Glasgow, and, as is generally supposed, in the year 1793. His father, the Rev.
Dr. John Lockhart, who, for nearly fifty years, was minister of the College or
Blackfriar's Church, Glasgow, will not soon be forgot by the denizens of that
good city, not only on account of his piety and worth, but also his remarkable
wit and extreme absence of mind two qualities which are seldom found united
in the same character. The stories with which Glasgow is still rife, of the
worthy doctor's occasional obliviousness, and the amusing mistakes and blunders
it occasioned, are even richer than those of Dominie Samson; for, when he
awoke from his dream, he could either laugh with the laughers, or turn the
laugh against them if necessary. But his remarkable powers of sarcasm, as
well as his creative talents in embellishing an amusing story, were so strictly
under the control of religious principle and amiable feeling, that he would often
stop short when sensitiveness was likely to be wounded, or the strictness of
truth violated. It would have been well if the same power, which was so
conspicuous in his talented son, had been always kept under the same coercion.
Of this amiable divine John Gibson Lockhart was the second son, and the eldest by a second marriage, his mother having been a daughter of the Rev. Dr. Gibson, one of the ministers of Edinburgh. At an early age he prosecuted his studies at the university of Glasgow, and with such success, that he received one of its richest tokens of approval in a Snell exhibition to Baliol College, Oxford. Here he could prosecute, with increased facilities, those classical studies to which he was most addicted; and in a short time he took a high station as an accomplished linguist, even among the students of Oxford. His studies at Baliol College, which were directed to the profession of the law, were followed by a continental tour; and, on returning to Scotland, he was called to the Scottish bar in 1816. It was soon evident, however, that he was not likely to win fame or fortune by the profession of an advocate. He lacked, indeed, that power without which all legal attainments are useless to a barrister—he could not make a speech. Accordingly, when he rose to speak on a case, his first sentence was only a plunge into the mud; while all that followed was but a struggle to get out of it. Had the matter depended upon writing, we can judge how it would have gone otherwise; had it even depended on pictorial pleading, he would have been the most persuasive of silent orators, for, during the course of the trial, his pen was usually employed, not in taking notes, but sketching caricatures of the proceedings, the drollery of which would have overcome both judge and jury. As it was, he became a briefless barrister, and paced the boards of Parliament House, discussing with his equally luckless brethren the passing questions of politics and literary criticism. He made a happy allusion to this strange professional infirmity at a dinner, which was given by his friends in Edinburgh, on his departure to assume the charge of the "Quarterly Review." He attempted to address them, and broke down as usual, but covered his retreat with, "Gentlemen, you know that if I could speak we would not have been here."
In Mr. Lockhart's case it was the less to be regretted that he was not likely to win his way to the honours of a silk gown, as he had already found a more agreeable and equally distinguishing sphere of action. He devoted himself to literature, and literature adopted him for her own. He had already made attempts in periodical writing, and the favour with which his contributions were regarded encouraged his choice and confirmed him in authorship. A more settled course of exertion was opened up for him in 1817, the year after
