work this great revolution William Robertson was one of the foremost, and he was, I think, more typical of their special work than any other man. Norman MacLeod roused antagonisms; Principal Tulloch created doubts as to his orthodoxy; John Ker was hardly reckoned to belong to the party, though in truth he

helped it into a wide popularity. But William Robertson was one who heartily and consciously worked for this very end, with a faith which never wavered, and a brilliancy of eloquence which carried persuasion to all who heard him. "He gave none offence," he was never suspected of heresy, though at one time he had a little foolish trouble about a Christmas service. Perhaps one reason for this immunity was that his way of working was so purely artistic, for his sermons were rather poems than speeches, and moved in a region high above our common wranglings— a region of vision and affirmation that took little note of denials. But however it was, he had a great part in the revolution which has so clothed the hard skeleton of seventeenth-century Calvinism with living flesh and glowing beauty, as to make that winning which aforetime was to many almost revolting. They are nearly all gone now, the men who wrought this change, and the rising generation has hardly yet had time to develop others of equal mark to some of them, so that it feels as if our Scottish world was a good deal poorer to-day than it was while they lived. But though the falling of the leaf may bring sad thoughts, no doubt the next spring will bourgeon as rich as ever. The younger race have a wider culture on the whole than that which is passing away; and as I think of the graves which have lately closed over some of our noblest and best, I read in their "Resurgam" that their spirit shall not die out among us, but revive in a fit succession of like-minded men to carry on the good work they began.

It is now just four-and-twenty years since I first came to know William Robertson, then in the prime of his life and fulness of his fame as a preacher. He was to lecture in the Glasgow Corporation Gallery on "Martin Luther," and having myself to address a meeting that evening, I came to the hall late, after hurrying through my work, I fear, in a rather unsatisfactory way. There was, as usual when he appeared in public, a dense crowd, and it was with difficulty I squeezed into the place, where the passages were as closely packed as the seats by a throng of breathless hearers-breathless in more senses than one, for if the speaker entranced them, the air was like to choke them. On the platform I saw a young-looking figure, rather below the middle height, with a rolling Byronic collar, and long, waving, sandy-coloured hair, and my first feeling was one of disappointment, as if he had "got himself up" in the picturesque, poetic fashion which young

men affected who wrote sonnets to the moon. That, however, soon vanished. It was impossible to look on that fine face, with its great dome of forehead, its large grey-blue eye, and the mouth with its lines of blended humour and pathos, and especially it was impossible to listen to that rich, mellow, musical voice, and not feel that here was a man of veritable power, with a strange mastery of all human emotions. When I came in, he was describing the condition of Europe, and the helplessness of its leaders to understand their age and the little monk who was beginning to make such a stir. As his manner was, he sketched a series of vivid pictures, each wonderfully perfect as an historic portraiture, and at the close of each, as if it were the only argument worthy of its impotence, he repeated the same refrain, "Cuckoo ! cuckoo!" The effect was perfect. As learned doctors of divinity, subtle but worldly cardinals, shrewd but nowise farseeing statesmen, counselled what was to be done about this new thing, of whose real meaning none of them had the dimmest idea, because it was spiritual and they were not, nothing could well have expressed how utterly helpless they were in such an emergency like that quietly - spoken "cuckoo! cuckoo!" which was all the discussion he gave them. I do not now remember the general drift of the lecture, which he often de livered after that, though I think it never was written out. But I remember very well coming away from the meeting and saying to myself, "That is a man I must know, for it will do me good to know him." Nor was it long till we became acquaintances-friends, brothers knit close to each other by ties which only death could break, and not even death, for they are as strong to-day as ever. I forget where we first met-perhaps at Norman MacLeod's, perhaps at Dr. A. B. McGrigor's; I cannot tell where our hands first clasped; but our souls came together that night, though he knew it not, as he discoursed of Martin Luther to the more thoughtful and cultured citizens of Glasgow in their Corporation Gallery, and from that day till now, whether we met often or only after long intervals, there never was a shadow came between us, except this last sad shadow of death.

A fitter hand than mine will, I trust, yet tell the story of his life, though truly of story there is very little to tell. Commonly there is not much incident in a thoughtful student's career-not, at least, of the kind that the unthinking care for. He was born

in 1820, near Stirling, where his father, a solid, judicious, much-esteemed man in his day, cultivated a farm, and had charge of the collieries of Plean, being greatly trusted both for his faculty and his probity. I have heard Robertson speak of him lovingly; but he seems to have had more affinity with his mother, a Bruce, and, as he believed, lineal descendant of that Rev. Robert Bruce who was one of Knox's immediate successors in the High Kirk of Edinburgh, and showed a good deal of Knox's spirit during the stormy days of James VI. and his son Charles. They say the royal blood of the Bruces was in that minister of St. Giles'. I cannot tell; but, at any rate, he had not a little of the patience and the courage that conquered freedom at Bannockburn. On that side Robertson was rather proud of his lineage. He would joke about it, and yet at bottom one felt that he clung to it. His earlier education he got at home from his brother James, who had been taught by a man of some note in his day, Browning of Tilliecoultry. James was afterwards a minister in Edinburgh, and somewhat narrow in his views; but he introduced his brothers and sisters to Shakspeare, and taught them even to act one of his plays, which was a bold thing to do in a pious dissenting household hitherto more familiar with Ralph Erskine's "godly sonnets" than with stage plays of any kind. From his brother's instructions William passed to Glasgow University; but what was his record there I do not know. Afterwards he seems to have studied theology in Edinburgh, for it was during those early years that he formed a close friendship with De Quincey, whose memory was dear to him to the end of his days. At that time the bright, little, eloquent opium-dreamer was in one of his many monetary troubles, and having gone to visit his lawyer on some business, had been asked to spend the night there, and prolonged his stay for several months, never going out of doors, seldom out of his bedroom. Robertson seems to have been acquainted with his host, and through him was introduced to his strangely interesting, and rather perplexing guest. I never heard any details of their intercourse, though he has often told me of the bright evenings he had in that old house in Prince's Streetnow swept away to make room for the Conservative Club. They were both night-birds, whose discourse grew brighter as the small hours of the morning passed, and I can easily picture the eager lad-for he was still in his teens-and the thoughtful, broken visionary

prolonging their talk till the sun began to gleam on Arthur's Seat, and loth to part even then, for in all their life neither of them was ever quite done with what he had to say. After his theological studies were finished, being still too young to be "licensed" as a preacher-for he was not yet of ageRobertson went to Germany, where he learnt church history from Neander, and made the acquaintance of Ulrici. Many years after, I think during the closing year of his life, these two met again for the last time, and he described to me with effusion the kindly greeting he had got from the old Shakspearian critic, who, after the lapse of more than forty years, had not forgotten the "kneipé" where they had discoursed of the Elizabethan drama together. In Germany he learnt much which he could not have learnt in Scotland-got new glimpses into theology, caught up the spirit of Hegel, and kept to it all his life, but, above all, came to know the great literature of its later days, and the new and serious art, too, which had its birth about those times. Perhaps this last had the strongest influence on his character, which was essentially artistic, embodying all its thoughts in pictures, and expressing them in rhythmic sentences.

Leaving Germany he travelled into Italy in company with two other youths, and got his first glimpse of the land of beauty in which he was to spend so many fruitful days ere the end. But it was only a glimpse at this time, for he must return home, and become a preacher, which he did, I think, when only twenty-one years old, soon getting settled in Irvine, where his whole ministerial life was passed. In those days it was a pretty little town on the river of the same name, with only a stretch of grey sand dunes between it and the sea, and the hills of Arran looming large in the golden twilights. It was not very different, I dare say, from what it had been when Burns came there, a simplehearted youth, to learn flax-dressing, and mend the poor fare in his father's house at Ayr; and there he met Highland Mary, the redeeming angel of his life, as well as Davie Sillar and others, who helped so much to wreck it. When Robertson went there, it had still a deal of old Scottish character to show-men and women whose humours added to his store of jest and tale. But he had a pastor's work specially to do there, and ere long his presence filled and pervaded the whole town. There was of course a parish kirk, and two free kirks, besides others of less weight; but his church very soon became the kirk of Irvine,

where people of all sorts came to get their souls fed and refreshed. I heard him preach there only once, in the handsome new church which he built, and which was not exactly in such pure taste as I should have expected from him; but his architect was a man of some genius, and not much culture, and on the whole he adapted Gothic architecture to preaching purposes, perhaps, as well as can easily be done. Robertson's church must be a place to speak in, and sing in, if it was to be of any use to him, and this had been managed along with a good deal of architectural efficiency. I do not remember much of his sermon that day. We had sat up too late the night before, singing old Latin hymns, and talking of new modern teachings, and I think he had made only a few notes on the backs of letters and other accidental scraps of paper. But I remember well how his musical voice rang through all the house, and its lowest notes were heard by a vast congregation, all eager not to lose a syllable, as he discoursed on the words, "There was silence in Heaven for the space of half an hour." What his line of thought was, I cannot now tell. But I remember a series of pictures, of the white horse, the red horse, the black horse, and the pale horse with its rider Death, and how the preacher declined to give any historic account of those symbols, but wrought out a high ethical purpose from the apocalyptic vision. That was the first time I heard him preach, and the effect he produced on me was exactly the same as I have often experienced since. It was not the power of eloquence, but of poetry. He was an improvisatore rather than an orator. You were not so much roused to action as rapt in wonder and delight, and as I listened, and thought that I had to preach in the afternoon, it seemed to me that I should be offering a glass of beer to people who had been quaffing at champagne all the morning.

I do not think he ever wrote either lecture or sermon in full. For essentially he was a speaker, or rather singer, and the subtler spirit in him was apt to evaporate in the process of writing. Certainly nothing of his I ever read possessed the wonderful charm of all that came from his lips. Of course, voice and look, and dramatic action, are always main elements in the power of an orator; and in his case they united to form quite a unique type of eloquence. But the difference between his speaking and his writing was so marked that I can only explain it on the principle that, never being meant for writing, it was spoilt by the mechanical pro

cess through which it was made to pass. People advised him often-after a long monologue on some favourite theme, I frequently entreated him to set down and prepare his bright suggestive thoughts for the press. But he never did, and latterly I came to the conclusion that he was right, and that the only way to save those thoughts from perishing would have been to keep a short-hand writer at his elbow. Only, the presence of such a chield "takin' notes" would most likely have tied his tongue. Certainly he needed a Boswell, and I often blame myself that, content with the pleasure he gave me, I never wrote down what I had heard. Had I done so, we should have had a book to-day that men would not willingly let die-a book of the higher art criticism that Ruskin would have rejoiced in, a book of theology that the Church would have held most precious. Those who did not know the man may naturally think I exaggerate, and that I see him large through the golden haze of affection and regret. How otherwise could one so gifted pass away, and leave so little trace that he ever had been? Yet I am sure that every one who ever met him even for a passing evening will endorse what I have said, and that multitudes, not in Scotland only, but in England and in Italy, will be ready to affirm that, if he has done little or nothing, he appeared to them capable of doing anything he chose.

It was often hoped that he might be persuaded to leave Irvine, and take some leading charge either in Glasgow or Edinburgh. But he could do what he liked with the good folk in Irvine. He could be frequently away from home, which was a necessity to him, and they were always delighted to see him back. A legal wit said, when he was called to that Church, that the Presbytery "might induct him into Irvine, but they could never settle him there." And it was true; he had to move about a good deal; people wished him to go here and there, and stir up their souls a bit; and besides, he needed, himself, to have frequent changes and large human fellowships. Therefore his heart clung to Irvine because it "gave him a longer tether" than he could well have got elsewhere, and so his first was also the only charge he ever had. In connection with one of these attempts to remove him, a story is told which well illustrates his ready and nimble humour. Dr. T., a brother minister and friend, undertook to sound him, before a certain influential congregation took any formal steps to "call" him. T. was very well fitted for this task,

but after spending a whole day had to give it up in despair. So he took his way home, and Robertson accompanied him to the train. Just as it was about to start, T. looked out of the window and said, "Well, you're a queer fish, Robertson," to which he got an instantaneous reply, "Well, you're a queerer fisher, T.," and the train steamed away. Many similar stories are told of his bright and nimble wit which never failed, and yet never stung. I have heard that one day, as Principal Caird, I think, was walking down Irvine High Street with him, a girl carrying a pat of butter came flying up to him, for girls everywhere, and girls of all ranks, took instinctively to him. After speaking a few words, he rejoined the Principal, who remarked, "I suppose that is one of the pillars of your church." "No," was the answer, "only a flying butt(e)ress." One rarely met him without carrying away some "small change" of this kind along with the heavier sums which he drew from the bank at will. And besides such trifles as these, he had commonly some fresh stroke of humour to provide laughter for a serious talk. Adven-tures happen to the adventurous, and the humorist is sure to meet with incidents to feed his humour. Thus, speaking one day in Glasgow City Hall to some three thousand children, after delighting them with a variety of stories, he thought it might be well to point the moral of one of them. He had hardly, however, begun to say, "Now, this teaches us," when a little ragamuffin in the front bench cried out, "Never mind what it teaches. Gie's another story." "Ilearnt from that rascal," he said, "to wrap the moral well in the heart of the story, not to put it as a sting into the tail. For stories are like pictures, and their lesson should be felt, but never obtruded." But humour is near of kin to pathos, and sometimes, after a long evening's talk, it was hard to say whether the outcome of it was mirth or sadness, he passed with such rapid alternation "from grave to gay, from lively to severe." I remember vividly an account he once gave me of the death of a young Scotch engineer at Pontresina, and his burial there under the snowy Alps on a wild stormy day, which touched me, I think, more than anything I ever heard. It is too long to repeat here, and besides, I should only mar it in the telling, so that all who heard it from his own lips will probably thank me for not "ploughing with his heifer," but leaving them the memory of his touching pathos unspoilt.

Thus the years sped on amid preaching,