himself with a fire of musketry, or a distant cannonade. This was exactly Malcom's plan. He advanced upon you so as to create general alarm, and poured in a fire, slight, yet brisk, till you became all alive to his discharges. Buonaparte's third aim was to make a tremendous and unexpected attack upon some particular point, and carry all before the thunder of his artillery. This, also, was Dr. Malcom's object. Towards the end of his discourse he seemed to swell into gigantic bulk with his subject, melted his hearer in sympathy, or fired him with hope and joy, at pleasure. Yet he never overstepped the modesty of nature. Like a fine painting, he was all in harmony; and whether you gazed upon his quivering lip, or marked his motionless air, the same vivid colouring of nature charmed the sense. I hope and trust that the miscellaneous works of Dr. Malcom will be given to the public. He was long a contributor to the Newry Magazine; and several of his Hymns, published in the collection under his own name, are excellent. Some of his Sermons have been printed at the request and expense of his congregation; but we yet require a sketch of his valuable life, his private opinions, his habits and motives to action. Such a man should live in our libraries, as well as in our affections. The work might benefit his numerous family; and I earnestly press some one of his intimate friends to undertake it; embellishing the book, if possible, with a portrait of this distinguished preacher. Dr. Malcom, like all other human beings, had his weaknesses—amiable weaknesses they certainly were. It is impossible to possess great talent without knowing it, for talent is generated by confidence in our own powers, and it never could be located in a tangible habitation but for that proper vanity, or rather pride, which urges genius in the pursuit of fame. Dr. Malcom had his share of this, as the following little characteristic and innocent anecdote will show. At a large dinner party, when the Doctor got cheerful, or rather elevated above his general key, which was at all times that of satisfaction and resignation, he was once descanting with warmth on the pleasure he should have felt in being at the head of the deputation who presented the congratulatory address to his Majesty in Dublin, from the synod of Ulster. "If I had been of goodly stature," said the Doctor, with obvious self-satisfaction, "I should certainly not have declined the office; but I apprehended that his Majesty might receive an unfavourable impression of us, should the address be delivered by me."-" You ought not to have declined it, Doctor, on that account,” replied a gentleman opposite; "for his Majesty has a mind that measures man by the standard of Dr. Watts, and you would have been a colossus in his eye towards the end of your interview." The Doctor's visual orbs twinkled at this compliment; and though, I believe, he recollected the allusion, he asked the gentleman to explain, and heard that it respected some lines which Dr. Watts is said to have spoken extemporaneously, in reply to one who derided his diminutive person. “Oh! yes, now I recollect,” said the Doctor, "it is reported to have happened in company; and little Watts, with all the dignity of conscious worth, got up, and extending his hand, spoke them.-Pray, do they occur to you just now?" "Were I so tall to reach the pole, And grasp the ocean with a span, replied his friend, and it appeared to give the doctor high satisfaction. It seemed as though the compliment conveyed in the allusion and anecdote went to the very marrow of this excellent man, for he was excited by it during the whole evening, and became the very soul of the company; sparkling, like a rare diamond, as his beauties were drawn out by wine and conversation. Indeed, I am convinced that great men are often like children; so openso void of disguise-so credulous-so easily imposed upon, that their very souls may be read in their faces; and, in their weak moments, the little peculiarities of natural infirmity are discovered far more easily than in the guarded artificial minds of this world's stamp. If the spirits of the dead can, as is supposed by many, look down from heaven, and feel an interest in sublunary things, the immortal part of Dr. Malcom must have experienced indescribable sensations of pleasure, from the honours which were paid to his memory by all who knew him. His praises were the theme of prose and verse in long succession. Mr. Stuart, the elegant author of " Memoirs of Armagh," who is also an inspired poet, made the "Belfast News Letter," of which he is the conductor, ring with eulogies on Dr. Malcom. The Rev. H. Boyd, well known as the translator of Dante, appeared as his panegyrist in the " Newry Telegraph," followed by a host of Irish talent, as well in the north as in the south; for Dublin contributed her wreaths of bay to decorate his cold brow. Amongst the poetical effusions of the time, there was one in which the famous letter of Buonaparte to Madame Bruere, whose husband fell in the battle of the Nile, was poetized, as a consolation for the widow of the lamented Doctor; and as it may serve to console others under similar deprivation, I, with pleasure, insert the part to which I allude. “But, O thou mourning one, to whom 't was given |