work, and,
beyond all question, deeply and solemnly impressed with the truths of
the mission to which he was devoted. At times, no doubt, his manner,
action, and appearance bordered on the grotesque; but it was impossible
to listen without being carried away by the intense fervor and fiery
zeal with which he dwelt on the promises or annunciated the threats of
the Prophets, "his predecessors." His vehemence was often startling,
sometimes appalling. Leigh Hunt called him, with much truth, "the
Boanerges of the Temple." He was a soldier, as well as a servant, of the
cross. Few men of his age aroused more bitter or more unjust and
unchristian hostility. He was in advance of his time; perhaps, if he
were living now, he would still be so; for the spirituality of his
nature cannot yet be understood. There were not wanting those who
decried him as a pretender, a hypocrite, and a cheat. Those who knew him
best depose to the honesty of his heart, the depth of his convictions,
the fervor of his faith; and many yet live who will indorse this
eloquent tribute of his biographer:--"To him, mean thoughts and
unbelieving hearts were the only things miraculous and out of Nature";
he "desired to know nothing in heaven or earth, neither comfort nor
peace nor any consolation, but the will and work of the Master he
loved." Irving died comparatively young: there were but forty-two years
between his birth and death. More than thirty years have passed since he
was called from earth; and to this generation the name of Edward Irving
is little more than a sound, "signifying nothing." Yet it was a power in
his day; and the seed he scattered cannot all have fallen among thorns.
His love for Coleridge was devoted, a mingling of admiration, affection,
and respect.

They were made acquainted by a mutual friend, Basil Montagu, who himself
occupied no humble station in intellectual society. His "evenings" were
often rare mental treats. He presented the most refined picture of a
gentleman, tall, slight, courteous, seemingly ever smiling, yet without
an approach to insincerity. He had the esteem of his contemporaries, and
the homage of the finer spirits of his time. They were earned and
merited. Those who knew him knew also his wife. Mrs. Montagu was one of
the most admirable women I have ever known: she was likened to Mrs.
Siddons, and forcibly recalled the portraits of that admirably gifted
woman. Tall and stately, and with evidence, which Time had by no