244 A SUNDAY IN CHEYNE BOW. 



some trace of them in books, in society, in politics, 

 he saw only barrenness and futility. He was an 

 idealist who was inhospitable to ideas ; he must have 

 a man, the flavor and stimulus of ample concrete per- 

 sonalities. " In the country," he said, writing to his 

 brother in 1821, " I am like an alien, a stranger and 

 pilgrim from a far distant land." His faculties were 

 " up in mutiny, and slaying one another for lack of 

 fair enemies." He must to the city, to Edinburgh, 

 and finally to London, where, thirteen years later, 

 we find his craving as acute as ever. " Oct. 1st. 

 This morning think of the old primitive Edinburgh 

 scheme of engineer -ship ; almost meditate for a mo- 

 ment resuming it yet! It were a method of gaining 

 bread, of getting into contact with men, my two 

 grand wants and prayers," 



Nothing but man, but heroes, touched him, moved 

 him, satisfied him. He stands for heroes and hero- 

 worship, and for that alone. Bring him the most 

 plausible theory, the most magnanimous idea in the 

 world, and he is cold, indifferent, or openly insult- 

 ing ; but bring him a brave, strong man, or the rem- 

 iniscence of any noble personal trait, sacrifice, obe- 

 dience, reverence, and every faculty within him 

 stirred and responded. Dreamers and enthusiasts, 

 with their schemes for the millennium, rushed to him 

 for aid and comfort, and usually had the door slammed 

 in their faces. They forgot it was a man he had ad- 

 vertised for, and not an idea. Indeed, if you had the 

 blow-fly of any popular ism or reform buzzing in 



