* * * * * Scarcely any death could have made a greater rent than this, and the tokens of sorrow—public and private—were almost unexampled in the case of one who held no high office in Church or State, who had not lived long enough to make his mark in literature, who had sought no fame or honour, but had been content with doing his duty as it called him day by day. The funeral service was conducted in Marylebone Presbyterian Church (Dr. Donald Fraser's), of which he was a member. Dr. Fraser and Dr. Allon delivered addresses, while Dr. Dykes and Dr. Monro Gibson offered up prayer. The great church was crowded with a deeply moved audience of two thousand persons, every one of whom probably represented some word spoken or some service rendered by the kind heart then cold. He was buried at Liverpool next day by the side of his mother, his attached friend and colleague the Rev. Dr. Gibb, being among those present at the interment. A service was conducted at the Presbyterian College, where Principal Dykes delivered a deeply moving address. "You may send us another Hebrew Professor," said he, "and we shall welcome him, but you cannot send us another Elmslie." Tributes from the Presbyteries of the Church, from congregations of various denominations to which he had ministered, from well-known Church leaders, from old students, and, not least, from unknown men and women whom he had helped and comforted, poured in. They were too numerous to be quoted or further referred to, but the intensity and turmoil of feeling expressed in them, showed that the sorrow for him was as deep as its appointed signs were extensive. One for whom much sympathy was felt, his aged father, seemed to bear up bravely against the blow. He received with eager gratitude the abundant testimonies to the honour and love in which his son was held. But the grief had gone to his heart, he soon began to sink, and died a few months later. * * * * * What was said of Henri Perreyve is eminently true of Elmslie: he was gifted for friendship and for persuasion. During the last years of his life, the period when I knew him intimately, he came to what has been called the grand moral climacteric, and all his nobler qualities were manifest in their full strength. There was about him the indefinable charm of atmosphere, at once stimulating, elevating and composing. He had an inexplicable personal attraction that drew to it whatever loving-kindness there might be in the surroundings, as certain crystals absorb moisture from the air they breathe. In his company speech became of a sweeter and purer flavour. There was no austerity, no Pharisaism about him; he delighted in fun and gave himself a large liberty; but nothing he said or welcomed marred the moral beauty which he had reached through long self-discipline.