ll night.
Thirty years had passed; but that unforgotten melody, that dear bird's
song, gave him then as much true pleasure as when, to his wearied head
and heart, it was the matin hymn of Nature.

I remember once meeting him in Paternoster Row. He was inquiring his way
to Bread Street, Cheapside; and of course I endeavored to explain to
him, that, if he walked straight on for about two hundred yards and took
the fourth turning to the right, it would be the street he wanted. I
perceived him gazing so vague and unenlightened, that I could not help
expressing my surprise, as I looked earnestly at his forehead and saw
the organ of locality unusually prominent above the eyebrows. He took my
meaning, laughed, and said, "I see what you are looking at. Why, at
school my head was beaten into a mass of bumps, because I could not
point out Paris in a map of France." It is said that Spurzheim
pronounced him to be a mathematician, and affirmed that he could not be
a poet. Such opinion the great phrenologist could not have expressed;
for undoubtedly he had a large organ of ideality, although at first it
was not perceptible, in consequence of the great breadth and height of
his profound forehead.

More than once I met there that most remarkable man,--"martyr and
saint," as Mrs. Oliphant styles him, and as perhaps he was,--the Rev.
Edward Irving. The two, he and Coleridge, were singular contrasts,--in
appearance, that is to say, for their minds and souls were in
harmony.[I] The Scotch minister was tall, powerful in frame, and of
great physical vigor, "a gaunt and gigantic figure," his long, black,
curly hair hanging partially over his shoulders. His features were large
and strongly marked; but the expression was grievously marred, like that
of Whitefield, by a squint that deduced much from his "apostolic"
character, and must have operated prejudicially as regarded his mission.
His mouth was exquisitely cut. It might have been a model for a sculptor
who desired to portray strong will combined with generous sympathy. Yet
he looked what he was,--a brave man, a man whom no abuse could humble,
no injuries subdue, no oppression crush. To me he realized the idea of
the Baptist St. John; and I imagine the comparison must have been made
often.

In the pulpit, where, I lament to say, I heard Irving but once, and then
not under the peculiar influences that so often swayed and guided him,
he was undoubtedly an orator, thoroughly earnest in his