London Days

heart that made one forget the raw weather. I thought the sun was shining and the skies blue when

r. One morning I encountered him as he was beating eastward against half a gale, his cape flying, his cloud of white hair tossing against his big-

that of me? Ho, ho, ho!" And then he trolled a "Hi-ti-rumty-tum", snatching an air, as his habit was, from a hal

Latin, Gaelic, German, English-all are one to me. I borrow the words that come read

If he had not been so musical and so merry you might have called him Scotland incarnate. Doubtless he was that, with the music and merriment added. As for character, even Scotland never produced a nobler one, nor set it in a more imposing figure, or in a grander head. Scholar, poet, philosopher, teacher, learner, political writer, lover of the cla

he envelope he had written a line of Greek, as his custom was. This time it was an adjuration: "Speak the truth in love." But who could speak o

oining room. I had hoped to find him alone. The prospect of a luncheon party dampened my ardour. But when the maid condu

the laughin' men! I like them. Try a man; will he no' laugh, or

but in no other respect resembling a mythological being. His head was crowned, not with laurel, but with a wide-brimmed Panama or leghorn hat, beneath which streamed his long whit

llings and sixpence, first class. The quickest travelling in the world, and the cheapest. That's one thing the auld Greeks could na' do. Fol-de-rol-de-rol-de-ri. Progress, progress; I believe in it. I 'm a mar

d in German, or gave the dear twist of Scotland to his words, or, when he thought there had been en

f a hat's brim. Eighty-five and no glasses! The only proof I 'm eighty-five is the almanac. There 's no proof

t as well as he knew English; he read modern Greek newspapers; he had the best Greek library in the kingdom

, bonny Scotland for me. A man should

a joint. "Never mind, never mind," said he, and then in a chant, "hey nonny, hi nonny." Pause. Then "Come off, old boy," and a wing a

mple," said I, referrin

e has n't perform

th your old friend

t met. How many tens of years ago was that? We have been discussing ever since. Yes, forty ye

t," he said. He was not a good talker, if good talk means keeping up your end in conversation. He kept up more than his end. He was always ready for a monologue. He did n't converse, he exploded. His utterances were volcanic. There would come an eruption of short sentences b

look the Lord Jesus Christ in the face! You are doing it in America, too. You are as bad as

nd, if possible, to enter into familiar relations with a truly great man. For this is to know what manhood means, and a manly life, not by grave precept, or wise proverb, or ideal picture; but to

d college at twelve and the University of Edinburgh at fifteen. At the latter place he studied under John Wilson ("Christopher North"). At Aberdeen he had the best Latin instruction of his time. There they were famous Latinists. At t

Goethe. I told him so, and found that others thought so. But Bunsen had a sweeter mouth than Goethe. My fat

wyer. Aberdeen University made me its Professor of Latin Literature, and I kept at that till 1852, when Edinburgh appoi

hell of his life. It said n

you 'll find it less important to know what a man has done than to know wh

lackie's achievements are not to be measured by phrases. He was one of the strong teachers of men. Many men now celebrated have told me that they studied under him and learned little G

If Scotland had a hall in which he did not lecture on Burns, on Goethe, on Scottish Song, Education, Government-to his lis

writing to them. I have written thirty or forty volumes, if you count t

ller told me that your 'Self-Culture'

public, but for my students; and

hlands", "Musa Burschicosa", "Songs and Legends of Ancient Greece", "Scottish Song", "Poetical Tracts", and so on. The public had seemed to like them. And the public of Edinburgh must have found some attraction in his novel "Altavona", for, he said, "They

purred gently: "I don't know Ireland! I've been there only once!" That was a fair hit

very Scotsman should know them all. I suppose it was patriotism even more than a love of learning that impelled

he windows. "Look there," said he, pointing to the big window of the dining room, "the sun's out, and you can see the Fife Hills. I see them about three ti

tic Blackie," said the original, "the Blackie who loves to roam hills and glens. Yon is Blackie militant," pointing to a severer portrait on the opposite wall. "A very different person, as you see. A painter can show only

pause to look at a portrait, while my energetic host threw out an explanatory phrase whimsically abbreviating the names of the men he liked best. "Tom," said he, "Tom Carlyle, a tyrannical genius who did a lot of good in a hard way. Bobbie," and he stopped before a portrait of Burns, "Bobbie was a ploughman

. Sir Henry Irving as Becket had a chair. Blackie stopped in front of him. "That's a man who has done a great work," said he. "The people require amusement, and Irving has amused them nobly. Ah, you see Mary Anderson over there. A marvellous sweet woman. Scott's next to her on that w

self. An engraving of Gladstone stood beneath, on the floor. "Wrong! It's the wrong order," said he. "We must change i

oms lined with books. "This is where I live," he said. "Seven thousand volumes hereabout. See the Gre

ld interest you. They are fresh from Athens; not a week old." And then he read aloud from them, a bit of politics, an advertisement, lines from the bargain counter, as

oughts. He had done that sort of thing all his teaching life, and that was why men said they learned but little Greek from him, but absorbed streams of wisdom. They would say that when t

hat, blue dressing-robe, and trailing red sash. If I picture him as I saw him then, going about the house in his queer gear and genially nicknaming great folk in the intervals of snatches of song, you are not to think of him as merely an eccentric and entertaining old gentleman. He was very much at his ease, and he made me feel happily so. He was natural man without a pose, without an affecta

He lectured for some society of young men. His theme was Love. Whe

nd come and preach it to us nex

reach the Gospel for money? I 'll preach

wanted their lectures peppered with piety. They had their suspicions of laughter. Blackie bubbled over with good spirits. Others might make the public sigh and weep; he knew that it is better to make them laugh; that if you make them "fee

His "Letters, Poems, and Pensées" appeared subsequently in a volume edited by Professor Drummond, a memorial volume circulated privately. It was with Professor Drummond's permission that I published, years ago, an extract from one of Barbo

kie talk of foreign travel, of the pictures it gives to hang forever in one's after-study; and as the brave old snowy head falls b

lla' interrupt his thought. But it only breaks to flower forth again more beautiful, as he talks first of Italy, its grace we lack so in Scotland, its lack of sternness we could so well supply; its few great hearts alive and active, its multitudes asleep and slow; then of its n

ool; and such happy definitions, and such funny 'pokes' with the mind and the walking-stick, and such instructive similes and amusing infor

understanded of them, he breaks into a beautiful Gaelic lament, while the whole little audience stands open-mo

e are four things a man must love-children, flowers, woman,' and, must I say it? 'wine.' He went on to tell me how hateful and horrible a natur

in man, to sink to the beasts which perish, or to rise to heaven itself? He did not deny that the heart was deceitful and desperately wicked, but should we not call o

passionate...' So I got no lists of authors or works. 'Read where you are thinking; don't read where you are not feeling.' This and much more on war, churches,

e afternoon tea and raillery between him and my mother. Then they packed into the pony phaeton-my professor a perfect pic

to tea, man!" he urged, when I said I must be going, that there would be just tim

e, his leghorn flapping, his sash-ends trailing on the stairs. There were volcanic salutations t

rget-Aristotle, Shakespeare, Goeth

s, as he stood in the open doorway, singin