But a true, loving, illuminating laugh mounts up
over the earnest visage; not a loud laugh; you would say, a laugh in
the _eyes_ most of all. An honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to
the high, brother also to the low; sincere in his sympathy with both.
He had his pipe of Bourdeaux too, we find, in that old Edinburgh house
of his; a cheery social man, with faces that loved him! They go far
wrong who think that this Knox was a gloomy, spasmodic, shrieking
fanatic. Not at all: he is one of the solidest of men. Practical,
cautious-hopeful, patient; a most shrewd, observing, quietly discerning
man. In fact, he has very much the type of character we assign to the
Scotch at present: a certain sardonic taciturnity is in him; insight
enough; and a stouter heart than he himself knows of. He has the power
of holding his peace over many things which do not vitally concern
him--"They? what are they?" But the thing which does vitally concern
him, that thing he will speak of; and in a tone the whole world shall
be made to hear: all the more emphatic for his long silence.
This Prophet of the Scotch is to me no hateful man! He had a sore fight
of an existence; wrestling with Popes and Principalities; in defeat,
contention, life-long struggle; rowing as a galley-slave, wandering as
an exile.
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