His dogmatic position is not easy to define. Although liberal in his views he disliked rashness; and avoided giving offence so far as he could. My impression is, that he held an attitude of suspense towards many debated questions. He did not feel the need of making up his mind. The truths of which he was sure gave him all the message he needed, and these were independent of the controversies of the hour. But he kept an open mind, and was ever ready to add to his working creed. He could not preach what did not thoroughly possess his own soul, but never dreamt that he had reached finality, and I think was increasingly disposed to respect the doctrines, which, as history proves, have stirred and commanded men. A thorough Liberal and Nonconformist, he knew comparatively little of the Church of England, and was repelled by its exclusive spirit, but when told of the great qualities of the younger High Church leaders, he listened with interest and pleasure. He was happy in being able to think more kindly and hopefully of men from whom he was divided in principle. As has been already said, he considered the spiritual life of Congregationalists very deep and true; he loved the warm old-fashioned piety he found among them, and heartily believed in their future. Of the differences among Nonconformists he made nothing, was a vehement advocate of union, and strongly opposed to whatever interrupted cordial relations between Churches. Though never chary in speaking of his religious experiences he did not obtrude them. A real belief in immortality he thought could hardly exist without other faiths being right. Such a belief would give life its true shape and colour. He was very patient of honest doubts, but had to make himself sure that they were honest, not the cloak of moral laxness. What he loved best to speak of was the magnificence of Divine grace—the love of God commended in Christ's death. * * * * * But it is time to lay down the pen. We may apply to Dr. Elmslie words, used, I think, about an American writer: his charm was of the kind that we fail to reduce to its grounds. It was like that of the sweetness of a piece of music, or the softness of fine September weather. In a certain way it was vague, indefinable, inappreciable; but it is what we must point to, for nothing he has left behind gives any adequate idea of his powers. Friendship occupied an immense space in his life, and all who knew him are conscious that, Now the candid face is hid, The frank, sweet tongue has ceased to move,