ased was known beyond his own immediate walk of duty
or circle of acquaintanceship, it is yet felt by thousands, of whom
the greater part knew of him merely at second-hand by the abiding
impression which he had left on the minds of the others, that,
according to the poet,

'A mighty spirit is eclipsed; a power
Hath passed from day to darkness, to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeathed--no name.'

The subject is one with which we can scarce trust ourselves. There are
no writings to which we can appeal, for Mr. Stewart has left none, or
at least none suited to convey an adequate impression of his powers;
and yet of nothing are we more thoroughly convinced, than that the
originality and vigour of his thinking, and the singular vividness
and force of his illustrations, added to a command of the principles
of analogical reasoning, which even a Butler might have envied,
entitled him to rank with the ablest and most extraordinary men of the
age. Coleridge was not more thoroughly original, nor could he impart
to his pictures more vividness of colouring, or more decided strength
of outline. In glancing over our limited stock of idea, to note how we
have come by it, we find that to two Scotchmen of the present century
we stand more largely indebted than to any of their contemporaries,
either at home or abroad. More of their thinking has got into our mind
than that of any of the others; and their images and illustrations
recur to us more frequently. And one of these is Thomas Chalmers; the
other, Alexander Stewart.

There is an order of intellect decidedly original in its cast, and of
considerable power, to whom notwithstanding originality is dangerous.
Goldsmith, when he first entered on his literary career, found that
all the good things on the side of truth had already been said; and
that _his_ good things, if he really desired to produce any, would
require all to be said on the side of paradox and error. 'When I was a
young man,' he states, in a passage which Johnson censured him for
afterwards expunging, 'being anxious to distinguish myself, I was
perpetually starting new propositions. But I soon gave this over, for
I found that generally what was new was false.' Poor Edward Irving
formed a melancholy illustration of this species of originality. His
stock of striking things on the side of truth was soon expended;
notoriety had meanwhile become as essential to his comfort as ardent
spirits to that of t