sence.

His love for his people and for his "body" was a special love; and his
knowledge of the Secession, through all its many divisions and
unions,--his knowledge, not only of its public history, with its immense
controversial and occasional literature, but of the lives and
peculiarities of its ministers,--was of the most minute and curious
kind. He loved all mankind, and specially such as were of "the household
of faith;" and he longed for the time when, as there was one Shepherd,
there would be but one sheepfold; but he gloried in being not only a
Seceder, but Burgher; and he often said, that take them all in all, he
knew no body of professing Christians in any country or in any time,
worthier of all honor than that which was founded by the Four Brethren,
not only as God-fearing, God-serving men, but as members of civil
society; men who on every occasion were found on the side of liberty and
order, truth and justice. He used to say he believed there was hardly a
Tory in the Synod, and that no one but He whose service is perfect
freedom, knew the public good done, and the public evil averted, by the
lives and the principles, and when need was, by the votes of such men,
all of whom were in the working classes, or in the lower half of the
middle. The great Whig leaders knew this, and could always depend on the
Seceders.

There is no worthy portrait of my father in his prime. I believe no man
was ever more victimized in the way of being asked to "sit;" indeed, it
was probably from so many of them being of this kind, that the
opportunity of securing a really good one was lost. The best--the one
portrait of his habitual expression--is Mr. Harvey's, done for Mr. Crum
of Busby: it was taken when he was failing, but it is an excellent
likeness as well as a noble picture; such a picture as one would buy
without knowing anything of the subject. So true it is, that imaginative
painters, men gifted and accustomed to render their own ideal
conceptions in form and color, grasp and impress on their canvas the
features of real men more to the quick, more faithfully as to the
central qualities of the man, than professed portrait painters.

Steell's bust is beautiful, but it is wanting in expression. Slater's,
though rude, is better. Angus Fletcher's has much of his air, but is too
much like a Grecian God. There is a miniature by Mrs. Robertson of
London, belonging to my sister, Mrs. Young, which I always liked, though
more like a