Concluding Summary

In conducting the narrative part of our labour which has now been brought to a close, we have chosen to introduce general sketches of mind and manners, wherever they seemed to be naturally suggested; and this has made it less necessary to aniiex a formal and extended delineation of character. Yet there are some points which require a concluding notice, such as we shall now attempt in the way of general summary; with the full conviction that in no part of our task is there so much danger of being misled by a filial bias. A sense of this has led us in the preceding chapter to borrow from others expressions of eulogy much stronger than we durst use in our own person.

Of those who peruse this narrative some were personally conversant with him of whom it treats; but of these the greater part remember only his years of decline. To most his very figure reappears in memory as bowed down with age. A small number can recall the image of one who was bright and buoyant and whose frame beyond most was informed with a spirit of life. The universal testimony of aged persons is that in his youth he possessed a high degree of manly beauty. His stature, which was precisely live feet and seven inches, was certainly not commanding, but his limbs were shapely and well compacted, and the whole impression was that of symmetrical balance. His walk and motions were too much swayed by the inward pulses of feeling to be either staid or graceful. But the head was unquestionably one to be remembered. A high and spacious forehead, receding into deep angles among an abundance of nutbrown hair, an eye of dark hazel, a delicately chiseled nose, a mouth of singularly variable expression before the ravages of age had caused it to fall in, and a complexion of uncommon delicacy and transparence, combined to produce a physiognomy which no one of numerous portraits has reproduced. But the dead face was nothing. There was a lighting up of the speaking surfaces by the internal glow, which continued long after the grace of contour and colour had departed. This was a large part of that eloquence, which was felt in his conversation and public discourses. The gleam of his piercing eye, sometimes rapidly roving, but often long fixing itself with a peculiar search of expression, added indescribably to the effect of what he uttered.* And there were times when an illumination overspread ’ his features, under strong emotion, which we have very seldom seen. As days advanced, he became more wrinkled and haggard; his teeth were early lost; and he acquired a stoop in the shoulders. In his latest years, he had better health and even grew fleshy, but except the eye and the expression, there was little to remind of his former self.

The most formidable threatenings of his health were in his early life. The middle portion, as we have already stated, was annoyed by numerous dyspeptic and nervous symptoms, which caused discomfort rather than alarm. He never had a greater sense of health than in the years immediately preceding his last illness. This is wonderful, when we recur to his fixed habit of taking no exercise. He was far from prescribing this method to others, but either some obscure instinct pointed out to him the course which in his case would conduce to longevity and comfort, or the strength of original stamina availed to overmaster a series of influences which in ninety-nine instances out of a hundred would have proved fatal. We certainly never knew any one who quaffed the cup of mere physical life with more zest than he, in the moments when he was exempt from the depressions already often mentioned. And it was delightful cause of thankfulness to their children that their beloved mother retained to so unusual a length of days her youthful freshness and animation. They were early risers and plain livers, but perfectly free from all dietetic hobbies and whimsies.

In recalling the natural traits and character of Dr. Alexander, all persons seem at once to alight on his remarkable simplicity. It is a quality which defies description. We believe that no child could be more free from affectation. It was no fruit of study, principle or purpose; it was naked nature. In all our lives we never saw any one who so completely did just what he liked; and yet without cynicism or invasion of others. He was what he appeared to be; if this gave offence — he could not help it. This naturalness showed itself in his dress, his carriage, his gesture, his tones, his style of writing. In early life he was shy and bashful, and there was always a discernible trace of this. Though his tell-tale face generally revealed his feelings, he had a great talent of silence. There were some things of which he never spoke; as of his pecuniary affairs, his invitations to important posts, his devotional exercises, his success in preaching. Secrets confided to him were buried in the grave.

We suppose him to have been a man of true modesty. Not only in a sense which we lament to say requires to be recommended — for we believe no one ever heard him relate a story which might not have fallen from a virgin’s lips — but in the common acceptation of moralists. He uniformly shrunk into the back ground. He neither sought praise nor tolerated it; but this he was wont to ascribe more to a sort of pride than to humility. He in no instance ran after the great, or addicted himself to the ministry of the rich and famous, or sat prominent on platforms, or shouldered himself into the van of popular enterprises. It is believed that he lost nothing in favour or even reputation by such a reserve. Men of the world were often struck by a self-retirement which is so uncommon. This was well expressed by that great ornament of the legal profession, George Wood, Esq., of New- York. In speaking of Daniel Webster, this learned jurist and acute observer says:” The people can distinguish between pride or ostentation and that kind of retired habit which results from diffidence or deep reflection. Some of the most retired men I have ever known have been the most free from vanity and pride. Witness the late Dr. Alexander of Princeton,

43 one of the most modest men that ever lived; yet no one ever approached him without the conviction that he was a truly great man.”* That he was reserved is certain; that he was sometimes silent and distant has often been said; but it ought to be added that in such silence there was no assumption of dignity, and not a vestige of sullenness. When he shrunk into himself, it was from some great burden on his spirits; for in the presence of the, very same persons he would suddenly come out of his temporary gloom with a spring and suddenness as fitful as the moods of infancy. No man had less of what may be called moroseness.

The kindliness of his temper was known to all with whom he ever exchanged hospitalities. He was easily pleased, and even to an extreme ready to be interested in whatever interested a friend. If his host were a farmer, he was untiring in looking at his grounds, crops and stock; if he were a scholar, quite as much delighted with his library or his writings. Every where he was the welcomed friend of children; among them he became a child himself. In his own house these traits of course manifested themselves in a thousand ways which cannot be exposed to the public. The sacredness of relation to a beloved wife does not admit of delineation; its tributes of affection were infinitely above the blandishments of a juvenile attachment. They were all the world to each other; and each had that which was complementary of the other’s character. Surely never were there children on happier terms with their parents. They reverenced their father,

* Speech of George Wood, Esq., before a Committee of the friends of Daniel Webster, New-York, May 1852, page 10.

but their approach to him was perfectly free. His door was always open, and he listened to every childish report and narrative, with a burst of unaffected glee such as they never can forget or see again. In earlier years he joined in their sports, and he never grew too old to be as loquacious as themselves about all their innocent pleasures. When one of them entered his study — always without a signal — how gaily, how brightly, would he look around from his pen or his book; and how would the smile caused by any little domestic story irradiate his face, even when he went on with his labour! There was nothing in his character which so much caused his loss to be felt in the circle of his intimates as this unfeigned sympathy with what was interesting to those around him. It was an intense humanity, which enlivened all his words, gestures and acts. This kept him to the very close freely acquainted with passing events, as well of the village and neighbourhood as of the Church and world. It shone out in his regards for his pupils. Every new student was reported at the fireside. He habitually looked on them all with a benignant allowance, and took no pleasure in descanting on their faults; indeed his judgment of them leaned towards the side of undue favour. He followed them in their wanderings, and met them after the lapse of years with hearty and often loud salutations. From all this it may be gathered that in his brighter days, and these were the more numerous, he lived in a perpetual state of genial animation. The reverse was always to be traced to physical causes, and to the morbid susceptibility of a temperament suspended on nerves which trembled at a breeze. Connected with this exuberance of feeling was the childlike sincerity and transparent candour, which did not even know how to adopt a mask. If the playfulness of his evening hours admitted of description, it would add unusual colours of interest to our imperfect sketch. These peculiarities often surprised new acquaintances, who had previously known him only from his works, and who approached him as a man of learning and a grave divine.

The mental elasticity of which we have spoken had its share in all the labours of his research and all his attainments of knowledge. In new fields he evinced for many years the inquisitiveness of boyhood. According to the report of his friends, this was what attracted the attention of his teachers while he was in early youth. It is true they descried also the promise of faculties which were yet to be developed. His powers seem to have attained maturity in the morning of his life. No extravagance or indiscretion has been charged upon his language or preaching at the age of nineteen. To estimate the quality and force of his mind with entire justice, Would demand perhaps a biographer of fewer prepossessions. We think we reflect the opinions of other and wise judges, when we ascribe to him natural powers much above the common order. In no other way can we account for his having emerged so early into general esteem, not to say admiration, from amidst an unlettered circle and in the face of great difficulties. Whatever position he attained was without his own seeking; and as truly without the adventitious aids of variegated diction and oratorical display * and this p<> u: m was more firmly held in the estimate of none than of those who knew him most closely.

From his earliest days his memory was remarkable, as we have had occasion to say before. It was not however the memory of words or any conventional signs. But in regard to faces, localities, historical events, the opinions of authors and classes of men, the sources of knowledge, and above all whatever was held together by a logical thread, his recollection almost surpassed belief. We have heard him say that any interpretation of a biblical passage, if once fixed in his mind, never left it. To this may be added acuteness and perspicacity, in regard to obscure and entangled objects and their intricate relations. The patience of his investigation on such subjects was very great. He loved to ponder long, without book or pen, and often with eyes closed or in darkness, upon the trains of metaphysical and theological argument, which afterwards became the staple of his instructions. This persistency of meditation was the more wonderful in one who was so much moved by impulse and so given to ardent sallies. If we understand the term, he was eminently a close thinker. He weighed his terms, as the instruments of thought, and dwelt long on the sequence of apparently clear propositions. Hence he was slow in coming to his conclusions on important matters. He recommended and practised the survey of a wide field in order to safe inductions. To mental labours so arduous he was prompted by a sincere love of truth. And the consequence was, that if he attained a reputation for any one quality, it was sound judgment. Whatever may have been ascribed to him, he was never accused of rashness in the formation of his opinions. After such processes, it was natural that he was not subject to hasty changes. His system of philosophy and theology took its form early in life, and was avowed by him with firmness on his dying bed. When his thoughts were brought to bear on practical matters and questions of action, the same qualities displayed themselves, in the way of what is justly denominated wisdom. We have already observed that he was largely honoured as a sound adviser.

In the beginning of his ministry his discourses displayed a rich vein of imagination. Nothing would more exhibit the fertility of his invention, than the work of fictitious narrative to which allusion has been made. In his printed works there are few traces of this power. But when he preached in the free method which was most familiar to him, he would sometimes expatiate in descriptive flights which carried away his hearers. The characteristic caution of his mind, however, had early put him on his guard against the seductions of a faculty which however important, often works mischievous disturbance where the discovery of truth is in view; he therefore unquestionably pushed forward the discipline of his thoughts most signally in the direction of intellectual research and ratiocination.

Enough has been said to show that his diligence was unwearied, until the very end of his course, and that he fell in the harness. He was always a busy man. None can remember him as ever idle or ever lounging. It was only when overtaken by the debility of age that he ever was accustomed to assume a reclining posture during the day, still less did he ever nod in his chair. From morning till night, year after year, when not engaged in devotion or some social intercourse, he was reading or writing. Every one marvelled that his organs could hold out. His vacations were not less occupied than the regular terms of study.

There appears to be a discrepance of statement among his friends, as to the nature and amount of his attainments; as these have been looked at from different points of view. Some have declared them to have been deep rather than extensive; others have reversed the statement. Those who knew them best regard both as true, in a certain sense. From his great avidity of knowledge and the rare versatility of his tastes and faculties, he was all his life a reader in various fields. With the exception of the modern languages and natural history, we know of no branches of science or literature which he did not cultivate, at some time or other. But in these widely separate domains he did not pretend to make exact or technical progress; in these therefore his researches could not be said to be profound. In a certain round of sciences, however, he penetrated with a thoroughness and minute accuracy of detail which it would be difficult to exaggerate. We refer to the Scriptures, to theology in all its parte, and to the preparations and auxiliaries of these. The Philosophy of the Mind and Moral Science were his perpetual study. On these he constantly exercised his thoughts; and if there was any department of knowledge in which he excelled, it was the observation of his own mental states and exercises. In regard to this branch of philosophy, he was acquainted with all that could be obtained from ancient and modern authors, and was able with distinctness to rehearse the tenets of masters and of schools,

Of his long continued studies in theology we have already given some account. Scarcely less versed was he in history, both civil and ecclesiastical. To which may be added his attainments in bibliography, physical and political geography, and in politics and general law as connected with morals. On all these matters, the only wonder is, that the mass of his reading had not overwhelmed the original vigour of his understanding. In all these his attainments may be declared to have been profound.

In the communication to others of all that he knew he took great delight, as has been stated in the narrative. So far as we know, there is but one testimony as to his colloquial powers. He was not a perpetual or an exacting talker. There were days when his mouth was sealed; and in his free moments he had also his times of reserve. He never allowed himself to become the haranguer of a coterie, and in large companies was with difficulty drawn out. When he did speak, it was without the tone or mien of the orator. Yet thousands will remember the instructive entertainment and awakening derived from his colloquial flow. This was chiefly opened in his own family circle, and at the houses of his friends. The peculiar hilarity and rapidity and variety of his household discourse can scarcely be represented; in his later days he had strong points of resemblance in these respects to Mr. Gallatin and Chancellor Kent. There were the same sudden transitions and the same dashes of humour. At times, when he gave himself scope and yielded to strong emotion, these utterances were scarcely different from his great pulpit efforts. As he evidently talked for the simple purpose of unbosoming his present sentiments, the range of his remark was extensive; he talked of every thing that interested him, but chiefly of that which had last awakened his mind. The most serious studies of the morning were often given out in distillation to his household and friends. He rehearsed the history of his contemporaries and the stirring news of the day. But he gave himself up to the current of topics, and seldom forced his own subject on others. It was his universal practice to converse with visitors on those things with which they were most familiar. By this means he enabled them to show their best side, while he was gaining stores of varied information, in regard to new countries and remote places and people. When a clergyman or a new student came from some region concerning which he knew little, this examinatory process was sometimes carried on for hours; and the results were sure to be given out again with minuteness and animation, at the next fireside meeting. Indeed such was his love of communicating with his friends, that in these cases he would often come with immense haste and glowing features into the parlour, and with pen in hand keep the floor for a good half hour in relating the cheering intelligence; darting back to his books with an amusing precipitation.

His sense of the ludicrous was acute; hence he was a delightful listener to all entertaining visitors, and a hearty laugher of the best old school. Dr. Rice, himself a very grave man, Dr. Speece, Dr. John Breckinridge and Dr. Young, possessed a great power over his feelings in this respect. The number of visitors in his study was so large as often to become a sort of levee, at which whole forenoons were consumed, in the most cheerful intercourse; nor did he ever consider this as lost time, always preferring the converse of the living to that of the dead. The humblest callers at his door, not excepting beggars, engaged him in long and animated dialogues. These were frequently wound up with an extended and pungent exhortation to the new comer. There was an old stroller, who came at short periods, and received a frown at many a house, but who always found Dr. Alexander ready to question and advise him. One of his choicest refreshments was to chat with children, and he had the faculty of winning their confidence in a moment. It was very uncommon for the hours of meals to be passed without free and full conversation. It is hardly needful to say that none of these colloquies disclosed any desire of display. He was a great questioner, it must be confessed, but not with a view of either gauging or puzzling others; it was to increase his own stores, and he was always inquiring and always learning. Of set and formal religious conversation he practised little. Religion transpired through all his words and looks. Occasional remarks of a spiritual kind were ever and anon thrown in. When his heart was full, it ran over the brim; but he relied little upon studied exhortations in ordinary circles. In private he often, almost daily, discoursed to individuals on the most sacred and confidential parts of experimental religion. To the doubting, desponding and bereaved, he was always a soothing and welcome visitor. By the bedside of those who were ill or dying, he attained an elevation of consolatory power which has made many such occasions memorable for a lifetime. The tenderness of his heart made him a reluctant reprover; but when he opened his lips for this purpose his words were keen and scorching, often we suppose beyond his intention. It is to be added, that his love of conversation and his social faculties abode in perfect strength, until he was on the very verge of the grave.

From his conversation the transition is easy to his preaching, which was, more than can be said of most, an expansion of his ordinary discourse. It is a topic which we have touched upon more than once; our purpose now is only to gather together a few additional remarks and reminiscences. The true notion of Dr. Alexander’s preaching will not be obtained, unless we consider elevated conversation as the root out of which it grew. Protract the remarks, enlarge the circle of auditors, give correspondent stimulation to mind and feeling, and all the rest follows of course. Though a theologian, and that of the sterner and stricter sort, he did not deliver theological lectures from the pulpit. Formal and elaborate argumentation on doctrinal points was not common in his sermons. It is true, he expounded and defended the great doctrines of the faith, but it was in a method which was homiletical and popular, rather than scholastically didactic. Nothing could be more unlike his doctrinal sermons than the dry and attenuated diatribes of certain metaphysical divines of the last century. It was the Scottish school of sermonizing which he most nearly approached; varieties of which may be studied in Finley, Davies and Waddel. Even when his object was to establish doctrine, he preferred the textual method. His division and treatment of the subject were generally governed by the text. Any figure which it contained was apt to colour the whole discourse.

There is a testimony here to be added, which from the eminent source from which it flows will not fail to command the respect of every reader. It is from Joseph Henry, LL. D., the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institute.*

PROFESSOR HENRY TO THE AUTHOR.

“Smithsonian Institution, “Washington, )
January 31, 1854. J

“My Dear Sir : —

“Your letter requesting my recollections of your lamented father was duly received, but a pressure of business connected with the annual meeting of the Board of Eegents has prevented me from answering it before this evening.

“It gives me much pleasure to recall to my mind the first discourse I heard him deliver. It was a simple and apparently unpremeditated exposition of truths highly important to the young, and admirably adapted to the students of the college to whom it was addressed. I say apparently unpremeditated, though it must have been the result of much previous reflection in the way of settling definitely in his mind important general principles.

“I think Dr. Alexander had a remarkable faculty of philosophic generalization, and it was this that made him em-

* This admirable letter, though pertinent here, would have found its exact connection better at an earlier place; but it came to our hands while this very page was going through the press.

phatically a full man. He was enabled to discourse by the hour, not from mere memory, but in the way of deduction from the general truths which he had made his own, and which he was in the habit of applying to the conduct and duties of life. For example — in the discourse to which I have alluded; he discussed the great principle of the permanency of early impressions upon the character, of the philosophy of habit, the importance of a good reputation commencing with the boy, of the negative influence of a single bad act committed in a moment of thoughtlessness which might neutralize almost a life of benevolent action; of the influence possessed by every individual, and of the responsibility connected with it.

“He had studied in early life the subject of mental philosophy, and had adopted the principles of the inductive method. All ideas he considered as derived from sensation or consciousness, and without attempting to explain the essence of mind or of matter, he contented himself with a knowledge of the laws of their phenomena, and with referring these to the will of the Creator of the universe. All knowledge superior to this was derived from revelation, the truths of which, however mysterious and beyond reason, he adopted with implicit confidence. He was much interested in all questions of physical science, and particularly in the researches in which I was engaged. All his conceptions of truth were simple and clear. His was not a mere speculative faith, or a theoretical system of Christian duty, but one which was eminently reduced to practice. He taught by his example as well as by his precepts, and his influence will long live after him, not only in his published works, but in the memory of his pupils, and in its effect on the character and conduct of all who enjoyed the pleasure and profit of his quaintance.

“I consider it one of the most happy circumstances of my life, that I was permitted so long to enjoy the acquaintance and friendship of so good and so great a man, and to live under his influence.

“I remain, very truly, your friend and servant,

“Joseph Henry.”

Experimental, casuistical, practical, consolatory preaching, may be said to have been the field of his strength. In dissecting the heart, unravelling long trains of experience, discovering hidden refuges, holding the mirror up to self-deceiving souls, and flashing rays of gracious hope on the lingering and self-righteous, he was equalled by few. He gloried in preaching a free Gospel. The longer he lived, the more wide, cordial and generous was his offer of Christ to the chief of sinners. Not for an instant was he ever tempted to join with those who, because of the abuses of Antinomianism, would tamper with sovereign boundless gratuitous salvation, or hang legal weights on the wings of ascending faith. So high a value did he set upon the maintenance of an awakened interest among hearers, that he never entered on any avowed series of discourses, or wearied out his auditors by numerous sermons on the same text. Here his practice concurred with the reported remarks of Cecil, in his Remains. The strong historical, we might even say biographical turn of his mind, led him to dwell much on scriptural personages. Surviving hearers will remember his portraitures of Abraham and Joseph, of Kuth, Eli and Hannah, of Josiah and Daniel, of Paul and John. In connection with the same trait, he was uncommonly large in his delineation of individual types of Christian life, or what may be called characteristic preaching. Here he evinced his delicate acquaintance with the anatomy of saint and sinner. The outline was firm and unmistakable, and the hues bright and decided. Such pictures of particular experience dwell in the recollection of his hearers, who often felt the probe entering their consciences to the very quick. To sum up what concerns the matter of his preaching, he set forth the whole system of Divine truth, with a felicitous mixture of doctrine and experience; not separately but intimately blended; the didactic warp being traversed by a woof of variegated emotion; the steel links of reasoning being often red with the ardours of burning love.

Modes of preparation for preaching are always matter of lively interest to preachers; and it is wonderful how much they differ. Dr. Alexander was never accustomed to tell of his own ways, or to enjoin them upon others. Perhaps he was extreme in his disposition to let every man “scuffle through his experiment,” as he used to call it, so as to alight on the plan which was best for himself. His written sermons were his later ones. For the most part they were the reproduction of trains of thought which he had arranged in his head many years before. It is not known that his mode of bringing these to paper had any thing peculiar. He was fond of saying, that if he wished to produce a discourse better than common, on a new subject, he should like to write away as fast as he could, and even voluminously. This he called getting the rock out of the quarry. During this process he thought two good results were pretty sure to ensue. One was that the writer would strike on some “rich vein” (another of his phrases) out of which he might draw the chief wealth of his discourse; the other was, that he would find the rudiments of a method and partition emerge out of this at first chaotic mass. Then, and not till then, he thought the arrangement should be completed; and then he would sit down and put the sermon into its final form, by an entire new writing. This device no doubt originated in his longpractised method of thinking long and arduously on the topics which he meant to discuss without notes. His written sermons however are but the bony structure of his preaching; they lack the illustrations, descriptions, flight and pathos of his freer productions.

It has been said, even to repetition, that his chosen method of preparation was independent of the pen. Mr. G-allatin once said to us: “I know nothing of what is called growing warm in writing. In my most elaborate speeches, I have prepared the matter mentally; and when I have had to write, I have frequently walked up and down the floor, and collected my material and given it shape and diction, just as if I were speaking off-hand,” In our belief, this would be a just description of Dr. Alexander’s experience. Long and silent meditation preceded his great efforts. In this he declared that he dismissed all consideration of the language to be employed, deliberately thinking that this would suggest itself best during delivery. Neither did he prearrange the exact sequence of sentences or even of propositions; leaving the mind free to work in new directions while speaking. He used to declare that he preferred not to burden his mind with the recollection of a single expression which had occurred to him in his study. Such was his faculty of abstraction and concentration, that these preparatory lucubrations were conducted in walking, riding, or even sitting among his children. He would say laughingly that he often could think to most purpose, when there was a little clatter of voices around him. Hence it was surprising to observe how little he shut himself up before preaching; when he did so, it was with a devotional end in view. He was a great advocate of habitual, as distinguished from special preparation. His individual sermons were chapters from a very copious volume in his head. Though he seldom spoke of these things, he once told us, that being about to preach on a text from that part of Scripture, he had rapidly perused the whole epistle to the Hebrews; and at another time that he had in like manner read the whole Gospel of John over in Greek, on the Sunday morning. On a single point, our recollections vary from those of some authorities to whom we defer with high respect. It strikes us that in general, he not only divided his subject with distinctness, but declared the heads of his argument. The other mode we regard as the exception to his common rule. This is confirmed by a reference to his printed sermons and his manuscripts. He knew very little medium between reading closely, and speaking without any

44 notes. The bit of paper which he usually laid on the Bible scarcely deserves the name. It was seldom of more than ten lines, and was often not looked at; indeed he said that he used it as a precaution against a total loss of memory as to text, topic and plan, which used to befall him in his younger days. These scraps of writing were not intended as aids in preparation. We have no knowledge of his ever using what is called “a full brief,” He frequently ceased to read what he had prepared, and interpolated new trains of argument which occurred to him, and in other cases even did not return to his manuscript at all. This was true in regard to some of his most effective sermons, which were thus drawn out to as much as ninety minutes.

He never seemed to look on preaching from its literary or rhetorical side. To him it was a high spiritual function, and he approached it with much of the awe which had attended his first efforts. It is believed that some trepidation preceded every discourse which he delivered; as Luther reports concerning himself. Far more than is common, and beyond what he ever explicitly declared, he seems to have believed in special aids, elevations and illuminations, conferred on the preacher during his delivery of the message; such afflatus from the Spirit he was accustomed to distinguish from the personal graces of the preacher. These impressions doubtless brought his mind into a state highly susceptible of those gusts of sudden feeling, which sometimes swayed not only himself, but whole assemblies. Perhaps this, rather than any rhetorical canon, led him invariably to begin his discourse in the most simple, subdued, and if we may so speak, expectant manner. It was the tone of ordinary conversation on an important subject. Hardly any thing could be augured from his beginning. He allowed himself to rise and glow in a manner almost imperceptible. As might be expected, he did not always soar; but when he did, it was without effort and without abruptness. As he kindled, his language became more vivid, ornate, and powerful; it even acquired an elegant fitness and accuracy, which is not found in his writings. Towards the close of his greatest sermons, the audience was usually in a state of rapt attention; nothing was more common than for people to say that they would gladly have listened to him all day.

The style of his more impassioned preaching was indescribably warmer and more coloured than any thing which he has left in writing. Yet it was always simple, and cannot be better described than in words which Dr. Arnold uses of his own: “I am sure an attempt at ornament would make my style so absurd, that you would yourself laugh at it. I could not do it naturally, for I have now so habituated myself to that unambitious and plain way of writing, and absence of Latin words as much as possible, that I could not write otherwise without manifest affectation.” In his most elevated passages Dr. Alexander never indulged in the sweep of periodic and climacteric sentences. And as his style, such was his delivery. Gesture was forced from him, and was not undulatory or studiously graceful; he had no dread of the abrupt or the angular in his motions. Those who speak of his voice as shrill, must be governed by the remembrance of later days, when he could make himself heard furthest in his

upper notes. In youth and in his prime, his tones were silvery and his modulation exceedingly varied. The lower and even whispering modes of speech were often very effective. His inflections, especially at the close of sentences, were all his own, and were unlike those laid down in the books; it was an attempt to reproduce these which made some of his imitators quite ridiculous. The language of his eye was extraordinary, even to a proverb. He was wont to fix his glance on individual hearers, with a penetration which often produced painful shrinking. We have no remembrance of ever seeing him weep in preaching, even when almost a whole assembly was in tears. The impression upon his hearers was at times so extraordinary, that we do not allow ourselves to describe it in detail. One quality was never absent, whether he was gently familiar or suddenly impetuous; he maintained the unbroken interest of the assembly, however long he spoke. He once said of Summerfield, whom he greatly admired, that this wonderful young orator possessed the art of keeping up fixed attention and awakened expectation; and that it consisted in passing rapidly from point to point, never dwelling on a thought when once it was fully lodged, never beating his material too thin, and thus never allowing the hearer’s mind to get before him. It may be inferred from this that he depended little on rhetorical amplification. The beautiful illustrations which sometimes arose like visions before his audience, seldom held them long; but he often added scene to scene with, a felicity which was above all art, and which was evidently the result of thoughts suggested at the moment. It was manifest from his manner, that in addition to all he had preconceived, his mind was working strongly in new directions, while he was in the act of speaking. At such times his eye would fix itself on vacancy, or on some distant object, revealing by its peculiar expression that he had almost lost sight of his audience, and was expatiating in tracks of original musing. But we despair of conveying any precise notion of his peculiar manner to those who never heard him in the day of his unbroken physical vigour; especially as we cannot suppose that our ears were not held by the fascination of a filial partiality which cannot be largely shared, and which must be our excuse if we overstate the case.

In the period when he made preaching his great business, his labours were every where owned of Grod to the awakening and conversion of many souls; and all through his life such tokens were granted to him from time to time. Yet it is believed, that his work was far more remarkable in edifying the body of Christ, simplifying and enforcing the statements of doctrine, removing scruples, nourishing faith, stimulating to holy life, and consoling the tempted and distressed. In these fields, the effects of his labours, being more remote from public notice, are beyond all calculation, and must be left for the disclosures of the other world.

In closing our survey, we may be expected to say something of his personal piety; yet nowhere have we so much felt the burden of our task. If the general tenour of this narrative has not set him forth as one who was eminently sanctified, we should fail to reach this end by heaping up assertory declarations. If, as a genial writer has said, “we should be modest for a modest man, as he is for himself,” — reserve on this point is the more demanded; for of all the human beings we ever knew he was the most silent about his own personal experience. At certain times he entered into his closet, and shut the door, but in what manner he conducted his private exercises, no mortal, we believe, is competent to relate. In these hours he is thought to have made more use than is common of the original Scriptures. He had a way of chanting to himself the Hebrew Psalms; for many years using for this purpose a beautiful psalter, which was the gift of Dr. Hodge. From what was observed by his family, and from what he recommended to others, it is supposed that he spent much time in deliberate spiritual contemplation. His piety was to a remarkable degree blended with his system of truth. In his mind doctrine and experience were inseparable. This was consistent with the high place which he always assigned to spiritual understanding and to faith. He observed frequent days of entire seclusion, sometimes adding an abstinence which was almost rigorous.

Prudence was a prominent trait in his character. That this did not sometimes degenerate into excessive solicitude and caution, we will not assert. The courage of adventurous

daring, he possessed in his youth. The courage which enabled him to maintain his judgments, not only against all opponents but often against all friends, he might well claim all his days. It was kindred to his great sincerity, candour and love of truth. In his most unguarded moments, he was never known to exaggerate a statement. He was free from censoriousness of judgment, and scrupulous in speaking evil of any human being. Hence lie passed a long life, almost absolutely free from strife with any fellow-creature. If he had enemies, they are unknown to us. In all the circle of his acquaintance he was not more truly reverenced than loved.

Of nothing did he seem so much in dread as of pride. From numerous indirect statements, we judge it to be what he regarded as his easily besetting sin. Its outward manifestations were however as rare in him as in any man. It seems to us that his whole life was an arduous study of humility. While he was burdened with a sense of indwelling sin, he was eminently free from doubts as to his own acceptance with God. Though he never said so, we are persuaded that his habitual state of mind was one of confirmed assurance. His conversation, sermons and books show that he set the highest value on personal communion with the Lord Jesus Christ, as the very .heart of religion and happiness. On this subject, his sentiments often arose to a blissful rapture; something of which he was enabled to communicate to others

As practice is the great criterion of piety, we may confidently refer to this. His whole life was spent in an endeavour to do as much good as was within his power. Without unduly lifting the domestic veil, it would be impracticable to represent how gentle, how tender, how sympathizing, how anticipative of every emergency, how laborious, how delicate and yet how faithful, he was to those who were nearest to him. This kindliness extended itself to a wide circle. He was perpetually teeming with plans for the good of mankind. His inventive faculty, in regard to charitable schemes, was a striking trait in his character. A bare survey of the books and papers which he wrote, and the manner in which he applied his learning, suffices to show the benevolence of his soul.

There is reason to believe that during most of his life he suffered from inward struggles and temptations. Yet again and again did he come forth from his study radiant with spiritual refreshment. His religion was characteristically composing and tranquil. As he advanced in years he became more and more happy; until at the very close he was happiest of all. In those last hours his lips were unsealed on many points concerning which he had been as silent as the grave; and he revealed some glimpses of that “secret of the Lord” which had been his portion for years. All was symmetrical and consistent, and hence one of the chief difficulties of description. Of his entire course there was nothing more true to nature and to grace than its close. The intelligent tranquillity which there reigned was beyond any powers of recital. Mark the perfect man, and behold the

UPRIGHT; FOR THE END OF THAT MAN IS PEACE.