Poor Edward Irving! whom I always deeply respected, and knew intimately
for some years, and who was one of the best and truest men whom it has
been my good fortune to meet in life! He entered London amidst the shouts
of his admirers, and he departed in the midst of contumely; sick, and sad,
and maligned, and misunderstood; going back to his dear native Scotland
only to die. The time has long passed for discussing the truths or errors
of Edward Irving's peculiar creed; but there can be no doubt that he
himself was true and faithful till death, and that he preached only what
he entirely believed. And what can man do more? If he was wrong, his
errors arose from his extreme modesty, his extreme veneration for the
subject to which he raised his thoughts.
In the last year of Edward Irving's life (1834), he was counselled by his
physician to pass the next winter in a milder climate--that "it was the
only safe thing for him." Prevented from ministering in his own church,
where "he had become an embarrassment," he travels into the rural places,
subdued and chastened by his weakness,--to the Wye and the Severn--to the
fine mountains and pleasant places of Wales. Sometimes he thinks himself
better.
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