voice, the changing expressions of his face, the ballad-like simplicity of his language, all showed the intense reality of his feelings, and hence, very readily communicated them to others. If he wanted the stern and stormy temper of the "deinotes," which is supposed to be essential to the orator, there was a spell in the quietness of his manner which affected the soul like the dews of the morning, or the tempered light of day.

Those who have listened to his remarks in the "Union Prayer Meetings" will remember the pure and seraphic expression of his countenance when it was lit with the ecstacy of holy feeling, and which awed by its unearthly beauty, as well as the marked solemnity of his manner when he repeated such words as these, "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is."

In the discharge of his duties as a professor, the doctor was chiefly remarkable for completeness and conscientious thoroughness in all he undertook. However much the members of the class might fail, the doctor could always be depended on, and when the clock struck the hour for recitation, they could look for him with a confidence which I never remember to have seen disappointed. In all that he did he seemed to be impressed with the profoundest sense of his responsibility, a feeling which grew deeper and deeper as he advanced in life. Of no man could it ever be more truly said, that whatever his hand found to do he did it with his might, did it heartily, as unto the Lord. In his intercourse with the students there was always an utter want of display, a noble incapacity of guile, compelling him to seem what he was. Honesty and integrity were the habits of his soul, and one might say of his body too. To see and hear him in the class-room, to see his look, and hear his voice, expounding a point of faith, made you feel that he was one that could not but show what was in him, and speak out what was on his mind.

There might be too much of this at times for strangers. To them he might frequently appear firm to obstinacy, but no one could doubt his truthfulness; or distrust, I say not his word, but his very aspect and gesture, and the glance of his eye. The doctor was pre-eminently true, unmistakably, unvariably, fearlessly true, and he could well afford to be so, for his nature was as gentle as it was genuine.

It would be a pleasing task in this connection to present a "catena" of his noble sentiments, a harvest of his genial touches, a list of his rememberable sayings, and no less pleasing to descant on his wonderful kindness and generosity to the students. How willing he was to give to them the stores of information, stores not shut up in note-books, but lodged in his brain! Let it suffice that no one who knew him as a professor could choose but love him,

while his reciprocity of the affection that they bore him was like the sunshine and the showers of Heaven. Take him all in all, I never knew a man so thoroughly delightful. Others may have more of this, or more of that, but there was a symmetry, a compactness, a sweetness, a true delightfulness about him, I remember in no one else.

His private character I can hardly venture to portray. If I were to do so, I might be charged with presenting an ideal, not a real character.

So, at any rate, I would have judged the Doctor's character had I merely met with it in a description, and not enjoyed the felicity of knowing it. In all his familiar intercourse he was as simple as a child, and when engaged in conversation there was a naïve spontaneity and richness in his turns of thought which was exceedingly refreshing. In his speech there was no satire, because in his nature there was no bitterness. Humor, quaint, fantastic, happy humor, like Paul Richter's, only more elegant, overflowed his table-talk and imparted to it the richest flavor. Yet over all his speech and manner there breathed a sacred tenderness, which flowed not from any earthly source, but was the fragrance of a heavenly spirit. His child-like faith imparted a secret charm to his daily life. His nature, so trustful, so affectionate, so given to meditation, seemed to be ground well prepared for the seed of God, and surely in it that seed so grew and fructified as is rarely seen on earth. He always appeared to me

like the "beloved disciple," whose head lay confidingly on the breast of Jesus, and to whom were revealed the most glorious visions of the church's future. The spiritual insight, the purity of conscience, the ecstatic joy, the womanly gentleness of feeling which are especially attributed to that apostle, were all of them characteristic of this godly

man.

As he neared the close of life, the delights of religious meditation became more and more sweet. Day by day, he loved to bring the Saviour near him, and to live ever as John (the beloved disciple) would have done with the assurance that his dearest Friend and Brother was never absent from him. The one religious theme which engrossed his meditation, probably, more than any other, was the Brotherhood of Immanuel. To know Him, as possessing the power and wisdom of God, yet as being our elder Brother, was the joy of his life. To grow into His likeness was his single desire. To be with Him, as now he is in his Father's home, was his abiding hope.

During the last few years the Doctor lost a daughter, (Mrs. Leiper) for whom his attachment was unspeakable. From that time dated an entire alteration in his manner. Not that his abiding religious views and convictions were ever altered. But his social faculty never recovered that great shock. It was blighted, and it seemed as if he was always desiring to be alone. A stranger who saw him for a time full of cordial talk, pleasing and being pleased, was apt to think how delightful he must always be, and so he was; but then such hours of talk were like angels' visits, few and far between. In him, as Mr. Carlyle would say, the "silences" were most predominant, and I think that every one must have been struck with this habitual stillness. The loss which he sustained had manifestly overwhelmed him. The deep and lasting love he bore his daughter, the grave could not destroy. In the recesses of his heart he carried it about perpetually, walking in the midst of men like one weighed down with sorrow. Every day and hour you could see his might was sinking, and when you looked into his face, you felt as David did of old, when the Lord's anointed fell.

The Doctor is now dead, his body safe past pain, his soul safe past sorrow. In a glory he shines past conceiving, in a fruition past prayer.

But in this world we shall see his face no more, and how distressing to think of that! His brethren will miss him in the "vineyard of the Lord." I leave it for others to record of him, in terms suitable to his worth, a sense of the value they set upon him. I leave it for them, that generations hereafter may know how much we value him, who carved his name upon the pillars of his church, and who, as a citizen, did so much to distinguish the town in which he lived. His death reminds us that the ministry of others is nearly run, that the voyage is drawing to