strike the floor several times with his feet by way of testifying his approbation. Had the Doctor’s remarks on the subject been delivered from a platform, they would have elicited thunders of applause.’ If one realises the scene from the pews to the pulpit, one can understand from the following appeal to prodigal sons, commonplace as it is, the effect of these discourses. ‘Oh, could he only see, and had he a heart to understand, the misery which his loss has created in the paternal home! He is bringing down the grey hairs of his father to the grave. The mother who bore him, and loved him ere he could know of the existence and unconquerable strength of her affection, has no rest day or night, thinking of her absent boy, and pouring forth her soul in agonising prayer, as she would her lifeblood in death, to bring him back to her heart and home.’ Beyond question Norman Macleod was one of the most sympathetic men that ever lived; nay, in his generation (if you will) the supreme sentimentalist of Christendom. He has tears for dogs and cats: of a horse that he rode in Palestine, one day of killing heat, he says, ‘I wish he could have known how much I pitied him’; and of the camel, ‘The expression of his soft, heavy, dreamy eyes tells its own tale of meek submission and patient endurance ever since travelling began in these deserts. The poor “djemel” bends his neck, and with a halter round his long nose and several hundredweight on his back paces along from the Nile to the Euphrates, making up his mind to any amount of suffering, feeling that if his wrongs could not be redressed by Abraham, he has no hope from Lord Shaftesbury.’ In the scene of man’s life his spirit eagerly responded to every challenge. Dull he could not be, never recovering from the surprises of existence. So, with his interest in his fellow-creatures, which was both human and religious, he sometimes found himself in strange situations. Pritchard, the poisoner, he attended in the prison and accompanied to the scaffold. He would not give up the worst, and sometimes, beneath false notions, headlong impulses, and brutal vices, he discovered a heart, and, by the magic of love and insight, surprised the lurking virtue. The secret of his influence with the working folk was that he felt no difference from their social position, but spoke to them on the ground of common humanity, without affected familiarity or priestly airs. For him class distinctions vanished in view of the general lot of moral beings. His experience was that the lower and the upper classes were very much alike. The poor came to him, but a lady of the Court could say that if she were in great trouble Dr. Norman Macleod was the person she would wish to go to.[1] The preacher, then, might see his audience in rags, and fancy ranks of purple, but his thought would be, ‘O sickness, pain, and death! what republican levellers are these of us all!’[2] There is a zeal for the people, a worship of humanity in the abstract, which