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watchword still among them, full of divine inspiration, of strength, and efficacy. His deep respect and tender love for humanity induced him and enabled him to become a friend to the laboring population of the city where he lived, such as they may hardly hope in each of their individual lives to find again.

With the strongest feeling for their peculiar trials, he had a wise and true perception of their duties and compensations; his sympathy for them never betrayed him into injustice to others, and the temperate soundness and manly sobriety of his judgment prevented his genuine and deep tenderness of feeling from ever becoming that species of pseudo-philanthropy, which, in its championship of the rights of one class, forgets the claims of all men, and becomes a bitter sort of social fanaticism, which has nothing in common with the spirit of Christ.

The death of this man was assuredly his own exceeding great reward. To all who knew him, it must be a life-long loss, but sadly softened by the remembrance of his excellence.



FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON was born in London, the 3d February, 1816. He had Scotch blood in his veins; his grandfather held a commission in the 83d or Glasgow Regiment, during the American war. Of his early life we know little; it seems to have been passed in considerable vicissitude. One fact is interesting for its clear foreshadowing of the man: when four years old he derived his chief pleasure from books; to the last he was an ardent, zealous student. He passed some years of his childhood at Leith Fort, where his father, a Captain of Artillery, was stationed. At nine we find him at the Grammar School of Beverley. Removed from this, he accompanied his parents to the Continent, residing chiefly in France; and at fifteen he entered the New Academy in Edinburgh, where, under Archdeacon Williams, he distinguished himself in Greek and Latin verse. After a year of the Academy, he attended the philosophical classes at the University, and prepared himself for the study of the Law.* The profession was uncongenial, his dislike to it grew upon him, and in a few months it was abandoned for the Army, to which he had a strong predilection.


He was of a military ancestry and a military family. To the end it was the heart of a soldier that beat within the delicate and shattered frame. "Those who have enjoyed his confidence, even of late years, can well understand the boyish ardor and enthusiasm with which he contemplated a military life. Despite extreme nervous sensibility, and an almost feminine delicacy of feeling, he


• Dr. Terrot, now Bishop of Edinburgh, acted as his private tutor.

was at heart brave, manly, intrepid, with a quick sym pathy for all that was noble, courageous, and unselfish with, as he himself expressed it, an 'unutterable admiration of heroic daring.'" Those who have read his Lectures on Poetry will not readily forget the ardor with which he relates the chivalry of our soldiers in Scinde, the strong sympathy by which he interprets the thoughts. they only felt, the fine burst of enthusiasm with which he defends war against the abuse of peace societies:

“Take away honor and imagination and poetry from war, and it becomes carnage. Doubtless. And take away public spirit and invisible principles from resistance to a tax, and Hampden becomes a noisy demagogue.. . Carnage is terrible. The conversion of producers into destroyers is a calamity. Death, and insults to. woman worse than death, and human features obliterated beneath the hoof of the war-horse, and reeking hospitals, and ruined commerce, and violated homes, and broken hearts—they are all awful. But there is something worse than death. Cowardice is worse. And the decay of enthusiasm and manliness is worse. And it is worse than death -ay, worse than a hundred thousand deaths when a people has gravitated down into the creed, that the 'wealth of nations' consists not in generous hearts

'Fire in each breast, and freedom in each brow'


in national virtues, and primitive simplicity, and heroic endurance, and preference of duty to life; not in MEN, but in silk, and cotton, and something that they call capital.' Peace is blessed. Peace, arising out of charity. But peace, springing out of the calculations of selfishness, is not blessed. If the price to be paid for peace is this, that wealth accumulate and men decay, better far that every street in every town of our once noble country should run blood!"

There must be many who yet remember the thrill of the words with which he prefaced Wordsworth's noble sonnet,

"It is not to be thought of that the flood:" "The moment was like that of the deep silence which precedes a

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