20 thousands of our readers in all parts of the world, the name of James Montgomery has long been a household word. They have breathed forth their devotion in hymns which he has sung. They have felt the beauty or the pathos of lines in which his spirit found utterance. Among our modern lyrists who have laid the tribute of their genius upon the sacred altar, he stands in the first rank. As in the case of Cowper, his most touching hymns were wrung from him by a severe experience. They were the trembling utterance of his own grief and fear, and penitence and hope. Every line carries in it the thrill of the sensitive and struggling heart, finding peace and comfort in Christ alone.

He was born at Irvine, a small seaport in Ayrshire, Scotland, November 4, 1771. His father a humble craftsman-had been selected by the Moravians as a preacher, and removed to this place from his native Ireland. Here James was born and spent his early years. "I am a Scotchman," said he, "because I was born in Scotland; I ought to have been an Irishman, because both my parents were such; and I pass for an Englishman because I was caught young, and imported hither before I was six years old, and have never since seen my native country except as the dim wreath of haze from the top of Helvellyn and Skiddaw." Fulneck, near Leeds, in Yorkshire, was his first English residence. Here, in a Moravian Institution, he spent his school days. The influence of a pious home and of parental instruction was confirmed by the fidelity of Christian teachers. An atmosphere of love surrounded him. "Whatever we did," he tells us, "was done in the name and for the sake of Jesus Christ, whom we were taught to regard in the amiable and endearing light of Friend and Brother."

But Fulneck was not a congenial place for Montgomery. Poetry was not encouraged there, and already he aspired to become a poet. Diligence in study was required, and he was but a fitful applicant to text-books. Cowper had more of a charm for him than the ancient classics; and other muses introduced to him through the poet's corner of a village newspaper, spoiled the fascination of a recitation room, if it had any. At ten years of age, he became an inveterate rhymester. A well-filled volume of his own verses attested an industry not devoted to the object that his teachers would have counselled. He was "admonished," but the ivy-clad ruins of

Yet

Kirkstall Abbey, and the odd-shaped hills of the landscape, on which he loved to gaze, only made the drill of Latin verbs and Greek translations more repulsive. He did not amend his ways. School tasks were more irksome than ever. The hope that he would one day be fitted for the ministry died away. It was resolved that he should be put to business." Apprenticed to a Moravian grocer at Mirfield, he sold bread, wrote poetry, and played with a hautboy for a year and a half. But discontent grew upon him. He was uneasy and resolved to see the world. even here a strange fidelity to early principle was manifest in a step which he afterwards thought mistaken. He had just received a suit of new clothes, but he left them behind because "he did not think his little services had earned them." Thus at the age of sixteen he was a wanderer in the world. His parents had gone on a mission to the West Indies, where they soon died, and he was without a home. In his aimless wanderings he at last found employment at Wath, in a grocer's store. His most genial acquaintance here was a neighbouring bookseller, who fondly criticised his poems, awarding them high merit. Through his recommendation, Montgomery was persuaded to offer them to a London publisher. The publisher declined the offer, but discovering the author's merit, offered him a clerkship. For a year Montgomery filled the post, but at length, weary of London, returned to his old position at Wath, where he was warmly welcomed. Harsh experience had disturbed his poetic dreams, and he was looking about for some more inviting employment for a livelihood. On one of his collecting excursions for the house he was connected with, he saw a newspaper advertisement which attracted his attention.

Joseph Gales, printer, bookseller, auctioneer and editor of the Sheffield Register, wanted an assistant. Montgomery offered himself, and was accepted. Here, in the poet's corner of the provincial sheet, he found a place for his lucubrations. Stories, squibs, satires, and sonnets over which he afterwards mourned as "youthful follies," acquired for him a local celebrity. But troublous times came. A whisper of dissent from the measures of Government was constructed into libel, if not treason. Montgomery's employer for a trivial cause, incurred suspicion; and to escape the outrageous penalty which would almost have been sure to follow an unrighteous prosecution, fled the country. With his disappearance, his paper was discontinued. But the last issue of the Register contained a prospectus for the Iris. Montgomery was its editor. With little

of the partisan, he was indignant at the intolerant and tyrannic measures of the Government. He, too, fell under suspicion. This of itself constituted his crime; and for acts which could have implied no criminal intent, he was twice sent to prison and fined, first twenty and afterwards thirty pounds. Other expenses of his trial were still greater. It was a sore calamity to one as dependant as Montgomery upon his own exertions, while prison confinement was severe upon a frame already far from robust. But friends gathered round him. A large share of his expenses was cheerfully borne by others. John Pye-Smith, better known in these days for his work on "Scripture and Geology," took his place at the head of the paper, and saved him the anxiety that his absence would otherwise have occasioned. Warned by experience, Montgomery was henceforth more cautious. His heart beat strong for freedom, and his whole soul glowed with indignation against the unjust measures of the Government. But free speech could not be allowed if it touched upon party questions; and Montgomery, who could not endorse fully the views of either side, assumed for himself an independent course. It was one difficult to maintain, but he succeeded-not, however, without the loss of some friendships, which he warmly cherished. Up to this time, his course, although changeable and inconstant, had been upright and outwardly moral. Many an incident had occurred to show that childhood's lessons had by no means been wholly lost. But religious impressions in large measure had lost their hold upon his mind. The shifting scenes of early life, and the excitements of a public station, had diverted his attention from that fidelity to Christian principle so characteristic of his early training. But now the long dormant power of the truth was revived in his soul. His sins troubled him. His mind was full of darkness. "What can I do?" he asks. "I am tossed to and fro on a sea of doubts and perplexities; the farther I am carried from the shore where once I was happily moored, the weaker grow my hopes of ever reaching another where I may anchor in safety." But no doubts could shake his conviction of the excellence of the religion of Christ. He had seen and known the power of a living faith. Ease and peace he well knew could be found for him in nothing else. Yet ease and peace he needed. Harsh trials had saddened his spirit. Cruel disappointments had aggravated what he called his stitutional melancholy." A feeble frame, often ailing, threw the burden of despondent moods upon his energies. Yet he knew full well that

"The world can never give

The bliss for which we sigh."

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con

"The education I received," he says, "independent of all these, has for ever incapacitated

me from being contented and happy under any other form of religion than of that which I imbibed with my mother's milk; at the same time my restless mind, and my wild and ungovernable imagination, have long ago broken loose from the anchor of faith, and have been driven, the sport of winds and waves, over an ocean of doubts, round which every coast is defended by the rocks of despair that forbid me to enter the harbour in view." Several years later, at the age of thirty-five, he writes to a friend: "During the whole of the last month I have been sinking in despondency, till I have hardly had the spirit to languish through my ordinary drudgery of business." Undoubtedly, physical infirmity and disease-as in Cowper's case-had much to do with his spiritual frames. "So much confusion and doubt, and darkness and desolation comes into my soul," he writes, "that the powers of my mind seem paralysed, the affections of my heart withered, and every stream of hope or comfort passed away." at the same time, "colds, coughs, pains in the chest, numbness of brain," and other alarming symptoms afflicted him. Yet through all this varied and often depressing experience, his soul was nearing that settled peace which sheds so sweet and hallowed a beauty over the closing half of his long and useful life. Even in his desponding mood, he says: "Do not be alarmed on my account. I am not despairing; God is only humbling me under His mighty hand, and I bow to the chastisement and kiss the rod that smites me, as I lie in the dust of self-abasement and self-abhorrence at His feet." This long struggle with darkness and despair, this wrestling with inward doubts was a sore discipline, which, beyond a doubt, was designed that the crushed spirit might yield a sweeter fragrance of devotion.

But

But the day dawned at last. England was just then the theatre of a revived Christian activity. Into measures of benevolence and reform, Montgomery threw all the glow and fervour of his spirit kindled by their influence. From this period we hear no more of his gloom. He determines to do what he has never done yet, seek the privileges of Christian communion.

All forms of piety were dear and cherished, but early associations carried him back to the simple forms of the Moravian Church. There he felt that he had at last found a home, and how warmly he appreciated its friendly welcome and sweet companionship may be seen in those wellknown lines that wake a quick response in every Christian heart :

"People of the living God,

I have sought the world around; Paths of sin and sorrow trod,

Peace and comfort nowhere found; Now to you my spirit turns," etc.

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Rejoice with me," he says to his brother and sister; "Rejoice with me, my dearest friends, for this unspeakable privilege bestowed on so unworthy and so ungrateful a prodigal as I have been. Tell all the good brethren and sisters whom I know at Bristol, this great thing which the Lord hath done for me." From this moment the discordant elements of his life are harmonised. The storm and cloud are passed, and the sunshine of peace rests upon his soul. Every good cause enlisted his sympathy. The Sabbath-school, missions, the spread of the Bible, found in him a ready and eloquent advocate.

He

to

Meanwhile his poems had found publishers. His anonymous pieces had been gathered up by Dr. Aikin, who praised their unknown author. Southey and Wordsworth sought his acquaintance. "The Wanderer of Switzerland" made him many friends; it became widely popular, so that the Edinburgh Review growled over the issue of a third edition. Other poems followed. "The West Indies," and "The World before the Flood," increased his reputation. The profits of their publication relieved him from anxiety. He withdrew from the editorship of the Iris after his long connection with it of nearly a quarter of a century. But it was not to indulge in idleness. He was more busy than ever. was called upon to lecture in London and elsewhere. With these invitations he complied to a limited extent, never forgetful, however, of the higher objects which claimed his attention. Everywhere his thoughts were directed to objects of Christian beneficence. By tongue and pen and personal influence and charity, liberal according to his means, he encouraged every enterprise abroad and at home, which promised results to the glory of God or the good of man. Some of his most genial lyrics now first saw the light; nor can we altogether assent to his view of the matter when he says, speaking of his "many labours, trials and afflictions in the plain prose of human life:" "The poetry of my heart has been blighted and withered in the cold mildews and dry blasts which have gone over me." Even under the burden of his fourscore years, the spirit of the Christian poet glows within him-to our apprehension-as warmly as ever. To the very last, he is still the same thoughtful, kind-hearted, unwearied disciple, and a noble grandeur overspreads the evening landscape of his useful and happy life. He died on the last day of April, 1854, mourned by thousands who followed him to the grave, but leaving to tens of thousands across broad oceans, the sense of a sore and of almost a personal bereavement.

Of modern lyrists, whose hymns grace our collections, none writes in a sweeter or more devout spirit than Montgomery. His lines on "Prayer" are familiar among Christians of every name; and they kindle in us, as we sing them, the very feelings they portray. The hymn commencing, "Come to Calvary's holy mountain," could scarce have been indited except by one who had felt the grievous burden of sin, and heard in his own soul the terrible thunders of Sinai. Where has "the mind that was in Christ," been more vividly exhibited as a lesson, than in those verses, which breathe throughout them a calm submission and a cheerful denial, beginning,

"Father of eternal grace;

Glorify Thyself in me!"

Many a one has felt the charm of the hymn, "Go to dark Gethsemane," so touching and plaintive, the evident outpouring of genuine feeling, without knowing it was from the pen of Montgomery. "Jesus, I my cross have taken;" "Know, my soul, thy full salvation ;” “O God, thou art my God alone;" and "Oh, where can rest be found" are the opening lines of hymns which have become widely known and warmly cherished.

There are many others that have found a welcome place in the devotions of the Church, for which we are indebted to his quiet genius. So uniformly are they marked by the peculiar stamp of his mind-a sweet and tender spirit, simple but tasteful language, and an unaffected grace of expression thrown around most striking and beautiful thoughts, that we have sometimes recognised them as his, before we had ascertained by reference that he was the author.

It is by his lyrical and devotional poems that Montgomery will be best known. His longer works were by no means failures, but they lack that grand unity which is necessary to secure them an enduring fame. Their excellence is that of the varied landscape where successive scenes enchant us, but only as we move and change from our first position. Montgomery's genius was not of the Titanic order. It was more adapted to polish and set the most exquisite gems, than it was to hew mountains. In his own proper sphere he had scarcely a rival. experience of the power of the Gospel places a wide gulf between his compositions and those of a Byron or a Moore. His hymns are not like their songs. Beautiful as they are in imagery, and glowing as they are in their diction, we value them far more as they breathe the humility, penitence, and rapture of Christian devotion.Selected.

His

E have been sauntering, if such a word can be applied to progression. through a busy city thoroughfare, along Fleet Street for the last halfhour; elbowed by the passers by printers' boys, solicitors' clerks, people hurrying to and from the various great newspaper offices -perhaps an august editor among them- merchants, traders, "all the world and his wife," as the Frenchman has it; and, rather weary of the rush and rattle, the incessant noise and turmoil, we turn aside down that low, wide archway opposite the end of Chancery Lane.

As if by magic, the sounds die away, and after a few steps further, we are in a different world. True, there is hurry and bustle still visible, but it is individual, not general. We step out of the way to avoid the passer-by, intent on his own affairs; but we are no longer driven along by the crowd, forced to follow a certain course and method of progression whether we wish to or not. And we have not by the change left classic ground behind us. We have quitted Fleet Street, the home and abiding place of journalism and literature; but we are in a spot not less sacred to the memories of author and writer,-the Temple. For a moment, forgetting the later days, the mind goes back through the centuries to sterner times, when the brethren of the Temple, half monks, half soldiers, stood among the first of the military orders of Europe. Far away in the Holy Land, through six Crusades, the white mantles of the Templars had gleamed before the eyes of the Moslem. Riding in the van of battle with a Coeur de Lion, a Geoffrey, or a Louis, the spears of the Temple had proved their prowess, and made for themselves a name in Christendom.

But the same fate pursued them, the same law governed them, as ever pursues and governs men banded together for a common aimausterity and poverty had marked their early days; pride and luxury heralded their fall. More than once the fortune of war had turned

against them; and the Order by its losses in battle had been decimated, and almost destroyed. But it had ever regained strength, and lived and flourished till the Crusades had ceased. And then the end came. Their rules, revised by St. Bernard himself, were seventy-two in number, and of a most austere kind.

The accusations brought against them, that is, those resident in England, were almost as many. They were accused of denying Christ, of trampling the cross under foot, of worshipping a cat, of denying the sacraments of their Church, and of worshipping idols. all there were sixty-five charges. They had, by their pride and arrogance, stirred the popular dislike; and thus it came that the accusations were eagerly pressed and readily believed.

In

On the Continent, many went to the stake; in England, though less severely dealt with, the effect was the same. The Order fell into disrepute, and some two hundred years after its foundation by Baldwin of Jerusalem, it was abolished by Pope Clement V. But its memory lasts; and the Church of the Temple, hard by where we now stand, has kept and keeps it green. One of the few-there are but four-round churches in England, it is also one of the most beautiful. In the old days disobedient brethren were scourged by the Master; and on Fridays publicly whipped in the church itself. On the floor lie the mailclad effigies of the "Associates of the Temple," one here and there with crossed legs, denoting the crusading vow. But the Temple and its precincts, with the abolition of the Order, passed from the men of battle to the men of law-from sword and shield to goosequill and parchment. Old customs still lasted. The attendants at table were called paniers, as formerly. The expulsion for misconduct, the dining in pairs, the locking out of chambers, still kept hold of the more modern society; and the old method of creating that almost extinct body, the sergeants-at-law, resembled in most, if not all, particulars the ceremony of receiving Fratres Servientes into the brotherhood of the Temple.

Round and about the church strolled Chaucer and Gower; and in its gardens, so the legend runs, the representatives of the rival Houses of Lancaster and York chose their rival roses, red and white. Later yet, and Templar and Alsatian, the students of law, and the denizens of Whitefriars hard by, met in fierce conflict "many a time and oft."

But to the lover of literature the charm of the Temple lies not in its historical associations, rich as they are; not in the thoughts and pictured fancies of steel-clad knight, or silkclad lawyer, but in a few names, that he would not willingly let die-the names of Johnson, Lamb, and Goldsmith. The first lies among England's greatest dead, in England's proudest resting-place," the Abbey." the Abbey." No need to say "of Westminster." Every Englishman who knows his country's history knows what is meant by that brief reference, by those two words "the Abbey."

Kindly, whimsical "Elia" rests in the quiet Edmonton churchyard, far away; and the careless, thoughtless author of the "Vicar of Wakefield," lies here, in this churchyard of the Temple, but the exact spot is unknown

now.

But near to the place, if not upon it, where he was believed to have been interred, are two slanting stones, each leaning against the other, and having on their sides the poet's name and the date of his death.

One cannot help thinking, as one stands by the humble, unnoticed tomb, that it was a pity that Lamb, Johnson, and Goldsmith were not contemporaries. Surely, that East India House clerk would have been acceptable as a companion to careless Oliver, and by his own queer ways and fancies have recommended himself to "Ursa Major." One can imagine the three-had it been possible strolling along the Temple terrace, lounging in the Temple gardens: the great Doctor, rolling from side to side, uttering some lofty thought, in that ponderous style he made his own in words and writings; Lamb, as opportunity served, striking in with some whimsy or witticism, bright, keen, yet always kindly; and Goldsmith, chiming in now and then, as Washington Irving says of him, "heedless, too often illogical, always on the kind-hearted side of the question, and prone to redeem himself by lucky hits."

All this is only a fancy. But to the reader, these men, these literary giants, whatever their failings in other ways, become companions; -companions, it is true, from the Land of Shadows, unreal, unsubstantial, but not the less welcome and remembered. They and their works react on each other in our minds; and here, as we stand, by this quiet tomb in the very heart of this mighty city, the man, known only through his writings and memoirs, is with us, though unseen.

A true Bohemian was he, improvident, careless, enjoying life, in his youth at least-for he spent two years when he had attained his majority in strolling about the country near his native place of Pallas or Pallasmore, Co. Longford, Ireland, sharing in the villagers'

"How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play;
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground;
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round."

After these two years he went wandering about, taking his passage in a ship to America, and then remaining on shore till the vessel had sailed; then, at the instance of his friends, going off to London to study law. They had furnished him with fifty pounds; but when he reached Dublin, his improvident habits were too strong, and the money was squandered. But he was ashamed of his own carelessness, and remained for some time without applying for further help. But his condition came to their knowledge, and they sent for him to come home, which, having no means of support, he was glad to do. And now Oliver, after failing in his attempts at clerical-for it was originally intended that he should enter the church-and legal life, he was told by another and distant relative, the Dean Goldsmith of Cloyne, that he had better enter the medical profession. Again his relatives equipped him, and he went to Edinburgh. Here he was for two years, and then went on the Continent.

His money came, his money went-it was always so with Oliver. He borrowed some more for travelling expenses, and then expended it on some choice tulip bulbs for his uncle, forgetting that he was thus depriving himself of the means of continuing his journey. Ashamed to appeal for more, he set off to travel on foot, his whole equipment, beside a change of clothing, being a flute and one guinea. For a time he acted as tutor to a tradesman's son, but soon tired of the occupation. "Avarice," he says, "was his pupil's prevailing passion. He understood the art of guiding in money concerns better than I." That being so, it is no wonder that tutor and pupil soon parted. But in his wanderings, especially in Italy, he hit upon an odd plan of procuring shelter and food. "I had acquired," he says, "a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and convents there are upon certain days philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant, for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night.' And thus he wandered on, till weary of travelling, he determined to return home, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in doing so. And once back, he remained in the metropolis, save for an occasional jaunt or so, until his death. And the current of his life, alternating between brightness and sadness, flowed slowly on: one day exulting in unlooked