unities of displaying and
enjoying its powers.

He was sober in other things besides drink, could be generous on
occasion, but was careful of his siller; sensitive to fierceness
("we're uncommon _zeelyous_ the day," was a favourite phrase when any
church matter was stirring) for the honour of his church and minister,
and to his too often worthless neighbours a perpetual moral protest
and lesson--a living epistle. He dwelt at the head of big Lochend's
Close in the Canongate, at the top of a long stair--ninety-six steps,
as I well know--where he had dwelt, all by himself, for
five-and-thirty years, and where, in the midst of all sorts of
flittings and changes, not a day opened or closed without the
well-known sound of _Jeems_ at his prayers,--his "exercise,"--at "the
Books." His clear, fearless, honest voice in psalm and chapter, and
strong prayer, came sounding through that wide "_land_," like that of
one crying in the wilderness.

_Jeems_ and I got great friends; he called me John, as if he was my
grandfather; and though as plain in speech as in feature, he was never
rude. I owe him much in many ways. His absolute downrightness and
_yaefauldness_; his energetic, unflinching fulfilment of his work; his
rugged, sudden tenderness; his look of sturdy age, as the thick
silver-white hair lay on his serious and weatherworn face, like
moonlight on a stout old tower; his quaint Old Testament exegetics,
his lonely and contented life, his simple godliness,--it was no small
privilege to see much of all this.

But I must stop. I forget that you didn't know him; that he is not
your _Jeems_. If it had been so, you would not soon have wearied of
telling or of being told of the life and conversation of this "fell
body." He was not communicative about his early life. He would
sometimes speak to me about "_her_," as if I knew who and where she
was, and always with a gentleness and solemnity unlike his usual gruff
ways. I found out that he had been married when young, and that "she"
(he never named her) and their child died on the same day,--the day of
its birth. The only indication of married life in his room, was an old
and strong cradle, which he had cut down so as to rock no more, and
which he made the depository of his books--a queer collection.

I have said that he had what he called, with a grave smile, _family_
worship, morning and evening, never failing. He not only sang his
psalm, but gave out or chanted _the line_ in great