well-nigh lost in his imaginary
character, so plain Dr. Moir was, in the literary world, merged in
'Delta' of Blackwood. But to the inhabitants of Musselburg he sustained
a character altogether different, and the gentle _Delta_ was only known
as one worthy of the title of 'the good physician.' I lived at
Musselburg two years, and had ample opportunities of personal
acquaintance. Dr. Moir was a man of highly benevolent countenance, and
of quiet and retiring manners. His practice was very extensive, and at
almost all hours he could have been seen driving an old gray horse
through the streets and suburbs of the town. The ancient character of
Musselburg seemed to have been as congenial to his temperament as
Nuremberg was to that of Hans Sachs. Indeed, in antiquity it can glory
over 'Auld Reekie,' according to the quaint couplet,--

'Musselboro' was a boro' when Edinburgh was nane;
Musselboro'll be a boro' when Edinburgh is gane.'

Moir was buried at Inveresk, where his remains are honored by a noble
monument; the memory of his genius will be cherished by all readers of
Blackwood. He died in 1854.

While engaged on the Encyclopedia to which we have made reference, I
made the acquaintance of McCulloch, the distinguished writer of
finances, who furnished the article on 'Banking.'

However distinguished may have been the position of this man in point of
talent, he failed utterly to command respect; and I chiefly remember his
coarse, overbearing tone of boastful superiority, and his abusive
language to the compositors who set up his MSS. That they found the
latter difficult of deciphering is not surprising, since the sheet
looked less like human calligraphy than a row of bayonets. McCulloch had
edited the '_Scotsman_' with decided ability, and having attracted the
attention of Lord Brougham, had received an appointment in the
stationer's office. But in his promotion he quickly forgot his humble
origin, and displayed his native vulgarity by lording it over the
craftsmen who gave form and life to his thoughts.

Among the giants of Scotland at that time, Thomas Chalmers ranked chief,
and the death of Sir Walter Scott had left him without a peer. I used to
meet him as he took his early walks, and in his loving way of greeting
youth he often bade me a cheerful good-morning. He was then living at
Kinghorn, about eight miles from Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers' robust stature
was in keeping with the power of his intellect. He was of